The sky stretched endlessly above her, a flawless expanse of blue without a single cloud in sight. There never were any clouds, nor could there be—not at this elevation. It was an odd thought, realizing that if she wanted to see the soft white of the clouds, she would have to look down.
Margret walked onto the balcony of her small residence where two chairs and a small table had been placed. They were all carved from wood, just like everything in this strange place. Well, carved might not have been the right word, exactly. It looked more like they had just happened to grow into the desired shape, without any crafting involved.
It was the way of the elven people.
Rather than harnessing the gifts of nature and mold them to their desired shape, they preferred to whisper to it, hoping that it would comply with their demands. It was gentle, in a sense, even though their society was anything but.
The moment Margret stepped into the open, a gust of wind tousled her long hair. She welcomed it. The wind had been her constant companion these past few months—one of the few companions she'd had.
A few steps later, she reached the low railing of her balcony. Balcony wasn't quite the right word, she thought bitterly. After all, this place had been designed for a very different purpose.
Her gaze fell downward, only to meet an endless expanse of sky, broken only by the thick white carpet of clouds far below. To her left, right, above, and below, similar cabins dotted the vast branches—hundreds of them—each identical to her own. These were the homes of the so-called flyers, as the elves called them.
These balconies were no mere decoration. They served as both a landing pad and the only entrance to her isolated dwelling. After all, this place was perched upon one of the highest and most remote branches of Yggdrasil, a place unreachable by any who lacked the ability to fly.
Of course, she couldn't entirely blame the elves for their choices. Space was the most precious commodity on the world tree, and there were logical reasons to send Wind Mages—or flyers—to the most remote branches. But did their homes have to look exactly like birdhouses? Right down to the way they seemed nailed onto the giant tree? It was utterly degrading.
More frustrating was how the location of one's home reflected their status in the city. For Wind Mages, this meant being perpetually relegated to the outskirts—symbolic of their place in elven society. While not outright shunned, Wind Magic was certainly not a celebrated affinity. Flyers were tolerated, at best.
Margret closed her eyes, letting the wind brush across her skin. Was this how Zeke had felt during his time in the Empire?
Only now, standing in his shoes, did she truly grasp the weight of it all. Zeke had rarely complained about his treatment, but it must have been exhausting to endure such casual disregard, especially as a child. Even now, Margret struggled with the condescension of the elves, and she had lived for decades.
At least she had learned to temper her reactions. In those first few weeks, her temper had gotten the better of her, and she'd found herself in more fights than she cared to admit. It hadn't taken long, however, to realize that the elves had no patience for troublemakers. She'd narrowly avoided expulsion by officially joining the flyers, gaining just enough standing to secure her place.
That decision had changed everything.
The treatment she received improved immediately. She was no longer just an outsider; she was now a person with a title, however lowly. The uniform she wore demanded at least some degree of respect—or, at the very least, kept most insults at bay.
Margret began buttoning up her tight-fitting shirt, fastening it all the way to the stiff collar that felt almost like a noose around her neck. She had mixed feelings about the uniform. On one hand, it was far too snug, clinging to her form like a second skin. Despite covering her from head to toe, it felt oddly revealing. On the other hand, she couldn't deny its practicality. It was the best outfit for flying she had ever worn—streamlined, offering almost no air resistance. She felt faster, nimbler, as though the wind itself approved of her attire.
Satisfied that everything was in place, Margret stepped onto the balcony and dove. She surrendered herself to the wind, her body slicing effortlessly through the air. Her dive smoothed into a glide as she curved around the massive branch to which her colony of homes was attached. Calling on the wind to lift her higher, she took a slight detour, preferring to avoid the risk of bumping into anyone. Trouble had a way of finding her without any help.
For nearly an hour, she followed the colossal wooden branch, its immense length stretching toward the heart of Ygdrassil. As she flew, the houses she passed grew steadily larger and more elaborate, a silent reminder of the blatant favoritism within elven society.
When the main city came into view, the estates had swelled to staggering proportions. Her eyes lingered on a particularly grand mansion sprawling across the branch, complete with an artificial garden—an absurd display of wealth. The estate alone could have housed dozens of her tiny cabins.
Ridiculous, she thought bitterly.
She had no doubt that anyone living this close to the trunk could trace their lineage back to the first elves. They likely had ancestors—at least a dozen of them—seated on the council, securing their family's status for generations. It was a picture of opulence, and it left little doubt about where the city's priorities lay.
Not that she was in any position to judge. Human societies were no better, after all. Tradespire mirrored the same power structure as the world tree, tiered and rigid. Yet, in her opinion, there was still a notable difference.
Excellence could take you far as a human.
She didn't have to look far for an example. Her lord, Ezekiel, had risen from a commoner's beginnings to stand among the most powerful—a position comparable to the sprawling mansion she had just passed. And he had done it all in a single generation, before even turning twenty. That kind of meteoric rise was simply unthinkable for the elves.
Among them, status was inherited, not earned. Without centuries of effort and the work of countless generations, recognition was impossible. In Margret's eyes, those stiff-necked long-ears wouldn't bow their heads before an Exarch even while they were still wet behind the ears.
It was this inflexibility, this refusal to budge when it came to rank and privilege, that had likely kept the elves so isolated. Margret couldn't imagine such attitudes being well-received by any of the other races. They certainly didn't make for good diplomats.
Margret chuckled at the thought before gradually lowering her altitude. She had arrived.
In front of her stood the Flyers Hall. According to her contract, she was required to spend at least a few hours here each week, taking on whatever assignments came her way. Fortunately for her, most elves were reluctant to entrust their cargo to a non-elf, leaving her with ample free time.
She landed smoothly on the eastern balcony and merged into the stream of people heading inside. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with rows of doors. Each one emitted a faint red glow, signaling it was occupied. Margret walked past them until she finally found a door pulsing green. With a resigned sigh, she stepped inside.
The room was as sparse as always: a single meditation mat and a small table with accompanying chairs. It was clear that comfort had never been a consideration in its design.
She moved to the slot beside the door and placed her numbered token—652—inside, signaling her readiness to receive work. Still, she inwardly prayed that no assignments would come her way.
To her dismay, footsteps echoed down the hall almost immediately after she clocked in. That was truly unlucky. Maybe someone had requested her specifically? It seemed unlikely, but she couldn't think of a better reason for someone to show up so quickly.
Her curiosity was short-lived as the door opposite hers swung open. Margret remained seated as an elven woman strode in, a smug smirk spreading across her face the moment her eyes landed on Margret. Her gaze lingered—far too long—on certain areas.
Lecherous bitch, Margret cursed silently, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. It wasn't the first time she'd been subjected to such a look from this woman. To be fair, Myrella wasn't the worst offender. In Margret's experience, elves were all perverts to some degree, but at least this one kept her attention to staring and didn't cross further lines.
"Seen enough?" Margret interrupted, her tone dry as the silence dragged on.
"Don't be like that, 652," the elven woman replied in a sultry voice, her smirk widening. "It's not like me looking is costing you anything."
"It costs me time," Margret shot back, her patience thinning.
Myrella sighed dramatically. "I really don't envy you short-lived species. Always so obsessed with saving time, always in such a rush. Do you ever stop to enjoy the finer things in life?"
Margret scoffed, crossing her arms. "Stop wasting my time, Myrella. Do you have a mission for me, or are you just here to stare?"
Myrella shook her head, feigning innocence. "Truth be told, I don't actually have a mission for you…"
Margret's eyes narrowed sharply. Did that mean this woman had really come just to stare at her? That would be a new low, even for this insufferable pervert.
"…This time, I've come to deliver something to you," Myrella added with a teasing lilt, clearly amused as anger began to build on Margret's face. "Here it is."
She waved a letter in the air, holding it between her fingers as though it were a treat she expected a pet to beg for. Margret's sharp gaze locked onto the wax seal on the back. Her heart skipped a beat. It was unmistakable—the personal seal of the von Hohenheim household.
A letter from Ezekiel.
Margret shot to her feet in an instant, surging forward to snatch the letter. But Myrella, anticipating the move, danced gracefully out of reach. For all her insufferable antics, the elf was a formidable Wind Mage in her own right, hovering dangerously close to the level of an Archmage. Catching her was a pipe dream, and Margret knew it.
With a frustrated sigh, Margret straightened, her irritation simmering just beneath the surface. She should've expected something like this. Myrella's games were always tiresome, but it didn't make them any less aggravating in the moment.
"What do you want?" Margret asked, her voice tight with barely concealed restraint.
Myrella's grin widened, smug and triumphant. "How about saying please?"
"Please," Margret said immediately, swallowing her pride.
"Not like that." Myrella shook her head in mock disappointment. "I expect you to at least lower your head a little."
"Please give me the letter," Margret repeated, dipping her head just a fraction.
Myrella hummed thoughtfully, tapping a finger to her chin. "Hmm. Still not quite right. Maybe it would help if you got on your knees?"
Margret had heard enough. She should have known better than to give in to this sadistic bitch's games. Giving an inch only encouraged Myrella to push further, and Margret knew it wouldn't stop there.
Her patience snapped. With a sharp focus of will, several [Wind Blades] shot out, slicing through the air straight toward the elf's vitals. Margret didn't dare hold back—not with someone like Myrella.
The elf merely grinned wider, sending out an equal number of [Wind Blades] in the blink of an eye. The spells collided midair, veering off course and striking the walls and ceiling. The ancient wood groaned as deep furrows were carved into it, but just as quickly, the damage began to heal itself, the wood knitting back together.
"So, you do have teeth..." Myrella said, her voice laced with amusement.
"The letter," Margret demanded, glaring at her. "Give it here."
Myrella nodded, almost too casually, before tossing the letter toward Margret. "Sure. All you had to do was ask."
Margret snatched it from the air, still shooting Myrella a venomous look. She couldn't begin to understand what went on inside the elf's head, and frankly, she didn't care to. Her direct superior was more of a nuisance than anything else, and Margret had learned to avoid contact with her whenever possible.
Thankfully, Myrella seemed to lose interest, leaving the room as quickly as she had entered, likely on her way to torment someone else.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Margret tore open the letter. Her eyes scanned the contents, moving faster than should have been possible.
Would he ask her to return?
It was the thing she both longed for and feared. On one hand, it would be a relief to leave this suffocating place, a wish she often entertained. But on the other hand, she hadn't achieved anything yet. She had made no real connections, hadn't infiltrated the elven hierarchy—nothing.
It could be said that this entire trip had been a colossal waste of time so far.
The more Margret read, the more her expression darkened.
Ezekiel had laid out his situation in full, explaining what he needed from the elves. Yet, he didn't make demands. Instead, he left all the choices up to her, even offering her the option to return if she didn't believe staying would benefit them.
It was a gesture of faith.
But rather than feeling relieved, those words only deepened the weight on her chest. Zeke needed her, yet she felt powerless to help. It was a far worse feeling than the tight collar of her uniform pressing against her neck.
Her eyes flicked to the deadline at the bottom of the letter. Four weeks. It hardly felt like enough time, not even close. But Margret knew that if she didn't give it her all, she would never forgive herself.
Her gaze steadied, and her resolve grew stronger. It didn't matter whether she believed she could succeed—what mattered was that she gave it everything she had. That way, at least, she would have no regrets.
With her decision made, Margret sat down on the meditation mat, her mind clearer and more focused than it had been in weeks.