Tom approached Medusa with that ever-calm confidence of his. His dark cloak billowed like smoke around his legs as he moved. Before Medusa could react, his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her firmly against his chest.
"Are you getting angry?" he asked smoothly, his voice a velvet tease as the corner of his lips curled into a smirk.
Medusa's cheeks instantly flushed a violent red. She struggled against him, her hands pressing firmly against his chest. "Let me go! Don't dare to hold me like that, you perverted bastard!"
Tom raised a brow, clearly enjoying her reaction. "Perverted? Come now, Medusa. Is it perverted to hold my beautiful wife close?"
"I am your wife but-!" she snapped, her face turning even redder. "I'll turn you into stone, Tom!"
"You already turned my heart into stone the moment I saw you," he said, mockery dripping from his lips, though his tone was smooth as silk.
Medusa fumbled over her words. "I—I swear, I'll kill you—"
Tom chuckled darkly, tightening his grip just enough to tease. "How will you manage that while blushing like a schoolgirl?"
"I am not blushing!" she shouted, hiding her face in his shoulder.
"You are. And you're cute when you're flustered," he whispered, lips brushing against her ear. "Imagine our future children… inheriting your temper and my charm. A dangerously perfect combination."
Medusa's body stiffened at the implication. "S-Shut up! Don't talk about children, you lunatic!"
"Why not?" Tom said, the grin in his voice unmistakable. "I bet they'd be adorable—especially if they have your eyes. Deadly and beautiful. Just like their mother."
Medusa took a step closer, her lips curling into a cruel smile, eyes glittering with malice.
"Your mother…" she said with a cold laugh, "wasn't just weak. She was the most pathetic, worthless maggot to ever crawl this earth. A disgrace to magic. A failure of a woman."
Her voice grew sharper, every word laced with venom.
"Marvola wasn't a queen. She wasn't a warrior. She wasn't even a woman. She was a whimpering, sniveling slave in a dress—nothing more than Odin's desperate breeding tool. She opened her filthy legs for a man cursed by fate and gave birth to a child more monstrous than a sewer rat."
She leaned closer, voice hissing like fire on ice.
"Do you know what they called her in the divine courts? The 'Broken Witch.' The gods mocked her. Thor didn't just kill her—he toyed with her like a cat torturing a dying mouse. He ripped her apart piece by piece. She begged, cried, screamed for mercy. She pissed herself before she died. A disgrace."
Tom's fists clenched slightly—but he remained silent.
Medusa pressed deeper.
"She died choking on her own blood, shitting herself like the pathetic piece of garbage she was. I hope she saw her reflection one last time—saw what a disgusting, useless, defeated worm she truly was."
She laughed coldly, cruelly.
"And you? You're the rotting fruit of that filthy cunt's womb. Born of tears and shame. The bastard son of a coward and a fool."
She stepped right up to him now, her voice a quiet, razor-sharp whisper.
"I bet she died with your name on her lips… not out of love, but regret. Regret that she ever let your cursed soul form inside her. Regret that she didn't strangle you the moment you took your first breath."
She paused.
"Your mother died like a dog, Tom. No—worse. Dogs have dignity."
Medusa stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with dark delight. Her voice turned sharp—every syllable dipped in venom.
"Ah… your father. Tom Riddle. Humanity's so-called greatest mage. Odin's little puppet. The glorified errand boy who danced for the gods like a dog begging for scraps."
She sneered.
"He wasn't chosen for greatness, Tom. He was chosen because he was desperate. Desperate for validation. Desperate to matter. The All-Father picked him like you pick up a sharp stick—to throw it away when it breaks."
She circled Tom slowly, voice turning crueler with every step.
"And what did your precious father do with that 'divine mission'? He played hero. Killed a few demons. Tossed around some flashy spells. And when it was all over? He got a mirror. A. Fucking. Mirror."
She laughed coldly, mocking.
"A mirror! Not a throne. Not power. Just a trinket. A shiny lie to distract a man too stupid to see the blade coming for his back."
Medusa leaned in, her voice low and guttural now.
"Odin feared your father? No, Tom. He pitied him. He saw the truth: that Tom Riddle was just a time bomb with daddy issues, hiding behind magic he barely controlled. And when he started dreaming of greatness—Asgard, godhood, power—what happened?"
She smiled, savage and merciless.
"Thor didn't fight him. Thor executed him. Like swatting a fly. And before your daddy died screaming, he watched your mother—his 'beloved Marvola'—get slaughtered like a dog. He didn't save her. He couldn't."
She pointed a finger at Tom's chest.
"And what did he do with his son, huh? Did he stand and fight like a man? No. He shoved you in a mirror like a coward. Like trash to be hidden, not protected. Then he died—broken, pathetic, and forgotten."
Her voice turned ice cold.
"Your father died on his knees, Tom. Whimpering. Dreaming of thrones he was never worthy of. A mage who thought himself a god… but died like a worm."
She gave one last cruel grin.
"So tell me, little heir of a loser… how long until you end up exactly like him?"
Then Tom turned to her slowly—his eyes empty, hollow, distant. He gave her a gentle, eerie smile.
"I have a work to do," he said, his voice calm. Too calm. "I'll be back soon."
In a blink, he vanished.
---
Medusa stared at the space he'd left behind. The weight of her words hit her like a punch to the chest.
She whispered, "Why… didn't he say anything?"
She clenched her fists, but her voice faltered. "Did I go too far…?"
For the first time in centuries, Medusa felt regret clawing at her heart.
---
Meanwhile, in the Icy Forest, the air turned to ash.
The forest was frozen in more than just temperature.
Snow lay heavy across the land like a burial shroud, untouched, pure—until he arrived. Tom Marvola Riddle stepped into the icy woods like a phantom pulled from nightmare, silent and composed, but exuding an aura that made the very world tremble.
His cloak whispered as it slid over the snow, each step calculated, yet beneath that surface calm, something ancient churned. Rage. Not a storm of emotion, but a quiet inferno—burning so deeply it no longer needed to scream. His eyes, pale silver and cold as moonlight, betrayed nothing. But the ground knew. The sky knew. Even the wind dared not touch him.
Where his foot met the snow, it hissed and melted, not into water—but into vapor. The path behind him turned black, as if the ground itself had died. Trees along his path leaned away ever so slightly, their branches shivering—not from cold, but from fear. The deeper he walked, the heavier the air became. Every breath the forest took seemed to falter.
High above, the sky seethed.
Thunderclouds coiled like serpents in the heavens, suffocating the sun, casting the forest in a twilight that belonged neither to day nor night. Lightning split the clouds, flashing jagged veins of fury across the dark sky. But the thunder didn't follow immediately. It waited—suspended in unnatural silence—before crashing down with a shudder that echoed like war drums through the mountains.
Still, Tom said nothing.
Not a word. Not a sigh. Not even a blink.
But the silence around him was not peaceful. It was heavy—oppressive—as though the land itself was holding its breath, praying he would pass by without turning his gaze upon it. His aura—black and cold and suffocating—rolled outward in invisible waves. Trees snapped under the pressure. Ice cracked in deep groans beneath the earth, splitting into spiderweb fractures that glowed faintly with a corrupted light.
Above, a murder of crows fled the canopy in terrified silence, vanishing into the storm-choked sky. A fox, pale-furred and desperate, poked its head from a burrow and immediately turned back, choosing death by starvation over crossing his path.
Tom's eyes remained locked ahead, unblinking.
The fury within him didn't rise or fall—it was constant. A core of molten hatred wrapped in layers of ice. His mother's scream, still echoing from the grave. His father's blood, cold in the snow. Odin's betrayal. Thor's thunder. And now—Medusa's venom. The mockery. The filth. The insult.
He felt none of it on his face.
But inside, it burned.
The trees grew older as he moved forward—twisted giants with bark like bone and branches like skeletal fingers. They had stood for centuries, but in his presence, bark began to peel. Frost turned black. One tree, close enough to catch the edge of his shadow, split down the middle with a groan of agony and collapsed in two halves behind him.
He did not look back.
His silence was more deafening than any roar.
And as he walked deeper into the forest, the sky above finally broke.
Lightning struck the distant hills—not once, but in a chain, like the cracking of a divine whip. Thunder boomed in uneven bursts. The snow began to fall harder, but it never touched him. Each flake dissolved inches from his skin, as if forbidden to make contact.
Somewhere far behind, a glacier cracked.
Somewhere further still, a god stirred.
And still—Tom walked.
A man cloaked in stormlight, burning in silence. The world bent around his presence, and the frozen forest bore witness not to a tantrum, not to madness—but to controlled annihilation. He was fury in its purest form.
And no words were needed to prove it.
Then—BOOM!
A blinding bolt of thunder struck down just meters ahead, exploding into sparks and steam. The icy forest was engulfed in smoke and lightning. From the searing glow emerged a towering figure—Thor, the God of Thunder. Mjölnir crackled with divine energy in his grip.
"Oh? So you're alive, huh?" Thor said, stepping forward, a grin playing on his lips. "I thought I killed you that night."
Tom's eyes narrowed, glowing faintly red. He tilted his head, unimpressed.
His voice came low, heavy, and cold as death:
"Fuck off."
Thor's smirk vanished. His eyes sparked. "How dare you disrespect me, you filthy mortal!"
In a surge of fury, Thor hurled Mjölnir like a comet. It flew through the air at lightning speed, aimed straight at Tom's skull.
But Tom was already gone.
He reappeared behind Thor in a whisper of shadows.
Then—snap!
Ten exact clones of Tom materialized around the battlefield. They stood at equal distance from Thor, cloaked in darkness. Their auras, identical to the original, twisted the air around them.
Each was as powerful as Tom himself. Not illusions. Not weaker shades. These were walking disasters.
The real Tom stood silently on a nearby cliff, watching.
"Let's see how well you dance, God of Thunder."
Then chaos began.
The clones attacked with relentless fury. One summoned a rain of black fire. Another unleashed spears of shadow. A third rained down a storm of cursed lightning. They moved faster than sound, teleporting mid-attack, striking from above, below, behind.
Thor was forced on the defensive. He roared, his muscles bulging as he swung Mjölnir in a blur, knocking back blasts of darkness with shockwaves of thunder. Trees were shattered. Mountains trembled.
He slammed the ground and sent a divine shockwave rippling out. The forest exploded around him.
But just then—Tom appeared directly in front of him.
His fist was already cocked back, surrounded by a dark, furious aura.
BOOM!
The punch landed directly on Thor's chest. Mjölnir barely returned in time, slamming into Thor's torso and absorbing part of the impact.
But the rest—
–hit like a god-killing meteor.
The sound of the impact echoed through the heavens. Thor's ribs cracked. His eyes went wide. Blood shot from his mouth. The force launched him through the air like a ragdoll.
He was thrown across continents.
He crashed into the golden palace of Asgard, shattering the marble floor in front of Odin's throne. Guards scattered. Alarm bells rang.
Thor lay still, blood soaking into the stone.
Odin rose slowly, towering and still. His one eye burned with concern.
He stepped down from his throne, his voice calm yet deep with tension:
"Who did this to you?"
Thor coughed. He trembled. His voice cracked as he whispered,
"T-T-Tom... Marvola... Riddle..."
Silence.
Odin's face changed. It wasn't surprise—it was dread.
He looked at the cracked floor. Then up at the shattered palace gates. Then back to Thor.
And in a voice older than time, heavy with finality, he said:
"Then... Ragnarok is near."