He shook his head. Regardless of the elves' perspective, he considered the three-thousand-year-old magic incredibly valuable. Legendary magic… what would it be like?
He sat for a long moment, gazing at the ornate cover of the spellbook, tracing its embossed glyphs with a fingertip. The material felt like a cross between parchment and something alive, faintly warm to the touch. For a moment, he debated cracking it open again, but decided against it. There would be time later. No need to rush.
After the elder left, Ronan put away the book and strolled through the village, enjoying the peace, a piece of bread in hand.
The air was crisp and cool, tinged with the scent of forest pine and wild herbs. The village was still quiet at this hour, the sun just peeking over the treetops and casting long shadows between the elegant wooden structures. He walked slowly, chewing the bread as he took it all in: winding cobblestone paths, thin bridges stretched between treetop homes, and the soft sound of wind chimes swaying from branches. The entire place radiated tranquility, as if untouched by the war-torn world beyond the forest.
He greeted a few elves as they passed, receiving polite nods or quiet smiles in return. Most still regarded him as an outsider, a temporary guest. But they weren't cold—just distant, like people who'd seen too many travelers come and go.
Soon, he returned to the house. It was nine in the morning; Frieren was still asleep.
The interior was still and hushed, lit by sunlight filtering through linen-draped windows. Ronan set the crust of his bread aside and picked up the spellbook again, settling into a cushioned chair in the living room. He leafed through the delicate pages with care, eyes narrowing as he tried to decipher the archaic script. Magic diagrams spiraled across the parchment, their geometry dizzying in its intricacy.
At ten, eleven, there were sounds from upstairs – turning, rustling, the sounds of someone struggling with blankets.
The noise made him glance up from his reading more than once. Thuds, shifting sheets, and muffled groans echoed down the staircase. Each one made him smirk a little wider.
Finally, around noon, Frieren emerged, a pillow clutched to her chest, her ears drooping, her eyes half-closed.
She descended the steps in a slow shuffle, like a ghost haunting its own home. Her oversized sweater slipped from one shoulder, and her hair—a pale silver tangle—framed her sleepy face like a lion's mane in the middle of molting season.
Her disheveled hair didn't make her look messy; it added a touch of cuteness.
There was something innocent and endearing about it. Despite the centuries she likely carried behind her eyes, right now she looked no different than a teenage girl reluctantly leaving the safety of her bed. The pillow seemed to serve as both shield and support, pressed tightly to her chest as if she weren't quite ready to face the world yet.
Ronan, reading in the living room, smiled.
"Elves sleep in late too?"
His tone was playful, light-hearted, and not the least bit judgmental. He leaned back, one arm slung across the armrest as he waited for her reply.
Frieren looked down, the simple action seeming to drain her energy. Like a curled-up cat, she mumbled, "You're up too early. I'm an elf; I can sleep for over twelve hours."
Her voice was thick with drowsiness, barely more than a whisper. She yawned as she spoke, the words tumbling out with the lazy grace of someone still halfway in a dream.
"What are you doing?"
"Reading. The elder gave me this this morning; he said it's legendary magic." Ronan showed her the book.
He held it out casually, turning it so she could see the cover. The moment her gaze landed on it, her eyes snapped open.
Frieren's eyes widened.
"Legendary magic? I've heard of it, but isn't that the elder's most treasured possession? Why would he give it to you?"
She blinked hard, suddenly more awake than she had been in days. Her ears perked slightly, and the pillow she'd been clutching slipped from her grasp, forgotten in her growing curiosity.
Ronan chuckled. "I don't know. Maybe he was impressed by my handsome looks and savior-like aura."
He said it with a grin, clearly teasing, waiting for the inevitable reaction.
Frieren rolled her eyes; she didn't believe him.
Her expression turned deadpan. She knew Ronan had a tendency to deflect serious questions with humor, and she wasn't about to let this one slide. Something must have happened that morning. What? She had to know; it was legendary magic. She, the most magically gifted elf, had been prevented from studying it by the elder.
The unfairness of it made her lips press into a thin line. She'd spent years honing her craft, mastering every known branch of elven magic. And yet, the elder had refused to show her this particular text. The reason was always vague—something about danger, or unreadiness. But now, suddenly, it was in the hands of a human? Something didn't add up.
Ignoring his comment, she asked, "So, what does it say?"
Ronan nodded. "If my translation is correct, it's a spell to… ignite anything without fire."
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You can read advance chapters in my: p@treon.com/Veora
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