Vote! I need your stones!
—
Once again, years had passed. For a long-lived species like them, it was merely the blink of an eye. For a human like Flamme, however, it was a quarter of her lifespan.
She was old. It was inevitable for a human. Now she lay in bed, barely able to move on her own, her body stiff with age.
Seeing her like this—their beautiful, once-proud daughter—wounded the hearts of the immortals. It was the most painful blow they had ever experienced in their long lives.
Neither of them could bear to look at her without feeling a sharp pain in their chests, a slow, agonizing ache that no mere physical wound could match.
On the surface, they appeared composed, but inside they were breaking. No one should have to watch their child's life slowly fade before their eyes.
It was the cruelest punishment an immortal species could endure—as if the heavens themselves were mocking them for their endless lifespans.
The trade-off was unbearable. Only now did Fafnir truly understand why so many immortals became heartless. Those who kept their hearts simply could not survive. For them, death would have been a kinder fate.
Fafnir noticed that Serie spent all her time in the library, desperately researching life-extension spells for humans.
But it was pointless. Most of those so-called life-extension spells were flawed or outright fake.
As grand as the mythical era was said to have been, to Serie it was no different from the present—except that, back then, there had simply been more exceptional people.
That era had never been the paradise humans imagined, where everything was possible and miracles happened daily. People were still just people. If it had truly been a time of endless wonders, the civilization would never have been destroyed and later romanticized as "the mythical era" by its descendants.
While it lacked the miracles of legend, it did possess a handful of truly exceptional spells. Yet even those were not what Serie sought.
"This isn't going to work."
Serie was frustrated. She had known this day would come, yet it still caught her off guard how quickly time had run out.
Before Flamme had even turned thirty, Serie had already begun researching and attempting to create a life-extension spell. But she had underestimated just how extraordinarily complex it was to invent something from scratch. Even with her vast knowledge and references to work from, the spell remained incomplete. Using it in its current state would cause more harm than good.
By the time she finished it, her daughter's life would already have ended.
She couldn't help but laugh bitterly at the irony. She had all the time in the world, yet her daughter did not.
Sometimes she wondered: if she had never met Flamme, perhaps she wouldn't care this much. She wouldn't be hurting this much.
But when she looked back on the time they had shared, she remembered how often she had smiled and laughed during those years. Though brief, it had been the brightest period of her long, dull life. She could muster no regret for having known such happiness.
The joy of caring for someone who cared for you in return. The experience of having a family.
If she could turn back time, she would choose this path every single time. That happiness was priceless.
But right now, she was truly, deeply exhausted—physically and mentally. Only her iron will kept her going.
Then she felt a warm blanket gently draped over her body. There was no need to ask who had done it.
Serie shifted her gaze and saw the man she had lived with for so long now standing beside her. His eerie, blood-crimson eyes looked at her with concern—a look that would never have been possible without their daughter's influence.
Their relationship had begun as a mere contract, but Flamme's existence had changed everything.
"You should take a proper rest," Fafnir said gently. "Abusing your body like this isn't good for you."
Serie scoffed. "Do you think I don't know that?"
Fafnir remained silent, but she continued anyway.
"Our daughter's time is running out. I can't rest. I have to finish this spell. With it, she will—no, she *will*—live a long life with us." Her face was filled with fierce determination.
Fafnir said nothing. He knew it was a fool's errand. It was painfully clear she could not complete the life-extension spell in the limited time they had left. Deep down, she knew it too, but refused to admit it.
He didn't want Flamme to die either. But his own magic was highly specialized—mostly offensive spells, runes, curses, and spatial magic. As a cursed dragon, he was utterly hopeless with supportive or life-related magic.
Words would not stop Serie from trying. All he could do now was make her as comfortable as possible. Eventually she would see the truth for herself.
Unlike her narrow focus, Fafnir was already looking toward a much greater goal.
Since there was no time left, he would simply wait for his daughter to pass peacefully from old age. And after that…
No matter how many centuries or millennia it took, he would find a world that could revive her and allow her to live a long life with them.
This was his silent oath. For now, he would keep it to himself.
Fafnir stood watch over her in silence, a quiet guardian.
—
It finally happened on a peaceful, sunny day when everything felt warm.
Flamme died in her bed, painlessly, with a slight smile on her face.
Despite her wrinkles and old age, she was truly beautiful even in death.
But that beauty itself felt like an insult to Serie, who stared silently at her daughter's corpse, her eyes wide with shock, as if she still could not believe what she was seeing.
Slowly, she caressed Flamme's beautiful face.
No one spoke.
Fafnir stared blankly at his daughter's body. On the surface he was calm, but inside raged a storm that refused to subside. He unconsciously clenched his fists so tightly that his nails pierced his palms, drawing blood.
He had known this day would come, but seeing it with his own eyes was different. He felt as though he were suffocating.
Frieren stayed silent as well, gazing at her teacher's corpse. She was too young to fully understand the feeling inside her chest.
But it hurt.
Both of them watched as Serie gently caressed Flamme's hair and face, as though she were still alive.
And that hurt more than anything.
…
…
…
Weeks passed. The temple was eerily silent despite the people within it.
Serie refused to bury Flamme's body. Instead, she kept it in suspended animation, frozen for all eternity.
Then, nearly a month after the death, after the long silence, the shock, and the denial, the dam finally broke.
One night, Serie accepted that her daughter was truly gone. She cried like no one else ever had.
Fafnir had long prepared for this moment. As Serie herself had once explained, elves processed grief far more slowly than humans. Now that the grief had finally caught up to her, he pulled her into a deep, comforting embrace, burying her face against his chest from head to torso.
It took several hours for her to calm down. By the time she did, it was already midnight.
"She's gone… My daughter… she's—"
"Shh, shh. I know… I know…" he whispered soothing words into her ear.
But the pain did not fully subside. "Fafnir… please… make me forget the pain…"
Serie was breathing hard against his chest. At first Fafnir didn't understand what she meant—until she forcibly ripped open his high-quality tunic, leaving him half-naked.
Then, slowly, she undressed her own toga in front of him, revealing her naked body.
Only then did he understand what she was asking.
No words were needed. He gently laid her down on the silk bed.
That night, the two of them sought the fleeting comfort found only in the intimate union of man and woman.
The night felt exceptionally long.
---
A/N: Yeah, I'll leave the rest up to your imagination.
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