I woke up to silence.
No Chitauri screams behind a wall, no whispers of the dead on the edge of hearing. Just silence—soft, enveloping, almost tangible.
The bracelet on my wrist pulsed—barely perceptibly, like a second heart beating slightly slower than the first. The Necrosword was not asleep—it never slept—but now its presence was muted, almost comfortable. The ancient blade, which had killed more gods than all the wars of Asgard combined, behaved like a sated cat—not aggressive, but always ready to unsheathe its claws.
I lay still and listened. Somewhere far away, birds sang—not earthly ones, but Asgardian, with voices like silver bells. Outside the window, a waterfall roared, the one falling from the palace's upper terrace. The voices of servants in the corridor were muffled and businesslike.
An ordinary morning. A normal morning.
When was the last time I had a normal morning?
I sat up in bed. My body obeyed perfectly—not a trace of fatigue after Helheim, no pain from the wounds the healers had closed in a single night. Asgardian medicine worked wonders, especially when the patient was a prince rather than a prisoner.
Outside, Asgard was bathed in morning light—a pearlescent sky with streaks of pink, golden spires reflecting the first rays, and waterfalls that flowed sideways because the laws of physics here were more like suggestions than rules. The city woke up slowly, lazily, like a creature that knows eternity lies ahead.
A knock at the door.
"Enter."
Frigga entered alone, without handmaidens, carrying a breakfast tray. She stopped at the threshold for a second, then walked to the window and placed the tray on a small table. She smiled upon seeing me at the mirror.
"You're already awake. I thought you would sleep until noon."
"It's hard to sleep when there's nothing to hide from in your dreams."
She sat in the chair opposite me. On the tray was warm bread with a golden crust, three types of cheese, fruit, and a pitcher of something golden.
"Honey decoction with herbs," she pointed to the pitcher. "Do you remember? I used to make this when you were sick as a child. You hated the taste, but you always recovered faster."
"I remember."
I sat down and took a piece of bread. It was fresh, with a slight hint of honey in the dough. Frigga watched me eat, and in her eyes was something warm and familiar. The relief of a mother whose son had returned alive.
"You frightened me," she said softly. "When the gates closed behind you... I didn't know if I would see you again."
"Helheim is not as terrifying as they say."
"Do not lie to your mother." She smiled. "You returned with a weapon that kills gods. That is no stroll through the gardens."
I didn't argue. I poured myself some of the decoction—warm, with the taste of honey and some bitter herbs. The taste of childhood, the taste of sickness and recovery.
"Tell me about her," Frigga said after a pause. "About Hela."
"What do you want to know?"
"What is she like?" Frigga looked out the window at the golden spires of Asgard. "For a thousand years, I knew Odin had a daughter. For a thousand years, I imagined her—from fragments of stories, from what he sometimes said in his sleep. But I never saw her."
"She is impressive. Tall, strong. Black hair, like Odin's in his youth."
"And her eyes?"
"Green. One living, one... dead. Half of her face is marked by Helheim."
Frigga nodded slowly.
"Odin never spoke of that. Perhaps he didn't know. Or didn't want to remember."
"She is smart," I continued. "She sees through manipulations. When I tried to be clever, she looked at me as if I were a child with a magic trick she had seen a thousand times."
"Like her father."
"In some ways. But Odin crushes with weight; she cuts with sharpness."
Frigga smiled—sadly, thoughtfully.
"I always wanted a daughter. When I learned about Hela... a part of me hoped that one day she would return. That I could get to know her, become for her..." she shook her head. "Foolish dreams."
"Not so foolish."
"Does she hate us?"
"Odin—yes. The rest... I don't know. She was surprised that we came. Surprised that anyone remembered her at all."
Frigga stood up and approached me. Her hand touched my shoulder—softly, reassuringly.
"And you? How are you, my boy?"
"Whole. Mostly."
"I am not speaking of your body." She looked into my eyes. "That sword... Thor told me how you took it. How it tried to consume you."
"I managed."
"For now. But later?"
I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say.
Frigga sighed. Her hand slid from my shoulder and touched my cheek—a habitual gesture, familiar since childhood. She looked at me for a long time. Then she hugged me—tightly, as she had when I was a child waking from nightmares.
"I am proud of you," she said quietly. "For what you did in Helheim. For how you protected your brother."
I didn't know how to respond. Pride is a strange word. A strange feeling when directed at you.
"Just try not to die," she stepped back and looked me in the face. She smiled. "I only just got you back. I don't want to lose you again."
"I'll try."
The familiar scent of herbs and something floral. The warmth I remembered.
"Rest," she said, heading for the door. "You've earned it."
She left.
The training ground behind the Einherjar barracks was empty—too late for morning drills, too early for evening ones. Just sand underfoot, wooden mannequins along the walls, and the sky overhead.
I arrived before Thor and used the time to test my restored magic. It flowed through my veins freely, without restrictions, without blocking runes. I created an illusion—a solid copy of myself. I added a second, then a third. All three moved independently; all three could interact with physical objects. My magic had returned completely. No residual blocks, no limitations.
"Impressive."
Thor stood at the entrance to the grounds, without armor, in training clothes. Mjolnir hung from his belt.
"Peeping is impolite," I dissolved the illusions.
"I was observing. There is a difference." He stepped onto the sand. "The healers said I shouldn't fight seriously for another week. But a light sparring session won't hurt."
"A light sparring session with you is like a light earthquake."
"Then let's make it interesting." He took Mjolnir from his belt. "Everything you have against everything I have. Let's see what you learned in Helheim."
"Everything?"
Instead of answering, Thor raised the hammer. Lightning danced along his arm, flowing onto Mjolnir, enveloping the metal in a white radiance. The air filled with the scent of ozone. The hair on my arms stood up from static electricity.
I allowed the bracelet to flow into a blade. The Necrosword came alive, pulsing black, and its presence intensified on the edge of my consciousness. Not pressure—more like anticipation. The ancient weapon sensed a fight.
Thor attacked without warning.
Mjolnir sliced through the air, leaving a trail of electricity behind it. I moved aside, creating two illusions simultaneously. Both rushed at Thor from the flanks—one with an ice blade, the second with bare hands, aiming for the throat.
He didn't bother distracting himself with the copies. He struck the ground with his hammer—a wave of lightning radiated outward, scorching the sand, turning it into glass. Both illusions flared and vanished before they could touch him.
I was thrown back. Electricity passed through my body—painful, but not fatal. My Jotun nature provided some protection against the elements.
"Not bad," Thor grinned. "But predictable."
I released the cold. Blueness crawled up my arms, and patterns emerged on my skin. My Jotun form—not full, just the arms, but enough. An ice spike erupted from my palm—not one, but a fan of five, flying from different angles.
Thor spun the hammer, creating a shield of lightning. The ice evaporated before reaching the target, turning into steam. But the steam worked in my favor—a white curtain hid my movement.
The Necrosword struck from the mist. Thor parried with Mjolnir—the black blade met the ancient metal, and sparks flew in both directions. The impact was strong, vibrating through my arm to the shoulder. Thor didn't retreat a single step.
Electricity flowed down the Necrosword's blade, trying to reach my hand. The sword swallowed it—simply absorbed it, like a sponge absorbs water. For a moment, the black steel flared with white veins, then became uniformly dark again.
"Interesting," Thor stepped back, evaluating. "It eats lightning?"
"It eats everything."
I attacked again—the Necrosword from above, an ice blade in my left hand from the side, and two spikes from the floor beneath his feet. Four attacks simultaneously, from different directions.
Thor took flight.
Not high—a meter above the ground, enough to avoid the spikes. Mjolnir spun in his hand, knocking away both blades. Lightning struck from above—aimed precisely at the spot where I had stood a second before.
I rolled to the side. The sand where I had been turned into a crater of molten glass.
"You're not holding back," I noted.
"Neither are you."
He was right. The Necrosword sang in my hand—not with sound, but with sensation. The joy of battle. The anticipation of blood. I kept it in check, but I felt it reaching for Thor's divine power, wanting to taste it.
Three illusions appeared around him—all solid, all armed. One with an ice spear, the second with a copy of the Necrosword, the third with a chain of black ice.
Mjolnir flew in an arc—not at one target, but in a circle, knocking down the illusions like bowling pins. The first crumbled from a direct hit. The second evaded, but the hammer was already returning from the other side—a crack, a flash, a green shimmer in the air.
The third managed to throw the chain.
Black ice wrapped around Mjolnir, jerking it aside. Thor held the hammer but lost his balance—for a fraction of a second, no more.
I was already there. The Necrosword at his throat, an ice spike at his stomach. Two fatal blows, if I had wanted to land them.
"Dead."
Thor froze. Lightning still danced along his free hand, ready to strike.
"You think?"
Lightning slammed into my chest—point-blank, without a wind-up, from an open palm. I was thrown across the entire grounds, rolled over the sand, and slammed into a stone wall. The Necrosword flew from my hand, sticking into the ground five paces away.
Thor was already standing over me. Mjolnir raised for a final blow, lightning playing on its surface.
"Dead," he said.
I lay on my back, looking at the sky. My ribs ached. My ears rang. Colored spots swam before my eyes—the effects of the electrical discharge.
"A draw?"
"A draw."
He reached out his hand and helped me up. The Necrosword returned on its own—flowing over the ground like a black ribbon, wrapping around my wrist, becoming a bracelet again. It was displeased at being knocked away. I felt this as a dull irritation on the edge of my consciousness.
We stood opposite each other—both breathing heavily, both covered in sweat, sand, and burn marks.
"You've become more dangerous," Thor said. It wasn't an accusation—it was a statement of fact. "That thing changes the game."
"You weren't holding back either."
"No." He rubbed his chest where the Necrosword had almost touched his skin. "If you had hit..."
"But I didn't."
"This time."
We were silent. The wind drove sand across the grounds, which was cooling after the lightning. Somewhere far off, voices sounded—the Einherjar were returning for evening training. Soon the grounds would fill with people.
"Let's go," Thor nodded toward a side exit. "I don't want to answer questions."
We left through a service passage and found ourselves in the garden behind the barracks. It was quiet here; only birds sang in the crowns of the silvery trees.
Thor sat on a stone bench and stretched his legs. I sat beside him.
"Gorr controlled it for thousands of years," I said. "And at some point, he stopped understanding where he ended and the sword began."
"Are you afraid it will be the same for you?"
"I'm not so naive as to think it will be different for me."
Thor turned to me. In his eyes was something new—not fear, not suspicion. Something resembling respect.
"Then why?"
"Because there are threats that cannot be handled without a weapon capable of killing gods. Thanos. Knull. Others we don't even know about yet. If I refuse this power, I refuse the only advantage I have."
"Advantage in what?"
"In survival."
Thor was silent. He looked at the sky, where the first stars were beginning to emerge through the evening blue.
"Mother is worried about you," he said finally.
"I know. She came this morning."
"What did she say?"
"She asked about Hela. A lot of questions—what is she like, what does she look like, how does she speak."
"That's understandable. She's never seen her." Thor paused. "It's strange to think I have a sister. An older sister. Thousands of years—and I didn't know."
"Odin knows how to keep secrets."
"Too well." The bitterness in his voice was barely perceptible, but I heard it. "How much more of this is there? How much more truth is he hiding?"
I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say. Odin had many secrets—I knew some from the canon and suspected others. But sharing this knowledge was dangerous. Not now.
"If you ever feel like you're losing control over that thing..." Thor began.
"I'll tell you."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
He nodded. He slapped me on the shoulder—too hard, as always.
"Good. Then I'll be there. To knock it out of you if necessary."
"Comforting."
"I'm serious, Loki." He stood up and looked down at me. "You are my brother. Whatever happens—you are my brother. And I won't let some ancient sword change that."
He left. I remained sitting on the bench, watching the sky darken.
Brother.
A strange word. A strange feeling—knowing someone is ready to fight for you. Not out of duty, not out of calculation. Just because.
The Necrosword pulsed on my wrist. Quietly. Patiently.
Evening descended upon Asgard slowly, like a curtain at the end of a play.
I sat on the balcony of my chambers, watching the city sink into twilight. Lights were lit one by one—torches in the streets, magical lamps in windows, bonfires in the squares where townspeople gathered to listen to minstrels.
The day had passed strangely. Well, but strangely. Too many conversations, too many glances, too much... normalcy. After the Sanctuary, after Earth, after Helheim—normalcy seemed fragile. An illusion that could shatter at any moment.
But for now, it held.
I poured myself some wine—not the kind Frigga had brought in the morning, but ordinary wine from a decanter on the table. Tart, with a hint of something floral. Asgardian wine—stronger than Earth's, but it doesn't hit the head as harshly.
And then I saw him.
A servant—one of those faceless Asgardians who serviced the palace. He was walking along the gallery below, carrying a tray covered with a napkin. Leisurely, steadily, like a man who had done it a thousand times. He reached almost the end of the gallery, near the arch leading to the inner courtyard. One more step and he would be out of sight.
I looked away, up at the stars. Unfamiliar constellations, alien patterns. How much time is needed to learn their names?
I looked down again.
The same servant was walking along the gallery. At the beginning. With the same tray, the same gait, in the same direction. As if time had wound back half a minute.
I leaned forward, clutching the railing.
The servant reached the middle of the gallery. He continued walking—calmly, steadily, unaware that someone was watching. One servant. No second one at the arch at the end. No double.
I watched without blinking until he disappeared around the corner. Then I stared at the empty gallery, bathed in torchlight, for a long time.
Fatigue. Helheim. The stress of recent weeks. Many explanations, each simpler than the last.
I finished my wine. Returned to my chambers. Lay on the bed and closed my eyes.
Sleep did not come for a long time.
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100 power stones= 1 Bonus Chapte
advanced chapters available on{P@treon/Anna_N1}