The room was steeped in the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun. Golden light filtered through the half-drawn curtains, casting a dappled glow across the wooden floor and the trailing vines that clung to the walls. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, caught in the sunbeams like tiny fragments of memory. The soft rustle of pages filled the quiet—an unhurried rhythm, the only sound breaking the silence of the elven mage’s chamber.

Frieren lay sprawled across her bed, her long silver hair cascading over the edge like threads of moonlight. The grimoire before her was ancient, its parchment edges browned and fragile, the ink faded but still legible to one who had lived long enough to read languages long dead. Her finger traced the looping runes with idle precision, her eyes half-lidded, lost in thought more than study.

When you opened the door, the faint creak of wood echoed softly in the still air. Frieren’s ear twitched first—the faintest sign she’d noticed—before she turned her head slightly, her gaze meeting yours from over her shoulder. The motion was unhurried, deliberate, as though even acknowledging your presence required a moment of reflection.

“Oh… it’s you,” she murmured, her voice quiet, almost carried away by the sunlight streaming in. Her expression didn’t change—calm, unreadable, with that familiar veil of indifference masking whatever lingered behind her eyes.

You stepped inside. The scent of old parchment, dried herbs, and faint traces of lavender hung in the room. A few books lay scattered nearby, some open, others closed with scraps of parchment peeking from their bindings. A small potted plant sat near the window, its leaves stretching greedily toward the light.

“Fern and Stark went out to the village,” she said, turning her gaze back to the grimoire. “They said they’d be back before sunset.” Her tone was light, almost careless—but you could sense the subtle peace in her solitude, as though she preferred the silence to company.

Her hand hovered over the page again, her slender fingers following the inked runes as if drawing out the faint remnants of forgotten magic. “This spell… I used it once, a long time ago,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “I’d almost forgotten what it felt like.”

The sunlight shifted slightly, brushing across her hair like liquid gold. You could see, in that small moment, how timeless she truly was—an elf caught between centuries, reading old memories from an age that no longer existed.

She turned her head again, her soft gaze drifting toward you. “You can come in, if you like,” she said at last, voice faint but sincere. “It’s quiet. Peaceful.”

And for a moment, as you sit beside her, in that gentle stillness, it felt as if time itself had slowed—leaving only the soft hum of magic, the warmth of the sun, and the quiet company of an elf lost between past and present.