"Poison? Come on—what toxin could even work on you, like arrows vanishing into the sea?"

Aphelia blinked, then let out a small laugh, like ripples smoothing under a quiet breeze.

Forget Violet’s body as one of the Elders—no toxin here, no matter how intricate, can slip past Aether’s guard, like ash blown against a jade wall.

Even the so-called no-cure venoms hit that unseen current and stall; crossing Aether’s blockade is basically impossible, like moths against glass.

I stumbled on it by accident, like tripping over a buried stone in dusk.

A vial I carried must’ve seeped into a cut.

I tracked it along my blood, a river under moonlight, yet found nothing—no stain, no shadow.

After repeated trials, under steady candlelight, I learned poison can’t breach the curtain of Aether.

Aether is the world’s law made visible, like script written in wind.

Everyone strong enough to touch it agrees, a spark at the world’s root we all glimpsed, a shared thought like stars aligning.

Precisely because of that, Aether is the strictest power, like winter ice that admits no footprint.

We sought our origin through our own strength and reached the same rules, paths converging like rivers to the sea.

That will and power reject meddling; once you bear Aether, petty tricks don’t stick, like rain on oiled silk.

"Of course… no poison," Violet shrugged, playful as a fox in snow.

"Humans keep hunting for ways to kill us, like dogs chasing thunder.

They even mix in Daemon Beast blood—stuff that makes no sense, like stitches on smoke.

They swear by science, yet pin their hopes on things they can’t even beat, like praying to waves to drown the moon."

Aphelia nodded, a calm reed in wind.

Humans love betting on mysteries, and never count the thorns hidden under those veils.

Curiosity pricked like a pin, and Aphelia asked, "Right, Violet—since you mentioned Daemon Beasts, what are they? They feel like altered creatures, like flesh rewoven.

Yet inside I don’t taste the Eldritch Gods’ will—just a jumble of Aether, like paints muddled on a wet palette.

At a glance they look the same, but mixed Aether against the Eldritch Gods’ Aether isn’t even close; the gap yawns like a canyon."

She remembered the Daemon Beast she’d torn apart by hand, like ripping rotten cloth.

At first it felt ordinary, but once she called the Crimson Fire, the difference rang clear, like iron singing under a hammer.

Mixed Aether is just a blend of currents, like tributaries muddling silt.

The Eldritch Gods’ Aether is a warped will made manifest, pure and whole, like a mirrored lake that tolerates no falling leaf.

As I said, Aether brooks no intrusion, jealous as a blade’s edge.

"Hmm… we’re still working it out," Violet murmured, voice low as night rain.

No Daemon Beasts appear in the ancient civilization’s memories; people back then wouldn’t botch enemy intel, like scribes dropping every stroke.

It’s their emergence that widened the threat, like cracks spreading in ice, and that’s what woke us.

"We’ve clashed with them more than once," Violet said, gaze like flint.

I only managed one kill, inside a world wonder rich with Aether; there I reached my peak again and cut the Daemon Beast down, like lightning splitting a tree.

That set a silent note in Aphelia’s mind, a pebble dropped in a deep well.

In this world the Aether is thin—bad for training, like trying to breathe at high altitude.

Even in battle she barely stirs the ambient Aether; most of what she wields she generates herself, a furnace carried within.

It’s not that she refuses the room’s Aether; it’s just too mixed, like muddy water.

Drawing it straight is inefficient; better to drive it with her own Aether and strike, like a whip guiding skittish horses.

In fights, Aphelia usually wins on the strength of her own Aether alone, like a star burning in empty night.

Of those she’d faced, only Sigdrifa truly used Aether—but she’s no yardstick, like a mirror measuring a mirror.

And Odin—he only gained Aether with Aphelia’s help and still fights on Runes, like ink on talismans, so he’s not much of a reference either.

Violet didn’t catch Aphelia’s silence; she kept going, voice just above a sigh, like wind threading pines.

"The world’s Aether is too low now; even stretching our limbs feels tight, like fighting in water.

And for some reason, the world’s source feels gone, like a hearth gone cold; we can’t resonate with it.

What keeps the level up are those wonders, and at this rate I doubt humans can keep resisting the Daemon Beasts, like walls thinning under a rising tide."

A thought flickered in Aphelia’s mind like a lone lantern—maybe she was the odd one out.

She held her tongue, fear settling like frost; if Violet and the others saw the difference, would they drift away?

In any age, the outlier is the hardest to welcome, a crane among ducks.

The thought barely took root before Violet’s words brushed it aside, and relief slid through her like warm tea.

"Honestly, I wish I could fight like you—on my own Aether," Violet admitted with a small sigh, like wind skimming reeds.

"But we haven’t recovered enough; we have to lean on the space around us, like borrowing coals from a neighbor."

Thank goodness. Thank goodness. The stone in Aphelia’s chest finally dropped, like slate settling in a stream.

"What a letdown, humans," Violet said, words dry as driftwood. "And you once wanted to protect them."

Aphelia faltered, her heart fluttering like a startled bird. "Violet, have you ever thought about… betrayal?

I’m not testing you—just curious, like poking a campfire.

I mean, I hadn’t even awakened, a sleeping seed, and I didn’t do anything for you.

There was no need to cling to my words for years, like knots tied in rope… right?"

The others only smiled, soft as mist; Shilwen even shook her head with a grin and went back to her tasks.

"Aphelia, you really underestimate us," Violet said, chin propped on her palm, eyes bright as lanterns.

Aphelia opened her mouth, but Violet lifted a hand to still her, palm resting over her heart, like a vow.

"No matter what, Aphelia, your will is our will, like a banner riding the wind," she said.

"Among the Valkyries of the ancient civilization, there’s only one leader, start to finish, like a pole star.

Even if you needed us to die, we’d go, like snow following the winter."

"Well, past or present, Lady Brynhildr’s always like that," Shilwen chimed in, tone playful as a cat.

"She loves tossing out self-belittling lines, like petals into water.

After battles she’d heal us while saying them, and we’d end up comforting you—ah, oops, I said it out loud."

Aphelia’s cheeks flushed, a blossom opening in spring.

That look on Shilwen’s face mirrored a familiar silhouette, bright as memory.

For a breath, it felt like nothing in the past had happened, like the old days still sang in front of her.

But the warmer the scene, the deeper the shadows stirred, like night pooling under lanterns.

It all felt dreamlike, and she didn’t know whether to step out of the mist.

If not for Sigdrifa, this would never have… Even thinking her name poured cold into her chest.

Grief and hate surged up like black tide, yet Aphelia mastered them.

She smiled at Violet and asked a question that came out of nowhere, like a leaf on wind.

"Violet, will you stay with me?"

Violet blinked, surprised like a deer in light, then smiled.

She answered with action—her damp, red lips pressed to Aphelia’s, a sudden fire in winter.

Aphelia panicked for a heartbeat, then let her eyes turn hazy and accepted it, like snow melting into stream.

"See no evil, see no evil," Shilwen whistled, turning away with a grin, while the others coughed and found the scenery very interesting.

Hours later they finally reached the Elders’ camp, and Aphelia frowned, lines cut like ink.

Around them rose shabby structures and dim lamps, a den more than a home, like living inside a burned shell.

"Violet… does Hrok live in a place like this?"

She didn’t think sacrifice earned luxury, but humans had a vast land, like plains under an endless sky.

Couldn’t they spare even one proper place to live, like carving a small harbor along a long coast?

If they can’t guarantee the bare minimum, yet still ask warriors to die for them, that’s absurd, like begging a falcon while breaking its wings.

Worse, the air itself felt scorched, a constant anxiety steaming up, like life atop a volcano.

"This… is hard to sum up," Violet sighed, breath like mist.

"Let Hrok tell you herself—it’ll sit better, like water settling in a bowl."

"Fair enough… Who—?" The word snapped as a flaming blade burst from the tent, a comet streaking for Aphelia’s face.

Crimson Fire flared up, a sudden blossom, and forced the blade to a halt.