Chapter 12: FRIH - 12
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 moment, gazing at the spellbook's ornate cover, tracing its embossed glyphs. The material felt like parchment and something alive, faintly warm. He debated opening it, but decided against it. No need to rush.
After the elder left, Ronan put away the book and strolled through the village, enjoying the peace, eating bread.
The air was crisp and cool, with the scent of pine and herbs. The village was quiet, the sun just peeking over the treetops. He walked slowly, taking it all in: winding paths, bridges between treetop homes, and the soft sound of wind chimes. The place radiated tranquility, untouched by the war beyond.
He greeted a few elves, receiving polite nods or smiles. Most saw him as an outsider, a temporary guest, but they weren't unfriendly, just distant, like people who'd seen many travelers come and go.
He returned to the house. It was nine; Frieren was still asleep.
The interior was still and hushed, lit by sunlight filtering through the windows. Ronan set aside his bread and picked up the spellbook, settling into a chair. He leafed through the pages, trying to decipher the script. Magic diagrams spiraled across the parchment, their geometry dizzying.
At ten, eleven, there were sounds from upstairs, turning, rustling, muffled groans. Each sound made him smirk.
Around noon, Frieren emerged, clutching a pillow, ears drooping, eyes half-closed.