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The Stormborn - Chapter - 66
🕑 Added 2025-10-29 15:54:57 +0000 UTCWhen Harry was in Asgard, he could feel the pulse of an ancient world flowing through every stone, every gust of wind. But despite all the splendor, his true passions remained simple: books and creation.
If he wasn’t buried under mountains of tomes in the Royal Library—runes glowing as he studied deeper magics—he was in the Great Forge, sweat on his brow, hammer in hand.
And now…
he was crafting the most ambitious project yet.
His own armor.
The forge blazed with golden fire, fueled by the heart of a captured star. Sparks danced like fireflies as Harry hammered Uru metal—each strike sending a shockwave of energy across the runic walls.
A group of nobles, warriors, even dwarves and elves from distant realms watched from the entrance, whispering with awe:
“That is the Prince-Smith?”
“The one who made armor for All-Father?”
“They say he forged thunder into metal…”
Harry ignored the attention—eyes sharp, focused.
Laid out before him on the enchanted anvil was a set of armor that would redefine what Asgardians believed possible:
A suit with three wings of lightning
—like his Thunderbird Animagus form—
capable of carrying him at speeds beyond any raven or Valkyrie.
Two spectral lightning tails
—deadly as Odin’s living chains—
which could shift into blades, shields, spears, or bindings at will.
Every plate of the armor was carved with runes so complex that even ancient dwarven smiths squinted at them.
This was no ordinary enchantment—
Harry was using magic he had learned from Frigga,
power he had inherited from Thor and Wanda,
and lightning energy he had mastered as a Thunderbird.
He murmured as he worked:
“Fast… sharp… protective… alive…”
His voice guided the magic.
The armor shimmered with blue-gold light.
As he quenched a glowing gauntlet in a basin of charged lightning-water, a booming laugh echoed across the forge.
“Working again? I swear, you have the soul of a dwarf!”
It was Volstagg, of the Warriors Three, munching an apple pie.
Harry wiped sweat from his forehead. “It keeps my mind busy.”
Volstagg nudged Hogun beside him.
“Busy? More like he’s creating legendary armors!”
Soon, a nobleman in silver robes stepped forward and bowed deeply.
“Prince Harry—I would pay handsomely for a blade forged by you.”
Another interrupted:
“My realm would honor you with treasures if you craft a shield for our king!”
A third pleaded:
“Name anything—land, gold, even a palace!”
Harry sighed; this had become his new normal.
He raised a hand politely:
“I appreciate the offers, truly. But I’m not making weapons for just anyone. I only forge for family… and for those who fight for something more than pride.”
There were gasps from the nobles.
A few scowled—but most nodded respectfully.
Fandral swept forward dramatically, giving Harry a playful wink.
“You have become quite the celebrity, my prince.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me.”
As he returned to shaping lightning-threads into wing structures, Loki appeared, arms crossed and smirk firmly in place.
“You could end wars, you know,” he said lightly.
“Or start them.”
Harry didn’t look up.
“That’s exactly why I have to be careful.”
Loki chuckled softly.
“You sound like Odin already.”
Harry gave the god of mischief a dry look.
“And you sound jealous about me being careful.”
Thor entered at that moment, laughing thunderously.
“Jealous? Loki? Never!”
Loki threw him a dark glare.
“Laugh all you want, brother. But if Harry doesn’t build my armor next, I’ll hex your beard pink.”
Thor clutched his beard defensively.
“He will build yours… once he finishes his own masterpiece.”
Harry spoke quietly, but with determination:
“I need protection too. If someone make a move against Midgard…
I want to be ready.”
His family went silent.
Loki studied him more seriously this time.
“You truly care that much about your mortal friends?”
Harry nodded.
“They might live less time than us…
but that just means they deserve more protection.”
Thor smiled proudly.
“Well said.”
Frigga’s voice floated from the entrance, soft and wise:
“And that is what makes you a prince worth following.”
Harry stepped back, examining the nearly finished armor. The wings crackled, tails pulsed, and the plates gleamed like thunder trapped in metal.
It wasn’t just armor.
It was a symbol.
A guardian’s mantle.
A bridge between the realms.
A promise:
That he would protect those he loved—no matter how long or short their lives might be.
As more nobles arrived, hoping to commission their own legends, Harry ignored the crowd and reached for a final rune, glowing bright as a star.
“Almost done…” he whispered.
And when this armor took flight—
the Nine Realms would feel the lightning of an Asgardian Prince.
Asgard had always stood as the crown of the Nine Realms—impervious, eternal, radiant. No enemy set foot near its borders without permission, and no visitor arrived without passing through walls of watchful eyes and arcane wards.
Every spark of Bifrost was recorded.
Every ripple of magic was observed.
Every arrival and departure was accounted for.
Except, of course—for Loki.
The prince of mischief had a unique relationship with rules:
he saw them as puzzles waiting to be broken apart.
Today, he had broken more than that.
The golden doors of the throne room thundered open. Cold wind surged in, frosting the edges of the marble floor. A towering blue figure stepped through—the messenger massive enough to dwarf the Einherjar guards.
A Frost Giant.
His crimson eyes glimmered with restrained fury as he dropped to one knee—not out of respect, but because peace demanded it.
“Odin All-Father,” he rumbled, voice like a glacier shifting.
“Loki of Asgard has trespassed into Jotunheim. Your son has struck down our warriors and called us ‘pathetic heaps of snow and bones.’”
Gasps spread through the hall like wildfire.
Thor rose from his seat so abruptly his chair toppled.
“He what?”
Harry, who sat quietly beside Frigga, felt his stomach drop.
This wasn’t just mischief. This was provocation.
Odin’s fingers whitened around Gungnir.
“Explain.”
The messenger continued, icy breath curling.
“He taunted our patrols. Seven fell by his magic before he vanished into green fire. We demand reason—and consequence.”
Thor muttered under his breath,
“I leave him alone for one week…”
The All-Father stood. The air tightened. Even the torches held still.
“Loki dares act without my word,” Odin said, voice rumbling like distant thunder, “and endangers the fragile peace we have forged.”
Frigga stepped forward gently.
“My husband… he is reckless, yes, but—”
“Because he is my son,” Odin snapped,
“the price of his foolishness risks war.”
Harry swallowed hard. He knew too well how dangerous a prideful god could be.
The Einherjar stepped closer to Odin.
“Shall we deploy forces to recover the prince?” one guard asked.
Before Odin could answer—
BOOM
Green smoke erupted at the center of the hall.
Loki emerged, brushing frost from his raven-black hair, a brilliant smile plastered on his face as though he’d merely returned from a garden stroll.
“One cannot even stretch their legs,” he drawled,
“without causing such a commotion.”
Harry facepalmed.
Thor groaned.
Odin’s jaw clenched with volcanic restraint.
“You trespassed into Jotunheim,” the Frost Giant snapped.
“You attacked my kin!”
Loki arched a brow.
“They attacked me first. Am I not allowed to defend myself?”
Harry leaned toward Thor, whispering,
“In his defense… insulting him does seem like a war crime.”
Thor snorted softly and whispered back,
“With Loki, breathing is often a war crime.”
Odin descended the steps, each one a controlled storm.
“You are clever, Loki,” he said quietly — and that was more dangerous than any shout.
“You know the consequences of trespassing Jotunheim. You knew word would reach me.
Yet you went anyway.”
Loki’s smirk flickered… then faded.
“So tell me,” Odin continued, voice low and unyielding,
“What were you really doing in Jotunheim?”
For a moment, Loki did not answer. His green eyes darted — calculating, weighing his next words.
Then, without warning, he reached into his inner robe. Loki merely tossed something small and metallic through the air.
Harry caught it.
And his breath immediately hitched.
It was Uru.
But not the dark-gray metal he had spent months forging in the Asgardian forges.
This one glimmered with deep blues and silvers, veins of energy pulsing beneath the surface like captured auroras.
“Is this…?” Harry whispered.
“A stronger form,” Loki finished smoothly. His voice carried a triumphant note.
“Found on a moon orbiting Jotunheim. I call it… Uru-Prime.”
Thor leaned forward, eyes widening.
“Brother… this is no ordinary ore.”
Loki spread his arms — a silent You’re welcome.
Odin stepped closer, reverence softening even his stern features.
“This metal… it hums with the raw pulse of creation. This is not merely Uru.
This is the metal from before the first forge was lit.”
The Frost Giant messenger bristled.
“Our warriors believed he came to steal from us.
That is why they attacked.”
Loki lifted his chin, unbothered.
“And I merely defended myself. I was not there for conquest —
only… shopping.”
Harry barked out a laugh before he could stop himself.
Frigga hid a smile behind her hand.
Thor grinned broadly.
“That is the most Loki reason I’ve ever heard.”
The All-Father paced slowly, deep in thought.
Then he turned — eyes shining like stars reflected in steel.
“This discovery cannot be ignored.
Asgard will open a mine there — formally.
We will extract Uru-Prime… and in exchange,” he looked to the messenger,
“Jotunheim shall receive twenty percent of the metal.”
Silence lingered only a moment before Thor clapped Loki so hard on the back he stumbled.
“To think — your mischief brought us wealth and alliance!”
Loki brushed off his shoulder, sniffing indignantly.
“I was not being mischievous. I was… conducting geological research.”
Harry grinned.
“So… you were looking for metal to make your armor?”
Loki smirked, fully confident again.
“Well… if a certain prince-smith of Asgard insists on prioritizing other people’s armors…”
Harry rolled his eyes.
“You really want that armor badly, don’t you?”
Loki’s gaze flicked to Harry — and for once there was no sarcasm behind it.
Only ambition. And perhaps… a sliver of admiration.
“You have talent, Harry,” he said softly.
“Enough to reshape realms.”
Harry felt heat rise at his ears.
Odin watched quietly, pride flickering in his gaze.
But the moment shattered when Loki added:
“And I refuse to be the only one in the royal family without a magnificent, self-animated armor. It would be humiliating.”
Harry groaned. Thor laughed. Frigga’s shoulders shook silently.
Even Odin allowed the smallest hint of a smile.
Mining operations would soon begin.
New power would rise.
And the World Tree would feel the tremor of a future being forged.
Harry closed his fingers around the Uru-Prime.
It thrummed against his palm — alive with lightning and possibility.
And he knew one thing for certain:
His armor project was about to become much, much more than he had ever imagined.
Jotunheim’s throne room was as cold as a graveyard of stars.
Icicles hung like jagged teeth from the ceiling, and ancient frost crackled beneath every step. Shadows moved heavily — giants clad in frozen iron.
At the center, upon a throne carved from a mountain of glacial ice, sat King Laufey.
His face was carved into a permanent scowl.
Cold breath rose from his nostrils like smoke from a dragon.
Before him, on the icy floor, lay the severed head of the Frost Giant messenger who had gone to Asgard.
Laufey glared down at the lifeless eyes.
“So,” he growled,
“You went to All-Father Odin and agreed to his insult?”
He spat, a shard of frost cracking where it landed.
“They come to our moon… our soil…
and expect us to kneel for scraps?…”
A trembling warrior spoke up, voice quivering,
“Odin did promise twenty percent of the Uru-Prime—”
CRACK!
Laufey’s fist smashed into the armrest, splitting ice like brittle bone.
“Twenty percent?”
he roared, voice echoing across the hall like collapsing glaciers.
“We should be given all the metal that lies beneath our sky!
It was harvested by the cosmos for us — not for those arrogant sons of Asgard!”
The giants around him pounded their spears against the floor in agreement.
Laufey rose, towering like a mountain of rage.
His blue skin shimmered with ancient runic scars, each glowing with seething fury.
“They act as though they are feeding beggars,” he spat.
“As though we should be grateful for what is ours.”
He kicked the severed head away like a broken toy.
“And you—” he sneered at the corpse,
“—gave them permission.”
His voice dropped to a chilling whisper.
“There will be no mining.
No Asgardian claim.
No alliance.”
He looked toward the icy ceiling, where the moon beyond faintly reflected its pale glow.
“They think themselves safe behind their rainbow bridge,” Laufey murmured darkly.
“They think their golden palace unreachable.”
His eyes narrowed, glacial and murderous.
“So let them come to our moon.”
He turned to his generals — massive figures of ice and wrath.
“When the first Asgardian miner sets foot on our land…”
his voice became a hiss of death,
“We will slaughter them.
And return their broken armor to Odin as his payment.”
The giants cheered — a sound like glaciers splitting open.
War drums began to thunder.
Banners of icy blue unfurled.
Frost wolves were released from their chains, howling into the starless sky.
Laufey lifted his spear — frost swirling into a violent storm around him.
“This time,” he declared,
“the Nine Realms will remember who truly commands fear.”
A shiver crawled across the cosmos.
Somewhere far away, a boy in Asgard continued to forge…
unaware that every hammer strike was now echoing toward war.
