The cold dawn in Jotunheim did not bring light—absolute darkness. The sky lightened just enough to see the ice formations stretching to the horizon.
Loki had not slept.
He had spent the night in the ice chamber, trying again and again to force his transformation. Frigga's spell resisted, pulsing with protective magic every time he tried. It was frustrating beyond words.
"You're still doing it wrong," said Hela from where she was reclining on a block of ice, seemingly comfortable despite the temperatures that would kill most beings. "You're trying to break the spell with brute force. Typical."
Loki looked at her with irritation.
"And you suggest what exactly?"
"Trick it," Hela replied with a smile. "You're the God of Trickery, aren't you? Magic responds to intent. If the spell is designed to protect you by forcing you to look Asgardian, then convince it that being in Jotun form is the protection."
Loki blinked. It was… actually brilliant.
Vidar entered the chamber at that moment, carrying something wrapped in cloth.
"The trials begin in one hour," he announced. "And I have something for you."
He unwrapped the cloth, revealing a dagger. It wasn't ostentatious like Asgardian weapons—it was simple, practical, with a dark metal blade that seemed to absorb light.
"It's from Nidavellir," Vidar explained. "Forged specifically to channel magic. I thought it might help you."
Loki took the dagger, feeling it in his hand. It was perfectly balanced, and he could feel his magic flowing naturally through it.
"Thank you," he said genuinely.
"Remember," Vidar added, "these trials aren't just about strength. They're about proving you deserve to be here. And you…" he placed a hand on Loki's shoulder, "you have abilities no other Jotun has. Use them."
The combat arena was a circle of black ice at the center of a natural amphitheater formed by glaciers. Hundreds of Jotuns had gathered to watch—some curious, others clearly hoping to see the "Asgardian prince" fail miserably.
Ymir stood at the center of the arena, his voice echoing across the space.
"The second trial is simple: combat. Loki, son of Laufey—or so you claim—you will face our champion. If you win, you proceed to the final trial. If you lose…"
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
On the other side of the arena, a massive figure emerged. It was a Jotun who easily stood four meters tall, with muscles that looked carved from glaciers. His blue skin was covered in battle scars, and his red eyes glowed with violent anticipation.
"I am Thrym," he roared, his voice like an avalanche. "I have killed hundreds in combat. I have crushed Asgardians with my bare hands. And now, I will crush the small prince pretending to be the heir to my king's throne."
Loki studied him carefully. Thrym was pure brute force—exactly the type of opponent he could not defeat directly.
But Loki had never relied on brute force.
"Very well," Loki said, his voice calmer than he felt. "Let us begin."
Ymir raised his hand.
"LET THE COMBAT BEGIN!"
Thrym lunged forward with surprising speed for his size, his fist the size of Loki's head aimed straight at him.
Loki moved aside at the last second, the fist passing so close he felt the displaced air. He used Thrym's momentum, creating a layer of ice beneath the giant's feet.
Thrym slipped slightly—not enough to fall, but enough to throw him off balance. Loki used that moment to throw his dagger, not at Thrym but at the ground behind him, creating a magical anchor.
Then he vanished.
Not complete invisibility—that would have been obvious. Instead, he created three perfect illusions of himself, all moving in different directions.
Thrym roared in frustration, punching one of the illusions. His fist passed cleanly through it.
"COWARD! FIGHT LIKE A WARRIOR!"
"I am fighting," Loki replied—but his voice came from all four directions at once. "Just intelligently."