Marvel's Strongest Mage

It wasn't a rune of thunder.

Daniel had stared at the mark for long minutes now, standing just out of sight from the S.H.I.E.L.D. perimeter, his gaze locked on the peculiar sigil etched along the upper ridge of Mjolnir's head. Not jagged like lightning. Not wild or aggressive.

No, this was something else entirely.

Three flat, oval lines intersecting like coiled strands of authority—a control rune.

A binding sigil.

Unlike the primal runes of destruction or the sacred glyphs that invoked elements, this one existed for one reason alone: to command. A conduit that allowed its user—not to unleash power—but to direct it. Just as Thor did, instinctively, when Mjolnir answered his call.

Daniel's eyes narrowed.

Odin. This rune bore his fingerprints. It wasn't just magic—it was monarchal control, a leash forged by a god-king to determine who was worthy to even touch this weapon.

Not terribly useful to his own spellcasting, but if decoded, it could open entirely new avenues.

Runes like this could be repurposed—to bind other weapons, or perhaps… forge new ones.

And if he went far enough down this road?

He might even learn to command Mjolnir itself.

Daniel's mouth curled into a bitter smirk.

Tempting? Yes. But dangerous beyond measure.

Even if he succeeded—even if he could find some obscure loophole in Odin's ancient magic—what then?

The hammer would still draw the eyes of Asgard.

He would be hunted not just by Thor, but by Odin, and eventually by Loki—whose schemes had once reached for this weapon and failed.

There was no path through that battlefield that ended with Daniel still breathing.

He took a breath, exhaled the thought, and reached out—not to lift, but to feel the weight of the handle.

And then—

Engines.

Tires crunching gravel.

The approach of vehicles broke the desert silence.

Daniel's hand froze an inch from the leather-wrapped grip, then slowly retreated.

From a nearby bluff, Phil Coulson watched with narrowed eyes. He hadn't missed the moment. He had been tracking the cloaked figure's behavior for a while now—too observant to be a tourist, too restrained to be just another curious townie.

When Daniel had finally raised his hand toward the hammer, Coulson's heart had skipped.

But now, the moment was broken.

A convoy of black SUVs rolled up the hill behind him. S.H.I.E.L.D. reinforcements had arrived.

With swift efficiency—and a federal exclusion order from the Governor of New Mexico in hand—they began clearing the area.

The crowd of townsfolk, now grumbling and angry, was forced away from the crater.

Daniel didn't argue. He blended back into the mass of bodies, melted into the dust, and vanished before any S.H.I.E.L.D. scanners could catch more than a trace.

He needed to pivot.

Mjolnir was locked down.

Now, the priority was finding Thor.

By now, the Asgardian should have already collided with his fate—Jane Foster, the scientist who would later carry Mjolnir herself.

If Daniel could find Jane, he could find Thor.

And if he could do that before Hydra made their next move…

He might yet walk a delicate line between shadows and alliances.

But to maintain the illusion of his current identity, Daniel would need to act through official channels.

He slipped into the cab of the old pickup truck he'd borrowed, dialed a secured line, and waited.

The call connected.

"General Ross," Daniel said, voice calm. "I may need military support. If what I suspect is correct, we're going to need it."

There was a pause. Then a gruff voice answered.

"You found it?"

"I found the hammer," Daniel said. "The Destroyer's next."

Ross didn't ask questions. He never did. He only cared about what could be weaponized.

Mjolnir. The Destroyer. Both were relics of warfare on a divine scale. Even Daniel, with all his magical defenses and frost-infused armor, knew the gulf between his current arsenal and the tools of Asgard.

His staff, carved from Jotunheim wood and woven with glacial runes, was powerful. His armor, stitched from the leather of frost beasts, could withstand more than most spells.

But none of it compared to artifacts forged by gods.

Thor's Hammer. The Destroyer's armor. Battle-born relics, powered by ancient energies Daniel had only begun to understand.

If he could study them—if he could salvage even a sliver…

He could build something new.

Something dangerous.

He drove back into town as the sun dipped toward the west. Mjolnir was now S.H.I.E.L.D.'s problem. Let them waste time trying to lift what would never answer their call.

His target now was Jane Foster.

Finding her wasn't hard.

All it took was a little careful questioning, a bit of coin in the right bar, and the name "Dr. Foster" unlocked more than a few loose tongues.

Jane had been in town for some time—her field work focused on auroral storms and cosmic anomalies. New Mexico's arid climate and clear skies made it ideal for celestial mapping.

She wasn't alone, of course. Her mentor, Dr. Erik Selvig, had joined her recently. And then there was the third member of their team:

Daisy Louise.

A political science dropout with a talent for snacks and sarcasm.

They'd rented a two-story house near the town's edge—smart, given how often they were gone till midnight and didn't want to disturb neighbors. Most of the house had been converted into a makeshift lab.

Daniel parked a block away and approached unseen.

He arrived just as the door flew open and raised voices spilled into the desert air.

"Look at the edge of the aperture!" Jane's voice rang out. "This is a classic Einstein-Rosen Bridge pattern."

Daisy blinked. "English, please?"

Selvig, ever patient, smiled. "A wormhole, Daisy. She means a wormhole."

"Why didn't you just say that?" Daisy muttered. "Still not interested."

Jane ignored her, gathering a stack of photographs. "These are not our stars. Not even close. Unless the entire Ursa Minor constellation decided to take a vacation, this light pattern is alien."

Selvig's eyes widened. He moved to the large star chart on the wall. "No… this isn't possible."

Jane was already halfway out the door. "We have to go. Now. Before they seal it off completely."

Daniel stayed hidden, listening. So far, nothing unexpected.

They'd heard about the crash site. The rumors of a fallen satellite. Locals had flocked there to drink, poke it, try to lift it. Then came the feds—S.H.I.E.L.D. agents in black suits, cordoning the site, claiming it was radioactive debris.

But what caught Jane's attention most was the object's weight.

No one could move it.

That alone was enough for her to guess the truth.

Daniel's brows furrowed.

Where was Thor?

He scanned the house while the trio prepped their van—no signs of the Asgardian. No boot prints, no residual energy. Nothing.

Strange.

When Thor had first landed, wasn't there supposed to be a clash? Jane accidentally hitting him with her van, sending him to the hospital? That memory felt real.

Then it hit him.

The hospital.

They must've left him there.

Daniel shifted strategy. He stepped away from Jane's departing RV and returned to town.

He searched the clinic. Then the local hospital.

Nothing.

He expanded his range. Ten kilometers. Twenty.

Still no trace.

Where the hell was Thor?

And then, out in the desert—he saw it. Jane's RV heading west. Not toward the nearest city hospital. Not toward civilization.

Back toward the hammer.

Daniel stopped in the shadows, silently watching the dust trail fade.

"They're not looking for Thor," he muttered. "They're going back… to Mjolnir."

Why?

Did they not know he'd been hospitalized? Had the timeline shifted? Or had some conflict driven Thor away from them?

One thing was certain:

Jane and her team were heading into a trap. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't known for kindness, and once they saw civilian scientists poking around their secured site, there would be consequences.

Daniel exhaled slowly, the air dry in his throat.

Let them go. Let them crash against the bureaucratic wall.

His path didn't lie with them.

Thor was the key. But Thor… was gone.

And Daniel was running out of time.

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