The med bay still hummed faintly with containment magic, golden glyphs shimmering in the air like frozen fireflies. Inside the circle of light, Loki lay unmoving, skin still blue, veins still glowing with icy seidr but his chest now rose and fell in fragile rhythm.
Stephen stood at the bedside, fingers weaving subtle adjustments into the spell. Every few minutes, the frost beneath Loki's skin surged, straining against the bindings, and Strange calmly rethreaded the wards. His face was pale, sweat beading at his temple.
Behind him, Tony slumped against the wall, refusing to move. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw tight, fingers still wrapped around Loki's frost-crusted hand through the thin opening Stephen had allowed.
"You need rest," Stephen said at last, his tone clipped but quiet.
"Not happening." Tony's voice was raw, half-broken.
"Tony." Strange turned, cloak swaying as if in agreement. "I have the spell anchored. He's stable. For now. But if you collapse, if your hands shake when he needs you steady…" His words softened. "Don't make me add you to the cot beside him."
Tony bristled, then sagged. The fight drained out of him as quickly as it flared. He scrubbed a hand down his face, muttering, "I don't trust him to keep breathing if I look away."
Strange crouched slightly, bringing his gaze level with Tony's. His voice lowered.
"You trusted me. Trust me again. Sleep. Even Iron Men need hours, not just minutes."
For a moment Tony just stared back at him, at the unshaken steadiness, the quiet weight of certainty. Finally, his grip loosened. With effort, he stood, brushing Loki's hand one last time.
"Fine. But if he flatlines, you portal me back here before you blink."
Strange gave a short nod. "I'll hold you to that."
He watched Tony stumble out, Friday guiding him toward a guest room. When the door shut, the med bay felt too silent.
Strange turned back to the containment field, his jaw tightening. Time bought, nothing more.
He needed answers.
Hours later, the portal opened into the candlelit library of Kamar-Taj. The smell of incense clung to the air, mixing with parchment dust. Strange's fingers trailed across the shelves until he found the section he dreaded: Asgardian relics, inter-realm conflicts, the half-truths Odin's scribes recorded.
He read. And read. The words painted a picture of conquest: Jotunheim in flames, armies scattered, relics plundered. A weapon, stolen, locked away, repurposed as a trophy. A weapon that was never meant to be hidden. A lifeline severed from its people.
Strange closed the tome slowly, his reflection warping across the gilt letters.
"Odin didn't protect him," he murmured. "He shackled him."
The flame of a nearby candle guttered in the draft of an unseen wind. Strange pressed his palms together, eyes closing in silent resolve.
I know what can save him. But how do I tell Stark?