What remains of Milirade

The staff felt heavier now.

Not from weight. From memory.

Minus followed Serie deeper into the Spire. The walls pulsed faintly with dormant enchantments, old spells waiting for something—maybe someone—to awaken them.

"Was that it?" Minus asked. "Beat up a ghost of myself and win a stick?"

Serie didn't slow. "That wasn't for you to win. It was to see if you'd hesitate."

"Hesitate to kill myself?" Minus scoffed. "Not the first time I've done that."

Serie stopped before a second chamber. A circular door, sealed with layered runes, rotated open with a whisper. The air that spilled out was colder. Not magical—human.

Minus frowned. "There's no mana inside."

"Correct," Serie said. "Because this one isn't for Minus."

She glanced over her shoulder, gaze hard.

"It's for the one you took."

The chamber was white stone—empty, save for a single figure standing in the center.

Milirade.

Whole. Silent. Familiar in a way that made Minus's throat tighten.

"I found her," Minus said quietly, not stepping forward. "In the southern lands. An elf village. Her body was preserved and it called to me so I took it."

Serie nodded. "I know."

Minus frowned. "How?"

"I used a spell," Serie said, raising a hand. Gold light flickered between her fingers. "Körpergedächtnis. Memory of the Body. A forbidden art. It allows one to read what the corpse remembers—not thoughts, but reflexes. Spells cast. Emotional echoes. Final purpose."

The light vanished.

"Milirade died long ago. But she wasn't buried. She was prepared. Her body kept still and unspoiled—not to be mourned, but to be used."

Minus looked down at her own hands.

"This body—it wasn't just preserved. It was offered."

Serie nodded once. "To you. The moment your soul escaped dissolution, the rebirth spell I gave you latched onto the strongest vessel that matched your mana structure."

"She matched," Minus said. "Because she was an elf."

"She matched," Serie corrected, "because she chose to."

Inside the chamber, Milirade stood.

Not a revenant. Not a threat. Just… her. Or what remained.

"You wear her," Serie said. "You channel her strength. But you ignored what she left behind."

"What did she leave?" Minus asked, stepping in.

"Her will."

Milirade looked up. She wasn't angry. Just… sad.

"Do you even know what I gave?" she asked.

Minus answered without flinching. "You gave me a chance."

"You took my face," Milirade said. "My body. My voice. But you never once said thank you."

"I didn't know you," Minus replied. "You were a corpse."

"I was a person."

The chamber trembled faintly.

Not from anger. From memory blooming again.

—Milirade walking with Frieren beneath trees that never lost their leaves.

—Her hands weaving gentle spells over wounded birds.

—Her final breath, in the dark, wrapped around the thought:

"Let someone else live."

Minus closed her eyes.

"I didn't ask for your body."

"You didn't have to," Milirade said. "You needed it. And I… was waiting."

There was no spell in the moment that followed.

No light.

Just Minus reaching out—and Milirade, ghost or echo or memory, placing her hand in hers.

And it was enough.

Milirade faded.

Not destroyed.

Not erased.

Just finally at rest.

The staff in Minus's hand pulsed once—then quieted.

At peace.

The door opened.

Serie waited.

"You've accepted her?" she asked.

"No," Minus said.

"I honored her."

Serie nodded slowly. "Then you're ready."

"Ready for what?"

Serie stepped aside.

"To decide what kind of witch you'll be—now that you're truly alive again."