Loki walked with a light step, hands clasped behind his back, eyes gleaming with mischief. He surveyed the room like a conductor after the first promising note of a symphony. The boys, now all transformed into sublime versions of themselves, formed a parterre of unexpected elegance. Perfectly tailored tuxedos, sculpted bodies, confident demeanors. The god seemed pleased.
He stopped in the center of the room and raised a hand.
— "Magnificent… You are simply magnificent," he said in a delighted, almost tender tone. "But, my dears, this enhancement is only the first step. Now we must discover which among you deserves to… stand out."
Every gaze fixed even more intently on him, if that was possible. A murmur rippled through the group. Loki’s smile widened, savoring their attention.
— "Contests. That’s what I propose. Little games to distinguish the most brilliant. Each time, one or more winners. And a reward of my choosing."
He raised a finger.
— "Always beneficial, always flattering. A little personal gift to shine just a bit brighter."
A silence fell—curious, tense.
— "And… from time to time, let’s say, I’ll add a penalty for the losers. Nothing too cruel, rest assured. But it’ll encourage you to take the games seriously." He winked. "The first game has no penalty. Just a warm-up."
With a snap of his fingers, a small card appeared, like a game show host’s cue card, floating above his palm. It unfolded in mid-air to become a translucent panel. Three names appeared on it. Matthias read his own, followed by two boys he only vaguely recognized: Antoine and Idriss.
— "Come join me," Loki said, tapping the floor lightly with the toe of his shoe.
The three boys stepped forward, hesitant. Matthias still felt the tension of his new body—the weight of his chest, the diffuse warmth in his muscular legs. He stood tall without even trying, chin raised, but he didn’t feel at ease. Loki’s gaze worried him. It wasn’t malicious—no, there was something else. A dangerous playfulness, the thrill of toying with others like puppets.
— "First game: a miming contest. One after the other, you’ll imitate an animal of your choice. No talking allowed. You must get this charming audience…" he gestured to the other students, "…to guess your animal as quickly as possible. Thirty seconds per turn. The fastest win."
Antoine went first. He mimed a lion: silent roars, imaginary paws, head swaying. Guessed in twenty-three seconds.
Idriss chose a kangaroo. He bounced, curled his arms, pretended to carry a joey in a pouch. Fifteen seconds. Laughter in the audience.
Then it was Matthias’s turn. He hesitated. Then, a sudden burst of inspiration took him. He stood tall, slowly opened his arms as if forming an invisible fan. Took a step, spun gently, puffed out his chest, tilted his head. A graceful flick of the wrist, a slow, majestic wave of his arms.
— "A peacock!" someone shouted.
Seven seconds.
Applause erupted. Loki clapped his hands, delighted.
— "Splendid! The peacock… emblem of radiant vanity and majesty. An excellent choice, beautifully performed. You win, Matthias. And here is what I offer you."
He stepped up to him, placed his hands on Matthias’s shoulders, and began to knead them firmly, pressing deeper with each pass.
— "I shall grant you wings. But not just any wings. Angel wings. Vast, white, powerful… and perfectly integrated into your being."
Matthias opened his mouth to ask a question, but Loki murmured:
— "Just let it come. Feel it."
At first, it was a strange warmth, localized between his shoulder blades. Not burning, but deep, like a contained fever. Then the warmth sank beneath the skin, threading through muscles, into the bone. Matthias felt a growing pressure, as if something inside him was unfolding. It became hard to breathe, but not painful—more like his body was expanding from within.
A tension emerged, two precise spots on his upper back. The skin there tightened, vibrated… then began to stretch. Slowly, progressively. He gasped. A mix of tingling, deep buzzing, waves of heat pulsed through his back. His body responded: his shoulder blades seemed to shift, rotate. It felt like limbs were emerging—not being grafted on, but pushing outward from within.
And then, with a nearly silent breath… the wings unfurled.
They emerged slowly, majestically. At first, translucent—like sketches made of light—they gradually took form. Feathers appeared one by one, long and delicate, a milky white with hints of blue and gold shimmer, like nacre. They spread in a slow, breathing motion, bleaching pure white in the light.
The weight? Strangely light. As if his back had adapted in real time. He could feel them—every feather, every muscle, every joint—but it was natural. Instinctive. They were him.
He stepped forward. The wings followed, perfectly coordinated, adjusting his balance. He folded them, slowly, and sensed how they tucked in close to his body. Not like an object, but like a flexible, living extension of himself. Loki spoke again:
— "Fold them."
Matthias did so, as if he’d always known how. And then… they vanished. Or rather: they retracted into his back. Not a wrinkle, not a trace beneath the fabric. His tuxedo remained perfectly fitted, uncreased. Loki smiled, satisfied.
— "Magic. When folded, they don’t exist in physical space. No thickness. No discomfort. You can sit, dance, dress normally."
Then he snapped his fingers, and the wings flared out again, passing through the tuxedo without damaging it. The suit remained flawless, as if the wings were an illusion perfectly stitched into reality.
— "They pass through clothes without ever harming them. They’re yours. You can summon or hide them at will. They obey your command. And… they are strong. You could fly, if you wanted."
Matthias, silent, slowly opened and closed the wings. He felt their strength. They seemed both light and infinitely solid. He could move them with strange precision. Like having two extra arms—natural ones.
Around him, the other boys watched with fascination. Not jealousy, but a flicker of envy. It was a game. And Matthias had won.
Loki, delighted, twirled on the spot.
— "No penalty this time, gentlemen! Now we move on to the next game. And as the winner, Matthias, you may choose to take part—at your own risk! This one might come with consequences…"
He grinned—charmingly sinister.
— "So get ready."