Chapter 405: Resting in Peace
After gathering the berries, the two sat for a while on a stone bench in the corner of the garden. Thanks to the infusion of magical energy, the garden remained in a state of eternal bloom, with even the rarest and most delicate species flourishing year-round.
"Flamme used to love coming here," Serie said suddenly.
Rhodes remained silent, simply listening.
"Whenever she hit a wall in her research, she'd come up here and sit for hours. I'd ask her what she was looking at, and she'd say she was 'watching the flowers,'" Serie let out a soft, faint laugh. "What's the use of watching flowers? They don't provide any tangible research data. It would have been far more efficient to just ask you."
"But she never did," Rhodes remarked with a sense of wonder.
Flamme had been far more sensible—or perhaps far more stubborn—than they had ever anticipated. Beyond her initial days of training, where she required constant guidance, she had preferred to wander the path of her own research. It was that very independence that had led her, in the quiet solitude of her study, to the monumental achievement of Fusion Magic—an art so advanced that even Tier-1 mages struggled to grasp its foundation, let alone explore its depths.
"Indeed," Serie gazed at the vibrant blooms. "But she always solved the problem in the end."
They lapsed into a companionable silence.
"She will return," Rhodes said.
"I know," Serie replied softly. "It's just… I can't help but miss her sometimes. When she was here, she always made me so angry. I was angry at her stubbornness, angry at her naïve ideals, angry that she dared to—"
She didn't finish. Her golden eyes dimmed, the fire in them momentarily dampened. Even though Flamme had always spoken words that grated on Serie's nerves, and even though she had dared to covet the most precious existence in Serie's life, she had still been her foolish, brilliant apprentice. Hate had never been the truth of their bond.
Rhodes pulled her close, and Serie leaned against his shoulder, sinking into the silence.
The sun began its slow descent, painting the clouds in washes of pale gold. In the garden atop the tower, the two sat in perfect stillness, watching the beauty of the world they had spent centuries defending. No words were exchanged; they had been together for so long that language had become a cumbersome, redundant thing.
Not until the twilight deepened did Serie shift. "We should return."
"Mhm."
They rose and walked back. Rhodes stopped by the middle-level library to retrieve the manuscript he had been studying—not because it held earth-shattering secrets, but because it was a fragment of history worth preserving.
The library was sparse, occupied only by a few mages lost in their own study, none of whom dared to notice Rhodes and Serie as they passed. On the corner table, the manuscript lay where Rhodes had left it, sitting beside the book Serie had been half-reading.
Serie followed his gaze, watching as he used a floating spell to return the books to their shelves. "We shall finish reading tomorrow."
"Agreed."
They returned to the upper level. Near their quarters, a muffled exclamation echoed—it sounded like Aura's voice—followed instantly by a thump, as if something had been silenced.
Then came Solifra's calm, level tone: "Please be careful. There are binding wards in effect here…"
A soft, unintelligible mumble followed. Serie paused, glancing at Rhodes, but he only shook his head with a faint smile.
Night had fully draped itself over the tower. Outside, the Imperial Capital had transformed into a sprawling sea of stars; the lights of a thousand homes stretched out below, a testament to the prosperity of the human era.
After dinner, they retreated to their chambers. Serie reclined on a chaise longue, a book resting on her knees. The texture of the paper suggested it wasn't one of her treasured grimoires.
"From the library?" Rhodes asked.
"No," Serie kept her eyes on the page. "Solifra found this while organizing the storage room a few days ago. I have no recollection of ever acquiring it."
Rhodes glanced at the cover. It was a hand-copied biography of a wandering poet. The paper was brittle, yellowed with age, and the edges were frayed—it carried the heavy scent of decades.
"Not a grimoire? Where did it come from?"
"Unknown. There is no signature." Serie turned a page. "But the handwriting… it feels familiar. And it tells stories of our past."
Rhodes lost interest. He was never fond of dwelling on the past. The nostalgia it invoked was a painful reminder of those who were gone, and the crushing weight of his own limitations at the time. For centuries, he had avoided forming ties beyond the Magic Association specifically to spare himself the agony of constant loss.
Too much grief, he feared, might turn a soul to stone. Rhodes did not want to become a statue.
Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the soft whisper of turning pages. After an eternity, Serie broke the quiet. "Rhodes."
"Yes?"
"This." She pushed the book toward him, pointing to a passage. "Look."
Rhodes focused on her finger. It was a short poem praising the God-slayer, written in an archaic tongue. He read a few lines, then froze.
"This is…"
"Flamme's handwriting," Serie breathed.
Rhodes scanned the surrounding pages. There was no date, no signature, but the ink-strokes were unmistakably hers.
Serie's fingers traced the page gently. "When could she have written this?" she whispered to herself. "I have no memory of this at all."
"Perhaps in her idle hours."
Serie didn't respond to his platitude; her focus remained locked on the page. It was embellished, perhaps even exaggerated, but the events depicted were grounded in truth—a clever blend of local legends and her own personal recollections, a little secret project Flamme had tucked away.
"I wonder when she wrote this? And why hide it away?" Rhodes mused.
Even though the contents made him feel bashful, the fact that Flamme had been the one to write it made it a treasure beyond price.
"She was always like that," Serie said, her voice heavy with distant echoes. "She kept everything buried deep. Joy, grief… she kept it all inside. I thought she truly didn't care about anything."
Rhodes walked over and held her. Serie rested her head against his chest, her eyes still lingering on the script.
"I'm actually a little jealous," she whispered. "It seems her opinion of you was… rather higher than mine."
Rhodes remained silent; he didn't know how to answer. Any response would feel like a betrayal to the memory of the girl they had both loved. Instead, he simply tightened his arms around the small, delicate existence in his embrace, pouring his love into the silence.
"It is alright. I am not angry at such things," Serie offered, as if sensing his unease.
Outside, the lights of the capital flickered, indifferent and enduring.
"She will come back, won't she?" Serie asked.
"Yes. You've asked me that before, Serie."
"I know."
Serie closed the book, setting it on her lap. She didn't open it again, nor did she put it away. She simply rested her hand upon it, as if guarding something precious.
After a long stretch of silence, she suddenly laughed.
"What is it?"
"Just a sudden thought," she said. "I've lived so long that I thought I'd become indifferent to everything. And yet, seeing this… I still—"
She didn't finish. Rhodes didn't press.
"I remember the first time I met her," Serie said softly. "How old was she? Ten? Fifteen? Small and adorable, but that doesn't matter. I saw her talent and thought, 'This child will do great things one day.'"
"And you were proven right."
"Mhm." Serie nodded. "She was brilliant. Far more brilliant than I ever gave her credit for. And even then, she never boasted. If she had, she would be far more famous than she is today."
"Serie…" Serie called his name in a whisper. "Should we… promote her legacy more?"
For the eternal elves, time was a fluid, meaningless concept; a century was a blink. But for humanity, that same century spanned generations. Flamme's deeds had been lost to the fog of five hundred years. Most modern mages had no idea she had ever existed. She lacked the bards and the fame that shadowed Rhodes; she lacked the prestige of the "First Grimoire."
"Good idea. I understand."
Rhodes understood. She didn't want the traces of Flamme's existence to dissolve into the void of history.
"It's late," Rhodes said. "Sleep."
Serie nodded, stood, and walked toward the bedroom. At the door, she paused and glanced back at the biography resting quietly on the table.
"That," she said. "Place it on my shelf tomorrow. In the most conspicuous spot. I want to see it every single day."
"Of course."
As they disappeared into the bedroom, the room fell into silence once more. Moonlight spilled through the windows, casting a silver pall over the tower. Inside, they slept—at peace, waiting for the sun to rise upon a new day.
❃❃❃
⤑ Show your support with Power Stones!
⤑ Unlock a Bonus Chapter every time we hit 200 Power Stones!
❃❃❃
♕ Get early access to 20+ advanced chapters on Patreon!
🔗 https://www.pat-reon.co-m/c/Hollowborn
(Just remove the hyphen (-) to open the link!)
💬 Enjoying the story? Drop a review!
Your support really helps the series grow—thank you