Mildrith closed the book she held forcefully giving up on trying to understand its content. It contained details on magic Bitarr used, more magic Brand seemed to have mastered long before she did. She tossed it on the table wondering why she even bothered. Tanya didn’t need her thaumaturgical skills. She didn’t even need her as a bodyguard.

Thanks to how capable Tanya was Mildrith was left without anything to do. All her years at the Hall amounted to nothing as soon as she left it. She wanted nothing to do with the road wars but her strength had no purpose anywhere else. Mildrith thought her thaumaturgy would at least keep her busy but Bitarr solved any problem faster than she could with Brand’s mind.

“Magic obsessed idiot,” Mildrith muttered to herself.

She was glad to know Brand was alive but angry that he let everyone think he was dead. Worse was finding out he was in Alfhiem probably within a few day’s journey if he was in the north. Yet for some reason he let both she and Tanya believe he died that terrible day.

“He’s probably too busy living it up as a rogue mage to care about anyone but himself,” Mildrith thought but honestly didn’t believe.

She wanted to understand why he remained hidden and how he became such an accomplished thaumaturge. No one in Alfhiem could have possibly taught him the magic Bitarr displayed. Only the Hall held such magic or a noble house blatantly breaking the law.

“Alda, is there anywhere in Alfhiem that can challenge the Hall in magic?” Mildrith asked her friend who is punching the air faster than her eyes could see while drenched from head to toe in sweat.

Alda stopped practicing her acceleration and breathed heavily from the exertion before answering. “No, there is nowhere in Alfhiem Brand could have possibly learned all that magic.”

Mildrith looked surprised, embarrassed, then defensive. “I wasn't asking about Brand.”

“Of course you were,” Alda replied. “You have that, I wonder where he is, looking again. I don't see what you and your sister see in him. He was kind of a cunt if you ask me.

“You only say that because you couldn’t defeat him.”

The moisture on Alda’s skin quickly vaporized in a cloud of steam as her skin grew red with heat and the yellow aura around her intensified. “If anyone would let me fight the little god monster wearing his face, I'd show you how wrong you were.”

Before Mildrith could give a teasing remark a familiar voice cut its way through the conversation. “Can, can I have a moment of your time,” Eric said as if terrified of the women in front of him.

Mildrith and Alda both rolled their eyes at the timid man. It was hard to believe up until recently he was destined to be king. Now his presence was that of a beaten dog, the effect made worse by his constantly drooping wolf ears.

“What is it now Eric?” Mildrith huffed, her tolerance with the man already waning.

When a response seemed to be trapped within Eric's throat Mildrith groaned in obvious displeasure. She took an appraising look at the man wondering how such a handsome, well built, and powerful mage be so unassertive. Him being the voice of the South Bastion nobles only exacerbated his flaws. The position forced him to address Tanya with important matters. Unfortunately, Tanya could not stand the sight of the man and how he seemed to need permission for every small decision he made. So dealing with him was left to Mildrith.

“Spit it out already!” Alda yelled causing Eric to jump in surprise but at least her outburst seemed to loosen his lips.

“We need to cancel the Yule festival!” he blurted out.

“No,” Mildrith said giving her reflexive answer to Eric’s question. “We've already talked about this, and the answer won't change. Besides, it's not up to me.”

“But, but Lady Tanya won't hear me out. And now I know without a doubt Fenrir will attack the festival.”

“And how do you know that?” Alda asked a bit too excitedly.

“There have been demonstrations,” Eric explained. “Graffiti written across walls throughout the city of how-” Eric paused for a moment as if trying to find the strength to continue or afraid of speaking the truth. “Of how the Aesir are trying to replace Oberon and lady Titania with Yule and the people aren't happy with that.”

Mildrith didn't really care which God brought the harvest. Whether it be Yule or the beast kin’s divine farming couple, she didn't really care. She didn't even care about being attacked on the holiday. Fenrir was so pathetically weak that attacking was the best way to cull their numbers, and Alda wholeheartedly agreed.

“Let those idiots attack with their poor excuse for magic,” Alda smiled. “It would take a literal army with those poorly enchanted magic sticks to give us any real trouble.” She began counting with her fingers. “There's us, Tanya’s group and Nadia.” At the Dreyark’s mention, Eric seemed to recoil. “There are also those stuck up priests, the vellian nobles, and their retainers, along with the prissy little Bryers. No one stands a chance against us so I hope every member of Fenrir comes looking for blood because they will find it, it just won’t be ours.”

********

Eric found himself leaving another conversation with his conquerors and made his way to his chambers. Before entering he took some time to steady himself. Ever since witnessing his parent’s death talking to humans gave him anxiety. Although he had the same reaction to Tanya which made sense. She was human in every way that mattered. She even had the woman that murdered the late king and queen at her beck and call.

Taking a final breath to relax his nerves Eric entered his chambers and was met with a barrage of questions. “What did the regent say?” “Are they canceling the festival?” “Did you tell them about Fenris?”

“Quiet down!” Eric ordered showing a side of himself he kept hidden from all those not in this room. “The Yule festival is happening. I wasn't able to convince them to call it off.” Many of the nobles wore grim expressions at the unfortunate news but some looked downright gleeful.

“You should see this as an opportunity,” one of them said. “Fenrir is bound to attack. Maybe they can take care of our problem with a little help.”

Eric's mana flared out covering the room in a crushing force that suffocated the weaker members of the peerage. He focused the brunt of his power on the man speaking out of ignorance. “All Fenrir will do is get people killed whether we help them or not.”

“Not if we VIPs lend our strength,” said Gosta, the only other man in the room not struggling.

Eric eyed his fellow apex magic-user angrily. “And how many apex magi do you think Vellia will send if we win not to mention if one of their cursed gods are summoned.” Eric places a fist on his head trying to emphasize his point. “Get it through your thick skull. We can't win!”

“We don't need to win,” said another foolish noble. “We just need to make occupying us more than it's worth.”

Eric's rage boiled at the idiocy he was forced to suffer. “The only reason we are alive is that it would cost too much to kill us and rebuild after the subsequent slaughter of our people! Because that's what it would be,” Eric reminded them harshly. “We stand no chance. The north stands no chance and before calling me a coward remember that you bent the knee before I did.”

“So, we are supposed to celebrate the Aesir during the Harvest festival?”

“Celebrate whoever you want to. The best we can do is offer money and support to those who worship our rightful God.”

“Wouldn't need to offer anything if Vellia didn’t steal our temple.”

Eric grimaced. Oberon and Titania’s place of worship being converted to the Aesir goddess Vara was something even he had trouble accepting, but certain death was a good motivator. He wouldn't end up like his parents drowning in their blood and pride.

Eric emulated his father speaking with whatever authority he had left. “Anyone working with Fenrir is a traitor and will be executed by my hands.” Eric stared directly at Gosta making sure he knew this message was for him. “Better to die by my hands than the vellians, because they won't stop with just you.”

******

Bitarr groaned in pain as he entered the temple dedicated to Vara. Him being on bad terms with his aunt had nothing to do with his aching head. It was Tanya’s incessant questions that left him feeling like a knife was lodged in his brain.

The little summoner would bombard him with questions trying to find what little information Bitarr remembered from Brand’s mind. The truth was the god remembered almost everything when questioned but couldn’t reveal a thing thanks to the oath. Just thinking of a response caused pain to trample over his now solid brain. Releasing Brand’s form did not help. All details of his life and knowledge faded so finding him was hopeless for now. But Bitarr couldn't explain any of this.

He had the feeling if Tanya knew of the strikers the king would be right behind her. There were too many spies in her court to safely divulge such sensitive information without it getting out within a week. Everyone knowing the pantheon’s bane was walking around freely was a good example. Even though Bitarr honestly tried keeping his existence a secret it was now common knowledge that Tanya summoned him regularly. So, the god did the only thing it could. He went to get help from a priest.

“Forgive me, sister, for I have sinned!” Bitarr bellowed to the first nun he spotted. He grabbed her hands and fell to his knees as if in prayer. “I have fornicated like no man or woman alive! I bed my father as my mother, my uncles as my aunts. I even snuck into your goddess’s bed gifting her with child but to my surprise, aunty Vara took offense to the best fuck she’s ever had.” Bitarr’s voice quickly shifted from begging for forgiveness to bragging of his exploits. “Amra at least hasn't abandoned me. She still loves her papa. As for the rest of my cousins, well, I may need a chart.”

A white inferno engulfed Bitarr and the confused nun blinding both but not harming the nun. She felt none of the heat Bitarr’s fortress aura absorbed saving him from turning to ash within seconds. It wasn't the blessing he was looking for but was happy enough with the mana its heat supplied him.

Letting go of the nun so she could run for her life Bitarr turned to his attacker with a toothy grin. “With a bit more self-loathing your holy flames might actually burn me one day, Priest.

“I'm a bishop you monster!”

“Same difference to me, priest,” Bitarr shrugged. “Now get your ass over here and heal my headache. I've been on a hell of a bender and could use a pick me up.”

In truth Bitarr just wanted relief from the residual pain of activating the oath so many times while being questioned by Tanya. Because it was psychosomatic pain changing form wouldn't make a difference so more unconventional healing was in order.

The Bishop answered with a ball of holy fire followed by several others from the gathering clergy. I refuse. “Vara's blessing is not for the likes of you.”

Bitarr narrowed his eyes not understanding the bishop's apprehension. “What's this about priests? Have you finally found a tall enough high horse? So you don't mind me mentioning-” Bitarr glanced over to an especially voluptuous nun.

“Wait!” the Bishop exclaimed.

Bitarr’s fun came to an end when an armored hand rested on his right shoulder. When he tried to dart away a second hand grabbed his left arm twisting it to his back in a powerful grip that threatened to break it. When Bitarr realized he was being overpowered he throttled his mana creating a storm of energy that tore up the ground sending broken tiles flying throughout the temple. But still, Bitarr could not move. In fact, now he was being forced downward by the unyielding strength of whoever held him.

“Whoever you’re wearing is quite impressive,” said the man forcing Bitarr closer to the ground with every passing second. “To resist me at all is worthy of praise.”

“Get the fuck off me!” Bitarr raged as his invisible fortress aura ensnared the man.

The armored man noticed the magical attack bending Bitarr’s arm just a bit more in response. Bitarr was fine with the added pain as long as he was able to drain enough mana to wrench himself free. But before a faint trickle of magic came his way white light brighter than holy flame exploded out of nowhere.

“Smite!” someone said as Bitarr’s skin burned, no disintegrated in a sphere of light.

The god quickly searched Brand’s mind for a way to defend itself but found nothing. Brand had never encountered such power so there were no countermeasures in place. The fortress aura only converted well-understood forms of power so Bitarr facing the unknown could only shift his defenses about wildly trying to find something that worked.

“Strikers Onslaught!” Bitarr mentally streamed when nothing else worked.

The white light burst into nothingness as a wave of mana exploded from Bitarr. At the same time, the man holding him jumped back feeling the incoming danger. Instead of retaliating, Bitarr jumped back keeping his back to the wall as most of what is mana drained away by the empowering spell.

Bitarr, in his frustration finally spread out Brand’s magic perception field. “How does he maintain this constantly? Of course, if I did, I wouldn't have been ambushed.”

Bitarr possessed all of Brand’s skills but he had none of his discipline or battle scenes. Failing to maintain his magic perception was one of the drawbacks of his divine nature. It wasn't an inborn skill. It took effort and mind-boggling amounts of concentration born from years feeling threatened. Facing new and unexpected challenges was also a problem. Bitarr knew how to attack as Brand would but not what Brand would do in this situation, or if you could do anything at all.

Bitarr stood as if unbothered by his ruined clothes and cracked bloody skin and glared at the man in silvery polished armor whose strength had reached the mortal limit. “What's an apex paladin,” Bitarr looked over to the woman who cast the devastating Smite blessing on him keeping how over his head he felt to himself. “An Archbishop.” Bitarr looked to the temple’s upper level. “And two, no three divine bastards doing here?”

All three demigods jumped from their balconies landing with the grace of a falling flower thanks to the wings on their back. Each had a different number. The only woman in the group, a blonde beauty like her mother, sporting four luxurious snow-white wings. One of her brothers who was as blonde as she was, flew with six wings all made a blue flame. The last was bald and as tall as any jötunn at around eight feet. His two wings were colored brown like a common bird’s. What made him strange was the tightly wrapped cloth over his mouth promising an interesting story if ever unveiled.

Despite their boorishly practiced gracefulness, they couldn't hide the sore spot their cousin struck. “We are not bastards!” The flame wind demigod set with Venom in his words. “We are of the union between Vara and Vidar.”

“So is every other demi you find walking the streets in Midgard,” Bitarr said dismissing whatever esteem they were flaunting. “You three were just lucky enough to have wings.” As Bitarr continued he drew mana from a massively powerful beast core in his pocket using the energy to heal his wounds as if it came naturally. “If you were landlocked like the rest of your siblings, she would have kicked your asses out of Gimli before you spoke your first words.” Bitarr Voice took on a feminine tone mimicking the Aesir matriarch. “Because Gimli is for god's and dead people, as auntie would say. The old stuck-up bitch.”

The winged woman looked angry but stood her ground. Her fire winged brother had much less control and charged like a burning meteor. As he closed the distance Bitarr searched the mind of everyone looking his way.

“What the hells,” Bitarr thought in surprise.

Not one of the demigods had an Oedipus complex. They only had vague desires or wanted people far too weak to help the situation. The apex paladin only wished to serve like some mindless zealot without a single selfish thought in his mind. The archbishop who was an apex mage like the rest of her rank only longed for her dead child who was just as ordinary as any kid who dies of a fever. The spectating priest and nuns were also hopeless. They just wanted to fuck each other.

“Well shit. I haven't died in a long time. But I’m not running like some bitch though.”

There was nothing to be done. Depending on the extent of the demigod’s nature Brand may have the strength to fight them but the paladin and archbishop were far too much. Besides, killing any of them would bring trouble down on Tanya’s head.

“Smite!” a glowing orb of energy appeared in front of Bitarr stopping the flaming demigod in his tracks. “Leave him be Nathaniel. A battle in the temple will destroy it.” The Archbishop pointed a showing finger. “Cleanse.” The blessing went right through Bitarr’s defenses soothing the little damage left on his skin and clearing his headache instantly.

“Finally!” Bitarr exclaimed, giving a wink to the Archbishop. “Thanks for that. Now I can get back to drinking.”

“Overindulgence can lead one’s down a path to ruin,” the Archbishop warned

Bitarr spun on his heel walking out of the Temple. “Suits me just fine. I'm basically the god of overindulgence.”

As he walks the god’s mind race. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! With Vara’s cult having two apex magic users the balance of power has shifted. I'm not enough to keep Tanya safe anymore. Nadia is the only one who could fight those monsters, but she can't fight the Bryers and neither can I. If either group tries to kill her in earnest I'm fucked. I'll spend the next decade trying to worm my way into being summoned. Longer, because no one else but Tanya would take me.”

Bitarr’s thoughts were cut short when writing appeared on his arms. As he read it, he couldn't help but smile. No one had ever used his divine nature as a way to communicate. The words were written in a dead language hardly anyone would be able to comprehend. Thankfully Bitarr knew exactly how to read the message thanks to it being sent by the person who’s face he wore.

“You don’t have to worry Brand,” Bitarr said to himself. “I'll keep Tanya safe while you're on a rampage.”