The hunt begins

The sun had fallen over the horizon.

Ottar stood in silence.

His goddess knelt in the center of the empty street, cradling what little remained of Bell Cranel.

The boy's corpse was headless, his chest shattered where the man's massive fist had struck. What flesh remained was ruined, torn apart like fragile paper. Blood had long since stopped flowing, the dried crimson staining Freya's dress as she held the lifeless body close.

Orario knew.

The city knew.

The banishment of a god to the heavens could not be hidden. The very sky had parted, clouds swept away in an instant, as if the world itself had gasped in horror at the sight. For one brief moment, the sun had burned brighter than ever, a blinding light that outshone all else—

And then the goddess Hestia was gone.

Not even ash remained.

The goddess who had once clung so tightly to her child had been erased from existence, torn from the Lower World by a force greater than her divinity could withstand.

A pity, Ottar supposed.

If he cared in the slightest.

But he did not.

Instead, he simply stood watch, his senses stretched over the perimeter that his Familia maintained.

The surrounding streets had been emptied.

The civilians were long gone.

Even the street dogs, the vermin, the insects that scurried through the alleys—nothing remained.

None would disturb his goddess.

Not for a night. Not for a week. Not for an entire year, if she decreed it so.

Ottar would see to that.

----------

Hours passed.

The night deepened.

Above, the stars twinkled in the vast expanse of the sky, cold and distant.

Finally, Freya moved.

She rose to her feet, her gaze colder than ice.

The corpse in her arms slipped from her grasp, falling to the bloodstained cobblestone without a second glance.

She no longer looked at it.

Instead, she looked at him.

Ottar's knees bent before he could think to resist.

The weight of her gaze alone pressed him down, the force of her will something far beyond simple command.

Then, she stepped forward.

Her small arms wrapped around his thick neck, her body pressing close.

He felt her tears soak into his tunic.

But he did not speak.

He did not move.

He stood, as he always had—unshakable.

"I wanted a love story," she murmured against him.

Her voice was quiet, but not weak.

"I had it all planned out. The knight in shining armor. The loving goddess. The shy princess. The elf tormented by the past. That little whore of the Ishtar Familia... and me."

Ottar remained silent.

He was no fool, but attempting to grasp the depths of his goddess's heart would be nothing but a headache.

A pointless endeavor.

But he could read the mood.

He did not need to understand her thoughts to know the storm that raged behind her silver eyes.

"The Loki, Ganesha, and Hephaestus Familias are in an uproar," he reported, his voice steady. "They search for this 'Fenrir.' The Guild has also posted bounties for information, but beyond the knowledge that he entered Orario today and headed straight for Daedalus Street, nothing else is known."

Freya was silent.

Then, her fingers tightened against his tunic.

"How has he not been found?"

"He was seen entering the sewers. His trail was lost shortly after. His methods are unknown. His strength is unknown."

The air changed.

The very atmosphere thickened, the weight of it pressing down on the stone around them.

Ottar felt it immediately.

An emotion he knew all too well.

Not grief.

Not despair.

Something far more dangerous.

Rage.

Possessive. Absolute.

The kind of fury that burned cold rather than hot, that settled deep into the bones rather than flaring in the chest.

When Freya finally spoke, her voice was soft.

Too soft.

"What audacity."

A shiver ran through the air.

"For a thief with a cloaked soul to dare take what is mine."

Her lips curled, her perfect face twisting, her beauty untouched but stained with something darker—

A cruel, sadistic pleasure.

"Is he a player?" she mused.

"Or merely a puppet?"

Her smile widened.

"How very... interesting."

Ottar said nothing.

There was nothing to say.

The air was heavy with her rage—

And with something else.

A hunger.

A need.

A thirst that could not be quenched.

A force that turned men to ash and gods to ruin.

"Bring him to me, Ottar," she whispered.

Her fingers ran through his mane of dark hair, tightening slightly.

"In pieces, if you have to."

She pulled back, just enough for him to see her eyes.

"I wish to have a... little chat with him."

Ottar bowed his head.

And then he rose, rolling his shoulders back.

This, he could do.

Even if he had to turn Orario upside down.

He would find the one called Fenrir.

Ottar cast a final glance at the broken body on the ground.

The boy could have been something.

A warrior.

A man worthy of standing on the battlefield.

But fate had other plans, it seemed.

"Fenrir, huh?"

He turned away, already moving, his nose already searching for the right scent.

"Let's see how you stack up instead."