Beyla - Loki

For All Time. Always.

The doors at the edge of reality yawned open like a sigh the universe had forgotten it was holding. Marble older than memory, veins of gold that pulsed like sleeping arteries, dust floating in slow-motion spirals as if gravity were a rumor. Beyla stepped over the threshold with Loki at her right and Sylvie at her left, and the Citadel at the End of Time swallowed them whole.

"Cheery," Loki muttered, his hand brushing Beyla's knuckles as if by accident. His TVA jacket was gone—he'd refused it earlier and no one had dared argue. Even here, with everything faded and cracked, he moved with the self-possessed glide of a prince who had decided the throne must still be around here somewhere.

Sylvie didn't glide. She stalked. Blade in one hand, TemPad in the other, jaw set in that fearless, furious line that made Beyla's ribs feel too tight. The Citadel's walls curved like a ribcage around them as they climbed the final steps. At the top, a pair of monumental doors waited, their faces spidered with fractures that glowed faintly blue, like starlight trapped in glass.

Something clicked. A voice beamed through the stone, bright as artificial sun.

"Hey, y'all!"

Miss Minutes popped into existence on the nearest column, a peach-colored clock grinning wide, hands waving like a hostess who'd been tracking their every step with gleeful omniscience.

"Absolutely not," Sylvie said, blade angling toward the hologram as if she could stab light.

Miss Minutes kept smiling. "He'll be right with ya. In the meantime, I've got some—let's call 'em premium packages—to offer."

Loki's eyes narrowed. "We're not interested."

Beyla felt the word catch in her throat. She made herself swallow it down, made herself stand a little taller beside him. "What are these... packages?"

"Oh! Boy, howdy." Miss Minutes flickered, and three sheets of amber text scrolled into the air, each one radiant with possibility. She pointed to the first. "Prince Loki of Asgard. We can put you right back where you belong. A real throne this time, not just in the posture. King of Asgard, King of the Nine Realms... King of Space, if you want the upgrade. No more near-misses, no more 'almost.' All yours."

Loki didn't move. He looked at it, then past it—past the offer, past the Citadel—to the woman whose fingers had curled into her palm so hard the nails bit skin. "No."

Miss Minutes swiveled to the second sheet. "And you, honey. Lady Beyla. Goddess of Bees. We can send you home. But yours. Back to your timeline with your Loki alive—"

Beyla flinched.

"—happy, and ready to start that family you two kept talkin' about. Every bad moment between then and now? Snipped right off. You just walk through that door, and it's flowers and morning light."

Her throat turned to sand. She saw it: Loki's hand fanning hers as he slipped the second ring over the first. A silly, sleepy grin when she scolded him for talking to the ferns. The hush of their room, the bees humming at the window. Babies, maybe. A house with more plants than furniture. The way he'd say "my love" like it was both prayer and punch line.

"Don't," Loki said, and Beyla could tell it took everything in him not to step in front of her like a shield. "She's not for sale."

Miss Minutes kept smiling, and turned to Sylvie. "And for you, sweetheart? A quiet life. A place they can't find you, can't take you, can't prune you. You get to stop running. You get to sleep. You get your Beyla back. Safe and sound. And nobody ever locks your door again."

Sylvie's blade trembled once—so slight, Beyla wouldn't have seen it if she hadn't been looking for it. "My quiet life starts when he's dead." She jerked her chin at the sealed doors.