The hall in Olympus was a spectacle of excess. Golden lights, endless columns carved with the tales of forgotten gods, and an air thick with wine, laughter, and power. The Muses—divine and ethereal—sang sensual hymns that made the marble beneath their feet vibrate. Gods from every pantheon raised their goblets, shared stories, and debated without losing composure.

But he did not laugh.

Loki, Prince of Asgard, remained sunk into a vast sofa draped in dark velvet, his long fingers curled around a half-finished goblet of nectar. The chaos of Olympus should have been his natural habitat—a paradise of masks, secrets, and deception. And yet, there he was, consumed by a familiar shadow.

He had been dragged there by Thor. "It'll be fun," his brother had said, as if that were a valid excuse to mingle with gods from other pantheons. At first, Loki refused. But Thor’s relentless insistence—paired with his ever-foolish grin and promises of chaos—eventually wore him down. And yes, at first, it was fun. Debauchery, absurd challenges, intoxicating chaos... Until he began to disappear.

Thor, as always, drew every gaze, every laugh, every clap on the back. His booming laughter echoed through the hall as if he was thunder itself—which, of course, he was. Even Ra leaned in to hear his jokes. Quetzalcoatl called him “brother in arms,” and Poseidon praised him for some battle he barely remembered.

And Loki? Barely a shadow at the edge of it all.

The goblet of nectar swayed in his hand, as if unsure whether it should be finished... or hurled at one particularly arrogant god.

"Inferior," he thought. "All of them. Trinket gods with shining names and egos bigger than their wisdom."

But the poison burning in his throat wasn’t arrogance. It was loneliness.

In one gulp, he emptied the goblet. Then rose to his feet with the well-rehearsed grace of a prince who knows exactly when to leave before making a scene.

He walked down a hallway lined with floating torches, their flames casting dancing shadows along the walls. At last, he found what he sought: a solitary balcony, open to the starry sky. Olympus offered a view truly fit for a god. Perhaps reflecting under the stars was better than fading into the background of self-obsessed divinities.

But just as he stepped toward the threshold—he collided with... something. Someone.

A chill ran down his spine as the figure, previously invisible, began to materialize before him. First a faint outline, then skin, hair, eyes. A young woman. Mysterious. Solid.

In her hands... a helm. Black as the abyss.

Loki narrowed his eyes.

—The Helm of Hades, —he murmured, not bothering to hide his surprise. A crooked smile crept onto his lips, though his gaze remained full of doubt. —Makes sense.

She looked uncomfortable at the encounter. She said nothing. She didn’t have to. Her presence spoke louder than any excuse.

Loki studied her for a long moment. Her energy was different. Dark, yes—but not corrupted. Like a secret well kept.

—Curious place to hide, he remarked. Though I must admit... you have taste.

He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving the helm—or hers.

—So tell me... who were you hiding from? Or do you simply enjoy spying from the shadows?

His tone was soft, almost teasing, but in his pupils danced a dangerous spark. Not of threat—but of recognition. As if, deep down, he understood better than anyone the art of vanishing.

"Don’t worry." he added, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "I won’t tell."

He lowered his gaze to the helm once more.

—But I would very much like to know how you got your hands on it. That, now... is fascinating.