My Wives are Beautiful Demons

The Bifröst reacted to Vergil’s presence before Brynhildr had even finished raising Gjallarhorn.

Qliphoth’s roots, wrapped around the stolen structure, pulled back enough to expose the center of the Rainbow Bridge. The golden runes engraved into the platform lit up in sequence, still carrying the language of the Nine Realms, but already contaminated by the signature of the Demon Realm. The process was not completely stable. The bridge still recognized Yggdrasil as its origin, Gjallarhorn as its instrument of command, and Brynhildr as one of the authorities capable of guiding its routes, but now it also accepted Vergil as the owner of that passage.

He found that strangely satisfying.

Brynhildr brought the horn close to her lips, but did not blow it. She merely directed the opening toward the center of the platform and introduced a small amount of sacred-demonic energy into it. Gjallarhorn responded with a deep vibration, spreading transparent circles through the air as it searched for Helheim among the lower routes.

"We do not need a full call," she explained. "A true blast would be heard throughout all Nine Realms."

"Would that cause problems?"

"After what happened in Asgard, it would be the equivalent of announcing that we stole the horn too."

Vergil looked at Gjallarhorn in her hands. "But we did."

"We do not need to announce everything."

"A prudent approach."

Brynhildr looked at him from the side. "You say that after tearing the Bifröst out of the ground."

"It worked."

She released a small sigh and returned to concentrating. The runes finished aligning the passage. The bridge’s colors became colder, losing their warmer tones as the route descended through Yggdrasil’s branches and roots. The gold became pale. The red disappeared. The blue gained a sickly greenish hue.

Vergil took the first step.

Light surrounded them.

The crossing was much shorter than the journey to Asgard. The Bifröst plunged through the lower roots like a river forced through narrow tunnels, passing through spaces where Vergil felt the presence of millions of souls organized into silent currents. Some moved forward. Others remained still. There were entire regions where the flow simply disappeared, swallowed by routes that did not belong to the original system.

He memorized every flaw he could feel.

Then the light broke apart.

Vergil and Brynhildr touched the ground of Helheim.

The first thing he noticed was the cold. It was not the clean cold of a mountain or the absence of heat created by magic. It was a temperature that passed through flesh and reached directly into the spirit, as though the realm tried to remind every visitor that this place existed for the dead.

The second thing was the state of the realm.

Helheim was miserable.

They had appeared on a cracked stone platform surrounded by ancient walls, broken pillars, and buildings that looked as though they had been constructed to survive ages of abandonment, not to provide any comfort. A blue-green mist covered the valleys, hiding parts of the terrain and revealing only the silhouettes of bridges, leaning towers, and enormous gates engraved with faded runes. Ancient chains hung from elevated structures, some thick enough to restrain creatures larger than cities, although many were broken or simply vanished into the mist.

In the distance, black mountains surrounded the realm like teeth. Above them, a sunless sky remained covered by gray clouds that moved slowly, dragged by winds capable of producing voices among the ruins. Thousands of souls walked along narrow roads, nearly all of them translucent, silent, and bent beneath the weight of their own memories. Some moved in organized lines. Others remained still before blocked bridges, waiting for orders that apparently never came.

There was no gold.

No gardens.

No great halls decorated to glorify dead warriors.

Only stone, ice, mist, and an administration that was clearly overwhelmed.

Vergil observed a tower whose upper section had collapsed over the main road.

"Precarious."

Brynhildr looked around like someone returning to a place too familiar to inspire surprise.

"In the end, it is still the world of the dead."

Vergil followed with his eyes a soul that passed through the side of a ruined building because the door was blocked by ice.

"That does not prevent basic maintenance."

"Souls arrive, are evaluated, and move on to where they are meant to remain. Helheim was never created for luxury." Brynhildr pointed toward the long lines over the bridges. "The dead do not need comfortable rooms, food, or celebrations. They need direction."

"It appears they are not receiving that either."

Her expression hardened.

"That is the problem."

Brynhildr walked several steps to the edge of the platform and observed the lower routes. The nearest bridge stretched almost two kilometers before disappearing behind a wall. Hundreds of souls stood upon it. None moved forward. There were no Valkyries guiding the flow, no guards of Hela, and no visible administrators.

"This sector should have at least twenty of my sisters," she said. "Two at reception, four evaluating memories, six guiding the souls, and the rest patrolling the passages."

"I do not see any."

"Neither do I."

Vergil began expanding his perception when something moved inside the mist.

The presence approached quickly.

Far too quickly to be an ordinary soul.

A golden blur crossed the bridge, passed between two lines of the dead, leaped over a broken wall, and entered the platform at nearly the speed of light. The figure tried to stop in front of Brynhildr, but miscalculated the distance. Her feet slid across the ice-covered stone, her body passed several meters beyond the two of them, and her arms began spinning in a desperate attempt to regain balance.

She managed to stop near the edge.

She remained still for half a second.

Then she slid back along the same path, as though she had realized too late that she had overshot the correct position. When she finally stopped in front of Brynhildr, she struck one boot against the ground, straightened her body, and brought a hand to her forehead in an excessively rigid salute.

"Göll reporting to the boss!"

Vergil examined the newcomer.

Göll was small compared to the other Valkyries, although she still possessed the trained body of a warrior. Her golden hair was divided into two long braids that fell over her shoulders, and her greenish eyes shone with an almost childish enthusiasm. Her pale armor bore several impact marks, one shoulder plate was secured with an improvised strap, and ice had accumulated over the tip of one wing.

Despite that, she was smiling.

Her entire presence was emotion. Concern, relief, curiosity, and anxiety appeared across her face without any attempt to hide them. She seemed incapable of feeling anything halfway.

Brynhildr observed her younger sister for several seconds.

"You almost fell off the platform."

"But I did not."

"You nearly hit our guest."

"I would have dodged."

"You could not even stop."

Göll slowly lowered her hand from the salute.

"I was excited."

Brynhildr sighed and pointed toward Vergil.

"Salute your new boss."

Göll turned her head.

She looked at Vergil.

Then at Brynhildr.

Then back at Vergil.

Her green eyes began shining even more brightly.

"The plan worked?"

Brynhildr crossed her arms. "Has any plan of mine ever failed?"

Göll opened such a wide smile that her cheeks rose.

"YAY!"

She jumped forward, stopped in front of Vergil, and repeated the salute with enough force that one of her braids struck her own face.

"Göll salutes the great boss! I, Göll, belong completely to the boss! Thank you for accepting us!"

Vergil observed the young Valkyrie in silence.

Göll remained in position.

Then she subtly raised her eyes to check whether he was pleased.

Vergil looked toward Brynhildr.

She shrugged.

"She is the youngest. She does not understand much about the world yet. Be patient."

"I understand many things," Göll protested without abandoning the salute.

"You tried to fight an Ice Troll with a spoon."

"It was an enchanted spoon."

"It was a soup spoon."

"The Troll did not know that."

Vergil felt the corner of his mouth rise.

Göll noticed and seemed to consider it a personal victory.

He raised one finger.

A current of demonic energy wrapped around her waist before she could ask what was happening. Göll was lifted from the ground with a surprised sound and floated above Vergil. He placed her behind his neck, with her thighs resting on his shoulders and her legs hanging in front of his chest.

"Whoa!"

Göll grabbed his head by reflex.

Brynhildr stared at the two of them.

"You did not need to do that."

"She can see better from there."

Göll pointed toward the distant mist. "I really can!"

Vergil rested one hand over her leg to keep her from falling and looked toward Brynhildr.

"Let us go. We need to find all of them."

Brynhildr adjusted Gjallarhorn across her back and began descending the platform steps.

"Göll, report."

The young Valkyrie straightened herself on Vergil’s shoulders, assuming a surprisingly serious posture.

"Of the three thousand and forty-seven Valkyries assigned to Helheim, we managed to gather one thousand two hundred and eleven."

Brynhildr stopped.

"Did you say one thousand two hundred and eleven?"

"Yes."

"During the last communication, Hela still had contact with almost half."

Göll nodded quickly. "We lost more signals over the last few hours. Some patrols went to search for the missing ones and stopped responding too. The Queen forbade any new searches without reinforcements."

Vergil continued walking. "Were any found dead?"

"No."

"Injured?"

"Seven returned. None could explain where they had been."

Brynhildr looked at her. "Amnesia?"

"Worse. They remembered leaving, remembered walking, and remembered returning. But they remembered nothing between one thing and the other."

"How long were they missing?"

"Three days for us." Göll hesitated. "They said it had been minutes."

Vergil felt his attention sharpen.

"Temporal distortion."

Brynhildr agreed. "Or a route outside Helheim’s domain."

Göll pointed north, where a partially destroyed bridge crossed an abyss covered by green mist.

"Most of the disappearances began after that bridge."

Vergil observed the structure. Even from a distance, he could sense something wrong. Souls walked halfway across and then turned back, although none appeared to understand that they had changed direction. The passage was not physically blocked. It was convincing the dead that they had already crossed.

The same logic as the doors Seris had mentioned.

"And Hela?" he asked.

"At the palace. She is trying to keep the main routes open and said she would not leave until you arrived." Göll leaned over his head. "She also ordered one hundred and fifty thousand souls to be prepared."

Vergil slowed his pace.

"For what?"

Göll became quiet.

Brynhildr discreetly looked away.

Vergil raised an eyebrow.

"Göll."

"The Queen said they were for you to eat."

"I understand."

"She also said other things."

"I do not need to know."

"Probably not," Brynhildr agreed.

Göll raised one hand. "I can tell you."

"No," both of them answered at the same time.

The young Valkyrie lowered her hand.

"All right."

They reached the beginning of the interrupted bridge. The mist was thicker there, and the cold intensified with every step. Several souls stood before the entrance, repeating the same movements. A dead warrior eternally adjusted his shield. A woman held a child’s hand and took the first step without ever leaving the spot. An old man turned his head backward, as though hearing someone call him.

Vergil placed Göll on the ground.

She left his shoulders with some reluctance, but immediately drew her sword when she sensed the energy around the bridge.

Brynhildr removed Gjallarhorn.

"I will try to call our sisters."

"Wait."

Vergil approached the first stone of the passage and knelt. He ran his fingers over an almost faded rune. There was Helheim’s energy, Yggdrasil’s influence, and something finer crossing through both.

Something external.

Something that had learned to imitate the routes.

"When you sound the horn, do not make a general call," he said. "Call only those who recognize your voice."

Brynhildr understood the risk. "If the thing is listening, an open call could give it a signature to copy."

"Exactly."

Göll held her sword in both hands. "And if it answers?"

Vergil stood.

His hand rested on Yamato.

"Then we discover where it is."

Brynhildr brought Gjallarhorn to her lips.

The sound that emerged was not loud. It was a low, concentrated note, carrying her authority over the Valkyries. The call crossed the bridge, entered the mist, and descended through the lower routes like an order that demanded no obedience, only recognition.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then voices answered.

Hundreds of them.

Distant.

Muffled.

Some came from beneath the bridge.

Others emerged from the mountains.

Many seemed to be far beyond Helheim’s known borders.

Göll’s eyes widened.

Brynhildr lowered Gjallarhorn from her lips.

Vergil stared into the mist as the responses continued arriving, growing more numerous and weaker.

One of them, however, did not call for Brynhildr.

It used another voice.

But all three recognized the name.

"Freya..."

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