Tsk, tsk. Two realms joining hands, defying the Eldritch Gods—sounds sweet, like lacquer gloss over a cracked bowl.

As Lena’s words fell like dry leaves, Shilwen started clapping, light and quick, like sparrows lifting off a branch. Her smile looked sincere, a paper lantern of agreement.

“Since that’s the case…”

“In that case, head back, Miss Lena.” Shilwen’s voice slid like silk, thin as a reed blade.

She flicked the bell on the table; the chime spilled like silver rain. The door opened soft as a petal, and Andrea, in her maid’s dress, stood waiting like a quiet willow.

“Looks like you’re issuing me a dismissal order, Lady Shilwen?” Lena’s good-natured mask cooled, dew turning to frost. Her voice dropped, heavy as an overcast sky.

“Don’t make it sound so harsh.” Shilwen’s hand landed on Lena’s shoulder like a gentle fan. “I never said no. You’ve put the scroll in my hand; your task’s done, right? Since it’s done, leave the Abyss—this godforsaken ravine—early, and breathe cleaner air.”

To Shilwen, the words were a warm blanket. To Lena’s eyes, they were a closed book. Shilwen hadn’t truly read the scroll; she was just Brynhildr’s envoy, a lotus set afloat by someone else’s current. If things turned rough, she wasn’t a match for the people here—much less those shadows beyond.

“Of course… Lady Shilwen, thank you for considering.” Lena swallowed her bristle like sand in her teeth. She bowed, a wilted lily bending in wind. “Brynhildr needs talent now. I hope you decide soon. We’ll be allies, same front.” She followed Andrea’s guiding hand, footsteps like quick rain toward the door.

“Wait.” The voice from the sickbed cut the room like a thin shard of ice. Aphelia spoke, and Lilo’s surprise flared—she, a True God, had missed that breath before it broke water.

From their talk, Lilo could taste the salt of the truth. Brynhildr’s side treated Aphelia like a clay jar—used, emptied, discarded. They’d inquire after her death like counting coins. The thought pricked like thorns.

Hrok and Shilwen both stiffened at that call, but their faces stayed smooth stone, no cracks. If Aphelia spilled anything dangerous, the calm would shatter like glass in a storm.

Deep-violet Aether, with flaring stripes of white, hid in the void like lightning veiled in cloud. One wrong word, and it would pour down like a sudden monsoon.

“You seem to know that vessel from old times.” Aphelia’s gaze was a cold pool. “Throwing her away—aren’t you afraid Brynhildr’s camp will earn a curse-laden name?”

“Huh?” The sound was a pebble hitting water, ripples easing out. Everyone but Lena let out a thin breath, like air leaving a taut drum. Aphelia hadn’t gone too far over the edge.

Lena’s brow folded like paper. Enough bad luck had piled up here. Now a stranger tugged at her sleeve—no one enjoys grit in their gears. She glanced to Shilwen, seeking a lantern’s hint.

“My friend was once a staff officer,” Shilwen said, waving her hand like brushing mist. “Loved side paths and crooked alleys, and ended up like this. Just answer her. It’s not a big deal.”

“Of course not.” Lena’s tone was clean ice with a hairline crack. “A vessel isn’t a pet you raise for affection. Brynhildr using her to return is honor enough for that clay. If the vessel weren’t already rotten, Brynhildr would’ve had me take it back and smelt it into weapons.”

Her brow loosened a touch, but her words toward Aphelia held no respect, no incense smoke of courtesy. Unlike Shilwen or Hrok, there was a sharpness, a smug tilt—nothing lofty, but a nettle under the skin.

Lilo’s impression of this Nature Elf plunged like a stone into black water.

“Heh… I see. Thank you very much, Miss Lena.” Aphelia’s rasp was dry wind across old bark. She leaned back and closed her eyes, lids dropping like evening.

“Then, I’ll take my leave.” Lena almost stumbled over eagerness. She pulled up her hood, a shadowed cowl. Under Andrea’s lead, she hurried out, footsteps tapping like hail.

Her mind felt torn, silk ripped by a nail; the split worsened her nausea. Shilwen’s stance weighed on her like low pressure before a storm. Was this errand honor, or a slow grind on a whetstone?

The room fell from its earlier clatter into a hush. The air felt sedated, a river dosed quiet. Silence pooled, cold and deep.

At the center, Aphelia, eyes shut, leaned on the headboard like a withered reed. Her hand in Lilo’s trembled like a moth caught against glass.

“You’ve seen the truth.” Shilwen turned, voice cold as iron in winter.

It was truth—bare as bone. In this borrowed body, powerless yet strange, Aphelia saw the Aether, felt hearts flicker with its tide, minnows under ice.

“At this point, believe or don’t. It’s yours, Aphelia.” Shilwen’s words fell like stones into still water.

Believe? Of course she believed—how could she not? The one she revered, held like kin, had always treated her as an object, a polished jar. Never a breath of real feeling. They didn’t even come for her; they came for Brynhildr’s need.

She had held a sliver of hope when Lena arrived, a winter sun, weak and brief. Foolish warmth.

Gentle smiles. Warm embraces. Countless nights jarred awake by nightmares, a silhouette to keep her company—kin for a girl without father or mother. From the first spark to the last ember, it had all been a lie spun like silk over thorns.

Beneath the bandages, Aphelia smiled, crooked as a cracked mask. Tears seeped from the corner like spring water through stone. Her throat found no sound, only air.

Violet died because of Brynhildr. The Valkyrie stood by Brynhildr without a blink. Lena was the nurturer Brynhildr had planted years ago. For Aphelia, how many sky-sized lies did the world still keep, clouds shaped like promise?

If she was only a vessel, why give her all this—then rip it away, like frost killing blossoms?

Hero or Demon King, it didn’t matter—names like banners in wind.

World or Eldritch Gods, it didn’t matter—storms wearing different masks.

In a single heartbeat, pillars she had leaned on cracked, and collapsed like an ice shelf shearing from the cliff.

“You saved me… Is there a price?” Her voice rasped, old wood under strain.

Shilwen and Hrok stood by the bed like twin stones. Aphelia’s eyes were dull ponds, no glimmer, no fish.

“No price.” Shilwen’s tone was steady rain. “We saved you for someone’s last wish. What comes next is yours to choose. We’ll secure your living. Miss Lilo too, as long as she stays in the Abyss.”

“I see…” Aphelia sank into the headboard, like driftwood touching shore. She looked asleep, or lost in deep fog—still as a corpse under snow.

“Lilo, please don’t stay with me anymore.” Her words came after a long stretch, hoarse as wind through reeds. The hand that had gripped Lilo’s loosened, soft as waterweed.

“Huh?” Lilo’s breath hitched, a wingbeat caught mid-air.

“Please, don’t keep watch over me, Lilo.” Aphelia turned her bandaged face away, repeating the line like a bell toll. Lilo’s heart flinched; she seized Aphelia’s hands again, grip fierce then frantic. Her golden eyes held no dragon’s thunder, only panic, a deer under arrows.

“Aphelia… why?”

“Treat me as dead. The Aphelia you knew is already gone.”

Lilo wrapped her tight, arms like iron vines. She clung to Aphelia’s hands; no struggle could pry her free. Shilwen and Hrok, reading the tide, slipped out, Aether carrying them away like a quiet ebb, leaving the room to two moths and one candle.

“Lilo, thank you for the feeling you’ve kept for me—”

“Don’t.” Lilo’s palm covered Aphelia’s mouth, firm as a seal on a jar. Her voice burned, gold eyes sparking anger like flint.

“Don’t say it… please?” She looked into Aphelia’s hollow gaze and pleaded, a prayer in a storm. Her grip eased, rain lightening. Aphelia moved Lilo’s hand aside, calm as a blade laid flat.

“The old Aphelia died here just now.” Her words were ash drifting.

“Her life, her meaning, her existence—someone’s fabrication, a sky-wide lie.”

“Everything I did was a guided path. My will was prewritten ink. Then who am I? Why do I live? Why was I cast into this world’s river?”

“Right now, I’m not even a whole person.” The sentence hung like a broken kite in wind.

Tears kept coming, clear streaks on a bitter smile. She looked at Lilo like a ruined puppet, strings tangled, wood split.

“So, don’t keep watch over me.”