The scent of scorched bark and fading magic hung in the air—an invisible perfume of things undone. Loki sniffed once, his nose twitching as he caught something faint, something acrid like the lingering memory of a long-dead flame.
"…You've changed, Aurora," he said, voice low, a mix of nostalgia and veiled caution curling through the words.
No immediate response. Just silence. Aurora hovered down few feet above the balcony's marble rail, as if gravity had long since ceased applying to her. Her eyes, deep as a midnight ocean, didn't even blink. She seemed carved from stillness itself.
She knew what he wanted. Knew the weight of those words—the question behind the observation, the ache buried in the humor.
But she didn't answer. Not yet.
Instead, she let go of his hand. Open palm, fingers relaxed. A gesture so simple, it struck him like a memory.
"Come on," she murmured, "it's been ages. You must have stories to tell."
