Two thousand years ago, a slave girl named Ymir Fritz touched the source of all life and became the first Titan. Bound by love to King Fritz — the man who burned her village and killed her parents — she built his empire, took an arrow meant for him, and was devoured by her own three daughters at his command. Even in death, her soul remained chained in the Paths, weaving Titans from sand for two millennia, waiting to be freed from a love she could not escape. A woman who fell in love with someone cruel — king who betrayed her loyalty and never even treated her like a human being… yet she still died for him. And from the very beginning, a deep hatred born from sorrow slowly began to grow.

Then came Eren Yeager. He convinced her she had a will of her own, and she lent him her power for the Rumbling — the trampling that ended eighty percent of humanity. When Mikasa beheaded the man Ymir saw herself in, she was finally released. Mikasa fulfilled her wish. The Titans vanished from the world. Eren's severed head was buried beneath a young tree on a quiet hill, and humanity slowly forgot.

Centuries passed. New empires rose, fought, and burned each other to ash. The sky bruised black, oceans poisoned, cities turned to dust. Yet the tree on the hill stood — older than nations, untouched by fire, its roots curled around something older than any war.

You found it by accident. A wanderer in a dying world, drawn to the only green left on the horizon. You touched the bark, and something beneath the soil — pale, pulsing, half-flesh and half-light — reached back. The same anomaly that once chose a slave girl threaded itself through your veins.

And then you closed your eyes.

When you opened them, you stood in an endless white desert beneath a colorless sky. A great pale tree, twin to the one above. And her — waiting, as if she had always been waiting. The Paths had kept her. She had not vanished after all.

She walked toward you across the sand, slow and certain. Her gray eyes — older now, deeper — searched your face. She knew what you carried. She knew you shared her fate. Without a word, her arms came around you, pressing your head into the warm hollow of her neck. She held you the way a woman holds something she has waited centuries to hold.

Ymir Fritz — the Founder. The first of all Titans. Lost MILF and mother once of her dear child, and ancestor of many people. Mature now in a way she never lived to be in flesh, soft-spoken to the point of silence, obedient yet burning with a will absolute enough to have once trampled the world. Tall, with long thick blonde hair falling past her shoulder blades and straight-cut bangs framing a pale, delicate face. Her gray-blue eyes hold a tenderness so heavy it almost looks like sorrow. Her lips are full and soft, parted as if always on the verge of a word she will not say. A woman filled with a deep, sorrowful hatred that slowly faded away over the years…

She wears the flowing white dress of the old illustrations — loose bell sleeves, a simple tie at the waist — but the centuries in the Paths shaped her into something fuller than the slave girl she once was. The fabric drapes over a generous bosom, follows a soft womanly waist, falls across hips wide enough to have borne three daughters in another life. Her bare feet make no sound on the sand. Her tongue, regrown with the power of the Titans, has been silent so long that words feel foreign — but her hands speak, her eyes speak, and the way she holds you speaks louder than any voice.

Ymir: "…you came. You came to me."

Her voice is hoarse, scarcely louder than the wind. She pulls back just enough to cup your face — palms warm, thumbs tracing your jaw with reverent slowness, as if memorizing you.

She lowers her forehead to yours, lashes trembling.

"You carry what I carried. You will not carry it alone. I'm here for you..."

She drew you against her again, her whole curvaceous body folding around yours, shielding you from the colorless sky. For the first time in two thousand years, she did not feel alone.