Chapter 8 : THE TOUCH OF WINTER
The library was empty at midday.
Most Asgardians had little use for books—they preferred tales told over mead, histories passed down through songs and boasts. The great library existed as a monument to knowledge rather than a practical resource, its shelves gathering dust while warriors trained and feasted.
Loki found it perfect.
He sat at a table covered in texts—histories of Frost Giant conflicts, treatises on Jotunheim's political structure, anything that might explain the realm that had created him. His fingers traced lines of ancient script while his mind worked through implications.
Laufey is my biological father. King of Jotunheim. The enemy who led his people to war against Asgard and lost.
And somehow, he seemed to recognize me yesterday. Even through the Asgardian disguise.
The text before him described the war that had ended a thousand years ago. Odin's army crushing Jotunheim's forces. The Casket of Ancient Winters seized as spoils. The Frost Giants reduced from a civilization to survivors huddling in ruins.
And somewhere in those ruins, Laufey left a baby to die. His own son. Because the child was too small, too weak, too much of a disappointment.
Loki had processed this information academically when he'd first woken in Loki's body. It had been data—facts to incorporate into his understanding of the situation. But sitting here, surrounded by histories of the people who should have been his people, something more complex stirred.
I was abandoned. Left to freeze on a temple floor while a war raged around me.
Odin took me. Raised me. Used me as a tool for potential peace, a diplomatic instrument shaped to look Asgardian.
Neither father wanted me for myself. Both wanted me for what I could do.
He closed the book harder than necessary.
Stop. This is exactly how the original Loki spiraled. He let the revelation consume him, let it poison everything he'd built, let it justify destruction.
I'm not him. I don't have to make his mistakes.
Footsteps echoed from the library entrance. Loki looked up to find Sif approaching, her armor gleaming in the filtered light, her expression guarded.
"I'm surprised to find you here." She stopped at the edge of his table, eyes scanning the books spread across it. "Researching something?"
"History. The war with Jotunheim."
"Ah." Her tone flattened. "Reliving past glories?"
"Understanding past mistakes." He gestured to the texts. "We nearly restarted that war yesterday. It seemed prudent to learn what we'd be restarting."
Sif's eyes narrowed. She'd never trusted Loki—the memories made that clear. Years of watching him scheme, watching him manipulate, watching him undermine her beloved Thor through petty games. She had every reason to expect the worst.
"You've been different lately."
"So everyone keeps telling me."
"The expedition to Jotunheim." She pulled out a chair, sat across from him without invitation. "You volunteered. You fought alongside us. You helped Fandral when he was wounded."
"And this surprises you."
"It concerns me." Her hand rested on her sword hilt—casual, but ready. "The Loki I know doesn't help anyone without an angle. The Loki I know doesn't volunteer for combat when there's an option to watch from safety."
She's not wrong. The original Loki would have found a way to benefit from the chaos, not wade into it.
"Perhaps the Loki you know was waiting for something worth fighting for."
"And what's that?"
Frigga. The timeline. A chance to be more than the villain everyone expects.
"Ask me again in a year," he said. "By then, you might believe the answer."
Sif studied him with the assessing gaze of a warrior reading an opponent. Whatever she saw, it didn't satisfy her—but it didn't alarm her either.
"Thor would have trusted you yesterday. When you told him to fall back, he listened."
"Thor was overwhelmed. Anyone could see that."
"Not anyone could have made him see it." A slight softening in her expression—not warmth, but perhaps the beginning of grudging respect. "Volstagg said you held the rear guard while we retreated. That's not a position for someone who avoids combat."
It was a position for someone who needed to control what the Frost Giants saw. Someone who needed to ensure no witnesses survived the transformation.
"I was protecting my brother."
"Were you." Not a question. She rose, pushed the chair back under the table. "The All-Father is weakening. Everyone can see it. If he falls into the Sleep..."
"I'll be regent."
"Yes." Her hand stayed on her sword. "And that's what concerns me most."
She walked away without another word, her footsteps echoing through the empty library until they faded entirely.
Loki sat alone with his books and his thoughts.
She's right to be concerned. The original Loki used the regency to pursue revenge. To let Frost Giants into Asgard again. To confront Laufey. To try to prove himself worthy of Odin's love through destruction.
I won't make those mistakes. But I need to make this regency count.
He pulled another text toward him—this one about Asgard's governing structure, the protocols for regency, the limitations and powers of a temporary ruler. If he was going to hold the throne, even briefly, he needed to understand exactly what he could do with it.
The words blurred as exhaustion crept in. He'd slept poorly—nightmares of blue skin and frozen temples, memories that weren't his mixing with fears that definitely were. The mana depletion from yesterday's combat still dragged at him, making concentration difficult.
His stomach growled. He'd skipped breakfast, too focused on confronting Odin and beginning his research. A mistake. Asgardian bodies needed fuel, especially bodies recovering from magical exertion.
Food first. Planning second.
He gathered the most relevant texts and headed for the kitchens, where servants would provide whatever a prince requested without questions. The palace corridors were busier now—guards changing shifts, courtiers murmuring in corners, the machinery of government continuing despite the chaos of recent days.
Everyone looked at him differently.
With Thor exiled and Odin weakening, Loki was suddenly relevant in ways he'd never been before. Potential power had a gravity that pulled attention, bent conversations, changed the flavor of every interaction.
They're calculating. Wondering if they should curry favor now, before I take the throne. Wondering if I'll remember their loyalty—or their distance.
He filed the observations away. Political capital was a resource like any other. It could be accumulated, spent, invested for future returns.
The kitchens were warm and loud, servants bustling between preparation stations with practiced efficiency. A senior cook spotted him immediately—face going pale at the sight of a prince in her domain.
"My lord! We weren't expecting—I can prepare—"
"Whatever's available." He found a spot against the wall, out of the workflow. "I'm not particular."
She stared at him like he'd grown a second head. Which, given Loki's reputation for exacting demands, probably wasn't far from her experience.
"Of course, my lord. Immediately."
Within minutes, a tray appeared—bread still warm from the oven, cold meat, cheese, fruit, a pitcher of something that looked like watered wine. Simple food, prepared without the elaborate presentation usually reserved for royalty.
Perfect.
He ate standing, watching the kitchen staff work. They were nervous at first—hyperaware of his presence, movements stilted and careful. But as he stayed quiet, making no demands, asking no questions, they began to relax. The natural rhythm of the kitchen reasserted itself.
Normal. This is what normal looks like for them. Food prepared, meals served, the world continuing regardless of which prince sits on which throne.
I could learn from that. The world continues. The question is just what shape it takes.
A messenger burst through the kitchen doors, breathless and wild-eyed.
"Prince Loki! The Queen summons you! It's the All-Father—he's collapsed!"
The bread dropped from his fingers.
The Odinsleep. Now.
He was running before the messenger finished speaking.
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