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angelremnants · 4 months ago

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HIS FOR THE SEASON l L. Laufeyson

CHAPTER THREE,⠀Let the Festivities Begin

chapter summary : You, dearest reader, enter the glittering halls of the royal palace to step into a territory of many calculated dances and the promise of scandal or salvation. Amid the interplay of masquerade and mystery, you navigate a treacherous chessboard of masked suitors with poise born of both refined resolve and lingering regret, until you find yourself unwittingly entwined with an enigmatic gentleman whose unexpected charm defies all expectation.

pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader

warnings : Mature (16+), would Loki suffice as a warning? overall tension and romantic suspense, some banter, mild asshole behaviors from secondary characters, brief embarrassment. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.

word count : 7.2k

author's notes : Ao3 saw it first. ;)

Finally, the first meeting with Loki! But don't get fooled by his charming nature my lovelies—after all, you never know what goes on in the head of the God of Chaos.

(ao3 version)

⠀

The Royal Palace of Valaskjalf was both a monument and a testament to power and eternity itself—to most, it appeared as an unshakable citadel of gleaming gold that crowned the heart of Asgard, a realm of wonder and somber majesty acting as a sanctuary where time seemed to bow in reverence.

From the outside, you could wager that its spires stretched toward Valhalla, piercing the sky like the spears of warriors long past. The celestial sheen of its walls caught the light of distant stars, casting reflections that lustered like the surface of an ethereal lake. The great dome loomed over the city like a silent watcher, its celestial map shifting under the soft glow of the Bifrost’s ever-present gleam.

Such an imposing avenue made it impossible for the general public to accurately predict the nature of the fight hidden behind this golden cage.

It had been years since you last set foot on this site since that fateful day, when the echo of a gavel’s finality and the chilling hush of a horrified court marked the execution of your father. The memory of that day, when your name fell from grace along with his, floated in the back of your mind like a vengeful ghost that only you could feel.

Your entrance was neither grand nor meek—you made sure that each step and each breath you took were carefully controlled, though your lungs still burned with the weight of anticipated scrutiny as you navigated on the mirror-like polished path.

The muted candlelight caught the glint of your silver adornments, a deliberate departure from your once resplendent golden radiance. Silver, you mused, was softer, more elusive, and harder to grasp, just as you had become.

Your temporary escorts left you to ascend a sweeping staircase spiraling upward like the inner whorls of the seashells you could find on the coasts of the Sea of Marmora, leading you to the palace's beating heart. Here, the space opened up into a cavern of opulence, bathed in the subdued flare of countless chandeliers. Each crystal droplet refracted the candlelight into a cascade of tiny rainbows, casting prismatic patterns upon the crimson velvet drapes and glossy stone walls.

High vaulted ceilings arched overhead, made of frescoes depicting celestial battles and the fabled journeys of ancient gods, imbuing the room with a sense of both awe and foreboding. Massive carved pillars crowned with gold leaf punctuated the space like silent sentinels guarding secret treasures and every surface, from the varnished ground to the luxurious banqueting tables set along the periphery, spoke of a past that was as resplendent as it was ruthless.

Tonight, however, this dazzling splendor was a world of gilded illusions accompanied by the soft strains of a string quartet, mingling to form a symphony of refined decadence where the guests, arrayed in sumptuous costumes and elegant masks, moved with an effortless grace.

Standing at the edge of this cathedral of aristocratic ambition, your heart beat a measured tattoo against the hush of whispered strategies. You were now both an observer and a participant in this game of politics—a lone huntress, poised to select your prey from among the throng of covert suitors.

You remembered a time when you navigated these halls with ease—but now the rules of this venture seemed foreign, and the board itself an enigma. You would not act rashly for the sake of nostalgia.

A hunter, you reminded yourself, never strikes at the first sign of movement.

You marched along the periphery of the dance hall, your eyes drifting over the throng to visually dissect it. There was dominion in being seen yet unseen, acknowledged yet dismissed. That duality, you knew, was a weapon in itself and, if used well, would lead you to successfully identify your collection of prey.

A hunter did not strike blindly. You were here to stalk, study, choose and mark your targets with the precision of a seasoned predator surveying her terrain.

Posture was the first tell. The elites carried themselves with a natural command that resonated in their squared shoulders and chests subtly puffed in practiced ease. Some lounged in what you identified as strategic boredom, with slouched stances hinting at a quiet confidence that belied a mind already playing the game. Others, the pawns of this gathering, fidgeted nervously—adjusting sleeves, shifting weight, darting furtive glances in search of approval.

Speech and the cadence of a man’s words revealed much more than mere conversation. Highborn Asgardians spoke as if every syllable had been lacquered and honed, each word part of a greater performance. In contrast, the lesser nobles stumbled through their phrases, their hurried and clumsy utterances betraying a lack of refinement. You listened intently to snippets of conversation as you followed the borders of the ballroom, distinguishing the voices of true power from the braggarts who merely recounted tales of battles won or the number of horses bred.

Circles of conversation provided another clue. Influence, you had long realized, was gauged by proximity: how bodies clustered around a single figure, how attentively they leaned in. A man surrounded by a modest yet focused circle was worth noting, while those isolated or drowning in flattery were less so.

Clothing epitomized another language of well-managed wealth. Ostentatious rings and gem-studded cuffs declared it so, but the truly powerful needed no such desperate displays. Imported fabrics, the embroidered sigils at the hems, the careful balance between regalia and restraint—all these stated secure fortunes and deep-rooted influence.

And still, it was the smallest details that mattered most. The way a man adjusted his mask too often as if it stifled him—perhaps hiding a secret. The subtle tension in his fingers curling around a goblet, possibly holding back or restraining an impulse. A glance that lingered just a moment too long, a poorly concealed smirk at another’s misfortune that translated into amusement at a rival’s expense.

Finally, the dance cards clutched by every noble, their names etched in ink that redirected the minds to alliances and commitments. A dance was never just a dance in these circles—it was a silent contract, a political maneuver, a statement of alignment. They told you who was already spoken for, who was in high demand, and who had been conspicuously avoided.

With those clues, you had easily identified your top three targets. All that remained for now was to act according to what you presumed would be their tastes in women.

The first target was Lord Eirikr Veidarson—a man of imposing stature whose bloodline, newly raised to high nobility, bore the staple of countless heroic deeds. His father, a renowned monster hunter, had amassed a fortune by felling beasts whose very names stirred terror in the hearts of common men. Rumor had it that Eirikr himself had felled a Nemean lion with but a single swift shot, and his bowstring was said to be the last sound many a creature ever heard.

Even in a ballroom crowded with towering figures, he was impossible to ignore. Tall and broad-shouldered, his form was draped in a dark stormy-blue doublet, intricately stitched with white embroidery depicting hunting hounds in pursuit of their quarry. His golden hair, styled with a hint of untamed wildness, caught the light as if ignited by an inner flame. Yet it was his alert amber eyes that truly marked him as a predator among men, concealed partly by the polished bone mask fashioned in the shape of a wolf’s maw.

You knew that a man of such brute force would favor innocence wrapped in grace and adoration delivered in wide-eyed wonder, a match made for a demure debutante rather than a strategist such as yourself. And so you assumed the role, your mind set to mimic the mannerisms of one easily impressed.

Timing it just so, you allowed the swell of passing dancers to nudge you from behind, deliberately staggering into his path with a startled gasp. The collision was slight—a mere brush of silken fabric against his broad chest—but his reaction was immediate. His calloused hands enveloped your waist in a firm, steadying grip, preventing your fall.

“My lady,” he rumbled, his voice as confident and warm as a well-strung bow, and his eyes twinkled with mirth behind that imposing mask. His grip lingered a moment too long, and a playful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I do not recall slaying a spirit this evening, yet here you appear, as though conjured by the Norns themselves.”

A breathy laugh escaped you, sharing a mixture of feigned embarrassment and genuine intrigue. “Forgive me, my lord,” you managed, your gaze drifting momentarily to the swirling mob of masked figures before returning to his expectant eyes. “I am but newly of age and, I confess, rather lost in the splendor of this... labyrinth of revelry.”

Eirikr’s grin deepened, his confidence undiminished. “Then allow me the honor of guiding you through this treacherous place, my lady. A dancing hall is no place to wander alone.”

Without further delay, his rough hand reached for your dance card, and in bold, slightly uneven strokes—possibly more accustomed to drawing arrows than elegant script—he claimed a place upon it. The ink barely dried before he took your hand and led you toward the dance floor, where the orchestra’s swell seemed to echo the rapid beat of your heart.

As your feet found their rhythm in the dance, you seized the opportunity to steer the exchange toward his place in court. With a delicate tilt of your head and a practiced smile, you let your curiosity emerge. “And pray, my lord, what of your influence in the halls of power? Surely one as accomplished as yourself must wield considerable sway?”

His response was but expected, boasting loudly without restraint. The harmonious tune of the ballroom shattered as heads turned toward the source of his voice. “Politics? Bah!” he declared with a deep, resonant laugh that made the very walls seem to tremble. “I have no patience for such matters! My father would have my hide if I so much as rearranged the great hall, let alone participated in the trivialities of the royal counseling.”

Truth became crystal clear at that moment. Here was a man more inclined to the thrill of the hunt than the subtle dance of diplomacy—a brute of formidable strength yet without the refined ambition required for the life you sought. Your smile wavered ever so slightly. He was undeniably appealing, yet his nature was far removed from the shrewd partner you needed.

Feigning a sudden distraction, you let your voice drop into a soft exclamation. “Oh! I believe I have just seen a dear friend arrive.” Your words, laced with regret and a hint of contrived urgency, provided the perfect excuse to slip away from his grasp.

The noble hunter blinked, surprise flickering across his features as you offered a graceful curtsy and melted back toward the periphery of the dance floor. As your figure receded into the tapestry of masked bodies, your breath escaped in a quiet exhale.

One down, you thought.

You cursed under your breath as your eyes fell upon the damning ink on your dance card. That single name, enchanted by forces you did not command, clung to your record like an iron shackle.

Foolish choice. You should have been more selective, more cautious. Now, no matter how the night unfolded, one dance had irrevocably been reserved for a man whose worth had proven to be naught.

The impact of that decision gnawed at you when suddenly, a prickling sensation crept up your spine.

Someone was watching you.

You turned your head ever so slightly, scanning the gilded expanse of the ballroom, but the sensation flickered into an ember snuffed out before you could trace its source. Instead, as if by fate’s own design, your gaze landed on another man.

Dark-skinned and striking, he wore a mask fashioned in the sleek guise of a golden sly fox. He was surrounded by men speaking in conspiratorial tones and women whose laughter rang with practiced elegance. Lord Valbrand Fandrisson, you recognized, was a name woven into the tapestry of noble influence. His presence attested to being a descendant of a long line of Asgardian power, his status as well-connected as it was enviable.

His eyes, luminous as molten gold, sparkled with greedy amusement. You had seen that same assessing look before, among the countless suitors your uncle once paraded before you like prized steeds.

A plan formed swiftly. With practiced grace, you lifted your fan in your left hand and snapped it open, letting the delicate accessory flutter before your face. I wish to be acquainted, you silently declared in this secret correspondence meant to test his mettle. If he truly knew the language of this game, he would understand immediately.

Within moments, his lips curled in a faint smirk as he disentangled himself from his current company. He strode toward you with the absolute assurance of a predatory gait. “You send a most intriguing message, my lady,” he smoothly declared, dipping his head in courteous deference. “And I, of course, cannot let such an invitation go unanswered.”

A soft laugh escaped you, one tempered with both mirthfulness and regret. “Then I can assume you are no fool, Lord Fandrisson.”

“On the contrary,” he replied, letting his gaze wander to your dance card. “I find it rather curious that a lady of your grace bears only a solitary name tonight.” His tone held a teasing lilt that made you wince internally.

“Alas, circumstance did not grant me the luxury to refuse a dance when it was proffered, nor did it allow me to choose my companions freely. My company, regrettably, was not that which I sought.” Your eyes flickered toward the distant crowd, offering the perfect excuse in your spun tale. “I must now retire to the sidelines.”

“If such is the case, my lady, allow me to escort you back to the dance floor,” he insisted, extending a gloved hand. “I would hate for you to remain a mere spectator on such a splendid night.”

The orchestra struck up a new melody, dictating the patterned pace of the group dance. You had hoped for a more intimate waltz, one that would afford you a private moment with your newfound companion, but the Norns, ever so capricious, had other plans. Conversely, you found yourself ensnared in the rhythm of a grand formation where partners were constantly exchanged. Despite the constant pairing and unpairing, you resolved to seize every fleeting moment that might leave an indelible impression on your quarry.

The first turn passed in a courteous blur. “I must say,” you ventured lightly as he spun you gracefully beneath his arm, “I have long heard of your mastery in the courtly arts. Yet, I begin to suspect that your talents extend beyond statesmanship and into the realm of dance.” You hoped your subtle compliment woven into an inquiry might have opened a window to dive into his ambitions.

Before he could respond, the pattern dictated a change. You released his hand as another pair of gloved fingers closed around yours. The transition was swift—one moment you were in the familiar grasp of Lord Fandrisson, and the next, you found yourself with a different partner.

He was tall, taller than most in attendance, with an air of elegant nonchalance that set him apart from the rigid, well-practiced lords. His mask, fashioned of blackened material and carved into the sweeping visage of a chimera, added even more to his height with the resplendent tall horns attached to the base. His lips curled into an unmistakable smirk that shone beneath his dark curls, carelessly cascading over his forehead and his sharp cheekbones as he bowed his head in mock deference.

"Ah, fortune smiles upon me this evening," he greeted you with a smooth and rich as velvet voice. "It appears that the lady graced with divine beauty of the line has, by some twist of providence, fallen to me instead."

You arched a brow at his words, silently noting the underlying mischief in his remarks. It was hardly unusual for a dance partner to be switched at the last moment, whether by design or chance, but there was something about his cadence that hinted at careful orchestration. Regardless, you reminded yourself that he was merely a transient partner meant to distract while your true interest remained in the distance.

Your gaze flitted to the far side of the ballroom, where Lord Fandrisson’s matte purple coat and imposing presence were unmistakable, even amidst the swirling throng. “Eager to be rid of me already?” the stranger teased as he guided you through the next step of the dance. “How cruel, that I should be so quickly discarded.”

“I am afraid I am otherwise occupied,” you answered airily, your eyes darting away in search of your intended quarry. “I must confess that my attention is presently elsewhere.”

He tightened his grip just slightly, underscoring his curiosity. “Oh? And who has captured your attention so completely that you cannot spare me a single glance?”

“Lord Fandrisson,” you returned distractedly, your gaze locking onto the blur of said man’s coat as he engaged in animated conversation with a laughing noblewoman across the floor.

A rake.

You should have known. A flicker of irritation sparked within you as you swiftly made your internal calculation that this was not the match you sought. You weren’t about to lower your standards to accept a man of wandering eyes who would later compromise your reputation, no matter his status or wealth. With a subtle sigh masked by polite detachment, you shifted your focus back to the mysterious stranger.

“I see,” he murmured as he scrutinized you with a knowing light. “Now that your gallant lord is otherwise occupied, perhaps my company has grown marginally more tolerable?”

“Do not presume, my lord,” you riposted with polite dismissal.

“Ah, but presumption is my specialty,” he countered with a diverted chuckle. “I presume you are not here merely to dance and twirl aimlessly among the concourse. No, I believe you watch every movement like would a merchant appraising a diamond.”

A ripple of unease stirred within you at the correctness of his observation. Your silence was his answer, and his smile deepened in acknowledgment.

“Yes,” he mused, triumphant as the final chords of the dance struck a somber note. “You are not here simply for pleasure.”

“And I presume you are a man with far too much time on his hands.”

“I assure you, if circumstances allowed, I would spend even more of it in your delightful company. Although, if my lady ever so grants me the opportunity, she could grace me with the honor of seeing more of her.”

You don’t bestow him the gift of a reply at his subtle dance request, favoring the liberty of slipping from his grasp in a graceful curtsy and a dismissive smile. You immediately turned on your heel and made your way toward the buffet, weaving through the crowded ballroom before he could pursue you.

You let out a soft groan as you sank into a nearby chair, the pressure of the evening finally catching up with you. The heels you’d chosen now felt like miniature daggers wedged into your feet. You’d forgotten just how much dancing could hurt after hours of relentless movement. Absentmindedly, you fiddled with the strap of one shoe, carefully slipping it off to rub the aching ball of your foot, praying that the small reprieve would last longer than a fleeting minute.

The night had so far been long and frustrating—no matter the series of calculated encounters, it seemed every path had led you to an impasse.

And as if this losing streak didn’t suffice, a mishap occurred. From somewhere amidst the swirl of revelers, a full glass of wine veered off course and splashed with a jarring clink onto the hem of your gown, darkening the delicate fabric in a blot of deep, accusing color.

The man responsible for the spill’s shock was immediately stricken with horror. “Oh, no—my sincerest apologies!” he blurted, trembling with dismay. Without hesitation, he kneeled before you, hastily retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at the spill, though his frantic efforts only seemed to spread the stain further.

You leaned back and let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Well, isn’t this just the cherry on top?” you remarked with a wry smile that masked your inner dismay. “It’s fine—truly. Merely one of those nights, I suppose.”

The man’s eyes darted up, uncertainty mingling with genuine concern as he studied your expression. “I’m terribly sorry,” he stammered, continuing his futile attempts to dab the stain away, and for a moment, you thought you might scold him on his clumsiness. But he then looked up fully, and his mask revealed a glimpse of a face you hadn’t expected to see.

There, beneath an elegant mask crafted like a noble stag with polished silver edges, were striking blue eyes—rich, intelligent, and filled with a gentle curiosity. Auburn waves of hair tumbled loosely about his face, framing a sharply handsome jaw and semi-full lips that held a timid smile. His voice, still polite but now imbued with a tender concern, broke the silence. "I truly didn’t mean to ruin your night, I’m afraid.”

You shook your head, dismissing his apologies with a gentle wave. “‘Tis quite alright,” you said, though your tone held a note of weary resignation. “It appears this evening is simply not in my favor.”

He hesitated, as if weighing his next words, before staring at the dance card clutched in your hand. “I must confess,” he let out in a softened tone, “that I’ve noticed your list… or rather, the absence of one.”

Your brows knitted in curiosity. “What of it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He offered a soft chuckle as he adjusted the delicate mask on his face. “It seems we share a similar predicament. Your stature tells me you’ve spent this evening dancing among a host of unworthy partners, and yet none have truly captured your attention. And now, this stain, though I presume is hardly the worst thing you’ve encountered, adds to the misfortune.”

A pang of recognition struck within you. Indeed, you had been deceived by every fleeting encounter, each partner presenting to be a disappointment. “I had hoped to find some meaningful company tonight,” you confessed quietly. “But every encounter has left me more disheartened.”

His eyes met yours again, and you saw a flicker of understanding there. “Perhaps,” he began tentatively, “if you are seeking someone who truly comprehends your plight, you might find solace in the garden.”

The promise of respite from the endless, empty chatter of the ballroom in his suggestion stirred a warmth in your chest. Without a moment’s hesitation, you nodded. “Yes, that sounds perfect.”

He rose gracefully, extending a strong, sure hand. “Let me to escort my lady to a quieter place,” he offered. His voice carried the gentle authority of someone who had known both the bitterness of disappointment and the sweetness of unexpected connection.

⠀

You let him to guide you away from the crowded room and into the cool, moonlit air of the palace gardens. Lanterns hung from the top of the pristine pillars casted a shy glow over winding paths and the everflowing water on the sidelines of the road, the hush of night embracing you both as you walked in comfortable silence. The rustle of leaves and the distant echo of festivities formed a delicate symphony around you.

At last, he stopped in a secluded alcove where the moonlight painted various tessellations on the stone floor. “At the risk of defying this event’s purpose, I am Lord Hakon Alfvinsson,” he finally offered his name and confirmed your suspicion as to him being the last of your three most promising prey. “And I fear tonight has not been kind to you—nor, it seems, to me.”

You regarded him quietly. “I have been disappointed, more than once,” you admitted. “Each dance has left me wondering if true companionship is nothing more than an impossible feat to achieve.”

A gentle smile warmed his features. “Perhaps in another universe, our paths would have intertwined far sooner. For now, though, I offer you my company—and hopefully, a chance to escape this masquerade’s pretensions.”

You walked together deeper into one of the many gardens, each brush of his against yours sending a current of unexpected warmth through you. The conversation flowed effortlessly, and every step replaced the stress of the night with a tender sense of possibility. His rich and genuine laughter tangled with the soft breeze of the greensward, and you allowed yourself to find solace in a spark of hope that this encounter might mend your battered spirit and give way to a newfound tenderness that could put an end to the miseries of the past.

The road twisted and turned unexpectedly until suddenly you found yourself before an old friend of your youth—a labyrinth of ivy-draped hedges and weathered stone, its passages alive with the glow of radiant moss and the luminescence of moonflowers, and the extremity of the edges were bordered by the continuous water flows. The sight made you pause in your stroll, memories flooding back of carefree days spent wandering these winding corridors, where the maze had once been a source of delightful frustration as well as your secret escape.

Hakon observed your momentary hesitation and gently smiled. “Do you know this place?”

A playful smirk tugged at your lips as you scrutinized the openings of the twisting walls of the maze. “Indeed, I do. I used to get hopelessly lost here when I was a child—running through its corridors in search of a secret I could never quite name. It was both my escape and, at times, my torment.”

“A maze of memories, then? How enchanting,” your companion hummed.

Raising an eyebrow, you leaned in, your voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “What if I told you I could lead you through it—if you dared to follow?”

The afresh challenge that presently hung between you made him incline his head in mild intrigue. “I believe you’ll have to offer me more than mere words.”

With a spark of mischief, you stepped forward and declared, “Then let it be a game—if you can catch me in the maze, I shall reveal my name.” Without awaiting his reply, you vanished into the labyrinth’s embrace, your footsteps fading into the rustle of leaves.

The thrill was intoxicating—a rush akin to being chased like a princess by a secret suitor. You moved with purpose, pausing once behind a moss-draped statue of an ancient god to watch through half-hidden eyes as Hakon’s figure passed, his steady determination echoing softly in the labyrinth’s winding corridors. In a spontaneous act of daring, you let a decorative ribbon slip from your wrist, watching it fall softly onto the dew-kissed path and serve as a token for him to find.

Moonlight cast long, silvery shadows as you navigated the twisting pathways. You were sure the pounding of your heart in this escapade proved to be louder than the ever-growing distant strains of the ballroom’s music, gradually feeling like a fading echo from another world. At length, you reached the labyrinth’s center, where a magnificent fountain stood—a timeless relic adorned with ivy, its marble sculptures spilling water into a shallow basin. The fountain, a cherished landmark whispered about in noble circles, was said to have witnessed many lost romances and tragic secrets, its statues of entwined lovers now softened by time.

A sigh escaped your lips as you surveyed the scene. Here, in the cool embrace of history, you felt both a part of something ancient and poignantly out of place. Driven by exhaustion and a desperate need for relief, you stepped closer to the fountain and gingerly removed your heels. You cursed under your breath for favoring adrenaline over comfort.

You kneeled beside the fountain to rub the sore balls of your feet, grimacing as you tried to ease the burning ache in your ankles. Your reflection sent back a graceful figure in a gown marred by the night’s trials on the water’s surface and made you feel a glimmer of solace in that mirrored image.

The night, it seemed, had only begun to unfold its true mysteries. Amid the gentle murmur of water and rustling leaves, you heard soft footsteps behind you. Assuming it was Hakon, you glanced overhead, only to find emptiness. You returned your focus with a frown to the water's reflection, only to catch the unsettling reflection of a towering, dark figure with elongated horns standing immediately behind you. A chill shot through you, and you let out a startled scream, stumbling backward and tripping over the fountain’s stone edge.

Before you could crash into the cold water, strong arms intercepted your fall, steadying you. "’Tis alright, you won’t fall." You gasped, your heart pounding as you faced the stranger and, in a burst of indignation, shoved him back.

“You followed me?” you demanded, your voice sharp with embarrassment and anger.

Your dance partner from earlier regarded you with a calm sense of amusement and chirpily replied, “I couldn’t help but notice the game you were playing, and I hate to be left out.”

Your cheeks flushed as you retorted, “What are you doing here? I had company!” trying desperately to mask your uncertainty.

A faint, almost mocking smile curled on his lips as he bowed his head forward at the notion. "A company that, I’m afraid, did not quite reach the right point," he returned, retrieving the ribbon you had let behind on your way and raising it to your eyes. The unwanted chaperone surprised you even more by announcing your exact name regardless of how your mask hid your identity, laying a secret laid bare in the cold night.

Your blood ran cold. "Who are you?" you fearfully asked in a poorly concealed tremble.

The man took a slow step forward, his eyes piercing as though searching your soul. "Let us not concern ourselves with names just yet," he intoned with purpose. "What I care about is striking a deal—a deal I suspect you, too, are here to negotiate."

A shiver ran through you as his words settled in the air, heavy with implication. You stilled, instinctively bracing yourself against the newfound tension.

He observed you in silence for a long moment, then continued, "You’ve traversed quite the journey tonight, haven’t you? I’m sure you did not expect it to be this arduous."

You scowled, tightening your jaw. "You think you know what I want?" you spat, masking fear with thin defiance. "You know nothing."

"Imaginably so," he acquiesced with a slight, enigmatic smile, "but I know enough to offer you a choice. Shall we walk back together?"

You hesitated, caught between distrust and the inescapable necessity of his proposition. But the pain in your feet reminded you of your vulnerability, and you winced as you took a tentative step backward.

He let out an almost imperceptible sigh when he made note of your lack of following his stride, showing his exasperation at the situation before briefly excusing himself and kneeling despite your protests.

"This will be brief," he mumbled as he gently took your foot in his hand, making you sit on the edge of the fountain. "I promise." Magic abruptly stirred around your foot like a liquid balm, soothing the burning pain even as strange tautness coiled within you.

"This is... inappropriate," you muttered, trying to mask your discomfort with protest.

He looked up at you, his expression inscrutable beneath the mask. "Is it not more inappropriate to seek power and fortune through marriage when so much is already lost?" he mockingly replied.

You blinked, caught off guard by his candor. His voice, though sharp, resonated with a truth you had long feared to accept. With your heart pounding and your mind swirling with uncertainty, you could only nod silently.

His magic had finished its work, and as you flexed your toes, relief washed over you in an almost shocking wave. The persistent ache had melted away into a soft, comforting sensation—one that left you wondering if it were real or merely an illusion borne of exhaustion. You slowly exhaled, trying to shake off the ghost of his touch that still lingered on your skin.

"I’ll have you consider, my lord," you cockily remarked, "that it is hardly wise to reveal such an extraordinary facet of one’s abilities if one intends to remain in the shadows. Few in Asgard wield magic with such refined grace."

Silence stretched between you for an instant as his fingers stilled momentarily before continuing their work while a satisfied smile drew on his lips as he adjusted the delicate seams of your shoes. "You flatter me. I did not plan to remain entirely anonymous for too long," he enigmatically explained. "Merely a precaution until all is properly explained."

His words, refined with subtle assurance, sent a shiver of intrigue and uncertainty alike through you. He readjusted the footwear on your heels with careful, practiced movements, allowing your dress to fall back into place with an almost choreographed swish.

"Well, I must confess, you are extraordinarily skilled," you half-heartedly grumbled, accrediting his exploit in a fragile blend of admiration and guarded reserve.

You stirred your gaze to his face as you straightened in the half-light, and you found yourself uncomfortably close—so close that the faint scent of his cool, forest-like cologne mingled with the night air. You caught a glimpse of something familiar in his dark, intense eyes—a depth that formed in you an inexplicable recognition in the abstract of an incantation from a distant, forgotten dream you couldn’t fully recall.

He cleared his throat to disperse the moment, his eyes flickering away for a moment before returning to meet yours with unwavering intensity. "Thank you," he acknowledged your compliment. "I endeavor to ensure all is comfortable at the very least."

Without further ado, he gracefully extended his hand to you in a remarkably assertive manner. You hesitated, just for a breath, before placing your fingers within his and were hoisted from your seat. His touch was not as cold as you expected, encircling yours with a tenderness that belied the enigmatic aura about him. It was a stark contrast to the brooding air that seemed to cling to him like a leech.

His hand left yours, traveling swiftly and surely to your waist, pulling you effortlessly into his arms. The sudden movement left you breathless, a gasp caught in your throat, and before you could gather yourself, your feet left the ground entirely.

The world blurred, and you were placed under the impression of being transported to the very heavens, until at last you found your feet once again on solid ground, just outside the imposing gates of the palace.

You blinked, disoriented—the sudden shift left you reeling, unsure how to reconcile the grandeur of your new surroundings with the suddenness of your arrival. Your captor stood otherwise perfectly composed beside you, granting you a moment to collect yourself. You took a step away from him as you attempted to steady your breath from the unexpectedness of finding yourself placed in front of the grandeur of the palace that loomed before you like a stately monument to bygone eras.

"I do apologize if I startled you, but I trust your feet are no longer in distress?"

You managed a stiff nod, the shock of your sudden journey leaving you momentarily. Gathering your courage, you probed, “You mentioned a... proposition, did you not? You are aware of my search, I take it?”

“Indeed, a dear friend of mine shared your plight with me. And I must confess, I find myself most intrigued. Not only do I possess all that you seek, but I too am in need of a partner. It seems our interests, much like the stars above, align quite marvelously.”

Your heart pounded as you searched his face for any hint of pretense. Unable to quell your curiosity, you ventured, “But tell me—how did you recognize me? And how exactly do you come to be intrigued, as you so cleverly put it?"

He leaned in, a teasing glint dancing in his eyes. "A woman of such singular beauty and undeniable grace cannot be so easily overlooked. Not by those who know where to look."

You stiffened, unwilling to be charmed just yet. "A clever answer," you commented with irony. "But not the truth, I think."

"Perhaps I am avoiding the question," he admitted after a chuckle, the intimacy of his velvet voice curling around you in a tender embrace. "But truth is a malleable thing. Some of us are better at recognizing it in others than others might think. A shark," he murmured with darkened eyes, "recognizes another."

The words struck you with the force of a well-aimed arrow, yet you refused to allow him to see the discomfort they stirred within you. You could not give him that satisfaction.

You arched an eyebrow, a glimmer of defiance in your eyes. “Is that your final word? You presume yourself to be more adept than I?”

His smirk deepened. “I am no stranger to the darkness,” he replied in a near whisper, as if sharing a tantalizing secret. “You’ve grown quite accustomed to keeping your secrets hidden. But even in the darkest shadows, one cannot quite conceal what is most true." His gaze flicked over you, tracing every shift in your posture. "I see you clearly, far more clearly than you realize. Your loyalty, your purpose... they cannot be so easily disguised."

Your thoughts scrambled, unsure how to respond. His words, far too close to hitting home, had pierced straight to the heart of your most guarded truths. How did he know? How was it possible?

You blinked, composing yourself before responding, “You overpraise yourself. I am certain my secrets are well kept.”

It felt sickeningly liberating to admit such veracities to an individual purely unknown to you. You weren’t sure what compelled you to talk so openly about your peculiar situation, nor how easily he could rip answers from you. You resolved yourself by thinking that since he was well-versed in your predicament, it was unnecessary to continue holding pretenses.

You were fairly aware of the danger it represented, but couldn’t help but wonder about the upper motives behind his head as you noticed his intense scrutiny briefly softening into an unguarded stare, until it subdued, vanishing as quickly as it had come. “You may be right, but the truth remains and shines through even in the dark.”

The moment seemed to stretch endlessly, leaving you uncertain of how to proceed—unsure whether you should resist or surrender to the allure of this enigmatic man who seemed to know far too much for your well-being.

The distant sounds of celebration from the palace echoed in your ears as he spoke. It felt as though you were no longer part of that world—instead, you were suspended in the matter of him and the delicate thread of proposition tying you in this instant.

Your footsteps resounded upon the marble as you and your escort ascended the grand staircase. "Consider my offer," he reminded you with the effervescence of a man desperate to gain the upper hand. "We both have much to gain from an alliance, don’t we?"

The hubbub from within the ballroom swelled in anticipation, and through the heavy oak doors came the prelude to an announcement—a heralding of destiny, if you will.

"—and we are honored to present—" a resonant voice declared as you passed beneath the towering archway. The masked person’s stance beside you remained composed through and through.

Despite the magnetic pull of his company, you chose to maintain a dignified reserve, keeping your eyes fixed forward. "And what would you have me offer in return? A business partner, or something more intimate?"

"Both and neither, my dear," he revealed. "It is all for the sake of pretense, if you will. I offer to be your sponsor, should you require assistance in your pursuits. In return, you would be my companion—a partner, if you will, in both ambition and heart."

You halted, a gentle laugh escaping you as you shook your head in light reproach. "Oh, you are far too cocky, my good sir. Do you honestly think I would entertain such a ludicrous proposal?"

He turned his head slightly, his eyes dancing with secret amusement. "A magician, my dear, can conjure the finest dreams if one so wishes. I assure you, I can be of considerable service."

Your skepticism was met with his unyielding charm as you retorted, "It is all rather too good to be true—a benefactor offering wealth and support, all for the sake of a companion's company?"

“That is precisely the allure, isn't it? To offer what no one else would dare, and still have you question its merit. The greatest power lies in making the impossible seem desirable. I give you only what you are willing to take, and in turn, you shall offer only what you are willing to give."

"And what would you give me then?"

He paused at your question, and turned to you before reaching out and taking your hand. Bowing ever so slightly, he pressed his lips to your appendage in a chaste kiss, eyes of the prettiest shade of a green forest after rainfall piercing right through yours.

"Anything."

For a heartbeat, the world stilled at the entrance, and the cacophony of the ballroom hushed to a mere murmur as the two of you stood rooted in that secluded spot. You vaguely dismissed the prickling sensation in your cheeks as your eyes held the fort, searching, questioning, and then you dared to ask once more in a soft whisper, "Who are you?"

Before he could answer, your small bubble was cut short by the announcer’s resounding call: "—and we are honored to welcome back Prince Loki!" The proclamation reverberated off the gilded walls, and in an instant, all eyes turned toward your squire. A collective gasp, a flurry of whispered exclamations, and the clapping of hands enveloped the chamber as the guests acknowledged his return.

Every mask in the room seemed to shudder and fall by an unseen force—leaving bare faces, expressions, and the secrets lying behind them. Your heart lurched as you realized with dawning horror that the very man you had exchanged witty repartee with, the man whose gentle touch had eased your aches and whose clever words had stirred something in you was none other than Prince Loki.

Shock, disbelief, and mounting embarrassment surged within you. You glanced down at your stained gown, a silent testament to the night’s mishaps, and then back to him. His countenance remained disarmingly calm as if nothing untoward had occurred. But your mind reeled—you had mocked, you had bantered, and now the revelation threatened to unravel you.

Without a word, you yanked your hand away and spun on your heel, intent on escaping the prying eyes of the crowd. The sharp command of the Einherjars rang out behind you—"Halt!"—but before they could reach you, the prince’s hand shot out to stop them, his posture resolute and his smile broad, as if nothing had transpired.

Your feet pounded the grand staircase as you fled, each step a stamp to your panic and humiliation. The echoes of whispered judgments and the clinking of glasses trailed behind you, a cacophony of reproach that you could scarcely bear.

The masquerade had revealed its cruelest irony: you had been unmasked before your time, your carefully crafted image laid bare for all to see—and now, the stakes had been irrevocably raised.

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CHAPTER TWO.⠀|⠀CHAPTER THREE.⠀|⠀CHAPTER FOUR.

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angelremnants · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter three, Let the Festivites Begin, has been posted !

Happy reading. 🤍

HIS FOR THE SEASON, In which you once reigned at the pinnacle of Asgard’s elite, only to fall and leave behind nothing but hushed whispers and fading echoes of your name. Loki, the enigmatic prince, fared no better with his exile shrouded in scandal, reducing him to little more than a ghost haunting the opulent corridors of the court.

But as a new Courting Season begins, both of you return, bound by a fabricated betrothal with ambitions far greater than love. In this unlikely alliance, you seek not only to reclaim the splendor that was once yours but to restore the honor and wealth that fate so cruelly stole. And your ascent to glory begins with seizing the coveted title of Amber of the Season.

pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader

status : ongoing !

author's notes : For the first time since I started writing here, this series will unfold as any other would in chapters of regulated length (as I'm sure to be known amongst my faithful readers to write a lot more than necessary). Updates will be infrequent as I'm still a university student with university duties (especially right now as it's the midterm season).

I'd also like to dedicate a segment to the lovely @perseephoneee who has also written an amazing Bridgerton AU Loki fanfiction, so I'd recommend you check it out. <3

( Read this series on AO3 ! )

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PROLOGUE, The Inaugural Chronicle

As the Courting Season dawns upon Asgard, the grand halls prepare to echo with whispered secrets and glittering alliances. You can put your worries aside, dearest reader, as the Hidden Storyteller is here to report on the new upcomings.

CHAPTER ONE, The Price of Pride

In the first installment of our ever-tangled tale, we find both our fair protagonist and a mischievous prince at the crossroads of deception and ambition. As deals are struck and masks are donned, dear readers, be warned that not all that glitters is gold, and not every promise comes without a price.

CHAPTER TWO, The Mask of Opportunity

Whispers of an upcoming masquerade have set the court abuzz, but for some, this is more than a mere night of revelry. You received an invitation alongside a most intriguing list of prospects—truly an opportunity wrapped in silk and secrecy. Meanwhile, a fallen prince finds himself backed into a corner, only to glimpse a way out through the very same affair. One wonders—when the masks are donned and the dance begins, will it be fate that takes the lead, or sheer cunning?

CHAPTER THREE, Let the Festivities Begin

You, dearest reader, enter the glittering halls of the royal palace to step into a territory of many calculated dances and the promise of scandal or salvation. Amid the interplay of masquerade and mystery, you navigate a treacherous chessboard of masked suitors with poise born of both refined resolve and lingering regret, until you find yourself unwittingly entwined with an enigmatic gentleman whose unexpected charm defies all expectation.

CHAPTER FOUR, ...

[ Coming soon ! ]

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EXTRAS...

⇨⠀Asgard's map.

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Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !

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dividers ©️ @angelremnants + unknown .

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