Summer looks up from her book and freezes. “You … aren’t Flyte.” To that self-evident remark, eyebrows high on her face, she adds, “Who are you?”
He hums at her with a small nod. “You are correct with that now. As for who I am,” He grins at her, showing all his teeth as he does, “you may have heard of him refer me as Jotun in the past or Raven more recently.”
“I don’t think — oh! You’re Aleyna’s Loki. The one he wants to light up like a Christmas tree. Huh.” Summer studies him. More feral-looking than Flyte. The hair seems shorter, more ill-kempt. And there’s no possible way to mistake them from the inside. “Raven.”