Chapter 71 : Brothers Aligned by Frost
New York, Midtown Manhattan, 4:46 AM – Loki's POV
The ruins around me were exactly what I expected from Midgard: forgotten structures, sagging under their own irrelevance. Mortals abandoned places the moment they stopped being useful; their world aged gracelessly, without memory or reverence. A fitting stage, I supposed, for work they were never meant to witness—or comprehend.
I drew a measured breath and lifted my hands.
The first gesture carved a thin arc through the air, leaving behind a pale shimmer. Old symbols, older than anything crafted on this realm. My fingers traced the second symbol—precise, angled, purposeful—and the ground answered with a faint tremor. Not obedience. Merely recognition.
The artifact weighed against my wrist, its cold metal pulsing in rhythm with the ritual. Jotun-made. Raw power condensed into a form mortals would mistake for ornament. Even for me, channeling it required care.
And it still wasn't enough.
A clean opening to Svartljokull demanded far more force than my current state offered—far more than the artifact could compensate for. Odin would call it folly. Thor would smirk, dismiss it as "typical Loki ambition."
I felt the old irritation rise, sharp and familiar.
Thor wandered this realm as Donald Blake—softened, reduced, laughably mortal—yet still basking in the ease of unearned favor. I intended to correct that imbalance. Let Hrimthul shatter this fragile shell while no thread led back to me. Let fate do the cutting. I would simply… shape the aftermath.
And then, once the creature served its purpose, I would take its life myself.
A hero reborn from the ashes of a disaster no one could trace. The story practically begged for me to write it.
But first, the door.
I pressed my palms toward the cracked asphalt. The symbols unfurled from my fingertips in curling streams of green light, sinking into the earth with a soundless ripple. The air thickened instantly, as if rejecting the ritual outright. Of course it would—Midgard always resisted what it couldn't understand.
Then the first fracture formed.
A narrow seam split the air in front of me, trembling under its own instability. Not open. Not functional. Just… present.
I clicked my tongue softly.
"For once, cooperate."
Forcing it was dangerous, even with the jotun artifact amplifying every thread of power I fed into the ritual. Svartljokull was not a polite realm; its thresholds did not yield to half-measures.
I pushed harder.
The seam widened by a finger's breadth. Light shimmered inside—blue, then silver, then colder than either. A breath of air slipped through the gap and brushed my skin.
My hand froze.
Not mortal cold. Not seasonal, not atmospheric. Something older. A chill that slid beneath flesh and memory alike, indifferent to anything living. It crept up my arms, slow and deliberate.
Good. Expected. Necessary.
I grounded my feet, gravel crunching under my boots, and forced the gesture again. The runes surrounding the fracture pulsed in uneven rhythm. The artifact strained against my wrist, its temperature dropping sharply as I channeled more power through it.
Another inch.
The cold poured through faster now, layering itself over the space like an invisible frost. Filaments of ice traced the edges of the fracture, spreading outward in delicate, branching veins. Light swirled inside the gap—thin auroras trapped in a crack too narrow to hold them.
Sweat slid down my spine despite the chill.
Almost.
The ritual demanded one final push—more than the artifact wanted to give, more than my current reserves made comfortable. Pride flared in my chest, steadying me. I would not let this realm, or this ritual, or the ghost of Odin's doubts dictate my limits.
I thrust my hand forward, palm flat, and forced my will through the fracture.
Space cracked.
A crystalline note rippled outward, soft and violent all at once. The rupture tore open another inch, edges flickering like jagged teeth trying to snap shut. The cold surged through the opening in a continuous, merciless wave. My cloak snapped against my leg.
There it was.
The breach had begun.
Imperfect. Unstable. But real.
The air dimmed around me, as if the world itself was recoiling. Power drained from my arms in slow, burning threads. Fatigue pulled at the edges of my focus, but beneath it—beneath the strain, the frost, the trembling light—
A thin ribbon of triumph curled through my chest.
And yet, it was not enough. The fracture yawned before me, small, trembling, a promise unfulfilled. Svartljokull was impatient. Hrimthul waited. I could feel the raw presence pressing, impatient to spill over into Midgard. I exhaled slowly, straightening my posture, and let my hands trace the final sequence, each movement deliberate, ritualized, precise.
The artifact strained against my grip. I pushed it further. Not arrogance—necessity. The power channeled through it was immense, ancient, and yet even that was insufficient for the control I craved. A jolt of irritation surged: mortals, Thor, Odin, this world itself, all so utterly fragile. So predictable. So irrelevant.
And still, I forced the breach.
The air trembled, a pulse that ran beneath the bones of the city itself. The first wave of cold—existential, primordial—spilled outward. It was not the chill of winter, nor the bite of mountain air. It was older, deeper, indifferent to flesh, to thought, to life. The streets of Midgard seemed to shrink beneath it, the early light glinting on the silver-blue frost curling along broken concrete and abandoned steel.
The fracture widened, pulsating now with light that shifted between pale azure and muted silver, a heartbeat visible in the darkness between buildings. The air itself groaned, stretched, snapped—fissures running through space as if reality were hesitating to endure the intrusion.
And then the fragments came.
The first shards of Hrimthul erupted through the opening—slender, jagged, alive. Each fragment moved with intent, instinctive, aggressive. Ice and shadow fused, edges sharp enough to cleave the air, but animated with a dangerous sentience. They struck the streets, ricocheted off walls, scattering into the deserted avenues with a predator's purpose.
I did not flinch. I could not. Fascination wove itself with caution, a tension coiled through my limbs. My magic had delivered them, yes—but I did not contain them. I had opened the door, not controlled what came through. A shiver of exhaustion ran down my spine, more than fatigue—it was the subtle burn of pushing the ritual beyond safe limits, even for one such as I.
Every breath was effort. Every pulse of power through the artifact pulled at muscles, sinews, and mind alike. And yet, the calculation ran constant, unbroken. The avatar could strike Thor, the mortal Thor, Donald Blake, untraceable to me. Hrimthul's destructive instinct served my purpose, a blade I could wield indirectly. And once it had done its work, I would step forward, decisive, the vanquisher. Hero. Legitimized. Ascendant.
The shards continued their dispersal, glinting, sliding through the streets like frozen, breathing shards of predation. I observed, noting angles, trajectories, the imperfection of their patterning, the traces of the breach's instability. They were untethered from my full control. That was the price—and I welcomed it. Risk had a value, as did precision, as did planning.
My mind raced through contingencies. If one fragment faltered, if it failed to find its mark… adjustments were possible. Calculations, variables, probabilities. Thor had no inkling. Odin would never comprehend. And yet—an edge of caution curled under the triumphant pulse in my chest. Chaos, by nature, was unwieldy. Even brilliance must respect the weight of it.
I forced another gesture, tracing symbols that wove through the air like silver threads, reinforcing the fracture just enough to hold its form. The light pulsed brighter with each deliberate movement, cold radiance spilling into the alleys, painting every abandoned wall with streaks of steel and frost. The air snapped audibly, fine cracks racing along the invisible seams of reality.
A current of exhilaration passed through me, quick and sharp, bound to the awareness of the risk. Triumph and apprehension intertwined, an inseparable knot. The breach was alive, half-open, humming with a frozen promise of destruction. The fragments moved, eager, unpredictable, and I—Loki, master of design and deception—was the only one who understood the plan threading through this chaos.
And yet… I was not untouchable. Not omnipotent. The primal cold pressed in from the fracture, indifferent to intent, immune to cunning. Every instinct whispered that I had crossed a threshold. A point of no return.
Still, I allowed the faintest, almost imperceptible smile. Calculated. Controlled. Satisfied, even as the shadow of caution lingered.
I had begun. The fracture breathed. The shards roamed. And I—Loki—stood poised between triumph and peril, exhilaration tempered by the awareness that what I had released could very well escape even my grasp.
New York, Manhattan, 6:18 AM – Thor's POV
The air struck me before my eyes even opened—sharp, cold, intrusive. Not the kind of chill Earth usually offered at dawn. This one pressed straight through skin and bone, testing the strength beneath. My fingers tingled, stiffening on instinct as the cold ran along my nerves. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
I forced myself upright, muscles tightening, senses flaring in ways they hadn't since I regained what I truly am. This wasn't Earth's winter, nor the simple bite of a city morning. It was older—carrying the weight of Midgard's forgotten stories, brushing against me as if it sensed the god beneath Donald Blake's skin. A low tension knotted in my stomach. Irritation. Instinct.
I didn't know the source yet. Only that it wanted to be felt.
When my feet hit the floor, a faint vibration traveled through it—subtle, but not natural. The air carried a metallic sting, frost and something twisted beneath it. Three steps brought me to the window.
Frost clawed jagged patterns across the glass, irregular and deliberate. Outside, shadows stretched unnaturally long, bending with a smoothness that defied Earth's early sun. The cold crept under my skin, whispering like it expected a response.
I clenched my jaw. Donald Blake might be the face I wear here, but I still recognize the touch of magic, even when it arrives warped or distant. This was not Asgardian. Not Midgardian either. Something colder. Something ancient, reaching through the cracks of the world.
A shiver ran down my spine—not fear, not pain, but recognition. My body reacting before my thoughts caught up. A warning.
Time to move.
I grabbed my coat—habit more than need—and felt the familiar weight beneath the mortal façade, the hum of strength in my muscles, the readiness threaded through every reflex. My disguise might let me walk unnoticed on Earth, but it did nothing to diminish what lay underneath. Thor was awake now, no matter the shape.
My fingers twitched with the urge to summon the storm, to steady Midgard with raw certainty. But instinct pushed for patience first. Observe. Understand. Then act.
Outside, the street was still quiet. Dawn threw pale light onto glass and steel, hesitant and thin. Wind rolled scraps of paper along the pavement, spinning them like drifting spirits. Frost clung where it shouldn't have formed, ridges curling outward as if recoiling from something unseen pushing into this realm.
I stepped beyond the doorway. My boots cracked thin sheets of ice that hadn't existed last night. The cold wrapped around me like it possessed intent—pressing at nerves, studying the edges of my mortal shape. But it found nothing fragile. Beneath the surface, the god was alert, calculating, fully present on Midgard again.
I started walking. Slow at first, deliberate. Every block I crossed tightened the tension in the air. I could feel it tugging, pulling the city's breath out of rhythm. A break somewhere. A wound forming.
My gaze swept everything—traffic lights, windows, the angle of shadows, the faint distortion in the air. Earth's mortals moved unaware, untouched by forces that twisted reality just beyond their senses. For now, that was good. That gave me time.
The cold deepened as I walked, threading through lungs and nerves, but sharpening my focus. Whatever pressed against Midgard's boundary was powerful enough to warp the air itself.
Then I felt it.
My jaw tightened. Whatever awaited me ahead had no place on Earth.
And I would confront it.
Street after street, the frost glimmered like scattered warnings. Shadows bent strangely. Every instinct, every fiber of my being whispered the same truth:
A breach is open.
A threat has crossed the threshold.
Move.
I exhaled slowly, fists tightening as I advanced through the silent morning.
Earth trembled.
Midgard shifted.
And I was already walking toward the storm.