[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: Heart Kingdom Outskirts]
[Virelheim Mountain Village]
Mikoto's eye twitched.
Not once, not subtly. It was a full, uncontrollable twitch—a repeated spasm that danced at the corner of his narrowed eye.
("Why am I here? Why didn't I say no?")
He didn't need to be polite. He didn't owe these brats anything. And he was in the middle of the phase, for gods' sake—his emotions were fraying at the edges and any shred of softness should have already burned away by now.
And yet when they looked up at him with those round, irritatingly expectant eyes, full of childish innocence and unsophisticated admiration—
He hadn't said no.
The twitch returned as he sat stiffly, back upright in a plain wooden chair, in the middle of an unfamiliar, modest home tucked on the third platform of the village. The room was humble: sunlight filtering through the drawn curtains, shelves with books, some battered boxes near the walls, and a single table in the center. It smelled faintly of cinnamon, which annoyed him further.
More than anything, it was the gentle drag of a comb through his snowy white hair that sent his patience into a slow, simmering boil.
"Whoa… your hair is so smooth and silky!" Meryl's voice rang with unrestrained wonder, accompanied immediately by a loud, mucous-laced sniffle. Her small hands gently moved the comb through his shoulder-length hair.
"Yeah! You should've let us style it the first time we met!" Arabella chimed in, holding another comb. She was perched on the opposite side, braiding with surprising skill and way too much enthusiasm.
Mikoto, meanwhile, stared forward blankly. His cheek rested against his knuckles as his elbow dug into the armrest, body perfectly still, save for the occasional twitch of his eye. His gaze flicked to the side only once—to confirm that yes, they were still combing.
He could feel the humiliation radiating off his own skin.
("They're enjoying this far too much.")
"I should have never agreed to this," he muttered under his breath, though he didn't move. "Actually, I shouldn't have come at all."
"Hmm? Did you say something, Mikoto?" Meryl asked, sniffing again as she reached for a strand of hair to twist it just so.
"No," he deadpanned.
"Hmm."
From the entrance, a familiar voice pierced through the mundane domestic horror.
"Well, at least you three are having fun," came Gretel's tone, laced with that same mischief she always had.
Mikoto didn't turn to look. He didn't need to. He could already hear the smugness in her.
She strolled casually into the room, Andrew trailing behind her, the two carrying two simple wooden mugs that gave off thin trails of steam. He placed one on the table near Mikoto, carefully avoiding eye contact, cheeks faintly pink.
The other went in front of Gretel, who took a seat, crossing one leg over the other as she placed the mugs down, she had definitely orchestrated this entire situation.
Mikoto lifted his gaze just enough to fix her with a scowl. His red eyes narrowed beneath the stray strands of hair now framing his face.
This was her house. He had come here because she'd said there was something "important" to discuss.
Now he was getting his hair braided by snot-nosed brats.
"Yep! It's super fun fixing her hair!" Arabella chirped from behind, clearly ignoring the fire building in Mikoto's gaze.
Mikoto clenched his jaw but didn't correct her.
Gretel leaned her chin into her palm and regarded him thoughtfully. "Your hair's really coming along. Now that I can fully see your face… wow. You really are pretty, huh?" she mused, her tone playful. "Right, Andrew?"
"H-huh?" The boy flinched slightly, caught in the spotlight. His eyes darted to Mikoto's face for a second too long before he looked down and nodded, cheeks visibly flushed.
"I brought my extra hair string," Meryl mumbled proudly, pulling from her pocket a woven black cord, white patterns threading through it.
Arabella hummed in agreement, her fingers moving deftly. "Okay, okay, just a bit more… aaand—there! A stardust bun!"
Mikoto blinked. "A what?"
Arabella leaned back, clearly admiring her handiwork. "Braided updo with wrapped ends, little framing pieces to show off your eyes. See?" She gestured proudly.
Mikoto reached up with one hand and felt the new shape of his hair. His bangs no longer veiled his vision—he could actually see properly. His fingers brushed against the smooth coil of the bun at the back, held in place by the patterned hair string.
"...Oi. This is a girl's hairstyle, you brats."
"But you look so pretty now," Meryl mumbled, completely missing the point.
"Yeah, you should be grateful," Arabella added, folding her arms with a small, defiant huff.
Gretel chuckled softly. "It really does suit you, Mikoto, honestly this just makes your face stand out more."
Andrew just looked at him with silent awe.
Mikoto sighed deeply. ("I give up. This is my life now. A glorified doll.")
The moment hung in the air for a beat before Gretel gently set her mug down and addressed the room.
"Well, children—thank you for your expert styling. But now, Mikoto and I have something brief to discuss." She smiled sweetly. "So take your hot chocolate and give us the room, alright?"
"Okay!" the three echoed in perfect unison.
Arabella and Meryl grabbed their mugs and nearly skipped out the door, trying not to spill. Andrew hesitated for just a second, casting Mikoto one last glance before quickly following.
As the door clicked shut behind them, a strange silence settled over the room.
Mikoto, still sitting with his hands lazily resting on his thighs, closed his eyes for a moment.
Then exhaled.
"…They didn't even ruin it," he muttered begrudgingly.
Gretel smiled, quiet for a moment, studying the lines in his face, the slight slouch of his shoulders, the lingering look of someone who never allowed themselves to relax even when surrounded by warm hands and laughter.
She finally spoke, her voice softer than before.
"Pretty hair or not, Mikoto… we need to talk."
"Then talk."
Gretel, seated across from him with a steaming mug of something faintly spiced between her palms, offered a small nod. Her usual playful lilt had dulled, replaced by something serious.
"Right," she began, fingers tightening around the ceramic. "Then tell me, Mikoto… have you ever heard of the Retorta Guild?"
At first, he said nothing. Just a raised brow.
"I see," she muttered, half to herself. "I figured. They're known in most parts of the world, but considering how little you seem to know about… anything around here, I'm not surprised."
"Then I assume this little guild of yours is the reason you dragged me out of bed and let your snot-nosed minions play hair salon?" he muttered, shifting his weight just enough to make his disinterest obvious.
"Yeah," she said simply, setting the mug down. Her expression darkened. "They're an unofficial group. No loyalties. No banners. They don't bow to kings or queens. They work in the shadows—mercenaries, tacticians, spies, killers. The sort of people who don't leave footprints unless they want you to find them."
Mikoto's expression didn't change, but he tilted his head slightly.
Gretel went on. "They've got an island. Private. No nation dares touch it. Their soldiers are loyal to the leader without question. And worse—they have Nils."
That caught his attention.
"They're the guilds Mortifers," she explained. "There are ten. Just ten. But don't let the number fool you—each one is dangerous."
"So," Mikoto said, "you're not just wasting my time. Good to know."
Gretel's gaze flicked to the window for a second. Her tone lowered. "They've started interacting with the Heart Kingdom. Not an official alliance—more like... mutually beneficial arrangements. Limited partnerships. Enough to raise concern."
Mikoto narrowed his eyes. "Let me guess. The item you stole—the reason the Heart soldiers were after you—had something to do with them?"
She nodded slowly. "I didn't know it at the time, but yes. Turns out the thing I stole belonged to the Retorta Guild. The Heart Kingdom was acting as a middleman."
He leaned forward slightly, chin resting on his hand again. "So you stole something, pissed off two powerful organizations, and now they're crawling toward the village, right?"
"They've set up an encampment not far from here," Gretel said quietly. "Scouts confirmed it this morning. Two Mortifers. Along with a decent number of Heart soldiers."
There was a pause.
"And now," Mikoto murmured, "you've come to me."
"I need help," she said bluntly. "Not to clean up the whole mess. Just… to protect the people here. I brought this on them. It's my responsibility to make sure the village doesn't burn for my mistake."
He snorted, tossing his gaze aside. "So you're expecting me to clean up your disaster?"
"Yep," she answered without shame, offering a small smile.
He clicked his tongue softly, leaning back in the chair once more.
("Retorta Guild... Mortifers... if they've got foreign abilities like Gretel said then this is more than just cleanup. It's a chance. A dangerous one—but useful. I need to know what kind of monsters walk this world. If I hesitate later, I might not survive.")
Mikoto tilted his head again. "I'm not doing it for this village."
"I know," she replied gently.
"I don't care what happens to you."
"Sure."
He stared at her for a long second, then exhaled slowly through his nose.
"But I'm curious," he admitted. "Curious to see how a Nil fights. Curious about what kind of power I'll have to deal with later."
"Aww," Gretel cooed. "You're too sweet."
He didn't respond with words. Only a cold glare.
She chuckled anyway. "Okay, okay. Joking aside, I'm planning another round of scouting near their camp. If we wait too long, we'll miss our window. You free this afternoon?"
Mikoto pushed himself up from the chair in one fluid motion.
"Yeah," he said simply.
Gretel stood too, watching him for a beat longer. The morning sun spilled through the glass and traced lines across his face—bright on his pale cheekbones, glinting in those oddly melancholy eyes.
"Then let's go," she said, following after him.
The door opened, letting in a wash of fresh air.