The early morning rays filtered through the curtains, filling Weth's bedchamber with an obnoxious light. She stirred, and sat up on her dingy cot. When she rubbed her eyes, she discovered fresh tears on her face. This was not unusual; she had grown accustomed to crying in her sleep. She wiped away the offending drops, and mustered the energy to rise. She crossed the small room to her dresser, catching sight of her reflection in a mirror next to her door. Her golden eyes, once fiery and bright, now seemed hollow. Her face had grown gaunt, and her black curls were a wild tangle around her head.

Her life had been ripped to shreds in a singular moment. The only man she loved—could ever love—had voluntarily fallen to his death two years before. He had been her confidante, companion, and lover; he was the only person in the nine realms who tolerated her volatile temper. Her own mother had deemed her a lost cause. When Loki died, so did Weth. Her outer shell remained, but she was numb inside. The only way she could feel anything was to engage in some sort of devious act. With the God of Mischief fallen, she strived to take up his tendencies. It was her twisted way of paying her respects.

This landed Weth in many a dilemma. She had long since lost her employment as a maid; upon hearing the news of Loki's death, she set fire to every tapestry she could manage. Thor knew of her relationship with his brother, and negotiated with Odin in her defense. She was banished from the castle, and forced to take up residence in the nearby village. She had first turned to criminality as a source of income; some villagers—and sometimes noblemen—were willing to pay strangers to take care of their dirty work. Weth began with petty theft, and eventually found a more profitable industry; she agreed to settle debts for a fraction of what she retrieved. This business placed her in many dangerous predicaments, which she often resolved with the martial skills she developed while sparring with Loki. Though she was small in stature, she was a fearsome opponent.

Weth earned a meager amount of money, which afforded her a room at a tavern. She had retrieved a considerable amount of silver for the innkeeper, and he was glad to rent her a room for permanent residence. The constant presence of patrons offered a fair amount of opportunities for pick-pocketing. Drunken warriors would often leave the tavern, unaware of the fact that Weth had pilfered their coin purses.

Weth dressed in the trousers and shirt she had stolen for her sparring practices with Loki. She had smuggled them out of the palace on the day she was banished. She combed her hair with her fingers, and exited her room. She trotted down the steps to the main room of the tavern, making her way towards the door. The innkeeper grunted a greeting in her direction, which she ignored. She headed towards the village square, where she found a book shop; her favorite haunt. She walked into the small shop, ignoring the bookkeeper and heading straight for the towering shelves. She browsed the nearest bookcase, stopping when she found a book on sorcery. She felt a pang in her heart. She picked up the book, and opened it to a random page. The book detailed the mastery of different spells. She recognized several that Loki had used those years ago, flipping through the thick pages. She skimmed a page titled "Teleportation" before deciding that she would purchase the tome. She handed the bookkeeper a handful of silver and exited the shop.

She found a comfortable seat in a grassy area just off the village square, and opened her new book to the first page. She read about various conjuring spells as a group of middle-aged women passed by. Their voices were hushed in telltale gossip.

"I heard a rather interesting bit of news the other day," a woman with a turned-up nose teased.

"And what would that news be?" Inquired a woman in a gray dress.

"Well," she began, "I heard that a certain Prince may just be alive." A woman with a wide posterior scoffed.

"Where did you hear that nonsense?" The woman barked.

"We all know how those palace maids talk," retorted the woman with the turned-up nose. Weth attempted to conjure a flame as she eavesdropped.

"Even if that boy was alive, I doubt that the Allfather would allow him in Asgard," said the woman with the wide posterior. Weth grit her teeth as she continued her attempt to conjure flame.

"That is true," said the woman with the upturned nose, "I heard that he set a fire in the palace before he jumped off that bridge."

"I heard that he tried to kill his own mother," said the woman in the gray dress.

"Well we know for a fact that he tried to kill Thor," said the woman with the wide backside, "What a shame that would be! Such a handsome lad—and well on his way to the throne!" Weth bit into the side of her cheek, drawing blood, as a flame erupted from her palm. The women scurried away, startled by the use of magic. Weth scowled in their direction as they crossed the square.

She looked down at her palm; she had not expected her spell to work. She examined her unscathed hand, perplexed. Her surge of anger seemed to fuel the spell. She vaguely wondered if she would be able to accomplish other magical tasks. She glanced upward, and caught sight of a haggard man staring directly at her. His eyes were wide, seemingly fearful. She averted her gaze. There were not many sorcerers in Asgard; the most accomplished sorcerer of all time had fallen off of a bridge two years before. Weth relished this newfound power, and mentally made a note to use it for intimidation purposes.

She stood and headed back towards the tavern, her book cradled in her arms. She pondered the gossiping women's conversation. Could Loki truly be alive? If so, where is he? She shook away these thoughts as they passed through her head. She was foolish enough to fall in love in the first place; she would be a complete imbecile to entertain such absurd notions.