Isabela's body gave in before her will.
There was no violent fall — only the end of support.
Her knees failed first.
Then her shoulders.
The weight that had kept her upright finally overcame what little resistance remained, and she sank into the mud like something no longer permitted to stand.
The blue flames around her fists scattered into unstable fragments, flickering one last time before going out, as if they already knew the body could no longer sustain them.
The rain kept falling.
Azazel watched.
He did not move.
The red of his eyes followed the exact moment Isabela's consciousness broke — not from shock, but from absolute exhaustion.
"…Not yet," he said, too low to be heard by anything other than the world itself.
Her body remained still.
Her chest rose once.
Then again.
Slower.
Until the space between one breath and the next stretched beyond what was acceptable.
And then… it stopped.
The cold did not come first.
The silence did.
Not the absence of sound — but the absence of weight.
Isabela opened her eyes.
There was no mud.
No rain.
No pain.
She was standing.
Ahead, a vast hall stretched out like something not built, but granted.
The floor seemed made of ancient stone and contained light, and the air carried the distant echo of battles that had ended ages ago.
Swords.
Thousands of them.
Driven into the ground, suspended in the air, resting on invisible columns — blades of every style, size, and origin.
Some human.
Others unmistakably divine.
Many broken.
Many stained by something that was not recent blood.
At the center, above wide, austere steps, a throne rose.
And upon it… her.
The valkyrie sat with impeccable posture, wrapped in ancient armor marked by scars time itself had not dared erase.
Her helm rested beside the throne, revealing hair pale as old ash and a severe face, beautiful in a way that did not seek approval.
The eyes were what weighed most.
Blue.
Not alive.
Not dead.
Eternal.
Isabela inclined her head slightly, instinct before reason.
Her gaze swept the hall once, absorbing its impossible vastness, before returning to the figure on the throne.
"Where…" — her voice came out steadier than it should have for someone who ought to be dead — "where am I?"
The answer came without haste.
Without echo.
As if the space itself had been trained to listen.
"You stand at the threshold," said the ancient voice. "Between the life that insists… and the death that already claims you."
The valkyrie rose from the throne.
Each step she took seemed to reorganize the space around her, as though the hall adjusted itself to her presence.
"This is the point where new gods fail…" she continued, "…or are reborn."
She stopped before Isabela.
The blue gaze passed through her — not as immediate judgment, but as complete reading.
"Welcome to the Judgment of Reincarnation."
A brief pause.
"Isabela."
"The child who bears my mark."
Silence fell.
Isabela held the gaze.
She did not ask questions.
She did not retreat.
The valkyrie studied her a moment longer.
Then she spoke again — now without softness.
"We do not have much time."
She raised her hand, and for a brief moment Isabela felt something pulling at her center — as if her soul were being slowly unraveled.
"Your body is failing," said Brynhildr. "And your soul… fading."
The hand lowered.
The weight ceased.
"That is why I will be brief."
She stepped closer.
"Listen carefully."
Brynhildr held her gaze for a long moment.
There was no hurry.
Time there did not advance — it waited.
"You carry my mark…" she said at last. "But you do not carry my story."
Isabela frowned slightly.
"My mark?" she asked. "I never—"
"I served Odin," Brynhildr interrupted, her voice firm, ancient. "Before he was merely a feared name. Before Valhalla became a promise rather than a sentence."
She moved a few steps away, and the swords around them seemed to respond to the memory.
"I chose the dead," she continued. "I decided who deserved to remain… and who should fall."
The blue in her eyes darkened a shade.
"Until the day I chose by honor."
"And not by order."
Isabela remained silent.
"As punishment, I was torn from what I was," said Brynhildr. "Made mortal. Condemned to love."
She faced Isabela again.
"And I loved."
The hall seemed to grow heavier.
"He was everything I could not be. Free. Alive. Human."
"And because of me… he died."
Brynhildr's hand slowly closed.
"Not by betrayal."
"Not by hatred."
A pause.
"By consequence."
Isabela felt the weight of those words settle in her chest.
"I caused his death," the valkyrie concluded. "And when I understood that, I chose to follow him."
Silence.
Then Isabela spoke, her voice low:
"…Why are you telling me this?"
Brynhildr stepped closer, stopping just a few paces away.
"Because reincarnation is not inheritance," she said. "It is repetition."
She raised her hand.
In the air, an image formed — distorted, unstable.
A man.
Far too familiar.
Isabela's heart skipped a beat.
"He is the one you love most," Brynhildr said bluntly. "And as long as you love… you will hesitate."
Isabela drew a deep breath.
"Azazel is using his body—"
"It does not matter," Brynhildr cut in. "Judgment does not distinguish guilt. Only decision."
The blue gaze pinned her in place.
"If you accept my name," said Brynhildr, "you will have to kill him."
The word fell without echo.
"Not as unconscious sacrifice."
"Not as mistake."
Closer.
"But as choice."
Isabela clenched her fists.
"And if I fail?"
The silence that followed was absolute.
"Then you will disappear," Brynhildr replied. "Body. Soul. Name."
She turned slightly, looking over the hall of swords.
"And with me… the last Brynhildr will vanish."
She turned back to Isabela.
"There will be no legacy."
"There will be no memory."
"There will be no return."
Isabela clenched her fists.
The silence around them pressed against her chest, as though the hall itself awaited a question already asked countless times — and never aloud.
"Then why now?" Her voice came out louder than intended. "I looked for you."
She stepped forward.
"I searched for years," she continued. "After Éreon spoke to me during the Central Kingdom's attack… after I committed the sin of allowing that being to wander in my father's body."
The word father did not tremble.
But it weighed.
"For years I sought this judgment," said Isabela. "I scoured ruins, echoes, forgotten pacts… everything."
She lifted her gaze, steady.
"Why only now?"
Brynhildr remained silent for a few moments.
Not from indecision.
From precision.
She then turned, regarding the hall of swords like someone recalling something no longer needed to carry.
"Because you were not ready," she answered at last.
Isabela frowned.
"You were seeking an escape," the valkyrie continued. "Not an end."
The blue gaze returned to her.
"You sought absolution."
"A lesson."
"Something to ease the guilt."
Each word landed like an adjustment.
"Your path was not wrong," said Brynhildr, "but it was lost."
The silence deepened.
"Guilt was what drove you," she went on. "Not choice."
Isabela felt the impact without retreating.
Then Brynhildr stepped forward.
"But today…" she said, "something different burned within you."
The blue eyes narrowed slightly.
"You did not insist on redemption."
"You did not ask permission."
"You did not seek to be spared."
Brynhildr inclined her head, almost imperceptibly.
"You were willing," she stated. "Not for redemption. Not for guilt."
Isabela held her gaze.
"Still…" she said, her voice firm, "why this moment?"
Brynhildr did not answer immediately.
She took a step forward.
The hall seemed to contract around them, as if the memory of the place itself reacted to the shift in tone.
"Because until now…" said the valkyrie, "you walked unmoored."
The accusation was not raised.
It was precise.
"You confused penitence with purpose."
"You confused seeking with fleeing."
The blue eyes fixed on Isabela.
"And that…" she continued, "my blood would never allow."
She stepped closer.
"And there is something I must correct in you."
The sentence fell hard.
Without ornament.
"Unlike the other awakened," said Brynhildr, "you carry my blood."
Isabela felt the weight of the revelation cut through her chest.
"Altered by the ages," Brynhildr continued. "Diluted. Rewritten."
She touched her own chest.
"But still mine."
The blue gaze became absolute.
"It was not me you should have sought," she said. "It was yourself."
A brief pause.
The silence broke when Isabela drew a deep breath.
She lifted her chin.
Her posture aligned.
Not in defiance.
In conscious acceptance.
She met Brynhildr's gaze without wavering.
"Then do not look away," she said. "And do not delay what must be done."
A brief pause.
"If this is a judgment," she continued, "then let it recognize me whole."
Brynhildr watched her.
And for the first time, not as judge.
But as equal.
The weight in the air shifted.
The hall trembled faintly.
"Time is running out," said the valkyrie.
She extended her hand.
"Rise under my name…"
"Or vanish with it."
Isabela hesitated for a single instant — not from fear, but from understanding what that touch meant.
Then she took it.
The moment their hands met, something burned.
Not like pain.
Like recognition.
A mark began to form in Isabela's palm — ancient lines, intertwined like runes never meant for mortals.
The symbol pulsed in deep blue, not like living flame, but like fire that remembered having been divine.
Brynhildr watched.
And for the first time, her lips curved — not in joy, not in relief.
In confirmation.
"So be it," she said.
Without warning.
Without hesitation.
The valkyrie's hand passed through Isabela's chest.
There was no blood.
There was no pain.
There was rupture.
The world around them lost depth, as if reality itself had been stepped back.
Brynhildr's voice echoed, not in space — but within.
"Your judgment has begun."
Her hand remained there an instant longer than necessary.
"But before you are reborn…" she continued, "…you must die completely."
She withdrew her hand slowly.
Isabela did not fall.
Her body simply ceased to sustain what was no longer whole.
Before everything faded, Brynhildr spoke one last time:
"May the heroes of Valhalla guide you…"
"Or tear you apart until nothing remains to be guided."
The hall of swords unraveled.
Silence tore open.
Rain fell.
Not gentle.
Heavy.
Too thick to seem natural.
Mud surged upward in a dry impact.
The air gave way.
The strike came brutal, direct, without recognizable technique — a fist wrapped in dense blue flames that sought no shape, only impact.
Azazel reacted instantly.
The space around him contracted, gravity sealing itself like an invisible shield.
The blow did not reach him.
But it drove him back.
Two steps.
Mud exploded beneath his feet, the ground collapsing under a pressure that should not have existed at that level.
Azazel lifted his gaze.
The red in his eyes no longer assessed strength alone.
It recognized change.
"So you found a way back from the dead…" he murmured.
The body advanced again.
Without precise coordination.
Without rhythm.
Like something still learning to exist inside its own skin.
Azazel raised his hand.
Gravity closed.
The body was hurled backward and slammed heavily into the mud.
It rolled once.
Stopped.
Then… rose again.
This time, more slowly.
The eyes remained closed.
A blue aura leaked from the skin, not in explosion — but in constant pressure, like something trying to occupy a body not yet ready.
Azazel kept his gaze fixed on her.
"Or is this…" he continued, his voice lower, "…that child's influence?"
Isabela remained motionless.
Standing.
Eyes still closed.
The blue aura continued to expand slowly, warping the air around her.
The judgment had not ended.
It had only begun.