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Chapter Text

Prologue:

Loki drifted through the strands of the multiverse, his fingers trailing over shimmering threads of fate. The stories wove themselves into endless patterns—some familiar, others tangled and strange. He had seen countless versions of Asgard, of Midgard, of himself. Some better. Most worse.

He had learned that time was not a river but a tapestry, unraveled and rewoven with every choice, every whisper, every secret never spoken aloud.

And yet, this one caught his eye.

A thread, glistening with frost and gold, pulsed softly among the others. It should have been unremarkable, just another possibility among the infinite. But something about it felt… wrong. Or perhaps, too right.

He reached for it, and the image unfurled before him.

His breath caught.

Frigga stood before him, tall and poised, her golden hair catching the light. Alive.

Loki had long accepted that no version of his life contained her past the moment she had encountered Algrim. And yet, here she was. Unchanged. Breathing. As though the hand that had taken her life had never struck. 

This was not how the story was told.

Something flickered in his chest, too swift and sharp to name. He had seen many things in his time as the keeper of stories, but he had never seen this.

Logically , he knew, that somewhere, somewhere in the endless possibilities of the Yggdrasil, she’d have to have lived but still .

His mother.

Intrigued, he leaned in closer, letting the thread pull him deeper.

If there was a world where Frigga still lived, then perhaps—just perhaps—there was something more waiting to be discovered.

Chapter 1: Arrival on Jotunheim

The Bifrost spat them out into the heart of Jotunheim, and the cold took Frigga by the throat.

She had thought she knew winter. Vanaheim had its share of frostbitten mornings, and Asgard’s mountain peaks held snow year-round, but this was different. This cold was alive. It curled against her skin, slithered beneath the layers of her cloak, and settled in her bones as though it meant to stay.

She inhaled slowly, the air sharp and thin, and squared her shoulders. Shivering would do nothing but invite scrutiny. The Aesir did not bow to the elements.

Bor stood at the head of their delegation, a living wall of golden armor and stiff posture. Odin was just behind him, shoulders set in a careful display of control, the crown prince ever eager to prove his strength. Frigga kept her place a step behind them, her hands clasped neatly before her, the way she had been taught. She was not here to lead. She was not even here to speak.

Jotunheim stretched before them, vast and terrible in its beauty. The land was carved from ice and stone, its jagged peaks disappearing into a sky heavy with shifting clouds. A strange, cold mist curled low over the frozen ground, rising and falling like the slow breath of something ancient and sleeping. The ice itself was not still. Frigga could see it move in the distance—great sheets cracking, splitting apart, and reforming in slow, grinding shifts as if the land was growing, changing, aware.

There was something deeply unnatural about this place. Or perhaps it was simply old. Older than Asgard. Older than the gods who now sought to tame it.

Frigga let her gaze wander, careful not to turn her head too much. As the delegation moved towards their destination, warriors flanked them on either side, great towering figures of deep cerulean and midnight blue, their eyes sharp with suspicion. They did not brandish their weapons, but their stillness was a warning in itself. These were not mindless beasts as Asgardian stories would have one believe. They were disciplined. Watchful.

So was Frigga.

She had been raised to be observant, to listen first, speak later. It had served her well in Asgard’s court, where she was still an outsider despite her betrothal to Odin. Here, in a land she had only ever heard of in stories, that skill would serve her again.

She had no place in these negotiations, not truly. She was here as a symbol, a future queen to be displayed. The Vanir had once been outsiders to Asgard, but now she stood among its people, wrapped in their colors, her presence meant to project stability and unity.

She knew her role.

And yet, standing here beneath the heavy sky of Jotunheim, feeling the pulse of the ice beneath her boots, she could not shake the sense that she was about to step beyond the path that had been so carefully laid out for her.

She inhaled again, steadying herself.

The gates of Utgard loomed ahead, and beyond them, the Jotnar waited.

—

Frigga did not know what she had expected from the rulers of Jotunheim, but the figures waiting for them at the gates of Utgard were both expected and bewildering.  

The warriors who had escorted them stood in perfect formation, their weapons resting against the ice, but their gazes sharp and assessing. At the head of the gathering, flanked by a select few, stood the rulers of this realm.  

The man in the center had to be their king. He stood tall, his skin a deep, glacial blue, the ridges along his brow and cheekbones more pronounced than those of the warriors at his side. He was leaner than Bor but no less imposing, his armor made of dark, frost-etched metal with a high collar of black fur framing his face. There was something tightly controlled about the way he held himself—arrogance tempered by careful restraint.  

His sharp gaze passed over Bor with disinterest before settling on Odin. Not a challenge, not quite, but an assessment. This was a man who did not waste words.  

To his right stood a figure who might have been his kin, though her presence was far different. Where the king was all tension held in check, she was fluid in a way that was hard to describe. Her form was steady but not fixed, as if she did not consider herself bound to the shape she currently wore.  

Her skin was a darker shade of blue, the runes along her arms glowing faintly beneath the heavy fur-lined cloak she wore draped over one shoulder. The only thing rigid about her was her posture—one hand resting idly on the pommel of an unseen weapon, the other lightly brushing against the edge of her cloak as though she were only half-invested in the proceedings.  

Frigga guessed she was a queen or something like it. But unlike the stiff, ceremonial roles of Asgard, there was something informal about her garb. The Jotnar surrounding her treated her as important, but not with the same deference they gave their king.  

There were others beside them, figures of clear status, their roles unknown to Frigga. One, a broad-shouldered Jotun with layered armor carved with swirling runes, looked to be a warrior of high rank. Another, cloaked and hooded despite the lack of sun, stood at a careful distance, fingers marked with rings that glinted with an unnatural sheen. A mage, perhaps.  

Frigga forced herself to keep her posture composed as their herald stepped forward to begin the formalities.  

"Bor, King of Asgard, Son of Buri, Ruler of the Golden Realm."  

"Prince Odin of Asgard, Heir to Hlidskialf, Protector of the Golden City."  

"Frigga of Vanaheim betrothed to Odin, Lady of Magic and Wisdom."  

There was a slight pause as the Jotnar took in the names, their expressions unreadable. Then their herald responded.  

"Laufey, King of Jotunheim, Lord of the Eternal Ice."  

The next name came with a slight shift in the air as if even the warriors who stood rigid had to adjust themselves.  

"Farbauti, the Storm-Weaver, Keeper of the Rime, Blood of the Deep Cold."  

Frigga let the words settle in her mind. Not a queen. Not officially. Yet clearly something more than a consort to Laufey. The way she stood—still and unconcerned as if everything here was of only passing interest—was a stark contrast to the sharp tension in Laufey’s shoulders.  

The mage was named last.  

"Angrboda, the Veiled One, Speaker for the Forgotten."  

The cloaked figure gave the barest nod, the faint glint of her rings catching the pale light of the ice.  

The words exchanged next were nothing but ceremony, a carefully practiced exchange of formal greetings and meaningless well-wishes. Bor recited his lines, Laufey responded with equal precision, and the two delegations stood like carved statues as the first steps of diplomacy were laid.  

Frigga felt eyes on her, though she could not say whose.  

She kept her gaze lowered, watching from beneath her lashes, careful not to linger too long on any one figure. It would not do to look too curious.  

And yet, when she allowed herself a glance in Farbauti’s direction, she found the woman already looking at her.  

It was not an open stare, nor anything easily decipherable. Just a quiet, passing assessment. And then it was gone as if it had never happened.  

Frigga exhaled slowly.  

The duel would begin soon. The true test of their fragile peace.  

And though she was not meant to have a role here, something told her that this visit would not unfold as anyone had planned.

—

The space cleared for the duel was little more than a broad stretch of ice, its surface smoothed by centuries of wind and shifting frost. Frigga stood with the rest of the Aesir delegation, the cold creeping up through her boots. The ceremonial words had been spoken, the terms agreed upon. The truce would be sealed in blood—a drop from each fighter, no more.  

The Aesir fighter stepped forward first.  

He was a seasoned warrior, broad-shouldered and battle-scarred, his golden armor catching what little light filtered through the light mist. He was not Asgard’s strongest, nor its fastest, but he was precise. A fighter who had learned to end battles quickly. He carried himself with confidence, an air of assured victory, twirling his spear in an experimental swing.  

The Jotun champion followed.  

He was taller than his opponent. A true giant, his frame lean but coiled with strength, his cobalt skin marked with fine silver scars. His armor was layered but flexible, built for movement rather than brute force. At his hips, he carried two long daggers—blades nearly the length of a short sword. One gleamed with a strange, icy sheen, the frost-bitten edge lined with veins of deep, frozen blue. The other was untainted steel, a stark contrast to its twin.  

Frigga’s breath caught. A frost-forged blade was not ceremonial. A single cut from it would not just wound—it would freeze, burn, and rot at the same time.  

An odd choice for a duel meant only for formality. Or perhaps it was a statement.

The moment the warriors met in the center of the clearing, the onlookers tensed. The gathered Aesir warriors stood rigid, hands resting near their weapons. The Jotnar, though still, were no less watchful.  

A low horn sounded. The fight began.  

The Aesir warrior moved first. He lunged forward in a calculated strike, spear thrusting toward the Jotun’s shoulder. The Jotun twisted out of the way, sidestepping smoothly as his steel dagger flicked up to deflect the shaft of the spear.  

The duel remained balanced at first. Attack, counter, reposition—two fighters feeling each other out, neither committing to a finishing blow. The scrape of metal echoed against the ice as they circled, their movements measured and sharp.  

Then came the shift.  

The Jotun fighter closed the distance, pushing the Aesir back with a series of quick, controlled strikes. The Asgardian snarled, digging his heels into the slick ice, and saw his opening.  

The Jotun had overextended—his balance was slightly off, an arm raised too high. The Aesir adjusted, spear flashing forward in a perfect killing thrust. 

Then his foot slipped.  

A treacherous patch of ice sent his weight sideways. The killing blow veered off-course, missing the Jotun’s throat by inches and instead slicing a shallow line across his shoulder.  

Red blood bloomed against his skin.  

The duel should have paused there, given both combatants to acknowledge the first spilling of blood.  

Instead, the Jotun’s expression flickered—surprise, then something harder. His free hand, the one wielding the frost-forged dagger, moved.  

Frigga barely had time to breathe before the blade bit deep.  

A sharp cry rang out as the Aesir warrior reeled, clutching his arm. His body locked up even before the pain set in. Ice spread from the wound in jagged veins, creeping unnaturally fast beneath his armor.  

He collapsed.

The reaction was immediate. 

Weapons were drawn. The Asgardians surged forward, hands on their hilts. The Jotnar warriors braced themselves, shifting into defensive stances. The moment teetered on the edge of disaster—one wrong movement, one misstep, and the entire fragile peace would shatter.  

Frigga felt Odin tense beside her, a sharp breath taken in preparation to act.  

She gripped his arm before she could think better of it.  

Not yet.  

The warriors on the ice remained still. The Jotun fighter’s stance was rigid, his expression unreadable. The Aesir warrior lay panting, the ice spreading over his arm, closing in on his neck. His fingers twitched toward his weapon, but he did not rise.  

It was impossible to tell who had pushed too far first.  

The Aesir would say the Jotun escalated, that using a frost-forged blade in a ceremonial duel was an act of aggression.  

The Jotnar would say the Asgardian had struck first with lethal intent, and that the frost blade had been wielded only in answer.  

Both sides would insist they had only reacted.

Frigga’s pulse thundered in her ears.  

This was a test, but not just for the warriors. It was a test for the leaders standing on either side of the ice. A test to see who would hold. 

And who would break.

The air was moments from shattering. Warriors stood with weapons half-drawn, breath held tight in their chests. The Aesir watched the Jotnar for a spark of aggression; the Jotnar waited for the Aesir to lunge. The fragile truce balanced on the edge of a blade, and Frigga could feel it slipping.  

Then, movement.  

Farbauti stepped forward.  

She did not rush. She did not call for order. She simply moved, and the gathered warriors stilled as if the ice itself had whispered for quiet.  

Her presence was striking—tall and poised, her features sharp, yet carrying a cool elegance that made it impossible to look away. She wore layers of dark, flowing fabric edged with intricate silver embroidery, moving like shifting mist around her.  

With slow, deliberate grace, she raised a hand.  

A breath of silence followed. Then, magic spilled from her fingertips like liquid ice, curling into the air in delicate, luminous threads. The glow was soft at first, the color of pale winter light, but it deepened as the strands moved—flowing toward the wounded Aesir warrior and his Jotun opponent.  

As the magic reached the small cut on the Jotun, it frosted over, pulling the already spilled blood from the skin with a pulse.

Then it reached the Aesir.

The ice-veined sickness in his arm pulsed, a creeping rot spreading under his skin. Farbauti did not hesitate. The threads of her magic settled over the wound, and with the gentleness of snowfall, they began to pull.  

The poison unraveled.  

Frigga had seen healers before—Vanir and Aesir both—but this was something else. This was not simple mending. The frost-poisoning was drawn from the wound in shimmering strands, each thread twisting into the air like woven silk. Farbauti did not force it, did not crush it. She coaxed the corruption free, guiding it from flesh to magic, reshaping it in her hands.  

The ice did not vanish. It transformed.  

Symbols took form in the air, shifting between runes of Jotun and Aesir script. Balance. Truce. Peace.  

The warriors who had been moments from battle now stared, not at each other, but at the living artistry unfolding before them. Light played over the symbols, catching in the frozen air, and refracting in soft blues and silvers. The magic swayed like a tapestry, woven and shifting, ephemeral yet utterly real.  

Farbauti lowered her hands.  

The Aesir warrior gasped as the last of the frost left his body. His breathing steadied, the tightness in his limbs easing. The wound on the Jotun’s ribs had already sealed, the shallow cut nothing more than a faint line of ice.  

Blood had been spilled on both sides. The duel was over.  

Farbauti did not speak loudly, nor did she demand attention. Yet when she turned to face the gathered rulers and warriors, her voice carried effortlessly over the ice.  

“The truce is honored.”  

No embellishment. No plea. A simple statement of fact.  

For a long moment, no one moved.  

Then, as if the ice itself had exhaled, the tension broke. Warriors who had been locked in silent aggression now turned their eyes toward the fading remnants of Farbauti’s magic. The shifting symbols glowed for a moment longer before dissolving into the air, their meaning lingering even after they vanished.  

Frigga’s hands were clenched at her sides, nails pressing into her palms. She had not realized how intently she had been watching.  

She had never seen magic like this before.  

Not just power, not just skill—but something woven, something living. A dance between control and release, between strength and delicacy. It was not just a tool. It was art.  

And Farbauti had wielded it like a queen commanding a storm.

—

The procession moved toward the great hall, the ice crunching under heavy boots. Frigga walked behind Bor and Odin again, their cloaks shifting in the wind ahead of her. The Aesir warriors flanked them, silent and imposing, their presence a show of strength. The Jotnar delegation matched them step for step, their towering forms moving with slow, deliberate grace.  

The hall loomed ahead, its massive doors carved with ancient runes, the deep etchings resembling the jagged patterns of frost on frozen glass. This was the heart of Jotunheim’s power, where laws were written in ice and blood. The place where negotiations would begin—or fail.  

Frigga exhaled, letting the cold settle in her lungs.  

She was here to watch, to learn, to be present. It was an honor to stand beside Odin in this moment, even if she had little to contribute. She had trained for this.  

Then, just as they reached the threshold, Bor stepped forward, crossing into the hall.  

Odin followed.  

Frigga moved to step in after him—but as she did, a shift in movement caught her eye.  

Bor did not turn fully, did not acknowledge her presence with words. He did not need to. His gaze had landed on her in a stern reprimand. He shook his head.

Odin glanced back over his shoulder. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face, his eyes searching hers. There was something there—an apology, perhaps—but it was brief.  

Then he turned away and followed his father inside.  

Frigga stopped, her foot just shy of the threshold. She could feel the warmth from the torches within, the scent of ice and burning oil mixing in the still air. She could hear the murmur of voices, the shifting of armor. But she remained outside, standing alone as the great doors swung shut with a deep, final thud.  

Sealed out.  

A Jotun servant approached her with careful steps, wrapped in furs that softened the sharp blue of her skin. They had horns, curved gently back along their skull. They were small for their race, almost at Friggas’ height. 

"King Bor has asked that I escort you to your quarters if it pleases you," the servant said, voice polite and even.  

Frigga swallowed against the tightness in her throat. She had known this would happen. She had expected it. And yet the sting of it still settled deep in her chest.  

She smoothed her expression and lifted her chin, summoning the cool poise expected of her.  

"That will not be necessary," she replied. "I would like to take a walk first."  

The servant hesitated, her dark eyes unreadable, but after a moment, she inclined her head in a bow.  

"As you wish."  

Frigga turned away from the hall. If she had no place within those walls, then she would not linger like a discarded afterthought. She walked with purpose, her pace unhurried, her posture composed. A queen—or one soon to be—was never excluded.  

She simply had better places to be.

—

Frigga stepped into the courtyard, exhaling a slow breath that curled in the icy air. The cold was sharp against her skin, but she welcomed it. It cleared her mind, grounding her in something tangible after the quiet sting of being shut out.  

She had intended to walk alone, to push away the frustration pressing against her ribs, but she was not alone.  

A figure stood among the sculpted ice formations, half-shadowed in the dim light. At first glance, she seemed a natural part of the landscape—tall, elegant, formed of the same blues and silvers as the frost-covered world around her. Only her eyes, sharp and bright, betrayed her presence.  

Farbauti.  

She did not turn at Frigga’s approach, only continued observing the garden around them, her fingers trailing lightly over the frozen leaves of a plant that shimmered like glass. The flowers here were not what Frigga had expected—she had imagined only white, blue, and silver, yet vibrant reds and deep purples grew in the frost, their petals seemingly untouched by the biting cold.  

She could not stop herself from staring.  

“You seem surprised,” Farbauti mused, finally glancing her way.  

Frigga blinked, schooling her expression. “I did not expect to find a garden here.”  

Farbauti made a quiet sound of amusement. “Even in the coldest places, life finds a way to thrive.”  

Frigga stepped closer, her hands brushing against the delicate petals of a flower that looked almost too fragile to exist in such a harsh climate. The colors were richer than anything she had seen in Asgard. She wondered if they felt different to the touch, but she did not dare pluck one.  

The silence stretched between them until Farbauti tilted her head, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.  

“Not allowed inside?”  

Frigga stiffened.  

“It is tradition,” she answered, keeping her voice even.  

Farbauti made a low, thoughtful sound. “Strange tradition. You are more intelligent than half the others in there. Why did they exclude you?”  

Frigga opened her mouth, then hesitated. She had never been asked this question before—never even spoken aloud the thought that had lingered in the back of her mind for so long. It was simply the way things were. The way they had always been.  

“They do not mean it as an insult,” she said carefully. “Women do not take part in these matters.”  

Farbauti frowned. “Why?”  

Frigga struggled for an answer that would not sound foolish when spoken aloud. 

“Because it has always been this way.”  

Farbauti let out a soft huff of laughter, shaking her head. “A poor excuse.”  

Frigga bristled, but Farbauti was watching her closely, eyes keen with interest rather than judgment.  

“In Jotunheim, strength is strength. Magic is magic. And either one does possess wit and intelligence, or they do not. What does shape have to do with it?”  

Frigga blinked. “Shape?”  

Farbauti gestured vaguely to herself. “Form. Flesh. The shape we take or is given to us by birth.”  

Understanding dawned, slow, and uncertain. “You mean because Jotnar are shapeshifters?”  

Farbauti nodded. “Many of us are. Magic users especially. We shift as we please—some favor one form more than others, but it is a choice, not the rule. There is no division between who may lead and who may not. Power determines that, not flesh.”  

The idea was... foreign. Even among the Vanir, where magic was respected, there had always been distinctions. Roles. Boundaries. But here, Farbauti spoke of them as though they were irrelevant. As though they had never existed at all.  

She had never heard of such an idea before. And she could not ignore the way it made something in her chest tighten, like a door cracking open to a world she had never considered.  

But she pushed the thought away.  

Instead, she met Farbauti’s gaze and asked, “Then why are you not in that room?”  

Farbauti’s lips curved in something close to a smirk. “I have little patience for such diplomacy. There are other ways I can apply myself.”  

Frigga wasn’t sure whether that meant she simply did not wish to waste her time, or if she believed herself above such things. Either way, she found herself intrigued.  

A breeze swept through the garden, rustling the crystalline leaves, and for a moment neither of them spoke. Farbauti studied her, head tilted slightly as if seeing something that Frigga could not yet see in herself.  

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Farbauti lifted her hand. A shimmer of blue light danced across her fingertips, delicate and precise. Within moments, the glow coalesced into a small, frozen bloom—an ice flower, perfectly formed, its petals thin as spun glass.  

She extended it toward Frigga.  

Frigga hesitated before reaching for it. As soon as her fingers brushed the ice, the flower melted, droplets of water slipping through her fingertips.  

Farbauti smirked. “Too warm yet.”  

Then, without another word, she turned and disappeared into the shadows of the palace corridors, leaving Frigga standing alone in the garden.  

She curled her fingers, feeling the lingering cold of melted ice against her palm.

—

The halls of the palace were quiet, but the distant murmur of voices told a different story.  

Frigga stood just outside the grand doors, her long, slender fingers still damp from the melted ice flower. She turned her hand slightly, watching the way the water clung to her pale skin, the faint chill lingering against her palm.  

She did not know what the gesture had meant. A test? A jest? A simple trick of magic?  

Or something else entirely?  

A sudden, sharp voice cut through the hallway, too muffled for her to make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable. Tension. Frustration. The negotiation was not going well.  

Frigga exhaled slowly. She had known, even before arriving in Jotunheim, that peace was a fragile thing. That this meeting would be difficult. But now, standing in this cold hallway with the last traces of ice melting against her hand, she felt the weight of it settle deeper in her chest.  

And yet, despite the uncertainty, her thoughts drifted not to the war looming on the horizon, nor to the men locked in their endless battle of words behind the great doors.  

Instead, she thought of the frost-colored woman who had conjured an ice flower with a flick of her hand and left Frigga standing alone in the garden, with droplets of a wasted gift clinging to her fingers.

She would have to talk with the Jotun queen again.  

Frigga wiped her hand against the fabric of her cloak, drying the last traces of the melted flower. Then, straightening her posture, she turned and hurried inside.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtering through the palace windows was a cold, pale blue, refracted by the thick ice that made up the walls. The second day of negotiations had begun at dawn, and once again, Frigga had been politely but firmly excluded.

She had taken her breakfast alone in the guest quarters, the meal brought by a Jotun servant who had bowed respectfully but said nothing beyond what was necessary. Even the Aesir warriors accompanying their delegation were mostly absent, stationed near the meeting hall to stand watch while their leaders debated.

Now, she found herself adrift, pacing the corridors of a palace that was both strange and breathtaking. The architecture was unlike anything in Asgard or Vanaheim—sculpted from icy stone, yet warm in its own way, shaped by magic and time. Sunlight from the world above filtered in through hidden veins of crystal-clear ice, casting flickering beams of light that moved with the shifting of the wind outside.

She had no place in the political discussions. She had no role to play. It should not have bothered her—she had always known this was how things worked—but the exclusion sat heavier on her today than it had the day before.

She was still mulling over her place here when a soft voice interrupted her thoughts.

"You look restless, Vanadís."

Frigga turned swiftly, her posture straightening instinctively. Farbauti stood at the entrance of the corridor, watching her.

Her presence was as effortless as the night before—regal but not imposing, sharp but not unkind. She was dressed more simply today, a long robe of deep indigo hanging loosely over her form, the fabric subtly patterned with swirling ice-thread embroidery.

Frigga hesitated. The title was unfamiliar. It was not one the Aesir used for her, but from the way Farbauti said it, it carried weight.

"I am merely walking," Frigga said after a moment, keeping her tone measured.

Farbauti hummed, tilting her head slightly, as if she found Frigga’s answer amusing. "Is that what you call it?"

Frigga’s jaw tightened slightly, but she did not rise to the bait.

Farbauti took a slow step closer, her hands clasped loosely behind her back. "If you have no obligations this morning, perhaps you would care to see more of Jotunheim? I can offer something more interesting than pacing empty halls and waiting on politicians."

Frigga hesitated. The invitation was unexpected—and far from a mere courtesy. Farbauti was offering something deliberately. The question was why.

"And what would that be?" she asked carefully.

A slow smile ghosted across Farbauti’s lips, unreadable and edged with something like curiosity.

"A visit to the hot springs. I think you will find them… enlightening. In more ways than one."

-

The halls of Utgard stretched long and quiet, the distant murmur of voices from the great chamber left behind as Frigga walked alongside Farbauti. Their steps echoed against polished stone, softened only by the flickering glow of enchanted lanterns embedded in the icy walls.

It was warmer here. Not by much, but enough for Frigga to notice—the cold not so sharp, the air touched with something different.

She glanced toward her companion. “Hot springs,” she mused, her voice carrying the edge of curiosity. “I wouldn’t have expected such a thing among your people.”

Farbauti huffed a soft breath, something close to amusement flickering across her sharp features. “Because we are creatures of ice?” The sarcasm was not appreciated but, Frigga mused, probably justified for a presumption such as hers.

Frigga arched a brow. “Are you not?”

The Jotun queen gave her a sidelong glance before shaking her head. “We are of Jotunheim, nothing more or less. The cold is our ally, but it does not solely define us.” She let the words settle, then added, “Even we have warm blood.”

Frigga held her gaze for a moment before looking ahead. The thought unsettled something in her—not unpleasantly, but in a way that forced her to reconsider things she had taken for granted. She had thought of the Jotnar as beings of winter, their lives bound to frost and ice. Yet here was Farbauti, leading her to something warm, something entirely unexpected.

As they passed a branching corridor, two of her attendants came into view, speaking in low tones to each other. Without pausing, Frigga gestured for them to follow. The maids exchanged a glance before hurrying to catch up, falling into step behind her.

Farbauti said nothing at first, only watching with idle interest before speaking again. “I admit, I know little of what Asgard permits its women to do and what the… boundaries are to commanding their people.” She tilted her head, studying Frigga with open curiosity. “What power is yours to wield?”

Frigga considered her answer carefully. The obvious response was that she would be queen. That was her place. Her duty. But what did that mean, truly? She had seen Asgardian queens before—graceful, composed, dignified. They bore heirs, they advised their kings, they oversaw the court. A quiet, subtle influence, one that did not overstep.

She had never asked herself if that was all she wished to be.

“I am of Vanaheim,” she said at last. “But I am bound for Asgard now. There are quite the differences in court etiquette and in the division of power and ruling.”

“And in Asgard?” Farbauti pressed lightly. “What place will you hold?”

Frigga hesitated, the answer she had almost given—the queen, the mother, the quiet shadow behind the throne—clashing against something deeper, something more restless in herself.

She straightened, lifting her chin. “I make my own place. I may not be welcome in the room of politics or judges for now but as queen I will have the time and influence to shape the crown to my liking in time.” she said, almost in defiance of her own thoughts.

Farbauti’s lips curved, slow and knowing. “Good.”

The warmth in the air thickened as they descended further into the bowels of the palace. The scent of minerals and scented oils, clean and sharp, curled around them. Ahead, a set of carved stone doors loomed, their surfaces etched with swirling patterns that mimicked water and air flowing under ice.

Beyond them, the sound of gentle water lapping on stone echoed through the passage.

The hallway widened into an aneltechamber. Wide shelves were built into the walls, some open, some closed off with wooden doors. Servants bustled around, pulling cloths and vials of scented oils, and small containers of fine-ground salt off of the shelves, arranging them onto trays.

Farbauti’s attendants stepped forward first, accepting trays into their hands. Without hesitation, they turned and passed them to Frigga’s maids, who accepted them with uncertain hands. They did not know the customs of this place—would not know what was expected of them—but Farbauti’s people moved with the ease of those accustomed to such routines.

Farbauti herself stepped forward, the doors opening effortlessly at her approach. Frigga followed, the mist-laden air curling around her skin as her attendants hurried to catch up. She felt as though she could smell the warm moistness of the baths in the soft draft already.

Farbauti turned to her, the faintest flicker of mischief in her gaze. “Shall we?”

Frigga exhaled, steadying herself before stepping forward.

The first hall of the hot springs was dimly lit, the glow of enchanted lanterns casting soft reflections over polished stone. Frigga stepped inside, her breath hitching slightly at the unexpected warmth curling around her. The walls were lined with basins of cool water, their surfaces still and glasslike, meant for cleansing before entering the main pools. Wooden racks and carved storage closets stood along the edges of the room, a place to set aside garments before stepping further in.

Her gaze swept the chamber, taking in the presence of others—Jotnar of varying sizes and shapes, some wrapped in thin linens, others bare-chested as they washed or spoke in quiet murmurs. And, most jarring of all, there was no separation. No clear division of male and female spaces.

She froze, her composure tightening like a bowstring.

Public baths were not unfamiliar to her. Vanaheim had its own traditions, and Asgard, too, had its communal waters, but they were always divided, always arranged with a clear distinction. Here, there was none. Men and women, or at least those appearing as such, moved with easy familiarity, unconcerned by the lack of partitions.

Frigga drew herself taller, the sharp instinct of etiquette taking hold. If she was taken aback, she would not show it. Her expression remained neutral, her hands folded neatly before her, but the stiffness in her posture betrayed her discomfort.

Farbauti, already a step ahead, turned slightly, casting her a knowing glance. “You hesitate.”

Frigga’s lips parted, then pressed together again. She should have expected Farbauti to notice. The Jotun queen was perceptive—too perceptive.

“It is different,” she admitted after a pause, choosing her words with care. “I am simply unused to it.”

Farbauti tilted her head, as if examining a puzzle she found particularly interesting. “Your people separate men and women in bathing?”

“Asgard does,” Frigga corrected. “As does Vanaheim.”

Farbauti hummed in acknowledgment, neither mocking nor entirely understanding. “It is not so here. I apologize for any discomfort you are feeling.”

Frigga could only nod, feeling unmoored in a way she could not quite name. She did not miss that Farbauti was apologizing for her discomfort. Not the unusual norms themselves

After a brief moment, Farbauti turned to one of the attendants, speaking in a low voice. Instructions were given, and with a respectful dip of their head, the attendant moved toward one of the pools, drawing a curtain across one of the archways.

“For your comfort,” Farbauti said smoothly. “One of the halls will be reserved for our use only.”

Before Frigga could offer thanks—or protest—a movement at the edge of her vision caught her attention. One of Farbauti’s guards leaned in slightly, murmuring something too low for Frigga to hear. Farbauti gave a brief nod, and in response, the guard’s form shifted seamlessly—broad shoulders narrowing, facial features softening, the shift subtle yet unmistakable.

The change took mere moments. When it was done, the guard inclined their head and stepped back into position, their presence unchanged, yet now aligned with whatever unspoken expectation had been set.

Frigga inhaled sharply. She had heard of Jotnar shapeshifting, of course, but witnessing it in such an effortless, unremarkable way left her momentarily at a loss.

Farbauti noticed. “We do not have true forms,” she explained, as if discussing something as ordinary as the weather. “Shape is fluid. We become what is needed. Or wanted.” She smirked, “Or desired.”

Frigga had no immediate response to that. It was both fascinating and—if she was honest—unnerving. The idea that form could be something so impermanent, so easily molded, unsettled the rigid order she had always known.

She held her silence as attendants moved through the room, preparing linens and setting out small trays of fine-ground salts. Farbauti watched her a moment longer, then, with an almost imperceptible smirk, gestured toward the changing area.

“Shall we?”

Frigga exhaled slowly, schooling her thoughts before stepping forward.

The group shed their outer clothes and were given white linnen shifts, that felt light and airy. Frigga let the material glide through her fingers. Her shift was too long for her and she had two of her maids pin it in a ruffle around her hips to avoid dragging it across the floor. She was also given elegant slippers to replace her own shoes.

When she saw Farbauti unpin her hair, to let it flow freely across her shoulders, she barely hesitated before imitating the Jotun queen and freeing her deep blonde hair from the pins and needles that had kept it up in an artful style.

She felt giddy, undoing her queenly outer visage in such a way and had to suppress a happy laugh before it broke loose. She didn't do anything improper after all. The men were guarding the bathing halls from the outside and she was explicitly invited by the queen herself.

‘You are also to be a queen now’ she reminded herself sharply. She still forgot sometimes.

Stepping beyond the changing hall, Frigga felt the warmth in the air settle over her fully, wrapping around her like the embrace of deep water. The cavernous space before her was nothing like she had expected.

The ceiling was not stone but ice—thick, ancient, and glistening. Light filtered through it in shifting, fractured beams, casting the entire chamber in an ethereal glow, a soft, cold blue that danced over the surfaces of the steaming pools. It was mesmerizing, the interplay of warmth and cold unlike anything she had ever seen before.

The cavern still held the memory of what it had once been—natural and untamed, with its high, arching walls and winding paths of smooth rock. Yet, centuries of careful craftsmanship had shaped it into something intentional. The pools had been carved into the stone, their edges rounded by both magic and time. Some were shallow, barely deep enough to sit in, while others stretched long and deep enough for true swimming. Steam rose in gentle tendrils from the water, curling into the colder air before dissipating.

Further in, the stone took on a different texture, the grooves in the walls carefully shaped to channel hot water, filling the air with steady plumes of steam. It was not unlike the heated chambers in Asgard’s bathhouses, yet here, the effect was natural, the heat a quiet presence rather than something forced.

Frigga’s gaze caught movement—small sparks of light drifting lazily through the cavern, like embers caught in a breeze. At first, she thought them to be fireflies, but as one floated close to her, she reached out instinctively. It was cold to the touch, weightless yet tangible, like a drop of frozen starlight.

“Mages tend the springs,” Farbauti said from beside her, watching as Frigga’s fingers brushed the little spark away. “The ceiling, the warmth, the light—it is all maintained through our craft.”

Frigga glanced around, noticing them now—the robed figures moving between the pools, their presence quiet but essential. One knelt by the water’s edge, hands dipping into the surface as a faint shimmer of energy pulsed outward. Another gestured toward the air, sending a fresh scattering of sparks upward, their glow pulsing gently before they settled into their slow, drifting path.

Attendants moved through the space, offering their trays of folded linens, small dishes of finely ground salts, and delicate vials of oils.

Frigga let out a slow breath, taking it all in. She had come expecting something stark and practical—something cold, like the land itself. Yet this place was anything but. It was carved from ice and stone, yes, but it was filled with warmth, with care, with a quiet sort of luxury that was neither excessive nor crude.

She had thought herself prepared for Jotunheim. Now, she was beginning to realize how little she truly understood.

–

The warmth of the water lapped at Frigga’s skin as she stepped into the pool, following Farbauti’s lead. The linen shift she wore clung to her legs, dampening immediately as she descended further. The pool was deep enough that, when she settled on the smooth step carved into the stone, the water licked at her collarbones. Beside her, Farbauti had to slouch slightly to be at the same level, her longer limbs stretched out beneath the surface.

The contrast of heat against the ever-present chill of Jotunheim was almost dizzying. Frigga exhaled, feeling the tension she had held since arriving in Utgard begin to uncoil. She let her fingers drift through the water, watching how the light shimmered across its surface, the glow from the ceiling’s icy dome fractured into dancing patterns.

“It is strange, is it not?” Farbauti mused, watching her.

Frigga turned her head. “Strange?”

Farbauti’s lips curled slightly, as if amused by an unspoken thought. “Hot water, in a land of ice. You have been staring at it like it is an illusion.”

Frigga hesitated, but then let out a quiet laugh. “It feels like one.” She glanced upward again, where the thick ice ceiling refracted the daylight in shifting, ethereal hues. “I did not expect this. I did not think Jotun would have any fondness for warmth such as this.”

Farbauti hummed, resting an arm along the pool’s edge. “Most Aesir do not think much about us at all,” she said, not unkindly. “But we are not creatures of ice alone. Our blood is warm, our hearts beat as yours do.” Her tone carried an easy amusement, as if she found the misconception endearing rather than offensive.

Frigga considered that, then tilted her head. “And the magic here?”

At that, Farbauti’s expression shifted slightly—interest sparking in her sharp blue eyes. “The springs are a natural gift,” she explained, running a hand through the water. “The heat comes from the depths of the planet itself. But the ceiling, the light, the energy woven into this place—those are ours.”

She gestured subtly, and Frigga followed the movement, watching as one of the drifting sparks of light floated lazily toward them. It pulsed faintly, cool even as it hovered just above the water’s surface.

Frigga extended her hand without thinking, reaching out with the careful touch of her magic. A thin thread of energy wove from her fingertips—subtle, golden, warm. The spark flickered as if responding to it, then wavered away, unaffected but almost playful in its retreat.

Farbauti was watching her closely.

“You do not dismiss our magic as crude,” she noted. “Most Aesir would. Most mages not of Jotunheim do.”

Frigga lowered her hand, letting the last traces of her spell fade into the air. “Magic is magic,” she said simply. “It is shaped by those who wield it.” She hesitated, then added, “In Vanaheim, magic is life. It is woven into healing, into growth, into the land itself.”

Farbauti’s expression shifted into something almost thoughtful. “Healing magic?”

Frigga nodded. After a brief pause, she lifted her hand once more, this time deliberately. Golden light curled from her palm, spiraling in delicate strands before coalescing into a soft glow that hovered just above her skin. It pulsed gently, warm and steady, like a heartbeat.

Farbauti leaned forward slightly, the movement almost unconscious. “I have never seen magic like this before,” she murmured.

Frigga held the glow for a moment longer before letting it fade. She glanced sideways, noticing the way Farbauti’s gaze lingered, sharp and assessing but not unkind.

Before either of them could speak again, movement at the pool’s edge drew their attention. One of the attendants knelt gracefully, offering a tray with carefully arranged dishes—thinly sliced meats, preserved fruits, and cups of some warm, spiced drink that Frigga did not recognize. Another attendant stepped forward with neatly folded towels, setting them on a dry ledge within reach.

Farbauti accepted a cup without hesitation, lifting it in a casual motion before turning back to Frigga. “Tell me,” she said, reclining slightly against the smooth stone. “What else does Asgard’s future queen know of magic?”

The tension in Frigga’s shoulders had all but melted away. She hesitated, then reached for her own cup, the fragrant steam curling into the cold air.

She smiled.

–

The warmth of the bath soaked deep into Frigga’s bones, quieting even the corners of her mind that still clung to duty and distance. The ceiling above shimmered with fractured light, casting ethereal patterns over the water, over Farbauti’s pale shoulders and strong jawline, over Frigga’s outstretched fingers as they idly traced circles across the water’s surface.

Conversation had drifted. Not fallen silent—just softened into something slower, more deliberate. The occasional clink of dishes or the faint footsteps of attendants beyond the curtain seemed miles away.

Even the occasional passing servant, catering their needs didn't seem to break the attention of a queen and a queen to be.

Farbauti sat half-turned toward her, one arm braced against the stone ledge, her profile limned in icy light. Her expression had lost its diplomatic polish, replaced by something quieter. Studying. Present.

“You are not what I expected,” she said finally, voice low and smooth. “Not as a sorceress. Not as a future queen.”

Frigga gave a breath of a laugh, more exhale than sound. “I’m not sure I know what I expected either.”

Farbauti’s gaze didn’t move. “Perhaps that is the point,” she said. “To become something unexpected.”

There was a pause—not awkward, but weighty. The kind of silence that asked to be noticed.

Frigga glanced at her, meeting her eyes for a breath too long. The heat of the water suddenly felt like it came from somewhere closer than the depths of the earth.

She looked away, then back again, drawn without reason or permission.

Farbauti had leaned in slightly—only slightly—but the change in distance was like gravity shifting. Her tone, when she next spoke, was softer still.

“I’ve never known an Aesir to listen so closely.”

“And I’ve never known a Jotun to speak so carefully,” Frigga answered, voice quiet, she didn't even refute being Aesir. It seemed insignificant.

The corner of Farbauti’s mouth curved—not a smile, exactly, but close. “Carefully, yes. But not without purpose.”

The silence stretched again, thick with something unnamed.

Friggas attention was suddenly drawn to the way that their bathing shifts, wet as they were, did leave nothing of their bodies to the imagination. It clung to both of them in a very flattering way, even highlighting Farbautis blue tinted skin nicely.

Frigga’s fingers drifted close to Farbauti’s, their hands just barely brushing beneath the water. Neither of them moved away.

It would have been so easy to say something light, to smile and let the moment slide past like steam curling off the stones. But neither of them did.

The moment held—warm, suspended, and unspoken.

And then Farbauti turned her gaze away, just slightly, letting the silence fall between them like a secret. Respecting the space they hadn’t agreed on but hadn’t broken either.

Frigga’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t know what she’d wanted to say. Only that something had passed between them —something delicate and deliberate, like the first thread in a tapestry not yet woven.

She closed her eyes and let the warmth hold her, heart fluttering quietly in her chest.