Chapter 4 : THE VAULT OF SECRETS
Thor's chambers were a disaster zone.
A table lay overturned, goblets scattered across the floor, mead pooling in golden puddles that caught the afternoon light. Mjolnir sat embedded in the wall—Thor had thrown it in his rage, and the stone had cracked around it like ice around a heated blade.
The thunder god himself paced before the window, each step heavy enough to rattle the remaining furniture. Lightning flickered in the clouds beyond, responding to his mood like a dog sensing its master's anger.
"They invaded our home." Thor's voice shook with barely contained fury. "On my day. On the day I was to become king."
Loki stood near the door, maintaining Loki's characteristic distance. The instinct to approach, to calm, to reason—those were Loki instincts. Loki would watch. Calculate. Wait.
"The coronation will happen eventually," he said. "Father simply—"
"Father!" Thor spun, and for a moment the rage focused directly on him. "Father dismissed me like a child. 'An isolated act.' Three Frost Giants breach our most sacred vault, and he calls it isolated?"
Because he knows something. Because he's not surprised.
The thought had crystallized during the walk from the vault. Odin's reaction had been too measured, too prepared. The All-Father had expected this disruption—maybe not the exact timing, but something.
"What would you have him do?" Loki kept his voice neutral. "Declare war based on three dead assassins?"
"Yes!" Thor grabbed Mjolnir from the wall, chunks of stone crumbling around it. "Laufey thinks us weak. He sends his warriors to humiliate us, and Father does nothing. This cannot stand."
And there it is.
The original Loki would have fanned these flames. Would have whispered poison, guided Thor toward the confrontation that would prove him unworthy. The manipulation had been elegant, in its way—using Thor's own nature against him.
Loki didn't need to manipulate. Thor was doing the work himself.
"Father forbade any action against Jotunheim."
"Father is wrong."
The words hung in the air. Thor's jaw tightened, like he couldn't quite believe he'd said them aloud. Then something hardened in his expression—decision crystallizing into action.
"I'm going to Jotunheim."
"That's—" Loki stopped himself. Insane? Suicidal? Exactly what needs to happen? "—not what I expected you to say."
Thor laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You expected me to sulk? To accept this insult and wait for Father's permission like a good little prince?" He crossed to his armor stand, began strapping on battle gear with practiced efficiency. "Laufey will answer for this. One way or another."
The timeline is moving. With or without my interference.
"You can't reach Jotunheim without Heimdall's help. And Heimdall answers to Odin."
"Heimdall answers to Asgard." Thor's grin was sharp, reckless. "And Asgard has been attacked. Even he must see the need for response."
He won't stop you. I know he won't. But you don't know that yet.
A servant appeared at the door—young, nervous, carrying the horned ceremonial helmet that Loki had abandoned in the throne room. "My prince? You left this in—"
"Thank you." Loki took the helmet before she could finish. The weight of it was ridiculous, the horns curving upward in a way that defied practical combat design. Loki's memories supplied attachment to the symbol, pride in the craftsmanship. Loki just saw a piece of theater.
He tucked it under his arm rather than wearing it.
Thor finished armoring up and turned, Mjolnir crackling with anticipation. "Will you come, brother?"
The question landed differently than it had in the vault. This wasn't an invitation born of family obligation. This was Thor, for perhaps the first time, actually asking for his brother's support.
I need to see Jotunheim. I need to be there when the heritage revelation happens. I need to control my own reaction instead of being blindsided.
"Someone has to ensure you don't start an interrealm war single-handedly."
Thor's smile widened—genuine this time, surprised and pleased. "I knew you'd see reason."
That's not what's happening here, but sure.
They moved through the palace toward the training grounds where Sif and the Warriors Three would be found. Loki kept pace with Thor's aggressive stride, mind racing through possibilities.
The Jotunheim expedition was necessary. It would prove Thor unworthy, trigger his banishment, start the chain of events that would transform an arrogant prince into a true hero. Disrupting that process could have catastrophic consequences.
But there were variables he didn't control. The heritage revelation—the moment when a Frost Giant's touch would turn Loki's skin blue—had shattered the original Loki. Had set him on a path toward attempted genocide, invasion, and centuries of bad decisions.
I already know what I am. The question is whether I can pretend to be surprised.
The training grounds sprawled across a plateau overlooking Asgard's lower city. Warriors clashed with practice weapons, their shouts and the ring of metal creating a constant background noise. At the center, Sif drove Fandral back with a series of vicious strikes while Volstagg cheered from the sidelines and Hogun watched with his characteristic silence.
Thor strode directly into the chaos.
"Friends!" His voice cut through the combat noise. "I require your swords."
Sif disengaged from Fandral, sweeping dark hair from her face. Her eyes found Loki immediately, narrowing with automatic suspicion. "For what purpose?"
"Jotunheim." Thor planted Mjolnir's head on the ground, leaning on the handle with theatrical confidence. "We ride within the hour."
The Warriors Three exchanged glances. Volstagg stopped mid-bite of the turkey leg he'd been eating—because of course he'd been eating while watching combat practice.
"Jotunheim," Fandral repeated slowly. "The realm of Frost Giants. The Frost Giants who just tried to steal from us and are now dead."
"The Frost Giants whose king must answer for the insult."
"Odin forbade—" Sif began.
"Odin is wrong."
Silence fell across the training ground. Even the background sparring seemed to pause, warriors turning to stare at the prince who'd just publicly contradicted the All-Father.
Loki watched their faces. The shock. The hesitation. The slow dawning realization that Thor meant every word.
Then Volstagg shrugged. "I've always wanted to kill something on Jotunheim."
"This is madness," Sif said, but she was already reaching for her real weapons rather than the practice blades. "We'll be exiled. Or worse."
"We'll be heroes." Thor's conviction was absolute. "Asgard's defenders, striking back against those who dared threaten our realm."
You'll be humiliated, banished, stripped of everything you thought made you worthy. And it's the best thing that could happen to you.
Fandral twirled his sword experimentally. "I suppose someone needs to watch your back while you punch ice giants."
Hogun simply nodded—a man of few words committing to potential treason with admirable efficiency.
That left Sif, whose gaze hadn't left Loki since he'd arrived. "And the Trickster? Why is he here?"
"My brother joins us."
"Since when does Loki join warriors on foolish quests?"
Loki manufactured the most irritating smile. "Since the quest promises to be entertainingly disastrous. I wouldn't miss watching Thor's diplomatic skills in action for all the gold in Asgard."
Volstagg laughed, spraying turkey. "He has a point!"
"I don't trust him." Sif's hand rested on her sword hilt. "He's planning something."
She's not wrong.
"I'm planning to survive an expedition to a realm of monsters while my brother attempts to start a war through aggressive posturing." Loki spread his hands in mock surrender. "My schemes are transparent, I assure you."
Thor clapped a hand on his shoulder—hard enough to make his teeth click together. "Enough. Loki comes. Now, how do we pass Heimdall?"
"We ask," Loki said.
They all stared at him.
"The Gatekeeper sees all threats to Asgard. We've just been threatened. We go to him, explain our purpose, and trust that his duty to the realm outweighs his duty to the king."
"That's..." Fandral frowned. "Actually not terrible advice."
"Even I have moments of competence."
They armored up properly—real combat gear, not ceremonial parade costumes. Loki changed into fighting leathers, strapped throwing knives to his belt alongside the dagger, and reluctantly brought the horned helmet. Leaving it behind twice in one day would raise questions.
Volstagg materialized beside him as they prepared to march. "Good to have you with us, trickster!" A massive hand slammed into Loki back.
His spine screamed. The blow staggered him forward, and he had to catch himself against a weapons rack to avoid falling. Asgardians apparently expressed friendship through minor assault.
"Delighted to be included." His voice came out slightly strangled.
The group assembled—six warriors plus one sorcerer who couldn't actually use his magic reliably. They marched toward the Bifrost in formation, Thor at the lead, Mjolnir spinning at his side.
Loki fell into step at the rear, cataloging aches and cataloging thoughts. His back throbbed where Volstagg had struck it. His fingers kept twitching toward knives he might not be skilled enough to throw accurately. The mana core in his chest—that strange reservoir of power he'd only sensed this morning—pulsed faintly, as if anticipating the cold that awaited.
Jotunheim. Where I was born. Where my biological father rules. Where the truth of what I am will become undeniable.
The original Loki had touched a Frost Giant during combat, watched his skin turn blue, felt his entire identity crumble. The revelation had broken something fundamental in him.
Loki intended to be ready.
Odin's single eye tracked them from a palace window as they passed. The All-Father watched his sons march toward disaster and did nothing to stop them.
Because you know this needs to happen too, Loki thought. You've been waiting for Thor to prove himself unworthy. For the excuse to banish him, humble him, make him into the king he needs to become.
The only question is whether you planned the Frost Giant attack yourself.
He filed the thought away for later analysis. The Bifrost bridge stretched before them, rainbow colors shifting beneath their feet, Heimdall's observatory gleaming at its end.
Thor didn't slow. Didn't hesitate. He walked toward potential exile with the confidence of someone who'd never truly failed at anything.
Behind him, the Casket of Ancient Winters waited in its vault—cold, patient, calling to blood that didn't know it was supposed to answer.
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