Elbaf, New World
The scent of pine resin and burning hearthwood clung to the air of the longhouse, warm yet heavy, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
The home was modest by Elbaf's standards—built of thick oak beams carved with old runes of protection and fertility, its roof layered with sod and iron-reinforced timber—but it had always been filled with laughter. Tonight, that warmth felt fragile, stretched thin by fear.
Upon the great bed at the center of the room lay Ida of Elbaf, her small giantess frame dwarfed by the furs piled beneath her. The blankets rose and fell unevenly with each labored breath. Her skin, usually sun-kissed and strong as burnished bronze, had gone pale—ashen even—and beads of sweat rolled down her temples despite the cold night air. Her golden hair clung damply to her brow.
She was burning. Seated beside her was the village healer, an elderly giantess with hair white as winter snow, her massive fingers surprisingly gentle as they pressed against Ida's wrist and brow. She murmured ancient words under her breath, listening—not just with her ears, but with instincts honed over centuries of tending the wounded and the dying.
Her expression did not ease. Near the doorway stood King Harald, ruler of Elbaf—warrior, conqueror, bearer of a thousand scars. And yet tonight, he looked like none of those things.
He stood rigid, arms crossed not in command but in restraint, as though holding himself together by sheer force of will. His massive frame filled the doorway, shadows stretching behind him as the firelight flickered across his face. His helm lay discarded on a bench, his great cloak unfastened and forgotten. His fists trembled, knuckles whitening every time Ida groaned softly in pain.
Harald had faced sea kings without flinching. He had laughed in the face of Yonko. He had buried comrades with stoic silence and marched onward. But this—this was a battlefield where strength meant nothing.
"Ida…" he murmured, his voice low, roughened by a fear he could not command.
At the sound of his voice, her eyelids fluttered weakly. For a moment, a flicker of awareness returned to her gaze, and when she found him standing there, worry crossed her face even through the haze of pain.
"…Harald," she whispered, the sound barely more than breath.
He was at her side in an instant, kneeling despite the creak of the floorboards under his weight. One massive hand enveloped hers, calloused and warm, holding on as though letting go would allow the world itself to slip away.
"Don't speak," he said quickly, forcing a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Save your strength. I'm here."
Always. Ida's lips curved faintly despite herself. Even now—ill, weak, trembling—she tried to comfort him.
The old healer cleared her throat softly, the sound small yet cutting in the quiet room. "The sickness did not come from within," she said at last, her voice careful, measured. "There is no wound. No curse. No illness of nature."
Harald's head snapped up.
"She was poisoned," the healer continued. "By a kind of ergot. A slow, insidious toxin. It seeps into the blood… then the marrow. It settles into the bones themselves… She has been carrying it for years, decades probably..." The words fell like stones.
Harald's jaw tightened, every muscle in his face hardening as though struck by frost. "Can you cure it?" he asked. There was no command in his tone—no king's authority.
Only a husband begging the world not to take what it had no right to claim. The healer hesitated.
That hesitation carved deeper than any blade ever could. It showed more fear than any enemy's battle cry.
"I can slow its advance," she said quietly. "Ease her pain. Keep her alive long enough for another solution to be found. But the poison has already rooted itself too deeply. Maybe if I had been made aware of the matter when she had ingested the poison, I could have done something..."
She lowered her gaze. "To save her completely… will be difficult."
Silence swallowed the room. Harald bowed his head and pressed Ida's hand gently against his forehead, as if anchoring himself to her warmth, to her breath, to proof she was still here. His shoulders trembled once, betraying him despite all his strength.
"I swore to the gods," he whispered, the words meant only for her, "that no harm would ever reach you while I lived. I swore Elbaph itself would break before you did." His voice cracked.
Ida squeezed his fingers weakly. "You… always did exaggerate," she murmured, the faintest trace of laughter threading through the pain.
A broken sound escaped him—half sob, half breathless laugh. "Then you loved a fool."
"No," she replied softly. "I loved a man who loved me back… even when the world bowed to him."
The fire in the hearth popped, sparks rising like fleeting stars before dying into ash. Harald did not move. He stayed beside her, holding her hand as though letting go might allow death to claim her outright. No throne mattered. No crown. No war.
Only the woman before him—the one who had stood at his side not as a queen, but as his equal, his true companion. The one who had challenged his certainty, softened his fury, and believed in Elbaph's future more fiercely than any warrior who carried a blade.
"Harald…" Ida's voice was little more than a breath now. "I want to see the children… one last time…" His massive hand closed around hers at once, firm yet trembling, his shadow swallowing the chamber carved beneath ancient roots.
"Don't speak like that," he said quickly, forcing steel into his voice. "You shouldn't say such things. I will find a cure. No matter the cost. If I must, I'll appeal to the World Government itself. They possess knowledge beyond any kingdom. They will have a remedy for this."
He spoke like a king issuing a decree—like a man clawing at hope with both hands. But Ida knew better; she had kept the truth of the poisoning from Harald for years, and she wasn't going to let it out now. She listened with a soft, knowing gaze, her fingers tightening faintly around his. She believed in Harald's vision for Elbaph—a nation standing tall, united, no longer bound by fear and isolation. Yet she had never believed in the mercy of the World Government.
If Harald begged them for her life, they would not grant it freely. They would turn her suffering into leverage. Her body into a bargaining chip. His desperation into chains around Elbaph's future. She would not allow that. Her breath hitched as her gaze drifted upward, toward the ceiling where the roots of the World Tree disappeared into shadow.
"Where is Loki…?" she asked quietly. Harald hesitated, then softened his voice. "He's still training, I think. I'll have someone summon him," he said, attempting a weak chuckle. "You know how he is…"
Yes. Ida knew. Since his defeat at the hands of Rosinante, Loki had thrown himself into relentless training, burying guilt and fury beneath endless battle. Day and night, he endured the frozen hell at the roots of the World Tree, where even giant flesh cracked beneath the cold. He never spoke of pain. Never admitted fear. Never asked forgiveness. A fragile smile touched Ida's lips, thin as frost on glass.
"Please," she whispered, her voice fading like embers in snow. "Tell him… to come see me…"
****
Outside the modest wooden house, the wind of Elbaph howled low and heavy, carrying the scent of frost and ancient bark. Snow crunched beneath Harald's boots as he stepped out, his face no longer that of a grieving husband but of a king carved from iron.
Elder Jarul stood nearby, leaning upon his staff, his towering form bent by centuries of battle and memory. His long beard was braided in the old style, his single visible eye sharp despite his age.
Harald did not greet him.
"Find who poisoned her," Harald said coldly. The words carried no heat—no rage, no shout. And that was what made them terrifying.
Elder Jarul stiffened at once. In that instant, he understood what Ida had chosen not to say. She had never named the one who poisoned her. Not to Harald. Not to the healers. Not even in her final days.
Even Jarul—unyielding guardian of Elbaph's ancient customs—felt something twist in his chest. When word had first reached him that Ida had fallen ill, he had assumed it was some cruel, sudden ailment, another tragedy dealt by fate. Now, at Harald's words, the truth settled like a storm cloud.
This was no sickness. This was malice. The healer's earlier words echoed in his mind: The poison has been in her for years. Years—slow, patient, deliberate. Waiting until Ida's strength finally failed her. Jarul's grip tightened around his staff. His eye darkened. For the first time, he truly understood the depth of what Ida had endured in silence.
"Why…" Jarul began, then stopped himself, disbelief tightening his voice. "Why didn't she tell you? Why would she endure all this in silence…?"
The question slipped out before he could stop it. He had never liked Ida. Her bloodline, her origin, what she represented—she had been everything tradition warned against. Yet standing there now, Jarul felt the weight of a truth he could no longer deny. She had sacrificed more than anyone realized.
Harald did not answer immediately. He stared out across the frozen expanse of Elbaph, where the World Tree loomed like a silent witness to centuries of pride and cruelty alike. At last, he shook his head.
"I don't know," he said quietly. There was no anger in his voice. No blame. Only helplessness—raw and unguarded. "Who would do such a thing…" Harald continued, more to the wind than to Jarul, "to a woman who showed nothing but kindness… who carried the hatred of others without ever returning it…"
His hands curled slowly into fists at his sides. A woman who had borne poison in her bones for years, choosing silence over scandal, endurance over vengeance—so that Elbaph would not fracture, and so that he would not be forced to choose between love and crown.
"Search every hall, every hearth, every grain store of every giant who has borne hatred towards Ida," Harald continued, his voice steady and lethal. "I want names. Motives. Proof." He turned slowly, fury blazing in his eyes.
"Whoever is responsible—no matter their rank, their lineage, or their standing in Elbaph—I will show no mercy."
Jarul exhaled heavily. He did not argue. Many on Elbaph had never accepted Ida. Her origin. Her bloodline. To them, she was a crack in tradition—a dangerous precedent. And as Harald grew more progressive, more defiant of ancient customs, fear had taken root among the old clans. They feared the day he would cast aside tradition entirely. Feared the day he would take Ida as his lawfully wedded wife.
"Still," Jarul said after a moment, his voice slower now, heavier, "perhaps the matter of the World Government's summons should be postponed. With Ida in such a condition… you should remain by her side."
There was no accusation in his tone—only the weight of long years and hard truths. Harald remained silent. Jarul did not know everything. Only days earlier, the World Times had reached Elbaph with news so shocking even seasoned giants struggled to believe it—the destruction of Fish-Man Island.
When Harald had first read it, he had laughed in disbelief. He needed to believe the World Government was not responsible. After all, he bore the mark of a god. A mark that bound him to the World Government itself.
"I am afraid I can't forego this opportunity…," Harald said at last, his voice resolute despite the storm beneath it. "I have to answer the summons this time around because I will finally be able to climb to a position that will help me place my own requests in front of the Gorosei."
Jarul turned slightly toward him.
"If I wish to truly integrate Elbaph into the World Government," Harald continued, "then I must answer this summons."
The invitation had come from the Five Elders themselves—a recognition Harald had bled years to earn. After generations of isolation, Elbaph stood at the threshold of the world. He could not let that moment slip away. Not now. Not after everything he had sacrificed.
"Hajrudin is still at sea," Harald said, turning back toward Jarul. "Send our fastest birds. Tell him of his mother's condition." His voice faltered—just barely. "And send word to Dora in Dressrosa. Ida would want her here."
The summons should have filled him with triumph. Instead, it felt like a blade pressed against his throat.
"The healer?" Jarul asked quietly. "Is there truly nothing she can do?"
Harald shook his head.
"The poison has rooted itself too deeply," he said. "But the World Government will know more. When Elbaph joins them truly… I will find a way to help save Ida."
His fist clenched until the leather creaked. This journey was not driven by ambition alone. Nor by politics. Harald would walk into the heart of the gods themselves if it meant tearing Ida back from death's grasp. And if the World Government truly held the power they claimed, then he would plead with them to use it if that's what it took.
"Perhaps," Jarul said after a long pause, his voice lowered, "we should also send word to Dora… Ask her to appeal to the Donquixote Family. They wield influence in shadows even the World Government cannot always see. They might know of a way."
For a heartbeat, the idea hung in the cold air. Harald shook his head.
"No," he said firmly. "Not under the current circumstances." He turned toward Jarul, his expression grave, calculating—not the look of a grieving husband, but of a king standing at the edge of history.
"Elbaph is closer than ever to full integration with the World Government," Harald continued. "One misstep now could undo decades of effort. The Donquixote Family are pirates. Any association with them—especially now—would stain Elbaph's standing beyond repair."
His gaze hardened.
"Once this matter with the World Government is settled… then we may consider that option. Not before."
Jarul studied him carefully, recognizing the cruel balance Harald was being forced to strike—between love and legacy, between saving one life and securing a nation's future.
"For now," Harald added, his voice softening just a fraction, "tell Dora only that Ida has fallen ill. That she wishes to see her. There is no need to burden her with the truth of the poisoning."
He exhaled slowly. The truth was simple and merciless: the World Government was his best chance. His first gamble. And if even they could not save Ida—only then would he descend into the shadows and call upon pirates.
The wind howled through the towering roots of the World Tree, as though the land itself listened to their choices. Snow drifted down in slow, spiraling sheets, settling on the roof of the modest house behind them—a quiet place now holding the fate of an uncrowned queen and perhaps the soul of Elbaph itself.
Then—"KIIIING HAAARAAALD!"
The bellow tore through the air like a war horn. Both giants turned sharply. A massive warrior came sprinting across the frozen ground, armor clanking, breath steaming in frantic bursts. His stride was uneven, desperate, as though he were fleeing disaster itself. With every step, he shouted again, voice cracking under the weight of urgency.
"My king! King Harald!"
Snow exploded beneath his feet as he closed the distance, skidding to a halt before them, one knee buckling as he struggled to remain upright. Jarul's grip tightened on his staff. Harald stepped forward at once, dread coiling in his chest.
"What is it?" he demanded. The warrior swallowed hard, eyes wide with fear. "My king… something has happened."
"It's Prince Loki…" the warrior gasped, his massive chest heaving as steam poured from his lips. "He has gone—gone berserk." The word struck like thunder.
"He is attacking the village of the late Queen," the warrior continued, terror bleeding into his voice. "He's cutting down the Queen's clan—anyone who stands in his path. Our giant warriors have been deployed, but… but Prince Loki is too strong for us. He is on a rampage."
For a moment, the world seemed to freeze.
"Brewer's Village…?" Elder Jarul murmured, his voice low, grave—almost afraid. The name lingered in the air like a curse.
Harald felt it then—a sudden, terrible clarity, as though unseen hands had torn a veil from his eyes. His breath caught, his mind racing back through everything that had been said… everything that hadn't.
Loki had been training. Isolated in the underworld. Enduring frozen hell beneath the World Tree.
There had been no reason—no provocation—for him to strike. Unless— Harald's fists clenched.
Unless Loki knew a truth that even they didn't.
The poison. The silence. The healer's words—carried for years. The hatred many had held for Ida because of her bloodline. And the late queen's clan. Jarul's eye widened as the same realization struck him, cold and merciless.
"…He believes they're responsible," Jarul said slowly.
Not a question. A verdict. Loki would not move without cause. He was not a beast blinded by rage—he was a storm that chose where it would fall. If he had turned his fury upon the late queen's clan, then he must have uncovered something… some truth buried beneath years of tradition and secrecy.
"He knows something we don't…," Harald said, his voice tight. "Somehow… he believes Estrid's clan is responsible." The warrior swallowed hard.
"My king—Prince Loki is fighting like one possessed. He's not holding back. Shields are shattering. Axes are breaking against him. Even our veteran captains cannot slow him."
Jarul closed his eye briefly. They all knew the truth. Among Elbaph's giants, Loki stood apart. His strength was not merely inherited from bloodline of ancient giants—it was forged. Pain, suffering, and endless training had honed him into something terrifying. His blows carried the weight of glaciers. His presence alone bent the courage of seasoned warriors.
Other than Harald himself, no giant alive could face Loki in single combat and expect to stand; even Jarul himself was not confident in taking down Loki alone.
"He's slaughtering his own kin," Jarul said, anguish threading through his voice. "If this continues, Brewer's Village will be reduced to blood and ruin."
Harald turned sharply, fury and dread warring within him. "He cannot be allowed to do this," Harald said. "Not like this. Not to his own people."
Even if they were guilty. Even if they deserved judgment. This was not justice. This was vengeance—and vengeance, once unleashed, did not know when to stop. Snow whipped violently as Harald stepped forward, the ground seeming to recoil beneath his weight.
"Sound the horns," he commanded. "Pull our warriors back. Anyone who stands in his way will only die."
The warrior hesitated. "My king… who can stop him?"
Harald did not answer immediately. Jarul looked at him then—truly looked at him—and understood the burden settling upon the king's shoulders. There was only one.
Harald's gaze burned toward the distant horizon, toward Brewer's Village, where steel rang and blood stained the snow.
"I will face him," Harald said at last.
Not as king. Not as a god-marked envoy of the World Government. But as a father—standing between his son and a sin that would damn him forever.
"Because if Loki continues down this path," Harald added quietly, "Elbaph will lose more than a village tonight."
It would lose its future. And somewhere beneath the World Tree, the wind howled—as though the land itself trembled at what was about to unfold.