Three days passed in silence.
Not the kind of silence that precedes a storm, but rather the kind that follows it. Asgard was healing the wounds left by Gorr: restoring damaged buildings in Omnipotence City, burying the fallen, and retelling stories of the battle in Helheim. With each retelling, the stories became more heroic, and my role in them more blurred.
That suited me just fine.
I spent my days in the library, on the training grounds, and in my chambers. I avoided feasts and receptions where I would have had to answer questions and accept congratulations from those who, just a week ago, had demanded my execution. Hypocrisy was part of court life, but that didn't mean I had to participate in it.
The Necrosword behaved quietly. It pulsed on my wrist, reminding me of its presence with a faint hunger at the edge of my consciousness, but it did not press. We were adjusting to each other, and for now, the balance held.
On the fourth day, the balance collapsed.
A knock at the door woke me at dawn—sharp, insistent. Not the knock of a servant with breakfast. The knock of a person bearing bad news.
"Enter."
An Einherjar in full armor. Face pale, eyes darting.
"Prince Loki. The All-Father demands your presence. Immediately."
"What happened?"
"The ambassador of Vanaheim..." he swallowed. "The ambassador is dead."
I dressed quickly, asking no unnecessary questions. The Einherjar led me through the palace corridors—not to the throne room, but to the guest wing where foreign delegations were housed. Servants pressed against the walls, whispering. The news was already spreading through the palace.
The ambassador of Vanaheim—Lord Eyvald—occupied the chambers on the third tier. Not young, but sturdy, one of the Vanir who still remembered the war between our worlds. He had arrived three weeks ago to discuss trade agreements and was supposed to leave tomorrow.
He wouldn't be leaving.
Four guards stood at the doors. They stepped aside, letting me in.
The chambers were spacious—a living room, a bedroom, an office. Everything in Vanaheim style: plenty of wood, carved patterns, the scent of pine from incense. Thor was already here, as were Odin and Tyr. Frigga stood by the window, her arms crossed over her chest.
A body lay on the bed.
Not the body of Lord Eyvald. A creature with green skin, an alien bone structure, and empty black eyes. Pointed ears, a flat nose, and a skull of an unusual shape.
"What is this?" I asked, though I already suspected.
"A servant found him this morning," Tyr replied. His voice was tense. "Came with breakfast. Says he first saw the ambassador—dead, but the ambassador. And then the body began to... change. Right before his eyes."
"A Skrull," Odin said. His voice was heavy. "I thought their empire was dead."
Silence. Tyr laid a hand on his sword. Frigga stepped away from the window, approaching the bed. She looked at the body with an expression I couldn't read.
"What is a Skrull?" Thor asked.
"A race of shapeshifters," Odin answered. "From the far sectors of the galaxy. They can take any form, copying any being down to the smallest detail. Memory, voice, habits—everything."
"And one of them was here? In Asgard? Pretending to be an ambassador?"
"Evidently."
I looked at the body. Their disguise fell apart after death—the bodies could not maintain an alien form without consciousness. Useful to know.
"How long?" I asked. "How long has this Skrull been Eyvald?"
"Unknown," Odin said.
"Where is the real ambassador?"
"Unknown."
"Are there others?"
Silence.
That was the main question. If one Skrull had infiltrated Asgard—could there be others? Ten? A hundred? Anyone could turn out to be someone other than who they seemed.
I looked at Thor. At Tyr. At Frigga by the bed.
Anyone.
"We need to check everyone," Tyr said. "Immediately. Summon the court, conduct an inspection..."
"And how do you propose doing that?" I interrupted. "Kill everyone suspicious and see who turns green? Start a massacre to find a handful of spies?"
"Then with magic. There must be spells that..."
"The Skrulls do not use magic for transformation," Odin shook his head. "It is their nature, their biology. Ordinary revelation charms will not work."
"Then what?"
I looked at the body. Thinking.
"He didn't die of a heart attack," I said.
Everyone turned to me.
"Look at the hands." I pointed to the blueing fingernails. "This isn't heart failure. This is poison. Slow, invisible. The kind that mimics cardiac arrest."
"Poison?" Thor frowned. "Someone poisoned a Skrull?"
"Someone took out a Skrull. The question is who and why."
"Maybe he failed his mission," Tyr suggested. "His own people removed him."
"Or he was going to talk," I said. "And he was silenced."
Again silence. Heavy, oppressive.
Odin looked at me for a long time. Then he nodded.
"I am summoning the Council. In an hour, in the small hall." He turned to Tyr. "Double the guard at all entrances. No one leaves the palace without my permission."
"Yes, All-Father."
"Thor, stay with the body. Let no one near."
"Understood."
Odin headed for the exit. He stopped at the door and turned around.
"Loki. With me."
We walked down the corridor—the All-Father and I. The guards kept at a distance, far enough not to overhear the conversation.
"Do you know about the Skrulls?" Odin asked.
"Only what I read in the library. An ancient race, an empire at the edge of the galaxy, the war with the Kree." I paused. "The mentions were... sparse."
"Because few wanted to remember them." Odin stopped by a window. He looked at Asgard below. "Thousands of years ago, I made a treaty with the Skrull Emperor. A trade alliance, mutual protection. And one promise: if their empire fell, Asgard would grant sanctuary to the survivors."
I remained silent. Waiting.
"I thought this treaty would never be needed. The Skrulls were strong. Their fleet was no less than ours." He shook his head. "And then news came that their world was destroyed. That the survivors had fled into the unknown. I expected them to come, remind me of the treaty, ask for help."
"But they didn't come."
"Not openly." Odin turned to me. "Instead—this. Infiltration. Substitution. Conspiracy."
"Something changed," I said. "Or someone changed their plan."
"Precisely." He looked at me with a heavy gaze. "You are the God of Lies, Loki. Deception is your territory. Find them. Find out how many are here, who they are, and what they want."
"And if I find them?"
"Then we will talk about what to do next."
"Fine."
The Council gathered in the small hall. Six around the table: Odin, Frigga, Thor, Tyr, Heimdall, and I.
Anyone could be someone other than who they seemed.
I watched them while Odin explained the situation. Tyr frowned, clenching his fists—a typical warrior's reaction to a threat that couldn't be cut down with a sword. Thor listened intently, his eyes darting from one face to another. Heimdall stood motionless as a statue.
Frigga sat beside me. Attentive, composed. When Odin mentioned the ancient treaty, she nodded—she knew.
"How did they even enter Asgard?" Thor asked. "Heimdall should have seen them."
Everyone looked at the guardian of the Bifrost.
"The Skrulls do not use the Bifrost," Heimdall replied. "They have their own ways of traveling between worlds. Ships, portals. And when they take another's form..." he paused, "I see what they want to show. Their disguise deceives even my gaze."
"So they can come and go as they please?"
"Not exactly. But tracking them... is difficult."
"How many could there be?" Tyr asked.
"One," I said. "Or a hundred. Without checking, it's impossible to say. But I know how to find them."
Everyone looked at me.
"A hunt," I said. "Quiet, cautious. Observation. Skrulls copy memory and appearance—but not the body. They have a different physiology. Habits that stem from the body rather than the mind—they won't be able to repeat them."
"What habits?"
"Reactions to food, to smells, to touch. Things a person does without thinking because their body is wired that way. A Skrull will know the victim didn't like wine, but won't understand why. If the reason was physical—a migraine, an allergy—the Skrull won't be able to replicate it. Their body is different."
Tyr frowned, considering.
"This will take time," Odin said.
"Yes. But it will work. Skrulls are good, but not perfect. Somewhere, they will make a mistake."
Odin nodded.
"Proceed. Report to me personally. No one else."
Frigga caught my eye. She smiled—warmly, encouragingly.
"Be careful," she said. "The hunter can become the prey."
"I am always careful."
The Council ended. Everyone dispersed.
The hunt had begun.
The next two days I spent observing.
Not everyone—that was impossible. I chose targets: those who had access to important information, who were close to power, who could be useful to the invaders. Advisors. Einherjar commanders. Servants working in the private quarters of the royal family.
I watched how they moved, how they spoke, how they ate. I memorized details that most don't notice. Who holds a goblet in what way. Who winces at bright light. Who scratches their nose when thinking.
Most were who they seemed. Boring, predictable, real.
But some...
Advisor Valdor. An old man who had served at court since before I was born. Wise, cautious, loyal to Odin to the core. I remembered him from childhood—he always carried a silver flask of Vanaheim mead. He didn't drink wine—said it made his head split. Not just that he didn't like it—he physically couldn't. A migraine would start half an hour after the first sip.
Three days ago, I saw him drain a goblet of wine at dinner. To the bottom. And he continued eating as if nothing had happened.
A migraine doesn't come and go at will. It is a bodily reaction, not a mental one.
A Skrull might know from Valdor's memory that he didn't drink wine. But he couldn't know what it felt like—when the head splits from pain. His body was different.
And he forgot to pretend.
I found him in the evening, in the garden behind the library. Alone, without guards. Reading a scroll by the light of a magical lamp.
"Advisor."
He looked up. He smiled—warmly, like an old man.
"Prince Loki. A rare guest in these parts."
"I'm looking for silence. There's been little of it in the palace these past days."
"I understand." He set the scroll aside. "The Skrull business has everyone agitated. People are whispering, afraid, suspecting each other."
"An unpleasant time," I agreed. I sat on the bench beside him. Close. Close enough to touch.
We sat in silence. The lamp flickered, casting soft shadows.
"I saw you at dinner three days ago," I said casually. "You were drinking wine."
A pause. A short one.
"Yes. Decided to try it again. Sometimes tastes change with age."
"Tastes, yes. But the migraine?" I turned to him. "You always said wine made your head split. Not 'I don't like it'—'I can't.' Those are different things."
He looked at me. The smile slowly slid off his face.
"A migraine is a bodily reaction," I continued. "It doesn't go away because you 'decided to try it again.' It's either there or it isn't. The real Valdor—had it."
Silence.
"You know everything he knew," I said. "Every memory, every conversation, every secret. But you don't know how his head hurts. How his left knee goes numb in damp weather."
His hand jerked—toward his belt, where a dagger might be hidden.
The Necrosword was at his throat before he could move.
"Don't," I said softly. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Choose."
He froze. Staring at the black blade at his neck.
"What do you want?"
"Information."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you die." I pressed the blade slightly. "And your corpse will show everyone what you are."
A pause.
Then his shoulders dropped.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything. How many of you are here. Who else has been substituted. What you want."
He exhaled. The tired sigh of a man who had worn a mask too long.
"We are few. Fewer than you think. Scouts, observers. We are not an invasion army."
"Then what are you?"
"Refugees." He raised his eyes to me, and in them was something resembling despair. "Our world is destroyed. Our empire is ash. We wander the galaxy, hiding, surviving. Asgard was a hope."
"Hope for what?"
"For sanctuary. For a new home. Your All-Father promised us this—thousands of years ago. We came to remind him of the treaty."
"By killing ambassadors? Substituting advisors?"
"That wasn't the plan." He shook his head. "We wanted to come openly, ask for help. But then..."
"Then—what?"
"The Queen decided otherwise."
The Queen. I memorized that word.
"Who is she?"
"Veranke. A high priestess who became ruler after the Emperor's death. She believes the gods betrayed us. That asking is useless. That one must take."
"Take what?"
"Asgard. The Bifrost. Access to the Nine Realms." He looked at me. "She wants to build a new empire. And she doesn't care how much it costs."
"Where is she?"
"I don't know. Truly, I don't." He raised his hands. "We work in cells. Each only knows their own task. But she is here, in Asgard. In a high position. High enough to influence decisions."
"Who else has been substituted?"
He named three names. Minor officials, no one important. But then he added:
"There is someone else. Someone close to the throne. Veranke spoke of it—of 'eyes near the King.' But I don't know who."
Close to the throne. Eyes near the King.
I remembered the Council. Six around the table.
"What will you do with me?" the Skrull asked.
I looked at him. A being that had stolen another's life, another's face. An enemy? A victim? Both?
"You will become my informant," I said. "You will report to me everything you find out. Every movement, every rumor, every order from your masters."
He looked at me for a long time. Then he nodded.
"Fine."
"And one more thing." I withdrew the Necrosword. "If you lie to me even once—I will know. And then your death will show everyone your true face."
I stepped out of the garden. The corridor was empty, only torches crackled on the walls.
Eyes near the King. Someone close to the throne.
Four at the Council, not counting Odin. Thor, Tyr, Heimdall, Frigga.
Thor is my brother. I have known him for a thousand years. I know every habit, every gesture, every stupid joke.
Tyr is a warrior to his bones. Straightforward, honest, incapable of such a game.
Heimdall is the guardian of the Bifrost. His eyes see everything. How can one substitute someone who sees everything?
Frigga is my mother. The only one who believed in me when all Asgard turned away.
No. Not her. Anyone but her.
So, someone else. Someone I haven't accounted for. Advisors, commanders, servants with access to the private chambers. "Close to the throne" doesn't necessarily mean "at the Council table." Veranke could be talking about someone less noticeable but more useful.
I need more information. Valdor will report. Sooner or later, he will find out something useful.
I walked on, making a list in my head of those to check first.
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