The golden spires of Asgard stretch into the endless sky, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. You stand on one of the many ornate balconies of your father’s estate, the heavy folds of your gown brushing the marble beneath your feet. From here, you can see the Bifrost bridge shimmering in the distance, but the breathtaking view offers no comfort. Not when the weight of your father's latest decision hangs over you like a storm cloud.

“Y/n,” he had said only this morning, his voice firm with the kind of authority that leaves little room for argument, “Lord Eirik is a wise and wealthy man. The union would benefit our house greatly.”

Lord Eirik. The name alone makes your skin crawl. You’d met him once, years ago—a man older than your father, with cold eyes that roamed far too freely. And now, your father expects you to marry him, all for the sake of strengthening alliances and preserving the honor of your house.

You grip the balcony railing tighter, your knuckles turning white. There has to be another way.

The soft sound of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts, light and calculated, as if the person approaching enjoys the art of making an entrance without announcing it. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“Pouting over arranged marriages? How very traditional of you,” Loki’s voice is smooth, laced with amusement, but there’s an undercurrent of curiosity.

You sigh but can’t help the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m not pouting.”

Loki steps closer, leaning against the railing beside you. His emerald-green robes flutter gently in the evening breeze, and his raven-black hair, perfectly styled as always, catches the last rays of sunlight. Mischief dances in his eyes, but there’s something softer there too—something he hides well.

“Then what would you call this brooding display?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at your stiff posture.

“Desperation,” you mutter, before you even think to stop yourself.

Loki arches a dark brow, his curiosity piqued. “That bad?”

You finally turn to him, your chest tightening. Of all the people in Asgard, Loki is the one you can trust, even if trusting him sometimes means falling victim to elaborate pranks or being roped into schemes you didn’t sign up for. But he’s been your friend for years, since you were both barely more than children running through the palace halls, and now he’s the only one you can think to turn to.

“I need your help,” you say, the words tasting heavier than you expected.

Loki straightens, his playful smirk faltering just slightly. He crosses his arms, studying you. “Now this is interesting. Usually, people only seek my help when they’ve truly run out of options.”

“I have run out of options.” You let the frustration bleed into your voice, feeling the weight of it. “My father is going to marry me off to Lord Eirik. I can’t—” You stop, the bile rising in your throat. “I won’t do it.”

Loki’s expression shifts, the humor fading. There’s a flicker of something deeper—concern? Anger? It’s hard to tell with him. “I assume your father isn’t one for simple persuasion?”

You scoff. “Not when it comes to alliances. He’s set on this, Loki. The only way he’ll back down is if he believes I’m already… involved.” You hesitate before forcing the rest of the words out. “With someone more powerful. Someone he wouldn’t dare cross.”

Loki’s sharp mind picks up on your meaning instantly. His smile returns, slow and deliberate. “And who better than the God of Mischief himself?”

You meet his gaze, your heart pounding. “Will you do it? Pretend, I mean? Just until my father calls off the arrangement.”

He leans in, closer than necessary, his breath brushing against your cheek. “Darling, you wound me. Of course, I’ll help.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, a wave of relief washing over you. But before you can thank him, he adds with a wicked grin, “Though I must warn you, I’m an exceptional actor. You might fall in love with me for real.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the warmth that blooms in your chest. “In your dreams, Loki.”

He chuckles, but there’s something else beneath his laughter—something softer, hidden deep. If only you knew how close to the truth his teasing really is.

The next morning, it begins.

Loki arrives at your family’s estate in a flourish of green and gold, his entrance nothing short of theatrical. His presence alone commands attention, but today, there’s an extra layer to his performance. His smile is softer when he sees you, his touches more lingering, every gesture calculated to sell the lie.

Your father watches from the grand hall, seated on his ornate throne-like chair. His expression is unreadable as Loki approaches him, your hand securely tucked in the crook of his arm.

“Lord Y/f/n,” Loki begins, his voice carrying a practiced charm, “I believe you and I have much to discuss.”

Your father’s gaze flickers between the two of you, his jaw tightening. “Does this have something to do with my daughter?”

Loki’s smile widens, and he draws you subtly closer. “Indeed. You see, we’ve been… involved for quite some time now. And I thought it best to make our intentions clear before any unfortunate misunderstandings arose.”

There’s a heavy pause, the kind that seems to stretch across the entire hall. Your father’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, you think he might call the bluff.

But then, he speaks. “I see.”

It’s hard to tell if he believes it, or if he simply recognizes the delicate politics at play. After all, Loki is the prince of Asgard, brother to Thor, son of Odin—if your father openly challenges him, it could mean far more than just a personal insult.

He exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “I assume you intend to treat her with the respect she deserves?”

Loki dips his head in a mock bow, though his voice is sincere when he says, “Of course. Y/n is… precious to me.”

Your heart stutters at the way he says it, but you quickly remind yourself that this is all part of the act.

Later, as you walk through the palace gardens, away from the prying eyes and heavy expectations, you turn to him. “That was… convincing.”

He offers a playful grin. “Did you doubt me?”

“Not for a second.”

You both fall into an easy silence, the kind that only comes with years of friendship. Yet now, there’s something unspoken between you—a tension you can’t quite name.

“Thank you,” you say softly, breaking the quiet.

Loki stops walking, turning to face you fully. There’s something in his eyes, something deeper than mischief. “Anything for you, Y/n.”

You feel your breath catch, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if this is still just part of the act.

But before you can dwell on it, he smirks again, the moment slipping away. “Now, shall we make this charade more convincing? I believe a few stolen glances and lingering touches are expected.”

You laugh, swatting at his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are, fake betrothed to me.”

What neither of you says is how easily this charade could slip into something real.

For Loki, it already has.

And for you? Well, only time will tell.

The next few days in Asgard unfold like scenes from a grand play, each one more elaborate than the last. It doesn’t take long before whispers ripple through the golden halls, carried on the breeze like wildfire.

You hear them everywhere—soft-spoken words trailing behind you as you walk through the palace gardens with Loki, your arm laced in his, your smile painted carefully onto your face. The stories grow with every passing day, stretching the truth in ways only Asgardians could manage.

“Did you hear? Prince Loki and Lady Y/n have been secretly involved for years.”

“I always suspected something. Did you see the way he looked at her during the last feast? Like she was the only one in the room.”

“I heard he challenged Lord Eirik himself, told him to stay away from her.”

“That’s not all. Someone said he plans to propose soon. Imagine that—a royal wedding!”

You try not to let the gossip get under your skin, but it’s impossible not to hear it, impossible not to feel the stares following you everywhere you go. Loki, on the other hand, thrives in it. He walks beside you with the ease of someone who has spent a lifetime performing for an audience. He basks in the attention, offering charming smiles and knowing glances to anyone bold enough to meet his eyes.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” you murmur one afternoon as you pass a group of noblewomen who pretend to be absorbed in a conversation but clearly hang onto every word between you and Loki.

“Immensely,” Loki replies without missing a beat. He leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Though, I think I could convince you to enjoy it more if you’d play along a little better.”

You pull back to glare at him, but the twinkle in his green eyes disarms you. “I am playing along.”

“Hardly. You still stiffen every time I touch you.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

You huff in annoyance, but the truth of his words gnaws at you. Despite the charade, despite the time you’ve spent with Loki over the years, something about the closeness now—about what it means—makes it harder to pretend. Because pretending means noticing things you’ve tried not to notice before. Like the way his fingers linger at the small of your back, or how his gaze softens when he thinks you aren’t looking.

Still, you manage a smile for the sake of your audience and link your fingers more tightly with his. “I’ll try harder.”

“Good.” He grins, triumphant.

But the real test comes sooner than you expect.

Loki approaches you late one evening in the palace library, where you’ve sought refuge from the endless gossip and prying eyes. The tall shelves lined with ancient tomes offer some comfort, but not nearly enough.

He strides in, his dark green cloak billowing behind him, and you know immediately that something is different.

“What?” you ask, setting the book aside.

He leans against the table, his fingers drumming against the polished wood. “We’ve been summoned.”

Your stomach twists. “Summoned?”

“To see my parents.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Odin. Frigga. Meeting the All-Father and the Queen wasn’t something you’d fully thought through when you first begged Loki for help. But of course, it was inevitable. If the story was going to hold, you’d have to convince them as well.

You try to steady your breathing. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

You swallow hard. “And… what do we do?”

Loki’s usual confidence falters for a moment, so brief you almost miss it. But then he straightens, slipping back into the role as easily as breathing. “We do what we’ve been doing. Pretend.”

You stand, nerves knotting in your chest. “It’s Odin. And Frigga. They’ll see right through us.”

He steps closer, his expression softening. “Frigga might. But Odin… well, he’s been fooled before.”

There’s a flicker of bitterness in his voice, quickly masked, but you choose not to push. Instead, you take a deep breath and meet his gaze. “Then let’s make it believable.”

The next morning arrives far too quickly.

You wear a flowing gown of deep emerald silk, chosen carefully to match Loki’s signature color. Your hair is braided elegantly, delicate gold threads woven through it—Frigga’s tastes are well-known, and you hope to make a good impression.

Loki meets you outside the grand hall, looking every bit the prince in his regal Asgardian attire. He offers you his arm, and when you hesitate for just a moment too long, he smiles softly. “It’ll be fine.”

You place your hand on his arm, feeling the tension beneath his cool exterior. “You’re nervous too.”

“Of course. I’m about to introduce my supposed beloved to the All-Father and the Queen. They’ll dissect everything you say.” He pauses, then adds more quietly, “But you’ll do fine.”

The heavy doors of the hall creak open, and together you step inside.

Odin sits on his throne, his golden armor gleaming beneath the grand beams of the hall, Gungnir resting at his side. His one good eye fixes on you and Loki as you approach, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Frigga sits with her usual calm grace, her blue robes flowing around her like water, though her eyes are sharp and knowing.

You bow low, as does Loki, though his is more casual, a prince bowing to his own parents but still observing the formality.

“Mother, Father,” Loki begins, his voice smooth but carefully measured, “I bring Lady Y/n before you.”

Odin’s gaze lingers on you, heavy and powerful, and you feel the weight of his scrutiny. “We have heard whispers,” he says finally, his deep voice reverberating through the hall. “Of your… intentions.”

Loki nods, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “Indeed. Y/n and I have been… close for some time now. I thought it best you meet her.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Frigga speaks next, her voice gentle but firm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/n. I’ve long heard of your family’s standing.”

You straighten, trying to hide the nervous flutter in your chest. “The pleasure is mine, Your Majesty.”

Her smile is kind, but her eyes are sharp. She sees more than she lets on.

Odin leans forward, his knuckles tightening around Gungnir. “And tell me, Lady Y/n, what is it about my son that draws your affections?”

Your heart pounds. This is it—the moment that could unravel everything if you don’t answer carefully.

You glance at Loki, who watches you intently, his usual smirk absent, his jaw tense. And in that moment, something shifts. You think of all the times he’s been there—the years of friendship, the whispered secrets, the laughter, the mischief, and now this.

You meet Odin’s gaze. “Loki has been my friend for many years. He is… brilliant, clever, and fiercely loyal to those he cares for. Beneath his mischief, there is kindness—more than most people see.” You pause, swallowing. “And he makes me feel… seen.”

The hall is silent. Odin watches you carefully, but Frigga’s expression softens.

Loki clears his throat, breaking the tension. “As you can see, Father, I chose wisely.”

Frigga’s smile returns, more genuine now. “It seems you have.”

Odin leans back, still unreadable. “We shall see.”

The meeting ends shortly after, but the tension lingers as you and Loki leave the hall.

You exhale deeply once the heavy doors close behind you. “Well. That was… terrifying.”

Loki chuckles, though it’s quieter than usual. “You did well. Even I almost believed you.”

You arch a brow at him. “Almost?”

He smirks, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “You were… convincing.”

As you walk through the palace, you notice more than ever how the whispers have grown. You catch snippets—your name, Loki’s, theories about how long the two of you have been secretly involved, about whether wedding bells are on the horizon.

It should feel overwhelming, but strangely, it doesn’t. Not with Loki walking beside you, his arm brushing against yours, his warmth grounding you.

But what lingers most is the look on Frigga’s face when you spoke—the knowing softness in her eyes, as if she could see right through the lies to something else, something truer.

You wonder if she saw the same thing you’re beginning to feel. Something deepening between you and Loki, something you didn’t expect.

And as Loki glances at you, his smile softer now, less forced, you can’t help but wonder if he feels it too.

The calm that settles over Asgard after your meeting with Odin and Frigga is short-lived. For a few brief days, you feel the weight lifting, as if the worst of it is behind you. The whispers in the palace grow louder, but now they carry a different tone—gossip laced with excitement rather than judgment. People speak of your so-called love affair with Loki as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

But the feeling of safety is fragile, thin as glass, and it shatters the moment Lord Eirik returns to the city.

You first hear of his arrival from one of the palace maids, who finds you in the gardens where you and Loki had spent countless hours perfecting your act. She approaches nervously, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes wide.

“My lady,” she whispers, glancing around to ensure no one overhears. “Lord Eirik has returned. He rode through the gates this morning.”

The news strikes like a physical blow, the breath catching in your throat.

“Already?” you manage to ask, your fingers tightening around the edge of the marble bench you sit on.

She nods quickly. “I heard he was… furious.”

The words hang in the air long after she departs, leaving you alone in the garden’s silence. You stare at the carefully trimmed hedges, your heart racing. Of course, Eirik wouldn’t take this lightly. His pride, his status—it was all tied to the alliance your father had promised him. And now, with you publicly attached to Loki, that promise had crumbled before his eyes.

A shadow looms over you before you even hear the approaching footsteps.

“I heard,” Loki says smoothly as he sits beside you, though there’s an edge to his voice, something darker than his usual playful tone.

“Of course you did.” You sigh, your shoulders sagging. “What do we do now?”

He leans back on the bench, looking up at the blue Asgardian sky, but there’s tension in the set of his jaw. “We keep pretending. And we let him come to us. I’m sure he will.”

You glance at him, worry swirling in your chest. “Loki, Eirik isn’t like the nobles who whisper behind fans and silk curtains. He won’t just let this go.”

A sharp smile curls at Loki’s lips, but there’s no warmth in it. “Then let him try something.”

You know that tone. It’s the same one he uses when he’s plotting something dangerous, something reckless.

“Loki…” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I won’t let him lay a hand on you, Y/n.”

It should comfort you, but all it does is make the knot in your chest tighten.

You don’t have to wait long before Eirik makes his move.

That evening, as you walk the palace corridors alone—something you now regret—his voice cuts through the stillness.

“My lady.”

You freeze before turning around.

Lord Eirik stands at the end of the corridor, dressed in deep burgundy robes lined with fur, his gray-streaked beard groomed perfectly, though his sharp eyes burn with fury.

You swallow, trying to summon the courage you’d had when speaking to Odin. “Lord Eirik,” you say as calmly as you can, though your heart pounds in your chest.

He strides toward you, each heavy step echoing off the marble walls. “I had expected a different welcome upon my return. Perhaps one from my betrothed.”

You straighten your shoulders, meeting his gaze. “I am not your betrothed.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “That was not your decision to make.”

The air between you thickens with tension, heavy and suffocating.

“My father agreed to the arrangement, yes,” you say carefully, “but I never did.”

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, you see the true depth of his anger, barely restrained beneath the surface. “And yet, now you belong to Loki? Do you think I don’t see this for what it is? A ruse. A desperate attempt to escape a future you did not want.”

You flinch, but refuse to look away. “If you see it so clearly, then why bother?”

“Because,” he hisses, stepping closer, his voice dropping into something low and dangerous, “I do not take well to being made a fool of.”

Your heart races, but you stand your ground. “I made my choice.”

Eirik’s hand twitches at his side, like he’s considering reaching for you, but before he can make another move, a familiar voice slices through the corridor, smooth and laced with venom.

“I suggest you step away from her, Eirik.”

You turn just as Loki appears from the shadows, his tall figure tense with restrained fury. His usual playful demeanor is gone, replaced with something far more dangerous. His green eyes burn as he closes the distance between the three of you, his steps slow and deliberate.

Eirik sneers. “So, the prince emerges. Tell me, Loki, how long do you expect this little performance to last?”

Loki stops at your side, his presence a solid wall between you and Eirik now. “Long enough for you to realize that she is no longer available to be traded like livestock.”

Eirik’s face reddens, his fury bubbling beneath his carefully constructed facade. “You think you can embarrass me like this? Ruin what was promised to me?”

Loki steps forward, the air around him crackling with restrained magic. “I think I just did.”

For a tense moment, you think Eirik might draw his weapon, might be foolish enough to challenge a prince of Asgard right here in the palace. But he doesn’t. Instead, he sneers, spitting his next words.

“This isn’t over.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and storms down the corridor, his heavy footsteps echoing until they vanish into silence.

You exhale sharply, your knees feeling weak beneath you.

Loki turns to you immediately, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Are you alright?”

You nod, though the adrenaline still courses through you. “I’m fine. I didn’t expect him to… I thought he’d just walk away.”

Loki’s jaw tightens. “Men like him never walk away quietly.”

You meet his gaze, seeing the worry beneath his sharp features. “Thank you. For stepping in.”

His fingers brush against your cheek, softer now, his anger replaced with something gentler. “I told you I wouldn’t let him touch you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest at the closeness between you. You’ve spent so much time pretending, weaving this elaborate lie, but this moment doesn’t feel like an act at all.

“Loki…” you start, unsure what you even want to say, but he shakes his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“We need to be careful. Eirik won’t take this humiliation lightly.”

You know he’s right, but part of you still lingers on the way his fingers brushed your cheek, on how his anger burned so fiercely on your behalf.

Over the next few days, the tension in Asgard thickens. The gossip shifts once more, no longer idle talk of romance and secret affections. Now it’s filled with sharp edges—talk of Eirik’s fury, of how the nobleman had been made a fool, of the confrontation in the palace corridors.

“He’ll retaliate,” you hear one nobleman whisper at a feast, his voice low but urgent. “Men like Eirik don’t take humiliation lightly.”

“He won’t dare cross Loki,” another responds, though even he sounds unsure.

You sit beside Loki at the long table, his hand resting casually on yours, playing the part still, though now there’s an undeniable tension beneath his touch.

“Everyone’s waiting for him to strike,” you murmur, sipping your wine.

Loki’s jaw tenses, but he keeps his smile in place for the crowd. “Let him. I’m ready.”

You glance at him, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across his sharp features. There’s something more beneath his calm exterior, something darker brewing.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” you say softly, but he only offers that same infuriating, knowing smile.

“For you, I’d do anything.”

The words are playful, but there’s truth laced in them—a truth you’re not sure you’re ready to face yet.

But in the pit of your stomach, you know Eirik’s next move is coming. And when it does, it will shatter the fragile facade you and Loki have built, forcing both of you to face the deeper truths you’ve been hiding behind the mask of your lie.

The days following Eirik’s return pass in a haze of tension and whispers, every corner of the palace echoing with fragments of your story. What started as a desperate act to avoid a loveless marriage has spiraled into something far more elaborate—something neither you nor Loki fully anticipated.

You thought the hardest part was convincing Odin and Frigga, but now you see how naïve that was. The entire realm buzzes with the news of your supposed love. And there’s no way to retreat from it now.

The decision comes swiftly, a conversation you’re not even a part of.

One morning, you’re summoned to the royal chambers, your heart hammering in your chest. You half-expect it to be Odin demanding the truth, but when you step into the vast room, it’s Frigga who greets you, her gentle smile doing little to soothe your nerves. Loki stands near the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture stiff. He avoids your gaze.

“Lady Y/n,” Frigga says, her voice kind but measured, “we’ve been discussing the future.”

Your throat tightens. “The future?”

She nods, her hands folded elegantly in front of her. “Yours and Loki’s.”

You glance at Loki, but he still won’t meet your eyes.

Frigga continues, “Asgardian tradition holds that public declarations of love, especially from royalty, carry a certain… expectation. The people are watching. Your families are watching. There will be pressure.”

The word hits you hard. Pressure. That’s all this has been—a tight, suffocating cage you’ve been trying to escape, only to find yourself deeper inside it.

“I… I understand,” you manage to say.

Frigga’s smile is patient, but you see the knowing glint in her eyes. “Odin believes the most honorable course now is marriage. It will solidify the alliance between your family and the royal house. It will… legitimize what has been said.”

The room seems to tilt beneath you.

Marriage.

You’d known it was a possibility—this was the path you chose the moment you begged Loki to fake this relationship—but hearing it spoken aloud makes it real.

You finally look at Loki, and this time he meets your gaze. His green eyes, usually so full of mischief and confidence, are unreadable now, guarded.

“This is what needs to happen,” he says quietly.

The words sting more than they should. You know he’s playing the part still, but a small, fragile part of you had hoped… for something else in his tone. Something warmer.

Frigga, ever observant, watches the silent exchange between you. “There will be time to prepare, of course. But the arrangements will begin immediately. The people will want a grand wedding.”

You can only nod, your heart beating too loud in your ears.

As you leave the chamber, Loki falls into step beside you. Neither of you speaks for a long moment, the weight of what just happened hanging between you like a storm cloud.

Finally, you break the silence. “So. We’re getting married.”

He exhales through his nose, the faintest trace of a smile curling at his lips. “Seems so.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “I thought the whole point was to avoid being married off.”

His smirk deepens, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “At least this time it’s your choice.”

Is it? You want to say, but the words catch in your throat.

Instead, you glance at him, searching his face. “You don’t mind?”

Loki slows his steps, considering. “I’ve had worse fates.” He glances sideways at you, his green eyes softer now. “And it’s not as though I find the idea unbearable.”

Your stomach twists at his words, at the quiet honesty behind them.

He clears his throat, brushing past the moment. “We should… prepare. I’m sure the palace will be overrun with wedding plans soon.”

And it is.

Within days, Asgard buzzes with preparations. Nobles flock to the palace, eager to be part of the grand event. Silk merchants arrive with bolts of fabric shimmering in the sunlight. Jewels from realms beyond Asgard are presented as offerings for the bride-to-be—each more ornate than the last.

You’re swept into it all, barely able to catch your breath. Tailors drape you in rich fabrics, court advisors debate over seating charts, and Frigga herself insists on helping you select flowers from the royal gardens.

At first, it all feels like a dream—distant, surreal. You go through the motions because you have to, because this is what the story demands. But somewhere, amid the chaos, things begin to shift.

It starts when you see the temple where the ceremony will take place—its high arches carved with ancient runes, golden light pouring through the stained glass. You picture yourself standing there, before the entire realm, with Loki at your side.

You imagine the moment Odin will declare you husband and wife, the vows you will speak, the ring that will slide onto your finger.

And, unexpectedly, your heart flutters.

You try to brush it off at first. It’s just nerves, you tell yourself. The weight of everything happening so fast.

But it becomes harder to ignore when you catch glimpses of Loki in the quiet moments—when he thinks no one’s watching.

Like when you find him in the palace library, flipping through old texts on Asgardian wedding customs. You approach silently, watching as his brow furrows in concentration, his long fingers tracing the pages.

“Studying?” you tease, breaking the silence.

He startles, then chuckles softly. “I suppose I should know what I’m getting myself into.”

You smile, but the warmth in your chest lingers longer than it should.

And then there are the times you catch him staring at you during fittings or dinners—when he isn’t wearing his usual smirk but something softer, more vulnerable.

It’s in those moments that you begin to realize the truth you’ve been avoiding.

You care for him.

No—more than that.

You love him.

The realization hits you one evening as you stand on the palace balcony, watching the stars blink into existence above Asgard. The city glows beneath you, but all you can think of is Loki—the way he’s been by your side through all of this, protecting you, helping you.

He didn’t have to say yes when you begged him for help. He didn’t have to throw himself into this charade so completely.

But he did.

And somewhere along the way, pretending stopped feeling like pretending.

You press your hands to the balcony railing, your heart racing.

You love him.

But before you can even begin to unravel what that means, a new threat looms—darker and more dangerous than the whispers of nobles or the expectations of the court.

Eirik.

Though he has remained out of sight since his confrontation in the palace corridors, you know better than to believe he’s simply accepted his defeat.

And you’re right.

In the shadowed halls beneath Asgard, Eirik plots.

The slight against him, the humiliation he endured—it festers like a wound, growing deeper with each passing day. He cannot stand the thought of you standing at Loki’s side, wearing a crown that should have elevated his own status.

And so, he makes a decision.

If he cannot have you, if he cannot claim the future that was promised to him, then no one will.

Whispers reach his ears—servants who are easily bribed, guards who turn a blind eye. He learns of the wedding plans, the route you will take to the temple, the secluded chambers where you rest.

He plans his revenge carefully, methodically.

A poisoned blade. Swift, silent.

He imagines it easily—how the chaos would erupt if the bride-to-be were found dead on the eve of her wedding. The scandal, the shame, the grief. It would tear through the palace like wildfire.

Loki would suffer.

And that, more than anything, is what Eirik desires.

But what he doesn’t anticipate is how fiercely Loki watches over you.

Late one evening, as you sit in your chambers, going over the endless lists of preparations, Loki slips inside silently.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, noting the candle still flickering beside you.

You smile tiredly. “Too much to think about.”

He crosses the room, sitting beside you. There’s something different in his demeanor tonight—tense, alert.

“You should rest,” he says gently. “The days ahead will be… intense.”

You glance at him, your heart aching with the weight of your unspoken feelings. You want to tell him—about the realization on the balcony, about how this no longer feels like an act to you.

But before you can speak, Loki’s expression shifts, his eyes darkening as he glances toward the window.

In an instant, he’s on his feet, his dagger appearing in his hand as though conjured from thin air.

“Stay here,” he orders, his voice low and sharp.

You barely have time to react before he vanishes into the shadows, leaving you breathless, fear curling in your chest.

Something is coming.

And this time, it’s not just your heart that’s at risk.

The tension that had filled the room moments ago lingers like a fog, even as Loki returns from the window, dagger still gripped tightly in his hand. His sharp eyes scan the corners of your chamber one last time, but there’s nothing—no shadowy figure lurking in the darkness, no threat waiting to strike. It had only been a flicker, perhaps a trick of the moonlight or the frantic pounding of both your hearts playing tricks on you.

Still, Loki doesn’t lower his weapon.

“It was nothing,” you whisper, though your voice shakes.

“Perhaps,” he replies, but the edge in his voice remains. “But I won’t take chances with your life.”

Your chest tightens at the words, at the sheer intensity of the way he looks at you, as though the thought of something happening to you is unbearable. You realize then how deeply this act—the lie you both started together—has woven itself into something neither of you can ignore.

“Loki,” you begin, but the words falter on your tongue. There’s so much you want to say, but the lump in your throat threatens to choke you.

He steps closer, lowering the dagger and reaching out, his hand brushing lightly against your cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he repeats, softer this time, but the weight of his promise feels heavier now.

The moment lingers between you, thick with unspoken confessions, but before either of you can cross that fragile line, he pulls back.

“You should rest,” he says, though his voice sounds strained, as if he’s fighting against something inside himself. “We both should.”

And with that, he slips out of the room, leaving you alone with the racing of your heart and the realization that the feelings you’ve buried for so long can’t be hidden much longer.

The following day—the day before the wedding—passes in a blur. The palace buzzes with preparations, the air filled with the scent of fresh flowers and the soft hum of music as musicians rehearse for the grand ceremony. Nobles flit about like jeweled birds, discussing everything from the seating arrangements to the color of the tapestries.

But none of it feels real.

Not to you.

Your mind is elsewhere, trapped in the heavy weight of what you need to say. The feeling that’s been growing inside you—quiet at first, then louder, unstoppable—can’t be ignored any longer. The thought of standing before all of Asgard tomorrow and binding yourself to Loki in a marriage that had begun as a lie is unbearable if he doesn’t know the truth: that it’s no longer pretend for you.

You find him that afternoon in the palace gardens, beneath the towering silverleaf trees where the two of you had so often sought refuge from court life. He stands with his back to you, hands clasped behind him, staring out over the shimmering pools that reflect the afternoon light.

You take a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage, before stepping forward.

“Loki.”

He turns, the faintest smile touching his lips. “Y/n.”

But his usual mask of mischief and ease falters when he sees the seriousness in your expression.

“I need to talk to you,” you say, your hands twisting nervously in front of you.

His brow furrows, and he gestures for you to sit on the bench beneath the trees. “Of course. Is something wrong?”

You sit, the cool stone beneath you grounding, though your heart still races. “No. Well, yes. I—Loki, I can’t keep pretending.”

His entire body stiffens. “You want to call it off?” he asks, but there’s something vulnerable in his voice, hidden beneath the careful nonchalance.

You shake your head quickly. “No. That’s not—” You exhale, frustrated with yourself. “This started as a lie, yes. A way to avoid being forced into a marriage I didn’t want. But somewhere along the way…” Your throat tightens. “I stopped pretending.”

His eyes widen, the green depths shimmering with something fragile and raw.

“I love you, Loki,” you say, the words finally spilling out, freeing you from the cage they’ve built inside your chest. “I don’t want tomorrow to be a lie. I want it to be real.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. The soft rustle of leaves, the trickle of water, and the loud thundering of your own heartbeat.

And then Loki moves, swiftly, closing the space between you and pulling you into his arms. His hands cradle your face as he searches your eyes, as if trying to determine if you’re telling the truth.

“You love me?” he whispers, his voice filled with disbelief, hope, and something else—something deeper.

You nod, tears pricking your eyes. “I do.”

A smile breaks across his face then, the most genuine one you’ve ever seen. “I’ve loved you for so long,” he confesses, his voice cracking slightly. “Since before all of this. I never thought—”

You don’t let him finish. Instead, you press your lips to his, soft at first, tentative, before he deepens the kiss, pouring all the emotions you’ve both kept hidden into that moment. It’s everything you hoped for and more—electric, grounding, and undeniably real.

When you finally pull back, both of you breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “will be real. I swear it.”

You nod, your heart full in a way it’s never been before. “Tomorrow.”

But happiness, it seems, is always fleeting.

That night, after the palace has quieted, after you’ve retreated to your chambers to rest before the wedding, a darkness lingers—one that neither you nor Loki can sense.

Eirik.

He’s been watching, waiting, hidden in the shadows of the palace where no one dares to look. His fury has only grown, twisted into something vile and dangerous. And now, with the wedding hours away, his plan is set into motion.

You lie in your bed, staring up at the ornate ceiling, unable to sleep. The events of the day replay in your mind—your confession to Loki, his to you—the way your heart had soared with hope for the first time in so long.

But that hope shatters the moment your chamber door creaks open.

You sit up, expecting it to be Loki, but the figure that steps into the moonlight is not him.

It’s Eirik.

Before you can scream, he’s on you, pressing a hand over your mouth, his blade gleaming in the moonlight.

“I warned you,” he hisses, his face twisted with rage. “I told you this wasn’t over.”

You struggle beneath him, panic clawing at your chest, but he’s too strong. His blade plunges forward, piercing your side. A sharp, searing pain rips through you, followed by a coldness that spreads quickly.

The blade is poisoned.

But then—another voice, fierce and filled with rage.

“Get away from her!”

Loki bursts into the room, his magic already crackling around him. A blast of green energy slams into Eirik, sending him flying across the chamber. Loki is on him in an instant, his dagger pressed to Eirik’s throat, but his eyes flick to you, wide with horror.

“Y/n!”

You clutch your side, blood seeping through your fingers, your vision already blurring.

Loki knocks Eirik unconscious with a swift blow, then rushes to you, cradling you gently in his arms.

“No, no, no,” he whispers, his hands trembling as they press against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding. “You’re going to be fine. Do you hear me? You’re going to be fine.”

But the poison is already coursing through your veins. You can feel it—cold and heavy—pulling you under.

“L-Loki…” you whisper, reaching for his face, your fingers barely able to brush against his cheek.

“Stay with me,” he begs, tears slipping down his face. “Please, Y/n. I can’t lose you.”

You try to smile, but it’s weak, your strength fading fast. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he chokes out, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “More than anything.”

Your vision darkens, your body growing heavier. The last thing you see is Loki’s tear-streaked face before the world slips away.

But you don’t die.

Not yet.

Loki lifts you in his arms, his magic flaring wildly as he races through the palace toward the healers, his mind filled with one thought: he will save you.

No matter what it takes.

The palace, once alive with wedding preparations and buzzing excitement, now stands in eerie silence. The vibrant flowers meant to line the temple aisle wilt in the morning sun, untouched. The music that had echoed through the golden halls has fallen quiet, replaced by whispers and hurried footsteps. Word spread quickly—faster than anyone could have expected. By dawn, all of Asgard knows what happened.

You lie motionless on the grand bed in the royal healing chambers, your skin pale against the deep emerald sheets. The faint rise and fall of your chest is the only sign of life, but even that seems fragile, as if it could slip away at any moment. The wound at your side has been cleaned, the poison drawn out as much as possible by the royal healers, but the damage is done. You’re trapped in a deep, unnatural sleep—a coma—your body caught between life and death.

Loki sits by your bedside, his hand tightly wrapped around yours, refusing to let go even for a moment. His knuckles are white, his jaw clenched so hard it aches, but he doesn't care. All that matters is you.

It’s been hours since the attack. Hours since he carried your limp, bloodied body through the palace halls, screaming for help, his voice raw with panic. The healers had done all they could, but the poison had been crafted with dark intent—designed to kill slowly, to make sure the victim suffered. And now, you lie here, untouched by time, your face serene, while the people who love you crumble around you.

Frigga stands in the corner of the room, her hands folded tightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She’d tried to offer comfort to Loki, but he had brushed her off, his grief too raw, too consuming. Odin had been there too, though he had left after ensuring the healers were doing everything in their power. His anger at Eirik had been palpable—a rare sight, even for Odin.

But it’s your father who breaks the tense stillness. He storms into the healing chamber, his ornate cloak billowing behind him, eyes wild with rage and grief. Seeing you there, pale and still, strips him of all the formality he’s known for. The weight of his noble status means nothing now.

“My daughter…” he chokes, rushing to your side, but stopping just short of the bed as if afraid that touching you will break what fragile life remains.

Loki stands abruptly, his protective instincts flaring. “This happened because of him,” he spits, his voice low and venomous. “Eirik did this.”

Your father’s face hardens, his grief shifting into something darker. “I will see him executed for this.” His voice trembles with fury.

“Good,” Loki snaps. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

Frigga steps forward, placing a gentle hand on Loki’s arm, but even her touch doesn’t soothe the rage coursing through him. His magic swirls just beneath the surface, green tendrils flickering around his fingers.

“We will ensure justice is done,” Frigga says softly, her voice filled with grief but calm. “But right now, Y/n needs us. She needs you.”

Loki swallows hard and looks down at you again. Your hand remains limp in his, your skin far too cold. He sinks back into the chair beside your bed, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

“I should have been faster,” he whispers, guilt lacing every word. “I should have stopped him before he touched you.”

Frigga shakes her head, her voice gentle but firm. “You saved her life, Loki. Without you, she would be gone.”

But her words feel hollow to him. Because you’re still not awake.

In the depths of the palace dungeons, Eirik sits shackled, his once-pristine robes torn and bloodied from his scuffle with Loki. His face is bruised, his lip split, but his expression is one of seething hatred—not regret. He glares at the guards stationed outside his cell, their spears crossed tightly over the iron bars.

He knows what fate awaits him. Attempting to assassinate the future princess—on the eve of her wedding, no less—is a crime punishable by death. There is no path out of this, no clever words or noble connections to save him now.

But that doesn’t stop him from holding onto his bitterness.

“They’ll kill me for her,” he mutters under his breath, his hands tugging at the heavy iron chains around his wrists. “All for that witch and her liar of a prince.”

The guards ignore him, standing stiff and silent, but their disgust is evident in the way their grips tighten on their spears.

Above, the court gathers in the throne room. The news of the attack has stirred Asgard into chaos, and the nobles demand justice. Odin sits on his throne, Gungnir in hand, his face a mask of fury barely held in check. Frigga sits beside him, her usual calm replaced by cold, regal anger. Your father stands at the base of the dais, his voice thundering as he calls for Eirik’s execution.

“This man,” your father spits, “attempted to murder my daughter—the future princess of Asgard. There is no trial needed for such treachery. His fate should already be sealed.”

Murmurs ripple through the assembled nobles. Some nod in agreement, while others exchange uneasy glances. Eirik’s family—once powerful and influential—stand to the side, their faces pale with shame and horror. Their name will be tarnished forever.

Odin raises a hand, silencing the whispers. “There will be justice. But we are not barbarians. Eirik will face trial tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Loki’s voice cuts through the hall like a blade. He storms into the throne room, his cloak billowing behind him, his face twisted in fury. “Y/n lies in a coma. She may never wake, and you speak of trials?”

Frigga stands, reaching for her son, but Loki brushes past her, his eyes locked on Odin. “He deserves nothing but death.”

Odin’s jaw tightens, but his voice remains calm. “We will uphold Asgardian law. Even now.”

But Loki shakes his head. “This isn’t about law. It’s about her. About the woman I love lying on her deathbed while her attacker sits comfortably in the dungeons.”

A hush falls over the court at Loki’s words. Love. There had been whispers, of course—rumors that the engagement was more than a political arrangement—but to hear him say it aloud sends a ripple through the room.

Frigga moves to her son’s side, her hand resting on his arm. “Y/n would not want you to lose yourself to this rage.”

But Loki can’t stop. Not now. “She trusted me to protect her, and I failed.” His voice cracks then, the weight of his guilt finally breaking through. “If she dies…”

“She won’t,” Frigga says gently but firmly. “The healers are doing everything they can.”

But the uncertainty remains. Because no one knows if you will wake.

In the healing chambers, your father sits beside you now, his large hands dwarfed by your delicate ones. He’s silent, tears glistening in his eyes. For all his strength, for all his power as a nobleman, he is just a father now, grieving for his daughter who may be lost to him forever.

“I promised your mother I would keep you safe,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I failed her. I failed you.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles, his tears falling onto your cold skin.

Loki returns a short while later, his steps heavy as if the weight of the entire realm rests on his shoulders. Seeing your father there, he hesitates at the door, unsure if he’s welcome. But your father lifts his head and meets Loki’s eyes, something raw and real passing between them.

“She loves you,” your father says, his voice hoarse.

Loki swallows hard, his throat tight. “I know.”

“I didn’t want this for her—the court, the power plays, the danger. I wanted her to be happy.” He looks down at you, his voice cracking. “I never thought… this would be the price.”

“I’ll fix this,” Loki says, stepping forward. “I swear to you, I will.”

Your father doesn’t argue. He sees the grief in Loki’s eyes—the guilt—and knows it mirrors his own.

“Then bring her back.”

That night, Loki doesn’t leave your side. He sits by your bed, your hand still wrapped tightly in his, his magic thrumming just beneath the surface. He knows Asgardian law, knows that Eirik will be brought to trial and likely sentenced to death, but it doesn’t bring him peace. Because none of it matters if you don’t wake.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers trembling. “You promised me tomorrow,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “You said we’d make it real.”

He swallows hard, tears burning his eyes. “So don’t leave me. Please, Y/n.”

For a moment, there’s nothing—just the soft sound of your breathing.

But then… the faintest twitch of your fingers in his hand.

Loki’s heart leaps, his eyes snapping to your face, but your eyelids remain closed.

Still, it’s hope. And it’s enough.

“I’m not letting you go,” he vows, his magic flaring around him, filling the room with soft green light. “No matter what.”

The days following the attack pass in a haze of tension, fear, and fragile hope. The palace remains silent, weighed down by the uncertainty that lingers in the air, but within the healing chambers, where you lay trapped in your poisoned sleep, life begins to stir.

Loki hasn’t left your side since that night. He’s there when the healers come and go, carefully checking your pulse, your breathing, the wound on your side that has started to heal. He sits by your bed, your hand cradled in his, whispering words meant for you alone—confessions, promises, and prayers, though he’d never admit to praying. Sleep comes to him only in short, restless intervals, his head often resting on the edge of your bed, his fingers still intertwined with yours, unwilling to let go even in his exhaustion.

It’s in one of those moments, when he’s dozed off, that it happens.

Your fingers twitch—small, faint, but undeniably real.

Loki jerks awake, his heart pounding as he lifts his head, eyes wide. For a moment, he thinks he imagined it, that his mind has finally broken beneath the weight of waiting. But then, your hand twitches again, this time more deliberately, your fingers curling slightly against his.

“Y/n,” he breathes, his voice trembling as he leans closer. “Y/n, can you hear me?”

Your brow furrows, your eyelashes fluttering against your pale cheeks. It’s as if your body is fighting its way back to him, clawing through the darkness that held you prisoner. Then, slowly, your eyes open, hazy and unfocused at first, but unmistakably alive.

Loki’s breath catches in his throat.

You blink, struggling to focus, your body feeling impossibly heavy. The room is blurry, but the first thing you truly see is him—his tear-streaked face hovering above yours, his eyes filled with so much emotion it makes your heart ache.

“L-Loki?” you whisper, your voice hoarse, barely more than a breath.

A choked laugh escapes him, mingled with a sob he doesn’t have the strength to hold back. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

His hand cups your cheek so gently, as though you might shatter if he touches you too firmly.

You try to speak again, but the effort drains you, your eyes threatening to close.

“Don’t push yourself,” Loki says, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “You’re safe now. You’re going to be okay.”

You feel the warmth of his hand, the tremble in his voice, and despite the pain and weakness coursing through your body, you find a fragile comfort in his presence.

“W-what happened?” you manage.

His jaw tightens, the memory of that night flashing in his mind. “Eirik. He… he tried to kill you.” His voice is bitter, filled with venom, but when his eyes meet yours again, they soften. “But I stopped him. You’re safe now.”

You swallow hard, the fog in your mind slowly clearing as you recall the moment—the cold blade, the burning pain, his voice calling your name as you slipped away.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your fingers weakly squeezing his hand.

His lips curl into the faintest smile. “You scared me, Y/n. I thought I’d lost you.”

“I came back,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth lifting, despite the pain. “For you.”

Tears fill his eyes again, but he lets them fall, not caring who sees. “And I will never let anything happen to you again.”

Your recovery is slow, but each passing day brings more strength. The healers, though amazed you survived the poisoned blade, constantly warn you to rest, but it’s difficult with Loki hovering by your side like a watchful hawk.

He refuses to leave the room for more than a few moments at a time, often bringing books, flowers, or enchanted lights to keep you entertained. You tease him for it, your humor slowly returning, but there’s a comfort in having him so close.

Your father visits daily, often staying silent, simply holding your hand and whispering soft apologies. He blames himself for what happened—for nearly forcing you into a marriage with Eirik, for not protecting you. But you forgive him. In truth, there’s nothing but relief in his eyes now when he sees you alive.

The trial for Eirik had been postponed multiple times, each delay issued by Odin himself. No one had wanted to move forward with it until you were awake, until you were strong enough to face what had nearly destroyed you. And now, weeks later, you finally are.

“I want to be there,” you tell Loki one morning, sitting up in your bed, your strength finally returning enough to hold yourself upright without his assistance.

He frowns deeply, his arms crossed. “Y/n, you’re still recovering. You shouldn’t push yourself.”

“I need to see it through,” you insist, your eyes filled with determination. “I need to see him pay for what he did.”

Loki’s jaw tightens, but he knows he can’t deny you this. “Then I’ll be at your side the entire time.”

“Always,” you say, smiling softly.

“Always.”

The grand hall is filled with nobles and soldiers, all gathered for Eirik’s long-delayed trial. The tension is palpable, whispers flowing like water as you make your entrance, draped in flowing Asgardian silks, your posture regal despite the lingering ache in your side.

Loki is at your side, his hand on your arm, guiding you gently but firmly through the sea of eyes. The crowd parts for you, many bowing their heads in respect—though some, you notice, can’t help but stare. You are a living ghost to them; no one had expected you to survive.

On the dais, Odin sits with Frigga, her eyes soft but fierce as they settle on you. Your father stands near them, his face hardened with the weight of what’s to come.

Eirik is brought forward, shackled and bruised, though his expression holds no remorse. He glares at you, his lips curled in disdain, but Loki steps forward, his presence towering, his magic subtly crackling in the air. One wrong move, and Eirik wouldn’t leave the hall alive.

The trial is swift. The evidence is undeniable—Eirik’s confession to guards, Loki’s eyewitness account, and the poisoned blade recovered from your chambers.

But the moment that stills the hall is when you stand, your body trembling from exertion but your voice clear.

“I stand here today,” you begin, your eyes fixed on Eirik, “alive despite your cowardice. You took from me my safety, my peace, and nearly my life. But you didn’t take my strength.”

Eirik sneers but says nothing.

“I will not let you break me,” you continue, your gaze never wavering. “Nor will I let your hatred poison what I have with Loki.”

Loki steps closer, his hand slipping into yours, anchoring you as Odin rises from his throne.

“Eirik,” Odin’s voice booms, “for your crimes against the crown, against Y/n, and against Asgard itself, you are sentenced to exile from this realm. You will be banished, stripped of your titles, your magic bound, and never permitted to return.”

A mix of gasps and murmurs ripple through the crowd. It’s a merciful punishment—perhaps too merciful—but Odin’s decision is final.

Eirik’s face twists with rage as guards drag him away, but you feel no satisfaction watching him go. Only relief that it’s over.

Weeks later, as the palace slowly returns to its usual rhythm, you and Loki begin to speak of the future. This time, without lies or politics or necessity.

The marriage that had once been a facade is now something else entirely—something real.

Loki brings it up first, in the gardens beneath the silverleaf trees where you had first confessed your feelings.

“We never did have a proper proposal,” he says, his voice soft, his eyes filled with warmth.

You smile, brushing your fingers over his. “No, we didn’t.”

He steps closer, reaching into his pocket to pull out a delicate ring—an emerald stone set in gold, shaped like twisting vines. “Then let me do this properly.”

Your breath catches as he lowers himself to one knee, his expression both nervous and overjoyed.

“Y/n,” he says, “will you marry me? Not because of duty, not because of lies—but because I love you, more than I ever thought I could love anyone?”

Tears fill your eyes, but your voice is steady. “Yes, Loki. A thousand times yes.”

When he slips the ring onto your finger and pulls you into his arms, the world seems to fall away, leaving only the two of you.

This time, the wedding is planned with care—not rushed, not clouded by politics. The palace buzzes again, but this time it feels right. Frigga oversees the arrangements, often pulling you aside to discuss flowers or gowns, her joy clear in every smile. Odin, though still stoic, offers his blessing, and your father—though still protective—gives his approval, seeing the happiness that radiates from you.

The day of the wedding dawns bright and golden, the skies clear, the air sweet with blooming flowers. You stand before Loki in the temple, draped in flowing silks, your heart full in a way you never imagined possible.

Loki looks at you as though you are the only thing in the universe, his smile soft, his hands trembling as he takes yours.

When you speak your vows—real vows, honest and pure—there is no trace of the fear or pain that once loomed over you both. There is only love.

And when he kisses you, sealing your bond, the palace erupts in cheers, and you know—truly know—that this was always meant to be.