[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: Heart Kingdom Outskirts]
The forest thinned abruptly as the wind blew.
Beyond the myriad of blackened trees the land opened into a broad, unnatural clearing. There in the desolation, stood a forward encampment. It was not a haphazard gathering of tents and wagons—it was organized. Everything about it contrasted the ruined environment of the surrounding forest.
The soil was dry and compacted by marching feet and wheels—trodden down to dust. Structures of dark steel and reinforced materials jutted out at clean angles. Sleek black tents formed neat rows around a central command pavilion. Each tent was marked with red diamond-shaped insignias. Torchlight flickered dimly along the perimeter, but the majority of the lighting came from seemed like crystal pylons.
Figures moved with discipline between stations—soldiers, all clad in blackened plate armor. Their visors, narrow and angular, hid every trace of humanity beneath steel. Most wore their helmets fully fastened, their identities swallowed behind the black. A few had raised their visors to smoke or speak.
"What a repulsive view," came a voice—sharp and unrepentantly bored—as it cut across the encampment.
The speaker stood near the outer edge of the sprawling Heart Kingdom encampment, where orderly rows of sleek black tents rose from the trampled earth. Soldiers moved in disciplined paths.
But she stood out.
Her presence was impossible to ignore.
She wore a tailored uniform in shades of deep, imperial blue, cut sharply at the waist and decorated with refined gold trim. The collar was distinct—mid-high, stiff, embroidered with small gold stars along a navy band. Her long black hair hung smoothly down her back, her bangs perfectly framing a face too delicate for a grim place like this. Her skin was alabaster pale, untouched by sun or stain, and her eyes—icy, luminous vivid blue—scanned the encampment with judgment.
Her lips, soft and naturally tinted a subdued rose, were pressed into a fine line.
She said nothing further, but her presence alone drew passing glances—some subtle, some not—from nearby soldiers. Not merely because of her beauty, though that was undeniable. But because she didn't belong here. Not with them or among them. She stood above them, as if the dirt beneath her feet resented her weight.
And then came the voice from behind her.
"Such foul words," the man drawled lightly, footsteps crunching evenly over the dirt as he approached, "and such a sour expression. Doesn't suit such a beautiful face, you know."
She didn't turn.
The man stopped beside her, a half-step off to her right, close enough to be heard and far enough not to crowd. He was tall, with an almost ethereal elegance about him—long, pale blonde hair falling in loose waves over his shoulders and down his back, gleaming. His golden-yellow eyes held amusement, as if everything in the world amused him just a little bit.
His coat was a deep, storm-drenched brown, cut long and close to his frame. The gold embroidery glinted subtly in the light, and across his chest lay a large, golden ornament shaped like a wide, slanted eye. A heavy fur-lined mantle rested over his shoulders, light beige in color, the ends of his cape swaying slightly with each movement he made.
Even among the oddities of the Retorta Guild, he had a way of looking like he belonged nowhere—and everywhere—at once.
"Lindworm," the woman finally acknowledged, turning her head slightly to cast a sidelong glance toward him. Her voice held no warmth. Her expression remained as icy as before, blue eyes narrowed just a touch.
"What's with the glare, Queen?" Lindworm teased smoothly, lips curling into a faint smirk. "One would swear I was the enemy."
She exhaled slowly—not quite a sigh of exhaustion, more a controlled breath through her nose.
"I'm merely in a foul mood," she said flatly, shifting her gaze back to the camp. Her arms folded across her chest. "This cesspool of a place... I never thought I'd have to return here. Not again." She tilted her head slightly as if reflecting on something far away. "I don't know what possessed our Lady to send me here," she continued, the edge of her voice curving toward bitterness. "Perhaps she thought it amusing. Perhaps it's mockery."
"Hardly so, Snow," Lindworm replied, brushing the notion away. "Our Lady's motives may be unclear, but I doubt amusement is among them. More likely a test. A challenge. One she knew you would handle."
"How sure you seem," Snow said coolly, her arms tightening across her chest. Her half-lidded eyes followed the slow march of soldiers nearby, watching them with disinterest. "But if nothing else, I suppose I'll find some measure of satisfaction. This place will suffer before long. That, at least, I'll enjoy."
"Scary way of thinking," Lindworm muttered beneath his breath, though he neither recoiled nor frowned. He said it almost fondly. Then, more serious now: "In any case, we should remain alert. The reports from the Heart Kingdom soldiers—scattered as they are—mention two Nil. One wielding a rapier. Blonde hair. And the other… white hair, red eyes."
Snow's mouth drew into a sharper line.
"Posing as mere thieves," she scoffed, her gaze drifting up toward the iron-colored sky. "How utterly beneath them. How obnoxiously human."
"We don't know what Schema they possess," Lindworm offered, not as a warning, but as a reality. "No matter how powerful we are, we'd be fools to walk in blind."
"They'll die like the rest," Snow answered, almost idly. "Sorcerers, warriors, monsters, kings—they all believed they were enough to stand against the Retorta Guild. And we've buried them all in time. These two won't be any different."
Lindworm said nothing to that—not in argument, nor agreement. His gaze remained steady. Then, almost imperceptibly, Snow's focus sharpened. Her head turned, not abruptly, but slowly, her stare falling onto a figure passing by several paces away.
He followed her gaze.
A soldier—one of the many clad in black plate—was walking past, helmet removed. A woman, with black hair tied in a high ponytail, the strands slick. Her armor was worn but well-kept, the red diamond insignia clearly marked on her chestplate. She had the look of someone used to long days on her feet and longer nights without rest.
"Stop right there, soldier," Snow called, her voice neither raised nor shouted, yet it froze the woman mid-step all the same.
The soldier halted. She turned to face them, chin held level. Her lilac eyes met Snow's without hesitation.
No salute. No stammering.
Just a blank, neutral expression. And silence.
"What unit are you with?" Snow asked, tone unreadable. Lindworm arched one brow, quietly observing.
"Uh, second platoon of diamond soldiers," the woman replied after a beat, her voice measured but slightly uncertain, as if wondering whether she'd done something wrong.
Snow's expression didn't change.
"I don't recall seeing your face."
The woman shifted her weight slightly. "I've been wearing my helmet the entire time, ma'am," she said, a touch of defensive pragmatism in her tone. "You probably wouldn't have."
Snow said nothing for a moment. Her eyes narrowed just slightly as she studied the woman's face—specifically her eyes.
("Those eyes…")
A diamond soldier—low-ranking, expendable, expected to follow and obey without hesitation—should not have been this steady. Should not have been this composed in the presence of two confirmed Nil, known members of one of the most feared and enigmatic organizations in the world. Even the veteran commanders kept a distance. Yet this woman… she didn't blink. She didn't cower. If anything, she looked annoyed.
"I should get back to my post," the woman said plainly, giving a short nod. "Sorry."
She turned on her heel and walked off without awaiting dismissal, disappearing behind the corner of a nearby tent. The cloth flaps barely rustled in her wake.
Lindworm exhaled softly through his nose. "What an interesting lass," he mused aloud.
Snow said nothing.
Her gaze lingered on the spot the soldier had vanished into.
-------------------
[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: Heart Kingdom Outskirts]
"Hm. Quite a large encampment."
The words left Gretel's lips in a murmur, silver eyes narrowing as they scanned the sprawl below.
From where she stood on the rise of a cliff edge—half overgrown with lichen, half worn smooth—the Heart Kingdom's encampment stretched outward. Neatly aligned tents, some plain and canvas-bound, others sleek with plating. The forest clearing surrounding the camp had been completely stripped bare, replaced by stone paths and pounded earth.
Soldiers patrolled the perimeter mundanely.
And yet something about the place was wrong.
Gretel crossed her arms. Her fingers tightened against her arm as she squinted into the distance. The air wasn't cold, but a faint tremble ran down her wrist.
She didn't understand the sensation. It wasn't fear—she knew fear well. This was something else.
("Off. Something's off. Like the ground beneath my feet is warning me.")
"...Maybe I'm sensing them," she whispered, half to herself. "The Nil... the Retorta Guild's Mortifers. Could they really be that close already?"
"Talking to yourself now? That's how it starts, you know. A sign of idiocy creeping in."
The sudden voice struck. It was dry and unmistakably female—and accompanied by the steady, clank of armored boots on ground behind her.
Gretel glanced back over her shoulder.
A tall woman in Heart Kingdom regalia approached. Her raven-black hair was bound behind her head, strands framing a face set with lavender eyes that flicked to Gretel.
Gretel exhaled through her nose. "You know, Mikoto... I still haven't decided whether your ability is impressive or just profoundly unnerving."
"Neither," came the reply.
Suddenly, a faint crackle split the air. A soft tink, like breaking glass. Then, as if peeling away from reality itself, hairline fractures spread across the woman's armored form. In the blink of an eye, the illusion shattered.
Fragments of illusionary flesh dissolved into shards that flew and faded, revealing the true figure beneath.
There stood Mikoto.
"You really went all the way with that one," Gretel muttered, turning fully to face him. "So... did you actually turn into a woman, or was it just a visual trick?"
Mikoto's lips twitched downward. "It an illusion. Perception tampering. I only appear different to others. Changing my actual biology would be messy and inefficient. And a damn pain."
Gretel folded her arms, curious. "So, an illusion Schema, huh?"
Mikoto shrugged. "Sure. That's what you lot call it, right?Yeah sure."
She raised a brow at his indifference, but didn't press further. There were bigger matters at hand.
"Did you learn anything?" she asked, tone shifting.
"A few things," Mikoto replied calmly, stepping closer to stand beside her. "They know about us—at least what we look like. I'd bet it's from the two Heart Kingdom soldiers we let live."
"Makes sense," Gretel murmured, frowning. "I should've known that might bite us."
"They're planning something. Their scouts have their eyes on the village, and on that region you called the Deseruit Beast's territory. Seems like those are the only populated areas nearby. Strategic interest, I guess."
She exhaled slowly. "It was inevitable."
Mikoto went on. "The soldiers aren't the problem. They're barely worth acknowledging. But the two Nil stationed down there, they're the threat. One of them almost saw through my illusion."
Gretel's attention snapped toward him. "That fast?"
"Almost. But almost is enough to warrant concern."
She grew silent for a moment, brows drawn together. "What did they look like?"
"One was a woman—tall, black hair, pale skin. Wore a blue uniform. The other was a man, blonde, fancy clothes. Looked like he'd rather be at a gala."
Recognition—or perhaps dread—slid into her expression. "I... I don't know about the second one. But the woman—pale skin, blue uniform—that matches someone I've heard rumors about" She pursed her lips. "One of the Retorta Guild's most violent Mortifers. If the seat numbers are to be believed, she holds the Eighth. The seat of Zeboiim."
"They ranked by strength?" Mikoto asked, tone neutral.
"No formal hierarchy, maybe," Gretel replied. "But position still means something in that guild. The Mortifers are elite. If she's Eighth, then she's undeniably dangerous. They say her missions always end in carnage. Unrepentant and cruel. Collateral damage means nothing to her." Mikoto hummed. "She's developed her Schema beyond the basic phase then. Advanced phases. Likely multiple."
"I see."
The silence returned.
Finally, Gretel broke it. "We should head back. The village may not matter to you, but I still have to protect it. I made that mistake. I stole the wrong thing. It's my responsibility now."
Mikoto said nothing. Just nodded once, curtly, and turned to follow her.
But then—he stopped cold.
A sharp pulse struck through his skull. His breath caught.
["Pro… hild… harken… Executioner… me."]
The voice tore into his mind like static—another fractured whisper from a place he couldn't place. The words were clearer this time. Less like incomprehensible noise. More like a plea.
His hand pressed to his temple as the pain stabbed deeper. His thoughts spun wildly, trying to hold onto the tether, to reach back toward whatever—whoever—was calling him.
("Again…? This voice… it's trying to reach me. It's getting closer.")
But just as suddenly as it came, the connection blinked out.
He staggered slightly, blinking away the dizziness. When he looked up, Gretel was already several paces ahead, glancing back with a questioning look.
He said nothing.
It was too early to understand what it all meant.
It seems there would be no end to complications. Not in this world.