[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: Heart Kingdom Outskirts]
[Virelheim Mountain Village]
The midday sun was alight through the streets as Mikoto, Gretel, and their unusual new companion made their way along the dirt-packed main path of the village, ascending gradually toward the second platform where the chief's longhouse stood. The streets had become marginally busier than before—no surprise, Mikoto supposed, considering it was midday. People moved about carrying crates, sweeping porches, selling vegetables and fish. There was the clamor of children nearby, playing happily, and yet, none of the villagers had the faintest idea of what loomed beyond the horizon.
The Heart Kingdom's threat remained far removed from their simple lives.
Mikoto's eyes narrowed slightly as they moved through the crowd. His frame was half-shadowed by the taller Gretel beside him, and yet he walked, irritated.
His mind was elsewhere.
"There any reason you're still trailing us?" he asked sharply, not even sparing a glance back as he addressed the figure that had been following them persistently since they left the lower plaza.
They weren't alone.
Beside and slightly behind them walked a woman—or at least, something woman-shaped. Towering, broad-shouldered, horned, and clad in wildly anachronistic garb, the oni woman named Shuten-dōji matched their pace leisurely.
Mikoto scowled internally.
("She's been watching me for a while now. This chick's not normal... But she doesn't have that same pressure the Nils do, or those Mortifer bastards. Her presence feels cleaner. Like when I stood near Ruby or William. Like... Qi? That airhead general had something similar.")
He cast a glance at her.
It was then Shuten-dōji spoke.
"I have never seen such a dainty man," she declared with the utmost seriousness, eyes fixed on Mikoto with an unreadable expression.
Gretel stifled a laugh—poorly. A soft snort escaped her nose as she brought a hand up to cover her mouth.
Mikoto blinked once. Her tone was too blunt to be mocking. Maybe even sincere?
"You can tell I'm a guy?" he asked, his curiosity genuine.
"Of course," Shuten-dōji replied matter-of-factly, pointing at his chest. "You are much too flat to be a woman."
Mikoto blinked again.
"Well... I guess that's one way to put it," he muttered.
"Ah, I suppose that would be a good indicator," Gretel mused with mild amusement.
"So, what, I should just undo a button so people stop mistaking me for a girl?" Mikoto muttered under his breath.
"You'd be seen as indecent," Gretel warned.
"I'd recommend it," Shuten-dōji added with a fanged grin.
Mikoto deadpanned. "...Great. Two idiots." He shook his head. "Alright, enough. Why the hell are you following us? You don't exactly blend in, and I'm starting to get irritated."
"Do you not require assistance?" the oni woman asked innocently, tilting her head slightly.
Mikoto frowned, but it was Gretel who hesitated now.
"How do you—" she began, but Mikoto interjected sharply.
"What makes you think we need help?"
"I saw them," Shuten-dōji answered calmly. "The ones in black armor. The soldiers of the tyrant queen. They move like shadows across the borderlands, but I have fought them before. Many times, they've tried to breach Minagi Mountain, where I rule. But they always leave battered and broken. I am, after all, quite strong." She smiled faintly. "The yokai under my protection are not easily cowed either."
"Yokai?" Gretel blinked. "Wait... Mikoto, didn't you say something about that in your story?"
"Yeah," he said, squinting at Shuten.
Gretel glanced at Shuten-dōji. "You saying they were real?"
"Indeed," Shuten-dōji nodded with certainty. "Though our numbers have thinned since the Battle of the White and Red Dragons... Our bloodlines run low. Perhaps it is time we repopulated."
Mikoto shook his head. "How indecent."
"Well, help is help," Gretel murmured, trying to steer things back. "Even if it comes from a very... bold person."
Mikoto gave her a skeptical look. "You sure you wanna trust someone who butchers traditional clothing?"
Gretel blinked, confused. "Traditional?"
Mikoto sighed. "Forget it. It's not like you'd know what a kimono is."
Shuten-dōji, however, seemed fixated on something entirely different.
"You don't like my outfit?" she asked sincerely, then looked down at herself. "Hm. I suppose it is a bit indecent. Shall I disrobe?"
Mikoto's face scrunched. "Don't be stupid. There are kids around, you freak. Are you some kind of predator?"
"I am not," Shuten-dōji said, genuinely confused. "I do not consume meat."
"That's... not what I meant," Mikoto muttered, sighing deeply, one hand lifting to rub at his temple as they climbed the wooden stairs toward the second platform.
Gretel walked beside him, clearly amused but not entirely sure what just happened.
She didn't understand half the conversation, but she was glad for it. The banter between the two—though absurd—helped distract from the mounting anxiety in her chest.
"So uh..." she started tentatively, glancing at the tall oni beside her as they reached the final steps. "I, um... actually don't know how to pronounce your name."
"You may simply call me Shuten," the woman offered with a nod.
"Shoo-ten," Gretel repeated slowly.
"With the emphasis on the first syllable," Mikoto added unexpectedly. "The 'u' is like the 'oo' in 'moon.'"
Gretel blinked. "Huh. Thanks," she said, eyes briefly wide in surprise before her expression melted into a grateful smile.
Shuten-dōji turned to Mikoto, something thoughtful flashing behind her eyes.
"Might you say my name again?" she asked suddenly.
Mikoto raised an eyebrow, but didn't question it. "Shuten."
The oni woman gave a small nod, a hum leaving her lips.
"I see."
Mikoto narrowed his eyes slightly. "What do you see?"
Before Shuten could answer, Gretel interrupted, gesturing ahead.
"Ah—We're here."
They came to a stop before a large, sturdy longhouse that overlooked the second tier of the village—Gerard's residence, the chief's home.
"Well, you two wait here. My talk with Gerard probably won't take long."
Gretel didn't wait for acknowledgment. She knew better. Mikoto's presence needed no supervision.
"I get to stay alone with the weird Oni. I'm sooo happy," Mikoto drawled as he crossed his arms over his narrow chest and leaned back against the wooden post of the porch.
But the woman beside him didn't seem to notice the sharpness behind his words. Or if she did, she simply chose not to react.
"Ah, I am gladdened by your joy," Shuten-dōji replied in complete sincerity.
Mikoto blinked, the sheer earnestness of her response drawing a short exhale from his nose. He shook his head slowly. "Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath.
Gretel offered a brief smile to both of them—half an apology, half a farewell—and stepped inside the longhouse. The wooden door closed gently behind her, cutting off the sun.
But her expression changed the moment the latch clicked into place.
Her warm smile vanished, falling from her face, replaced by a tension that settled into her shoulders. Her boots echoed against the wooden floor as she passed by the stone hearth. She knew where she was going. She'd walked this corridor too many times to hesitate.
She didn't knock.
Instead, she pressed open the door to Gerard's office with a swing.
The room was spare, as always. Minimalist. A single desk of dark oak, a modest shelf of papers and maps, and a large window overlooking the village, currently ablaze with gold light. Gerard stood there, facing outward, his weathered hands clasped behind his back. He did not turn to greet her.
"Lost yer manners, girl?" His voice was as ever, rough as gravel. "Yer supposed to knock, you know."
"I think you'll forgive my lack of manners," Gretel answered. "Considering the situation."
She stopped in the exact center of the room.
Gerard let out a grunt. "Aye. So how many soldiers?"
She didn't hesitate.
"Over eighty. Possibly a hundred, definitely more." Her tone was grim. Gerard still didn't turn. His gaze stayed on the view beyond the glass, but the muscles in his neck shifted slightly. He was listening. "But Mikoto…" Gretel continued, her voice softening just a touch, "He didn't seem concerned about them. He said the only real threat were the Retorta Guild's Mortifers."
"Mikoto…" Gerard muttered, finally turning to face her. His heavy boots creaked against the floor. His eyes narrowed as he studied her face. "Ah. The girly-looking lad. You seem to put great stock in his words."
"He's helping us," she said simply. "He doesn't have to—but he is. And it was him who slipped into their camp, alone. He scouted it without being discovered. He helped identified one of the two Mortifers among them. One of them holds the Eighth Seat of Zeboiim."
The name. The title. It hit the room like a stone dropped in a still pond.
Gerard's reaction wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. But Gretel saw it.
His eyes, which rarely widened, did so—barely. But it was enough. A moment of tension in his shoulders. His fingers twitched slightly behind his back, then slowly unclasped. He looked like a man who had just remembered something personal.
"You know her?" Gretel asked, her tone careful.
There was a beat of silence. Gerard's mouth opened, then closed again. He turned back toward the window and exhaled through his nose.
"Aye," he said at last. "You could say that."
Gretel's brow furrowed. "Then do you know her Schema? Anything at all?"
"No." He shook his head. "She wasn't awakened back when I knew her."
Gretel's lips thinned into a line of disappointment, but she didn't press it further. There wasn't time for nostalgia.
"Still," Gerard added, eyes flicking toward the desk now, "They're after this, yeah?"
He jerked his chin toward the table. Resting there was the small black box with a cracked heart symbol carved across its lid. It looked plain and unassuming.
And yet, soldiers had been dispatched to kill for it.
"Yeah," Gretel confirmed with a sigh. "Turns out it was never about the Queen. The target was always the Retorta Guild. The box just has a necklace. But whatever it really is, it clearly matters to them. Any idea why?"
Gerard didn't answer immediately.
He stared at the box for a long time, like it was something he wanted to throw away—and couldn't.
"I hired you to steal it," he finally said. "Thought it might be worth something. Turned out to be just jewelry, or so I thought. But if they're really moving this many troops..."
He didn't finish the thought.
After a moment of silence, he reached for the box with one hand, fingers brushing over the cracked heart like it meant nothing.
Then he tossed it gently through the air.
Gretel caught it easily, hands steady, her gaze locked onto his face.
"I'll keep you updated," she said.
She turned and left. No goodbyes.
Gerard was alone again. The silence returned to the room. He watched the door for a moment longer, then turned his eyes back to the village.
And softly—barely audible—he whispered one word to no one.
"…Snow."