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Chapter 14 - The Age Gap of Doom

Back in Mayfell's study, Ren slumped in a chair while she prepared tea with practiced motions. The rejection shouldn't sting—she looked like a child, for crying out loud—but something about her ancient eyes and gentle wisdom had made him forget the obvious.

"You're sulking," she observed, not turning from the tea service.

"I'm not sulking. I'm contemplating my cosmic insignificance."

"You're sulking because I compared you to my nephew." She turned, carrying two cups with steam that spiraled in impossible patterns. "Ren, we need to discuss something."

Here it comes. The 'you're the chosen one but also I need you to focus on saving the world not romance' speech.

She sat across from him, her feet not quite reaching the floor from the adult-sized chair. The juxtaposition should have been comedic, but her expression killed any humor.

"I'm three hundred and twelve years old," she stated simply. "In your human terms, I've lived through what you would consider fifteen generations. I've watched kingdoms rise and fall, seen the great forest grow from saplings, held the hands of warriors as they died of old age while I remained unchanged."

"I know you're older—"

"Do you?" She leaned forward, and her presence filled the room despite her small frame. "This form you see? It's thirty elf years of physical development. But those thirty elf years represent three centuries of experience, memory, loss. I've forgotten more names than you've ever known."

Ren's throat felt dry. "I didn't mean—"

"In human years, I could be your ancestor ten times over. You're literally a baby to me." She sipped her tea, expression not unkind but utterly final. "A cute baby, granted. Your fumbling attempts at competence are endearing. But a baby nonetheless."

"Okay, message received." He grabbed his own cup to have something to do with his hands. "No romantic subplot with the ancient loli. Got it. Crystal clear."

She laughed—actually laughed—and it sounded like silver bells mixed with centuries of amusement. "Ancient loli? Is that what your Earth culture calls this?"

"It's... complicated. There's this whole genre where—you know what? Not important." He took a too-large gulp of tea and immediately regretted it. "Point taken. You're my elder by several centuries and I'm an infant. Noted for future reference."

"Good." She settled back, looking more like a child playing adult than ever. "Because I do care for you, Ren. As a friend, an ally, perhaps even as a strange sort of descendant of the world that was. But romantic feelings?" She shook her head. "That would be like falling for a mayfly. Beautiful, brief, and ultimately cruel to both parties."

Rating: 0/10 for ego, 10/10 for wanting to dissolve into Neither Mist.

"Besides," she added with a mischievous glint that made her look her physical age, "I've noticed how you and Elanil circle each other. Like wolves deciding whether to fight or mate."

"We do not—she wants me dead!"

"She wants you something." Mayfell's smile was pure mischief now. "Two hundred thirty years old—practically a child by our standards, but close enough to your age to be appropriate. And she stares at you when she thinks no one notices."

"She stares at everyone like she's plotting murder."

"No, she stares at others like prey. She stares at you like a puzzle she wants to solve with her hands."

"That's not—you're misreading—" Ren's face burned hotter than the tea. "Can we go back to discussing my cosmic destiny? That was less embarrassing."

"If you insist." But her smile remained as she stood. "The council convenes within the hour. They'll want to see the human who reads the sacred tongue and fulfills the first signs."

"Great. Politics and prophecy. My favorite combination after 'hope and disappointment.'"

She paused at the door, looking back with those impossibly old eyes. "Ren? For what it's worth, if I were two hundred years younger and you were two hundred years older, things might be different."

"That's... actually the nicest rejection I've ever received. Thanks?"

"You're welcome. Now prepare yourself. The council will be less gentle than I."

She left him alone with his tea and mortification. The bio-luminescent fruit pulsed sympathetically in the corner.

"Not a word," he told it. "Not. One. Word."

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