The Beginning Of An End

Chapter 34

The Underworld stretched endlessly before us, its shadows twisting as if they had intent, pressing down with a suffocating weight. Sleipnir's eight-legged stride thundered beneath me, each impact echoing through my body and tearing at the raw edge of my wound. I clenched my jaw, refusing to give in, my arms locked around Belial's limp form. His weight was a brutal reminder of how thin the line between survival and ruin truly was.

We were balanced on it now.

Somehow, I kept moving. And the reason was Loki.

It wasn't just his cunning or audacity. It was the way he adapted, how chaos seemed to recognize him as kin. He could laugh in the face of devastation, bend it, make it useful. Maybe he had always belonged in destruction. I hadn't. My existence had been built on control, on certainty. Losing everything so quickly had stripped me down to something unrecognizable.

Still, Loki anchored me.

His steady resolve didn't erase the fear or the grief, but it reshaped them into something survivable. That was enough.

Then the ground beneath us shifted. Familiar. Too familiar.

As Sleipnir thundered down a flight of stairs I knew by heart, dread coiled in my chest. By the time we reached the bottom and the corridor of doors revealed itself, Sleipnir skidded to a halt.

"Uh... what is this?" Loki asked from within the mare, genuine confusion coloring his voice.

I forced myself upright, careful not to jostle Belial. Weakness crept deeper into my limbs, but I pushed through it.

"It's—" Pain flared violently, stealing my breath. I hissed and pressed a hand to my side. "You need luck to choose the right door. I could've done it... under better circumstances."

The pain spread, sharp and unforgiving.

"Lie down, Asmo," Loki said, gentle but firm. "I've got it."

I didn't argue. I collapsed back against Belial, exhaustion dragging at me.

"You have an obscene amount of luck," I muttered. "You beat me at poker. Don't forget that."

Loki huffed, amused but focused. "Beating you isn't divine intervention. You're terrible at bluffing."

I tried to respond, but another pulse of pain shut me up. Sleipnir shifted as Loki guided him toward the first door.

"Luck, not logic," Loki said quietly. "I'll trust my gut."

"Your gut's usually right," I murmured. "Choose carefully. If you're wrong, we're doomed."

My vision swam. I glanced at my wound and nearly blacked out when I saw how far it had spread toward my chest. I said nothing. Loki didn't answer right away. Sleipnir pawed the ground, restless.

"Doomed," Loki echoed lightly at last. "No pressure."

Despite everything, I let out a weak laugh. "You thrive under pressure," I said. "Better than I ever did. So... focus."

His silence stretched, and I could almost hear the gears turning in his mind. Sleipnir neared the first door, and I tilted my head, stealing a glance at the golden mare's imposing form. Loki wasn't guessing—he was calculating, weighing something only he could see or feel.

I let my gaze drop to my side, cautiously pulling back the shredded fabric. My breath hitched. The wound wasn't just spreading—it was alive. Dark tendrils crept toward my chest, pulsating with every labored beat of my heart.

I forced my face neutral, swallowing the panic rising in my throat. Telling Loki wouldn't help. He had enough to focus on without worrying about me.

"Still alive back there?" Loki called, sharp but edged with concern.