Brynhildr’s white robe fell like moonlight; her gaze was a still lake as she watched the priest and waited.

Yes! Aether readings show it enters range in under half an hour, like a stormfront. Its density suggests a collective near Eldritch Gods.

It ignored our hails. Should we fire and cut it down, like lightning severing a tree?

She slid the Aether chart before them, like a tide unfurling. One order, and she’d smash that suspect glow outside.

Brynhildr read in silence, thoughts rippling. The intruder carried heavy force, like a muted Eldritch God.

With the two of them, it could still be erased, like ash on the wind.

Yet it showed neither goodwill nor malice; a hasty strike could beacon stronger strangers toward this reborn world.

Power blazes; power exposes. Brilliance is a lure in deep night.

Once Gungnir lights, our civilization becomes a lantern in the dark sea; kindly and cruel swarms come like flies to carrion.

Fine. Power it up. I’ll shoot it down.

Sigdrifa smiled like a drawn blade and pressed her Aether mark, waking Gungnir’s weapons.

No hesitation; her battle-hunger beat like war drums, craving a storm fiercer than the Eldritch War.

Her mark flashed so sharp it hurt to look, like noon steel. The priest veiled her eyes with a ceremonial sleeve.

Anyone who met that swordlike seal with malice would be blown to grit, like sand under a hammer.

Wait, Sigdrifa. This could draw other unknown civilizations like moths to fire.

Doesn’t matter~ If you think letting it hit ground won’t cost us, you’re dreaming.

We’re not ready. Not as a whole. What if we draw something worse than an Eldritch God?

Old memories say the starry sea hides stronger empires, like whales beneath waves.

Brynhildr sighed at her recklessness, like wind over thorns. Sigdrifa was split from her flesh; the flaw began with Brynhildr.

She chose patience, like water wearing stone, and tried to talk it through.

I know. The star map’s unfinished. Even so, I won’t allow it inside our civilizational ring.

Whether it’s hostile is unknowable; you can’t promise we can fix what it brings.

Arms crossed, Sigdrifa’s eyes were twin blades. Her war-god mind ran hotter than Brynhildr’s, like iron in a forge.

Against outsiders, consider species, disease, culture—many invasions bloom like rot. Power isn’t everything; some knots won’t cut.

Better to break it in the sky than let it step on soil.

Beside her, Aphelia looked a shade less firm, like mist beside rock.

No. I still oppose it. We can intercept and talk before it reaches ground.

They met eyes. The priest lowered her head, like grass in a storm, fearing divine thunder.

After a long hush, Sigdrifa sighed. Fine, fine. I’ll go with you and stop it.

About time. Brynhildr’s smile softened, like dawn. They shed bodies and became streamers, rushing toward that star-lit blaze.

Aether surged. Clouds parted like curtains. Rules of the world fell away like snapped cords.

Trouble arrived fast. Silver-white starlight didn’t slow; it speared straight at them like a falling pillar.

Sigdrifa, strike like thunder!

Brynhildr’s shout rang like bronze. Their vast Aether rose and fused, and hammered the silver glow head-on.

In a blink, it hit their joined shield. The weight smashed them back, like tides slamming cliffs.

How… heavy!

Teeth clenched, Sigdrifa bloomed Crystal Blossoms from her palm, like frost flowers.

Pure white Aether flooded forward, filling space, and crystallized into a wall, like ice grown in a breath.

Around her, black vacuum turned milk-white; countless Aether lances drifted, ready to strike like hawks.

Brynhildr closed her eyes; invisible Aether poured into the white, becoming her sight, like a veil lifted.

She felt unfathomable, like mist without edges.

Together, they halted the silver glow. It drifted in the black, like a seed caught in night.

No furious counterstrike came. It just hung there, as if its engine ran dry.

As the shine thinned, its shape showed: a streamlined oval, like a cocoon.

A lifeboat, like a drifting seed?

Brynhildr’s old human memories rose, like pages turning. Tech from the last age still rested in her mind.

Maybe. But it’s off from memory, probably a different tech tier, like a ship from another sea. Brynhildr, should we open it?

No reply. Maybe something inside snagged, like gears choking.

Sigdrifa tapped it, light as knuckles on wood. The oval suddenly shuddered hard, like a quake.

Both goddesses stiffened, focus narrowing like torchlight.

Sigdrifa, did you trigger something?

No idea… Her voice tightened like wire.

They wrapped it in Aether, like silk around stone, trying to isolate it from the sky.

From inside, a power much like Aether geysered out and tore the sheath, like a blade through paper.

It bloomed before them, bright and cold.

Seeing it swell again, Sigdrifa’s face darkened; her holy spear poised to pierce, like lightning.

Pl—please… st—stop…

The power froze above the oval and shaped a figure, calling to them, like a voice across rain.

After a stretch of static, the silver figure found their tongue. The two eased their Aether, granting a hearing.

Had they attacked on sight, not even dust would remain, like a candle in a gale.

Honored planetary guides, forgive me… The voice steadied like a flute; the figure sharpened into clarity.

A gentle woman with long silver hair appeared, only a projection, yet warm as sunlight on snow.

Who are you? Why did you rush straight at our world?

I’m… sorry. We are exiles…

Exiles? Why flee? Why choose our planet? Are there pursuers?

Brynhildr’s brow tightened like drawn string; a bad thought chilled her tone into iron.

If you brought wolves to our gate, I will carve that guilt into you.

No pursuers. Our planet’s lifespan is spent; it can’t cradle us anymore. I lead the last people toward a living shore.

A planet at the end of its years? Interesting. If you want entry, what do you offer in exchange?