Chapter 016: A Taste of Divinity
[Ignorance leads to false assumptions and interpretations.]
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{MORNDAS, SOLYRA 23, 999 – 07:23}
{OTTAR}
The morning light over Orario had not yet cleared the lower roofs when Ottar convened the captains. The wide chamber beneath Babel's northern terrace was filled with the low rustle of armor and the faint ring of steel buckles being adjusted — a sound he found oddly comforting.
He stood at the front of the hall, arms crossed behind his back, tusks catching the first pale gleam of sunlight. His voice, when it came, was steady enough to quiet even the clatter of boots. "Allen — you'll lead the day patrol. No unnecessary contact with rival familias unless provoked. Keep the younger recruits out of the entertainment district; I don't want last week's nonsense repeated."
A chorus of affirmatives echoed, clipped and disciplined.
"Oona, your squad remains in reserve until the lower floors are cleared. Prioritize supply tracking and coordination with the guild. I want all accounts balanced before midday."
He paused long enough to make sure no one missed the weight of his tone. "Freya's eyes are upon you. Don't forget that."
The phrase carried more than reverence — it was both promise and warning.
When the orders were done, Ottar dismissed them with a nod. Helmets went on. Gauntlets snapped shut. Within moments, the captains dispersed into the gleaming corridors, their footsteps fading into the rhythmic hum of the morning shift.
Silence followed — the kind that filled Babel when all but one god's will had been spoken.
Ottar remained alone for several breaths, staring out through the tall windows where light speared the clouds. He should have felt content; the Familia was strong, the lower floors stable, the treasury secure. And yet—something unsettled him. He had seen the way Freya's gaze drifted toward the east quarter the night before, her smile just a little too soft, too quiet. Gods did not smile like that for nothing.
He exhaled through his nose, the sound low and almost growled. "Another one."
He turned, already knowing she would be behind him.
Freya glided across the marble with the kind of grace that made even silence seem like music. Her gown brushed the floor like mist; her hair caught the light and broke it into threads of silver. No mortal, no matter how disciplined, ever truly grew used to her presence. Ottar only bowed and waited.
"Two bears," she said without greeting, the words slipping out soft and perfectly shaped.
He blinked once. "…My lady?"
"Two of the great stuffed ones. The merchant in the east quarter sells them." She extended a folded sheet of parchment across his desk. "You will go to him today. His shop is called Gilford General Store."
He took the paper between thumb and forefinger, reading the elegant cursive. The ink smelled faintly of jasmine. Beneath the first line, she had written a second instruction, smaller but no less clear:
Two ration pallets, identical to those ordered by Loki. And anything else of suitable value. Do not haggle. Pay in full.
Ottar's ears twitched. "That will be… considerable coin, my lady."
"I'm aware," she replied. Her smile was a slow thing—soft, luminous, and utterly without restraint. "It will please me to see what this mortal does when a goddess empties her purse in his direction."
He lowered his head. "As you wish."
"And, Ottar?"
"Yes, my lady?"
"Make certain he comes here himself to deliver it. The… large-item delivery requires him to set his little beacon, does it not?"
"It does."
"Good. Then you understand." Her tone turned airy, but her eyes glimmered with that dangerous playfulness he had learned to fear. "Tell him payment is ready. I want him to see how high we live when we choose to look down."
She turned, and the air itself seemed to sigh as she left him alone with her orders.
Ottar stepped into the lift, the platform descending from the goddess's private hall with a slow hum that echoed faintly through the marble shaft. The light of the upper terrace thinned as the mechanism carried him downward, traded brilliance for the layered scent of oil and stone that marked Babel's middle floors. He clasped his hands behind his back, posture unbending, eyes fixed on the narrowing circle of sunlight above.
He had done this descent a thousand times, yet it never felt routine. The shift from divinity to mortal ground was always a kind of shedding. Up there, words carried the weight of command and worship; down here, they had to fit into the small mouths of ordinary people. He was not fond of smallness, but he endured it.
The lift clattered to a stop. He stepped out into the open air and began the long walk down the wide avenue that cut through Orario's heart. His pace was steady, neither hurried nor slow, each step measured and deliberate. Even without his armor, the weight of him was unmistakable—over six and a half feet of solid muscle wrapped in a cloak of muted grey. People felt him coming before they saw him.
The crowd parted instinctively. Vendors stepped back from their stalls, apprentices nudged one another, and a pair of junior adventurers nearly dropped a crate trying to clear his path. He did not acknowledge them. Respect and fear were the same coin, and he had no use for either.
He passed beneath the shadow of the Tower's lower arches, moving into the trade quarter where the air smelled of woodsmoke and dye. The sounds of the city rolled around him in layers: the bark of merchants, the clink of coin, the distant rhythm of hammer on anvil. It was a familiar music, one he could walk through without ever losing direction.
Children peered out from behind a cart as he passed. One of them whispered his name like a charm. Ottar. A title, a legend, a warning. He ignored it. Strength meant nothing without discipline, and reputation was the noisiest kind of weakness.
Still, his eyes moved with purpose, sweeping the street the way a soldier reads terrain. He cataloged exits, crowds, potential threats—not because he expected danger, but because routine was its own form of worship. Freya's will required vigilance, and vigilance had long ago become instinct.
When he reached the east quarter, the streets grew narrower and the cobblestones lost their polish. Weavers' Lane unfolded ahead, bright with color and motion. He slowed only enough to confirm the painted sign that hung beside a modest storefront: Gilford General Store.
He exhaled once, quietly. The shop was smaller than he expected. For all the whispers about this merchant and his unnatural goods, there was little to suggest power here. A wooden counter, a simple awning, and bottles glinting like captured light.
Ottar adjusted his cloak and stepped forward, the ground creaking faintly beneath his weight. The crowd near the shop scattered as he approached.
He was used to that.
When Ottar stepped through the doorway, the bell above the frame gave a soft, uncertain chime. The ceiling was low for a man of his height; he had to angle his head slightly to enter. Inside, the air smelled faintly of ink, wood polish, and that clean, bright scent that had come to define the store's reputation.
Lucian was there, leaning against the counter, a half-filled notebook open beside him. Across from him stood a young guild employee, red hair pulled into a neat braid, tapping her quill against a sheet of parchment as she tried to guide him through a lesson.
"—no, no, it's not bargain. You're saying bar-ghen. The emphasis changes the meaning entirely," she said, her tone patient but firm.
Lucian squinted. "So you're telling me I've been accidentally offering people free discounts all morning?"
She blinked, momentarily thrown off, then laughed under her breath. "Not quite, but close enough to make trouble."
He chuckled, the sound easy and unbothered. "Figures. Guess I should write that down before I make myself too popular."
Ottar watched in silence. The exchange felt… normal. Comfortable, even. The man spoke like someone who didn't understand fear or worship, someone who had no reason to look over his shoulder in a city ruled by gods. The girl looked at him the same way one might look at a difficult but amusing student, not a curiosity or anomaly.
Lucian glanced up then, catching the shadow that filled the doorway. His humor didn't falter, but his posture straightened slightly. "Give me a minute, yeah?" he said to the clerk, closing his notebook.
The guild girl followed his gaze, and her words died in her throat. Recognition hit fast; everyone knew that towering figure—the high captain of Freya Familia, the strongest warrior in the city.
"Captain Ottar," she said, stepping back.
Lucian only sighed softly. "You're a bit early for the morning rush. What can I do for you?"
Ottar's gaze swept the small space once before meeting the merchant's eyes. "I come on behalf of Lady Freya," he said, voice calm, deep enough to carry through the shelves. "She wishes to make a purchase."
Lucian's brow lifted, faint amusement flickering there. "That's new. Usually people start with smaller talk before dropping divine names."
"She requested two of the large bears," Ottar continued, as if reading from a report. "Two of your ration pallets. And… whatever else you deem costly."
Lucian blinked, then gave a short whistle. "Either she's got a lot of empty space or a serious gift-giving habit."
The guild clerk, wisely, excused herself before she could be caught in whatever this was. The bell chimed once more as she hurried into the street.
Ottar waited. Lucian turned the black device in his hands, tapping the screen once, his expression thoughtful. "Right," he murmured. "Then I guess I'll need to make a personal trip up to Babel. Large-item delivery rules."
He glanced back up at Ottar. "Tell her I'll handle it myself. Payment on-site."
Ottar nodded, the motion short and final. "She will be expecting you."
Lucian grinned faintly. "Yeah. I bet she will."
Ottar didn't respond. The man's tone—light, unshaken, almost playful—was something he hadn't heard directed toward gods in a long time. It was strange. Disrespectful in theory, but not in practice. It sounded like truth, the kind spoken by someone who didn't know what it meant to kneel.
As Ottar turned to leave, the merchant called out, "Hey, big guy—tell her not to feed the bears. They're not real, but you'd be surprised how many people try."
For the faintest instant, something like amusement threatened to crack Ottar's stoic mask. It didn't quite reach the surface, but the thought lingered as he stepped back into the sunlight, the street parting again around him.
Ottar's boots struck the cobbles with slow, deliberate rhythm as he made his way back toward Babel. The city parted for him the way grass bends before a storm. Vendors leaned aside, apprentices ducked their heads, and children froze mid-play to watch him pass. None of it registered beyond faint awareness. His thoughts had taken root elsewhere—on the strange man who spoke to gods as though they were neighbors.
Lucian Gilford. The name had not yet settled in the air of the city, but Ottar could feel it spreading, a whisper that would not stay quiet for long. There was something unshakably grounded about the man—an absence of reverence that wasn't rebellion, just… indifference. That alone made him dangerous in a city built on devotion.
He turned a corner and started up the wide avenue leading back toward the Tower's base when familiar voices reached him before their owners came into view.
"Oi! If it isn't the big, broody ox himself!"
Loki's voice, bright and cutting as ever, rang through the morning bustle. She stood in the center of the path with Finn and Riveria at her side, her hands clasped behind her back and a grin sharp enough to draw blood. Finn wore the same patient, unreadable expression that he always did when she was about to amuse herself at someone else's expense. Riveria, by contrast, looked like she regretted every step that had brought her there.
Ottar slowed to a halt, his shadow stretching over the trio. "Lady Loki."
She rocked back on her heels, eyes glinting with mischief. "So it was you sneaking out of that cute little shop on Weavers' Lane. Gilford's, right? Don't tell me Freya's after one of those fancy bears too. I thought I'd cornered the market on ridiculous luxuries."
Riveria sighed. "Loki-"
"No, no, let me enjoy this," she cut in, tail of her coat flicking as she tilted her head up at Ottar. "You know I was the first to buy one, right? Great big thing, bigger than you, even. The merchant delivered it himself—very polite, charming sort. You should've seen him trying to keep a straight face while we wrestled that monster through the manor door."
Ottar regarded her quietly, expression unchanged. "Lady Freya wishes to make a similar purchase."
Loki's grin only widened. "Oh, I bet she does. Tell me, was that her idea or yours? You think matching bears might make good conversation starters?"
"Her orders are her own."
Finn folded his arms, his voice even. "And what does she intend to do with two of them?"
Ottar didn't answer. Freya's whims were not his to interpret, and certainly not for Loki's amusement.
Riveria spoke before Loki could press further, her tone dry. "If Freya is now interested in mortal trade goods, that man's store will not remain quiet for long. It seems his… reach is spreading faster than expected."
Loki waved a hand dismissively. "Please. He's just a clever merchant with a pretty face and good timing. But if he keeps bringing in curiosities, who knows? Maybe I'll start sending Ais down for weekly shopping trips. It'd give her something new to stab between expeditions."
Ottar inclined his head in farewell. "If you'll excuse me."
Loki called after him, still laughing. "Next time, tell Freya I said she's welcome to come admire mine anytime! The bear, I mean!"
He didn't turn back. The echo of her laughter followed him for several streets, but by the time he reached the Tower's base again, his mind had settled into stillness. Freya's interest would ignite the city soon enough. Loki had her toys; Freya, her appetites. And somewhere in the middle of it all stood a human who neither bowed nor trembled.
That, Ottar thought grimly as he began the ascent, would not end quietly.