"Sacrifice." The Spirit of Norn gave no immediate answer.
Odin closed his eyes solemnly and gestured with a slow wave of his hand.
"Sacrifice the dragon," Frigga said quietly, her eyes resting on the heroic warrior tasked with restraining the dragon.
The heroic warrior nodded gravely. With the help of several others, they began to forcefully push the bound dragon toward the Pool of True Sight Water.
"Roar—Roar!" The dragon sensed the ominous presence of the pond and began thrashing violently. But the wounds he sustained were grievous, and he remained shackled in enchanted chains—his resistance futile.
"SPLASH—"
As the dragon was pushed into the glowing water, waves surged outward.
"Aargh!"
The dragon's furious roars morphed into pained wails. His massive crimson eyes radiated sheer terror as his limbs spasmed.
Before the eyes of Odin, Frigga, Rowe, and the others, the magnificent red dragon began to deteriorate at an alarming pace. Its blazing crimson scales dulled to a lifeless rust, the once-dense muscles sagged, and leathery skin hung loose on its diminishing form.
Within thirty seconds, the once-mighty beast had become decrepit and emaciated, gasping out a faint, whimpering groan.
"Aaargh…"
Another few moments passed, and the dragon went completely still, lifeless in the now-settling water. Its flesh began to dissolve in the sacred pool, reducing slowly into a ghost-white skeletal frame.
That too didn't last. The white bones gradually turned yellow, crumbling under an unseen force. The enchanted chains that once held it began to disintegrate simultaneously.
In the end, almost everything—the body, the chains, the grandeur—vanished into nothing. What remained were mere fragments of bone, scattered gravel-like at the bottom of the pool.
The ritual site fell into a deep, almost mournful silence.
Rowe felt a subtle chill on his forehead—fine beads of sweat forming unconsciously.
Moments after the dragon's complete dissolution, the Spirit of Norn finally spoke again. Her voice, ancient and haunting, delivered a single word:
"You."
Odin's eyes widened briefly in disbelief, followed by a slow, skeptical smile.
But the Spirit continued:
"However, you cannot kill your predecessor, the former God-King. If you do, you will become the final God-King."
Odin's brows furrowed instantly.
"Why?" he asked instinctively.
"I only relay fate. I do not know the reasons behind it," the Spirit replied cryptically.
Odin fell silent, absorbing the ominous implication.
The Spirit of Norn spoke again:
"There are two additional prophecies connected to your fate."
Odin's attention sharpened.
"The second prophecy: 'Possession of the gem will lead to the death of your child.'"
"Gem?" Odin echoed, brows furrowed deeper, but he didn't ask more.
"The third prophecy: 'When others end your banishment, your banishment of others will also end.'"
Odin's face darkened as he contemplated the prophecy's layered meaning.
"Fate has spoken," the Spirit concluded before her ethereal form faded from all perception, retreating into slumber beneath the surface of the Pool of True Sight.
Jorde, standing nearby, couldn't contain his curiosity.
"Odin, what did she say? What prophecy did you receive?"
Odin's expression remained unreadable, but he forced a faint smile:
"She said Asgard will flourish in the future."
Many around him looked unconvinced, but Odin's tone made it clear no further answers would be forthcoming. None dared press further.
With that, the sacrifice ritual was officially concluded. People began dispersing from the ancient cavern of time.
"Rowe!"
A familiar, crisp voice rang out just after he and Heimdall stepped out from the cavern's shimmering archway.
They turned and saw a beautiful blonde woman approaching with surprise lighting up her face.
"It really is you! What are you doing here?"
It was Amora—once just a flirtatious girl, now grown into a striking sorceress. She had studied magic in Nornheim for years and was rarely seen in Asgard. Rowe had barely thought about her since their teenage bet involving a kiss.
He straightened up, feeling slightly awkward but courteous.
"Long time no see, Amora. I'm here for the Hunting Festival, of course."
"You? The Hunting Festival?" Amora blinked in disbelief, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.
Rowe simply stared at her.
Amora was undeniably stunning, but Rowe's memories—and some darker truths—had dimmed her charm in his eyes.
Heimdall interjected proudly, "Don't underestimate him. He played a crucial role in this year's success."
Amora's eyes drifted to Heimdall, appraising him with a curious tilt of her head.
"Heimdall? The swiftest man in Asgard?"
Heimdall grinned. "That's me."
"I heard you outrun Pegasi. Is that true?" she asked, biting her lip in faux admiration.
"Without a doubt."
What followed was a long, animated exchange between Amora and Heimdall.
Despite being over a century old, Heimdall clearly lacked experience in romantic matters. As Amora lavished him with attention, he grew visibly flustered, his composure slipping.
But Amora seemed to relish the game. And just as Heimdall was clearly starting to fall, she turned her gaze to Rowe, voice sultry:
"Rowe, still want that kiss?"
Heimdall's eyes widened, his earlier grin vanishing.
Rowe's expression stiffened. "No. I told you before, that bet doesn't count anymore."
Amora pouted playfully. "Really? If you wait too long, it won't be my first kiss anymore…"
"Still not interested."
Heimdall blinked rapidly, his thoughts visibly scrambled.
"Alright then," Amora said with a sigh, though there was a hint of genuine disappointment.
Just then, an older woman in a dark robe passed by, voice stern:
"Amora. Have you forgotten Lady Karnilla's teachings?"
Amora instantly tensed and offered a quick wave.
"I must go. Goodbye, boys!"
She hurried away, her presence lingering like perfume in the air.
Silence settled briefly.
Heimdall glanced sideways, then asked curiously, "Rowe…what's the deal between you two? Feels like there's history there."
Rowe shrugged. "Just a childish bet. That's all." He paused. "But I suggest you keep your distance. She's not harmless."
"She killed someone?" Heimdall asked quietly.
Rowe didn't answer.
Later that evening, Rowe returned home and secluded himself in his alchemical chamber.
The talent mixture remained his top priority. Though he'd trained rigorously for it over the years, the actual process of refinement and synthesis still required more repetition.
He practiced deep into the evening.
Eventually, El returned from her duties outside.
At dinner, Rowe spoke up. "El, I witnessed the sacrifice ritual today, and something's bothering me."
"What is it?"
"The Water of True Sight can reduce a dragon to dust in seconds… yet Frigga touched it with her bare hands. How?"
El shook her head slowly. "No one knows for sure. Within the Nine Realms, only three individuals can safely touch the Water of True Sight. The how and why remain a mystery—even among sorcerers."
"So… anyone else who tries, no matter their strength, would be…"
"Reduced like the dragon. Yes."
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