Sefi, to put it bluntly, was not so much stupid as she was utterly devoid of logical thinking… though she never thought of herself that way. It all began with yet another misunderstanding:
— You assumed that I… am not a mage? — Serie frowned slightly, and Sefi, without batting an eye, honestly nodded. — The fact that I came into the very depths of the forest in this attire, without so much as a speck of dirt on it, and without showing the slightest trace of fatigue, told you nothing?
— Ah… — Sefi’s eyes widened to the limit. — Oops…
Serie, seeing such a reaction, only smirked, glancing down at her legs. Instead of perfectly clean bare feet, there were coarse boots.
— So that’s why you dressed me like this… — she muttered quietly. — Hmph. Did you really take me for an ordinary being? — a hint of cold irritation slipped into her voice. — You know, that’s insulting.
— Forgive me if I offended you… yes, I acted thoughtlessly and inconsistently, — Sefi replied, dropping her gaze to the table. Her fingers clenched into fists before she raised her eyes again. — That means… you knew, when I went to train my magic?
— Of course, — the elf responded with a smirk. — You were practically gushing mana. Even someone cut off from perception could hardly fail to notice your presence. And if anyone didn’t… they were either deaf or their mind was like swamp sludge.
Sefi exhaled heavily, pressing her palm to the bridge of her nose. Then another, deeper sigh followed. For a demon, such actions were… strange. Without cause, they show nothing. Even with cause – rarely… no, never.
— What are you doing? — Serie asked with faint bewilderment, pointing a finger at her.
— Trying… to restrain a wave of embarrassment, — Sefi muttered, not looking at her. — Of course, it makes no sense, since I don’t fully know the emotion… but I… feel awful about my illogic. Perhaps it’s an old habit, from the times when I could still feel. — She lowered her head slightly, then composed herself. The ridiculous gestures stopped. — Usually it helped me maintain calm.
Serie’s eyes widened for a brief moment, staring at her with surprise, before she regained her usual composure. That was… an intriguing revelation.
— I’ve learned a valuable lesson, Miss Serie. Thank you for this conversation, — Sefi said evenly, having gathered herself once more.
— No need to thank me, — the elf replied flatly, still watching her intently. Normally a demon would have gotten up, gone about her business: firewood, cooking, sewing… But not this time. So… — Do you want to ask something?
— …Yes, — short and clear. The demoness intertwined her fingers, locking her hands tightly together. Her eyes focused, her voice grew firmer. — Since you possess knowledge of magic… I would like to ask you to broaden the scope of my training. Not only the culture of this world, but magic itself. If, of course, you deem it possible. I have no intention of forcing you.
Serie looked at her with a faint smile, though something else lurked within it – curiosity.
— “And you couldn’t force me,” — she scoffed inwardly, though aloud she said nothing.
Teaching a demon magic… What a ridiculous thought. And at the same time – damn intriguing. They pride themselves on their strength. Consider it innate. And this one… this one doesn’t even know the basics. She works outside the rules. And yet – it works. Could it be that to perform miracles, one must not be a sage, but a fool?
— What do you know of magic? — Serie finally asked, her voice deeper, calmer, almost like a legendary mentor.
Sefi fell silent, concentrating. Then she spoke, slowly, as if choosing her words:
— From what I’ve managed to understand through experience… and a single grimoire… magic is the embodiment of thought into reality, of imagination into form. It feeds on mana, — her voice faltered. — I currently divide magic into only two kinds: combat and applied, the kind that serves life.
— Continue, — Serie nodded. At first glance – a simple reflection, but… there was something alien in those words. A different perception. Demons don’t use “applied” magic; it is foreign to them. And what she says… mana shaping form… hmm. An interesting thought.
— Mana… it behaves like… a special form of energy. Unknown, universal. It’s everywhere – in nature, in living bodies. I’ve come to think that in living beings mana is retained thanks to the blood. There might be special elements in it, unidentified, but stable. And mana replenishes… somewhat like breathing. Constantly, but unevenly. — Sefi sighed, as if weighing an example, then continued. — By my reasoning, mana is created in nature and drawn into living bodies, and they, through their blood, can hold it and use it for… various things. — She paused for a moment, lowering her gaze, then added softly. — But most importantly, from my observations… magic only works when I believe in it. Without belief it crumbles, doesn’t work. Not at all.
Serie did not answer immediately. She was silent, pondering what had been said. A spark of reason flickered in her eyes, ancient and cold.
— “Imagination fed by mana… blood as a conduit… faith as a catalyst. Hm. Without doubt, there is truth in this. For many, magic indeed functions on belief, but rarely does one put it so plainly.” — The more she listened, the more questions arose. — An interesting judgment, — she finally said, slowly. — Very… fresh. Magic does indeed draw power from will. But not every will is born of belief. Sometimes it’s fed by instinct. Or rage, or duty.
She leaned forward slightly, studying Sefi:
— Where did you learn this?
Indeed. Such views she hadn’t heard even among human academicians of the past. How does a demon know this? Too human for such monsters, too comprehensible for such fiends, and too… lowly for the overly proud.
— Through experiments. Theories. Trials. And then… — Sefi suddenly stood up and disappeared into the room. Sounds of creaking, rummaging, and the soft thump of a chest lid followed. — Here, — she returned with a battered tome. — This grimoire became my starting point. It doesn’t really contain theory… more like spells and their formulas. I used it as examples, laid them against my own observations and… arrived at what I have now. — She set the book down before Serie and added quietly. — That’s all, Miss Serie.
— I see. — Serie glanced at the grimoire. A simple household spell: Cleaning clothes. And from that she reached this? Could this be talent?
Sefi can create matter, enchant and change its form. She has learned to grow plants and uses magic for daily needs. Now the demon is weak, but… in the future she will become far too strong. Better to extinguish the problem at its root… but… not yet.
That right belonged to her alone
— So be it, I’ll teach you the basics of this art. However… — Serie pointed at her, — First of all, what is magic to you?
— Magic… — Serafima pondered. What was magic to her? Perhaps a miracle? A thing that breaks physics? The supernatural? All of that, yes, but… not quite. That wasn’t it. — It is my tool for survival.
— I like you, well done. — Serie said it with firm resolve, in the demon’s voice resounded the bitterness of truth. Behind those words lay a mountain of hunger for life. And for the sake of that, this demoness would do anything. Such beings are the ones who will push magic forward, and Serie herself would watch it unfold.
***
Today, Sefi woke up early – very early. She slept less than usual, a strange agitation taking hold of her. She had prepared food, water, and everything necessary in advance. She herself had cleared and readied the meadow for training, and now she sat in front of Serie’s bed, waiting for the right hour.
— “Time is short now. I’d better squeeze every bit of useful information out of her, even if I have to wake Miss Serie… harshly,” — she thought, watching the sleeping elf. And the sleeper was resting well.
What time had she woken up herself? Unclear. But so early that not even the faintest glimmer of the golden star could be seen in the sky. Darkness, silence, and only Sefi awake – like an anxious child.
A little time passed. The demoness stretched out her hand and began to gently shake the elf. First softly… then a little harder.
— Miss Serie, please, wake up. You need to eat. — Her voice was polite but insistent.
The reply – only a stir in the blanket and a sleepy voice:
— A couple more hours…
— If you don’t wake up, I’ll have to use… a terrible weapon. — Sefi warned, but no reaction followed.
— Is that so, — Serie mumbled. — I fear nothing.
Sefi got up, went to the kitchen, and found a bucket of cold water. No, she wasn’t going to pour it over the elf – that would be cruel. She simply dipped her hands in the water and waited a minute, until they were well chilled. Then she returned, stood by the bed, and without hesitation pressed her cold, wet palms to Serie’s face.
— U-u-u… — groaned the elf discontentedly, wincing. Didn’t work. Or… did it? — Take your hands off…
— No. You must get up. Otherwise I won’t remove them, — Sefi answered stubbornly, staring into the sleepy, slightly annoyed eyes of her mentor. — You must eat. And then begin my training.
— In that case… I refuse to teach you, — muttered Serie, shaking her head slightly, as if driving off a vision.
— A word is not a sparrow, once it flies out you won’t catch it, — Sefi declared with proud seriousness.
Serie cracked one eye open and, unable to hold back a faint smirk, whispered:
— I catch words. And return them with interest, — she said, pushing herself up from the bed, not quite awake yet, but already tired of what was happening.
Sefi… felt something akin to joy, but it wasn’t quite that. Not light happiness. More like an impatient, sweet sense of anticipation. Temptation. She immediately lifted her mentor into her arms, as if she felt neither weight nor fatigue. The motion came out smooth and almost solemn – as if she was carrying not a body, but a relic. Like a bride, or a sacrifice to the altar of new knowledge. With unspeakable care she bore Serie to the kitchen. The elf did not resist. Not a word, not a gesture. She only stared off to the side, as if through the walls.
Sefi set her down on a chair, cast the Cleansing spell – a warm, sparkling wave of magic swept across the elf’s body. Then she placed food before her: a berry pastry, bread, tea – all exactly as Serie preferred, or not… no matter, it was the only sweet thing available. And then, taking a comb, she began to brush her teacher’s long golden locks, her motions gentle, almost reverent. Serie did not object. She simply ate – slowly, almost mechanically, clearly not fully returned to reality.
— You are especially beautiful today and, dare I say, lovely, — Sefi remarked, watching her with a faint smile. — That is why I wish to study under such a beautiful and lovely miss.
— This lovely and beautiful miss still wants to sleep, — Serie replied in a weary, drawn-out voice, devoid of emotion. She finished the bread and sipped her tea.
— Then I will create magic that will awaken you without all this drowsiness. — Sefi deftly refilled her cup. — An investment in the future, so to speak. Since we were speaking of interest… And I’m quite good with numbers, I like them very much.
On Serie’s lips appeared a faint, almost ghostly smirk – somewhere between approval and mild bewilderment.
— Today you’re too hasty… and, perhaps, talking too much. Is it nervousness? — she finally asked, turning her head toward Sefi. Her voice remained even, her face expressionless, and her eyes clouded, like the waters of an ancient lake. But everything in her words – every word – sounded like a probing sting. Like a fine cut: not to wound, but to peer inside.
— I’m not sure I can feel nervousness in the usual sense, — Sefi answered, continuing to slowly comb the hair. — But I feel something like it. Like pleasure… only wrong. Too strong. Obsessive.
She froze for a second. A strand of hair slid through her fingers
— Perhaps it is something abnormal, — she added, looking down. — Inexplicable, I cannot understand why I am like this.
Serie did not reply immediately. She only looked at her – not like a teacher at a student. But like at a monster.
— "A demon’s trait…" — Serie thought, not looking at Sefi but into emptiness, into the depths of memory. — "They love magic. And perhaps they are capable of feeling, but only when it concerns magic."
Serie had known such demons. Those who prided themselves on their gift. Who with rapture mastered spells, with delight raised arches of mana, greedily absorbing knowledge. And she had known others – those who despaired when their pride was trampled into the dirt. And those who fell into rage upon learning: that an elf could conceal her mana. For them it was taboo. A violation of a sacred concept. Disgusting, unthinkable, so much so that demons simply denied such a possibility in anyone. And those who still practiced concealment – to them were no more than heresy. Exile. A mistake… a mistake of the world. Unworthy to be called mages.
Perhaps it was because demons themselves are magical beings. Magic was not granted to them. It was their flesh. Their life from the very moment of birth.
— Let’s begin the lesson, — Serie said, her voice firmer. — Do you feel anything? — And with those words she intensified her magical concentration. Unobtrusively, without showy glow or aura – she simply let mana exist around her.
— No, Miss Serie… What should I feel? Can you explain? — Sefi asked, watching her intently, her whole being straining to catch even a hint, even a whisper of power.
— It is not matter. Not smell, not sound. It is… what swirls around you. Mana. — She spoke without mirth, still finishing the offered food. Bread. Tea. Pastry with berries. Berries, berries, berries… Soon she would be dreaming of those berries. Too many of them. — If you cannot see it, or at least accept it, you are useless in magic.
— Understood, Miss Serie. As I understand, you are exhausting mana right now? — Sefi stared at her, trying to catch even a ripple. Serie nodded, slowly, biting into the pastry. — I cannot sense it… perhaps you’re releasing only a small portion?
— No. I’ve released enough to fill this entire house. — She said it sharply, and her gaze became piercing. — I do not understand why you still do not feel it. Are you trying to see it?
— I try everything: to perceive, to hear, to smell… or even to see. Maybe to feel a touch. Which sense is supposed to work? Or… none? Can you give me a hint, Miss Serie? — she asked, gazing into her mentor’s eyes.
— Hints I do not begrudge. — Her voice grew colder, though not cruel, rather observant. — But magic is different for everyone. My vision and yours are incompatible. You learned through observation, experience. I through awareness. Your attempts are logical, but mana is not obliged to be logical. It is more like a dream: personal, fluid, shifting. Magic is fantasy. Give it form. Let it become something you can perceive. — At those words the demoness nodded, and then closed her eyes.
Sefi closed her eyes. She could see her own magic… but another’s – no. Perhaps another’s simply… did not respond. Then she needed to create an image. A shared picture. Something familiar.
Mana – it is energy. That is fact. And energy has color. Electricity – blue. Fire – yellow. But if pure fire burns, it too can be blue. So then, mana must be… light blue. Yes. Like in games. Almost heavenly. It’s like air. It’s everywhere. It floats. No – it flows. Like a river… no, not that, like mist! Yes, like mist!
— Oh… I managed, — she whispered. And in that moment, indeed, she saw it.
The whole house was suffused with a soft, almost weightless blue energy. Pure. Smooth. Like a waterfall, flowing not downward, but around, endlessly.
— Miss Serie… I was able to see mana. What’s next?
Serie did not answer immediately. She looked at Sefi as if she had expected it, and at the same time – as if not fully believing it, though a smile spread across her face.
— Well, finally, — she said quietly. And then, with a barely perceptible smirk, added: — Perhaps you are not an empty vessel after all.
***
Training in magic and language continued for the rest of the time. Fifteen days passed, almost the end of the month, which meant the end of their contract. During this time, Sefi had changed. She absorbed knowledge like a sponge, and improved in her own way, following an unusual, distinctive pattern.
Her main weakness remained her tendency to apply complex concepts to simple tasks. She hadn’t gotten rid of this habit – it had simply evolved. Now Sefi could perform elementary magical actions, but the price remained high: her spells were long, required delicate preparation, and consumed large amounts of mana. However, with her growing reserves, that wasn’t supposed to be a problem. She constantly raised her limit.
Sefi believed that at the beginning of everything there must be a cause. That was her magical law, her personal principle: nothing comes from nothing. So when she created a cutter from air, it resembled a miniature tornado – because cutting force required speed, and speed arose from rotation. But now she could direct the air in a straight line – without all those twisted whirlwinds. The logic shifted slightly. If water could cut under pressure, then air could too – given sufficient acceleration. The idea was simple, but the execution was not. A straight line of air required high concentration and delicate handling of the flow. The cutter became faster and sharper, but working on it – harder.
She also achieved progress in another area. Manipulation of objects – her favorite sphere – became much more precise. If before she simply poured mana into matter, changing its shape and density, now she had reached far greater heights. Her control was so fast she could even alter the landscape. Most importantly – now she could leave objects permanently in their transformed form.
That sounded simple. But earlier it was different: a transformed stone, brick, or wall all required mana support, otherwise the magic dissipated and the form collapsed. Construction, for example, turned into torment: one had to constantly feed the structure. Now everything had changed. She had found a way to “bake” the changes, fixing the form without constant expenditure. Before she had to soften objects, mold them into the desired shape, and hold them, but now the form stabilized immediately after creation. This was a leap. A very big one.
Her combat skills also developed. Serie had taught her basic offensive magic: fireballs, earth projectiles, cutting wind. Simple things – but they gave her confidence. However, her real discoveries came from her own searches. Sefi learned to channel mana into the ground, making the soil soft and viscous, slowing down enemies. Or the opposite: she could pull sharp spikes from the earth in an instant. Simple, effective and… elegant.
She also experimented with weapons. She could form swords, daggers, spears – and imbue them with speed, literally “firing” them. Her arsenal was built on projectiles and battlefield control. For now melee combat remained her weak point, but her ranged techniques were top-tier. By Serie’s assessment, Sefi could handle most ordinary mages, but would still lose to experienced ones.
There was progress in selective magic too. With her mentor’s help she understood the essence of this branch – how to properly work with growth and selection. At first she just experimented with grain and grasses. But soon her attention was caught by a strange bush with berries. She didn’t know what it was, but Serie told her it was grapes. Sefi decided to grow them, because grapes meant wine, and wine meant a product that could be sold. Which meant money. Which meant a chance to extend her studies with Miss Serie. So in her life appeared magic… for practical use. And for the future as well.
Representation remained the hardest aspect. For magic to work, the process had to be imagined clearly enough. But something unexpected helped here: old memories from her past world, specifically videos showing how a seed sprouts, grows, and becomes a fruit-bearing plant. These visual memories became the key. Magic obeyed imagination – the clearer the image, the more reliable the result. That too was a law.
Serie also introduced her to the basics of artifact creation. It turned out that it wasn’t enough just to pour mana and desire into an object. One needed to create a structure. Conditions. Inscriptions. Runes. They are what hold magic, allowing it to “freeze” inside an object, become part of it. Runes aren’t just symbols. They are codes. Laws. Their essence is that they obey a system given by the goddess and many generations of mages. They cannot be broken. But they can be bypassed.
Sefi couldn’t understand runes. Despite her mentor’s explanations, they eluded her, remained foreign. So she decided to use her own language. Simple words, understandable only to her. But the real question was: how to make these words become words of power?
She found the answer by chance – or perhaps it was intuition… maybe something new inside her. She paused, recalling her mentor’s words. Serie’s voice sounded especially clear in her memory:
— The more you invest into magic, the stronger the effect.
Everything a mage receives must be paid for. Magic doesn’t tolerate emptiness. Which meant that if she gave up something valuable, even her simple words would gain power.
That was how ancient wards worked: a spell that sealed a door by staking the caster’s life – Tur-tsu. Simple in essence, yet unbreakable: as long as the creator lived, the magic endured. It could be bypassed, but not destroyed. Not directly.
Her language was not runes. It never was, never even part of this world, and yet… it could be changed if she paid the price. A piece of herself, her blood. Her language was unknown to the world’s system, to the spirits, to magic itself. But if she infused it with her mana, mixed with her blood – maybe then it would come alive. Become real. Become part of the world.
And it worked
Sefi created magical artifacts in her own language, written in her blood and infused with her mana. Their uniqueness lay in the fact that only she knew this language. No mage could decipher the structure or formulas – which meant they couldn’t copy or destroy the artifact through analysis. This made her work almost invulnerable: if a spell can’t be understood, it can’t be unraveled, no matter how hard one tries to extract the runes or break the supporting elements.
Each of her items was made with a practical purpose. That very monocle, allowing one to read any text, was one such example. She continued improving it, seeking to make the spell more stable. Yet the very nature of magic demanded a price, and using blood as the carrier made the artifacts fragile: if the blood was washed away or destroyed, the spell vanished. To avoid this, Sefi developed a method of carving incisions into specific parts of the object, filling them with blood, drying and sealing them. This method was more reliable, but still imperfect. A new system of fixation was needed.
In parallel, her creation magic also evolved. She perceived it as the process of turning mana into matter. But when creating inorganic objects, she faced huge energy costs. Especially when creating a substance from scratch. Attempts with organic matter failed entirely: bodies, flesh, tissues – they resisted materialization. All she could do was search for other paths. Creation consumed too much, unbearably so, which drove her to reduce the expenditure. The attempt to use blood as payment didn’t work – losing half her blood for a kilogram of material was not an option.
The turning point was an experiment with repairing clothing. At first it was just old memories; once she had restored a dress without having that much mana, and she wanted to repeat it. Then she used fabric as a base, and the process went easier. This suggested a thought: the closer the material was to the desired result, the less energy was required for transformation. Magic seemed to “recognize” the material, aligning with its structure. Clothes made from existing fabric required 70% less mana than from raw resources.
This principle became the foundation of a new tactic: using similar materials to minimize costs. Processed leather, fabric – all of it could serve as a foundation. This opened possibilities: from earth – through soil manipulation magic – one could extract iron, refine it, shape it into a sword. All without a forge, just through transformation and mana. A vivid example was her experiment with leather, trying to make a jacket. She took untreated and treated leather – the first consumed more mana, the second much less.
Her research went further. She began trying to alter the internal structure of substances, interfering at the molecular and atomic level. The very concept rested on four known lattices: atomic, molecular, ionic and metallic. Understanding their differences opened the way to more precise transformation. But practice showed: though potentially cheaper than creating matter outright, the results were unstable and far from ideal. She would need deep understanding of matter itself – not by school models, but by its true, living nature, where she had to grasp the object’s very structure.
The difficulty was that relying on simplified schemes hindered more than helped. Magic demanded a different way of thinking – not figurative, but structural, precise. Without this, creating complex substances was impossible. Here opened a path to a new discipline: magical chemistry, where transformation of matter followed its internal laws, not external likenesses.
Her blood magic also advanced. A new stage allowed her to control another’s blood if her mana entered their body. The test came in the field: a charge infused with her mana wounded an animal, and she, acting through the wound, intensified the bleeding until it became uncontrollable. Stopping coagulation, causing prolonged blood loss – effects resembling deadly diseases, but induced artificially. Something like that illness was called hemophilia, right?
There were also utilitarian uses. She learned to boost her body’s energy output during sleep, shortening the time needed for recovery. The essence was in combining metabolic processes: preloading with food, accelerating metabolism with magic, ensuring complete absorption without residue. Her body left no waste – everything turned into energy. Sleep became not just rest, but a magically managed recovery process. Neat.
By this point her magic was no longer a set of tricks. It had become a system, founded on logic, analysis and experience. Each new attempt built on the last, each discovery gave rise to the next. The shift from instinctive to deliberate became not just a stage – but a part of her growth as a mage.
And Sefi was learning. She understood: magic is not only about power and destruction. It is compromise. Bargain. Law. And above all – a concept born in the mage’s mind. The clearer the concept, the deeper the representation – the stronger the spell. In magic there is no truth. But there is belief, meaning, and price.
And Sefi was already beginning to pay for real
Still, tonight that could be forgotten – night had come. She needed to sleep, to rest. And tomorrow… tomorrow she would hold a feast. A farewell feast. A magnificent event one doesn’t want to face, but it had arrived.
Sefi prepared plenty of meat – she caught fish, birds, hunted, gathered everything she could, and left it marinating with spices. This time it would be truly delicious: she had finally managed to use spices, found them in the forest and distinguished them by scent. Herbs bloomed under her fingers, unknown and tart, with a soft smoky aroma that lingered in her hair. Alongside them she found wild vegetables – something like tomatoes, but more sour, and something like cucumbers, but with a soft bitterness. They were strange, but not poisonous. That was what mattered. From them came a salad.
Magic made things easier. She grew grapes, lots of grapes, and though there wasn’t enough time for wine, she pressed juice from the fruit. Tomorrow it would be the base for cocktails: with ice, which she created with magic. There was no milk, but she had an idea: to freeze berries and grapes right into ice cubes, removing the seeds and mashing the pulp. The result would be a sweet shaving. Simple, cold, refreshing. Almost like ice cream.
And she also made candies. She boiled sugar to a thick uniform mass, poured it into molds – and that was it. Simple, a child could do it. But these were her candies. A surprise. Many of them. She made them secretly, furtively, as if afraid they would be stolen or discovered.
The dozens of eggs she had found went into pies, pastries, and pancakes. Jam from berries, and a little sugar, which she somehow managed to extract from the fruits. Tomorrow the whole clearing would be covered with food.
It wasn’t just cooking. It was her farewell. Her “thank you.” Awkward, crooked, wordless. But real.
She lay down late. Tomorrow she needed to wake up early to finish everything. To rest, at least once… a day without study. That wouldn’t cost anything, right?
Yes… to rest… together with Serie
***
This day had come
Serie wasn’t woken early. That was strange. Usually Sefi woke her noisily, shaking her shoulder, pressing cold hands to her cheeks and demanding lessons. Today – silence. She slept well. Too long.
When she got up, a clearing awaited her, covered with food, and Sefi, awkwardly trying to smile, pouring her tea. She was clearly trying to be welcoming, but her movements carried stiffness. Emotions in her were born somehow… dry. As if she knew what she ought to feel, but couldn’t truly.
Later Serie went to the training ground – and again, no one. Sefi wasn’t training. Strange. On the last day, she would have wanted, it seemed, to squeeze everything out of Serie. But no. Instead she simply… came. Lay down on the grass, looking at the sky. Lay there a little in silence, before patting the ground beside her. Serie lay down too.
— Miss Serie… do you think I could make a magic that turns grapes into wine? — she asked, pointing to a cloud shaped like a bottle.
— Why did you ask that? — the mentor asked in surprise.
— Just thought… wine is always in demand. It can be sold. Then I’ll be able to earn and pay you… properly. — She sighed. — I think it would be better than my little crafts. By the way, do you know how to… no, never mind. Today is a day of rest. We don’t need lessons, miss.
— That’s why I woke up so late, — Serie smirked, glancing at the demon. The picture was coming together. Long sleep. Smile. Silence. — A day of rest, you say? Well then, let it be so… student.
— Hm? I mean yes. As you say, Miss Serie.
They watched the clouds and spoke of nothing. Sefi tried to joke. Clumsily, mechanically, as if she had rehearsed them in advance. Serie listened, replied briefly. Her thoughts were far away.
She felt a weight in her chest. Not from what she had to do – she was ready. But from the fact that someone like Sefi, who didn’t know who she was, was trying to become someone better. To become someone… real. And that was the saddest part… but demons don’t feel emotions, or do they? This demon was so… no, no need to think of that.
All of this — the feast, the ice, the candies, her misplaced jokes, all of it was not just gestures. They were words the demon didn’t know how to say.
Goodbye. Thank you. I tried to be good.
And Serie, for the first time in a long time, didn’t know what to answer.
***
Sunset painted the sky a deep crimson, like the color of wine that wasn’t there – only juice. Here they were inside the house, the table before her piled with food. Sefi didn’t know how to serve dishes beautifully, but she tried anyway: laying fish in rows, decorating salad with leaves that she thought looked nice, but were a little bitter. She didn’t understand what was needed for a “cozy atmosphere,” but froze berries in ice spheres and scattered them around desserts, thinking it would be “better.” Everything looked strange, at times ridiculous… but each gesture was sincere… or not? Serie didn’t know. Not at all.
The guest sat on a chair covered with soft hide, looking at this strange feast. It smelled of spices, roasted meat, and fresh berries. Everything was too abundant. Too deliberate. Too… farewell.
Sefi sat opposite, quietly – as if she didn’t want to disturb. She offered her a cup of grape juice. Carefully, slowly.
— First the juice, it’s… chilled. — Her voice was steady, but her eyes attentive, like someone who doesn’t feel but watches for a reaction. She was clearly waiting for approval. Not for the food, but for the gesture itself.
Serie took the cup. Took a sip. And felt an ache inside… not from the taste, but from something else. All this… was a demon’s attempt to be human. She was trying. Pointless, but still.
— This is good, — she breathed softly, taking another sip. — Very… carefully prepared.
Sefi nodded slightly, as if saving the phrase to memory
— I want you to eat. Today… we need to eat… I mean, a feast, in honor of the end of studies.
The dishes came one after another. Roast bird, a little undersalted, but tender. Pancakes – not perfect, but with raspberry jam that carried the warmth of hands holding the pot. Pastries, into which Sefi had for some reason put three kinds of berries – all at once, to be sure it would please. Sugar candies, slightly stuck to their molds, but each carved with a sculptor’s care.
And even a cocktail. Thick grape ice with a strange ratio of juice and herbs, hard to call tasty – but it was… or… no… no…
No, the food was perfect… too much so
Serie herself wanted to find flaws, to suppress the bitterness
All this wasn’t about taste. It was about gesture. The demon didn’t know how to say goodbye, and tried to say “stay” through food. Maybe she was imagining things? Maybe not?
They ate in silence. Only the sounds of dishes and the crunch of crust.
And then… Serie put down her cup. Looked at the fire, not at Sefi. Her hands rested on her knees, neatly folded. Her heart beat too heavily to remain silent.
— You… you… — Serie began softly. — Have you ever thought… about who you were before this? I did promise I’d tell you everything.
— I don’t know, — she answered evenly. — I am me. And before… you said you’d tell me.
Serie nodded slowly. Those were her words. Her promise. And now it sounded like a sentence. She closed her eyes for a moment. She had never asked her name. Never asked who she was. Why? She would kill her anyway. And now… now she wanted to know. Wanted too much, too late…
— Tell me what you think you are. Just… a guess. — Her voice quivered slightly, and she clenched her fist under the table. Her student...no… the demon she had raised and taught – only hesitated for a second before speaking.
— I’m sure I’m not human. Judging by my physical characteristics, I’m a durable creature, and probably a predator. I have sharp teeth, and I’m drawn to meat… to blood. Yet I can eat plants too. I can think. I reason – therefore, I’m intelligent. But… my emotions are reduced. I feel them, but muted. As if something inside has atrophied. I felt something while studying magic… I think I could be a beastkin species. — She pointed to her long, curved horns. — Goat-like type? Or another horned kind… But if I’m a predator, perhaps a hybrid. Though aside from teeth, I have no fangs.
Serie was silent. Then, with a long exhale, she said quietly:
— I see, then listen to me…
Only now. Only this evening. And only in this moment…
She was afraid
Not of the demon – afraid of her own words. Afraid of what they meant. She could have said she was wrong. She could have said: “No. You’re special. You’re not a demon.” And she almost said it. Almost. Words rose in her throat that could have twisted the truth, given a little warmth. But that would have been a lie. And a lie – especially now – was betrayal. Above all, betrayal of herself.
— You are a magical being. You are intelligent. You speak. You can learn. You reach for knowledge and for people… — She clenched her teeth. — But you are drawn to meat and blood. You are a predator.
You… are a demon…
Silence fell instantly. Cold, as if everything around had died. Sefi was quiet, eyes lowered, as if this recognition was nothing new – only a seal on her suspicion.
— …Those are the beings who… — she began, without lifting her eyes.
Serie clenched her fist. She knew what she herself had told Sefi. Demons – they’re monsters. Liars. Killers. Those who deceive and seduce. Those who bring ruin, with a sweet voice and a knife behind their back.
And she – was such?
Sefi didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. Didn’t argue. She accepted it, like one accepts an equation or a law of nature. Like a formula. Dryly. Quietly.
And that made it unbearable for Serie