Chapter Text
The forest outside the gates were still, save for the hum of magic crackling in the air.
Fern stood with her arms folded, watching the mana pattern fade from the canopy above. “Again,” she said, calm and firm. “Hold the concentration longer this time.”
Lawine stepped forward, gaze steady. Her Zoltraak shot clean across the clearing and left a hollow ring in the air before dissipating. She exhaled, sharp and slow.
Kanne followed, her palms trembling faintly as she formed the spell. The magic swelled, flickered, then burst forward — not as controlled as Lawine’s, but stronger than anything she'd produced before.
Fern gave a nod. “You're improving.”
Kanne lowered her hands. “I… I think I am.” Her voice was hushed, serious. Not as excited.
Lawine didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes lingered on Kanne’s posture, then on the line of trees beyond. “You said your mother was able to walk normaly this morning.”
Kanne nodded. “She made breakfast. No pain when walking. Just… normal.”
Frieren watched from a distance, seated on the moss-covered base of a crumbling ruin. Her staff lay across her lap, untouched. “Her condition won’t return,” she said without ceremony. “The spell was permanent if the Monks are to be believed."
Fern glanced back at Frieren. “I trust that, your magic skill is one of a kind.”
Lawine adjusted her grip. “Then Kanne should push harder today.”
Kanne blinked, surprised.
Fern stepped back. “Good. Begin again.”
The sound of Zoltraak echoed once more
Another Zoltraak rippled through the clearing — this one from Kanne, raw but promising. It veered slightly off-center, slicing a branch clean.
“Too much momentum,” Fern said crisply. “You’re focusing on output, not direction.”
Kanne sighed, shoulders tense, readying herself again. But as she moved, she stumbled slightly on uneven ground.
Before she could catch herself, Lawine lunged forward to stabilize her — and they toppled together, a quick thud in the forest floor’s silence.
Kanne landed on her back, half-shocked, half-embarrassed. Lawine was crouched above her, one knee planted and one hand instinctively gripping Kanne’s short ponytail to keep her still.
There was a long pause.
Kanne’s eyes widened. “…Are you pulling my hair?”
Lawine didn’t move, her face unreadable. “You always move too much when you're nervous.”
She let go and stood, brushing off her robe.
Kanne sat up slowly, cheeks red but saying nothing.
Kanne sat upright slowly, brushing leaves from her tunic but avoiding Lawine’s eyes.
Lawine didn’t move at first. Then she reached out, clasped Kanne’s arm, and pulled her gently to her feet.
Their fingers lingered a beat longer than necessary.
Kanne blinked. “…Thanks.”
Lawine met her gaze, expression even. “Be careful where you walk.”
There was no teasing in her tone. Just a quiet warning, colored by concern.
The Zoltraak blast faded into the woods like the last echo of a bell. Kanne lowered her hands, breath steady but shallow. Lawine kept her posture, arms slack at her sides, eyes still forward.
And then Frieren stood.
She moved slowly, staff in hand, stepping over roots and scattered leaves. Her gaze swept the girls’ stances. Their mana was frayed—strained from repetition, but not depleted.
“Before your mana runs out,” she said, voice neutral but carrying, “do you want to learn something simple?”
Lawine blinked. “Simple?”
Frieren stopped in front of them, her cloak brushing a patch of moss. “It won’t help in combat. Or anywhere important, really.” She raised her staff and tapped it lightly to the earth. “Just something people used to use to mark celebration.”
Kanne’s eyes widened slightly. Lawine said nothing.
Frieren closed her eyes. The hum of mana gathered—not sharp, not heavy, but warm.
With one smooth arc of her staff, a wave of energy passed over the clearing.
Then, slowly, in the wake of it—flowers began to sprout.
Delicate white blooms first. Then indigo flecks, orange tufts, pale blue spirals curling around the base of nearby trees. They were small, quiet, wild things. Nothing cultivated. Just traces of magic giving form to beauty.
Kanne watched them rise, silent.
Lawine shifted, arms crossed, but didn’t step back.
Frieren lowered her staff. “You try.”
Fern, who’d stood aside until then, nodded once. “It’s low mana. Intent-driven. Don’t force it.”
Kanne knelt first, her hands resting gently against the forest floor. She didn’t overthink it. The mana settled in her palms like water filling a glass—uncomplicated, present.
She focused not on the cast, but on the feeling. Her mother’s voice that morning, steady and clear. The quiet moment in the cabin when no one coughed. The way Lawine had looked at her when she stumbled earlier—not mocking, just watching.
She let that settle.
And the flowers answered.
A field bloomed outward from her fingertips, slow and sure—white, yellow, purple clusters that spread in uneven arcs across the mossy ground. Some were small, some tall. All alive. The clearing shifted with color, like the landscape itself had softened.
Kanne didn’t say anything. She just stared at it, stunned but calm.
Lawine crouched beside her, gaze flicking across the field with something unreadable behind her eyes. Her mana gathered, sparking faintly—but when she pressed it into the soil, nothing happened.
Fern watched silently. Frieren didn’t move.
Kanne turned, voice low. “You’re trying too hard.”
Lawine’s brow pulled tight. “I’m not.”
“You are.” Kanne didn’t look away. “Just let it happen.”
Lawine exhaled, pressed her hand to the soil again. And again—nothing.
A pause.
Kanne watched from beside her, hesitant. Then she shifted forward, slowly wrapping her arms around Lawine from behind, her chin resting lightly on Lawine’s shoulder.
“You’re not alone,” Kanne said, voice low. “Just... try one more time.”
Lawine didn’t respond. But her breath slowed. Her mana settled, less sharp now — less guarded.
Kanne didn’t push. She just held her there, quiet, steady.
And then—the ground responded.
From beneath Lawine’s palm, a ring of blue flowers began to unfurl. Small petals at first, then fuller blooms, stretching outward like a breath being released. The spell wasn’t clean, not flawless — but it held.
Lawine stared at them, unmoving.
Kanne smiled, her arms still wrapped around her gently. “See? It listens when you stop fighting it.”
Lawine didn’t speak. But her shoulders relaxed, just slightly — and she let Kanne stay close.
Behind them, Frieren turned back toward Fern, who was already making notes in her grimoire.
Kanne pulled back slightly from Lawine, still smiling, her arms loosening into a lighter hold. The soft blue petals curled at their feet, faintly swaying with the breeze.
Frieren approached without ceremony.
She stopped beside them, her staff tucked loosely under one arm. She looked down at the pair for a long beat—no expression, no commentary.
Then, gently, she raised her hand.
One pat atop Lawine’s head.
One pat atop Kanne’s.
Neither girl spoke.
Lawine didn’t react, but her posture stayed still, accepting.
Kanne blinked, then ducked her head slightly, her smile softer now.
Frieren turned without a word, stepping back toward Fern, who was already closing her grimoire. The gesture had said enough.
As Fern closed her grimoire, the quiet rustle of parchment was the only sound between them.
Frieren stepped beside her, eyes still on the fading glow of the flower spell across the clearing. Lawine and Kanne remained where they were—still and silent among the blooms.
Fern didn’t speak first. She rarely did.
Frieren finally said, “You’re doing a good job.”
Fern glanced sideways. “It’s basic training.”
Frieren shook her head once, slight. “It’s not just about technique. They’re learning to trust their own pace. And this is actually advanced magic. I just made you learn this when you were young, now you're passing on my legacy.”
Fern’s posture shifted—not relaxed, but more centered. She nodded once. “Lawine resists instinctively. Kanne overextends. They balance each other out.”
“They wouldn’t have gotten there without you,” Frieren said. It wasn’t flattery—just truth, offered plainly.
Fern looked toward the two girls again. Kanne was still kneeling in the grass. Lawine hadn’t moved, but her eyes lingered on a blue bloom near her boot.
After a moment, Fern closed her grimoire fully and tucked it into her cloak. “They’re not finished yet.”
Frieren’s gaze lingered on Fern for a beat longer. Then she turned back toward the others.
No more words were needed.
Want Fern to return to teaching with renewed direction—or maybe a private reflection where she quietly admits to Frieren that she’s proud of them?