Nero stood there, staring at the pile of fungus he'd risked his life to obtain, and felt something close to despair settle in his chest. All of this, the pain and the suffering and the near-death, for absolutely nothing. He couldn't bring it back. Couldn't save anyone with it.
What was even the point?
Gungnir thrummed in his hand.
The sensation was odd, almost playful. The spear's weight shifted, leaning decidedly in one direction like a dog pulling on a leash.
Nero frowned down at the weapon. "Are you seriously trying to be funny right now?"
The spear leaned harder, its intent unmistakable. It wanted him to follow.
"Are you saying this way?" Nero asked, his voice flat with disbelief. He was talking to a spear. This was what his life had become.
Gungnir practically vibrated with enthusiasm, pulling so insistently toward the interior of the island that Nero had to adjust his grip to keep from dropping it.
