I wake up with sweat covering my body. Bolting into a sitting position, my eyes rake across my room as if trying to catch a nonexistent intruder. My pillow is soaked with sweat, my black hair is damp, and I'm panting, trying to catch a breath. Beads of perspiration roll down my face and I swipe at them with my sleeve.

Slowly, my heart rate returns to normal and I swing my legs out of bed, my bare feet landing on the soft covers I had restlessly flung off myself sometime during the night. I stand and hop off my blankets, leaning down and tossing them back up onto the mattress. My mother is going to scold me again when she sees my mussed bed, but let her. Today I actually have a good excuse for my restless night.

I run my hand through my black hair, sorting out the tangles, before pulling on my usual black tunic and adjusting the golden collar I know my father is going to insist on. He will demand my brother and I dress as our status dictates; as sons of Odin and princes of Asgard, Thor and I have to look the part, especially on Reaping Day.

I ease my arms into my black and dark green jacket, fidgeting with the various straps that go with my customary outfit. I yank on my boots and then grab my twin daggers from underneath my pillow. Carrying weapons on your person is usually prohibited throughout the districts, but everyone – including the Children of Thanos – underestimates knives. Besides, the daughters of Thanos assigned to Asgard don't care too much about the weapons we decide to wield.

As I straighten, I feel something brush against my legs and freeze, before quickly realizing that it's just Goose, my tan flerken which looks very much like a Midgardian house cat. He was a gift from my sister, a long time ago, and I have yet to see evidence he is anything more than what he looks like: a cat. I glance down at him and lift my eyebrow as the flerken meows, sitting down on my foot and pressing his paw up against my leg.

"Sorry, Goose," I whisper. "I don't have time to play with you. I need to get out of here." Gently, I lift my foot slightly and wiggle it until the flerken gets the idea and, with an injured meow, removes himself from my boot and jumps up onto the rumpled bed. He gives me a look before turning his attention to patting at the blankets with his paw, attempting to make them acceptable to lie on.

I hurry through the arched hallways of the old palace of Asgard after leaving my room. It used to be beautiful, my mother tells me, in the days when being king of Asgard meant something. Now, I can still see the beauty, but it means nothing. It's just an empty façade, a show of an authority that was stripped from us long ago.

Most of the place is rather deserted. Thanos only let Odin keep his throne after the Infinity War because he knew there was no way my father could rise up in rebellion against him. Nobody could, although several tried and failed, and he lorded it over us by forcing us to compete in his Contest of Champions, his brutal celebration of the Balance he claimed to have brought the universe.

As soon as I exit the palace, I take off running. My feet barely make any noise on the paths of Asgard as I head out toward the sea. Nobody's up yet. It's typical for Asgardians to spend as much time inside on the mornings of Reaping Days. You never know when it might be your family's turn to contribute to the Contest, to sacrifice for the Balance.

When I reach the bridge to Himinbjorg, the path beneath my feet shimmers with the colors of the rainbow. No railings hem it in, which makes this run exciting. Drift too close to one edge, or to the other...you fall into the sea beneath and will be swept toward the edge of the realm. On some days, it's tempting. Passing through the gates, I continue on to the Bifrost observatory.

My pace slows as I enter Himinbjorg and reach the large window looking out into empty, cold space. I pant, catching my breath as I stare out at the distant stars beyond Asgard. The intricate clockwork that spans the walls is dusty and rusted from disuse, a couple of the gears misaligned and broken. The Bifrost hasn't seen traffic since the Infinity War.

Everything changed after the Infinity War.

"It's rather early for you to be here, isn't it, Loki?" a deep voice asks, and I turn around. The former guardian of the Bifrost bridge and gatekeeper of Asgard, Heimdall, stands before me, leaning on a tall oak staff. "Then again, everyone else's early is your normal. But this is indeed early, even for you."

I cock my head. "It's the day of the Reaping, Heimdall. Besides, I can't sleep anymore."

Heimdall walks up to stand beside me and looks down at me. He's barely able to do that, the two of us being almost equal in height, but somehow, he manages it. "Yes, I've noticed you have started to come here earlier and earlier in the morning, Silvertongue."

I cross my arms and try not to look put out. Heimdall's one of the only two good friends I have, if you don't count Thor – which I don't – and I don't want to alienate him. He had started calling me Silvertongue after I tried to persuade him to look the other way when I tried to insert one of my daggers into the slit in the pedestal that, in days past, would activate the Bifrost. He had refused to allow me to slide my dagger into the keyhole, as he referred to it, and had confiscated my dagger instead. For a scarred man, he had been quick and unrelenting with his staff, and since then I have had nothing but respect for him, however grudging it is at times.

But he hadn't told Odin about what I had tried to pull; only Frigga, my mother, and my punishment had been slight as a result. I no longer tried to talk him into anything. I stick to tricking Thor.

"I despise today," I seethe. "Not only do I have to attend the Reaping, I am forced to watch recaps of Thor's and Hela's Contests."

"They made Asgard proud, those two did," Heimdall acknowledges neutrally. I roll my eyes and look at him.

"I guess that's the point, isn't it? Thor made Father so proud that anything I do is as nothing to him. Ever. If I am not Thor, I am invisible."

"Hmm," Heimdall murmurs. "The king is especially proud of his son. But that does not mean he isn't proud of you, as well."

I huff and walk away from the aperture. "Look, Heimdall, I know that out of his three children, I'm third. Even though he and Hela don't get along well anymore, I still fall below her on the ranking. But she'll be here today."

"Yes, she will," Heimdall echoes. "Loki?"

I step up onto the platform where Heimdall, in days long past, used to insert the Bifrost blade, Hofund, to activate the bridge. I place my hands where the sword used to go, where I had tried to stick my dagger, and look up at him. "What?"

I am unable to read Heimdall's expression, which is how it always is. That's also why I like him. Besides being accepting of me, he doesn't give away what he really thinks of me. He probably doesn't like me – hardly anybody does. But he doesn't practically shout it out to the world by his reactions like all of Thor's friends do. He doesn't make it obvious that I don't belong – that I never have.

"Is Odin pressuring you to volunteer?"

The words freeze me, more than the ice I often use to cool my body temperature after a particularly bad night. I meet Heimdall's cloudy amber eyes and narrow mine. "What makes you think that?"

Heimdall doesn't answer; he doesn't have to. Everyone's heard the legend that Heimdall could see anything, anywhere, and hear anything, anywhere. But that is just a legend now; everyone's also heard the story of how Thanos basically deafened and blinded him to prevent Heimdall from spying on him after the Infinity War, many years ago, leaving him with only remnants of his sight and hearing.

"I still retain some of my senses," Heimdall says, walking slowly up to me. "Enough to see that Odin wants you to be in the last Space Games."

I snort softly. "Apparently, I'm not good enough as I am," I whisper. I don't know if Heimdall can hear me, but I really don't care. I've only said this before to Goose, or to the silence of the lake near the mountains. "I need to win the Contest to become an Odinson, I suppose. In his eyes. I know Mother accepts me, but Odin – Thor's his favorite." I shake my head. Arguing against it is futile – I know there's only one option in my future when it comes to the Contest of Champions.

"You have skills, Loki," Heimdall says.

"Like what?" I ask, rolling my eyes. No matter what I can do, it will never be enough to match what my brother can do, has done. That's the problem. He has already accomplished things. I've accomplished nothing. Even if I was to compete, that in itself wouldn't be enough.

"For one, your silvertongue."

I acknowledge his point by a tilt of my head. "Yes, but persuasiveness does not clear the arena of contenders." Brute strength does.

"I thought your mother taught you some of her arcane wisdom."

Again, I acknowledge the point. "But everyone knows magic doesn't win the contest. It's strength, and the ability to manipulate what's there." And strength, especially strength. "Name me one champion who won by magic."

"Wanda Maximoff," Heimdall replies steadily and without much thought.

"Not her," I protest. "She's a mutant, a lab rat, and everybody knows it. Name somebody else."

"Stephen Strange." There's almost amusement in the guardian's voice.

Irritated, I shoot a look at Heimdall. "He doesn't count, either. He's a DimJump, a sorcerer, one of the Masters of the Mystic Arts."

"Who does count, in this survey, Master Silvertongue?" Heimdall asks, a definite sliver of humor piercing his voice. "You just eliminated two magical champions by claiming their magic is different from yours. Whether you think so or not, you have a gift, Loki."

"A gift for what?" a new voice interjects. "Being a fool?"

I spin around as Thor and his gang of uncouth friends enter the Bifrost observatory. Volstagg, Fandral, and Sif swagger inside along with my brother. I press my lips together and scoot away from them, trying to move to the other side of Heimdall and his staff. While he has yet to use it in defense of me – in fact, he's used it on me more times than he has on them – I always feel better having it between Thor's friends and I nowadays, especially when Volstagg, the one who spoke, is part of the group. The only friend of Thor's I can actually stand is currently in his home district for the Reaping.

Heimdall looks patiently at Thor and his friends as they crowd about the window. Naturally, the Bifrost doesn't work any more, as Thanos disabled it after the Infinity War, but it's still a beautiful view of the faraway stars. Of course, it isn't the view Thor, Fandral, Sif, and Volstagg come to see. It's to squeeze whatever stories about the Infinity War out of Heimdall that they can.

I hate the tales that Heimdall slowly and reluctantly tells about the desperate war with Thanos the Mad Titan. The stories are filled with desperation, fear, and loss, and they never end well. Most who fought in the Infinity War or simply lived through it hesitate to speak of those days, the days when the greatest heroes of the time failed us all, when they lost their most important battle to date and had to watch the galaxy become Balanced, had to watch Thanos assume rule over the universe to guide its correction.

Sif perches herself on the pedestal the Bifrost blade used to be inserted into, back in the days before it was confiscated. She swings her legs idly and flips her hair over her shoulder. I know she's trying to catch Thor's eye. She's been trying to catch him since we were all children. But personally, I think her luck ran out when Thor got selected for his Contest several years ago and met another girl. He only sees her once a year when he goes off to mentor the new contenders with Valkyrie, but he remains starry eyed all throughout the year. It's one of the reasons he and I have grown more distant lately.

"This year," Volstagg vows. "I will volunteer, and I will win! Thor, the Warriors Three will soon become the Champions Three!"

I sigh with exasperation. I've heard Thor and his friends discuss their 'Champions Three' plan so often that I know all the details. Volstagg, Hogun, and Fandral all plan on volunteering until all three have won. Sif also plans on volunteering sometime, so I've heard. Unfortunately, Volstagg hears my expression of distaste and turns to my quiet corner behind Heimdall.

"What have you to say about your chances, Silvertongue?" Volstagg sneers, swaggering up towards me. I prepare to run, like I normally do. Volstagg may fight well, but he's a relatively slow runner compared to me.

I grit my teeth. Ever since Volstagg had overheard Heimdall calling me Silvertongue, he had ridiculed me for the name ever since. I don't agree with him, but he has a point about my chances. I'm good in a fight and skilled with my magic, but Thor won through his strength alone. I don't have that. Of course, I wouldn't go down without a fight, but in the end, I'm just Loki Odinson. I'm just the sacrifice before the real showdown. What can I possibly do in the Contest of Champions to secure victory for Asgard? What can I possibly do that Thor hasn't done better?

My mother tells me I'm perceptive about everyone but myself, when she catches my thoughts drifting in this direction. But I'm not wrong, I know that. There's only one way to prove myself to my father, and that is through the Contest of Champions.

But I have to do something more than simply win. I need to be more than just a champion; I need to be worthy.

"I don't know," Fandral drawls, moving up on the other side of me as he prepares an answer to Volstagg's question. "He is friends with one of those accursed Children of Thanos, after all. Maybe she'd put in a good word with her father and get him some sponsors."

"Yes, like the eligible champions would ever sponsor him," Sif joins in cheerily. "Stark and Pym would laugh themselves silly when they see him." She laughs herself fairly silly at that supposedly humorous image of the two champions rejecting me completely in terms of sponsorship.

I'm not sure why she's laughing; they'd reject her as fast as they would reject me. Even faster, considering she's more irksome on top of being typical Asgardian nobility, traits not accepted favorably by sponsors. Well, Stark would offer to buy her a drink and then forget about her, and Pym would look at her and shake his head. She's not the type they'd sponsor. None of us are.

Sponsors are important to receiving aid once you're in the arena, but only a few champions are actually allowed to sponsor; the rest of the sponsor population comes from Thanos' lackeys and those dwelling in Titan and among the upper classes in the districts. Only a tiny percent of those champions who are eligible to sponsor ever do, though. Tony Stark applies every year, but only to make himself qualified for betting. He has yet to sponsor a contender. Hank Pym applies every year as well, but he's only sponsored a handful of tributes, two of which were champions, Hope Van Dyne, who also happened to be his daughter, and Scott Lang.

"Warriors!" Thor booms. "Why taunt my brother on a day such as this! Loki's not going to the Contest, so why bother him about it?"

Although I know that Thor, in his own deluded way, means well, the words just bite me to the core. I close my eyes for the space of a second and then open them, maintaining my façade of boredom.

Heimdall steps forward. "Now, what makes you think that any of you have a chance in the Contest?" he asks seriously.

Volstagg, Fandral, and Sif look insulted. I'd laugh, but I don't want to attract any more of their attention to myself. I instead look at the toes of my black boots and grin slightly in the shadows.

"We're Asgardians," Volstagg declares, as if that is self-explanatory. Like we all aren't already aware of that.

Heimdall's expression doesn't change. "So were all the other Asgardian contenders who have participated in the thirty-five Contests before, but only three have ever won."

That really sets them off. They all start arguing with Heimdall, calling him unpatriotic and anti-Asgardian. And that sets me off. Didn't they ever listen to any of the stories Heimdall tells about the Infinity War? He's a hero!

Of course they don't listen. All they want the stories for is to imagine themselves fighting glorious wars and earning honor. That's all they care about. It's all they've ever cared about. Frankly, it's all Asgard itself cares about. Not the meaning behind the fight itself; not the blood shed. Not the fact that we lost those battles – none of the sacrifice was worth anything.

Heimdall doesn't respond to these taunts, just looks at the three with his impassive gaze. Thor is watching with a look of concern, but he doesn't join either side. I scowl and throw in my two-cents' worth, unable to stop myself. "In case you don't remember, Heimdall fought Thanos in the Infinity War while the other Asgardians ran and hid! He stood by Odin and Hela until the end, along with the Valkyries. And he, along with them, paid for it. Dearly."

The three quiet and look at me, Thor and Heimdall directing their gazes my way as well. I realize just what a bad idea this is. My silvertongue doesn't always work.

"So, Silvertongue decides to speak," Volstagg taunts. "What, tongue decided to change back to silver from its usual lead?"

I take a deep breath and finger the hilts of the daggers at my belt. I draw strength from their smooth touch. "You know I'm right, Volstagg. If any one is unpatriotic here, it is the three of you, for your blatant disrespect. Haven't you ever comprehended what Heimdall tells you? Our history? Our sacrifice? Or have you just considered it the ramblings of a victim? Have you never been enlightened by the truth behind his words?"

I think my words hold them in astonished silence for a count of exactly twenty-two seconds and yes, I do count them. Then Sif breaks the silence with a scowl and a flip of her hair. The strange combination leaves me wondering if she's trying to catch Thor's attention and look annoyed at the same time. "Who are you to talk?" she spits. "You're nothing. You always will be, as you do nothing to change it."

"Being nothing," I say, pausing as I gather the words, reining my temper back. "Is better than whatever you have become."

Before my biting words can be undone by some crass comment by one of Thor's vulgar friends, I spin on my heel and stalk out of Himinbjorg.