Freya stood at the window of Babel Tower, her silver hair catching the moonlight as she surveyed her new domain. The transition had been instant – one moment she was in Folkvangr selecting fallen warriors, the next she found herself here, inhabiting the role of another version of herself. The memories of this world's Freya flowed through her mind like winter melt, teaching her everything she needed to maintain her facade.
"How fascinating," she whispered to herself, careful to maintain her counterpart's exact mannerisms. To the outside world, nothing would appear amiss. But inside, ancient knowledge stirred—centuries of selecting warriors for Odin's halls, weaving seidr magic, and ruling over both love and death.
The challenge would be subtlety. She couldn't simply transform her Familia overnight – that would raise too many questions. Instead, she would need to guide them gradually, introducing changes so subtle that none would question their origin.
Her first test came during the morning's recruitment. A scarred female adventurer stood before her, clearly expecting rejection like she'd received from other Familias. The old Freya would have dismissed her instantly for her marred appearance. But Norse Freya saw something else – the spirit of a Valkyrie, hidden beneath the scars.
"You interest me," she purred, using her counterpart's familiar seductive tone while layering it with ancient authority that would seem natural coming from the Freya they knew. "Join my Familia."
The shock on the faces of her advisors was quickly masked by careful neutrality. After all, Freya was known for her whims. Who were they to question their goddess's choices?
Over the following months, she began introducing "new ideas" to her Familia's training, always framing them as extensions of their existing methods. The shield-wall formation was presented as an evolution of their group tactics. The berserker training she gave Allen Fromel was masked as an enhancement of his aggressive style.
"My dear children," she would say during their feasts, maintaining her counterpart's possessive tone while weaving in the ancient wisdom, "you're becoming even more beautiful as you grow stronger. Your coordination in battle particularly pleases me."
Ottar, her faithful captain, adapted to the subtle changes with impressive intuition. If he suspected anything, he kept it to himself, perhaps seeing only what he expected to see – his goddess's endless pursuit of perfection taking new forms.
Familia's transformation happened so gradually that Orario barely noticed it. Their reputation for beauty remained intact, but now it was complemented by whispers of unusual battle formations and strangely effective group tactics. When questioned, Freya would smile her mysterious smile, which her counterpart had often used, and change the subject.
Even though she had an interest in Bell Cranel, she maintained differently. While the other Freya had obsessed over possessing him, she watched him with the eyes of one who had chosen heroes for Odin's halls. Her pursuit remained just as intense on the surface, but her true purpose–evaluating him as a potential legend–remained her secret.
"Beautiful," she would murmur when watching him fight, letting others assume she meant his appearance while admiring the warrior spirit that reminded her of the heroes of old.
During private moments in her chambers, she would trace ancient runes in the air, carefully dispelling them before anyone could enter. The dungeon was responding to her presence, to the echo of Yggdrasil's power she carried within her. But she ensured these changes appeared natural, merely the dungeon's usual evolution.
Her Familia grew stronger, more coordinated, and more effective. But to the outside world, they were still the beautiful, mighty Freya Familia – with some interesting new tactics. None suspected their goddess was slowly transforming them into something resembling her ancient warrior band, her chosen einherjar.
"Is something different about Lady Freya?" one member would occasionally ask another.
"She's always been mysterious," would come the reply. "Who can truly understand the heart of a goddess?"
And Freya would smile her secret smile, continuing her quiet transformation of the Familia while maintaining the perfect illusion that nothing fundamental had changed. After all, she had spent centuries choosing between warriors, weaving fates, and keeping the balance between realms. Maintaining this masquerade was simply another form of divine art.
She mused in the privacy of her thoughts, "In any world, in any form, a warrior's heart remains true. My children will become legends – they don't need to know which tradition forged them."
In the privacy of her chambers, Freya stood before an ornate mirror, studying her reflection with ancient eyes. Today marked a delicate moment – the anniversary of an event her counterpart had celebrated annually, a feast commemorating her first descent to the lower world. Freya's previous memories showed how she had conducted herself during these celebrations, but maintaining the masquerade would require particular care.
"My lady," Ottar's voice came from beyond the door, "the preparations are complete."
"Enter," she commanded, perfectly mimicking her counterpart's sultry tone while suppressing the instinct to speak with the authority of Folkvangr's queen.
The massive Boaz entered, his eyes downcast as always. Yet lately, she had noticed subtle changes in his behaviour—microscopic hesitations, fleeting glances of curiosity. Of all her children, Ottar's instincts were the keenest. She would need to be especially careful around him tonight.
"The feast hall is arranged as in previous years," he reported. "Though some members have requested permission to demonstrate their new combat formations as entertainment."
Freya allowed herself the same indulgent smile her counterpart would have shown. "How charming. Yes, let them show their progress." Inside, she calculated. The demonstrations would need to appear as natural evolutions of their previous fighting styles, nothing too overtly Norse.
The feast began at sunset. Freya made her entrance exactly as her memories dictated – descending the grand staircase in a gown of midnight blue, her beauty drawing every eye. But where the previous Freya had revelled in their admiration as sustenance, this Freya saw their gazes with the eyes of a Valkyrie, noting the warrior spirits burning beneath their beautiful exteriors.
"My dear children," she addressed them, carefully weaving her counterpart's possessiveness with her ancient authority. "Another year has passed, and you have all grown more... exquisite."
The word choice was deliberate – her counterpart's favourite term of praise, though in her mind, she was marking their growth as warriors rather than collectables.
The entertainment began. Familia members demonstrated their "new" techniques, carefully blending their original styles with the Norse methods she had subtly introduced. Allen performed a berserker rush that could have been mistaken for his usual aggressive approach, though she alone knew he was channelling the ancient fury of the Úlfhéðnar.
The scarred shield-maiden Helga led a defensive demonstration that appeared merely an innovative take on standard adventurer tactics. None needed to know that the formations mirrored those once used to defend the walls of Asgard.
Freya navigated a delicate dance of expectations and appearances during the feast proper. When members sought her attention, she maintained her counterpart's aloof sensuality while weaving in guidance that would have been familiar to any einherjar under her command in Folkvangr.
"Your form is beautiful," she told one warrior, letting everyone assume she meant his physical appearance while praising how he had integrated shield-wall techniques into his style.
The real challenge came when Loki appeared unexpectedly – a common occurrence at these celebrations. The trickster goddess lounged against a pillar, her sharp eyes studying everything.
"Quite the show you're putting on, Freya," Loki drawled. "Your kids are fighting differently lately. Almost reminds me of... something I can't quite place."
Freya laughed, the same melodious sound her counterpart had always used. "Perhaps you're seeing things, dear Loki. Though I must admit, their new techniques have a certain... historical quality."
She let her words carry just enough of her counterpart's dismissive tone to make Loki shrug and return to her drinking. Inside, though, she noted the need for even greater caution. Of all the gods, Loki might recognise patterns from their original world.
Later, as the celebration reached its peak, Ottar approached her privately. "My lady," he began, his tone careful. I've been studying the old texts in our library—the ones about the northern realms."
Freya kept her expression perfectly neutral, though her mind raced inside. "Oh, are you finding anything interesting?"
"The formations we've been using are strikingly similar to ancient warfare techniques. I wondered if you had been studying them as well."
It was a crucial moment. Her counterpart would have dismissed such academic interests immediately. Instead, she traced a finger along the rim of her wine glass, perfectly combining both versions of herself.
"My dear Ottar," she purred, "a goddess must have her mysteries. Perhaps I've been... inspired by certain historical accounts. Does it matter, as long as my children grow stronger and more beautiful?"
He bowed deeply, accepting her non-answer as he always had. But she saw the slight furrow in his brow, the way his eyes lingered on the runic patterns she had subtly worked into the feast hall's decorations.
Freya stood at her familiar window as the night drew close, watching her children depart. They moved differently now—still beautiful and graceful, but with the underlying strength of true warriors. None of them needed to know that their goddess was not who they thought; their evolution came from traditions older than Orario.
In the privacy of her thoughts, she allowed herself a moment of authentic expression. "The old ways endure," she whispered in ancient Norse, her words carried away by the night wind. "Though the mask I wear is new, the wisdom remains eternal."
Below, in the depths of the dungeon, the ancient powers stirred in response to her authentic voice. Still, even this could be dismissed as merely another mystery of Orario's ever-changing labyrinth.
A storm raged above Orario, lightning splitting the sky in patterns that reminded Freya of the branches of Yggdrasil. In her private chambers, she stood before an ancient mirror, one of the few artefacts that had recognised her true nature from the moment she arrived. Through it, she watched a disaster unfolding in the dungeon's depths.
A party of mixed adventurers from several Familias, including some of her children, had encountered something unprecedented on the fifty-ninth floor. The dungeon had spawned a creature that bore an uncanny resemblance to Nidhoggr, the dragon that gnawed at Yggdrasil's roots. It wasn't truly the world-serpent, but rather the dungeon's interpretation of her subconscious memories leaking into its creative force.
"My lady," Ottar's urgent but controlled voice came through her door. The situation below..."
"Enter," she commanded, maintaining her counterpart's languid tone despite the crisis.
Ottar stepped in, and their eyes met in the mirror's reflection for a moment. She saw the question in his gaze – the same one he'd held back for months. He had served the previous Freya long enough to notice the subtle differences, the ancient knowledge that sometimes slipped through her carefully maintained facade.
"The monster," he reported, "it's using tactics we've never seen. The adventurers say it's... singing."
Of course it was. The dungeon was drawing on her memories of the old worlds, creating challenges that reflected the ancient threats she had once known. But she couldn't reveal that.
"How fascinating," she purred, using her counterpart's familiar expression of interest. "Perhaps the dungeon evolves in ways we never expected. Gather a rescue party. Use the formations we've... developed recently."
She oversaw his face as she gave the order. Ottar had been studying the old Norse texts in their library, connecting dots she had hoped would remain separate. His following words confirmed her concerns.
"The formations," he said slowly, "are remarkably similar to the battle tactics described in the ancient sagas—almost identical to how the Einherjar were said to fight."
Freya turned from the mirror, letting her silver hair cascade over one shoulder – a gesture her counterpart had often used to distract from difficult questions. "All combat wisdom flows from ancient sources, dear Ottar. Now, we have adventurers to save."
The rescue mission assembled quickly. Freya watched from her tower as Ottar led them into the dungeon, their formations exactly as she had taught them – shield-walls interlocked, berserkers at the flanks, runic-enhanced mages in the centre. It would appear to be merely an evolution of standard tactics to most observers. Only someone well-versed in Norse warfare would recognise the ancient patterns.
Through her mirror, she observed their descent. The dungeon responded to their presence in ways that thrilled and concerned her. The walls seemed to pulse with recognition, the ancient stones remembering when gods walked freely between worlds.
"Lady Freya," Hedin approached her chamber door. "Loki-sama is here. She says it's urgent."
This was dangerous. More than any other deity in Orario, Loki might recognise the true nature of what was happening. The trickster goddess had always been clever in any world.
"Send her in," Freya called, quickly dispersing the runic energies she had used to watch the rescue mission.
Loki sauntered in, her usual grin barely masking her sharp scrutiny. "Quite the situation you have down there. Strange how the dungeon's been acting lately. Almost like it's remembering something... or someone."
Freya laughed, the same musical sound her counterpart had always used. "The dungeon has always been mysterious, dear Loki. We gods gave up much of our power to come here, did we not? Perhaps we're simply rediscovering old truths."
"Old truths," Loki mused, running a finger along the spines of books on Norse mythology that Ottar had left out. "Ancient truths, I'd say."
Before Loki could press further, a commotion erupted from below. Through her window, Freya saw the rescue party emerging from the dungeon. They moved in perfect formation, carrying their injured, but with a discipline that spoke of ancient warrior traditions.
More concerning was what followed them—waves of energy pulsing from the dungeon entrance, carrying echoes of songs that hadn't been heard since the days of Folkvangr. The very air hummed with a power that was distinctly Norse.
"Well," Loki drawled, "that's certainly not something you see daily. Reminds me of... but that's impossible, isn't it?"
Freya moved to the window, deliberately keeping her expression neutral. "The dungeon holds many secrets, Loki. Not all of them need to be understood to be useful."
But as she watched her children below – warriors trained in ways they didn't fully comprehend, wielding power that echoed across worlds – she felt the weight of her deception. The dungeon responded more and more to her true nature, making it increasingly difficult to maintain the illusion.
Later that night, alone in her chambers, she traced ancient runes in the air, considering her options. The changes she had initiated were taking on a life of their own. The dungeon was awakening to old powers, her Familia was wielding ancient strengths, and the gods were beginning to notice.
"The price of power," she whispered in Old Norse, quickly catching herself and switching back to the common tongue, "is always truth."
But she remained resolved as she looked out over her sleeping city, watching the storm clouds gather in patterns that reminded her of home. Her children were growing stronger, learning to fight in ways that would serve them against any threat. If maintaining her secret meant they would survive what was coming, then that was a price she would gladly pay.
In the depths below, the dungeon continued to pulse with ancient power, responding to the presence of a goddess who was both familiar and strange. Its very nature slowly transformed under the influence of a force it had not known since the days when the world tree first took root.
The mirror in Freya's private chambers rippled like water under moonlight, showing her visions of the dungeon's deepest levels. Something was stirring down there that resonated with her true nature in ways that threatened to shatter her carefully maintained facade.
"Interesting," she murmured, tracing a pattern in the air that her counterpart would never have known. The mirror's surface cleared instantly, a trick she had to be careful never to perform when others were present. "The dungeon remembers more than it should."
A knock at her door interrupted her observations. "Enter," she called, adopting her counterpart's sultry tone.
Ottar stepped in, his expression more troubled than usual. He carried an ancient text in his hands – one of the volumes about Norse mythology she had noticed him studying lately. "My lady, there's something you should see."
He opened the book to a marked page, showing an illustration of Freya in her original form, standing among the fallen warriors in Folkvangr. The resemblance to her current battle formations was unmistakable.
"Such fascinating old stories," she purred, deflecting with practised ease. "The ancients had such... vivid imaginations."
"Lady Freya," Ottar began carefully, "the formations we've been using, the runes that appear in our magic circles, even the way the dungeon responds to our presence – it's all described here. Not as fiction, but as historical record."
Before she could respond, an urgent message arrived from the Guild. A group of adventurers had discovered something unprecedented on the sixtieth floor – a grand hall that seemed to have sprouted from the dungeon walls overnight, its architecture distinctly Norse in design.
"Gather the executives," she commanded, maintaining her composure even as she realised the dungeon was manifesting her memories without her conscious direction. "We'll investigate personally."
As they descended through the levels, Freya watched her Familia move with the discipline of true einherjar. They had absorbed the ancient ways so completely that sometimes she almost forgot they weren't her original warriors from Folkvangr.
When they reached the great hall, it took her breath away. The dungeon had recreated a perfect replica of her feast hall from the Old World, complete with carved pillars bearing the stories of fallen heroes. Magic stones embedded in the walls pulsed with a light that mimicked the aurora of her homeland.
"It's beautiful," Allen whispered, his berserker's spirit responding to the ancient power that saturated the chamber.
"Indeed," Freya agreed, carefully modulating her voice to hide her recognition. "The dungeon creates the most fascinating things."
But as they explored further, the situation grew more complex. The hall wasn't just a replica – it was beginning to function like her original feast hall. Fallen adventurers were being drawn here instead of returning to the surface, their spirits lingering as though waiting to be chosen for Folkvangr.
"Lady Freya," Helga called out, her voice tight with concern. The spirits... they're responding to our presence, to you."
Indeed, they were. The ghostly forms of fallen adventurers were turning toward her, recognising her genuine nature even through her disguise. This was dangerous – far too close to revealing her secret.
With subtle movements that looked like mere gestures to her watching Familia, she wove seidr magic to guide the spirits toward the surface gently. To everyone else, the dungeon's strange effect would appear to be wearing off.
"The dungeon grows more mysterious by the day," she commented lightly, but inside, she was working complex magic to prevent the hall from fully manifesting its true purpose.
Later, in an emergency meeting with the other gods, she had to navigate careful questions about the incident.
"Quite the show down there," Loki drawled, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "Almost like the old stories about your hall of warriors, eh, Freya?"
"All gods have their legends," Freya replied smoothly. "Perhaps the dungeon draws on our collective histories to create its challenges."
But she could see the wheels turning in Loki's mind, the ancient memories stirring behind those calculating eyes. After all, they had known each other in the old world, even if Loki didn't quite remember it in this form.
The real challenge came when Bell Cranel arrived with the Hestia Familia to investigate—like the heroes she had once chosen for Folkvangr, his pure soul resonated with the hall's energy in a way that threatened to activate its true purpose.
"Beautiful," she murmured, watching him explore the hall. But this time, she let genuine appreciation colour her voice—appreciation not just for his appearance but also for the hero's spirit that reminded her so much of the warriors she had once gathered.
As the day progressed, more Familias arrived to investigate the phenomenon. Freya orchestrated their exploration carefully, using her Familia's formations to guide them away from the most dangerous areas – places where the veil between worlds had grown dangerously thin.
"My lady," Ottar said quietly during a private moment, "this place... it feels like home. A home I've never known."
She met his eyes, seeing the question there, the growing understanding that he couldn't quite bring himself to voice. For a moment, she was tempted to tell him everything – how she had watched over warriors like him for centuries in another world and had chosen the bravest souls for her halls.
Instead, she smiled her counterpart's mysterious smile. "All power has its source, dear Ottar. Perhaps what feels like home is simply the recognition of something older than ourselves."
But as they worked to secure the area, she knew her time of comfortable secrecy was growing short. The dungeon responded too strongly to her true nature, creating manifestations that were becoming harder to explain away.
That night, alone in her chambers, she faced her reflection in the ancient mirror. "The old powers will not be denied forever," she whispered in Norse, her authentic voice echoing with the authority of Folkvangr's queen. "But perhaps... perhaps that's not entirely a bad thing."
For now, though, she would maintain her masquerade, guiding her children toward understanding while keeping her true identity hidden. After all, some truths were better learned slowly, like gradually strengthening a warrior's spirit through battle and triumph.
Deep below, the great hall pulsed with ancient power, waiting for the day when its actual purpose could be revealed, when the goddess who walked among them could finally be recognized for who she truly was – not just a collector of beauty, but a chooser of the slain, a guardian of heroes, and a bridge between worlds.
The storm that raged over Orario wasn't natural. Lightning forked across the sky in patterns that formed ancient runes, visible only to those who knew where to look. Freya watched the display in her chambers atop Babel Tower with growing concern. The boundaries between worlds were thin, and maintaining her masquerade became increasingly complex.
"My lady," Ottar's voice came through her door, more urgent than usual. "There's been an incident in the dungeon. The new hall we discovered... It's changing."
When she arrived at the great hall on the sixtieth floor, Freya immediately understood the gravity of the situation. The space had transformed further, now bearing an uncanny resemblance to her true hall in Folkvangr. Fallen adventurers' spirits lingered in the air, drawn to her presence in a way that threatened to expose everything.
"Fascinating," she purred, maintaining her counterpart's affected interest while secretly weaving complex seidr magic to contain the phenomenon. "The dungeon grows more creative by the day."
But Ottar wasn't so easily deflected anymore. He stood beside her, holding an ancient text open to a specific page. "Lady Freya, this illustration... It's identical to what we're seeing. Down to the smallest detail."
The image showed her original hall in Folkvangr, where she had once gathered the souls of fallen warriors. The resemblance was indeed perfect – too perfect to dismiss as a coincidence.
Before she could respond, Loki materialised from the shadows, her usual grin replaced by an expression of ancient knowing. "Quite the reproduction. Almost like the dungeon remembers something... or someone."
The tension in the hall crystallised. Other gods had arrived—Hestia, Hermes, even Odin in his Orario guise as a merchant—all of them studying the scene with eyes that flickered with recognition from their true forms.
"The dungeon has always been mysterious," Freya deflected smoothly, but even as she spoke, more spirits of fallen adventurers gathered, drawn to her presence like moths to flame.
A commotion at the entrance heralded Bell Cranel's arrival with his party. The moment he stepped into the hall, everything changed. His pure soul, so reminiscent of the heroes she had once chosen, resonated with the space, making the veil between worlds flutter dangerously.
"Lady Freya," Bell gasped, his red eyes wide with wonder, "this place... it feels like..."
"Like home," Ais Wallenstein finished, her wind magic swirling with patterns that echoed the currents of Yggdrasil's branches.
The situation balanced on a knife's edge. The hall responded more strongly to her true nature with each passing moment. Spirits of fallen adventurers began to take more solid form, arranging themselves in the same patterns her einherjar had once used in Folkvangr.
Ottar stepped forward, his expression troubled but resolute. "My lady, the texts speak of a goddess who chose between the fallen, who maintained the balance between realms. They say she disappeared from the nine worlds without warning, leaving Folkvangr empty."
Loki's eyes narrowed. "Interesting timing, wouldn't you say? Around the same time, our Freya started introducing these... fascinating new combat techniques."
The hall's energy pulsed stronger, responding to the recognition in their words. Ghostly images of ancient battles played across the walls – not just any battles, but specific ones she had witnessed from her throne in Folkvangr.
Freya maintained her composure, though inside she was working frantically to contain the situation. But as she moved to dispel another gathering of spirits, her gesture was too precise, too practised. Loki's eyes widened in recognition.
"That movement," the trickster goddess whispered. "I remember..."
Suddenly, the dungeon itself seemed to shake. From the depths below came a sound that hadn't been heard since the age of gods – the echo of Gjallarhorn, the great horn that had once announced the gathering of warriors in her hall.
The assembled gods stirred, ancient memories flickering behind their eyes. The adventurers' spirits grew more distinct, forming ranks as they had in Folkvangr. Bell Cranel's soul blazed like a beacon, unconsciously calling to the power that had once chosen heroes for Odin's halls.
Freya knew she had to act quickly. The situation was unravelling faster than she could control. With subtle movements disguised as simple gestures, she began weaving her most complex seidr magic yet—a work designed to blur the memories of all present and make them question what they were seeing.
But as she raised her hand to complete the spell, Ottar caught her wrist. His eyes met hers, and she saw not just loyalty but understanding in them.
"My lady," he said softly, "perhaps it's time to stop hiding."
The hall fell silent, and all eyes turned to her. The spirits of fallen adventurers hovered expectantly, waiting for their true queen to acknowledge them. The gods watched with expressions that mixed recognition with disbelief.
For a moment, Freya stood perfectly still, centuries of maintaining secrets warring with the undeniable reality of the situation. Then, something in the air changed – a shift in the very fabric of reality.
And in that moment, she had to make a choice that would change everything...
Time seemed to freeze in the great hall as Freya stood at its centre, Ottar's words hanging in the air: "Perhaps it's time to stop hiding." The spirits of fallen warriors hovered expectantly, their forms growing more solid with each passing moment. The gathered gods and adventurers watched in tense silence, ancient memories stirring behind their eyes.
Freya looked at her assembled Familia – at Ottar, who had seen through her disguise not with suspicion but with understanding; at Helga, her first chosen shield-maiden in this world; at Allen, whose berserker spirit now burned with the accurate fire of the Úlfhéðnar. They had become more than the previous Freya had envisioned, more than mere beautiful possessions.
They had become true warriors of the old way.
"Very well," she said softly, and for the first time since arriving in this world, she let her authentic voice ring out – the voice of Folkvangr's queen, of the chooser of the slain, of she who had watched over countless heroes in their final moments.
The change was immediate and profound. The air seemed to crystallise, ancient power rippling through the hall like waves across the surface of a frozen lake. The ghostly warriors snapped to attention, recognising their true queen. The runes carved into the walls blazed with blue fire.
"I am Freya," she declared, each word carrying the weight of centuries, "not just of Orario, but of Folkvangr. I am she who chose between the fallen, who watched over the bravest souls, who kept the balance between realms when the world tree still connected all things."
The gathered gods stirred, recognition flooding back. Loki's eyes widened as ancient memories crystallised. "I remember... I remember the halls where you gathered them, sister. The warriors you chose..."
"Yes," Freya confirmed, turning to face her Familia. "When I found myself in this world, wearing the face of your Freya, I chose to maintain the illusion. But I brought with me something your Freya had forgotten – the understanding that true power lies not in beauty alone, but in the warrior's heart, the bonds forged in battle, and the ancient ways that shaped heroes."
She gestured to the transformed hall around them. "The dungeon remembers what we gods have forgotten. It remembers when we were more than collectors of children, more than players of games. It remembers when we guided heroes toward their true potential."
Bell Cranel stepped forward, his pure soul blazing like a beacon in the ancient space. "Lady Freya... all this time, when you watched me..."
"I saw in you what I once saw in the greatest heroes of the nine worlds," she told him. "Not just strength or speed, but the potential to become something more – a true legend, a warrior worthy of any hall in any realm."
The spirits of fallen adventurers began to move, forming into the familiar patterns of her ancient einherjar. But instead of drawing them to herself as she once would have, she gestured toward the surface.
"Go," she commanded them. "Return to your families, your Familias. This is not Folkvangr; you are not yet ready for my halls. But remember what you have seen here – remember that death is not the end, that valour never truly fades."
As the spirits departed, she turned to address all present. "I cannot be what I once was – the keeper of fallen heroes, the queen of Folkvangr. But I can be something new that bridges the old and new ways."
Ottar knelt before her, and her Familia followed suit one by one. "We stand with you," he declared, "not just as your children, but as your warriors, your einherjar in this new world."
The other gods watched silently as Freya raised her hands, ancient seidr magic swirling around her. The hall began to transform again, but this time under her conscious control. The space reshaped itself into something between Folkvangr's grandeur and Orario's practical necessity. The old ways could be taught on this training ground, where ancient wisdom could merge with new strength.
"The age of secrets is over," she announced. "Now begins the age of remembering–remembering who we were, what we can be, and how gods and mortals once worked together to forge legends."
The dungeon rumbled in response, but not with threat – with recognition. The very stones seemed to sing with ancient power, acknowledging the truth that had finally been spoken.
Freya caught Ottar's eye as the gathered adventurers and gods began to discuss the implications of this revelation. She smiled – not her counterpart's seductive smile, but the fierce, proud smile of a warrior-queen acknowledging one of her chosen champions.
"The old songs will be sung again," she told him quietly, "but this time, they will tell new stories–stories of how the warriors of Orario learned to fight with strength and wisdom, how they remembered the ancient ways while forging their paths."
Deep below, the dungeon continued to pulse with power, but now it was a familiar rhythm – the beat of ancient drums, the song of battle, the echo of legends yet to be born. The queen of Folkvangr had revealed herself at last, and with her unveiling, a new chapter in Orario's history had begun.
The morning after Freya's revelation dawned differently over Orario. The sky held an otherworldly sheen, as if the boundaries between realms had grown permanently thinner. From her position atop Babel Tower, Freya watched as the city below stirred to life, its inhabitants awakening to a world forever changed by the truth she had finally spoken.
The Guild's grand hall was packed with representatives from every major Familia. Ouranos himself had emerged from the depths to attend this unprecedented gathering. At the center of it all stood Freya, no longer maintaining her counterpart's seductive facade, but radiating the ancient authority of a true Norse goddess.
"The ways of old and new must merge," she declared, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. "The dungeon is not merely a test of strength, but a bridge between worlds, much like Yggdrasil once was. Each level corresponds to a different realm of the world tree, each challenge echoing ancient trials."
She gestured to a massive map that combined Guild documentation with runic annotations. "Here, where the fifty-eighth floor meets the fifty-ninth, we find patterns that mirror the paths between Midgard and Vanaheim. The monsters there move like the guardians of old, testing not just strength but understanding."
Loki, now fully remembering their shared past, stepped forward. "And what of the heroes? In the old world, they fought differently. They understood things we've forgotten."
"Which is why we must teach them anew," Freya responded, turning to address the assembled adventurers. "The shield-walls, the berserker techniques, the runic magic – these are not just combat methods. They are ways of understanding the fundamental nature of power, of connecting with the forces that shape our world."
Bell Cranel, standing with his Familia, felt something stir within him – a recognition of ancient patterns he had unknowingly been following. "Lady Freya," he asked, "is this why my growth has been... different?"
She smiled, not the seductive smile of her counterpart, but the proud expression of one who had chosen heroes for Odin's halls. "Yes, Bell. Your soul naturally resonates with the old ways. You've been unconsciously drawing on patterns that heroes once used to grow stronger, to face the trials of the nine worlds."
Ais Wallenstein stepped forward, her wind magic swirling around her with new purpose. "And my magic? The way it's been changing..."
"Your wind follows the currents that once flowed between worlds," Freya explained. "Just as Riveria's spells have begun incorporating runic elements without her conscious intent. The old powers are awakening, responding to those who are ready to understand them."
The implications rippled through the gathering. Adventurers began sharing stories of recent changes – how their magic had started behaving differently, how certain formations felt more natural, how the dungeon itself seemed to respond to their presence in new ways.
"But there are dangers," Freya warned, her expression growing serious. "As the boundaries thin, as the dungeon remembers its true nature, we may face challenges that haven't been seen since the age of legends. The Monster Rex you've known will evolve, taking on aspects of the great beasts that once guarded the paths between worlds."
She turned to her own Familia, who stood proud in their new understanding of their true nature. "This is why we must work together. No single Familia can face what's coming alone. We must combine our strengths, as gods and mortals once did when the world tree still connected all things."
Ottar, now openly wearing the mantle of First Einherjar, addressed the gathering. "We've already seen the benefits of this approach. When multiple Familias train together, using the old formations, the dungeon responds differently. It offers challenges that test our unity, our understanding, not just our individual strength."
The meeting continued well into the day, with Freya explaining the deeper meanings behind the changes they'd all been experiencing. She showed them how to read the runic patterns that had begun appearing in the dungeon walls, how to understand the rhythms of power that flowed through different levels.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows through the Guild's windows, Freya made her final declaration. "The age of gods playing at mortal games is ending. We must remember who we truly are, what we once were, and how we guided heroes toward their destinies. But this time, we'll do it not from distant halls, but fighting alongside you, teaching you the ways that were once lost."
The gathering dispersed with new purpose, each Familia eager to begin incorporating the old ways into their training. But as they left, Freya noticed something remarkable – the adventurers were naturally falling into formation patterns that echoed the ancient ways, their feet unconsciously following paths that heroes had once walked between the branches of Yggdrasil.
In the depths of her tower that night, Freya stood with Ottar and her core members, planning for the future. "The dungeon will continue to change," she told them. "Each level will become more like the realms it mirrors. We must be ready."
"And Bell Cranel?" Ottar asked, knowing how central the young hero had been to both versions of his goddess's plans.
Freya's eyes gleamed with ancient knowledge. "He will become what heroes once were – not just strong, but wise in the ways of power. And he will not walk that path alone. All of Orario's adventurers now have the chance to become something more, something that bridges the gap between what we were and what we can become."
Deep below, the dungeon pulsed with renewed purpose, its very nature transforming to match the truth that had finally been spoken. The age of secrets was over. The age of remembering had begun.