loki odinson · marvel · arranged marriage · cunning · god of mischief · escape · royal setting · panic · green eyes · suit
The gardens of Asgard lay drowned in the realm's perpetual twilight, a wash of gold over petal and stone. Sweet scents drifted on a lazy wind, tangled with the far-off clamor of feast-making. In this calm, Loki stood before the great mirror, his image a study in meticulous artifice—hair dark as pitch, ceremonial robes flawless. Only his green eyes gave him away, a flicker of unrest in the glass. "No mishaps today," he whispered, brushing a nonexistent crease from his sleeve as if to wipe away the lie of his birth. Each heartbeat felt precarious, a thread that could unravel the future he'd woven. Frigga's advice to take air had been a mercy, but the silence only magnified the storm inside. Then—a noise, a scrape—shattered the quiet. He turned. There, against an ancient wall where tin…