Freya allowed herself a small, warm smile as she watched Vlad protect the innocents they had rescued. But it vanished just as quickly. Her expression hardened into the cold sharpness of a soldier.
There was a time for feeling—and there was a time for war.
Turning toward Jormungandr, she gave a silent nod. The small yellow cat understood. His eyes gleamed like twin suns as he organized his thoughts, preparing to relay what he had learned from the memories he had consumed.
"Their souls have been tainted," he began, his voice low and precise. "The corruption spreads through proximity—radiation from the corrupted Vikings infects those around them. It starts subtly, almost imperceptibly. Their Totems begin to shift, their divine resonance darkens, and before they realize what's happening, they're no longer themselves. They become puppets, extensions of a greater will."
He paused, the runes along his fur flickering like dying embers as he processed the fragments of memory.
