Once the flames finally flickered out, the scorch mark on the altar glowed faintly—and in the center of it, instead of ashes or divine radiance or some fearsome ancient warrior…
…sat a teddy bear.
A small, plush, round-bellied teddy bear.
Chewing enthusiastically on the cheese danish.
His button-like eyes lifted toward me with great solemnity.
"Greetings, mortal," he announced between bites, voice deep and regal in a way a stuffed toy absolutely should not sound. "I am Sigurd the Dragonslayer, the legendary hero. I thank you for this offering—I died before I could have breakfast. The food in Helheim is awful. I do not recommend it."
I stared.
Jerry stared.
The bear took another bite.
I slowly turned my head toward Jerry, my face blank.
"Jerry," I whispered, "why is there a teddy bear."
Jerry raised his little chin with all the dignity of a creature who very much wanted to pretend this wasn't happening. "Do not look at me. I wanted a wolf spirit like a normal serpent."
Sigurd smacked his paw against the altar dramatically, crumbs flying. "Now then! Let us con—"
I cut him off. "Why were you in Helheim? Aren't heroes supposed to go to Valhalla?"
The bear froze.
His little plush shoulders stiffened.
"Ah." He cleared his throat. "Yes, well. Normally, yes. Heroes go to Valhalla."
"And you didn't?"
He let out a single haughty chuckle, nose in the air. "Foolish mortal, I did not die in battle."
Then his expression darkened. His fuzzy cheeks turned faintly pink.
"I was, uh… killed in my sleep." His voice dropped. "By my wife."
Jerry choked.
I blinked. "Your wife?"
"She stabbed me," he muttered, glaring at the stone floor as if it personally offended him. "Over… marital disagreements."
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
Jerry whispered, "This is better than the books."
Sigurd clapped his paws together suddenly, forcing a cheerful smile. "Anyway! That is irrelevant. Now that you have summoned me, let us depart. This place—" He shuddered. "—gives me the creeps."
"Same," I muttered.
Without thinking too hard, I reached down, scooped him up under his stubby arms, and marched toward the portal.
"UNHAND ME, PEASANT!" he shrieked, kicking his little fluffy legs. "A hero must not be carried like a sack of grain—put me down! Put me—NO, NOT THE SHOULDER—"
But I ignored him and stepped through.
The portal flickered shut behind us as I reentered my dorm room, cradling an outraged teddy bear like a misbehaving cat. Jerry immediately leapt onto the bed, watching with wide judgmental eyes.
I plopped Sigurd down on the blankets.
He gasped—offended, horrified, and confused all at once. "GIRL! You dare touch me without permission? I am Sigurd! Slayer of Fafnir! Hero of the—"
He stopped abruptly.
His fuzzy paw rose.
He stared at it.
Then stared at the room.
Then stared at me.
"…Why," he asked in a tiny, trembling voice, "is everything so small?"
I hesitated. "Well… maybe because you are small?"
He blinked. Slowly. As if processing the greatest insult of his existence.
I sighed and offered the truth gently.
"You look like a little teddy bear right now. So that's probably why."
Sigurd opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"Jerry," he whispered hoarsely, "fetch me a mirror."
Jerry snorted. "Mirror? You need therapy."
Sigurd let out a muffled scream into his paws.
And I sat on the edge of the bed, wondering how on earth this—tiny, dramatic, deeply traumatized plush hero—was going to help me reclaim a kingdom.
But somehow…
Somehow I had the feeling this was exactly the kind of chaos my blessings were meant to bring.