She wasn't sure.
The flicker in Frieren's eyes was brief, but telling. There was something about Ronan—something elusive and vast—that made her question what she thought she knew. Her thoughts stirred like leaves in a sudden gust of wind, scattered and uncertain. He'd barely spoken since their arrival, but the weight of his presence lingered like a silent storm cloud overhead.
Ronan noticed her observation. His eyes, calm and unreadable, shifted toward her just as she turned away. It wasn't embarrassment, but hesitation—perhaps even caution. She quickly averted her gaze, pretending to study the intricate tiling beneath their feet or the ornate archway they passed through.
They walked in silence, footsteps muffled by the fine carpets covering the marble floors. The halls of the estate were grand, echoing with quiet opulence. Oil paintings hung along the walls, portraits of nobles long gone, their eyes seeming to follow the newcomers with a mixture of curiosity and judgment. Servants passed by at intervals, bowing respectfully, their movements swift and discreet. The scent of burning incense and polished wood filled the air, subtle yet unmistakably noble.
Both Ronan and Frieren seemed to have much to say but chose not to. Their silence was not empty—it was full. Full of questions unspoken, thoughts unwound, and observations restrained. The space between them hummed with unsaid things, yet neither broke it. They merely moved forward through the lavish corridor, trailing after their noble host.
"Gentlemen…" Marco began, his voice echoing slightly through the wide hall.
He was guiding them through the estate, gesturing to its various features as though trying to impress, but Ronan barely heard him. The nobleman spoke of the estate's layout, of gardens trimmed by elven landscapers and relics passed down through generations, but Ronan's mind was elsewhere. His eyes scanned the halls, noting the reinforced stonework, the mana-reactive sconces that lit automatically as they passed, and the quiet tension of a household where appearances meant everything.
Eventually, they reached a lavishly decorated living room. The room was warm and inviting, with large windows draped in sheer curtains that allowed sunlight to pour in and dance across polished furniture. The walls were adorned with golden inlays and enchanted crystal chandeliers that sparkled with suspended particles of light. A grand fireplace, though unlit, stood proudly at the center, and the scent of aged books and lavender drifted faintly from a corner bookshelf.
They sat on soft sofas—deep and plush, the kind that embraced you as you sank into them. The cushions exhaled a faint puff of lavender-scented air as Ronan eased into his seat. A moment later, servants arrived, gliding like shadows, and offered hot tea in delicate porcelain cups. The tea's aroma—floral with a hint of spice—curled upward like a wisp of steam from a chimney. Ronan took a sip, the heat soothing against his tongue, grounding him as he sat back, his expression composed but contemplative.
Perhaps Martin had mentioned his request.
As if responding to an unseen cue, Marco abruptly stood. Without another word, he turned and left the room with swift, purposeful strides. His footsteps echoed away, leaving a brief silence in his wake. Within minutes, he returned, this time with a book in his hands.
It was bound in deep blue leather, etched with arcane symbols that glimmered faintly when tilted toward the light.
"A simple offering; please don't mind. Thank you for saving my nephew," Marco said, a hint of constraint in his amiable tone.
He extended the book with both hands, as if offering a sacred relic rather than a mere gift.
He presented the book. "I heard you collect rare magic. I happen to have one. It's nothing special, but please accept it. Other gifts will follow."
There was careful calculation in Marco's expression—like a man hedging his bets, offering respect without groveling, yet ensuring no offense could be taken. His tone was mild, but there was weight beneath it. A nobleman's politics, carefully folded into every syllable.
When his nephew had mentioned Ronan was a strong person experiencing a commoner's life, Marco hadn't believed it. Who would? With demons approaching and tension rising across the land, who in their right mind would choose to hide their power in obscurity, among the common folk?
But Martin's unwavering insistence had shaken him. His nephew had even pledged his life on the claim.
That made Marco hesitate.
If there was even a sliver of truth in it, then the consequences of ignoring it could be catastrophic—for his position, his estate, and his family. It wasn't worth the risk. And so, he made a choice.
He decided to try.
It concerned his life and family. Treating Ronan as a powerful person made the gift crucial.
Money was too common; it didn't suit a strong person. Gold meant nothing to someone who could punch a trained pugilist through a wall without effort. Magic books, on the other hand… that had meaning.
He considered what his nephew had suggested: a magic book. Ronan wouldn't need it, not truly—but his request must have had a reason.
Considering the elf… perhaps it was a pretext. A clever excuse. A way to gain rewards under the guise of sharing them. A way to strengthen the elf while appearing humble.
Like a nurturing game…
Marco pondered that possibility. He'd seen plenty of strange things in his life, but never something quite like this. Powerful people were often eccentric—but this one? He didn't even spare elves.
But it worked.
The elf grew stronger. It was effective.
No need to expose it. Let them play. That was the thought he settled on.
His only task was to let them enjoy it.
And then, it happened. Ronan, with no ceremony, handed the book to Frieren.
Just like that.
Marco's eyes narrowed slightly, and he smiled—quietly, knowingly.
Seeing Ronan give the book to Frieren… Marco realized his guess was correct. He'd made the right choice.
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