For 50 + advance chapter: patreon.com/Snowing_Melody
Asgard. The Queen's Chambers.
The golden doors clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the court. The room smelled of lavender and ancient parchment.
"So," Hermione asked, leaning against a pillar of white marble. "Where is the real Odin?"
Frigga walked to the window, looking out over the golden city. Her shoulders, usually held high with regal grace, slumped slightly.
"Odin..." Frigga sighed softly, her voice barely a whisper. "His days are numbered."
Even the All-Father, the Lord of the Aesir, could not outrun time.
Hermione nodded slowly. She understood the cosmic balance. With Odin's power waning, the wards protecting the Nine Realms were fracturing.
"The Odinforce within him is draining away rapidly," Frigga explained, tracing the pattern on the windowsill. "This is not just about his physical aging. It means... the seals are breaking. He is about to lose control of Hela."
The name hung in the air like a curse.
Hela. The Goddess of Death. Odin's firstborn. The Executioner.
Hermione's eyes narrowed. She knew the history. If Hela returned, Asgard would drown in blood.
Frigga turned to Hermione, her eyes honest and sincere.
"Rather than letting him exhaust his last bit of strength to maintain a crumbling facade—waiting for Hela to break free while he is too weak to stop her—it was better to accept the inevitable."
"I didn't do as you suggested, Hermione," Frigga confessed. "I didn't let Loki use magic to bewitch him. I didn't need to."
"I spoke directly with Odin. As his wife. I persuaded him to lay down the burdens of Asgard. To go into exile. To spend his final days in peace, watching the sunset."
She smiled sadly. "He agreed. He is tired, Hermione. He is so very tired."
Hermione was surprised. She had expected a coup, a magical usurpation. Instead, she found a family tragedy managed by a pragmatic matriarch.
Frigga was the true steel of Asgard. With her husband dying and her banished daughter scratching at the door, she chose to support her adopted son—the Trickster—because he was the only card she had left to play.
"Loki may have many flaws," Frigga said, her expression complicated as she thought of her wayward son. "He is vain, he is petty, and he craves validation. But he has the ambition to rule. He is willing to learn the burden of the throne. It's better to have me guiding him from the shadows than to force Thor—a child who loves war but hates governance—to bear a crown he does not want."
Hermione nodded in agreement.
Thor was a warrior. A hammer. You don't use a hammer to sign treaties or manage economies.
Loki, for all his villainy, was a bureaucrat at heart. He loved the game. With Frigga holding his leash, he might actually keep the trains running on time.
"So, the way he acted just now..." Hermione recalled 'Odin's' overly enthusiastic, almost sycophantic greeting in the Great Hall.
Frigga laughed, a genuine, bell-like sound. "He's not quite used to playing Odin's majesty yet. But mostly? He is terrified of you."
"He remembers New York," Frigga smirked. "He knows what you did to his army. Standing in front of the 'Dark Witch' while wearing his father's face... he was nervous."
"And…" Frigga added, her eyes twinkling. "I can sense that he truly considers you a friend. In his own twisted way. You are the only one who sees him for what he is and doesn't try to lock him up."
Hermione thought for a moment.
True. Among all the gods and heroes, Little Tom (Loki) was the one she could drop the mask with. They were both liars. They both played 5D chess while everyone else played checkers.
"Luna was almost the same," Hermione mused.
The Bifrost.
Thor was waiting at the end of the broken bridge, swinging Mjolnir by its strap. He looked like a restless golden retriever waiting for a walk.
"What did Mother say to you?" Thor asked, his brow furrowed.
"Just girl talk. Something about your father's health and making sure he eats his vegetables," Hermione replied casually.
Thor sensed something was amiss—he wasn't stupid, just direct—but he chose not to pry. He had a mission.
"Shall we set off for Muspelheim now?" Thor asked, his eyes burning with the thrill of adventure.
"Certainly."
Hermione drew her wand.
"Portus."
She tapped the air. Golden sparks burst forth, swirling into a jagged, fiery vortex.
Thor gripped Mjolnir, grinned, and stepped into the portal. Hermione followed closely behind.
Muspelheim. The Realm of Fire.
The air tasted of sulfur, ash, and burning tires.
Unlike the boundless sea of romantic fire one might imagine, Muspelheim was a hellscape. It was a desolate world composed of jagged volcanic rock, rivers of thick, sluggish lava, and an eternally dark red sky choked with smog.
The heat was oppressive, heavy enough to crush the lungs of a lesser mortal.
"Surtur should be near his throne," Thor said, scanning the horizon. "This way."
They didn't sneak. They didn't hide. They were an Asgardian Prince and a Witch. They flew straight toward the largest, blackest mountain in the distance.
Before long, they arrived at a rugged "palace" carved from charred obsidian stalagmites. It looked less like a castle and more like the mouth of a dying volcano.
At the entrance, seated upon a massive throne of solidified magma, sat a figure.
Surtur.
Hermione raised an eyebrow, floating down to land beside Thor.
This is the world-ender?
Surtur was... underwhelming.
He was huge, yes—about twelve feet tall, roughly the size of the Hulk. His body was made of craggy, burning rock, and magma flowed through his veins like blood. He wore a crown of massive, curved horns, and a greatsword of twilight steel rested against his knee.
But he looked withered. The flames on his body were low, flickering like a dying campfire.
This wasn't the mountain-sized giant who could shatter a planet. This was a starving god waiting for a meal.
"I have come here to stop the prophecy!" Thor bellowed, pointing Mjolnir at the demon. "Ragnarok will be caused by you, Surtur! I will never let Asgard be destroyed by your hand!"
Surtur stirred. His voice sounded like grinding tectonic plates.
"Ragnarok is Asgard's destiny, Odinson," Surtur rasped. "You cannot change it. The wheel turns."
He stood up, grabbing his Twilight Sword.
"And your destiny is to die here!"
WHOOSH.
Before he finished speaking, Surtur swung his greatsword. A torrent of blazing fire, shaped like a roaring dragon, swept towards them.
Hermione didn't blink.
CRACK.
She vanished instantly, reappearing dozens of meters away on a high ridge, watching the show.
"ROAR!"
Thor didn't dodge. He spun Mjolnir until it became a blur.
"HAVE AT THEE!"
Thor launched himself into the fire. The wind from his hammer scattered the flames. He smashed through the attack, his body crackling with blue lightning, and collided with Surtur.
CLANG! BOOM!
Mjolnir met the Twilight Sword.
The impact sent a shockwave of force rippling through the lava fields. Magma geysers erupted around them.
Sparks and lightning danced across the obsidian floor.
Thor was fast, brutal, and powerful. Surtur was slow, heavy, and resilient. They traded blows that would have leveled a city block.
Hermione stood at a distance, arms crossed, analyzing the data.
He's weak, she observed. Without the Eternal Flame, he's just a big fire elemental. A super-Kyrian. Not a boss level threat.
She checked her watch. This is taking too long.
"Thor!" Hermione called out, her voice amplified. "Move!"
Thor, trusting her implicitly, rolled backward after a heavy strike, clearing the zone.
Hermione raised her wand. The tip glowed with a pale, absolute blue light—the color of a dying star.
"Glacius Tria."
She whispered the incantation.
SNAP.
An extreme, unnatural chill instantly spread from Hermione. The air itself seemed to shatter. The temperature in the scorching realm plummeted from 1000 degrees to absolute zero in a microsecond.
Surtur, mid-swing, suddenly froze.
The raging flames on his body didn't just go out; they were snuffed. The magma in his veins turned to stone.
Frost—thick, magical, and unrelenting—spread from his feet up to his neck.
"NO... THE COLD..." Surtur groaned, his movements slowing to a halt.
CLICK... CRACK...
The ice layer thickened, encasing the demon in a prison of diamond-hard permafrost. Inside the ice, the lava body turned grey and brittle.
Hermione clenched her fist.
BANG!
With a crisp sound like a gunshot, the huge ice sculpture exploded.
Surtur shattered into thousands of charred, frozen fragments that scattered across the floor like gravel.
Only one thing remained intact.
The massive Skull Crown rolled across the floor, coming to a stop at Thor's feet.
The battle was over in four seconds.
Thor looked at the pile of icy rubble, then at Hermione. He lowered his hammer.
"Well," Thor said, impressed. "That was... efficient."