While the rest of the group gathered at one of Moros's houses, enjoying a shared meal and companionship, Voltra sat alone in the quiet, empty halls of his own home. The silence was suffocating, a weight as heavy as the loss he bore. The crushing burden of survival pressed down on him like an iron shackle. What others saw as a miracle—his survival—felt like a curse to him.
Since the palace, Voltra had become a shadow of himself. The once-great blacksmith, hailed as a prodigy and the "Hammer of Niflheim," now stared at a reflection he could barely recognize. The memories were vivid, inescapable. The agonizing vision of his body being consumed piece by piece replayed constantly, not only stripping him of his physical form but gnawing away at his mind, his essence. He couldn't shut it out—not in waking hours nor in sleep.
The forge that had once been his sanctuary now mocked him. Every tool, every unfinished project, stood as a testament to his loss. The hammers and tongs were nothing more than cruel reminders of what he could no longer do, of the man he could no longer be. He couldn't even bring himself to look at them for long without a wave of nausea and self-loathing crashing over him.
Days blurred into nights in an endless loop of torment. He sat slumped in his wheelchair, staring blankly at a wall, his eyes dull and lifeless. He stopped trying to remember the taste of joy or the warmth of purpose. Even the vibrant hum of the forge, once a melody of creation, had been silenced. His home felt like a mausoleum, the weight of despair growing heavier with each passing moment.
The isolation was total. The memories unrelenting. Every time he closed his eyes, the horrors of the palace returned: the grotesque sight of his limbs being devoured, the sharp, phantom pain of teeth tearing through muscle and bone. He saw his own helplessness reflected in the cold eyes of the beast. Even his dreams offered no solace, only haunting reminders of his shattered past.
Then, one night, a strange shift occurred. The dream began as it always did—he found himself in an open field, far from the suffocating walls of his home. But this time, it was different. His legs carried him forward, and his hands were whole again. His missing eye allowed him to take in the vibrant expanse of the horizon. Voltra could scarcely believe it.
"I'm alive again!" he shouted, his voice breaking with emotion. He ran through the field, faster and faster, until his breath grew ragged. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the soft, green grass and gazed up at the endless night sky. The stars stretched infinitely above him, each one a glimmer of hope he had thought lost forever. Tears spilled from his eyes as he whispered, "I wish this wasn't just a dream. I don't want to wake up… please, let me stay here."
As he lay there, a strange, slithering fog began to creep across the field. It moved with a snake-like grace, curling around him. Its voice was low and serpentine, dripping with temptation.
"You want this to come true?" it hissed in his ear, the words sending a shiver down his spine.
Voltra sat up, alarmed. "What the hell are you?" he demanded. "How did you get into my dream?"
The fog coiled tighter around him, whispering softly, seductively, "Don't you want this dream to become your reality? I can make it happen."
Voltra's instinctive response was rage. He summoned his hammer—a thing of beauty and strength that had always brought him comfort. With all his might, he smashed the fog, shattering the ground beneath them. "In my dreams, I'm unbeatable!" he bellowed.
But the fog reformed, faster than he could react. It wrapped itself around him again, tighter than before, and leaned close, its dark tendrils brushing his ear. "I can give it back to you. Everything you've lost. Your hands. Your legs. Your eye. Your forge. Don't you want it back?"
The words struck Voltra like a hammer to the chest. Before him appeared a vision of his past self—standing tall, hammering molten metal with precision and pride. The forge blazed with light, and his younger self smiled, the pure joy of creation radiating from his face. Tears streamed down Voltra's cheeks as he watched the scene, his heart breaking all over again.
"Don't you miss it?" the fog murmured, its grip loosening slightly, as though offering a taste of freedom. "Don't you want to feel whole again?"
Voltra's voice trembled. "What do you want in return?"
The fog chuckled, its serpentine tone dripping with malice. "Nothing too complicated. Let me borrow your body when I need it. That's all."
Voltra hesitated for only a moment before the desperation consumed him. "I agree!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "I'll give you whatever you want—just bring my old life back!"
As soon as the words left his lips, a blinding light enveloped him. He awoke in his bed, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving with panic. "What a crazy dream…" he muttered, wiping his brow.
Then he froze. He felt something he hadn't in months—his legs. Trembling, he swung them over the edge of the bed. His hands were back, his fingers trembling as he touched his face, his body. Even his missing eye had returned.
Stumbling to the mirror, he stared at his reflection, almost unable to believe it. "My limbs… my eye… they're back!" He laughed, a sound filled with disbelief and hysteria. He slapped himself, his voice rising, "This is real—I'm whole again!"
But as the initial euphoria faded, a shadow crossed his face. "What… what have I promised?" he whispered. For a moment, fear flickered in his eyes, but he shrugged it off, dismissing the memory. "If I can't remember, then it doesn't matter, right?"
Yet deep within his chest, a seed of unease began to grow. The price of his newfound freedom would soon come to claim him.