Responsibility.
Expectation.
And enemies—ancient, patient, and more than willing to strike before I ever took my place.
Because that was the truth of it.
My life had already been decided.
I would ascend.
I would take my rightful position as Premier Celestial Guardian of Asgard, joining the long-standing order that protected the balance between realms.
It should have been simple.
It should have been inevitable.
But power—real power—never came without cost.
“Yes,” I continued, forcing calm back into my voice, “here, I am Sten. Not Menon Blau. I refuse to be a title. And I will not be a target.”
Here I was still a Monster, but I could also simply exist.
I couldn’t outrun my destiny, but perhaps I could delay it.
Her gaze did not soften.
“It is not the name that draws danger to you,” she said quietly. “It is what you are.”
I almost laughed.
There it was.
Truth, stripped clean.
“I am aware,” I replied.
Too aware.
My power was not subtle.
It never had been.
The moon did not whisper.
It pulled.
It commanded.
It demanded.
Tides shifted when I lost control.
Seasons stuttered.
Magic—everywhere—bent, warped, responded whether I willed it or not.
That was the core of the problem.
