The first pale ray of dawn slipped through the domed ceiling—soft gold filtering down like spilled honey, catching on the slow-turning constellations and turning them briefly molten before they faded into morning haze.
Percia woke to it.
She woke to ache.
Every muscle sang with the dull, satisfying burn of overexertion; her core throbbed in low, lazy protest. Between her thighs she felt the sticky drag of dried arousal—hers, Serie's, mingled and cooling on skin. A faint smear of it still clung to her thigh where Serie had ground against her in the small hours, desperate and shameless, chasing one last crest before exhaustion finally claimed them both.
She had fallen asleep using Serie's flat stomach as a pillow—cheek pressed to warm skin, one arm slung possessively across narrow hips, the other curled under her own head. Serie's breathing had been slow and even beneath her; the steady rise and fall had lulled Percia under like a spell she hadn't bothered to resist.
She lifted her head slowly.
Serie's torso was a map of her own making.
Bite marks bloomed across collarbones, the delicate hollow of her throat, the soft swell just above each chocolate nipple—dark purple-red, some ringed with faint tooth imprints, others already purpling into proper bruises. A constellation of them marched down her ribs, across the plane of her stomach, even one high on the inside of her thigh where Percia had lost herself for long minutes. They looked excessive. Juvenile. The kind of reckless claiming you'd expect from two elves barely out of their first century, drunk on new sensation and no sense of tomorrow.
Percia snorted softly.
She glanced down at herself.
She was worse.
Much worse.
Serie had always had an oral fixation—centuries old, shameless, insatiable. The evidence was everywhere: teeth marks on the slope of Percia's breasts, the tender skin just below her navel, the sharp line of her hipbones. A particularly vicious bite decorated the juncture of neck and shoulder—deep enough that Percia could already feel the faint throb of it forming a proper hickey. Fingernail crescents raked down her waist in parallel lines, red and angry; more on the insides of her thighs where Serie had clutched and pulled and begged without words.
Percia poked at the nastiest bite—right over her pulse point—and hissed at the bright flare of pain-pleasure that shot straight to her core.
Her hand drifted lower, tracing the gouges on her waist, then sliding along the matching set on her thighs. The skin was hot, sensitive, marked in a way that would take days to fade.
She looked up.
Serie was awake.
Golden eyes regarded her from beneath heavy lashes, smug little smirk curling the corner of her mouth. She hadn't moved—hadn't even tried. Just watched, lazy and satisfied, like a cat who'd gotten into the cream and then some.
Percia narrowed her midnight-blue eyes.
Serie shrugged—one shoulder lifting in a slow, exaggerated roll that made her wince faintly.
"I'd continue right now if I could," she murmured, voice still rough from last night's screams. "But…" Another small shrug. "I can't exactly move."
To demonstrate, she attempted to lift her right leg—just a casual flex, nothing ambitious.
The limb trembled violently instead.
Muscle spasmed, refused to obey; her thigh quivered like overstrung wire, then collapsed back against the hide with a soft thud. Serie exhaled through her nose—half amusement, half rueful—and let her head drop back again.
"See?" she said, smugness undimmed. "You ruined me. Thoroughly. I can barely twitch."
Percia stared for a long moment.
Then she snorted again—louder this time, genuine laughter bubbling up despite the ache everywhere.
"You're impossible."
Serie's smirk widened into something dangerously close to a grin.
"And you love it."
Percia didn't deny it.
She simply lowered her head again—slow, deliberate—and pressed a single, lingering kiss to the worst bruise on Serie's stomach, right over her navel.
Serie shivered—full-body, helpless.
"Don't," she breathed, even as her fingers slid into Percia's hair again, holding rather than pushing. "I'll get riled up again. And then we'll never leave this room."
Percia lifted her head just enough to meet those golden eyes.
"Maybe that's the point," she murmured.
Serie's breath hitched.
Then she laughed—low, wrecked, delighted.
"You're staying for breakfast, then."
Percia settled back down, cheek once more against the warm plane of Serie's stomach, listening to the steady thump of her heart beneath skin still flushed and marked.
"Only if you can walk to the table."
Serie's fingers tightened in onyx strands.
"Challenge accepted."
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Percia exhaled through her nose—half amusement, half resignation—and shifted her grip under Serie's thighs. Serie's legs still refused to cooperate properly; they dangled limply, trembling every few seconds like overtaxed strings. Percia stood smoothly despite the ache in her own muscles, hoisting Serie bridal-style with the casual strength of someone who'd carried far heavier burdens across centuries.
Serie looped her arms around Percia's neck without protest, golden eyes glinting with lazy mischief. Her head lolled against Percia's shoulder, white-gold hair spilling like spilled sunlight.
"You're enjoying this too much," Percia muttered.
Serie hummed. "You're warm. And I'm ruined. Fair trade."
Percia carried her the short distance to the low black stone table. Breakfast had already been delivered—silently, efficiently, the way everything happened in Serie's private domain when she wasn't paying attention. A spread of fresh fruit glistening with dew that wasn't real dew, warm bread still steaming, poached eggs in herb-infused cream, thin slices of smoked fish, and a carafe of something dark and fragrant that smelled faintly of roasted nuts and old forests. No note. No servant in sight. Just the food, appearing as though the room itself had decided they'd had enough delay.
Percia set Serie down carefully on the cushioned bench that curved around the table. Serie immediately slumped sideways, propping her elbow on the stone surface and her chin in her hand, looking every bit the decadent, post-coital immortal she was.
"Sense," Serie said, reaching for a slice of fruit without sitting up properly. "Probably Sense. Passive-aggressive way of saying 'get your ass out of bed and focus on the ongoing exam.'"
Percia tilted her head, midnight-blue eyes narrowing slightly as she slid onto the bench beside her.
"What exactly is your role in all this?" she asked, voice dry. "The exam. You're supposed to be overseeing it, aren't you?"
Serie shrugged one shoulder—then winced at the pull of a particularly vicious bite mark on her collarbone.
"I usually leave all of it to my students." She waved a hand lazily. Mana shimmered in the air before them, coalescing into a floating rectangular screen of pale light. It showed a live feed: a wide stone chamber filled with candidates, proctors moving among them like shadows. Serie pointed at one figure in particular—a tall, stone-faced man with close-cropped dark hair and an expression that could have been carved from granite.
"That's Genau," she said. "One of my students. He's proctoring the first exam right now. Something about catching a Stille."
Percia watched the screen for a moment. The candidates were scattered across a vast, forest, mana threads visible in the air like spider silk. Some moved with frantic precision; others stood frozen.
Frieren stood on the side, looking up. Percia followed her gaze and paused. Barrier magic, a quite nostalgic configuration, one of Serie's old creations.
Serie's finger traced to another section of the feed.
"And that's Sense—the one who brought breakfast—she is handling the second part. Held in the Ruins of the King's Tomb."
Percia's brow lifted fractionally.
"That name sounds familiar."
Serie's grin turned sharp, delighted.
"It holds a Spiegel."
Percia deadpanned instantly. Her expression flattened so completely it could have been used as a ward against enthusiasm.
"A Spiegel," she repeated slowly, "in an exam that Frieren is partaking in. Isn't that… excessive?"
Serie shrugged again—both shoulders this time, though it clearly cost her.
"They should be fine. Probably."
Percia stared at her.
Serie met the look without flinching, popping a grape into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully.
"Frieren is subpar at best," she said around the fruit. "but she is experienced. And she has her little students. If anyone can handle a Spiegel without turning the entire ruin into a crater, it's her."
Percia exhaled—long, slow, the sound of someone recalculating several centuries of probability.
"You're impossible."
Serie leaned sideways until her temple rested against Percia's shoulder.
"I know." She reached for the carafe, poured two cups of the dark brew with only a slight tremble in her hand, and slid one toward Percia. "Drink. You'll need it if you're planning to chase after your wayward ex and her entourage later."
"She's not my ex. We were never together." Percia accepted the cup with a frown.
Serie's smirk softened into something almost fond.
"Eat," she murmured. "Then maybe—after I can feel my legs again—we'll go watch the chaos together."
Percia snorted softly.
Serie laughed—quiet, wrecked, happy.
They ate in companionable silence for a while, the floating screen flickering with images of mages scrambling to catch a Stille. Frieren was still looking at the barrier, contemplative. Her hands seemed to twitch as if sketching something out.
Percia tilted her head, "Serie, that barrier surrounding the contestants. How long did it take you to develop it?"
"Hm?" Serie paused, grape halfway to her mouth, "maybe thirty years? It took a while to make it permeable to the atmosphere whilst keeping it sturdy."
Frieren's hands were now together. Percia could see the faintest traces of mana swirling.
"I hope you're not too attached to that spell. Seems it is about to become obsolete."
Serie turned to the screen and observed lazily. She smirked and swung her legs onto Percia.
"That girl has always been a nuisance. At least she keeps things mildly interesting."
On the shimmering display, the air around Frieren began to ripple. It wasn't a violent surge; it was the surgical application of mana against a specific structural resonance. The massive, ancient barrier shuddered. Specks of moisture from the rainstorm outside slipped through the cracks.
"She's found the flaw," Percia noted, leaning forward. "The instability at its apex... I'm surprised you left that flaw there. You've gotten lazy."
Serie stretched out on the cushions, watching as the cracks grew. "Imperfection allows for innovation. I was hoping that someone else would notice it and learn something from it. Seems the lesson has been wasted on Frieren instead."
The screen flared. A soundless shockwave rippled through the forest of the exam grounds. The grid of the barrier didn't just crack; it dissolved into a rain of shimmering light, falling like literal stardust over the stunned mages below.
In the center of the glittering chaos, Frieren stood still, her pigtails caught in the phantom wind of the spell's collapse. Shards of crystalline mana, thin as dragonfly wings and iridescent as opal, spiraled around her in a violent, beautiful vortex. They caught the daylight, refracting into a thousand tiny rainbows that danced across Frieren's pale skin and the silver-white silk of her hair.
Percia had never seen anything more beautiful.