Hela lowered her head slightly in respect. "Father, is the prophecy of the Norn Cave truly irreversible?"
"Of course. I've told you this before," Odin replied. "Why ask again?"
"I've heard of a prophecy that was changed."
"Which one?"
"Amora's. The moment she made a wager with a boy named Haldryn—climb a certain tree and touch the thinnest branch at the top—he was destined to fall to his death." Hela added, "Yet he did not die. I saw it with my own eyes."
Odin only chuckled, unconcerned. "That reminds me of a story I heard when I was young.
"There was once a man whose son had already grown to adulthood when his wife became pregnant again. He went to Nornheim seeking a prophecy and was told that his younger son would one day kill him."
"So he forced his wife to end the pregnancy and killed the child before it was born."
Odin's gaze settled on Hela. "Yet that man was still slain by his younger son."
Hela frowned. "How?"
"When he killed the unborn child," Odin said slowly, "his only remaining son became his younger son."
Hela fell silent.
Odin continued, "Fate is never wrong. Only people's understanding of it is. If the prophecy spoke of the thinnest branch, then the boy simply never touched the thinnest branch."
"Then is every prophecy absolute? Must Ragnarok come no matter what?" Hela's voice carried a quiet heaviness.
Odin laughed. "Fate is also generous. It may have arranged Ragnarok, but it never fixed the hour. We can still claim and change a great deal, can we not?"
Hela said nothing.
Odin patted her shoulder. "Enough. Don't dwell on such distant matters."
"We've just received word that the frost giants and the trolls appear to be making contact in secret. A great battle may be near… Hela, my daughter, prepare yourself for war. I believe you are far superior to Skadi."
…
Haldryn returned home just as the family was sitting down to eat.
Uncle Peter glanced up the moment he walked in and made no effort to hide his contempt. "So you finally handed over that cursed first kiss?"
"Uh… no."
Peter's brow furrowed. "Amora broke the wager?"
Clearly, in his mind, Amora going back on her word was far more plausible—and far more reasonable—than Haldryn refusing her.
"No. I refused."
"You refused?" Peter looked genuinely stunned. Even Cousin Elle and Aunt glanced over in surprise.
After Haldryn filled in the details, Peter quickly supplied his own version of events. "Under Nur's threat, then?"
Nur was the tall, powerfully built bald youth from earlier—something of a rising talent in Asgard. In a realm that valued martial prowess above almost everything, that usually meant raw combat strength.
The name "Nur" felt vaguely familiar to Haldryn, and the young man was certainly striking enough that he wondered whether Nur might be some minor figure from the comics. Unfortunately his knowledge of Marvel comics was little more than a casual skim; nothing useful came to mind.
Haldryn struggled for an answer. "I… I just don't like her."
Peter snorted, clearly unconvinced.
Aunt, a quiet woman, simply said, "Eat."
After the meal Haldryn went to the preparation room. He still had Uncle Peter's order to finish—one hundred healing stones as soon as possible.
A healing stone looked unremarkable: a dull gray lump a little larger than a thumb. To Asgardian hands the texture was soft enough that a firm rub reduced it to powder.
Sprinkle that powder on a wound and the flesh knit itself shut at a speed visible to the eye.
The effect, however, only worked on ordinary injuries. Frost, fire, poison, or curses required more than a healing stone alone.
Making them began with brewing healing potion, which required two herbs: Starflash—the most widely used herb in Asgard—and Bloodline Blossom.
Both herbs needed several careful steps before they could be combined into the final potion. That stage was the most important and the most intricate.
Fortunately Haldryn had real talent with herbs, and healing stones were basic work. He had performed the process so many times over the years that he could do it with his eyes closed.
The potion required a period of standing. While it rested he prepared the binding agent.
In earlier ages Asgardians had simply poured healing potion directly onto wounds. Later they discovered that the liquid stored poorly and was absorbed unevenly, so they developed the healing stone instead.
A healing stone was healing potion mixed with a particular clay—Lifia clay. The binding agent was the necessary medium that allowed the two to combine properly.
One of the reasons Lifia Town had become Asgard's herbal center was that Lifia Mountain was both the primary source and the original discovery site of that clay.
Preparing the binding agent was far simpler than the potion. He finished it quickly.
Next he combined healing potion, binding agent, and Lifia clay into a thick healing paste, then worked it the way one kneads dough—pounding, folding, and rubbing.
The entire process was thoroughly unhygienic by Midgard standards, but Asgardians cared little. A race that could survive in the vacuum of space was immune to almost every ordinary disease. The minor health risks of unclean preparation were beneath notice.
To put it crudely, an Asgardian could swim a few laps in a sea of filth and still not catch any physical illness.
By the time he finished the night was deep. Haldryn portioned the paste into ten small pieces and set them to bake in a low oven.
By morning the ten healing stones would be ready.
After washing up he returned to his room, opened the Tome of the Kings, and turned to the Flask of Talent.
Reading the full production process made his head ache. He sighed quietly.
A rank-7 flask deserved its reputation. The steps were vastly more complex than anything required for a simple healing stone.
Out of curiosity he took one finished healing stone and placed it on the Appraisal Codex.
[Level-1 item. Donate all for 2.46 Piety.]
Level 1, as expected. The Piety value also felt reasonable. The material cost of one healing stone was roughly twenty small gold coins—about two large ones. Selling two large coins to the Piety Shop would yield a similar amount.
The gulf between a level-1 item and a level-7 item was obvious.
He had not even finished studying the Flask of Talent recipe, yet he could already estimate that reaching the skill level required to brew it would demand mastery of dozens more techniques. That would take time.
Gathering the materials would take still more.
Fortunately he was Asgardian, with a potential lifespan of five thousand years, and Asgard itself was one of the premier realms in the cosmos—rich in rare substances and accumulated knowledge. Both material collection and skill improvement would be far easier here than anywhere else.
Had he landed on Midgard, he might never have completed a single Flask of Talent in his entire life.
How strong would the effect actually be?
It ought to be considerable. A rank-7 item was no trifle. He guessed Mjolnir itself might only rank eight or nine.
He did not need the heaven-defying talent of Odin, Hela, Thor, or Thanos. Raising himself to the level of the Warriors Three seemed a reasonable goal for a rank-7 flask.
His current aptitude was simply too poor—thin frame, meager strength, ordinary intellect. Herb-craft was the only area in which he showed real promise.
Without the transmigration and the Tome of the Kings he would almost certainly have spent his long life as a minor herbalist, then died in some future disaster long before the snap. A worm swept along by the current of fate.
Happiness might be objective, but the feeling of happiness was largely comparative. Even among the aristocratic Asgardians, a life spent surrounded by people stronger than oneself would still be painful.
While studying the recipe he began outlining a focused training plan for his alchemy skills, determined to produce the Flask of Talent as soon as possible.
His eyes drifted to the two small rings at either end of the Tome's spine.
They looked designed for a chain, so the book could be fastened and carried. He decided he should find a chain later and hang it at his side. It would look properly paladin-like.
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