Aphelia’s throat felt full of ash, her words drowned before birth. Odin saved her from the silence, drew her aside toward the roots where Skuld wove threads like moonlit silk, and calmly recounted what had just unfolded.

“So… that’s how it is. For that so-called future, the goddess who keeps the past cast herself into your Crimson Fire. No wonder she’s like this. They were sisters through millennia, kin in all but blood.”

A heavy sigh fell from Aphelia like a stone sinking into deep water.

Confusion came first, a tide that chilled her ribs; action came after. She still couldn’t grasp why those who saw the future, or other times, would throw themselves onto her blade. Is she strong now? The answer rang bright as hammered steel—yes.

Since gaining the Artifact Spirit, strength flooded her like a river in spate. She felt herself surpass the level of a True God; not just her weapon, but flesh and soul were forged like iron in a storm. She even felt ready to clash head-on with Sigdrifa.

Her teacher, that woman called a Valkyrie yet not a Valkyrie—Mist Bloom—what is she, truly?

Why gift her the Crimson Fire? Why pour burning embers into her soul? Her second life, this sharp, towering power—so much of it came from that Crimson Fire tempering her spirit.

In this fog-thick maze, what did Urd and Enkidu see that made them choose the pyre for her sake? Enkidu had said it was for the dawn of humanity’s age. And Urd? To reclaim the Asgardian Realm?

It sounded neat as a stitched seam, yet in her marrow, Aphelia couldn’t accept it.

“She gave up her chance at the cycle entirely,” Odin said, voice rough as old bark. “From now on, aside from the other two goddesses and the two of us, no one in this world will recall Urd. At the world’s Origin, the part that was Urd was erased by her own hand. In exchange, you gained those two Artifact Spirits behind you, human in every way.”

Odin’s gaze lifted to the two girls floating behind Aphelia, robes like ripples of dawn. From their aura, they were no weaker than Aphelia, storms hiding under velvet. Whether they held Runes or other brands of power, he couldn’t say. He chose to believe they did, because their very presence broke the rules of common sense.

“I see… I’m sorry. I don’t even know why Urd sacrificed herself for me. It’s harsh to say, but if I’d been awake, I would’ve stopped her…”

“No need. This isn’t your fault,” Odin murmured, a bitter smile creasing like a crack in ice. “Belldandy knows it, too. We were venting in our weakness, nothing more.”

His eyes shone, a wet glitter like dew on iron.

“Did Urd leave a wish?” Aphelia asked, the question a thorn under the tongue. “If it’s the restoration of the realm…”

“Yes, to revive the realm,” Odin cut in, fire already licking his heels. “But that can wait. Come. We finish what brought us to Niflheim first.”

He strode away like a windstorm toward the river.

On the near bank of the Rhine, Belldandy stood with her staff like a lone pine in snow, staring into the glass-clear current. Her face was dim as dusk, the air around her heavy with Urd’s absence.

Guilt hit Aphelia first, hot as a brand; she drew back on instinct. Even with a thick skin, barging in now would be a horn through paper walls. She was the culprit by any honest reckoning. To ask for something now felt like walking into lightning on purpose.

Odin didn’t flinch. He stepped up, palm light on Belldandy’s shoulder, a tap like rain.

“Belldandy—”

“You’ve come for the golden ring, haven’t you?” Belldandy’s voice rasped like a leaf in winter. In that moment, she wasn’t a bright young goddess, but a woman at eventide, her vitality spent like embers gone gray.

“…Yes. I’m sorry. We have no choice.” Odin swallowed his prepared words like bitter medicine. Grand duty meant nothing beside fresh grief.

“All right… I’ll give it to you.”

Belldandy bent like a willow, cupped both hands into the crystal water. A skein of cold whispers rose like breath from a crypt. Her fingers caught on something unseen; she lifted her hands over her head in slow, reverent motion.

At that moment, Niflheim blazed with noon. Sunlight speared down like golden lances, and the chill whispers snapped to silence. Radiance unfurled, a flood of gold that made eyes sting and blink.

“So this is… the Rhinegold,” Odin breathed, the name falling like snow.

A golden ring floated up, shedding river-soul like water off glass. Its brilliance tightened to a heartbeat, then the ring drifted toward Aphelia as if tugged by a hidden tide.

“As I feared…” Belldandy’s face folded with sorrow, and she turned her gaze away as if from a funeral pyre.

“Eh? Why is it floating to me? I didn’t do anything—”

“Idiot! Urd!” Odin hissed, yanking her close. “Even now you’re sleepwalking?”

Guilt flared again, salt and iron. Aphelia understood: not her, but the trace of Urd’s soul woven into her was what the ring was seeking.

Her head bowed, her face a storm of threads.

The ring settled into her palm without a sound. Its light lay quiet, yet under the sun it flashed like a blade. Even the two gorgeously dressed girls behind her opened their eyes, curiosity bright as birds.

“Master, this is…” one breathed, voice soft as silk.

“…what is it?” the other asked, leaning like a cat toward the gleam. A fingertip reached, then snapped back as if stung by frost. She hid behind Aphelia’s shoulder, a shadow of fear in her eyes.

They feared the ring like thorn and flame. In Aphelia’s hand, it felt like cool water.

“This is…” Names tangled like reeds. She couldn’t call it just the Rhine’s gold, could she? She lifted her gaze to Odin and Belldandy.

“Call it the Rhinegold,” Belldandy said, the words sharp as a bell. “No other name. And I hope you won’t give it any.”

Her breath hitched, anger rising like a gust. Odin’s weary look, the ring’s quiet weight in Aphelia’s hand—she exhaled instead, a long tide, and turned to leave.

“Right. The Rhinegold it is… why are you so afraid of it?”

“On it…” one girl whispered, eyes wide as dawn.

“…a Rule is at work,” the other finished, voice low as thunder far away.

A Rule? The thought struck like lightning. She had guessed the ring held a domain or something akin to it. But a Rule—Aether’s law made flesh in this world?

If a Rule slept in the ring, was it a True God’s shadow, a god-body in a circle of gold?

Her mind reached for the thought—then the river’s far bank shattered her focus. On Niflheim’s barrier, a jag of light ripped open, a crack bright enough to blind. From it, pure white mist seeped in like milk spilling through glass.

“What is that?!”

“The mysterious one…” Belldandy’s teeth clenched like a drawn bow. Silver-white light ran down her staff like moonlight on steel. Before Aphelia could frame a question, Belldandy surged toward the breach.

Azure Aether flared at Odin’s side, a wind the color of deep seas.

They rushed after her, the air smelling of snow and old memory. The aura from the crack curdled Aphelia’s gut, and yet felt hauntingly familiar, like a voice in a dream.

The crack burst wide, a thunderclap through crystal. Niflheim’s whole barrier tore open like cloth, and a dreadful force slammed toward them like a falling cliff. Belldandy, leading, took the blow and spun away, a star knocked from its path.

The white mist pounced, a venomous tongue tasting prey, lashing straight for her as she tumbled.

The two robed girls stepped forward as one, heels biting earth. Crimson Flame roared up, a banner of fire, and the tongue of mist caught and burned like dry chaff. A wall of blaze drew itself in the air, a red gate against the pale flood.

With their strike opening the path, Aphelia darted in and caught Belldandy out of the air, her arms a net of resolve.

“Ugh…” Belldandy’s groan was a cracked bell. Blood opened her abdomen like a second mouth, the wound slick and raw.

“Damn… I don’t do healing. It’ll hurt,” Aphelia warned, voice steady as a blade. “Belldandy, grit your teeth.”

Crimson Fire blossomed in her palm, a rose of embers. Crude, but it was all she had—sear the soul to rouse its defiance, then drive the body to knit under pain like iron under hammer.

The two robed girls fought like twin comets. In their hands, Aphelia’s Crimson Fire turned to a thousand forms—whips, nets, shields—until the vast tear was choked off by burning light. Outside, the dead balked at the flame, unwilling to touch its hungry edge.

Time narrowed to a knife’s edge. Belldandy nodded once, silent, and bit down on her sleeve, a strip of cloth turning to a dam against her cry.