The air in the nameless town was still, carrying the scent of dust and baked bread. Two figures, distinctly out of place, stood in a quiet alley. One was Frieren, an elf mage over a thousand years old, her silver pigtails and youthful face belying an ancient soul. The other was her apprentice, Fern, a young human mage with lavender hair and a perpetually serious expression.

Their purse was empty. For weeks, no village had needed a mage’s services, and their funds had dwindled to nothing.

“We need money,” Frieren stated, her tone flat and factual.

Fern sighed. “I’m aware, Master Frieren. Perhaps we could find work at a farm? Or a tavern?”

“Too slow. The harvest is weeks away and tavern work pays in scraps.” Frieren’s green eyes grew distant, scanning the archives of her long memory. “I recall... a few centuries ago... there was a remarkably fast way to make quick money.”

“What method?” Fern asked, voice laced with cautious hope.

“Prostitution.”

The color drained from Fern’s face. “You’re insane.”

“It is easy money,” Frieren assured her with simplicity. “And you always say you want to do things quickly. This is the quickest way.” Before Fern could protest, Frieren grabbed her wrist. “This way.”