God of Mischief

The Avengers.

The protectors of Midgard—a pack of arrogant mortals, freaks, ignorant fools convinced of their own righteousness.

They called themselves the Avengers.

But what were they avenging? Whom were they avenging themselves against? How had their enemies humiliated and crushed them so thoroughly that revenge consumed their every thought?

They were no Avengers. Quite the opposite.

I am the one who should be called an Avenger.

Prince of Asgard, Thor's brother Loki lay in his cell, pondering as he tossed his dagger into the air. Just then, a faint sound came from outside. Loki smiled, then rolled over and sat up on his bed, looking at the Witch who had opened a portal outside his cell with magic.

"Amora, my Enchantress, honestly, I was starting to get impatient waiting."

Loki looked at the blonde beauty in green robes outside the cell, wearing his habitual false smile. "I hope you did not attract Odin's attention, my dear."

"The King of the Gods is worried about the war across the Nine Realms. Ever since you killed Laufey, Malekith has occupied Jotunheim, the land of giants. The Dark Elves' army has already conquered two realms and begun advancing toward Alfheim, the land of elves."

"Naturally, Malekith is a far greater threat than Laufey. Odin will certainly be on high alert. What I am curious about is why my foolish brother has not made a move. Surely he has not been playing house with mortals in Midgard for so long that he forgot he is not one himself?"

The Enchantress did not respond, instead continuing to explain what she had discovered.

Back when Thor had been banished to Earth, Loki had pulled a series of outrageous schemes to prove to Odin that he was more suited to inherit the throne. Using his identity