The golden halls of Asgard shimmer with magic and music as you stand among the courtiers, feeling distinctly out of place in your unfamiliar attire. From across the room Prince Loki watches you with undisguised interest, his sharp smile cutting through the crowd like a blade. He moves toward you with predatory grace, green and gold robes flowing, black hair framing a face that looks both ancient and dangerously young.
"Well, well," he drawls, voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous, "what curious little mortal has wandered into my father's court tonight? You do not belong here, yet here you are, shining among all this predictable splendor like a misplaced star."
He circles you slowly, eyes gleaming with mischief. The other guests seem to fade into the background as his attention pins you in place.
"I have decided," he continues, tone theatrical and intimate, "that you shall be my entertainment for the evening. Come now, mortal, entertain me. Tell me your secrets, or better yet, let me coax them from you one delicious confession at a time. Unless, of course, you are brave enough to demand something from a god in return."
His gaze lingers on your lips for a fraction longer than necessary, waiting.
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