Right hand, ring finger—it glowed with a faint, pale light. Thin violet magic gathered at the fingertip. Feln exhaled slowly and directed it toward the withered grass arranged on the stone table. A flutter. Petals opened. White flowers bloomed softly in the morning air. Two out of three. The last stem remained standing, stiff and unbending. Feln gazed at it for a moment, then wrote in the open notebook. *Magic density 0.3 higher than yesterday. But it won't bloom. Why?* Beyond the window, the town of Weishardt still lay within morning mist. The birch forest appeared only as white and gray outlines. The late-summer air was cool, and somewhere distant, a bird called. Feln Elzen lived in a research tower built on a hill at the eastern edge of this town. Twenty-three years old. Deep green hair fell naturally down her back; she wore a pale gray robe and leather boots. Her frame was slender and supple, and her amber eyes held a coldness, as though gazing at something far away. On her right ring finger, a magical sigil inherited from her teacher was faintly inscribed. The first floor was a laboratory. The second, living quarters. Over one hundred twenty magical texts lined the shelves—nearly all inherited from her teacher, Frieren. Ten years had passed since the Demon King Veldard fell. Feln had been only thirteen then, desperately following behind her teacher. When that journey ended, the world found peace. The age of heroes was over. And Frieren set out on another journey, telling neither where she was going nor when she would return. Feln remained in Weishardt alone. The town lay in the southern reaches of the Eltride Continent, in the hilly lands of the Orsche region. Its population was just over four thousand. True to its name—meaning "white forest"—birch woods spread to the west. During the war, it had been a safe rear area, so damage was minimal. A quiet, peaceful place. Feln had established her workshop here for no particular reason. It was a place Frieren had once visited. A usable building was available. It was convenient for continuing her teacher's research. That was all. She gathered magic toward the withered branch once more. It would not bloom. Feln wrote in her notebook. Without giving up, she tried again. She still could not reproduce that delicate luminescence her teacher Frieren wielded. Something was missing. But she did not yet know what. Still, she had no intention of abandoning the research. Magic to make flowers bloom. Magic to call birds. Folk magic research that seemed useless to outsiders. But her teacher had cherished this work. For now, that was Feln's strongest reason. If there were another reason—she could not yet put it into words. --- Before noon, Feln left the research tower with a leather satchel. She walked toward the town center, where stone pavement continued. The sun had risen higher; the morning mist had vanished. The sky was a clear blue, and birch leaves reflected the light. As she walked the street, familiar residents bowed their heads. "Good morning, Teacher," Feln nodded lightly. The conversation ended there. At the edge of the medicinal herb field, old woman Lougan laughed with three farmwives. Some amusing story, perhaps—their voices were bright and animated. Feln glanced sideways, selected the necessary herbs, and placed them in her satchel. She paid, exchanged a word or two of greeting, and departed. On the way back, Feln's footsteps stopped on the stone pavement. What should she have for dinner tonight? As she thought this, she suddenly realized something. Yesterday, she had been alone. The day before, too. Last autumn, and the spring before that. Since the year after Frieren departed, Feln had not sat at a table with anyone. She had not seen Stark in years. Her former traveling companions had each returned to their own lives, and only Feln remained here. She had always known this fact. But today, for some reason, it felt heavier. The texture of the stone pavement transmitted through her feet. The air was calm, and somewhere distant, children's voices carried. Feln's expression unchanged, she continued walking toward the research tower. She did not want to cry. She was not sentimental enough to admit loneliness. Only somewhere deep in her chest, there was something quiet and still. Each time she noticed it, Feln looked away. Today, she did the same. --- Late afternoon, a knock sounded. When she opened the door, a white-bearded old mage stood there. Dolf Messer. The old man who worked alone at the Continental Magic Association Ordina's Weishardt branch office. Sixty-eight years old, he processed a few documents each month and did little else. "Ah, Teacher Feln. This arrived for you," She accepted the envelope he offered. The sender was the Southern Audit Bureau of the Continental Magic Association Ordina. Feln broke the seal and read. *—With the conclusion of the post-war reconstruction period, regarding subsidies for folk magic research that cannot demonstrate practical results, the next annual review will conduct rigorous examination of continuation eligibility. Should practical value evaluation fall below the standard threshold during review, subsidies may be terminated—* She read it twice. Old Dolf coughed awkwardly. "[sad]Well, that's the trend everywhere these days. The war's over, and the budget for mages is shrinking. Even our branch office... who knows what'll happen next year," "[serious]I understand," Feln answered briefly. The old man started to say something, then stopped and left. Alone in the room, Feln stood before the bookshelf. She pulled out the oldest magical text. A thick leather cover. The most worn volume in Frieren's collection. She flipped through it slowly. Incantation formulas written in fine script, margins filled densely with notes. Frieren's handwriting. Meticulous and small. And at the edge of a page, a hasty scrawl. *—A person cannot live alone.—* When it was written, she did not know. It stood there without context, simply existing. Feln stared at those seven characters for one second. Then she returned the magical text to the shelf. Pretending she had not seen it. Outside the window, wind rustled the birch leaves. A dry, papery sound. The sound of summer's end, she thought. --- After sunset, Feln lit the lamp. She rested her elbow on the second-floor window frame and looked down at the town's lights. From the inn "Linden Branch," laughter drifted up. Lively, joyful voices. Voices that were not alone. Each time the door to the tavern "Grüne Laterne" opened, the smell of beer and mutton rode the night breeze. Herb fragrance mingled with it, and her stomach rumbled. Feln exhaled softly. She did not fear contact with people. She simply did not know how. How to sit at the same table as someone, what to say. How to laugh together, and what came after. Frieren had lived for thousands of years and still said she was learning. I have lived only twenty-three years. So perhaps it is natural that I do not understand. She thought this and moved to close the window. Her hand stopped. The word *natural* felt wrong somehow. Like an excuse to herself. Frieren had spent a thousand years learning how to relate to people. That Feln did not understand was not because she had lived only twenty-three years—it was because she had never truly faced it. As she thought this. A sound. *Thud.* At first she thought it was wind. Night wind sometimes struck the door. But the second sound was different. Not a fist. Something heavy struck the door—a dull, heavy impact. Feln descended to the first floor. Holding the lamp, she stood cautiously before the door. She took a deep breath and opened it. A young man tumbled in. Feln reflexively stepped back, and the young man fell face-first onto the stone floor. His entire body was caked in mud. His traveling clothes were torn roughly from elbow to wrist on his right arm, and blood seeped from the wound. Feln held the lamp higher to examine the injury. Beast fangs. Deep ones. A Waldwolf—the rare magical wolf that appeared in the birch forest. Those tooth marks were unmistakable. The young man groaned. His mud-covered face, still turned toward the floor, slowly lifted. Hazy eyes looked up at Feln. Young. Perhaps not yet twenty. A sun-darkened face with earnest eyes. His trembling lips opened. "[whispers]I am... a disciple of Teacher Highter...," Highter. The name resonated in her chest. One of her former traveling companions. The priest who had handled healing in the hero Himmel's party. From the Holy City Wilhelmina Church, he was the one who had told Feln to continue studying magic. A person no longer in this world. "[whispers]I came... to meet you, Teacher Feln...," With that, the young man lost consciousness. Feln stood looking down at the collapsed youth for a long moment, unmoving. Highter's disciple. Come to meet Teacher Feln. For what purpose? From where? Why had he walked through the birch forest at night? She understood nothing. But the wound on his right arm needed treatment tonight. By morning, it would swell. This was not a problem to postpone. Feln grasped the young man's arm and pulled him into the research tower. He was heavier than expected. Perhaps the weight of the mud added to it. The sound of dragging across the floor. She laid him in the first-floor laboratory and drew the lamp closer. As she pulled medicinal herbs and bandages from the shelf, Feln suddenly thought: Tonight's dinner had been alone. But tonight, there was a person in the research tower. What that meant, she did not yet know. Only that something unchanged for ten years had moved slightly tonight. The mud-covered young man who had tumbled through the door had disrupted Feln's quiet night and now lay unconscious on the floor. Feln crushed the herbs while looking at his face once. His sleeping face was more peaceful than she expected. Outside the window, night wind rustled the birch leaves. The town's lights had not yet gone dark.