The following morning, as the first rays of sunlight pierced through the gaps in the window, Ronan awoke, ready to fulfill his promise and acquire food from the nearby human town. The soft golden light filtered into the room like the gentle sweep of a brush on canvas, illuminating motes of dust that danced lazily through the air. The village outside remained silent, save for the occasional chirp of a waking bird or the creak of old wooden beams contracting in the cool morning air.
Ronan shifted beneath his blanket and sat upright, blinking away the remnants of sleep. His hand moved instinctively to the hilt of the Hero's Sword beside his bed, brushing its worn leather grip with unconscious familiarity. Though he did not expect danger in the short trip ahead, caution had become second nature.
He gently pushed open the door, moving as quietly as possible.
His steps were light, avoiding the creaky floorboards he'd memorized during his brief stay. The house still held a hushed stillness, the kind that only existed just after dawn. He expected to find the living room empty—perhaps Frieren had already risen to resume her studies, as she often did at odd hours.
However, upon entering the living room, he found Frieren sprawled across the floor, fast asleep in an ungainly position.
At first, he paused, uncertain if he should intervene. She was lying with one leg crooked at an awkward angle, her arms splayed loosely beside her, like a marionette with severed strings. She had clearly fallen asleep mid-study, and the faintest hint of drool glistened at the corner of her mouth. For a moment, Ronan simply stared, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Her usually neatly bound hair was loose, several strands falling across her cheek, and her stomach was completely exposed.
She looked completely unguarded—an unusual sight for someone as composed as Frieren. Her usual formality had given way to a rare vulnerability. Ronan barely registered these details, his gaze immediately drawn to a thick notebook on the table – Frieren's notes from the previous night.
Even from where he stood, he could see that the pages were filled with precise handwriting and intricate magical diagrams. Her study had continued long into the night, perhaps even until sleep had claimed her mid-sentence. Ronan approached with reverence, as though entering a sacred space.
Her dedication was impressive; this was the manifestation of her passion for magic.
He felt a surge of admiration, his steps softening as he approached her.
The way she had poured herself into her work reminded him of something—or someone—long past. That level of focus, of quiet persistence, was rare. It was easy to forget, sometimes, how young she still was in appearance and spirit, despite her long elven lifespan.
He bent down, gently lifting Frieren to move her to the nearby sofa, to prevent her from catching a chill.
She was lighter than he expected, her slender frame cradled easily in his arms. He adjusted his grip carefully, trying not to disturb her sleep. As he took a step toward the sofa, her body shifted in his hold.
The instant he lifted her, however, she stirred.
A small wrinkle formed on her brow, as though even unconscious, she sensed the change in position.
She shifted slightly, her shoulders moving as if searching for a more comfortable position.
Her arms twitched against his chest, and then—
"Mmm…" she murmured sleepily, her eyelids fluttering before slowly opening.
Her voice was soft, like a half-formed thought. She blinked several times, her pupils dilating in the morning light. It took a moment for awareness to settle behind her gaze.
Her vision was blurry, her mind still clouded with sleep. But the moment her eyes focused on Ronan, her hazy brain seemed to momentarily freeze. Then, she realized she was being held, her stomach completely exposed.
There was a beat—a single, terrible beat—of mutual stillness.
Silence descended upon the room.
"…What are you doing…?"
The words came slowly, barely louder than her breath, but the edge of bewilderment and mortification in her tone was unmistakable.
Back in the living room, Frieren hastily adjusted her disheveled clothing, her downcast gaze betraying her embarrassment.
Her movements were quick but uncoordinated, like someone trying to reassemble their dignity along with their appearance. She pulled her robes tighter around her waist, cinching the belt with more force than necessary.
Despite her young age and generally subdued emotions, she was still, at heart, a young girl.
And moments like these stripped away any illusion of detachment. Her cheeks burned, though she would later insist it was due to the morning chill. Her pride was bruised—not because of what had happened, but because she had allowed it to happen unnoticed.
Even for an elf, the situation caused her heart to quicken slightly.
She had long since closed herself off from most forms of emotional vulnerability, but that wall had clearly cracked this morning.
Seeing her distress, her silence and hurried attempts to compose herself, Ronan rubbed his forehead, feeling a pang of guilt.
He had only meant to help. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass her.
He'd only been trying to prevent her from catching a cold.
He sighed and turned his gaze away, deciding not to speak unless she did first. The damage had been done, but perhaps silence would prevent it from worsening.
He didn't comment further; Frieren quickly regained her composure.
After a few more moments of awkward silence, she squared her shoulders and faced him again, her voice calm and even.
She then learned of Ronan's plan to purchase food from the human town, carrying the Hero's Sword only as a precaution – it was his only weapon. Facing monsters unarmed would be messy.
The explanation made sense. A simple supply run, necessary and pragmatic. And yet, it stirred something else within her.
"I'll come too," Frieren declared, her gaze settling on her notebook.
Her eyes flicked to the open pages, the ink still fresh in some places.
"My understanding of high-temperature magic is almost complete. Further refinement requires practical application, which is difficult here. Besides, I have questions for you."
Her tone carried no hint of the earlier awkwardness. She had returned to the comfort of intellect, of theory and experimentation.
The concept of ignition points was straightforward: when the surrounding air reached a certain temperature, objects would spontaneously combust. She'd witnessed this several times during the summer, but hadn't paid much attention.
Only now did she recognize the importance of those events. They were puzzle pieces she had ignored.
Like people seeing apples fall before Newton discovered gravity.
The realization stung, not because it was obvious, but because she had missed it. Again.
She felt a pang of regret. To avoid repeating that mistake, she'd spent last night pondering what would happen in the absence of air, or if an enemy used ice magic to lower the temperature. And what if the temperature was too high, harming her?
These were not idle questions—they were life and death in battle.
Some spells were indiscriminate. High-temperature magic was one of them.
Ronan smiled, surprised by her thirst for knowledge, but not discouraging her.
"Questions? No problem. A thirst for knowledge is commendable. No wonder the elder said you're the most gifted mage here. Even if you hadn't mentioned it, I would have invited an elf to accompany me. I don't know where the nearby human towns are. Since you offered, let's go together."
He meant it. Her presence was more than welcome.
Ronan rose from the sofa. After preparing themselves, they set off several minutes later.
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You can read advance chapters in my: p@treon.com/Veora
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