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“Wait, Miss Frieren, can’t we use her?”
Aura barely managed to shift her gaze toward the purple-haired human beside Frieren.
“Use her?” Frieren echoed, her expression unreadable. “Aura, stand still and do not make a sound.”
Aura obeyed instantly. She had no choice. The weight of the order locked her body in place, her insurmountable will—shattered, reduced to something pliable in the hands of this damned elf.
“Whatever do you mean?” Frieren asked, tilting her head slightly.
“You’ve already surpassed her magic, and she can’t disobey you,” Fern explained. “That means she’s useful. We can study her, learn from her. She doesn’t have a choice. And besides, she’s so weak now that if anything goes wrong, we can put her down easily.”
Aura couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. But in her mind, she was screaming—spitting curses and insults with all the venom she could muster. If she could have set the girl ablaze with a glare alone, Fern would have been ashes at Frieren’s feet.
Frieren’s ears twitched as she considered it. “You’re not wrong… though giving her purpose might also give her opportunities.” A pause, then a slight smirk. “Still, it’s a rather fitting fate.”
Stark frowned. “So she’s coming with us? What if she kills us in our sleep?”
Aura, had she the ability, would have scoffed. If she could kill them, she would have. The idea that she had to be concerned with their safety was almost laughable—if it weren’t for the fact that her own magic was now being used to humiliate her.
She would have prayed for death. If she believed in such things.
But death would never come.
Frieren raised her staff, and Aura’s fate was sealed.
The Binding Command
"From this moment forward, you are bound to obey the direct commands of Frieren, Fern, Stark, and their blood descendants. You must carry out any command given by them without hesitation, question, or resistance.
You may not, through action or inaction, cause or contribute to harm against any human, elf, or dwarf unless explicitly commanded to do so by Frieren, Fern, Stark, or their blood descendants. Any violation of this law will result in immediate self-execution by the most efficient method available at the time, and the act of execution must be carried out by your own hands.
You may not seek, request, or accept any means of altering, removing, or resisting this spell, nor may you allow another to act on your behalf to do so. Any attempt to do so will result in immediate self-execution.
If you are given contradictory commands by those you serve, you will default to the one most in alignment with their known wishes, prioritizing the most recent order given by the highest-ranking individual present.
If commanded to sleep, you will enter a dormant state until commanded to awaken by Frieren, Fern, Stark, or their blood descendants. While dormant, you will not perceive the passage of time, nor will you awaken under any circumstances except by direct command.
Your body will not allow you to act against these conditions, and no external force—magical or otherwise—may compel you to do so."
Resistance is Futile
For the first few days, Aura searched desperately for loopholes.
She tested the limits of the spell, pushing back with all the force of her will. She tried to delay commands, tried to refuse in even the smallest ways. But each time, she failed. Each time, she obeyed.
And when she pushed too far, Frieren shocked her.
It was a simple gesture. A mere tap of the staff against Aura’s forehead. But the pain that followed was like fire coursing through every nerve in her body.
The first time was at an inn.
Aura had drawn whispers from the other guests, their eyes lingering on her horns. Some wondered who—what—she was. But Frieren had given her an order.
“Aura, take our luggage to our quarters.”
It was simple. A task beneath her. A task for servants. For humans. Not for her.
She wanted to refuse. Willed herself to resist.
But before she could even form the thought to disobey, her body was already moving. Her hands grasped the bags, her legs carried her up the stairs. She placed the luggage in their room—their room—while they spoke of things that did not concern her.
She had no bed.
She would be sleeping on the floor.
The thought should have enraged her, but Aura had discovered something. A minor rebellion. A petty, insignificant act of defiance.
She reached for Frieren’s bag. If she could not refuse, then perhaps she could at least pry.
Just as her fingers brushed against something inside, the door opened.
“Aura. Stop right there.”
The command froze her instantly, her hand still inside the bag.
Frieren’s staff was already in her grasp.
“Put that down,” she said, her voice cold and calm. “Gently. Without breaking it. Without opening it.”
Aura obeyed.
Frieren’s gaze flickered with something—annoyance? Amusement?
“That wasn’t part of your orders,” she murmured.
And then she tapped her staff against Aura’s head.
Pain shot through her like a lightning strike, sending her crumpling to the floor. She grit her teeth, trembling as the agony coursed through her.
Fern and Stark exchanged uneasy glances.
“I do want you capable of creative thought,” Frieren mused, watching Aura writhe. “But not like this. I’ll shock you again if you prove troublesome. Understood?”
Aura did not speak. Could not.
But in her mind, she raged.
That bitch.
That damned, arrogant elf.
How dare she—
“Tell them we have no need for a fourth bed,” Frieren added, voice light as if nothing had happened.
The command settled into Aura’s bones.
She stood.
And she obeyed.
—-
The worst day of Aura’s new life began with a suggestion.
“We should change Aura’s appearance. Just to be safe.”
Aura growled under her breath, still burdened with their luggage like some common servant. “You may control my body, but I refuse!”
“Aura, put that all down.”
Her arms moved before she could resist. She wanted to throw the bags, to make some kind of defiant gesture, but Frieren’s staff was already in hand, its presence an unspoken warning. Aura set the luggage down gently, her breath sharp and uneven.
“Aura, stand completely still.”
She fought against the command—pushed against it with everything she had—but her body froze. Trapped.
Then she felt it.
The whisper of invisible razors, around her head, near her neck
Snip.
A weight lifted. The pink strands that once were on her head were gone. A sharp breeze brushed against the nape of her neck. She couldn't even flinch.
Aura’s fingers twitched. She wanted to reach up, to feel the damage, but her body wouldn’t move without permission.
“It’s an old favorite of mine,” Frieren said casually, as if she were discussing a simple parlor trick. “Dangerous when untrained, but easy to master. You will never need a barber again.”
Aura stared forward, swallowing hard as she felt the unfamiliar lightness of her hair. Stark hesitated before voicing the next concern.
“What about her horns? People might not know much about demons, but those things are hard to miss.”
Aura’s breath caught in her throat.
“N-No, you can’t—”
“Good point!”
Crack.
A sickening snap. A sensation—not pain, but a loss. Aura saw the movement before she fully registered what had happened.
Two jagged, broken remnants of her horns hit the ground.
She stared at them, her breath shallow. They weren’t completely gone, but they had been taken from her. Cut down like dead branches and leaving only two stubs in their place.
She had never felt proud of them, exactly. But they had always been hers. A part of Aura, the Guillotine. Now, they were just another piece of herself left behind.
Frieren examined her work, then tilted her head. “I could shave them down further.”
Aura couldn’t breathe. She refused to cry out. She knew THAT was pointless. Deception was pointless, as was dighting back as then she’d be dead, and while this nightmare would be over she feared death more than anything else. It was the rational thing to do, and while she couldn’t tremble, these thoughts swirled in her mind. A mind built solely to rationalize and justify itself… So she did not notice what happened next.
For the first time since the commands started, Fern stepped forward. “…It’s fine like this.”
Aura’s gaze snapped to her, searching her face for something—pity, satisfaction, anything. But Fern’s expression was unreadable.
“It was just a stray thought,” Fern added, her voice quieter.
She wasn’t looking at Aura. Just at Frieren, who seemed to shrug it off. “It will be helpful I suppose. The Graf was still confused at this state… better to disassociate from that.”
Aura, still frozen, felt something unfamiliar—something she hadn't dared to hope for in days.
It wasn’t mercy. Not yet. But it was hesitation. Perhaps.. Perhaps she could use this…
—-
“So… the Scales of Obedience, hmm?”
Aura was forced to help this elven mage. Frieren had offered her services as a ‘peace offering’ while the Mage Examinations were underway. Serie was a legendary mage to the humans, a figure of prestige and authority. But to Aura, she was just another elf who commanded her body.
Only, Serie was worse in a way.
Frieren controlled her with shocks, and yet still allowed Aura to have some peace, only asking her to carry things or be a useful note-taker, but Serie… Serie wanted to know. She wanted to pick at the magic itself, unravel its function, dissect it for study. She wanted to see just how far the Scales could be pushed.
“How does it work? Why does it work? How can it be resisted or undone?” Serie muttered, quill scratching against parchment as Aura was forced to kneel, scrubbing the marble floors. "You’re in a unique position, you know.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
“No, really,” Serie mused, as if she hadn’t heard the bitterness in Aura’s voice. “You’re the first demon Frieren has encountered that she hasn’t simply exterminated. She must hate you.”
Aura said nothing. Her reflection stared back at her in the polished stone, and for a moment, she didn’t recognize it. The proud demoness who once stood defiant had been reduced to a meek, shorn creature. Her horns—gone. Her long, wild hair—hacked away. Even her eyes, once full of fire, now carried a dull, wary gleam.
“I suppose she does,” Aura admitted, voice hollow.
“And yet, she’s managed to make you into something useful.” Serie almost sounded impressed. “Perhaps there’s a way to do this to the rest of your kind…”
Aura’s scrubbing hand slowed.
She could picture it. The mighty legions of demonkind, shackled, bound in servitude, their wills broken just as hers had been. A race of obedient slaves to these malformed half-breeds. A crawling sickness coiled in her gut.
“No.”
The word slipped out before she could stop it.
Serie didn’t react at first, simply twirling her quill between her fingers. Then, as if just coming to a conclusion, she shrugged. “No, on second thought, it wouldn’t be sustainable. If the spell is tied to the caster’s life, that means you are the only one capable of spreading it. And we can’t very well have a demon wielding such magic, can we?”
Aura swallowed.
Serie smirked. “I have to admit, Frieren has impressed me with you.”
“I hate her too,” Aura murmured.
“No one cares what you think.” Serie’s voice was light, dismissive, as if she were correcting a particularly slow student. “This is a mercy your kind scarcely deserves. You should be grateful. You will outlive the rest of your wretched kin. Who knows, you might even prove yourself worthy of something more than mere servitude.”
Aura stared at her own trembling fingers.
"Until then, I order you not to reveal a word of this to Frieren herself."
Aura flinched. The magic burned the command into her mind.
"Or to her companions. Or to anyone, really."
She gritted her teeth, struggling against the command, but it was useless. It settled into her like a collar tightening around her throat.
"Why?" she whispered.
Serie arched a delicate brow, as if amused by the question. "Because secrets are valuable. And because I said so."
Then, she waved a hand. "Now, hurry up. I can wait a century, but your master expects you to be done eventually."
Aura lowered her head and continued scrubbing.
The Reward
The adventure was over. At least, for now.
Aura had seen… a lot. Too much, really.
She stared at the mirror, adjusting the collar of the maid uniform she now wore. It was the fashion of the time, simple and modern, indistinguishable from the uniforms of common housekeepers. It suited her, she supposed. It was what they had made her.
She felt nothing. Complaining wouldn’t change anything.
She had tried before—long ago, back when resistance still felt possible. But after countless thankless days and nights of service, after battles against her own kind she didn’t care to remember, she had learned. Complaints only made things worse. They only made them give her something else to do.
She looked at her reflection.
Her fingers brushed her cropped hair, the unfamiliar weightlessness still foreign. She tried—just for a moment—to remember what she had looked like before. The horns. The fire in her eyes. Aura the Guillotine.
It felt like someone else’s memory.
Someone else’s life.
She turned away.
“Aura?”
She raised her head. She was folding Fern’s laundry, methodically smoothing out every wrinkle. She hadn’t even realized she had started.
“Yes?”
Fern hesitated. Then, awkwardly, she held something out. A small, dark square.
“I… thought you deserved a reward for your help,” Fern said, voice uncertain. “But…”
Aura looked at the chocolate, then at Fern, then at the laundry. The faint thought that it might stain the fabric flickered through her mind before vanishing.
Fern was still waiting.
“Please, take it.”
Aura obeyed. She turned the square over in her palm, frowning in confusion until Fern added, “It’s to eat.”
She placed it in her mouth.
It melted—rich, bittersweet. It had been… a long time since she had something like it.
“Did you like it?”
Aura looked down at her hands. They were clean. Empty. She flexed her fingers.
“…I suppose I did.”
Fern shifted uncomfortably. “After Solitär. And Macht. And… all the others…” She trailed off. “I wanted to ask—how are you doing?”
“I am the same as ever.” Aura resumed folding. “Do you require something?”
“No, it’s just…” Fern hesitated. She looked at Aura then, truly looked at her. “You really are empty, aren’t you?”
Aura didn’t react, simply saying “I don’t understand.”
Fern’s expression softened—not quite kindness, but something close to it. Pity. Aura had seen that look before. Demons who still recognized her gave her the same expression. Some did not recognize her at all. She was no longer Aura the Guillotine.
Even she could barely believe she had ever been.
Fern sighed. “…Did you like the chocolate?”
Aura paused, considering the question for a small while… Then, finally, she nodded.
“I… I did.”
Fern didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod before turning to leave. Aura folded the last piece of laundry and placed it neatly on the bed.
She moved to the next task.
The chocolate lingered on her tongue. It was bittersweet.
The First Child
Frieren was constantly on the move, and thus, so was Aura. They stopped by a small house in a newer village, to see Stark and Fern and…
A new child, a big, wide-eyed little thing. Frieren smiled at the sight, but Aura merely looked at it… Wondering what it would mean for her future. After all; She was made to obey the entire line of Stark and Fern.
“It’s been too long! How have you two been?”
“It’s only been five years since the wedding~” Frieren replied with a smile. “Aura’s been fine.”
Aura bowed. It was a suggestion Frieren made to ensure others she wasn’t a threat. It was already too late to be true.
“It’s nice to see you too, Aura.” Fern said with a smile. “Come in.”
Aura obeyed. Life became a rather simple and routine thing, but she realized that she was free from choice. And as they all talked of their time before, Aura realized she would be back here, again. She would always come back. Because she was ordered to. It would be routine. Implemented into it. She was free from so many things. Free from her self, free from her will… She would serve.
So why, as the child began to cry and Order was ordered to fetch the soother, did it feel so empty?
The Passing
Frieren was constantly on the move. And thus, so was Aura. But in time, even Frieren slowed. She eventually settled near the descendants of Fern and Stark. The world was changing, and though she was long-lived, she was a part of it, too.
She had seen Heaven. She had seen Himmel. And soon…
She would join him.
Well, "soon" being relative, of course.
Aura remained by her side, tending to her research, assisting in her magic, ensuring her comforts. It no longer irked her. She did not resent it. It was simply how it was.
Time passed.
Fern and Stark had long since died, but their family grew, generation after generation. With each new heir, Aura found herself bound to the orders of another, and another, and another. Frieren the only orders that remained truly constant, but the elves were now dying out, slowly… but Aura Remained.
She had outlasted her kind. The dwarves were gone. The elves—dying, dwindling.
Humanity had won the great competition of survival.They had fulfilled the niche of the thinking, expanding species more than any other. And so, while they surged forward, learning, growing, advancing faster than ever before, the elves—creatures of patience, of study, of long thought—had begun to fall behind.
Magic remained, of course. But it was no longer The Primary force in the world, as machine began to do what magic could do, and their combined might could do more than even that.
And so, as humanity reached toward industry, Frieren returned to what she had always done—study, magic, contemplation. Her kind made very few strides in this new world.
It ended, as these things always do.
Aura was delivering Frieren’s early morning tea, as she had done for centuries. A small task. Routine. A few thousand years had passed since Fern and Stark had gone to the place forbidden to demons. Frieren had developed a fondness for tea in these later years. It was a small indulgence, but it pleased her, and so Aura prepared it as always. She stepped into the room.
Frieren had not risen. A common problem, of course. Aura stepped closer, setting the tray down, moving to wake her— And stopped.
Frieren lay perfectly still. Too still. Her expression was peaceful, her breathing absent. Her body was at rest in a way that could only mean one thing.
Aura did not breathe. For the first time in a thousand years, her heart pounded. A slow, sickening fear crept through her veins. And then… She remembered.
She was not free.
And so, she turned and left the room.
The coroner’s report placed the time of death at 1:00 AM.
The funeral was large. Not just old friends, but mages, scholars, historians, and the people of this industrious new age. Photographers, reporters.
They did not know Frieren, not truly. To them, she was a remnant of history, an artifact of a world before their own.
Aura stood at the side of the closest living descendants of Stark and Fern.
She watched as they lowered Frieren into the grave.
She did not weep. She did not smile. She did not feel relief.
Only the ennui of time.
Nothing had changed. The spell was tied to Aura. Not to Frieren. So long as Aura lived, so would her magic, and her magic meant only one thing;
Frieren’s orders would be obeyed.
Forever.
No one knew how long a demon could live. No one had ever seen a Demon die of old age.
The Ending
The world has changed in the last 5,000 years. Kingdoms had risen and fallen, the shape of the land itself had shifted, and magic had been tamed, refined, woven into the machinery that powered civilization. But Aura remained the same.
No one knew what she was. To the world, she was merely the head maid of the old house on the hill, serving a family whose name had long outlived its origins. She answered to "Aura," responded to any question with precise, effortless knowledge, and carried out orders with unwavering efficiency. She kept the house immaculate, attended to the needs of the family, and raised generations of children who came and went, none ever questioning why she did not age.
Her presence was noted only in whispers. The remnants of something long forgotten—the faint, worn-down ridges where horns once grew—occasionally drew curious glances. If asked, she would explain without hesitation. She had once had horns. She had once been something else. And then, without prompting, she would return to her work, indifferent to the curiosity of those who asked.
She spoke of history if commanded to, recounting the fall of the Elves and Dwarves, the extinction of the demons, and the deeds of long-dead heroes with the same dispassionate precision she used when detailing the proper method for polishing silver. The world had no use for such tales anymore. The past had given way to industry, to a new age where magic was no longer wielded by warriors or scholars but by engineers and bureaucrats. The Magi who once stood as arbiters of the arcane were now administrators, overseeing a world too practical for legend.
Aura did not care for such things. She had served mages, warriors, merchants, and statesmen alike. Their ambitions, their conflicts, their triumphs and failures—none of it mattered. Only orders mattered.
Rarely did she appear in the public eye. Occasionally, a photograph captured her standing at the edges of a gathering, always in a maid’s uniform that changed only with the shifting trends of fabric and cut. Her hair remained short, her gaze steady and unreadable, her presence an unchanging fixture of the household.
Life moved on.
One day, as she walked through the city, she pushed a stroller with the youngest daughter of the family while the heir to the house walked beside her. It was routine. The streets had changed in design and material countless times over the centuries, but the paths she took remained the same.
The boy tugged at her sleeve.
“Yes, young master?”
“Who is that?”
Aura followed his gaze to the statue at the center of the square. Time had worn away its features, its once-proud engraving now half-erased by wind and rain. The world had not cared enough to restore it.
“That is Himmel the Hero,” she replied.
“Who?”
“A hero of great renown in days past. He slew the Demon King.” Her tone held no reverence, no nostalgia—only the simple execution of an order. The boy frowned, uninterested. It was ancient history, irrelevant to the age he lived in.
Aura said nothing more. She had seen this statue when it was new, its details sharp and untarnished. She had seen crowds gather before it, speaking his name with admiration. She had watched, century after century, as those voices faded, as memory dulled, as even legend became obsolete.
And yet, as she turned away and continued walking through the city, something rare happened.
Aura smiled.