Beyla - Loki

Through Broken Skies

Beyla strode ahead, her silk robe replaced by Midgardian attire that still looked slightly too fine for New York's cracked sidewalks. She glanced over her shoulder to see Thor-still entertaining a pair of mortal women with bright smiles and a raised peace sign.

"Thor!" she barked, her patience frayed. "Come on!"

He jogged to catch up, sheepish. "So you knew."

"Mhm. Yep. I did," she said without slowing. She turned sharply at the corner, braid swinging behind her.

"You could have told me, Beyla."

She scoffed, bitterness cutting her words. "Told you? Just so you could put him back in a cell? Break me to the edge of death again? No, Thor. I was right not to tell you."

Thor fell silent, stung.

They stopped at a modest door etched with the numbers: 177A Bleecker Street. Beyla inclined her head. "Care to do the honors?"

Thor knocked once. Twice.

And suddenly-without transition-they were inside.

The air shifted. Shadows thickened. A man floated in the far corner, legs crossed in meditation. His crimson cloak drifted around him like smoke.

"Thor Odinson. Lady Beyla," the figure intoned.

Thor gripped his battered umbrella like a weapon. Beyla, however, leaned forward with curiosity burning in her eyes. At last-someone who feels like a match.

"You can put down the umbrella," the man said calmly.

Thor squinted, reluctant, but obeyed. The moment Mjolnir's disguised form hit the floor, the chamber around them transformed. Shelves of grimoires, relics glimmering in glass cases, and walls lined with strange maps filled the space. Beyla spun, laughing in disbelief.

"Oh, clever," she murmured.

The man smiled faintly. "I am Doctor Stephen Strange, Master of the Mystic Arts."

Thor tilted his head. "So the Earth has wizards now?"

Strange corrected, "The preferred term is 'Master of the Mystic Arts.'"

"Wizard," Thor repeated, unimpressed. "Why should I care who you are?"

Strange ignored the jab, turning instead to Beyla. "Tea?"

"Yes, please." She blinked down to see a steaming porcelain cup appear in her hand.

"I don't drink tea," Thor complained.

"What do you drink?"

"Not tea."

With a flick, a frothing stein of ale materialized in Thor's fist. He tested it suspiciously, then grinned when the drink refilled itself after every swallow.

Beyla chuckled softly, sipping her tea. At least someone here has manners.

Strange folded his hands. "I keep a watch list of individuals and beings who pose a threat to this realm. Your brother Loki is one of them."

"Understandable," Beyla said evenly.

"Then why bring him here?"

Thor sat forward. "We're looking for my father."

Strange's brow arched. "If I told you where Odin was, all parties would promptly return to Asgard?"

"Promptly," Thor promised.

Strange's smile was thin but agreeable. "Good. He's in Norway."

The next minutes were chaos. Bookshelves teleporting across the room, Thor nearly crushed by falling tomes, Strange plucking a strand of Thor's golden hair despite his protests. Beyla stood steady throughout, mildly amused, sipping her tea as if none of it surprised her.

At last, Strange drew a portal. The meadow beyond glowed with sunlight and rolling waves.

"He's waiting for you," Strange said.

Thor reached for Mjolnir-still disguised as his umbrella-causing crashes to echo through the Sanctum as the weapon battered its way through walls to return to him. Beyla covered her face.

"Honestly," she muttered.

"Oh, right. I'll need my brother back," Thor added as an afterthought.

Strange nodded-and a portal opened above them. Loki tumbled out, shrieking.

"I've been falling... for thirty minutes!" He scrambled upright, smoothing his coat.

Beyla rushed forward, hands at his chest. "Are you hurt?"

"Only in dignity," he muttered, though his glare at Strange was murderous.

Strange dismissed them with a flick of his wrist. "Good luck."

And just like that, they were in Norway.

⸻

The meadow was breathtaking. Grass rolled toward the cliff's edge where waves crashed below. An old man stood, simple clothes flapping in the sea breeze.

"Father?" Thor called.

Odin turned, tired eyes softening. "My sons. Beyla."

They gathered close. Beyla knelt beside Loki, clutching his hand as Odin's voice weakened. He spoke of Hela-the hidden sister, the Goddess of Death-and Beyla's blood ran cold at the name.

Then, like light scattering into stardust, Odin was gone.

⸻

The world cracked.

A shriek ripped the sky as black lightning split open a portal. From it stepped a woman clad in shadows, eyes blazing green fire. Her headdress curled like horns of a beast.

"So," she said, voice honeyed and sharp, "he's gone. Pity. I'd have liked to kill him myself."

"Hela," Odin's words echoed in Beyla's memory. Firstborn. Goddess of Death.

Thor raised Mjolnir. "I am Thor, son of Odin."

"You don't look like him," she sneered. Her gaze slid to Loki. "But you sound like him." Then her eyes raked over Beyla, cold and sharp. "And you-you're the pet Frigga always wished for."

Loki stiffened, stepping in front of Beyla.

"Kneel," Hela commanded.

Beyla slammed her staff against the earth, vines rippling outward. "I am no one's subject. I am the Queen of Asgard. You will yield."

Hela smirked. "Adorable."

Thor hurled Mjolnir. Hela caught it in one hand. The hammer trembled, fighting to return-but Hela crushed it into shards.

"No..." Thor's voice broke.

Beyla's heart pounded in her throat.

And then, as the Bifröst opened around them, Hela launched herself forward, catching Beyla's face in her claws. "Long live the Queen."

And with a brutal twist, she hurled Beyla out into the abyss.