"You like these things?"
Noticing Frieren's gaze lingering on a particular stall, Ronan followed her line of sight. The marketplace was dense with activity, but this small, inconspicuous booth was tucked between two larger ones—its faded canopy flapping gently in the breeze. Unlike the louder vendors hawking fruit or enchanted trinkets with gleaming runes, this one had no signs or shouting merchant. Just a cluttered display of objects, carelessly arranged on worn velvet cloth.
He didn't recognize the magical tools; they seemed strange – bottles, jars, and… sticks? Sticks were for sale? The jars and bottles looked like antiques…
They bore intricate etchings along their surfaces—symbols from a script Ronan couldn't read. Dust clung to their seams. Some of the glass had a cloudy texture, as if they'd been buried for centuries. The sticks, despite their unimpressive appearance, had delicate carvings spiraling along their lengths, suggesting they weren't ordinary wood.
Was this a flea market? A flea market in this era seemed odd, but given this was another world, it wasn't impossible.
The variety of items made it feel more like a collector's table than a professional merchant's display. There was a strange stillness to it too, as if time had slowed around the stall. The way Frieren stared, he knew there was more here than met the eye.
"Of course, I do," Frieren murmured, her voice low, as if sharing a secret.
Her eyes sparkled in a way Ronan hadn't seen before—subtle, but unmistakable. Magic had always been her focus, but here, that quiet fascination took on something deeper: reverence.
"I heard there are ruins nearby. I thought it was just a legend, but it's real. They say the ruins are full of treasures, and lost magic books. If I'm not mistaken, those items are from the ruins. I wish I had the money; I'd buy them all."
She didn't look away from the table. Her gaze remained locked on a pale, sea-green bottle sealed with wax, a sigil etched into its base. To most, it might have looked like junk. But Frieren saw history, possibility, magic. Her hands curled at her sides, restrained. She wouldn't dare touch without permission.
She loved magic and anything related to it. Some of her wood carvings, imbued with calming magic, were examples.
Ronan remembered her showing him one—an intricately shaped animal, a fox, humming faintly with enchantment. She had said it soothed nightmares. He hadn't believed it, until the first night he slept near it.
Seeing her longing gaze, Ronan pondered for a moment before patting her shoulder.
The touch was light, almost casual. But Frieren turned to him, surprised. She rarely made her emotions obvious, but something about her expression in that moment was vulnerable, unguarded.
"Stay here; I'll be right back."
She blinked, watching him move off through the crowd. He didn't wait for her response, weaving confidently toward the stall like someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
He approached the stall. Frieren watched as Ronan spoke to the vendor, who immediately beamed, taking something from Ronan and hurrying away, abandoning his stall.
The transaction was too quick, too smooth. She caught a brief glimpse of the merchant's eyes—wide, almost teary. His lips moved in hurried thanks. Then he was gone, vanishing into the alleys like a man who'd just been given a new life.
He looked like a beggar who'd just received a fortune, his feigned limp forgotten.
The sudden spring in his step was comical. Frieren's sharp eyes noticed every detail. That limp had been staged for pity. And whatever Ronan had handed him—it had undone the need for deception entirely.
—What happened?
The thought echoed in her mind. She hadn't seen any money exchanged, at least not in coins. A barter? A magical contract? Something about Ronan's presence unsettled expectations. He didn't act like a local. He didn't act like a foreigner either.
Frieren frowned, suspecting something, but wasn't sure.
Ronan wasn't careless. She sensed that. But his actions were hard to predict. One moment he seemed like a clueless wanderer, the next, someone who could command a royal court with a whisper.
She knew magical tools were expensive. Formal mages were rare and highly respected, so these items, both antiques and practical tools, commanded high prices.
There was a reason she hadn't rushed to the vendor herself. She knew better. A single piece could cost years of savings. Most were passed down through bloodlines. Even young nobles struggled to afford just one.
Her wood carvings had taken thirty years of saving to acquire.
Each carving had been made with care, infused with spells she'd discovered or restored. Thirty years of labor, quiet patience, and solitary refinement. Even then, she had barely managed to purchase one mid-grade focus gem.
These… were worth at least forty or fifty carvings.
And there were at least a dozen tools on that table. One even resembled an old catalyst she'd seen in a historical illustration, thought lost to time.
Thirty times fifty… She tried to calculate but couldn't.
Her mind short-circuited at the numbers. She wasn't bad at math, but her thoughts were too jumbled. The magnitude overwhelmed her. It was the kind of gift that shattered norms, that invited suspicion more than gratitude.
Ronan returned, his mood buoyant. He took Frieren's hand and led her to the stall.
The warmth of his palm contrasted the cool air. She followed, half-mechanical in motion. People still moved around them, but the marketplace had faded into silence for her.
"It's settled. There are ruins nearby, from the Pure Land Dynasty, thirteen hundred years ago. Many adventurers are heading there. These tools are from that time. I don't know their exact value, but they're yours now."
Her heart skipped a beat.
Her suspicions were confirmed.
She had expected generosity, not extravagance. She'd been ready for a lecture or encouragement—not a fortune spent on her behalf.
Her heart stirred; she didn't know what to say.
What words could possibly fit? Gratitude felt inadequate. Protest felt rude. And yet, a part of her wanted to do both. Ronan had shattered her equilibrium without asking for anything in return.
Complain about his spending? They were barely acquaintances, bonded by a shared interest in magic. Accept gratefully? She didn't deserve this; elves didn't value money, but understood its importance.
She lowered her gaze, struggling to form a sentence, while her fingers hovered over one of the relics—an orb that shimmered with internal mist.
This was a debt she couldn't repay in centuries.
Even if she followed him for decades, helped him in a hundred battles, she wasn't sure it would be enough. Magic was precious. And Ronan had just handed her a treasure trove.
These tools were usually sold individually; no one ever bought them all at once.
The sheer absurdity of it took her breath away. She'd dreamed of owning just one. Now she had a collection. Because a stranger with a kind heart had noticed the way she looked at them.
—Can humans live for centuries?
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You can read advance chapters in my: p@treon.com/Veora
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