Uroboros needed no introduction; she was a mountain already on the map. But what did the three sisters of fate see in Aphelia? What whole life did they read from a single silver thread? In earlier days, Odin would never have gone to them for answers.
As one who climbed to godhood on her own strength, Odin treated misty fate like fog before the sun. No prophecy could bend her will; most failed like rain on iron.
By some measure, she already had one foot over the horizon, a step beyond this world.
Now she couldn’t help but watch Aphelia’s fate like a sailor tracking a rising star. What did those three RhineFairies glimpse, that they would shield her at any cost? Did it mean Aphelia’s tomorrow would blaze far brighter than her own?
Odin, never let that thought root again. Skuld didn’t turn; her voice was ice water over coals, snapping Odin awake. As she spoke, a thin line of blood threaded from the corner of her mouth.
I’m sorry—my will slipped like a hand on wet stone.
For the strong—more so for someone like Odin—a stray thought is a seed on the wind. It takes root unseen. Obsession or whim, it’s all the same. As a god braided into the world itself, whatever she thinks echoes outward, bare and unfiltered.
That was why Odin woke drenched in cold sweat, as if a winter rain had run down her spine.
If that thought kept burning, it would root deep in her heart. Through Aether, it would etch itself onto the world’s Origin. Then she would live forever in Aphelia’s shadow, with no sky left to climb.
A seed of doubt can grow into a thorned inner demon.
Skuld, who peers ahead, had warned her in time. As one of the gods, and knowing Aphelia’s future, she would not let that rot take hold. Yet the act scored her like a lash of thread. Since becoming a goddess of fate, she had bled only a handful of times.
Heh… honestly. Remember, you owe me one more favor. Skuld smiled, helpless as a sigh. She tapped her staff to the grass. Green blades rippled and wove into a soft magic carpet, carrying them toward the giant tree’s roots.
…Sorry. Odin drew a few breaths, like waves settling on a lake, and steadied herself. I won’t let that thought return. But tell me this: what horizon does Aphelia reach, that you guard her like a fire in a storm? How strong… the next Valkyrie?
Skuld didn’t answer straight. Her words were a murmur, barely the brush of a breeze. Across all ages, only she has taken the Primordial Flame… She almost didn’t dare let Odin hear it. A goddess of fate doesn’t lie, and won’t stoop to it. But after seeing a thousand branching futures, she had to place each word like stepping stones across a river.
What did you say? Odin’s brows knit like a pulled thread; she thought she’d misheard.
Nothing. Go see Urd first. She’ll untie some of your knots. At that, Odin let the questions fall like leaves. To press on would bruise the trust between them. Skuld had given a promise; she could wait. She’d waited years already; patience was a calm river to her.
The green carpet bore them onward, and soon they stood beneath the great tree’s roots. Before those roots, a girl waited. She held a silver-white thread and wove without spindle or loom, her hands moving like moonlight on water. Each finished strand turned to pale light and flowed into the tree’s roots.
Here we are… Urd, I’ve brought the one you wanted. Give me the thread. Skuld stepped off the carpet. At her voice, the weaver-girl let the line slip without a glance and walked toward them. The strand didn’t fall; it floated like a feather. When Skuld took over, the weaving resumed with a soft, silver hum.
A first meeting… no, long time no see, Errant Cycle—Ouroboros. The girl looked young, yet her voice was airy as a bell in mist, and her poise carried an older grace. She didn’t address Odin. She walked to Uroboros and spoke softly.
Long time, is it? I don’t remember a prophet-huckster like you anywhere in my past. Uroboros laughed, sharp as a blade on whetstone. She was sure of it; across her long ages there’d been no Urd. If there had, the woman would be another coil in her Errant Cycle by now. Seers of time always drew her like a cat to flickering string.
Of course you wouldn’t remember, Ouroboros—no, Uroboros. This you hasn’t met me. And I’m no charlatan, only a mortal peeking from the edge of fate’s shore. Urd took the rudeness like a calm lake takes rain. To most, those words would conjure deep waters. To Uroboros, they were incense smoke and staged shadows.
The reason was simple. Uroboros was a piece of the world’s law. She could not, would not, admit another her existed. A rule is a rule because across countless lines it stands alone, a spine through the sky.
If she ever accepted another self, even in her bones, the rule named “Ouroboros” would shatter like glass. The whole world would turn over like a table.
Imagine a world without error. Every act stamped “correct.” Charity is correct; atrocity is, too. Life is correct; death is, too. Contradictions fused because the Errant is gone. Such a world wouldn’t be blessed; it would be a garden of glass, raising only twisted fruit.
Uroboros, born of error, wouldn’t mind watching such a world. But the price was her own erasure, concept and all, wiped like chalk from every slate. She dropped the thought and met Urd’s words with disdain.
If you’d met me on another timeline, this world would already be ending. You wouldn’t be standing here to chatter. Uroboros smiled with scorn, fangs under silk. She was never kind; she only stood with Aphelia, and so wore a different face.
Odin felt the air tighten like a drawn bow. She didn’t step in. She only drew Aphelia a few paces back. Urd’s words snagged her curiosity. The Errant Cycle must point to a world’s rule, and Uroboros had been uncanny since the moment she appeared.
Against the giants, Runes had limits. Odin stayed composed now only because Aphelia had hauled her back from death and poured Aether into her. Whoever wields Aether brushes a rule of the world—or becomes one.
That kind of conceptual gulf shatters giants like clay idols. But Uroboros? After she arrived, her power was monstrous. On the Golden Plain, the sky-swallowing serpent—Odin remembered it clear—devoured over half the giants’ legions like a storm mouth.
And yet, in the end, all she offered was the cover story of Aphelia’s help. With Urd naming her now, that veil wouldn’t hold against the sun.
Easy, easy. Don’t bristle. Urd’s eyes flashed with a silver gleam. What if the you before us isn’t you, Ouroboros?
The line was laughable to Uroboros, and she drew breath to bite back—but Urd pressed on.
Do you remember how you died? Do you remember how you returned to this world? Why you follow Aphelia in this shape—do you remember? She pointed to Uroboros’s heart as she spoke, each word a tap on iron.
Hmph, I’m obviously— The words stalled. Fear swam up in her black eyes, and the sentence died in her throat. The old confidence drained like heat from a stone.
Urd saw it land and kept her pace. Do you remember the true reason you appear beside Aphelia? You leftover shade of a resurrection.
No. No!! Uroboros’s face locked like clay in a kiln. She dropped to her knees, clutching her head. Denials spilled like broken beads, yet quicksilver memories flickered through her mind, confirming Urd’s words.
Odin moved, sensing danger, but Urd shook her head. She walked to the kneeling Uroboros and bent close. Her whisper was a silk knife. Reaper’s pawn, your task is over.
