At the same time that undercurrents were surging through Stark Tower on Earth, in Asgard.
Within the bedchamber of the Asgardian Palace, layers of heavy curtains draped down onto the lapis lazuli floor tiles.
Frigga sat alone at the edge of an ornately carved couch, a slender silver shuttle in her hand. The golden thread on the loom had long since snapped halfway through. Since Odin had fallen into the Odinsleep, disturbances had been frequent throughout the Nine Realms, and countless affairs weighed heavily on her shoulders. A few faint lines had quietly appeared at the corners of her eyes.
Footsteps stopped in the corridor outside the hall.
Loki had changed into a neat green Divine Realm robe, its gold-trimmed collar buttoned properly beneath his Adam's apple. Rather than teleporting in atop an illusion as he usually did, and without his exaggerated golden horned crown, he actually stepped onto the woolen carpet, moving lightly and slowly.
Frigga looked up, the silver shuttle in her hand stopping midair.
She looked at the adopted son she had raised with her own hands, and the corners of her eyes lifted unconsciously. Heimdall had long sent her word in code about the commotion Loki had caused in Hell. She knew this son too well. Though he appeared cunning and sensitive, always eager to prove he could punch a hole through the heavens, Frigga had always believed that he still cherished the Asgardian Palace deep down. He simply preferred to take unconventional paths.
Loki stopped three steps from the couch, lifted the hem of his robe, and dropped to one knee on the cold floor tiles.
He lowered his head, shedding all traces of his usual flippancy, and held out both palms flat.
A pendant strung on a delicate silver chain lay quietly in his