Meeting

Behind the door was an extraordinarily spacious room.

Rather than a room, it was more like a small library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered all four walls, crammed with books of every color and thickness. A huge oak desk stood in the center of the room, piled with open scrolls, sheets covered in notes, several crystal balls, and a cup of steaming black tea.

A woman sat behind the desk.

Hearing the door open, she looked up.

Her gaze fell first on Frieren.

"You're here?" Serie said, her voice as calm as still water. "A little earlier than I expected. I guessed you'd put it off until tomorrow evening."

Frieren walked into the room and closed the door behind her.

"Because I didn't want you to be right," she said.

The corner of her mouth moved ever so slightly. She put down the scroll in her hand, leaned back in her high-backed chair, and folded her hands in front of her.

"Long time no see, Frieren," she said. "And... Lorenz. Have you come to fight me this time?"

"No, and call me Lowell." Lowell's tone was easygoing. "I told you, I don't like fighting."

Serie gave a soft snort, put down the scroll, and leaned back in her high-backed chair. "That's why I hate how laid-back you are." She tapped the armrest with her fingertips. "You stand at the pinnacle of power, yet all you ever think about is staying out of the world's affairs."

"To each their own."

"You're not a person. You're a demon."

"Now I'm just Lowell."

Serie gave no indication either way. Her gaze returned to Frieren, and she looked her up and down. "You've grown taller."

"No, I haven't," Frieren said immediately.

"Really, at least a centimeter."

"Elves stop growing taller after they turn a thousand."

"That's ordinary elves." Serie picked up her tea and took a small sip. "You're the slowest to develop that I've ever seen, both in height and in the chest."

"Old hag."

Frieren gave her a mild glare.

Lowell coughed softly beside them.

"The association is impressive." He changed the subject, looking around at the bookshelves. "It's larger than I imagined."

"Nothing but pointless vanity." Serie put down her teacup, her tone casual. "But it does have some use. At least it's an effective way to gather those chattering brats in one place, so they don't go around causing trouble."

"You used to hate teaching students more than anything," Frieren said.

"I still do," Serie admitted readily. "So I leave all the teaching to the people under me. All I do is pick one or two of the most irritating ones each week and personally 'instruct' them for two hours."

"And then?"

"Then they usually cry and swear they'll never become mages." Serie said, "But once in a while, one or two finish crying and their eyes light up instead, and they come back the next day for more scolding. Those are more interesting."

"Like who?" Frieren asked. She walked over to a bookshelf, her fingertips brushing the spines as her gaze swept over the ancient titles.

Serie did not answer immediately. She picked up her teacup and took another sip, looking out the window—even though there was nothing there but the tower wall and the unchanging magical glow.

"A little human girl, for example." She put down her teacup, her tone as flat as if she were discussing the weather. "A little clever, and her mana control is passable."

Frieren pulled out a book on ancient runes and leafed through it. "If you call it 'passable,' she must be quite good."

"She's noisy." Serie clicked her tongue softly. "When she's quiet, she's like a little mushroom, buried in a pile of books without a word all day. But the moment she gets excited, she makes enough noise to give you a headache, like a whole pack of goblins banging on pots. She's always pestering me."

Lowell walked over to the desk and looked at the open scrolls. They bore complicated diagrams of mana flow, covered in detailed notes, and they gave him a slight headache. "She sounds... lively."

"Too much liveliness is trouble." Serie tapped the desktop with a finger. "She hadn't even grasped the essence of defensive magic before she started clamoring to go out and 'gain experience.' She showed off what little skill she had in front of those sheltered fools in the royal capital and picked up the title of 'the royal capital's greatest genius mage.' Now she really thinks she can handle things on her own."

Her face was nearly expressionless as she spoke, but her folded fingertips tapped lightly and unconsciously against the back of her hand.

Frieren closed the book and put it back. "So you threw her out?"

"She was the one who couldn't stay put," Serie corrected her. "I just didn't stop her. It has nothing to do with me. She'll only learn how big the world is after she takes a few falls."

The room fell silent for a moment. The crystal lamp cast a gentle light, and the air was filled with the scent of old books and tea.

"What's her name?" Frieren asked.

Serie glanced up at her, then quickly looked away, toward an inconspicuous little vase on the corner of the desk, simply decorated with dried flowers. It held a few fresh little blue flowers, still beaded with dew, completely out of place with the room's austere, old-fashioned style.

"Ruby," she said, her voice a little lower than before. "An ordinary human name."

Frieren's gaze also fell on the little bouquet. The flowers were a common variety, but they were in excellent bloom, and the dewdrops on their petals glistened in the lamplight. Clearly, someone had tended them carefully and replaced them not long ago.

"Flower field magic?" Frieren said softly, as if to herself. "Does she like it too?"

Serie did not respond. She reached out and adjusted the angle of the bouquet ever so slightly, making the blue stand out more in the lamplight. After doing so, she seemed to realize something, and immediately withdrew her hand, resuming her previous pose with her arms folded.

"Pointless magic." She snorted. "She's still a long way from truly being able to handle things on her own, yet she's already studying useless magic like this."

But at that moment, beneath her habitual stern expression, there seemed to be the faintest softening, one she herself might not even have noticed. It was like a warm current quietly passing beneath the ice-covered surface of a lake.

Frieren and Lowell exchanged a glance.

"We'll be staying in Central City for a few days," Lowell said.

"Do as you please." Serie picked up the scroll again, her gaze falling on the densely packed runes, and assumed the posture of someone dismissing her guests. "The association's main doors face south. If you want to see anyone, go find them yourselves. Just don't bother me."

Frieren turned and walked toward the door.

"Got it, old hag." She pulled the door open and glanced back at the vase holding the little blue flowers. "The flowers... are blooming nicely."

Serie did not look up. She merely waved a hand, motioning for them to leave.

The door closed gently behind them.

Footsteps sounded once more on the spiral staircase, this time descending.

"What do you think?" Frieren asked after they had walked for a while.

"About what?"

"That Ruby."

Lowell thought for a moment. "If Serie brought her up on her own and even allowed flowers in her study, I'm afraid she's more than just 'a little clever.'"

"Mm," Frieren murmured, saying nothing more. The cold light inside the tower fell across her profile, revealing no emotion.

Only when they had descended to a certain floor and, through a window that happened to be open, caught sight of the young mages gathered in the square outside, wearing apprentice robes of various colors, did her gaze linger for a few extra seconds.

Then she continued downstairs.