Marvel's Strongest Mage

The desert night was rarely kind.

And now, as Daniel stood on the rooftop of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s prefab command post, the skies broke open.

Raindrops began to fall in steady rhythm. A wet wind curled through the air, tugging at his cloak like a whisper.

Rain… in the desert.

Unnatural.

Daniel blinked upward, brows knitting beneath his hood. This wasn't just rare—it bordered on impossible. Weather like this didn't just happen here.

For a moment, he wondered if this was magic.

A weather spell?

A divine omen?

But the thought was dismissed just as quickly. No one on Earth could cast a storm like this without stirring the arcane currents for miles. No mortal mage—no matter how skilled—could shape weather across such a wide radius without notice.

And anyone that powerful wouldn't waste their energy on aesthetic theatrics.

No, this wasn't sorcery. Not entirely.

This was something older. Heavier.

This was fate setting the stage.

Daniel wasn't alone atop the rooftop. Across from him, crouched behind a mounted turret, two S.H.I.E.L.D. snipers stood vigil—scanning the darkness with trained, mortal eyes. But none of them noticed the silent shadow crouched mere meters away.

He could've whispered their names and vanished before the echo faded.

But Daniel wasn't focused on them. Not now.

His instincts tugged at him, ancient and primal.

Loki.

He was here. Somewhere close. Somewhere inside.

Daniel could feel it—not with his eyes, not with sound—but with the same sixth sense that warned predators when the wind shifted. The mischief god had arrived. And knowing Loki's style, he'd already slipped past every camera, every infrared scan, every line of defense.

He might even be standing in the very room with them.

Or worse—

Already reaching for the hammer.

Daniel exhaled slowly, magic humming faintly under his skin. His senses stretched outward like tendrils of fog, weaving through the raindrops, brushing against the metal, the mud, the minds.

Nothing.

No aura.

No divine pulse.

But that meant little. Loki didn't hide—he rewrote reality.

He could stand right in front of you, smiling, and you'd swear he wasn't there at all.

In Asgard's hierarchy, the gods were divided not just by blood, but by power.

Odin sat at the summit—the Allfather, a being of such divine magnitude that even calling him a "god" felt reductive. He wasn't just powerful—he was the source of power.

Below him stood Heimdall—the gatekeeper, the golden sentinel, whose eyes could pierce dimensions and whose blade could silence storms.

Then came Thor, Frigga, and Loki.

And among them, Loki was the trickiest to measure. Not for lack of strength, but because he played a different game entirely. Where Thor cut through foes like thunder, Loki rewrote the board itself.

His magic wasn't brute strength—it was artistry. Illusions. Lies spun so well they became reality.

Daniel knew all of this.

He'd studied the mythos. Survived Jotunheim. He'd seen what true divine sorcery looked like, and Loki's illusions weren't mere parlor tricks.

They were truths wrapped in shadows.

Even now, Daniel couldn't pinpoint him. But he knew. Loki was here. Watching. Calculating. Waiting.

And if Daniel had extended his magical reach just a second earlier, maybe—just maybe—he would've sensed what came next.

Within the heart of the S.H.I.E.L.D. base, beneath the buzz of overhead lights and the hum of scanning equipment, a hand gripped the handle of Mjolnir.

The fingers were long, precise. Clad in black leather, trembling ever so slightly—not from fear, but from something deeper.

Uncertainty.

Loki stared down at the hammer of legend. The thing he'd coveted as a child. The symbol of power that had always belonged to someone else.

To Thor.

Always Thor.

The hammer didn't budge.

Not at first.

And yet, Loki didn't recoil.

He smiled.

A cruel, wistful curve of his lips.

He had grown up in Thor's shadow. Praised for his wit, but never for his worth. Raised in halls of gold, but always watching from the side. Even when he discovered his true heritage, that he was no blood son of Odin, but a Frost Giant left behind, he still hadn't stopped yearning.

He wanted to be worthy.

And that hunger burned now as he clenched the handle tighter.

He whispered words in the ancient tongue. Called on every sliver of power the Nine Realms had ever granted him.

The thunder answered.

In the blink of an eye, the clouds split open. Lightning cascaded down like divine judgment, lashing the skies and striking the hammer in a blinding arc.

Mjolnir shimmered.

And then—

It moved.

Just a fraction. No more than half a centimeter. But it moved.

And that was enough.

Enough to change everything.

The hammer dropped back to the ground a second later with a metallic thud—but the damage had been done.

Loki stared at it, breathless.

Eyes wide.

He had lifted it.

Even for a moment.

Even by a whisper.

He had lifted Thor's Hammer.

The thunder god's birthright.

The weapon meant only for the "worthy."

Loki's laugh was silent, trembling, full of disbelief and bitterness.

All his life, he had been told no. Told he wasn't enough. That he'd never rule. That he'd never wield power the way his brother could.

But now…

Now the hammer had answered him.

And in that flash of revelation, something shattered inside him.

Not the jealousy or resentment.

But the doubt.

For the first time, Loki wondered: Was the throne ever Thor's to begin with? Or had they simply chosen wrong?

Up on the roof, Daniel sat frozen, eyes narrowing as the lightning laced the sky above him.

He didn't know what had just happened inside that building.

Not yet.

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