Two weeks had passed since Miss Serie’s arrival. The elf wasn’t the best person in the mornings, but after waking up she became like a teacher – strict, attentive, and uncompromising. And this applied to everything:
— You’re holding the hoe wrong. This way you’re only wasting more time on working the soil.
— You have impressive sewing skills, but this can be improved. Do it like this.
— You shouldn’t step like that when hunting.
— Miss Serie, you don’t belong on a hunt. Please, return home. (Comment by Sefi)
— When building a foundation, it’s better to make it wider so the load is distributed evenly across the area.
The advice worked. And it made life easier. Over these two weeks Sefi had learned more than in all the time before. Serie shared knowledge willingly, with the grace of someone used to always being right. She even helped create a primitive spinning wheel.
— Thank you for your guidance, Miss Serie, — Sefi said, as was proper.
In return, she did everything possible to ensure the guest’s comfort – as far as resources allowed. At the same time, she studied the local language and practiced magic. Secretly, of course. For some reason Serie laughed whenever she noticed this “practice.” Did she figure it out? Perhaps. Sefi intended to find out today – that is… just a few hours later. Dinner had to be good, tasty, so the conversation would flow more easily.
But for now it was evening. Deep, cold, and silent. Instead of her usual practice Sefi decided to devote a few hours to cooking. There weren’t enough ingredients for pleasures like cakes, pastries, or other sweets, but she tried to compensate with something filling and warm. Today – meat. A steak. A big one.
— I always thought elves were vegetarians… — she muttered while slicing the meat. Probably a stereotype, forced by… her past life. At first she had even been frightened when she accidentally served Miss Serie meat. She had forgotten they were supposedly "guardians of nature." The very next morning she apologized for the menu. The response – only laughter, and a few words: “I don’t care whether it’s meat or plants. After all, it’s the law of life: one eats another to survive.”
— Don’t dwell on such details, — Sefi muttered, shaking her head, — focus on the goal.
She didn’t cook out of love. She took no pleasure in the process. She simply knew: a living being needed comfort, and comfort began with food. That meant she should make the effort. She heated the stone pan, carefully laid the pieces of meat, sprinkled them with salt. There was no oil—she fried, as always, using animal fat, springtime. The meat sizzled, releasing an aroma that seemed… acceptable, it should taste good.
For the meat she decided not to serve tea
— Something new is needed. — She went through the options. Lemonade? No, that was… damn. Berries annoyed her a little now, but fine. — Creating something from scratch is not practical. Mana loss exceeds the value of the result. — She thought it over. The solution came easily: warm berry infusion. Slightly sour. Without sugar, but with sweet crystals – an imitation… practically tea, but still something new.
Dinner was ready. Almost. She looked at the steaming steak and the cup of infusion. She set the table, aligning each item at a right angle. She sat opposite, not to eat, but to observe.
Miss Serie was outside. She said she wanted to get some fresh air and think a little. Naturally, Sefi told her not to go too far – for which she received only light laughter in response. Well, acceptable.
— People are in a good mood after a meal. I think this is the right moment for conversation. — She hadn’t come to that conclusion lightly. A memory surfaced of one particularly unfortunate incident from her past – when she was taken to court. Her, the general manager.
The reason was absurd: a client, misunderstanding the instructions, misused a microwave, which resulted in his house burning down. The device had been demonstrated by her in a video – that is, in an advertisement and now the client claimed that she was at fault. Their victory was obvious, but she decided to prepare. And she began to look up information – about everything that could affect the outcome of the trial.
The first thing that caught her attention: most trials held before lunch ended in favor of the prosecution. And after lunch – on the contrary, the defense more often won. That gave her one simple thought: food improves mood and therefore influences receptiveness. Meaning…
— I should use this. — Not entirely ethical? Perhaps. But efficiency was more important. It had always been that way. In her system of values, the result mattered more than the purity of the methods. This wasn’t cruelty – just calculation, and besides, Miss Serie would suffer no harm, so it wasn’t cruelty at all. — Wait… I read about lunch. But will it work at dinner?
For a second doubt arose. The data she had referred specifically to lunch. But the logic was the same: a full person tends to think more gently. So – yes, the probability remained. Maybe with less accuracy, but… it should, right?
She nodded to herself
— We’ll test it.
***
Serie sat on one of the many stumps left after Sefi’s work. She looked up at the sky and thought about the past days. It had been fun… especially the second day. The most fun… hah.
— I’m flattered that you’re learning the Elven language, — Serie said, watching the written letters. Some were missing, but that wasn’t a problem. — Not many dare to study it, it’s rarely used.
— What, excuse me? — Sefi raised her voice and quickly approached. Her pupils trembled. Had she misheard?.. She hoped so. Otherwise all her effort… all of it was wasted. — Could you repeat that, please?
— You’re studying the Elven language… Wait… — Serie noticed the overly sharp reaction, intrigued by the demon’s trembling eyes. — Don’t tell me you didn’t know?
— …No. I didn’t know it was the Elven language, — Sefi said with disappointment. Her shoulders slumped, she pressed her lips together. Serie barely restrained her laughter – it was far too entertaining to watch the demoness’s reaction, especially in moments of failure.
— "All my work of three years down the drain. What a… setup." — There was no rage, only a logical conclusion: three years wasted. Terrible. Even if she had mastered it perfectly – the desired result would still never be reached. Shameful. No one would understand her except elves.
— Well, well. No matter. I’ll teach you the common tongue, — the guest patted her on the shoulder with a chuckle. A haughty smile settled on her face. — Still, it’s hilarious you put all your effort in the wrong direction.
— Please stop saying that, Miss Serie…
That had been the second case. She barely held back her laughter… but the first one that morning had been even funnier. Sefi had run up to her, out of breath, horror written on her face.
— Miss Serie! Forgive me for serving you meat! I forgot that you’re an elf! — she blurted, dropping to one knee. Serie didn’t understand what she meant, but the demoness went on. — I’ll remove all meat from the menu, if that is your wish!
— What?
— Miss Serie… don’t elves eat meat?
— Yes.
— Oh… — The demoness rose from her knee, spun around sharply, and hurried toward the exit.
— Wait. — Serie didn’t understand her reasoning, so she stopped her to make sense of the logic of this… strange demon. — Explain why you said that?
…
…
…
— HA-HA-HA! — Serie sat on a chair, laughing heartily at Sefi’s words, while the latter stood with her head lowered, unable to show her face.
— It’s been a long time since I laughed like this… But still. I don’t care if it’s meat or plants. After all, it’s the law of life: one devours another in order to survive, — she finished and sighed in delight. It had been fun. The stereotypes this demon carried were simply too funny.
Still, something else caught Serie’s attention: the demon persistently tried to avoid her whenever she practiced magic. The reason was unknown. Did she really think that simply going into the forest would hide her magical trace? Although, knowing this demon, one could guess – she probably didn’t know that mana could not only be sensed but also seen… and in general, demons didn’t feel mana, let alone see it. At first Serie wanted to teach her the basics of this craft, but then she changed her mind. Better to hide it… and let her practice alone. In sixteen days she would see – whether she was worthy or not. For now…
— Miss Serie, dinner is ready! — she was called, and she lazily headed home, into that small, not very cozy house. Her outfit had been changed, deemed “impractical,” and she’d been dressed in warmer, more closed clothing. She was given long boots – surprisingly comfortable, in her size and a hat and scarf, told that the first month of spring hadn’t yet passed and she needed to keep warm to avoid sickness.
The demon didn’t know she was facing a being that had lived more than a thousand years, born in the mythical era, knowing nearly all the spells in the world. And Serie herself was surprised by such care. Or no – not care. As the demoness herself had said, it was “providing comfort.” Knowing these beings, she understood: they didn’t know emotions. And if she said it, she meant it exactly that way. The elf knew this. Knew it better than anyone.
— What a funny life I’ve got here… — looking at her new clothes, she slowly walked back into the house. Her steps were graceful, her thoughts still lingering. It was sweet. It was awful. There was no mud – Sefi had dried it all out with magic on the third day, though she told Serie it was thanks to the sun. Silly girl... demon. Thinking magic left no traces. — And the smell…
The pleasant aroma of meat spread around the house, and her stomach grumbled in protest. As had been mentioned before, Sefi cooked excellent meat dishes. Perhaps she could do other things too, but there was a sharp lack of everything needed for housekeeping. Still, even so, she managed no worse. A very good servant.
— Enjoy your meal, Miss Serie, — a large piece of meat was placed on her plate. The steak was richly and perfectly seared… oh, how appetizing. — Wait. Did you wash your hands, Miss Serie?
— No, — the elf sighed in reply. At once the demoness stood, pulled out a clean, pleasantly scented cloth. Slightly damp. She wiped the guest’s hands, then brought out a small item – it was soap. Real soap. Not imitation. She had created it with magic – once. A large bar. The result had been worth the effort.
Sefi lathered Serie’s hands, then brought a prepared jug of water and dipped the elf’s hands into it.
— Why do you always wash my hands but not your own? — Not that it was irritating, but it was illogical.
— Ah… that. — Sefi didn’t know how to explain that she constantly used the “Purification” spell. Since the guest’s arrival she had refined the effect so it no longer glowed as before. — I eat after you, so it’s unnecessary for me.
— Then today, eat with me, — Serie said firmly, staring blankly at her while the demon processed the request, frozen, struggling to compute.
— Isn’t eating alone more comfortable? — she asked, and silence followed. Sefi had always eaten alone. Well, not always… There had been moments with family. But this was different. She never rushed food, she chewed slowly, savoring the taste. She enjoyed it. It was awkward to do so in front of someone else. — Since we are not truly familiar, this may lower your mood. The food will bring less joy, which in turn will cause negative emotions. And I don’t want to see them. That would be a sign of discomfort.
— I see… — In principle, the demoness was right. But Serie bowed to no one. And here she was the guest. That meant her word was law. — Eat with me. That will bring me comfort. I’ve heard that food tastes better when shared.
Sefi was silent… then carefully sat opposite
— And where is your dish? — Serie expected another plate and a piece of meat, but there was none.
— I didn’t prepare it. I thought I’d cook mine after yours and eat later, — now she tapped the table, unsure what to do. Then, as if remembering something, she quickly went to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of berries. — Here, now I have food. Let’s eat, Miss Serie! — She tried to pop a berry into her mouth, but her hand was stopped.
— Open your mouth, — before her was a fork with a juicy piece of meat and the guest’s stern gaze. — My portion is larger anyway. Nothing will happen if you eat some of this.
— But, Miss… — Sefi wanted to resist. Everything was going off-plan. All the food was supposed to go to Miss Serie, so she would receive the maximum positive emotion. Reducing the portion could affect the result.
— Eat, — the voice was firm. Allowed no refusal. So the demoness carefully opened her mouth… and ate the piece of meat. — Good girl. — Serie praised her and cut off another piece.
***
It was a failure. A complete, terrible failure. Her plan – first lift the mood, then carefully move on to questions – collapsed with a crash. And all because she… washed Serie’s hands. She just wanted to do something kind, something human, sincere – well, no, just to show etiquette and respect. But in the end, everything went wrong.
— "It’s okay, tomorrow I’ll try again," — thought Sefi, starting to put away the dishes. For the last two weeks, she had been fine-tuning everything down to the smallest details, trying not to take a single step without precise calculation. She strove for one hundred percent probability of success and was terrified of failure. It reminded her of the past – when she needed to tell her mother bad news, but every time her tongue froze the moment she saw that tired or angry face. And now – again the same indecision, the same fear.
Sefi sighed and looked over the dishes
— Do you want to talk? — asked Serie, as if reading her thoughts.
She sat cross-legged on the chair, eyes half-closed. Outwardly – calm, relaxed, as always. Only her eyes betrayed attentiveness; they barely moved, fully focused on her.
— No, nothing. — replied Sefi.
The demon was still cold. She showed not a hint of emotion, simply followed routine habits from her former life. Everything else – her steps, manners, nervousness – were just shadows of the past, mechanical gestures without substance, more precisely, just habits.
— You know, when someone blatantly lies to your face. — Serie continued, leaning back in her chair and stretching lazily, — I think it makes life rather uncomfortable. — She looked at Sefi with one narrowed eye. But that was enough: the demon’s face twitched. The stone-cold calm cracked for just a moment and even though it quickly returned, it was still a small victory. To use the demon’s own words against her – turned out to be unexpectedly effective. Serie would keep this in mind.
— Is that so? Then I am not lying. — answered Sefi, putting the dishes in their place. — I just want to finish the work quickly. — She really wasn’t lying. But she wasn’t telling the whole truth either. That was easier or at least she thought so. — I’ll bring some water. And you should rest, miss. — she added already in the doorway.
— I’ll be waiting. — Serie replied tonelessly, without getting up. She rested her chin on her hand again and seemed to fall into thought. But the demon wanted to talk. She just didn’t dare. — "That’s something new," — thought Serie and smiled. Sefi had already left through the door. — I’ll get words out of her.
***
Sefi was drawing water from the lake with a large wooden bucket. There were three of them: two she carried on a yoke across her shoulders, the third – in her right hand. Earlier she wouldn’t have even tried to lift such a weight alone, but now her body was stronger, tougher, more resilient. Daily physical work had changed her, and she felt it. She even wanted to take a fourth, but that one had a hole in it… yeah, she needed to fix it.
Truth was, there were no visible changes in her muscles. No definition, no growth the body seemed frozen in time, as if someone had pressed “pause.” But as long as it worked, as long as she could manage – complaining was pointless. Although… she would have liked to see herself with abs.
— I want to sleep. — she muttered.
Usually she easily woke with the sunrise, but with the guest’s arrival she got up even earlier to cook food and put everything in order. And that was a long, costly, laborious affair. The sun hadn’t even risen yet, and she was already on her feet. No wonder her body was starting to tire. It seemed her sleep had shrunk to four, at most five hours. Before it had been a stable seven.
When she finished, she poured the water into barrels
These barrels were good – strong, without a single crack, perfectly preserving the water. Inside she had lined them with treated hide, making them guaranteed watertight.
But with each day the thought that the trip to the lake was too long grew more persistent. The soil near the cave was soft, perhaps the groundwater was close.
— I should dig a well. — she decided, looking at the cave. Yes, the soil there was indeed soft; she remembered it from construction. — Alright… — She took a flask and filled it with water. First she needed to wash the dishes, and then she could get to the earth. But on her way home she suddenly felt a strange unease. As if something in the air had shifted. — A bad premonition… — she murmured. And slowed her step… froze at the entrance.
***
Serie was used to waiting. She could feel time slipping away, like sand through her fingers. Living so long that she had stopped counting centuries, the flow of time had lost clear structure – it had become viscous, tasteless, almost indifferent.
But today it dragged, slower than usual
She sat, chin resting on her hand, listening to how the world vibrated faintly outside the house – the sounds of the forest, the rare clicks of magical shifts, light sparks of reality. There were no animals; Sefi drove them away.
Sefi was out there somewhere, and Serie could feel her. Weak, almost formless by demonic standards, her mana still clung to her, dense and always abundant. It radiated not power, but density – as if the fabric of magic itself was too thick inside her. It was confusing.
Abnormal
For a normal demon the ratio was the opposite: the higher the mana reserve, the greater the physical and magical strength. That was natural balance – the body forms and strengthens under the pressure of its own mana. But with this… demoness, it was different.
Quantitatively – she was an anomaly
The volume of mana – enormous, even by the standards of elder demons. But its distribution… passive. Magic within her wasn’t tense, wasn’t structured for attack, defense, or destruction. It didn’t boil – it was locked inward, as if directed at internal restraint. Was she trying to hide it? No, not at all.
Sefi was… strange. There was magic in her, but strange. Too precise, too calculated – almost artificial. That’s not how fire works, nor illusions, nor elementals. It wasn’t transmutation, not destruction, not even mentalism. She had no school. No form.
Too little power – but too much mana
— How? — again she propped her chin on her hand, watching the entrance. — Such a ratio is simply impossible. Mana is the basis of magic: the more of it, the higher the potential. — But in this demoness… mana boiled like in a reservoir on the verge of bursting, and the output was a drop in the ocean.
Like a pressurized reservoir with valves screwed almost completely shut. A colossal volume – and a negligible throughput. Why?
First option – an artifact. But I already studied her clothes, skin, bones – there isn’t a single stabilizer on her. Not even traces of inlay. Not an artifact.
Second option – a blood contract? Perhaps made to preserve mana, but… that would destroy the soul. And her soul is intact. Damaged, stained, yes, but not crippled. Not a contract.
That could still be explained if Sefi were a keeper or an architect of magical artifacts – they often accumulate mana for creation, since magical engineering requires colossal expenditures. Yes, Sefi creates such things, but not the artifacts themselves, she just enchants already existing items.
But then comes another question: What kind of magic does she even have?
Serie recalled the things Sefi created: tableware, clothing, simple household objects – perfectly precise, stable, as if forged by a blacksmith, not sculpted from mana. And strangest of all – they persisted. They didn’t dissolve. That was the strange part: she had made those things out of mana and they still existed. They required expense, but only once.
— "Perhaps… she uses mana-sealing? No, I would sense the anchors. They’re absent. No seals. Neither in the air nor on the object. Then…" — Then she wasn’t forming structures from mana. From what, then? She wasn’t creating, she was substituting. Or… — "No. Substitution leaves voids in the ether, but here everything is whole. Strength like that of ordinary objects. Resistance to magic standard. As if these were ordinary items, made in the ordinary way… by hand." — But she wasn’t making them by hand. She was making them mentally. Without upkeep. Without losses. That was the incomprehensible part.
It was repulsive. It was magnificent. It was inexplicable.
Even masters of conceptual embodiment of magic needed constant support for such constructs, or they collapsed. Magic tends to dissipate if not fixed by seals, formulas, or at least a closed loop of feedback.
It was impossible. It was meaningless. It contradicted everything
But her creations – were stable
No runes, no seals, they simply… existed
How? How did she stabilize what she created? If she merely “imagined” the object – it would be a mental model. That’s how illusions or temporary projections are made. But they can’t be touched, used, or preserved. If it was “creation” – there should be a formula, a mana structure, a circuit… something. Yet in her actions there was no trace of that. She did it out of thin air.
One thought pierced especially deep:
She wasn’t using magic – she was shaping reality. Not forcing mana to “take form,” but literally embedding the form into the world itself, as though editing matter. That wasn’t just magic. That was closer to… direct prototyping of matter. A terrifying power.
Such a thing shouldn’t be possible. Even among the mages of the past, those who controlled the fabric of the world, such skills were rare, and the cost of such magic – monstrous.
It was akin… to the power of a goddess
Hilariously absurd – out of all beings, it was a demon who wielded such a power… Was this some kind of joke?
That meant she was bypassing something. Breaking a law. Or using another…
Serie clenched her fingers into a fist:
— "I must understand this." — It wasn’t just interest. It was a call. A thirst for knowledge. She looked at Sefi the way an alchemist would look at the philosopher’s stone. Her entire being demanded to comprehend this impossibility: how it existed, what held it together, and why only she alone was capable of it.
And the longer the demoness kept silent, the stronger Serie’s impatience burned
***
The door creaked. Sefi entered, a strap on her shoulder with three flasks attached. She took them off silently, carefully set them against the wall. Her face was the same: tired, detached, a little weary, but cold, without emotion.
Serie didn’t move. She sat in the same position – one leg crossed over the other, chin resting on her hand. She observed. And stayed silent. Too attentively to be polite. Too patiently to not be thinking about something greater.
— Water is enough for two days. — Sefi didn’t look at her. She wiped her hands, checked the tightness of the stoppers, went to the shelf for bowls, the dishes had to be washed.
— You’re silent as if if you say even a word something will fall apart. — Serie finally spoke. Not reproach, not mockery. Just a remark, said almost into the air. The woman kept walking, as if not noticing the words.
— Tired. — Sefi answered shortly. She put one cup on the table, then another. Inside was concentration – purely mechanical. All of it to avoid thinking. She felt uncomfortable here, with this elf… but she had promised to take care of her, and must keep her word, because it was the right thing to do.
— You’re always tired. Every day, rest then if you’re tired. — Sefi said nothing. She filled the cup with water, handed it to Serie, and only then met her gaze for the first time.
— You keep staring at me. It… irritates and frightens me, miss Serie. — she finally said, stepping back.
— And you keep avoiding my gaze. That is suspicious. — Serie took the cup, without looking away. — You see, I’m not one of those who just drink and enjoy the peace. I need to know who I share a table with.
— I’m not dangerous. — Sefi said almost in a whisper. — And I promised you comfort, you can stop worrying.
— That’s not an answer. — Serie’s voice turned flat, like steel pulled into a string. — Danger is a fickle thing. It can sit quietly for years… and then burst out. Especially if it’s ignored, and you are easy to ignore. — She said and placed the cup on the table. Though the words were a lie, ignoring a demon would be a mistake.
— I don’t carry anything like that inside me. I just… live. — Sefi sat down on a stool, staring at the cup, as if the water could suggest what to say next… then refilled Serie’s cup.
Serie slowly took a sip
— But you didn’t always live. Not here. And not like this. Am I right? — It seemed she had hit the mark, the demon didn’t flinch, but her fingers tightened around the cup.
— Right.
— Then tell me: why are you here? Why alone? Why in the wilderness? Why don’t you have a family, friends, not even animals? Why is the house like an isolation ward, where every crack is sealed, and no creature can crawl inside? — With each word Serie’s voice grew colder. Not louder – quieter, but with mounting pressure, as if the air itself was compressing. She kept asking to break her down. The elf knew that demons had neither friends, nor family, nor even the desire to keep animals.
Sefi gripped the cup tighter
— I’m comfortable this way. I’m at peace.
— And safe? — Serie narrowed her eyes. — Or are you afraid that someone will see that you’re not really what you seem to be?
Silence
As if something clicked
— Then… let’s talk now. — Sefi exhaled slowly, as if shedding the tension that had been building for days. She raised her gaze to Serie, in her eyes – resolve mixed with anxiety. — As I said before… because of certain circumstances I lost my memory. I don’t remember how I ended up here. Besides… — She pointed at her horns. — I know nothing about myself. About this body. Its nature, not even your language I knew until recently.
— Go on. — Serie’s voice dropped lower. This was not mere interest. It was a command. Calm, but obligating.
Sefi lowered her eyes. Her fingers clenched into a fist unnoticed, nails digging into her palm.
— Also I… please, promise me that your attitude towards me won’t change. — Her voice trembled. She looked at the floor, as if hoping to sink through it. Was this simulation or reality? Unknown. — Just… promise.
— I promise. — Briefly, without excess tone, but Serie’s gaze grew sharper. — It won’t change.
Sefi nodded and slowly exhaled. Held her breath for a second – and said:
— I am a mage…
— And? — Serie’s eyes didn’t flinch.
Sefi blinked, confused:
— I… am a mage… — she repeated.
— And what? — Serie’s voice turned a bit softer, almost mocking. — I knew.
— What?! — Sefi sharply raised her head. Her eyes widened, lips parted in astonishment, almost fear. It was the first real outburst of emotion the whole time.
Serie, who had kept a stone stillness until now, suddenly laughed. Not loud, but bright. The laugh escaped her easily, almost with relief – and with a shade of predatory delight. She leaned back against the chair, slightly raising her brow.
— I knew you were a mage. From the very first meeting. — She said simply and emptied her cup.
— But… how?.. — Sefi faltered. She stepped back, her eyes darting. — I thought I hid… when I used magic. I was careful…
— That’s why you kept leaving. — Serie narrowed her eyes, as if finally piecing together the puzzle. It was funny, the demon really thought that… leaving would hide a magical trace? Though she clearly didn’t understand anything here…
Sefi stayed silent. Her shoulders trembled faintly. She bit her lip, clutching her fingers until her knuckles turned white.
— But you said yourself that in this world magic is considered evil… — she whispered. — That demons used it. I thought that if you found out…
— That I’d turn away? — Serie raised a brow. — That I’d say begone, monster? Pft… Silly you. — She smirked again, but now softer. — I’m not one of those who judge by the first sign. Especially one so… interesting.
Sefi looked at her. Her lips trembled, as if she wanted to say something but stopped. Serie leaned forward.
— And by the way, you still don’t understand that you’re not human, do you? — she asked almost tenderly, but with a sharp spark in her voice. — Magic is a trifle. But the fact that you don’t even suspect what you are – that’s far more interesting.
The demon doesn’t know she is a demon
Is this some kind of irony of life? A game? Perhaps a one-in-a-billion event?
Sefi turned her gaze aside. Her fingers still trembled, but there was no fear in that trembling anymore. Only exhaustion… and a tiny spark of curiosity… she managed to feel something… surprised herself, and that… was shocking.
Serie saw it. And she smiled, like a hunter who had finally lured in her prey.
— We have much to talk about. Oh, so very much.