[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Heart Kingdom Outskirts]

[Virelheim Mountain Village]

"What a mess…" Mikoto muttered softly. His tone wasn't angry, nor even surprised—just weary, as though he had seen far too many 'messes.'

The world around him was quiet now. The ice-strewn ground reflected the dull skies above. More than half of the platform had frozen solid, the wood and stone solid beneath layers of thick ice. The structures nearby—homes, small workshops, a hut—all lay in ruin, broken by force and ice alike. Frozen bodies were strewn between them, it made the scene more depressing.

Mikoto's eyes wandered over the scene without flinching. He'd seen this before. Too often.

"Tch," he breathed, rubbing at his temple with the edge of his heavy gauntlet. "Nimue distracted me too much. I could've been here sooner." His tone carried more self-reproach than frustration. A small sigh followed, his breath forming faint mist. His sabatons crunched the ice as he approached the two kneeling figures ahead—Gretel and Arabella.

Arabella's small shoulders were trembling, her breaths uneven. "S-she really left…" she stuttered out, eyes still wide as if she feared the pale woman might suddenly reappear.

Gretel didn't look at Mikoto immediately. Her head hung low, strands of her hair sticking to her cheek where sweat and ice met. "Mikoto… I…" Her voice cracked slightly. Shame—though for what, she wasn't entirely sure—settled in her chest. She couldn't even bring herself to meet his gaze.

Mikoto tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable but curious. Her tone made it sound like she had done something wrong. He said nothing for a moment, studying her—the way her hands shook faintly, the blood seeping slowly through the torn fabric of her attire, the way she seemed to hold herself as if expecting scolding.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "Save your breath," he said calmly. "You look like you're about to croak." He raised his right hand without ceremony. "This'll take a sec. Don't move."

Gretel blinked, confused. Arabella's teary gaze turned between them. And then, before either could speak, a soft light blossomed from Mikoto's palm. It wasn't harsh—no blinding flare or piercing light—just a gentle golden warmth that spilled over Gretel's battered frame.

She gasped softly, her breath catching. The sensation was unlike anything she had ever felt—like being wrapped in the comfort of sunlight after years spent in the dark. Warmth spread through her veins, threading through every ache, every fracture of pain in her body. The ice flower that had been blooming from her wound began to melt, droplets of water hissing against her skin before evaporating into thin air. The gash beneath it closed slowly, as if time had rewound. Her fingers twitched; strength returned to them. The numbness in her legs faded, replaced by a faint tingling.

The world felt still for that brief moment, her pain dissolving into that golden warmth that clung faintly even after the light began to fade.

Mikoto lowered his hand, the glow dissipating entirely. "There," he murmured.

"Miss Gretel! Your wounds—your wounds are gone!" Arabella exclaimed, eyes wide with amazement. Her voice trembled with joy, cutting through the despair that had so hung thickly over the air moments before.

Gretel blinked several times, slowly flexing her fingers as if unsure whether they still belonged to her as she rose. She touched her side, her arm, her cheek—every place that had burned and ached only seconds ago. Aside from the tattered cloth and dried blood, she was unscathed.

"Yes, yes… it's a miracle. Huzzah," Mikoto mumbled dryly, his tone dismissive, though a small hint of relief softened his eyes for a fleeting instant.

"Mikoto… this is amazing," Gretel said quietly, admiration spilling into her voice. She stared down at her hand as if she couldn't quite believe what she saw. "You really are… amazing. Thank you. If you hadn't come along, then—"

Before she could finish, Mikoto's hand flicked up. The metallic tap of his gauntlet against her forehead made her flinch slightly. "Ow—!"

"Don't be an idiot and think about hypotheticals," he interrupted, annoyed. "I showed up. The brat's not dead. That's all that matters."

Arabella puffed out her cheeks, indignant. "Hey! I'm not a brat!" she protested, her voice high and petulant.

Mikoto glanced down at her, unimpressed. "And she's back to her old self again. How swell," he murmured, half to himself, his lips curling faintly at the corners.

Arabella crossed her arms, huffing, but the faint laughter in Gretel's eyes broke the tension. She couldn't help it—despite the exhaustion, despite the guilt clawing at her chest, the sight of those two arguing was… comforting. Familiar. Arabella was alive. That was enough.

But her gaze drifted, inevitably, to the frozen corpses scattered beyond them—their faces pale, their expressions twisted in pain. The weight returned, heavy in her gut. The relief couldn't erase the fact that so many others hadn't been saved.

It was then a flicker of movement caught her attention. A figure was approaching—tall and graceful. "Shuten-dōji?" Gretel murmured.

Mikoto and Arabella both turned at the name. The Oni woman's silhouette cut an imposing shape in the frozen area. She walked through the ruined village with unhurried steps as her red eyes scanned the devastation. The cold didn't seem to bother her in the slightest.

"Seems I missed quite a lot," Shuten-dōji said, her tone too casual for the grim scene. She came to a stop near the trio, her eyes lingering briefly on the bodies before meeting Mikoto's gaze.

"Hmph, and where were you this whole time?" Mikoto asked flatly, one pale brow raising.

"Don't look at me like that," she said, her lips twisting into a small grin. "I was busy, too. I thought it prudent to wipe out the Heart Kingdom encampment nearby. Before returning, I happened upon a blonde Nil… though he escaped me."

Mikoto's expression didn't change. "So you're not completely useless. Good to know."

Shuten chuckled softly. "Such harsh words," she murmured, tapping her chin with one finger. "But I can't say I mind them."

Gretel quickly interjected before the exchange could turn more playful. "Ahem—moving on," she said gently, her tone weary but firm. "Things here were… less than ideal." Her voice faltered slightly as her eyes drifted once more toward the ruined homes. "It's my fault. I came too late… and I could barely fight that Mortifer."

"Miss Gretel…" Arabella reached out and clasped her hand tightly, her smaller fingers trembling against hers. The warmth of the child's hand startled her. For the first time since the battle began, Gretel felt something human. She managed a small, wavering smile in return.

"Mhm," Shuten murmured, glancing around the remains of the village. The silence that followed was thick. The death was tangible, seeping into the air, into their skin. There were no words appropriate enough for what lingered.

Mikoto broke the quiet anyway. "By the way, brat," he said suddenly, turning to Arabella with a sharp look, "where the hell are your parents? I can't imagine they'd let you do something this stupid."

Arabella huffed, but the expression on her face shifted quickly—her defiance dimmed. Her voice dropped to a softer tone. "First off, I'm not a brat," she muttered, almost out of habit, before her gaze fell to the frozen ground. "Mom and Dad were… hurt. That woman did something—it was like she had an invisible sword. It started with Village Chief Gerard first, and then… a lot of people were suddenly cut. But… Mom and Dad are still alive." Her voice wavered, a hint of hope threading through the fear.

"That's good," Mikoto said simply, his expression unchanged. Then, after a pause, he added in a quieter tone, "Though that old man's a goner, huh."

Gretel's lips pressed tightly together, the faintest tremor in her jaw betraying her emotion.

The silence that followed was long and heavy. None of them spoke further. There was nothing left to say—no words that could mend what had already been broken.

However, the silence did not last long.

It never truly did in places like this.

The faint crunch of boots pressing into ice whispered from the far end of the ruined square—cautious, hesitant steps. Mikoto's head tilted slightly, his eyes shifting toward the sound. The others followed his gaze.

From the still-intact side of the village, a small group emerged—eight, perhaps nine villagers. Their faces were pale from both cold and fear, eyes darting between Mikoto, Shuten-dōji, and Gretel as if weighing the risk of even being here. The wind seemed to hush them.

They stopped several paces away.

No one spoke at first. Their breaths came out in shallow white clouds, and though they said nothing, their eyes—those tired, bloodshot eyes—spoke volumes.

Gretel's chest tightened. She could read that pain, that hollow emptiness behind their expressions. The guilt began forming in her stomach, spreading fast.

"Arabella, dear…" The first voice broke through the silence, trembling. It belonged to a woman Gretel and Mikoto both recognized—Raven, Andrew's mother. Her voice was lined with exhaustion. "Please come. Your mother and father are currently being treated. They need you by their side, love."

Mikoto's eyes flicked toward her briefly. Behind her, Andrew stood half-hidden, clutching at the hem of her dress, his face streaked with dried tears. Beside him, Meryl kept close, gripping his hand tightly, her small frame shivering despite the layers she wore.

They looked like they wanted to run forward, to throw themselves into Gretel's or Mikoto's arms, to seek safety where it no longer existed—but Raven's hand shot out, holding them back with trembling restraint.

Arabella hesitated. "But I—" she began, voice small and uncertain.

Gretel reached out and placed a hand gently on the girl's shoulder. The warmth of her touch contrasted the chill in the air. "It's fine, Arabella," she said softly. Her tone was calm, almost motherly, though there was a quiver in it she tried to hide. "Go. They need you more than I do right now."

Arabella met her eyes, hesitation flickering there, but finally nodded. She took a step, then another as she approached Raven, Meryl, and Andrew. When she reached them, Raven's arms immediately went around her, holding her close. They looked relieved, but even as Raven ushered them away toward the safer section of the village, all three children kept glancing back over their shoulders.

"Miss Gretel…"

The voice came from behind Raven's group—a middle-aged man with a gaunt build and weathered features, his tunic torn at the sleeve, his eyes sunken. He stepped forward cautiously. Gretel recognized him faintly—Barth, a mason who once helped rebuild the lower platforms after a storm.

"What that woman… that Mortifer said…" he started. The words hung in the cold air. "Was it true?"

Gretel froze. Her heart began to pound, she knew what was coming, could feel it before the words even landed. The guilt she'd been keeping contained began to bleed through her composure. Her eyes turned away, unable to meet theirs.

"It…" Her throat tightened, the word catching there before she forced it out. "It is." She swallowed hard, voice quiet but audible. "But I never meant for any of this to happen. I just…" Her words broke apart mid-sentence, dying on her tongue. There was no justification that could fill the void left by so many dead.

The villagers' expressions changed subtly, like a ripple passing through them. Not all glared—some simply looked hollow, others defeated—but behind every glance was the same unspoken accusation.

Mikoto noticed the shift immediately. His red eyes turned from face to face, reading their tension. Shuten-dōji crossed her arms, her gaze narrowing slightly, though she said nothing yet.

"I… I see," Barth murmured after a moment. His voice wasn't angry—just tired, deeply tired. "Even so, you have helped us, Miss Gretel. You have. But…" His eyes softened with reluctant pity. "I must ask you to leave, please." He didn't sound like he wanted to say it. More like he had to. His hands fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, his head lowering slightly as he continued, "Gerard is dead… and the first platform is in ruins. We're not sure what we can do now, but we can't… we can't welcome more trouble."

A few of the villagers nodded weakly behind him.

"Yes," an elderly woman added, her voice cracking. "It's already hard enough with the Deseruit Beast lurking near the borders and these barren lands choking the crops. We can't afford more chaos."

"Add Gerard's little rebellion to that," another man muttered sharply—thin, unshaven, with a harshness in his tone. "We don't need more outsiders bringing danger here."

The others murmured in agreement, though none raised their voice. The fear of saying too much warred with their resentment, their grief.

Gretel stood still, her eyes flicking between each face. The words didn't wound her because they were cruel—they wounded because she knew they were fair. Her lips trembled faintly, but she forced them into a semblance of calm. "I… understand," she whispered, voice barely audible.

Her thoughts sounded quieter still: ("No, I deserve their hate… that and more. I'm lucky they only want me gone.")

No one stopped her as she turned away. Her shoulders, though straight, trembled faintly beneath the weight of their stares.

Mikoto and Shuten-dōji exchanged a glance before falling into step behind her. They didn't walk too close—giving her space was its own form of respect.

"Mhm," Shuten murmured after a long silence, her voice contemplative. "I would've imagined they'd show a bit more gratitude." Her tone wasn't mocking, only faintly surprised.

Mikoto's reply came after a pause. "They just think it's Gretel's fault," he said flatly. His eyes lingered on the back of Gretel's pale hair as she walked ahead of them. "But that woman—the Mortifer—clearly had her own reasons. That stolen artifact was just an excuse. The village was her real target."

Shuten's gaze softened slightly. "And even so," she murmured, "Gretel is the one they blame."

Mikoto's gauntleted hand flexed faintly at his side. "Mhm," he said quietly. "I suppose people find it easier to cope with tragedy when they have a face to aim their hate at." His expression darkened, a small, humorless scoff escaping him. "How… human."

Gretel, several paces ahead, didn't turn around, but she'd heard him. And though she didn't say a word, her fingers curled tightly around the hem of her sleeve.

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