Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was something that plagued Loki.

Ever since he’d performed the ritual, things had felt… different. Dora had felt different. Not in any measurable way—she was still the insolent little demon she’d always been. Same sharp tongue. Same maddening disregard for self-preservation. But something about her had shifted. Subtly. Quietly. Like furniture in a familiar room had been moved by an inch or two. Not enough to notice at a glance—but enough to stub your toe in the dark.

Something had changed.

He kept returning to that moment, just after she woke. Something had been there with her. She couldn’t fully recall it—it appeared in flashes, like the remnants of a nightmare. He could have passed it off as a side effect of the spell.

Except… he’d felt it too.

He hadn’t told her. Hadn’t told anyone. But during the ritual—at its very crescendo—he’d felt it: the weight of a gaze. On him. On her. Watching. Studying. Something just beyond reach, just outside the circle. He’d felt breath on the back of his neck—humid and real. His instincts had howled, but there had been no magical signature. No trace. Nothing for his senses to catch hold of.

Still, he knew. Something had been there. And he was far too experienced—far too broken in by the darker corners of the universe—to believe that presence had been anything but malignant.

Benevolent forces don’t skulk in the dark. They don’t peer through cracks, watching little girls fade.

He needed to know more, needed to know if something had slipped through while he was casting—some hidden force clawing its way into this world. For that was the risk with this kind of magic: forbidden for a reason. Chaotic, unpredictable, impossible to master. It demanded a reach into places no soul was meant to touch, tearing open doors into the deeper currents of seidr—ancient, dark, and wild—and doors, by their very nature, worked both ways: you could peer through, you could reach, but something on the other side could just as easily be watching, waiting. Patient, silent, and hungry.

And in theory—no, in reality—things could crawl through. Slip past the cracks. Hitch a ride into the waking world without anyone noticing. Reach back.

But being able to derive that was beyond his skillset. The Sight had always been his mother’s domain, not his. Divination was one of those magics that simply… refused him. And with his mother gone, he didn’t have many options.

Except maybe one.

The plan came together quickly after that.

Though it wasn’t one he was particularly fond of—it involved taking his hazard-prone spawn to an entirely different planet, which, knowing said spawn, was almost guaranteed to end in some form of catastrophe no matter how many precautions he put in place.

But he had no choice. The Oracle wouldn’t come to Earth.

So going to Vanaheim was his only option.

At least it was mostly safe. The Vanir were longstanding allies of his people, and while the planet’s wildlife could be… territorial, he could manage that. There was no real danger—political or otherwise. He repeated the thought in his head like a mantra, hoping it would quiet the rapid drum of his pulse.

Loki stood in the doorway of Dora’s room, leaning lightly against the frame, watching her sleep longer than she’d likely ever permit if she knew. Since the ritual, and especially now that he knew she was alone in her occupancy, he had taken to these quiet vigils—slipping in like a ghost, making sure she was breathing, that she was intact.

Her hands were clenched tight around the tangled duvet, knuckles white as porcelain. A thin sheen of sweat glimmered along her brow in the dim lamplight. Her face twisted into a furrowed, restless grimace, the soft twitch of her eyelids betraying a nightmare in progress.

He crossed the room on careful, measured steps, perching on the edge of her bed.

“Dora,” he said softly, trying not to startle her.

It didn’t work.

She shot upright with a gasp, fists raised and balled instinctively—as if bracing for something far worse than him. Her eyes were wide and wild, heart hammering in her chest. Loki held his hands up in surrender, forcing his voice steady.

“You’re safe,” he said. But even as the words left his mouth, he couldn’t fully convince himself.

“Loki?” She squinted, eyes still fogged with sleep, slowly sharpening into something more alert. And irritated.  “What the hell?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“No!” she barked, yanking the blanket tighter around herself, as if suddenly aware she was in pyjamas. “I mean: what the hell are you doing in my room?”

“Am I not allowed to check on my only child?” he asked, not at all rattled by her implications of trespass.

“Can you not ring me like a normal person?” she growled, though the edge was already softening. “Not just apparate unannounced into my flat like some kind of lunatic?”

“Do you think I possess a phone?” he replied with a chuckle, the sound low and amused, carrying through the quiet of the room. Rising from her bed, he gestured toward her blanket-swaddled form, careful not to move too quickly. “Now, get dressed. We are leaving soon.”

“Leaving? Leaving where?” she asked, skirting dangerously close to a whine, the frustration of being woken curling at the edges of her voice. “It’s my only day off! I wanted to sleep in.”

“Oh, I think you’ll enjoy this,” Loki said, a little too smoothly. That caught her attention.

Curious now, she sat up straighter, the blanket sliding from her shoulders. Her tangled curls spilled over her shoulders, catching the muted glow from the bedside lamp. Her eyes, half-lidded with sleep, sharpened into something alert and impatient. “Where are we going?”

“Off-world.”

That did it. She practically sprang out of bed, the earlier petulance evaporating, replaced by a spark of excitement that made her movements sharp and almost frantic. “Really?”

“Yes. Now…” He gestured to her current state with a hand waved in a lazy circle. “…make yourself at least somewhat presentable.”

“Give me twenty minutes,” she replied eagerly, already dashing over to her vanity. Loki’s gaze flicked to it—a cramped corner of the room, piled with brushes, jars, and random trinkets, barely leaving room for her elbows. It was chaos, orderly only in the way that comes from long years of adapting, squeezing everything into a space too small for it all. 

“You have five,” he said, turning to leave. The soft scrape of his boots echoed faintly against the walls. The room fell quiet again, save for the rustle of paper, the sigh of the heating vent, and the muted clinks of glass bottles as she nudged them aside. Beneath his amusement, a quiet knot of worry coiled tighter, reminding him that none of this—none of it—was simple or safe.

Twenty minutes later, they stepped out onto the street and into a very grey morning. Rain had begun to spritz from the sky in a fine mist, adding a chill and a subtle ache to the air. The city felt muted, as if it were still rubbing the sleep from its eyes.

Loki pulled the grey jacket he’d wrapped himself in tighter around his shoulders and lowered his umbrella a little more, casting a cautious eye around in case of any lingering stares. But he needn’t have bothered. The lines of umbrellas that intersected the streets of London had no interest in anything beyond their own hurried lives.

Despite the gloom of it all, Dora skipped ahead—determinedly undeterred. Her hair bobbed, her shoes scuffed with each bound. The earlier shadows of a sulking, half-awake child were gone; in their place was a bright, restless energy. The promise of off-world had her practically vibrating with curiosity.

Watching her, his frowned deepened. He knew this was the right call; the best way to get answers. To keep her safe. And yet… that old, insistent tug in his gut—the one that had coiled tight the moment he first laid eyes on her—hadn’t loosened. Today it felt sharper, more insistent, as though the universe itself were nudging him toward caution.

They passed shuttered cafés, dripping trees, a city that still hadn’t quite woken up. A pigeon flapped away from them as they approached with a startled coo. The early morning calm was natural, unassuming, and it suited him; it allowed his mind to trace the patterns beneath the surface, to watch Dora, to plan.

“So…” she said, slowing for a moment, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “…where exactly are we going?”

“To see someone,” Loki replied simply, eyes still scanning the street, muscles tense in case danger lurked just out of sight.

“Who?” Dora asked, frowning as if surprised that he—a being who had walked the earth for a millennium—might still have acquaintances.

“A Völva,” he said, gesturing for her to turn left.

Dora shot him a sideways look. “You know I don’t know what that is.”

“They are seers,” Loki explained, his voice measured. “In the old days, they wandered from town to town, performing rites, casting runes, speaking prophecy. No court worth its salt was without one.”

“Like witches?”

He grimaced. “That word is… inelegant. But close enough.”

“So you’re taking me to a space witch?” Dora asked, eyebrow raised.

Loki sighed, the sound swallowed by the drizzle. “She is not a ‘space witch.’ And I strongly advise you not to call her that to her face. She is a practitioner of seidr, yes—but her specialty is prophecy. A seer in the truest sense. She doesn’t just use magic—she listens to it. Interprets it. Reads the patterns where others see only chaos.”

“Right,” she said, understanding dawning in her voice. “You’re still worried about the whole spell thing.”

Yes, he was. And she should be too. But Loki didn’t voice that thought. There was no point in worrying her until they knew there was something worth worrying about. Until then, the burden could be his alone.

“I would just like to know for certain,” he said instead, voice quiet but carrying the undercurrent of something sharper—an edge only he could feel.

“Hey,” she said, the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, “if it gets me to another planet, I am not protesting. Not at all.” She tilted her head, mock-serious. “Do I need to bring a gift? A blood sacrifice? An enchanted goat?”

Loki rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Just your undivided attention would be a start.”

He led her through a series of twisting alleyways, each narrower and more dilapidated than the last—a labyrinth of passages designed to confuse, to conceal. Rust-bitten bicycle frames leaned drunkenly against crumbling walls. The charred husks of long-abandoned cars sat like skeletal reminders of forgotten histories. Skips overflowed with refuse, the stench muted only by the damp air and drizzle. He could feel Dora’s gaze on him—curious, questioning—but he kept his stride steady. They weren’t far now.

Eventually, the alleys opened into a tight courtyard in no better condition. The cobblestones beneath their feet were uneven and worn. Grass had burst through where it could, wild and unruly—climbing through the cracks in the stones, curling between bricks, tangling around the rims of forgotten tyres.

“We’re here,” he said.

The tug in his gut returned—stronger, heavier, insisting. He swallowed, forcing it down.

Dora wrinkled her nose, surveying the cluttered courtyard. “Doesn’t look like much.”

“That’s the point,” he replied. “It’s not meant to attract attention.”

Dora didn’t answer. A few steps ahead, her movements had become almost automatic, flowing in a way that seemed guided by something just beyond perception. The faint shimmer of the portal flickered behind a crumbling wall, half-hidden by the decay around it.

“Dora?” Loki called, his voice carrying an edge he tried to keep in check.

She didn’t pause, though the pace of her steps remained measured, deliberate, eerily calm.

Loki drew a sharp breath, his eyes flicking to the sky as he muttered a curse under his breath. He closed the distance quickly, catching her arm and pulling it back before she could reach the wall.

“Can you resist the urge to touch everything you encounter?” he snapped, more sharply than he intended.

Her gaze blinked back into focus. “Oh… sorry.”

The pause felt charged—almost unnatural. Loki didn’t have time to dwell on it. A subtle shift in the air brushed against his skin, a prickling warning. The portal flared faintly, almost impatiently. Time was short; this rift only stayed open in the early hours. Miss it, and they’d have to wait another twenty-four hours.

“Listen to me,” he said, pausing at the edge of the shimmering divide. “You are going to behave. No exploring. No wandering off. You are my shadow. You stay right by me.” His voice was quiet, firm, but threaded with an edge that brooked no argument.

“You do know I’m eighteen, right?” she said, eyebrows raised. Her tone was light—playful, even—but there was a thread of real offence buried in it.

“I’m aware.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Yes,” he said flatly, voice precise, carrying the weight of absolute authority, “you do.”

She rolled her eyes with exaggerated flair, then let the corner of her mouth twitch up into a sly, half-smile. She shoved her hands into her pockets, leaning slightly on one hip, daring him with her stance. “I promise I’ll be good,” she said, the words carrying a teasing edge, like she was negotiating the rules rather than accepting them. “Happy?”

Loki didn’t respond immediately, watching the flicker of the portal instead. But he caught the glint in her eye—a spark of mischief and anticipation that made him tighten his jaw, part exasperated, part oddly fond.

“Not even a little,” he said finally. Then, shifting his weight, he stepped forward. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

When they came through the first portal, Dora staggered slightly, her boots crunching against soft, glittering gravel. She looked up—and froze. Mountains hung directly overhead, suspended in air like sleeping giants, their snow-capped peaks reaching down toward her as though gravity had reversed. Entire cliff faces, pine trees, and slow rivers of mist drifted upside-down above her head. The sky was little more than a narrow band of space between the earth beneath her feet and the world hovering above—two halves of the same impossible coin. There was no sun, no moon—just a pale, directionless glow that soaked the landscape like light filtered through quartz. It wasn’t day, it wasn’t night. Just an eternal something-in-between.

The next portal brought them into an onslaught of rain like nothing she’d ever seen. It struck her like paintballs—fast, bruising, relentless—leaving her soaked and stinging before Loki had a chance to cast a shield around them. She could barely see two feet ahead, let alone the portal they were meant to find. The air was a wall of white, the kind of rain that erased everything: sound, shape, direction. A hand grabbed her sleeve, yanked her sharply—and then, all at once, she was falling.

Dora hit the ground hard, coughing up a mouthful of grass and dirt. The cold from the rain still clung to her skin, making her shiver despite the warmer temperature.

“Welcome to Vanaheim,” Loki intoned above her, wearing a smile far too wide for someone who’d just tossed her through a portal.

She looked up, ready to hurl back a snarky retort… but the words caught in her throat.

In front of her stretched a lake of crystal blue, its surface so smooth and undisturbed it might’ve been glass—so clear she could see straight to the rock bed below. A low hanging mist clung to the edges like silk, curling softly around reeds and stones as if reluctant to let go. Surrounding the lake, were thick, towering trees. An ancient forest that seemed to breathe. What passed for ‘forests’ on Earth were pale, patchy imitations. These trees were old. Remembering.

And beyond the lake, rising out of the mist like something dreamed into being, stood a palace made of glass and light. It sat atop a cliff veiled in cascading ribbons of water, as though it had been born from the waterfalls themselves. The structure gleamed in the daylight, refracting soft rainbows into the air, every edge and surface catching the light in a different way—as if the whole thing were alive.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly, her voice barely rising above the hush of the mist.

Loki’s nose wrinkled. “It’s fine,” he replied, with the air of someone commenting on a painting he’d seen a hundred times. “A touch gaudy, if you ask me.”

Thus they began their hike to the Oracle, following ancient roads that hummed faintly with old magic, winding through golden crop fields that whispered with the wind, and crossing a technicolour river that shimmered and danced like liquid glass.

“Oh. My. God,” Dora breathed, spotting a small shape in the distance. “It’s a puppy!”

Behind her, Loki spun sharply, daggers appearing in his hands like a reflex. She turned her head to look at him, having heard the abrupt movement; his whole body screamed caution, but she had no idea why—maybe he could see something in the distance. Beyond the little puppy. 

Eagerly, she danced closer to it, taking in the little tufts of fluff protruding from its too-big ears, its little tiny paws, its magnificent fluffy tail that wound around it like a fox. It was like a little alien Pomeranian.

Loki was decidedly less thrilled. “That is not a puppy. It’s a wolf.”

“It’s a sweet angel baby,” she replied, waving him off.

She inched closer, heart thrumming from excitement, crouching a little to get a better look. The creature blinked at her with big glassy eyes. Definitely a Pomeranian knockoff. “It’s so cute I could die.”

Loki sounded personally offended. “It will maim you. And I will not help.”

“Lies on both counts,” she retorted, grinning over her shoulder at him.

“I promise you that it is feral,” he insisted, tone strained.

And then it lunged.

One second it was all big eyes blinking at her, and the next its mouth stretched wide—too wide—revealing rows of enormous teeth that should not, by any laws of nature, be able to fit in something that small and fluffy. It launched straight at her face.

Before she could even react, the thing was flying backwards through the air with a surprised yelp, having been lazily swatted mid-leap by Loki’s magic. It hit the ground with a nasty thud and didn’t get back up.

Dora whirled on him. “Why did you do that?!”

“Because… it was going. To. Eat. You,” Loki replied, over-enunciating every word like he was trying to overcome a language barrier.

“He was just threat posturing. It would’ve fine. I could’ve fixed him,” she said, pouting in the direction of the dog/not-dog.

As if sheer force of will was enough to resurrect it, the creature popped back up—tongue lolling, tail wagging furiously in the grass. It gave a sharp, indignant bark in their direction before scampering off on its absurd little legs.

“It’s okay!” Dora exclaimed, already taking a step forward.

“Oh, leave the dreaded thing alone,” Loki said, exasperation painting every word. “We are not on a wildlife expedition.”

“Right… the Oracle.” Dora turned back, refocusing, a new resolve lighting in her chest. “Are we nearly there?”

Loki gave her a look that said everything.

The next several hours were actual hell. Not metaphorical, not poetic—actual, physical, sweaty, leg-cramping, soul-crushing hell. Now, Dora wasn’t someone who was definitively out of shape. She walked to work—sometimes. She had a gym membership—used occasionally. But this? This was beyond anything she could’ve prepared for. This was a death march disguised as a hike. 

They scaled jagged ravines that looked like something out of a survival documentary. They waded through river currents so strong she was certain they’d take her shoes as trophies. They climbed hills so steep they felt like betrayal. And all the while, that unrelenting sun beat down like it had a personal vendetta. Her clothes—that hadn’t truly dried from the murder-rain planet—were now plastered to her skin with sweat, which was starting to feel in dangerously short supply. Her mouth was dry. Her lips stuck together when she tried to breathe through them. Every step was a negotiation. Every breath was a tiny complaint.

Dora was trying insanely hard—like, bordering on fist-stuffed-in-mouth levels of effort—not to be that kid. The are we there yet? kid. But, at some point—somewhere between her left foot dying and her right knee giving its two weeks’ notice—it just slipped out.

“Are we there yet?”

“Really?” Loki asked, head shooting to hit her with a look of disbelief. “Really? Remind me how old you are?” 

“Eighteen,” she chimed, trying to sound peppy—but she was a beaten woman. Her soul had left her body three hills ago. This planet—its beauty—it was all a trojan horse. This was the worst place she had ever been. Screw the waterfalls and pretty palace. Nature was a scam. “Is it much further?” 

Turning away from her, he said. “You will know when we are close.”

Dora scurried to catch up—she was his shadow, after all. That’s what he’d told her, and dammit, she was going to prove herself this time. He wanted a shadow? Fine. She’d be the most obnoxious, persistent, unavoidable shadow he’d ever known.

She licked her dry lips. “I came up with a song. Do you wanna hear it?”

“No,” he replied immediately. Flat, final, absolute. Like there was nothing in this universe—or any other—that he wanted less.

Dora, of course, was unbothered. If she was going to have to walk this beautiful hellscape, she was going to have some fun. “I’m gonna sing it anyway.”

“Please don’t,” his voice was bordering on begging.

She was starting to feel a bit light-headed now. Dizzy in a fun way. Like her brain had bounced around in the sun too long and decided to embrace absurdity.

“I hate this place. I hate the sun. I wanna home. This was supposed to be fun. You and me. On a trip. It was bad. And I am gonna flip,” she sang, her voice cracking on the last note—partly from effort, partly because her throat was so dry it felt like gravel. “Now take it to the chorus: country roadssss… take me homeeeee…”

Loki stopped, turning to her with a face like he’d just cracked the code to the universe. “Please tell me you’ve consumed some water in this time.”

“Didn’t bring any,” she exclaimed, throwing her hands into the air. 

Loki stared at her like she was insane—like she’d just confessed to a plan for murder.

“You’ve been singing, hiking, sweating, and you didn’t bring water?” he asked incredulously.

Dora shrugged, still annoyingly chipper. “I didn’t know it was going to be a whole quest, okay? You said we were seeing someone, not crossing Mordor.”

Loki looked to the heavens like he was begging for divine intervention. “You are a soft, weak, ridiculous creature.”

Suddenly, something was shoved into her hands. It was cold and wet to the touch. She stared at it for a second, the shape familiar, the meaning there, but her brain lagged like a buffering video. Somewhere deep in her core, she knew what it was. She just couldn’t quite name it.

God, he was right. She was dehydrated.

It was just like that school camping trip when she was fifteen, the one where she’d packed two bottles of water for three days of hiking and spent the last half-day hallucinating about vending machines. She had learned nothing.

“Drink,” he said, and the command was clipped, almost military. 

She blinked at the object in her hands. A water bottle. Right. She cracked it open, took a sip, then another—too fast. The urge to just down it all in one go tempting her on.

“Slowly,” he added, as if reading her mind. “And all of it. I am not carrying you.”

She didn’t argue, which was a commentary on how dehydrated she was. She slowed down, taking back the liquid, like it was medicine—like it were a tether to life. 

“Slower,” Loki said again—quieter this time, the edge dulled. Less an order, more… concern, maybe?

She obeyed. Drained the bottle. Didn’t say a word.

After she’d finished, they moved on in silence. Her thirst was quenched just enough that her brain remembered how to function—perfusion restored, systems online. Unfortunately, that meant the euphoric delirium was gone too. No more prancing around. No more sun-addled musical numbers. Just raw awareness of how thoroughly miserable she felt. That, and a horrible throb that hammered behind her temples.

Every now and then, she caught him watching her out of the corner of his eye. Not glaring. Not annoyed. Just… watching. Like he thought she might go down at any second. And every time she met his gaze, he looked away quickly, like she’d caught him doing something indecent. She wanted to call him out—ask him what exactly what he was looking at—but she didn’t. She felt a little too hollow for banter. 

And maybe—just maybe—she didn’t mind being looked at like that.

… like she was important.

Eventually, the narrow path widened into a flat stretch of stone that jutted out over the valley below. The heat wasn’t as bad here, softened by the breeze rolling up from the cliffs. Dora lifted her head to greet it, eyes squinting into the light. Golden fields stretched for what felt like forever, punctuated every now and again by snaking ribbons of water, dividing the land. She could see the palace from earlier in the distance, gleaming in the light she’d once found beautiful.

If the magic in the air had been humming before, it practically sang now—woven into the breeze, curling beneath their skin, threaded through the stone beneath their feet. It felt old, impossibly old, like it had watched empires rise and fall without ever once blinking; not the kind of magic you cast, but the kind that lingered, patient and knowing, waiting for someone to listen.

“We are approaching a sacred place,” Loki said quietly, explaining before she’d even had the chance to ask the question. “One where the magic of this realm converges.”

Dora didn’t respond. She just sank onto a nearby rock—gracelessly—and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her whole body buzzing with exhaustion.

“I’ve decided I don’t like this planet anymore,” she declared, full-chested and certain. 

“Oh, really?” Loki replied, voice pitched higher than usual, just shy of mocking. “You hadn’t mentioned.”

A shadow moved beside her. Then came the creak of leather. She looked over and saw him lowering himself into a crouch beside her, balancing on the balls of his feet without so much as a sway—like it was nothing. 

He leaned in slightly and pointed out across the valley, toward a square building she hadn’t noticed before—a modest structure with a sloped thatched roof nestled in the golden fields. “That is where we are headed.”

She followed his finger with her eyes. It didn’t look far.

“This Oracle… you trust her?” Dora asked, feeling doubt for just a second. She didn’t think that Loki would take her directly into harm but those sorts of situations tended to just find her.

Loki didn’t look at her right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the fields ahead.

“I trust in her visions,” he said finally. The words were careful. Measured. Not quite an answer.

They sat in silence for a beat, the breeze curling gently around them. Then, without fully thinking it through, she leaned a little to the side, just enough that her shoulder brushed his.

He didn’t move away. Just let it happen. And even maybe leaned a fraction closer, too. Not a lot. Barely anything.

But she felt it.

Chapter Text

Looking up at the hut before them, Loki struggled to remember the last time he’d been here.

With his mother, surely. But when?

It all felt like a lifetime ago. Yet it also didn’t—sometimes it felt like just yesterday. The slope of the roof was the same. The silvery thatch that glimmered oddly in the sun. Even the wind felt familiar here, as if it carried the ghosts of old conversations.

He reached for the door.

But as his hand lifted, his fingers paused just shy of contact.

This close, he realised that there were sigils scratched into the doorframe—every inch of it, from lintel to threshold, no space left untouched. He didn’t recall these. But maybe he’d been too young to notice back then. Too young to understand their significance. He traced a hand along them, feeling the layers upon layers of protection that had been etched into its grain, some of them so old they’d begun to fade, others newer, just as meticulous but betrayed by sloppy lines, as they’d been carved in a hurry.

He turned to the girl, catching her gaze with a pointed look. “Remember what I told you?”

“I am your shadow. Got it,” she said with a nod, offering two thumbs up.

The door groaned as he pushed it open, the threshold quivering beneath his magic, testing him—but ultimately granting passage. Inside, the air was dim and cool. The scent hit him almost immediately—a pungent mix of incense and scorched sage, clinging thick to the walls and woven mats.  A sure sign the Oracle had been warding recently—he could feel it buzzing faintly under his skin, even through the layers of his armour. He led her through, ducking beneath a door framed with a tangled curtain of dried herbs. Some he recognised—lavender, blackvine, widow’s thread. Others he didn’t.

On the other side, the Oracle was waiting cross-legged on the floor. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted slightly like she was listening to something only she could hear. She didn’t react when they entered. Not even when the floor creaked under Loki’s boots.

“Ysili,” he greeted from just beyond the threshold.

“You’re late,” she replied softly.

He cocked his head. “A prince is never late.”

Her eyes opened at last, drifting to Dora. She extended an arm toward her, then gestured to the space directly in front of her on the rug. “Come, child. I’ve been expecting you.”

Dora glanced up at him, a questioning look plain in her eyes. He gave her a tight nod—trust me, he implored her in thought alone. She looked away, jaw tensing. He watched as she shuffled forward, as if something in her had turned cautious. That alone twisted something in his gut; she was never cautious. She normally barrelled headfirst, dragging her fate behind her like a comet tail. Now, though, she moved like the air might break if she stepped too hard. He crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall—close enough to intervene if necessary.

The moment she lowered herself onto the rug, the atmosphere shifted.

It was barely perceptible—just a flicker at the edge of his senses—but enough to make the fine hairs on his arms lift beneath his sleeves. Faint runes stirred beneath her—golden threads hidden in the rug’s weave, now catching light for the first time. Her presence had unlocked them, quiet and certain as a key turning in a lock. There was a wrongness to it—not chance, not theatric design. No, something in the shape of it all felt… contrived.
 
Loki went still, gaze tracking the glowing forms beneath her. He knew most of the symbols—protection, containment, prophecy—but not like this. Woven together, they told a different story. One he didn’t fully understand. Convergence. Manifestation. Arrival.

“Is that supposed to happen?” Dora asked, eyeing the runes that shimmered faintly around her.

“Shall we explore what they meant?” the Oracle asked, extending both hands, palms up.

Dora hesitated. Just for a moment. Then Loki saw her spine straighten, her jaw set. She placed her hands in Ysili’s.

The effect was instant.

The moment they made contact, a low, thrumming pressure rolled through the room. Magic pooled thick in the air—not lashing, not flaring, just dense. Heavy. As if the world itself had slipped beneath the surface of something vast and unseen. It pulsed in Loki’s ears, pressed behind his eyes, like he’d been dragged deep underwater.

Then the Oracle’s body snapped upright—her head flung back and spine arched unnaturally. Her eyes turned white, pupils swallowed by the surge of magic. Her lips moved too fast to follow, forming soundless words her tongue couldn’t keep pace with. Her whole body convulsed as if she was shaken, seemingly from the inside. 

Through the shuddering, a broken whisper scraped out of her throat: “Threads… spliced…” Loki’s head snapped toward her, but Dora didn’t seem to hear.

Loki moved in an instant, recognising the signs of a vision gone wrong. He dropped to one knee beside her. “Break contact—”

“I can’t,” Dora hissed, panicked. “She’s—she’s not letting go—!”

And then it stopped.

Ysili crumpled forward, catching herself on her hands just before she hit the floor. She stayed there, shoulders heaving, golden hair loose and falling around her like a veil. She was gasping like a diver who’d surfaced too late, lungs clawing for breath.

Loki didn’t allow her much time to catch it.

“What did you see?” he asked, voice low and taut. Not gentle. Hungry—for answers, for danger, for something he could fight.

Ysili shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she breathed. “I saw… pieces. Fragments. And… something beyond. A world swallowed by fire. I need more. I need time.”

She turned her face toward Dora, and something in her expression shifted. She looked at the girl with a guarded intensity that Loki couldn’t decipher.

“Leave us.” 

Her gaze never left Dora but he knew that command was directed at him. 

He didn’t move. His frown deepened. “No.”

“The vision was too tangled with your thread,” Ysili said, voice calm but with a strain behind it. “I cannot make out what is her and what is you. You bleed in this room. Bleed powder. Bleed possibilities. It clouds everything.”

Loki’s jaw clenched. “Then untangle it.”

“I can’t. Not with you here. Whatever binds you to her—it’s already seeded too deep.”

Loki stilled. Seeded. It was too deliberate a word to dismiss. He glanced down at his palm, at the rune he’d carved into it. It was just a faint scar now. But maybe…

“It’s okay. I’ll be fine,” Dora chimed in—and then, with the kind of grin that made his stomach twist, added, “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Loki’s head snapped toward her. He stared, stunned—not angry, just incredulous. Of all the places to fling that kind of challenge into the universe, she picked this room—this charged, waiting space where the magic was so desperate to touch something that it might just run off with it. He didn’t know whether to throttle her or weave protective enchantments over her.

“Please don’t tempt the fates,” he said, almost begging. He flicked a glance at Ysili, who was watching them with unreadable intensity, then leaned in closer, voice low and meant only for her. “If anything happens, summon your shield—just like we practiced. I will find you.” 

“I’ll be okay,” she said again. Firmer this time. With a determination in her eyes that hadn’t been there earlier.

He lingered beside her, crouched low, unwilling to go just yet. His eyes searched hers, hoping she’d understand everything he wasn’t saying: Be smart. Be careful. Don’t frighten me. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he rose. One last look at Ysili—a silent, barbed warning—then he slipped beneath the curtain of herbs. The scorched sage hit him harder on the way out, clinging to his skin like smoke, like something burned that wasn’t done burning.

Chapter Text

Outside, Loki paced like a caged wolf, hands clasped tightly behind his back, knuckles white with tension. He walked the worn path outside the Oracle’s hut—up to the fence that bordered the blooming garden, then back to the door again, stopping just short of the threshold each time. And each time, it took more effort not to go in.

The sun had started to sink behind the trees, casting long shadows through the boughs. The silence of Vanaheim pressed in close, so thick it felt like a veil pulled over the world. The grass did not rustle. No wind stirred the leaves. Even the insects held their breath.

Something unnatural rippled through the stillness, something coiled and waiting. It thrummed beneath his boots—not a sound, not a movement, but a shift. Magical. Subtle. As though the land itself had just inhaled. Then he felt it—not pain, not exactly. Just… heat. A slow prickle beneath the skin of his palm, like he’d glanced himself on a stinging nettle. He drew his hand forward instinctively. The rune—the one he’d carved into himself weeks ago—was reacting. No longer a fading scar, it now shimmered faintly, like embers catching light again. It felt more than a mere warning, but warped, as though something had brushed over his magic. His chest tightened. It wasn’t danger. Not yet. But something was moving. A thread tugged. A current turning beneath the surface.

Something was wrong.

He didn’t wait. He was blasting through the door before his mind caught up with his body, blade already in hand. Dora was nowhere in sight. 

Only Ysili…

His knife kissed her throat. "Where is she?” he demanded. Not yelling. Not even angry. Just quiet. Steady. Deadly.

The Oracle’s breath caught. She didn’t flinch, but her eyes widened—just a fraction.

“You don’t know what she is,” she whispered. “You do not know what threads have touched her… or what doors she was made to find.”

He stepped closer. The knife didn’t waver. “You speak in riddles. Enough. Tell me what you saw.”

Ysili’s voice had dropped to a hush, though her gaze was fixed past him, into the unseen. “Her thread… it is not single. I see the weaving of two patterns, crossing, spliced where they were never meant to meet. Yours is in her, unmistakable—yet it bends, as if pressed into another mould.”

The words landed sharp as a blade. Loki’s grip tightened. “Explain.”

“Speak it plain, and the thread tightens. That is the peril of prophecy—naming it risks binding it faster than intended,” she said, voice low and urgent, “All I can tell you is this: she was made to fit a lock. And that door must never be allowed to yield.”

He felt his chest seize. Made. Lock. The words threaded together in ways he didn’t want them to.

Ysili’s eyes flicked to his knife, then back to his face, desperate to make him understand without revealing more. “We must act. The girl must be eliminated.”

“She is my daughter,” he said firmly, pressing the knife harder. The words were flat, certain—an edge of warning cutting through the air. Not a plea, not a declaration of love. A statement of possession; that there would be no understanding here. 

And that—finally—made her flinch.

Ysili’s eyes flicked to the knife, then back to his face. She drew a slow breath, lips pressed tight, and the tension in her shoulders betrayed her awareness: argument was useless here. Whatever game she had hoped to play, whatever leverage she thought she held—it was gone. “It seems you have chosen a path. One that may damn us all.”

“Where is she?” His tone was final, low and cold, the restraint on his fury threadbare. If any harm had come to her…

Silence. A locked jaw. The Oracle looked at him—sadly, knowingly, like she saw the boy he once was and the man he had become.

Loki stared back, holding her stubborn gaze. He kept his face measured as the impossibility of the situation dawned upon him. To kill her would mean war. Vanaheim would answer swiftly, without hesitation. A life for a life. And what life would they take in return? He didn’t let himself flinch at the answer. Didn’t let the thought show on his face.

The blade trembled—just slightly—in his grip. Not from fear. From control. The effort it took to hold himself still.

Ysili had trained him once—long ago. Before he even knew what war was. Before he’d tasted the darkness that bled through the realms. Back when he was young, and eager, and magic was the one thing he had that Thor did not—the thing that bound him to his mother. And Ysili had known his mother too; had aided in his training at her behest. Had brewed with her, fought beside her, bled in the same battles. Maybe even been her friend—though his mother had never spoken of her with affection, only with a kind of reverent caution, like one might speak of the sea: beautiful, powerful, dangerous.

And now here she stood. The same, and yet not. Older. Sharper. Still cloaked in riddles and visions, but somehow smaller now. Fragile in the face of his blade.

For just a flicker of a second, he heard that voice—her voice—again.

Not Ysili’s. His mother’s.

‘Mercy can be power too, my love.’

He hated that it still had power over him. Hated that even now, long gone, she could stay his hand with nothing but memory.

But it did.

He pressed the blade closer, enough to draw a single line of blood. Enough to show her he could.

“You will never come near her again,” he said, voice like iron. “You will speak of this to no one. If I hear even a whisper—if the wind so much as breathes her name—I will return. And next time, I won’t hesitate.”

A beat.

“Old ties or not.”

Racing out of the back door of the hut, Loki followed the trail Dora had unknowingly left behind—resonant echoes of raw, untrained magic. They shimmered through the trees like the scent of ozone after lightning. He shuddered. On a planet full of magic wielders, she was practically a beacon. They were going to have to work on her mental shields. Soon.

But hers wasn’t the only presence.

There were others, woven through the woods like threads in a spell—muted, disciplined, but still unmistakably magical. He didn’t recognise them. Their signatures were quiet, restrained—cloaked in a way that spoke of long practice. Too deliberate to be accidental. Too coordinated to be harmless.

They had led her.

He pushed faster, branches snapping against his arms as he ran. Ysili had planned for this. She might not have known exactly what she’d see, but she’d prepared for an eventuality where it was bad and required action.

And Dora—gods, Dora wouldn’t have known to be suspicious. She would have followed. Of course she would have.

She trusted too easily.

He had told her to.

He’d asked her to listen. To try. To be open. To trust in the process—in him.

And now she was alone, surrounded by strangers, in a sacred place she didn’t understand—her power wide open and unguarded.

He cursed under his breath and ran faster.

Eventually, he crested a hill and saw her. She was standing with two of, what he presumed were, the Oracle’s servants beneath a Ystridha Tree—an ancient willow said to be older than most civilisations. Its bark shimmered with iridescent blue, like moonlight on water, the glow bleeding upward into amethyst-hued branches. The whole tree bowed under its own stillness, as if it carried the weight of a millennia, its violet leaves trailing downward like ribbons of dusk, reaching softly for the ground.

It was a sacred place. A ceremonial site. Used in Vanaheim for visions. Oaths. Cleansings. And, when needed, sacrifices.

“Loki, look!” Dora called when she spotted him, completely oblivious. “It’s amazing, right?”

She hadn’t seen the hörgr beneath the tree—a rectangular altar of stained dark stone, surrounded by cairns and low-burning candles. She hadn’t noticed the bowls set carefully around it, or the cloying scent of dreamroot incense curling through the air like mist. Hadn’t registered that the servants—more like guards now—had shifted. That they stood in tactical formation around her. That their weapons were drawn, and magic shimmered, coiled and waiting, in their hands.

But he did. He saw it all.

Ysili had planned this. She might not have known exactly what the vision would show—he believed that—but she had prepared for a bad outcome. She had made contingencies.

His pulse hammered. Magic buzzed hot under his skin, itching for release. He lunged forward—fear propelling him faster, sharper than rage ever could. Because this time, this once, he could stop it. For the first time in his life, he could change the outcome. He reached her in moments. Seized her hand—gently, but without hesitation—and pulled her behind him, shifting so his body shielded hers entirely. She gave a startled sound but didn’t resist.

His other hand didn’t leave his side, fingers still twitching toward his blade, toward magic. The guards didn’t move, but the air between them was electric—tense, taut, one breath from detonating.

“You should go tend to your Oracle,” he said coldly, voice cool and unreadable.

Flat. Even. Just vague enough to let them wonder what he’d done. Let that uncertainty buy them space.

Dora shifted behind him. He felt her confusion—heard the small intake of breath as she finally began to realise something wasn’t right. That this hadn’t just been a walk through a pretty grove beneath a sacred tree.

For a moment, they stood at stalemate. It was the kind of moment that stretched toward the stars—silent and suspended, like the world itself had forgotten to breathe. Loki didn’t blink. He kept Dora close, fingers still curled tightly around hers. One wrong move, one spark of magic, and this would end in blood. And he didn’t know if he’d have the strength to stop himself if they laid a hand on her.

Then—

Movement.

The servants broke formation, sprinting past them both in a blur of fabric and magic.

Loki didn’t move at first. He’d half-expected it to be a feint—a trap. He drew Dora closer without thinking, one arm slipping around her like a shield he didn’t remember raising. But no magic came. No blades. Just the soft rustle of robes as the vanished through the treeline. He let out a breath—slow, careful. He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding it.

That rune still burned faintly beneath his skin. His mother’s friend. The woman who had taught him to read the wind’s voice, to listen to the stars. And he had pressed a blade to her throat.

But she had tried to harm Dora.

He wasn’t capable of seeing those actions as equal. Not even close. All he could see was betrayal—one that hadn’t fully been paid for. Because yes, he had threatened the Oracle, held a knife to her throat, but she had tried to take what was his. And there was nothing he could do to her—no suffering he could inflict, no pain he could create—that would ever come close to balancing that scale. The duplicity stung in a familiar way. He should be used to this by now, but it still pierced—hot, like a dagger sliding in just beneath the skin. And beneath that: shame. He had let this happen. He’d trusted, even when the universe had pointedly—repeatedly—given him every reason not to.

Trust. That was a child’s fantasy. In his world, it didn’t exist.

“What happened?” Dora asked, her voice tight. She was still staring at the tree line where the servants had disappeared, trembling faintly beneath his arm.

“I was going to ask you the same,” he said. Not with censure—just concern. “What happened after I left? How did you end up here?”

Dora shrugged. Not in a dismissive, casual manner—more one the conveyed she was still trying to put it all together. “Ysili said that we needed to go somewhere special for her to see better. To the tree. She said it was important or something. She sent me with them, said she’d be right behind us.” A beat passed. She let out a long breath. “Then you came, and… well… I don’t really understand what happened then.”

What had happened was that Ysili had brought a sacrificial lamb to a nexus point. For what reason—aside from her annoyingly cryptic statements about threads and doors—he still didn’t know. But he wasn’t going to tell her that—not yet. There was no use frightening the girl further when they didn’t even know what they were supposed to be afraid of.

But Dora, being Dora, was already connecting dots he would’ve rather left scattered. Her gaze drifted to the prepared altar beneath the tree, her curls stirring in the breeze.

“Wait… was she going to kill me?” Her voice stumbled over the words, incredulous, eyes flicking between the altar and him.

“Yes,” he replied, voice flat. “She was.”

Dora flinched. She moved out of his grasp and stepped in front of him, her expression unreadable. The spot at his side suddenly felt cold from the absence.

“It’s… because of the vision, isn’t it? She saw something, and…” She paused, still connecting those damn dots. She gestured helplessly toward the altar, like he wasn’t painfully aware of its presence. “…it must’ve been bad to provoke this.”

“I think she saw something,” Loki said, carefully. Measuring each word like it was part of a delicate chemical synthesis—precise and volatile. One misstep, and everything could skew beyond repair. “But you have to understand that such visions are not absolute. That would suggest that our destinies are preordained, which they are not—not completely. She saw fragments of possibilities. Like looking at shattered glass and trying to guess the shape of the whole mirror.”

“It must have been something bad, Loki,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, as if pressing him to see the gravity of it. He wanted to smirk at the irony of her lecturing him, this child who barely knew the edges of the realms, but the weight behind her words gave him pause. The whole time, her eyes didn’t leave his, wide and unblinking. “Something awful. Something I do. Why else would she…?” She trailed off, but the silence finished the thought for her.

Loki held her gaze, though the truth of it sat uneasily in his chest. He had seen enough of prophecies and visions to know they never struck without reason. Yet the girl before him was no monster—only a child, trembling under the weight of a fate she did not yet understand.

And for a moment he hated Ysili, hated her vision, hated the cruel clarity that had turned the girl’s fear inward.

“We don’t know that,” he replied, a little too quickly. “Like I said: visions are anything but precise. They’re glimpses—partial truths, half-formed outcomes. Sometimes twisted by fear, or by what we expect to see. I’ve known souls to act on what they believed was prophecy, only to create the very outcome they were desperate to avoid.”

Dora didn’t answer for a moment. Her silence wasn't retreat—it was calculation. He could see the thoughts ticking behind her eyes, the weight of what this meant trying to settle in her bones.

“Maybe she was right to be worried,” she said at last. It wasn’t self-pitying. It wasn’t even afraid. Just… quiet. A single possibility offered into the air like a stone dropped into deep water. “If she saw something that terrible—something that happens because of me—then… maybe she was only trying to protect everyone else.”

That hit him harder than it should have.

He stepped in without thinking, hands coming to rest on her shoulders. Not rough, not firm—just steady. Like anchoring her would stop her from spiralling.

“Stop,” he snapped, the word sharper than he meant. Then, quieter, steadier: “Don’t go there. The future isn’t written. Not for me. Not for you. Whatever she thought she saw—it doesn’t mean it has to happen.”

He didn’t add: I won’t let it. He didn’t have to.

The wind whistled as it wound between them, sharp and restless, tugging at cloaks and hair as if it were trying to herd them away. Shadows stretched long over the field, and the last of the sun had all but drained from the sky, leaving everything washed in blue-grey and silver. In the gathering dusk, the glow of the tree had become more prominent—a soft, unnatural luminescence that bled through the gnarled bark and traced its twisted branches like veins of starlight. It stood stark against the fading world around it, a beacon in the emptiness, humming with silent power.

“It’s probably time we got out of here,” Loki said quietly—cautiously—his eyes scanning the darkening edges. The servants would have reached Ysili by now. If retribution were coming, if they meant to finish what had started…

They needed to get back to Midgard.

“I’m guessing we have to walk back to that portal?” Dora groaned, sounding every inch the burdened teenager. 

“There’s no alternative,” he replied, voice grim. “I can’t transport us from here. Too much interference.”

Dora sighed, kicking at a loose stone on the ground. “Great. More hiking. Just what I wanted.”

He stole a final glance at the glowing tree, then down the shadowed path ahead. The weight of the day pressed on his shoulders like a cloak, thick and suffocating. He’d come here seeking answers, and all he had to show for it was more questions. 

“Come on,” he said, nudging her gently as he passed. “Let’s go home.”

He desperately needed to put some distance between them and all of this—Ysili, the tree, the vision. He wouldn’t feel better until their feet were back on Midgardian soil. Back on defendable terrain. 

The cool earth beneath his boots grounded him as they moved forward, the fading light swallowing their figures as the forest whispered around them.

Still, the question lingered in his mind—what exactly had Ysili seen?