The Loki Familia Courtyard stretched wide beneath the sun, its stone-paved expanse unmarred by the usual bustle of training or chatter. Today, the air was different—thicker, heavier, pressing down on every soul who dared breathe it.
Loki leaned back slightly, hands stuffed in her pockets, but the casual pose was a lie. She stood at the center of her domain, the heart of her Familia, and before her stood a goddess who did not belong here.
Freya.
The so-called Goddess of Beauty.
She was smiling, as she always did, but Loki had never seen a smile so hollow. A fragile thing, stretched too thin, as if it would crack apart if the wind blew the wrong way.
Between them, the silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.
Behind Loki, her children stood in loose formation.
Riveria, Gareth, Finn—silent and unmoving, their presence a steady wall of strength.
Ais, Bete, Tiona, and Tione—more relaxed on the surface, but Loki could feel the tension simmering beneath their skins, the way their muscles coiled, ready to move at the first sign of trouble.
Further back, the lower-ranked members of her Familia stood, uncertain, wary. Most of them were only Level 3 or 4, but even they could feel it—this was not just a casual exchange. This was a storm waiting to break.
And standing opposite her, Freya's lone companion exuded the complete opposite.
Ottar, the King, stood with his arms at his sides, his posture so utterly calm that he might as well have been here to enjoy the courtyard's nonexistent flowers.
Loki's lips curled slightly.
It would almost be funny, if it wasn't so damn wrong.
The silence had dragged on long enough.
Loki exhaled, resisting the urge to smirk, resisting the urge to poke at the raw nerve she could feel pulsing beneath Freya's perfect mask. There were jokes to be made, insults to be hurled, but—
She did none of that.
Because this was no laughing matter.
Instead, when she spoke, her voice was cold. Measured. Despite the ache in her chest, despite the instinct to lash out, she let none of it show.
"I have spoken to Ouranos personally."
A flicker. Just the barest twitch in Freya's expression, but Loki caught it.
"I have watched him use his Arcanum to confirm that the God Fenrir is still in Heaven, sleeping and eating all day long"
Freya's fingers tightened ever so slightly over the folds of her dress.
"The one who killed Hestia and her child was a mortal. Even if he wasn't, Fenrir has no quarrel with Hestia whatsoever. The criminal is a mere pretender... so what more do you want?"
The words settled heavily into the air between them.
Loki ignored the feeling in her gut—the one that twisted at the reality of what had happened, the one that wanted to rage at the sheer absurdity of it all. A mortal had done this.
And Freya knew this.
She already knew this.
And yet—she was here.
Unannounced.
In Loki's home.
Loki's eyes narrowed.
And finally, Freya spoke.
No, she laughed.
But it wasn't her laugh.
It was quieter, softer—wrong. Like a whisper slipping through cracks in a porcelain mask, fragile and unnatural. And then, like a storm breaking over the horizon, it grew louder. Sharper. Twisting into something dangerous.
"Then how did he know?"
Freya's voice was like silk stretched too tight, like the last note of a song about to snap.
"How did a mortal know Fenrir's name, if that god has never once set foot on Genkai? Why would he choose that particular god to impersonate?"
Loki stayed silent, watching.
"How is he still hiding?" Freya demanded, her hands clenching at her sides. "How does he remain unseen when the whole of Orario is hunting him down? Without the support of a Familia, without resources—how is it possible?"
Loki resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
What was she supposed to say?
That it was all a coincidence?
That maybe this murderer just happened to pull the name Fenrir out of nowhere?
That maybe he was just smart, just skilled enough to avoid their eyes?
The words might be a coincidence hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't say them. Not because she believed them, but because she didn't know.
And that annoyed her.
Because why was Freya so obsessed with this?
It wasn't her who had been close to Hestia.
It wasn't her who had lost a... friend.
Loki felt her patience thinning, the irritation curling at the edges of her mind.
She wasn't in the mood for this.
Freya was breathing heavier now, her chest rising and falling with sharp, uneven rhythm. The purple shimmer in her eyes was off—unstable.
And then, she took a step forward.
"If you know something—" Freya's voice dipped low, a dangerous tremor rippling through it, "anything—"
The courtyard shifted.
Bete's fingers flexed, claws twitching.
Finn's hands rested lightly against his spear.
Gareth didn't move, but the weight in his stance changed, just enough to be ready.
And Ottar—
Ottar did nothing.
He stood there, watching.
Waiting.
Freya's breath hitched. Her fingers trembled for a fraction of a second—so fast that if Loki had blinked, she would have missed it.
"Tch."
Loki exhaled slowly, shaking her head.
But then... Everything stopped.
The world itself seemed to pause, a single breath caught in the throat of existence.
And then—
The sky fractured.
Cracks of blinding light split across the heavens, jagged and endless, stretching as far as the eye could see. It was not an explosion, nor a mere flare of divine power—it was a shattering. A breaking of something far greater than mortal comprehension.
And from those wounds in the firmament, something poured forth.
A torrent of divine energy.
The Heavens rumbled. The very air grew thick, suffocating, drowning the city below in an unseen pressure so immense that even the mightiest of adventurers staggered.
Gasps. Screams. A cacophony of confusion and terror erupted across Orario as the streets fell into chaos.
Adventurers clutched their weapons, their instincts screaming at them to prepare for battle. Civilians collapsed to their knees, overwhelmed by the sheer force pressing down upon their souls.
But the gods—
The gods did not move.
They stood in complete and utter silence.
Because they knew.
They understood what this meant.
The death of a god.
A true death.
Riveria was the first to find her voice—barely.
"Loki," she said, her tone tight with urgency, but her goddess didn't react—her mouth hung open, her lips unable to form the words her mind refused to process.
Freya was the same.
Her eyes, usually brimming with amusement or cunning, were frozen wide, reflecting the impossible sight above them.
And then—
The light in the sky moved.
The fractured streaks of radiance began to twist and coil, merging into something solid. A great, searing pillar formed from the cracks, its descent slow yet inevitable, pulling the weight of the heavens down with it.
It fell.
Straight into the courtyard of the Loki Familia.
Right in front of Loki and Freya.
The light consumed everything.
For a single, breathless moment, there was only white.
And then—
The pillar of light faded.
And from within its glow, three figures emerged.
Loki's heart slammed against her ribs.
Her mind screamed no fucking way, but her eyes didn't seem to care.
Because in front of her stood Hestia.
Yet—was it truly her?
Her presence was as undeniable as the sun, but something had changed. She stood at the center, her small frame wrapped in divine radiance, yet her steps felt... heavier. More grounded.
Her usual twin tails swayed gently, her blue eyes as bright as ever—but there was something else in them now. A depth. A weight.
She smiled.
"Yo," Hestia said, her voice light, as if she hadn't just descended from a shattered sky. Her gaze flicked toward Freya, unreadable. "Been a while, huh?"
Beside her, Zeus exhaled, long and slow, running a hand through his wild mane of white hair.
"Ahh… Gods above and below, this is gonna be a headache," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. There was something exhausted in the way he stood, the weight of too many centuries pressing against his old bones.
And the third figure—
A cloaked person.
They stood silent, unmoving, shrouded in dark fabric. No features were visible beneath the hood, no sound escaped their lips.
Loki barely noticed.
Because before she even realized what she was doing, she had already moved.
Her body had acted on its own.
One second she was seated—half-stunned, half-frozen.
The next, she was hugging the life out of Hestia.
Her arms locked around the smaller goddess, squeezing so hard she could hear the breath leave Hestia's lungs in a wheeze.
"Waa—!"
Hestia flailed. "You damn cutting board, let me go!"
But Loki could feel it.
The way Hestia's fingers twitched, the way she hesitated just a fraction of a second before struggling. The warmth beneath Loki's arms.
She was lying.
She was enjoying it.
And that was when the realization hit her.
Gods did not know when other gods were lying. They could suspect, they could assume—but they could not know.
Not like they knew with mortals.
Loki froze.
She pulled back, staring at Hestia in absolute disbelief.
This didn't make sense.
And yet—
It did.
Because Hestia was here, standing before her, alive and well.
Despite having been killed two weeks ago. Banished forever back to Tenkai.
Loki's mouth opened—then closed.
The words refused to form.
Her mind was a storm of questions, but before she could voice a single one, Hestia lifted a hand, her expression understanding.
"Yes," she said, her voice soft but firm. "I have become mortal."
The words sent a ripple of disbelief through the gathered crowd.
Even the air itself seemed to pause.
"I did it for Bell," Hestia continued. "His soul was hurt badly—worse than anything I've ever seen. The man who killed us left wounds that even a god's power couldn't mend. Not without knowing what had hurt him in the first place."
Silence.
Freya hadn't spoken a single word since the sky had broken.
But now—
Loki could see the fire burning behind her eyes as she stared at Hestia. Something sharp. Something dangerous.
Still, she remained silent. Watching.
Not Ottar though.
His sword was already in his hand.
A silent shift—so subtle that most wouldn't have noticed—but Loki did. His entire being was on edge, his battle instincts screaming in a way they hadn't in years.
His blade wasn't pointed at Hestia.
Or Zeus.
It was aimed directly at the cloaked figure.
"You are not Bell Cranel," he said, his voice carrying a finality that brooked no argument.
The air shifted.
A collective inhale.
All gazes turned to the cloaked figure.
Zeus huffed. "Oh, sure, ignore the old man. That's fine. I'm just the god of the sky, not like I have insight or anything."
No one paid him any mind.
Hestia hurried forward, her voice urgent.
"Bell's soul couldn't be healed, not completely—not even after I gave up my divinity. But it won't deteriorate further. That much, I could ensure."
A breath.
"And with the last bit of power I had left…" she hesitated, glancing toward the cloaked figure. "I managed to bring someone with me. Someone who will help."
The figure moved.
A slow, deliberate motion.
Pale fingers grasped the edge of the hood—
And pulled it back.
Silver hair spilled forth, catching the light.
A woman stood before them—fair-skinned, sharp-featured, and beautiful in a way that was hard to explain.
Heterochromic eyes gleamed—one green, one gray.
She exhaled.
"I forgot how noisy this world was," she murmured.
Her tone was distant, as if the commotion around her barely registered.
"But I suppose it's worth bearing," she added, finally glancing toward the crowd.
"To help out my nephew."
The courtyard froze.
Loki's brain stalled.
Then restarted.
Hestia turned back to her, blue eyes locked onto her own.
"So," the former goddess said, with a small, wry smile.
"What do you say, Loki? Can Alfia and I join your Familia?"
Loki stared.
Then—
Everything went black.
Loki, the Goddess of mischief... fainted.