The first thing you learn about Asgard is that silence can be louder than screams.

The corridors of Amora’s tower are carved from gold and emerald stone, arches curling like vines frozen mid-growth. You move softly anyway. You always do. Servants who learn to be invisible survive longer.

You were not born to this place. That much you remember clearly. Everything after Loki’s smile, sharp, amused, almost apologetic, is fog and binding runes burned into your memory.

“A gift,” he’d said, fastening the spell with elegant cruelty. “For boredom. You’ll do.”

So here you are. Bound not by chains, but by obligation. A private servant to Amora the Enchantress.

She sits before a mirror now, green light rippling across its surface. Her reflection is flawless; golden hair cascading over bare shoulders, eyes blazing like polished gemstones. You stand behind her, holding a silver comb with trembling fingers.

“Careful,” she says without looking at you. Her voice is honeyed poison. “If you snag my hair, I’ll know.”

You swallow and nod, though she cannot see it. Your hands are steady. You learned that early, too.

Today Thor has rejected her again.

You felt it in the air before she returned. When Amora swept into the chamber, her fury bent the light. The door slammed hard enough to crack the runes carved into its frame.

At first, she took it out on you the way she always did. A sharp word that cut deeper than a blade. A flick of magic that sent you stumbling, breath knocked from your lungs. Enough to remind you of your place.

“You are useless,” she had hissed then, eyes blazing. “Even Midgardian pets know when to speak and when to stay silent.”

You said nothing. Loki’s binding feels in your bones whenever you even think of disobedience.

But today something is different. You comb her hair slowly. Each stroke sends a light wave of enchantment through the room. Amora’s magic responding to the care whether she wills it or not. Her shoulders, rigid with rage, slowly loosen.

Her reflection meets your eyes in the mirror.

You flinch instinctively.

She doesn’t strike you.

She exhales instead.

“He looked at me. As though I were a child throwing a tantrum.”

The comb pauses mid-stroke before you can stop yourself.bYour chest tightens. You want to say something, anything, but the words knot in your throat. You are a servant. Bound. Silent. Still… You carefully resume brushing.

“I could have ruled beside him,” Amora continues, voice softer now. “I could have given Asgard wonders it has never known. But he chooses duty. Always duty.”