Chapter 17 : THE LOYAL OPPOSITION
The sun had barely set when Loki illusion detected movement in the warriors' quarters.
He'd placed the magical construct two days ago—a tiny sliver of his depleted reserves invested in surveillance that even Heimdall might not notice. The illusion was passive, requiring no active attention, simply recording what it observed for later review.
Now it showed him something interesting.
Sif and the Warriors Three gathered around a table covered in maps. Their body language radiated urgency—hunched shoulders, quick gestures, voices pitched low to avoid eavesdroppers they hadn't detected.
"The Bifrost can reach Midgard," Sif said, her finger tracing a path across the star chart. "Heimdall's duty is to Asgard, not to the regent. If we appeal to his loyalty—"
"His loyalty to what?" Fandral's voice carried skepticism. "Odin commanded the exile. Odin sleeps. Loki holds the throne legally. We'd be asking Heimdall to defy legitimate authority."
"Thor is legitimate authority." Sif's jaw tightened. "He's the crown prince. The heir. The one who should be sitting that throne."
"Thor started a war and got himself banished." Volstagg spoke through a mouthful of bread—apparently even conspiracy required snacking. "I love him like a brother, but those are facts."
"Facts that Loki is using to his advantage." Sif's voice dropped to a hiss. "You saw how comfortable he looked in that council meeting. How easily he wielded authority. He's enjoying this."
Actually, I'm terrified and exhausted and running on fumes. But sure, let's go with "enjoying."
"We cannot leave Thor defenseless on that backwater world while Loki sits the throne," Sif continued. "Every day he remains powerless is a day he's vulnerable. And every day Loki holds power is a day he consolidates control."
"What do you propose?" Hogun's voice was quiet, measured—the silent warrior finally contributing. "We fight Loki? We overthrow the regency?"
"We go to Midgard. We find Thor. We help him prove worthy so he can return and reclaim what's his."
That's actually exactly what needs to happen. Thor needs the catalyst—friends arriving, threats emerging, a reason to sacrifice himself for others.
But they can't know I want this.
Loki considered his options. The original Loki would have sent the Destroyer to kill them all—eliminating witnesses, removing threats, sealing Thor's exile permanently. The thought made his stomach turn.
Other options presented themselves. He could arrest them for conspiracy, assert authority, demonstrate that the regency had teeth. Legally defensible. Politically advantageous.
Or I could let them go and use the time they're gone for training.
Or...
He made his decision.
The illusion dissolved as he stepped through the doorway. Four warriors spun, weapons half-drawn before recognition froze them.
"Loki." Sif's sword remained in her hand. "Spying on us?"
"Observing." He kept his voice mild. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Spying implies secrecy. I'm standing right here." He moved into the room, hands visible and empty, positioning himself between them and the door. "If you're going to Midgard, you should know something first."
"Come to stop us?" Volstagg had produced a second piece of bread from somewhere. Nervous eating, perhaps.
"I came to provide information." He let his expression shift—serious, concerned, almost sympathetic. "The All-Father placed enchantments around Thor's exile location. Protective wards. Anyone attempting armed interference will arrive powerless—stripped of their abilities exactly as Thor was stripped of his."
The lie sat comfortably on his tongue. There were no such enchantments. Odin's judgment had been specific to Thor, not extended to anyone who might follow.
But they don't know that.
Sif's face went pale. "You're lying."
"Am I?" He spread his hands. "I have access to the All-Father's records. I've seen the ward specifications. You would arrive on Midgard as helpless as Thor himself—unable to fight, unable to defend him, unable to return without Heimdall's assistance."
"Heimdall would send us back."
"Would he? He serves Asgard's interests. If Thor's exile serves Asgard—as the All-Father clearly believed—then stranding you on Midgard might also serve Asgard." Loki let the implication hang. "Four more Asgardians trapped on a mortal world. Four more lessons in humility."
Fandral's hand had dropped from his sword. The logic was reaching him—or at least, the fear of logic was reaching him. He'd spent enough time in Jotunheim to know that Loki wasn't the scheming villain they'd assumed.
He remembers that I helped him when he was wounded. That debt wars with his suspicion.
"Why are you telling us this?" Volstagg asked. "If we're your enemies, why warn us?"
"Because you're not my enemies." The truth came easier than the lie. "You're loyal to Thor. I respect that, even if your loyalty manifests as opposition to my regency. I'd rather you made informed decisions than charge blindly into consequences you didn't anticipate."
Hogun spoke again, his quiet voice cutting through the tension. "You want us to stay."
"I want you to choose. Go to Midgard if you must—but know what you're risking. Stay here if you decide the risk is too great—but know you're making that choice freely, not because I forced you."
Silence fell across the room. The warriors exchanged glances—wordless communication built over decades of shared combat.
"We need to discuss this," Sif said finally. "Alone."
"Of course." Loki turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. "Whatever you decide, decide quickly. Thor's situation won't remain static forever. If you're going to help him, do it while help can still matter."
He walked out into the corridor, letting the door close behind him.
The seed is planted. Either they go—which serves the timeline—or they stay—which gives me time to train. Either outcome works.
But they'll remember that I warned them. They'll remember that I gave them choice instead of force.
His legs carried him toward the training chambers, but exhaustion pressed down with every step. The mana depletion, the sleep deprivation, the constant political performance—all of it accumulated into a weight that made even walking feel like effort.
Four hours until training with Frigga. I need to rest.
The thought felt like surrender. Every hour spent sleeping was an hour not spent preparing. But his body had limits that his mind couldn't override indefinitely.
He found an empty meditation chamber and collapsed onto the stone floor.
Sleep took him before he could arrange himself properly.
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