[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: Heart Kingdom Outskirts]
[Virelheim Mountain Village]
The journey back to the village had been quiet. The same silence that had draped the descent lingered on the ascent. Though the encounter with the Deseruit Beast hadn't escalated into anything grave, it had left Mikoto with more to think about than he'd care to admit. Something larger had begun to piece together, thanks in part to Gretel's insight—but he knew better than to rely on her alone.
And so now, beneath the shade of a warped overhang, Mikoto sat with his back leaned against the wooden frame of a crooked little building. The sign above him read "The Dust Archive" in faded lettering. The cracked glass windows were cluttered with parchment ads for outdated plays.
In his delicate hands rested a thick brown book, its spine fraying. The title on the cover, "A Brief History of Álfheimr," offered the promise of knowledge, but so far it had delivered only annoyance. He sat with one knee bent, the other leg outstretched slightly.
He shut the book with a sharp snap, a breath leaving his lips in a long sigh.
("This thing isn't even scratching the surface,") Mikoto thought bitterly, eyes drifting to the spine. ("Just the usual drivel—peasant revolts, famines, collapses of dynasties, and state-sanctioned executions of royalty. Glorified tabloid history.")
His gaze lifted briefly, red eyes narrowing as he spotted Gretel a little ways ahead, dancing—or rather, making a fool of herself—with three children in the middle of the dusty village path. They were skipping around a crude chalk diagram etched into the dirt, their laughter shrill and innocent, their movements disjointed. Mikoto watched in silence, face expressionless.
He shook his head faintly.
("What idiocy.")
But still, he didn't move.
Because the truth was simpler than he liked to admit—Gretel wasn't enough. Her knowledge, while useful, was limited. Much of it came from word of mouth, which made it fragmented at best. He needed more than scattered intel and folklore. If he was going to escape this world and return to the one he'd come from—truly return—he needed more. Stability. A safe way to breach between universes. Anything less, and he'd risk destroying himself in the process.
But his thoughts were cut short.
He sensed them before he heard them—the light footfalls of children. The uneven pattern of smaller steps. Gretel's heavier ones mixed in between.
When he glanced up again, Gretel stood only a few paces away with the three children flanking her like ducklings.
The first was a ginger-haired girl, her vivid orange locks pulled into a tidy ponytail. Her freckled face was slightly flushed with curiosity, and she wore a simple black dress and worn leather shoes. She stared at Mikoto like one might gaze upon something absurd—awestruck.
To Gretel's other side stood a boy, also around ten, with messy black hair that half-covered his gray eyes. His simple tunic and pants were ill-fitted, but his posture was upright, as if trying to seem taller. His eyes locked on Mikoto's face with wonder.
And then there was the third—a pale girl with ashen-gray hair and a perpetually dripping nose. She was visibly sniffling, seemingly unaware of the trail of mucus glistening at her upper lip. Her blouse was sky blue, slightly stained, and buttoned all wrong. She stared up at Mikoto with wide, awe-struck eyes.
"Whoa... she's so pretty..." the ashen-haired girl whispered, her voice thick and nasal from the congestion.
The other two didn't even try to hide their agreement. Their wide-eyed stares only deepened.
Mikoto's red eyes twitched. A shadow crossed his face.
"I'm a guy, you little brat," he snapped.
"H-Huh?" The snot-nosed girl blinked up at him, baffled. "Really?"
Her disbelief was genuine.
Gretel chuckled beside them, clearly enjoying herself far too much.
The ginger girl crossed her arms and tilted her head smugly. "She's obviously lying," she declared with authority. "Just look at her. No boy is that pretty. That's just common sense."
"She's got a point," Gretel added with a wicked smile.
Mikoto slowly turned his gaze to her, his expression a mixture of scorn and resignation. He looked like he was reevaluating every choice that had brought him to this moment.
"I dunno," the boy murmured thoughtfully, tilting his head. "Don't girls have... y'know, bigger chests?"
Mikoto's brow arched, just slightly.
"Me and Meryl don't," the ginger girl responded flatly.
The boy blinked at her, his brows furrowed in intense thought. "Then... are you and Meryl boys?"
Meryl sniffled audibly, her nose glistening. "Uh... I don't think so."
"Of course we're not boys, you dolt!" the ginger barked back, smacking the boy lightly on the arm.
Gretel looked like she was about to burst with laughter but caught herself at the last second, stifling it behind a cough. "Okay, okay, let's change the subject before someone starts crying," she said, half-laughing.
She cleared her throat and gestured toward each child. "Right—introductions. You've already heard the lovely little sniffle-machine. That's Meryl." The ashen-haired girl gave an awkward wave. "This ginger is Arabella." Arabella huffed and gave Mikoto a narrowed look. "And the thoughtful one here is Andrew." The boy's cheeks turned red as he kept stealing glances at Mikoto's face, then immediately looking away.
Mikoto lowered the book in his lap with a sigh, his irritation simmering. "So. Is there an actual reason you dragged this gaggle of brats over here?" he asked flatly. "Or did you just come to ruin my already miserable afternoon?"
"Both, honestly," Gretel replied with a grin.
But before she could elaborate, Arabella stomped forward with an indignant glare. "Hey! We're not brats!" She pointed a finger at her own chest. "I'm ten years old!"
Mikoto blinked slowly, unimpressed. "Good for you."
He shifted his gaze back to Gretel, clearly done with the conversation.
"Well," Gretel started, tapping her fingers together, "I did need your help with something."
Mikoto's eyes narrowed, instantly suspicious.
"Their parents are attending a service for the Church of Iofiel," she explained. "I agreed to look after them for a little while."
"You want my help babysitting?" Mikoto scoffed, raising the book again like a shield. "Forget it. I'm busy."
"With that thing?" Gretel raised a brow. "You don't even like what you're reading."
"Still better than dealing with them."
"But reading is so boring, though," Meryl murmured, sniffing again as she tilted her head. "I like chess more."
Mikoto lowered the book, expression doubtful. "A brat like you plays chess?"
"Yup!" Meryl beamed. "The lady with the red hair taught me!"
"That game's too complicated," Andrew muttered. "I'd rather play tag."
"Of course you'd like something simple," Arabella huffed. "Boys are so simple-minded."
"Whatever."
The word slipped from Mikoto's lips with an air of exasperation. He closed the thick brown book with a dull thump, setting it aside with little ceremony atop a crooked barrel that sat beside the door of the bookstore. His hair fell into his eyes with a slight breeze as he stood up, turning his back and walking down the narrow street.
Of course silence didn't follow him.
The children and Gretel did.
All four of them.
Trailing behind him like curious ducklings, their footsteps uncoordinated, like they were afraid they'd scare him off if they made too much noise.
Arabella, spoke first. "Hey... you should really tie your hair. It's very long, you know."
Her gaze lingered on the cascade of white that shifted with each of Mikoto's steps, fascinated. There was no mockery in her tone—just an honest observation.
"I think I have an extra hair tie somewhere," Gretel murmured, walking a little to Mikoto's right, tone almost absentminded. "Might even be black... would suit you."
"You'd look more pretty with it," Meryl sniffled from behind them, voice still thick and slightly wheezy. She rubbed her nose against her sleeve and offered a sincere smile. "It'd make your face easier to see... you have a really nice face."
"Y-Yeah," Andrew added quickly, his voice barely above a murmur, cheeks still tinged with red. "You'd look, um... nice."
Mikoto didn't turn around. He just sighed to himself, soft and nearly inaudible. He kept walking. The narrow path between buildings twisted slightly, passing by worn fences and the occasional unattended cart.
The children followed in silence for a few seconds longer, their chatter temporarily hushed. It was Gretel who eventually broke it.
"But hey... Mikoto," she said lightly, "do you actually like to read?"
There was a pause. He considered ignoring her—he really did—but something in her voice, or maybe just the persistence of her presence beside him, made him relent.
"A bit," he answered.
"Good," she replied, sounding genuinely pleased. "Then this works out."
He gave her a sideways glance, brow furrowed. "What works out?"
"You have a soothing voice," she said simply, like that explained everything. "Calming. It's kind of nice."
He blinked once. "What are you talking about?"
"We have reading lessons," Arabella interjected from behind them, arms swinging at her sides. "Every couple days or so. Honestly, I'd rather be outside playing, but Mother says it's important." She sighed. "Says it'll make me smarter."
"The stories are nice, though," Meryl added softly, her sleeve pressed to her nose again. "Even if reading's kind of hard sometimes... I like the pictures in my head."
"It's still boring," Arabella grumbled.
"Maybe we'll get a cool story this time," Andrew said optimistically, his tone hopeful.
Mikoto's shoulders rose ever so slightly. His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped into a scowl. "Don't talk like I already agreed."
Gretel grinned beside him, her arms crossed as she walked. "Come on, Mikoto~," she sang in mock pleading. "Just help out these sweet, innocent children."
He slowed, casting a skeptical look her way. His red eyes scanned over the trio of sniffles, dirt-smudged cheeks, and one incredibly loud ponytail. "All I see are snot-nosed brats. One of them literally."
"Hey!" Arabella cried indignantly, stomping her foot. "We're not brats, okay?" She marched up beside him, pouting fiercely. "And for someone so pretty, you're really mean, you know that?!"
Gretel laughed then—a soft, chest-deep sound that she tried, unsuccessfully, to smother behind her hand.
Mikoto exhaled long and low through his nose, stopping near the wooden railing of a bridge that crossed over the narrow stream running through the village's heart. He leaned forward slightly, resting his hand against the edge.
He said nothing.
The breeze blew softly through the trees.
And for a moment, no one spoke.
"…Fine," Mikoto murmured, almost too quietly to hear.
Gretel blinked. "Wait, what?"
"I said fine." His voice was clearer this time, but no less reluctant. "Just don't expect me to be enthusiastic about it."
A collective cheer rose behind him.
Gretel just smiled.
"You're a real softie, huh?"
"Whatever."