It wasn’t Aphelia belittling herself, nor preening; in those old seasons, she truly steered the tide of civilization like a moon drawing the sea.

Yet Shilwen’s account fell like cold rain, and doubt spread through her past like ink blooming in water.

If civilization’s will births its own leaders, then what of her—a vessel forged like a lantern against the wind?

Why had she acted, and where did her root and home lie, like a migrant bird with no shore?

“Oh? I thought you’d ask only after I spelled out your tie to Brynhildr,” Shilwen said, her smile drifting like smoke from a censer.

She watched Aphelia’s wan face with a cat’s contentment, then nodded, voice soft as dusk wind through reeds.

“You saw what Brynhildr was in those days, a blade beneath storm clouds.

As for how she saved the world, I’m guessing you haven’t reached the final reel, like a traveler halted before the last pass.”

“More specifics, I can’t give.

There’s a binding on all who fought the Eldritch Gods, a seal like frost on iron.

I can only say your tie to Brynhildr is more than vessel and soul, like roots knotted beneath a riverbank.”

“But you’re sharp,” she went on, her tone light as rime.

“In this line of civilization, you’re nothing—a stray leaf on another tree.

You don’t belong anywhere; you could return to the mortal world or the Demon World, like a pilgrim turning back.

But whether Brynhildr will still show mercy to this vessel, I don’t know, like weather over distant hills.

You’ve lost your power, so the world and you are two-clear, debts washed like rain from stone.

Even so, you likely can’t go back, like a broken oar on a black lake.”

To be cut loose from the world—on paper, it should feel like a feast-day, lanterns bright.

But how many shackles had this world already locked on her in the name of fate, like iron chains hidden under silk?

Hero who saved the world; witch steeped in sin—both masks carved here, neither ending here, like plays that never drop their curtained dusk.

Shilwen spoke lightly, clouds brushing mountains, yet Aphelia couldn’t feel joy; her chest was a closed, cold urn.

If she didn’t belong anywhere, then where would she return, like a lone swan circling a frozen lake?

“I… at least I could go back to the elves,” Aphelia murmured, her breath thin as mist.

“By habit, they don’t touch the outside world, like deer that graze in shadowed groves.”

“Sigh, that innocent streak needs sanding down,” Shilwen said, a hawk’s finger pulling a thread.

She hooked her forefinger and rapped Aphelia’s brow, crisp as bamboo, drawing Lilo’s eye-roll and a slap to shoo her hand away.

“Do you remember the memory I showed you?” Shilwen asked, her gaze a violet flame behind glass.

“The memory… of course,” Aphelia said, voice rough as gravel.

“Uncle Yi’s youth, which you used to win my trust, like sweet wine poured before a bitter pill.”

That blood-slick stone chamber, that truth which nearly broke Yi like brittle jade—Aphelia could never forget.

Even now she doubted its reality a little, like a moon seen through rippling water.

But stripped of power, she lacked the right to verify, like a bird with clipped wings.

“Don’t doubt,” Shilwen said, calm as winter pine.

“If you keep second-guessing us, you’ll be killed the moment you leave the Abyss, like a candle snuffed in a tunnel.

Tell me, what age do you think Yi was then?”

“His age? About seventeen or eighteen,” Aphelia answered, her words a hesitant reed rustle.

“What’s there to question?”

Her own tongue felt heavy after Shilwen’s clean cut, like snow on a bough; she had to admit a measure of trust to a savior is wise, like rope on a cliff face.

Nero had given precedent, a thorn in memory; but without basic trust, these peak-walkers wouldn’t spare anything useful, like tigers guarding a gate.

They’d snatched her back from Brynhildr’s hand—far above Nero, like a mountain above a hill.

“Then what age do you think he is now?” Shilwen asked, finger to red lips, her violet eyes bright as amethyst lamps.

Aphelia felt the sense of a snare tightening like silk wire, yet answered by reflex, like rain finding a groove.

“Maybe thirty to forty,” she said, voice low as a riverbed.

“Uncle Yi never brought it up, and none of us asked, like fish who never question the current.”

“Congratulations! Wrong,” Shilwen laughed, her mirth ringing like bronze bells.

She pointed at Hrok, the motion neat as an archer’s pull.

“If we didn’t say we’d lived through a hundred million years, would you know she’s a granny of a hundred million years, an old cypress by a glacier?”

“Call me granny again, and I’ll visit the mortal world and chop your lover,” Hrok said, eyes rolling like tossed stones, humor flat as a dead fish’s stare.

Watching two high ones drop their poised masks like actors backstage, Lilo was caught between tears and laughter, a blossom half-open.

Aphelia’s brow knit, a quiet knot; she finally caught Shilwen’s point like a moth circling the lantern’s core.

“So why assume a man who looks mid-thirties is mid-thirties?” Shilwen asked, voice clear as river glass.

“Why trust the skin of a fruit and not the seed?”

“But…” Aphelia’s word faltered like a weak flame.

“No buts,” Shilwen said, swift as a blade under silk.

“Yi is my man.

Our bond is what Hrok said, iron under velvet.

That’s why I sent him west to help you, Child of Fate, like a falcon loosed toward dawn.”

She leaned close, breath warm as tea, whisper grazing Aphelia’s ear like silk on jade.

“Want to know about Lena, the big sister who adopted you, like willow sheltering a fledgling?”

Before Lilo could pull them apart from that intimate lean, Aphelia’s hand shot out, gripping Shilwen’s collar like a trap springing.

Power gone, yet her black eyes flashed with a hunter’s edge, sharp as frost on steel.

“What do you mean?” she hissed, the words a struck chord.

Hrok didn’t intervene; she sat aside, hands tucked in a wide robe like moons in cloud, a spectator’s curve to her lips.

She looked ready for someone to pass her seeds, a leisure garden in a storm.

“Now, now—don’t get riled, Miss Aphelia,” Shilwen said, smile smooth as lacquer.

“You don’t just mistrust me; you lack a pinch of manners, like salt missing from soup.”

She caught Aphelia’s clenched hands without any ripple of Aether, a calm sea under moonlight, and pried them away with raw strength, like a smith bending wire.

Aphelia kept staring, eyes bright with killing frost; if Shilwen didn’t answer, she’d murder her a hundred times in her mind, like a hawk stooping again and again.

“Tsk. You don’t cherish your body, but I do,” Shilwen said, words firm as oaken nails.

“How do you think you reclaimed it, like a soul fitted back into bone?”

Shilwen flung her hands aside; red prints flared on palm and back, stinging like brands on green wood.

Aphelia’s heart lurched; she wasn’t a True God anymore, no power to square up, like a drum with its skin cut.

She lowered her head, voice rasping like dry reeds.

“I’m sorry, Lady Shilwen. I was reckless.

Please tell me the truth.”

“Ha, that’s better,” Shilwen said, her laugh light as spring rain.

“But how sure are you I’m telling the truth, like mirrors that all distort?

Aren’t you worried I’ll lie?

I’ve lived an eon as a strong—”

“Old hag,” Hrok cut in, the jab clean as an arrow.

“Guna!” Shilwen barked, the word popping like a spark off iron, while Hrok’s eyes gleamed with laughter she couldn’t fully bury, like stars behind thin cloud.

Watching two giants act like girls, Aphelia felt her reason wobble, a lantern in wind.

Was she mad to trust words like these, like moss trusting the foot?

“She ruined my mood,” Shilwen said, toss casual as peach blossom.

“Forget it.

When the main actor arrives, you’ll know, like sunrise clearing mist.

And today…”

A knock sounded at the door, neat as rain on tiles.

“Lady Shilwen, Lady Hrok—an envoy from the Demon World requests audience,” came the voice, smooth as poured tea.

“Let her in, Andrea,” Shilwen answered, mouth curving with a secret like a crescent under cloud.

“It’s fine.”

The milky door eased open like dawn’s edge.

Maid Andrea entered with a black-robed woman, sharp ears and green hair bright as new willow.

She held a verdant staff like a spring branch; her robe bore the sigil of the Holy Lance, stark as a star.

Her presence felt balm-like, a warm river; the Aether around her glimmered with pure nature and life, like dew on leaves.

When she stepped inside, Aphelia’s face darkened, a storm under glass; she stared at the Nature Elf, wordless as stone.

Lilo didn’t know who the visitor was, but Aphelia’s fists tightened like knots; she gripped back, a steadying hand like a small fire in winter.

“Mistress of the Abyss, Lady Shilwen, and Lady Hrok, I hope you’re well,” the green-haired elf said, voice gentle as a stream.

“My master sends her greetings… ah, perhaps I came poorly; there’s a patient here, like a blossom under gauze.”

“Don’t worry,” Shilwen said, tone light as drifting snow.

“They’re my confidants—treat them as air.

But Lena, your master just reclaimed her body and is making big waves, like tides under a red moon.

Looks like your vessel project went very well, didn’t it?”

The green-haired elf was Lena—Aphelia’s adoptive mother and sworn sister, a willow beside a cliff.

Faced with Shilwen’s sudden question, Lena smiled, calm as a lake.

She didn’t grasp the angle, but with this mercurial mistress of the Abyss, straight answers were safest, like walking on flagstones.

“Of course,” Lena said, pride soft as silk.

“Not to brag, but in the mortal world, under my care the vessel grew complete, like a jade polished true.

As for Lady Brynhildr’s arrangement, I’ve fulfilled it perfectly, like a pattern woven without missed threads.”