He tore off another hunk of cooked beef meat, chewed. "I'm part of this little Paris adventure, Aldrich, officially. The Obsidian Throne wants that prism—says it's key to stabilizing the western rifts."
"I came, I brought my knights. I'm sitting here in the rain like a good little prince. But between you and me…"
He leaned forward, massive frame creaking the throne, grease-slick grin spreading. "…I don't give a single flaming shit about the prism."
Aldric remained statue-still. "My prince—"
Valthor waved a greasy hand dismissively, sending droplets of sauce arcing through the rain.
He ripped another bite, chewed with relish.
Aldric's gauntleted hand tightened—almost imperceptibly—on the hilt of his sword.
"My prince… our treaty against them is fragile. One misstep and we risk open war with France. Their Association is already mobilizing after Dieppe. If they trace this back to us—"
"Then don't let them trace it," Valthor interrupted, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "That's why we use the cultists. They're idiots."
"Let the cultists take the fall, they're disposable. Let them sneak in, grab the shiny artifact, get caught and get killed."
"We just need it moved to our vault before Paris realizes it's gone. Then we negotiate from strength. Simple."
He leaned back again, wiping his hands on his stained tabard. "I'm not here for the artifact, Aldric. I'm here for the chaos that follows. War means spoils. Spoils mean meat. Meat means I eat. Simple equation."
He tore off another massive chunk, chewed slowly, eyes gleaming.
"So let the cultist trash do the dirty work. When paris comes screaming for blood, we'll be sitting pretty with full bellies and clean hands."
Aldric said nothing.
But the knuckles inside his gauntlet had turned white.
Around them, the fortress continued its ceaseless vigil.
Knights patrolled the walls in perfect formation. Anti-air batteries tracked the sky.
Mana scanners swept for dimensional fluctuations.
Archers on the towers scanned the harbor
The entire complex was locked down tighter than a bunker's base.
And at the center of it all, Prince Valthor Kress kept eating.
The credits of Dune: Part Two rolled slowly across the screen in the near-empty theater.
Only a handful of people remained—two couples still kissing in the front row, one guy asleep with popcorn spilled across his lap.
Loki sat perfectly still for the entire credit sequence.
Then he started clapping. Loud claps echoing alone in auditorium.
"Absolute Cinema." he muttered under his breath.
The sleeping guy jolted awake, the couples stopped kissing and stared.
An usher poked his head in, confused.
Loki didn't care after few seconds of clapping...
"Time to get out of this place." He stood, gathered his absurd plushie collection.
He slung the giant teddy bear over his shoulders, tucked the smaller ones under his arms, balanced the inflatable hammer across his back like a cartoon sword.
The black cat—still has no name—leaped from the seat armrest straight onto the teddy bear's head, curled up, and resumed purring.
He walked out.
Outside, midnight had fully taken over Paris.
The streets were quieter now.
Neon signs still glowed, and late-night delivery riders.
Loki walked home through the 7th Arrondissement, the massive teddy bear bouncing gently with each step, cat riding atop it like a king on a throne.
Above him, the sky was unusually clear.
Then a streak of white fire sliced across the heavens.
A meteor shower, breathtaking rained across the starfield in slow, graceful arcs.
Silver trails lingered across the night sky.
He tilted his head back and watched.
The cat lifted its head too, golden eyes reflecting falling stars.
For almost a 30 seconds, neither of them moved.
Then Loki exhaled softly. "That's pretty." He started walking again.
"Oh yeah I forgot to name the cat." His head ran.
Halfway home, he glanced up at the cat.
As they walk past the road. "You need a name," he muttered.
The cat flicked one ear, clearly listening.
Loki thought for after a few steps.
"How about charbon?" he tried. (Coal in French.)
The cat immediately shook its head—no, like it had been personally insulted.
Loki groaned. "You're picky for an animal I bought from the slave market." He mocked.
Then they entered the elevator as Loki stood there for few seconds.
"Hmm... how about Nyx?"
The cat tilted its head. Then nodded—approving.
Loki gave the tiniest huff that might have been a laugh.
He tapped the button for his floor. "Nyx it is."
The elevator ride up was quiet. The doors closed. Soft muzak played.
Nyx yawned, stretched, then curled tighter on the teddy bear's head.
"I'm tired."
Inside the apartment, Loki dumped the plushies onto the couch (teddy bear taking up most of it), kicked off his shoes, and headed straight to bed.
Lights out.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
Two hours later...
"I can't sleep."
The clock hits 2:34 a.m.
Loki lay flat on his back, arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom.
His mind wouldn't shut off.
"A5 wagyu ribeye... A5 wagyu ribeye... A5 wagyu ribeye... A5...."
The words kept looping like a bad loading screen.
"Used to be 68. Tommorow it will increase in price...95... or gone forever."
He rolled onto his left side.
Nyx entered the bedroom and rolled over his bed.
Loki stared at the ceiling some more.
"Why do I even care this much?"
"It was just food."
"Just a dish."
Nyx padded silently onto the bed, circled once, then curled against his chest.
Then, in a deep, resonant, god-like baritone that should not have come from a housecat, Nyx spoke:
"What's the problem?"
Loki answered automatically, still half-lost in thought.
"The wagyu's getting more expensive tomorrow or they might take it off the menu, I like that dish. It's so good, I don't want it gone."
Silence.
Then Loki froze.
His eyes snapped wide open.
Nyx stared back up at him with calm golden eyes.
And spoke again—in the same impossibly deep, ancient voice:
"You should have bought more when you had the chance."
Loki stared, then very slowly, he muttered: "…You can talk?"
Nyx yawned, showing sharp little fangs.
"Obviously."