Hel stepped out of the Guild and let the warm morning sun wash over her. The papers in her hand were official now, stamped and signed, the weight of bureaucracy almost amusing compared to the millennia of death she’d witnessed.
Yet her thoughts drifted back to last night, to the flicker of something familiar — a presence she had sensed at the Hostess of Fertility. The silver-haired waitress, moving among the crowd with quiet efficiency, carrying mugs and listening more than she spoke.
The memory stirred something she hadn’t expected: curiosity.
Why does she feel… different?
Hel adjusted her cloak and moved through the streets of Orario with purpose. Even among the morning bustle, she was a shadow, almost slipping past the notice of the city’s inhabitants. Merchants hawked their goods, adventurers hustled toward Babel’s shadow, and children ran, playing tag around her cloak’s hem.
The Hostess of Fertility came into view, warm light spilling from its windows despite the hour. Hel pushed the door open and inhaled the familiar scent of roasted meat, freshly baked bread, and faint traces of ale and magic.
The room was quiet at this hour, the regular patrons still trickling in. Behind the counter, the silver-haired waitress moved with practiced grace, wiping down mugs and humming softly.
Hel approached, her presence unnoticed at first. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, almost gentle.
“Good morning,” Hel said.
The waitress looked up, startled. For a moment her green eyes — so alert, so alive — met Hel’s. Then she relaxed, offering a polite smile.
“Good morning,” the waitress replied. “Can I help you with something?”
Hel tilted her head, studying her. “I’ll be straightforward… I don’t want to ruin your fun, but you feel familiar to me. I can see souls, so I could check — but I would rather just talk with you if you are who I think you are.”
The waitress froze mid-motion. For a heartbeat, the cheerful mask of Syr Flova faltered — the faintest tremor in her smile, the tiniest stilling of her fingers around the rag she held.
Hel didn’t need to look deeper; she already knew. The soul beneath the mortal façade shimmered like starlight wrapped in silk — ancient, radiant, divine.
Freya.
“I see,” Syr said softly, regaining her composure almost too quickly. Her expression settled into a careful smile. “What can I help you with, Granddaughter… and who have you told?”
Hel blinked, slightly off guard. “Thank you for confirming it.”
Syr’s — or rather, Freya’s — careful smile didn’t falter, but her eyes flickered with a faint warning. “And… who have you told?” she asked, her voice low, almost a whisper meant only for Hel.
Hel tilted her head, studying her grandmother thoughtfully. “No one. Your secret is safe. I have no desire to disrupt your mortal life… or the persona you’ve built. I had an inkling. Your presence… it feels different. Even through mortal disguise, I just… knew it was you.”
Freya’s gaze flicked toward the door, ensuring no wandering adventurer or curious guild clerk could overhear. “Exactly why I must remain Syr Flova publicly. My mortal persona is my peace, my freedom from the scrutiny of gods and mortals alike. If anyone discovered the truth…” She trailed off, frustration briefly crossing her features. “I would be very upset.”
Hel’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Then consider it protected. For now, I simply wished to speak with you. Hug?”
Freya blinked — genuinely startled for the first time in centuries. Of all the things she had expected from the goddess of death — distant, composed, cold — that wasn’t one of them.
“A… hug?” she repeated, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
Hel shrugged lightly, a faint blush coloring her pale cheeks. “It’s been… a very long time since I’ve seen you. And I know you’re still upset over what my older brother Fen did to Grandpa Odin… I thought it might help.”
Syr hesitated for only a heartbeat before accepting the gesture, wrapping her arms around Hel in a careful, almost tentative hug.
For a moment, the world outside the tavern seemed to vanish — no chatter, no clinking mugs, no bustling adventurers — just the warmth of family bridging centuries of distance.
Then, almost instantly, realization flashed across Freya’s eyes. She pulled back slightly, her green gaze wide with a mix of shock and fear.
“If… if you are still alive,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “then… my Odin?”
“He… survived. His soul was damaged and forced to undergo reincarnation. In his last cycle, he was known as Jason the Argonaut. As of now, he exists as a mortal. If he were to theoretically reach level 10, he should ascend again — though it would take a millennium or two to fully regain his former power.”
Freya’s breath caught, a mixture of awe, disbelief, and hope flickering across her features.
Even though Hel had no idea who this Bell Cranel character was, she already felt a pang of sympathy for the boy whose story she would one day witness.