"…Ngh."
I wake to an unfamiliar ceiling, sunlight streaming through the window. I dreamt something, but what? Nostalgic, sad, joyful—muddled emotions linger.
My gaze falls on the mirror-lotus ring on my left ring finger, a gift from Himmel. Initially odd, now familiar—a guide, a mark of atonement. I've been touching it more lately, especially here. I know why.
"…Fern?"
Groggy, I sit up, searching for Fern. My eyes aren't fully open. It's past noon—Fern usually wakes me by then. What's wrong?
"Fern, you there…?"
No reply despite calling from the bed. Did she leave? Heartless disciple. Something up? Then I notice—
(Angry braids…!)
My long hair's in three braids. Fern combs it daily, but this is different—done without waking me. I call it her "angry braids," made when she's upset. Last night, I read a grimoire late, and she scolded me, saying, "I'm done." Cold sweat runs.
(Fern's scary when mad…)
Reluctantly, I rise and dress—first time in a while. I've leaned on her too much, her motherly care making me slip. I've mumbled "Mom" in my sleep more than once. But she's fierce when angry, especially here. I've been scolded often. Maybe buy sweets as an apology? Got any savings left?
(A week here already? Time flies.)
I eat the breakfast-lunch Fern left, reflecting. A week since arriving. We defeated Qual, the Corrupt Sage. Even he couldn't withstand eighty human years. A long-lived fate, perhaps. I must improve. Fern's growth stunned me—her defensive magic handled Qual's spells. Her true strength is speed. How far will she go? Zerie would be jealous.
"Time to go."
I clean up, ready to leave. Fern's likely helping the village with Lily, her routine lately. They appreciate her. As her master, I'm proud. I planned to leave post-Qual, but Fern's anger kept us here. I won't admit it—she'd scold me—but I'm fond of this village. Ten years wouldn't be bad.
"Hello, Frieren. Cute braids."
"…Thanks."
I reply, conflicted, to a passing villager. The village has changed in eighty years—bigger, livelier. Himmel's stay likely drew people and goods. Aura's presence kept monsters at bay, maybe still does.
"Alright."
I refocus, gripping my staff like facing a dungeon—or a giant mimic. The house ahead, a plain red-roofed two-story, is no ordinary place. I've entered it often, but I can't let my guard down.
It's a trap-filled mimic. One misstep could be fatal. No retreating—there's treasure, not a dud like real mimics. Something's gnawing at me, but as a mage, I can't resist. Fern doesn't get it, nor did Himmel's party. Why don't they understand this pursuit? But great mages made historic discoveries chasing slim odds. Same logic for grimoires.
Bolstering myself, I dive into the mimic for grimoire hunting.
"Already this late?"
Closing a book, I check the clock—past four. Three hours gone. Even for an elf, time flies here, in this study brimming with grimoires. A treasure trove. Ten years wouldn't suffice. Even if Aura collected them, it's worth it.
(Aura only read practical grimoires…)
Tidying scattered books, I notice they're all utilitarian. Not bad, but our tastes clash. Magic is romance, the essence of folk magic, but she doesn't get it—classic demon.
Some grimoires differ, likely Himmel's gifts for me. The syrup-making spell Fern got is one, noted in his diary. If meant for me, I've a right—inheritance, right? Fern has rights to Aura's, so I do too. She permitted it, though her cold stare might've been my imagination.
(Three books max? Too strict…)
Fern capped me at three. I wanted to protest but feared her wrath. Choosing is tough—memorizable or rare ones? I stayed up agonizing. That's the thrill of grimoire hunting.
"Time for a break."
Stretching, I leave the study, descending to the first floor. I consider a walk, but the scene stops me, despite trying to look away.
(This is where Himmel's group lived…)
Traces of life are clear: three chairs, a matching table, birthday teacups, furnishings. Outside, a large yard with a training post and worn, uneven wooden swords—Eisen's work, likely. A closet holds a small robe, custom-made by Heiter, rejected by Linie.
Everything tells a story. The diary's truths are real, not fairy tales. It hits hard.
I know, yet don't. Don't, yet do. Like a picture book turned reality. No, a diary.
My chest tightens, a familiar pain from five years of reading the diary, but sharper. Worse than a mimic's bite. I regret coming, yet keep returning. Grimoire greed's part, but there's more.
A strange air—lived-in, yet lifeless. Spotless, yet empty. Like time stopped. Since when? Then—
"You're here, Frieren."
A familiar voice startles me, my ears twitching. Lily, the speaker, smiles, amused. I'm bad with her. I'm far older, but she treats me like a child, embarrassing me. I know her one-sidedly from Himmel's diary, making it awkward.
"Sorry for startling you. You weren't at the inn, so I thought here."
"Right. Where's Fern?"
"Playing with village kids. Such a good girl. Like you?"
"Not me—Heiter, her guardian."
I reconsider. Praising that monk feels off. He acted mature later, but was childish, he said. A bad influence, maybe. Am I a good guardian, then?
"Heiter, yes. He helped Linie too. Must've been tough."
"You know Heiter?"
"Yes, he visited the village."
Her casual reply surprises me. Living here, she'd have met the Hero's Party. Seeing my confusion—
"Frieren, tea?"
Lily sets snacks on the table, inviting me. No reason to refuse. I sit.
That was when Frieren truly connected with Lily, a figure from the diary.
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