Lord Marco chuckled, avoiding a direct response. Some things were best left unsaid.
The laughter, soft and composed, echoed gently in the high-ceilinged room, mingling with the faint rustle of the fire flickering in the ornate hearth. Marco's eyes, sharp and seasoned from years of navigating noble politics, twinkled briefly with subtle amusement before he leaned back in his cushioned chair. He seemed perfectly content to let the topic dissolve into comfortable silence. Some matters didn't need to be voiced to be understood. Both men knew the value of what was left implied.
Their conversation concluded, and they remained at the estate to attend to some unfinished business. The atmosphere shifted from formal discussion to quiet activity. Afternoon sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting golden beams onto the polished floor and expensive rugs. Outside, the estate's courtyard was peaceful, the distant hum of servants moving about blending into the background like a calming melody.
The grain could wait; it was still early; a delay of a couple of days wouldn't matter. The urgency that had once hovered over the logistics of supply and trade now seemed like a distant concern. Time, in that moment, felt pliable—unhurried, even indulgent.
However, to alleviate the village elder's concerns and avoid any misunderstandings about Frieren's whereabouts, Ronan took her back to the village that afternoon.
Their journey was quiet. The path through the countryside was lined with low, rolling fields and clusters of wildflowers swaying gently in the wind. Birds chirped lazily from distant trees, and the occasional clatter of a cart could be heard along intersecting roads. Frieren walked with her usual calm detachment, her staff lightly tapping the dirt path, while Ronan kept his gaze forward, thoughtful and measured.
The elder was delighted. His wrinkled face lit up as he saw them approach, the worry lines smoothing out in relief. While concerned about Frieren staying in the human town, he trusted Ronan, the Hero, to look after her.
That evening, they returned to Lord Marco's mansion.
…
"Yes, yes, Mr. Ronan, that's the expression! Please maintain it," Lord Marco instructed, observing Ronan's pose.
The sculptor, a wiry man covered in a fine layer of marble dust, nodded approvingly from behind his half-finished statue. His tools clinked softly as he adjusted their positions, stepping back to study the angle of Ronan's chin. The air smelled faintly of stone and oil, of freshly chipped granite and candle wax.
Turning to Frieren, who was striking a similar pose, Marco added, "Ms. Frieren, you look exquisite. Soon, your images and names will be known throughout the city. I thank you on behalf of all the citizens."
Frieren yawned, weary.
Her breath puffed out in a soft cloud, and her shoulders sagged slightly, betraying her exhaustion. She didn't care about his praise. It meant little to her—flattery without context or reason. If not for the statue, she would have gone home to sleep. The day had dragged on endlessly, filled with ceremonial gestures, measured conversations, and now this long, awkward stillness under the scrutinizing gaze of artists and nobility.
Why was Ronan making a statue? She didn't understand its purpose or relevance to her. The stone figures rising behind them meant nothing. Ronan paid for it; he did the work; she was just along for the ride. She had neither asked to be immortalized in marble nor cared to be remembered by strangers.
She glanced at Ronan, then, prompted by the sculptor, resumed her impassive expression.
The statue's basic form was complete. It stood tall in the center of the workroom, its surface rough and unpolished, but already bearing a striking resemblance to its subjects. Evening light streamed in through the arched windows, illuminating the dusty air in golden shafts. The outlines of their faces, their stances—steady and heroic—cast long shadows across the floor.
It was late; the finer details would be finished tomorrow. The servants, moving with the efficient grace of well-trained professionals, approached with bowed heads and lanterns in hand. Their soft voices and deliberate steps were barely audible against the hush of the mansion. They showed Ronan and Frieren to adjacent rooms.
The corridor was quiet, the air tinged with the scent of aged wood and candle smoke. Footsteps echoed softly on the stone tiles as they walked side by side.
Before opening her door, Frieren turned to Ronan.
"Does this statue have meaning? Why include me? I don't care about fame."
"You don't, but others do. It's about appearances," Ronan said, his hand on the doorknob, the light illuminating his face.
His expression was calm, yet beneath the surface was a flicker of earnestness. The light caught his features just right—half-shadowed, half-illuminated—highlighting the seriousness in his eyes.
"We're not doing charity; we need compensation. This is insignificant to them; why not? It also boosts morale. You heard about the demons. Your statue might deter them; it symbolizes the alliance between elves and humans. And," he continued, his gaze steady, releasing the doorknob, "if you're offended, I can stop it tomorrow. It's just an experiment."
He spoke plainly, without force or manipulation. His words carried the weight of quiet conviction. Ronan wanted to be remembered, proof that this wasn't a dream. Something visible, tangible, lasting.
He wasn't against some degree of public display; his previous low profile was strategic. He hadn't been to human towns before and wanted to avoid trouble. Even the world's richest person doesn't flaunt their wealth constantly, but neither do they never do so. It's a spectrum. Ronan chose a balance – not tiring, not idle.
Frieren, being an elf, struggled to understand these human motivations.
She looked at Ronan, finding him inscrutable.
His thoughts, his reasons—they flickered just out of reach, like shadows on water. Humans were complex. Elves lived for centuries, but humans burned brightly in the short time they had. They rushed toward purpose, toward recognition, toward meaning. Understanding them would take decades.
She wondered how long Ronan would live. She still owed him for the magical tools.
They closed their doors.
The sound was soft—wood meeting wood, a gentle latch—and the hallway grew still again.
Frieren leaned against hers, a flicker of interest in humanity stirring within her – something entirely new.
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