Chapter 16 : THE RELUCTANT THRONE
Four hours of sleep felt like four minutes.
Loki dragged himself from bed when the servant knocked, his body protesting every movement. The research session with Frigga had stretched until dawn, and his mana reserves—already depleted from training—sat somewhere near empty. His circuits ached with a dull throb that reminded him of the worst hangovers from his previous life.
Coffee. I would kill for actual coffee.
Asgard had nothing comparable. The closest approximation was a bitter tea that the servants swore promoted alertness, but mostly just promoted the need to urinate frequently. He drank it anyway, grimacing at the taste while a tailor adjusted his formal robes.
"The council convenes in one hour, regent." The servant's voice carried professional neutrality. "Shall I prepare the briefing documents?"
"Already read them." He'd memorized the morning's agenda during what should have been sleep time—border disputes with Vanaheim, trade negotiations with Nidavellir, resource allocations for the military. Standard governance that required attention regardless of cosmic threats lurking in the darkness.
The walk to the council chamber gave him time to compose himself. His reflection in the polished walls showed Loki's face arranged in an expression of confident authority. The mask felt more natural now—less like acting, more like wearing a suit that happened to be made of someone else's identity.
Six days since transmigration. Has it really only been six days?
The timeline blurred when he tried to track it. So much had happened—Thor's banishment, Odin's Sleep, the regency, the unknown threat, Frigga's acceptance. Events compressed into a density that made weeks feel like hours and hours feel like weeks.
The council chamber waited.
Twelve faces turned toward him as he entered—the same faces that had challenged his authority three days ago, now wearing expressions of careful evaluation. They'd been watching his performance as regent, cataloging strengths and weaknesses, building assessments that would inform their future actions.
Let them watch. Let them calculate. I'm doing the same thing to them.
He moved toward the regent's chair at the head of the table, then stopped. Muscle memory—Loki's muscle memory—had carried him toward a different seat. The one Thor traditionally occupied, positioned to the All-Father's right.
The advisors pretended not to notice his hesitation.
His ears burned as he corrected course, settling into the regent's position with whatever dignity he could salvage. A minor mistake. A moment of autopilot error. But in this room, every gesture was analyzed for meaning.
"The council recognizes Regent Loki," Lord Tyr announced, his voice carrying the formal cadence of ancient protocol. "What matters require our attention?"
And so it begins.
"Three items on the formal agenda." Loki kept his voice level, authoritative. "The Vanaheim border dispute regarding the Gundersheim territory. Trade negotiations with the dwarves of Nidavellir. Military resource allocations for the coming quarter. I've reviewed the briefing documents. I'm prepared to hear arguments."
The border dispute consumed an hour.
Both sides presented their cases with the passion of people who'd been fighting over the same piece of land for centuries. Historical precedents were cited, treaties were quoted, ancient promises were invoked. Loki listened carefully, asking questions that demonstrated he'd actually read the relevant documents, filing away information about which advisors supported which positions.
"The territory has been contested for eight hundred years," he said finally. "I see no evidence that either side's claim is definitively superior. I propose a joint sovereignty arrangement—shared administration, shared resources, shared responsibility. Both realms benefit, neither dominates."
Murmurs around the table. This wasn't the decisive ruling they'd expected—neither the aggressive assertion of Asgardian supremacy nor the weak capitulation they might have feared from an inexperienced regent.
"A... diplomatic solution," Lady Sigyn said slowly. "The All-Father typically preferred clearer boundaries."
"The All-Father had centuries to establish his preferences. I have days. Diplomacy preserves options while I gather more information." He met her eyes. "Unless you'd prefer I make uninformed decisions with permanent consequences?"
She inclined her head, acknowledging the point.
The trade negotiations went faster—the dwarves wanted access to certain rare minerals, Asgard wanted improved weapons technology. Standard exchange, standard terms, standard approval. Loki signed the documents without ceremony.
Military allocations proved more contentious.
"The Eastern Fleet requires reinforcement," General Váli argued. "Our presence along the Kree border has been insufficient since the last rotation. If we don't demonstrate strength—"
"The Eastern Fleet received reinforcement six months ago." Loki pulled the relevant reports from memory. "Ship counts are at ninety-three percent of peak capacity. What you're actually requesting is expansion, not reinforcement."
Váli's jaw tightened. "The distinction—"
"The distinction matters because expansion requires different justification than maintenance. If you want more ships, tell me why. Don't dress ambition in the language of necessity."
Silence fell across the chamber. The advisors exchanged glances—surprised, evaluating, recalculating their assessment of the regent who'd just demonstrated he actually understood military logistics.
"The Kree have been more aggressive in recent months," Váli admitted finally. "Small incursions. Probing actions. Nothing that rises to formal complaint, but enough to suggest they're testing our response capabilities."
The Kree. Another variable I need to track.
"Draft a detailed report. Specific incidents, response times, resource implications. I'll review it and make a decision based on actual data rather than general impressions." Loki paused. "This isn't a rejection, General. It's a request for information sufficient to justify the expenditure you're requesting."
Váli nodded, something approaching respect flickering in his expression. "Yes, regent."
"If there's no other business—"
"One matter, regent." Lord Tyr's voice cut through the closing formalities. "The question of Prince Thor."
Here it comes.
"What question?"
"When will the true heir return?" Tyr's tone carried challenge wrapped in protocol. "The All-Father's judgment was rendered in the heat of the moment, after a stressful confrontation. Surely, with reflection—"
"The All-Father's judgment stands." Loki kept his voice flat, unyielding. "Thor was banished until he proves himself worthy of Mjolnir. That condition hasn't been met. Therefore, the banishment continues."
"But surely you could petition—"
"I could do many things, Lord Tyr. I could recall Thor and undermine my father's authority. I could question his judgment and signal that Asgardian justice is negotiable. I could demonstrate to every realm in the Nine that our royal family cannot maintain a united front." He leaned forward. "I choose not to do any of those things. Thor will return when he has earned the right. Not before."
The murmurs that followed carried a different quality than before. Not agreement, exactly—but recognition. The regent understood politics. The regent was thinking strategically.
"The council is adjourned."
They filed out slowly, conversations clustering around common interests, alliances forming and reforming in the wake of new information. Loki remained seated, watching the dynamics, cataloging relationships for future reference.
Frigga appeared at his shoulder.
"You handled that well."
"I merely didn't embarrass myself."
"That's more than many expected." She settled into the chair beside him, her expression carrying warmth beneath its formal composure. "The council has been betting on how quickly you'd collapse under the pressure. Several significant wagers were lost today."
"Glad I could contribute to Asgard's economy."
She smiled—genuine, reaching her eyes. "Your father told me about your conversation. Before the Sleep took him."
The heritage revelation. She knows.
"He told you."
"He was frightened. He expected you to react like... like he would have, in your position. Like anyone would have." Her hand found his, squeezed gently. "Instead, you listened. You asked one question. You walked away with your dignity intact."
"Did he tell you what the question was?"
"'Why.'" Her voice softened. "He didn't have an answer. He's been carrying that guilt for a thousand years, and when you finally asked the question he'd been dreading, he had nothing to offer but silence."
Because there isn't a good answer. There's no justification for what he did—stealing a child to use as a diplomatic tool, raising him with lies, planning to reveal the truth only when it served political purposes.
"I'm not sure there is an answer."
"No." Frigga's grip tightened. "There isn't. What Odin did was wrong. What we did—because I knew, Loki. I always knew—was wrong. We made choices that we thought were wise, and we were wrong."
"You're apologizing."
"I'm acknowledging." Her eyes met his. "Apology implies I expect forgiveness. I don't expect anything. I'm simply telling you the truth: we failed you. Whatever you feel about that—anger, resentment, betrayal—you have every right to feel it."
I should feel those things. The original Loki felt them so intensely they consumed him.
But I'm not the original Loki. I'm a stranger wearing his face, and the wounds they inflicted belong to someone who no longer exists.
"I feel... clarity," he said finally. "I know what I am. I know what was done to me. And I know that dwelling on it won't help me protect the people I care about."
"That's remarkably mature."
"That's remarkably exhausted." He stood, his body reminding him that four hours of sleep couldn't sustain this level of performance indefinitely. "I need to train. The mana circulation is progressing, but slowly. If the threats we discussed in the archives are real—"
"They're real."
"Then I need to be stronger. Faster. Better." He paused. "Can we train this afternoon?"
"I have duties. The All-Father requires tending, and the healing staff needs supervision." She rose, smoothing her gown. "But tonight. After dinner. We'll work on your circuit development."
"Thank you, Mother."
The word still felt strange in his mouth. But less strange than it had six days ago.
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