The spell Solomon cast wasn't true invisibility; he wasn't extravagant enough to expend magic that way. Instead, he used the second-circle spell, [Veil of Obfuscation], to make passersby overlook them entirely. Sif paced back and forth impatiently, occasionally kicking at loose stones on the lawn to create noise. But no matter how loudly she moved or how conspicuous her gestures, none of the soldiers or nobles walking through the corridor noticed her or the casually seated Solomon.
"What exactly are you trying to do?" Sif growled, taking a swig from a small flask she pulled from her pocket. She looked like a drenched cat, equal parts agitated and miserable. Her eyes darted to Solomon, who was engrossed in inscribing runes on a small glass vial with a diamond-tipped pen, seemingly oblivious to her presence.
His focused demeanor only served to stoke her irritation further.
"Patience," Solomon replied in a calm, measured tone, not even looking up. "Thor will be here soon. I assure you, when he arrives, you'll have plenty to talk about—assuming you're not too stunned to speak. As for me... I'm just preparing a small containment device. A four-element seal. You see, I've incorporated elemental runes and a touch of—"
Sif groaned and waved him off impatiently, clearly uninterested in the details. She had chosen blades over magic for a reason; not everyone had the patience to decode convoluted texts, decipher their meanings, and then channel their essence into reality-bending spells. To her, magic users like Solomon approached the world in an alien, incomprehensible way.
But the sudden sound of blaring alarms shattered her thoughts.
The deafening noise reverberated throughout Asgard, prompting nearby soldiers to immediately change their patrol routes and rush toward the palace's far wing. Sif stiffened, recognizing the source of the alarm immediately.
"It's the dungeon alarm!" she hissed, her hand flying to her sword. "I need to join the fight. It's my duty!"
"Your duty lies here," Solomon said, his voice steady as he blew dust off the glass vial and inspected his work. "This is your chance to truly fulfill your responsibility—and perhaps achieve what you've always wanted."
"You knew this was going to happen!" Sif pointed her sword at Solomon, her eyes blazing with suspicion. "Are you colluding with whoever's in the dungeons? Don't forget—you've been extended the rights of a guest here!"
"I'm fully aware," Solomon replied calmly, setting the vial down and opening a small leather pouch on his belt. Sif's eyes widened as she watched him reach his entire arm into the impossibly small bag. The sight was unnerving, even for someone familiar with Asgardian wonders.
After a moment of rummaging, Solomon withdrew a finely crafted Asgardian longsword, its blade gleaming. The weapon was unmistakably a custom-made centurion's sword, its craftsmanship rivaling even Sif's own blade.
"My methods are a bit unconventional," Solomon explained, testing the blade's weight. "I understand why you might misunderstand my actions. After all, this generation of Asgardians knows little of the Supreme Sorcerer's legacy. But trust me, you won't regret this."
Sif hesitated. She wasn't easily swayed, but Solomon's cryptic, almost theatrical demeanor gave her pause.
"Fine," she relented, tossing her flask to him. "Drink. If what you're planning is as important as you claim, I don't want you running scared. Take a swig, so you don't freeze up when it counts."
Explosions rumbled in the distance, testing Sif's patience to its breaking point. Every second spent here felt like dereliction of duty, an affront to her warrior's pride. But before she could act, Solomon stood up abruptly.
"Come with me, Lady Sif," he said, striding purposefully toward a nearby pillar. Despite her reservations, Sif followed, curious to see what the enigmatic mage was up to.
"You should've been standing near that pillar," Solomon said, patting the shoulder of a hulking figure facing away from them. The figure wore a rumpled red hoodie, his disheveled hair and beard giving him an unkempt, almost feral appearance. The sour smell of old sweat and spilled beer wafted off him.
Startled, the man jumped and spun around. "Who are you?"
Sif's jaw dropped.
"Thor?" she stammered, looking him up and down in disbelief. Her gaze lingered on the man's protruding belly. "What... what happened to you?"
"I..." Thor—now unmistakably the future Thor—stammered, clearly mortified by her reaction. He made a clumsy attempt to retreat.
"This is Thor from a parallel timeline," Solomon interjected, grabbing hold of the red hoodie's edge with a look of distaste. Using two fingers, he pinched a chocolate-stained patch, careful not to touch the fabric directly. "I made arrangements back in 2012 with Stark, Banner, and Rogers from this timeline's future. We agreed on a plan for the Infinity Stones' return. But none of that matters right now. What's crucial is that this Thor—your future self—has a lot to say."
At that moment, a regal voice interrupted. "I believe he does."
Future Thor shrank visibly as Queen Frigga stepped into view, her serene smile not betraying an ounce of the turmoil she surely felt. She took his hand gently, guiding him forward without resistance. Sif watched the interaction with a mix of curiosity and confusion, trying to reconcile this bedraggled figure with the vibrant Thor she knew.
"So, he's yours now, Your Majesty," Solomon said with a respectful bow. "Our fate still lies ahead—which means there's—"
"—still a chance to change it," Future Thor finished, sniffling. He turned to Solomon, his voice tinged with desperation. "I don't know who you are, but you seem to know a lot. You're from Kamar-Taj, aren't you? Please, I need your—"
"Of course," Solomon interrupted, his tone calm and reassuring. "I'll help. That, after all, is why the Ancient One sent me here."
With that, Solomon stepped back, leaving the stage to those whose futures were most deeply entwined. In his eyes, the threads of destiny shimmered faintly, waiting to be unraveled.
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