Aurora sat beside Loki, the silence between them raw, like an old wound that refused to scab. Her hands rested limp in her lap, and her back hunched forward with the weight of everything she couldn't say. The room smelled faintly of burnt ozone, the lingering scent of divine lightning etched into the stone walls and wood panels, like it had marked the air itself with memory.
She looked down at him.
Still.
His skin was cracked, cratered. His arm disfigured in ways that no healing spell could comprehend, like the divine wrath had fused his bones with molten regret. His breath came in shallow wisps, like his soul wasn't sure if it still wanted to remain tethered.
Aurora blinked slowly.
She remembered the way the sky tore open when it struck him. A jagged, divine fang tearing through clouds. A sky split in fury—like a god screaming in silence.
And he'd taken it. All of it. To protect them.
