The Great Hall of Asgard had been transformed for what Loki privately considered the most diplomatically challenging conversation of his considerable career. The massive oak table that normally accommodated state dinners and treaty negotiations now hosted an assembly that defied conventional categorization: mortal parents, cosmic royalty, reformed criminals, and legendary warriors gathered to discuss whether ten children should be permitted to visit the literal foundation of universal existence.
Loki stood at the head of the table with the kind of theatrical composure that had served him well through centuries of delivering news that adults found either inspiring or terrifying, depending on their tolerance for cosmic adventure. His dark hair was perfectly arranged despite the afternoon's probability manipulation exercises, and his expression carried the particular blend of confidence and wariness that characterized his approach to family negotiations involving potential reality-altering experiences.
Around the table, the assembled parental figures presented a study in controlled concern that would have impressed political scientists across multiple realms. Their faces showed the careful neutrality of people who had learned to reserve judgment until all information was available, but whose protective instincts were already calculating risk factors and potential objections.
Aldrif sat directly to his right, her divine nature carefully contained beneath maternal authority that could command armies or comfort scraped knees with equal effectiveness. The Phoenix Force stirred gently in the back of her consciousness, its presence manifesting as the faint shimmer of golden light around her hands—a sign that she was processing information on both mortal and cosmic scales simultaneously.
Beside her, Odin maintained the kind of regal composure that had governed the Nine Realms for millennia, though his single eye gleamed with the particular interest he reserved for situations that might reshape his understanding of educational methodology. Frigga, positioned at his right hand, radiated the calm authority of someone who had successfully managed the developmental needs of impossible children for longer than most civilizations had existed.
The mortal parents occupied the table's center section with expressions that ranged from resigned acceptance to barely controlled panic. Frank and Alice Longbottom sat with the rigid posture of former Aurors who were mentally cataloging potential threats and emergency protocols, while Amelia Bones had already produced a quill and parchment for taking detailed notes on whatever proposals were about to be presented.
Hagrid's massive frame dominated one corner of the table, his beetle-black eyes bright with curiosity that suggested he found the concept of educational expeditions to cosmic landmarks perfectly reasonable. Beside him, Volstagg's red beard practically vibrated with enthusiasm that he was clearly restraining out of respect for the more cautious parents' concerns.
The Greengrass parents presented a study in aristocratic composure that concealed analytical minds working through complex risk-benefit calculations. Cyrus Greengrass possessed the kind of political awareness that had kept his family influential through multiple regime changes, while his wife Soleil radiated the practical wisdom that came from successfully managing brilliant daughters who had inherited both their parents' intelligence and their own creative approaches to problem-solving.
Xenophilius Lovegood sat with the dreamy expression that had made him famous for publishing articles that sounded like elaborate fiction until subsequent events proved them remarkably accurate, while his wife Pandora carried the serene confidence of someone who had long ago learned to trust her daughter's intuitive understanding of cosmic forces that exceeded normal perception.
Narcissa occupied the space beside Fandral with the kind of natural grace that eight years of freedom from magical compulsion had restored to her, though her blue eyes carried the sharp intelligence of someone evaluating potential threats to her child's welfare. Fandral himself maintained courtly composure that couldn't quite conceal protective instincts that had been activated by the prospect of the woman he loved allowing her son to embark on cosmic adventures.
At the table's far end, Sirius lounged with characteristic nonchalance that fooled no one who knew him well enough to recognize the tension in his shoulders and the way his gray eyes tracked every detail of the assembled group. Beside him, Remus sat with scholarly attention focused entirely on Loki's presentation, while Bellatrix had positioned herself with strategic sight lines that allowed her to observe everyone present without appearing to conduct surveillance.
"Right then," Loki began with the kind of diplomatic precision that suggested he had spent considerable time planning his approach to this conversation. "Before anyone begins calculating the various ways this proposal could result in cosmic catastrophe or permanent psychological damage to developing minds, I should clarify that what the children are requesting is not actually unprecedented."
He gestured with elegant precision, and the air above the table shimmered with illusion magic that created a three-dimensional map of the Nine Realms connected by the gleaming branches and roots of Yggdrasil itself. The World Tree appeared in perfect detail, its cosmic structure rotating slowly to display the complex relationships between realms that had fascinated scholars for millennia.
"Yggdrasil," he continued with the tone he used for advanced theoretical lectures, "exists simultaneously in all realms and none, accessible through specific locations that have served as pilgrimage sites for spiritual seekers, cosmic researchers, and advanced magical students throughout recorded history. What the children are proposing is essentially a supervised field study to observe phenomena that have been documented and analyzed by scholars from every major magical tradition."
"Documented by scholars," Aldrif repeated with the kind of careful precision that suggested she was parsing his language for potential obfuscation, "who were presumably adults with decades of magical training and experience with cosmic-level phenomena."
"Not exclusively," Loki replied with characteristic honesty, calling up additional images that showed young people throughout history approaching the World Tree under various forms of supervision and guidance. "Asgardian tradition has long recognized that certain types of cosmic awareness develop more readily in younger minds that haven't yet solidified their assumptions about the nature of reality. Many of our most accomplished seers and dimensional theorists began their training with carefully supervised exposure to Yggdrasil during adolescence."
Odin nodded approvingly, his single eye gleaming with memories that spanned centuries of educational tradition. "The boy speaks truth. Thor and Loki themselves first witnessed the World Tree when they were barely older than these children, as did I in my youth, and my father before me. It is... traditional preparation for those who will bear cosmic responsibilities."
"Traditional preparation," Frank Longbottom said slowly, his Auror training automatically focusing on practical concerns, "that presumably involved extensive safety protocols and emergency procedures developed through centuries of experience."
"Exactly," Frigga confirmed with maternal authority that brooked no argument. "The children would not be venturing into unknown territory without appropriate protection and guidance. They would be following paths established by generations of young people who successfully completed similar journeys and emerged with expanded understanding of their place in the cosmic order."
Hagrid leaned forward with enthusiasm that made his chair creak ominously. "Sounds brilliant!" he declared with the kind of wholehearted approval that had historically preceded some of his most memorable educational initiatives. "Nothing like seeing the real thing for understanding how it all fits together. Reading about cosmic architecture in books is one thing, but witnessing it directly—that's how you really learn!"
"Hagrid," Alice said with gentle firmness, "your definition of appropriate educational experiences has historically included creatures that most people consider actively dangerous. Your enthusiasm, while appreciated, might not be the most reassuring endorsement for parents who prefer their children's cosmic education to involve minimal risk of existential trauma."
"But that's just it!" Xenophilius interjected with the kind of dreamy certainty that had made The Quibbler unexpectedly influential during their campaign against magical slavery. "Luna's been preparing for this her entire life, whether she realized it or not. Her intuitive understanding of cosmic forces, her ability to perceive patterns that escape normal observation—she's been developing exactly the kind of awareness that would allow her to benefit from direct exposure to Yggdrasil without being overwhelmed by the experience."
Pandora nodded with serene confidence in her daughter's unique capabilities. "Luna sees connections that others miss, understands relationships that transcend normal causation. For her, witnessing the World Tree would be... confirmation rather than revelation. Making visible what she's always perceived through other means."
"That may be true for Luna," Cyrus Greengrass said with the political precision that had made him successful in navigating pureblood society's complex hierarchies, "but what about the other children? Daphne and Astoria are intelligent and well-prepared, but their strengths lie in strategic thinking and diplomatic analysis rather than intuitive cosmic perception. Are we certain they're equipped for this type of experience?"
"They've been training for it," Soleil replied with the practical confidence that came from years of managing brilliant daughters who consistently exceeded expectations. "Not specifically for Yggdrasil, but for handling complex magical phenomena that operate according to principles beyond normal understanding. Their systematic approach to preparation, their collaborative problem-solving skills—these are exactly the capabilities that would serve them well during cosmic-level educational experiences."
Volstagg's booming laugh echoed off the hall's soaring walls. "My own children have been raised from birth to understand that the universe contains wonders that dwarf mortal imagination! Bjorn and Sigrun have trained alongside young warriors destined for cosmic responsibilities—this would be natural progression in their education, not dramatic departure from established precedent."
"Natural progression for Asgardian children," Amelia pointed out with characteristic precision, her quill moving steadily across parchment as she documented every aspect of the discussion. "But what about the human children? Neville has made remarkable progress in recovering from his early trauma, but exposure to cosmic forces that exceed his comprehension could trigger psychological responses that we're not prepared to manage."
"Actually," Bellatrix said quietly, her voice carrying the authority of someone who had personal experience with psychological reconstruction and recovery, "Neville's trauma has given him exactly the kind of mental resilience that would serve him well during challenging experiences. He's learned to process overwhelming stimuli without losing his sense of self, to maintain emotional stability when confronted with phenomena that exceed normal understanding. His recovery has been preparation, whether we realized it or not."
Her dark eyes moved around the table, meeting each parent's gaze with steady honesty. "All of these children have been shaped by experiences that would have broken most adults, yet they've emerged stronger, wiser, more capable of handling impossible situations with grace and intelligence. They're not ordinary children facing extraordinary circumstances—they're extraordinary children who have already proven their ability to thrive when confronted with cosmic-level challenges."
"She's right," Narcissa added with quiet conviction, her hand moving unconsciously to cover Fandral's where it rested on the table. "Draco spent the first years of his life under systematic magical compulsion designed to prevent him from developing natural empathy or independent moral reasoning. His recovery required learning to trust his own perceptions, to value his authentic responses even when they contradicted everything he'd been taught. That experience has given him psychological tools that most people never develop."
Fandral nodded approvingly, his warrior's instincts recognizing strength that had been forged through adversity rather than inherited through privilege. "The boy has courage that goes beyond physical bravery. He's learned to face truth even when it's painful, to choose growth over comfort. These are the qualities that prepare someone for cosmic-level challenges."
Sirius had been listening to this discussion with growing recognition of patterns that connected their extended family in ways that transcended normal relationships. "They're all trauma survivors," he said with sudden understanding. "Every single one of them has faced impossible circumstances and emerged stronger. They've learned to adapt, to collaborate, to find strength in unity rather than isolation."
"More than that," Remus added with scholarly precision, "they've learned to process extraordinary experiences without losing their essential humanity. They've maintained compassion, curiosity, and creative problem-solving capabilities despite witnessing horrors that would have left most people emotionally shattered."
"The question," Aldrif said with maternal authority that commanded attention from gods and mortals alike, "is not whether they're capable of handling cosmic-level experiences. They've already proven that repeatedly. The question is whether this particular experience, at this particular time, serves their long-term development and wellbeing."
"That," Loki replied with characteristic precision, "depends on the specific conditions under which the experience occurs. Unsupervised exposure to Yggdrasil could indeed be overwhelming or potentially harmful. Properly supervised exposure, with appropriate preparation and safety protocols, becomes advanced education rather than reckless adventure."
He gestured again, and the illusion above the table shifted to show detailed planning documents that outlined safety measures, emergency protocols, and educational objectives with the kind of thoroughness that would have impressed military strategists.
"I propose," he continued with growing confidence, "a modified version of their original request. Not a casual expedition or sightseeing tour, but a formal educational journey with specific learning objectives, comprehensive safety measures, and sufficient supervision to ensure both their physical safety and psychological wellbeing."
"Define sufficient supervision," Frank said with the kind of tactical awareness that came from years of dangerous situations requiring backup plans and contingency protocols.
Before Loki could answer, Odin rose from his chair with the kind of ceremonial gravity that suggested important pronouncements were about to be delivered. His single eye swept the table with royal authority that had governed realms for millennia, though his expression carried paternal concern rather than imperial decree.
"If this journey is to occur," he said with finality that brooked no argument, "it will do so under the protection of Asgard's finest warriors and most experienced cosmic travelers. Thor will lead the escort, with Mjolnir to handle any phenomena that exceed safe parameters. Sif will provide tactical oversight and ensure the children's physical protection throughout the experience."
His gaze moved to encompass the Warriors Three, who had been listening to the discussion with growing anticipation. "Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg will serve as additional protection and educational supervision, bringing their combined expertise in combat, strategy, and diplomatic relations with cosmic forces."
"And Tonks will accompany them," Sif added with the kind of tactical precision that characterized her approach to complex operations, "as both additional protection and cultural liaison. Her Metamorphmagus abilities and Asgardian training make her uniquely qualified to assist with any challenges that require flexible responses to unexpected situations."
Tonks straightened in her chair with obvious excitement, her hair shifting to pleased gold as she processed the implications of being included in such an ambitious educational expedition. "I won't let them down," she promised with the fierce dedication that had made her invaluable during her years of training. "They'll have constant protection and someone who understands both mortal and Asgardian perspectives on cosmic experiences."
"Furthermore," Odin continued with growing authority, "the expedition will include experienced scholars who can provide immediate context for whatever phenomena they encounter. Loki will serve as primary instructor in cosmic theory, while additional expertise will be provided by..." He paused, his gaze moving to encompass the three adults who had been quietly observing the discussion from the table's periphery.
"Sirius, Remus, and Bellatrix will accompany the group," he declared with decision that suggested he had been planning this expansion for some time. "Their combined experience with dimensional travel, cosmic forces, and the children's individual personalities make them ideal candidates for providing additional supervision and educational support."
The three former Marauders exchanged glances that carried years of shared experience with impossible situations requiring creative solutions and mutual support. Sirius's grin was equal parts excitement and apprehension, while Remus's scholarly expression suggested he was already mentally preparing lesson plans for cosmic-level field studies. Bellatrix nodded with quiet satisfaction, her strategic mind clearly appreciating the comprehensive nature of the proposed protection.
"That's..." Amelia paused in her note-taking, clearly working through the implications of such extensive supervision, "actually remarkably thorough. Experienced warriors for physical protection, scholarly expertise for educational context, and familiar adults for emotional support and continuity."
"Plus," Hagrid added with obvious approval, "enough supervision to handle whatever unexpected situations might arise. Nothing like having backup for your backup when you're dealing with cosmic phenomena that don't follow normal rules."
"The children will be as safe as it's possible to be when witnessing the foundation of universal existence," Frigga concluded with maternal authority that carried absolute conviction. "They will be protected, guided, and supported throughout an experience that will serve their development for the rest of their lives."
"When would this expedition occur?" Narcissa asked with the practical concerns that characterized her approach to major family decisions.
"Tomorrow at dawn," Loki replied with characteristic precision. "The cosmic conditions are optimal for safe approach to Yggdrasil, and the children's preparation is complete. Delay would serve no educational purpose and might actually reduce the effectiveness of the experience."
The silence that followed carried weight that pressed against the hall's ancient walls. Parents processed final concerns while cosmic forces aligned themselves with mortal decision-making processes that would reshape multiple lives.
"Very well," Aldrif said finally, her voice carrying both maternal authority and divine approval. "If the children are determined to witness Yggdrasil, if the educational benefits justify the risks, and if the supervision is as comprehensive as proposed, then we entrust them to your guidance and protection."
Around the table, other parents nodded with varying degrees of enthusiasm and resignation, recognizing that their extraordinary children required extraordinary educational opportunities that exceeded normal parental comfort zones.
"Just," Alice added with the kind of gentle firmness that characterized her approach to impossible situations, "bring them all back safely. With their minds intact, their perspectives expanded, and their understanding of cosmic responsibility appropriately enhanced rather than traumatically overwhelmed."
"That," Loki promised with unprecedented sincerity, "is exactly what we intend to achieve. Tomorrow, your children witness the foundation of existence itself. By evening, they return home with understanding that will serve them throughout whatever cosmic challenges await."
The greatest educational expedition in the history of any realm was about to begin, supervised by legends and witnessed by children who would carry the memory throughout whatever impossible futures awaited them.
The universe, Loki reflected with satisfaction, was about to discover what happened when properly prepared children were given access to cosmic truth under appropriate protection.
The results would be educational for everyone involved.
—
The ancient stone corridors beneath Asgard's golden spires held secrets that even the All-Father's ravens could not penetrate, and in the deepest of these forgotten spaces, a ten-year-old girl with ice-blue eyes and silver-white hair knelt before a makeshift shrine to her murdered father.
Skadi, daughter of Thiazzi the Storm-Bringer, pressed her small palms against the frozen ground and whispered words in the old tongue of Jotunheim—words of grief, words of fury, words of binding oath that froze the very air around her with their intensity. Her breath came in visible puffs despite the enchanted warmth that permeated most of Asgard's halls, and frost spread outward from her touch in delicate patterns that spoke of power barely contained within a child's frame.
"Father," she whispered, her voice carrying the kind of hollow ache that belonged to those who had lost everything and found nothing to replace it, "I remember your stories of the great hunts. I remember your laughter when the storms obeyed your call. I remember the way you taught me to read the patterns in winter winds and find strength in the heart of blizzards."
The crude altar she had constructed from stolen stones and scavenged metal bore no resemblance to the magnificent monuments that decorated Asgard's public spaces. It was rough, unfinished, built by hands too small and too young to properly honor one of the storm-lords of Jotunheim. But it was hers, built from love and loss and the kind of desperate need to maintain connection with someone who existed now only in memory and unfinished business.
"They tell stories about your death," she continued, her voice growing harder as ice crept across the walls in response to her emotional state. "The palace servants whisper when they think no one is listening. They speak of the trickster god who came to Jotunheim wearing borrowed shapes and false words, who led you into a trap that ended with fire and screaming and your voice calling my name as the flames took you."
Her small hands clenched into fists, and the temperature in the chamber dropped another ten degrees as her giant's blood responded to rage that had been carefully nurtured through two years of solitary grief and unanswered questions.
She had been eight when the news came—too young to understand the political complexities that had led to her father's death, too isolated to learn the full context of events that had destroyed her world, too powerless to do anything but survive in the spaces between official notice and charitable neglect.
The palace had taken her in after Thiazzi's death, a gesture of diplomatic necessity disguised as mercy. Frost giants who died in service to cosmic balance—even those who had acted against Asgard's interests—deserved to have their children protected rather than abandoned to Jotunheim's harsh wilderness. The All-Father had decreed her sanctuary, the All-Mother had ensured her basic needs were met, and the palace staff had found her quarters in the lower levels where a grieving giant child could mourn without disturbing more important inhabitants.
But sanctuary was not the same as belonging, protection was not the same as love, and survival was not the same as living. For two years, Skadi had existed in the margins of Asgardian society—fed, housed, educated in basic skills, and utterly ignored by everyone who mattered enough to answer the questions that burned in her young heart.
Why had her father died? What had he done to earn such a terrible end? Had he suffered? Had he called for her as the flames consumed him, as the servants' whispers suggested? And most importantly—when would someone pay for the crime of leaving a child orphaned and alone in a realm that tolerated her existence without ever truly accepting her presence?
The servants' gossip had provided fragments over the months—carefully overheard conversations, accidentally witnessed exchanges, bits and pieces of a story that painted her father as both villain and victim depending on whose version she happened to catch. But the central truth remained consistent across all variations: Loki Odinson, the trickster god, Prince of Asgard and master of lies, had orchestrated Thiazzi's death through deception and fire.
"I know his name," she said to her father's crude shrine, her voice taking on the kind of formal precision that characterized oaths sworn in the old ways. "I know his face. I know his tricks and his weaknesses and the way he thinks himself cleverer than everyone around him. I have watched him from shadows, studied his patterns, learned his habits."
This was true. For months, she had made herself invisible in the way that unwanted children learned to do, positioning herself where she could observe the trickster god without drawing his attention. She had watched him train with weapons that sang with cosmic fire, seen him practice illusions that could fool the senses of gods, witnessed him engage in verbal sparring matches that left experienced courtiers speechless with admiration or frustration.
But she had also seen his blind spots—the way he assumed his intelligence made him invulnerable to direct assault, the way he relied on complexity rather than preparing for simple, brutal solutions to his problems. He expected enemies who thought like he did, who planned elaborate schemes and layered deceptions. He did not expect a grief-maddened giant child with nothing left to lose.
"Tomorrow," she whispered to the stones, "he leaves Asgard's protection. The maid Astrid spoke of it when she thought no one was listening—a great expedition to witness cosmic wonders, with children under his supervision and warriors providing protection. He will be focused on their safety, distracted by educational responsibilities, vulnerable to attack from someone he has no reason to suspect or fear."
She had overheard enough of the palace gossip to understand the basic parameters of tomorrow's journey. Prince Loki would be traveling with a group of mortal and Asgardian children to witness Yggdrasil itself, accompanied by Thor, Sif, and various other legendary warriors whose reputations filled songs and stories throughout the Nine Realms.
Under normal circumstances, such an escort would be impenetrable. But circumstances would not be normal, because they would be focused on protecting the children rather than watching for threats to Loki himself. They would be managing educational objectives and safety protocols for young people witnessing cosmic phenomena for the first time. They would be dealing with the complex logistics of keeping ten curious children safe while exposing them to the foundational forces of existence.
They would not be expecting a frost giant child with murder in her heart and ice in her veins.
"I have been preparing," she told her father's memory, rising to her feet with movements that carried deadly grace despite her youth. "Every night for months, training in the forgotten chambers where no one thinks to look for unwanted children. Building strength that exceeds my apparent size, practicing with weapons that sing in harmony with giant blood, learning to channel the winter that flows in my bones."
The training had been solitary, brutal, and comprehensive. She possessed no formal instructors, no access to legendary masters or cosmic knowledge. But she had inherited more than just her father's eyes and hair—she carried the storm-caller's instinctive understanding of violence as natural force, the giant's relationship with destruction as creative as well as ending power.
She had taught herself to fight with the same methodical precision that other children applied to academic subjects, studying techniques from stolen glimpses of palace training sessions, experimenting with applications of frost magic that turned her small size into tactical advantage rather than limiting weakness. She could freeze moisture in the air into weapons sharp enough to pierce armor, create ice so slick that even gods would lose their footing, generate cold so intense that it made metal brittle and magic unstable.
Most importantly, she had learned patience. The patience to wait for the right moment, to study her enemy until she knew him better than he knew himself, to prepare for a single perfect strike rather than relying on superior force or overwhelming power.
"Tomorrow," she repeated with growing certainty, "when he is distracted by responsibilities and surrounded by children who need protection, when he believes himself safe under the escort of Asgard's greatest warriors, when his attention is focused on cosmic wonders rather than mortal dangers—tomorrow, I will kill Loki Odinson and send his treacherous soul to whatever judgment awaits those who murder fathers and orphan children."
The vow hung in the frozen air like a blade poised to fall, carrying weight that seemed to press against the chamber's ancient stones. Around her, the temperature continued dropping as her resolve crystallized into something harder and colder than diamond, more focused than arctic wind, more patient than glacial advance.
She had spent two years learning to live with grief that threatened to consume her from the inside out. Tomorrow, she would discover whether that grief had been refined into something capable of destroying the god who had created it.
Moving with careful precision, she began gathering the weapons she had hidden throughout the forgotten chamber—blades of ice that would not melt until her death released their binding, projectiles carved from frozen starlight that could pierce divine flesh, armor woven from winter wind that would turn aside magical attacks while allowing her natural speed and agility to serve as primary defense.
Each piece of equipment had been crafted through months of patient work, tested through countless hours of solitary practice, refined until it served her purpose with deadly efficiency. She was ten years old, untrained by any formal standard, completely alone in her mission—but she was also Thiazzi's daughter, heir to storm-calling power and giant strength, motivated by love and loss that had been distilled into perfect focus.
The weapons felt right in her hands, extensions of will rather than mere tools, responsive to her intent in ways that suggested her father's blood carried more than just physical inheritance. She was not merely a giant child with access to frost magic—she was the daughter of one of Jotunheim's storm-lords, raised on stories of legendary hunts and cosmic battles, trained by necessity to survive in a realm that had never truly wanted her presence.
"I come for you, father," she whispered to the shrine as she secured her weapons and prepared to leave the hidden chamber for what might be the last time. "Tomorrow, when Loki Odinson faces the daughter of Thiazzi the Storm-Bringer, he will learn that some crimes echo across years and realms and the careful boundaries that gods construct to protect themselves from consequence."
She had no illusions about her chances of survival. Loki was a god, a master of magic and deception, protected by legends and escorted by warriors whose names filled songs throughout the Nine Realms. She was a child, untrained and alone, armed with improvised weapons and powered by nothing more than grief refined into deadly purpose.
But grief, when properly focused, could move mountains. Love, when transformed by loss, could challenge the foundations of existence itself. And vengeance, when combined with the patience to wait for the perfect moment, could find weaknesses in defenses that had never been tested by someone who had absolutely nothing left to lose.
Tomorrow would bring either justice for Thiazzi the Storm-Bringer, or another grave beside her father's memory. Either outcome was preferable to spending the rest of her life as a unwanted ward in the palace of the god who had destroyed everything she had ever loved.
The hunt was about to begin, and Skadi, daughter of storms and heir to winter's wrath, was finally ready to discover whether two years of preparation would prove sufficient to kill a god.
In the depths of Asgard's forgotten places, frost spread across ancient stone as a ten-year-old girl made her final preparations for what would either be the most successful assassination attempt in cosmic history, or the most spectacular failure.
Either way, Loki Odinson would remember the name of Thiazzi's daughter.
---
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