Percia felt the familiar pull ease, the threads of her being knitting back together with the same quiet inevitability as always.
She expected the northern road—the moon high, the grass cool underfoot, the same stretch of dust and wildflowers she had left behind.
She did not expect the warm, close scent of roast beef, ale, and woodsmoke.
Her eyes opened to firelight and the low murmur of an inn common room.
And that familiar shade of green.
Frieren sat directly across the small table, fork halfway to her mouth, white hair catching the lantern glow like fresh snow under moonlight. For once the small elf looked genuinely startled—eyes wide, brows lifted, the placid mask cracked open just enough to show surprise beneath.
A crash erupted to Percia's left.
Stark had shot to his feet so fast his chair tipped backward. Plates and tankards scattered; a half-eaten roll bounced across the floor. His hand hovered instinctively over the axe propped against the bench, muscles coiled, eyes huge.
Fern was already standing too—staff gripped tight, violet eyes sharp and assessing, mana flickering faintly at her fingertips like a held breath.
The entire common room had gone still for a heartbeat, travelers and the innkeeper frozen mid-motion.
Percia blinked once.
"…Oh," she said softly. "I apologize. I didn't mean to startle you."
She glanced around at the spilled food, the tipped chair, the sudden silence.
"I didn't think it would bring me here."
Frieren lowered her fork slowly. Tilted her head.
"I can't trace where you came from," she said, voice calm again but curious. "I don't recognize the spell."
Percia shrugged one shoulder, the motion small and unconcerned.
"I don't think it's a spell."
Frieren's brows furrowed—slight, but unmistakable. A tiny crease appeared between them.
Percia felt an old, uninvited impulse: the urge to reach out, smooth that line away with her thumb the way she once had centuries ago when a young Frieren puzzled over a difficult glyph. She didn't move.
Stark was still half-crouched, one hand braced on the table, staring at her like she'd materialized from thin air—which, to be fair, she had.
Fern's grip on her staff loosened fractionally, though her eyes remained wary.
"…You just… appeared," Stark managed at last. "Like—poof. No mana flare. Nothing."
Percia inclined her head. "It's more like being… redirected. The world decides the destination sometimes."
Frieren's frown deepened. "The world?"
Percia gave a small, dry hum. "It has opinions."
Fern exhaled through her nose—soft, exasperated. "You're being vague again."
Percia's lips curved faintly. Not quite a smile. "Habit."
Stark finally straightened, rubbing the back of his neck, ears red. He glanced at the wreckage of their dinner: gravy pooling on the floorboards, a shattered mug leaking ale.
"Uh… sorry about the mess," he muttered. "I just—thought we were under attack or something."
Percia regarded the spilled food for a moment.
"Order more," she said quietly. "Dinner is on me tonight."
Stark blinked. "Wait—really?"
She nodded once.
Frieren set her fork down with deliberate care, then spoke in her usual unchanging tone.
"Dessert is on you too." A small pause. "We want merkur pudding. With extra syrup."
Fern froze mid-motion—staff halfway lowered, violet eyes widening just a fraction.
Frieren glanced sideways at her student, elbowing her lightly in the ribs. Smiling to something that neither Stark nor Percia understood.
Fern's cheeks pinked. She looked away, muttering something under her breath that they couldn't catch.
Stark, still flustered, finally sat back down—carefully, as though afraid the bench might betray him again.
He looked at Percia across the table.
"So… are you coming with us now?" he asked, hopeful, earnest, the same stubborn hope that had once put him between Fern and a pack of monsters.
Percia considered the question.
The fire crackled. Ale dripped steadily from the broken mug onto the floorboards. Outside, wind brushed the inn's shutters.
She supposed she should.
There was probably a reason the world had deposited her here instead of the empty road—a reason beyond coincidence, beyond the sealed gate she had just mended. The world did not act without purpose, even if it never bothered to explain.
"I suppose I should," she said at last. "For now."
Stark exhaled—visible relief. Fern's shoulders eased a fraction, though her gaze remained watchful.
Frieren simply nodded once, as though the matter had been settled long ago.
The innkeeper—finally unfrozen—hurried over with apologies and a fresh round of plates. More roast beef arrived, more ale, and eventually a generous bowl of merkur pudding: thick, vibrant, berry syrup pooling in glossy swirls.
Percia took a small spoonful—her first time trying it.
The sweetness bloomed on her tongue, rich and warm, layered with faint vanilla, the tartness of boysenberries, and something floral she couldn't quite place.
Frieren watched her, green eyes bright with quiet satisfaction.
"It's my favorite," she said simply.
Percia paused mid-bite.
She noted it subconsciously—the way Frieren's voice softened on the word favorite, the small, contented hum she made when she took her next spoonful, the way her lashes lowered for a heartbeat as though savoring more than just the taste.
Percia swallowed.
She filed the detail away, the same way she cataloged glyphs or ley-line shifts: small, precise, potentially important later.
The four of them ate in companionable quiet after that.
Percia watched them all, eyes half-lidded.
The silence that always followed her was no longer sharp.
It's teeth had dulled—just a little.
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Dawn had barely cracked the horizon when they left the village.
The sky was still the bruised purple of early morning, streaked with thin gold at the edges. Mist clung low to the fields, turning the road into a soft gray ribbon that disappeared into haze. The air smelled of dew, damp earth, and the faint smoke of dying hearth fires behind them.
Stark walked at the front, shoulders slumped, yawning so widely his jaw cracked.
"Too early," he mumbled, rubbing one eye with the heel of his palm. "Why do we always leave at dawn? The monsters aren't even awake yet."
Frieren walked beside him, steps slow and mechanical, eyes half-closed. She looked more asleep than awake—white hair faintly mussed, cloak trailing a little longer than usual, as though even gravity had decided to give her a break. Every few paces she blinked slowly, like someone trying to remember where they were.
Fern walked a step behind, grimoire open in her hands. She was reading—or trying to. Every so often her head dipped, eyelids fluttering, and a small yawn escaped before she could catch it. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, frowning at the page as though it had personally offended her.
Percia walked last, cloak whispering against the grass, blue eyes scanning the mist with quiet habit. She watched the three of them for a moment—the yawn chain reaction, the sleepy shuffle—and tilted her head slightly.
"Why are we setting out so early if everyone is this tired?"
Fern closed the grimoire with a soft snap, pout already forming.
"It's been a week since we left Äußerst," she said, voice carrying that particular brand of tired exasperation only Fern could achieve. "We should have covered twice the distance by now."
She shot a sideways glance at Frieren.
"But someone kept stopping at every stall with a glowing rock or a suspicious-looking necklace. 'Just one more trinket,' she said. Every single time."
Frieren blinked slowly, still half-asleep.
"…Sorry," she mumbled. "Don't be mad."
Fern's pout deepened, but the edge had already softened. She sighed—long, dramatic, practiced.
"I'm not mad," she lied.
Stark snorted, another yawn breaking through.
"She's mad," he stage-whispered to Percia. "She's been mad for days. Every time Frieren stops for a weird trinket, Fern makes that angry face."
Percia's gaze drifted to the horizon, where the first real light was beginning to burn away the mist.
A week.
A week had passed in the world above while she stood before the gate, mending a crack that should not have existed.
Time always flowed strangely there—sometimes a handful of minutes, sometimes years. The longest she had spent in that chamber had been three hundred years, by the world's reckoning. When she returned, Serie had been waiting with folded arms and a look that could have curdled milk. The scolding had lasted nearly a month. Percia had listened in silence, then left again without argument. Serie had not spoken to her for a decade after that.
She exhaled softly through her nose.
Time was never kind to those who tried to measure it.
Stark was still talking, voice brighter now that the sun was rising.
"We took a couple commissions while you were… uh… out," he said. "Nothing huge. One was for this old lady who wanted a useless magic trinket fixed—it just made flowers smell like burnt toast. Frieren accepted it immediately."
Frieren perked up slightly at that, eyes opening a fraction more.
"It was interesting," she murmured. "The weave was very old."
Stark rolled his eyes fondly.
"And the other one was for a grimoire that had a spell to turn green apples red."
Frieren smiled—small, genuine, suddenly more awake.
"I'm especially happy about that one," she said, leaning forward a little as she walked. "Now I have the spell… and the counter-spell."
Fern sighed, long-suffering.
"The counter-spell. To turn red apples into green ones."
Frieren nodded, satisfied. "Exactly."
Fern rubbed her temple. "Folk magic like that is your guilty pleasure, isn't it? Anything small and pointless and strangely specific."
Percia listened without interrupting, boots silent on the packed earth.
After a moment she spoke, voice low and contemplative.
"Folk magic is special in that it doesn't make sense."
Fern glanced back at her, curious despite herself.
Percia continued, gaze distant.
"Take Judradjim—the destructive lightning spell you saw Frieren use before. It can be explained. Lightning forms from charge separation, vibration, frequency, excitation of air molecules. It follows laws—natural phenomena we can trace, measure, predict."
Stark groaned quietly. "You're gonna make my head hurt with those big words."
Percia's lips curved—just the barest fraction.
"Folk spells are different. Turning a green apple red. No natural phenomenon explains it. No ley-line shift, no elemental resonance, no mana frequency. It simply is. The spell reaches past the surface of things and changes their being itself—their matter, their essence."
The words hung for a moment—soft, heavy with something unspoken.
Fern walked a few more steps in silence, then glanced back at Percia again.
"…If folk magic declares things without mechanism," she asked, "does that mean it can break other rules too? Like… time, or distance? Or is it limited to small, simple things?"
Percia's gaze drifted to the distant treeline, where the ruins were beginning to take shape against the morning sky.
"Mostly small," she said. "Mostly simple. A mother's lullaby that keeps a fever from rising. A farmer's charm that makes the rain fall only on his field. But once in a while… something larger slips through. A declaration so sincere, so deeply felt, that reality bends just enough to let it happen."
She paused.
"Those are the dangerous ones. Because the world remembers. And it doesn't always like being told what to do."
Stark, who had been pretending to listen while carving patterns in the dirt with his axe head, suddenly looked up.
"Wait—dangerous how? Like, does the world get mad and strike you with lightning or something?"
Percia's tone remained even.
"Sometimes. Sometimes it just… forgets you. Or makes sure no one else remembers the spell ever existed. Or the person who cast it."
Stark swallowed.
"That's terrifying."
Fern frowned.
"But the small ones—the apple spells, the hair-growth charms—those are safe?"
"Safe enough," Percia said. "They don't threaten the order of things. They just… nudge."
"If they were to nudge any more," Percia's voice grew very soft, "They'd be like spells from back then."
Frieren blinked slowly.
"I hadn't thought about it that way," she said. "I just… like collecting them."
Percia looked at her then—really looked.
The morning light caught in Frieren's white hair, turning it almost silver.
"I know," Percia said softly. "And you should continue."
A small, genuine smile touched her mouth—rare, fleeting.
"It's nice that you have a hobby to anchor yourself to."
Frieren tilted her head, studying Percia with that unchanging green gaze.
After a long moment she nodded once—small, accepting.
"Thank you."
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Fern knelt on the dry grass, sleeves rolled to her elbows, carefully sorting through the small pile of vegetables and mushrooms she had gathered earlier that morning. She brushed dirt from a cluster of chanterelles, set them aside, then began slicing thin roots with a small knife—methodical, quiet, the way she always prepared ingredients when there was no rush. The fire beside her was still low, just embers waiting for the food to be ready to cook.
A few paces away, Frieren sat cross-legged on a flat stone, grimoire balanced open on her lap. Her green eyes moved slowly down the page; she turned it once, then rested her chin lightly in her hand, absorbed.
Down by the shallows, Percia and Stark sat on the half-sunken log, far enough from the clearing that the soft sounds of Fern's knife and the occasional rustle of Frieren's pages were lost beneath the low drone of insects and the lap of water. Their voices wouldn't carry back.
Stark had already cast his line. He glanced sideways at Percia, who sat a few paces off with arms folded, watching the murky surface without expression.
"Hey, Percia," Stark said, patting the log beside him. "You gonna watch all day? Come fish with me. There's room. Way better than staring at nothing."
Percia's eyes flicked to him, then to the spare rod he'd rigged earlier. After a brief pause she stepped over and sat—graceful, leaving a careful space between them. She took the rod, baited it without comment, and cast in a smooth arc. The float landed softly.
Stark watched the cast. "Nice throw."
Percia hummed faintly, gaze already fixed on her float.
They sat in easy silence for a while. Only the soft plop of water and the distant buzz of the marsh.
Then—a sharp splash downstream. Water sprayed; something large thrashed just under the surface.
Stark yelped, shoulders snapping up to his ears, rod jerking wildly in his grip. "Gah—!"
Percia didn't move. She tilted her head slightly toward him.
"You're surprisingly skittish for a warrior," she said, voice calm and even.
Stark's ears flushed bright red. He straightened slowly, pouting as he steadied the rod. "I can't help it. Things just… explode out here."
He stared at the ripples. "I'm probably better suited to being a laborer. Plowing fields. Hauling grain. Digging ditches. I'm good at that kind of work." He flexed one arm absently, muscle bunching under sun-browned skin, and managed a crooked half-grin. "Farmer arms, right?"
Percia watched the flex for a moment, then let her gaze drift back to her own unmoving line. A faint smile ghosted across her lips—small, real.
"Why become a warrior, then?" she asked quietly, without turning her head. "If you think your better suited to labor."
Stark blinked, caught off guard. He lowered his arm slowly. "I… didn't really choose it. The demons came. My village burned. I ran. Left everyone behind." His voice dropped further. "Eisen found me afterward. Dragged me off. Trained me. I'm not really sure why. I'm not suited for battle. I'm a coward."
He stared at the water. "Didn't feel like I had much choice after that. I thought the least I could do is become strong enough to kill the demon that destroyed my family."
Percia was silent for several heartbeats. Then, softly: "Cowardice is good. It teaches restraint. I've seen many warriors lose their sense of mortality—not from the strength they gained, but from growing numb to danger. They stopped feeling the edge. Charged blindly. Died meaninglessly."
Her eyes lingered on the ripples in the water, "Never become numb, Stark."
Stark looked at her, surprised by the firmness threaded through the words.
A tiny seed rat skittered along the log near his boot—claws clicking faintly. Stark jumped again, a strangled noise escaping as he jerked sideways and nearly tipped into the shallows before catching himself.
He sighed, long and defeated. "Yeah… guess I'm safe from numb."
Percia let out a soft laugh—low, surprised, almost musical in the quiet marsh air.
Stark froze. He turned to stare at her, wide-eyed.
"You should laugh more," he said impulsively. His face flushed darker the instant the words left his mouth. "It… suits you."
Percia hummed, noncommittal, and looked back down at her float. It bobbed once, lazily.
Stark fidgeted with his rod for a few heartbeats. Then, quieter:
"Fern told me… about what you said to her. About Serie." His flush deepened; he kept his eyes on the water. "About the marks. The ones you and Serie had."
Percia gave the smallest nod. "Frieren healed them later. They upset Fern."
Stark stayed quiet for several seconds. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its usual lightness; his copper eyes lifted to meet hers, steady and solemn.
"I don't really get… elf things. Living that long. How feelings work after centuries." He swallowed. "I know Frieren's distant. Detached, a lot of the time. Doesn't seem to care about much."
He paused as if grasping for the right words, "But the few things she does care about… you're one of them. She cares about you. A lot." He held her gaze without flinching. "So please… care about her too. Be gentle with her."
Percia looked back at him—at the stubborn earnestness burning steady in those copper eyes, the quiet, unpolished resolve that refused to bend even when his voice shook a little saying it.
She didn't answer the plea directly.
After a measured pause she said, simply, "Being a warrior suits you."
Stark blinked, startled—mouth parting as if the words had landed somewhere he wasn't expecting. His ears went faintly pink again.
Right then his line snapped taut.
The rod bent double with a sharp creak; water exploded upward in bright silver spray as the fish fought, thrashing hard.
"Whoa—!" Stark shouted, scrambling to his feet on the unsteady log. "Big one! Come on—come on—!"
Boots slipped in the slick mud; he hauled backward with everything in his broad shoulders, grinning wide and wild and utterly unguarded as the fat silver-green fish finally broke the surface, scales flashing in the harsh midday light.
A faint smile curved the corner of her mouth, small enough that it might have been only for herself.
You've surrounded yourself with good people, Frieren.