Markus stood on the edge of the palace terrace, overlooking the starlit gold of Asgard's spires. The light from the twin moons kissed his silhouette, tall, cut from divinity and precision. The night air shimmered faintly around him, as if even the breeze was aware of his rank.
He didn't turn when the door opened.
"I was wondering," he said without looking, "if Asgard still believed in knocking."
Sif stepped in, helm tucked under one arm, cloak trailing behind her in restrained elegance.
"I am not most of Asgard," she replied calmly, though her heartbeat betrayed her.
"No," Markus said. "You are not."
He finally turned. His turquoise eyes caught hers and didn't release them.
She'd dressed down from her formal armor, but not too far. It was still plated steel over form. Still warrior, but softer, deliberate. Her braid longer than he remembered, darker too. It curved over her shoulder like an unspoken promise.
"I wanted to speak in private," she said.
"Oh?" Markus moved closer. "Shall we call it confession, or courtship? I'm fine with either. Both, preferably."
Sif blinked. "That's not… I mean…"
Markus smiled. "You mean that's not how Asgardian ladies expect to be approached?"
"No one approaches me," she said, recovering quickly. "Not like that."
"A tragedy," Markus murmured, stepping just close enough for his shadow to reach hers. "To waste this on sparring dummies and drunken feast songs. I should call it a rescue."
Sif's throat bobbed. "I did not come to be flattered."
"Then you've come to the wrong person."
She laughed once, short, breathy, surprised by herself. "You have a tongue that makes war feel like poetry."
"I prefer making poetry feel like war."
She straightened her shoulders. "I owed you an explanation."
"Honor," Markus said, almost tasting the word. "Your old mistress."
"She's not old," Sif said. "She's... persistent."
Markus looked her over, not as a commander, not even as a man, but as an artist with a masterpiece he hadn't quite decided where to touch first. "So is temptation. Shall we see which one wins?"
Sif turned away, pretending to examine the moonlit horizon. "I swore I'd return. I didn't. I wanted to. The Dark Elves… the war… Thor…"
"Thor," Markus said flatly. "Yes. Prince Abs For Brains."
Sif bit back a laugh. "You mock the gods."
"I mock everyone," Markus said with a shrug. "Gods just deserve it more."
Silence passed. Then she asked, quietly, "And what do you want of me, Markus Tenebris?"
He stepped closer, until her reflection glinted in his eyes.
"I want you to stop pretending you came here to apologize."
She looked up, startled.
"I want you to admit," Markus continued, his voice velvet over stone, "that you came because I looked at you like no man ever dared."
Sif's breath hitched.
"I want you," he said, "to walk beside me tonight, not as my shieldmaiden, not as Asgard's honor forged blade but as the woman whose braid I'd unravel with my fingers... slowly... if I weren't so damn polite."
Sif's lips parted. "You... are not polite."
Markus chuckled. "Then you've nothing to fear."
She hesitated.
Then, without a word, she extended her arm.
The great doors of the feast hall opened once again, and a hush rolled through the chamber like a slow tide.
Markus entered first, tall, resplendent in obsidian and charcoal weave, every step carrying the weight of something unshakable.
But it was Lady Sif at his side that drew equal attention.
Gone was the full battle regalia. She wore simplified formal armor. Subtle, refined, and tailored to highlight form as well as function. Her long braid was swept over one shoulder.
She didn't walk behind Markus.
She walked beside him.
A stir swept the crowd.
"Is she.."
"Gods help us," Volstagg muttered, "she is."
Loki, still seated atop the golden throne in Odin's form, exhaled silently. The tension in his shoulders bled away as he realized:
"He's distracted. Excellent."
He even allowed himself a sip of wine in peace.
"Please let this continue. Court her, marry her, build her a temple. Just don't look at me."
Markus approached the high table and took his designated seat without fuss.
Then, with a wave of his hand, he conjured the same elegant blackwood chair for Sif, seating it beside him, close enough to draw whispers, not close enough to break protocol.
Sif hesitated for only a breath before sitting.
Markus leaned toward her, voice low and untouched by the crowd's noise.
"They're trying not to stare."
"They're failing," she murmured.
"As expected. You do make an exquisite scandal."
"So do you."
He smirked. "Yes. But mine usually involve fire."
Plates arrived. Goblets refilled. Toasts were made.
But the court's eyes subtle or not drifted again and again to the unlikely pairing seated below the throne.
Markus didn't eat much. He watched instead, studying the interplay of power, conversation, decorum.
And Sif?
She tried to maintain composure.
She did.
But every time his fingers brushed her hand, her entire posture betrayed the jolt it sent through her.
She drew her hand away quickly, cheeks faintly pink.
Markus said nothing.
He just smiled.
From across the table, Fandral leaned over again.
"Do you think she's under a spell?"
Volstagg snorted. "If she is, she's not fighting it very hard."
Eventually, the music resumed. Warriors danced. Nobles mingled.
Sif caught herself watching him.
More than once.
He noticed, of course.
He always noticed.
"Careful," he said softly, without turning. "You keep staring like that, and I may ask you to dance."
"And if I say no?"
"Then I'll ask you again, with a better smile."
Days passed with feats and merriment. Flirting with Lady Sif was proving to be a rather pleasant indulgence.
She had, to Markus's amusement, finally stopped behaving like someone who'd swallowed a broadsword. Gone was the stiff backed shieldmaiden who answered every glance with steel.
Now she laughed, sometimes despite herself.
She leaned closer when she spoke.
She rolled her eyes at his quips, only to smirk a second later.
The mask of formality she'd worn into his quarters had cracked, and what emerged beneath it was far more interesting: fiery, proud, and alive.
A woman, not just a warrior.
A Vanir woman. Graceful, built for battle, tall and strong with a sculpted presence that had earned Markus's eye long before his interest.
"Flesh woven by aesthetics," he mused silently. "An excellent specimen."
She was, objectively stunning. But that wasn't the interesting part.
What was interesting… was that she was untouched.
Not by men. Not by manipulation. Nearly fifteen hundred years and not male approached her. Must something with the ale he thought in amusement.
Every other woman who had ever stood close to him, Onyx, Seraphiel, Bastet, The Lodge and Ciri, back in that fractured Witcher world had been shaped by him.
Sometimes through power. Sometimes through fate. Often through design.
They were loyal because he'd ensured it.
Because their minds, souls, or circumstances had been adjusted to fit neatly within the hollow spaces around his will.
Even Onyx, for all her new biological independence, had once been just an interface. A voice, not a person.
Now she was free.
And even now, she obeyed voluntarily.
But Sif?
Sif was chaos in armor.
Her smiles were unscripted. Her eyes did not flicker in reflex to his tone. Her breathing did not sync with his presence the way it did with shadow bound vassals or mind altered devotees.
She was still very much her own.
Markus leaned back in his chair, gaze half lidded as her laughter danced through the hall again. This time at something Fandral had said.
He didn't mind.
He liked this version of her.
The natural one.
"Should I break her like the others?" he thought mildly.
"Bind her. Shape her. Smooth the edges. Mold her into what suits me."
It would be easy.
A breath. A glance. A command hidden in a whisper laced with divinity.
But the thought didn't sit.
Not uncomfortably.
Not with guilt, he had none.
No, it sat strangely because it felt… boring. Predictable.
Tamed things do not surprise you.
And Sif surprised him.
"Perhaps," he thought with a small smile, "she's worth watching… undisturbed."
One where the rules were uneven and the outcome irrelevant.
He didn't intend to stay in this universe.
Once the Soul Stone was his, he'd leave this mad theater behind. Marvel, like DC, was a multiverse of madness and melodrama, cursed to forever eat itself in cosmic cycles.
He had no interest in cleaning it.
Only harvesting from it.
But until then…
He glanced at Sif again, just as she looked back.
Their eyes met. She held the gaze a heartbeat too long before looking away.
Her ears flushed pink. Markus smirked faintly.
"Until then…" he thought.
"Let's see where this goes… untouched."
And for now, that was enough.
The silence between them stretched again.
But this time, it was no longer guarded.
It was warm. Tense in a different way.
Markus studied her in the starlight, how the soft breeze lifted the strands of her braid, how the silver wash of Asgard's twin moons kissed the lines of her face, softened the warrior, and revealed the woman.
Sif wasn't looking at him anymore. She was looking down, at her gloved hands now clasped before her. Her lips were slightly parted.
She had faced armies, gods, beasts from the realms… yet now, with no weapon drawn, she stood still.
Waiting.
Markus took one step forward, then another.
He stopped just in front of her. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him, though he hadn't yet reached for her.
"You've never been kissed," he said, almost curiously.
Her head rose quickly, eyes sharp, then, softer.
She didn't deny it. Instead, her voice came quiet and proud.
"No man has ever dared."
Markus's smile deepened.
"Then allow me."
His hand rose, slow, precise and gently brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered at the curve of her jaw.
And then, without fanfare or ceremony, he kissed her.
It wasn't aggressive or rushed. It was sovereign.
Confident. Anchored. Calm.
But beneath it, a growing current like a storm not yet summoned, only hinted.
Sif's eyes closed slowly. Her breath hitched.
Her hands trembled faintly at her sides, then rose to rest against his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.
She didn't decide.
Because the choice vanished. So did the walkway.
With a blink, silent and seamless the world shifted.
The marble colonnade of the palace melted into polished obsidian floors and deep sapphire silk. Warmth returned as torches came alight in soft pulses across Markus's private chambers.
Sif gasped faintly, momentarily dazed. She looked around. Then back at him.
"You brought me here?"
"No," Markus whispered, lowering his forehead to hers. "I brought us."
The night passed not in conquest, but in fire and surrender, in whispered tension and unspoken need.
She was not quiet. She was wild, unyielding, and new to pleasures of flesh, yet utterly fearless.
And Markus, for once, did not command.
He received and returned.
The light that spilled into the chamber was soft, filtered through high arched windows and enchanted glass.
Markus sat in the chair near the edge of the bed, coat lazily draped behind him, shirt undone. And in the bed, tangled beneath deep blue sheets, lay Lady Sif.
Her long braid had finally come undone, spread over the pillow like a banner after battle. One bare leg peeked from beneath the silks, sculpted and sun kissed. Her arms cradled the bedding unconsciously, cheek resting on her upper arm, lips parted softly.
She slept like a soldier who had finally found peace.
Markus watched her quietly. Unmoving.
He remembered her voice. Her breath. The way her eyes fluttered between resolve and rawness. The way she'd clung to him.
"She's not like the others," he thought again.
And now, he knew that more clearly than ever.
No chains. No bindings. No tricks.
Just choice. Just her. And for once, that was enough.
The sunlight in Asgard was a filtered gold that softened everything.
He stood near the edge of the room, draped in silence, freshly dressed in a three piece suit darker than midnight. The obsidian collar sat open, relaxed. His gaze was fixed not on the view beyond the balcony, but on the bed behind him.
Sif was still sleeping soundly.
The tangled sheets framed her body like artwork. Her back was exposed, flawless Vanir skin laced with pale scars from long forgotten wars. He removed every scar and blemish from her skin. He liked it better that way.
She looked… peaceful. Untouched by command. Unshaped.
And somehow, that made her more his than if she'd been bound by power.
Markus's eyes narrowed slightly.
"A lovely moment," he murmured. "But time waits for no stone."
He extended one hand slightly, not outward, but inward, past flesh and time and structure.
Reality folded.
A single thread snapped taut within the divine web of the universe.
Somewhere far away, in a throne of ruin and ambition, Thanos stirred from a slumber drenched in silence.
He dreamed.
He saw six lights, burning, screaming, turning around him.
He reached for them.
But one was dimming.
The sixth, the final piece, drifted just beyond grasp. A black sun wreathed in sorrow and sacrifice.
He turned toward it.
A whisper echoed in his ears, he understood.
Vormir.
Markus opened his eyes again.
The thread had been pulled.
"Now run along, Mad Titan," he whispered, voice like silk over cold iron. "Be useful."
He looked back at Sif one last time.
"We have a few more years… give or take."
He snapped his fingers and reality folded.
One moment, the royal suite of Asgard.
The next, the crisp northern air of Heaven.
They stood at a high balcony within Arx Seraphim, overlooking the shimmering city of Lux. Cathedrals rose like gothic giants in reverence. Healing sanctuaries glowed with divine warmth below. A choir's distant hymn rode the wind.
Sif took a breath, deep, stunned.
"Where..?"
"Heaven," Markus said grinning.
He stepped behind her, resting one hand lightly on her waist, the other gesturing outward.
"You've seen the gods. Now I'll show you what one builds."
Sif looked out across the cityscape, speechless.
She'd expected something cold. Stone and flame. Weapons and obedience.
But Heaven… was beautiful.
Not soft, but serene.
Alive with worship, order, and a strange stillness that had nothing to do with fear.
"This is yours?"
"Every brick," Markus replied. "Every breath. Every prayer."
"And you brought me here?"
"I told you, didn't I?" he said, stepping around to face her, his eyes sharp and amused.
"I don't collect loyalty. I invite fascination."
She blushed again.
She hated how often that was happening around him.
And how little she minded.
Far behind them, across the stars and golden halls of Asgard Loki, still wearing the face of Odin, stood before the high mirror, pouring himself a heavy cup of wine.
He exhaled in peace for the first time in days.
"He's gone."
He raised the goblet.
"To peace and silence." He though drinking deeply.
And almost smiled.
The light within Arx Seraphim shifted with time, but never dimmed. Its halls glowed softly under vaulted arches of black gold alloy, humming faintly with divine architecture.
Sif walked alone now, her cloak trailing behind her boots as she moved past inlaid glass panels depicting symbols she couldn't translate.
The city felt alive.
Not just occupied, but watched. Not oppressive. Just... aware.
Eventually, she found the one she'd been looking for.
Onyx stood at the edge of a wide balcony, arms folded behind her, silver black bodysuit seamless and motionless. Her eyes scanned the horizon. Though Sif suspected she saw much more than what lay in the clouds.
Onyx spoke before Sif did.
"You've adapted quickly. Most struggle with the silence here."
"I was raised for silence," Sif answered. "But this place... breathes."
Onyx nodded, turning to face her fully.
"It does. He made it that way."
Sif stepped closer, stopping a few paces away.
"You are Onyx."
"Correct."
"You've been with him the longest?"
"The longest and the closest."
Sif hesitated.
Then asked plainly:
"Who are you? Truly. What are you to him?"
Onyx paused for the first time, not from discomfort, but from consideration.
"I was his voice, once. His interface. His executioner, if required. Now I am… myself."
She met Sif's gaze directly.
"He gave me more than life. He gave me will. And still, I choose him."
Sif absorbed that in silence.
"He's more than he seems," she said quietly.
"Much more," Onyx replied. "You've seen only a fragment."
"Then tell me."
Onyx shook her head slowly.
"No. You should ask him. If he tells you, you'll understand. If he doesn't... it means you're not yet meant to."
There was no condescension in her voice. Just clarity. Structure.
Sif shifted slightly.
"Are you... alright with me? With us?"
"Of course."
"Why?"
"Because you and I," Onyx said, stepping slightly closer, "are equals. On this path, we walk side by side."
Sif blinked. "You don't seem the type to share."
"I do not share. I accept. Because what you're part of now, Sif of Vanir, is not a romance. It's a revelation."
Sif frowned slightly.
"You speak in riddles."
Onyx gave a small smile, perhaps her version of a smirk.
"If you knew what he did to Bastet, to Seraphiel, if you saw what they became by his hand… you would not question your place. You would kneel in awe."
The words weren't meant as a threat.
They weren't even proud.
They were simply true.
Sif looked away for a moment, jaw tight, heart divided between the Asgardian pride in her blood… and the quiet pull that had begun when Markus kissed her.
"I don't kneel easily."
"Nor should you," Onyx said, stepping back to her former position, eyes returning to the horizon.
"But when you do, make sure it's for something worth bending to."
Sif said nothing.
Because she wasn't sure if she agreed or if she was beginning to.
The world moved.
Ultron had risen.
Born from fear and arrogance, Stark's misguided brilliance wrapped in vibranium teeth. The AI had taken form and fled, multiplying like an infection. One city fell, then another. Shadows spread in steel and logic.
The Avengers scrambled across continents, through crumbling labs and shattered diplomatic threads. The battles were swift, brutal, and public. Scarlet light and repulsor fire lit up the sky. Hydra remnants were smoked out. Banner's rage left craters in Johannesburg.
And all of it, every twist of catastrophe and synthetic ambition was observed from afar.
High above the mortal plane, deep in Arx Seraphim, Markus watched.
Urgency or concern was not part of his thoughts.
He was a man at the opera, fine wine in hand, noting the crescendo of violence with quiet appreciation.
"What is it this time?" he asked aloud to no one. "Fear of extinction… or fear of irrelevance?"
He didn't intervene. He didn't care to. This wasn't his world.
Thor, was with the Avengers hunting down Ultron's chaos.
He meant to stay only briefly.
Until Fandral muttered something during a meeting.
"Haven't heard from Lady Sif since she left with him."
"Him?" Thor asked.
Fandral blinked. "Markus. That black cloaked one. Towering. You know. 'Slightly' terrifying?"
Thor's expression tightened.
"She's on Midgard?"
"Oh yes. Didn't you know?"
And that's how Thor, with Jane Foster at his side, found himself standing in the courtyard of Arx Seraphim.
The guards hadn't question his entry. Not because of his title, but because Markus had already permitted it.
The city was unnaturally still as he walked through it. Gothic spires above, divine geometry in every angle. The place hummed with something beyond even his comprehension.
"This place," Jane whispered, wide eyed. "It feels... unreal."
"That's because it isn't meant to be real," Thor said quietly. "It's meant to be remembered."
The four of them met in a vast open terrace, high above the towers.
Markus, seated beneath a marble arch, offered no greeting, just a glance.
Sif stood beside him, her armor traded for something more ceremonial, more regal. She looked different. Calmer. Centered.
Thor blinked.
"Sif…"
"Thor."
"You're on Earth," he said slowly. "And you didn't tell me?"
"You didn't ask," she replied, firm but not cruel.
Thor looked between her and Markus, the question unspoken but clear.
Markus, for his part, simply sipped from a glass of deep violet wine.
"Thunderer," he said with a nod. "You've aged well. Or perhaps you've simply stopped changing."
"And you," Thor said, stepping forward slightly, "have found the one warrior I trusted to never stray."
Markus raised an eyebrow.
"Stray? You speak of her as if she's a hound. I see a woman beside me, not behind."
Sif's eyes flicked toward Markus. That landed.
Jane broke the tension with a whisper.
"This is the one who..?"
"Yes," Thor muttered.
Markus gave Jane a polite smile. "You must be the mortal he risks his bloodline for."
Jane looked caught between offense and fascination.
"I'm Jane."
"A pleasure." said Markus with a dry tone.
Thor bristled. Sif smiled tightly.
Eventually, Thor recounted what was happening: Ultron. The world splitting at the seams again.
Sif listened carefully.
Her warrior blood stirred.
"Markus," she said, voice low but strong. "Perhaps we should.."
He turned to her then. Slowly. Eyes sharper than they had been moments ago.
"Is that what you want?" he asked. No mockery. No command. Just... clarity.
She blinked. Caught.
"You are not an extra blade in my collection," he continued. "You are not a soldier for my amusement. If you choose to enter that battlefield, it will be because it's your choice, not because it's expected of you."
Sif stared at him for a long moment.
It was the first time in her life that someone had asked her that. Not as a soldier. Not as a subject.
But as a woman who could say no.