A small town, fifty miles away from the impact site.
By noon, the streets were almost empty.
The residents had retreated indoors, seeking shelter from the relentless heat.
Despite it being autumn, the sun beat down fiercely, raising the temperature above 20 degrees Celsius.
The desert landscape, dotted with sparse Gobi sands and rugged terrain, gave the town a distinct Old West charm — straight out of a cowboy movie.
And it was into this scene that Bella rode, drawing every eye in the street.
Her motorcycle roared to a stop outside a modest diner, and even as she dismounted with casual grace, she felt the weight of dozens of stares on her back.
Young men loitering around town paused whatever they were doing — chewing on toothpicks, fixing old trucks, lounging in the shade — and turned to gawk openly.
Bella ignored them.
She wasn't here to cause a scene.
She just wanted lunch.
The diner was small, plain, and unpretentious, but it smelled divine.
And Bella, no matter how powerful she became, had one unshakable daily ritual:
Never miss a meal.
Especially lunch.
Inside, the place was simple — scratched tables, old leather booths, faded posters of rodeos and desert sunsets.
But the food...
The food was something else entirely.
The moment she stepped inside, the rich, fiery aromas of New Mexico cuisine enveloped her.
Santa Fe-style enchiladas, dripping with red and green chili sauce.
Deep-fried honey cakes, puffed into golden spheres and drizzled with syrup.
Spicy chili and cheese dishes, practically a local staple.
Bella ordered a hearty plate and a cup of oat milk coffee.
Sitting by the window, she slowly enjoyed her meal.
The tender meat wrapped in layered corn tortillas melted in her mouth.
The chili peppers offered just the right kick — spicy, but addictively so.
The coffee was rich and smooth, cleansing her palate after every fiery bite.
By the time she was halfway through her meal, the diner had filled up without her noticing.
Young men packed the restaurant, most of them pretending to order food, but in reality, sneaking glances — or outright staring — at her.
Bella, with her aristocratic bearing, delicate features, and an undercurrent of wild, dangerous energy, was utterly captivating.
Especially today.
She wore sleek black riding boots, dark shorts, a slim leather jacket over a black shirt — casual, but bold.
The contrast between her refined beauty and her untamed style was like a spark to dry grass in a desert town full of restless energy.
The owner of the diner, a chubby uncle with a white apron, rolled his eyes as he wiped the counter.
These little punks — they usually couldn't be dragged in here even if he offered free beer.
Now they were acting like it was the hottest spot in town.
Tread. Tread.
The quiet tension in the diner shifted suddenly as heavy, measured footsteps approached from the entrance.
Bella continued eating calmly.
The young men, sensing a new presence, turned — and immediately felt their hearts sink.
A man entered, heading straight toward Bella's table.
He sat down opposite her without hesitation.
The boys could only watch, devastated.
And he wasn't just any man.
He had a tall, straight figure, slightly messy black hair, a handsome, pale face that held a touch of aristocratic coldness.
He wore a tailored black suit, his every movement exuding effortless elegance.
In his hand, he carried a slender, intricately carved black cane.
The newcomer didn't even glance at the heartbroken boys around him.
Instead, he smiled — a slight, mocking curl of the lips that radiated arrogance and contempt.
"They never know what kind of existence their beloved is," he said quietly, his voice low and magnetic.
"Ignorant... and fearless."
Bella put down her fork.
Without hurrying, she wiped her mouth with a napkin, picked up her coffee, and took a sip.
Then, without looking up, she said casually:
"Welcome, Your Highness."
The man's smile deepened.
"You may call me Loki, beautiful lady."
He spoke with the exaggerated patience a prince might show a noblewoman — charming, measured, a hint of mischief.
Bella smiled back, but there was little warmth in it.
"And what brings you to my table, Loki?" she asked, her tone still light.
There was a dangerous gleam in her emerald eyes, a flicker of golden light dancing within them.
Loki felt it instantly.
A shiver ran down his spine.
Despite his self-assurance — and he was always confident — he recognized the aura of genuine danger coming from this woman.
But Loki was, after all, Loki — prince of Asgard, god of mischief.
He kept his posture relaxed, his tone even.
"I'm here to search for my brother," he said, twirling the cane lightly between his fingers.
"He was... exiled, you see. But I didn't expect to find someone far more interesting along the way."
There was no real fear in him.
Only caution — the kind a trickster reserved for those rare few who could actually harm him.
Bella leaned back in her seat, arching an eyebrow.
"I see. So you were nearby the whole time?"
"Your ability to conceal your presence is quite impressive," she added.
"I didn't even notice you."
Bella wasn't truly surprised.
Loki wasn't the strongest warrior in Asgard — not like Thor — but when it came to stealth, deceit, and manipulation, he had few equals.
The key to deception was the ability to hide.
Her attention earlier had been focused entirely on Mjolnir; her sensitivity to hidden threats had dulled as a result.
She didn't blame herself — nor did she underestimate Loki.
Loki gave a small, modest bow.
"A little skill here and there," he said smoothly.
But inside, he was growing wary.
There was a glint of excitement in Bella's eyes that unsettled him.
A dangerous, predatory kind of excitement.
He didn't like it.
And then she spoke.
"I've never fought an Asgardian before," she said simply.
"Would you care to be my first?"
The words were mild.
The tone was casual.
But the challenge underneath was unmistakable.
Loki stiffened.
Of course, she wouldn't actually kill him — he was still protected by Odin's decree, after all — but even so, he had no desire to be beaten senseless for the sake of someone else's amusement.
Especially not by someone who radiated the same kind of battle-honed aura as Thor.
"Wow," Loki said, flashing a charming grin.
"You're not like a typical Midgardian, are you? Are you sure there's no Asgardian blood in you?"
He was stalling — and he knew she would recognize it.
But better to retreat with his dignity intact.
Bella narrowed her eyes, studying him.
Then, with a soft chuckle, she said:
"You really do live up to your title, God of Cunning."
In the next instant, she realized — the Loki sitting in front of her wasn't truly there.
He was a phantom.
An illusion.
The real Loki was nowhere nearby.
Typical.
Run when things get risky.
Bella didn't mind. It was perfectly in character.
Loki's voice echoed lightly as the illusion began to dissolve.
"I have no interest in unnecessary battles right now. I have more important goals... like claiming my rightful place as king."
Bella smiled faintly, swirling the last of her coffee in her cup.
"Then I look forward to seeing you on your throne, Your Highness," she said.
But inwardly, she wasn't optimistic.
She knew enough of Asgardian lore to understand:
Loki would never be king.
His fate was cruel, but inevitable.
He would remain forever in Thor's shadow, serving more as a catalyst for Thor's growth than achieving his own destiny.
No matter how hard he tried, his end was already written.
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