Sigurd insisted on beginning our without a moment to waste.
I regretted summoning him almost immediately.
"Again!" he barked, his tiny plush arms raised like he was wielding a sword twice his size. "Your stance is crooked! Your balance is shameful! Your ancestors weep!"
"I don't even know my ancestors!" I snapped, adjusting my footing.
"They still weep!"
Despite his size, Sigurd fought like a storm stuffed into a teddy bear—furious, relentless, and disturbingly agile. Every time he swung his little paw, mana flared around him in a sharp arc like a shimmering blade.
And every time I thought I was ready, he punished me for it.
We trained behind the dorms, hidden by trees, where early morning students wouldn't wander. The grass was wet with dew, the air sharp and cold, and Sigurd was merciless.
"Your mana flow is improving," he said, circling me like a very judgmental stuffed predator. "You're not completely hopeless anymore. I estimate you at… tier two."
"Only tier two?" I groaned.
He jabbed my ankle with his paw. "Tier two is respectable for a child."
"I'm not a child."
"You're a magical newborn."
I opened my mouth to argue—but then he lunged.
His small form blurred as mana surged through him. His paw swept in a perfect arc, slicing the air with a sound that should not come from someone shaped like a pastry. Instinct jolted through me and I raised my sword, intercepting the swing—
Clang.
I stumbled backward, parrying again, and again.
Sigurd moved with alarming fluidity, every motion sharp, deliberate, practiced. Even in this ridiculous body, every paw-strike carried the intent of a seasoned warrior. He was faster than before, too; his movements left faint trails of mana that shimmered before fading.
Every time he attacked, I reacted too slowly. Too late.
Until—
My vision flickered.
Not outward.
Inward.
Sigurd's next movement—his stepping angle, the arc of his paw, the exact moment he would shift his center of gravity—lit up before my eyes like faint glowing lines drawn directly over reality. It was subtle at first. A faint swirl of mana. A ghosted afterimage.
But then—
Sigurd lifted his arm to swing, and my eye pulsed.
Suddenly I saw it. The path of his strike—before he even made it. The trail of mana flowing down his plush arm, the shift in his stance, the direction of impact.
My breath hitched.
Odin's eye.
I didn't think—I moved.
I parried perfectly. The strike that should have knocked me off my feet barely made me stumble.
Sigurd paused.
"…What was that?" he demanded.
I didn't answer—not because I didn't want to, but because another movement from him sent another wave of glowing trajectories through my vision. It was like someone was tracing the future with thin strands of light.
He lunged again.
I stepped aside before he finished the motion.
He swung low.
I blocked the moment my body told me to.
He feinted.
I didn't fall for it.
Within seconds, I was fighting on instinct—instinct guided by flickers of golden light only I could see. Every strike became easier to read, though Sigurd's speed forced me to react at my limit.
His button eyes narrowed. "So Hel already awakened it…"
"What?" I gasped, parrying a strike aimed at my knee.
"Your eye," he snapped. "You're reading me."
"I—I didn't mean to!"
"You think I care? Fight!"
He spun, swinging upward.
I dodged.
He pivoted, attacking from another angle.
I anticipated it.
For a brief, intoxicating moment, we were even—me and a legendary hero. A teddy bear-shaped one, but still.
Then he vanished.
I blinked—
Too slow.
A stuffed foot slammed into my ribs like a padded brick, sending me rolling across the grass. My sword skidded somewhere behind me. I gasped, wind knocked out of me.
Sigurd landed gracefully in front of me, tiny arms folded.
"That," he said smugly, "is why tier two is nothing."
I groaned and rolled onto my back, staring up at the pale morning sky.
Jerry poked his head out from behind a bush where he'd been spectating. "You lasted longer than I thought you would. I only feared for your life nine times."
"Comforting," I wheezed.
Sigurd waddled closer and poked my forehead. "Get up."
"No," I muttered.
"You are a queen, are you not?" he said, his voice suddenly sharp. "Your people are trapped. Weak. Waiting. Dying. And you lie in the dirt complaining?"
Something inside me snapped straight.
I sat up.
Sigurd nodded once, satisfied. "Good. Again."
For the next hour, he drilled me relentlessly. Footwork. Balance. Mana reinforcement. He forced me to channel mana from my core down my limbs in smoother shifts, adjusting my stance with surprisingly strong nudges of his plush paws.
And every time my vision flickered—showing flashes of future movement—Sigurd smacked my shin.
"Do not rely on it!"
"But—"
"It is a tool, not a crutch!" he said. "If you lose it in battle, you die. Do not forget that."
I swallowed hard.
Jerry slithered a bit closer. "He's right."
Sigurd pointed a paw at him. "Of course I am. I did not help kill a dragon just to be questioned by a worm."
"I AM NOT A WORM—"
"Then stop acting like one!"
Their bickering faded into background noise as I steadied my breathing and lifted my sword again.
I wasn't graceful.
I wasn't quick.
My mana control was messy.
But every time my eye pulsed, that faint prediction appeared—guiding me, warning me, whispering what came next.
It was intoxicating, terrifying, and empowering all at once.
After another bout that ended with me flat on the ground for the seventh time, Sigurd sat cross-legged beside me.
"Well done," he said gruffly.
I stared at him. "I lost every round."
"Yes. But you lost better."
I blinked. "…Thanks?"
"It was not a compliment. It was an observation."
Jerry snorted. "He likes you."
"I DO NOT!" Sigurd barked, cheeks somehow turning pink despite being made of felt. "I am invested in my student's success. That is all. A strong Fylgja reflects well on the hero!"
"Uh huh," Jerry said smugly.
Sigurd huffed and climbed onto my knee. "Now. Listen carefully."
I sat up straighter.
"Your eye will grow stronger with you," he said. "Right now you can only see moments ahead. Eventually—if you train—it will extend further. But it will also reveal truth, lies, and hidden paths. And perhaps… memories."
My heart clenched. "Memories?"
"Yes. But you are not ready to look yet."
I lowered my gaze, suddenly unsure.
Sigurd tapped my hand. "You are growing stronger. Faster than mortals usually can. But strength is not your goal."
I met his gaze.
"Saving your people is," he said softly. "And for that, we train until you surpass even me."
Jerry snickered. "In that form? Easy."
Sigurd lunged at him with a high-pitched war cry.
I laughed—really laughed—as they wrestled on the grass, plush limbs flailing and serpent tail whipping dramatically.
For the first time since escaping the fog, the weight in my chest eased.
I wasn't strong yet.
But I was no longer alone.