The moment the teleportation beacon flared, Laufey realized he had been led into a trap. His ice-blue eyes burned with a murderous heat. "Mortal filth! You dare play games with a King?"
Laufey lunged for the Casket of Ancient Winters, his fingers clawing at the air to summon the absolute zero within. He intended to flash-freeze the entire floor, turning the incoming Astartes into statues of ice before they could even draw breath.
But Steve Rogers had anticipated the move. With a roar of effort, he hurled his shield.
CLANG!
The Vibranium disc struck with the force of a falling star, hitting Laufey's wrist with surgical precision. The Casket was knocked from his grasp, spinning wildly across the frozen floor until it came to rest near the edge of the shattered window.
Laufey froze. For a King of Jotunheim, the loss of the Casket was more than a tactical error—it was a death sentence for his race's pride. He ignored Steve, turning his massive bulk toward the artifact.
Natasha Romanoff didn't hesitate. She didn't look back at the unconscious, broken form of Clint Barton. In the cold calculus of war, the mission overrode the man. She dove across the ice, her fingers grazing the metallic housing of the Casket just as Laufey's fist came crashing down.
She rolled, the artifact clutched to her chest, feeling a cold so intense it threatened to stop her heart even through the protective casing.
"Damn you!" Laufey roared, turning to pursue her.
He didn't get the chance. Steve Rogers tackled him from behind, his arms locking around the giant's throat in a desperate sleeper hold. Steve's muscles screamed, his veins bulging against his skin as he applied every ounce of his super-soldier strength to the xenos' windpipe.
"Go! Natasha, move!" Steve bellowed, his face turning a dark, bruised purple from the strain. "Protect the Casket! Don't let them take it back!"
Natasha looked at Steve. She saw the grim finality in his eyes. He wasn't asking for a rescue; he was ordering a retreat. She nodded once, turned, and threw herself out of the twenty-story window, plummeting toward the chaotic streets below. It was the only way to keep the artifact out of Laufey's reach.
"No!" Laufey's scream was a seismic tremor. He reached back, grabbing Steve's arms with hands like iron clamps.
CRACK.
Steve's scream was cut short by the sound of snapping bone. Laufey didn't just pry him off; he tore. The sound of rending muscle filled the room as Steve's shoulders were brutally dislocated and his humerus snapped. Blood sprayed across the ice, staining the white frost a deep, Imperial crimson.
Despite the agony, Steve didn't let go. Even as his arms hung uselessly, he lunged forward, sinking his teeth into the Frost Giant's Achilles tendon with the ferocity of a starving wolf.
"Let! Go!" Laufey was losing his mind. He had been humiliated by a creature he considered vermin. He began to hammer his fists into Steve's back and skull.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The tiles shattered. Steve's face was driven into the concrete, his jaw breaking, his skull fracturing under the giant's heels. Yet, in his delirium, the Captain's grip—now literal teeth and bone—remained. He was no longer a man; he was a stubborn obstacle of meat and will.
Finally, with a sickening tear, Laufey kicked himself free. He stood over the heap of broken flesh that had been Captain America, his chest heaving. He looked down at the human, half-buried in the rubble, and felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in millennia: fear.
"A terrifying race," Laufey whispered. He didn't stay to finish the kill. He sensed the Casket falling further away and leapt from the building after Natasha.
Steve lay in the ruins. His vision was a red smear. His breathing was a wet, rattling whistle. Through the haze of pain, he saw the teleportation beacon finish its cycle. The air shimmered with golden light, and five massive, armored figures stepped into the room.
The Dark Angels had arrived.
Steve moved his shattered lips, trying to form words through the blood. "Save... her... the Casket..."
The tallest of the giants, Brother-Captain Olsen, stepped forward. He looked down at the mangled soldier. Beside him, Chief Librarian Marcus knelt, his hand glowing with a soft psychic light as he assessed the damage.
"He is fading, Brother-Captain," Marcus said, his voice unusually somber. To an Astartes, death was a constant, but a mortal fighting with such ferocity commanded a rare respect.
Olsen looked at the gore-slicked floor, at the broken shield, and finally at the dying man who had held a King at bay for ten precious seconds.
"Stabilize him," Olsen commanded. "Administer the emergency stims and seal the wounds. He has fought with the fury of the Lion himself."
He leaned down, his red lenses glowing in the shadows of the room. "Hold on, Rogers. If you survive this night, I will petition the Lord Emrys myself. A soul this iron-willed belongs in the ranks of the Black Watch."
In the distance, the roar of the war continued, but for a moment, the Angels of Death stood in silent salute to a mortal who had refused to break.