Brynhildr stared at the streamlined oval, a moon-smooth shell like a silver fish drifting in the dark. Memory rose like frost on old glass—tech from a lost age. Thanks to the humans who forged her, those shards stayed clear in her mind.

“Maybe,” Sigdrifa murmured, her voice a low tide. “But it’s far from what I recall. Might be foreign tech… Brynhildr, do we open it? No response yet—maybe whatever’s inside hit trouble.”

She tapped it with a finger. While she spoke, the oval shuddered like a drum under thunder, and both goddesses flinched, focus narrowing like arrowheads to the silver shell.

“Sigdrifa, did you trigger something?” Brynhildr’s tone sharpened like ice.

“I don’t know…” The words hung like mist.

They moved without hesitation, Aether flowing like white silk. It wrapped the oval, trying to fold it out of the starry sea. From within, a force akin to Aether surged like a geyser, smashed their shell like surf breaking a sand wall, and hovered before them in silver.

It poised to erupt again. Sigdrifa’s face darkened like storm clouds; her Sacred Lance aligned to pierce that silver swell.

“P—please… please, st—xjansh—stop…” The plea cracked like static through rain.

The force froze above the oval, then budded into a silhouette, which called urgently to the two hunters ready to strike.

After a string of sounds that meant nothing, the silver-white figure finally shaped a clear sentence. The two let their Aether thin like fog and chose to give this “thing” a chance to speak.

If the figure had lunged at them first, there’d be nothing left but dust on the wind.

“Guides of this world, I’ve been discourteous.” The voice steadied like a lamp finding oil. The image sharpened into a gentle woman with silver-white hair, a winter river rendered in light. Only a projection, yet goodwill drifted from her like spring warmth over stone.

“Who are you? Why rush straight at our world?” Sigdrifa asked, point-first, her words like spears. She had no patience for uninvited guests.

“I’m… sorry. We are… exiles.” The silver woman sighed, a wind that had lost its harbor.

“Exiles? Why flee? Why choose our planet? Are there… pursuers?” Brynhildr’s brows drew like bows. A bad possibility iced her tone.

If this exile meant to drag enemies to their sky…

The thought honed Brynhildr’s gaze into knives, ready to carve the projection to ribbons.

“Ah… no pursuers. Our planet’s lifespan has ended; its hearth is cold. It can’t hold life anymore. I had to carry the last of my people toward a world that still breathes.”

“Your planet reached its end? Interesting.” Sigdrifa’s smile was a crescent blade. “Then to enter ours, what price do you offer?”

Before Brynhildr spoke, Sigdrifa already wore amusement like a mask, waiting for the figure’s reaction.

In old diplomacy, a leader like Sigdrifa might seem rude; to the silver figure, it was a door in a storm.

“Ah… generous leader, may I have the honor of your name?” The silver figure dipped midair, courtesy flowing like water. Faced with teasing, she showed gratitude, not anger.

“Sigdrifa.”

“You’re truly generous, Lady Sigdrifa. On behalf of my kin, I thank you. I don’t know how much our civilization helps you, so I’ll show you some of our tech—please judge.”

She smiled, then smoothed her hand over the oval. Light unfurled like a scroll; phantom machines blossomed before them.

“This is the Star-Track Engine, installed in a planet’s depths. It converts planetary energy and drives evolution like a rising tide. This is the Soul Beacon Network, which preserves the souls of the dead, then transfers them when a proper vessel appears…”

Era-leaping devices paraded like constellations. They lagged behind some of the ancient wonders in Brynhildr’s memory, yet many were vital seeds for revival. Even Sigdrifa, wary as a hawk, felt her guard soften like thawing ice.

They didn’t need to worry about fakes; with their power and grasp of the world’s rules, any deceit would flicker like a bad mirage under their eyes.

Sigdrifa had meant to probe; she hadn’t expected an offer that stirred her heart like a drum and was hard to refuse. She had to say it.

“Your terms… let us discuss them.”

“Of course, my ladies. I’ll await your good news.” As they spoke, the silver figure drank in this world’s culture like rain. She even sprinkled fluent idioms, which made Brynhildr glance over in mild surprise.

Sigdrifa noticed too. She nodded, drew Brynhildr aside, and raised a white Aether veil like a quiet wall.

“Brynhildr, what do you think of her?” To Brynhildr’s surprise, Sigdrifa didn’t decree this time—she asked.

“Very useful. For ordinary folk who can’t touch power at our level, it’s a blessing, like a lamp in winter.” Brynhildr thought carefully, then offered her guarded view.

“Rare… I think so too. Their tech is easier to deploy. It patches our lack of infrastructure like stitches on torn cloth. But…” Sigdrifa’s voice dipped like dusk.

“But… it arrives too neatly.” They met eyes—two mirrors of worry—and sighed, as if wind passed through old pines.

In the last era, humans weren’t helpless against the Eldritch Gods. In raw force, they held tools to smash invaders in orbit like swatting crows. Yet they were almost wiped clean.

Why?

Because the Eldritch Gods didn’t only break bodies; they broke civilization. Their twisted culture was rust that ate every gear, a raider’s creed that valued only ruin.

Now, a reviving world starves for tech, and a perfect vendor knocks right when we need bread. It feels like you drift toward sleep, and a pillow appears under your cheek—too smooth to trust.

“If we use their tech, we’re building a new world for exiles with our hands. What’s the difference from invasion? It’s conquest wearing a kind face.” Brynhildr shook her head. Temptation gleamed, but trust didn’t bloom.

“You’re right, Brynhildr. But you know our civilization’s state.” Sigdrifa’s answer fell like rain on coals, and Brynhildr went quiet. This part couldn’t be ignored.

“We rebuilt after the war, but the new weave is fragile. Forget reviving the ancients; even now we can’t raise a basic nuclear plant. Our infrastructure is rubble stitched with hope. Transport and medicine—two vital arteries—are scavenged from ruins. And we’ve handed them Aether, a gift ahead of its era.”

She sighed, a banner without wind. Brynhildr had been forged as a weapon; much of her tech memory was partial, some sealed to hone her battle edge. The rebirth looks bright, but the roots are thin.

“People who wield Aether act like we’re back in antiquity. They think Aether alone suffices. They don’t grasp that without Rune technology, raw Aether can’t lift a civilization. At best, it crowns local kings.”

“I swear, one large epidemic would tie us in knots.” Iron lay under silk in her tone.

“We can’t wait for crisis to choose. As their Guides, we should prepare while the sky’s clear. We must prepare while the sky’s clear.” Sigdrifa faced Brynhildr and waited.

After long thought, Brynhildr sighed, a leaf yielding to wind, and relented. “Let’s hope it goes as smoothly as you say…”

They accepted the link. Endless basic tech poured in like rivers, and new currents of thought rose with the machines like morning fog. The distance the goddesses had closed between them widened again, a quiet crack under ice.

The exile kin were named the Star’s Heirs.

Medicine and technology leapt by decades in one spring. With outside craft grafted on, the revival civilization shed its old skin. Some even said the Star’s Heirs were the third leaders, standing beside the two goddesses.

It wasn’t hard to see why. These few Star’s Heirs were almost human in form, many striking as moonlit statues. They didn’t hold themselves above the crowd. They slipped into humanity like rain into soil, and the ground welcomed them.