The sound of shattering glass echoed through the devastated throne room as Mjolnir exploded into countless fragments. Each piece hit the scorched stone floor with a crystalline chime before the legendary hammer's eternal glow finally died, leaving behind nothing but ordinary metal scattered like broken dreams.
"This is impossible..."
The word had become Thor's mantra today—a desperate refrain against a reality that seemed determined to strip away everything he'd ever believed in. Every time he thought he'd reached the bottom, that nothing else could surprise or devastate him, the universe delivered another crushing blow to his already shattered worldview.
But how could Mjolnir be destroyed? The mystical hammer had been forged from the heart of a dying star, tempered in the core of Nidavellir's greatest forge. It was more than a weapon—it was a symbol of worthiness, of divine purpose, of everything he'd once been.
Hela's lips curved into a smile that held no warmth, only the cold satisfaction of absolute dominance. In Asgard, surrounded by the realm's mystical energies, her power had no equal. The very foundations of the golden city sang to her will, and even the most legendary artifacts meant nothing before her divine authority.
She found it almost amusing that someone like Thor would mistake a tool for the source of his strength.
"What's wrong?" Hela's voice dripped with contempt as she gestured dismissively at the scattered remains. "Can't function without your precious hammer?"
Sixteen hundred years of exile, and this was what Odin had produced? This pathetic display of dependency on external validation?
Asgard truly was declining with each passing generation.
She studied Thor with the critical eye of a predator evaluating wounded prey. "I honestly don't know what kind of god you're supposed to be. The God of Hammers?"
The mockery in her voice cut deeper than any blade, and Thor felt something fundamental crack inside his chest—not his ribs, but his very sense of identity.
"I've changed my mind," Hela continued, her expression growing colder by the second. "Originally, I considered making you my lieutenant because we share the same royal blood. But now?" She shook her head slowly. "That's no longer necessary."
Her decision to destroy Mjolnir hadn't been impulsive—it had been calculated. If Thor refused to bend the knee willingly, then there was no point in leaving him symbols of hope. Better to crush his spirit entirely, eliminate him as a threat, and clear the path for her true conquest.
Besides, what use was a prince who needed a hammer to feel worthy of his birthright?
"Die."
The death blade materialized in her hand and struck with serpentine speed, piercing Thor's chest with a wet, final sound. The God of Thunder crumpled backward, crimson spreading across his armor as his eyes went wide with shock and pain.
"Thor!" The Warriors Three's anguished cries shattered the momentary silence as their composure finally broke. Their distraction gave Heimdall the opening he needed—dark energy erupted from the corrupted gatekeeper's hands, and shadow-wreathed tendrils knocked all three warriors unconscious before they could react.
"Captain, we have to get him out of here!"
Peter's voice cracked with panic as he stared at Thor's motionless form. This was the first time the young hero had felt death's cold breath so close to his team, the first time he'd truly understood how fragile even gods could be. The sight of crimson pooling beneath Asgard's prince made his stomach lurch and his spider-sense scream warnings about everyone's mortality.
Maybe there was still a chance. Thor's Asgardian physiology was far more resilient than a human's, and the Plumbers' advanced healing serums had worked miracles before. But first, they had to escape with his body, and that meant getting past the Goddess of Death herself.
Without hesitation, Peter raised both arms parallel to his shoulders and activated his wrist-mounted sonic cannons. The devices hummed with building energy, silver-blue light crackling between the emitters as they charged to full power.
This wasn't the weakened version he used for crowd control—knowing they faced Dark Elf magic and divine enemies, Peter had brought the prototype sonic disruptors. The same weapons that could blast through half a meter of reinforced steel with a single pulse.
The air itself seemed to buckle and warp as the sonic wave erupted from his gauntlets. Everything in its path—stone, metal, the very atmosphere—shuddered and cracked under the assault. The distortion was so intense it became visible, a rippling wall of destruction that could turn an ordinary person into paste and leave even the Hulk disoriented for precious minutes.
But Hela simply smiled.
In the space between one heartbeat and the next, she vanished.
The obsidian blur that was the Goddess of Death materialized directly in front of Peter, her slender fingers—deceptively delicate things that could crush mountains—wrapping around his throat. She lifted him effortlessly and slammed him into the shattered floor with enough force to crater the ancient stone.
Peter's strangled gasp echoed through the throne room as consciousness fled.
"Peter!" Steve's voice carried both fury and desperation. If Peter Parker died here, on his watch, Steve couldn't even imagine Ben Parker's reaction. The kid's cousin would probably tear through dimensions themselves to exact vengeance.
But more than that—Steve simply couldn't bear to lose another person under his command.
Hela frowned suddenly, her predator's instincts prickling with warning. Something felt wrong about this entire scenario. She spun around, already suspecting trickery, and confirmed her suspicions—Thor's body had vanished, leaving only a pool of blood to mark where he'd fallen.
Irritation flashed across her features. Someone was playing games with the Goddess of Death, and that kind of audacity demanded immediate punishment.
With a snarl of rage, Hela whirled toward Steve and the fallen Warriors Three, her blade cutting through the air in a deadly arc. But instead of flesh and bone, her weapon passed harmlessly through dark green bubbles that popped like soap. The illusions dissolved to reveal the truth—she'd just struck down her own servants, Heimdall and Sif, who groaned in pain as her blade bit deep.
"How interesting."
Loki stood perhaps thirty meters away, his emerald cape billowing in the supernatural wind that seemed to follow in Hela's wake. Behind him, safely protected by layers of illusion and misdirection, the real rescue team huddled together.
Thor's consciousness floated somewhere between life and death, but through his blurred vision he caught sight of that familiar dark green figure. Even now, even when everything else had been stripped away, Loki was still protecting him.
The realization brought a complicated mix of gratitude and worry. Mjolnir was gone—destroyed as easily as spun glass. Against Hela's overwhelming power, what could Loki possibly do?
With tremendous effort, Thor managed to extend one trembling hand toward his brother. "Run..." he whispered, the word barely audible. "Please..."
"How fascinating," Hela mused, studying Loki with the detached interest of a scientist examining an interesting specimen. "You betrayed Asgard to serve Malekith and led the Dark Elves straight to our gates. So why protect these fools?"
Loki's expression remained carefully neutral, revealing nothing of his true intentions.
"I suppose it doesn't matter," Hela continued with a dismissive shrug. "I'll simply kill you and add you to my army of the dead. A spy among Malekith's forces could prove... useful."
Death blades sprouted from her fingertips like thorns, each one humming with necromantic energy. "Your illusions can't carry them all to safety, brother. This time, there's nowhere to run."
"Perhaps," Loki replied, and for the first time since the confrontation began, he smiled. "But who said anything about running?"
He snapped his fingers with theatrical flair.
The effect was immediate and startling—Thor and the others behind Loki began to dissolve like mirages in the desert wind, their forms scattering into countless motes of light that danced away on an impossible breeze. Even Loki himself wavered and began to fade.
"My Lady," Sif and Heimdall called out as their corrupted bodies slowly regenerated from Hela's accidental strike. They regarded their mistress with barely concealed fear. "What are your orders?"
Hela's jaw clenched with frustration, but she didn't vent her anger on her servants. "Let them go. Loki knows every secret passage and hidden route in Asgard—he's probably already fled the realm entirely."
She turned away with the fluid grace of a hunting cat, her crown of thorns materializing as her power fully manifested. "We have more important matters to attend to. Find their ship and destroy it, then prepare for our march to Niflheim and Helheim."
Her voice carried across the ruined throne room like a funeral dirge. "It's time to gather my true army—the endless dead who hunger for war. The Plumbers and Dark Elves can play their little games for now, but soon enough, all the Nine Realms will kneel before Death herself."
Deep within Asgard's hidden places, in a sanctuary that predated even Odin's reign, Thor jerked awake with a scream that echoed off ancient stone walls. Cold sweat plastered his hair to his forehead as the nightmare's images refused to fade—Asgard in ruins, everyone he'd ever loved lying still and breathless, their accusatory eyes demanding to know why he'd failed them all.
As the God of Thunder, as a prince of Asgard, as a member of the Plumbers—what had he actually accomplished? He was supposed to be a protector, a shield against the darkness, but when it mattered most, he'd been utterly powerless.
"Easy there, Thor." Steve Rogers approached with measured steps, carrying a steaming bowl of broth that smelled of herbs and healing. Behind him, a small fire cast dancing shadows on the walls where the rest of the team had gathered. "You're safe now."
Peter Parker bounced over the moment he saw Thor's eyes focus, words tumbling out in his characteristic rapid-fire delivery. "Oh man, you're awake! We were so worried—that was incredibly close! I seriously thought we were all going to die back there!"
He gestured wildly as he continued. "Lucky for us, Pietro ran into Loki somewhere in the castle. Your brother figured out pretty quick that we were way outclassed, so he grabbed Pietro and used some kind of mass illusion to confuse Hela. Then Pietro zipped around at super speed and got us all out of there before she could figure out what happened."
Peter's expression grew more serious. "We used up all our healing serum on you—and I mean all of them. For a while there, we honestly weren't sure if they'd work on someone with divine physiology. But Wanda had this idea about using the runic charm Ben gave you to jumpstart your life energy. She wasn't sure it would work, but..." He shrugged helplessly. "What else were we going to do?"
Thor's gaze drifted to the campfire where Loki sat in quiet conversation with the others. The sight stirred complex emotions—pride in his brother's growth, gratitude for the rescue, and a bitter understanding of how their roles had reversed. Once, Thor had been the protector. Now Loki was the one with plans and power while Thor lay broken and helpless.
Struggling to his feet despite Steve's concerned protests, Thor caught the tail end of a tense discussion around the fire.
T'Challa sat with regal bearing even on a simple stone, his vibranium-enhanced eyes reflecting the firelight as he studied Loki with obvious suspicion. "What exactly did Hela mean when she called you Malekith's man? Have you betrayed the Plumbers?"
The accusation hung in the air like a blade, and Thor felt his heart skip a beat. Surely Loki wouldn't—couldn't—have actually turned traitor?
"If that were true," Loki replied with infuriating calm, "then why would I risk everything to save you?"
His tone carried just a hint of wounded pride, as if the very question insulted him. "Obviously, I infiltrated Malekith's forces as a spy. His plan threatens the entire Nine Realms—someone had to monitor his movements from the inside."
Loki's expression darkened as he continued. "Though I must admit, I never anticipated having a psychotic older sister. Even Father didn't see that particular knife coming."
"How did you know to find us?" Peter asked, relief evident in his voice. Without Loki's intervention, they'd all be decorating Hela's throne room by now.
"Communication with Plumber Command has been impossible while maintaining my cover with Malekith," Loki explained, his eyes finding Thor's across the space between them. "But I reasoned that such a dramatic shift in Asgard's situation would prompt some kind of response, so I've been monitoring likely insertion points."
An awkward silence stretched between the brothers—too much history, too many complicated feelings, all compressed into a moment of uncertain reunion.
Finally, Thor managed a weak smile. "I have to admit, it feels strange when you're not mocking me for something."
Loki's answering smile held genuine warmth. "Give me time—I'm sure I'll think of something."
The ice broken, Thor stepped forward and pulled his brother into a fierce embrace. "Regardless of everything else, I'm glad to see you, Loki."
They settled by the fire, maintaining a careful distance that spoke to years of complicated brotherhood, but the tension had eased somewhat.
William Baker spoke up from where he'd been silently brooding, his sandy features creased with worry. "So what's our play here? Hela's got our ship, we're stuck in a hostile realm, and..." He gestured helplessly at their surroundings.
Since joining the Plumbers, Baker's entire life had transformed. His daughter received the medical care she needed, his wife had given him a second chance, and for the first time in years, he could look at himself in the mirror without shame. His little girl could tell her friends that her father was a superhero with the Thunderbolts, not an ex-convict with a string of failed heists.
He wasn't about to let that new life slip away in some space war zone.
"I know passages that could get us off Asgard," Loki offered carefully, "but I can't guarantee where we'd end up. The realm's mystical geography has been... disrupted."
"What about waiting for backup?" Peter suggested with characteristic optimism.
Steve shook his head grimly. "Earth's forces are already stretched thin dealing with the aftermath of Ultron. If rescue comes, it'll have to be from Plumber Command."
"Which brings us to another problem," Loki added. "I need to report what I've learned about Malekith's true intentions. This attack on Asgard was just the beginning."
Thor forced himself to straighten, trying to summon some semblance of his old confidence. "Then maybe while we wait, we should see if there are any other survivors we can help—"
"No, Thor." Steve's hand fell heavily on his shoulder, the gesture both supportive and restraining. "While you were unconscious, Pietro scouted the entire realm. Everyone—and I mean everyone—has been converted into Hela's death warriors."
The color drained from Thor's face as the full scope of the catastrophe hit him. Every Asgardian citizen, every palace guard, every friend and acquaintance he'd known for over a millennium—all of them were now enslaved to his sister's will.
"Yeah," he whispered hoarsely, licking his dry lips. "I should have realized..." He trailed off, unable to complete the thought, then abruptly changed subjects. "How are you holding up, Loki? It can't be easy, maintaining deep cover with Malekith."
Loki's expression grew thoughtful, and when he spoke, there was an edge of frustration beneath his controlled tone. "He trusts me just enough to be useful, but not enough to share his real plans. Case in point—while we're sitting here, he's sent me on what amounts to a fool's errand."
In a realm where eternal spring painted every surface in vibrant greens and golds, where the very air seemed to shimmer with life and magic, Loki sat perched on a crystal-bark tree that sang gentle melodies in the wind. Vanaheim was everything Asgard had once been—peaceful, beautiful, untouched by war.
"Don't let it trouble you so much, my son." Frigga materialized beside him with the serene grace she'd possessed in life, settling onto an adjacent branch as if they were simply having tea in the palace gardens. Her ghostly fingers stroked his hair with maternal gentleness. "This could be an opportunity to minimize the damage to Vanaheim."
"That's not the point, Mother." Loki's jaw tightened with suppressed anger. "Malekith doesn't trust me, despite watching Father die right in front of him. He's split our forces—sent that creature Psyphon off on some separate mission while tasking me with conquering Vanaheim."
He gestured at the pristine landscape around them, his voice growing bitter. "He wants to use my 'untainted' reputation to make the Vanir lower their guard, make this conquest easier. But while I'm playing the dutiful general here, and Psyphon is attacking Nidavellir, what is Malekith really doing?"
The question hung in the perfumed air like a storm cloud, heavy with implications and dread. Whatever the Dark Elf king's true objective, Loki was increasingly certain that the visible attacks were merely distractions from something far more sinister.