Rain fell in a soft, steady veil outside the shallow cave mouth, turning the world beyond into muted watercolor. The sound was gentle—almost soothing—tapping against leaves and stone like distant fingers on parchment. Percia sat with her back to the rough wall, knees drawn loosely up, hood still drawn low even in the dim shelter. She watched the rain through the opening, silver threads catching faint firelight.
It was nice here. Quiet. Clean in a way that didn't demand anything from her.
Kraft knelt by the small fire he had coaxed from damp wood and brute strength, stirring the pot that hung low over the flames. The scent of simmering herbs and milk rose slowly, mingling with wet earth and smoke. He glanced up without pausing his work, his voice cutting through the rain's white noise.
"So," he said, voice calm, conversational, "are you going to keep hiding from me?"
Percia didn't answer, her gaze remained fixed on the veil of water outside.
Kraft poked at the logs with a stick, sending a small shower of sparks upward. "If it's about the bruising around your neck," he continued evenly, "I already saw it."
A long, tired sigh slipped from her. She reached up and pushed the hood back, letting cool, damp air touch her scalp. Kraft's gaze lifted fully now, taking her in without hurry or horror: the near-translucent pallor of her skin, deep shadows carved beneath her eyes, hair pulled into a severe braid that tugged like quiet, self-imposed punishment, and the unmistakable yellow-brown fingerprints wrapped around her throat. A collar of violence that had yet to fade.
"Don't overreact," she said softly, her voice barely a notch above the rainfall. "I can feel your anger from here."
Kraft didn't speak. His face remained composed—gentle lines, steady green eyes—but his hand stilled on the stirring stick with a finality that betrayed his calm.
Then his sleeve caught fire.
He blinked once, startled, and yanked his arm back with a low curse, thrusting it out into the rain. Steam hissed. Fabric sizzled faintly.
Percia rested her head back against the stone and closed her eyes. She heard him shake water from his arm, mutter something under his breath, then settle again on his side of the fire.
"So," he said after a moment, rummaging through his pack. Metal clinked—cups, perhaps. "Who did this to you?"
Silence.
"Okay then. Since that question is apparently too difficult—" More clinking. The pot was lifted from the hook. Liquid poured. "—where did it happen?"
"Saum Marshes," she answered quietly. "In the northern lands."
His movements paused.
"That far north?" The pot returned to the coals. "Yet the bruises are still visible. You must have traveled day and night to reach the central lands already."
She opened her eyes as warmth brushed her cheek. A chipped clay cup hovered in front of her.
"Milk," Kraft said. "With honey."
She took it wordlessly, her fingers trembling slightly as she cradled it between her palms. He watched her over the rim of his own cup, blowing steam away in gentle puffs.
"When's the last time you ate?"
She stared at him, or more specifically, at his concern. "You know I'm the older one."
He stared right back. "Is that some new cuisine I've yet to hear about?"
A weary smile ghosted across her mouth. She lifted the cup and sipped. Heat burned down her throat—sharp, almost painful. She didn't flinch. It felt… grounding.
Her cup was suddenly snatched away.
"Hey—"
Kraft pressed his own cup into her hands instead. Cooler. Less punishing.
He rummaged again through his bag again. "I don't have much food," he said. "Planned to restock in Waal."
A small sack of jerky sailed through the air, striking her square in the face.
"You're traveling with me," he stated, leaving no room for argument.
"No, I'm not."
"Percia." He turned slowly. Firelight reflected in his eyes like distant burning trees. "I will quite literally tie you up and carry you over my shoulder. You cannot fight me in that state of yours."
His voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "Besides… it's not safe for our kind at the moment."
She raised an eyebrow over the rim of the cup. "What do you mean?"
Kraft leaned back, cradling his cup, "You remember Minus?"
He received a blank look.
He sighed. "The elf who called you ugly? The one that goaded Serie into fighting her for three months to 'protect your honor?'"
"Oh." Percia smiled faintly as she turned the cup slowly in her hands, warmth seeping into her fingers. "Yeah. That was funny."
"Well, Minus has been attacked. She lost. Some say she's been killed. Others say she's in hiding." Kraft's gaze drifted toward the rain-dark forest beyond the cave mouth. "There's someone hunting us."
Percia took another slow sip.
"And?" Percia tilted her head. "It's just what happens."
"Not like this." He exhaled. "Before, it was the Demon King's orders. Before that, the civil war. This time, it's humans who started it."
She paused, the mug poised halfway to her lips as the steam curled around her face.
"Well," she said after a moment. "I suppose Serie did warn me that humans would be the end of us."
"Percia." Kraft's voice dropped. "I was attacked too."
She looked at him properly then.
"They're targeting high-profile figures," he continued. "Minus was simply the first. We're next. That includes me. You. Serie. And Frieren."
Her heart clenched—sharp, involuntary.
Kraft opened his mouth to say more, then paused. His sharp green eyes narrowed slightly, studying her face with that quiet, unhurried attention he'd always had.
"What was that look?"
He leaned closer.
She leaned away.
"Did Serie do this?" Kraft murmured, almost to himself. Then he shook his head. "No… even if you let her, she wouldn't let herself. She knows better."
Percia's jaw tightened. The words landed too close; she felt peeled open, raw. She shifted her weight, fingers curling tighter into the folds of her cloak until the fabric creaked.
"I—" His voice came out soft. She swallowed, throat still tender from that night. He continued slowly, "I didn't think you knew Frieren… do you?"
Kraft stilled completely. She didn't know what he saw in her—she wasn't sure how she had reacted for him to probe further. "Was Frieren the one who did this to you?"
Percia didn't answer. Didn't look at Kraft.
That was all the answer he needed.
Kraft stood slowly. Pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion and walked out into the rain.
"Where are you going?" Her voice cracked, hoarse enough that it barely carried.
"To blow off steam." He didn't look back. "Finish your milk. Eat the jerky."
She watched his broad back disappear into the gray curtain of rain.
A shuddering sigh escaped her. Her hands shook as she opened the sack of jerky.
Then—
BOOM
A distant explosion rolled through the trees—deep, concussive. Birds erupted from the canopy in panicked flight. Somewhere far off, a tree groaned and cracked.
Percia stared at the jerky in her hand.
It would probably take decades for that patch of forest to recover.
BOOM
She sighed again, longer this time. Her head hurt.
"What horrible luck," she muttered to the empty cave, "to have run into Kraft."
─────────────────────────────────────────────────
Northern Plateau
Near Graf Dach's Domain
Frieren, Fern and Stark walked in near silence along the rutted trade road that skirted the edge of the Etwas Mountain. Conversation had evaded them since Percia vanished.
Stark hadn't said a word to Frieren since.
He walked a half-step behind now, axe slung across his back, shoulders squared in that stubborn way he had when he was trying very hard not to feel anything at all. Fern kept glancing between them: Frieren's unchanging profile, eyes half-lidded and distant as always; Stark's jaw set so tight the muscle jumped under his skin.
The silence had grown thorns.
Fern couldn't stand it these days.
"So, Frieren-sama," she began, voice careful but determined, "how much longer do you think it will take to find the Sword Demon?"
Frieren tilted her head slightly, considering the question the way she considered most things—slowly, without urgency.
"Hm… last time we had to climb all the way to the summit of the Schwer Mountain. That took a while." She paused, as though tallying days in her head. "This one hasn't bothered hiding its trail at all. Its mana signature is sloppy. It kills in every town it passes by. We should find it soon."
Fern nodded once.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
She tried again.
"Stark-sama… how are you feeling about this request?"
Stark's gaze flicked to her, then away.
"It's a demon with a sword," he said flatly. "I'm terrified."
Fern waited for more. Nothing came.
She let out a long, staggering sigh.
"Can you two at least try to—" She searched for the right phrase, frustration tightening her throat. "—get along? Or talk? Or… something?"
"We are getting along," Stark replied.
Frieren nodded once, serene.
"See?" Stark added. "She agrees with me."
Fern stopped walking.
Both of them halted a step later and turned to look at her.
"Fern," Frieren said with the faintest sigh, "conflicts happen in parties. Time smooths them out. That's all."
Fern's hands clenched at her sides. "How much more, Frieren-sama? It's already been two weeks." The words came out sharper than she intended. "Another week? A month? A year? That might be nothing to you, but it's a long time for us."
Frieren regarded her calmly.
"If time is so important to you, then perhaps you shouldn't dawdle." She gestured ahead with a small lift of her chin. "The next village is just up ahead. The blood on the trail is fresher here."
Fern's knuckles whitened.
Stark spoke quietly, "Come on, Fern. We'll deal with this after the request is completed."
Fern scoffed and started walking again, shoulders rigid as she passed Stark. "As if Frieren-sama would listen to a single thing either of us say."
Frieren's twitched—just the tiniest flicker at the corner of her eye. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Fern spun to face her master.
"What I mean is that you didn't even ask what we thought about Percia! You drove her away before we could talk to her—before we could—"
"Fern," Stark cut in gently. His hand settled on her shoulder.
She turned. Copper eyes met violet—steady, pleading.
"We'll talk after the request," he repeated. "Nothing good comes from taking our anger out on Frieren."
He tried for a small smile, "It's not like anything good came from Frieren taking her anger out on Percia."
The air cracked.
Stark's body slammed backward into the nearest tree with bone-rattling force. Wood splintered. Leaves rained down.
Fern's staff was already in her hands, mana flaring as she stepped between them, planting herself like a shield in front of Stark.
Frieren's expression hadn't changed, but her eyes now burned—green fire, cold and furious. "You don't know what you're talking about, Stark."
Fern tightened her grip. The staff trembled, but she didn't raise it. Not yet.
Stark pushed himself up slowly from the broken trunk as splinters slid off his shoulders. He brushed the rest away with deliberate calm, then stepped back onto the road. His hands flexed—ready to draw the axe if it came to that—but he didn't reach for it.
He looked at Frieren, face once again stoic.
"Let's try not to scare off the demon before we can get the sword back, yeah?"
The tension hung thick enough to choke on.
Frieren lowered her staff first. She turned as if nothing happened, walking away without another word.
Fern watched her go, heart hammering. Stark's hand found her shoulder again—gentler this time.
"Fern," he said quietly. "Don't think too much about it."
Fern felt her chin tremble, "But, how?"
─────────────────────────────────────────────────
Stark stood over the Sword Demon's collapsing form.
Black mana drifted upward in thin, lazy spirals, the corpse already crumbling into fine ash that the wind scattered like forgotten ink. The demon had been skilled—centuries of experience in every calculated step—but its body had been sluggish, heavy. Every swing came too predictably, every feint announced itself a heartbeat early, every lie it told felt clumsy.
The ruin's corridor had changed him in ways he hadn't expected.
The illusions it conjured had been torment; yet it disguised itself as a form of merciless training. He had been forced to cut down Fern—her violet eyes wide with betrayal, staff raised in defense he knew she would never truly turn on him. He had faced Eisen again, the same proud stance that had drilled discipline into him as a boy, faltering under his strike. Even Stoltz—his brother—had appeared, voice soft and pleading, begging for mercy Stark could never give.
He had hesitated once under its influence. His brother's blade had struck his temple, stars bursting behind his eyes, blood hot down his face.
It had taught him never to hesitate again.
The corridor had shown a twisted kind of mercy too—summoning enemies that weren't personal, only deadly. That young demon from before—Linie was it?—whose movements mirrored Eisen's perfectly, every feint and counter drilled into muscle memory. Aura the Guillotine, magenta hair flowing as she held her beloved scale. Others he didn't know by name but recognized in his gut—real demons, still walking somewhere out there.
If Percia had been here, he could have asked her. She would have known their names.
He missed her.
She would have pulled him aside—to some quiet corner at the inn—and sat him down without a word. She would have dissected the illusion's structure to ground him to reality: how the corridor amplified fear to make the faces sharper, how it pulled memories like threads to hurt deepest, how the curse was sensory and illusory magic woven intricately. She would have explained using big words he didn't quite understand. She would have pursed her lips, seriously contemplative, at some stupid question he would have said. She would have reached up without asking and patted his head once, twice, light and grounding.
And when the tightness in his chest finally gave way and tears came, she would have let him lean against her shoulder until the shaking stopped. No rush. No judgment.
But she was gone.
Stark glanced back.
Frieren and Fern knelt before the crude mounds the demon had piled up as a mockery of a grave. The sword they had come for was jammed into the earth like a cruel joke. Fern's hands rested folded in her lap, head bowed in quiet respect or frustration—he couldn't tell. Frieren simply stared at the stones, expression as blank as ever.
He wasn't mad at Frieren. Not anymore.
At first he had been furious—so angry his voice cracked when he shouted at her, his hands shaking as he demanded answers. Why she had driven Percia away. Whether what Percia had done was truly so unforgivable.
He begged for her to bring Percia back.
But then he saw her eyes.
The same eyes that had watched her closest friends fade into memories. Eyes that had stared at too many graves long after the dirt settled and the flowers withered. The pain was there, buried under layers of calm so thick it looked like nothing at all.
His master's voice echoed, gentle and firm from years ago:
"Frieren processes things differently, Stark. She's ancient, yet her soul is still so young. Be gentle with her—no matter how cold or tough she seems."
He was tired of that emotionless immortal excuse. Tired of waiting for her to catch up to the grief and longing the rest of them were already drowning in.
But her pain had been real. Sharper than his. Deeper than Fern's.
So he would give her time.
A small, stubborn part of him hoped, though, that Fern wouldn't let Frieren take too long.
Fern rose first, brushing dirt from her knees. She walked past Frieren without a glance and joined Stark.
Frieren stayed kneeling a moment longer—long enough that Stark wondered who she was seeing in those stones.
When she finally stood, she did so smoothly. Robes whispered against stone. She joined them without a word.
The sword—recovered from the ground—hung heavy at Stark's belt now. Cold iron. A job finished.
Fern spoke quietly, voice still carrying the edge from earlier, "We should return to the Graf and return the sword."
Stark nodded once.
Frieren said nothing. Her gaze drifted southward along the trail they had come.
That day, none of them mentioned Percia again. They simply let the silence speak for her.