Soft words drifted in like a warm breeze. The two looked up, hearts snagged by the sound. A woman stepped out of myth, beauty like moonlit silk.

She wore a white dress thin as gauze, scepter in hand. She descended like a falling petal and came to stand before them.

“A RhineFairy…?”

Her strange poise marked her identity, like a swan on still water. Yet there was no ripple of power around her, which set Uroboros on edge.

By instinct, her power strips masks like wind strips leaves. The strong rarely hide before her gaze. She was once rule-born, a weave of law. Even though Mist Bloom severed the source and poured it into Aphelia, that innate sense never died.

But the woman before them showed no surge at all. More mortal than divine, earth-plain, yet she felt familiar to Uroboros, like a scent from home.

“It’s not your turn to say that… Where are your other two sisters? Your guards hurt my friend…”

“Hurt? What kind of joke is that?”

The white-dressed woman laughed, soft as chimes. She pointed at the Crimson Fire blooming at Aphelia’s brow.

“She’s chosen by the Primordial Flame. My half-artifact is almost being refined by her. Those guards hurt her? Odin, your jokes are getting better.”

She shook her head. Her scepter tapped the ground like rain. The river rose and hovered, forming a bridge of glass, ferrying the three toward that great tree.

“She was chosen by the Primordial Flame?! But… this doesn’t look like the Far Flame at all. And legends say the Primordial Flame hides deep within the Origin…”

It wasn’t Uroboros who cried out, but Odin. She stared at Aphelia, disbelief sharp as ice.

The RhineFairy sighed, resignation like a cold breeze. “You’re… hidebound. Who do you think gifted you that power? A century wandering and you still haven’t sobered up.”

Odin flushed, heat under frost. She lowered her voice. “Fair. But none of us have ever seen the Primordial Flame. Who’d guess Aphelia, an amnesiac human, would have it…”

She glanced at the sleeping Aphelia and felt a tide of mixed emotions. All her guesses fell short of this fire in the brow.

Only then did Uroboros notice the strangeness underfoot. The bridge stretched like a path through mist.

“Hey… can we stop a moment? This bridge should be short, right?”

Before they stepped on, Uroboros had gauged the span. The river was only a dozen meters wide. Even carrying Aphelia, they should cross in minutes. Yet led by the RhineFairy, they’d walked near half an hour.

The RhineFairy didn’t answer. Odin did, voice calm as night water.

“Uroboros, know this. Below us runs the Rhine. The rebirth of the dead, and the receiving of the living, both pass this river.”

“Then we’re surrounded by souls?”

That thought painted Uroboros’s face in darker shades, like storm over a lake.

Odin didn’t see her change. She nodded and went on. “We walk in the seam where life turns to death. Without a RhineFairy, even gods fail to cross. Of course… if someone can devour souls outright, forget I said anything.”

At that, Uroboros’s smile tilted, as if tasting iron on the tongue. Her eyes measured the current, already weighing how to feed.

Up front, the RhineFairy didn’t care for their chatter. She sighed, drifted into thought, then spoke like telling a story by firelight.

“The Primordial Flame was the only life at the dawn. We gods came after, born from the World Tree once the world took shape. Compared to the Primordial Flame, the world’s bedrock, we are lesser. Even you, Odin, child of the World Tree.”

That surprised Odin. In her memory, the RhineFairy never admitted standing beneath anyone. Not she, nor her sisters—always high, always cold.

At the bridge’s heart, the RhineFairy halted. She bent and cupped the river, moonlight pooled in her hands, then stepped to Aphelia.

Odin sprang to block her, hand lifted like a shield. Before she could speak, the RhineFairy’s face stayed unreadable.

“She’s at the critical moment of refining an Artifact Spirit. Are you sure you want to stop her? Her Artifact Spirit won’t be ordinary. Since fate ties us, I’ll fan the flames.”

River in her palms steamed away, like dawn mist rising. The clear water didn’t simply vanish. A transparent presence was drawn out, refined, and held, like crystal bound in silk.

“Refining an Artifact Spirit?! How? She doesn’t even have a formation…”

“Please. Don’t fuss. The Primordial Flame outclasses any array. Are you letting me or not? You’ve got seconds. Ten. Nine…”

Odin’s face turned complicated, thoughts racing like arrows. She stepped aside at last, not bothering to ask Uroboros.

She suspected the RhineFairy meant to use Aphelia’s body to revive something strong. The RhineFairy already knew of the Primordial Flame; ill intent wouldn’t be a stretch.

But the worry was extra. Aphelia’s Crimson Fire is her soul itself. Any invader would be refined into soul-ash. Uroboros beside her hears soul-ripples like wolves hear heartbeats.

If someone courts death, Uroboros won’t mind showing her Origin. Beneath them lie tens of thousands of souls. Stain them with her poison-like power, and the Land of the Dead flips in an instant.

The RhineFairy did nothing out of bounds. She simply fed the refined soul into the Crimson Fire at Aphelia’s brow, then walked ahead, leading them onward.

“You said Aphelia is refining an Artifact Spirit. What do you mean?”

Odin didn’t plan to let her slide. She closed the distance and asked, voice edged like steel.

Aphelia breaks common sense too often. Especially Odin’s new power—never seen in this world… No, always here, but everyone leans on the World Tree’s blessing.

Never mind refining Artifact Spirits, a craft only master artisans hold.

In the Asgardian Realm, refining an Artifact Spirit is near a clan-wide affair. The reason’s simple. An Artifact Spirit is an independent persona, a new partner entirely under its master’s will.

Its potential depends on the tool and the wielder. The spirit binds to the master’s soul. It becomes the most reliable companion.

If the master is a god, the Artifact Spirit climbs to godhood. Two gods then fight shoulder to shoulder. The Spirit can perfectly cover the master’s flaws. How could such might be born casually?

The finest Aesir artisans prepare for a century. They draw pure fruit of power from the World Tree. Some chase perfection to the point of self-sacrifice. That’s why top-tier Spirits are rare.

The RhineFairy sighed and tucked a strand behind her ear, pity in her tone like soft rain. “Literal meaning.”

“Cause and effect. You three sisters can see it all…”

“Spare me. I lost a half-artifact and didn’t complain. You still want an explanation?”

Odin didn’t hesitate. She drew her spear and offered it to the RhineFairy.

“Take it, then explain it clearly.”

The RhineFairy blinked, a flicker crossing her face. She murmured, “Sister, you’re wrong again…”

For a heartbeat, her heart wavered. Odin’s spear—Gungnir—rings across the three worlds, a weapon said to strike and kill without fail. More crucial—its Artifact Spirit still isn’t filled.

If the RhineFairy, keeper of the Land of the Dead, set a mighty soul within, she’d gain a being equal to a god, loyal like a shadow.

She pushed the spear back, irritated. “You counted on me refusing, didn’t you?”

Odin grinned and didn’t deny it.

The RhineFairy shook her head and sighed. Her pale right hand swept the air beside her. The river rose and spread, a mirror gleaming at their side.

It showed Aphelia within a sea of Crimson Fire.

She sat at one shore of that blaze, wrapped in tongues of flame. Even her bare skin burned, yet she didn’t stir; breath held, mind sunk into power.

Opposite her, in that Crimson sea, a pair of Bracer Gauntlets inlaid with verdant gems rested in a shadow’s hands, standing quiet before her.