"You've cleaned up nicely over the past few weeks."
Percia's gaze slid to Kraft. He was knelt before the Goddess's altar—knees on the worn cushion, head bowed, hands folded together. The candlelight caught the olive-green of his hair and the cream stole draped across his shoulders.
"I thought you weren't supposed to talk during prayer," she said dryly, crossing one leg over the other as she leaned back on the wooden pew, a posture rather unseemly in a church. "Honestly, they could make these things a bit more comfortable."
"They were made to foster fellowship and unity, not for your comfort." He stood up from his prayer and glanced back.
He paused, taking her in—the color that had slowly returned to her skin over the weeks, the bruising around her throat now pale enough that a stranger might mistake the marks for nothing more than a trick of the light.
"It helps prevent such undignified posture in others."
Percia sighed, "I liked you better when you weren't a monk."
Kraft smiled dryly as he collected his holy scripture from the nearby priest who had been quietly examining it during his prayers. He bowed lightly in thanks, then turned back to her, holding the book up between two fingers like an old accusation.
"You're the one who influenced me to become a monk, you know."
Percia stood, brushing invisible dust from her robes with a flick of her fingers.
"I threw that away," she said, eyes flickering to the scripture. "You just picked it up."
A contemplative pause. "Honestly, I should have burned it back then."
Kraft sighed as they started down the aisle together, footsteps falling into easy rhythm, "Seriously. That's not the kind of thing you should say in the Goddess's presence."
"I would say it even if she stood before me," Percia replied flatly.
Kraft sighed again as he followed her. He wasn't exactly sure where her dislike for the Goddess stemmed from. His own childhood memories were thin and unremarkable. Their mother had been one of the earliest followers of the Goddess—that much he knew. Beyond that, she remained distant. She hadn't raised him personally; once he showed no aptitude for magic, she passed him off to others and seldom approached him even after he was grown.
If anything, that distance alone told him their mother had been difficult.
He was born a millennium or so after Percia. He had never met the Goddess; she had long since left the world, leaving her followers behind. Some accepted her departure. Others, like their mother, had not. She faded soon after—refusing food, falling into hysteria, wasting away until nothing remained.
And that was how he had found Percia on the roads to Waal: a mirror of their late mother, hollow and drifting.
He hummed as they stepped out into the setting sun, "Come on, let's grab something to eat. I think there's an inn nearby."
"I'm not hungry," Percia frowned.
Kraft huffed. "You're never hungry. Doesn't mean you shouldn't eat a couple meals a day. You already skipped lunch."
"Honestly, it's no wonder you're so scrawny", he poked at her ribs. She swatted at his hands, annoyed. He continued anyway, "You're lucky you have so much mana to compensate how frail you are."
"I am not frail," Percia rolled her eyes. "I'm just not a brute like you, running into battle with your fists."
Her eyes lingered on the scripture he still held as Kraft led them toward the inn. "Its not like you understand what's in that scripture. You have no aptitude to be a monk."
Kraft glanced back with a soft smile. "Aptitude or not, I believe the Goddess is kind. After all, she is one of the few that remembers me for who I am." He glanced toward the sunset, the light turning his green eyes warm and distant. "I just want to talk to her. That's all."
Percia sighed. She had tried for years—back when Kraft first decided to become a monk—to sway him away from it. Nothing good came from following the Goddess. But it never mattered; he wouldn't listen.
Honestly, she wished she could just tell him the whole story—of what took place before him, of the promises left unkept, of the irony of it all. But every time she went to do so, she would feel the world shift around her, subtle yet inevitable. Forbidding her.
The air outside the inn smelled of roasting meat and fresh bread. Kraft pushed the door open and held it with exaggerated courtesy.
"After you, esteemed sister."
Percia rolled her eyes as she stepped through. The common room bustled: merchants jiving over their profits; adventurers laughing too loudly. Every seat seemed taken except for two stools at the bar, where a lone dwarf sat.
They settled in beside him. Kraft waved the innkeeper over with an easy smile, ordering their dinner, while Percia listened to the clamor around her. Drifting.
Kraft set his scripture down between them like a quiet challenge. "You know," he said softly, "Mother used to say the Goddess never truly leaves. She just… waits. For those who still look."
Percia's gaze flicked to the book, then away. Stew arrived, steaming. She didn't touch it yet.
"You think the Goddess remembers you," she said finally, voice low. "That she'll praise your name when you're gone."
"I hope so." Kraft's smile was small, almost wistful. "I've done enough good that someone should notice. Even if it's only her."
Percia exhaled through her nose. "She doesn't notice. She never did."
Kraft didn't flinch. He simply nodded, as though he'd heard the line many times before. It never shook his conviction.
The dwarf beside them spoke, voice low and gravelly. "You remind me of an old friend of mine. He also wanted to be praised by the Goddess."
They turned.
The dwarf had brown hair and a beard that reached his chest. His eyes—steady, unblinking—were the only truly noticeable feature on his weathered face. A floor-length red cape edged with shoulder armor filled the space around him.
" He told me it's kinder to believe in that," he continued, voice even. "That someone will praise. That in the end, there's somewhere nice to relax. It gives peace of mind to those that leave and those that are left."
Kraft tilted his head, a small smile breaking across his face. "Oh? It seems there is a kindred soul here." He laughed soft, "And who might you be?"
"Name's Eisen," the dwarf responded simply, not looking up.
Kraft smiled in easy greeting,"I am Kraft. This is Percia."
Percia watched them talk, lips pursed. She glanced at Eisen. His name was familiar—a faint echo from months prior—but the connection refused to surface. Something about it tugged at the edges of memory: half-heard, unimportant at the time.
She wondered what she was forgetting this time.
─────────────────────────────────────────────────
Northern Lands
Nachricht Region
They had now been at the border of the Northern Plateau for almost a month.
Frieren had always been the one to take her time, but even this was slightly excessive for her.
"We should gather more supplies," Frieren had said the first week. Then on the second week, "There's an interesting grimoire that I want to buy. There's a waitlist for it." On the third week, "The merchants say that new magical trinkets are coming in—I want to peruse them first."
It was now the fourth week. Fern wondered what her master would say this time.
Fern glanced over her book quietly at her master. Frieren had been a little different since Heiß—not in her silence, no, her silence remained the same, but in how it felt. Before it had been sharp; now its edges seemed to have dulled.
Their journey had been slow, peaceful in that they became used to silence. They took on random requests as usual, explored every side path out there as usual too.
But, it had been slow.
Her master had never been the type to concern herself with the small details of life, no matter how hard she tried to. She merely led them through the way that the Hero Party had once taken, reminiscing. Their path here had gone beyond reminiscence; it felt like stalling.
Off in the distance from where Frieren and Fern were sitting, Stark ran around entertaining the town's children. He had already become a town favorite.
"Frieren-sama," Fern started slow, gauging her master's response.
Frieren's ears twitched in acknowledgment. She didn't look away from the bush of morning glories that had held her attention for the past hour.
"When will we be setting off into the Northern Plateau? Have we not been here long enough?"
"Just a bit longer," Frieren said. "There's a restaurant I want to try. Heard they have good stew. You should try and enjoy yourself too before we cross into the Northern Plateau. It is cold and dreary up there. We'll be eating hard bread for a while."
"It's almost been a month."
"What's another?" Frieren shrugged.
Fern pursed her lips. She wasn't sure what her master was was stalling.
Ahead of them a child laughed as Stark held him by his ankles before flipping him back upright. Stark was laughing too.
She had missed that sound.
"I—" Fern turned when Frieren spoke. It was unusual these days for her master to speak first. Frieren pursed her lips instead, as though the attention had spooked her.
"Frieren-sama, please speak," Fern sighed, closing her book. "It's been far too quiet these days. Besides..." Fern brushed her finger along her book—it had been one that Percia had given her, calling it a useful introduction to magical analysis. "I'm not mad at you anymore. You were right; time smooths out conflict."
Frieren glanced up from the flowers, her eyes lingering on Fern for a bit longer than usual.
"Time always smooths it out," Frieren said quietly. "One way or another."
Silence fell before them again; Fern had grown to appreciate it.
Frieren broke the silence, "I am waiting."
"Of course," Fern responded. "I heard that there's a merchant caravan arriving by dawn tomorrow. Hopefully you'll be able to find what you want."
"...Not for that."
Fern looked up from her book. "Is there another caravan that you're waiting for?"
Frieren pursed her lips; her fingers grazed the dark blue petals of the flower.
"I'm waiting for Percia."
Fern's hand stilled on her book.
"Frieren-sama," she took her time forming her words; she didn't want to lose her temper, not like last time. "How do you expect me to react to this?"
Frieren shrugged. "However you want to."
Fern took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
"Do you know where she is?"
"No."
"Does she know you're waiting for her?"
"Probably not."
"Do you think she'll show up?"
"...Definitely not... not after what I did to her."
"Then what are you really doing?
Frieren followed the movement of the petals through half-lidded eyes. "I'm just hoping, that's all."
Fern really didn't understand her master. She probably wouldn't understand her master even after a whole lifetime with her.
She stood up with her book; she couldn't be here any longer, not with the anger that now swirled within her. "We'll wait for the next caravan," Fern said. She pushed in the chair she had been sitting on, perhaps a bit too harshly. "We'll wait for you to try out that restaurant."
Fern looked down at her master—her still figure, her expressionless face, "But afterwards, we'll be crossing the border."
"Okay," Frieren said softly.
Her fingers lingered on the flower long after Fern left.