Percia's hands worked methodically down Serie's legs—thumbs pressing deep into the knotted muscles of her calves, then sliding upward along the backs of her thighs with slow, deliberate pressure. Serie had propped herself half-upright against the bench's cushioned back, one leg draped across Percia's lap, the other stretched out along the stone table. Every few strokes, Serie's breath hitched or her toes curled involuntarily; the tremors from earlier had dulled to a low, constant quiver under Percia's touch.
The floating screen hovered between them like a shared window into chaos. The feed had shifted to the second phase: the Ruins of the King's Tomb. Candidates moved through shadowed corridors lit only by their own mana and the occasional flickering torch. Clones—perfect, mirrored duplicates conjured by the Spiegel—moved slowly, fighting with the exact same spells, the exact same habits.
Serie's eyes narrowed as the spell panned briefly to Sense—quiet, severe, robes immaculate—trailing a distance behind Fern and Frieren. She moved like a shadow, staff held loosely at his side, curious about the mage of the hero party.
"Sense is wasting her energy by following those two," Serie muttered, rolling her eyes so hard her head tilted with the motion. "And she's fixated on Frieren of all people. As if anyone that dull can be interesting."
Percia's lips twitched. She dug her thumbs deeper into Serie's calf—right into a stubborn knot—and Serie's leg jerked, a soft, involuntary sound escaping her.
"Behave," Serie hissed, though she didn't pull away.
Percia huffed, "Your the one that wanted a massage."
On the screen, the real action unfolded.
Candidates clashed with their clones in brutal, mirrored duels. A group of mages were being attacked by Sense's clone, relentless attacks one after another. Elsewhere, a green-haired mage parried her own identical strikes with identical form. Some won quickly. Others faltered.
The spell lingered on a particular corridor.
Frieren's clone stood motionless in the center of a wide chamber, idle. Around her, several candidates had frozen mid-step, weapons half-raised, faces pale. They weren't fighting. They were staring.
Because the clone wasn't attacking.
It was simply… waiting.
Exactly like the real Frieren.
Who—somewhere deeper in the ruins—was taking her sweet time.
The feed switched angles: Frieren herself drifted through a side passage, staff tapping idly against ancient flagstones. She paused at every glyph-covered wall, every cracked statue, every faint shimmer of residual magic. Fern walked a respectful half-step behind, violet eyes flicking between her master and the path ahead; Sense brought up the rear, face-falling when she witnessed Frieren getting stuck in a mimic.
Serie snorted.
"Opening every mimic due to a 1% chance of error in the mimic-detection spell. That girl could take her time to develop a spell to reduce that chance to zero. Instead, she acts like a buffoon—all brawn, no brain." Serie paused, "...She could have also just asked me for a better spell."
Percia hummed, "She doesn't seem to particularly like you."
Serie stretched languidly, letting her head tip back against the cushion. She sighed, long and theatrical, as though the very idea of Frieren's stubborn independence was personally exhausting.
"Of course she doesn't like me," Serie murmured, voice dripping with mock offense. "I'm everything she pretends not to be: efficient, decisive, terrifyingly competent. And I would never waste time the way she does. Decades wasted mourning over a human who smiled at her differently from the rest—foolish really."
Percia's thumbs paused mid-circle on the inside of Serie's thigh.
She lifted one brow—slow, deliberate.
"...Mourning over a human?"
Serie cracked one golden eye open, catching the faint note of genuine confusion in Percia's voice.
She tilted her head, studying Percia's face with sudden interest.
"You really don't know?"
Percia's expression remained impassive, but the slight tightening of her fingers betrayed her.
"Know what?"
Serie smirked, "I know you live under a rock but this is sad even for you. Your little shadow—Frieren—isn't just any wandering elf anymore. She was the mage of the Hero Party. The one that defeated the Demon King."
Percia went very still.
The floating screen continued its quiet vigil behind them: Frieren pausing yet again to examine a cracked relief on the wall, Fern waiting patiently, Sense visibly aging several decades in the background.
Serie continued, voice low and matter-of-fact, as though recounting the weather rather than one of the most pivotal events in the last thousand years.
"She mourns the hero Himmel. Human. Bright. Annoyingly optimistic. The kind of man who'd stop to help every village idiot on the road and hesitate to slay a demon. Frieren traveled with him, the dwarf Eisen, and the human priest Heiter for ten years. They killed the Demon King together. Saved the continent. The usual heroic nonsense."
She paused, watching Percia's face.
Percia's midnight-blue eyes had gone distant—fixed on the screen without really seeing it.
Serie reached up, brushing a stray lock of onyx hair from Percia's temple with surprising gentleness.
"She changed after he died. Started collecting things—trinkets, spells, memories—like she was trying to hold onto the time she spent with him. That's why she walks the dungeon in that manner. That human used to do the same. Said you never knew when treasure might be hiding in plain sight. Said it was 'adventuring spirit.'"
Percia exhaled—slow, controlled.
"So she's… carrying him still."
Serie hummed.
"More than carrying. She's become the kind of mage who lingers. Who takes her time. Who lets centuries pass because rushing feels like forgetting." Serie's voice dropped quieter. "She doesn't talk about it much. But everyone who's paid attention knows. The Hero Party's mage. The one who outlived them all."
Percia's thumbs resumed their slow circles—automatic, almost absent.
Serie watched her for a long moment.
"You left long before any of that happened," she said softly. "You weren't here for the war."
Percia didn't answer immediately.
When she did, her voice was quiet—almost too quiet.
"I was busy."
"You're always busy. With what?"
"Duties. The kind that don't end with a single war or a dead king."
Serie studied her oldest friend's profile—the sharp line of her jaw, the unreadable depth in those midnight-blue eyes. She had always meddled outside of her jurisdiction. While Serie lived within the world and interacted with its people, Percia seemed to linger in between. Pressed for details beyond the world.
Serie's lips curved—just the barest hint of understanding.
"Duties," she murmured, echoing again. "Like… sealing creaking doors?"
Percia didn't flinch. Didn't confirm. But her thumbs pressed a little harder into Serie's thigh, kneading out a knot with deliberate force.
"Something like that."
Serie didn't push further. She knew better. Percia's "duties" had always been vague—whispers of ancient pacts, hidden vigils, things that made even elves like them uneasy. Watching over remnants of the Forgotten Era? Guarding against those unsealed "things" that still lurked in the shadows of reality? Or something deeper, tied to the Goddess herself? Serie had asked before and Percia had elaborated.
She just couldn't understand anything Percia said past all that static created by the world.
Serie let her head drop back against the cushion again, exhaling softly.
"You missed quite the show, then. Frieren coming back a legend. The Hero Party's quiet mage who outlasted them all."
Percia hummed—noncommittal.
On the screen, the feed shifted once more.
Frieren had finally caught up to the rest of the contestants. Candidates clustered before a looming door, frozen in various states of frustration and readiness.
They weren't moving forward.
Because Frieren's clone stood directly in their path.
─────────────────────────────────────────────────
"Judradjim"
Serie leaned forward slightly in her seat, golden eyes brightening with interest. "Finally. The good part."
Percia's hands kept working—slow, rhythmic—but her attention fixed on the screen.
Frieren raised her staff—casual, almost lazy—and unleashed a barrage of flashy spells. Mana erupted in brilliant arcs: Zoltraak variants twisted into spiraling lances of light, exploding against the clone's identical counters in showers of sparks. Hellfire raged, only to clash mid-air with mirrored flames. It was showy, excessive—far more elaborate than Frieren's usual efficient strikes.
"Vollzanbel," Serie echoed softly, lips curving as the hellfire raged across the screen. "She's really committing to the theatrics. I almost respect it."
Percia huffed—a quiet sound that might have been amusement.
"She's drowning the clone in noise. Mana signatures so bright and loud it can't feel anything else in the room. Smart."
Serie's golden eyes glinted as the clone summoned a star in retaliation. She let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Bold. Risky. The kind of spell that could swallow half the ruin if it backfired. It wants to destroy the pillars nearby to find that human child."
On screen, the black hole bloomed—absolute darkness swallowing light, pulling stone and air inward with a howl that came through the feed like distant thunder. Frieren's robe snapped backward; Fern remained perfectly still in her hiding spot.
Serie's smirk widened.
"Look at her face. Not even a flicker. She's standing there watching a singularity she just forced her own reflection to create, and she looks mildly inconvenienced. Classic."
Percia's lips twitched—just the barest fraction.
"She's always been good at letting other people do the hard work."
Serie laughed—short, bright, genuine.
"You mean letting Fern do the hard work. That Zoltraak was surgical. Undetectable. The clone never saw it coming because it was too busy mirroring a light show."
The screen showed the final strike: Fern's silent lance punching through the side of the clone's neck. The mirror form staggered—once, twice—silver cracks spiderwebbing across its body like fractured ice. It didn't dissolve immediately. It held, trembling, as though sheer stubborn mimicry could keep it upright a second longer.
Then Fern moved again.
No pause. No hesitation.
She raised her staff once more—violet eyes flat, expression gone cold—and unleashed a barrage. Zoltraak after Zoltraak after Zoltraak. Not single shots. A relentless machine-gun stutter of pale-blue lances, each one precise, each one punching through the same wound in rapid succession.
In its final moments, the clone looked up.
It's attention finally on Fern.
Cold. Ruthless. A flicker of something darker, almost murderous, glinting in those dull eyes.
That was the only warning Fern got.
She slammed into the far wall hard enough to rattle teeth. Stone spiderwebbed behind her shoulder blades; dust exploded in a gritty veil. The force didn't fade—it clamped down like an iron vice, crushing her flat against the masonry, staff snapping in half against the floor with a dry snap. Air was driven from her lungs in a single, violent whoosh.
No spell had been cast.
No visible mana flare.
Just… force.
Serie sat up straighter, golden eyes widening a fraction.
"…I'm surprised she knows that one."
Percia's hand stilled on Serie's thigh.
She stared at the screen—gaze narrowing, "I thought the contents of that were erased. Completely. Even the echoes in the oldest libraries were burned."
Serie's lips curved—slow, impressed, "Apparently not."
The dust in the chamber didn't just settle; it seemed to cowed by the sheer weight of the mana still radiating from the center of the room.
On the screen, the clone continued to crumble, but it was still standing—a testament to the original's terrifying tenacity. It raised its staff one last time, a desperate, final surge of energy gathering at the tip.
A flash of white. And then the clone was no more.
─────────────────────────────────────────────────
The screen dissolved into motes of pale light that drifted upward like dying fireflies, eventually absorbed back into the domed ceiling. Silence returned to the private chamber—thick, comfortable, scented with cooling coffee, faint traces of last night's liquor, and the warm musk still clinging to both their skins.
Serie watched Percia from the corner of her eye.
The taller elf had gone unnaturally still, fingers resting forgotten on Serie's thigh, midnight gaze fixed on the empty space where the viewing spell had been. Not angry. Not shocked. Just… recalibrating. The way an ancient compass needle finally settles after centuries of wandering magnetic noise.
Serie let the quiet stretch a little longer—mostly because watching Percia process anything was one of her oldest, quietest pleasures.
Then she couldn't help herself.
Serie stretched languidly, deliberately slow, letting one leg slide higher across Percia's lap until her bare foot nudged against the other woman's hip. She propped her chin in her hand and tilted her head, golden eyes glittering with familiar mischief.
"So," she drawled, voice still husky around the edges, "your little shadow isn't so little anymore."
Percia exhaled through her nose. The sound carried centuries of practiced patience.
"Don't."
"Too late." Serie's smirk curled wider. She traced one fingertip lazily along the inside of Percia's wrist, following a faint blue vein. "That tiny thing who once ran after you with wide eyes and sticky fingers, begging you to show her how moonlight bends through frost… is now casually dismantling spells I spent thirty years developing. Using spells that have long since erased by history."
She paused for effect, letting her foot slide teasingly higher.
"And let's not forget that chilling look her clone had. The look that screams of bloodlust and killing intent. The look that understands death."
Percia finally glanced sideways. Her expression was flat. Dangerously so.
"You're enjoying this far too much."
"I'm enjoying it exactly the right amount." Serie leaned in until their shoulders pressed together, voice dropping to something softer, more intimate, but no less wicked. "Admit it. A part of you—the part that still remembers her trailing behind you like lost moonlight—is… intrigued."
Percia said nothing.
Serie's grin turned positively predatory.
"She's grown claws, Percia. Real ones. Your once-upon-a-time tag-along now walks into rooms and makes ancient magic flinch. She's not chasing tiny motes of magic anymore. She's rewriting the rules of it."
A small, deliberate pause.
"And you know what the worst part is?"
Percia finally spoke, tone even.
"I'm sure you're about to tell me."
Serie's lips brushed the shell of Percia's ear—barely contact, just warm breath and the ghost of teeth.
"She might actually be strong enough now… to catch your attention."
Percia went very still.
Serie pulled back just enough to watch the minute tightening at the corners of Percia's mouth, the faint flare of nostrils, the way those midnight eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something older. Hungrier. The same look she used to wear when something truly rare crossed her path after centuries of dust and repetition.
Serie leaned back again, smug, victorious, stretching like a cat in sunlight.
"Don't worry," she purred. "I'm not jealous. Much. It's just… poetic, don't you think? You spend your whole life avoiding anything that might stick. And then the one thing you once permitted to follow you—barely more than a child back then—grows into something that might actually make you pause. Might make you look twice. Might even…" She let the sentence hang, wicked little smile blooming, "…make you stay."
Percia finally moved.
She turned fully toward Serie, one hand sliding up to cup the back of the smaller elf's neck—firm, not gentle. Her thumb pressed lightly against the pulse point just below Serie's jaw, feeling it jump.
"You talk too much," Percia said quietly.
Serie's grin didn't falter. If anything, it sharpened.
"And you're deflecting."
Percia's gaze dropped to Serie's mouth, then back up.
"Maybe I am."
A beat.
Then Percia leaned in—slow enough that Serie could pull away if she wanted (she didn't, oh god how could she)—and kissed her. Not gentle. Not sweet. Deep and deliberate and edged with something possessive that hadn't surfaced between them in decades.
When she pulled back, Serie was breathing harder, golden eyes blown dark, lips kiss-bruised and smug.
"Still deflecting?" Serie whispered.
Percia's thumb stroked once along the column of Serie's throat.
"For now."
Serie laughed—low, delighted, wrecked all over again.
"Good. Because if that girl actually manages to make you stay in one place longer than a season…" She leaned forward until their foreheads touched. "…I want front-row seats."
Percia's thumb stilled against Serie's throat.
The slow, deliberate stroke paused right over the fluttering pulse—holding there, feeling the quick, unsteady rhythm that betrayed everything Serie tried to hide behind smirks and sharp words.
She didn't pull away.
She didn't lean in either.
Just… held the contact, midnight-blue eyes searching gold ones with something close to quiet accusation.
"You're rooting for her," Percia said. Not a question. A flat, careful statement. The kind she used when she wanted the truth without giving the other person room to dodge.
Serie didn't flinch.
She only tilted her head the tiniest fraction—enough that their foreheads stayed pressed together, warm skin on warm skin, breaths mingling in the narrow space between them.
Her voice came out softer than before. Rough around the edges from laughter and earlier screams, but stripped of most of the teasing veneer.
"It's not like I can have you."
A small, almost soundless exhale.
"You told me so. Eons ago."
The words landed without drama. No bitterness. No pleading. Just fact—old, worn smooth by time the way river stones lose their edges after ten thousand years under current.
Percia didn't move. Didn't blink.
But her thumb resumed its slow stroke—once, twice—along the vulnerable line of Serie's throat. Gentle now. Almost tender.
Serie closed her eyes for a heartbeat.
When she opened them again, the gold was still dark, still wanting, but steadier.
"I've had pieces," she continued quietly. "Nights like last night. Weeks when you decide the world can wait another century. Centuries when you remember I exist and come back smelling like pine and old wards and whatever mountain you were hiding in." A faint, crooked smile. "I've had enough pieces to know what the whole would feel like. But you never let anyone keep the whole. Not even me."
She lifted one hand—slow, careful—and laid it over Percia's where it rested against her neck. Small fingers curling around larger ones. Not trapping. Just… holding.
"So yes," Serie murmured. "I'm rooting for her."
Percia's brows drew together—just a flicker.
"Because if anyone's stubborn enough, patient enough, quiet enough to make you stop running long enough to notice you've stopped…" Serie's voice dropped to something almost fond. "…it might actually be the girl who once followed you for forty years without once asking you to stay."
Silence stretched again.
Not heavy.
Just present.
Percia finally exhaled—long, slow, the sound of something ancient loosening its grip the smallest degree.
"You're not jealous," she said. Again, not quite a question.
Serie's laugh was barely more than breath.
"I'm anciently jealous. There's a difference." She leaned back just enough to meet Percia's gaze properly—open, unguarded for once. "But jealousy doesn't change facts. And the fact is… I've never been able to keep you. Not because I didn't want to. Because you decided—long before I ever met you—that nothing permanent was allowed."
Her thumb brushed over Percia's knuckles.
"So if someone else manages to slip past that ridiculous wall you carry everywhere…" Serie shrugged one elegant shoulder, the motion small and tired and strangely fond. "…then at least it'll be someone who understands what waiting feels like. Someone who won't flinch when you disappear for a few centuries. Someone who'll still be there—still looking at you like you hung the goddamn moon—when you finally wander back."
Percia studied her for a long moment.
Then—quietly, almost too quiet:
"You never flinched either."
Serie's smile turned soft. Achingly soft.
"No," she agreed. "I just learned how to survive the winters between visits."
Another beat.
Percia leaned forward again—this time slower, deliberate—and pressed her lips to Serie's forehead. Not a kiss so much as a resting place. A momentary anchor.
Serie closed her eyes and let her head tip forward until it rested against Percia's collarbone.
They stayed like that.
No more words.
Just breathing.
Somewhere far below, in the Ruins of the King's Tomb, Frieren paused in front of another cracked mural—white hair catching faint torchlight, green eyes thoughtful.
She reached out.
Fingertips brushed ancient stone.
And very quietly—too quietly for anyone else to hear—she murmured to no one in particular:
"I'm not in a hurry."
Then she kept walking.