Percia woke slowly.
Sunlight pressed against the wool of her cloak, a bit too warm. She felt a steady rhythm beneath her—footsteps, broad shoulders shifting with each stride, the faint scent of pine resin and incense.
She blinked against the glare of the sun.
"Finally," Kraft said from very close by. "I was wondering when you'd wake up."
Percia lifted her head just enough to see the road stretching ahead. Kraft had been carrying her on his back the entire time. No wonder she felt like she was baking; he naturally ran hot, a living furnace wrapped in monk's robes.
"You also stink," he continued cheerfully. "The first thing you're doing when we get to Waal is getting into a bath. Honestly—"
He glanced sideways at her face where it rested against his shoulder. Whatever teasing remark he'd been about to add died on his tongue. The dark circles under her eyes hadn't faded. Her eyelids drooped with the bone-deep exhaustion of days—weeks?—spent traveling without proper rest. The yellow-brown fingerprints around her throat stood out starkly against pale skin in the daylight.
Kraft looked away. His jaw tightened for half a heartbeat before smoothing out again.
The gates of Waal loomed ahead now, stone archway flanked by more armored figures than Percia remembered from her last visit decades ago. Spears glinted. Banners snapped in the breeze.
"Percia," Kraft whispered, barely moving his lips. "You have to get down now. We're here."
She straightened, sliding off his back with careful, deliberate movements. Kraft paused while she found her balance, then started forward again.
Ahead, a merchant carriage was being thoroughly searched. Armored guards rummaged through crates and bundles while the merchant flailed his arms in distress.
"Please be careful—those goods are irreplaceable!"
One guard answered without looking up. "There has been a rise in smuggling and trafficking these days. We're only taking proper precautions."
A vase hit the ground with a sharp crack. The merchant flinched.
Another guard gave a curt nod. The first one handed back the permits. The carriage rolled forward, wheels creaking.
The guards' attention shifted to them.
"Travelers. Identify yourselves."
Kraft offered his papers with an easy smile. "Just a couple of travelers passing through."
The guard scanned the document. "A monk, huh. Give your bag to my colleague. We'll hand it back shortly."
Kraft complied without protest, stepping aside.
The guard's gaze moved to Percia. "As for you—take off your hood and present your papers."
Percia hesitated only a second before pushing the hood back, "I'm afraid I don't have any papers of this era."
The guard's eyes flicked to her ears, then lower—to the bruises ringing her throat like a fading collar. Percia continued smoothly, "I am traveling with my brother." She gestured toward Kraft. "His papers suffice for both of us, no?
The guard studied her for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice dropped low—quiet enough that Kraft, a few paces away, couldn't hear.
"I'm sure you've heard what I told the merchant. There's been a rise in trafficking cases." His eyes searched hers. "If you are in danger, ma'am, we will take you into protective custody."
Percia blinked.
Then something escaped her—half-laugh, half-breath, dry and tired, "I am being truthful when I say he is my brother. He has not harmed me."
The guard leaned back slightly, unconvinced. A frown creased his brow. "Very well then… the papers check out. We have no reason to hold you."
"Captain!" Another guard called from beside Kraft's pack. He raised a small bundle of dried herbs. Percia's gaze flicked to it—wild juniper, burdock root, chamomile, the common sorrel root, and amongst more, a few bundles of juvenile ayahuasca. Harmless really, but there was something else they could be used for.
The captain's expression darkened. He opened the pack fully and held up the ayahuasca.
"Monk Kraft," he said, voice grim, "I'm afraid we'll have to detain you for interrogation. Ayahuasca is often used for its psychoactive effects." He paused meaningfully. "It is commonly used for coercive sexual assault."
The captain glanced at Percia—her appearance, the bruises, the way she stood. "The appearance of your companion gives us probable cause."
Guards closed in around Kraft.
He blinked once, genuinely startled. "I use ayahuasca for rituals to the Goddess. Nothing more."
"We will determine that during interrogation." The captain stepped closer.
Kraft's eyes found Percia's—pleading, half-desperate.
She looked away, finding interest in a rock. If he were to get detained, she could slip away. Finally ditch him.
Surely, he'd be fine.
Kraft gasped. "Sister—you wouldn't dare—"
"Oh no," Percia deadpanned. "My brother would never do such a thing to me."
"Percia—" Warningly. "Don't make things more difficult—"
"Percia…?"
A quiet voice from the opposite side of the gate—the exit lane, where people were leaving Waal.
They both turned.
Two mages stood there. The older one—tall, middle-aged, short light-brown hair neatly combed with a side part—mumbled her name again, almost to himself.
Beside him, a tall young woman with wavy brown hair parted down the middle perked up in recognition.
"Oh! You're the elf from before—you were there with Serie-sama!"
The man's eyes lit with recognition. He tilted his head, observing the encircled scene with calm interest. "Border troubles?"
"If I may—" the man stepped forward, withdrawing papers. The First-Class Mage insignia caught the sun and gleamed. He spoke quietly with the captain, long and drawn out; the captain seemed reluctant to follow the man's requests. Moments later the captain raised a hand with a sigh.
"Travelers," he said to Kraft and Percia, "you have been vouched for by First-Class Mage Genau. You may pass."
Guards stepped back. Kraft exhaled in visible relief, slinging his pack over his shoulder again as he walked to her side.
"Truly, Percia. You are so difficult."
Genau glanced at her, taking in the bruises, the exhaustion, the faint tremor of her figure. "I'm not quite sure what has happened here. I hope you understand that I'll have to report this to Serie-sama." His tone remained even. "Do you have anything you'd like me to add?"
Percia sighed in defeat; she had been so close. "How do you people even know me? I've never stood before you."
The female mage clasped her hands together, eyes bright with genuine delight. "Why, Serie-sama talks about you all the time! She's so adorable honestly—she says we must look out for you if we ever come across you." She paused, smiling gently like she was sharing a beloved secret. "She also says your words carry the same weight as hers. That when you speak, even she listens."
The mage continued, bowing slightly. "My name is Methode. I was one of the mages interviewed by Serie-sama in the last exam. Although—" She glanced up with a small smile. "—it doesn't seem you recognize me."
Percia blinked. "Ah. Sorry."
Methode laughed—gentle, unoffended. "It's really no problem. This is Genau." She gestured to her companion. "We're returning from a mission near the Turk region. And you two are headed…?"
Kraft answered smoothly. "Nowhere in particular. We're here to restock supplies and… clean up a bit."
Methode frowned, stepping closer to peer at Percia's neck. "Those bruises…they seem to have been afflicted a while back… they must have been pretty nasty if they still persist." Methode reached towards a tome hanging on her hip, "If you wish, I can heal them. I'm able to cast simple healing magic."
"There's no need." Percia stepped back slightly—toward Kraft. "I'm fine."
Methode frowned deeper, opening her mouth to insist.
Genau stepped forward, cutting her off. "Well then. We hope you have a good trip." He turned to Methode. "Come on, Methode. The journey back to Äußerst is long."
His gaze lingered one last time on Percia—quiet assessment—before he walked away without another word.
Methode frowned before bowing slightly to them both. "I hope we can meet again." She smiled gently, before following after Genau.
Percia exhaled as she and Kraft passed through the gates into Waal proper.
"Serie is going to throw a fit."
Kraft shrugged, unperturbed. "It is a perfectly justified response. I hope she finds Frieren and beats some sense into her."
Percia glanced at him sidelong. "You're supposed to be a monk now. Reel in your violent tendencies."
Kraft smiled—small, serene—but didn't answer. Instead he gestured ahead.
"Come. Last I remember, there's a decently priced inn nearby with a nice bath."
They walked deeper into the city, the bustle of Waal closing around them.
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Northern Lands
The Fortified City of Heiß
Fern looked up from the worn tome balanced on her knees, the pages open to a chapter on mana resonance she hadn't truly read in the last twenty minutes. The inn room was quiet except for the distant murmur of the hot springs outside.
"Frieren-sama has been in the hot springs for a while now…" she mused aloud, voice soft, almost to herself.
Stark glanced up from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, axe across his lap. "Oh yeah… I guess."
A small pause.
"I'm… honestly kinda glad she's taking her time there."
Their eyes met.
Stark broke first, whining, shoulders slumping as though the admission had been holding him upright. "I've been so scared, Fernnn."
Fern sighed and leaned back in her chair, letting the tension in her shoulders bleed out for just a moment. The book slid slightly down her lap; she didn't bother to catch it.
"She's even quieter now!" Stark exclaimed, voice cracking on the last word. Comical tears welled up. "Plus how come she's aggressive? She slammed me into a tree—a tree! I didn't even do anything! You're the one who provoked her!"
Fern raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Oh? Would you rather I had slammed into that tree?"
Stark flinched. "Well… of course not…"
Silence settled again.
Stark fidgeted with the handle of his axe. "How much longer do you think… this will last?"
Fern followed the restless movement of his hand. "…I'm not sure. In all the time I've known Frieren-sama, she never got angry much. Perhaps once every decade? But even then it only lasted a couple of hours. She would simmer for a bit and be fine the next day."
She paused, gaze distant.
"This is the first time I've seen her angry for weeks on end. The first time I've seen her this volatile. It's been more than a month now."
Stark glanced at her. His voice dropped to a whisper. "It's not fair… how we have to…" He searched for the right words. "How we can't feel while Frieren is like this."
His eyes looked haunted, just for a moment, as he spoke softly, "After all, we've been through a lot"
Fern didn't respond. She looked down at her own hands, palm up. She could still see the blood that had splattered across it that day from the gashing wounds of her master—no the illusion. She could still feel the wet heat, the way it had dried sticky between her fingers while she tried to keep her staff steady.
That corridor had been too real.
All this conflict hadn't allowed for them to rest. To recuperate not only physically, but mentally.
And now, she was tired. Too tired.
She couldn't muster the strength to fill the silence anymore—not when her master shut her down at every attempt, not when she drew that impenetrable wall up against herself and Stark.
"You should have taken up their request," Fern whispered. "You should have gone with Wirbel and his group."
Stark's head snapped up.
Fern held his gaze. "You would have been more comfortable there."
"Fern—" Stark set the axe down carefully beside him. "I can't just leave you." His face flushed slightly as the words left his mouth. He corrected himself quickly, looking down as though her violet eyes were suddenly too bright to meet. "I mean—I can't just leave the two of you. I'm the warrior of this party. No matter what."
He sighed, shoulders dropping again. He looked at her—really looked—taking in the tired slump of her posture, the faint shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there a month ago.
"You know what?" He slapped both cheeks hard enough that the sound cracked through the room. Fern startled. Stark stood up, axe forgotten on the floor. "You and I are going out to explore the town. Let's get our minds off all of this. No use thinking about stuff we can't fix."
Fern stared at him in open shock. "You mean…the two of us?"
"Yeah." Stark nodded, managing a crooked smile despite everything that lingered. "It's a date."
Fern's expression went perfectly blank.
Stark's stomach dropped. Too far. Definitely too far. He opened his mouth to backtrack, to stammer something, anything, when Fern stood up abruptly.
"Very well." Her face remained expressionless. "I will see you tomorrow then."
She walked towards the door, before glancing back at Stark, eyes softening, "...Thank you, Stark. Truly."
She left the room without another word. The book remained open on the chair; she didn't even close the door behind her.
Stark stood there in dumb silence.
"H-hey—your book!" Stark called after her.
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Frieren listened until the voices next door faded entirely.
After that, only silence.
Not the comfortable kind she had once preferred. This silence felt hollow—like a vacuum. An empty space where sound should have been, where the air should have carried the quiet rustle of Fern turning a page or Stark's off-key humming.
She lay back on the bed, her hair damp and cool against the pillow. Strands clung to her neck and shoulders in wet ribbons, tracing the same lines where her fingers had once lingered.
Fern wouldn't help her with her hair tonight. There would be no gentle scolding about knots, no steady click of a comb. Just the clinical, distant "Goodnight, Frieren-sama," that had become Fern's newest armor.
There were many things Fern no longer did.
No shared room at night. No soft knock in the morning when Frieren overslept. No quiet exasperation when she returned with another absurdly expensive grimoire or glowing orb that would sit forgotten in her bag for decades. No small, fond sighs.
Now Fern offered only clipped yes's and no's.
Silence filled everything else.
Frieren stared up at the wooden ceiling beams. The lantern light made long, wavering shadows across them.
The silence gave her too much room to remember.
She had not meant to blast Stark into that tree.
She hadn't even felt her mana rising. One moment she had been processing what Stark had said, the next it had lashed out like a whip. His body had flown backward, wood splintering everywhere. And the recoil had settled into her own chest—horror so sharp it tasted metallic.
She had lost control of the one thing she had carefully handled for longer than most kingdoms had stood.
And yet that had only been the most recent failure.
She could still remember the morning after that night. Stark's voice had been raw from shouting, cracking every other word. His fist had trembled with adrenaline and fear and anger. Tears had stood bright in his copper eyes.
Fern had stood just behind him, violet gaze shimmering with the same unsaid things, her staff gripped so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
They had looked at her like she was a stranger.
Frieren wondered how they would have looked at her if she had told them everything.
How she'd used her.
How she'd hurt her.
But, how could she?
How could she tell them? How could she explain to them that she had taken the woman she had loved—that they loved so dearly—and tried to break her until she was nothing but bruises and silence?
Frieren's breath caught. A long, ragged exhale slipped out, and her eyes burned without warning. She tried to swallow the feeling down—this was unlike her—but the tremors came anyway. Small. Restrained. Almost silent.
Tears slipped sideways into still damp hair.
It happened too often now. The tightness in her chest. The sudden heat behind her eyes. The way breathing sometimes felt like effort.
She was sick of it. Sick of feeling everything at once and understanding none of it.
The only thing she knew how to do, was how to remember.
Her slow, painful swallow. Her faint wince when nails bit into skin. Her midnight eyes—usually so distant, so unreadable—wide and unguarded.
And beneath it, the most terrifying thing of all.
Acceptance.
"I should kill you right now," Frieren had said.
"I'd let you," Percia had smiled.
It was ironic, really. Frieren had spent centuries hunting demons for being heartless. Yet in that room, the only heartless thing had been her. She had taken love and tried to grind it down until nothing remained but silence. And Percia had held her anyway.
Frieren doesn't know how.
If Percia had done something like that to her—if the roles had been reversed—Frieren knew she would have retaliated. Struggled.
But Percia hadn't. As if it was the least she deserved.
Frieren could still remember the quiet sounds of that morning.
The faint rustle of fabric as Percia dressed with careful, practiced movements. The small, restrained hisses of pain she couldn't quite hide when cloth brushed bruised skin. The slow tightening of belts and clasps. The soft scrape of a chair shifting across the floor.
Percia had moved meticulously, as if determined not to disturb anyone.
She had listened anyway, feigning sleep as Percia gathered her things. Listened as she paused near the door. Listened as the handle turned.
She hadn't stopped her.
She hadn't spoken.
She had simply laid there and let Percia leave.
A part of her wondered if Percia had known she was awake.
And now, after the sting of anger and betrayal had faded, Frieren wasn't entirely sure why she had done those things that night.
Yes, she hated demons.
They lied. They killed. They destroyed.
She knew they couldn't be reasoned with. She knew they could never truly abandon their instincts, no matter how convincingly they mimicked humanity.
But, even she knew that it would be juvenile to blame Percia for the actions of demons. For the creation of modern demons. For taking in a being that was to become the forefather of today's demons.
Percia wasn't all knowing. How would she had known any of this would happen?
Ironically enough, Frieren would have probably acted similarly to Percia, if she had been in Percia's shoes back then. She would have taken in the anomaly of a demon to study it, to record its behavior.
The only difference in their actions would have been the conclusion: she would have made sure that the anomaly didn't live past her control.
Frieren didn't really understand why Percia hadn't.
But, Frieren knew she herself was young—absurd as that sounded. She had lived barely one-eighth of Percia's years. She thought differently from Percia. She hadn't lived long enough to carry the same quiet resignation. That strange acceptance Percia carried with her.
Perhaps that was what allowed Percia to look at a corrupted demon and see only a boy. To let him live past her control.
She let out a soft, broken scoff.
Percia had probably viewed the Demon King as something small, something to take in on a whim. Something mildly interesting.
Like an ant that stood out for its size amongst its colony.
She smiled wryly. Perhaps, she had been like an ant as well. Perhaps, she was still an ant in her eyes. After all, that same whim was what had let Frieren follow her for forty years.
Truthfully, Frieren hadn't been angry because Percia had raised the Demon King. That was just the excuse she gave herself.
She had been angry because Percia had never told her. Because she had kept it quiet.
It hadn't really been a secret, though. Just information Percia had never volunteered. Information Frieren had never asked for. Information that Percia thought was unimportant.
There were so many things she didn't know about Percia. There would still be so many things she wouldn't know even if she could be by her side.
That's what she hated about Percia.
The distance.
A shaky breath slipped from her throat. Her head hurt now.
That was probably enough thinking for today.
Frieren had never been good with these things.
Emotions this raw—this human—had always slid through her grasp like water. She would observe them, name them, and let them pass.
This one was too layered. There was too much to observe. It wouldn't pass easily.
Over the past month, she had managed to reach a few conclusions that she thought was adequate.
She wanted to apologize to Stark. For hurting him. For ignoring him. For things she still didn't know how to put into words yet.
She wanted to apologize to Fern. For not giving her a chance to process. For being selfish. For failing her as a master.
And she wanted to apologize to Percia. For assuming the worst. For torturing her. For trampling her dignity simply because Frieren couldn't understand.
No apology would be enough. For any of them.
Quiet sobs trembled through her—small, restrained, almost soundless—as tears slipped sideways into her hair.
She curled onto her side, knees drawn tight, arms wrapped around herself like a shield that didn't work.
She didn't know how to fix this.
She didn't even know where to start.