Aphelia couldn’t help it—madness curled her lips. Her Bracer Gauntlets burst into Crimson Flame, a wildfire blooming on steel. She drove her fist into her heart, a thunderclap of pain, and as her heartbeat slammed to a stop, the Crimson Flame poured into her body like molten rivers, surging toward the sea of her consciousness.

“You filthy, craven rat—get… out here!!!”

Her arm, burning with Crimson Flame, reached straight into her own body, as if through water. Under Sigdrifa’s stunned gaze, Aphelia screamed herself ragged and ripped a twisted black shadow out of her chest, then flung it into a sea of Crimson Flame.

Her roar rolled like storm surf. The pitch-black silhouette was swallowed by that crimson ocean, flames wreathing it on all sides. It was about to vanish, a coal collapsing into ash.

“Aphelia… do you truly want me dead?”

A soft, helpless sigh drifted up from the crimson sea.

A great scythe split the Crimson Flame like a keel cutting fire-lit waves. The gust from its swing scattered the blaze, embers spinning like stars. A figure stepped out with a scythe in hand, poised in midair like a legend made real—a Reaper, quiet as midnight.

“Reaper, you’re no saint either. You dragged me into your space for this. To seize my body, right?” Aphelia’s sneer was a knife in frost.

The sea of Crimson Flame tugged at her mind, tide pulling toward the rocks. With Sigdrifa present, pain and hatred rose like smoke—perfect fuel for the Crimson Flame. It had begun to push back, whispering into her thoughts.

The Reaper sighed, a winter wind through bare branches. She vanished in a blink. A heartbeat later, she stood behind Aphelia, scythe lifted like a crescent moon.

And the Crimson Flame on Aphelia’s body went out, doused like a torch in rain.

Her raging thoughts and killing intent dropped away, as if someone cut a yoke from her shoulders. The two girls in courtly silks flickered out, became Bracer Gauntlets again, and clasped her arms with a soft metallic hush.

“Can you calm down and talk now?”

A cool breath brushed Aphelia’s back, like dew on scorched earth. The chill blew away the miasma twining around her, and her head cleared by degrees.

“Hah… I can manage. But Reaper, I’m not done suspecting you.”

The fury ebbed from her skull, and she didn’t have to treat the Reaper as an enemy on sight. But doubt didn’t evaporate; it settled like fog.

“You two are awfully chatty. Gravekeeper, shall I count myself in?”

Before the Reaper could answer, Sigdrifa spoke with eyes half-lidded and smiling. Pure-white crystal spread around her like frost flowers on glass. Hearing her, the Reaper lifted her hood at last, revealing her face to the burning air.

“Whatever it is, we’ll explain later. The urgent thing is Sigdrifa. Deal with her first.”

Aphelia didn’t like it. But a strong ally here was rain on parched fields. No reason to refuse, by sense or by blood.

She nodded, rolled her shoulders, raised her fists again—then paused as the Reaper checked her with a gesture, a palm steady as an anchor.

“Sigdrifa. Long time. Looks like you haven’t grown at all.”

The dusky-skinned Reaper’s voice was cold, not quite human, like sound filtered through snow. Standing near, Aphelia felt it clearer. It was the tone of a puppet pulled by strings, a duty carried out by a dead hand.

“Oh? Then tell me—how haven’t I grown?” Sigdrifa still smiled, but her hands settled on the white crystal at her sides, butterflies landing on blades.

Seeing it, the Reaper went on without blinking.

“My mistake. I said it wrong.”

“So you’ve got some taste after all—”

“Not only no progress. Your rotten temper’s worse. You’ll never surpass Brynhildr.”

She drove the barb in with a deadpan face, a scalpel dipped in ice. Even Aphelia glanced over; she hadn’t expected the frosty Reaper to play little tricks with words.

“Heh. Still sharp-tongued, are we?”

Sigdrifa smiled. Pure white crystal drew into a spear. Her form flickered out like a candle flame. The next breath, a spearpoint blazed before the Reaper’s eyes. The cold gleam almost kissed her pupil.

In that no-escape instant, Sigdrifa’s motion hit a hitch. The Reaper turned with a twist of her black robe and slid by the thrust, a raven slipping past an arrow.

The spear’s edge scraped night. The great scythe swept back toward Sigdrifa, a harvest stroke, an impossible reversal.

White crystal surged again. As if a second Sigdrifa had bloomed below, a spear of crystal shot up at the Reaper’s midriff. Aphelia couldn’t just watch. Crimson Flame lit her Bracer Gauntlets with a hiss. Her fist wind slammed aside the spear gunning for the Reaper’s belly.

“Aphelia—so you’re joining too?” Sigdrifa’s figure blinked into view. She hurled a crystal spear like a hunk of winter sky. The Reaper’s scythe cut it clean in midair, two halves spinning away like shards of moon.

The black robe billowed like a wall and set itself before Aphelia.

“Work with me. You don’t want her doing as she pleases.”

The Reaper’s voice was flat water. Her robe stirred without wind, and Aphelia finally saw beneath it—countless tiny hourglasses floating, each shedding a strange, golden hush, like time breathed through sand.

“Of course. I’m not letting her leave.”

Aphelia smiled. She knocked her fists together. Crimson sparks crossed like fireflies at dusk. An emerald gem glowed faintly. She floated to the Reaper’s side, eyes locked on Sigdrifa like a hawk on a serpent.

“I wasn’t going to run. Who said anything about leaving?”

Aphelia snorted and surged in. Crimson Flame rose into a shield at her fore, catching crystal thorns that lunged like ice vipers. She threaded the air with quick, cutting steps, a meteor aimed straight at Sigdrifa’s face.

“My my, don’t be so hasty.”

A force swelled from nowhere and shoved Aphelia half a step back, like a tide catching an ankle. A swarm of crystals rushed her at once, a white flood bent on a kill. Aphelia raised her arms, Crimson Flame ready to roar.

A crisp crack sounded first. The great scythe shattered the white briars with one sweeping cleave. The Reaper’s silhouette flashed to Aphelia’s flank like a blot of night.

“Go.”

“Didn’t need you to say it!”

Aphelia closed again. This time the Crimson Flame became twin swords, edges bright as dawn on snow. She gripped them and brought them down toward Sigdrifa’s throat.

“Foolish.”

Before white crystal could bloom, the Reaper cut in from the side, a straight line through storm. Under her robe, an hourglass snapped. Golden sand lifted and drifted, and Sigdrifa grunted. The hand she’d raised froze midair.

An unseen hand pinned her in that heartbeat.

Aphelia didn’t waste the opening. The twin blades of Crimson Flame punched through Sigdrifa’s shoulder. Searing heat burst like a geyser. Aphelia released the hilts and hammered down with both fists.

White crystal rose again. From Sigdrifa’s ribs, a spike shot upward like a tusk. Aphelia’s arms were still high; she couldn’t guard that angle.

No need for words. The shadow came on cue. The Reaper swung the scythe low; Aphelia had struck high. With their power near equal, even Sigdrifa wouldn’t take that hit head-on.

So white crystal roared out again, trying to grow a crystal forest between steel and flesh.

The twin crimson blades detonated, a bloom of fire punching into Sigdrifa’s body. Using that breath of space, Aphelia and the Reaper slipped back like swallows breaking a wave.

The volley hit home. It truly wounded Sigdrifa. It was their first time fighting together, yet they moved like comrades reunited after years, hearts in step.

If Aphelia was reckless fury, the Reaper was quiet guard. The scythe looked made to reap. Yet it stood like a great shield, keeping Aphelia whole.

“Aphelia, keep that pressure.”

“Didn’t need you to tell me!”

She rolled the Crimson Flame up again and charged Sigdrifa, relentless. They offered her no chance. Their tight assault cut from the flank, a stormfront breaking a cliff. The raging tempo forced Sigdrifa to meet them head-on.

When white crystal formed, Aphelia’s Crimson Flame leaped on it like a hunting cat. Her follow-up fists and kicks pushed the wounded Sigdrifa back, breath ragged in the cold light. The Reaper ghosted in and out, the great scythe lashing from dark angles, impossible to guard.

This won’t do.

Even Sigdrifa had to think it, a crack in ice under heavy snow.