Ronan gave his name. Frieren's name sounded familiar, as if he'd heard it somewhere before, but he didn't dwell on it. It was a fleeting recognition, a passing feeling—vague and without weight. Whether he had heard it before or not, it made no difference. This was their first meeting. Prior knowledge, imagined or otherwise, wouldn't magically improve their rapport.
After a brief exchange, Frieren's apprehension eased. She no longer gripped the basket quite so tightly, and her posture relaxed ever so slightly. The silence between them felt less tense, more companionable. Then she paused, turned her head slightly, and pointed a slender finger in a certain direction.
"Our village should be that way," she said hesitantly, her voice still subdued.
Ronan nodded. He knew full well that her judgment was likely based on memory or intuition. Possibly flawed. The forest had no signs, no roads, no guideposts—nothing but trees and shifting terrain. It wouldn't have surprised him if they ended up walking in circles. But he didn't mind. If it came to it, he could always fly. Even leave the planet, if necessary. But that option was one he avoided for now. He wasn't familiar with this world's power system, its rules, its taboos. Using his full abilities might invite unnecessary fear, or worse—unwanted attention.
Especially from a child.
So he walked.
Time passed slowly, the forest giving way to small clearings and the occasional ridge. He carried Frieren on his back—not out of necessity, but convenience. Her legs couldn't keep up with his pace, and this saved time. She didn't protest, though she was quiet for most of the journey.
Eventually, the thick tree line broke, and in the distance, something new came into view. A small village, nestled between hills and forest, came into focus. The buildings were wooden, simple in construction, with moss-covered roofs and thin trails of smoke rising from chimneys. A shallow stream curved past its edge, and from somewhere within came the faint sound of barking dogs.
A rustic scene. Peaceful.
Before they reached it, Frieren stirred. From her perch on Ronan's back, she pointed forward.
"It's just ahead. We got lucky."
Ronan slowed his pace.
"Should we rest?" Frieren asked after a moment. "Are you a warrior? I've seen elven warriors, but none as fast as you. Did you use magic?"
Ronan raised an eyebrow. The question was innocent, but revealing. She had no idea what kind of strength he actually possessed. Her concept of power, of magic, was likely bound by the world's norms—norms he didn't yet understand.
Before he could answer, Frieren suddenly remembered something.
"Wait, put me down," she said quickly. "Our village isn't very welcoming to humans. They won't chase us away, but… misunderstandings are best avoided."
Ronan stopped, considering her words. He understood.
Elves had a different perception of time—long-lived and slow to change. Cultural shifts took centuries, not years. Many still lived in the memory of darker times, when elves were hunted, sold, treated as little more than magical commodities. Scars from that era still lingered, deeply ingrained in their societal instincts. Even now, caution was their nature.
But that world had changed, in part due to one person.
A genius—unnamed in their conversation—had risen from among the elves. A magician of unparalleled talent. In just decades, she had accomplished feats others could not achieve in centuries. Her mastery over magic had shifted the balance of power, bringing the elves security and respect. Her influence protected them. Yet even so, the threat never truly disappeared. Human greed, after all, was a persistent thing.
Ronan nodded, setting Frieren gently down.
They stood a short distance from the village. Frieren straightened her clothes, brushing off leaves and adjusting her cloak. Then, without a word, she turned and hurried off toward the village path.
Ronan remained where he was.
The wind stirred the grass. Birds fluttered through the canopy above. Time passed slowly. He waited.
Eventually, Frieren returned. She was not alone.
Beside her walked an elderly elf, robed in garments of dark green and brown, his long hair the color of fading snow. His presence was calm but commanding, and his face bore the lines of centuries. Eyes like polished amber assessed Ronan with quiet thoughtfulness.
This, clearly, was one of the village elders.
The elder's aura was not magical in nature, but temporal—something built through age, experience, and time. A quiet weight. Ronan could feel it.
At first, the elder said little. He had come only to confirm Frieren's safe return and to extend the village's thanks. Their numbers were few, their provisions strained. Food was tight. Even one missing child was a heavy loss. Ronan understood the implications.
Still, the elder's demeanor remained polite, but distant.
They would not ask Ronan to stay.
That decision had already been made. Not from hostility, but from pragmatism. The elves lived simply, cautiously. Strangers, especially humans, disrupted that balance. Even grateful, they would not take the risk.
Perhaps, as a token of gratitude, they might offer him something. A few magical books, perhaps. Nothing of great value—just enough to show courtesy. Even generosity had limits.
Ronan understood all of this without it being said.
He simply nodded, waiting quietly, while Frieren and the elder spoke in hushed tones.
The sun hung low now, casting long shadows over the clearing. The village beyond the trees remained quiet, almost too quiet. But in that moment, Ronan didn't mind.
This was their world, not his.
And he was merely passing through.