“Mhm. Keep going. Heads-up: there won’t be a second memory until you’ve finished your judgment.”

Brynhildr only let out a soft hum, eyes calm as a windless lake, face still as stone.

The girl called Fenrir, after dropping that line, blinked wide doe eyes at Brynhildr, fishing for a flicker on that mirror-flat surface.

Too bad. An old fox doesn’t let a cub score a clean hit; Brynhildr’s gaze stayed level, like frost over deep water.

Seeing that unchanging face, Fenrir sagged like a balloon losing air, bright mood dimming like a lantern in mist.

Brynhildr felt a wry smile stir, half sun, half rain.

Fenrir was clever, but her cleverness kept falling on the wrong soil, like seeds blown to stone.

It wasn’t the first time. No one had taught her to read people by twitch and breath; it grew on her naturally, like ivy climbing a wall through daily talk.

That habit wasn’t bad—in truth, it was a blade—most of them were sharp enough to catch a quiver in the grass.

For Brynhildr, that blade had once edged toward foresight, a glint on the horizon; but for the gifted, such tricks were never their first crutch.

Simple reason: intuition strikes fast as a hawk, yet it sees only one line of sky.

When Brynhildr first woke among the ruins, ash like snow on broken steel, she had no memories at all.

Only combat instincts coiled like a spring and an intuition sharp enough to draw blood remained, cold as a north wind.

Lilo found her then, like a hand reaching into a river; without that, she’d have been dragged under by abominations skulking in the dark.

With that ferocity and that uncanny feel, she stalked through the end-times like a wolf through wreckage, winning fight after fight, moon after moon.

She and Lilo reclaimed key strongholds, lit fires in empty cities, and raised human safe zones like islands in a black sea.

But that way of killing only broke low and mid-tier monsters; it cut grass, not roots.

The day a high-tier abomination tore into her, that hawk of intuition failed; its wings shredded in a storm.

She learned what overreliance costs: her limbs were almost ruined in one night of iron and fire.

At the cliff’s edge she broke through, grasped a shard of past power; without that, she’d have vanished into the wheel of reincarnation like a leaf in a whirlpool.

Having paid that price, she’d never let these girls pay the same, because not everyone climbs out once they’ve fallen from the peak into the valley’s shadow.

“Mmm… back to the point. Lady Brynhildr, the memories you let us watch hold your power, and a lot of it.”

Fenrir steadied herself, voice small at first, like rain starting on eaves.

“If I’m not wrong, those Runes aren’t the direct source of the flashbacks. They’re there to steady our spirit and will, like a ward against the storm.”

She knew if she didn’t give a solid answer today, the coming days would be iron discipline, not afternoon sun.

Fenrir was bright, but that didn’t mean she liked drills; she was the last Valkyrie Brynhildr forged, the youngest, long cradled by her sisters like a chick in a warm nest.

Laziness had sprouted like weeds in a garden left alone.

Brynhildr had noticed. Small bad habits had piled up like dust; they had to be swept.

So she left Fenrir for last in the viewing, and planted a thorny question for her to catch on.

Brynhildr still didn’t move, face smooth as a mirror of ice; no yes, no no, nothing for the girl’s hook to catch.

Fenrir kept sneaking glances, heart fluttering like a sparrow, then drew in a small breath and lifted her chin.

“If I’m right, then during each viewing, you’re pouring huge Aether into us, like a tide, to flood in the memories.”

“At the same time, you split Aether to shield us, so the Aether itself doesn’t disturb us.”

“You must have calculated how many can watch at once, the maximum your Aether can safely bear.”

“That’s why you didn’t let us watch a second time—for our safety. Am I right?”

The more she spoke, the brighter she got; stars sparked in those black eyes like night over snow.

Brynhildr showed a confirming smile at last, warm as late spring, and reached out a hand.

Fenrir dipped her head, thrilled, already imagining that palm mussing her hair like sun through leaves.

A sting snapped across her forehead—sharp as a pebble on pond water.

“Ow!” She clapped a hand to the spot, eyes wide, confusion fogging up like breath in winter.

But she smiled at me… didn’t she?

A thousand question marks rattled in her chest like beads in a jar. Brynhildr had been stern before, but just now she had smiled—happiness, right? Did I misread?

For the first time in her life, Fenrir doubted her own keen instinct.

Her intuition was always quick, even Brynhildr’s mood was a ripple she could feel—so why was it dull today, like a blade gone blunt?

She didn’t know Brynhildr had baited the surface on purpose, painting ripples on the pond to teach the little fish.

First, give her confidence fat as a summer peach—even tilt her into pride—then knock down that castle in the air with one flick.

Harsh, yes. But memory of old scars hardened Brynhildr’s heart; the lesson had to land.

“Aren’t you curious why your big sister flicked your forehead?”

Brynhildr smiled and drew back her finger, satisfied as a hunter when the snare tightens.

Fenrir’s heart tangled like reeds in a stream. Tears glassed her lashes, the sting still needling.

She held them back, wearing a pitiful look like a rainy kitten, and nodded.

Brynhildr reading minds didn’t surprise her; big sister often saw through her siblings like sunlight through rice paper.

What she couldn’t grasp was the sudden turn of mood.

“Your guess is only half right. The other half is wildly off, Fenrir.”

“Did you forget what your big sister always says? How do you judge when something happens?”

Brynhildr shook her head with a gentle smile, kindness like a velvet glove over iron.

Fenrir looked small under that presence, a sapling in wind. She sniffled.

“W-we should gather proof first… don’t make a definite call without enough certainty.”

“Exactly. And how much of the Runes left on the ground did you actually read? Twenty percent? Thirty?”

“Calling it thirty is generous.”

“Fenrir, you barreled through the Rune residue with Aether like a bull in a glasshouse. You grabbed what you could and called it truth. Am I wrong?”

Brynhildr kept that tender smile, but the pressure rolled off her like a storm-front.

Under it, Fenrir’s tears finally spilled, a sudden rain. She wailed and broke, a child before thunder.

Talent she had, but at her age, she couldn’t stand that mountain-like weight, nor the half-questioning scold that unstitched her guard.

“Y-yes… Lady Brynhildr, I was wrong…”

“Good girl. Your idea wasn’t all wrong.”

“Just don’t lean so hard on your intuition again.”