Something about Lady Aphelia felt odd—soft as down, sweet as spring blossom, nothing like a blade’s edge; if this is her everyday, it’s kind of lovely, like tea at dusk.

Fenrir drifted in midair in a lazy pose, like a leaf on quiet water. At some point, a plush cushion bloomed beside her, and she watched Aphelia’s “memories” in comfort, like a cat in sun.

Brynhildr hadn’t set limits, so Fenrir chose to ride this memory to its end—first time she coaxed one out herself, she’d see it through, smiling like calm waves, ignoring the world outside.

Outside, Brynhildr laid a few wards around Fenrir and left the cave, like a hunter sealing snares before dawn. Since Fenrir could etch the Rune under guidance, the next dives should be easy.

No need to spend more time here; with that thought, Brynhildr strode out and shot toward the Valkyries’ palace, like an arrow through pine.

A Valkyrie in Silvery Armor folded her Aether wings and dropped beside her, breath ragged like a runner at dusk. “Lady Brynhildr, bad news—the Beast Tide came early!”

At “came early,” Brynhildr’s eyes flared; silvery Aether poured from her fingertips like moonlight rivers, breaking into countless Runes that flew in all directions like scattered starlings.

When they reached a certain range, you could glimpse them striking a transparent screen; ripples spread like rain on glass, then each Rune melted into it like salt in water.

These Runes reinforced the barrier. In the forest where the Valkyries lived, a wide swath lay under Brynhildr’s Aether barrier, a net like frost to keep nonhumans out and fence off the Aesir.

This barrier wasn’t flawless. In a world not her own, even grasping power’s essence, a grand ward on sheer Aether drained like winter biting bone, steady as hunger in snow.

She’d tried to fix it, but the knot lay in the core World Tree of the Asgardian Realm; unless you felled the Tree or turned it to Aether, the strain lingered like a long drought.

Luckily, Brynhildr had forged the Valkyries and raised them on her own Aether; though they lagged far behind her, daily teams patrolled and tended the lines, humming like a beehive.

She also found a middle path: parse the World Tree’s strength to inscribe Runes, evolve the Tree’s rules into her Aether barrier—almost transplanting the whole Tree into the ward, like roots through stone.

Now the Aether barrier worked like a small World Tree rooted in the Asgardian Realm, its pressure rolling out like mountain weather across a plain.

Under that weight, ordinary nonhumans rarely approached; exceptions came in two kinds—wise high-tier folk seeking Brynhildr’s help or judgment, and the second, right here, dark as storm tide.

The Beast Tide, the most fearsome calamity in the Asgardian Realm, a black season that scours everything like locusts over grain.

Though the Aesir never announced its cause nor stopped its cycles, Brynhildr learned much by parsing the World Tree, like reading rings in old bark.

The likely root: power leaking from the Tree, stirring this layer’s forest into a Beast Tide, like wind pulling sparks into a wildfire.

The Tree’s might is vast, but most beasts, even low nonhumans, can’t bear it; too much force misaligns mind and flesh, both cracking like ice under spring flood.

From years of watching, she judged the Tide begins when strong creatures on the brink, wracked by pain, lash out because there’s nowhere else to go, like bulls in a burning pen.

Valkyries’ field work brought back evidence that matched this pattern, like tracks pressed deep in wet clay.

The thought hit first, then motion. “The Beast Tide… two years early. Any Valkyrie still outside?” Brynhildr’s chest tightened like a drumskin.

Her Aether unfurled into wings, carrying her and the messenger toward the palace; in a breath, they crossed half the span, wind carving a long scar in the trees below.

She didn’t fear a breach; those Runes awakened buried power in the barrier. If the Tide hit the Valkyries’ domain, the Aether ward would grind it to powder, like millstones on grain.

That’s a picture, of course—the Tide doesn’t retreat. Driven by the World Tree’s surge, they don’t turn back; to turn is to be trampled to paste, like clay under hooves.

That’s why even veterans among nonhumans blanch at the Tide, like sailors at a black squall.

“None,” the Valkyrie answered, voice steady after the first rush. “We felt unrest at dawn; herds were agitated, so most returned to report. We warned the others—no one’s outside.”

Near the palace, Brynhildr kindly set her down first, motioning her to unfurl her wings and fly at her side, saving the sister’s face like a veil in a stiff breeze; she looked oddly regretful.

“Lady Brynhildr!”

In the plaza before the palace, the Valkyries were already assembled. Pure white robes, Silver Lances and round shields in hand, they stood in ranks like lilies braced in wind.

When Brynhildr appeared overhead, they saluted in unison, voices clear as chimes under a cold sky.

The messenger slipped back into formation, like a swallow to its eave.

“Valkyries, I’ll be brief. The Beast Tide came two years early. Luckily, no sister is outside. We’re under the Aether barrier, but go to war footing—hold the edge till it passes!”

Voices answered as one, like a drumline under storm cloud. Knees dropped in a single wave, pledging loyalty, iron and silk clashing like winter bells.

Under the white robes lay silvery, close-fit armor—no wasted filigree; crossed frames and rare material made it light yet firm, like bark over steel.

Scroll straps and knife bands crossed the ribs; Rune bands on their thighs were loaded with ordnance. Short swords hung at their waists, short knives nested in shin guards.

In any weather, these Valkyries could burst with hard strength, like hawks stooping from cloud.

They numbered just over two hundred, so they didn’t field blocky heavy infantry; those better at heavy combat took that role, wearing armor Brynhildr forged—at a glance, never “heavy,” like silk hiding mail.

On those waists, certain sisters wore a solid spiked mace instead of a short sword, starheaded and blunt as thunder.

Their chest armor could shed and unfold into a heavy shield, a chrysalis becoming wall in an eye-blink.

Four-woman squads covered most battle arcs, like lanterns strung along a city wall. This wasn’t their first full-kit fight, but it was their first stare-down with a Beast Tide.

Before, Brynhildr’s leadership had carried the day, like a keel through storm.

“Move out!”

“Yes!”

At the shout, squads streamed out like silver fish, following planned routes to their sectors. Brynhildr had drilled this for years; this first Tide, she ceded command, hoping for bright work.

From high above, the sight was stark: vast black swaths, like crazed ant swarms, swept the green forest in a blink; where they passed, only broken branches remained.

In their vanguard, a silver-white barrier rose like a cliff, covering a broad span, pale as frost.

Valkyrie squads were already at the edge, like stones set on a riverbank. They armed plain-looking siege gear and faced the onrushing herds, eyes calm as cold lakes.

They watched the Tide race in—fifty meters, thirty, ten, five—numbers ticking like drumbeats. When the herds crossed the red line, a crisp shout rang in every ear.

Loose!!