Morning in Asgard arrived shrouded in a light mist that slowly dissipated among the city’s new rooftops. Light streamed through the large windows of the central administrative building, scattering across dark wood furniture, bookshelves overflowing with books, and stacks of documents piled on a wide table in the center of the room. The atmosphere possessed a practical elegance, without excessive luxury, but with clear signs of organization and growth. Maps hanging on the walls showed recent trade routes, cultivation zones, expanding neighborhoods, and small, risky markings made in red ink.

Seated behind the table, Morgana wore a pair of thin-rimmed glasses that slipped slightly down the bridge of her nose whenever she lowered her head too much to read. Her expression was serene, yet focused, and the amount of papers scattered around made it clear that this was not the first difficult letter of the morning. Among inventory reports, carpenter orders, tax complaints, and merchant requests, a simple piece of correspondence, written on rough paper and hastily folded, seemed to have caught her attention above the others.

She adjusted her glasses with two fingers and reread the content silently for a few seconds, as if to confirm that she hadn’t misinterpreted the brutal objectivity of the message. Then she took a deep breath and read aloud, without any dramatization.

"Come here. We’re hungry."

The phrase hung in the office almost absurdly in its direct simplicity. There was no official seal, greeting, elaborate signature, or lengthy explanation. Just despair compressed into a few words.

Cristine, who was sitting in a side chair leafing through a public accounts book, immediately looked up. Her hair, neatly tied back, left her face clear, and her expression alternated between curiosity and concern.

"What is this?" she asked, closing the book on her lap.

Morgana removed her glasses for a moment, lightly rubbing her temple before answering. There was weariness in her gestures, but not defeat. Just the constant weight of someone accustomed to managing a chain of problems.

"A predictable consequence of too many changes happening too fast," she said. "The absence of two Monarchs has disrupted entire regions. Supply routes have been interrupted, caravans have vanished, tributes have ceased to circulate, and several local administrators have simply fled."

Cristine frowned.

"So it’s already begun."

"Actually, it’s been happening for weeks," Morgana replied, putting her glasses back on. "Only now have some smaller areas managed to catch up with us."

She rose from her chair and walked to a map pinned to the wall. Small pins marked cities integrated into Asgard, zones under observation, and still unstable territories. Some peripheral areas had hand-drawn circles, indicating total uncertainty.

"I tried to deal with it as best I could," Morgana continued. "We redirected grain, opened emergency stockpiles, reorganized caravans, and made agreements with independent farmers. The larger cities are being served. Nearby villages too."

Her finger then touched a series of almost faded points at the edge of the map.

"But small villages off the main routes... those are another story. Many don’t even appear in the old records. Some depended entirely on a single local lord. Others lived off seasonal barter. If they don’t make contact, all we can do is wait."

Cristine stood up slowly and approached the map.

"Waiting for hungry people never seems like a good plan."

"I don’t think so either," Morgana replied. "But searching the dark for an entire territory requires resources that I’m still distributing to avoid bigger problems."

She tried to sound objective, but Cristine perceived the frustration hidden beneath her firm posture. Morgana didn’t like logistical limitations. She liked them even less when those limitations meant real lives.

Before the conversation could continue, the office door opened without excessive ceremony. Frieren entered with the same silent naturalness as always, as if crossing into other people’s rooms without warning was just a normal extension of the act of walking. Her light hair fell over her shoulders in strands arranged haphazardly, and her eyes observed everything with a calmness too ancient for human haste.

She stopped a few steps from the entrance.

"I heard the part about hungry people and incomplete maps," she said in a neutral tone. "I have a solution. But I’ll need a lot of birds."

Cristine blinked twice.

Morgana remained motionless for a moment, then slowly lowered the letter.

"Excuse me... a lot of what?"

"Birds," Frieren repeated. "The more varied, the better. Crows, pigeons, sparrows, seagulls if there’s a river nearby, anything that flies decently."

Cristine brought her hand to her face to hide a smile.

Morgana took off her glasses again and stared at Frieren with the expression of someone trying to decide if this was genius or madness.

"Explain."

Frieren entered the room and approached the map as if she had been part of the meeting from the beginning.

"I can use shared perception magic," she said. "I connect fragments of my vision to their eyes for a short period. If I scatter birds in a fan shape across the outer regions, I can map roads, smoke from campfires, cultivated areas, ruins, the movement of people, and hidden villages."

Cristine raised her eyebrows.

"You can see through the eyes of hundreds of birds?"

"If I am well-fed and without distractions, yes."

"That’s frighteningly useful," Cristine commented.

"Thank you," Frieren replied without changing her tone.

Morgana crossed her arms and immediately began to think in practical terms.

"How long would it take?"

Frieren tilted his head slightly.

"It depends on how many birds I find."

"That answer doesn’t help me."

"It’s the right answer."

Cristine let out a low laugh.

Morgana closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, then accepted that arguing with Frieren’s peculiar logic was a waste of energy.

"If we manage to gather hundreds?"

"A few hours for nearby areas. A whole day for more distant zones. Two days if it rains or if I find particularly stupid birds."

"Are there stupid birds?"

"Many."

Cristine was now laughing openly.

Morgana returned to the table, already pulling out a new sheet for notes.

"Right. Then we’ll need handlers, hunters, children with breadcrumbs, anyone capable of attracting urban flocks. I also want messengers ready to leave as soon as we locate settlements."

Frieren nodded.

"I’ll also need a comfortable chair."

"That’s negotiable."

"Then an acceptable bench."

While the two began to discuss improbable logistical details with complete seriousness, Cristine silently stepped away and walked to the large office window. The curtains were drawn at the sides, leaving an unobstructed view of the city below.

She stood there for a few seconds without saying anything.

Asgard no longer resembled, even remotely, the mass of ash and ruins they had found months before. Where there had once been broken streets and charred walls, now a living city was emerging, constantly expanding. The main roads had been widened and paved with light-colored stone. Well-planned drainage channels ran discreetly along the sides. People crossed corners carrying boxes, fabrics, baskets, and tools.

Two- and even three-story buildings appeared among the traditional constructions, erected in reinforced wood, brick, and wrought metal. Some boasted elegant balconies with newly planted flower boxes. Others displayed carefully painted commercial facades.

Further on, a row of boutiques caught the eye with their newly installed glass windows, where dresses, coats, and accessories were displayed on makeshift mannequins. Beside them, colorful tapestries swayed gently, hung in front of artisan shops. On another street, signs marked auction houses where merchants shuffled papers and appraised lots of salvaged furniture, jewelry, and antiques.

The aroma rising from the central square came from bakeries already in operation since early morning. Lines formed before the open doors, where golden loaves of bread, cakes, and simple pastries disappeared as quickly as they left the ovens. Nearby, large food warehouses received carts while workers organized sacks of grain and barrels at a disciplined pace.

Entire residential neighborhoods had sprung up between the commercial sectors.

Well-built Victorian houses lined new streets, with sloping roofs, wide windows, small fences, and modest, still-young gardens. They weren’t mansions, but solid homes. Places built to last. Children ran between newly installed lampposts while women chatted in open doorways and men returned from work carrying tools on their shoulders.

Cristine rested her hand on the glass.

"Finally," she murmured.

Morgana and Frieren continued discussing how many pigeons could be persuaded to cooperate without paying immediate attention.

Cristine smiled slightly and spoke louder.

"Finally, that burnt-out city has become a home."

The two were silent for a moment.

Morgana turned first. Her eyes followed Cristine’s gaze to the window. For a rare second, all the administrative tension vanished from her face.

Frieren also looked out. She observed ordinary people living ordinary lives with the serenity of someone who knew the historical value of such moments.

"It’s noisy," Frieren commented.

"That usually happens when places come alive," Cristine replied.

Morgana slowly approached the window. She took off her glasses and held them between her fingers as she observed.

"Now they’re fighting over fabric prices," said Cristine.

"A considerable improvement."

The three remained silent for a few moments, watching carts cross new avenues and workers hang newly painted commercial signs.

Then Morgana returned to reality with the swiftness of someone who could never remain contemplative for long.

"And that’s precisely why I can’t accept villages starving while this prospers."

She firmly put her glasses back on.

"Frieren, how many birds can you control without fainting?"

"Control is a strong word. Magically convince, maybe three hundred."

"Four hundred?"

"If there are good snacks afterwards."

Cristine laughed.

"Promise sweets from the bakery in the square," she suggested. "Even I would fly for that."

Morgana was already writing orders at a rapid pace.

"Cristine, summon those in charge of the central warehouses. I need an immediate estimate of surplus mobile equipment. Also, call the fastest drivers."

"Now?"

"Now."

She pointed at Frieren without lifting her eyes from the paper.

"And you go to the east tower. It’s the highest point in the city. Best field of vision."

"Does it have stairs?"

"Yes."

"How many flights?"

"Several."

Frieren sighed deeply.

"I’m starting to think that starving people aren’t the only problem here."

Cristine chuckled as she walked to the door.

"If you manage to save entire villages, I’ll personally bring you a cake at the top."

Frieren thought for two seconds.

"Two cakes."

"Greedy."

"Pragmatic."

Morgana handed Cristine three folded and sealed sheets of paper.

"Take this to the warehouse superintendent, the road captain, and the master of the public bells. I want announcements calling for volunteers to collect birds."

Cristine stared at the orders.

"You’re really going to mobilize an entire city over birds?"

"No," Morgana replied. "I’m going to mobilize an entire city over famine. The birds are just the odd part of the plan."

Frieren nodded with silent dignity.

"Finally, someone who understands strategy."

Cristine opened the door, still smiling, and cast one last glance at the city before running down the corridors.

Morgana finished two more letters, sealed them both, and called an outside assistant. Then she turned to Frieren.

"If this works, you’ll save weeks of searching."

"I know."

"And if it doesn’t work?"

Frieren shrugged.

"We will have fed many birds."

Morgana stared at her for a long time.

"You’re impossible."

"They told me that yesterday too."

The two left the office together, heading towards the east tower as the sounds of the vibrant city rose up the stairs: hammers, laughter, cartwheels, vendors hawking wares, and bells calling workers.

Asgard breathed like a newly healed organism.

And at that very moment, beyond the walls, there were forgotten places waiting for food, help, and proof that the new world also saw them.

At the top of the tower, before noon, hundreds of birds would begin to circle the skies.

And, guided by magic, they would search for those who still called in the darkness.