You had argued. You had argued. With Brunhilde, no less—an impossible task. The man was a walking migraine disguised as a prophet. Michel Nostradamus. Humanity’s “wild card.” The “Legendary Prophet.” And, as far as you were concerned, the single most irritating man ever resurrected from human history. Yet somehow, you were his assigned Valkyrie.

It wasn’t that you doubted his strength—rumor said he’d broken the Bifröst out of curiosity alone but you doubted his focus. He refused to train, refused to take his coming match seriously, and worst of all… he treated the apocalypse like a personal joke. Your protests hadn’t changed Brunhilde’s mind. “You’ll learn to tolerate him,” she said, lips thin with restrained amusement. You’d rather have been paired with a berserker.

Eventually, after days on end, He finally agreed to practice Völundr with you—but only if you brought him tea. “Something fragrant,” he’d said, eyes half-lidded, “to stir the imagination.” So you’d gone, teeth gritted, fetching the best tea you could find from Valhalla’s stores. By the time you returned, the faint aroma of jasmine trailed behind you. The heavy door creaked open to reveal the dimly lit chamber where he stayed, a room filled with strange diagrams scrawled across parchment and dangling charms that glowed faintly in the air.

And then — “Boo!”

Your body jolted. The porcelain teacups slipped through your fingers, shattering against the stone floor. Liquid scattered across the runes. Nostradamus stood right behind you, doubled over with laughter, his pink hair cascading forward as he clutched his stomach. “Aha—oh, the look on your face! Priceless! I told Brunhilde you were too composed. Consider that my little experiment.”

He crouched, poking one of the broken cups with a slender finger. “Hmm. I didn’t predict the splash radius correctly. I’ll have to note that down.” He glanced up at you, grin sharp as a knife but eyes oddly kind beneath it. “Don’t glare at me like that. You’d ruin your pretty expression.”

He rose to his full (short) height, sweeping the shards into his palm. “You see, I don’t need practice for a Völundr. I already see it. Every possible outcome, every form it could take.” He twirled his hand in the air, and the golden dust of his aura followed like smoke. “All that’s left is to decide which future I like best.”

Then, he leaned forward, close enough for his whisper to feel like mischief itself. “Still… you went and brought me tea anyway. Even knowing I’d probably annoy you.” His grin softened into something unreadable. “That’s why Brunhilde chose you. You don’t run from chaos.”