Self Hatred Is A Tragedy In Itself

"Answer me, Jotun wrench.”
“What are you talking about? I am Prince Loki!” Loki blinked in confusion at the guard. Fear was pounding through his heart and the rest of his body reacted. When his little blue hand wrapped around the man’s wrist, frost began to grow from his fingers. It cut deep into the man’s skin. He let go, letting Loki fall in a crumble on the floor.
Bringing his hands up to his face slowly, Loki started gasping at the sight. His once pale skin was now stained a deep blue. White markings swirled in intricate patterns from his fingers and up his exposed arms. He brought a hand up, feeling the marks continuing over his face. Horns. Tiny little horns popped from his forehead just below his hairline. He’d been dressed in casual sparing clothes while he practiced with his magic, and those clothes were now stained with ash and small burns.
He looked nothing like Loki, youngest Prince of Asgard. He looked like a Jotun, an enemy slipped into their home.
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When a young Loki tries his hand at a full shifting spell, he unknowingly breaks a spell which had been placed over him centuries ago.