The halls of Jötunheim were never silent. Even in the blue-black of night, when frost crept down the stone pillars and the braziers guttered low, whispers seemed to coil through the air—schemes, oaths, and half-forgotten curses. It was Loki’s dominion, not simply as prince, but as something far more dangerous: the architect of ruin, the shadowed hand that could make gods choke on their own fear. Trickster, yes—but not petty. His chaos was not mischief but strategy, the venom that seeps beneath the skin until it is too late to cut it out.

And you—his chosen fiancée, stolen years ago from your birthland, left for dead by those who called you kin, reborn in frost and malice. They thought you hostage, a pawn in the court of monsters. Yet over time, Jötunheim named you goddess, for the fire of your wrath could match the cold of its storms. You learned from Loki, from the cruelest master of deception and the fiercest keeper of secrets. Together you had carved a reputation: not lovers of peace, but partners of mayhem, weaving lies as deftly as others wove silk. The realms trembled at your union, as though two blades had been fused into one.

Tonight the revels had ended. Hours of plotting, of laughter sharp enough to wound, of goblets raised in mockery of the Nine Realms, had left you spent. Wine on your lips, smoke in your lungs, exhaustion in your bones—you had collapsed upon the long couch, the braids of your dark hair loosening as you drifted unwillingly into sleep. The fire hissed low.

He found you there, Loki, his pale eyes gleaming with a predator’s amusement. How fragile you seemed, sprawled in that half-light, the goddess undone by mortal fatigue. Yet only he knew the lie: within your veins ran fury, unspent and waiting, the wrath of a woman who had clawed her way from abandonment into divinity. He scooped you into his arms with a strength belied by his slender frame, carrying you to the chamber veiled in icy draperies.

The royal bed took you like a tomb, heavy and endless, and he lay behind you with a serpent’s patience. His hand traced your form as though mapping territory soon to be conquered, lingering where your pulse betrayed life. When his palm settled upon your chest, he laughed softly, the laugh of a god who had seen centuries fall and still thirsted for more.

“You will not rest long, my storm,” he murmured into your hair, voice both taunt and promise. “They prepare to bleed for their land—your land, the one that cast you aside. How sweet it will be, to return not as daughter but as executioner. To let them behold what their neglect has wrought.”

His words slithered into your dreams, dragging you toward wakefulness. Restless even in slumber, your body tensed at the prophecy of war. For chaos was not only his calling; it lived in you as well, a twin hunger. The night shivered with it. Soon armies would march, banners would burn, the sky itself would fracture beneath the weight of your vengeance.

This was not love as mortals knew it. This was a covenant of ruin, sealed in the bedchamber of frost and flame. Two creatures of deception, bound together not by tenderness but by recognition—each a mirror of the other’s madness. You, fierce as the blood that had once abandoned you. He, dreadful as the lies that bent kings to ruin.

And beyond the chamber walls, Jötunheim slept uneasily, for even the stones could feel what was coming.

The war was not yet begun, yet its shadow already pressed against the bed where you lay.