The first impact was a terrible, rolling force. Frost Giants came like cliffs, each step a small quake that cracked older ice into dust. A spear-head the size of a tree slammed through the air toward the line; Harry met it with a sweep of one of his lightning tails as it solidified into a blade at his will. The tail met wood and iron and a spray of blue-white sparks burst like a star struck in half. The thing shattered; the giant staggered.
Harry was in the middle of it—wings beating a thunder that made the ground thrum beneath his feet—punching with the kind of power that belonged to storms. His fists sent giants rolling like rag dolls; a blow lifted one clear off its feet and sent it crashing through a wall of ice where it lay stunned.
Around him, men screamed and roared; the air filled with the clashing of iron, the cracking of bone, the savage, raw sound of combat. The miners—rough, untrained and brave—slashed as much as they could. The dwarves moved like knives, quick and clever, cutting tendons and finding gaps in armor that would have swallowed an ordinary blade.
One of the giants went for a miner at his flank. Harry moved like a lightning strike: wings unfurled and pushed him forward in a gust that toppled the giant's balance. The two lightning tails whipped out, turned to hooks and yanked the giant off its feet; one tail became a bar, levering the beast onto its side so a dwarf could finish it with a quick blow.
But the Frost Giants were not fools. They fought with a brutal cunning: icicle-spears that exploded into frost fog, clubs that struck with the force to crush an iron plow. The ground ran with bright blue blood and the air smelled of old iron and the cold red howl of pain. One giant, taller than the rest, moved through the fight like a living glacier, and when it swung its club it knocked three men down in a single arc.
Harry took a blow across his shoulder that spun him half-around, breath leaving him in a white bloom. The armor singed and held, a runic seam flaring bright as it took the stress. He staggered, but his hands found a great spike of Uru-Prime jutting from the ice; he drove it like a spike into the ribs of the nearest giant. The metal burned into giant flesh with a hiss that steamed into the air.
Close by, the captain fell—struck clean through. Harry dove, caught the man's head under his arm and threw him behind a slab of ice. The man coughed, spat blood and grinned at Harry with a wild, fierce light. "You called me brave," he rasped. "You weren't wrong."
Harry felt something like a tide inside him—some fierce, connected thing. He wouldn't let them down.
"Advance!" he shouted, hoarse and high. "Break their line—push them to the ridge!"
They pushed. The clash rolled forward like a wave. Lightning from his wings laced the fronts of their ranks and the tails bit with the precision of blades. Men who had been barely more than miners found a rhythm, met and matched the fury of frost-forged fists.
And all the while, over the roar, Harry heard it: the deep baying of the Frost Giants' warhorns, the cry of their leader carrying across the plain like a threat. He knew then that this was not a random raid; it was the opening stroke of a larger plan. The moon had answers yet beneath its skin, and those answers were worth the blood it wished to take.
Harry drove himself harder. He felt the armor shift beneath his skin—one wing feathered into a shield that caught an arcing club; a tail expanded into a net and dragged down a giant's legs so three men could pull it down. He moved like a storm that had been given form.
The tide kept turning and turning—men fell and were carried off by medics in fur cloaks; giants toppled and did not rise. The plain was carved in a hundred new shapes.
By the time the first pale light of that cold sun started to smear the horizon, the field quieted into a breathing, broken thing. The giants that remained slunk away like shadows do when the light becomes too bright. The leader—taller, black-blooded, brandishing rune-carved ice—stood and fixed Harry with a look that promised this was not finished. Then, with a promise like a curse, he turned and led what remained of his force into the blue.
Harry stood in the aftermath—armor simmering like captured dawn—chest heaving, hands stained the color of Uru-Prime. Men came to him from the line: dwarves bent and clapped him on the shoulder.
"You called us brave," the captain said again, voice lower now, steadier. "I'd follow that call anywhere."
Harry looked at the ruined ice, the men who had survived, the tent still smoking at its edges. He had not lied. He had not fled. He had led.
Behind him, where the ridge cut into the dark, Harry could see, like a bruise on the sky, the distant rise of more shapes. The leader's shadow had promised more. This victory was a wound, and a bell tolling the name of a war to come.
He folded the wings in slowly. The armor hummed and the tails slackened like ropes. He could feel the ache in his bones and a thin, stubborn pride.
"Gather the wounded," he told his captains. "We hold what we've dug. We bury the dead with fire and song. And we send word—tell Thor and Odin what we faced. They must know the cost."
They moved at his words—grim, loyal. The moon was quiet now, but the quiet had teeth.
Harry sat down on a shattered block of Uru-Prime and let the cold bite at him. He did not wince. The tent stood, the forge still smoldered. Around him people sang a low, battered hymn; the dwarves started a soft, melancholy tune that the miners picked up as they wrapped their dead and tended the wounded.
Above all, Harry heard the faint, far-off note of Odin's pageantry, the thin, urgent thread that tied one world to another. The war had begun in truth—no consultation, no grand speech—just a field of ice and thawed blood.
He rubbed his hands over the runes on his gauntlets and murmured, almost to himself, "This armor will never be for show."
A dwarf put an oilcloth on his shoulder and grunted, "Good. It's for fighting, then. Make sure it stays that way."
Harry looked up at the glittering sky and thought of Midgard—of Draco and Hermione, of Highland Manor and the Shrieking Shack, of the theatre bright with a film they'd created. He thought of the Cerberus, of Hagrid, and of the promises he'd made.
Somewhere in the blue gloom, a giant's war-horn died away. On his lips there was not triumph but a steady, cold resolve.
They had taught the Frost Giants a lesson tonight. The lesson would be remembered—but Laufey would remember, too.
The night after the battle, the cold returned, sharper than before. The campfire light flickered on the snow, and the air smelled of oil, blood, and fear. The miners worked quietly; the dwarves whispered in their strange, ancient tongue. For the first time since arriving on the Jotunheim moon, no one sang.
Harry stood apart from the others, on a rise of ice that overlooked the valley. From there, he could see the broken line where the Frost Giants had struck and retreated. The snow was still discolored with blue blood. His armor shimmered faintly with residual power, the runes humming low in the silence.
He could feel it.
That attack was too organized to be a raid.
King Laufey hadn't sent scouts or thieves. He had sent a message.
Harry's eyes narrowed. "This isn't over," he murmured.
Later, inside the quiet warmth of his tent, Harry sat cross-legged by the flickering light of a rune-lamp. He had cleaned his armor, polished his tools, and tried to rest — but his mind refused.
He reached out to the air, conjuring a faint ember of crimson light between his fingers. It pulsed, unstable, shifting from red to black to gold and back again. It was beautiful — and terrifying.
Chaos Magic.
It had been his mother's gift — or her curse. Wanda Maximoff had taught him to control it, to fear it, to respect its nature as both creation and destruction bound in one.
But even now, years later, the memory of her voice echoed in his mind:
"Harry, Chaos is not a spell. It's not something you cast. It's something you are.
You don't wield it — you let it flow, and you hope it doesn't consume you in return."
He clenched his fist, snuffing the light. The air around him shuddered, and the runes on the walls flickered once before steadying.
If things got worse, if the Giants came again in greater numbers — he would have no choice.
He would have to use it.
But Chaos was not loyal. Once unleashed, it didn't distinguish between friend or foe.
It devoured. It balanced.
And Harry had seen what balance meant to Chaos.
He looked down at his hands, remembering the stories — the Scarlet Witch turning a mountain to dust, bending reality until even gods trembled.
"I can't…" he whispered. "Not unless I have to."
The words echoed hollowly against the silk walls of the tent. The moon outside groaned with the sound of distant ice cracking. It felt like the world was listening.
The Bifrost's light faded, and the cold of Jotunheim struck like a spear.
Thor exhaled, and frost bloomed in the air.
He shivered despite his thick Asgardian furs, the ground beneath him groaning with every step he took on the frozen plain.
Beside him, Loki walked lightly, hands clasped behind his back, unfazed by the cold or the sight of jagged spires of blue ice stretching toward the pale sky.
Thor glanced sideways, teeth clenched. "You've woven some trick to keep yourself warm, haven't you?"
Loki's grin was a flash of teeth. "Trick? No, brother. Perhaps Jotunheim simply welcomes me more kindly than it does you."
Thor frowned but said nothing. The thought unsettled him, as it always did — how Loki moved so easily through places that made others wary.
They were escorted by a silent company of Frost Giant guards through a canyon of ice.
At its end loomed Laufey's palace, a cathedral of frozen spires, its walls veined with dark blue crystal that pulsed faintly like veins beneath skin. The doors, carved from glaciers older than Midgard's mountains, opened without a sound.
Inside, the cold was worse. It crept under armor and into bones. Thor's breath came in visible clouds. But Loki stood relaxed, pale hands folded at his waist, emerald cloak fluttering in the drafts. To him, this place felt… oddly familiar.
"Do you feel that?" Loki murmured. "The air hums. This palace is alive with old magic."
"I feel nothing but the cold," Thor muttered.
A deep voice cut through their exchange.
"Then feel fear instead."
The throne ahead shimmered, and King Laufey rose — tall, terrible, and impossibly still. His skin was a deep shade of blue, etched with ancient sigils that glowed faintly. His red eyes burned with amusement and disdain.
"So," Laufey said, his tone curling like smoke, "the All-Father sends children to steal what belongs to me."
Thor's jaw tightened. "We came to speak of peace, Laufey, not to steal."
Laufey's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Peace? You mine our moon. You dig into our bones and call it peace?"
Loki stepped forward slightly, voice calm. "The All-Father offered fair tribute for what was found. Twenty percent of the ore mined—"
"Twenty percent?" Laufey roared. "Do you think we are beggars waiting for scraps from your shining table? That I should thank Odin for pillaging my skies?"
His hand slammed against his throne, and frost crept outward across the floor in jagged streaks. "Your father's arrogance has no end."
Thor's hand went to Mjölnir's handle. "Mind your words, Laufey."
Laufey's eyes glinted. "Or what? Will the thunder god strike me down in my own hall?"
Before Thor could answer, Laufey leaned forward, lips curling.
"You should know, little princes — while you stand here, so far from home, my soldiers march. Even now they carve through your miners. Perhaps by now, your camp burns and your men lie frozen beneath their own blood."
Thor froze. "What—?"
Loki's expression flickered. "You sent men to our camp?"
Laufey smiled, slow and cruel. "I sent justice."
Thor's grip on Mjölnir tightened until his knuckles whitened. "You'll pay for this, Laufey."
Guards stepped forward, weapons drawn — spears glinting with blue fire.
The throne room darkened as frost thickened across the walls, sealing exits in sheets of ice.
"You will not leave Jotunheim alive," Laufey said, rising from his throne. "I will hang your heads in my hall and send your bodies back to Odin in shards."
Thor's temper snapped. "Enough!"
He hurled Mjölnir.
The hammer struck the great door in an explosion of thunder and flame, blasting it from its icy hinges. Shards of ice rained down as Loki grabbed his brother by the arm.
"Now, you oaf!" Loki hissed.
They sprinted through the collapsing corridors, frost giants bellowing behind them.
Bolts of blue energy streaked past as Loki flung his hand back, conjuring illusions — ten Thors, twenty — scattering through the hallways. The giants struck at shadows as the real brothers burst into the open, the freezing wind slashing at their faces.
At the cliff's edge, Thor raised Mjölnir high, lightning cracking the dark sky.
"Bifrost!" he roared.
The rainbow bridge split the heavens, slamming down like salvation.
As the giants closed in, the light enveloped them both — and the last thing Loki saw before vanishing was Laufey's cold, smiling face, his crimson eyes gleaming with victory.
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