Seeing Fenrir sob like that, Brynhildr could only shake her head, helpless, her palm gentle on Fenrir’s back like spring rain over pines. Her body was nearly a maiden’s, but her mind was newborn. Brynhildr gathered her close, warmth first, then words.

“Intuition shouldn’t be your helm. It’s strong—strong enough to slip past Valkyrie sisters and win training bouts with ease. But what if your foe towers over you—like me? Your intuition just failed, didn’t it?”

Brynhildr lifted Fenrir and walked her back to where the Rune had scattered. She took the girl’s small hand. Aether flowed soft and luminous, sheathing their joined palms. Rune-dust stirred as if remembering its shape, drew in toward the Aether, and began to gather before them.

Power tingled at Fenrir’s fingertips. Her tear-hazed eyes cleared, her sobs faded. Under Brynhildr’s guidance, she set her strength flowing again, tracing the Rune along the path Aether laid down.

Her heartbeat fell into step with the strokes, a drum to the carving’s rhythm. Excitement lit within, like embers catching wind. She focused wholly on the lines under her hands. Stone walls around them wavered like heat-haze as the Rune took form. Fenrir started to look up, but Brynhildr’s palm covered her eyes.

“Don’t look. Feel. Don’t lean only on instinct and first impressions. See this world with your spirit. Those are the eyes you can trust most.”

Brynhildr’s gentle voice smoothed Fenrir’s panic. Fear of carving blind stilled her hand. Darkness pressed under the warm shield of Brynhildr’s palm; no light at all.

Most would panic if sight vanished. But a Valkyrie’s mind outstrips a mortal’s; guided by Aether, she can observe the true world—the world of Aether. Alas, this little one slacks off; for now she only gropes the world by raw spirit.

Feeling the small waves of spirit in her arms, Brynhildr chuckled under her breath. She spun off a thread of Aether to guide Fenrir, aligning spirit-ripple to Aether-ripple. The world before Fenrir changed at once, like mist blown off a lake.

“Eh—so this is the Aether-sight the sisters talked about…”

“Don’t talk. Focus.”

Aether shaped into knuckles and tapped Fenrir lightly on the head, a soft warning. As the Rune knit together, strong Aether coursed through the cave, circling like hawks in an updraft. Fenrir didn’t seem to notice; she kept carving. Brynhildr had already let their hands part.

“Go. Savor the first memory you’ve drawn with your own hands.”

After the flash, warmth. A sunlit world bloomed.

Mmm. Home still feels best.

A certain Hero hogged the blanket with zero decorum, a silver cowlick poking out, miraculously unbent by his “harmonious” sleeping pose.

Aphelia was a Hero—and a boy. Don’t assume he’s a girl because of his name. It never convinced anyone. On the road to slay the Demon King, most companions opened with, “This little girl is the Hero? Has the Church lost its mind?!”

He would snap back, furious, “You’re the girl! Your whole family’s girls!” Later, he ran out of retorts. Some companions flat-out called him “she.”

In short—after a thousand trials, the Demon King fell to his sword. The world’s greatest threat vanished. He could finally relax.

Mmm. Sleeping in is heaven. How long has it been?

The lump under the quilt shifted, ignoring sunlight drizzling through the battered window. No intention of getting up.

No Sister Lena’s song every morning. No Brother Brand’s drills. His heart felt hollow, like an empty room.

Aphelia lay quiet. He meant to laze, but memories rose like tide. A tear slid; then—pfft—he laughed.

Honestly. I’m trying to sleep in. Don’t barge into my memories. Laughing and crying at once—what even is that?

He kicked off the quilt and hugged the pillow. Crystal drool glazed it. Waist-long gold hair spilled in a messy fan over him. Without warning, anyone would take him for a girl, and a stunning one—the kind to topple kingdoms.

Knock knock knock.

Rhythmic knocking thudded through wood. Aphelia got cranky. He called, “Who is it?”

“It’s me—your Sister Lena!”

Oh. Sister Lena. Aphelia rolled over, ready to keep sleeping.

Wait—Sister Lena?!

Today… don’t tell me—

Aphelia snapped his eyes open, glanced at the calendar on the nightstand.

Damn, I actually forgot!

We promised to meet at Augustus’s place. And I blanked it—completely!

“Sister Lena, one second, I’ll just—”

“No need. I’m already in.”

Lena, in a pale-blue robe, pushed open the shabby door, muttering inside: this kid could buy an estate, yet he lives in a bare shack—he’s the number one Hero…

“Pfft.”

She stepped in and sprayed the wine she hadn’t swallowed.

“Beauty, who are you?”

Lena would sooner die than believe this breathtaking girl was Aphelia. Sure, Aphelia looked girlish—but not like this.

Not to mention the demon mark blazing on her forehead…

The absurdly endowed beauty before her—black hair to the shoulder turned into waist-long gold. And the height—seemed shorter?

Watching it all, Fenrir went blank. The girl who mirrored Brynhildr—was that the Valkyrie-like warrior who’d just strode out of blood and storm? They looked worlds apart. If the earlier Aphelia was every inch a fighter, this Aphelia was every inch a soft, sweet sister.

Could this really be one person’s memory?

Fenrir didn’t get it. Thankfully, the scene kept playing. She’d have more chances to check whether this Aphelia matched the one before.

“Huh? Sister Lena, don’t joke. I know I messed up. I’m changing—please step out, okay?”

“Who are you, really?”

Lena snapped her goblet forward, then flowed into motion. Two short blades slid from the air. She thrust at the girl.

If it was Aphelia, he could take it. If a demon was masquerading—

Bad guesses leapt in Lena’s mind. But the twin knives were already caught by two pale, slender hands.

“Sister Lena, what are you doing?”

The girl’s puzzled sweetness made Lena want to pull her into a hug, to rub that soft cheek.

No. Not the time.

“You… are really Aphelia? Not that anyone alive could kill him and take his place.”

“Genuine, no substitutes. It’s me, Sister Lena. What are you thinking? I just overslept, that’s all.”

From the attitude, it felt like Aphelia. But didn’t he notice his own appearance?

Especially that unreliable bust…

“Aphelia…-chan, have you… looked at yourself properly?”

Lena hated herself as soon as she asked. This bare hut had a bed and a cabinet, nothing else. Even the window glass was cracked. How could he see himself?

Wait. That’s not right. It’s been nearly a month since the Demon King died. In a whole month of baths, he never noticed?

Lena pulled a full-length mirror from the void, pressed a hand to her brow. “Take a good look.”

He didn’t know until he looked. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Aphelia was stunned. Who’s this beauty in the mirror?

A young face, still a touch baby-soft, dotted with crystal drool. Waist-long gold hair—when did he get hair that long?

He lifted his bangs. A twisted demon sigil burned on his brow, glaring like a brand.

What kind of joke is this? I’m a Hero, and now I’m a demon?!

“Sister Lena, what… what’s going on?!”

Aphelia roared, yet looked bashfully stricken—tears glassing his eyes. Lena felt too guilty to just stand there.

“Um… Aphelia, try touching the Holy Sword first. If you were a demon, the Holy Sword would reject you. Don’t jump to conclusions, okay?”

Lena helped the limp Aphelia up. She could hardly believe the sunny, cheerful girl—fine, boy; blame that too-delicate face.

But the light-born Hero turning into a demon—too absurd.

If word got out—

Lena didn’t dare imagine what would follow. The Hero who saved the world, becoming a savage demon…

“Sister Lena, look. The Holy Sword still accepts me. I’m not a demon!”