The room was quiet, save for the gentle rhythm of Y/N's breathing. She lay curled beneath the sheets, her face softened in peaceful slumber, unaware of the sharp gaze fixed upon her.

Loki remained still, propped against the headboard, his expression unreadable as he watched her.

The air between them was thick with the lingering warmth of the night and morning they'd shared, a memory that stirred something he couldn't name, something that refused to be ignored.

It wasn't just the physical traces of their intimacy that lingered. No, what had truly shaken him was deeper, more profound.

She was no longer just a mystery to unravel or a challenge to overcome. She was entwining herself with him, threading her way into places he'd long kept unreachable.

The thought thrilled him, ignited a spark of something dangerous—and terrified him all the same.

His gaze fell on the necklace resting against her skin, recalling the fleeting moment when Frigga had noticed it.

The brief flicker of concern in her eyes had been quickly masked, but not before Loki had caught it.

His eyes lingered on the necklace, the unspoken tension of that exchange heavy in the air. What had Frigga seen in it? And why had it unsettled her so deeply?

The stone, dull and lifeless, seemed to echo the stillness of the moment...

until something changed.

A faint crimson glimmer sparked within the gem, barely perceptible at first, like a drop of blood weaving through invisible cracks.

Loki stiffened, leaning in, his breath hitching as the glow grew stronger, deeper, more deliberate.

This was no trick of the light.

The stone was shifting, changing—its color aligning with the prophecy.

The gem pulsed in slow, measured beats, as if it carried a heartbeat of its own.

Loki's chest tightened, his sharp mind spinning, searching for answers as unease crept into his veins.

The mural had shown Y/N turning to crimson after a battle with him. But there had been no battle between them—no clash of blades or storm of fury...

Only genuine love.

The realization struck him with a mixture of relief and confusion.

The collision and spinning of the two figures depicted in the mural hadn't been born of rage or hatred, but of intimacy and love.

For the first time, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps one chaos had been misinterpreted. And if this part of the prophecy was wrong, then maybe the rest was, too.

But doubt lingered, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. How could anyone misinterpret destruction? The fire, the scattered dead, the smothering darkness—what could ever twist something good into such devastation?

And then, as he stared at the gem, lost in thought, the crimson light flickered and dimmed, vanishing as abruptly as it had flared to life, leaving the stone cold and lifeless once more.

Loki's gaze lingered on it, his lips drawn into a tight line. His first impulse was to wake her, but something stopped him.

Although she might have felt relief to know their closeness had been misunderstood as mere happenstance, he couldn't bring himself to wake her.

She lay there so serene, untouched by the burdens of prophecy, Odin's schemes, or the volatile power that seemed to shape and confine her existence. For this fleeting moment, she was free, and he couldn't bring himself to shatter that peace.

Yet, Loki couldn't dismiss what he had witnessed. This wasn't the first time the necklace had revealed its secrets, but it was the first time he was certain those secrets were anything but benign.

His jaw clenched as his eyes shifted back to her face. She trusted him now—more than she ever had. The question clawed at him: was he willing to risk that trust for the answers he so desperately needed?

Loki exhaled softly, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face as he murmured, "Rest a little longer, darling."

But as he leaned back, his thoughts refused to quiet.

His relentless search for answers about the necklace—its origins, its purpose—had yielded nothing but frustration. Every lead had dissolved into dead ends, leaving him with only one cryptic hint: it reflected power.

But what if that was wrong?

Even though Frigga had been more of a mother to him—honing his magic, sharpening his cunning, and tempering his ambition with hard-earned wisdom—her aid always came with a cost, a price Loki had learned to fear.

His gaze shifted back to Y/N, her peaceful face a stark contrast to the turmoil twisting within him.

The weight of the question pressed heavy on his chest. Was he willing to risk her for the answers he so desperately sought? Could he jeopardize the one thing he had only just begun to value?

"No," he murmured under his breath, the word barely audible, as if speaking it too loudly might unravel his resolve. Yet doubt lingered, coiled in the corners of his mind.

He would go to Frigga. He would pay whatever price she demanded. But as his fingers brushed against Y/N's hand, her warmth grounding him for a fleeting moment, a thought crept in, chilling him to the core.

What if the price was her?