How Percia met Serie
"Hey. You're in my spot."
Percia didn't open her eyes. "I didn't know someone could own shade."
"I come to this tree every day, at the exact same time. That's my spot as per the law of continued use."
"That's not a thing."
"Yes, it is."
"No, it isn't."
"Yes, it is."
Percia finally opened her eyes.
Gold gazed down at her, sharp and unblinking. Percia might have been intimidated if not for the smudge of dirt on the girl's cheek and her well-worn tunic, edges frayed with grass stains.
She nudged Percia's side lightly with her foot. "You're not from around here, are you?" Her gaze flicked over Percia's robes.
"You think you're dressed plain, but silk doesn't exactly blend in out here. Someone's going to mug you."
"They won't be able to," Percia said evenly.
"Maybe not alone." The girl sat down beside her without asking. "But numbers and surprise cover a lot of ground. You wouldn't last."
"And?" Percia let a teasing smile curve her lips. "Is this the part where you offer to walk me back home?"
The girl scoffed. "You wish. I just want you to run off in fear. I say again—this is my spot. Leave."
"Make me."
A pause. The girl turned to look at her properly — golden eyes narrowing, reassessing. Percia held her gaze and kept smiling. After a long moment, the girl looked away.
"I can't. I can't imagine myself beating you."
Percia laughed—soft, almost surprised. "Don't worry. I'm a bit of a pacifist." She rose and stretched slowly. "I'll let you keep your spot."
She walked away without looking back.
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The next day, Percia returned anyway.
The girl was already there—back against the trunk, a battered book open in her lap. She didn't look up.
"I came earlier today," Percia tilted her head. "Why are you here?"
"It's my spot." The girl turned a page without looking up. "I can come whenever I want."
Percia sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. "What are you reading?"
"A book."
"Wow. I couldn't tell." Percia smiled dryly. "Come on. Tell me what it's about."
The girl sighed—longer, more exasperated—and closed it with a soft thump. When she finally looked at Percia, her expression carried the specific exhaustion of someone being forced to explain something obvious.
"Magic. Light magic." She held up the cover: Fundamentals of Light Magic. Common enough among elven families, worn enough to have been read a hundred times.
"Why not get a different one?" Percia asked. "Something new?"
The girl jabbed a finger into Percia's side. Percia jolted.
"If you want to pass for someone who belongs here," the girl said, "maybe learn something about how the rest of us actually live. Books aren't cheap. This one's been in my family for three generations."
"Oh." Percia paused. "But the Holy Sanctum has a public library. It's open to—"
"Public." The girl's voice went flat. "That's a funny word for it." Her eyes sharpened. "So that's where you're from. You're one of those elves."
Percia frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
She opened her book again. Percia stared at the pages beside her without reading them. The silence between them was the kind that had weight to it — full of things one of them understood and the other didn't yet.
She left without saying goodbye.
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A week passed before Percia returned.
Rain moved softly through the canopy, darkening the roots. The girl was there today too — curled against the trunk, soaked through, watching a ladybug pick its way across her bare foot.
Percia's mana flared quietly—the shimmering barrier around her extended further to curl around the girl.
"You didn't come." The girl didn't look up.
"I thought you didn't want my kind around."
"I don't." Her voice stayed flat. "They are elitist. Self-righteous. They built a religion around a goddess they invented and spend their time making sure everyone else bows to her too."
"She was created for a reason," Percia said quietly. That was what she had been taught.
"Yeah. I'm sure."
Percia said nothing. She watched the girl shiver faintly, then reached out and laid her palm against her knee. The shivering slowed. Stopped.
The girl looked up. "What was that?"
"A spell to keep your body warm." Percia kept her hand there, maintaining the spell. "You were shivering."
"I didn't ask for your help."
"I know."
"...I didn't know there was a spell like that."
"Most don't."
The girl paused. Rain was falling harsher now, the sound almost overtook the girl's soft voice.
"My name's Serie."
Percia blinked. Something in her chest shifted, small and unfamiliar.
"I'm Percia."
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Percia tried to come every day. Most days she managed it.
Some were easy: her mother occupied with the elders, the elders occupied with each other, the whole Sanctum folded inward on its own arguments. She would muffle her mana, slip away through the quietest corridor, and be back before anyone looked for her.
Other days were not as easy. Today had been one of those days.
The sun was already low, bleeding out across the fields. She was hours late. Serie had almost certainly gone home by now.
She went anyway.
She was nearly to the treeline when her legs stopped.
Not a choice — they simply refused. The ache clamped inward, deep and sourceless, wrapping around her mana like a fist until breathing required concentration. She stood at the edge of the path and waited for it to pass, and it didn't quite pass, and she stood there anyway.
"Hey."
Serie's voice came from behind, flat with irritation.
"I thought I felt you. "You didn't show. You know it's rude to—"
The words stopped.
Percia heard footsteps, and then Serie was in front of her, golden eyes moving over her in one quick sweep — the way she was standing, the faint tremor in her fingers, the careful stillness of someone holding themselves together by force.
"What happened to you?"
She closed the distance and reached out, hands hovering just short of touching. "Are you hurt? Where—" Her fingers moved lightly over Percia's side, searching. "I can't find anything. What happened?"
"I'm sorry I'm late," Percia said.
"Shut up." Serie caught her by the arm and guided her to the tree's broad roots, easing her down with a gentleness that didn't match her voice at all. She crouched in front of her. "Stop apologizing. Tell me what happened."
Percia leaned back against the bark and let herself breathe. "It's mana manipulation. My mother uses it when I do something I shouldn't. It doesn't leave marks — passes easily for training exhaustion." She exhaled. "It's nothing I haven't felt before."
Serie didn't respond.
Percia looked up. Serie's face had gone somewhere unreadable — not blank, but closed, something burning behind it that she was visibly choosing not to say.
Percia shifted, slow, and laid her head in Serie's lap.
Serie went rigid.
Percia settled anyway, cheek against the worn fabric of Serie's tunic. She smelled like the sun.
"I was trying to get away earlier," she murmured. "I ran into some of the elders and had to—"
"Percia." Serie's voice came out rough. "Come with me. Let's just leave. Go somewhere else — anywhere."
Percia closed her eyes. "I can't."
"Why?" The word came out sharper than she probably meant. "They're hurting you. I'm not — it's not just today. I see it every time you come here. You're always carrying something." Her hand had settled in Percia's hair without either of them acknowledging it. "Just leave. Come with me."
"Serie." Percia kept her voice gentle. "They're my family."
"That doesn't—"
"Stop."
Silence fell. Serie's hand stilled.
Percia pushed herself upright slowly. "I should go back. I think coming today was a mistake."
She didn't mean it as cruelty. She said it before she'd finished thinking it, and she knew the moment it landed wrong — she saw it in the brief, unguarded flicker that crossed Serie's face before it was gone, smoothed away like it had never been there.
"Percia," Serie said quietly. She guided Percia's head back down into her lap.
"I won't ask anymore."
Percia closed her eyes, refusing to acknowledge the quiet acceptance. Her throat went tight with something she couldn't name— something she didn't deserve.
"…Thanks."
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It took five hundred years for Percia to finally take up Serie's offer.
They were at their spot again—the once modest tree now looming over them, ancient. They'd watched kingdoms come apart and stitch back together under its shade. The Goddess was gone. The Sanctum was something different now, or nothing at all.
Serie had her back to the trunk, legs stretched, a slim grimoire open on one knee. Percia lay beside her in the grass, watching the clouds.
"I thought you didn't want to leave," Serie said. She turned a page.
"I do now."
"What changed?"
Percia was quiet for a moment. Then she turned her head and looked at her.
"You were right," she said. "You've always been right. I just took a long time to catch up."
Serie huffed. "Five hundred years is more than a long time. You're impossible."
Percia chuckled; she closed her eyes again, letting the quiet settle. The wind whispered against the skin, reminding her of what leaving would mean.
Serie broke the silence after a long moment.
"You sure about this?" Her voice had gone quieter, more careful. "Your people are scattered. Your mother is fading. Your brother is still young. You still love them — I know you do. No sense pretending otherwise."
"Way to pour salt on the wound," Percia muttered, but there was no real heat in it. She huffed. "My brother will be fine. Seems like he wants to go on a journey with his buddies anyway. Something about making the world right."
Serie raised an eyebrow. "Oh. How noble of him."
Percia scoffed. "He's stupid. Stubbornly so. I told him to come along with us. He just went on a long tangent about saving the world and whatnot. Honestly, I don't know where he gets this hero complex."
Serie hummed—neutral, thoughtful.
"We'll set off tomorrow then," Serie said at last.
Percia rolled onto her side, propping her head on one hand to face her. She poked Serie's thigh lightly with her finger. "Where we going?"
"There's an abandoned archive nearby." Serie pursed her lips. "I haven't been able to get through the barrier, but you probably can. I want to peruse the grimoires there."
Percia wrinkled her nose. "A dusty archive. Thrilling."
"You're no longer invited along."
Percia rested her head on her arm, smiling up her friend, "Liar. You can't resist me."
Serie glanced down at her. Golden eyes narrowed, but the corners softened—just a fraction.
"Shut up."
She turned back to her page. Percia smiled at the grass.
Five hundred years, and some things hadn't changed at all.