A Journey Unwanted-Chapter 421 - 410: Alliance?

[Location: Realm of Iofiel]

("A useful tool,") the thought drifted idly through Grimm’s mind as he absorbed Iofiel’s words without interruption. Support, watch over, oversee, or guide. Each term had been wrapped carefully in that warm tone, spoken with softness and framed as benevolence.

Yet beneath the honeyed phrasing lay a consistent structure: control. She wished to observe him, to position herself near his growth, to "elevate" him in a direction of her choosing. Not malicious, perhaps, but certainly not selfless either. No being with that much pride in her authority acted without an agenda.

("Not malevolent,") he conceded inwardly. ("But aligned with her own designs.") The General had lived long enough to recognize strategy when he heard it. He was not offended, just plainly aware. If she was choosing him, then it was because he could be useful. And usefulness always implied a purpose beyond oneself.

"Hm," he spoke at last. "You say these things," Grimm began evenly, his voice steady beneath the helmet that obscured his face, "but from what I understand, the Gods hold a general distaste for dragons due to the Great War. Is that incorrect?" The question was delivered calmly, without challenge.

Iofiel tilted her head, the motion gentle—almost endearing in appearance, harmless even. Yet the presence behind it was anything but small.

"Being a Descendant," Grimm continued, folding his heavy armored arms across his chest, "one could reasonably assume you hold at least a measure of distaste for me as well."

Silence lingered between them for half a breath.

Iofiel placed a delicate hand against her chest.

"I am not so prude," she declared softly, though pride slipped cleanly through her tone. "A divine being of my stature does not cling to primitive prejudices." Her pale-blue eyes remained steady. "Furthermore," she added, chin lifting slightly, "I am a New God. I was not yet created when the Great War unfolded. I did not partake in its hatred. I did not inherit its grudges." A pause followed. "So you have nothing to fear from me in that regard."

"New God..." The term stirred recognition, Grimm’s gaze shifted briefly toward the horizon of glowing flora as he recalled. In Verdantis, there had been whispers of a Moon Goddess with little history. They had called her a New God as well.

The Vel’ryr empire did not worship, so he had never invested much thought into divine taxonomy.

("New means recent. And that implies instability or ambition.") He filed the thought away; there were more immediate matters. "You seek to ’guide’ me," Grimm said, returning his focus to her. "For what exactly?"

Iofiel’s smile sharpened faintly, a satisfied smirk.

"Now that," she said, "is the correct question." She turned gracefully, gesturing for him to follow.

Grimm did.

They began walking through the vibrant field. The flowers shifted as they moved, petals brushing lightly against his greaves. The luminous flora parted in a narrow path before them. When Iofiel passed, the blossoms seemed to lift higher, rising as though acknowledging her.

Her voice carried easily as they walked.

"I had previously enlisted the cooperation of another Untainted," she explained. "However, he proved... particularly difficult." A small but controlled sigh escaped her. "Strong-willed. Distrustful. Very, very rude." Her tone suggested disappointment. "After careful consideration," she continued, "I determined that among the three Untainted currently residing within Álfheimr, you would be the most suitable."

"Suitable," Grimm repeated.

"Yes," she affirmed smoothly. "Temperamentally and intellectually."

He did not respond immediately.

"You keep calling me that," he said after a moment. "’Untainted.’" His sabatons pressed methodically into the luminous soil as they walked. "Is there meaning behind the term, or is it simply a title meant to flatter?"

Iofiel smiled, amused.

"Of course there is meaning," she said. "There is meaning in all things, especially in classifications." She slowed slightly, allowing him to walk beside her rather than behind. "Five Untainted exist across the broader weave of existence," she began. "Two among them are already particularly unusual. Their fates branch in extraordinary complexity—far more than ordinary beings." She glanced at him. "Most individuals possess a limited array of possible outcomes. Their lives flow within predictable channels." Her wings shifted as she continued. "But the Untainted are different."

A slight pause.

"Among them are the three of you currently within this realm."

"Three," Grimm echoed.

"Yes," she confirmed. "You three are more unique, as in not bound by fate. You possess no preordained destiny, no singular thread guiding your steps." The field grew quieter as she spoke. "However," she added carefully, "a higher power still attempts to govern you." Her tone lowered. "It cannot restrict your paths entirely. It cannot confine you to a single outcome. But it watches."

("Fate and destiny,") Grimm’s helmet tilted minutely. He had never concerned himself with such abstractions. He believed in causality and consequences. Being told he was exempt from fate did not inspire relief; it merely inspired scrutiny.

"Interesting," he murmured, pace steady.

"Indeed," Iofiel replied. She looked ahead now, her expression smoothing—but something surfacing beneath it. "Even a great and powerful Goddess such as myself is not exempt from fate."

The admission was slight, and though her tone barely shifted, there was something beneath it. Not humility and not quite resentment. Perhaps recognition of limitation.

Grimm turned his helm toward her.

"You are bound," he said.

"Yes," she answered calmly. "I see possible futures. I understand my constraints, and I operate within them. You do not." The flowers shimmered softly around them. "And that," she concluded quietly, "is why you matter."

Grimm absorbed that in silence.

He did not feel elevated, more so evaluated.

"And what," he asked, his voice unhurried, "does a Goddess constrained by fate intend to accomplish with someone who is not?"

"You and I can accomplish much." Iofiel’s stride slowed, then stopped with deliberation, forcing Grimm to halt a step behind her. The flowers at her feet brightened subtly as she turned. Her smile settled into a warm and composed one, almost disarming. "That is precisely why I seek your assistance. Great and powerful as I am," she continued, placing a gentle hand over her heart as though acknowledging a simple truth, "I am also humble enough to recognize when cooperation yields greater results. This would not be servitude. It would be an alliance."

Her wings extended slightly, enough to widen her silhouette. The light in the field seemed to gather around her form, whether by instinct or intent, outlining her in a radiance that made her divine form stand out all the more.

"You can become an essential factor in saving the Nine Realms," she said, her tone deepening just slightly. "More than that, you can become something beyond what you are now. Your potential is already considerable, but under my guidance, it would be refined. Nearly without limit."

"That hardly sounds interesting," Grimm replied without inflection.

There it was again—a subtle reaction. A faint twitch at the corner of her brow and the slightest tightening of one wing before it steadied.

"And I see no immediate use in allying myself with some Goddess."

"...Not some Goddess," Iofiel corrected swiftly, the warmth in her voice sharpening by a fraction before smoothing again. "I am a very well-known deity within these realms. My influence is neither minor nor obscure."

She cleared her throat lightly, as though resetting her poise.

"And my assistance would be very, very important for you," she continued. "You have already unintentionally broken our governed laws. That incident was overlooked. Temporarily. But such leniency cannot be relied upon indefinitely. You may stumble again. You may breach the Divine Principals." Her eyes narrowed slightly in emphasis. "They already know you as the Defier of the Realm."

"Hm." Grimm folded his arms once more, black gauntlet rising to lightly cup the chin of his helmet in thought. "Breach these Divine Principals?"

"Yes," Iofiel nodded, her expression turning more serious. "The Keepers of Order do not take lightly to those who oppose their laws. They are not patient, and they are not merciful." Her voice lost some of its earlier brightness. "They punish the many," she continued quietly, "for the crimes of the few."

For a brief moment, her lips pressed together. The smile was gone.

"They would wipe out an entire realm," she said, the words coming out slowly, "simply to reconstruct it in a manner they deem correct. They value balance over life. Structure is of more importance than mercy." A slow breath escaped her. "And if they determine a threat cannot be corrected..." She hesitated. "They may take even more drastic action."

Her posture tightened slightly. One hand curled at her side. The radiance around her dimmed, softening. For a fleeting second, she did not look like an untouchable Goddess.

She looked burdened.

Grimm watched her without interruption.

"Defying these laws carries consequences of that scale," he said evenly, tapping the chin of his helmet once more. "Would you say the punishment corresponds proportionally to the severity of the transgression?"

Iofiel’s eyes met his again.

"No," she answered, and this time her voice carried a grave certainty. "The punishments are always worse. They are meant to deter, not to balance." She drew a slow breath. "I once heard of an Ancestor who defied the natural law of Death itself," she said as her gaze drifted briefly across the field as if recalling something distant. "The Keepers of Order responded by nearly eradicating the entire Ancestor race. Only a handful remain now."

Her jaw tightened slightly.

"That is the scale at which they operate."

The message was clear. One careless misstep or one act of defiance. Entire civilizations erased in the name of order.

She needed him to understand that.

Needed him to grasp the brutality behind the Divine Principals.

That rebellion was not romantic, it was merely catastrophic.

Grimm remained silent for a long moment. The flowers swayed around his sabatons. His long red hair shifted slightly in the gentle warmth of the realm.

"What," he asked finally, his voice steady, "would be the severest ’crime’ one could commit against these laws?"