Loki's eyes narrowed, watching from the shadows as the frost giants scurried in the distance. The land seemed to pulse with the subtle shifting of forces, as if the very fabric of Jotunheim had begun to stir. A sense of foreboding had settled upon him, an awareness that something far greater than any of his father's enemies was drawing near.
But who?
The Jotuns were fractured, their glory fading with each passing year. Laufey's rule, built on fear and bloodshed, had decayed into a hollow shell of what it once was. Loki had long known this—his father's reign was crumbling, and soon enough, the giants would scatter to the winds, leaving only whispers of their former strength.
But now… there was something new. Something different.
Something… dangerous.
Loki's lips curled into a smile, a smile that was equal parts mischief and intrigue. He had always thrived in chaos, in manipulation, in the subtle play of words and promises. But this… this was something he could not yet read. This was new.
He stepped from the shadows, his cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a raven. His green eyes gleamed with the anticipation of the unknown.
"Father is too weak to stop this," Loki muttered to himself, his voice dripping with venom. "And I… I shall see where this path leads."
The Conqueror's Strike
The conqueror stood at the edge of the frozen plains, his gaze fixed on the stronghold of Laufey in the distance. The time had come to show the Jotuns that no matter how far they had fallen, they were still nothing compared to him. His shadow army had already begun their first wave of strikes, picking apart the Jotun scouts with cold precision. Now, it was time to make his presence known.
"Move."
The order was simple, but it carried the weight of a thousand lives, a thousand victories to come. The ground shook as his army advanced, their boots crushing the frozen earth beneath them. Igris, Beru, and Bellion had already begun their work—each one an extension of his will, each one a weapon in his hand.
Igris led the charge, his crimson armor gleaming like blood under the pale light of the Jotunheim sky. He was a living fortress, his sword an unstoppable force as it cleaved through the Jotuns with ruthless efficiency. The frost giants fell before him, their massive forms crumpling under the weight of his strikes.
Beru, ever the chaotic force, tore through the ranks with abandon. His wings beat the air, sending shockwaves through the battlefield as he wove through the Jotuns with a flurry of strikes. His hunger for destruction was matched only by his loyalty to the conqueror, and it showed in every strike, every kill.
Bellion moved with a calculating precision, gathering the scattered Jotun tribes and bringing them under his sway. He knew the value of information, of alliances. Every fragment of power that could be bent to their cause was worth collecting. No Jotun would be left standing, but those who could be useful would find themselves serving the conqueror's vision.
And through it all, the conqueror stood at the center of the storm, watching as his generals tore through the battlefield. His shadows moved in harmony, following his every command. There was no need for him to lift a finger. His army did the work for him.
But his gaze remained fixed on the stronghold in the distance. He could feel it—a presence, something waiting. A force that watched from afar, curious, but not yet daring to act.
Soon.
Loki's Move
Back in the shadows, Loki watched the chaos unfold. The smoke of battle rose in the distance, and the ground shook beneath him as the conqueror's army tore through Jotunheim. He could feel the power of this strange force—a presence unlike any he had encountered before.
He had to know more. This was no ordinary conqueror. There was something about the way they moved, the way their army operated with such ruthless precision, that intrigued him. It was as if the conqueror wasn't just a leader—they were the very embodiment of power itself.
Loki's mind raced. He knew that Laufey was too weak to stand against this army, and any alliance with the Jotuns would be futile. This was a force that needed to be approached with caution.
But there was an opportunity here, Loki mused. An opportunity for someone like me.
He glanced back at his father's stronghold, then back to the battlefield. His gaze lingered on the shadows of the conqueror's army, shifting and twisting like living beings. He had never seen magic like this before. This was no mere army—it was an extension of the conqueror's will.
A shadow king, Loki thought. How interesting.
He would wait, he decided. Wait for the right moment to strike. He would not rush in blindly. No, Loki was a master of subtlety, a master of manipulation. He would learn what he could about this conqueror, and then, when the time was right, he would make his move.
The conqueror had a shadow army—but Loki had something far more dangerous.
Loki had his mind.
The Final Approach
The battle was nearing its climax. Laufey's stronghold was within striking distance now, and the conqueror's army was unstoppable. His shadow soldiers had cleaved through the Jotuns with ease, but the stronghold itself remained silent. The Jotuns, realizing that their kingdom was falling, began to retreat to the fortress, clinging to whatever power they could muster.
The conqueror watched it all unfold, his smirk unwavering. He could feel the tension building—an electricity in the air, a sign that this was no longer just a battle for land. This was about to become something greater.
He was about to make his move.
"Igris." His voice was low, yet carried the weight of a king's command. "We advance."
With those two words, the battlefield exploded into motion. Igris led the charge once more, his sword raised high as he led his forces to the gates of the stronghold. The gates groaned under the weight of his strike, the walls of Laufey's fortress crumbling as his shadow army surged forward.
The time for subtlety was over. The conqueror would claim Jotunheim, and soon, the rest of this world would follow.
But in the shadows, Loki watched, waiting for his own time to strike.
Let the game begin.