[Hela POV]
I open my eyes to darkness — not the comforting kind that cloaks, but the stale, heavy absence of light that clings to stone. My vision adjusts quickly; it always does. A prison cell. Iron bars for a gate. Damp floor. Cracked walls. Strangely, my infected arm doesn't hurt anymore.
Looking down, I find it tightly wrapped in dusty cloth etched with runes — crude, drawn in blood. I examine them closely. Not restoration runes like those used in Asgard. No, this is something far less refined — a stasis array, if I'm reading it correctly. It's not healing me. It's just stopping the spread and also cutting sensation. A delay, not a cure.
Amateur work. Sloppy. But effective enough to keep the infection from killing me, well my only example were my parents who could seal dimensions and strip gods of their power. So, this look very low skilled.
A shackle is bolted to my other arm, heavy and cold. A chain binding me to the stone wall. So… a prisoner. Figures.
At least I'm not dead. Not yet. Waking up in dire conditions seems to be a recurring theme lately. A sign, perhaps, that my body is growing tired.
Then — Knock, knock.
A head peeks in. Pink hair. Wings folded neatly behind her back, the feathers dull and caked with ash. She grins.
"How you feeling, sleeping beauty?" she chirps. Her voice is light, too bright for this grim place.
I study her carefully. "What are you?" My tone is neutral, but my muscles are tense. "And more importantly, how are you alive… here?"
It's not a dumb question. Winged beings in this universe are a whole category of chaos—could be an angel from the Abrahamic Heaven, a mutant like that X-Men guy, or even some winged alien from deep space. The list is stupid long. But for one of them to be here, in Helheim, is a whole new flavor of weird.
The girl steps in, twirling a feather between her fingers. "Name's Violet. And you're welcome, by the way, for saving your life. I'm an Angel from Heven. And I'm alive here because... well, immortality helps." She shrugs. "Did I get all that right?"
I nod slightly. "Close enough."
She eyes me for a moment, perhaps gauging if I'm dangerous. "Didn't expect you to wake up so... composed. Most people scream or panic. Then again, you don't feel like a mortal."
I stay silent. No reason to offer her more than she needs to know.
"I'll take that as a mysterious broody vibe," she says, fiddling with the lock on my cell. "Anyway, I was told to fetch you when you woke up. Some people want to talk to you."
I glance at the shackle. "And the chains?"
"Oh. Right. Protocols," she says quickly. "You were an unknown when we found you, and we don't get many visitors here. No offense. It's not personal."
"None taken," I mutter. I'm too exhausted for offense.
With a click, the gate swings open. Violet steps aside and gestures with a half-mocking bow unlocking my shackles.
"Shall we? Don't worry — no more dungeons today. I promise."
Stepping out of the dungeon, I was greeted by dark and gloomy pathways winding into the unknown, lit dimly by ethereal blue torches lining the walls. The air felt ancient, thick with stories left untold.
"This is the Hall of Naströnd," my pink-haired jailor said with a casual wave of her hand. "It used to be the strongest military fortress of the King of Naströnd. From here they ruled Helheim back in the ancient days—like, really ancient. No one really knows how it fell into the wasteland it is now."
I walked beside her silently, absorbing the scale and history etched into the stone. "The people you mentioned... the ones I'm to meet. Who are they?"
"They're the ones running our society here—more like a council. It's all angel-based, of course, but structured governance helps keep the place from falling apart."
We stopped before an enormous gate flanked by two armored angels, each holding silver-tipped spears. They gave a nod and pushed the great doors open. What awaited inside was a vast hall - a council chamber. Pillars rose like ancient trees, and at the far end, seven thrones were placed in a crescent arc, each occupied by a regal figure, all angels.
The one seated at the center rose—a black-haired angel with pristine white wings and an air of absolute command.
"Welcome, Midgardian Witch. I trust you are recovering well? I hope your arm is not troubling you too much. Our rune master, Breenelle,"—she gestured to an older, silver-winged angel to her left—"did her very best to stabilize your condition."
I dipped my head slightly, masking the tension behind my words. "I am grateful for your aid in my time of need. I am a stranger in this realm, and your help will not be forgotten."
The regal angel studied me, then extended a hand outward in introduction. "I am Seraphiel, First Seat of the Council. And with me are Azuriah, Valis, Breenelle, Thamiel, Celion, and Kaelis. Together, we serve as council for all the Angels of Heven who were unfortunately trapped in Hel by Odin himself."
"Now," Seraphiel continued, voice cooling, "we turn to the matter at hand. Who are you, truly, and what brought you here to this forsaken corner of the afterlife? More importantly—how do you intend to repay the life debt you now owe us?"
Her bluntness struck harder than expected. I straightened my back, suppressing the discomfort in my arm. "I am Morgana Black... a Midgardian witch. And as you can see, I have little to offer in return—at least for now."
"That will not suffice," she replied firmly. "One way or another, a price must be paid. Even if that means offering in labor, in loyalty, in blood if necessary. Even your body, if that is what it takes. You make think us as harsh and brutal but that is our nature, and that has helped us survive in this great chasm."