The merchant's name was Kael, and he sold mostly herbs and simple remedies, items that wouldn't attract bandits on the road. After a night of uncomfortable silence on the adults' part and endless questions from Flamme, morning finally arrived.
Fafnir found himself relieved when the sun rose. Not because Kael was unpleasant—the man was perfectly friendly—but because having a stranger in his territory for an entire night had set his teeth on edge in ways he hadn't expected.
'This is my home now,' he realized. 'When did that happen?'
Kael packed his belongings while Flamme watched with obvious disappointment. "You have to leave already?"
"Afraid so, little one." The merchant smiled warmly at her. "My family will worry if I don't return soon. But—" He hesitated, then reached into his pack and pulled out a small cloth doll, slightly worn but well-made. "Here. For letting me stay."
Flamme's eyes went wide. She looked at the doll, then at Fafnir, then at Serie, as if seeking permission.
Serie gave a slight nod.
The girl snatched it immediately, clutching it to her chest. "Thank you, Mister Kael!"
Kael chuckled, then shouldered his pack. Before leaving, he turned back. "If you ever need supplies, the village of Oakhaven is about half a day's walk east. Small place, but we have a decent market." His eyes flickered to Fafnir's horns briefly—he'd noticed them yesterday but wisely said nothing—then to Serie's ears. "You'd be... welcome. Most of us have never seen an elf before, but we're not the type to cause trouble."
Serie merely hummed in response.
Fafnir inclined his head. "We'll keep that in mind."
After Kael disappeared into the forest, the temple felt emptier somehow. Flamme played with her new doll quietly, but her gaze kept drifting toward the entrance.
---
That Evening
Fafnir found Serie standing at the temple's entrance, staring at the stars.
"You've been quiet," he said, stopping beside her.
"You've been loud." She didn't look at him.
He snorted. "I haven't said a word."
"Exactly. Your silence is loud."
He wasn't sure what that meant, but he'd learned that Serie often spoke in riddles when she was thinking. They stood together in comfortable silence for a long moment.
"She needs to see it," Fafnir finally said. "The village. The world."
Serie's expression didn't change, but her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the stone railing. "She's not ready."
"She's six years old. She'll never be 'ready' by your standards. You'd keep her here until she's a thousand if you could."
"And what's wrong with that?" Now she looked at him, and there was something vulnerable in her ancient eyes. "She's safe here. Protected. The world outside—" She stopped herself.
Fafnir understood. He'd seen Serie's memories once, accidentally, when their magic briefly intertwined during a lesson. He'd seen elves she'd loved, elves she'd outlived. He'd seen the weight of millennia pressing down on her shoulders.
"She's human, Serie. She has decades, not centuries." He said it gently, as gently as someone like him could. "If you keep her here too long, she'll wake up one day an old woman who never lived."
Serie was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"I don't want to lose her."
It was the most honest thing Fafnir had ever heard her say.
He didn't reply with words. Instead, he reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder. She didn't shrug it off.
---
Three Days Later
Flamme practically vibrated with excitement as they walked through the forest. "Are we almost there? How much longer? What do the buildings look like? Do they have other children? How do I talk to them? What if they don't like me? What if—"
"Flamme." Serie's voice cut through the barrage of questions. "Breathe."
The girl took an exaggerated breath, then immediately continued. "But Sensei, I've never seen a real village before! What if I don't know how to talk to people? What if they think I'm strange? What if—"
"Then we leave." Fafnir shrugged. "Simple."
Flamme considered this, then nodded seriously. "That's... actually comforting."
They emerged from the forest to find Oakhaven exactly as Kael described—small, humble, with perhaps forty buildings clustered around a central well. Farmers worked in nearby fields. Children ran through the streets. Smoke rose from chimneys.
Flamme stopped walking, her mouth hanging open.
"It's so... alive," she whispered.
Fafnir understood. After two years in a silent temple with only two immortals for company, the sheer noise of human habitation must be overwhelming.
Serie watched the village with an unreadable expression. "Stay close. Don't wander."
Flamme nodded, but her eyes were already fixed on a group of children playing near the well.
They hadn't taken ten steps into the village before people noticed them. First the children stopped playing, staring at the strangers. Then the adults emerged from buildings, their expressions ranging from curiosity to wariness.
Fafnir had prepared for this. Before leaving, he'd used an illusion spell to make his horns appear as simply part of an elaborate headpiece. It wouldn't fool a mage, but in this low-magic era, it would suffice.
Serie made no effort to hide her ears. Let them stare.
An older man approached them, his hand resting on a farming tool that could double as a weapon. "Strangers. We don't get many out here. What brings you to Oakhaven?"
Fafnir stepped forward. "Supplies. And the child wished to see other children."
The man's eyes softened slightly as they landed on Flamme, who was peeking out from behind Serie's robes. "Ah. Well, we're peaceful folk. No trouble here." He squinted at Serie. "You're... an elf, aren't you? Heard stories, never thought I'd see one."
Serie regarded him coolly. "And now you have."
The man chuckled, apparently not offended by her tone. "Fair enough. Name's Aldric, I'm the village elder. If you're looking for supplies, Marta's shop is the second building on the left. And if the little one wants to play..." He gestured toward the children, who were now whispering excitedly among themselves. "They'd probably love to meet someone new. Don't get many visitors out here."
Flamme looked up at Serie with desperate, pleading eyes.
Serie hesitated for a long moment, then gave the slightest nod.
The girl didn't wait for further permission. She darted toward the children, stopping a few feet away, suddenly shy. One of the older girls—maybe eight or nine—approached her first.
"Hi. I'm Lily. Want to play?"
Flamme's face broke into the widest smile Fafnir had ever seen on her.
---
Fafnir and Serie watched from a distance as Flamme was gradually absorbed into the group of children. Within minutes, she was running and laughing with them, as if she'd known them her entire life.
"She adapts quickly," Fafnir observed.
Serie didn't respond, but her eyes never left Flamme.
Aldric stood with them, leaning on his walking stick. "She's yours? The child?"
Serie's eyes flickered almost imperceptibly toward Fafnir before she answered. "She is my disciple."
Fafnir bit back a retort. Of course. Even now, the silent war continued.
The old man nodded slowly. "Ah. A mage then? Heard elves teach magic to those they find worthy." He looked at Fafnir. "And you, young man? You're no elf."
"I assist with her training," Fafnir said smoothly. "When my methods prove superior to my companion's."
Serie's eye twitched.
Aldric, oblivious to the tension, laughed good-naturedly. "Well, lucky girl to have two teachers then. You're welcome here. Like I said, we're peaceful. If you need anything, just ask."
He wandered off, leaving them alone.
Fafnir watched Serie watching Flamme. The elf's face was as stoic as ever, but he'd learned to read the subtle cues—the slight tension in her jaw, the way her fingers twitched slightly as if wanting to reach out.
"She's not going to disappear," Fafnir said quietly. "She's right there."
"I know."
"You can relax. Just a little."
Serie shot him a look that could have frozen water. "I am relaxed."
Fafnir didn't bother hiding his smirk. "Of course you are. Also, your disciple? Really?"
"Are you claiming otherwise?"
"She asks me to teach her magic. She comes to me when your explanations confuse her. She—"
"She comes to me when your reckless experimentation nearly gets her turned into a toad."
"That happened once."
"Three times. I counted."
Fafnir opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. "...She learned valuable lessons each time."
Serie's lips pressed together in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Keep telling yourself that."
---
They spent the entire day in Oakhaven. Flamme played until she was exhausted, then ate heartily at the village's communal dinner—a simple stew that she declared the best thing she'd ever tasted. Marta's shop provided the supplies they needed, and the villagers, true to Aldric's word, were welcoming if curious.
As the sun began to set, Flamme found them near the well.
"Can we come back?" she asked, her voice small but hopeful. "Please?"
Serie looked at her for a long moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of her mouth twitched upward.
"We'll see."
Flamme beamed anyway, because she knew that from Serie, "we'll see" was practically a promise.
---
That Night
Back in the temple, Flamme fell asleep almost instantly, still clutching her new doll and smelling faintly of wood smoke and grass.
Fafnir found Serie in the library, surrounded by books but not reading any of them.
"She's asleep," he said.
Serie nodded.
He sat across from her. "You did well today."
"I did nothing."
"You let her go. You let her play. You didn't call her back every five minutes." He leaned back. "That's not nothing. For you."
Serie's eyes narrowed, but there was no real heat in it. "You're insufferable."
"So I've been told." He paused. "By you. Many times."
A sound escaped her—so quiet he almost missed it. But he didn't. It was a laugh. A genuine, quiet laugh.
He stared.
Serie's expression immediately returned to its default setting. "What?"
"Nothing." He smiled. "Nothing at all."
A comfortable silence settled between them. Then, because he couldn't help himself:
"For the record, she's our disciple. Both of ours."
Serie didn't look at him. "Hmph."
"But you're welcome to keep telling yourself otherwise."
This time, when she looked at him, there was something almost warm in her ancient eyes. "Don't push your luck, dragon."
Fafnir chuckled. "Wouldn't dream of it."
For the first time in nearly a century of existence, Fafnir felt something he hadn't felt since his human life.
Contentment.
---
Three Years Later
Flamme grew.
It was inevitable, of course—humans did that—but for Fafnir and Serie, both accustomed to the glacial pace of immortal aging, it was a constant surprise. One day she was a tiny thing reaching for their hands; the next, she was nine years old, already showing signs of the woman she would become.
Her magical talent blossomed under their combined teaching. From Serie, she learned precision, control, the theoretical foundations that would make her magic unshakable. From Fafnir, she learned adaptability, creativity, the willingness to experiment and fail and try again.
She was, they both privately agreed, extraordinary.
Not that they'd ever admit it to each other without turning it into a competition.
"Her control has improved significantly," Serie remarked one evening, watching Flamme practice in the courtyard. "Clearly my teaching methods are bearing fruit."
Fafnir, standing beside her, crossed his arms. "Her creativity in spell formulation has grown exponentially. That's my influence."
"Creativity without control is chaos."
"Control without creativity is stagnation."
They turned to look at each other.
"Hmph," they said in unison.
Their relationship had changed in ways neither acknowledged aloud. The professional distance that once existed between them had dissolved so gradually that neither noticed until it was gone. Now, they ate meals together. They argued about teaching methods. They sat in comfortable silence during long evenings.
They parented, though neither would use that word.
Flamme noticed, of course. Children always do.
"You like him," she said to Serie one day, completely out of the blue.
Serie, mid-sip of her tea, choked.
Flamme grinned innocently. "What? I'm just saying."
"He is... tolerable," Serie admitted, which from her was practically a declaration of undying affection. "For a dragon."
Later that week, Flamme made the same observation to Fafnir.
He handled it with slightly more dignity—meaning he only sputtered for a few seconds before regaining composure.
"She's a difficult woman," he said finally. "Stubborn. Inflexible. Arrogant."
Flamme nodded sagely. "So you do like her."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
Fafnir wondered, not for the first time, if having a child in his life had been a mistake.
He decided, not for the first time, that it was the best mistake he'd ever made.