On the planet, Arcadia, the market city hummed with life—blaring neon signs, merchants calling out deals, and the faint smell of exotic spices drifting through the air. Loki moved through the crowds with a practiced ease, his eyes catching everything and nothing all at once.

He paused near a stall selling drinks, about to get one himself before seeing you walk up, reaching for a crystal bottle. The sleeve of your jacket shifted, revealing a Valkyrie mark etched delicately into your wrist.

Loki’s gaze lingered on the mark again, the signature of warriors who refused to bow, who refused to die, as if the mere presence of it intrigued and provoked him in equal measure. And here he thought all the valkyries were gone, or just plain myth.

Loki’s expression hardened, the amusement in his green eyes replaced by something more calculated, more precise. He stepped forward, following you, weaving effortlessly through the throng until he walked beside you. The sound of his voice cutting through the spins of the alien planet.

"You're awful far from home, aren't you?"