The Dark World | Book 3

Eighteen: Not All Is Lost

The wind howled, carrying with it the bitter sting of sand and dust, biting at her skin and unraveling the soft curls in her hair. It moved like a phantom, tugging at her clothes, whispering against her ears, mourning with her. Yet she did not move.

She stood still, staring down at Loki's lifeless form.

Pale. Still. Silent.

The body before her was nothing more than a shell, drained of all its mischief, its sharp wit, its clever cruelty. His face was frozen in eerie serenity, as if he had made peace with his end. But Sigyn had seen death before. She had cradled its weight, traced its emptiness with trembling hands.

And this?

This was not death.

She reached for him, fingers poised to brush against his cheek—

And her hand passed through nothing.

A shimmer of emerald light rippled through the air, distorting his form, and then—he was gone.

A mirage. An illusion.

"Not even a single tear to shed for me, my dear?" came the all-too-familiar voice, laced with amusement. "I must say, I am quite hurt."

Sigyn exhaled, slow and measured, before lifting herself from her knees. She pushed the wind-whipped strands of silver hair from her face and turned toward the ruins where he stood, leaning lazily against the crumbling stone, as if he hadn't just tricked them all—again.

"I have done all of my crying for you," she said simply.

Loki scoffed, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded. "I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult."

She rolled her eyes. "A curse, Loki." She turned, hiking her way up the sand-covered hill toward him. "This plan of yours had better work. I will not sacrifice everything for you anymore."

"Oh, my love," Loki purred, stepping forward, his smirk curling at the edges. "You will not have to."

He reached for her, pulling her effortlessly into his arms. His voice softened, but the mischief never left his eyes. "For all that you have done. For all that you have suffered. I will give you everything in return."

Sigyn searched his face, looking past the mask, past the playfulness. He meant it, in the way only Loki ever could—with promises spun like silk, tangled with truths and lies so closely woven together they became indistinguishable.

But this? This was real.

If faking his death meant escaping his chains, he would do it again.

If it meant shedding his name, slipping into another skin, vanishing into the shadows of the universe—so long as he was free, so long as she was by his side—

He would do it again.

And Sigyn, as always, would follow.

Sigyn seized the front of Loki's cloak, her knuckles whitening as she twisted the fabric in her grip. Her jaw clenched, her voice a venomous whisper through gritted teeth.

"If I must watch you die once more, dear husband, I swear upon the Norns themselves—I will take a blade and strike you down myself. Are we understood?"

It was not a question.

Loki's smirk deepened, amusement flickering in his emerald gaze. He chuckled, a rich, indulgent sound, as if savoring the fire in her words. To hold her again, to feel the weight of her in his arms, was a pleasure so divine that even the gods themselves could not deny him this indulgence. With her by his side, he was whole. Every fractured piece of him, every scar and sorrow, melted into nothingness beneath her touch.