The manor was quiet. Even Loki slept, for once — sprawled across her bed in a tangle of limbs and blankets, half a bottle of wine still on the nightstand.
Hel sat on the balcony outside her borrowed room, the wind tugging gently at her dark hair. Below, Orario breathed — the heartbeat of a city alive with dreams and danger.
She exhaled softly, eyes half-lidded.
When she let her awareness slip, the veil between life and death grew thin. She could hear the souls passing — faint echoes of joy, of sorrow, of stories ending in flame or blood or peace. Most moved on, guided by the threads of fate toward their next resting place.
But not all.
Tonight, one voice lingered.
It was soft — young, almost painfully earnest. A girl’s voice, trembling but resolute.
“If this is the end… then I’ll make it count.”
The world around Hel dissolved into shadow and snow.
She stood in a dying world — sky fractured by red light, ground scorched black. A girl in a red cloak knelt at the center of it all, her silver eyes dimming as she reached for a broken weapon.
That was when here eyes lit up brilliantly covering the area in silver light.
Hel watched in silence. Not as Death’s servant, but a silent observer.
Hordes of black creatures turned to ash a single petal drifted down from nowhere, landing in the girl’s bloodstained hand.
“You’re not ready to rest yet, are you?” Hel whispered.
The girl didn’t answer — couldn’t. Her heartbeat was fading, her light slipping away.
Hel’s hand rose, fingers glowing faintly with silver light — then she hesitated.
“…No,” she murmured. “Not yet. Not here.”
The vision fractured — the snow, the girl, the dying world all dissolving like mist.
Hel’s eyes opened to the quiet night once more. The moon hung full above Orario, serene and unknowing.
For the first time in centuries, Hel’s chest ached.
“That was new.” Hel murmured.
===
Morning light spilled over Orario, washing the stone streets in soft gold. Merchants shouted from the plaza, adventurers hurried toward Babel’s towering shadow, and the scent of fresh bread drifted from every corner bakery.
Hel moved through it all like a ghost in silk. Hood drawn, steps measured. The city’s noise rolled around her, but never quite touched her.
Her destination loomed ahead — the white, rounded building of the Guild headquarters, its marble gleaming under the sun.
Inside, the atmosphere was as lively as ever: arguments over dungeon quotas, parchment being stamped, and the occasional newbie adventurer trying to look braver than they felt.
The clerk at the front desk — an elf with tired eyes and a permanent professional smile — looked up as Hel approached.
“Welcome to the Guild,” she said. “Are you here to register, report, or request—”
“Register,” Hel said softly.
The elf blinked. “For an adventurer’s license?”
Hel shook her head. “For a Familia.”
That got attention. Two nearby clerks paused mid-sentence. A couple of adventurers in line turned to stare. Gods descending to form new Familias weren’t exactly rare in Orario, but it always made waves — especially when it was someone they didn’t recognize.
“Understood,” the elf said after a beat, posture straightening. “May I have your divine name, Lady…?”
“Hel,” she replied simply.
The elf’s quill hesitated mid-stroke. “…Ah.”
Hel smiled faintly. “Yes. That one.”
“…Right,” the elf said carefully. “We’ll just, ah, process that.” She shuffled a few papers, trying not to look unnerved. “Do you have a place of residence, initial funds, or a sponsor listed?”
“Loki will cover the costs,” Hel said without hesitation.
The clerk actually blinked twice. “Loki… of the Loki Familia?”
“Yes.” Hel’s tone was calm. “She insisted.”
Somewhere across town, Loki probably sneezed into her wine, although she should know morning drinking is bad.
Hel placed a neatly folded pouch of coins on the desk, purely ceremonial. She wasn’t concerned about the money, but it helped smooth over the procedural formalities.
Next came a stack of forms — standard Guild bureaucracy: mission liability, member limits, recruitment guidelines, and a signature line for the sponsor. Hel filled them out with her elegant, precise script. There was no rush, yet everything was done with flawless efficiency, the movements too deliberate to be hurried.
The clerk scanned each form, her eyes widening at Hel’s clear and decisive writing. “Everything seems to be in order, Lady Hel. Your Familia registration is complete. Officially recorded as… Hel Familia.”
Hel inclined her head slightly, retrieving the paperwork. “Thank you. Please inform Lady Loki that her generosity has been noted.”
The clerks exchanged nervous glances as she turned and walked calmly toward the door. Even in the mundane paperwork, there was a presence that hinted at something else — centuries of authority distilled into a quiet, deadly grace.
Outside, the sun gleamed off the Guild steps. The city moved as usual around her — merchants, adventurers, pigeons, and stray children — oblivious to the goddess who had just formalized her return to their world.
Hel allowed herself a small smile. The first step was done.
===
Loki blinked groggily, rubbing one eye as she stumbled out of her office in her pajamas — one slipper missing, hair sticking out in all directions. She yawned, looked at the sealed envelope on her desk, and muttered,
“Ugh, paperwork already? What did I sign this time…”
She tore the Guild seal open, still half-asleep — and froze.
“Notice of Familial Sponsorship: Lady Hel, newly descended goddess, has listed Lady Loki as financial guarantor and reference.”
Loki blinked.
Read it again.
Then a third time, slower.
Her eyes went wide. “She. Did. WHAT!?”
The shout echoed through the manor. Somewhere downstairs, Tiona dropped a dumbbell and shouted back, “What happened!?”
Loki stormed into the hall, waving the paper like a battle standard. “That little gremlin just registered a Familia — under my tab!”
Finn peeked out of his office, calm as ever. “So… you’re a patron now?”
Riveria sighed. “I told you she’d cause chaos before lunch.”
“I thought she meant breakfast chaos!” Loki snapped. “Not — not financially binding chaos!”
She looked at the paper again, groaning. “Oh, the Guild’s gonna think we’re co-funding her death cult. Great. Just great.”