In Asgard, behind the iron celled bars of a cell, a woman sat on the floor of her now so-called prison. Her long black hair flowed down her back, her black and green short dress almost torn, and her face as she buried her face in her knees. Curse those that betrayed her. Her so-called 'father'. Her so-called 'brother'. The Thunder God knew nothing about her the whole time, yet she was raised below him. No wonder she wasn't worthy for queen. Not now, not anytime soon. Never. What she did that brought her here, was the usual. Just 'harmless' pranks. Yet they turned devastating under Loki's influence to destroy Thor. It wasn't exactly her fault to commit such a crime, except she had to. For Loki's sake. That reminded her. Loki, her true older brother, was her leader, always has. He tutored her in magic, showed her how to have 'fun' with it. Half of what he says to her was true, but inside, she knew he was wrong.

Lochila crawled weakly on the stone cold floor of her cell to the plate of food the guards just gave her. There wasn't much, just scraps, again. The dungeon weighed her down, draining her magic. She already felt weak now, boneless. She stopped and weakly collapsed on the floor from her crawling, clearly lacking sleep and strength.