The Dark World | Book 3

Fifteen: Malekith

Sigyn had dreamed of this—Loki's freedom. It was all she had ever wanted. And yet, now that it was real, it came at a price far greater than she had ever imagined.

Helping a prisoner escape Asgard. Stealing a weapon bound to a mortal woman. Taking an enemy warship and using it to cut through the skies of her own home. And all of it—every last treasonous act—done in the wake of the Queen's death, not only a days past.

She was no longer a princess of Asgard. No longer the golden ward of the court. She had become something else entirely. A fugitive. A traitor. A woman who had thrown away the only home she had ever known for the sake of the god she loved.

Loki stood at the helm of the skiff, hands gripping the controls with practiced ease, yet his attention wasn't solely on their course. He could feel it—tension thrumming in the space between them, as if an invisible thread tethered them together, stretched tight, ready to snap.

His sharp eyes flicked toward her, reading every subtle shift in her expression. She felt his gaze but refused to meet it, keeping her own locked on the wasteland before them.

Loki exhaled softly, adjusting his grip, shifting his stance. If she would not speak, he would not press. Not yet.

Sigyn sat rigid, a silent sentinel against the wind, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The air here was heavy with emptiness, with loss. But she would not be consumed by it.

If Malekith came, she would be the first to see him.

"Are you alright, my love?" Loki's voice curled around the words like silk, rich and deliberate, laced with something almost tender.

Sigyn turned to him, her golden hair catching what little light this cursed realm had to offer. She gave him a smile—small, practiced, and distant. A shield, not an answer.

"Fine."

Any man with sense knew that word was a lie. And Loki—who prided himself on seeing through all things—was no exception. He shifted his grip on the controls, rolling his shoulders. Loki arched a brow. "Fine?" he echoed, rolling the word over his tongue as though it were something foreign. She lies.

She always did when she thought he needed her to be strong. And how infuriating it was—to be loved by someone who carried so much for his sake and spoke so little of it.

He adjusted his grip on the skiff's controls, shifting his weight in subtle frustration. He would not let her retreat into silence so easily.

"I have known you in a thousand moods, Sigyn." His voice was like a slow-moving tide, meant to pull her in. "I have seen you laugh in the face of gods and ghosts alike. I have watched you set fire to men's arrogance with nothing but a glance. And I have held you, in your softest moments, when even you forgot how to steel yourself. So tell me, my love—why do you insist on lying to me now?"

Sigyn exhaled through her nose, tilting her head as if weighing whether she would let him win this time.

"I am not lying," she said smoothly, her gaze returning to the horizon. "I am simply choosing my words carefully."

Loki chuckled, low and knowing. "And how carefully you choose them." He leaned in, lowering his voice to a murmur meant only for her. "Tell me, does it wound you so terribly to let me carry some of your burden for once?"

Sigyn's fingers tightened where they rested on the edge of the skiff.

A sudden gasp shattered the moment. Jane's eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused, her body going rigid. The Aether inside her churned, responding to something unseen.