The following morning, Marcus found himself standing at the top of an immense stone amphitheater carved into the side of a cliff. Beyond the arena, Glaðsheimr lay nestled in a crown of mountains, distant and shimmering in the pale light. The cold was unlike anything Marcus had ever known. For the first time since he had awoken without his heart, he truly felt it—an aching chill that bit through skin and bone. Away from the protective enchantments of Glaðsheimr, he felt the full might of the merciless cold of an Asgardian winter.

The amphitheater itself was a marvel of masonry: stone benches carved into the cliff face half-ringed a vast, stone-covered stage. From here, the land fell away to reveal the grand sweep of Asgard's mountains and fjords, a panorama of icy peaks and shadowed valleys. It was certainly large enough for a dragon, Marcus thought, though the thought of fighting one so close to the cliff's edge roused decidedly unpleasant memories. The morning light reflected off the polished surface of the granite steps, casting a brilliant glow that added to the space's solemnity.

Marcus's boots crunched on the frost-laden ground as he followed Azazel into the center of the arena. Odin and Rossweisse walked a short distance ahead of them, the All-Father's staff tapping rhythmically as they descended. Despite the biting cold, the atmosphere felt charged, almost electric, as if the land itself was holding its breath.

Azazel, usually carefree and casual, seemed unusually focused this morning. Gone was the smirk or playful glint in his eyes. His posture was straight, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, and his gaze fixed on the far end of the arena.

Marcus matched Azazel's pace, the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on him. From what he had gathered, Fafnir was one of the greatest dragons in this realm—a being whose legend rivaled even The Dragon of his own world.

As they reached the stage, Azazel cast a quick glance at Marcus and said, "Listen carefully. Under no circumstances are you to summon your weapons, even if things get heated."

Marcus furrowed his brow. "Even if he attacks?"

"Especially if he attacks," Azazel replied, his voice low but firm. "If you need to fight, rely on your magic circles. Use spells that function without your stave. If Fafnir so much as sees your weapons, things could turn ugly fast and we won't be able to talk him down."

Marcus narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Azazel sighed. "Fafnir's title, the Lord of Greed, isn't just for show. Besides gold, there's one thing he covets more than anything—powerful weapons, especially those tied to great deeds. Yours? They check both boxes. If he sets his eyes on them, he won't stop until they're his. I'd rather not have this whole deal fall through and waste months of work because Fafnir can't control himself."

Marcus exhaled sharply, clenching his fists. "Got it." Mentally he reassured himself that it probably wouldn't come to that. And even if it did, and he was restricted, well—he had Azazel and Odin to hide behind. That was more magical firepower than most people could dream of.

As he stood at the center of the stage, Marcus took note of those around him. Azazel was murmuring to himself, his gaze locked on the ground, his usual carefree attitude nowhere to be seen. Odin, in contrast, looked neither excited nor nervous—just watchful, unreadable. Marcus's eyes flicked to Odin's hands, and he realized that the staff he had previously seen him carrying was gone. Rossweisse, meanwhile, stood with her back straight, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Marcus caught the subtle movement of her fingers, fidgeting with what looked like a pendant in her hand.

Marcus squinted at a distant speck on the horizon, watching as it rapidly grew in size. The faint shimmer of gold resolved into the unmistakable form of a dragon, Fafnir, its immense wings carving through the sky with slow, deliberate power. As it drew nearer, the rhythmic beat of its wings sent waves of displaced air rushing across the amphitheater, stirring the frost-laden ground. The sheer force of each wingbeat carried an oppressive weight.

Fafnir reached the amphitheater, his vast wings sending gusts of wind whipping through the arena as he hovered just beyond the edge of the stage. He lingered in the air for a moment, his golden form gleaming against the backdrop of the mountains, before finally descending. With a final, powerful beat of his wings, he landed in front of them, the impact sending a tremor through the ground beneath their feet.

Fafnir let out a low snort, a plume of steam curling from his nostrils as his molten-gold eyes swept over the group. His voice, low and rumbling like distant thunder, rolled through the amphitheater. "Well? Have you brought what I asked for?"

Azazel smirked. "Of course. I wouldn't dare come empty-handed." With a fluid motion, he reached into his coat and produced a small, rune-etched blade, then tossed it to Fafnir. "Consider this a sample. The rest are in Odin's possession, ready to be handed over if and only if we finalize the terms. You understand how these things work—mutual trust, guarantees, all that."

"Naturally," Fafnir rumbled, his long neck arching toward Odin with slow, deliberate grace. His molten-gold eyes gleamed with expectation. "Summon them here. I would inspect what has been promised."

Odin met Fafnir's gaze evenly, his expression unreadable. "Patience, Lord of Greed," he said, his voice measured and calm. "All in good time. But first, I require your word—if Azazel fulfills his end of the agreement, there will be no reneging on yours. A dragon's oath should not be given lightly."

Fafnir's rumbling laughter echoed through the amphitheater, a deep, resonant sound like shifting earth. "An oath is an oath. I am no whelp, swayed by fleeting desires. If Azazel meets my terms in full, the pact shall be honored. For a decade, my soul will reside in the vessel he crafts, and I will lend my power as agreed." His eyes narrowed, gleaming with something unreadable. "But if the armaments he has promised me are unworthy of my hoard, then consider my word void."

Odin turned to Azazel, who gave a slight nod in return. "Very well," Odin proclaimed. With a wave of his hand, racks of weapons materialized beside them in a flash of shimmering energy. The polished steel and intricate engravings glinted in the morning light, each weapon exuding an aura of potent magic. Marcus immediately recognized the arsenal—the weapons he had helped Azazel select. At the center of it all stood a single short pillar, atop which rested a lone, familiar bullet—the Tathlum replica, its surface gleaming with an unnatural black luster.

Fafnir's molten-gold eyes gleamed with unrestrained avarice as he surveyed the collection before him. He twisted his massive neck, bringing his head level with the array of enchanted armaments, his nostrils flaring as if to inhale their power. Marcus tensed, bracing himself for some sudden outburst, but the dragon remained still, studying each weapon with an unsettling intensity.

Then, after a long, suspenseful pause, Fafnir suddenly reared his head back and let loose a thunderous roar of laughter—a deep, rolling sound like an avalanche crashing down the mountainside. The force of it reverberated through Marcus's chest, the sheer volume almost overwhelming.

"Truly, Azazel, you have outdone yourself," the golden dragon rumbled, his voice thick with approval and satisfaction. "Let us see the vessel you mean to seal me in."

Azazel stepped forward, pulling out a dark purple gem with a flourish, letting the light catch on its many facets. "Behold," he declared, his voice brimming with confidence. "A flawless orb of pure amethyst, sourced from deep in Siberia, cut and refined by yours truly. A fitting vessel for a being of your stature, wouldn't you agree?"

"It will suffice," Fafnir rumbled, his slitted eyes locked onto Azazel with a piercing intensity. "Are you prepared to begin the sealing?"

"Yes. My assistant, Marcus," Azazel gestured at Marcus, "will be assisting me."

Fafnir's head turned to face Marcus, his eyes narrowing. "A wyrmling? Hmph. If Azazel deems you fit for this, I will not object—in spite of your youth."

Marcus glanced at Azazel, who merely shrugged before striding forward, rolling up his sleeves. With a flick of his wrist, he began inscribing glowing circles into the air and ground around Fafnir, the sigils pulsing with holy energy. With a swift motion, he signaled Marcus to step in and assist, his focus never wavering from the glowing sigils forming in the air.

Marcus stepped forward beside Azazel, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him. He knew he lacked the knowledge and skill required to seal a being as powerful as Fafnir—he could barely manage the routine binding of sprites in their experiments. Fortunately, the real burden of the ritual would fall on Azazel. Marcus's role was simpler but still crucial: reinforcing the containment and channeling additional magic power as needed. Even so, the sheer magnitude of what they were attempting made his pulse quicken.

As the final sigil snapped into place, the air thickened with latent energy, the charged atmosphere humming with raw power. Azazel turned to Marcus, his expression a silent question of readiness, eyes sharp with expectation. Marcus swallowed, steeling himself before giving a firm nod. At once, the magic circles ignited, their intricate patterns flaring to life as the sealing ritual commenced.

The space around Fafnir seemed to ripple and distort, as if reality itself were bending toward the dark jewel in front of Azazel. Threads of energy stretched and coiled, drawn inexorably toward the artifact, warping the air with an eerie, gravitational pull. Yet, the dragon remained still, utterly unperturbed, his molten-gold eyes fixed on the process with unreadable intensity.

Slowly but surely, the space around Fafnir constricted, shrinking and flowing like thick molasses toward the jewel. Marcus frowned—this wasn't fast enough. The stabilization was complete, and the binding process had begun, but at this rate, they would run out of power before they could finish. Just as the weight of that realization settled over him, something shifted. A crack, unseen but deeply felt, split through the fabric of the ritual. Then, as if a dam had burst, the space around Fafnir collapsed in an instant, rushing toward the jewel with unstoppable force. In a blink, the golden dragon was gone, his form swallowed whole by the purple jewel, leaving behind only a residual hum of power vibrating in the air.

For a moment, everything was still and silent, as if the world was holding its breath. Then, Azazel broke the silence letting out a laugh, shaking his head. "Well, that almost got messy at the end there, but it looks like the binding worked perfectly! How're you feeling in there, Fafnir?"

The purple jewel on the ground pulsed with a golden light, and Fafnir's voice emerged from within, a deep rumble that resonated through the air. [Nothing seems amiss. Congratulations Lord of Crows, the last being to seal one of my power was your creator.]

Marcus didn't think he had ever seen Azazel preen so much at a compliment as he did that one. No longer laser-focused on his task, he took a glance at Odin and Rossweisse. Odin remained where he had stood before the sealing, a faint smile on his face, but otherwise composed. Rossweisse, on the other hand, had taken a few steps back, her expression one of awe as she stared intently at Fafnir's new vessel. The intensity of her gaze was almost reverent, her fingers twitching slightly as if resisting the urge to reach out. She must have sensed Marcus watching her because, in an instant, her eyes snapped up to meet his. For a fleeting moment, he caught something raw in her expression—hunger, curiosity, something deeper—before she blinked, a dusting of red creeping across her cheeks as she quickly looked away.

"It seems the sealing went well," Odin said, stepping toward Marcus and Azazel with a satisfied nod. "There is only one proper way to celebrate an occasion such as this. Drinks are on me! We've got enough daylight left to hit every pub in Glaðsheimr!"

Marcus grimaced. He enjoyed a good drink in moderation every now and then, but that was far too much for him. The thought of dealing with a drunk Azazel only made it worse. A quick glance at Rossweisse confirmed she felt the same—her lips pressed into a thin line, her brow furrowed in what looked like resignation. Given their conversation the previous night, he doubted she was eager to deal with her inebriated boss either.

Odin, apparently noticing their discomfort, chuckled. "If that sounds so dreadful, you two are free to celebrate on your own. Consider yourself relieved of duty for the rest of the day, Rossweisse. Why don't you show Marcus around? I give you permission and all that jazz."

Stepping next to Odin, Azazel held up Fafnir's vessel with a smile and said, "Have fun, you two." A magic circle flared to life beneath their feet, before flaring in a brilliant flash. In an instant, the two vanished, leaving only a faint shimmer in the air where they had stood.

"So/Why—" Marcus and Rossweisse spoke at the same time, then paused. "Sorry, you go first," Marcus said with a small, sheepish smile.

"Why don't I teleport us back and we can talk more there." Rossweisse offered creating a teleportation circle below her feet.

"Sounds like a plan," Marcus answered, stepping next to her inside the circle. In a flash, they reappeared within Glaðsheimr.

Marcus blinked as the glow of teleportation faded, revealing a tranquil park nestled against the towering marble walls of Glaðsheimr. The neatly manicured greenery contrasted with the city's usual grandeur, offering a rare pocket of serenity.

"I often come here during my breaks to read," Rossweisse said, glancing around before looking back at Marcus. "It's one of the quieter places in the city."

Marcus nodded. "I can see why. It's a nice change of pace from all the hustle and bustle."

They strolled along the winding paths, making idle conversation about the city and its customs. Marcus found Rossweisse to be a wealth of knowledge, offering insights into Aesir traditions and history. Eventually, she suggested a proper tour, to which Marcus readily agreed.

Rossweisse led him through the bustling streets of Glaðsheimr, pointing out various landmarks—Iðunn's Orchard, the great market district, Bragi's theater, and Thor Stadium, to name a few. One particularly notable sight was Valhalla. The massive hall stood isolated from the rest of the city amidst open fields, scarred by the marks of countless battles. Marcus' keen eyes picked out craters, sections of knocked-over or burned-down forest, and patches where the grass seemed to rot. According to Rossweisse, cleaning up after and attending to the einherjar was one of the most disliked assignments for Valkyries, often foisted upon new recruits or used as a punishment posting.

After a while, they arrived at the palace, its imposing structure dominating the skyline. Inside, the opulence was even more pronounced, with grand halls lined with intricate carvings and enchanted torches casting an ethereal glow. Rossweisse guided him through winding corridors until they arrived at an immense set of double doors.

"This is the royal library," she said, pushing the doors open to reveal a vast chamber filled with towering bookshelves, each stacked with ancient tomes and scrolls. The scent of aged parchment and ink filled the air.

Marcus hesitated at the threshold. "Am I even allowed to be here?"

Rossweisse smiled. "As long as you're with me, it's fine."

He followed her inside, marveling at the sheer scale of the collection; it must have occupied more space than the whole of Vernworth Castle. They eventually settled at a table in a nook near the edge of the library, where Rossweisse leaned forward, curiosity gleaming in her bright blue eyes.

"So, tell me," she said, resting her chin on her hand. "Will Azazel truly be able to create a Sacred Gear with something as powerful as the soul of Fafnir? Have you managed to create other Gears? How are they bound to the user's soul?" A litany of questions poured from her lips.

Marcus sat in thought for a moment before answering. Azazel had never explicitly told him to keep the research quiet, but he doubted Azazel would be pleased if he divulged the painstakingly developed methods to another pantheon. With his mind made up, Marcus began to speak. "I really can't share the exact mechanics without running it by Azazel first, but I can talk about the general theory behind it and what we've accomplished."

Rossweisse perked up and leaned forward over the table, her eyes sparkling. "That's more than enough!"

"To answer your first question: probably. We really don't know for sure until we get back to the lab, run some tests, and build a few prototypes. We don't even know what Fafnir's Gear might be capable of yet. There's a lot to figure out first—like which of his powers are most strongly expressed in his soul, how much of Fafnir's energy the Gear and its user can handle, and other things of that nature. But I'm feeling confident." Marcus explained.

"You said 'we.' Are you working on the research with Azazel?" Rossweisse asked, tilting her head slightly.

"'Working on' is a bit generous. I'm really Azazel's lab assistant—I help him run experiments, handle the more monotonous tasks, and occasionally offer my own meager input. Azazel is the one with all the knowledge," Marcus admitted somewhat sheepishly.

Rossweisse shook her emphatically head. "You shouldn't dismiss yourself like that! Azazel is one of the most prolific inventors and researchers in the world. Even as his lab assistant, you're working on cutting-edge innovation." She sighed. "I'm really envious. Odin has been 'taking a break' from research for the past decade. I wish I could work on something like that."

Marcus paused, unsure of what to say. "I... could talk with Azazel about maybe making it a joint project with your pantheon?" He offered her a small, encouraging smile. "Or we could talk about something else if you prefer?"

Rossweisse gave him a warm, beautiful smile. "I really appreciate the offer, but I'd rather not inconvenience Lord Azazel. Besides, cleaning up after Odin is a full-time job." She pointed at him, eyes narrowing playfully. "But don't think you can change the subject, mister! You still haven't answered all of my questions!"

Marcus gave her a mock bow. "As my lady commands." The red creeping across her cheeks was undeniably attractive, Marcus thought—before realizing just how corny he sounded. Clearing his throat, he quickly moved on before he could dwell on it further.

"So, uh... We've been able to create minor Sacred Gears using the souls of small non-sentient magical creatures—sprites and pixies, mainly. Our more notable successes are able to grant users the ability to generate and control an element, but unfortunately, the control is poor and the generation weak. A novice human magician could probably achieve better results. Azazel believes we've reached the limit of what we can accomplish with such small creatures. That's why he was negotiating with Fafnir—we need more powerful souls to create better Gears. The problem is, beings of sufficient power are almost always sentient, and for ethical reasons, we've struggled to find willing volunteers to be bound to an experimental Sacred Gear," Marcus explained.

"Honestly, I was surprised when Azazel told me he was trying to get Fafnir to agree to it. I expected us to start with a spirit, a lesser wyvern, or something similar—not jump straight to a Dragon King. Then again, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. Azazel seems to take pleasure in making me bewildered and giving me headaches," Marcus remarked.

Rossweisse gave him a reassuring look, the silent camaraderie of one long-suffering assistant to another.

"Unfortunately, I can't really tell you much about how the Gears are bound to the user's soul. Soul magic isn't really in my wheelhouse, and Azazel has trouble speaking below a graduate student reading level. So, while I somewhat understand what's going on, I really couldn't give a good explanation," Marcus admitted apologetically.

Rossweisse offered a small smile. "Don't worry, you've already given me plenty to think about."

She leaned back slightly, idly tapping her fingers against the table. "What you and Azazel are doing is incredible. Creating new Sacred Gears... If you succeed, will you share your methods, sell the finished product to other pantheons, or keep this strictly a Grigori endeavor?"

Marcus shrugged. "Couldn't say for sure. All I know is that Azazel will want to show off his work to the world, so it probably won't stay a secret for long." As he looked at Rossweisse's face, he noticed that the light from a nearby window had stopped illuminating it. Glancing outside, he saw the sun setting.

"Shit," Marcus whispered, he hadn't realized so much time had passed. He stood up and turned back to Rossweisse with an apologetic look. "I really enjoyed this, and I'm grateful you took the time out of your day to show me around. But I need to get Azazel back soon, or Penemue will kill me."

Rossweisse stood and walked around the table to stand in front of him, raising a hand as a rune-inscribed magic circle flared to life above it. In a brief flash, a clipboard materialized in her grasp. She pulled a pen from its clip and scribbled something in the corner of one of the sheets. Tearing it off, she handed it to him.

"My phone number," she said simply, not meeting his eyes. "Keep in touch."

Marcus took the slip of paper with a grateful nod. "Thanks. I will."

With that, he turned and hurried off—he had a drunk crow to catch.

A/N:

As of today(3/12/2025) I've made some minor edits to most of the previous chapters, mostly grammatical in nature; but I did change the examination scene in chapter 3 quite a lot so you might want to re-read that.