Beneath warm sunlight and birdsong, a girl sits, eyes closed, her presence nearly imperceptible, blending into the surroundings. A small bird perches on Fern's head—a testament to her masterful mana control. Even animals, sharper than humans, sense no threat. But something startles the bird, and it flutters away in a panic. Why?
"Good morning, Fern," I say. "Sorry, did I interrupt?"
An elven mage appears—me, Frieren. This is the daily life of master and apprentice, however temporary.
"No, good morning, Frieren-sama," Fern says. "It's rare for you to be up this early."
"Right?" I puff out my chest. "I've been in great shape lately. Even Heiter praised me."
I'm on a roll. Waking early once a week is a huge improvement. Heiter noticed this morning and commended me—though I refused his candy.
"That's wonderful," Fern says. "I'd be happy if Heiter-sama praised me too."
"Yeah," I say. "But the head-patting? No thanks. It feels like he's treating me like a kid."
Maybe it's my fault for interrupting her training, or maybe it's Heiter's name, but Fern seems delighted, unbothered by my disruption. I don't love being lumped in with her, but what can I do? In a thousand years, only Heiter praises me like this. Just spare me the head-pats.
"Still, I'm impressed, Fern," I say. "Growing this much in just a month?"
"It's not enough," she says. "I haven't broken the first rock yet."
"I see."
My praise is genuine, but she takes it as flattery, deflecting humbly. She'll probably stay like this until she shatters that rock and becomes a full-fledged mage. Teaching her for just a month, her growth is astonishing. Humans mature so fast—blinking, and they're different people. Like Zerie said, I can't slack on my own training either.
Then I remember something. I haven't had a chance to ask in the past month. Now's as good a time as any.
"By the way, Fern," I say, "did you learn any magic from… her? Aura? You were here with her for a month, right?"
Aura the Guillotine. I learned about her a month ago. Heiter dodged my questions, brushing me off with vague answers. He clearly doesn't want to tell me. So, Fern's my only source, though she might not share either.
"Yes," Fern says. "I asked, but she refused. As a demon, she said she couldn't teach a human."
"I see," I say. "Makes sense. Our sense of magic differs greatly from demons'."
Fern answers honestly, unlike Heiter. She's been raised well—a relief. And Aura's response is typically demonic. Demons treat magic like breathing or walking—instinctive, like their flight spells. Do they even teach each other? Fern asking a demon for magic lessons is the oddest part, but she's a child, so I'll let it slide.
"But I must've looked disappointed," Fern says, clutching a grimoire like a treasure. "Aura-sama showed me a spell to create a field of flowers, saying nothing."
A field of flowers. Probably the blue-moon grass she showed Fern. But why? To deceive her? What's the point? A faint unease stirs—something familiar, like a memory from long ago.
"That grimoire?" I ask.
"Yes," Fern says. "Aura-sama gave it to me. I said it was too precious, but she said she didn't need it anymore."
"Hmm," I say. "Doesn't suit Aura."
"Does it?" Fern asks.
"The Aura I know wouldn't use such a spell," I say. "Demons obsess over their own magic. They rarely use human spells, especially folk ones."
Demons dedicate their lives to a single spell, though general magic is different. Folk spells, like flower fields, are beneath them. Aura should be no exception. What happened?
"Really?" Fern says. "But Aura-sama knew many spells. She gave me lots of grimoires besides this one."
"Others?" I ask.
"Yes," she says. "She only had this one here, but after leaving, she sent many more as gifts."
"Gifts…" I mutter. "This is getting complicated."
My suspicion deepens. A demon giving gifts to a human? Impossible. Yet it's happening. And it's effective—Fern trusts Aura completely. Demons' perfect trap. But Fern's not foolish—her intelligence belies her age. To deceive her so thoroughly? Aura's understanding of human psychology is unmatched among demons I've faced. She wasn't like this before. Great demons like her don't need such tricks to prey on humans. If one did, it'd be a catastrophic threat.
"Frieren-sama?" Fern says.
"Sorry, I was thinking," I say. "What other grimoires did she give you?"
I'd lost myself in thought. Fern eyes me curiously. I cover with a casual question, not expecting much. But—
"Let's see," Fern says. "Spells to dry clothes, hair, and… remove alcohol from liquor? Many others, all useful."
"Clothes and hair-drying spells!?" I exclaim.
I can't help my shock. It rivals the Aura revelation.
"Are they rare?" Fern asks.
"Rare?" I say. "They're legendary, from the mythical era! I've searched for centuries, and she had them?"
I bite my finger in frustration. Clothes and hair-drying spells—grimoires I've hunted forever. Legendary magic, impossible to find. I'd given up, thinking only Zerie could teach me. And Aura had them? Unbelievable.
"They're that precious?" Fern says. "I'm sorry. But one odd grimoire was mixed in, useless."
"What kind?" I ask.
"A spell to produce syrup," she says. "What's the point?"
I'm speechless. A dream? Why today, of all days, do I find the magic I've sought? Useless? Hardly. It's legendary to me—combined with a shaved-ice spell, I could make Heiter the perfect dessert, even one-up Eisen.
"Frieren-sama?" Fern says.
"Sorry, thinking again," I say. "I had something to ask you too."
"What is it?" Fern asks.
"About Aura," I say. "What did you think of her? You spent a month here. What was she like?"
I rein in my excitement. I'm Fern's master, however temporary—I can't look pathetic. More importantly, I need to understand Aura. From Heiter and Fern, she's clearly not the Aura I knew. Knowing her is critical; a misstep in battle could be fatal. But my question—
"…A mother," Fern says.
"What?" I say.
"She felt like a mother," Fern repeats.
Her answer renders my question pointless, incomprehensible.
"A mother?" I say. "Did she beg you for mercy or something?"
"Why would Aura-sama do that?" Fern asks.
"What?"
"What?"
We stare, mirror images, dumbfounded. We're not speaking the same language. This disconnect shouldn't happen, even with a demon. A mother? That's what demons say when begging—a tactic unsuited for an adult demon like Aura, especially with Fern. What situation led to this?
"I don't understand," Fern says, "but Aura-sama did all the housework here. I said guests shouldn't, but she insisted she was bored. She scolded me too—told me to act like a kid. Like a mother, right?"
"A mother… housework?" I mutter.
When did words change meaning? A mother doing housework—least fitting for Aura. I picture her in an apron, cooking, washing. Impossible. I'd sooner believe the Demon King revived. A nightmare. But—
"Linie-sama was here too," Fern says. "It was lively with them."
"Linie?" I say. "Aura's attendant?"
"Yes," Fern says. "A cute woman in a corset dress. We played a lot. She's Himmel's top disciple, wielding his hero's sword. Amazing, right?"
"What?"
"What?"
The nightmare continues. Am I dreaming? Linie, the demon Heiter mentioned with Aura.
"Himmel's top disciple?" I say. "Who?"
"Linie-sama," Fern says. "She showed me the hero's sword Himmel gave her, thrilled. Heiter-sama knew, didn't he?"
"No idea," I say.
Apparently, she's Himmel's top disciple, with his sword. Nonsense. Eisen might train disciples, but Himmel? No way. And a demon disciple? A woman, no less? Were the rumors of Himmel being charmed true? I'm lost.
"Fern," I say, "hit my head with your staff. It might jog my memory."
"No way," she says, clutching it. "This is precious from Heiter-sama."
"Value me too," I say.
She guards her staff like it's treasure. Am I less than it? It was a joke. Have I been hit with mental magic? I should be immune.
"Anyway," I say, "Heiter probably told you, but don't trust demons. Their words can be deadly."
I force myself to warn her, for the umpteenth time. It's true, yet I feel like the liar here. But I must say it, even if she hates me, to keep her safe.
Fern smiles, baffling me.
"What's so funny?" I ask.
"You're like Aura-sama," she says.
"Me and her?" I say. "How?"
It's the millionth incomprehensible thing today. We're opposites—species, nature, everything. The only similarity is being mages. Yet—
"Aura-sama said the same thing," Fern says. "Not to trust demons, including her. Funny, right? A demon worrying about me. She's clumsy but kind."
She speaks joyfully. A demon warning against demons? Impossible. If intentional, she's beyond demonic. Always exceeding my expectations. I can't tell what's true or false.
All I know is Fern values me about as much as her staff.
"Anyway, I warned you," I say. "I remembered an errand, so I'm heading back."
"Yes," Fern says. "I'll return home by noon."
I turn, not embarrassed. I need to grill that boorish priest. I planned to wait until keeping my promise, but no more. Staff in hand, I'm ready for force if needed. But—
"I forgot to ask," I say.
"What?" Fern says.
The most important question, lost in the conversation.
"Where are those grimoires?" I ask.
Fern's gaze seems colder, but it's probably my imagination.
That was the moment Fern realized she'd have to look after this woman—