The inn's common room smelled of woodsmoke, stew, and faintly of ale. Lanterns hung from low beams, casting warm amber pools across scarred wooden tables. A handful of travelers occupied the space—merchants nursing tankards, a lone bard tuning a lute in the corner.
"Frieren! And Stark too! What a surprise!"
A figure with gray hair rose from a table near the back and waved lazily. He strode over with easy confidence, slinging an arm around Stark's shoulders like they were old drinking buddies.
"It's been a while, huh? How've y'all been?"
Stark managed a tired smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Ah yeah… been good and all. Um—" He glanced sideways at Percia, then back at Wirbel. "Percia, this is Wirbel. I don't know if you've met him…"
Wirbel turned, sizing Percia up with a quick, appraising look. Recognition flickered across his face.
"Oh yeah, we've met. You're that elf that was sitting off to the side when I was interviewing with Serie."
Percia blinked once—slow, deliberate.
"I don't remember you."
Wirbel grinned. "Are all elves like this? Name's Wirbel. First-class mage. Captain of the Northern Magic Corps." He extended his hand. "Nice to see you again."
Percia gazed at the offered hand for a long second before clasping it. Firm. Brief.
"Percia."
Wirbel paused the instant their palms met. His brows lifted fractionally. After the handshake ended, he brought his hand up to his face and sniffed it—once, twice.
Fern watched the display with furrowed brows, her gaze fixed on him in a mixture of confusion and mild disgust.
Wirbel's gaze slid back to Percia. A slow smile formed as he tilted his head.
"Smells like demon blood," he whispered. His eyes gleamed with something akin to bloodlust.
Percia glanced down at her own hand. She had cleansed it after the battle with precise threads of mana—the same way she always did. No residue should have remained. No scent.
Wirbel's smile widened into something almost delighted. He laughed again—boisterous this time, loud enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables.
"Well, it seems you guys have been having fun, huh! Come on, there's a table next to ours. I'll introduce you to the rest."
He turned and waved them over without waiting for agreement.
Stark exhaled through his nose. "He's… like that," he muttered to Percia. "Last time, I got dragged along to kill a hoard of Fresser lion boars...He's still a nice dude though..."
Percia didn't reply. She followed, robes whispering against the floorboards.
Wirbel led them to a table near the hearth. Two people already sat there: a young woman with short brown hair cascading to her shoulders—Ehre—and a tall young man with sharp features—Scharf.
"Ehre, Scharf—meet the rest of Frieren's merry band," Wirbel announced, gesturing grandly. "Fern, you know. Stark. And this is Percia."
Ehre looked up from her mug, offering a small, polite nod. "Hello. Nice to meet you."
Scharf gave a brief dip of his chin, reserved. "Evening."
Percia inclined her head in return. "Likewise."
Wirbel dropped into his seat and immediately turned back to Stark, grin still in place.
"So what troubles did you guys run into to make y'all look this tired?" He glanced around the table—at the obviously empty seats on either side of Percia, the way no one sat too close to her. "Seems like there's been a little disagreement in your group?"
Stark looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh… we haven't really discussed it yet. We just escaped from this ruin, so—"
Ehre perked up. "A ruin? There isn't one for miles. If you happened to discover one, it's procedure to report it back to the Association... although I can't believe there's an undiscovered ruin out in an area like this."
Stark shook his head quickly. "No, no, I don't think that's… um… necessary? The ruin's not there anymore…" He glanced at Percia, voice dropping. "I'm not really sure where it is. Ask Percia. She seems to know a lot… she doesn't always tell us though…" The last part came out as a tired mumble.
Wirbel paused, smirk fading slightly as he clocked the tension: Frieren's flat, unblinking stare fixed on Percia, Fern fidgeting with her sleeve, Stark's exhausted gaze avoiding everyone.
"Well," Wirbel started, small smirk returning, "I just want to remind you again, Stark, that the Northern Frontier is still short of warriors, if you want a break from your party here… just for maybe two or three years?"
Stark sighed. "I told you already, Wirbel. I'm the warrior of this party."
Wirbel sighed dramatically. "Yeah, yeah, I know." He glanced at Frieren. "Say, Frieren—"
She looked at him. Wirbel's eyes twitched as the cold green gaze landed—empty, distant, like winter glass.
He pressed on anyway, cautiously. "...Can you let me persuade Stark a little?"
Fern looked up from the table quietly. "Um—"
Frieren answered before she could finish. "Do whatever you want."
Wirbel grinned, grabbed Stark by the arm, and hauled him to his feet.
Stark groaned in protest. "Be gentle, Wirbel. I'm tired."
Wirbel laughed. "Nothing a bit of ale can't fix."
As they left toward Ehre and Scarf, Fern leaned closer to Frieren.
"Frieren-sama," she whispered.
Frieren turned to look at her.
Fern froze.
It was the same look—the same flat, detached stare that Frieren's clone had given her back in the Tomb of the Ruined King right before blasting her into the wall.
Frieren's eyes softened—only a fraction—when she saw Fern's hesitation.
"Stark is a strong warrior," she spoke softly. "We can't be the ones holding him back." A small pause. "Besides… I wouldn't be surprised if he wants to spend some time away from us."
Her gaze slid sideways to Percia.
Percia lowered her eyes. In that moment she looked almost… ashamed.
Fern felt the weight of it settle heavier in her chest.
Percia spoke then—quiet, careful.
"In the illusion that Stark was under… there is a high possibility that he had to kill different versions of us. Again. And again."
She gazed over at Stark's back, eyes softening in a way Fern had rarely seen.
"You can tell by how he stands," Percia continued. "How he angles his axe away from us." She looked at Fern now. "You understand what he feels too, don't you, Fern?"
Fern froze. Her fingers gripped the hem of her cloak so hard the fabric creased. She could still see the way Frieren—no, the illusion. The way that the illusion had looked at her when she destroyed it.
"…Yeah," she said after a long moment. "I suppose I do…"
Frieren gazed at Fern for another heartbeat—then stood.
"Frieren-sama?" Fern looked up.
Frieren turned toward the stairs leading to the rooms.
"I'm heading in for the night. Get some food, Fern. Recovery is important after a battle like that."
Fern frowned. She reached out and caught Frieren's sleeve.
"But what about you, Frieren-sama?"
Frieren didn't turn to look at her.
Instead she turned her gaze to Percia—who was still watching her.
Blue met green.
"We have much to talk about," Frieren said quietly. "No?"
Percia nodded once, standing.
Fern quietly let go of Frieren's sleeve and looked down at the table again.
Percia couldn't help herself. She reached out and rested her hand lightly on Fern's head.
Fern froze.
"I…" Fern hesitated, voice small. "I don't know if I trust you anymore, Percia."
Percia smiled—a quiet, almost sad smile.
She patted Fern's head gently once, twice.
"I know, Fern."
─────────────────────────────────────────────────
The door closed behind Percia with a soft click.
Frieren was already seated on the edge of the narrow bed, hands folded in her lap, staff leaning against the wall within easy reach. The room was small—single lantern, plain quilt, one window letting in pale moonlight. Quiet pressed in immediately, thick and expectant.
Frieren did not look up at first.
"I want you to leave the party," she said.
The words were calm. Flat. Final.
Percia nodded once.
"Okay."
A request. An acceptance. That was all this conversation needed.
Frieren's gaze lifted from the floorboards. She frowned—small, puzzled.
"You're not even going to defend yourself?"
Percia gazed at her. Frieren's white hair was more mussed than usual after the battle and the fall; her green eyes carried faint weariness that she wished she could erase. Percia felt the old ache behind her ribs again—sharper now.
"I… don't know how to," she admitted.
She paused, searching for the right words. They evaded her.
"The thing is, Frieren," she started again, voice quieter, "if I did this all over again, the only thing I would change is not bringing the three of you with me."
Percia looked at the small table beside the bed. The oak grain swirled in uneven patterns; she traced one loop with her eyes while she waited.
No response came.
She glanced back at Frieren—slightly confused—only to find the bed empty.
She flinched.
A presence—sudden, too close. She hadn't felt Frieren get up.
"Frieren, wha—"
A cold hand closed around her neck and yanked downward.
Percia's knees hit the floorboards hard. She knelt, breath catching.
Frieren gazed down at her—coldly, unyieldingly.
"It seems I've misjudged you for over a thousand years, Percia." Her voice was quiet, almost gentle. "You are a horrible person."
The grip tightened. Percia felt nails press into skin, not breaking it—yet.
She gazed upward calmly, midnight-blue meeting glacial green.
"I know," she said.
Frieren's eyes narrowed.
"These secrets," she continued. "Why keep them from us?"
The fingers flexed—warning.
"What is your connection with demonkind?"
Percia couldn't answer immediately—not with the hand choking her airway. She reached up slowly, laying her own hand over Frieren's—gentle, not fighting. Her eyes began to water from the pressure, but her voice stayed steady when she spoke.
"I… took in that boy on a whim."
Nails dug deeper. Percia continued anyway.
"He was just another demon spawn before—mindless, driven by instinct. Just like the ones we killed today."
She swallowed against the constriction.
"He got corrupted by what I failed to contain… and gained intellect. A near-human form."
A pause. Her neck burned now—really burned.
"He is the forefather of today's demons. He spread his corrupted magic throughout demonkind. He thought it was only right—that it wasn't fair for them to be mindless monsters."
The hand released.
Percia collapsed forward onto her palms, coughing harshly. Saliva dripped onto the floorboards. She could see Frieren's boots in her periphery—small, unmoving.
A quiet hum from above.
"So you're the reason why modern demons exist." Frieren's voice was soft, almost thoughtful. "The reason why elves are near wiped out. The reason why human towns are destroyed every day. The reason why decades of battle ensued. The reason why people hurt."
The boots shuffled backward. Frieren settled back onto the bed.
Percia looked up from her hands and knees, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist.
Frieren didn't meet her eyes.
"Do you feel sorry for what you've done?" she asked quietly. "For all the lives you destroyed by raising the Demon King?"
Percia pushed herself up until she was sitting back on her thighs. Her neck still tingled—raw, bruised.
"Frieren," she said, voice hoarse, "even if I had prevented the corruption…even if I hadn't taken the boy in… do you think anything would have been different?"
Frieren turned sharply toward her.
Percia continued, eyes unwavering despite the pain.
"You hate demons, Frieren. I think you hate them more than any elf I've met. But the thing is—"
She paused. Swallowed. It didn't help the raw ache in her throat.
"—humans are not much different from demons. Elves and dwarves are not much different from them either."
She moved her gaze to the window. Moonlight spilled across the sill—cold, indifferent.
"Humans can feel. They have the ability to empathize. Yet, they still destroy each other. War still ensues between them. It doesn't stop them—from killing, from plundering, from desecrating another's sister, another's daughter."
Percia's voice stayed level.
"Elves watch destruction before them, unmoving. We observe because we see no point in interfering—because we know that with time, it won't matter anymore. We are cold and detached in a way similar to demons."
A small pause.
"Dwarves are no better. They supply humans with weaponry, with tools they do not fully understand the capability of. They serve under humans on a whim. Their naturally strong constitution gives them a muted response to opposing strength. They will do anything for the right price."
She looked back at Frieren.
"So how are we any different from demons, Frieren?"
Frieren stared at her for a long moment—long enough that the silence began to feel like pressure against Percia's bruised throat. Then, slowly, Frieren gestured with one small hand.
Come closer.
Percia blinked, confused. She hesitated half a heartbeat before obliging, stepping forward until she hovered uncertainly in front of the bed. She wasn't sure if Frieren wanted her to sit, or kneel again, or—
Frieren reached out, fingers closing around Percia's wrist, and pulled her down beside her on the mattress.
The sudden motion made Percia's breath catch.
Frieren spoke first—voice low, almost conversational.
"You know," she said, "I hate you."
Percia blinked again.
"I don't blame you for it," she answered quietly. "It's only rational for you to hate me after what I put you all through… I probably traumatized Stark and Fern."
She paused.
"I want to try and talk to them tomorrow about what they saw… if you'll let me, at least. I think—"
Frieren shoved her down.
Percia fell onto the quilt with a soft exhale, blinking up at the ceiling for a split second before Frieren was above her—hovering, small frame casting a shadow in the moonlight that poured through the window.
The light fell across Frieren's face in silver strokes: pale skin luminous, white hair glowing like frost, green eyes burning with something raw and liquid. Tears stood in them—bright, unblinking—catching the moon and refracting it into sharp, painful shards. The hatred in them was so vivid it almost looked like grief.
Percia thought, distantly, that it was beautiful.
"I hate you," Frieren said again.
Her voice cracked on the second word—small, almost imperceptible.
"I hate you because you don't understand what you've done." A pause, "I hate you because you complicate things. Any other person, I could let go. Hell, I'd probably kill them."
She gripped Percia's shoulders—hard. Nails dug through fabric into skin.
"But you… I can't."
"I'm sorry," Percia whispered.
Frieren scowled—an expression so unnatural on her face it looked like pain wearing someone else's skin.
"Don't apologize for something you're not sorry for."
"But I am sorry."
Percia reached up slowly. Her fingers brushed Frieren's cheek—gentle, tentative—and smoothed out the scowl. The skin was cool under her touch.
"I don't like seeing you like this."
Many words stayed stuck in her chest. She couldn't get them out.
Frieren's eyes blazed brighter. Tears slipped free—slow at first, then faster—dripping onto Percia's face, warm against her cheeks.
"I should kill you right now."
Percia smiled—faint, almost fond.
"I'd let you."
Frieren's mouth crashed against hers.
Teeth clashed—sharp, unforgiving. No gentleness. No hesitation. Just rage and grief and centuries of things neither of them had ever said aloud.
Frieren kissed like she was trying to erase something—trying to burn it out. Her hands fisted in Percia's robes, yanking fabric aside with impatient jerks. Percia didn't resist. She let herself be used—let Frieren take out every ounce of anger, every unspoken accusation, every wound that had festered for a thousand years.
Percia's hands stayed gentle. One slid into white hair, cradling the back of Frieren's head; the other rested lightly on her waist—holding, not restraining. She opened her mouth wider when Frieren demanded it, let sharp teeth scrape her lip until copper bloomed between them.
Frieren broke the kiss long enough to bite down on Percia's throat—right over newly forming bruises from earlier. Percia hissed softly, but she didn't push away. She tilted her head further, offering more skin.
"You should hate me," Frieren whispered against the bite mark—voice wrecked, trembling. "You should hate me for this."
Percia's fingers tightened in white hair.
"I don't."
Frieren made a broken sound—half sob, half snarl—and shoved Percia's robes open completely. Cold air hit skin; then Frieren's mouth again—lower this time, teeth and tongue and fury.
Percia let her.
She let Frieren mark her—shoulder, collarbone, ribs—let her take every inch of control, every scrap of power she needed to feel like she still had some say in this mess. Percia's hands never stopped being gentle—even when Frieren's nails raked red lines down her sides, even when Frieren's hips ground down hard enough to bruise.
She whispered Frieren's name once—soft, almost reverent—against her temple.
Frieren shuddered.
Then she kissed her again—slower this time. Still rough. Still desperate. But slower.
When they finally stilled—breath ragged, bodies tangled, moonlight pooling on sweat-slick skin—Frieren didn't move away.
She rested her forehead against Percia's collarbone.
For several long heartbeats neither spoke.
Then Frieren shifted.
She slid one thigh between Percia's legs—slow, deliberate. The pressure was firm, unyielding. Percia inhaled sharply through her nose but didn't pull away.
Frieren rocked forward once—testing—then again, harder. A low sound escaped her throat, half frustration, half need. Her skirt rid up as she yanked her tights and underwear down to her ankles. She ground down against Percia's thigh with increasing urgency, hips rolling in tight, controlled circles. The friction was rough through fabric; Frieren didn't bother undressing Percia fully. She simply used what was there—Percia's body, Percia's stillness, Percia's willingness.
Percia stayed quiet, letting her. Her own arousal was obvious now—hot, slick wetness soaking through the thin layer between her thighs. Frieren noticed.
She froze for half a second.
Then her lips curled—something cruel and wounded at once.
"You're wet," she whispered against Percia's throat. The words were sharp, shaming. "You're actually getting off on this."
Percia smiled—small, sad, almost fond.
"You just have that effect on me," she murmured.
Frieren's eyes flashed.
She shoved harder—hips snapping forward with punishing force. One hand fisted in Percia's hair, yanking her head back to expose more throat. She bit down again—harder this time—teeth sinking in until Percia hissed and her back bowed off the bed.
"Don't talk like that," Frieren growled against the fresh mark. "Don't act like this matters."
Percia's voice stayed soft, hoarse from earlier abuse.
"I'm not."
Frieren made a frustrated noise—half snarl, half sob—and ground down harder, chasing her own release with ruthless efficiency. Her free hand slid between them, fingers finding Percia's soaked center through fabric. She rubbed once—harsh, cruel—then again, faster.
Percia gasped—quiet, involuntary.
Frieren's movements stuttered for a heartbeat at the sound.
Then she pressed more—fingers circling, punishing.
"You don't get to enjoy this," she hissed. "You don't get to feel good."
Percia's hips lifted instinctively—seeking more despite the words. She didn't fight the hand in her hair, didn't resist the bruising grip on her thigh. She simply let Frieren take—let her use every inch of her body to purge whatever poison had settled in her chest over centuries.
Frieren's breathing grew ragged—short, sharp pants against Percia's neck. Her hips jerked unevenly now, chasing the edge. When she finally came it was sudden, violent—body locking tight, a broken sound tearing from her throat. She shuddered through it, nails digging crescents into Percia's shoulders.
The moment she crested, her hand between Percia's legs stilled.
She didn't let Percia finish.
She simply pulled away—abrupt, cold—leaving Percia aching, untouched, slick and trembling beneath her.
Frieren sat back on her heels, chest heaving, tears still streaking her face. Moonlight caught them like glass shards.
Percia lay there—breath uneven, body flushed and marked—and looked up at her.
No anger. No demand.
Just quiet acceptance.
Frieren stared back—eyes glassy, expression shattered.
"I hate you," she whispered again.
But this time the words cracked open—raw, bleeding.
Percia reached up slowly—careful, careful—and brushed a tear from Frieren's cheek with her thumb.
"I know."
Frieren's hand caught hers—gripping hard enough to bruise.
"You better be gone before I wake up tomorrow."
"I will."