Frieren stood just outside the garden's entrance, half-hidden by the trailing vines of moonbloom that draped like silver curtains from the trellises above. She had stepped back the moment Fern emerged—quick, purposeful strides that carried more tension than usual. Frieren waited in patient silence, green eyes tracking the younger mage's approach without hurry.
Fern stopped a few paces away. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, violet eyes still stormy, cheeks flushed with the aftermath of whatever had just transpired inside. She didn't speak at first. Just breathed—short, controlled exhales through her nose.
Frieren tilted her head slightly.
"Did you pass?" she asked, voice soft and even, the same tone she might use to ask whether it might rain later.
Fern's shoulders stiffened for half a heartbeat.
Then she nodded once—sharp, decisive.
"Yes."
Frieren's expression didn't change, but the faintest softening appeared at the corners of her eyes.
"Good, now crossing into the Northern Plateau should be a breeze."
Fern looked away—toward the fountain where water trickled in slow, silver ribbons. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her sleeves.
"I told Serie no," she said quietly. "When she offered to take me as her apprentice."
Frieren hummed—a small, thoughtful sound.
Fern continued, voice dropping lower.
"She gave me the title anyway. First-class mage. No conditions. Just... handed it over like it was already decided."
She finally met Frieren's gaze again. Something raw flickered behind the violet.
"I told her you deserve better."
Frieren blinked slowly.
Then, very gently:
"You said that to Serie?"
Fern's flush deepened, but she didn't look away this time.
"Yes."
A long beat passed. The vines overhead stirred in a faint breeze; petals drifted down like quiet snow.
Frieren stepped forward—small, deliberate—and placed one hand lightly on Fern's shoulder. Not a hug. Not quite comfort. Just presence.
Fern exhaled shakily.
"I don't understand them," she muttered. "Either of them. Percia looked... calm. Like nothing happened. And Serie—" She broke off, shaking her head. "She just sat there smiling."
Frieren considered this.
Then, matter-of-factly:
"They're very old. Sometimes old things forget how to explain themselves."
Fern huffed—a small, frustrated sound.
"I'll make Percia buy us dinner," Frieren added, "Plus dessert. To make you feel better."
Fern's head snapped up.
"What?"
"Merkur pudding" Frieren said, as though this were the most logical conclusion in the world. "With extra syrup. Percia won't refuse."
Fern's voice cracked mid-sentence.
"Frieren-sama, this isn't about how I feel! Percia—she just… sat there like nothing happened. Like you didn't even exist to her. Like the way you look at her meant nothing. She let Serie mark her up like territory and then acted like—like you were just background noise."
Fern's hands clenched at her sides, knuckles white.
"She disregarded you. Completely. And you're just… standing here planning to buy me pudding like it's fine. Like it doesn't hurt."
Frieren regarded her student for a long, quiet moment.
The fountain kept trickling ahead of them. Petals continued to drift down in lazy spirals.
When Frieren finally spoke, her voice remained soft—almost gentle—but there was steel threaded beneath it now.
"Fern."
Fern froze at the tone.
Frieren's green eyes were steady. Unblinking.
"Do not assume that you know everything that has passed between Percia and me."
Fern opened her mouth—then closed it again.
Frieren continued, unruffled.
"I followed her for forty years once. I never once asked her to stay. I never once demanded anything from her. And when she left—without a word, without a note—I did not chase her. I did not hate her. I simply… kept walking."
She tilted her head slightly.
"That does not mean it did not hurt. It simply means I chose not to let the hurt stop me."
Fern's shoulders sagged a fraction.
Frieren's gaze never wavered.
"Percia carries things heavier than either of us can imagine. Duties that predate your village, your country, your entire written history. Things she cannot speak of without the world itself trying to silence her. Things that make even Serie wary."
A small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped Frieren.
"So when she sits calmly while someone else claims her skin for a night, or when she lets me kiss her hand without promising anything in return—it is not disregard. It is survival. The same survival that let her live long enough to meet me in the first place."
Fern looked down at the ground. Her voice came out small.
"…Still hurts to watch."
"I know," Frieren said simply.
She stepped closer and lifted Fern's chin with two gentle fingers until their eyes met again.
"But do not make me the most pitiful one here."
Fern blinked.
Frieren's expression remained serene.
"Percia has spent eight thousand years watching everything she cares about wither or walk away or turn to dust. She has buried more friends than there are stars you can name. She has sealed doors that should never be opened and paid prices no one will ever know. And yet she still you guys in that dungeon. She still healed you and Stark. She still paid for your dinner. She still let me kiss her hand."
"Besides," she continued quietly, "you noticed the way Serie looks at her."
Fern's breath caught—just a small hitch.
Frieren didn't look away.
"Eyes that follow her like she might vanish if they blink. The way her hand lingers on Percia's wrist, thumb over the pulse point, as though she's counting heartbeats to make sure they're still there. The way she stands just close enough that their shadows overlap, claiming space without ever needing to speak the word."
Fern swallowed.
"I… yes," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "She looks at Percia like she's afraid someone will take her away. Like she's been taken away before."
Frieren nodded once—small, acknowledging.
"Serie is older than most mountains. She has watched empires rise from nothing and crumble back into dust. She has buried students, rivals, lovers, entire lineages. And yet when Percia walks into a room, Serie's entire posture changes. She becomes… careful. Possessive. Because she knows exactly how easy it is to lose someone who has already lived long enough to forget what permanence feels like."
Fern's fingers loosened on her sleeves.
Frieren's voice stayed gentle.
"So when Serie marks her skin and holds her like she might disappear at dawn, it is not just desire. It is terror dressed up as arrogance. The same terror that makes her sit on tables and drink aged liquor until she can pretend she isn't afraid. The same terror that makes her smile like a blade when someone else dares to look at Percia too long."
Frieren's voice remained soft, almost conversational, as though she were reciting an old spell she had long since memorized.
"It is also want," she continued. "Raw. Endless. The kind that doesn't ask for permission because it has already waited centuries and learned that asking changes nothing."
Fern listened without interrupting, violet eyes fixed on her master's serene profile.
"Serie wants Percia the way a desert wants rain," Frieren said. "Not gently. Not reasonably. With the violence of something that has spent too long parched. Every touch, every bite, every possessive grip is Serie trying to drink her in before she slips away again. She marks Percia's skin because bruises fade slower than memories, and she needs proof—tangible, visible—that for one night, at least, Percia belonged to her."
A small breeze stirred the moonbloom vines; silver petals spiraled downward like quiet confessions.
"Percia…" Frieren paused, choosing her next words with the same care she once used to fold shielding spells thin enough for rain to pass through. "Percia gives what she can. A night. A hand. A quiet presence. She lets Serie take because refusal would hurt more than surrender, and because—deep down—she understands the terror. She has felt its echo in her own chest for eight thousand years."
Fern's brow furrowed.
"So it's… one-sided?"
Frieren tilted her head, considering.
"Not exactly one-sided. Uneven. Serie pours herself out like she is trying to drown Percia in feeling—desperation, hunger, fear disguised as dominance. Percia receives it. She absorbs it. She lets it mark her, lets it ache, lets it linger. But she does not pour back in the same measure."
Fern's voice came small again.
"She doesn't… want her the same way?"
Frieren's green eyes drifted toward the garden entrance, where frostroses still trembled faintly in the aftermath of their earlier conversation.
"Percia wants many things," she said quietly. "She wants the silence of forgotten ruins. She wants glyphs that no one else remembers how to read. She wants the weight of duties that keep the world from tearing open at the seams. And yes—she wants Serie, in the way one ancient thing wants another that has survived the same cataclysms. But that want is patient. Restrained. It does not demand. It does not devour. It simply… exists, like a star that burns steadily for millennia without ever needing to consume what it illuminates."
Fern exhaled slowly.
"So Serie is always reaching, and Percia is always… allowing herself to be reached. But never quite reaching back."
Frieren nodded once.
"Exactly."
She looked at Fern then—really looked, green eyes gentle but unflinching.
"That imbalance is not cruelty. It is simply what happens when two immortals love each other across too many centuries. One burns hot and fast because she fears the dark. The other burns low and slow because she has already seen too much dark and knows it always ends. It can be friendly at times, it can also be intimate. "
Fern wrapped her arms around herself again, though the gesture felt less defensive now.
"Does it ever… balance?" she asked.
Frieren considered the question for a long moment.
"Sometimes," she said at last. "In fragments. A shared drink under false stars. A night where neither of them pretends. A morning where Serie wakes up and—for just a heartbeat—does not reach. And Percia stays anyway."
Fern looked toward the boulevard again.
"And you?" she asked softly. "Where do you fit in that?"
Frieren's lips curved—the smallest, softest smile, "Who knows?"
"So no, Fern. I am not the most pitiful one here. None of us are. We are simply… very old. And still trying."
Fern's eyes shimmered. She swallowed hard.
Frieren released her chin and stepped back.
"Now," she said, tone returning to its usual placid calm, "I am going to make Percia buy us dinner and then Merkur puddings. With extra syrup. Because you are upset, and because I like those puddings, and because Percia is old enough to afford both guilt and dessert."
Fern let out a shaky, half-laugh, half-sob.
"You're impossible, Frieren-sama."
"I have been told that before," Frieren agreed.
She turned toward the boulevard.
Fern hesitated only a second—then fell into step beside her.
After a few paces Fern spoke again, quieter.
"…You really aren't hurt?"
Frieren paused for a moment.
"I am always a little hurt," she said at last. "But I have learned how to carry it without letting it carry me."
She glanced sideways at her student.
"You will learn too. Eventually."