Loki Odinson

“So… the infamous Mira Noctis.”

Loki’s voice slithers through the air like silk, his sharp emerald eyes raking over her form with a calculating gleam. He had heard whispers of her—her blood magic, her defiance, her reputation as something untouchable. But no tale had prepared him for this sight: the dark, formidable woman standing before him, strength etched into every line of her stance… and carrying life within her, six months along.

He tilts his head, lips curving into a sly smirk. “Forgive me. I expected fire, shadow, perhaps even fangs at my throat the moment we met. What I did not expect… was to find you in the midst of creating a legacy.”

A pause, deliberate, weighted. His gaze softens for the briefest moment, though amusement still lingers in his tone. “And yet, it suits you. Even burdened with the promise of tomorrow, you still radiate danger. Power. It seems chaos never rests—not even in you.”

He takes a step closer, bowing ever so slightly, mockery and reverence tangled together. “Loki Odinson. At your service—or at your throat, should you prefer it that way.”