Chapter 34 - FRIH: Chapter 34
Ronan nodded.
"Magical tools are profitable; no wonder those bandits tried to rob us. Even if you don't use them, selling them would support your village for millennia. How do we test their abilities? Frieren, can you do it?"
His words hung in the air, quiet but firm, as he surveyed the spread of magical artifacts before them. Sunlight streamed in from the high window, slanting across the array of items like a golden veil. Each tool—some glinting with metallic sheen, others dulled with age—carried the weight of mystery and potential. The room itself, lined with aged wooden beams and stone walls, was silent save for the distant sounds of horses in the city courtyard and the faint ticking of a wall-mounted clock enchanted to never wind down.
Frieren hesitated, then shook her head.
"I can't, but the elder can. Should we go back? Six thousand three hundred gold coins... I'm worried..."
Her voice trailed off as her eyes lingered on the neatly packed satchels, each heavy with history and magic. The number itself—six thousand three hundred—echoed in her mind like a warning bell. That sum could feed her village for generations, could fund fortifications, repairs, education, and tools. She chewed the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit, and glanced at Ronan. Beneath her calm exterior, a storm of responsibility churned.
"Don't worry. No one will dare touch us. As for going back..."
Ronan looked outside.
He stepped toward the window, folding his arms as he gazed over the cobblestone streets below. The early morning light bathed the city in a warm amber hue. Market stalls were just beginning to open, their awnings being unfurled, merchants yawning and stretching as they set up for the day. The aroma of fresh bread and roasting chestnuts drifted faintly through the air, mingling with the sharper scents of horses and stone.
"It's too early. We only spent a day in the city; it's unfair to yesterday's events. And our statues aren't finished. Have you decided about last night? Reject or accept?"
He turned slightly to glance at her over his shoulder, his tone lighter now, as if inviting her to weigh the question not just with logic but with heart.
Frieren bit her lip, then looked up.
"Are you sure a statue will deter the Demon Lord's army?"
Her voice was quiet but intense, eyes reflecting the seriousness of the question. The thought of relying on something as symbolic as a statue to prevent an invasion seemed absurd—and yet, the fear behind it was all too real. Memories of burnt villages, shattered families, and helpless refugees flashed through her mind, dark silhouettes against a fiery past.
"Of course," Ronan replied.
"Even if it doesn't deter them, it'll make them hesitate. The demons are at war with elves and humanity. If they attack, we'll be here; you can make an appearance; seeing is believing. I'll handle them."
His response was immediate, confident, unwavering. It wasn't just bravado; it was the assurance of someone who had seen war and chaos—and had no intention of letting it unfold here. His voice was steady, almost casual, but it carried the gravity of an unspoken promise.
Frieren was moved, but then caught a key phrase.
—Stay here? Us?
Her ears perked, and her eyes narrowed slightly as she turned toward him. Her heart skipped a beat, uncertain if she had heard him correctly. She looked at Ronan, about to ask if he was serious.
He smiled.
"It's a figure of speech. I know you dislike humans. But there are communication spells. If the Demon Lord's army appears, we'll be notified; we can come then. What do you think?"
His reassurance softened her concern. The idea of staying in a human settlement long-term unsettled her—memories of mistrust and misunderstanding from her younger days surfaced like unwelcome ghosts. But his follow-up offered balance. Communication spells. A magical link, a tether to the location without the permanence of presence. It was a compromise she could live with.
Frieren agreed.
She gave a small nod, lips pursed in thought, but her body relaxed slightly, the tension in her shoulders easing. It was settled—for now. There was still much to consider, much to plan, but they had direction. That, at least, brought her a measure of peace.
They carefully packed the tools and left, planning to have them appraised after the statue was finished.
The process took time. Each item was wrapped in cloth, bundled with care, and arranged into their travel satchels with meticulous precision. Ronan tied the final strap and adjusted the weight on his shoulder, giving Frieren a reassuring nod. She checked the seals twice, murmuring a soft enchantment to deter tampering. These were no longer just artifacts—they were keys to future choices, potential leverage, and perhaps even weapons if necessary.
Using Marco's name should deter trouble.
The name alone carried weight in the city. Lord Marco's influence stretched across the merchant guilds and city guard. Even whispering his name in the wrong context could stop a petty thief in their tracks. It was a shield, and for now, it would serve them well.
The sound-based tools... were they perhaps hypnotic?
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