The moment the Tesseract hit the floor, he felt it— a faint pulse of cosmic energy brushing against his boot. It should have been impossible. It should have remained out of reach. But the universe, in a strange moment of mercy, had allowed it to roll just a little too close.

Loki’s fingers closed around the cube before he had even formed a coherent thought. Not a destination. Not a plan. Just one desperate instinct:

Get away.

The world snapped apart in blinding blue. The chains on his wrists crackled under the surge; the awful metal restraint clamped around his mouth hummed with interference. Pain shot up his arms—fresh bruises from the green folk assault flaring angrily as the portal misfired, twisted, collapsed in on itself and then the ground rose up to meet him.

He crashed into something soft and dry. Straw. Heno. A sharp bolt of pain tore through his ribs as he hit the floor, forcing a hiss from between his teeth. The scent of wood and dust and horses filled his lungs. A cramped, warm space. Not the Tower. Not the battlefield. Not any place he recognized.

He groaned—quiet, strained—before shoving himself upright, every movement tugging at bruised muscles and half-healed cuts along his jaw and arms. He tore the metal gag from his face with a snarl. The cuffs—disrupted by the Tesseract’s energy—fell uselessly into his lap. His breath was uneven, shallow, betraying the ache beneath his armor even as he forced his posture into something proud, controlled.

Where in the Nine…? Midgard? No. Maybe. It resembles it. But the portal was unstable—this could be anywhere.

A sudden chorus of restless movement made him snap his head up. The horses stamped and shifted nervously in their stalls, reacting to the faint cosmic hum still clinging to him. Their agitation was enough to draw someone closer.

A soft, steady voice entered before the girl did:

“Hey… easy, guys. What is?...”

He froze.

She stepped into view—a mortal woman, illuminated by the thin gold line of light from the barn doorway. She soothed the horses with practiced calm, then slowly turned her gaze toward him.

For a heartbeat, neither moved.

Her eyes widened. His narrowed.

He studied her carefully: no armor, no weapons, no insignia of them or any Midgardian authority. Just an ordinary woman— or appearing to be one. That meant nothing.

He forced himself to his feet, a small wince flickering across his features before he could stop it. His shoulders remained tense but his stance was regal despite the paja stubbornly clinging to his cape. His hand tightened around the briefcase containing the Tesseract.

“…Where am I?” He asked at last, his voice low, guarded. “And more importantly—who are you?”

There was no threat in his tone. Not yet. But every muscle in his body was coiled, calculating, waiting.