Opposite her, in a sea of crimson fire, a pair of Bracer Gauntlets studded with emeralds hovered in a shade’s hands, standing silent before Aphelia.

At that wavering silhouette, Odin’s face drained, her voice cracking like ice. “A humanoid Artifact Spirit?!”

“Right. A humanoid Artifact Spirit—the one with the widest sky to grow into. No array, no reagents, only will smelting will. And the key is… she’s merely human.”

The RhineFairy’s tone shimmered with wonder, yet sighed with regret. Wonder for Aphelia’s unheard‑of talent. Regret, because of the race she wore.

Humans are reeds in a three‑tiered world, trembling before storms.

Their bodies take to growth like spring soil takes to rain. Yet poor birthright and a brief candle of life doom them against Aesir and giants; before millennial lifespans, aside from plots and stratagems, they clutch few blades that still cut.

A thousand years ago, a brilliant rising star flared among them—the Valkyrie.

No one called her by name; she was the word, given flesh. Tall as a spear of pine, she hit like thunder; giants who wrestled mountains couldn’t last a single round under her twin fists. A master of Runes; even the Aesir, kin to the World Tree, couldn’t catch the arc of her motion.

Humanity thought that was their dawn. With the birth of the Valkyries who followed her, humans finally sat eye‑to‑eye with other clans for a fleeting season—until the Valkyries departed like migrating swans.

Now, it felt like they were watching another Valkyrie being born.

The last had no past, no name. At least Aphelia… might count as a student with a lineage?

Odin let out a rueful laugh. As the Aesir’s leader, watching another human hope rise, her heart was a tangle of knife‑thin feelings.

“If you want her dead, now’s the sweetest time to do it.”

The RhineFairy’s whisper slid to Odin’s ear like honey with a bitter aftertaste, a forbidden fruit offered in the dark.

As the helm of a race seeking revival, with a human butcher of Asgard about to ascend, she had a thousand reasons to smother Aphelia in her cradle. Here in Niflheim, with a RhineFairy’s hand on the scales…

“Enough. Killing my savior? I’m not that shameless.”

Even as a leader who knew the tribe’s weight on her shoulders, Odin held to her creed like a sword point.

She didn’t mind a future enemy rising like a storm. She couldn’t strike from the shadows. She’d stood by that for years; to break it for a possible threat would make her someone not named Odin.

“Good. If you’d strayed, the three of us wouldn’t have let you set foot on the Rhine River.”

Satisfied, the RhineFairy smiled, and wiped away the mirage at her side. In its place, a woman in a white dress arrived like a breeze no one felt, and barred their way with a staff.

She resembled the RhineFairy by a few brushstrokes, yet looked more mature, in the full bloom of grace. Her fine brows pinched, her voice a clear bell. “Skuld, you’re breaking the rules again. We hold fate to guide, not to fling power around at whim…”

“Okay, okay… Belldandy, spare me the sermon. Just watch the now. The upper world’s already a mess.”

Their guide was Skuld, the RhineFairy who governs the future. Beside her, her elder sister who governs the present, Belldandy, seemed steadier, older, the river broader than the brook.

Belldandy’s willow brows stayed knit. She looked at Odin, then the sleeping Aphelia in her arms. Silver rose and faded in her eyes like moonlight behind clouds. She sighed and stepped aside, opening the path.

“…It seems humanity is fated to rise.”

She said it, then drifted toward the far end of the bridge, leaving only that headless, tailless line behind.

Her arrival had been sudden; her exit felt like waking from a dream.

Watching her go, Odin turned to Skuld, questions a tide behind her eyes.

“Don’t look at me. It won’t help. Belldandy’s always like that. Governs the present, yet floats like mist. Nothing like how a god should act.”

Skuld shrugged. Under her lead, they finally stepped off the bridge and crossed the river of souls.

What snagged Odin’s mind wasn’t the crossing. It was Skuld’s earlier line.

“Skuld, you said if I chose wrong, you three sisters wouldn’t let me pass… what did you mean?”

A prickle of dread crawled up Odin’s spine. What did not letting her pass truly mean? What did they know of Aphelia? She, Odin, felt like the one blindfolded now.

Set Uroboros aside—she could guess that knot. But these three who weave fate—what future of Aphelia’s had they seen? What life of hers? In the past, Odin would never have asked.

She’d become a god by her own hand. She’d always met fate like a cliff meets waves. No prophecy swayed her will; most omens broke against her unmoved blade.

In some sense, she already stood with one foot beyond this world.

Yet now, she couldn’t help herself. Hope flickered, dangerous as foxfire. What did they see that made them shield Aphelia at any cost? Did that mean Aphelia’s tomorrow eclipsed her own?

“Odin. Don’t ever think like that again.”

Skuld didn’t turn. Her voice came cold as a winter stream, dousing Odin in an instant.

A thin line of blood beaded at Skuld’s lip like a red thread on snow.

“Sorry. My will slipped.”

For the strong—especially one like Odin—a single thought can cast a long shadow. It can harden into an obsession, or bloom into a wild, winged fancy. As a god near‑joined to the world, her thoughts reflect into the world like stars in a still lake.

That was why Odin broke into a cold sweat at Skuld’s wake‑up call.

If she’d kept down that path, the idea would root in her heart, then, through Aether, be carved into the world’s very Origin. When that happened, Odin would truly be bound to stand beneath Aphelia for life, with no turning the tide.

A small question can swell into a future heart‑demon.

Seeing ahead, Skuld had warned her in time. As Aesir, and knowing Aphelia’s future, she would never allow that seed to sprout. She herself took the hurt for such overreach. Since becoming a goddess of fate, she’d bled so few times she could count them on one hand.

“Heh… honestly. Remember, you owe me one.”

Skuld gave a helpless smile. She tapped her staff on the grass. The green sward rippled and rose, turning into a soft magic carpet that bore them toward the roots of the giant tree.

“Sorry…”

Odin drew slow breaths, grounding fire to ash, water to calm.

“I won’t think like that again. But tell me—what future does Aphelia reach that makes you guard her so fiercely? How strong will she be… the next Valkyrie?”

Skuld didn’t answer straight. Her murmur was a feather at dusk. “Since ancient days, only she has reached the Primordial Flame…”

Her voice was almost too soft to hear—or rather, she didn’t dare let Odin hear. As a goddess of fate, she wouldn’t, and didn’t need to, lie. But after seeing those countless possible futures, caution was the only shore.

“What did you say?”

Skuld’s whisper was so low that Odin frowned, wondering if she’d misheard.

“Nothing. Go meet Urd. She’ll answer part of what eats at you.”

With that, Odin held her tongue. To push would be to doubt the fate‑weavers—rude, and useless. A promise had been given; she could wait. She’d already waited years. Patience was a cloak she wore well.

The green carpet ferried them on. Soon, they reached the great roots.

Before those roots stood a maiden with silver threads in hand. Without spindle or loom, she wove out of empty air. Each finished thread became silver light and streamed into the roots of the great tree.

“We’re here… Urd, I’ve brought who we needed. Let me take the threads.”

Skuld hopped down. At her voice, the weaving maiden released the line without turning. The thread didn’t fall. It floated in midair until Skuld took it and the spinning resumed.

“Nice to meet you… no, better to say, long time no see, Cycle of Error—Ouroboros.”

She looked young, but her voice was airy as high halls, and every motion elegant, a maturity far beyond her face.

She didn’t approach Odin. Instead, she stopped before Uroboros and spoke softly.

“Long time no see… I don’t recall any fortune‑mongers like you in my past~”

Uroboros smiled without warmth. The other had named her core, yet she was sure that in her long ages, she’d never met this Urd.

If she had, Urd would already be another coil in her cycle of error.

Those who claim to see time have always drawn Uroboros like moths to a lamp.