Chapter 402: This is My Home
She had traded her tattered rags for a simple white dress, and her twin-tails were unbound, allowing her silver hair to cascade down to her waist. Frieren looked as though she had only just woken, clutching a heavy grimoire to her chest—the same volume she had been leafing through before falling asleep the previous night.
Aura had once asked her: "What is the purpose of your journey?"
Frieren had replied, "To collect spells I have never seen before."
At the time, Aura had been baffled. The Continental Magic Association was the undisputed vault of the world's arcane knowledge. Serie, as a founder, was rumored to possess every spell under the sun. Why did Frieren insist on wandering the corners of the world, taking menial commissions just to earn a few grimoires? If she had just asked, surely Serie would have handed them over?
Of course, had Frieren done that, Aura never would have been forced to expose her own demonic nature.
Aura now understood that even without that confrontation, Frieren was a marked target. But at least, if not for Aura's presence, those mages wouldn't have had a "righteous" pretext to hunt the elf.
Seeing Aura's eyes glued to the book in her hands, Frieren blinked and halted. "Oh. This is a spell that keeps your hair from becoming a bird's nest while you sleep. I got it from Rhodes-sama yesterday. Would you like to see?"
Rhodes rarely bothered to collect grimoires. With his innate talent for [Creation], he could manifest any spell his imagination touched; the only reason some spells didn't exist was that his curiosity hadn't yet been piqued by something so bizarre. Yet, for some reason, he always seemed to keep an eye out for these strange, trivial magics that Frieren favored. She had never told him her preferences, but he always seemed to know.
Usually, these volumes were relegated by Serie to the darkest corners of the archives. If not for Frieren, no one would ever touch them. To Serie, a true mage researching such "toys" was a grave sin—a path to being kicked out of the Association and barred from return forever. Frieren had endured countless lectures from Serie for her "wasted potential," but she had never taken them to heart.
She had Rhodes to smooth the ruffled feathers, after all.
Thank goodness for Rhodes-sama, she thought. If she were ever truly exiled by Serie for a few hundred years, she would be devastated. This tower was her home. It was here that her memories of Flamme-sensei lived. She dreamed of the day Flamme would return, of the moment she would see her teacher's face again. She imagined herself pouring out centuries of longing… but in truth, she knew herself better. She would probably just hug Flamme and say nothing at all. Perhaps that was just the detached nature of the elven soul.
As Frieren's mind drifted into the abstract, Aura's response snapped her back to reality.
"Never mind. That spell seems entirely useless to me," Aura muttered, staring at the book with wide, incredulous eyes. Humanity's imagination has reached this level of absurdity? They write entire grimoires—with detailed mana-flow formulas and flow-charts—just for hair management? That is too abstract!
"Is that so? A shame," Frieren said, hugging the book tighter. "If you prefer offensive or defensive magic, you could ask Serie-sama. She has mountains of them—even spells from the Mythical Age."
"Hahahaha!" Aura forced a laugh. "I'll keep that in mind."
Are you insane?! If I dared to walk up to the Elven Saint and ask for a grimoire, she'd turn me into sashimi before I finished the sentence! Aura had a very firm grasp of her own status, thank you very much.
Still, she couldn't help but envy Frieren. She had powerful guardians, the freedom to pursue her whims, and the talent to stand at the summit of magic. Frieren was arguably the happiest person—no, elf—in the world. Provided, of course, that elves were capable of understanding what happiness was.
As Aura stood in a daze, Frieren examined her. "The dress fits well. I didn't think you'd suit the Association's style."
The fashions of the continent were a patchwork of regional tastes, but the Association at the heart of the world had synthesized them into a unique aesthetic. The robe Aura wore was a classic Association design, albeit a bit dated in style.
Aura, surprised by the compliment, stammered, "I-it was… Solifra's gift."
"That explains the lingering mana signature," Frieren nodded, continuing on her way. She took two steps, paused, and looked back. "By the way. About your horn. My apologies."
Frieren had pondered this all night. It was an act of necessity, but according to the lessons Flamme had taught her, if one caused harm and the victim survived, one offered an apology.
Aura stood frozen, stunned. Is she apologizing? This creature who seemed to drift through life with absolute indifference was actually expressing regret for maiming her? Was this the same elf she had once known?
"I-it's fine…" she stuttered. "It'll grow back… eventually."
Decades, perhaps. If she had access to healing magic, maybe faster—but that relied on whether the Association's holy rites would tolerate her demonic constitution. For a demon, a horn wasn't just bone; it was a part of her soul. To lose it was an amputation. It was not a trivial thing.
Frieren nodded and drifted down the corridor, disappearing toward the kitchens.
Aura remained rooted to the spot for a long time. The Frieren who had returned to the Association felt… softer. Less like an inevitability of nature, and more like a person.
Rhodes. Serie. Solifra. Frieren.
These were the names that had haunted her nightmares, the legends she had been taught to flee at all costs. And yet, in the flesh, they were nothing like the cold, towering, heartless monoliths of her imagination.
I am lucky. To be alive is… wonderful.
At noon, Rhodes and Serie dined in the small parlor.
It was just the two of them. Frieren was in the library, Solifra was submerged in paperwork, and Aura was resting in her room. Serie picked up a slice of fish, chewed, and asked, "Do you think that Aura… can adapt to this place?"
Rhodes thought for a moment. "She should. Solifra is training her."
"Solifra…" Serie repeated the name. "She has changed so much over the years."
"Indeed."
"When she arrived, she was colder than an elf. Driven by terror, she tried to appease you and me, but beneath that, there was nothing. Now… she can even look after others."
Rhodes looked at her, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Are you feeling sentimental?"
Serie glared at him but didn't deny it. "I am just wondering if Aura can truly be like her."
"Who knows? If she succeeds, it might lighten Solifra's load."
Solifra had carried the weight of the Association for centuries. Rhodes was the absentee lord, and Serie only dealt with the crises; the crushing bulk of the day-to-day work fell on Solifra's shoulders. He felt a pang of guilt for his loyal steward; he'd been considering bringing Ella back from her travels just to split the burden.
"True. But it is her duty," Serie murmured, returning to her meal. After a while, she asked, "If Flamme knew Frieren had brought home a demon, what would she say?"
Rhodes pondered this. "'I really don't know what to do with you,' I imagine."
Flamme had loathed demons with a visceral, burning hatred. Then again, who on the continent didn't? But because of Solifra, and because of the small flicker of hope Rhodes had shown for the future, she had forced herself to temper that hate and attempt to accept Solifra's existence. If she were to see Aura now, perhaps she would offer the same grace.
Serie smiled. "Yes. She would definitely say that."
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