Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kanne stepped out of Seria’s chamber. The door closed behind her with a soft click. Her eyes were red, her shoulders tense, and her steps slow. Lawine was already waiting, sitting on the bench just outside with her hands folded in her lap.
Kanne didn’t say anything. She walked over and sat on Lawine’s laps, close enough that their whole body was able to touch.
Lawine glanced at her. “Didn’t pass?”

Kanne nodded. “She asked me to show her who I saw when I imagined myself as a first-class mage.”
Lawine didn’t respond.
“I tried,” Kanne said. “But I couldn’t see anything, not without you in the picture. My mana didn’t respond. Just blank.”
Lawine nodded. “I failed the second test. Got distracted and stabbed in my chest, happens to the best of us”
Kanne looked at her. “So we’re both out.”

Lawine didn’t answer right away. Then she reached up and patted Kanne gently on the head, brushing her hair back.
“We’ve got three years to practice,” she said.
Kanne blinked. “You think we’ll make it?”
Lawine gave a small smile. “I think we’ll try. That’s enough for now.”
Kanne leaned her forehead against Lawine’s. “I couldn’t even imagine myself as someone who belonged as a first class Mage.”
“You will,” Lawine said. “Eventually.”

Kanne looked at her, still teary but calmer. Lawine leaned in and kissed her. It was soft and steady.
Kanne kissed her back, resting a hand on Lawine’s shoulder to support herself. It wasn’t dramatic. Just quiet and reassuring.
When they pulled apart, Kanne let out a shaky breath. “Thanks.”
Lawine brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Always.”

Inside the chamber, Seria sat at her desk, mana flickering faintly around her fingers. She glanced at the closed door, then back at her notes.
She remembered a boy from last year—brilliant, powerful, arrogant. He passed every test with perfect scores. Walked out alone. No one waiting. No one to ground him.
She’d promoted him. Of course she had. But she hadn’t expected him to last. And then he died weeks later running into danger like a stupid human.
She looked again at the mana trace outside the door—two signatures, steady now, connected. Fear had settled. Doubt had started to fade.
Her mana flared once, then calmed.

She muttered to herself, voice low and even: “They steadied each other. That’s rare. Maybe solo promotion isn’t the best measure in this case.”
She stood, walked to the door, and stepped out.
Kanne and Lawine looked up. Seria’s expression was neutral, but her voice was clear.
SERIA You’re the first to be promoted together. Don’t waste the great opportunity.
Kanne blinked. “Wait—what?”

Lawine sat up straighter. “We failed.”
Seria crossed her arms. “Individually, yes. But what I saw out here matters more.”
She looked at both of them.
SERIA You didn’t break after I failed you. You didn’t fake being fine with it. You didn’t shut down. You stayed grounded and honest with your results. That’s rare.
Kanne hesitated. “But I couldn’t even see myself—”
SERIA And yet you’re still here. Still steady. That’s more than most, most of the participants run away as soon as they fail.”
Lawine didn’t say anything, but she reached for Kanne’s hand.
Seria continued.

SERIA You’re not perfect, and neither of you are polished. But you’re ready to grow. Together.
She turned back toward the chamber.
SERIA Promotion isn’t just about power. It’s about how you handle failure.
She paused at the door.

SERIA You’ve earned this. Now prove me right.
She walked back inside, leaving the door open.
Kanne looked at Lawine, stunned. Lawine gave her a small smile.
Kanne exhaled. “We’re really in?”
Lawine nodded. “Together.”

Chapter Text

Kanne stayed nestled against Lawine’s shoulder for a while longer. Neither of them rushed the quiet. Eventually, she pulled back, her hands still resting on Lawine’s lap as their foreheads touched gently one last time.
Footsteps approached. Fern rounded the corner, her sleeves folded neatly over her hands, expression calm but warm.
“You’re still here,” she said.

Kanne blinked. “You came to see us?”
Fern nodded. “Heard Seria’s decision. Thought I’d say congratulations before Frieren disappears into her ten-hour Nap.”
Lawine glanced toward the chamber door. “Still doesn’t feel real.”
“It will,” Fern said. “Give it a few minutes.”

Kanne fidgeted with her sleeve. “We didn’t pass properly.”
Fern shrugged lightly. “Most don’t. Passing alone is overrated.”
Lawine glanced at Kanne, then back at Fern. “Did you pass?”
Fern nodded. “Just barely. Enough to walk out without a lecture.”
“And Frieren?” Lawine asked.

“She failed halfway through,” Fern said, voice even. “Said the test was emotionally biased. She’s outside now, flicking pebbles into the garden path and refusing snacks. I offered a peach bun and she told me to leave her in peace.”
Kanne looked worried. “Should we check on her?”
Fern shook her head. “She’ll resurface when the wind changes direction. Just don’t mention institutional testing”
Lawine gave a quiet laugh. “So no small talk.”
“Exactly, my mistress doesn't do good small talk either way” Fern said.
She turned slightly to go, then hesitated.

“Really,” she said, “I’m glad you’re both in. It suits you. You didn’t fall apart. That’s rare.”
Kanne smiled. “Thanks for coming.”
Fern nodded and headed down the hallway. “See you at the review. I’ll bring extra snacks.”
Lawine reached for Kanne’s hand again, gently lacing their fingers together.
“We’re really in,” Kanne said quietly.
They stepped into Seria’s chamber quietly. She didn’t look up right away—just tapped the side of the desk where two slips of paper were waiting.
“I assumed you’d want your certification spells,” she said. “One each. Chosen based on your interest."
Kanne nodded and stepped forward. “Something to conjure water,” she said.
Seria handed her the first slip. “Flowbind. Makes clean water out of your Mana
Kanne took it carefully. The Grimware hummed faintly against her palm. “I can work with that, thank you” she said.
Seria looked to Lawine. “You?”

“I want something for ice,” Lawine said. “I already do freeze-on-impact. This time I want to bind it to surfaces.”
Seria picked up the second slip. “Frostmark. You tag terrain or objects with your mana, then trigger the ice when ready. It’s low-flash, high control. Suits you.”
Lawine accepted it. Her mana settled around the edges—cool, steady. “This’ll help.”
Seria leaned back slightly. “Don’t treat these like upgrades. They’re foundations. You’ll mess them up at first.”
Kanne nodded. “We know.”

“Good,” Seria said. “Keep that mindset. You’re not polished—but you’re stable. That’s harder to train.”
They didn’t say much else. Took their spells and headed for the door.
Kanne glanced at Lawine as they stepped out into the hall. “Flowbind,” she said softly. “Feels like something I’ve been trying to do anyway.”
They walked down the hallway, the certification slips folded neatly into Kanne’s bag. The building was quieter now—most of the other candidates had already left.
Lawine adjusted her coat and glanced sideways. “When are your parents expecting us back?”
Kanne shrugged. “In two days. They figured I’d need time to mope if things went badly.”
Lawine snorted softly. “Fair guess.”

“They offered to come pick me up, but I said no,” Kanne said. “Didn’t want them hovering.”
Lawine nodded, then paused. “Are they expecting you to do anything for your birthday?”
Kanne blinked. “Oh—right. That’s tomorrow.”
“You forgot?”
“Not forgot,” Kanne said. “Just wasn’t thinking about it.”
Lawine waited.

Kanne sighed. “My mom said she’s making me a cake. Chocolate. It’s kind of tradition.”
Lawine gave a small smile. “Sounds good.”
Kanne looked at her. “You want some?”
Lawine shook her head. “I want to treat you today. Before all that.”
Kanne blinked again. “Like... now?”

“Yeah. Nothing big. Just something that’s not this place.”
Kanne smiled faintly. “You sure?”
Lawine shrugged. “I’m not good at birthdays, but I can manage a late lunch.”
“Alright,” Kanne said, voice warm. “I’m in.”
They reached the main exit. Kanne pushed the door open

Chapter Text

Kanne and Lawine walked through the streets of Äußerst, hands loosely clasped. The city was calm, the kind of quiet you get late in the day. Shops were open, but no one rushed.

They passed a bakery with wide windows and the smell of fresh bread and cinnamon. Outside, on a bench near the edge of the overlook, Fern sat next to Frieren. Frieren stared out toward the mountains, legs hanging over the edge, coat pulled close.

Lawine slowed, then nodded toward them. “Let’s say thanks to Frieren.”

Fern noticed them first. “You two find the bakery too?”

“Not on purpose,” Kanne said.

Frieren glanced over but didn’t speak.

Lawine stepped a little closer. “Thanks,” she said. “For helping with the tests.”

Kanne added, “Both of them, you really helped us, you don't even know how thankful we are.”

Frieren shrugged. “It wasn't a big deal.”

Fern reached out and patted Frieren’s head. Frieren didn’t move, just kept watching the horizon.

Frieren blinked but didn’t respond right away. “I just made sure you didn’t mess up too early.”

Lawine gave a small nod. “Still helped.”

Kanne nudged Frieren gently. “We’re glad you came.”

Frieren looked at them again, her expression neutral, maybe a little tired. But she didn’t pull away.

Fern motioned to the bakery. “Do you want anything mistress before the swirls are gone? They're the best part.”

..........................................................................

They wandered through the open-air stalls near the bakery. Most were small tables covered in folded cloth, jewelry pieces laid out in neat rows. Warm colors, polished metal, and enchanted threads caught the afternoon light.

Lawine slowed by one of the booths. “Pick something,” she said. “What kind of bracelet do you like?”

Kanne hesitated. “Oh. I wasn’t planning to buy anything…”

“You’re not,” Lawine said. “You’re picking. I’m buying.”

Kanne looked at her, unsure. “You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Lawine said. “Don’t worry about the price. Just get what you want.”

Kanne blushed slightly, her fingers brushing over a display near the center. One piece stood out—a mirrored-lotus setting with a faint blue diamond nestled at the center. Soft shimmer. Clean cut. Just subtle enough.

She slipped it onto her arm, not looking up.

Lawine leaned in. “That the one?”

Kanne nodded. “Yeah. It’s pretty.”

“Then that’s it.”

Lawine pulled a folded wallet from her coat pocket and paid without fuss. The vendor wrapped the display tray back up, already half smiling.

Kanne adjusted the bracelet as they walked on, her eyes low, still a little embarrassed—but she didn’t take it off.

Lawine glanced sideways once but didn’t say anything. Just kept pace.

They were walking slowly now, past the edge of the market toward the main square where the ceremony would be held. Banners hung across the alleyways—bright fabric with sharp lettering, fluttering just enough to remind them what day it was.

Lawine glanced over. “Are you ready?”

Kanne nodded, then stopped, adjusting her sleeve. “I am… I really am.”

Lawine looked at her more closely. “You don’t sound sure.”

Kanne took a breath. “It’s just… My mom’s sick. Really sick. They say there’s no cure.”

Lawine said nothing at first. Just listened.

Kanne kept going, voice quiet. “She was the one who pushed me to start practicing. Said I had talent. Said I should do something with it while I could.”

Lawine’s steps slowed.

“She wants to see me reach this point before she dies,” Kanne said. “First-class mage status. She said even if she couldn’t make it… I could still do it for her.”

She stopped walking entirely, head dipping forward as she pressed her arm against her eyes.

Lawine moved closer. Kanne didn’t resist the hug this time—she just fell into it, shoulders shaking a little.

“I want her to be proud,” Kanne said, muffled.

“She already is,” Lawine said quietly.

Lawine held her close, arms wrapped around Kanne’s shoulders as the quiet settled back in. Kanne’s breathing was uneven, her face still buried against Lawine’s coat. After a few moments, she lifted her head slightly, eyes red but steady.

“Thank you,” she said, voice cracking. “For what your family gave mine. The money… it let us bring in a top priest. The best we could afford. It gave us time.”

Lawine didn’t move right away, just kept her arms around her. “My parents wanted to help,” she said. “It wasn’t a debate.”

“She smiled when he arrived,” Kanne said softly. “She knew how much it cost. But she never made me feel guilty about it.”

Lawine gave a slight nod. “You shouldn’t feel guilty. Ever.”

Kanne looked down at the bracelet still on her arm, then leaned into Lawine again—not out of collapse, but something steadier. A moment of being held and seen.

“We’re here now,” Lawine said. “She’ll be proud.”

Kanne didn’t say anything more. But she stayed in the hug longer than she had earlier, hands clenched gently against Lawine’s back.

Chapter Text

Kanne and Lawine walked into the great hall with Fern next to them. Lawine wore a plain blue dress, simple but clean-cut. Kanne had on the green one Lawine had bought—she still wasn’t sure why Lawine insisted, but she didn’t complain. It fit well, and the silver buttons weren’t too flashy.
They held hands as they walked past other mages, some chatting quietly, some just watching. Fern kept pace beside them, eyes forward, like this was nothing special.
They sat down on a long cushioned bench near the front. Serie was already there, sitting on a big elevated chair that looked like it was supposed to be important. Sense stood next to her, arms crossed, not reacting to anything.
Kanne leaned slightly toward Fern. “Where’s Frieren?”
Fern didn’t blink. “Serie banned her.”

Kanne tilted her head. “What? Why?”
“She's not allowed in for a thousand years.”
Lawine looked up. “What rule did she even break?”
Fern answered without changing tone. “Serie said she helped too many unqualified contestants pass the second stage.”
Kanne frowned. “Seriously?”

“She called it interference. Said it ruins the process.”
Lawine raised an eyebrow. “Frieren does that all the time.”
“Yep,” Fern said. “Apparently Serie had enough.”

They looked toward the front of the hall where Serie sat on the raised throne-like seat. Her posture was straight, but her expression was blank—bored, maybe even slightly annoyed. Her eyes scanned the room without much interest, and she didn’t seem moved by any of the quiet murmuring from the crowd.
Sense stood next to her, arms crossed, staring out across the hall like he was waiting for something worth reacting to. Neither of them said a word.
Lawine leaned toward Kanne slightly. “Looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.”
Kanne nodded. “That’s comforting.”

Fern glanced forward. “She always looks like that. Don’t take it personally.”
The girls had just finished absorbing the stiff atmosphere around Serie, and the subtle tension in the grand hall was finally starting to loosen as they drifted toward the doors. Fern glanced over at Lawine and Kanne, the quiet shuffle of boots on marble mixing with distant murmuring.
“So,” Fern said, her tone casual but curious, “where are you two headed next?”
Kanne turned toward Fern and smiled. “Back to Veykrand. We’re meeting the others near the north gate.”
Fern nodded. Veykrand—the shimmering capital nestled between silver cliffs and sprawling rivers—was always busy this time of year. “Ah, Veykrand,” she said. “Lot of pomp, not enough privacy.”
Lawine stepped closer to Kanne, placing a hand on her shoulder with exaggerated grace. “Well,” she said proudly, “someone here is turning twenty-three tomorrow.”
Kanne blinked. “Me?” she asked, her voice rising slightly in surprise. “I mean, yeah… I just wasn’t thinking about it.”
Lawine leaned in slightly, her grin spreading. “And I’ve got a surprise waiting for you in the capital.”
Kanne’s eyebrows lifted. She gave Lawine a sideways look, curious but also trying to read her. “A surprise?”
Lawine just winked. “You’ll see tomorrow.”

Kanne hesitated for a moment, then gave a small smile—part anticipation, part playful suspicion. Fern looked between the two of them, catching the exchange and smirking.
“You’re really not going to give her even a hint?”
“Nope,” Lawine said brightly. “It’s classified. Veykrand-level security.”
As they continued chatting, the grand hall filled with quiet anticipation. Crystal light shimmered across polished stone walls, casting dappled reflections over the crowd, until the hush shifted into a low ripple—Serie had stood up.
Her movement was effortless, precise, like the lifting of a blade that had never dulled. The throne behind her—ornate but subdued—seemed smaller now in comparison to her presence. Her gaze settled on the crowd, impassive yet piercing.
“Today,” she began, voice echoing with subtle authority, “we welcome the Eight newly appointed First-Class Mages.”
The room responded with immediate, respectful silence. Even those closest to Fern and Kanne turned to listen, the ceremony’s gravity sinking in like stone into water.
Serie continued, her tone even but edged with something sharper—pride, perhaps, or restrained admiration.
“I want to extend my thanks to Genau and Sense,” she said, glancing briefly toward the two who stood like carved statues near the dais. “Your administration of the first two trials was… acceptable.” A few chuckles broke out, though quietly—everyone knew Serie’s compliments always carried a touch of dryness. “Thorough, merciless, but just.”
Then she let a pause settle, like the calm between thunderclaps.

“This marks the largest passing of First-Class applicants in our academy’s fifty-year history. Not since the Era of White Flame has so much potential gathered in one cohort.” Her eyes swept across the group as scattered cheers burst through the hall, growing louder until applause surged. Staff clapped, students shouted, the walls seemed to tremble from the collective energy.
Serie waited. She always waited. When the room finally quieted again, she stepped forward, her hands folded loosely in front of her. Her next words were lower, almost intimate, but they carried just as far.
“I won’t flatter you with predictions of greatness. That would be beneath me.”
A small smirk tugged at her mouth, brief as a flickering lantern.
“But I see the markers of it. In how you suffered without collapse. In how you resisted without arrogance. In how you learned without indulgence.”
No one dared interrupt.

“You are mages. First-Class by name. But what comes next will prove the meaning of that title. Some of you will lead. Others will disappear into the work no one sees—but all of it, every path you take, will shape the world that follows.”
The echoes of applause still lingered when Serie rose again, as if the weight of silence had beckoned her to say just one more thing.
Her eyes swept over the assembled mages—not hurried, not distant, but deliberate. There was something colder about her gaze now. Not unkind. Just unflinching.
“When you leave this hall,” she began, her voice tinged with the flint of conviction, “you will be more than titles. More than pages in record books.”
A few heads tilted, uncertain of where she was going. Serie never spoke longer than necessary. This was unusual.
“It is my hope,” she continued, folding her hands in front of her, “that each of you takes on an apprentice—not simply to pass on spells, but to pass on discipline. Precision. The sense of duty that anchors magic to meaning.”
She paused, letting that settle.

“Legacy does not survive by admiration alone. It must be transferred through struggle. Through questions. Through failure. If you truly aim to advance our magical frameworks, then you must first teach the next mind that dares to challenge yours.”
Lawine blinked. Kanne’s gaze was steady now. Fern’s brows knit slightly.
Serie raised her right hand with unceremonious grace, her fingers twitching once. A shimmer gathered around her—the sort of mana that felt ancient and sharpened, like something that didn’t fully belong to this age. It didn’t expand much. Just enough. Just noticeable.
With a faint pulse of light, papers burst into existence before each newly appointed First-Class Mage—not aggressively, not even dramatically. Just present. Each one floated with solemn weight before gently drifting downward into the recipients' open hands.

Kanne caught hers, eyes scanning the page. Her name, listed in elegant script. At the bottom corner, in faint silver-blue ink, Serie’s handwriting read:
“Your future will be interesting to watch unfold.”
She turned to Lawine, wide-eyed. Lawine’s paper had the same message—though the last flourish of the handwriting curved ever so slightly different. A personal trace.
Fern’s paper bore a line even simpler.
“I’ll be watching you.”

She smiled slightly, one eyebrow raised. “Very Serie,” she said under her breath.
Kanne exhaled, reading it again.
“Is this… encouragement?” she whispered to Lawine.
Lawine grinned. “Serie-style encouragement. Ruthless optimism.”
Fern turned toward them and held up her paper, tapping the elegant script. “Honestly? That’s the most dramatic handwriting I’ve ever seen. Like she forged it using moonlight and spite.”
Kanne chuckled. “Still. I like it.”
Lawine nodded, her tone soft now. “Yeah. It makes everything feel... real.”
Across the hall, others were murmuring, inspecting their certifications, reacting to that final unexpected gesture. Serie, meanwhile, had already sat back down—her eyes distant, her role complete.
Sense stepped forward—not ceremoniously, just with quiet certainty. Her black cloak drifted slightly as she moved past the last row of candidates, coming to stand a few paces from the center.
“I want to say something,” she said, voice steady. “To recognize the seven who didn’t make it past the first trial.”
Silence fell again. It was a different kind this time—not stunned or reverent, but something colder. More accepting.
“They came prepared,” Sense continued. “They cast with precision. They faced what we asked of them. And they died.”
No one moved.

She flicked her fingers, and a thin veil of mana unfolded beside her, shimmering like moonlight through frost. A scroll unraveled midair—seven names glowing faintly beneath the surface.
Thalor Vens, 31 — thoughtful ice mage, quiet until he cast.
Marik Doul, 26 — lightning user, brash, loved to test his own limits.
Braniel Sorne, 22 — earth-type, stubborn, always volunteered first.
Garron Lythe, 35 — illusionist, a tactician with a poet’s eye.
Nevin Torell, 28 — fire-based, chaotic and innovative, loved riddles.
Selia Marn, 24 — water affinity, precise, never wasted movement.
Iriya Feld, 19 — wind-type prodigy, still carried a master’s critique on her sleeve.

“They didn’t pass,” Sense said, voice soft. “But they shaped the trial anyway. How we prepared. How we responded. How we changed the spell sequences to close the gaps they exposed.”
She looked at no one in particular, but her next words felt directed at everyone.
“They matter.”

Kanne lowered her eyes. Lawine said nothing. Fern tightened her grip on the parchment still folded in her hand.
Latter
The three of them walked out of the hall into the cool night air. The building behind them was quiet now, most of the crowd already gone. Lamps lit the cobbled streets, and there wasn’t much sound besides their own footsteps.
Kanne adjusted the strap of her bag and looked over at Lawine. “Hey… where are your parents?”
Lawine shrugged. “They went ahead. Took the early route back to your place.”
Kanne blinked. “My place?”
“Yeah,” Lawine said. “They wanted to help your family set up for tomorrow. Decorations, food, whatever needs doing.”
Kanne’s face turned red. “Why would they do that?”

“They like helping. And they like you,” Lawine said simply. “Plus, it’s your birthday. My mom said you wouldn’t plan anything for yourself unless someone pushed you into it.”
Kanne looked down, clearly flustered. “I didn’t think anyone would do all that.”
Lawine gave her a small grin. “You’ve got people who care, Kanne. Get used to it.”
Kanne stepped over and gave her a hug—quick, a little awkward, but sincere. “You’re the best.”
Lawine snorted. “You’re just saying that because it’s true.”
Fern rolled her eyes and followed behind. “We’re not even halfway through this week and it’s already sentimental.”
Vendors calling out from stalls, wagon wheels groaning against stone, the clatter of distant training exercises echoing in the background. Still, their pace stayed slow, like neither wanted to rush into whatever came next.
Fern had long since run off to join Frieren and Stark, and whatever reunion waited ahead. Lawine didn’t comment on it. Kanne gave one last glance toward the bend where she’d disappeared, more reflective than wistful.
Back inside the inn, the energy had shifted. Staff moved quickly to clean and prep rooms. Their own room was still theirs for now—half-packed and cluttered, but strangely cozy.
Lawine checked the contents of her bag with practiced focus. Kanne sat on the windowsill, watching the town move around them.
Kanne:“We’ll leave soon.”

Lawine: “Everyone does.”
Kanne:“I still don’t know what they were looking for in the test, I feel the same as when we came here.”
Lawine shrugged. “It’s not always about changing now, maybe it's to encourage to change in the future”
Then Lawine opened the door and nodded once toward the hallway. Kanne followed her out, and the door clicked shut behind them, leaving only the faint scent of herbs and old paper in the empty space.
Downstairs, they moved through the lobby like they’d done it a hundred times. The innkeeper offered a polite smile, already talking to the next wave of guests. Outside, the afternoon sun was bright against the stone, warming the worn steps beneath their feet.

Chapter Text

The sun was starting to dip behind the hills as they walked across the stone bridge. Neither of them was in a rush.

Kanne kicked at a loose pebble. “It’s kinda wild we met an actual elf, huh.”

Lawine gave a little shrug. “It happens.”

“No, it doesn’t!” Kanne half-laughed. “They’re super rare. And she wasn’t even standoffish, you know? Just... normal, or as normal as a elf can be.”

Lawine’s gaze drifted over the water. “You stared at her a lot.”

“Did not!”

“You did. It’s not kind to stare at elves.”

Kanne made a face. “I wasn’t being rude. I was just impressed. Like, the way she handled that mimic?”

“She’s probably been fighting stuff like that decades or longer since before we were born.”

Kanne nodded, still buzzing. “Bet she’s got crazy stories. Traveling around, living forever... you think she gets bored?”

Lawine’s mouth twitched. “Hard to say. You planning to ask her next time we bump into her?”

Kanne grinned. “Maybe. I wanna write it all down later. Like about some adventures she had.”

A couple of travelers passed them heading the other way. One gave Lawine a nod—she returned it without saying anything.

“My mom and brother have already packed up,” she said, voice casual. 

The road narrowed as the trees closed in on either side. Kanne’s hand brushed against Lawine’s. She hesitated, then took it. Their fingers fit together easily, like they'd done it before.

Neither of them said anything for a while. The woods were quiet except for some rustling leaves and birds in the distance.

6 hours latter

They got to Veykrand late—close to midnight, if the sky was anything to go by. Kanne’s house sat on the edge of town, quiet and dark except for the porch light.

The door opened before they reached it. Frau Ischa stepped out, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Her hair was cropped short, and her eyes went straight to Kanne and Lawine.

“There you are,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I was starting to think you got lost.”

Lawine nodded. “Sorry. Took longer than we thought.”

Frau Ischa waved them in. “Everyone’s out cold. You should be too—Kanne’s got a lot ahead of her tomorrow.” She glanced between them and gave a quick wink. “Don’t stay up swapping stories.”

Kanne gave a quick half-smile. “We won’t.”

Inside, Lawine pulled off her boots and left them by the door. Kanne led her upstairs, careful on the creaky steps. The place smelled like lentils and old wood.

Her room hadn’t changed much. Books in one corner, a map still halfway done on the desk, and the same narrow bed she’d had since she was a kid.

“You want the blanket?” Kanne asked, dropping her bag.

“I’m good,” Lawine said, settling onto the floor. “Just don’t snore like you did last time.”

Kanne smirked. “Wasn’t that bad.”

Lawine didn’t respond, but she pulled the blanket over herself anyway.

Kanne shifted under the blanket, staring at the ceiling for a bit. The room was quiet except for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the soft sounds of Lawine adjusting the mat on the floor.

“Hey,” Kanne said, not raising her voice. “You can sleep up here if you want. I don’t feel great about you being down there.”

Lawine didn’t answer right away. Then: “It’s fine. You’re the one with the big day tomorrow.”

“Still,” Kanne said. “There’s room. We can split the blanket.”

Lawine sighed lightly, then got up, dragging the blanket with her. “I’m only doing this so you stop feeling guilty.”

Kanne scooted over to make space. “Thanks,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Lawine settled in next to her, staring up at the same ceiling as she fell asleep.

Kanne stayed curled up behind her, arm still wrapped around Lawine. She could feel her breathing—steady, slower now. Definitely asleep by now.

That made it harder somehow. Kanne kept her eyes open in the dark, staring past Lawine's shoulder. Her grip didn’t loosen. If anything, she held tighter, even though she knew Lawine wouldn’t notice.

She didn’t know what she was feeling. Nerves, excitement, guilt, something else? It all sat in her chest like a weight.

Eventually, she shifted just a little, enough to press her face against Lawine’s back.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she whispered, barely audible. “Just… stay.”

Lawine’s nighmare

Her breath was ragged. Every step echoed in the dark stone corridors, bouncing off the cracked walls and making it sound like someone was following her. Lawine wiped at her face with the back of her hand, but it didn’t help. She was already crying and couldn’t stop.

She didn’t know where Kanne was. She didn’t know where anyone was. All she could do was run.

The air inside the ruins was stale and cold, heavy like it had been sealed for centuries. She turned a corner too fast, slipped a little, caught herself—then froze.

Something stood in front of her. Tall. Familiar in the worst way.

Sense. But not her . Something was wrong. The way it moved, the way it looked through her—not at her, through her.

Lawine backed up fast. “No. You’re not—” Her voice cracked. She didn’t finish.

The thing didn’t answer. It lunged.

She barely screamed before the blade hit—first through her upper chest, then lower, the pain lighting up everything. Her knees buckled. Her hands went up automatically, grabbing at the wounds like that would stop anything.

It didn’t speak. It didn’t need to. She felt her legs give out. Her vision blurred. The sound of her breathing went strange—too loud and then too quiet.

Her breath came in short gasps as she hit the floor. The pain in her chest was sharp, but the worst part was how quickly everything started fading—her hands numb, her thoughts disjointed.

She couldn’t feel her legs. Could barely see.

The ruins were silent again, like nothing had happened. Like she wasn’t there.

Lawine’s last thought wasn’t about herself. It wasn’t fear, or pain, or even anger.

It was Kanne.

She’d failed her behind. She hadn’t protected her. She hadn’t done anything, and she will never be able to tell Kanne how she truly feels as she was too scared before .

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice so faint it barely counted.

Then everything went quiet.

Lawine waking up after a nightmare

Lawine jolted awake, breath sharp, chest heaving. The room was dim, but warm, and it smelled like home. Her body tensed as she tried to sit up—until she felt arms around her.

Kanne was holding her tight, legs tangled, face buried in Lawine’s shoulder. She was patting her head gently, voice low but steady.

“You’re alright,” she whispered. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Lawine didn’t answer. The ruins, the blood, the blade—everything came flooding back too fast to sort through. Her chest ached like it had been split open. Her stomach twisted. She reached down with trembling hands, pressed at the spots where she’d been stabbed.

The Scars were still there.

She let out a shaky breath, then another—then broke. Tears hit all at once, hard and fast. Her face scrunched and she couldn’t stop shaking.

Kanne didn’t let go. She just held her tighter, one hand rubbing small circles on Lawine’s back, the other still resting in her hair.

Lawine gripped her shirt, desperate, clinging like she’d fall apart otherwise.

“I’m scared,” she choked out. “I didn’t mean to—I couldn’t—I thought it was real.”

Kanne didn’t try to explain it away. Didn’t offer answers. She just whispered, “I know,” again and again, until Lawine’s breathing finally slowed and her fingers loosened their grip.

Lawine traced her fingers over the pale marks on her side, frowning.

“They’re ugly,” she murmured. “I look… messed up.”

Kanne blinked, then sat up slightly, her hand still resting on Lawine’s arm. “They’re not ugly,” she said, voice firm but warm. “They look chan. ”

Lawine turned her head, confused. “ Chan ?”

Kanne hesitated, suddenly aware of what she'd just said. “I—I mean, they’re yours. And you’re even more chan than they are. I didn’t—uh…”

Her words trailed off as she looked away, her ears redder than her cloak.

Lawine stared at her for a beat too long, cheeks flushing. “Kanne…”

Kanne pressed her knuckles to her mouth and groaned quietly. “I’ll just go lie down in a ditch now.”

“You’re staying right here,” Lawine muttered, still blushing as she pulled Kanne closer.

Kanne was still pink-faced, eyes locked somewhere near the wall like it might rescue her from her own flustered thoughts.

Lawine shifted, then moved in close, wrapping her arms around Kanne’s waist and tugging her gently until they were pressed together. Kanne let out a surprised sound as Lawine tangled their legs—purposefully, thoroughly.

“You know,” Lawine murmured, voice low and just barely teasing, “I think I’ll sleep better like this. You don’t mind, do you?”

Kanne made a small sound—half a laugh, half a groan. “Only if you keep squeezing me like a blanket.”

“Good,” Lawine murmured, almost smug, and gave no signs of loosening her hold.

Their bodies relaxed in stages: first the muscles, then the breath, then the weight of the day. The silence between them grew thick, not with tension, but with peace. At some point, Kanne’s chest began to rise and fall in rhythm. Lawine’s lashes fluttered once, twice—and stilled.

They drifted off knotted together, exhausted but safe, the world outside forgotten for a while.

Chapter Text

Kanne stirred as the sun spilled in through the window, warming the quilt and the edge of her face. Her eyes blinked open slowly, still heavy from the night before. For a moment, she forgot where she was.
Then she noticed the arm wrapped around someone.
Lawine was tucked against her chest, half-curled, hair pushed back over one ear, breathing soft and even. Her eyes were just starting to open too, squinting at the light, not fully awake yet.
Kanne froze. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch as she looked down and saw Lawine’s hand resting on hers.

Lawine made a quiet sound and shifted slightly, not pulling away, just adjusting to the sunlight and the awkward position from her eyes.
Kanne cleared her throat, voice rough with sleep. “Morning…”
Lawine blinked at her, then let her head fall lightly against Kanne’s shoulder again. “You move a lot in your sleep.”
“You literally tackled me before bed,” Kanne muttered.

Lawine didn’t respond right away, just gave a faint shrug. Her eyes were half-lidded, her face neutral but not closed-off.
Kanne carefully eased out from beneath the blanket, making sure not to disturb Laine. The floor was cool against her feet as she stood and stretched, the quiet ache of sleep still clinging to her shoulders.
She turned back toward the bed.
Lawine went back to being half-asleep, curled on her side with one arm tucked under her head. Her hair had fallen over her face again, and she blew it out with a soft puff of air, too tired to fix it properly. The blanket was bundled up around her waist, one leg bent, the other stretched long—completely relaxed.

Kanne rubbed her eyes and blinked. Then, despite herself, a small smile touched the corner of her mouth.
She looks cute like that… Not that she’d ever admit it. Or let me, if I did.
Kanne crossed the room quietly, her eyes glancing toward the corner where their travel bags were slumped. She knelt beside Lawine’s and opened the flap, digging past a rolled-up cloak and a pair of gloves before her fingers wrapped around the familiar handle of a brush.
She hesitated just a second before standing again.

Lawine had shifted onto the edge of the bed, still sleep-ruffled but alert now. As Kanne approached, Lawine swung her legs over the side and sat up, then slid to the floor with an ease that made it feel rehearsed. Like she knew this moment was coming.
Kanne held up the brush, trying to keep her voice light. “Your hair’s a disaster.”
Lawine gave a faint, amused snort and sat cross-legged on the floor, her back to Kanne without saying anything. The silent agreement made Kanne’s heart skip.
She knelt behind her and began slowly brushing through the tangles.
The room was still, just the soft pull of bristles through hair and the occasional rustle of fabric as Lawine adjusted her shoulders. Kanne tried to focus—on the rhythm, on the strands—but it was impossible not to notice how warm Lawine felt, even without touching more than a few inches of her.

Her fingers brushed the nape of Lawine’s neck once and Lawine tilted her head slightly, wordlessly allowing it.
Kanne swallowed. The moment felt suspended—like anything said too loudly might shatter it.
Why does she always make things feel like this... Kanne thought, a flush rising to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the sunlight.
Kanne’s hand moved steadily, parting knots with care, letting the brush glide down through strands of pale hair. She wasn’t rushing—there was a rhythm to it now, something she could fall into.
Lawine shifted slightly, pulling her legs up and resting her chin atop her knees. As the brush passed over a particularly tangled spot, she let out a soft, involuntary noise—something between a sigh and a gentle “ahh.”
Kanne froze for a split second.

“…You’re doing that on purpose,” she muttered, ears tinting pink as she kept brushing.
Lawine didn’t answer, but her shoulders gave a barely-there shrug. She leaned into the motion, clearly content to let Kanne keep going. Another quiet sound followed, almost smug in its satisfaction.
Kanne narrowed her eyes. “You are. You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Mmhmm,” Lawine murmured, still not looking back.

Kanne bit the inside of her cheek, half flustered, half exasperated. Her grip on the brush tightened slightly—not enough to pull, just enough to pretend she wasn’t blushing at every little noise Lawine made.
She knows exactly what she’s doing… Kanne thought, heart thudding.
Kanne gave the brush a final sweep through Lawine’s hair, smoothing it out with her palm. The strands fell perfectly into place—no tangles, no wild bits clinging to static or stubborn curls. Just soft, silvery flow, catching the morning light like polished snow.
She sat back on her heels, studying the result.
Lawine tilted her head. “Done?”

Kanne hesitated, her voice low. “Yeah… It looks beautiful.”
Lawine glanced over her shoulder, one brow raised—not mocking, but surprised. Maybe even slightly thrown off.
“It always does,” Kanne added quickly, her gaze dropping. “Just… figured I’d say it this time after I'm the one who fixed it up for you.”
Lawine stood first, stretching her arms overhead with a yawn that she didn’t bother to suppress. Kanne followed suit, brushing imaginary dust off her knees before grabbing her cloak from where it had been slung over a chair.
Neither of them spoke much as they moved around the room—just the rustle of fabric, the occasional clink of buckles and belts as they redressed.
Kanne pulled on her tunic, smoothing it over her chest and glancing sideways. Lawine had tugged her jacket on but paused, adjusting the collar with a small frown like she didn’t quite like how it sat. Kanne stepped toward her, hesitated for a moment, then reached out and flipped the edge down.

Lawine raised her brows. “You fixing my clothes now?”
“You always wear them half-wrong,” Kanne muttered, tugging lightly to center the fabric.
Lawine gave a small smirk but didn’t pull away. “Guess I’ll keep you around then.”
Kanne rolled her eyes and turned back to her own bag, trying not to smile.
Lawine stepped close, the playful smirk still tugging at her lips.
“Actually,” she murmured, voice low but clear, “come here.”
Kanne narrowed her eyes. “If you’re thinking of—”

Before she could finish, Lawine’s arms slipped under her in one fluid motion—one behind her knees, the other supporting her back—and lifted her straight off the ground.
Kanne let out a sharp breath, arms instinctively clutching around Lawine’s shoulders for balance. “Lawine—!”
Lawine didn’t flinch under the weight. She just held her, steady and smug, eyes flicking up toward Kanne’s face. “You're lighter than you look.”
Kanne’s cheeks lit up immediately. “I—! That’s not—!”
Lawine leaned slightly closer, the scent of morning clinging to both of them, and gave a low, almost thoughtful hum. “You smell nice.”
Kanne blinked, stunned. “...You’re just messing with me now.”

“Nope,” Lawine said, grinning. “I noticed it last night, too. Didn’t want to say it then—you would've tried to sleep on the floor or something.”
Kanne’s blush deepened, spreading all the way to the tips of her ears. Her gaze darted anywhere except Lawine’s eyes.
“Happy birthday,” Lawine added, quieter now, the teasing edge softening just a little.
Kanne swallowed. The warmth in her chest was ridiculous.
“You’re the worst,” she muttered

Lawine adjusted her hold on Kanne, lifting her slightly higher with a casual roll of her shoulder as they crossed the threshold of the room. Kanne was still trying to look composed, arms folded and expression tight with forced indifference—but the flush hadn’t left her face.
“You really don’t have to carry me everywhere,” she muttered, glancing sideways.
Lawine smirked. “Just making sure you get the royal treatment.”
Just before they reached the stairwell, Lawine slowed her pace and gave a small nod to herself.
“Alright,” she said. “I guess I’ll let you walk the rest.”

Kanne gave her a flat look. “How generous.”
Lawine chuckled and bent slightly, gently setting Kanne down onto solid floor. Kanne's boots touched down with a soft thump, and she immediately adjusted her cloak like it gave her back some semblance of control.
She didn’t meet Lawine’s eyes right away, mostly because her face was still burning.
“You didn’t have to carry me through the whole hall,” she muttered.
Lawine leaned against the banister with a grin. “Could’ve carried you all the way down, but figured your pride might combust.”
The voices downstairs floated up before they even reached the landing—soft laughter, the clinking of mugs, and the low hum of conversation. The scent of fresh cinnamon bread lingered with the steam rising through the old wooden beams, richer now than the herbs tucked in Lawine’s cloak.

Lawine took the steps slowly, each movement deliberate and unhurried. Kanne, still curled in her arms, had stopped fidgeting—half-asleep and half-curious, listening. Her arms rested around Lawine’s shoulders without thinking, more for balance than affection—but the warmth was unmistakable.
Below, the long oak table was already surrounded. Lawine’s three brothers sat sprawled in their usual spots, voices overlapping as they chatted with both sets of parents—Lawine’s leaning comfortably into the conversation, and Kanne’s already halfway through their second cup of tea. The room felt wide and alive.
Just as Lawine’s boots reached the final step, one of her brothers glanced up and grinned.
“She’s coming down!” he declared.
Then, in unison and slightly off-key:
“Happy birthday, Kanne!!”

Kanne blinked, startled at first—and then her expression shifted, something soft tugging at the corners of her mouth. Lawine set her down with more care than expected, and Kanne straightened her cloak, futilely trying to act unfazed.
Her parents rose from their chairs, smiling wide. Lawine’s youngest brother half-stood too, arms out like he wanted credit for timing the greeting perfectly.
“You all woke up this early for me?” Kanne asked, her voice half-accusing but mostly stunned.
“We were waiting for the entrance for an hour,” Lawine’s middle brother replied, clearly proud.
The food was simple but inviting—fresh bread still warm from the hearth, wedges of pale cheese glistening at the edges, and steam rising gently from mugs placed around the table.
At the far end sat four carefully wrapped gifts: three smaller boxes and one large, slightly lopsided package. The paper wasn’t fancy, but the effort showed—ribbons knotted tight, corners folded with the kind of precision only siblings working in secret can muster.

Kanne hesitated. “You all really did all this for me?”
Lawine’s mother smiled warmly. “Of course we did.”
“Open that one first!” said Lawine’s youngest brother, pointing at a box with bright green ribbon.
Inside: lime green short pants and a crisp white crop top embroidered subtly at the hem—lightweight, stylish, and unmistakably suited to Kanne’s usual flare. She held it up, wide-eyed.
“You picked the exact colors,” she said, half to herself.
Lawine sipped her tea without looking up. “I told you—I have excellent taste.”
Kanne reached for the second box, her hands moving faster now. Inside lay a white dress—elegant, simple, shimmering faintly at the sleeves and hem. She didn’t say anything at first, just ran her fingers over the fabric like it might vanish if she blinked too fast.

Lawine’s brothers exchanged glances.
“She’s gonna look like a whole love story in that,” Lawine’s oldest brother whispered.
The middle one snorted. “Already is one. Just look at those two.”
Lawine’s turned pink but kept her focus on the dress, pretending not to hear the commentary. She hugged it briefly before setting it aside with reverence.
Her father nudged the last box toward her. “One more.”

The package was heavier, and inside—nested in folded cloth—was something unexpected. A camera oozing with Magical.
Its surface shimmered faintly with spellwork—symbols etched around the lens, a small gem embedded in the shutter like a quiet pulse. The craftsmanship was delicate.
“It’s enchanted,” Lawine explained, watching her reaction closely. “Takes one photo. Just one. After that, the magic fractures. Something about stress on the internal weave.”
“We found it at a shop in the northern market,” Lawine’s father added. “The clerk said it was one of the last. Not cheap.
Kanne stared, stunned. “This must’ve cost a fortune…”
Lawine leaned forward slightly. “Then you better choose your moment carefully.”
Lawine’s brothers couldn’t help themselves.

“She’s saving it for their wedding,” one whispered.
The youngest giggled. “I still say this is secretly an engagement party.”
Kanne was clearly mortified—but her eyes never left Lawine.
“This is the best birthday I’ve ever had,” she said softly, fingers still curled around the magical gift. “Thank you... all of you.”
Kanne looked down at the camera one last time before setting it carefully beside her chair. The magic within it still shimmered faintly, almost expectantly.
Lawine nudged a slice of bread toward her, then filled both their cups from the ceramic teapot in the center. The table was already full—of food, of mismatched plates, of grins exchanged across the surface.

Chapter Text

Pov:Frieren/Fern/Stark

The cliffs outside Veykrand rose like broken teeth against a pale sky. Dust clung to boots and sleeves, the wind tugging gently at traveling cloaks. A white-haired elf led the group at a slow pace, her eyes scanning the horizon with absentminded ease. Behind her walked a purple-haired girl with her arms crossed tightly, face drawn in clear irritation. A red-haired boy brought up the rear, watching the tension play out in front of him with the quiet dread of someone who knew what was coming.

“Miss Frieren,” Fern started, voice firm, “do you understand what you've done?”

Frieren blinked and tilted her head.

“We lost all of our food,” Fern said flatly. “All of it. Because you opened a mimic chest without even checking.”

“I thought… it might be a grimoire this time,” Frieren murmured. Her gaze drifted downward, toe scuffing lightly at the dirt. “It looked promising.”

“It growled at you, before you even touched it,” Fern snapped. “It had teeth.”

Stark cleared his throat, but didn’t say anything. He adjusted the strap on his pack and looked off to the side like he could pretend he hadn’t heard any of this.

Frieren’s shoulders slumped, not from guilt exactly—but something softer, quieter.

“It’s just… sometimes they hide good ones,” she said, almost to herself.

Fern turned away, muttering under her breath.

“I’m the youngest and somehow the only responsible adult here…”

Stark shifted his pack with exaggerated care, eyebrows rising.

“I am responsible,” he said, mildly offended. “I haven’t opened any mimic chests, I carry all the heavy stuff, and I even remembered to refill our water flasks last time.”

Fern slowly turned toward him, arms still crossed.

“You also once asked if cursed paintings can sneeze,” she said.

“It was a valid question. Firstly Aura cursed it and secondly there was fog coming out of its nose!”

She gave him a long, flat stare. Stark looked away, trying to act like the cliff view was suddenly fascinating.

Frieren, meanwhile, crouched down near a pebble and poked it with her finger.

“This town’s name feels familiar,” Fern said, looking past the path toward the rooftops of Veykrand just visible through the morning haze. “I think this is the one Lawine mentioned once. Where she and Kanne live.”

“Didn’t she say something about a hill with brass gates?” Stark asked.

“That’s this region,” Fern nodded. “Pretty sure we’re in the right Veykrand. Not the one near the wetlands—the one with a bakery that Frieren keeps calling ‘suspicious, as she say they’ve been open for 800 years.’”

The group passed through the outer gates of Veykrand without trouble. The city stretched out ahead, wider than expected, its streets active with vendors, carts, and families moving between stone buildings. Fern glanced around, mentally mapping their path. Stark looked up at a newer district built into the hillside.

Frieren walked a few steps ahead, quiet for a moment. Then she spoke.

“Last time I came here,” she said, “only the inner walls existed. Just a handful of buildings. It wasn’t even called a city yet.”

Fern looked over, surprised.

“How long ago was that?”

“About eighty years.”

Stark raised an eyebrow.

“So it was just a fort back then?”

“More like a checkpoint,” Frieren said. “There was a single tavern and a shop that only sold preserved fish.”

Fern shook her head.

“It’s grown a lot.”

“Too fast. I almost didn’t recognize it,” Frieren said.

They followed the main road toward the center, passing a street fountain and a bakery with a crooked sign hanging above the door. Stark pointed to it.

As they reached the center of Veykrand, the street opened up into a large square with stone benches and a wide public fountain. At the far end stood a statue—weathered, tall, and familiar.

Frieren stopped.

It was a sculpture of four figures. At the center stood Himmel, smiling as always, sword pointed downward like he was resting between battles. To his right, Heiter with his staff raised and a proud tilt to his chin. On the other side, Eisen, solid as ever, crouched like he was bracing the whole group on his shoulders. And at the far left… Frieren herself. Her likeness held a closed spellbook, gaze fixed forward.

The statue was covered in grime. Moss crept over the base. Bird droppings streaked Himmel’s shoulder.

Frieren walked forward slowly.

Stark and Fern stayed back, watching without speaking.

She stopped at the base, looking up. Her expression was unreadable, but her shoulders had dropped. One hand lifted halfway, then lowered again.

“They used to polish it every spring,” she said quietly. “I guess it’s been a while.”

She stepped up to the statue and looked at Himmel’s face. The stone was worn, the smile chipped at one corner, but still unmistakable. Rain and time had dulled the detail, left smudges down the folds of his cloak. Moss clung to the edges like the city had forgotten to care.

Frieren lifted one hand, fingers hovering near the stone as if she could reach him. She hesitated, hand lowering slowly. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Her eyes stayed locked on his expression—confident, kind, a little too proud of the sword he never needed to draw first.

She raised her other hand and quietly drew a rune in the air. It pulsed once, then faded. A wave of clean magic spread outward, wrapping over the statue like a sheet of wind. The grime dissolved. The moss peeled away and scattered onto the plaza stone. The texture of polished granite returned.

In less than a minute, the statue looked new. Not untouched—time was still in the eyes and posture—but cared for. Respected.

Frieren lowered her arms, her sleeves falling into place. She didn’t say anything. Her face didn’t change, but her posture did. She stood straighter, shoulders relaxed, like a weight had shifted—not lifted entirely, but moved enough to breathe around.

Pov:Lawines/Kanne

Lawine and Kanne walked side by side through the streets, holding hands casually. They weren’t rushing—just moving at a comfortable pace, weaving past vendors and families. A couple people glanced their way, but no one paid much attention.

A few steps behind, Lawine’s brothers walked together, chatting among themselves. Joey talked the most, making big hand gestures. Matthew mostly listened, arms folded, scar clear on his cheek. Andrew was snacking again, pulling bites off a meat skewer as he walked.

As they passed a row of shops, Lawine overheard two older women talking near a flower stand.

“Did you see it?” one asked.
“She cleaned the whole hero statue,” said the other. “With just one spell.”

“Was she an elf?”

“White hair. Looked like it.”

Lawine looked over at Kanne.

“Magic at the statue?”

“Probably worth checking out,” Kanne said.

Joey caught the last bit of the conversation as he walked up.

“Sounds like something’s happening. Want to go take a look?”

Lawine nodded.

“Yeah. Let’s see what’s going on.”

The group turned toward the plaza, following the sound of voices and the slow flow of people heading in the same direction.

…

Lawine and Kanne turned the final corner into the plaza, the sound of hushed conversation growing louder as more people gathered near the statue. Their brothers followed a few paces behind, distracted but still curious.

At the center of the square stood Frieren, her hand raised as a soft glow moved across the stone statue. Dirt vanished, moss crumbled, and the monument to the old Hero Party shimmered like it had just been carved. Fern and Stark stood nearby, watching quietly.

Kanne slowed, recognizing Fern first.

“Fern?” she called.

Fern looked up. Her eyes widened just slightly before she stepped forward.

Lawine and Kanne reached her quickly, both pulling her into a hug without hesitation.

“What are you doing here?” Lawine asked.

Fern pulled back and gave a tired sigh.

“We ran into a mimic chest,” she said. “Miss Frieren opened it thinking it had a grimoire. It didn’t. It ate all our food.”

Kanne blinked.

“All of it?”

“Everything,” Fern confirmed. “So now we’re resupplying before heading toward Aureol.”

Joey, Matthew, and Andrew arrived behind the girls, staring up at the freshly cleaned statue.

“She really did that?” Matthew asked.

“Looks brand new,” Andrew added.

Joey edged closer to the monument, eyes wide as he stared up at Frieren.

“You’re really her ,” he said. “The mage of the Hero Party. You defeated the Demon King.”

Matthew nodded, practically buzzing with excitement.

“We studied everything about you and Flamma.

 You're the reason I started practicing magic.”

Andrew was less talkative, but the awe in his expression said enough.

Frieren turned slowly, taking them in—three boys who’d grown up hearing stories that spanned centuries.

“Hm,” she said simply.

Then, with the faintest trace of a smile, she reached out and gave Joey a pat on the shoulder. He froze, stunned.

Matthew laughed nervously, and Frieren gave him the same gesture—light, absentminded, but strangely sincere.

When she did the same for Andrew, he grinned like he’d been knighted.

Fern watched with a quiet smirk.

“She doesn’t do that often,” she said.

“I’ll remember this forever,” Joey said softly.

Joey glanced between his siblings and the group of legendary adventurers still standing near the statue.

“Um... Miss Frieren?” he said, voice a little unsure. “Would you and your party want to join us for dinner later?”

Frieren blinked.

“Dinner?”

Matthew stepped in.

“Yeah! We were planning to make something simple back at the inn. We’d love to treat you—just a small thank-you. And we even have dessert.”

Frieren tilted her head, still noncommittal.

Andrew smiled, deciding to take the direct route.

“We brought chocolate cake.”

Frieren paused completely. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“...Chocolate cake?”

Fern let out a tiny sigh.

“And now she’s going.”

Frieren gave a quiet nod.

“I’ll come.”

After agreeing to dinner, the group began drifting toward the edge of the plaza, but Joey slowed and glanced at Fern and Frieren.

“Hey… do you mind coming with us for a sec?”

Fern looked curious but followed, and Stark trailed along, munching on something he'd bought from a nearby stall. They stopped near a quiet stone bench, tucked beside a low fountain.

Frieren turned to Joey with a raised brow.

“Is something wrong?”

Joey shook his head quickly.

“No, nothing like that. We just… uh, wanted to ask if you know any quiet, sort of meaningful spots around here.”

“Meaningful?” Frieren repeated, puzzled.

Matthew leaned in.

“Lawine wants to ask Kanne to be her girlfriend.”

Frieren tilted her head slightly, processing that.

Fern blinked.

“Wait—they’re not dating already?”

Andrew snorted.

“You thought they were?”

Fern gestured vaguely.

“They act like they are. Honestly, I assumed it months ago.”

Stark paused mid-bite.

“Huh. I did too.”

Frieren glanced back toward where the girls were chatting.

“That’s strange,” she murmured. “Himmel did something like that for me once. Said the setting mattered for big questions.”

The boys exchanged glances, intrigued.

“So… do you have a place like that here?” Joey asked again.

Frieren thought for a long moment.

“There’s a small grove just behind the western ridge. Flowers are still blooming. Himmel liked it because the birds there always sounded cheerful.”

She paused, then nodded.

“It should work.”

Andrew nudged Joey just before he sprinted off.

“Just grab the photo camera.”

Joey froze mid-step.

“Oh, right! One perfect shot—that’s even better.”

He darted off toward the inn, yelling over his shoulder, “Make it look natural!”

Back near the fountain, Frieren suddenly raised her voice again, turning to Lawine and Kanne.

“Hey—want to see a cool spot you’ve probably never heard of?”

Kanne blinked. “From you? That could mean anything.”

Frieren pointed toward the western ridge.

“Flowers, birds. Himmel used to call it the ‘cheerful place.’ No bugs, I checked.”

Lawine looked like she was holding her breath.

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Sure.”

Fern leaned in as they started walking.

“I’m definitely pretending not to know what’s going on.”

Stark whispered back.

“Wait, we do know, right?”

She smirked. “We definitely know.”

…

The path curved gently upward as they left the town behind, the last buildings giving way to sloping grass and scattered rocks. The summer air was still, heavy with warmth, and the only sound for a while was their feet crunching over the dry soil.

Lawine walked close to Kanne, her voice unusually quiet. Fern and Stark followed a few steps behind, letting them lead.

The hill wasn’t steep, but it opened quickly. When they reached the top, the view rolled out in front of them—a broad cliffside overlooking a glimmering stretch of forest and far-off lakes. The sun had started its descent, casting gold across everything. The edge of the sky burned in slow bands of orange and pink.

Kanne let out a soft breath.

“That’s… actually beautiful.”

Lawine smiled, trying not to look too nervous.

Behind them, Joey’s voice echoed faintly—louder than necessary as he jogged to catch up.

“Don’t move! This is perfect!”

They turned to see him scrambling up the hill with the camera clutched to his chest, triumphant and a little breathless.

Fern laughed softly.

“Well. No pressure now.”

Kanne stood near the edge of the cliff, watching Joey fiddle with the camera as the sky continued to change behind him. The golden light stretched across the trees like someone had painted it there. Her thoughts were half on the view and half on what this detour was really about.

She didn’t notice when Lawine stepped back behind her.

Didn’t hear the shuffle of boots on stone.

Didn’t realize Lawine had gone down on one knee.

Joey looked up from the camera and his eyes widened. He mouthed, “Now?”

Fern nodded.

“Now.”

Kanne turned around.

She froze.

Lawine was there, steady and nervous, hands clenched and voice just barely above a whisper.

“You’ve meant everything to me for the past seventeen years.”

Kanne stared, blinking slowly.

Lawine swallowed.

“I don’t think there’s been a day I didn’t want you in my life. And if you wanted to... if you’d be willing to be my girlfriend... that would be—”

Kanne dropped to her knees without thinking.

She threw her arms around Lawine and buried her face into her shoulder.

“Yes,” she said through tears. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Joey squinted through the viewfinder, adjusting the frame as Lawine and Kanne remained locked in their hug.

“Okay, hold it—just like that. It’s perfect,” he whispered, finger hovering over the shutter.

The moment was quiet, the light golden. Kanne’s face was buried against Lawine’s shoulder, tears still fresh in her eyes. Lawine held her close, still kneeling, steady despite the rush of emotion.

Joey clicked the shutter.

And then the camera fizzed.

Sputtered.

Let out a sad little pop.

“Wait—wait, what?”

A thin trail of smoke floated upward from the device. Joey opened the casing, too late. The flash mechanism had shorted. The camera was toast.

“Are you kidding me?” he muttered, staring down at the broken mess.

Andrew and Matthew jogged up behind him, having watched from a few paces down the hill.

“Did you at least get the shot?” Andrew asked.

Joey pulled out the one photo the camera had managed before combusting. He held it up carefully.

There it was: Lawine on one knee, Kanne mid-turn, her hand flying to her mouth, eyes wide, already tearing up.

The emotion was raw, frozen in a single, perfect frame.

Matthew let out a low whistle.

“Honestly? That’s better than what we were aiming for.”

Kanne stepped close and pulled Lawine into a hug, steady and firm.

Then she kissed her—longer this time. Lawine paused, then kissed her back without looking away. Her hand shifted to Kanne’s back. That was it. No words, no rush.

Andrew stared for half a second, then turned like he’d just walked into the wrong room.

Joey kept his eyes on the photo, but his jaw moved like he wanted to say 

Kanne gave Lawine one last glance, then turned to the group with a straight face.

“We’re dating now. Don’t make it weird.”

Chapter Text

Frieren sat silently in the corner of Kanne’s living room. The cushion beneath her had a slight tear at the seam, and the coffee table in front of her rocked a little on uneven legs. A few family photos hung crooked on the wall, their frames mismatched and faintly dust-lined. It wasn’t neglected—just lived-in, weathered by time and tight budgets.

From the kitchen, she heard Kanne and Lawine talking quietly. Something about how they didn’t have margarine, only butter this time—Lawine sounded pleased with the upgrade.

Then Kanne’s mother appeared, her steps slow but careful, cradling a chipped plate with a slice of cake. She crossed the room and placed it in Frieren’s hands with a tired but warm smile.

“You’re the guest tonight,” she said.

Frieren accepted it, nodding politely.

Before she could take a bite, the woman doubled over in a harsh, wet cough. Red spotted her palm.

Kanne dropped everything and rushed to her.

“Mom!”

Lawine moved instantly, steadying Kanne’s shoulder.

Frieren rose, unsettled.

“Is she…?”

Kanne didn’t answer right away, her hands now stained as she supported her mother’s weight.

“She’s sick,” she said eventually. “Lung cancer. She—she overdid it today.”

Her voice cracked.

Lawine stayed beside her, silent but grounding.

“Let’s get her to bed,” Kanne said, gently brushing her mother’s hair back. “She just needs rest.”

Frieren set the cake aside and offered a nod.

“I’ll help.”

They reached the top of the stairs, Kanne breathing hard as she gently guided her mother toward the bedroom. The woman was murmuring something under her breath, half-lucid, as Lawine helped ease her into the bed.

Frieren stood near the doorway, watching.

“No priest could help?” she asked again, quieter this time.

Lawine glanced over, expression unreadable.

“They tried. Years ago.”

She adjusted the pillow beneath Kanne’s mother’s head, then looked back at Frieren.

“Problem is, most of the temples that held advanced healing records… they were wiped out in demon attacks. Some during the war, some after. Quiet raids. Burned scrolls. Dead researchers.”

Her voice had a bite to it—controlled, but sharp.

“Healing magic like this isn’t practical in combat against the demon king. It wasn’t prioritized. Now it’s just gone.”

Kanne pulled a blanket over her mother with care, her hands lingering at the edges. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

Lawine crossed her arms, staring at the wall.

“They can still heal sword wounds and curses. But lungs collapsing from within? No one remembers how.”

Frieren nodded slowly, the weight of that loss sitting heavy in the room.

“I see.”

Kanne’s mother lay curled beneath the thin blanket, breathing slow and shallow. Her gaze drifted toward Frieren, faint but focused.

“It’s alright… if you can’t help,” she said. “I lived enough to see my girls become first-class mages. That… that’s already a miracle.”

Frieren stood still, unsure how to respond. Those words lodged somewhere deep inside her—not painful exactly, but familiar. Too familiar.

The room faded.

Years earlier. Himmel’s funeral.

The chapel had gone quiet after the prayers. Just flowers now. Quiet footfalls. Soft murmurs.

Frieren stood beside his casket, unmoving.

She’d thought she could handle it. That all the years with him were enough to prepare her. But when she saw his sword placed beside him—lightly polished—she broke.

Tears fell sharp and fast, too sudden for grace. Her shoulders shook. She didn’t wipe her face. Just grief, raw and open.

And no one tried to stop her.

Back to the present.

Kanne’s mother had closed her eyes again, drifting into shallow rest. Kanne sat nearby, watching her quietly, one hand on her mother’s wrist. Lawine hovered in the doorway, saying nothing.

Frieren’s chest ached.

She turned.

“I’ll help her. No matter what it takes.”

She spun and bolted down the stairs, heels echoing sharply against worn wood. Into the living room, then past the corner where she’d sat earlier.

She dropped to her knees and popped open her travel case, fingers moving fast through potions, scrolls, old diagrams written in fading ink.

“There has to be something,” she muttered. “Some lead. Some trace spell.”

“Frieren!”

Fern dashed in from the hallway, panting slightly, her eyes wide.

“What are you doing? You’re panicking.”

Frieren didn’t look up.

“I am,” she admitted. “But for good reason.”

She shoved aside a crumpled robe and reached into the bottom corner, fingers searching until they landed on something weighty—wrapped in dark, oil-stained cloth.

She pulled it free: a leather-bound tome, edges flaking, its spine almost peeled away.

“One hundred sixty years ago,” she said, rising to her feet, “I traveled through the Southern City of Vistral. It was a small place, mostly forgotten now. But their folk healers practiced magic nobody else understood. They compiled spells that modern temples ignored.”

Fern blinked.

“You kept one of their books?”

“Of course.”

Frieren moved quickly, up the stairs with the battered tome clutched tight, and returned to the bedroom where the others were still gathered—Kanne now sitting beside her mother, Lawine standing watch.

Everyone turned as Frieren entered.

She pulled a chair beside the bed and sat hard, dust puffing from the cushion.

Then she flipped the book open, fingers swift through the pages.

Old diagrams. Runic notations. Tissue regeneration, nerve repair, anti-necrotic layering. Each entry written in looping calligraphy, smudged by age.

“It’s in here,” she said, almost to herself. “I know it is. They wrote something for pulmonary decay… a spell modeled on the breath of mountain shamans.”

She turned another page.

Then another.

5 hours later (12pm)

Everyone had drifted off.

Kanne lay curled around her mother, one arm resting lightly over the blanket, her breathing shallow but steady. Lawine stayed close on the other side, head tipped back against the wall, asleep but not deep—more like waiting beneath the surface. Fern remained in the corner chair, blanket pulled tight around her shoulders. Stark snored gently on the floor, one arm over his face.

Only Frieren stayed awake.

She didn’t move much. Just turned pages slowly in the folk magic tome, scanning diagrams and handwritten notes. Her eyes were sharp but tired. Occasionally, she paused to read the margin scribbles—adjustments made by healers long gone.

The spell she found earlier was close, but not complete. She was trying to reconstruct what was missing, using fragments from other techniques. She muttered measurements under her breath, tested calculations in her head, and checked the back pages twice.

There wasn’t time to wait for morning.

Frieren’s eyes stopped on a page near the back of the book.

Pulmonary Collapse: Mana-Driven Restoration Procedure.

She read the instructions twice. It was complex—far beyond standard healing magic. The spell required active mana tuning, elemental stabilization, and high-precision incantation layering. Most healers wouldn’t attempt it alone.

Frieren could.

She closed the book with a sharp snap and stood.

“Wake up,” she said, firm but calm.

Lawine stirred instantly, sitting up. Kanne blinked, half-conscious, then fully awake as Frieren stepped toward the bed. Fern straightened in her chair, rubbing her eyes. Stark groaned from the floor.

“I found a spell that matches the condition,” Frieren said. “It’s complicated. Needs a lot of mana.”

Kanne looked up quickly.

“Can we do it?”

Frieren met her gaze.

“I can. I have enough mana on my own.”

No hesitation. No posturing. Just a statement of fact.

Lawine shifted, looking toward the book in Frieren’s hands.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She pulled the chair closer and sat beside the bed again. Her eyes stayed fixed on Kanne’s mother, then on the spell diagram as she reopened the tome.

“I’ll start now. Don’t interrupt once the casting begins.”

Frieren stood by the bed, the spellbook open in one hand. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. Then she spoke the incantation—clear and controlled.

The room shifted instantly.

Mana burst from her body. The pressure hit hard. Wind slid across the floor, through the windows and down the hallway. Outside, lanterns shook. Anyone awake would’ve felt it—the surge reached halfway through the town before settling.

Her hair lifted in the rush.

She knelt beside Kanne’s mom and placed her hands just above her chest. A pale light formed between her palms, thin and sharp. It passed through the skin, deeper inside.

The spell took effect.

It stabilized her breathing first. Then it scanned the damaged tissue. Slowly, carefully, Frieren rebuilt the lungs—one section at a time. Her face stayed calm. Sweat started to form at her temples.

Kanne watched, frozen. Lawine held her shoulder. Fern stood nearby, saying nothing.

Five minutes passed.

Frieren let go.

The glow disappeared. Kanne’s mom opened her eyes. Her breathing sounded normal.

Frieren blinked, then collapsed forward.

Fern caught her before she hit the floor.

“She’s fine,” Fern said. “Just passed out.”

Kanne’s mother blinked slowly, taking in the room, then exhaled—a deep, steady breath without pain.

“Feels like I can actually breathe again.”

Kanne dropped to her knees, arms wrapping around her mom as tears slipped down her cheeks. Her face pressed into the blanket, muffling a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh.

Lawine watched for a beat, then knelt beside her and wrapped one arm around Kanne’s shoulders and the other around her back. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—just weight and warmth.

“You’re not alone,” Lawine murmured, soft enough it could’ve been just for herself.

Across the room, Frieren snored lightly in Fern’s arms. Fern glanced over at the trio, eyes soft, then tucked Frieren into bed—gently, like setting down something fragile.

She pulled the blanket up to Frieren’s chin and brushed her bangs aside.“Sleep well.”

Lawine helped Kanne up and held her steady. Kanne didn’t let go—her arms stayed around Lawine’s waist the whole way to the bedroom. Neither of them said much. It wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Lawine pulled back the blanket and sat down first, giving Kanne space. But Kanne leaned in, resting her head against Lawine’s shoulder without hesitation. “Stay?” she asked, voice low. Lawine nodded and shifted to make room. They got under the blanket together. Kanne curled into her side, one arm draped across Lawine’s middle.

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?

Chapter Text

Aura summoned the Scales of Obedience. I felt the spell take hold— Auserlese . My soul and hers were placed on the scale. She stared at me, analyzing.

“You’re the mage who helped defeat the Demon King,” she said. “But your mana is weak. Maybe a hundred years of training. It hasn’t grown since then.”

She was confident. Too confident. She stepped forward, sword in hand. “I wasted time trying to wear you down. I’ll end it myself.”

The scale shifted.

Toward me.

Aura stopped. Her expression changed. “That’s not possible.”

I spoke plainly. “I’ve been suppressing my mana.”

She frowned. “There was no instability. No sign of concealment.”

“I’ve done it for so long it feels normal. It’s not efficient, but it works. Demons rely on reading mana. So I make mine unreadable.”

She shook her head. “I’ve lived over five hundred years. I know every trick.”

“I’ve lived for over a thousand.”

Then I released the restraint.

My mana surged. The scale tipped completely. Her body locked up. Her own spell turned against her.

I gave the command. “Kill yourself.”

She moved automatically. Her blade turned inward. Her hands shook, but she couldn’t stop.

Just before the blade reached her throat, she screamed.

“Please—spare my daughter!”

I paused.

She looked at me. Eyes wide. Voice shaking.

Aura’s blade pressed into her neck. Blood began to run down her collarbone, slow but steady. Her hands trembled violently as she tried to resist the command, but the spell held firm.

She screamed.

“Please—spare Linie! She’s just a child! She only did what I told her!”

Her voice cracked. Her body shook. The blade hadn’t gone deep, but the pain was real. Her eyes were wide, wet with tears. Not pride. Not defiance. Just fear.

I watched her for a moment. Then I spoke.

“Stop.”

Aura froze. Her arms locked in place. The blade remained against her skin, but she didn’t push further.

She was crying now. Not the quiet kind. Her breath hitched. Her shoulders shook. She looked at me like she didn’t understand why I’d stopped her.

I didn’t say anything else. I just stood there, letting the silence settle.

“You’ve killed hundreds of thousands,” I said. “Humans. Elves. Entire villages. Why should I believe you now?”

Aura’s voice cracked. “Because she’s innocent. She’s just a child.”

“She’s a demon,” I said. “You taught her to kill. To obey. To manipulate. That’s not innocence.”

“She didn’t choose this!” Aura shouted. “I raised her to survive. To follow me. She doesn’t understand anything else.”

I kept my tone flat. “And the people you slaughtered—did they get a choice?”

Aura’s hands trembled. “I did what I had to. For our kind. For survival.”

“You mean domination,” I said. “You used your magic to force obedience. You turned people into weapons. And now you’re begging for mercy.”

“She’s not like me,” Aura said, voice rising. “She can change. She’s young. She hasn’t killed like I have.”

I looked at her. “Demons lie. That’s what you do. You pretend to feel. You pretend to care. But it’s always a tactic.”

Aura’s tears streamed down her face. “I’m not lying. I swear it. I’ll do anything. Just let her live.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I just watched her struggle.

“Please,” she whispered. “I know I don’t deserve it. But she does.”

I thought about the villages. The burned homes. The children who didn’t get to beg.

Then I said, “You’re asking me to spare the future of your kind. After you spent centuries destroying mine.”

Aura nodded, frantic. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

I looked at her, calm and cold. “Then tell me why I should care.”

She broke. Her voice collapsed into sobs. “Because I’m her mother. Because I don’t want her to die like this. Because even monsters love their children.”

“You expect me to believe you care about her?” I said. “Demons don’t care about their children. You raise them to kill. To obey. To serve your goals.”

Aura flinched. “That’s not true. She’s my daughter.”

I raised my staff.

Aura saw it. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t.

I spoke without emotion. “Zoltraak.”

The beam shot forward—fast, precise. It struck her head directly.

Her horns disintegrated instantly. The top layer of her scalp burned, singeing her hair. She screamed, loud and broken. Her knees buckled, but the spell still held her upright.

She clutched at her head, sobbing. “It hurts—it hurts—please—!”

Blood ran down her temples. Her voice cracked.

“I failed her—I failed Linie—I couldn’t protect her—!”

She collapsed to the ground, twitching, breathing shallow. Her body shook from the pain. Her eyes rolled back. Then she went still.

Unconscious.

I lowered my staff.

The forest was quiet again.

I stood there, unmoving.

I had the chance to finish it. To end her. To make sure Linie never became a threat. That would’ve been simple. Clean.

But I hesitated.

I thought of Himmel.

He spared a demon once. Said it was the right thing to do. A week later, that demon burned down a village. No survivors.

I told him he was naïve. He didn’t argue. Just said, “If we don’t try, what’s the point?”

I didn’t understand it then. Maybe I still don’t.

But I remembered the look on his face. The way he talked to people. The way he believed in them, even when it didn’t make sense.

I’ve lived a long time. I know demons lie. I know they manipulate. I know they kill.

But I also know I’ve spent most of that time avoiding people. Avoiding connection. Avoiding change.

Maybe that’s not what Himmel would’ve wanted.

Maybe it’s time I try.

I turned away from Aura’s body and rose into the air. Mana gathered beneath me as I flew north.

Graf Granat’s domain wasn’t far. Stark and Fern were already there. If they saw Linie, they’d kill her without hesitation.

I needed to stop them.

Not because I believed in Aura plea fully.

But because Himmel would’ve tried if he was in the same position as me.

At Graf Granat’s Walls

I landed in Graf Granat’s domain just as the last light of day faded behind the hills. The city was quiet—too quiet. The battle was over, but the tension hadn’t left.

Fern stood near the fountain, her staff lowered but still alert. A demon slumped at her feet, his body breaking down slowly.

Lügner.

His skin had lost its color. His horns were cracked. His mana was unraveling, piece by piece. He looked up at me, barely conscious.

“Where… is Lady Aura?”

I stepped forward, voice steady. “She’s dead.”

Lügner didn’t scream. He didn’t fight. He just stared at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. His body trembled as the last of his strength gave out.

“She said… we’d win…”

Then he collapsed, dissolving into ash.

I turned to Fern. She was still watching the remains, her expression unreadable.

“You killed a powerful mage,” I said. “That’s not easy.”

Fern didn’t respond right away. Her grip on her staff loosened slightly.

“He was dangerous,” she said quietly.

I nodded. “And you didn’t hesitate.”

Graf Granat was nearby, sitting on the steps behind the plaza. His sword lay beside him, forgotten. When he heard me speak, he looked up—empty-eyed.

“So it’s over,” he said. “She’s gone.”

No anger. No relief. Just exhaustion.

I looked at him, then back at Fern.

“We’re not done,” I said. “We need to find Linie. Don’t kill her.”

Fern turned to me, confused. “She’s a demon.”

“I know,” I said. “But Himmel believed in giving people a chance. Even when it didn’t make sense.”

Fern hesitated. “And if she’s not?”

I glanced back at her, voice flat. “Then we kill her.”

Fern blinked.

I shrugged. “Trying doesn’t mean letting your guard down. It just means giving them a chance first.”

Fern exhaled, adjusting her grip on her staff. “You’re serious?”

I nodded. “Mostly.”

She didn’t smile, but her posture relaxed slightly.

We started walking.

Two bodies lay ahead in the clearing—one slumped against a tree, the other sprawled in the grass.

Fern broke into a run. “Stark!”

He groaned as she dropped to her knees beside him, clutching his shoulder. His face was twisted in pain, but he was breathing.

“Idiot,” Fern muttered, voice shaking. “You’re lucky you’re built like a fortress.”

Stark gave a weak smile. “I got her away from the village…”

Frieren didn’t respond. She was already moving toward the second figure, Graf Granat close behind.

Linie lay curled on her side, unconscious. Her right arm was gone below the elbow—just torn flesh and blood-soaked cloth. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears, and even in unconsciousness, she whimpered softly.

Granat knelt beside her, his expression grim. “She’s still alive.”

Frieren nodded, already casting a healing spell. “Barely.”

“She fought someone strong,” Granat said.

“She fought Stark,” Frieren replied. “And lost.”

Granat looked at her. “You said not to kill her.”

“I did.”

Frieren’s magic glowed faintly over Linie’s wounds, slowing the bleeding. Her voice was quiet. “She’s not dead yet.”

Linie whimpered, her body trembling as Frieren’s magic slowed the bleeding. Her eyes fluttered open—glassy, unfocused.

“Mama…” she whispered, voice thin and broken. “I want… my mama…”

Graf Granat’s expression didn’t change, but he moved gently, lifting her into his arms with practiced care. She didn’t resist—just cried softly, her head lolling against his chest.

“She’s in no condition to fight,” he said. “I’ll take her to the castle. We’ll put her in a cell. Somewhere clean.”

Stark, still leaning on Fern, nodded. “She’s dangerous. But she didn’t kill anyone.”

Granat looked to Frieren. “You said to give her a chance. This is the best I can offer.”

Frieren watched Linie for a long moment. Her crying had faded into shallow, exhausted breaths.

“That’s fair,” Frieren said.

Granat turned and started walking, Linie cradled in his arms like a wounded child.

Fern glanced at Frieren. “Do you think she meant it? About her mother?”

“I think,” Frieren said quietly, “she didn’t know what else to ask for.”

The castle was quiet as Graf Granat carried Linie through the halls. Her breathing was shallow, her face pale against his shoulder.

He paused outside the cell, looking down at her. She was barely conscious now, her tears dried into streaks of grime.

“She’s just a child,” he said softly. “It’s sad. How demons leave their young to fend for themselves.”

Frieren stood nearby, watching.

Granat shook his head. “I think about my son. About what it would take for me to abandon him like that. I can’t imagine it. Not even in war.”

He laid Linie gently on the cot inside the cell, careful not to jostle her injury.

“I want to hate her,” he admitted. “After everything. But all I see is someone shaped by a bad situation. A weapon made too early.”

Frieren stepped closer, her voice quiet. “That’s what demons do. They don’t raise children. They create tools.”

Granat locked the cell, but his hand lingered on the bars.

“She’s not a tool anymore,” he said. “She’s broken.”

Aura Pov

Pain.

That was the first thing she felt. Not sharp—just constant. Heavy. Her body ached in places she couldn’t name.

Aura opened her eyes slowly. The forest canopy above her blurred in and out of focus. Her head throbbed.

She reached up instinctively—her fingers brushed her scalp.

Her horns were gone.

She froze.

Her hand trembled as it touched the raw, burned skin where they used to be. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She just stared, breathing shallowly.

Then she reached inward.

Nothing.

Her mana—gone. Not sealed. Not suppressed. Just… absent. Like a limb that had been severed. She tried again, desperate, clawing at the empty space inside her where power used to flow.

Still nothing.

Aura rolled onto her side, dragging herself across the dirt. Her limbs barely responded. Her body was hollow. Her magic was hollow. She reached a tree and leaned against it, slumped, legs stretched out, head tilted back.

She tried to breathe normally. She couldn’t.

Her thoughts were scattered. Her body was broken. Her pride was gone.

She had lost.

She had failed.

And worst of all—she had left Linie alone.

The thought hit her harder than the pain. Where was she? Was she safe? Had she been captured—killed?

Aura’s breath caught. She tried to sit up straighter, but her muscles refused. Her vision blurred again.

She had promised to protect her.

She had promised.

Aura closed her eyes, trying to block out the pain. But it stayed. In her body. In her mind. In the silence where her mana used to be.

Frierens Pov

The gates of Graf Granat’s domain creaked open behind them.

The air was still. Clean. The kind of silence that comes after too much death.

Frieren walked at the front, her staff resting lightly in her hand. Her robes had been washed, her pack refilled—generous compensation for helping clean the battlefield. She hadn’t asked for it. But she hadn’t refused, either.

The scent of blood still lingered faintly in her memory.

Linie walked in the middle of their group, her steps slow and uneven. Her arm was gone—severed cleanly at the shoulder. The empty sleeve of her uniform flapped in the breeze, limp and useless.

She didn’t speak.

Her eyes were hollow. Not angry. Not defiant. Just… lost.

Aura was dead. Linie hadn’t seen the body, but she knew. Frieren had told her, plainly. No embellishment. No comfort.

Linie hadn’t cried.

Behind her, Fern and Stark kept their distance. Not openly hostile—but cautious. Fern’s eyes flicked to Linie’s back every few steps. Stark’s hand never strayed far from his sword.

Frieren didn’t blame them.

Linie had been an enemy. A demon. A killer.

Now she was just a child with one arm and no mother.

Frieren glanced up at the sky. The clouds were thin today. The road ahead was long.

She didn’t know what would become of Linie. Whether she’d stay with them. Whether she’d survive.

They left the road behind as the trees thickened, the path narrowing into forest.

Frieren slowed her pace.

“We have one more person to pick up,” she said quietly.

Fern groaned. “Not another one.”

She stepped off the path and pushed through the underbrush. Stark followed, hand on his sword.

A few moments passed.

Then Fern called out, voice tight. “Found her.”

Aura lay half-curled in the dirt, barely conscious. Her clothes were torn, caked in dried blood and mud. Her skin was bruised, her horns gone. She looked nothing like the proud general they’d fought.

Linie froze.

Then she ran.

She didn’t care about her missing arm, or the pain in her side—she just threw herself forward, sobbing, and collapsed into Aura’s chest.

“Mama!”

Aura winced, but wrapped her arms around her daughter, pulling her close. Her body shook. She whispered apologies through broken breaths.

“I’m sorry… I messed up… I’m sorry…”

Linie clung to her, crying harder.

Fern and Stark had drawn their weapons. Stark’s stance was tense. Fern’s eyes were locked on Aura’s hands, watching for any twitch.

Frieren stepped between them.

“She lost to the Scales of Obedience,” she said calmly. “She’s bound to my words now. If she ever threatens or harms anyone, she’ll be compelled to kill herself. Instantly.”

The forest was quiet.

Stark lowered his sword slightly. Fern didn’t move.

Frieren glanced back at Aura and Linie, still collapsed on the forest floor, sobbing into each other.

“I didn’t say anything earlier,” Frieren added. “If Graf Granat knew she was alive, he’d want revenge. We might never have left.”

Fern exhaled slowly. “You could’ve told us.”

“I could’ve,” Frieren said. “But you wouldn’t have walked away.”

Behind them, Aura held Linie like she was afraid to let go. Her body trembled. Her voice was hoarse.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

Aura clung to Linie like she was afraid her daughter might vanish if she let go.

Her hands trembled as they held her—one cradling Linie’s back, the other gripping the fabric of her uniform. She kept whispering apologies, voice hoarse and uneven.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

Linie didn’t speak. Her face was buried in Aura’s shoulder, tears soaking into the dirt-stained cloth. Her one remaining arm wrapped around her mother’s waist, holding tight.

They weren’t graceful. They weren’t composed. They just held each other, broken and crying in the middle of the forest.

Stark watched from a few steps back, sword lowered but still in hand.

“…It’s kind of cute,” he muttered. “Even when they’re not trying to kill you.”

Fern elbowed him hard in the stomach.

“Ow—okay, okay,” he wheezed.

Aura shifted slightly, brushing Linie’s hair back with shaking fingers. Her eyes were red, her expression hollow.

“I didn’t protect you,” she said softly. “I should’ve… I should’ve kept you safe.”

She looked down at Linie’s empty sleeve, flapping gently in the breeze.

“I’m sorry about your arm.”

Linie didn’t answer. She just pressed closer, her grip tightening.

Frieren stood nearby, silent. Watching.

She felt something stir in her chest. Not pity. Not forgiveness.

Just… something quiet.

Her lips curved into a small smile.

A memory surfaced.

Years ago, after the Demon King had fallen. Himmel had stood beside her on a cliff overlooking the ruins, wind tugging at his cape.

“I hope,” he’d said, “that one day humans and demons can coexist. Not all of them are monsters. Some just… never had a choice.”

Frieren had scoffed. “Naive.”

He’d smiled anyway. “Maybe. But wouldn’t it be nice?”

Back in the present, Frieren’s smile faded slightly.

Aura was a war criminal. A killer. Bound by magic to obey.

But right now, she was just a mother holding her daughter.

Maybe Himmel had been naive.

But maybe he hadn’t been as wrong as she once thought.

Chapter Text

The cavern walls pressed in around Lawine, slick with condensation and veined with glowing minerals that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. The air was heavy, stale, and filled with the distant drip of water echoing through the tunnels. Her staff trembled in her grip, the wood slick with sweat. She didn’t know how long she’d been walking—only that she was alone, and something was wrong.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. She spun, staff raised. From the shadows, Kanne emerged, she was all but a black figure breathless, her robes torn and dust-streaked. “Lawine,” she gasped, stumbling forward. “It’s me. You have to listen. It’s not what you think.”

Lawine took a step back, heart hammering. The Denton test. The doppelgänger. She had to be sure. But Kanne looked so real—her voice, her eyes, the way she moved. “You’re not her,” Lawine said, though her voice wavered.

“I am,” Kanne insisted, hands raised in surrender. “You remember the underground lake? The time we got trapped and you used your staff to knock loose the ceiling so we could climb out? You said I was useless, but you still held my hand the whole way.”

Lawine’s breath caught. She did remember. But that was the trick, wasn’t it? The double knew everything. It was designed to deceive. She couldn’t trust it. She couldn’t trust herself.

“I’m sorry,” Lawine whispered. Her grip tightened on the staff. Her mind was a storm of doubt and dread. The test demanded certainty. But how could she be certain when her heart was breaking?

Kanne stepped closer, voice trembling. “Please. You know me. You do.”

Lawine hesitated. The cavern seemed to close in, the walls pulsing with pressure. Her staff felt impossibly heavy. “If I’m wrong,” she said, “I’ll never forgive myself.”

Kanne’s eyes widened. “Wait—Lawine, no

Lawine swung the staff and a ice shard went flying into Kanne.

There was a sickening crack. Kanne crumpled to the ground, her body folding unnaturally. No flash of magic. No vanishing act. Just a body.

Lawine dropped to her knees, the staff clattering beside her. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.” She reached out, hands trembling, brushing Kanne’s cheek. It was warm. Still warm. But fading.

The cavern darkened. The pulsing light dimmed. Lawine felt the weight of the earth pressing down on her chest. She couldn’t breathe. She had killed her. She had killed Kanne. And for what? A test? A guess?

She screamed. A raw, broken sound that echoed through the tunnels. She clutched Kanne’s body, sobbing, begging for it to be a lie. “Come back,” she cried. “Please, come back.”

Then the world shattered.

…

She woke with a gasp.
Her room was dim, moonlight spilling through the window. Her body was drenched in sweat, her breath ragged.
Beside her, Kanne stirred, blinking sleepily.
Lawine didn’t speak. She just grabbed her—held her tight, arms wrapped around her like she never wanted to let go.
Kanne tensed for a moment, then relaxed, hugging her back.
Lawine buried her face in Kanne’s shoulder, tears slipping down her cheeks.
“I thought I lost you,” she whispered. “I saw it—I saw myself killing you.”

Kanne didn’t say anything. She just held her, warm and real.
Lawine cried quietly, clutching her like the dream hadn’t ended.
Kanne shifted slightly, brushing damp hair from Lawine’s forehead.
“You’re okay,” she murmured. “I’m right here and Alive.”
Lawine nodded, barely. Her breath hitched again.

Kanne leaned in and kissed her—lightly, gently—on the lips.You’re safe.
Lawine froze for a second, then melted into it, her fingers tightening around Kanne’s shirt.
When they parted, Kanne rested her forehead against Lawine’s.
“Do you want some water?” she asked softly.
Lawine whimpered, voice barely audible. “Yeah… please.”
Kanne slipped out of bed, quiet and careful, leaving Lawine curled under the blanket, still trembling.

…

Kanne had stepped out to get water, but paused in the hallway when she heard voices from the sitting room.
Lawine’s father was speaking—his tone calm, deliberate.
“…It’s not much,” he said. “Just a modest place. Two rooms, a garden. Close enough that the girls could see each other often.”
Kanne’s mother hesitated. “That’s… very generous.”
“It’s not charity,” he said. “It’s family. If Laien and Kanne are serious, then we should start thinking about what comes next. And I know Lawine would be happier with Kanne nearby.”
His voice carried the quiet authority of someone used to making things happen. Lawine’s family wasn’t flashy about their wealth, but everyone in town knew it. Their estate sat within the inner wall—where the oldest, most secure buildings stood. Stone foundations. Iron gates. The kind of place built to last generations.

Their house overlooked the market square, with walls that never cracked and a garden that bloomed even in early frost. Her father owned the lumber mill and half the farmland east of the river. He didn’t flaunt it—he just paid on time, helped when help was needed, and made sure no one went hungry in lean seasons.
Kanne had always felt a little out of place in their home. Not unwelcome—just aware. Aware of the polished floors, the quiet servants, the way people greeted Lawine with a mix of warmth and caution.
There was a pause.

Kanne didn’t move. Her heart beat a little faster.
Her father cleared his throat. “We’ll talk it over. But thank you.”
Lawine’s father nodded. “Take your time. I just wanted you to know the offer’s there.”
Kanne stepped back quietly, not wanting to interrupt.

She didn’t know what to say. But something in her chest felt warm. Like maybe—just maybe—this was what stability looked like.
And more than anything, she wanted to be closer to Lawine. To see her more often. To fall asleep beside her without worrying about distance or curfews or borrowed time. Just the two of them, together. Like it was normal.
. Like it was normal.

Chapter Text

Outside the city walls, the grass was soft and sun-warmed, the wind carrying the scent of pine and distant river water.
Kanne moved with bright energy, her staff spinning as she ducked and lunged. Her laughter echoed across the field—light, unguarded.
Lawine stood opposite her, more measured. Her stance was solid, her strikes precise. She didn’t smile, but her eyes followed Kanne with quiet focus, adjusting her footing to match the rhythm.
They weren’t sparring to win. Just to move. To be near each other.
A short distance away, Fern stood with Frieren, watching.
Frieren leaned in and whispered something low.

Fern’s eyes widened slightly. She glanced toward the two girls.
“Kanne, Lawine,” she called out. “Do you want to see something my mistress caught a while back?”
Kanne paused mid-spin, blinking. “Caught? Like… an animal?”
Fern shook her head. “Not exactly.”
Lawine lowered her staff, brows furrowed. “What kind of something?”
Frieren stepped forward, her voice as calm as ever.
“One of the Seven Sages of Destruction.”
The field went quiet.

Kanne’s mouth opened, then closed again. “Wait—what?”
Lawine didn’t speak. Her grip on her staff tightened slightly.
Fern nodded. “She’s been under Frierens control after Frieren caught her 2 years ago. We’re going to check on them both”
Kanne looked at Lawine, eyes wide. “We’re really going to see one of them?”
Lawine didn’t answer right away. Her gaze stayed on Frieren, searching her face for any sign of a joke.
There wasn’t one.

The path sloped downward, winding through sparse woods. Sunlight flickered between the leaves, casting shifting patterns on the dirt trail.
Kanne walked ahead, practically bouncing with each step. “So which one is it?” she asked, turning back toward Frieren. “Which Sage?”
Frieren’s gaze stayed forward. “Aura. The Guillotine.”
Kanne stopped walking for a moment. “Seriously?”
Lawine caught up beside her, brow furrowed. “Why haven’t you killed her?”
Frieren didn’t answer right away. Her voice, when it came, was quiet.
“She was… strange. After the battle, she didn’t fight. Didn’t try to escape. She just kept begging—for her child.”
Kanne blinked. “Wait, demons have kids?”

Lawine scoffed. “No way. Aura got pregnant?”
Fern, walking just behind them, spoke up without hesitation. “Demons reproduce asexually. They don’t need partners. It’s more like splitting off a part of themselves.”
Kanne made a face. “That’s kinda creepy.”
Lawine didn’t respond. Her eyes were narrowed, thoughtful.
Frieren glanced at her. “It wasn’t normal behavior. That’s why I kept her alive. I wanted to understand it.”
They walked in silence for a few moments more, the weight of the revelation settling over them.
Kanne looked at Lawine again, her voice quieter now. “Do you think she was telling the truth?”
Fern broke the silence. “She hasn’t caused trouble. She’s been… surprisingly agreeable.”
Lawine raised an eyebrow. “Aura?”

Fern nodded. “She waits outside large towns so people don’t panic. She’s been taking care of her daughter, Linie. It’s a huge anomaly. Mistress Frieren wants to study it.”
Kanne slowed her pace, eyes wide. “She’s raising her?”
Fern glanced at her. “Yes. Like a parent. Feeding her, teaching her spells. Protecting her.”
Lawine frowned. “That’s not normal. Demons don’t do that.”
“No,” Fern agreed. “They don’t.”
Frieren, still walking ahead, spoke without turning around. “If she ever tries to kill us, she’ll probably decapitate herself by accident.”
The group stopped.

Kanne blinked. “Uh…”
Lawine stared. “…Was that supposed to be a joke?”
Frieren looked back at them, expression unchanged. “Yes.”
Kanne gave a polite laugh, more out of sympathy than amusement. “You’re really bad at those.”
The trail ended at a jagged cliffside, where a narrow cave mouth opened between slabs of stone. Moss clung to the edges, and the air was damp with the scent of earth and lingering magic.
Frieren stepped forward, her voice echoing slightly against the stone. “Aura. Come out.”
There was a pause—long enough for Lawine to shift her stance, eyes narrowing.
Then, from the shadows, Aura emerged.

Her hair, once meticulously styled, now fell in loose, uneven waves of faded pink. Strands clung to her cheeks and collarbone, dulled by time and neglect. Her dress was tattered and old, the fabric frayed at the hem and torn at the sleeves. It hung off her like a memory of something once regal. Her eyes, pale and sharp, scanned the group without emotion. She looked thinner, quieter.
Behind her, a smaller figure stepped into view.
Linie walked with a slight limp, her left sleeve pinned up where her arm was missing. She wore a soft blue tunic and brown boots, and a wide-brimmed straw hat pulled low to hide the curve of her horns. Her remaining hand clung tightly to Aura’s, and her face lit up with a shy smile when she saw the visitors.
Kanne blinked. “She looks… normal.”

Lawine didn’t speak. Her gaze stayed locked on Aura, wary.
Aura didn’t react. She simply stood there, letting Linie lean against her side.
Frieren’s voice was calm. “She’s been like this for years. No aggression. No manipulation. Just care.”
Linie looked up at her mother, then back at the group. “Are they nice?” she asked softly.
Aura adjusted Linie’s hat, gently shielding her horns from view.
Kanne’s voice dropped. “She’s really raising her…”

Lawine’s jaw was tight. “Still doesn’t make sense.”
Aura’s eyes flicked between the unfamiliar faces. Her posture remained still, but her mouth pulled into a thin, clearly artificial smile—tight at the corners, not touching her eyes.
She spoke with deliberate politeness, her tone flat. “And who are these people?”
Frieren didn’t miss a beat. “The nice people who are letting you stay at their house.”
Aura’s smile didn’t change. “Ah. How generous.”
Linie, meanwhile, had wrapped both arms around her mother’s leg, pressing her cheek against the worn fabric of Aura’s dress. Her smile was small but real—soft, content. She didn’t seem to notice the tension in the air, or if she did, she didn’t care.
Kanne watched her, eyes wide. “She really loves you…”

Aura didn’t respond. Her hand rested lightly on Linie’s shoulder, fingers twitching once before going still.
Lawine’s gaze stayed sharp. “You’re not going to try anything, right?”
Aura looked at her, the fake smile still in place. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Frieren glanced at Fern, then back at the group. “She’s been cooperative. Begrudgingly.”
Linie looked up at her mother. “Are they inviting us for dinner?”
Aura blinked, then looked at Frieren. “Are you?”
Linie tugged gently at her mother’s dress, looking up with wide eyes. “Mama… can we go to their town? It’s been cold when we sleep in the woods.”
Aura glanced down at her, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she looked back at the group.
Kanne stepped forward, clearly unsure how to handle the situation but trying her best. “I mean… I could ask my parents? Maybe they’d let you stay at our place?”
Aura blinked once, then nodded. “Thank you. Both of us have been cold.”
Her voice was flat, but not mocking. Just honest.

She turned her gaze toward Frieren, who stood with arms crossed, unimpressed.
“It’s not that bad outside,” Frieren said dryly.
Aura stared at her for a beat. “You sleep with a barrier spell and a heat charm.”
Frieren didn’t deny it.
Linie hugged her mother’s leg again, her voice muffled. “I just want a blanket that doesn’t get wet…”
As the group lingered near the cave entrance, Linie wandered a few steps forward, her hat bobbing slightly with each movement. She crouched to pick up a smooth stone, then held it up proudly toward Kanne.
“Look! It’s shaped like a bunny!”
Kanne smiled. “It kinda is!”

Linie giggled and tucked it into her pocket like treasure.
Lawine watched her for a moment, then slowly crouched down to Linie’s level. Her voice was quieter than usual. “So… how’s your mommy been?”
Linie tilted her head, thinking. “She’s been the best these past two years.”
Lawine raised an eyebrow. “Just two?”
Linie nodded, still smiling. “Way better than the last eighty.”
Lawine blinked. “Eighty?”
Linie nodded again, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “She used to be scary. But now she makes soup and braids my hair. She even sings sometimes. Badly.”
Aura, standing nearby, didn’t react. But her fingers twitched slightly at her side.
Lawine looked up at her, then back at Linie. “That’s… good.”
Linie beamed and hugged Lawine’s arm briefly before skipping back to her mother’s side.
Lawine stood slowly, her expression unreadable.

As the sun dipped lower behind the hills, casting long shadows across the trail, Frieren turned to the group.
“The kind people in town have agreed to let two more guests stay in their home,” she said. “For two days. After that, we’ll be moving on.”
Aura gave a slow nod, her voice laced with forced warmth. “How lovely. A change of pace… to be in a home.”
Her smile was thin, practiced. But her eyes flicked toward Linie, softening just slightly.
Linie clapped her hands. “We get to sleep in a bed?”

Kanne grinned. “A real one. With blankets and everything.”
Linie turned to her mother, eyes wide. “Can we go now?”
Aura didn’t answer right away. Then, without a word, she bent down and lifted Linie into her arms.
Linie squealed happily, wrapping her one arm around Aura’s neck. Her hat tilted slightly, revealing the edge of a horn before Aura gently adjusted it back into place.
They started walking toward the village, Aura carrying her daughter with quiet ease.
Linie leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder. “I hope they have soup.”
Aura’s voice was low. “If they don’t, I’ll make it.”

Frieren watched them go, her expression unreadable.
Lawine walked beside her. “Still doesn’t feel real.”
Frieren shrugged. “That’s why we’re studying it.”
Fern walked beside them, her voice gentle. “That’s the idea.”
Linie tilted her head. “What idea?”

Fern glanced at Frieren, who was a few steps ahead, then back at Linie. “Mistress Frieren had someone she cared about. A hero named Himmel.”
Linie blinked. “Was he nice?”
Fern nodded. “Very. He wanted a world where humans and demons could live together. No fear. No fighting.”

Chapter Text

Aura walked stiffly down the cobbled street, her boots scuffing against the uneven stones. Linie clung to her arm, half-hiding behind the folds of her tattered dress, her wide-brimmed hat pulled low over her face.
She was scared. Aura could feel it in the way her daughter’s fingers gripped her sleeve—tight, urgent, like she expected something bad to happen, her young daughter dint know anything else.
Aura wasn’t sure herself.
The town was quiet, but not silent. People stood in doorways and behind carts, watching. Whispering.
Frieren walked ahead, calm as ever, with Fern and the others flanking her. Kanne kept glancing back, trying to smile reassuringly, while Lawine stayed unreadable.
Aura kept her gaze forward, but the whispers reached her ears anyway.
“Is that Aura, or am I to Drunk?”

”Aura has been dead for 2 years since a elf supposedly killed her.”

“…Her hair’s actually kind of cute.”

”….I like her body.”
Aura blinked.
She didn’t know how to respond to that. She hadn’t thought about her hair in years. It was tangled, faded, uneven—but apparently still “cute.” Whatever that meant to humans?
Linie tugged at her arm. “Mama… are they mad?”
Aura looked down at her. “No. Just confused.”
Linie nodded, but didn’t let go of Aura.

They passed a bakery, and a child inside pressed their face to the glass, staring at Linie’s hat. Aura instinctively shifted her body to block the view.
Frieren stopped at a gate and turned. “This is the house.”
Kanne stepped forward, unlocking the door. “It’s not fancy, but it’s warm.”
Aura nodded once, still unsure.
Linie looked up at her. “Can we please stay here, I don’t want to live in the woods anymore?”

Aura hesitated, then placed a hand gently on Linie’s shoulder. “No”
The door creaked open, and the scent of simmering stew drifted through the hallway. Inside, the kitchen was alive with soft chatter and clinking utensils. Kanne’s mother stood at the stove, stirring a pot, while Lawine’s mother chopped vegetables at the counter. Their voices were low, familiar, the kind that filled a house with comfort.
Aura stepped in cautiously, Linie still glued to her side. The girl’s hand had moved from Aura’s sleeve to her wrist, fingers curled tight. Aura didn’t shake her off. She let it be.
Kanne’s father turned from the fireplace, wiping his hands on a cloth. His eyes landed on Aura—and froze.
A beat passed.

Then he screamed.
“Get behind me!” he shouted, throwing out an arm toward Kanne. “That’s her! That’s Aura the Guillotine! Why is she in my house, she supposed to be dead”
The room snapped into silence. The ladle slipped from Kanne’s mother’s hand and clattered to the floor. Lawine’s mother dropped the knife.
Aura didn’t move.
Linie flinched, startled by the shout, and instinctively pressed herself against Aura’s side. Aura bent slightly, wrapping an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, shielding her without a word.
Frieren stepped forward, calm but firm. “She’s not here to hurt anyone,” she said. “She’s is trying to change.”
Kanne’s father didn’t lower his arm. “Changed? That woman slaughtered—”
“She’s didn’t want to hurt anyone, look she’s just protecting her child,” Frieren interrupted. “Look at her.”

Aura didn’t speak. She just held Linie close, her hand resting gently on the girl’s back. Linie peeked out from behind her, eyes wide and unsure.
“She’s not the Guillotine anymore,” Frieren said. “She’s a mother maby.”
The silence stretched. Kanne’s mother slowly picked up the ladle. Lawine’s mother stepped back from the counter, watching Aura with wary eyes.
Aura finally spoke, her voice low. “We don’t want trouble. Just a place to rest, please my daugher is starving of a real meal.”
Linie looked up at her. “Mama… can I sit by the fire?”
Aura nodded, brushing a strand of hair from Linie’s face.
Kanne’s father didn’t lower his stance, but his voice cracked with uncertainty.
“Under control?” he asked Frieren. “What does that mean?”

Frieren didn’t flinch. “Exactly what it sounds like. She’s bound by my magic. If she tried anything, I could stop her instantly.”
He glanced at Aura, then back at Frieren. “Then why bring her here?”
Frieren’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because I’m studying her.”
“Studying?”
“She’s showing behaviors I didn’t expect. Maternal instincts. Emotional restraint. I want to understand it as I haven’t seen this in my 1,000 years of existence”
Kanne’s father looked at Linie, curled by the fire, then at Aura—who hadn’t reacted to any of this. She simply turned, walked slowly across the room, and knelt beside her daughter.
Linie leaned into her immediately, her small hands clutching Aura’s sleeve again. Aura wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, her other hand gently stroking Linie’s hair.
No words to her just quiet comfort.

Frieren continued, her voice even. “She’s not the same person who led executions. She’s confused. Protective. Maybe even afraid.”
Lawine’s mother shifted uneasily, watching Aura’s hand move in slow, soothing circles across Linie’s back.
Kanne’s mother finally spoke, her voice soft. “She looks like a mother, are we sure she’s not tricking us.”
“She isn’t.” Frieren said. “She’s trying to nurture Linie whether she understands it or not.”
Aura didn’t look up. She murmured something inaudible to Linie, who nodded and tucked herself tighter against her side.
Kanne’s father lowered his arm, but didn’t sit. “If she stays,” he said, “I want her where you or Fern can see her.”
Frieren nodded. “She won’t leave Linie’s side.”

Aura glanced up briefly, her eyes meeting his. There was no threat in them. Just exhaustion.
“If Aura even thinks about hurting someone—through action or inaction—she’ll decapitate herself.”
The room went still.
Kanne’s father stared at her. “You’re serious.”

“I don’t joke about containment spells,” Frieren said. “It’s automatic. She doesn’t control it. I do.”
Aura didn’t react. She sat quietly by the fire, Linie curled in her lap. The girl’s hat had slipped slightly, revealing the edge of a horn, but Aura gently placed the hat next to her to allow Linie’s Horns to breath.
Linie was half-asleep, her cheek resting against her mother’s chest, one arm tucked under her chin. The other sleeve hung empty, pinned neatly at the shoulder.
Aura’s hand moved slowly across Linie’s back, rhythmic and steady. She didn’t look at anyone else. Just her daughter.
Kanne’s father exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He looked toward the fire, voice quieter now.
“What happened to her arm?”

Frieren didn’t answer immediately. She glanced at Aura, then back at him.
“It was lost in the battle,” she said. “Strark caused it. She’s been caring for her ever since then, for the past 2 years.”
Aura’s eyes flicked up, meeting him for a moment. There was no defensiveness in her gaze. Just a quiet acknowledgment.
Linie stirred, mumbling something soft, and Aura leaned down to whisper back, her voice low and steady and kissed her on the cheek.
Kanne’s father watched them for a long moment, then sat down slowly at the table.
“She stays in the living room,” he said. “And she doesn’t leave the house without one of you.

….

The front door creaked open.

Lawine’s father stepped inside, “You all ready to go check on the new house?”
He was halfway through the sentence when he spotted the fire—and froze.
Aura sat there, unmoving, with a child nestled in her lap. The flickering light caught the curve of Linie’s horn and the empty sleeve of her coat.
Lawine’s dad blinked. “Uh—”
Lawine stepped up beside him, casually tugging his sleeve. “It’s fine. That’s Aura. She’s with Frieren.”
He didn’t move. “She’s just… sitting there?”

“Yeah,” Lawine said. “She’s Linie’s mom. She’s not gonna do anything.”
He looked at Frieren, then at Aura again. “Right. Okay. Sure.”
“You’ll see.”
Fern didn’t get up. She was seated by the window, notebook open, eyes flicking toward Aura.
“I’m staying,” Fern said. “Someone needs to keep watch.”

Frieren nodded. “I’ll be back after the walkthrough.”
Outside, Lawine’s dad led the way through the long grass, chatting with Kanne’s parents. Lawine and Kanne walked ahead, their boots crunching in rhythm, voices light with anticipation.
…
Inside the house, Aura remained seated by the fire.
She hadn’t moved since Frieren left with the others. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers loosely interlaced. The fire crackled quietly, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls.
Her dress was old—clearly once ceremonial, now dulled by time. The magenta cape had faded to a muted plum, its edges frayed and uneven. The black tunic beneath was torn at the collar, the gold trim tarnished and peeling. Her gloves were worn thin, with small holes at the fingertips and seams that had begun to split.
She didn’t seem to notice.

Her gaze was fixed on the flames, unmoving. The light danced across her face, catching the curve of her horns and the faint lines beneath her eyes.
Behind her, Fern sat at the table, writing in her ledger. She didn’t speak, but her presence was steady—watchful without being intrusive.
“Aura,” she said quietly. “Do you feel alright?”
Aura didn’t move for a moment. Then she spoke, her voice flat and direct.
“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m not free. But I’m not dead. And my child is alive.”
Fern blinked, but didn’t interrupt.
Aura’s eyes stayed on the hearth. “It’s strange. I haven’t felt this in five hundred years.”
Fern leaned forward slightly. “What do you mean?”

Aura’s fingers brushed the frayed edge of her cape. “This… weight. This ache. It’s not pain. It’s not fear. It’s something else.”
She paused, then turned her head just enough to glance at Fern.
“Macht told me once,” she said, “that humans feel things they can’t name. That they carry emotions like parasites. That they mourn even when nothing is lost.”
Fern’s expression didn’t change, but her grip on the pen tightened.
“I thought he was being poetic,” Aura said. “Or cruel. But now I think he was just describing this.”
She looked back at the hearth.
“I don’t know what it is. But it’s here. And it’s not leaving.”
Fern stood slowly, closing her ledger with care. She crossed the room without speaking, her footsteps soft against the warm stone floor.
Aura didn’t look up.

Linie had returned to her lap sometime earlier, curled against her chest, half-asleep. Aura’s arms were wrapped around her loosely, her posture still and protective.
Fern knelt beside the chair, not too close. Just enough to be present.
Aura’s voice broke the silence, low and trembling.
“This is wrong.”
Fern didn’t respond.
Aura’s grip tightened around Linie. “It feels wrong. I don’t know what this is. I shouldn’t feel it.”
Linie stirred slightly, murmuring something soft, but Aura didn’t stop.
“I’m afraid,” she said. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to give her a good life. I don’t know how. I wasn’t raised for that. I was raised to kill. To command. To win.”
Her voice cracked.
“I’m a demon. That’s all I’ve ever been.”

Fern’s expression softened, but she stayed quiet.
Aura pressed her face into Linie’s hair, her shoulders trembling.
“Can demons like me be redeemed?” she whispered. “Can we change? Or is this just… borrowed time?”
Linie shifted in her sleep, one hand brushing against Aura’s arm.
Aura cried quietly into her daughter’s side, her tears soaking into the worn fabric of her dress.
Fern reached out, slowly, and rested a hand on the arm of the chair—not touching Aura, just anchoring herself nearby.
Aura lifted her head slowly, her eyes red and wet with tears.
She looked at Fern, voice barely above a whisper.

“If someone kills me… for what I’ve done…”
Fern didn’t move.
Aura’s throat tightened. “Can you promise to take care of her?”
She looked down at Linie, curled against her chest. The girl’s body was that of someone in her 13-15—frail, thin, her skin pale and papery. But her eyes, when open, held a child’s confusion. Her speech was simple. Her reactions slow.
“She’s stunted,” Aura said. “Because of me. Because I didn’t know how to raise her. I kept her close. I kept her safe. But I didn’t let her grow in the right go ways.”
Fern’s gaze didn’t waver.
“I tried to protect her,” Aura said. “But I didn’t teach her how to live.”

She brushed Linie’s hair back gently, her hand trembling.
“She’s all I have. And if I die… I need to know someone will care for her. Not just watch her. Care.”
Fern nodded once, slowly.
“I promise,” she said.
Aura stared at her for a long moment, searching for hesitation. There was none.
“Thank you, even if I don't deserve this.”
Aura leaned back slightly in the chair, Linie tucked against her side, her breathing slow and even.
The fire crackled softly, casting long shadows across the stone floor.
Fern remained seated nearby, her presence quiet but unwavering.

Outside, the last light of summer dusk slipped below the horizon.
And inside, for the first time in a long while, Aura let herself rest.

…

The town was quiet in the late afternoon. Lawine and Kanne walked side by side, their sandals tapping against the stone path.
Their parents followed behind, talking casually. Lawine’s dad had a folded map under his arm. Kanne’s mom was pointing out something about the neighborhood. Frieren walked a few steps back, listening but not saying much.
They turned a corner, and the house came into view.
It was two stories, built from light-colored stone with dark wood trim. The windows were large and clean. There was a small garden out front with some flowers and vines. The roof looked new, and the front door had a carved design.
Lawine stopped. “That’s it?”

Kanne nodded slowly. “Looks better than I expected.”
Her dad said, “It’s yours now. Well—your family’s.”
Kanne’s mom added, “We wanted you nearby. And it’s nice that you’ll be close to Lawine.”
Lawine smiled. “Five minutes from my place. I checked.”
Kanne raised an eyebrow. “You timed it?”
“Obviously.”
Frieren looked at the house. “Good location. Easy to keep an eye on things.”
Lawine’s dad opened the gate. “Go ahead. Take a look.”

Kanne and Lawine walked up the path. The door opened easily, and the inside smelled like fresh wood.
Lawine turned to Kanne. “We can hang out all the time now.”
Kanne nodded. “Yeah. I’m glad.”
Lawine stepped through the front door first, her eyes scanning the entryway. The floor was smooth stone, clean and cool underfoot. A small rug sat just inside the door, plain but new. The walls were painted a soft cream color, and the light from the windows made everything feel open.
Kanne followed behind, looking around slowly. “This is… way nicer than I thought.”
Lawine nodded. “Same. I thought it’d be cramped and dusty.”

To the left was a sitting room with two wide windows facing the street. The furniture was simple—two chairs, a low table, and a shelf built into the wall—but everything looked solid and well-kept. The chairs had cushions that actually matched, and the shelf had space for books or decorations.
Lawine walked over and opened one of the windows. “These are real wood frames. Not cheap stuff.”
Kanne ran her hand along the windowsill. “And no drafts. Someone actually sealed this properly.”
They moved into the kitchen next. It was bigger than expected, with a long counter, a deep sink, and cabinets that didn’t creak when opened. There was a small pantry tucked into the corner, already stocked with a few basics—flour, salt, dried herbs.
Kanne opened a drawer. “Even the utensils are new.”

Lawine checked the stove. “This is a good model. My dad’s been trying to get one like this for months.”
There was a small dining area next to the kitchen, with a sturdy table and four chairs. The table had a few scuffs, but it had clearly been cleaned and polished. A simple cloth runner stretched across the center, and a ceramic bowl sat on top, filled with fresh fruit.
Kanne raised an eyebrow. “They really went all out.”
Lawine shrugged. “Guess they wanted it to feel like a real home.”
They headed upstairs next. The staircase was narrow but solid, with a handrail that didn’t wobble. At the top was a short hallway with three doors—two bedrooms and a small washroom.
Lawine opened the first bedroom door. It was bright, with a large window facing the back garden. The bed was made, the sheets crisp and clean. A small desk sat under the window, and there was a wardrobe built into the wall.
“This is definitely yours,” Lawine said.

Kanne stepped inside, looking around. “It’s perfect. I didn’t think I’d get a desk.”
Lawine opened the second bedroom. It was slightly smaller, but still nice. The bed was tucked into the corner, and there was a shelf above the headboard for books or personal things. A small dresser stood against the opposite wall.
“This one’s for your parents,” Lawine said.
Kanne nodded. “They’ll like it. It’s quiet.”
The washroom was clean and modern. A proper basin, a mirror, and even a small cabinet for supplies. The plumbing looked new, and the tile floor was smooth and cool.
Lawine leaned against the doorframe. “This is way better than our old place.”
Kanne smiled. “It actually feels like somewhere we can stay. Not just survive.”
They went back downstairs and stepped out into the garden. It wasn’t big, but it was well-kept. A few flowering bushes lined the fence, and there was a small patch of soil for planting. A bench sat under a tree, shaded and quiet.
Lawine sat down. “You’re gonna love this spot in the mornings.”
Kanne joined her. “I already do.”

Lawine looked at Kanne. “So… when do we move in?”
Kanne grinned. “Soon, I hope.”
Lawine leaned back on the bench, looking up at the sky. “Five minutes from my place. I still can’t believe it.”
They climbed the stairs again, this time slower, the house quieter now that the adults had stepped outside to talk logistics. Kanne paused at the top, glancing down the hall.
“Think they’re in one of the bedrooms?” she asked.
Lawine shrugged. “Let’s check yours first.”
Kanne pushed open the door to her room. The sunlight had shifted, casting warm streaks across the floorboards. The bed still looked untouched—neatly made, corners tucked tight. No sign of her parents.
Lawine stepped in behind her, looking around again. “Still feels weird. Like it’s too nice to be ours.”
Kanne nodded, then hesitated. Her voice came out quieter than she meant. “You… wanna test the bed?”
Lawine turned to her, eyebrows raised. “Test it?”

Kanne’s face went red. “I mean—just to see if it’s comfy. Not like—ugh, never mind.”
Lawine grinned. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”

Before Kanne could protest again, Lawine took two quick steps forward and flopped onto the bed, arms spread wide. The mattress gave a soft bounce, and she let out a satisfied sigh.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “This is way better than my old one.”
Kanne stood frozen for a second, then laughed nervously. “You didn’t even take your shoes off.”
Lawine kicked them off half-heartedly, then rolled onto her side and reached out. “Come here.”
Kanne hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the bed. Lawine didn’t wait—she pulled her into a hug, warm and sudden, burying her face in Kanne’s shoulder.
“You’re tense,” Lawine mumbled.

“I wasn’t expecting a tackle.”
Lawine didn’t let go. “You’re allowed to be happy, you know.”
Kanne relaxed into the hug, her heart still fluttering. “I am. Just… not used to it.”
They stayed like that for a moment, the house quiet around them. Outside, footsteps echoed faintly—probably their parents heading back toward the gate.
Lawine pulled back slightly, her expression softer now. “We’re gonna make this place ours. You’ll see.”
Kanne shifted slightly, her back against the headboard now, legs curled beneath her. Lawine stayed close, half-lounging beside her, one arm draped loosely around Kanne’s waist. The room was quiet, the late afternoon light softening everything it touched.
Lawine’s head rested against Kanne’s shoulder, her breath warm and steady. “You smell like mint,” she murmured.
Kanne blinked. “It’s the soap. I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“I notice everything,” Lawine said, voice low and teasing.
Kanne smiled, then turned her head slightly. Lawine looked up at her, eyes steady, unreadable in that way that always made Kanne feel like she was standing on the edge of something important.
“You okay?” Lawine asked.
Kanne nodded. “Just… kind of overwhelmed. But in a good way.”
Lawine reached up and brushed a strand of hair from Kanne’s face. Her fingers lingered for a second, then she leaned in and kissed her—soft, brief, more grounding than romantic. Kanne’s breath caught, but she didn’t pull away.
They stayed close, foreheads touching, arms wrapped around each other in a quiet tangle. Kanne’s heart was still racing, but it wasn’t nerves anymore. It was something steadier. Safer.
Then the door creaked open.

“Kanne?” her mother’s voice called, light and casual—until she saw them.
Lawine sat up fast, nearly knocking her head on the shelf above the bed. Kanne scrambled to straighten her shirt, cheeks flushed deep red.
Her parents stood in the doorway, blinking. Her mom looked surprised but not angry. Her dad glanced at Lawine, then at Kanne, then back again.
“Sorry,” her mom said, after a beat. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Lawine cleared her throat. “We were just… testing the bed.”
Kanne buried her face in her hands. “Oh my god.”
Her dad coughed into his sleeve, clearly trying not to laugh. “Well. It seems sturdy.”
Her mom gave a small smile. “We’ll let you two finish… whatever this is.”
They closed the door gently behind them.

Lawine flopped back onto the bed, groaning. “I want to disappear.”
Kanne peeked through her fingers. “They’re never letting me live that down.”
Lawine reached over and squeezed her hand. “At least the bed passed inspection.”
Kanne laughed, despite herself. “You’re the worst.”
…
Later that evening, after dinner and a few awkward glances from her parents that Kanne tried very hard to ignore, she and Lawine sat on the back steps of the house. The garden was quiet, the sky streaked with fading orange. A few fireflies blinked lazily near the bushes.
Lawine stretched her legs out, leaning back on her hands. “So. Real question.”
Kanne glanced over. “Go on.”

“Do you think we should help Aura and Linie get new clothes?”
Kanne blinked. “New clothes?”
Lawine nodded. “Aura’s outfit looks like it crawled out of a villain museum. Black leather, weird shoulder things, half a cape. It screams ‘I used to be evil, ask me how.’”
Kanne stifled a laugh. “It’s… dramatic, yeah.”
“And Linie’s still wearing that old uniform,” Lawine added. “It’s clean, but it’s stiff. Doesn’t look comfortable for a child here age.”
Kanne tilted her head. “You think it makes them stand out too much?”
“Definitely,” Lawine said. “Aura walks into town and people stare like she’s about to cast a curse. If we want them to blend in, they need normal clothes. Soft stuff. Earth tones. Maybe a cardigan.”
Kanne raised an eyebrow. “You want to put Aura in a cardigan?”

Lawine shrugged. “Why not? She’s a mom now. She should look like one.”
Kanne considered it. “It might help. Linie’s been trying so hard to act normal, but she still looks like she’s waiting for orders from someone.”
“Exactly,” Lawine said. “We get them something casual. Something that says ‘I’m just here to buy bread, not conquer the continent.’”
Kanne smiled. “You’re surprisingly good at this.”
Lawine nudged her. “I have taste. And I care. Don’t act so shocked.”

Kanne looked out at the garden. “We could ask Frieren if she knows a tailor who won’t ask questions.”
“Or we just take Aura shopping,” Lawine said. “Let her pick, but steer her away from anything wich make her look like that with how much skin is shwoing.”
Kanne laughed. “You think she’d go for it?”
Lawine paused. “If Linie asks her, probably. She listens to her kid more than she lets on.”
Kanne nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it. Tomorrow?”

Chapter Text

She woke up in silence.
The room was dim. Early light came through the window, but not much. The curtains were thin, and the glass was old. Everything felt still.
Her back hurt.
The couch was stiff. She hadn’t meant to sleep on it, but Linie had curled up beside her last night, too tired to move. Aura didn’t want to wake her. So she stayed. Now her spine was sore.
Linie was still asleep.
Her head rested against Aura’s chest, one arm across her stomach. Her breathing was slow. Aura could feel it through the fabric of Linie’s tunic—steady, quiet.
She didn’t move.
Her arms were around the girl. At first loose, then tighter. She pulled Linie in a little closer, until her cheek touched the top of Linie’s head.
Linie didn’t stir.
Aura stared at the ceiling. The plaster was uneven. A crack ran from one corner to the light fixture. She followed it with her eyes, then shut them again.
She felt tired.

Not just from the couch. From everything.
Linie’s body was small. Her skin was pale, her limbs thin. She looked older than she was. Aura had kept her close. Too close. Shielded her. Controlled her. Protected her from everything except herself.
She hadn’t meant to do that.
She hadn’t meant to raise her like a soldier, but that was the only way she knew how to raise.
But that’s what she knew.
Aura opened her eyes. Linie shifted slightly, pressing closer. Her fingers curled against Aura’s side.
Aura held her tighter.
She didn’t cry. But her chest hurt. Not from the couch. From something else.
She looked down at Linie’s face. Peaceful. Still.
“I’m sorry,” Aura said quietly.
Linie didn’t hear her.

Linie was still tucked against her, warm and quiet. Her breath brushed against Aura’s collarbone. Aura shifted slightly, careful not to wake her, and let her hand drift up to Linie’s head.
She ran her fingers through the girl’s hair, slow and gentle. The strands were soft, a little tangled. Her hand paused at the base of Linie’s horns—small, smooth, barely curved. Aura traced the edge of one with her thumb, then the other.
Linie didn’t stir, but her shoulders relaxed.
Aura kept going, massaging the base of each horn with quiet care. Her fingers moved in slow circles, just enough pressure to soothe. Linie’s brow softened. Her grip on Aura’s shirt loosened, then tightened again.
Aura leaned down and pressed her cheek against Linie’s hair.
Footsteps creaked on the stairs.
Aura looked up. Lawine and Kanne had stopped halfway down, peeking into the room. Lawine’s mouth opened, then closed again. Kanne nudged her.
“She looks so cute,” Lawine whispered.
“With her daughter,” Kanne added, smiling.
Aura didn’t react. She just kept stroking Linie’s horns, her expression unreadable but calm.
Lawine leaned against the railing. “I didn’t know demons could be soft.”
Lawine gave a small wave. “Morning.”

Kanne smiled. “Did you sleep okay?”
Aura looked up. Her voice was flat. “Fine.”
Linie was still curled against her, half-asleep. Aura hadn’t moved much. Her arms were still around the girl, her hand resting lightly on one of Linie’s horns.
Lawine sat on the arm of the couch. “We were thinking of heading out later. Maybe get some clothes.”
“For you and Linie,” Kanne added. “If you want.”
Aura blinked. “Yes.”
She didn’t hesitate. But after a pause, she added, “What do I have to do to earn it?”
Lawine tilted her head. “Nothing.”
Aura stared at her.

“It’s not a reward,” Lawine said. “We just want you to feel comfortable.”
Aura’s voice didn’t change. “Why?”
Lawine shrugged. “Because we care.”
Aura didn’t respond right away. Her fingers moved absently over Linie’s horn again, tracing the curve.
No demon would offer this.
No one had ever offered this.
Not without a price. Not without a reason.
She looked at Lawine. “That’s not normal.”

“This is the kind of stuff humans do for each other,” she said. “Little things. Comfort. Care. You don’t have to earn it.”
Aura didn’t look up right away.
Her voice was quiet. “I wish she could’ve been human.”
Lawine didn’t answer.
Aura kept her eyes on Linie’s face. Her fingers paused, then resumed their slow motion.
“She would’ve had a childhood,” Aura said. “Friends. A school. A life that wasn’t built around me.”
Her tone was flat, but the words weren’t.
“She would’ve learned softness from someone who didn’t have to fake it.”
Lawine sat still.

Kanne shifted slightly, but didn’t speak.
Aura’s grip on Linie tightened just a little. Not enough to wake her. Just enough to feel the weight of her.
“She’s not human,” Aura said. “And I raised her like a weapon.”
Lawine spoke gently. “She’s still a girl. And she’s still yours, it's not too late to train her.”
Aura kept her eyes on Linie.
“She’s lucky,” she said quietly. “To have this. A warm room. People who care.”
Lawine tilted her head. “You have it too.”
Aura didn’t answer right away.

“I wish I could stay here,” she said. “With people like this. I never had that.”
Kanne sat down beside her, careful not to crowd. “What was your life like before this?”
Aura didn’t look at her. Her voice stayed even.
“My mother left me. Five hundred years ago. She said I was strong enough to survive, so she walked away.”
Lawine frowned. “Just like that?”
Aura nodded. “I was a child. But demons don’t raise children. They shape them. Or discard them.”
She paused.
“I learned to fight. To kill. To stay alive. That was enough.”
Kanne’s voice was soft. “Did you ever have anyone?”
Aura’s fingers moved over Linie’s horn again.

“No connection. No warmth. Every demon I met taught me how to hate. How to destroy. That was the only language they spoke.”
She hesitated.
“Except Macht.”
Lawine raised an eyebrow. “Macht?”
Aura nodded. “He’s strange. Quiet. Detached. But he never tried to break me. He never tried to use me as far as I know.”
Her voice lowered.
Across from them, Lawine had shifted into Kanne’s lap. Her legs were curled up, her head resting against Kanne’s shoulder. Kanne absentmindedly patted her on the head, fingers brushing through her hair with slow, gentle motions.
Lawine didn’t say anything. She just leaned into it, eyes half-closed.
Aura watched them.

She didn’t speak for a moment. Then, dryly:
“I wish I could have something like that.”
Lawine blinked.
Kanne’s hand paused.
Both of them looked at Aura.
There was no sarcasm in her voice. No edge. Just quiet honesty.
Lawine cleared her throat. “You mean—like us?”
Aura nodded. “A bond. Something soft. Something that doesn’t feel like a transaction.”
Kanne smiled, a little shy. “It’s not perfect.
Lawine looked away, her cheeks slightly pink. “You’re not supposed to say things like that out loud.”
Aura raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
Lawine muttered, “Because it’s embarrassing.”

Kanne laughed softly and resumed patting her head.
Aura didn’t smile. But her gaze lingered.
“I want to feel things like you do.”
Lawine glanced up.
Aura’s voice stayed flat. “Embarrassment. Love. Lust. Caring for someone without needing a reason.”
Kanne didn’t interrupt.

“I’ve mimicked it,” Aura said. “I’ve used it. I’ve seen it in others. But I don’t know what it feels like.”
She looked down at Linie, still asleep in her arms.
“I think I care about her. I think I love her. But I don’t know if that’s what it is, or just instinct.”
Lawine sat up slightly in Kanne’s lap. “It is what it is. You’re holding her. You’re protecting her. That’s not mimicry.”
Aura didn’t respond.
She looked at Lawine. “You blush when she touches you.”
Lawine’s face turned red instantly. “Don’t say it like that.”
Aura tilted her head. “That’s what I want. To feel something so strong it shows on my face.”
Kanne smiled softly. “You’re closer than you think.”
Aura looked down again.

Linie shifted slightly, her fingers curling against Aura’s side.
Aura held her tighter.
She didn’t blush. She didn’t tremble. But something in her chest moved—just a little.

Linie stirred.
Her eyes opened slowly, blinking against the soft morning light. She didn’t speak right away—just shifted her weight and tucked her head under Aura’s chin.
One arm wrapped around Aura’s side in a sleepy hug.
Aura looked down, her hand instinctively resting on Linie’s back.
“Morning,” Kanne said gently.
Linie turned her head, still half-curled against her mother. “Hi.”
Kanne smiled. “Your horns look really nice today.”

Linie blinked. “They do?”
“Very elegant,” Kanne said. “They suit you.”
Linie sat up a little straighter, her cheeks pink. “Thanks.”
She looked around the room, then back at Aura. “Did we sleep here all night?”
Aura nodded. “You didn’t move. I didn’t want to wake you.”
Linie smiled and leaned back into her mother’s side. “It was warm.”
Lawine stretched her arms and stood. “So. Clothes?”
Linie tilted her head. “Clothes?”
“For you and Mommy,” Lawine said. “You want to pick something out today?”
Linie’s eyes lit up. “Yes please!”
She looked up at Aura. “Mommy really deserves it.”

Aura blinked. “Do I?”
Linie nodded firmly. “You always take care of me. Now I want to help you look nice.”
Aura didn’t respond right away. Her hand moved to Linie’s horn again, brushing it gently.
Before they left the room, Aura paused.
Her voice was low. “Lawine. Kanne.”
Both turned.
Aura didn’t meet their eyes. “I don’t know everything I did. Not really. But… I think I hurt people. You. Maybe.”
Lawine blinked. Kanne’s expression softened.
Aura’s hand rested on Linie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand it all yet. But it feels wrong. And I think I was wrong.”
There was a long silence.

Then Lawine stepped forward and nodded. “Thanks.”
Kanne added, “That means a lot.”
Aura looked at them, uncertain.
Lawine shrugged. “You’re trying. That’s enough for now.”
Kanne smiled. “Let’s go find something soft and ridiculous for you to wear.”
Linie giggled and tugged Aura’s hand. “Come on, Mommy!”
Aura followed, quiet again. But her steps were lighter.

Chapter Text

The village square was busy. Merchants had set up stalls with fabric, dried herbs, and carved toys. Fern stood with her arms crossed, watching Aura and Linie like she’d been assigned a job she didn’t ask for. Frieren was asleep at Kannes house, so Fern was stuck supervising the two demons—just in case.

Aura didn’t seem to notice. She wore the same outfit she always had—dark, high-collared, and worn down. The sleeves were uneven, and the edges were starting to fray. She stopped at a rack of scarves, looked at them for a while, then moved on without touching anything.

Fern sighed. “This is going to be a long day.”

Lawine leaned against a wooden post, chewing something sticky. “You’re acting like they’re going to rob the bakery.”

“They’re demons,” Fern said. “I’m supposed to keep an eye on them.”

Lawine shrugged. “They’re shopping.”

Linie ran past them toward a stall with socks on display. “Kanne! Look at this one!”

Kanne followed, carrying a few small bags. “Those are socks,” she said.

“Can we buy it?”

Kanne glanced at Fern, then Aura. “Sure.”

Fern didn’t look thrilled, but she didn’t argue.

Aura was still hovering near the scarves. She reached out and touched a pale blue one, then pulled her hand back like she wasn’t sure she was allowed.

Linie came back holding the socks. “Mama, look.”

Aura looked down. “It’s nice.”

“It’s a socks”

“I see.”

Fern rubbed her forehead. “This is going to take all day.”

Linie wandered over to a stall with dresses. She stopped in front of a green one with little flowers stitched near the hem. “Kanne?” she asked. “Is this something I’m supposed to wear?”

Kanne looked up. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what girls wear. Fourteen-year-old girls.”

Fern glanced over but didn’t say anything.

Kanne walked over. “That dress works. If you like it, it’s fine.”

Linie looked at it again. “It’s soft.”

“Soft’s good,” Kanne said. “You don’t have to wear stuff that looks like it belongs in a dungeon.”

Aura lingered by the scarf rack, eyes flicking between the folded shawls and the vendor behind the stall. After a long pause, she turned slightly toward Lawine.

“Are we… supposed to just take them?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, unsure. “Or do they give them to us?”

Lawine blinked, then snorted. “You buy them.”

Aura frowned. “With money?”

“Yeah,” Lawine said, already pulling a few coins from her pouch. “Like this.”

She handed the vendor a small stack of copper. “For the shawl,” she said, jerking her thumb toward Aura.

The vendor nodded and wrapped it up without comment.

Aura stared at the bundle, then at Lawine. “So now it’s mine?”

Lawine handed it to her. “That’s how shops work.”

Aura looked down at the wrapped shawl, then back at the rack. “Do people do this often?”

Lawine shrugged. “Some people. Kanne does it every time we pass a stall.”

Aura nodded slowly, still holding the bundle with both hands. “It’s soft.”

Lawine raised an eyebrow. “You like soft now?”

“I don’t know,” Aura said. “It’s not heavy.”

Lawine nudged Aura toward a nearby stall stacked with folded cloth—cotton, wool, linen, all in muted tones. Aura hesitated at the edge, scanning the piles like she was trying to decode them.

“Pick something,” Lawine said. “You’re allowed.”

Aura stepped forward slowly. Her fingers hovered over a soft gray fabric with a faint blue weave. She touched it, then paused. “Like this?”

Lawine leaned in. “Yeah. That’s cloth.”

Aura didn’t look up. “I think I like this.”

Lawine gave a small nod. “Then we’ll get it.”

Aura didn’t move.

Lawine sighed, pulled out a few coins, and handed them to the vendor. “This one,” she said, pointing to the fabric Aura had touched.

The vendor wrapped it up and passed it over. Aura took it carefully, holding it with both hands.

“I didn’t know you could just choose,” she said.

“You can,” Lawine said. “That’s the whole point.”

“This is softer than what I wear,” Aura said.

Lawine nodded. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”

Aura didn’t respond right away. She kept touching the edge of the bundle, pressing it between her fingers like she was testing it.

“I didn’t know clothes could feel like this,” she said.

Lawine tilted her head. “You wore armor for most of your life.”

Lawine didn’t push. “Well, now you’ve got something else.”

Aura nodded slowly. “It’s strange.”

Kanne jogged up to Aura, nearly tripping over a loose cobblestone. “That looks cute!” she said, pointing to the folded cloth in Aura’s hands. “You’d look good in that.”

Aura blinked. “It’s just fabric.”

“Yeah,” Kanne said, grinning. “Cute fabric.”

Aura didn’t respond, but her grip on the bundle relaxed slightly. She looked down at it again, then back at the stall, as if trying to understand what made it “cute.”

Linie came up behind her, holding a light blue dress with a wide bow at the back. The sleeves were short, and the hem had a soft ruffle. She looked unsure, but hopeful.

Aura turned toward her. “You picked that?”

Linie nodded. “Kanne said it’s fine.”

Aura looked at the dress for a moment, then at Linie. She reached out and gently patted her daughter’s head. Her hand lingered for a second longer than usual.

“It looks nice,” she said. Then, after a pause, added, “On you.”

Linie’s shoulders relaxed. “I think I like it.”

Aura nodded. “Then it’s good.”

Fern, still watching from the side, muttered, “At least nobody’s screaming.”

…

Aura walked a few steps away from the stall, still holding the folded cloth. Her posture was stiff, but not unusual—until she suddenly stopped.

Her hand shot up to the side of her head, fingers pressing against her temple. Her eyes narrowed, then squeezed shut. She staggered slightly, breath catching.

Linie noticed first. “Mama?”

Aura didn’t answer. Her other hand dropped the cloth as she gripped her head with both hands. Her knees bent, not quite collapsing, but close. Her face twisted—not in anger, but in something sharper. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes were wet.

Linie ran to her. “Mama!”

Aura didn’t push her away. She couldn’t. Her breathing was uneven, and her shoulders shook. The pain was deep—centered where her horns used to be. A dull pressure that built into something sharp, like a spike driving inward. Her vision blurred.

Lawine and Kanne were already moving. Fern followed, faster than the others.

“What happened?” Fern asked, kneeling beside her.

“She’s hurting,” Linie said, voice tight.

Fern didn’t hesitate. She placed a hand near Aura’s temple, fingers glowing faintly. “Hold still.”

Aura didn’t respond, but she didn’t resist. The glow spread slowly, dulling the sharpness, easing the pressure. Her breathing steadied. Her hands dropped to her lap.

Fern kept the spell going a few seconds longer, then pulled back. “That should help.”

Aura blinked, eyes still wet. She didn’t speak.

Linie stayed close, one hand on her arm. “It’s okay,” she said quietly.

Kanne crouched beside her. “You’re alright. We’ve got you.”

Lawine didn’t say anything, but she stood close, arms crossed, watching.

Aura wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “It happens sometimes.”

She looked down at the cloth she’d dropped, then at Linie.

“I’m fine now,” she said.

Linie didn’t move away.

…

Fern stood up slowly, watching Aura wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. Something about it made her stomach turn.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared.

Lawine noticed. “What?”

Fern didn’t look away. “She’s the reason my parents are dead.”

Lawine raised an eyebrow. “Aura?”

“Demons,” Fern said. Her voice was flat, but tight. “People like her. Doesn’t matter if she’s quiet now. Doesn’t matter if she’s holding scarves and pretending to be normal.”

Aura didn’t respond. She was still sitting, eyes down, shoulders tense.

Fern kept going. “They killed my village. My parents. My neighbors. And now I’m supposed to heal them. Study them. Because Frieren says it’s important.”

Lawine crossed her arms. “You think she’s faking?”

“I think she’s dangerous,” Fern said. “Even if she doesn’t mean to be.”

Kanne glanced between them, uneasy. Linie didn’t move.

Fern looked down at Aura again. “She cries. She gets headaches. She says she’s sorry. And I’m supposed to forget what she is.”

Lawine didn’t answer right away. Then she said, “You don’t have to forget. But she’s not the one who killed your parents.”

Fern’s jaw tightened. “She’s still a demon.”

“She’s not good at pretending,” Fern said. “She’s good at surviving. That’s not the same.”

Kanne shifted, uncomfortable. “Maybe we should—”

“No,” Fern said. Her voice was sharp, then softened. “I’m not saying we kill her. I’m saying we don’t pretend this is safe.”

Lawine nodded. “Fair.”

Fern looked at Linie. “And you? You trust her?”

Linie didn’t speak for a long moment. Then she said, “I don’t know what trust means yet.”

Fern blinked.

Linie kept her eyes on Aura. “But I know she’s trying to be the best for me.”

Aura didn’t move. Her hand was still on the scarf, knuckles pale. She hadn’t spoken since the headache passed.

…

Dinner

The inn’s dining room was quiet, lit by soft lanterns and the clink of cutlery. Lawine’s parents had arrived earlier that day, and Kanne’s father joined them for dinner. Fern sat beside Frieren, who was slowly picking at her stew.

Lawine’s father, a broad-shouldered man with a trimmed beard and a merchant’s polish, raised his glass. “We’re grateful you’ve taken care of our daughters. Truly. We gave them the best education we could afford, but…” He glanced at Frieren. “It would be an honor if you took them to Aureole. Let them study under you.”

Frieren paused, spoon halfway to her mouth. “I don’t care about talking to new students.”

Lawine’s mother leaned forward. “Not even talented ones?”

Frieren looked at Lawine and Kanne. “They’re talented. But I don’t have the funds. Even if I wanted to.”

Lawine’s father reached into his coat and placed a small pouch on the table. It clinked heavily. “One hundred Strahl gold coins. For travel, lodging, and snacks.”

Frieren stared at the pouch. “That’s… enough to keep us going for five years.”

Fern blinked. “With snacks?”

Frieren nodded slowly. “With snacks.”

Kanne’s father chuckled. “They’re good girls. And they’ve grown stronger with you. We trust you.”

Lawine leaned back, arms crossed, trying to look unimpressed. “It’s not like I need tutoring.”

Her mother smiled. “You need discipline.”

Lawine groaned. “I knew this dinner was a trap.”

Kanne, sitting beside her, reached out and gently pressed a hand to Lawine’s shoulder. Her touch was light, but steady.

Lawine glanced sideways. “What?”

Kanne’s voice was soft. “It means we can spend all our time together. Learning. Traveling. Having an adventure.”

Lawine’s ears turned pink. “You make it sound like a fairy tale.”

Kanne smiled. “It kind of is. And my parents won’t have to worry anymore. They can live comfortably in the big house.”

Lawine looked away, arms still crossed. “You’re too sentimental.”

“You like that about me,” Kanne said, not teasing or Lawine would have been on top of her pulling her pony tails

Lawine didn’t respond, but her posture relaxed slightly.

Frieren watched them quietly, then turned to Fern. “They’re not bad candidates.”

Fern raised an eyebrow. “You just said you don’t take on new students.”

“I don’t,” Frieren said. “But I also don’t turn down five years of snacks.”

Lawine’s father chuckled. “I can throw in a sixth year if they behave.”

Lawine groaned. “Please don’t.”

Her mother smiled. “You’ll thank us later.”

Frieren stood, picking up the pouch and weighing it in her hand. “, I can take them all the way to the Golden Land. After that I cannot garanty your daughters safety. they’ll need to keep up. I won’t slow down for them.”

Lawine smirked. “Good. I hate slow.”

Kanne nodded. “We’ll keep up.”

Frieren looked at them both. “Then I’ll take you. On one condition.”

Lawine narrowed her eyes. “What?”

Frieren’s expression didn’t change. “No complaining. Not even once.”

Lawine opened her mouth, then closed it.

Chapter Text

Kanne sat cross-legged on her bed, sorting through a pile of travel gear. Lawine was next to her, leaning back against the wall, arms loosely crossed. The room was cluttered—half-packed bags and a map with scribbled notes.
Kanne held up a folded blanket. “We’ll be able to sleep in the same tent, you know.”
Lawine glanced over. “Obviously. It’s not like Frieren’s gonna micromanage where we sleep.”
Kanne grinned. “It’s kind of cool. Like the old heroes. Traveling together, sharing inns, camping out.”
Lawine raised an eyebrow. “You mean the ones who got frostbite and had to fight demons when they were half sleep?”
Kanne shrugged. “Still sounds fun.”

Lawine snorted. “You think everything sounds fun.”
Kanne leaned her shoulder against Lawine’s. “Not everything. Just stuff with you.”
Lawine didn’t move away, but she didn’t say anything either.
Kanne looked up at her. “You’re not gonna complain if we end up in the same bed at some inn, right?”
Lawine rolled her eyes. “I’ve slept next to worse.”
Kanne laughed. “That’s not a no.”
Lawine gave her a sideways look. “You snore, don’t you?”
Kanne blinked. “No?”

Lawine. “You have snored for the past 2 weeks. We've slept together.
Kanne had pulled the blanket off her bed and wrapped it around both of them without asking. Lawine didn’t protest—she just shifted slightly to make room, her back resting against the headboard, Kanne tucked against her side.
“You packed your socks, right?” Lawine asked.
Kanne blinked. “...No?”

Lawine sighed. “You’re hopeless.”
Kanne tilted her head up. “That’s why I have you.”
Lawine gave her a flat look. “I’m not your checklist.”
“You kind of are,” Kanne said, grinning. “But you’re also warm.”
Lawine didn’t respond, but her arm settled more firmly around Kanne’s shoulders.
Kanne pulled the blanket tighter. “I bet the inns we stay at will have those tiny beds. The kind where you have to sleep shoulder-to-shoulder or fall off.”
Lawine raised an eyebrow. “You’re already planning how to cling to me in your sleep?”
Kanne smirked. “I don’t cling. I drift.”

Lawine snorted. “You latch on like a barnacle.”
Kanne laughed, then rested her head against Lawine’s collarbone. “You’re not pushing me off.”
Lawine looked down at her. “You’re warm too.”
Kanne smiled. “See? Mutual benefit.”
Lawine didn’t argue. She just leaned her head back and let the quiet settle in.
After a moment, Kanne spoke again. “Do you think Frieren ever cuddled with anyone?”
Lawine blinked. “What kind of question is that?”

“I dunno. She’s been alive for centuries. Statistically, someone must’ve pulled her into a blanket at some point.”
Lawine considered it. “She’d probably freeze them solid.”
Kanne giggled. “Guess we’re lucky.”
Lawine glanced at her. “Yeah. I guess we are.”

The door creaked open.
Linie peeked in, her head tilted. “Why are you two under the blanket? Did something happen?”
Kanne blinked, then grinned. “Nope. Just staying warm.”

Lawine stiffened slightly, her arm still around Kanne. “It’s not—we’re just sitting.”
Linie stepped inside, looking unimpressed. “You’re sitting under a blanket. On a bed. Together.”
Kanne patted the spot next to them. “Want to join?”
Linie shrugged. “Sure.”
She climbed onto the bed and ducked under the blanket without hesitation, settling beside Kanne. Lawine shifted awkwardly, clearly unsure where to put her arms now that Linie was pressed in on the other side.
Linie looked around. “Where’s my mom?”

Kanne answered easily. “She went out with Frieren and Fern. They’re picking up supplies for the trip.”
Linie nodded. “Okay.”
Lawine cleared her throat. “You’re not cold, right?”
Linie blinked at her. “No. But this is nice.”
Lawine looked like she wanted to say something else, but didn’t. Her eyes flicked between Kanne and Linie, then down at the blanket.
Kanne leaned into her again. “You’re doing fine.”
Lawine muttered, “I wasn’t asking.”

Linie tilted her head. “You’re weird when people are close to you.”
Lawine flushed. “I’m not weird.”
Kanne smiled. “She’s just shy.”
Lawine groaned quietly and pulled the blanket a little higher, as if it could hide her.
Linie looked at both of them and asked innocently. “You two are kind of like a couple, have you made out yet. I hear it from Fern and Stark constantly. ”
Lawine choked on air. “We’re haven’t …—”
Kanne cut in, cheerful. “We’re close but … .”

Lawine buried her face in the blanket.
Linie nodded. “Okay.”
Linie shifted, then lay down under the blanket, her head resting lightly against Kanne’s lap. Kanne adjusted without fuss, brushing Linie’s hair back with one hand.
“You’re a good girl,” Kanne said softly, patting her head.
Linie blinked up at her. “You say that like I’m a dog.”
Kanne smiled. “You’re better than a dog. You’re sweet.”

Lawine, still sitting upright, hesitated—then reached out and gently patted Linie’s head too. Her touch was awkward, but careful.
Linie didn’t move. “You’re both weird.”
Lawine gave a small, almost embarrassed smile. “You’re not complaining.”
Linie closed her eyes. “It’s nice. Being somewhere warm.”

Kanne leaned back against Lawine’s shoulder again, her hand still resting on Linie’s head. “That’s the point of traveling together. You don’t have to be cold.”
Lawine let out a quiet breath, her posture finally easing. She didn’t say anything, but her arm settled around Kanne again, more naturally this time.
Kanne glanced at the half-packed bag near the desk and sighed. “I should finish packing.”
She gently slid out from under the blanket, careful not to jostle Linie too much. Linie didn’t move—she just shifted slightly, her head now resting against Lawine’s side.
Lawine froze for a second, unsure what to do with the sudden proximity.
Linie didn’t say anything. Her eyes were half-closed, and a small, relaxed smile had settled on her face.
Lawine looked down at her, then at Kanne, who was now sorting through clothes on the floor.
“She’s just gonna fall asleep like that?” Lawine asked quietly.

Kanne glanced back. “Probably. She likes being close to people she trusts.”
Lawine blinked, then looked down again. Linie’s breathing was slow and steady.
After a moment, Lawine let herself lean back a little more, her arm resting lightly beside Linie.
Kanne knelt by the desk, sorting through her gear with casual focus—folding clothes, checking her pouch, muttering to herself about socks. Her hair fell over her shoulder as she leaned forward, and the soft light from the window caught the curve of her cheek.

Lawine watched her quietly from the bed.
Linie was still curled up against her side, eyes closed, smiling faintly. But Lawine’s attention had drifted.
She didn’t say anything, didn’t move—but her gaze lingered. There was something in it: not just fondness, but a quiet ache. The way Kanne moved, the way she hummed to herself, the way she’d smiled at Linie without hesitation—it all pulled at something in Lawine’s chest.
She looked away for a moment, then back again.
Kanne glanced over her shoulder. “You okay?”
Lawine blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Just... watching.”
Kanne smiled. “You’re allowed.”
Lawine didn’t answer, but her ears were pink.

Lawine shifted slightly, then spoke up—her voice low, but clear.
“Do you ever think about having kids?”
Kanne blinked. “Huh?”
Linie’s eyes snapped open. She sat up halfway, face instantly red. “Why are you asking that?”
Lawine looked at her, then back at Kanne. “I was just thinking. Not now. Just… someday.”
Kanne tilted her head. “You’re not really the type to bring that up out of nowhere.”
Lawine shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know. I guess I’d want someone like Linie.”
Linie stared at her, wide-eyed. “Me?”
Lawine nodded, not quite meeting her gaze. “You’re honest. You care about people. You’re not afraid to say what you think. That’s the kind of person I’d want to raise.”
Linie’s blush deepened. She looked down at the blanket, flustered but quiet.
Kanne smiled softly. “That’s actually kind of sweet.”

Lawine muttered, “I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
Lawine was still flustered, her gaze flicking between Kanne and Linie. The room had gone quiet again, but something hung in the air—soft, uncertain.
Kanne shifted closer, her voice steady. “You know… you’re the only person I’d ever even consider having kids with.”
Lawine blinked, stunned. “What?”
Kanne leaned in and kissed her—light, brief, but unmistakably real.
Lawine didn’t move. Her eyes were wide, her face flushed, but she didn’t pull away.
Kanne stayed close, her forehead resting lightly against Lawine’s. “I mean it.”
Linie, still sitting nearby, was frozen in place, her face redder than ever.

Kanne turned to her gently. “And you… you’re a good child for your mom. She’s lucky to have you.”
Linie looked down, trying to hide her face behind the blanket. “You’re both embarrassing.”
Lawine let out a quiet breath, still processing, but her hand found Kanne’s under the blanket and held it.
Kanne smiled, but then noticed Linie sitting stiffly nearby, her face red and eyes darting away.
“…Wait,” Kanne said, blinking. “Is Linie embarrassed?”
Linie pulled the blanket up over part of her face. “No.”

Kanne tilted her head. “But demons don’t get embarrassed.”
Linie muttered, “Please don't call me that.” as her face blushed red.
Lawine looked at her for a moment, then gently patted her head. “Guess you just learned a new emotion.”
Linie peeked out from under the blanket, still flushed. “Should we tell Frieren?”
Kanne grinned. “She’ll probably ask you to describe it and rank it on a scale.”
Lawine nodded. “She’ll want to know what triggered it.”

Linie groaned softly. “I don’t want to be studied.”
Kanne leaned back, still holding Lawine’s hand. “Too late. You’re officially interesting.”
Lawine smirked. “Welcome to the club.”
Linie didn’t respond, but her blush lingered—and so did her quiet smile.

Chapter Text

Kanne, Lawine, and Linie descended the stairs together, footsteps light against the wood. Linie was the first to reach the bottom, her eyes locked on the front door as it opened.
Fern stepped in, brushing a few leaves off her shoulder. Aura followed, composed as ever. Frieren came last, her gaze steady, staff in hand.
Linie didn’t hesitate.
“Mom!”
Aura blinked, caught off guard, but opened her arms just in time. Linie hugged her tightly, burying her face against her shoulder. Aura’s posture softened, one hand resting gently on Linie’s back.
"You're hair is messy,” she said quietly.
Linie didn’t let go.
“I missed you.”

Aura didn’t respond, but she held her close.
Kanne stood off to the side, watching with a faint smile. Lawine crossed her arms, expression unreadable.
Frieren stepped forward, voice calm.
“We’ll be getting company for the trip.”
Lawine raised an eyebrow.
“Who?”

“Denken, Laufen, Methode… and Methode’s daughter Lange” Frieren glanced toward the open door.
“They’ll meet us before we head into the Golden Lands.”
Kanne tilted her head.
“That’s a lot of mages.”
“It’s necessary,” Frieren said. “Serie sent them all to help us as she says this is a important mission she can only intrust her best mages, and as we worked so well together during the test she says we should be a group”
Aura finally released Linie, who stepped back but stayed close. Fern gave her a quiet nod, and Linie straightened slightly.
Lawine looked at Frieren.
“When do we leave?”
“In 3 hours. We’re going to kill Macht,” Frieren said.
The room went quiet.

“He’s had control of the Golden Lands for too long.”
Aura didn’t speak right away. Her eyes shifted slightly, and her posture changed. She stood a little straighter, but her arms were tense. Her jaw tightened. She looked at Frieren, then away, like she was thinking fast.
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to show she wasn’t calm.
Fern glanced at her, noticing the change, but didn’t say anything.
Aura finally spoke, her voice low.
“He’s still alive?”
Frieren nodded. “Yes.”

Aura looked at the floor for a moment, then backed up.
“He’s one of the strongest demons I’ve ever seen,” she said. “His magic is… different. It doesn’t just overpower you. It gets inside your head and makes you think you're special before killing you.”
Lawine frowned. “So do we even stand a chance?”
Aura didn’t answer right away. She looked at Frieren.
“That depends,” she said. “How well do you know what you’re walking into?”
Frieren didn’t answer right away. She looked at Aura, then gave a small smirk.
“We have someone who knows exactly what we’re walking into,” she said.
Her eyes stayed on Aura.

Aura was still holding Linie close. Her grip had tightened. She wasn’t saying anything, but her face was even more pale, and her eyes weren’t focused. She looked terrified.
Kanne glanced at her, then at Frieren. Her smile was gone.
Lawine shifted her weight, arms still crossed, but her jaw was tight. She looked between Aura and Frieren, clearly uneasy.
Neither of them had ever seen Aura like this.
Frieren’s voice stayed calm.
“If Macht’s magic works the way she says, then Aura’s experience is exactly what we need.”
Aura finally spoke, her voice quiet.
“Can you promise my daughter will be safe?”
Everyone looked at her. Linie stayed close, watching her mother’s face.
Frieren didn’t answer. She turned slightly toward Fern.

Fern hesitated. Her expression was calm, but her eyes flicked toward Linie, then back to Aura.
“I’ll do everything I can,” Fern said. “We all will.”
Aura didn’t look convinced. Her grip on Linie didn’t loosen.
“She’s not ready for something like this,” Aura said. “None of us are, if Macht is constantly evolving.”
Fern nodded slowly. “I know.”

“Who’s Macht?” she asked.
Kanne stepped closer, her voice quiet. “I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know much. What kind of demon is he?”
Aura didn’t answer right away. She let go of Linie and sat down on the edge of a nearby bench. Her posture was stiff, and her eyes stayed on the floor.
“He’s not like the others,” she said. “He doesn’t fight with brute strength. He doesn’t rush in or lose control like most of my kind.”
She looked up.
“Macht is calm. Always. He talks like he’s already won. And most of the time, he has.”
Lawine frowned. “What kind of magic does he use?”

Aura’s voice was steady, but low.
“Gold Manipulation and he had started learning Illusions 67 years ago. He gets inside your head. Makes you doubt what’s real. Makes you question your own thoughts. And once you start slipping, he doesn’t stop.”
Linie looked uneasy. “So he messes with your mind?”
Aura nodded. “Yes. And he’s good at it. Too good.”
Kanne sat down beside her. “Did you fight him before?”
Aura didn’t answer right away. Her eyes narrowed.
“I survived him,” she said. “Barely, he is even willing to kill his fellow demons if he believes he has something to learn or gain from it.”
The room stayed quiet for a moment longer. Then Frieren turned toward the hallway.
“Start packing,” she said. “We leave tomorrow.”

Lawine raised an eyebrow. “That soon?”
“We don’t have time to wait,” Frieren said. “The longer Macht sits in that region, the harder it’ll be to reach him.”
Kanne nodded and headed upstairs without a word. Linie followed, still glancing back at her mother.
Fern stepped toward the door. “I’ll check supplies.”
Aura stood slowly, her eyes still distant.
Frieren looked at her. “You should rest. Tomorrow won’t be easy.”
Aura didn’t respond. She just walked toward the stairs, her steps quiet.
As the group began to move, Frieren spoke again—calm, but firm.
“If anyone’s unsure about this, now’s the time to say so. Once we enter the Golden Lands, there’s no turning back.”
As the others started packing and checking supplies, Aura gently placed a hand on Linie’s shoulder.
“Come on,” she said softly.

Linie looked up, then followed her without question.
Aura led her to the far side of the room, where a small fire crackled in the hearth. It wasn’t much, but the warmth was steady. Aura sat down on the floor beside it, pulling Linie close.
She didn’t say anything. She just wrapped an arm around her daughter and stared into the flames.
Linie leaned against her, quiet.

They stayed there while the others moved around the house—gathering gear, checking maps, sorting food. Aura didn’t interrupt. She didn’t ask questions. She just kept Linie close and watched the fire.
Lawine glanced over once, then looked away.
Kanne paused at the top of the stairs, her eyes lingering on the two of them, then continued packing.

Chapter Text

Methode/Lange

The wagon rocked gently as it moved along the dirt road. Lange sat cross-legged in the back, her white dress clean and simple, the cut-out shoulders exposed to the breeze. Her long black hair hung loose around her face as she leaned over the grimoire in her lap. She was deep in concentration, eyes moving slowly across the page. Her lips moved slightly as she read, but she didn’t speak.

Methode sat beside her, arms resting on her knees, watching her daughter with quiet interest. Her robes were wrinkled and smelled faintly of dried herbs. A few strands of hair had slipped free from her braid. She leaned over a little, trying to see what Lange was reading.

“You’re going through that section faster than I expected,” Methode said. Her voice was soft, not teasing—just curious.

“I already studied it last week,” Lange replied, eyes still on the page. “I wanted to check if the mana flow diagram matched the one in the older edition.”

Methode blinked. “You compared it to the one in the blue-bound volume?”

Lange nodded. “The structure’s the same, but the annotation on the third layer is different. I think the older version is more stable.”

Methode tilted her head. “That’s probably true. The newer edition was rushed. I remember the author saying he didn’t have time to test the final model.”

The old man driving the wagon called back, his voice rough from age. “We’ll reach Veykrand in about three hours.”

Methode gave a small nod, then looked back at Lange. “You’ll probably finish that book before we get there.”

“I’m not trying to rush,” Lange said. “I just want to understand it properly.”

The wagon jolted slightly as it hit a rut. Lange shifted, leaning into Methode without seeming to notice. Methode adjusted her posture and gently placed an arm around Lange’s shoulders.

Methode shifted beside her, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “You were reading about Macht earlier, weren’t you?”

Lange nodded. “I wanted to understand how his curse works.”

“What did you find?”

“He’s one of the two great demons still alive,” Lange said. “The other is Solitär. But Macht’s older. More dangerous.”

Methode leaned in slightly. “Because of the gold?”

“Yes. He can curse anything into gold. Objects, animals, people. It spreads through contact. If someone touches cursed gold, they start turning too.”

Methode frowned. “So it’s not just a transformation spell.”

“No. It’s a layered curse. It rewrites the mana structure of whatever it touches. That’s why the village is still trapped. Anyone who tries to leave risks spreading it.”

Methode was quiet for a moment. “That’s a cruel kind of magic, even for me.”

Methode turned toward her, both hands gently placed on Lange’s shoulders. She waited until Lange looked up, then met her eyes directly.

“Listen to me,” Methode said. Her voice was calm, but firm. “You don’t trust demons. Not now, not ever. Macht may speak like a human. He may pretend to be reasonable. But they’re all the same.”

Lange didn’t respond right away. She just held her mother’s gaze.

“They lie,” Methode continued. “They manipulate. And they don’t feel guilt. Not the way we do.”

Lange nodded slowly. “I know.”

“Say it,” Methode said. “Say you won’t trust them.”

“I won’t,” Lange said. “Not Macht. Not any of them.”

“Do you know what happened to Aura?” she asked quietly.

Methode glanced at her. “Frieren supposedly killed her. That’s what the reports say.”

Lange nodded slowly. “It feels… anticlimactic.”

Methode didn’t interrupt.

“She disappeared for eighty years,” Lange said. “So did Qual. No one saw them. No attacks. No movement. And then they come back, and they just die. Like that.”

Methode was quiet for a moment. “That’s how it goes sometimes. Especially with demons.”

“It’s sad,” Lange said. “They live for centuries, and then they die in ways that don’t mean anything. No legacy. No purpose.”

Methode looked at her daughter, then reached out as Lange leaned in. Lange wrapped her arms around her, resting her head against her chest.

“I wish there was more depth to demons,” Lange said quietly.

Methode glanced down at her. “You mean… you wish they were more like us?”

Lange nodded. “Not just smarter. I mean… I wish they felt things. Regret. Doubt. Something.”

“They understand those things,” Methode said. “They just don’t experience them the same way. It’s not part of how they’re built.”

Lange was quiet for a moment. “It makes it harder.”

“Harder how?”

“To fight them,” Lange said. “To kill them. I don’t like killing things. Even when I know I have to.”

Methode placed a hand gently on Lange’s head, brushing her hair back. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to understand why it’s necessary.”

Lange leaned into her again. “I know. I just wish it wasn’t.”

Denken/Laufen

The royal carriage moved steadily along the paved road, its wheels humming against the stone. The interior was quiet, lined with polished wood and soft cushions. Denken sat near the window, arms folded, eyes half-closed as he watched the landscape pass by.

Laufen sat across from him, legs tucked under her, a small box of sweets balanced on her lap. She popped one into her mouth, then leaned forward slightly.

“You’re not going to eat any?” she asked, holding out a wrapped piece.

Denken didn’t look at her. “Too sweet. I prefer tea.”

“You always say that,” Laufen muttered, unwrapping another. “But you ate half a tray last winter.”

“That was medicinal,” Denken said. “For my nerves.”

Laufen snorted. “Sure it was.”

She leaned back, chewing slowly, her eyes drifting to the window. “Do you think the reports are true? About the gold curse?”

Denken shifted slightly, his voice low. “I trained under Macht when I was just a boy. 50 years ago.”

Laufen turned. “You what?”

“Not formally,” he said. “But I studied his magic. His structure. His logic. I spent years trying to understand how he builds his curses.”

Laufen sat up straighter. “And?”

“He’s more powerful than people give him credit for,” Denken said. “Not just because of the gold. It’s how he thinks. He doesn’t cast spells—he designs systems. Traps. Conditions. Things that keep working long after he’s gone.”

Laufen frowned. “So we’ll need backup.”

“We’ll need everyone,” Denken said. “And even then, it might not be enough.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Is Frieren already there?”

Denken nodded. “She arrived yesterday. She’s waiting in the village.”

Laufen exhaled slowly. “Then we’re not too late.”

Denken looked out the window again with a Grim expression. “No. But we’re not early either.”

He nodded. “This village. I was posted their for a few months, helping with border patrol. She ran the clinic. Always had herbs in her sleeves to help people. It always smelled like mint.”

He looked out the window again, eyes distant. “She hated magic. I thought it was unnatural. But she never said it like an accusation. Just... like it scared her.”

Laufen didn’t interrupt.

“I left to train at the capital,” Denken said. “I thought I’d come back stronger. Thought I’d protect her better. But Macht came through while I was gone. He didn’t even need a reason.”

His voice was steady, but the words landed heavy.

“He killed her,” Denken said. “Just to test something. Just to see what would happen.”

Laufen’s face twisted. “That’s—”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ve spent years pretending it was about duty. About keeping people safe. But it’s not. I want to kill him. For her. For everyone like her. For everyone who didn’t get a choice.”

Laufen reached out again, slower this time, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

Denken gave a small nod. “Most don’t.”

The carriage slowed as the village came into view. Smoke curled from chimneys. Children played near the well. It looked peaceful. Ordinary.

Denken hadn’t spoken since his last words. He just stared out the window, jaw tight.

Laufen watched him for a moment longer, then reached out again—this time not just with sympathy, but with something steadier. She wrapped her arms around him, firm and warm.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “That you had to deal with it alone.”

Denken didn’t answer right away. But his shoulders eased, just slightly.

“I didn’t think I had a choice,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have had to,” Laufen replied.

The carriage came to a stop.

Frieren stood near the edge of the square, her cloak drawn tight against the wind. She didn’t turn as the carriage approached, but her eyes flicked toward it.

Later at the gates

The sun hung low over the village walls, casting long shadows across the open field. A soft breeze moved through the grass, rustling cloaks and hair.

Frieren stood at the front, arms folded, eyes on the horizon. She didn’t speak, but her presence anchored the group.

Behind her, Aura stood silently. Her posture was straight, composed, and unfamiliar to most. She kept a respectful distance, but her presence was hard to ignore.

Linie stood between Kanne and Lawine, gripping both their hands. Her shoulders were tight, her gaze flicking between the village gates and the approaching carriages. She leaned slightly into Lawine, half-shielded by her.

Kanne gave her a gentle smile. “You’re okay,” she said softly.

Lawine squeezed her hand once. “Just stay close.”

Two carriages approached from opposite ends of the road. One was the royal transport — polished, formal, and slow-moving. The other was simpler, worn from travel.

As they neared, Kanne raised a hand and waved. Lawine followed, her wave calm and steady.

Linie hesitated, then lifted her hand too — a small, tentative gesture.

From the simpler carriage, Lange jumped down before it had fully stopped. Her white dress fluttered as she ran toward them, boots kicking up dust.

“Kanne! Lawine!” she called out, voice bright.

They turned just in time for Lange to throw her arms around both of them.

“You’re together now?” she said, eyes wide. “Officially?”

Kanne laughed, caught off guard. “Yeah. Official.”

Lawine smiled, her voice warm. “Finally.”

Lange hugged them tighter. “I’m so happy for you.”

Linie watched silently, her grip on Lawine’s hand tightening. Lange noticed her and paused, her smile softening.

“Hi,” she said gently. “You’re Linie, right?”

Linie nodded once, eyes wide. She didn’t speak.

“She’s shy,” Lawine said quickly. “New to all this.”

“She’s been through a lot,” Kanne added, her tone protective.

Lange nodded, not pushing further. “It’s okay. I get it.”

From the royal carriage, Denken and Laufen stepped down. Denken gave Frieren a nod. She returned it, wordless.

Laufen glanced at Aura, then at Linie. His expression was curious, but neutral.

Aura met his gaze without blinking. She didn’t speak.

Methode stepped down last, watching the group with quiet interest. She didn’t approach, but her eyes lingered on Aura.

“Why are you bringing a woman and a child with no mana?” she asked, voice low. “They’ll slow us down.”

Frieren didn’t look at her. “I’m studying them.”

Methode frowned. “Studying?”

“I’ll explain later,” Frieren said. Her tone was calm, final. “When it matters.”

Methode paused, then gave a short nod. “Fine.”

She broke away and walked toward her daughter, who was chatting animatedly with Kanne and Lawine. Linie stayed close to Lawine’s side, her posture tight, eyes flicking between Lange and the ground.

Lange was mid-story, arms waving. “—and then I tripped over the stupid broom, and the whole tray went flying. Like, jam everywhere. It hit the ceiling.”

Kanne laughed. “Seriously?”

Lawine smirked. “Didn’t you say you were ‘being careful’?”

“I was!” Lange said, mock-offended. “I even tied my hair back. It was the broom’s fault.”

She turned to Linie, her tone shifting. “You bake too, right?”

Linie blinked, startled. She nodded once, eyes still down.

“I love jam tarts,” Lange said. “Especially the ones with the crumbly tops. Do you make those?”

Linie peeked up at her, then nodded again. “Sometimes, when me and mom are allowed to stay at an Inn.”

Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper.

“That’s so cool,” Lange said. “You should teach me. I always mess up the crust.”

Linie hesitated, then gave a tiny nod. Her fingers curled tighter around Lawine’s hand.

“She’s shy,” Kanne said gently. “Takes her time.”

Lange nodded, unfazed. “It’s okay. I used to hide behind my mom’s cloak when people talked to me. Like, literally grab the back and just vanish.”

Linie gave a small, involuntary giggle. It was quick, barely there 

Lange plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between her fingers. “I read this book last week about illusion magic. It was super complicated, but kinda cool. Like, you can make fake doors and stuff.”

Linie tilted her head slightly. “Fake doors?”

“Yeah,” Lange said. “One guy made a whole fake hallway and tricked a bunch of knights into running into a wall. It was hilarious.”

Linie giggled softly. “Sounds mean.”

“Only a little,” Lange said, grinning. “I like books like that. I read a lot. Mom says I’m a bookworm.”

Linie nodded slowly. “Books are nice.”

“I’m learning magic from her too,” Lange added. “Mostly basic stuff. Light spells, barriers, that kind of thing. I’m not super good yet.”

Linie hesitated, then looked down at her hands. “I… used to do magic.”

Lange blinked. “Really?”

Linie nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “I lost all my mana.”

“Oh…” Lange said, surprised. “That sucks.”

Linie fidgeted with her sleeve. “Before that… I could copy weapons.”

Lange’s eyes lit up. “Wait, like—make a sword appear?”

Linie nodded again, shy. “Only if I saw it first.”

“That’s so cool,” Lange said. “Like, you could see a spear and just—bam—make your own?”

Linie gave a tiny smile. “Not perfect. But I could also closely match the skill of my opponent .”

Lange leaned forward, eyes wide. “I wanna see that someday. 

Linie looked down, cheeks pink. “Maybe…”

Adults

Inside the village hall, the group gathered around a worn wooden table. Maps were spread across its surface, marked with routes, borders, and red circles around known demon territories.

Denken traced a line with his finger. “If Macht’s influence is spreading east, we’ll need to move quickly. The longer we wait, the more unstable things get.”

Laufen nodded. “We’ll need a route that avoids major settlements. If he’s manipulating minds again…”

“We’ll need more than a route,” Methode said. “We’ll need someone who understands him.”

Frieren, standing at the head of the table, spoke calmly. “We have someone.”

Everyone turned toward her.

She gestured behind her. “Aura.”

The room fell silent.

Aura stepped forward, her posture composed but tense.

Lange’s eyes widened. Kanne and Lawine stiffened. Linie instinctively moved closer to Lawine.

Denken’s voice cut through the quiet. “Aura? The Guillotine?”

Aura lowered her gaze, shame flickering across her face.

“She’s under my control,” Frieren said. “And she’s helping raise her daughter.”

Denken’s gaze stayed fixed on Aura as he held his staff in his hands pointing straight at her. “You expect us to trust her? After everything she did and evryone she killed?”

Frieren didn’t flinch. “She has no mana.”

That got their attention.

“She’s not a threat,” Frieren continued. “She won’t be fighting. She’ll be a guide — for Macht’s personality, his patterns, his logic. That’s all.”

Aura stood still, her eyes lowered. She didn’t speak.

“She’s lived with Fern and me for two years,” Frieren said. “She’s helped raise her daughter lenie. She’s the most stable . Controlled.”

Fern nodded. “She’s quiet. Careful. She doesn’t use magic. She hasn’t even tried.”

Laufen looked skeptical. “No mana at all?”

“None,” Frieren said. “She’s not a scary boogeyman anymore. She’s a defeated woman who only has her daugher thanks to me.”

Methode crossed her arms. “And you think that’s enough?”

“Who honestly knows, this is all happening for the first time in 1000 years for me ” Frieren said. “She also knows Macht better than any of us. Including Denken.”

Denken’s jaw tightened. “I knew him in battle and as a teacher. She knew him in command.”

“Exactly,” Frieren said. “She understands how he thinks. That’s what we need.”

Aura finally spoke, her voice low. “I won’t ask you to trust me. Just… use what I know.”

Lawine glanced at Linie, who was watching Aura with quiet intensity.

Kanne leaned toward Lawine. “She’s scared.”

“and curious,” Lawine murmured.

“Lange,” she said sharply. “Come here.”

Lange blinked, startled. “Huh?”

Methode’s expression was firm. “Away from the demon child. Until we see everything she can do and think.”

The words hung in the air like a slap.

Lange stood slowly, her smile fading. “But—she’s not doing anything right now.”

“She’s still a demon,” Methode said. “You don’t know what that means yet.”

Lange looked at Linie, her face conflicted. “I didn’t know, im sorry…”

Linie’s eyes dropped to the ground. Her shoulders curled inward, as tears started to fall.

“I’m not—” she started, but her voice was too quiet.

Lange hesitated, then walked toward her mother, her steps slow. She glanced back once, guilt flickering across her face.

Linie stood alone now, her hands clenched at her sides, as tear streaks come down her cheeks.

Aura watched from a few steps away. She moved gently, quietly, and knelt beside Linie.

Linie looked up at her, eyes glassy.

Aura didn’t speak. She simply opened her arms.

Linie stepped into the hug without a word, burying her face against Aura’s shoulder.

Aura held her close, one hand resting lightly on the back of her head.

Frieren watched from a distance, her expression unreadable to anyone in the room.

Chapter Text

The wagon rattled along the dirt road as night fell, the party had left the city and were on their way through the night as the journey would take them 6 weeks at least, Frieren said. The sky was dark, and the only light came from the moon and the lantern hanging near the driver’s seat. Inside the wagon, everyone was quiet. The air was cool, and blankets had been passed around.

Lange sat in the corner with her mother, Methode. They were wrapped in a thick blanket, Lange tucked close against her. Methode had her arm around her daughter, holding her steady as the wagon bumped along. Lange’s eyes were half-closed, her head resting on Methode’s shoulder. She looked calm, like she felt safe there.

Aura sat nearby, staring off into space. Her eyes weren’t focused on anything in particular. She hadn’t said a word since they started moving, and no one tried to talk to her. She looked distant, like her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Kanne and Lawine were sitting side by side, with Linie between them. Linie was curled up, her head resting on Lawine’s leg and her body leaning against Kanne. A blanket covered all three of them. Linie’s breathing was slow, and her eyes were starting to close.

She looked comfortable — more than she had in days. Being close to people she trusted made it easier to relax. Her one arm was tucked under the blanket, and the other sleeve hung empty where her missing arm used to be. Her horns poked out from under the blanket.

She didn’t say anything, but her body language said enough. She felt safe. She was falling asleep.

Lawine looked down at Linie, gently patting her head. “Good night,” she said softly.

Lawine glanced over at Kanne. Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Then Lawine leaned in and pulled Kanne into a quiet hug, wrapping her arm around her waist.

Kanne responded without hesitation, resting her head against Lawine’s. Lawine kissed her gently on the lips — slow, tired, and warm. 

Afterward, Lawine settled in close, her head resting on Kanne’s shoulder. Her eyes closed, and within minutes, she was asleep too.

Kanne stayed awake a little longer, listening to the soft breathing around her — Linie curled up beside her, Lawine asleep against her, the wagon creaking as it moved forward. She didn’t know what waited in the golden land, but for now, this was enough.

The night was quiet. 

Linie dream

I’m standing still. My body feels normal. Balanced. I don’t think about it until I glance down and see both my arms. I move them without thinking. Nothing feels wrong.

Lügner is sorting through the wardrobe Aura gave him. He’s quiet, focused. This is important. I don’t know why it would be. The clothes aren’t his. They’re not mine either.

He pulls out a pale blue dress with silver threads. He holds it up, looks at me, then back at the dress.

“This one suits you,” he says.

I nod. That’s what I’m supposed to do. I don’t care. I don’t dislike it either. It’s just a dress.

He walks over and kneels down, adjusting the hem. His hands move quickly. He doesn’t ask if I like it. He never does.

“You’ll look perfect,” he says.

I don’t respond. I don’t want to be perfect. But I don’t want anything else either. Wanting things makes things harder for me to understand.

I glance down again. I look like I did 3 years ago. 

My hand reaches out and touches the fabric. It’s soft. That registers, but I don’t care.

He sees me do it and smiles. I don’t like that smile. It’s the kind that means he thinks he understands me, as much a demon can. He doesn’t, all he does is think about himself.

He helps me put it on. The fabric brushes against my skin — soft, cold. He pulls the sleeve over the arm. It hangs loose, but he doesn’t say anything about it. I don’t either.

He starts doing my hair next. He’s careful, but not gentle. His fingers move fast, pulling strands into place, twisting them into something neat. I don’t know what it looks like. I don’t ask.

The whole time, he talks.

“Once Aura and I take full control of the Graft lands, things will change,” he says. “She’s already made progress. The northern border’s stable. The southern towns are listening.”

I nod slightly. Not because I care. Just because it’s expected.

“She’s efficient. Cold, but efficient. That’s what ruling needs.”

He pauses, tying something into my hair. A ribbon, maybe.

“Your mother understands that. Aura has always been sharp. She sees the long game. Sadly it's only after Himmels death so I will not be able to get revenge on him.”

I freeze for a second. Not visibly. Just inside.

He keeps talking, but I stop listening. The name sits wrong. I don’t see her. Not in dreams. Not in memories. Just in pieces — a voice, a shape, a feeling.

I don’t know if I miss her. I don’t know if I’m supposed to.

He finishes my hair and steps back.

“You’ll represent us well,” he says.

I blink once. “Represent who?”

He smiles like I asked something silly. Like I’m five.

“We’re going to Graf Granat’s domain,” he says. “Draht and I will be leading a peace convoy. A fake one, obviously.”

He adjusts the ribbon in my hair, even though it’s already tight.

“You’ll be there to make it look real. Just stay quiet and everything will be fine.”

His voice is soft, but not kind. It’s the kind of soft people use when they don’t think you matter.

The light fades. The room, the wardrobe, Lügner

…

Now I’m in a courtyard. The sky is gray. The stone under my feet is cracked and old. I hear metal — sharp, fast. Stark is in front of me, holding an axe. Graf Granat is to my right, sword drawn.

They’re both tense. Focused. Breathing hard.

I’m calm.

Stark moves first — a wide swing, fast and heavy. I step back just enough. The blade misses by inches. I don’t flinch.

Granat follows, trying to catch me off-balance. His sword comes in low. I pivot, let it pass, then push forward.

I press in.

Stark tries to close the gap again, bringing the axe down in a vertical arc. I duck under it, grab the handle, and twist. He holds on, but barely. I kick his knee. He drops back.

Granat recovers and charges. His sword comes in high — precise, practiced. I block with my forearm, redirect the blade, and spin behind him. My hand brushes his shoulder. He turns too slow.

They’re both on defense now.

I don’t feel proud. I don’t feel excited. I just move.

Stark grits his teeth and rushes again. I sidestep, grab his arm, and flip him over my hip. He hits the ground hard. Granat tries to catch me while I’m turned. I catch his blade between my fingers and twist it out of his grip.

He stares at me. I stare back.

I’m not angry. I’m not happy. I’m just here.

The axes felt balanced in my hands — one heavy, one slightly lighter. Stark’s weapon had been easy to copy. I didn’t ask permission. I didn’t need to.

Graf Granat stood across from me, sword raised. Stark was off to the side, catching his breath. They were both tense. Focused.

I wasn’t.

I moved forward, calm and steady. The first axe came down in a wide arc — Granat blocked, but it pushed him back. I followed with the second, low and fast. He twisted away, barely keeping his footing.

Stark tried to intercept. I turned, met him mid-charge, and deflected his swing with one axe while driving the other toward his ribs. He blocked just in time. I kicked his leg and sent him stumbling.

Granat lunged. I caught his sword between the two axes, twisted, and forced it out of his grip. He fell back, breathing hard.

Stark came in again — faster this time. I ducked under his swing, spun, and brought both axes down in a cross-cut. He blocked one. The other hit his shoulder.

Granat staggered back, clutching his shoulder. Blood seeped through his uniform, and his sword lay on the ground behind him. He didn’t try to reach for it. He just fell against the courtyard wall, breathing hard.

Now it was just Stark and me.

He didn’t wait. He charged, axe raised, faster than before. I blocked with one blade, but the force pushed me back a step. He followed with a second swing — low and fast. I jumped back, barely clearing it.

He was adjusting. Reading me. Getting sharper.

I didn’t feel threatened. I didn’t feel anything. Just the shift in momentum.

He came in again, feinting left, then swinging right. I blocked, but the angle was tight. The impact jarred my arm. I stepped back again.

He pressed harder. His strikes were heavier now, more precise. I blocked one, dodged another, but he was closing the gap.

Stark swung hard — a clean, brutal arc aimed at my shoulder.

I moved to block, but I was half a second too slow.

The blade hit.

There was no sound at first. Just the impact. Then the tearing — metal through flesh, bone, and muscle. My arm came off clean. It dropped to the ground like it didn’t belong to me.

I didn’t react.

I looked down. The sleeve was empty now. The blood was real. The pain wasn’t — not yet.

Stark stepped back, breathing hard, watching me.

I stayed still.

Then it hit.

Sharp Pain. Deep. and it felt Wrong.

I looked up at Stark.

He was raising the axe again. His stance was solid. His eyes were locked on me. He was going to finish it.

For the first time, I felt it — real fear.

It hit fast. My chest tightened. My breath caught. My eye widened, and something sharp twisted in my stomach.

I started to cry.

Not quietly. Not like I meant to hide it. It just came out — broken, loud, real.

My legs gave out. I wobbled, then dropped to my knees. The pain in my shoulder was spreading, hot and deep. My horns felt heavy.

I fell forward, hands scraping against the stone. My body shook.

“Mom—!” I yelled, voice cracking. “Mom, please—!”

Stark froze.

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. I just cried — loud, messy, helpless. The blood was everywhere. My arm was gone. My body didn’t feel like mine anymore.

I kept calling for her. Even though I’d never seen her. Even though I didn’t know what she’d do.

I just wanted her to come.

I heard something — a scream, a flash of magic — but it felt far away.

I turned my head, barely.

Lügner was falling.

Fern stood over him, her staff still glowing. Her face was calm. Cold. She didn’t even look at me.

I watched him hit the ground. His body twitched once, then went still.

I didn’t feel relief.

I didn’t feel anything but pain.

I whimpered, clutching at the ground with my one remaining arm. My fingers scraped against the stone, useless. My horns felt heavy, like they were dragging me down.

I heard him fall.

A heavy thud — Stark hitting the ground, just a few feet away. Not from injury. From exhaustion.

He’d used everything. Given everything.

I turned my head, slow and shaking. He was lying on his side, chest heaving, eyes half-closed. His axe was still in his hand, but it looked too heavy now.

I wanted to say something. I didn’t know what.

But my body gave out.

I slumped forward, face pressing into the cold stone. My stomach hit first, then my chest. My arm curled under me. I couldn’t lift my head.

The pain was still there, but it was fading — not because it was gone, but because I was.

I blinked, slow.

Fern was running toward us. Her staff was lowered now. Her eyes scanned the battlefield, then locked on me.

Frieren was beside her, calm as ever, but faster than I’d ever seen her move.

I wanted to speak. To explain. To cry again.

But I couldn’t.

I blinked again. Slow. The light was too bright. Or maybe it was fading.

Fern’s voice was somewhere nearby. I couldn’t hear the words. Just the tone — sharp, urgent, scared.

Frieren was kneeling beside me. Her hand hovered over my shoulder. I felt magic — soft, steady — but it didn’t reach me.

I was too far gone.

I stared up at the sky. It looked wrong. Too wide. Too empty.

I thought about Aura. About the way she used to speak to me. Cold, but not cruel, did she even love me? I thought about Lügner. About how Stark would be the one responsible for my death. About the way Fern looked at me — like I was something broken.

I thought about my mother.

I didn’t know her. I didn’t even know if she was real or just a lie told to me by Lügner.

But I wanted her here.

I wanted someone to hold me. To tell me it was okay. To say I wasn’t just a weapon that failed.

I tried to speak. My lips moved, but no sound came.

Then everything went quiet.

And I let go.

Back in reality

Linie jolted awake.

Her chest heaved. Her skin was damp with sweat. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

She didn’t know where she was.

The ceiling was wooden. The air was warm. Her shoulder ached, but it wasn’t bleeding. Her body was wrapped in blankets.

She looked to her side.

Lawine and Kanne were curled up next to her, arms loosely around her, asleep. Their faces were calm. Peaceful.

She stared at them, confused. Her heart was pounding.

Then Lawine stirred.

“Linie?” she mumbled, eyes half-opening. “You’re sweating…”

Kanne blinked awake too, rubbing her eyes. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Linie didn’t answer.

She started crying.

Not quietly. Not like before. Her whole body shook as the tears came fast, uncontrollable.

“I’m scared,” she sobbed. “I don’t want to be a demon—I don’t want this—I don’t want it—!”

Her hands shot up to her head. She grabbed at her horns, fingers digging in, trying to pull them out.

“I hate them—I hate them—I don’t want to be like this—!”

Lawine gasped and grabbed her wrists. “Linie, stop—!”

Kanne sat up, eyes wide. “Someone get Aura—!”

The commotion woke the others. Blankets shifted. Footsteps thudded. Methode sat up, eyes wide, staring at the scene in shock.

Then Aura bolted upright.

She saw Linie thrashing, sobbing, trying to rip her horns out.

Her face went pale.

She rushed forward — fast, but careful — and climbed over the others to reach her daughter.

“Linie,” she said, voice low but urgent.

Linie turned, saw her, and collapsed into her arms.

She buried her face in Aura’s chest, sobbing harder than before.

“I hate it—I hate being like this—I don’t want to be a monster—I don’t want to be a demon—!”

Aura held her close, arms wrapped tight around her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Linie cried into her, shaking, broken.

“I just want to die”

Aura didn’t argue. Didn’t correct her. She just pressed her lips to Linie’s hair and whispered again:

“I’m sorry.”

Linie clung to her like she was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely and jumping off the Wagon into the tall cliff side they were passing through.

Methode Pov

Methode sat frozen.

She’d been pulled from sleep by the noise — the sobbing, the panic — and now she could only watch.

Linie was curled in Aura’s arms, crying like her body couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“I hate myself—I hate being like this—I don’t want to be a demon—I don’t want to be me—!”

The words echoed through the wagon.

Methode’s breath caught.

She’d seen demons fall. She’d seen them scream, rage, beg. But this was different.

This was a child.

A child who hated herself so deeply she was trying to tear her own horns out. A child who didn’t know how to exist in her own skin.

And it hurt.

Methode felt it in her chest — a sharp, aching twist. Her throat tightened. Her eyes stung.

She looked at Linie, and all the old instincts — the training, the caution, the fear — fell away.

What was left was pity.

She just reached out and pulled Lange closer.

Her daughter had woken too — eyes wide, face pale, frozen in place beside her. She didn’t understand everything, but she understood enough.

Linie’s cries filled the wagon.

“I hate myself—I hate being like this—I don’t want to be a demon—I don’t want to be me—!”

Aura held her tightly, whispering apologies, rocking her gently as Linie sobbed into her chest.

Lawine and Kanne stayed close, trying to calm her, but Linie wasn’t listening. She was unraveling.

Methode wrapped both arms around Lange, holding her against her side. Lange leaned in, eyes still locked on Linie.

They didn’t say anything.

They just watched — mother and daughter — as the girl who had once seemed so quiet, so composed, broke apart in front of them.

Lange’s hand gripped Methode’s sleeve.

Methode rested her chin lightly on Lange’s head.

They both looked on in silence.

And neither of them could forget the sound of Linie crying.

They just watched — mother and daughter — as the girl who had once seemed so quiet, so composed, broke apart in front of them.

Lange’s hand gripped Methode’s sleeve.

Chapter Text

Snow had been falling for days.

The group had been traveling by wagon through the winter lands for about a week. The roads were icy, and the cold made everything slower — the horses moved cautiously, and the wagon creaked at every bump.

Linie sat wrapped in a blanket, leaning against Aura. She hadn’t said much since her breakdown. Aura stayed close, always next to her, offering quiet comfort. She didn’t push Linie to talk — just stayed near, steady and calm.

Kanne and Lawine usually kept close too. Sometimes they rode up front, sometimes they walked beside the wagon when the terrain allowed. Kanne tried to lift the mood with light chatter, while Lawine passed around warm drinks and offered dry comments that helped ease the silence. But Linie mostly stayed quiet, and Aura stayed with her always.

They reached the village around midday.

It was small and run-down. A few buildings, most of them in poor shape. The sign at the entrance was half-buried in snow and read Waldhügel . There was a general store, a stable, and a church — enough to rest and resupply.

Frieren was the first to climb down from the wagon. Methode followed, silent as ever. Fern and Stark got down next, brushing snow off their coats as they headed toward the church.

The building was old but still used. Inside, it was warmer. Candles flickered, and the air smelled faintly of incense. A priest sat at a desk near the front and looked up as they entered.

“Travelers?” he asked.

Frieren nodded. “Just passing through. We need supplies and somewhere to rest.”

The priest gestured toward the pews. “You’re welcome to sit. We don’t get many visitors anymore.”

Fern glanced at Stark, then looked back. “Is there anything you need help with?”

The priest hesitated, then rose and stepped around the desk. His expression shifted.

“There’s something you should know,” he said. “This village has been under attack. More demon sightings in the past six months than the last ten years combined.”

Stark frowned. “Why here?”

“We don’t know,” the priest said. “But they’re organized. Not just random beasts. They seem to follow one in particular — a large demon, humanoid but shaped like a dog. Stands upright, carries weapons. Locals call him Crreft . He’s fast, brutal, and smart. We’ve lost people.”

Fern’s eyes narrowed. “You want us to take him out?”

“If you can,” the priest said. “We’ve pooled what we can. It’s not much, but it’s a decent reward by village standards.”

Frieren glanced at Fern and Stark. “Can you handle it?”

Stark straightened. “Yeah. We’ve dealt with worse.”

Fern nodded. “We’ll take care of it.”

Frieren turned back to the priest. “Good. While they handle that, I’ll stay behind. I need to resupply — and keep an eye on Aura.”

The priest gave a relieved nod. “Crreft usually appears near the old mill on the ridge. That’s where most attacks start.”

Fern adjusted her coat and stepped outside. The cold hit her sharply. Stark followed, tugging his gloves tighter as the door shut behind them.

Kanne and Lawine stood by the wagon, chatting with Methode. When they saw Fern and Stark heading out, they waved.

“Don’t die!” Lawine called, half-joking.

Kanne grinned. “Bring back something cool!”

Fern gave a small wave. Stark raised a hand, then turned to her as they walked toward the woods.

The snow crunched under their boots. The path to the ridge wasn’t well-marked, but the priest had pointed it out — a narrow trail winding past the edge of the village into the trees.

Stark took Fern’s hand as they walked.

“You always do that,” she said.

“Do what?”

“Catch me. Like I’m about to trip.”

“Well… you were slipping.”

Fern rolled her eyes. “I meant in general.”

Stark shrugged. “I don’t know. You always look like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

Fern didn’t respond. Her face felt warm, which was irritating. She blamed the cold, even though she knew it wasn’t that.

“You’re blushing,” Stark said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m cold.”

“You’re flustered.”

Fern stopped, turning toward him. “Do you want me to hit you?”

Stark grinned. “You’re kinda cute when you’re mad.”

Fern blinked, then looked away. “You’re such an idiot.”

The trail narrowed. The trees thinned. The old windmill came into view — half-collapsed, its blades broken and leaning at odd angles. Snow had piled up around its base, undisturbed.

Fern slowed. Stark walked beside her, quiet now. The teasing had faded, but the air between them still buzzed with tension.

She glanced at him, then away. Her hand brushed his once — then again.

Stark didn’t say anything. He just reached out and took it.

Fern stiffened for a second — then let it happen. Her face was red, and she knew it. But she didn’t let go.

They walked like that — hand in hand, boots crunching through snow, the windmill getting closer with each step.

Stark let go and pulled his axe from his back.

“You ready?” he asked.

Fern nodded. “Yeah.”

Without waiting, she lifted off the ground, flying toward the windmill's broken top. Her coat flared in the wind as she hovered, scanning the area from above.

Stark moved forward, slow and careful. The mill door hung half-open, creaking in the wind. He stepped inside.

The air was still. Cold. Quiet.

In the center of the mill, curled atop broken wood and snow, was a massive white demon — wolf-shaped but humanoid. Long arms. Sharp claws. Its chest rose and fell with slow, heavy breaths.

Crreft.

Stark tightened his grip on the axe.

He charged.

Boots slammed against stone. Axe raised high.

Crreft’s eyes snapped open — pale blue, glowing. The demon rolled just as Stark’s axe came down, splintering the wood.

Crreft snarled and sprang up. Nearly twice Stark’s height, it moved like a predator. It lunged — claws slashing.

Stark ducked under the swipe and swung again, hitting its side. The blade cut deep — but Crreft barely flinched. It grabbed Stark’s arm and hurled him across the room.

He hit the wall hard. Dust and snow flew.

Above, Fern saw everything.

She raised both hands and fired. Magic burst downward like arrows. Crreft leapt aside, dodging most — but one struck its shoulder and exploded in light.

The demon staggered.

Stark pushed up, wiped blood from his mouth, and charged again.

He feinted left and swung low. The axe hit Crreft’s leg — slicing through fur and muscle. The demon roared and kicked him back. Stark blocked, barely holding ground.

Fern flew lower, circling. She cast a freezing spell — ice coated the floor.

Crreft slipped — just long enough.

Stark slammed the axe into its chest.

The demon howled, yanked the weapon free, and hurled it aside. Then it lunged — claws bared.

“ Move! ” Fern shouted.

Stark dove aside.

Fern unleashed a fireblast — it hit Crreft square in the back. Smoke rose from its fur.

Stark retrieved the axe and charged. The blade struck Crreft’s neck, dropping it to its knees.

Fern landed behind it and cast a binding spell — chains of magic snapped tight.

Crreft roared, struggling. But it was bleeding. Burned. Bound.

Stark raised the axe again.

But Crreft lashed out — one final strike.

Claws slammed into Stark’s chest.

He flew.

Crashed through the wall. Splinters and snow.

He vanished into the woods.

Fern’s eyes widened. “ Stark! ”

She didn’t hesitate.

Magic lit her hands. Her voice rang through the windmill.

“ Zoltarx! ”

The spell struck like a meteor.

Light exploded.

Crreft didn’t scream. It froze — cracked — shattered into ash.

Fern didn’t watch.

She ran.

Through the windmill. Into the woods. Slipping on ice, breath sharp in her throat.

“ Stark! ” she yelled. “Where are you?!”

Then she saw him.

Flat on his back. Snow and twigs clinging to him. Axe flung into a bush.

He blinked at the sky, dazed.

“That was… fun,” he muttered, grinning crookedly.

Fern dropped to her knees.

“You idiot,” she breathed, tears spilling. “You absolute idiot.”

She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his coat.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered.

“I’m not,” he said softly, wincing. “Just… really sore.”

Fern laughed, still crying.

…

The sun was low by the time Fern and Stark made it back to the village, walking side by side through the snow-covered path. Fern’s cheeks were still flushed, and Stark had a slight limp, but both wore quiet smiles.

Frieren was waiting near the inn, flipping through a thick, weathered tome.

“You’re late,” she said without looking up.

“We killed the monster,” Stark announced, puffing his chest slightly.

Fern rolled her eyes. “He got launched into the forest.”

“Still counts,” Stark muttered.

Frieren finally looked up. “Good. That thing was annoying.”

She closed the book and held it up. “Also, this village has an impressive collection of grimoires on folk magic. Some of it’s primitive, but there are a few rituals I haven’t seen catalogued anywhere else. I’m taking them.”

Fern blinked. “You’re stealing their books?”

“I asked,” Frieren said. “They said I could borrow them. For a few decades.”

Stark chuckled. “Classic Frieren.”

Frieren tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You two seem… different.”

Fern stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“You’re standing closer,” Frieren said. “And you’re both smiling like idiots.”

Fern flushed. Stark scratched the back of his neck.

Frieren shrugged. “Whatever. As long as you’re not going to be weird about it.”

Fern sighed. “We’re not.”

As Frieren turned toward the inn, she paused.

“You two can stay in my room tonight,” she said casually. “It’s got a fireplace. And the beds aren’t terrible.”

Fern blinked. “Wait, really?”

“You’re both exhausted,” Frieren said, already flipping open another grimoire. “And Stark looks like he got hit by a carriage.”

“I got hit by a demon,” Stark corrected.

“Same difference.”

Fern hesitated. “Are you sure? We can get our own room—”

Frieren waved a hand. “I don’t care. I’ll be up reading anyway.”

She glanced at them, eyes briefly softening. “You did good today.”

Fern smiled. “Thanks.”

Stark gave a thumbs-up, then winced. “Ow. Okay, yeah, I need that bed.”

…

Fern and Stark stood awkwardly by the bed.

It was a single bed.

Not huge. Not tiny. Just… close.

“We’ll just sleep,” Fern said quickly, voice a little too high.

“Totally,” Stark nodded. “Platonic sleeping. Like warriors. Or siblings. Or—”

“Just lie down,” Frieren said without looking up.

They climbed in, careful not to touch at first. Fern lay stiffly on one side, arms tucked in. Stark mirrored her on the other, staring at the ceiling like it held answers.

The silence stretched.=

Then Fern shifted slightly, her shoulder brushing Stark’s.

He didn’t move away.

Frieren turned a page. “You’re both terrible at pretending.”

Fern flushed. “We’re not pretending anything.”

“Mm-hm.”

Stark cleared his throat. “It’s just cold. Body heat is efficient.”

Frieren didn’t respond. She was already absorbed in a diagram of lunar sigils.

Eventually, Fern relaxed, her head resting lightly against Stark’s shoulder. He let out a slow breath, eyes drifting shut.

Frieren glanced over once, then returned to her book.

She didn’t say anything else.

Chapter Text

Serie was crouched in the garden, pulling out weeds and trimming dead leaves. Her face looked kind of blank, but not in a peaceful way — more like she was stuck in her own head. She wasn’t really focused on the flowers. Just going through the motions.
She paused for a second, staring at one of the buds that hadn’t opened yet. Her hand hovered over it, but she didn’t touch it.
Something about it reminded her of Flamma. The orange color reminds her of the hair the young mage once had—The time’s when Flamma had laughed at a bird flying into a wall. Serie hadn’t laughed, but she’d remembered it. It was dumb, but one of the most real memories she still had.
The big door creaked open.

Sense walked in, quiet like always. She didn’t say anything at first, just looked around until her eyes landed on Serie.
“You called me,” Sense said. “What’s going on?”
Serie didn’t look up. She pulled out another weed, tossed it aside.
“I wanted to talk,” she said.
“About what?”

Serie stood up, brushing dirt off her gloves. Her voice was flat, but not cold.
“Flamma and Frieren. And what happens now.”
Sense didn’t react much. Just nodded a little.
“You’re worried?” Serie asked.
Sense stepped closer, watching Serie work.
“Yes, you don’t have to be alone in it,” she said.

Serie didn’t look up. “I’m not trying to be alone. It just happens to old timmers like myself.”
She pulled out another weed and tossed it aside. The garden was quiet again.
Sense crouched down next to her. “You said you were thinking ahead. What does that mean?”
Serie hesitated. “It means I don’t trust that things will stay calm. Frieren has left, but others like her aren’t as willing to see eye to eye with me.”
“You think there’ll be another fight?”

Serie nodded. “Eventually, I have sent Frieren and a group of 1st class Mages to the Golden land to defeat Macht.”
Sense looked at her. “Do you think Frieren can defeat Macht?”
Serie didn’t answer right away. She pulled off her gloves, stood up, and looked out over the garden.
“Yes,” she said. “She was trained by my best student.”
Her voice was steady at first, but then it cracked slightly.
“There’s no chance she’ll fail.”

Sense noticed the change in her tone. “Flamma?”
Serie nodded, eyes still on the flowers. “She was reckless. But she learned fast. Frieren learned even faster, sure she never has reached the level i want from her but she has found new people to be with. It may be hard for you humans to understand but we elves live for what you see as Generations.”
Sense didn’t push.
Serie took a breath. “I didn’t call you here to talk about the mission. I called you because I need someone who belongs in this era of peace to talk about Flama with me.
Sense moved closer. Without speaking — just let her hair fall gently over Serie’s shoulder as she stood beside her.
“I can hear you out,” Sense said quietly.

Serie glanced at her, surprised for a second. Then she nodded.
“Thanks,” she said. Her voice was low. “I don’t say much to people anymore about my past.”
Serie sat down on the edge of the garden bed, her hands resting in her lap.
“Over a thousand years ago,” she said, “when I was in my late five-thousands, I met a little girl named Flamma.”
Sense stayed quiet, sitting beside her.
“I found her after traveling across the continent. Her village had been destroyed by a demon army. Almost everyone was gone.”
Serie looked down at the soil. Her fingers brushed a loose stem.
“She was hiding in the ruins. Covered in ash. She didn’t cry, not because of courage but because she was so shell shocked. Just stared at me like she didn’t know if I was real.”
Sense watched her, saying nothing.

“I took her in,” Serie said. “At that point, everyone close to me had already died. Old age. Over a hundred years of watching people fade.”
She paused.
“Flamma brought joy back into my life. Real joy. The kind I hadn’t felt in decades.”
Her voice was steady, but her eyes were distant.
“She was loud. Difficult. But she made me laugh. And I didn’t think I’d ever laugh again after everything I had seen up to that point.”
Serie’s gaze drifted toward the horizon, though her mind was somewhere else entirely.
“When Flamma was fifteen,” she said, “she used to mess with my hair and ears constantly.”
Sense blinked. “Your ears?”

Serie nodded. “She said they twitched when I was annoyed. So she’d braid my hair just tight enough to bother me, then tug on the ends and watch my ears flick.”
A small smile tugged at her lips.
“She’d sneak up behind me, loop ribbons through my braids, then pretend she was styling a doll. One time she tied bells to the tips and ran off laughing every time I moved.”
Sense chuckled. “Did you ever stop her?”
“I tried,” Serie said. “But she’d pout. Said I was no fun unless I was grumpy.”
She shook her head gently.

“I let her do it. It made her happy. And… I didn’t mind.”
“She stayed with me as she grew up. Traveled with me. Fought beside me. She was like a daughter to me.”
Sense didn’t speak. He could feel the weight in her tone.
“I watched her fall in love. She married at twenty-five. A kind man. Brave. He made her laugh in ways I hadn’t seen since she was a child.”
Serie paused.
“He died in a demon attack when she was thirty-six.”
Her hands folded together, still.
“I held her after it happened. She didn’t cry right away. Just sat there, staring at the ground.”
A breeze passed through the garden.

“She never loved another man the same. Stayed a widow. Said she’d had her one great love, and that was enough.”
“When Flamma was forty-seven,” she said, “she took Frieren on as her apprentice.”
Sense raised his eyebrows. “She chose her?”
Serie nodded. “Didn’t even hesitate. Said the girl had potential. That she reminded her of someone she used to be.”
She paused.
“I watched them train together. Flamma was patient, but firm. She didn’t coddle Frieren. She challenged her. Pushed her to think, not just react.”
A faint smile touched Serie’s lips.
“Frieren didn’t say much at first. But she listened. Absorbed everything. And Flamma… she softened. Not in her words, but in her eyes.”
Serie looked toward the horizon.

“It was strange. Watching Flamma become a mentor. She’d been the child once. The one I carried through grief and war. Now she was guiding someone else.”
She exhaled slowly.
“I loved Flamma like my own child. And over time… I started to understand just how short human lives really are.”
She looked down at her hands.
“She aged well. Strong, sharp, still beautiful in her fifties. But I could see it. The changes. The pace of it. It was fast. Too fast.”
Sense didn’t interrupt.
“I left,” Serie said. “For fifty years. Traveled across the continent. Searching for anything—rituals, relics, lost magic—that could prolong a human life.”
Her tone didn’t waver, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.
“I went through ruins, archives, temples. Spoke to hermits, scholars, even demons. I found theories. Hints. But nothing real. Nothing safe.”
She paused.

“I thought I had time,” she said. “I thought—if I just kept looking, if I didn’t give up…”
Her breath caught.
“She was old when I returned. Her hands trembled. Her steps were slow. But she still smiled at me. Still called me ‘tall and tired.’”
Her voice broke on the last word.
Sense moved closer, gently wrapping his arms around her. Her long hair brushed his shoulder as he held her.
Serie didn’t speak. Her body was still, but her breath shook.
Sense didn’t say anything. He just held her, quietly, carefully.
And then he noticed.

Serie was almost crying.
“I got to spend the last year of her life with her,” she said. “Just the two of us. Like two old ladies.”
She let out a breath that sounded like it had been held for decades.
“We sat by the fire. Talked about nothing. She teased me about my ears. I braided her hair when her hands got too shaky.”
Sense didn’t move.

“She died at ninety-seven. Peacefully. In her sleep.”
Serie’s hands trembled slightly.
“I went to her funeral. Stood in the back. Watched them bury her. I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.”
Her voice cracked.
“I failed her.”
Sense looked at her, eyes wide.
“She was my student. My child. I should’ve protected her. Found a way. Done something.”
Serie’s breath hitched again.
“But I didn’t. I left. I searched. And I came back too late.”
She closed her eyes.

“I thought I had time.”
A single tear slipped down Serie’s cheek.
“I couldn’t look at her,” she said. “Frieren.”
Sense stayed silent, listening.
“She brought me Flamma’s will. Said her master wanted me to have it. That it mentioned me.”
Serie’s voice tightened.
“I pushed her away.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
“I told her to leave. That I didn’t want it. That it didn’t matter.”
Her hands clenched softly in her lap.
“She looked hurt. But she didn’t argue. Just nodded and walked off.”
Serie’s eyes stayed fixed on the ground.
“I was in pain. And I made her carry it too.”
Sense shifted closer, her expression soft.
She reached out and placed a hand gently on Serie’s back, fingers brushing the fabric of her cloak before settling into slow, careful motion.
Serie didn’t flinch.

Sense began to massage her back — light pressure, steady circles between her shoulders. Not trying to fix anything. Just being there.
Serie’s breath hitched, but she stayed still.
“You didn’t fail her,” Sense said quietly. “You were there when it mattered. Even if it hurt.”
Serie didn’t respond, but her posture eased, just slightly.
“She knew you loved her,” Sense added. “And Frieren… she wouldn’t have come to you if she didn’t believe that too.”
A second tear slipped down Serie’s cheek.
Serie’s voice was barely audible.
“Do you think… Flamma would be proud of me?”
Sense didn’t answer right away. She kept her hand on Serie’s back, steady and warm.
Then she nodded.

“I do,” she said. “You’re still carrying her legacy. You helped shape Frieren. And now your running the First-Class Mage Exam.”
Serie blinked, surprised.
“She would be proud I guess?”
Sense smiled gently. “ your the examiner Of one of the biggest organizations . You have guided your student. Just like Flamma guiding people in Aureole.”
Serie looked down, her expression unreadable.
Sense leaned in a little closer.
“If you ever want to feel better,” she said, “you could reconnect with her legacy. Frieren.”
Serie didn’t speak.
“She’s not Flamma,” Sense added. “But she’s part of her. And part of you.”
Serie closed her eyes.

Serie sat in silence for a moment, then turned slightly toward Sense.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For being here. For helping me when I’m at my lowest.”
Sense gave a small smile, her hand still resting gently on Serie’s back.
“I had to,” she said. “I see how much you need it.”
Serie’s eyes flicked toward her, uncertain.
“And I trust you,” Sense added. “Even when you don’t trust yourself.”
Serie looked away, but her shoulders relaxed.
“I’m not used to this, being unsure of what the future holds,” she murmured. “Letting someone see me like this it hasn’t happened since Flama.”
Sense nodded.

“There’s one more thing,” she said. “I have decide to join Frieren on her journey to Aureole… could you run the Magic Organization in my place?”
Sense blinked, stunned. “Wait—really? You’re leaving?”
Serie nodded slowly. “I think I need to.”
Sense sat back, trying to process it. “But you’ve led it for centuries. You built half of it.”
“I know,” Serie said. “But Flamma’s student is trying to reach something she believes in. Something important.”
She looked Sense in the eye.
“I owe it to Flamma to help her get there.”
Sense was quiet, then nodded slowly.

“She wants to reconnect with Himmel. Her old partner.”
Serie nodded, saying nothing.
“And I think,” Sense continued, “you want to reconnect with Flamma.”
Serie’s breath caught.
“She’s gone,” she said quietly.
“I know,” Sense replied. “But if she could see you now… if she could see what you’re doing for her student…”
She paused.

“She’d be proud. She’d be overwhelmed. She’d probably cry and pretend she wasn’t.”
Serie let out a shaky breath.
“I miss her every day,” she whispered.
Sense reached for her hand.

“Then go,” she said. “Not to escape. But to carry her forward.”
Sense leaned in and wrapped her arms around Serie, holding her close.
No magic. No speeches.
Just a hug.
The serie didn’t move at first.
Then, slowly, she leaned into it trying to accept the feeling she felt. She felt that she had to do everything in her power to help Frierens group reach heaven after failing to nurture Frieren for the past 1,000 years. She would se her one true child if it was the last thing she did. 

Chapter Text

Methode sat in the corner of the carriage, arms crossed, her gaze drifting between the trees outside and the three girls across from her.

Three weeks on the road.

Kanne and Lawine chatted like they had endless breath. Lange had finished every book Methode packed for her days ago and now joined the conversation, chiming in with bored energy and too many questions.

It was starting to wear on her.

She liked quiet. And predictability. This… felt like neither.

She glanced at Lange again, catching her daughter staring.

Lange stood up and walked over, her expression hopeful.

“Mom,” she said, “can we go outside with Lenie? Just a quick walk.”

Methode narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Because it’s boring,” Lange said. “And Lenie’s pacing like a caged cat. She won’t run off. She hasn’t done anything bad the whole trip.”

Methode exhaled through her nose. She didn’t like it. Lenie still made her uneasy. But… Lange was right. Lenie hadn’t caused any trouble.

And Methode, despite herself, hated when her daughter wasn’t within reach.

“…Fine,” she muttered. “But stay close. I want you where I can see you.”

Lange beamed. “Thanks!”

…

Kanne leapt off the side with a whoop. Lawine followed instantly, her boots sending a puff of dust into the air.

Lange climbed down, brushing her hands against her skirt, then glanced at Lenie—already on the roadside, still half-expecting to be waved back in. Instead, she watched in disbelief as Lange joined her.

“You’re actually walking?” Lenie asked, incredulous.

“I guess I’m allowed today,” Lange said, neutral but kind. “Don’t read too much into it.”

Lenie laughed once, the sound more nervous than joyful. “I thought maybe… you weren’t allowed to talk to me anymore.”

Lange tilted her head. “It’s not like that. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Your mother thinks differently.”

“She’s just… careful,” Lange said after a beat, her eyes scanning the horizon rather than meeting Lenie’s. “She wants me close. And she doesn’t really know what to make of you.”

Lenie didn’t argue. Instead, she fell into step beside her, not too near, like she understood the unspoken boundaries.

They walked behind Kanne and Lawine, who were already deep in some ridiculous game. The wagon clattered along beside them, and Methode’s gaze flicked out now and then through the slit in the fabric.

Lenie spoke quietly about harmless things—the color of the clouds, the strange bird they passed, a question about a book Lange had finished weeks ago.

Lenie was mid-sentence about a dream she’d had when Lange cut in, eyes flicking up just briefly.

“Your horn looks nice today,” Lange said casually, as if commenting on the weather. “Did you polish it or something?”

Lenie blinked. “I—uh… what?”

“The color’s brighter,” Lange added, squinting at it. “It catches the light differently.”

Lenie instinctively reached up, fingertips brushing against the curve of it. Her cheeks flushed a soft shade, barely visible against her skin.

“No,” she said quickly. “I didn’t do anything special. It’s just… normal.”

Lange shrugged. “Well, it suits you.”

Then she turned her attention to Kanne and Lawine, who were currently arguing about who could walk longest without stepping on a crack in the road.

…

The road narrowed, hugging the edge of a rocky cliff where sharp winds tossed dust and dried leaves across the trail. Methode, eyes locked on the terrain ahead, leaned out the carriage window with sharp concern.

“Keep to the inside, all of you!” she called. “Not near the drop!”

The girls responded instantly. Kanne pivoted mid-step, Lawine skipped away from the cliff, and Lenie nodded with quiet obedience.

Lange turned too—but didn’t look where her feet landed.

Her boot caught the loose edge of a stone. The gravel slid. She staggered once—

And then she was gone.

Screams erupted from the group as Lange’s body vanished past the edge—then a sickening thud and a burst of dust.

“LANGE!” Kanne shouted, eyes wide, voice cracking.

But Lenie was already moving.

She threw herself toward the cliff’s edge, dropping to her knees, arms plunging downward. For a moment, there was nothing but wind and the desperate sound of fingers scraping rock.

Then—Lenie’s hand caught Lange’s wrist.

Lange dangled below the ledge, boots kicking against open air, her other hand gripping a stubborn root sticking from the cliff wall.

“I’ve got you!” Lenie gasped, her muscles straining, feet slipping as she fought to anchor herself.

Lange’s face was pale, but her eyes met Lenie’s.

“Don’t let go,” she screamed.

“Lange!”

Denken and Frieren appeared from behind a cluster of rocks, their conversation vanishing into shouts. Frieren raised both hands, eyes sharp, lips moving with precision.

A gust of wind whirled around the edge of the cliff—then Lange floated upward, her body trembling as Frieren’s spell gently deposited her on the ground.

She hit the dirt in a sitting position, gasping. Shaky hands pressed against her chest, as if trying to force breath back into her lungs.

Hyperventilating. Pale. Barely grounded.

Methode was there in seconds, dropping to her knees, arms wrapping around Lange like a vice. “Are you hurt? Are you okay—sweetheart, talk to me!”

Lange nodded, or maybe she tried to—her lips moved but sound came out broken, fragmented between gulps of air. “I’m—I’m okay,” she rasped.

Then Lenie knelt beside her too, eyes wide with worry, and wrapped her arms around Lange’s back in a careful hug.

Lange didn’t flinch. She leaned into it.

And Methode saw it.

Her eyes narrowed

Lange clutched her chest, still trembling, her breaths sharp and uneven.

She gasped. “Like in the maze. I thought I was going to die.”

Her voice cracked.

“The spikes. The walls. I couldn’t move—I couldn’t think. It was just like that.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks now, her body folding inward as the panic crested. Lenie was still beside her, arms wrapped around Lange’s back, holding firm.

“You saved me,” Lange whispered. “You caught me.”

She turned and hugged Lenie fully now, burying her face in her shoulder.

“Thank you so much,” she said between sobs. “Thank you.”

Lenie held her tighter.

Methode stepped closer to Lenie.  She looked at Lenie—not just at her, but into her eyes. And for once, her voice softened without malist.

“I’m… thankful,” she said. “That you were with her. That you didn’t let go.”

Lenie blinked, nodding gently. Still holding Lange, who was quietly crying into her shoulder.

Methode’s eyes lingered. There was a twitch of hesitation—like gratitude was a language she hadn’t spoken in years.

“She trusts you,” Methode said. “I didn’t expect that.”

Lenie stayed quiet, waiting.

“She doesn’t open up to people. Not easily, ever since her dad died in the Mining accident.  But when she grabbed you, cried into you, I saw how much she trusted you.

There was a pause. Methode rubbed the back of her neck, then added:

“You’re a good person. I get that now.”

Another pause. This one felt heavier.

“If Lange wants to talk to you, if she turns to you… I’m not gonna stop it anymore.”

She looked Lenie in the eye.

“Go ahead.”

Chapter Text

Serie stepped carefully over the broken edge of a well, the stones long cracked and half-buried under thorn vines. The village had been dead for centuries. Houses collapsed into rubble. Hearths cold. Roof beams snapped and sagging.

Nothing moved.

She remembered walking through this same place with Flamma at her side. Back then, the village was loud. Children ran through alleyways. Lanterns hung from the rafters, bobbing in the wind. Someone had given Flamma pickled plums from a barrel and refused to let them pay.

She had been in her thirties in ELF years. Flamma was just past twenty, eyes too big for her face and voice full of questions.

The streets had smelled like smoke and bread.

Now they smelled like rain and rot.

Serie stopped in the middle of the square, where a fountain used to bubble clean water. All that was left were broken tiles and weeds.

She remembered laughing here.

Six hundred years.

Serie crouched near the ruins of what used to be the bakery, her fingers brushing the soot-stained stones. The ovens were nothing but empty mouths now. The building had collapsed sometime during the third or fourth century after they left it.

And still—only six hundred.

It should've felt like an age. Generations came and went, born and buried in beds these houses no longer held. Names lost. Roads swallowed.

But compared to everything else—

She exhaled.

Six hundred years was practically nothing. A blink. A brief breath between lives.

They’d walked away from this place, Flamma laughing at some local superstition and Serie pretending not to worry. The village had still sung then. Bright-eyed, stubborn, full of people who thought they had time.

Now it was silent. Cracked through. Forgotten.

Funny, how long it lasted.

Funnier, how little it mattered.

As she was leaving the village she nearly missed the old figure sitting under the split trunk of a tree near the abandoned church until he stirred.

“Ah. Serie.”

She stopped.

The elf’s hair was the color of young leaves, though his face was older than stone—lined, patient, kind. His robe sagged at the edges, patched where time had tugged too hard. He smiled without rising.

“I thought you’d be at the Association of First Class Mages,” he said easily.

“I meant to be,” Serie answered. “But I wanted to catch up with Frieren.”

Kraft blinked, then laughed—a soft, low sound.

“You’re not the only one,” he said. “I met her some months back, actually. Sweet girl. Steady. She said she was on her way to Aureole.”

Serie’s brows lifted. “So am I.”

“Of course you are.” Kraft looked out at the empty stretch of road. “Everyone ends up chasing someone eventually.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

Kraft added, “She reminded me of you, you know. The way she looked at the world like it still had something left.”

Serie didn’t answer at first.

Then: “And you? You’ve been alive how long now?”

“Long enough to lose count. But not long enough to make it easy on me.”

Serie sat down beside him.

“You ever wonder how much of us is still ours,” she said, “when everything we remember is gone?”

Kraft tilted his head. “All the time.”

He glanced at her.

“But you remember the laughter. That’s the part that stays.”

Serie nodded slowly.

“She had a student with her,” he said after a beat. “Young girl. I think her name was Fern. Quiet, sharp eyes. Mana control like I haven’t seen in decades. Honestly caught me off guard.”

Serie’s lips curved faintly.

“She became a First Class Mage last month.”

Kraft blinked. Then smiled—wide and slow, the kind that folds years into a single moment.

“…Did she?” he said. “Well. Of course she did.”

There was no bitterness in his voice—just pride, gentle and settled.

“I always knew she’d be powerful.”

“People will forget,” she said, voice low. “Not just names, or battles, or titles. Even the things that mattered. What Fern did. What Frieren is still doing. What you did—back five thousand years ago.”

Kraft’s gaze didn’t waver from the sky, soft and gold along the edges.

“I won’t forget,” Serie added. “Not as long as I live.”

He turned toward her, a flicker of something ancient and warm beneath his eyes.

“You could always come back to the Association building,” she said. “You’d still belong. You always have.”

Kraft let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh.

“I belong wherever the wind still remembers me,” he said. Then, after a pause, “And I’ll never forget you either, as he looks into the sky.”

“I hope we’ll meet again,” she said quietly, not standing yet. “Sometime. Somewhere.”

Kraft looked down at her, a smile tugging at his lips.

“You never know. The Goddess bends the world in strange ways.”

Then, with a voice thinner than it had been moments before, she said, “Everything becomes a story, eventually.”

Kraft turned to look at her, but she didn’t meet his gaze. Her eyes were on the horizon, where distant mountains blurred with clouds.

“They’ll say Frieren killed the Demon king,” Serie murmured. “That she brought light, or wisdom, or some holy change. They’ll write songs. Tales. Make her larger than she was. Kinder. Stronger. And maybe she’ll deserve it. But they won’t know her.” Her voice frayed at the edges. “Not really.”

A small silence stretched between them.

“When I think of Flamma now… I still remember how she snorted when she laughed, or how she never managed to fold maps properly. She was real to me. A girl. Brilliant. Infuriating. Alive.” Serie’s fingers traced the edge of the bench absently, as though remembering something tactile. “But the world doesn’t remember girls. It remembers myths.”

She turned to Kraft then. Looked at him fully.

“We’ve lived long enough that no one fears us anymore,” she said plainly. “Humans think we’re relics. Demons don’t bother. They speak our names like titles — not warnings.” Her expression softened with something close to fondness. “And yet, we’re still here. The last embers. Not dangerous. Not sacred. Just… watching.”

Kraft’s smile faded into something quieter, and he reached up to adjust the collar of his cloak.

“She was human,” he said finally. “Older than Frieren, younger than me. I was… different then. Still rough around the edges. But she didn’t mind. Said it was nice, living quietly with someone who didn’t need to be explained.”

Serie watched him, waiting.

“For seventy years, we had peace. Just the two of us and this village.” His hand drifted toward the gate they’d passed through, fingers brushing against the wood. “She grew old the way mortals do. Gracefully. And when she died…” He exhaled slowly. “She vanished. No grave. No children. No stories. Just this place.”

“And you?” Serie asked gently.

“I thought it was a mistake,” he admitted. “To love her. To give her that part of me. I spent thousands of years thinking I’d traded permanence for memory, and lost both.”

Serie nodded, eyes cast down.

“But I was wrong.” He turned to her, voice quieter now. “It mattered. She mattered. I loved her — and I’d do it again, knowing what I know now. Even if the world forgets her. Even if I’m the only one who remembers.”

“You carry your years in your eyes,” he said, not unkindly. “Not just the age but the look when you've lived too long without letting anyone get close.”

Serie didn’t flinch, though her lips pressed into a line.

“I used to see that look in some of the monks,” Kraft continued. “Not fear. Not regret. Just… detachment. As if the world wasn’t theirs anymore. Like they were visitors to a place that used to belong to them.” He let out a soft breath. “That’s what you remind me of.”

Serie glanced toward the horizon, where the sky began folding itself into pale dusk.

“I think you need someone,” Kraft said gently. “Not out of loneliness. Just to share the part of you that’s still reaching.” His gaze stayed on her face. “You don’t talk much. But even silence leaves traces.”

She didn’t respond, not directly.

Kraft stepped closer, voice low. “If there’s anyone who still stirs something real in you… even if it’s difficult, even if it hurts — go to them.” He paused. “Enjoy the time while it’s still yours.”

“I’ll keep walking,” she murmured. “

Then she stepped forward, back onto the road as she waved back to Kraft.

Chapter Text

The wagon creaked gently as it settled into the soft earth, the sun slanting low across the horizon. Lange had arranged the cushions in a loose circle, and Kanne was already curled up with her knees tucked under her chin. Lawine leaned back against the wooden side, arms crossed but relaxed. Linie sat cross-legged, her posture straight, hands folded neatly in her lap.

Denken approached with a tray of warm baked treats — small hand pies, flaky and golden, their scent rich with honey and spice.

“Peace offering to you girls” he said, setting the tray in the center. “Or bribe. Depends how you plan to be.”

Kanne grinned and grabbed one immediately. “Definitely a bribe, thank you grandpa.”

Lawine raised an eyebrow at Linie. “So. Eighty years. What did you do?”

Linie blinked slowly, as if the question had to travel a long way to reach her. “I lived,” she said simply.

Lange tilted his head. “That’s it?”

“I moved through places. I watched things change. I learned how to mimic what people expected. I didn’t feel much. Not the way you do.” She picked up a pie but didn’t eat it. “It’s strange to explain. I didn’t know I was missing anything.”

Kanne leaned forward, her voice soft. “You didn’t feel anything at all?”

“I felt things. But they didn’t... mean anything. They happened. Like weather.” Linie’s gaze drifted to the horizon. “It wasn’t until Stark cut off my hand that I understood fear. Not just the idea of it. The real thing. I thought I was going to die. And I didn’t want to.”

The circle went quiet.

“Lügner was cruel,” she said. “Not in the way people expect a demon to be. He didn’t yell. He didn’t strike. He just... used me. Because I was Aura’s child, and that meant something to other demonds. He made me a symbol. A tool. Something to parade when it suited him.”

Kanne’s brow furrowed. “Did Aura know?”

Linie shook her head. “I don’t think so. She was gone by then, doing adult stuff she would say. Our relation ship was distant. Everyone had their own version of her, and mine was mostly silence.”

Lawine leaned forward, her tone sharper. “And no one stopped him?”

“No one questioned Lugner. He was important. I was just convenient chess price for him.”

The group sat with that for a moment, the warmth of the pies suddenly feeling heavier.

Then footsteps approached — lighter, more hesitant.

Laufen.

She paused at the edge of the circle, her arms folded loosely, expression unreadable. “Can I sit?”

Linie nodded, and Laufen settled beside Lawine, her gaze flicking toward Linie with quiet intent.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Laufen said. “About your mother.”

Linie’s posture didn’t change, but her eyes narrowed slightly. “What about her?”

“All I know is what people say. The stories. The fear. The reverence. I want to know what she was like to you. Not the legend. Just... the person deep down.”

Linie looked at her for a long moment, then exhaled.

“She was distant from me. She was truly one of the most Brilliant demons I have know in all 80 years. She was Cold, sometimes. But not cruel. She didn’t know how to be soft, but she tried in her own way. She taught me things no one else could.”

Laufen nodded slowly. “Did you love her?”

“I don’t know,” Linie said. “I think I wanted to. I think I  do now. But I didn’t understand what love was supposed to feel like. I’m only just starting to.”

Linie had just finished the last bite of her pie when the wagon’s shadow stretched, and a familiar presence approached — quiet, but unmistakable.

Aura.

She stood just beyond the circle, hands folded behind her back, her posture as precise as ever. Her gaze swept over the group, lingering briefly on Linie before settling into something neutral.

“Miss Frieren has granted me leave to take my daughter into town,” Aura said, voice smooth and clipped. “If any of you wish to accompany us, I’ll tolerate it.”

Kanne blinked. “That’s... generous?”

Aura tilted her head. “I don't think I'm offering generosity. I’m offering a meal. Interpret it however you like.”

Lawine smirked. “Where are we going?”

“There’s a place that serves food. Linie liked the bread there 50 years ago. I assume the rest of you eat.”

Linie looked up, surprised. “You remembered?”

Aura didn’t answer directly. “You mentioned it once. I don’t forget things that matter.”

Laufen stood, brushing crumbs from her lap. “I’ll come.”

Lange followed suit. “Same.”

Aura turned to Linie, her expression unreadable. “You’re coming, of course.”

Linie nodded, quietly.

Aura’s gaze lingered a moment longer, then she turned. “We leave in five minutes. Don’t dawdle.”

She walked off without waiting for a reply, her cloak catching the light as she moved — distant, composed, and yet unmistakably present.

…

The cobbled streets of Glacierford shimmered faintly under the late afternoon sun, the air crisp with the scent of pine and distant hearth smoke. It was a quiet town, nestled between frostbitten hills and slow-moving rivers — the kind of place where time felt a little slower, a little softer.

Aura walked at the front of the group, her cloak trailing behind her like a shadow stitched to precision. Linie walked beside her, their hands clasped — not tightly, but deliberately. Aura’s grip was firm, protective in a way that didn’t ask permission.

Behind them, Laufen, Lange, Kanne, and Lawine followed at a respectful distance, their chatter subdued by the unfamiliar calm of the town.

A merchant stacking crates outside a general store glanced up as they passed. His eyes lingered on Aura — not with fear, but recognition. He stepped forward, wiping his hands on his apron.

“If you’re looking for food,” he said, “there’s a place just down the lane. Corner of Frost and Hollow. Good bread. Better stew.”

Aura nodded once. “Thank you.”

She didn’t ask for directions again. She simply turned, guiding Linie with her, the others falling into step behind.

As they walked, Linie glanced up at her mother. “We’ve been here before?”

“Briefly,” Aura said. “Years ago. It was colder then.”

“You remember the weather?”

“I remember everything that matters.”

Linie didn’t press further. But her hand stayed in Aura’s, and Aura didn’t let go.

They reached the shop — a modest building with a carved wooden sign and windows fogged from the warmth inside. The scent of roasted vegetables and fresh bread drifted out as the door opened.

Aura paused at the threshold, then looked back at the group.

“Behave,” she said. “Or eat quickly.”

Then she stepped inside, still holding Linie’s hand.

…

Aura was still talking to Linie about the menu, going way too deep into the ingredients like it was a science project. Linie was nodding along, half-listening, half-watching Kanne and Lawine sneak off through the side door.

They didn’t say anything — just exchanged a look and dipped out.

The air outside was cold, but not biting. The sky was starting to turn orange and pink, the sun barely peeking over the edge of the valley. Kanne walked ahead a little, then stopped at the railing, staring out like she was trying to memorize it.

Lawine came up behind her, arms sliding around her waist. She didn’t say anything at first — just held her.

Then, soft: “It’s beautiful.”

Kanne smiled, still looking out. “Yeah. It is.”

Lawine leaned in, kissed her cheek. “Not as beautiful as you.”

Kanne laughed, kind of embarrassed but not pulling away. “You’re such a sap.”

“I mean it,” Lawine said, hugging her tighter.

They stood there for a second, quiet, just breathing in the cold morning air. Then—

“ Seriously? ”

Linie’s voice cut through the moment like a knife. She was standing behind them, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

“You two ditched us to go make out at sunrise?”

Kanne turned around, already blushing. “We didn’t ditch you.”

“You literally snuck out,” Linie said, walking up. “Aura’s still talking about soup. I had to escape.”

Lawine smirked. “So you followed us?”

“I sensed drama,” Linie said. “And I was right.”

She looked at them, then at the view, then back at them — her face shifting into that classic mischievous grin.

“I’m telling Lange.”

The three of them walked back in, boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. The warmth hit instantly — the smell of herbs and something earthy simmering in the kitchen.

Aura looked up from the menu, eyes narrowing slightly. “Where were you?”

Kanne opened her mouth, but Linie beat her to it.

“Just outside,” she said innocently. “Admiring the sunrise.”

Aura raised an eyebrow. “For twenty minutes?”

Lawine shrugged. “It was a really good sunrise.”

Aura didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push it either. She turned back to the menu like she was filing the moment away for later analysis.

Linie slid up next to Lange, who was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching everyone with her usual quiet curiosity.

Linie leaned in, whispering just loud enough for Lange to hear: “They kissed.”

Lange blinked, then looked over at Kanne and Lawine. Her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile.

Linie snickered. “Told you.”

Just then, the kitchen door swung open and the chef stepped out — a broad-shouldered woman with a thick apron and a ladle like a weapon.

“Morning,” she said. “You lot here for the stew?”

Everyone nodded. It was the village specialty — mushroom stew, slow-cooked with wild herbs and root vegetables. The kind of thing that warmed you from the inside out.

“I’ll bring out a pot,” the chef said, disappearing back into the kitchen.

Kanne sat down next to Lawine, their shoulders brushing. Linie plopped down across from them, still grinning. Lange took the seat beside her, quiet but clearly amused.

Aura stayed standing, arms folded, watching them all like she was trying to solve a puzzle.

“You’re all acting weird,” she said.

Linie grinned. “We’re just happy.”

Aura narrowed her eyes. “Suspicious.”

Aura hadn’t sat down yet. She was standing near the window, arms folded, staring out at the snow-covered trees.

Then, out of nowhere to break the tensions she sat down and spoke.

“My mother left me in the woods.”

Everyone looked up.

Aura didn’t turn around. “I was born during a storm. She didn’t want me. Said I was too quiet. Too strange. So she wrapped me in a blanket and left me under a tree.”

Linie stopped chewing. Kanne’s smile faded. Lawine leaned forward, listening.

“I don’t remember her face,” Aura said. “Just the cold. And the sound of animals moving around me. I didn’t cry. I think I was too scared to.”

She finally turned, her expression unreadable. “I got picked up by a trader three days later. He didn’t want a kid either, but he figured I might be useful. So I learned fast. Learned how to talk like I knew things. How to read people. How to make them think I was worth keeping around.”

Her voice didn’t shake. “He said I owed him everything. That I was lucky he found me. That I’d be nothing without him.”

Lawine’s brow furrowed. Linie didn’t move. Kanne was staring at her stew, untouched.

Aura kept going. “He hit me when I talked back. Locked me out in the cold when I messed up a deal. Told me I was broken. That I’d always be broken.”

She paused, then looked up — not angry, not sad. Just tired.

“I killed him when I was twenty.”

No one spoke.

“I waited until he was asleep. Used his own knife. Buried him behind the cabin a. No one asked questions because they thought a Demon killed a kind Priest for no reason”

The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Then Kanne spoke, voice soft. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Lawine nodded. “Me too. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Lange looked up from her sketch, eyes steady. “I’m sorry, Aura.”

Aura didn’t respond right away. She just looked at each of them, one by one.

Linie stayed quiet. Not out of indifference — just watching, thinking, her usual grin gone.

The chef returned, setting down bowls of mushroom stew in front of Kanne and Lawine . The steam curled up into the air, earthy and warm.

Aura picked up her spoon, then looked around the table.

“Eat,” she said, her voice low but firm. Almost trying to be motherly.

Chapter Text

Dear Lady Serie,

I have been set up at the Northern Plateau checkpoint by their leader, Captain Weiß, who was placed in command here a couple months ago.

He has been keeping people locked up — not for crimes, but for leverage. He demands duress money from travelers, merchants, even refugees. If they refuse, he threatens their families. Some disappear.

I came here to investigate quietly, but he’s onto me. I think he knows who I report to.

Please send help. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. I feel them circling around me.

Thank you.

—F.C.M.21

Captain Weiß leans forward, gloved fingers resting lightly on the parchment. His eyes scan the words, slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring the scent of blood.

“Duress money. Threats. Disappearances. How dramatic.”

He exhales through his nose, amused. The corner of his mouth lifts — not in a smile, but in something colder. Calculated.

The letter begins to curl at the edges, heat blooming from within. A silent ignition. The ink flares gold, then blackens. Weiß watches it burn, unmoving, until only ash remains.

“F.C.M.21,” he says aloud, tasting the code. “First Class Mage, perhaps? Or just a fool.”

He brushes the ashes aside with a flick of his hand, revealing a map beneath — the Northern Plateau checkpoint marked in red, concentric circles drawn around it like a tightening noose.

“They always think they’re the only ones watching,” he murmurs. “But surveillance is a mirror, not a window. And I do enjoy a good reflection.”

He stands, adjusting the cuffs of his coat with surgical precision. His tone is crisp, intellectual, and laced with contempt.

“Send word to the perimeter. If our little ghost tries to escape, I want him found and killed. No more letters. No more games.”

…

The castle gates groan open under the weight of command. Captain Weiß strides out into the cold night, flanked by twenty guards in formation — armor polished, boots silent against the frost-hardened earth. Their discipline is absolute. His presence demands it.

Ahead, nestled at the edge of the checkpoint’s outer ring, a small house flickers with life. A single candle burns in the window — a signal, a hope, or perhaps a mistake from his side.

The castle gates groan open under the weight of command. Captain Weiß strides out into the cold night, flanked by twenty guards in formation — armor polished, boots silent against the frost-hardened earth. Their discipline is absolute. His presence demands it.

Ahead, nestled at the edge of the checkpoint’s outer ring, a small house flickers with life. A single candle burns in the window — a signal, a hope, or perhaps a mistake.

Weiß slows as they approach, eyes narrowing.

“One light,” he muses aloud. “How poetic. They always think solitude is sanctuary.”

He raises a gloved hand. The guards move.

With a thunderous crack, the door is splintered inward. Wood shatters. The candle snuffs out in the gust. Inside, a man scrambles to his feet — mid-thirties, lean, eyes wide with recognition and dread. He doesn’t get far.

Two guards seize him, another drives a fist into his ribs. He crumples, coughing, gasping. Blood spatters the floorboards.

“You’ve been very curious,” Weiß says, stepping inside with surgical calm. “Curiosity is a luxury. You’ll have plenty of time to reflect on that when you're in jail.”

He leans down, voice low and precise.

“Take him to the prison. He stays there. For a long time.”

The man is dragged out, limbs limp, face bruised and swelling. No one speaks. The guards know better. Weiß watches until the last bootstep fades into the night.

Then, almost absently, he picks up the broken candle from the floor and examines it.

“Even flame has memory,” he murmurs. “But memory has immunity in my world.”

He drops the candle. It rolls once, then stops.

Captain Weiß steps out of the house, the night air sharp against his coat. 

Flames catch quickly. Dry wood, old curtains, scattered papers — all surrender to the fire. The candle that once flickered in the window is now engulfed, its light replaced by roaring heat.

Weiß pauses at the threshold, watching the blaze rise. His face is lit in flickers — gold, then orange, then red. He tilts his head slightly, as if admiring a painting.

He turns to his guards, voice crisp.

The man they dragged away is long gone — bleeding, unconscious, locked behind stone and steel. But the fire speaks louder than any interrogation.

Weiß walks away, boots crunching over frost and ash. The guards follow in formation, shadows stretching long behind them.

Pov Frieren Group

The wind had grown sharper as the group ascended toward the Northern Plateau. Snow clung to the edges of their cloaks, and the checkpoint’s silhouette loomed ahead — a cluster of stone and steel nestled against the mountainside.

Denken adjusted his scarf, eyes narrowing at the distant outpost.

“Weiß is in command here,” he said, almost to himself. “Captain Weiß. I trained with him in the capital decades ago.”

Frieren glanced sideways, her expression unreadable.

“You know him?”

Denken nodded, a rare softness in his voice.

“One of the most by-the-book people I ever met. Precise. Disciplined. He used to correct instructors mid-lecture — politely, of course. It was infuriating.”

Methode, walking just behind, raised an eyebrow.

“And now he’s running a checkpoint in the north? That’s a long fall from the capital.”

“Not necessarily,” Denken replied. “He always preferred structure over prestige. Said the cold kept people honest.”

Aura, silent until now, tilted her head slightly.

“Cold does many things. Honesty is not one of them.”

Denken chuckled, brushing snow from his sleeve.

“Still, I’d like to stop by. Just for a day. Catch up. See how he’s doing. Weiß was never the type to bend rules, let alone break them.”

Frieren’s gaze lingered on the checkpoint.

“People change.”

“Some do,” Denken said. “But Weiß? I’d wager he’s still lecturing his guards on proper boot alignment.”

Methode’s fingers tapped lightly against her staff.

“If he’s as rigid as you say, he’ll either welcome us with protocol.

…

The carriage rolled slowly toward the gates of the Northern Plateau, wheels crunching over frost-packed stone. The checkpoint loomed ahead — tall, gray, and silent, its walls casting long shadows in the late afternoon light.

Then, with a low groan, the gates began to open.

Twenty guards stepped out in formation, armor gleaming, faces unreadable. They didn’t shout. They didn’t rush. But they moved with purpose — surrounding the carriage in seconds, eyes scanning every face.

Denken leaned forward, brows furrowed. “That’s... excessive.”

Frieren didn’t move, but her gaze sharpened. “Something’s wrong.”

Methode’s hand hovered near her staff, not threatening, just ready.

Aura remained still, her posture straight, her expression unreadable. But her eyes flicked toward the guards with quiet calculation.

Inside the carriage, the children shifted uneasily. One of the guards approached, holding a list — names written in tight, formal script.

He began reading aloud, voice clipped and official.

"Kanne". Lawine. Lange. Laufen. "Linie."

At the sound of her name, Linie reached into her coat and pulled out her hat — a soft, dark thing she hadn’t worn since morning. She slipped it on quickly, pulling it low over her horns.

Kanne noticed and whispered, “You okay?”

Linie nodded, but didn’t speak.

The guard looked up from the list and walked toward the adults, eyes lingering on each of them.

“You’re expected,” he said. “Captain Weiß has prepared accommodations. You’ll be escorted inside.”

Denken stepped down from the carriage, trying to keep his tone light. “Expected? That’s generous. I was hoping to surprise him.”

The guard didn’t smile. “Captain Weiß doesn’t like surprises.”

Frieren followed, her eyes scanning the checkpoint walls. “Neither do I.”

Aura stepped down last, her hand grabbing Linie’s arms as she passed.

The gates closed behind them with a heavy thud.

Inside, the checkpoint was quiet. Too quiet.

…

Captain Weiß Pov

The office was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the wall-mounted chronometer. Captain Weiß sat behind his desk, reviewing patrol reports with surgical precision. His coat hung neatly on the rack, untouched since morning. Everything in the room was orderly — until the door slammed open.

A guard rushed in, breathless, helmet tucked under one arm.

“Captain! The carriage just arrived. There are First-Class mages inside. Multiple.”

Weiß didn’t look up. “First-Class?”

“Yes, sir. At least three. They’re being escorted through the checkpoint now.”

Weiß’s pen stopped mid-signature.

“That’s impossible.”

The guard hesitated. “They had a letter. Official seal. Northern Plateau authorization.”

Weiß stood slowly, eyes narrowing. “I never sent a letter.”

“Sir?”

He stepped around the desk, voice low and sharp.

“I blocked the request. I made it clear — no outside interference. Especially not mages.”

The guard shifted uneasily. “Then how did they get the seal?”

Weiß’s gaze darkened. “That’s what I intend to find out.”

He grabbed his coat, fastened it with practiced efficiency, and strode toward the door.

“I’ll speak to them myself. No one else is to engage. Not until I know who forged my authority.”

He paused at the threshold, voice colder than the wind outside.

“And if they think they’re here by right... they’ll learn what it means to trespass.”

…

The courtyard was silent as Weiß stepped through the checkpoint gates, boots crunching against frostbitten stone. Twenty soldiers flanked him, armor gleaming, weapons sheathed but ready. He’d prepared for resistance — a rogue mage, a coup, maybe worse.

But what he saw made him stop cold.

The group stood calmly near the carriage. No formation. No aggression. Just quiet presence.

And at the center of it all — Denken.

Weiß blinked once, then twice, as if the snow had blurred his vision.

“Denken?”

The older mage turned, his expression softening with recognition.

“Weiß. Still dramatic, I see.”

Weiß waved his soldiers back with a subtle gesture. They hesitated, then stepped into a looser stance.

“I thought I was dealing with a breach. Not a reunion.”

Denken smiled faintly. “We didn’t come to fight. Though your welcome committee made us wonder.”

Weiß approached, his posture still rigid, but his voice lowered.

His thoughts were elsewhere.

The letter was sealed. Buried. No one should’ve seen it.

He kept his expression neutral, but his mind raced.

I filed it under provisional clearance. No mage access. No civilian review. So how—?

Denken glanced at him. “You’re quiet. That’s rare.”

Weiß forced a smile. “Just calculating.”

If they know about the letter, they know about the directive. If they know about the directive... then someone’s playing a deeper game.

He studied Denken’s face — calm, unreadable, but familiar.

If anyone can be reasoned with, it’s him. But if Frieren starts asking questions...

They reached the edge of the courtyard, where the wind was quieter and the walls offered some privacy.

Weiß turned to Denken, voice low.

“I need to ask you something. Off the record.”

Denken nodded. “Go ahead.”

Weiß hesitated.

“Who told you to come?”

Denken didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the children, then back to Weiß.

He exhaled slowly.

“We’re going to the Golden Land.”

Weiß blinked. “The Golden Land?”

Denken nodded, voice steady.

“To kill Macht.”

Silence fell between them like a dropped blade.

Weiß stared at him, the words echoing in his mind.

Macht. The Demon King. The sealed one. The one no mage has dared approach in decades.

His throat tightened.

“You’re serious.”

Denken didn’t flinch. “We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Weiß’s gaze lingered on the horizon, then dropped to the frost-covered stones beneath their feet.

“You want to know why this town is quiet?”

Denken waited.

“It’s not discipline. It’s fear.”

Weiß’s voice was low, bitter.

“Demon attacks have increased. Five incidents in the last month. Two within the walls. They’re probing — testing us. And we’re stretched thin.”

Denken’s expression darkened. “That’s not random.”

Weiß nodded. “No. It’s pressure. Something’s shifting.”

He turned, gesturing for Denken to follow. Together, they walked toward the inner city walls — tall, worn, and reinforced with fresh runes that still shimmered faintly in the cold.

As they passed the group, Denken’s eyes flicked toward Laufen — the youngest of the children, standing near the carriage with his hands tucked into his sleeves.

Laufen blinked once, slow and deliberate.

Denken gave the faintest nod in return.

No words passed between them, but the message was clear.

Stay alert. Stay ready.

Weiß didn’t notice. His mind was already racing ahead — toward the sealed directive, the rising attacks, and the impossible mission that had just arrived at his doorstep.

Laufen Pov

As Captain Weiß and Denken walked off toward the city walls, Laufen gave a small, sharp gesture — two fingers tapped against her thigh, then a quick nod toward the alley.

Kanne, Lawine, and Linie caught it immediately and followed without a word.

Frieren turned to Methode and Aura. “Library. There’s a grimarse I need to check.”

Aura gave a quiet hum of agreement. Methode adjusted her coat and fell in beside them as they headed toward the central archive.

Meanwhile, Laufen led the others through a narrow side path between buildings. Snow crunched underfoot, but she kept their pace steady and quiet.

Kanne leaned in. “Why are we sneaking around?”

Laufen didn’t look back. “Because Denken doesn’t trust Weiß completely.”

Lawine raised an eyebrow. “They seemed fine.”

“They’ve known each other a long time,” Laufen said. “That’s exactly why he’s cautious, he's not acting how he told me he would.”

They ducked under a low archway, passing a rune etched into the stone. Laufen paused, frowned at it.

They passed a bakery — shutters closed, no scent of bread.

A tailor’s shop — lights off, door locked, even though the sign said “Open.”

Kanne whispered, “Where is everyone?”

Laufen didn’t answer. She was watching the windows.

Behind the glass, faces appeared — pale, tired, unmoving. Eyes followed them, but no one spoke. No one waved. Just quiet watching.

Lawine muttered, “They look... scared.”

Linie slowed down, her eyes wide. She reached out and grabbed Lawine’s hand, holding it tightly.

Lawine glanced down, then gave a small squeeze back. “It’s okay. We’re together.”

Laufen stopped at a corner, crouched low, and pointed to another rune — this one etched into the base of a lamppost. It was faint, but fresh.

“Another ward,” she said. “Someone’s reinforcing the whole village.”

Kanne frowned. “But they’re not fighting. They’re hiding.”

Laufen nodded. “That’s what worries me.”

They moved on, quieter now. Every door they passed was locked. Every face behind glass looked like it hadn’t slept in days.

Linie whispered, “Why would they live like this?”

The group reached the edge of a narrow street, about to cross into the next block when a voice hissed from a nearby window.

“You — kids! Inside. Now.”

They froze.

A man stood half-hidden behind a cracked door, eyes wide, voice low and urgent.

“Hurry. Something’s about to happen.”

Laufen didn’t hesitate. “Go.”

She pushed the others forward, and they rushed into the house. The man shut the door behind them fast, bolting it twice.

Inside, the room was dim and cramped — a small living space with faded furniture and a single oil lamp casting flickering light. The man didn’t speak. He just pointed to the window.

They crept over and peeked through the curtains.

Outside, ten guards marched down the street, eyes scanning every doorway, every alley. Their pace was slow, deliberate. Searching.

Kanne whispered, “They’re looking for us.”

Lawine pulled Linie closer. “Stay low.”

Linie clung to her, eyes wide, breathing shallow.

Laufen watched the guards pass, jaw tight.

“They’re not patrolling. They’re hunting.”

The man finally spoke, voice low. “You shouldn’t be out there. Not today.”

Laufen turned to him. “Why? What’s happening?”

He hesitated. “Someone stirred things up. Captain Weiß is on edge. And when he’s on edge, the whole checkpoint tightens.”

Kanne looked around the room. “Is this normal?”

Then the man sat down heavily in a worn chair, rubbing his hands together like he was trying to keep them from shaking.

“Captain Weiß wasn’t always like this. But ever since he took command... things changed.”

Laufen stepped forward. “Changed how?”

He looked up at her, eyes tired. “He started locking people up. Anyone who questioned him. Anyone who asked too many questions.”

Kanne frowned. “Why?”

The man hesitated. “Because he’s hiding something. I don’t know what. But it’s big. And it’s dangerous.”

Lawine sat down beside Linie, who was still holding her hand tightly.

“My family,” the man said quietly. “My wife. My brother. My son. All gone.”

Linie looked up. “Gone?”

He nodded. “Prison. No trial. No explanation. Just gone.”

Laufen’s voice was steady. “What did they do?”

“Asked about the sealed directive,” he said. “Same one you’re probably here for.”

Kanne’s eyes widened. “You know about that?”

He gave a bitter smile. “Everyone who’s lived here long enough knows something’s wrong. But no one says it out loud anymore.”

Lawine looked toward the window. “And now the guards are searching for us.”

The man nodded. “Because you’re not just visitors. You’re a threat to whatever Weiß is trying to keep buried.”

Kanne nodded. “Where were they taken?”

He hesitated. “Checkpoint prison. South wing. That’s where they send people who aren’t supposed to exist.”

Lawine stood up. “Then that’s where we’re going.”

Linie looked nervous but didn’t let go of Lawine’s hand. “We’ll be careful.”

The man moved to the window, peeking out. “There’s a service path behind the bakery. It runs along the wall. No patrols during midday. If you move fast, you’ll reach the outer gate.”

Laufen nodded. “Got it.”

They slipped out the back door, one by one, keeping low. The alley was narrow, half-covered in snow. Laufen led the way, eyes sharp, checking corners before they moved.

They passed the bakery — still shuttered — and ducked behind a row of crates. A guard walked by on the main road, but didn’t look their way.

Kanne whispered, “This is insane.”

Laufen didn’t stop. “It’s necessary.”

They reached the service path. It was quiet, lined with frost-covered stone and old delivery carts. The checkpoint prison loomed ahead — tall, gray, and silent.

Lawine glanced at the walls. “How do we get in?”

Laufen pointed to a side entrance — a maintenance door, half-buried in snow.

“Denken taught me how to spot weak points. That hinge’s been replaced recently. It’s not sealed properly.”

Linie looked up at the prison, then back at the others.

The side door creaked open, and the group slipped inside.

The hallway was dim, lined with cold stone and flickering lanterns. No guards in sight. No sound.

Laufen stepped forward, scanning the corridor. “Stay close.”

But after just a few steps, her vision blurred.

Kanne stumbled. “I feel... weird.”

Lawine reached for the wall. “Something’s—”

Linie collapsed first, her body going limp.

Lawine tried to catch her, but her knees buckled. Kanne dropped next, then Laufen — reaching out, trying to grab anything to stay upright.

The last thing Laufen saw was a group of guards rushing toward them — boots pounding, voices shouting.

“Get them! Secure the corridor!”

She tried to move, but her limbs wouldn’t respond.

A guard yanked Linie’s hat off — her hair spilling out, her eyes half-open.

“It’s her! That’s the one!”

Another guard shouted, panicked. “A demon got in! Rope her — now!”

They wrapped Linie’s body in enchanted restraints, binding her arms and legs. Her eyes fluttered, barely conscious.

“She’s not resisting. Is it hiding inside her?”

One of the guards hesitated. “Should we kill it now?”

Another voice — lower, uncertain. “Wait. We need confirmation.”

Laufen’s vision dimmed. The last thing she heard was the sound of chains tightening.

Then everything went black.

Denken Pov

Denken walked beside Weiß through the inner courtyard, their boots echoing against the stone. The conversation had turned quiet — Weiß was speaking about patrol rotations, something about rune calibration near the southern wall.

Denken wasn’t listening.

A sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes. He stopped walking, clutching his head.

Weiß turned. “Denken?”

Denken’s breath caught. He reached out with his senses — the subtle magical thread he always kept tied to Laufen, just enough to feel her presence.

It was gone.

No signal. No heartbeat. No resistance. Just... nothing.

He looked up, eyes narrowing.

“What did you do?”

Weiß blinked. “What?”

Denken stepped back, pulling his staff from his side and pointing it directly at Weiß.

“What did you do to my children?”

Weiß raised both hands, calm but surprised. “I haven’t touched them. You’re free to look if you think something happened.”

Denken didn’t wait for permission.

He turned and ran — down the stone steps of the castle, past the guards who barely had time to react. His coat flared behind him as he sprinted toward the wagon they’d arrived in, parked near the outer gate.

They were supposed to stay close. They were supposed to be safe.

He reached the wagon. Empty.

He turned.

Aura was sprinting toward him, her hair wild, eyes wide with fear. Frieren followed close behind, staff already in hand, her expression taut with focus. The rest of the group

Aura didn’t stop running until she reached Denken, grabbing his arm.

“Where is she?” Her voice cracked. “Where’s my daughter? I can feel her — she’s in pain.”

Denken’s heart dropped.

“Laufen’s gone too. I felt the break. Just—gone.”

Frieren stepped forward, already scanning the area with her magic. “They were supposed to stay near the wagon. We checked the wards before we went inside.”

Stark looked pale. “I told them to stay put. They promised.”

Fern was already kneeling near the wagon, fingers brushing the ground. “There’s a trail. Faint. Magical residue — not theirs.”

Aura turned, eyes blazing. “Then we follow it.”

Denken nodded. “Retrace everything. Every step. Every word.”

Frieren raised her staff, casting a wide detection spell. The air shimmered.

“There’s a pull. North corridor. Toward the old prison wing.”

The group reached the north corridor, where the stone walls grew colder, darker. At the end stood a heavy iron door, marked with a crude sign:

KEEP OUT — BY ORDER OF THE COUNCIL

Two guards stood firm, spears crossed.

“We can’t let you in,” one said. “This wing is sealed. No exceptions.”

Frieren stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. “There are children inside. We felt them. We’re going in.”

The guards didn’t move.

Denken gripped his staff. Aura’s hands trembled.

Fern stepped quietly beside Frieren, eyes lowered. She whispered a spell under her breath, fingers flicking in a practiced motion.

“Schlaf.”

The guards blinked once, then collapsed, their spears clattering to the ground.

Frieren didn’t hesitate. She pushed open the door.

The stench hit them first — sweat, rot, fear.

Inside, the corridor stretched into a series of cramped cells. Hundreds of people — gaunt, hollow-eyed — pressed against the bars, some too weak to lift their heads. The air was thick with despair.

Aura gasped, covering her mouth. Stark froze, eyes wide.

Denken moved forward, scanning each cell.

At the far end — a larger room, lit by flickering torches.

Their children.

Laufen and the others were huddled together, bruised but conscious. But Lenie—

Lenie was strapped to a chair, arms bound, head slumped forward. Her shirt was torn, and magical restraints glowed faintly around her wrists.

Aura screamed.

“LENIE!”

Lenie stirred, barely lifting her head.

“Mama…”

Denken rushed forward, staff raised, eyes burning.

This wasn’t a mistake. This was deliberate.

Aura burst in, her voice breaking.

“Lenie!

Aura was already beside her, tearing at the restraints with trembling hands. Frieren arrived seconds later, casting a quick dispel to break the magical bindings.

Lenie collapsed into Aura’s arms, sobbing.

“They hurt me—” Her voice was hoarse. “The guards—one of them grabbed me, he twisted my arm, he said I was lying—he hit my shoulder—”

Aura held her tighter, rocking her gently.

“You’re safe now. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Lenie clung to her, crying harder, her small body shaking.

Denken stood in the doorway, fists clenched, eyes scanning the room for any sign of the perpetrators.

Frieren’s face was stone.

Stark and Fern knelt beside the other children, checking for injuries. Fern hovered near the door, watching for movement.

But Aura didn’t move.

She just held Lenie, whispering soft words, her tears falling silently into her daughter’s hair.

No one would touch her child again. Not without consequence.

Lenie’s sobs had just begun to quiet when a slow, deliberate clap echoed through the prison hall.

Everyone turned.

At the entrance stood Weiß, flanked by thirty guards in gleaming black armor. His smile was cold, eyes glittering with triumph.

“Well done,” he said. “You found our little secret. Unfortunately, that means you don’t get to leave.”

Denken stepped forward, staff raised. “You did this.”

Weiß shrugged. “I did what was necessary. The children were never meant to be part of it — but they wandered. And now, you all disappear.”

He raised his hand — a spell surged toward Aura and Lenie.

Denken moved fast.

“Reflectum!”

The spell ricocheted off a shield Denked conjured mid-air, slamming into the wall behind them.

“You don’t touch them,” Denken growled.

Weiß smirked. “Then come stop me.”

He turned and ran — back up the corridor, toward the castle.

Denken followed, boots pounding against stone, staff glowing with fury.

Behind him, chaos erupted.

Frieren and Fern launched spells at the armored guards.  Methode summoned a barrier to protect the children. Stark moved like a shadow, striking with precision.

But something was wrong.

One of the guards fell — and shattered.

Not blood. Not flesh.

Empty armor.

Frieren narrowed her eyes. “They’re constructs. Not real.”

Fern nodded. “Controlled remotely. Weiß isn’t just hiding — he’s puppeteering.”

Aura stayed back, arms wrapped around Lenie and the other children, whispering soft reassurances.

“You’re safe. I promise. Just stay with me.”

Lenie clung to her, eyes wide, still trembling.

Upstairs, Denken chased Weiß through the twisting halls of the castle, spells colliding, stone cracking, the air thick with magic.

Weiß stood at the far end, breathing hard, staff raised.

Denken entered like a storm.

“You tortured children. You buried innocents. You think you’ll walk away from this?”

Weiß smirked, blood trailing from his lip. “I already killed one First-Class Mage. What’s five more to add to the list?”

Denken didn’t respond.

He raised his staff — and the air shook .

“ Eislanze. ”

A spear of ice erupted from the floor, aimed straight at Weiß. He barely dodged, casting a flame ward that shattered on impact.

Weiß retaliated.

“ Flammenkette! ”

Chains of fire whipped toward Denken — but he spun, casting “Windschneide” , slicing through the flames with a gust so sharp it cracked the stone walls.

Weiß staggered back.

Denken advanced.

“You’re not fighting a council bureaucrat. You’re fighting a war mage.”

He cast again — “Donnerschlag!”

A bolt of lightning tore through the ceiling, striking Weiß’s shield and sending him flying into the far wall.

Weiß gasped, struggling to stand.

“You think you’re better than me?”

Denken’s eyes burned.

“No. I’m just not a coward.”

From below, Frieren’s voice rang out — her spell echoing through the tower.

“ Zeitstille. ”

Time slowed.

Denken moved through the suspended air like a blade, casting “Bindekreis” — a binding circle that locked Weiß’s limbs mid-motion.

Time snapped back.

Weiß screamed, trapped.

Denken stood over him, staff glowing.

“You’re done.”

Weiß snarled, trying to cast again — but his magic fizzled, drained.

Denken stood over him, staff lowered, tears streaking down his face.

“Why?” he whispered. “We studied together. We fought together. What made you do this?”

Weiß laughed — a hollow, bitter sound.

“Power. That’s all. I did what I had to. I clawed my way up. You think you’re better because you hesitated? Because you cried?”

He began to cast — a final spell, desperate and wild.

But before the incantation could finish—

CRASH.

Aura burst through the shattered doorway, her eyes blazing, her hair whipped by the wind like fire.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t hesitate.

She grabbed Weiß by the collar, lifted him off the ground with a strength born of fury and grief, and screamed:

“You hurt my daughter!”

Weiß’s eyes widened — for the first time, he looked afraid.

Aura turned and hurled him through the broken window.

Glass shattered. Wind roared. Weiß vanished into the storm.

Silence.

Denken remained where he was, staring at the shattered glass.

He had seen that kind of rage before. In himself.

Years ago, when he wore the King’s seal. When orders came without questions, and power was the only currency that mattered.

He remembered the raids. The interrogations. The way he’d cast spells without hesitation, breaking minds and bodies in the name of “order.”

He had been Weiß once.

Not in cruelty — but in conviction. In the belief that strength justified everything.

And then his wife died.

Not in war. Not in rebellion.

Just quietly. A sickness no spell could cure.

He remembered holding her hand, watching the light fade from her eyes. And realizing that all his power meant nothing.

That was the moment he turned.

He left the court. Left the seal. Left the man he had been.

…

The castle gates creaked open as the sun broke through the clouds, casting golden light over the courtyard.

Hundreds of freed prisoners stepped out, blinking into the daylight. Some wept. Some laughed. Others simply stood still, breathing air that didn’t reek of stone and silence.

Frieren and Fern helped guide them, casting healing spells where needed. They coordinated with the town guard, who now stood ashamed but willing to help.

Aura walked slowly through the crowd, Lenie cradled in her arms.

Lenie didn’t speak much — her eyes were wide, her grip tight. But she was safe. And Aura whispered to her with every step, soft words only a mother could give.

Denken stood near the wagon, watching the people pass. He didn’t smile — not fully — but there was peace in his eyes.

Laufen approached him, her clothes still dusty, a small cut on her cheek.

She looked up at him, serious.

“Thank you,” she said. “For coming for me.”

Denken knelt, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I always will.”

The town gathered at the gates, waving as the group prepared to leave. Flowers were tossed. Cheers rang out. Children ran through the crowd, laughing.

But Lenie stayed in Aura’s arms, her face buried in her mother’s shoulder.

Aura kissed her temple.

“We’re leaving now, sorry for leaving you.”

As the wagon rolled out of town, the wind carried the sound of celebration behind them — a town freed, a secret exposed, and a family still holding each other close.

Denken looked back once, then forward.

His past couldn’t be changed. But the future still had potential for him.

Chapter Text

The forest was quiet.

I’d been walking for hours. The path was easy enough to follow — old, worn, probably used by merchants or adventurers heading north. I didn’t expect to find anyone this far out.

But then I saw the light.

A clearing opened ahead. In the middle was a small campsite. A fire was going. Someone had set up a pot over it — stew, from the smell. There were bedrolls, packs, a few logs pulled around the fire.

I stopped at the edge of the trees.

They were here.

Frieren was sitting by the fire, staring into the flames like she always does. Fern was next to her, stirring the pot. Aura had the child in her arms, wrapped in a blanket. Denken was talking to Laufen, who was laughing at something.

I didn’t expect to feel anything. But I did.

They looked... calm. 

Frieren was talking with Fern. Not giving instructions, not lecturing — just talking. Fern said something and Frieren actually smiled. 

Denken was telling a story. Laufen kept interrupting with jokes. Even Aura looked relaxed, listening while keeping the child close.

It was strange.

I’d seen Frieren in meetings, in battle, in silence. But this — sitting around a fire, laughing with people — I hadn’t seen that in a long time.

Maybe not since Flamma died.

I didn’t move. Just watched.

She looked... happy.

And for some reason, that made me feel something I hadn’t expected.

I was glad.

Glad she found people who understood her. Who stayed.

Glad she wasn’t alone.

As I walked into the clearing, something felt off.

Two demon presences.

Faint, but unmistakable.

I slowed down. My eyes moved to a woman with pink hair first — she was holding the child. Calmly. 

I didn’t recognize her.

I didn’t sense any malice. No killing intent. Just... presence.

Strange.

I stepped closer.

Fern turned first. Her eyes widened.

“Lady Serie?”

Denken stood halfway, surprised but not alarmed.

“Serie? Really?”

Aura looked up, tense but composed.

“You’re not here to fight, are you?”

Frieren stood slowly, her expression unreadable.

“You don’t usually visit.”

I gave a small smile.

“I don’t. But I wanted to.”

Laufen blinked, clearly confused.

“Hi! Uh... are you gonna sit?”

Before I could answer, I felt something tug at my cloak.

Lenie.

She’d walked over quietly, eyes wide, and pressed herself against my side. Her small hands gripped my sleeve, and she leaned into me like she’d done it before.

I looked down at her.

She didn’t say anything. Just hid her face in my arm.

I didn’t move.

The others watched, unsure what to say.

I sat down slowly on a log near the fire, letting Lenie stay close.

Denken lowered his staff, still watching me.

“You’re not here on business?”

“No. Just... to talk to you."

Frieren furrowed her brow.

“But why come all the way out here? You’re usually in the capital.”

I paused.

“I needed distance. From everything. From myself, maybe.”

I met Frieren’s eyes.

“I wanted to help you out Frieren.”

She blinked. Just once. Her expression didn’t change, but I could tell she wasn’t expecting that.

“With everything.”

The fire crackled. No one spoke.

“Because after Flamme died... I didn’t talk to you. Not once. Not for a thousand years.”

Frieren’s gaze lowered slightly.

“I told myself it didn’t matter. That you didn’t need comfort. That you were strong enough to move on.”

I looked down at my hands.

“But the truth is... I didn’t know how to grieve. And I didn’t know how to help you grieve either.”

Fern stayed quiet. Denken didn’t move. Even Aura was still.

“I saw you carry her memory. Her teachings. Her hope. And I resented it.”

I looked back at Frieren.

“I called her spell useless. The one she made for you. I said it had no value to the Association.”

Frieren’s voice was quiet.

“You did.”

“I didn’t mean it. Not really. I just didn’t want to admit that she gave you something I couldn’t understand.”

She looked at me then. Not angry. Just... surprised.

“I thought you hated me.”

“I didn’t. I just didn’t know how to be near you without remembering her.”

Lenie shifted beside me, still holding onto my sleeve.

I placed a hand gently on her head.

I felt something tighten in my chest.

“I’m glad.”

My voice cracked. I swallowed and tried again.

“I’m really glad you found people. That you weren’t alone.”

Frieren blinked, surprised.

“You never needed the Association. You needed this.”

I looked around the camp — Fern, Denken, Aura, Laufen. Even the child beside me.

“You found friends.”

I didn’t expect it to hit me so hard.

But it did.

I looked down, trying to steady my breath.

I nodded, wiping my eye quickly.

Then I glanced toward the edge of the camp — where the two demon presences lingered.

Still quiet. Still watching.

“What’s the story behind those two?”

My tone came out sharper than I meant. Not hostile — just surprised.

Aura stiffened.

Lenie, who had been leaning against her, suddenly slid away and moved toward Aura, clutching her arm.

I looked down at her, then back at Aura.

She looked afraid.

Not me.

Of them.

Frieren finally spoke.

“It’s complicated.”

Frieren stepped forward, her gaze steady.

“It’s hard to believe, I know.”

She looked toward Aura, who stood silently, her posture rigid.

“But that’s Aura. The Guillotine.”

Serie’s breath caught.

She turned sharply, eyes narrowing.

“You brought her here?”

Her hand moved before thought — staff drawn, mana surging.

“You brought that into your camp?”

Aura didn’t move.

Lenie whimpered and clung tighter to Auras robe.

Frieren stepped in front of her.

Fast.

Her cloak fluttered from the motion, and her eyes locked onto Serie’s.

“Don’t shoot.”

Serie froze.

The mana around her staff pulsed, unstable.

“She’s rehabilitating herself.”

Serie’s voice was low, dangerous.

“She slaughtered cities.”

Frieren didn’t flinch.

“I know.”

“And you trust her?”

“I trust what I’ve seen.”

Serie’s grip tightened.

“You’re asking me to ignore centuries of blood.”

Frieren’s voice softened.

“I’m asking you to see what’s in front of you.”

She was clutching a child.

Small. Pale. Eyes wide with fear.

The child’s arms were wrapped tightly around Aura’s waist, face buried in her robes.

Aura’s own hands trembled as they held the child close — not possessive, not defensive.

Protective.

Terrified.

Serie blinked.

The image didn’t make sense.

Aura the Guillotine didn’t tremble.

Aura didn’t shield anyone.

But here she was, holding her child like the world might shatter.

Serie’s voice came out quieter than she expected.

“She’s afraid.”

Frieren nodded.

“She thought you’d kill her.”

Serie looked again.

The child peeked out from Aura’s robes — eyes glassy, cheeks streaked with tears.

Not a weapon.

Not a monster.

Just a child.

Serie lowered her staff fully.

“I wasn’t ready to see this, can demons realy change?”

Frieren didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Serie took a slow breath.

“What’s the child’s name?”

Aura looked up, startled.

Then, after a long pause, she whispered:

“Lenie.”

Serie’s eyes widened.

One demon. And one demon mother. 

Both afraid.

Both reaching for safety.

Serie took a slow breath.

She knelt.

Just enough to meet Aura’s eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

Aura blinked.

Serie’s voice was steady, but soft.

“For threatening you.”

“For not seeing what was in front of me.”

Lenie looked up from Aura’s robes.

Her cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy and red.

She didn’t speak — just stared at Serie, lips trembling.

Serie reached out, gently brushing a tear from Lenie’s cheek.

“You were scared.”

Lenie nodded, barely.

Aura’s gaze dropped.

Her voice came out low, almost a whisper.

“It’s all I deserve.”

Serie looked at her with pity.

“They all deserve a second chance.”

Serie turned to her, surprised.

Lenie’s eyes were still wet, her cheeks flushed from crying.

But she didn’t look away.

“Even Mama.”

Aura flinched at the word.

Serie’s breath caught.

“Mama?”

Lenie nodded.

“She’s trying. She doesn’t hurt people anymore.”

“She reads to me. She makes soup. She cries when she thinks I’m asleep.”

Aura’s eyes widened, lips parting slightly.

But she said nothing.

Serie knelt again, slower this time.

She looked at Lenie — really looked.

Just a child.

“You believe she can change?”

Lenie nodded.

“She promised she would change just for me to have a beter life”

Aura’s voice cracked.

“Not enough.”

Lenie turned to her.

“It’s enough for me.”

Silence settled over the camp.

Not heavy.

Just still.

Serie looked at Frieren.

Frieren didn’t speak.

Serie stood again, her staff now fully at rest.

“Then I’ll believe it too.”

Aura’s eyes shimmered, I will believe the word of my aprentances aprentance .

She turned to Frieren.

Her voice was calm.

“I’ll come with you.”

Frieren blinked.

“To Aureole?”

Serie nodded.

“To meet Flamme.”

Chapter Text

Serie pushed open the heavy doors. They creaked loud enough to echo through the empty building. Inside, the church was falling apart — broken windows, cracked stone, moss growing along the walls.

Frieren walked in next to her, looking around quietly.
Kanne and Lawine followed, already whispering to each other.

At the front of the church was a statue. It stood tall, made of gold-colored marble. The figure had long hair, wings, and her hands were clasped like she was praying. She looked peaceful.

Serie stopped and stared at it.
“Goldleaf marble. That’s expensive. Must’ve been important.”

Frieren nodded.
“It’s in good shape, considering the rest of this place.”

Serie tilted her head.
“Probably a goddess. Mercy, maybe. Or memory. Rufen had a few like that.”

Frieren stepped closer to the statue.
“She looks kind.”

Serie glanced at her.
“Kindness used to matter more. People built it into things to give them hope.”

Kanne raised an eyebrow.
“Is that supposed to be deep?”

Serie gave a small smile.
“No. Just true, from a certain point of view.”

Serie stepped a little closer to the statue, her eyes narrowing.
“...There’s a lot of mana coming off this thing.”
She raised her hand slightly, like she was feeling the air.
“It’s old, but it’s still active. That’s rare, most of these statues went defunct centuries ago.”

Frieren moved beside her, focusing.
“Yeah. I feel it too.”
She paused.
“It’s not just leftovers. It’s flowing. Like it’s still connected to something.”

Kanne blinked.
“Wait, seriously? It’s just a statue.”

Lawine crossed her arms.
“You think the series would say that if it wasn’t real?”

Serie didn’t respond right away. She was still watching the statue.
“This wasn’t just decoration. Someone put real magic into it. Maybe a seal. Or a blessing.”

Frieren looked up at the statue’s face again.
“It’s peaceful. But the mana’s strong. Like it’s protecting something.”

Frieren stepped back from the statue and raised her hand.
“I’m going to check if it’s dangerous.”

She started casting — a simple detection spell. The air shimmered faintly around her as mana pulsed through the room.

Serie watched her for a moment, then turned to Kanne and Lawine.
“While she’s doing that... Do you two have any questions? About me?”

Kanne looked surprised.
“You’re actually offering?”

Serie shrugged.
“I’m bored.”

Lawine leaned against a broken pillar.
“Alright. What was it like during the Demon King’s rule?”

Serie’s expression didn’t change much, but her voice got a little quieter.
“Awful. And boring.”

Kanne blinked.
“That’s a weird combo.”

Serie nodded.
“He was powerful, yeah. But he had this big wish — something he wanted more than anything. Because of that, he held back. Didn’t push too far into human territory.”

Lawine frowned.
“So he could’ve done more?”

“Probably,” Serie said.
“But he didn’t. He was always chasing that wish. It made him cautious. Careful. Which meant a lot of waiting. And a lot of pointless battles.”

Frieren lowered her Hand.
“It’s safe. The mana’s strong, but it’s stable. No traps or curses.”

Serie gave a small nod.
“Nice Job, Frieren.”
Her voice was calm, but there was a hint of pride in it.

She turned back to Lawine and Kanne.
“About the Demon King... there’s something else.”

Kanne tilted her head.
“What, more weird history?”

Serie ignored the tone.
“He wanted humans and demons to coexist.”

Lawine blinked.
“Seriously?”

“In his own way,” Serie said.
“It was twisted. Not peace like humans think of it. But he didn’t want endless war either.”

Kanne frowned.
“That sounds... impossible.”

Serie nodded.
“It was. But he kept wishing for it anyway. That wish held him back. He never went all-in. Never pushed as far as he could.”

Lawine crossed her arms.
“So that’s why he lost?”

“Yeah,” Serie said.
“He was strong. But he was chasing something that couldn’t happen. That kind of wish... it makes you hesitate. And hesitation gets you killed.”

Frieren looked at the statue again.
“Even powerful people fall because of what they want.”

Serie glanced at her.
“Exactly.”

Serie looked at the Goddess statue for a long moment, then spoke again.

“Humans have lofty dreams too. Just like the Demon King.”

Kanne tilted her head.
“Then what makes them different?”

Serie glanced at her, then at Frieren.
“Connections.”
She paused.
“Humans form bonds. Friendships. Families. They build things together. That’s what lets their dreams go further.”

Lawine raised an eyebrow.
“You saying demons and elves can’t do that?”

Serie shook her head.
“Not the same way. We live too long. We forget too easily. Humans don’t. They hold on. Even when it hurts.”

Frieren didn’t speak, but her eyes stayed on the statue.

The series continued.
“That’s why their dreams matter. They don’t just chase them — they pass them on.”

Kanne looked thoughtful.
“Like Himmel.”

Frieren nodded.
“And Flamma.”

Serie gave a small smile.
“Exactly.”

“Frieren,” she said softly.
“How does it feel to you?”

Frieren didn’t answer right away. She reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the carved cloak.
Serie mirrored her, touching the opposite side.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—

A low hum.
Like magic, but older. Deeper.

Frieren’s eyes widened.
Serie’s breath caught.

And then—

Darkness.

A rush of cold.
A sound like wind through a sealed tomb.

Then—

Screaming.

Far away, but rising fast.

“Frieren!”
“Serie!”

Kanne’s voice.
Lawine’s too.

But Frieren couldn’t move.
Couldn’t speak.

Just falling.
Deeper into her sleep.

Over 1,000 years in the past

Light.

Soft and warm, filtering through sheer curtains.

Serie stirred, her eyes blinking slowly open. She was lying on a bed — linen sheets, wooden frame, the scent of herbs in the air.

She sat up, slowly. Her body felt heavy, like she’d been asleep for hours.

“Frieren?”
Her voice was quiet, but steady.

No answer.

Then — footsteps. Light. Familiar.

The door creaked open.

Flamma stepped in — younger than Serie remembered. Her robes were simple, her hair loosely tied back. She looked… alive.

“You’re awake,” Flamma said, smiling gently.
Then, tilting her head: “Who’s Frieren?”

Serie didn’t answer.

She just stared.

Her mind was clear. Too clear.

This wasn't a memory. It wasn't an illusion.

“You said her name,” Flamma continued, walking over to the bedside. “Is she someone important to you?”

Serie’s voice came out low, almost mechanical.

“You don’t know her.”

Flamma blinked. “Should I?”

Serie looked down at her hands. They trembled slightly.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked, reaching out gently.

Her hand touched Serie’s forehead, cool and careful, checking for fever.

The series didn’t flinch.

She leaned forward — slowly, deliberately — and wrapped her arms around Flamma.

Held her.

Tightly.

Flamma hesitated, then returned the embrace, arms folding around Serie’s shoulders.

“You’re not usually one for physical touch,” she murmured, voice light with affection. “Did I miss something?”

Serie didn’t answer.

She just held on.

Her breath was steady, but her eyes burned.

She wouldn’t cry.

Not yet.

Serie slowly pulled back from the hug.

She stood up, steady but unsure. The room was quiet — too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel real.

“What are we doing today?” she asked, voice calm, like she was repeating something from long ago.

Flamma chuckled, light and relaxed.

“You’re asking me?” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“ You're my teacher, remember? you're the one who decides.”

Serie didn’t respond right away.

She just nodded.

“Right.”

It didn’t make sense.

But she didn’t argue.

The words felt off — like hearing a song played backwards. Familiar, but wrong.

She looked around the room. Books stacked neatly. Herbs drying by the window. Morning light spilling across the floor.

It was all exactly how she remembered.

Serie stood still for a moment longer.

She tried to remember what had happened before she woke Flamma.
Why did she come here?
What she’d meant to say.

But her mind gave her nothing.
Just silence.
Like a page torn from a book.

She looked at Flamma — really looked.
By the way her blue eyes caught the light, bright and expectant.
Like she was waiting for something good.

“Do you want to learn a spell?” Serie asked quietly.

Flamma blinked, surprised. Then smiled.

Serie nodded.

“Just one.”
Her voice was soft.
“Then we can spend the rest of the day together.”

No lessons.
No plans.
Serie reached out, her fingers brushing Flamma’s.

She didn’t say anything — just held her hand, gentle and steady.

Flamma didn’t hesitate. She laced their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They stepped outside, the door closing softly behind them.
The woods waited — quiet, green, alive with morning.

Leaves rustled overhead. Sunlight filtered through the branches in soft, dappled patterns. The path was familiar, worn by years of walking.

Flamma walked ahead, her steps light, almost playful.

Serie watched her.

She looked so young.
Not just in her face, but in the way she moved — like the world hadn’t touched her yet. Like nothing had ever been lost.

It made Serie ache.

They walked deeper into the woods, where the trees grew taller and the air felt older.

Serie stopped at a clearing. The mountain stood in the distance, quiet and unmoving — a jagged silhouette against the sky.

She let go of Flamma’s hand and stepped forward, staff resting in the crook of her arm.

“There’s a spell,” she said, voice low.
“It evaporates everything in a three-hundred meter radius. Stone. Water. Air.”

Flamma blinked.

“That sounds—”

“Dangerous,” the series finished.
She turned slightly, just enough to meet Flamma’s eyes.
“You should only use it when there’s no other choice. And don’t tell anyone about it.”

Then she winked.

Flamma opened her mouth, but no words came.

Serie raised her staff.

She didn’t chant. Didn’t gesture.
Just aimed.

A pulse of light shot forward — silent, clean, final.

The mountain vanished.

Not shattered.
Not burned.
Gone.

Dust swirled where it had stood, caught in the wind like ash from a forgotten fire.

Serie lowered her staff and turned.

Flamma stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

She looked at Serie like she wasn’t just a mage.
But something divine.

Flamma stepped forward, eyes still wide.

“Can I try?” she asked, half breathless.

Serie nodded once.

“Go ahead.”

She didn’t over-explain.
Just watched as Flamma gripped the staff, her fingers uncertain but eager.

Flamma took a breath.
Focused.
The clearing held its breath with her.

Then — light.

Not as sharp as Serie A's.
Not as quiet.

But it surged forward, clean and bright, and the cliffside ahead vanished in a rush of heat and silence.

Dust scattered. Leaves trembled. The air shimmered.

Flamma lowered the staff, blinking at the space where solid rock had stood.

“Did I—?”

Serie stepped beside her, gaze steady.

“Perfect,” she said.
Her voice was calm, but there was something proud beneath it.
“You’re a gifted natural.”

Flamma took a step towards Serie.

Then another.

Her knees buckled.

Serie moved instantly, catching her before she hit the ground.

Flamma leaned into her, breath shallow, eyes fluttering.

“Sorry,” she murmured.
“I think I used too much…”

Serie held her steady, one arm around her back, the other bracing her shoulder.

“You drained most of your mana,” she said softly.
No judgment. Just a fact.

Flamma nodded weakly, her forehead resting against Serie’s collarbone.

“Didn’t think it’d take that much.”

Serie adjusted her grip, lowering them both gently to the forest floor.

“It’s a high-level spell,” she said.
“Even naturals have limits.”

She brushed a strand of hair from Flamma’s face, her touch light.

“You did well.”

Flamma smiled faintly, eyes half-closed.

“You’re warm,” she whispered.

Serie didn’t respond.

Flamma’s breathing slowed.

Her body relaxed, the tension fading from her limbs as sleep took her.

Serie stayed still for a moment, watching her.

The way her brow softened.
The way her fingers curled loosely against Serie’s robe.

She looked so young like this.
So unguarded.

Serie felt something stir in her chest — not duty, not nostalgia.
Something older.
Something like love.

Not romantic.
But Motherly.

She brushed Flamma’s hair back gently, then shifted her arms and lifted her.

Flamma didn’t stir.

Serie carried her through the woods, step by quiet step, the staff tucked behind her and the sun beginning to dip low.

The Inn was quiet when they arrived.
Serie opened the door with a whisper of magic, the hinges barely creaking.

She laid Flamma down on the bed, pulled the blanket over her, and sat beside her for a moment.

Just watching.

Serie sat on the edge of the bed.

The room was dim now, lit only by the soft gold of evening slipping through the window.

Flamma stirred beneath the blanket, eyes blinking open slowly.

Serie reached out, her hand moving with quiet care, and brushed Flamma’s hair back from her face.

Flamma blinked again, confused.

“Serie?”
Her voice was groggy, uncertain.
“What are you doing?”

Serie didn’t answer right away.

Her fingers lingered for a moment, then fell back to her lap.

“You were sleeping,” she said simply.

Flamma pushed herself up slightly, still dazed.

“You never do that,” she murmured.
“Touch me like that.”

Serie looked at her, calm and unreadable.

“You looked peaceful.”

Flamma frowned, not upset — just trying to understand.

“Are you… okay?”

Serie didn’t smile.
But her gaze softened.

“I’m fine.”
Flamma hesitated.

Then, with a small, nervous laugh:

“This might be a weird ask…”

Serie tilted her head slightly, waiting.

Flamma looked away for a moment, then back.

“Could you… lay with me?”
A pause.
“And maybe… would it be okay if I played with your ears? It helps me relax.”

Serie didn’t blink.

She didn’t tease or question.

She just nodded once, quiet and calm.

“Alright.”

She slipped off her boots, moved gently onto the bed beside Flamma, and settled in.

For a moment, they lay in silence — the kind that felt full, not empty.

Then Flamma reached out, her fingers brushing against Serie’s ear.

She traced the edge slowly, then smoothed it with her thumb, light and curious.

Serie didn’t move.

She just let it happen, her gaze softening, her body still.

“Yours are softer than mine,” Flamma whispered.

Serie exhaled quietly.

“You’re imagining things.”

“Nope,” Flamma said, tugging gently at the tip before stroking it again.
“Definitely softer.”

Serie turned her head slightly, meeting Flamma’s eyes.

She just moved closer, arms wrapping around Flamma in a slow, deliberate motion.

Held her.

Tight.

Flamma blinked, surprised — but didn’t pull away.

Serie’s breath hitched.

Then again.

Soft, uneven.

She was crying.

Not loudly.
Not messily.

Just quiet sobs, buried against Flamma’s shoulder.

“I care about you,” Serie whispered.
Her voice cracked.
“Like you’re my own daughter.”

Flamma didn’t move.

She just listened.

Serie’s grip tightened.

“I’m afraid,” she said.
“Of what comes next. Of losing this. Of losing you.”

Flamma’s eyes softened.

She reached up, brushing Serie’s hair back the way Serie had done for her.

“I’m still here,” she said gently.
“And even when I’m gone… I’ll still be watching over you.”

Serie didn’t answer.

She just held on.

Held her.

Let her cry.

One hand moved gently through Serie’s hair, slow and steady, offering comfort without words.

A soft pat.

Then another.

Serie’s breathing was uneven, but she didn’t pull away.

She just lay there, curled against Flamma like something fragile trying not to break.

Flamma rested her chin lightly atop Serie’s head.

Held her.

Let her cry.

One hand moved gently through Serie’s hair, slow and steady, offering comfort without words.

A soft pat.

Then another.

Serie’s breathing was uneven, but she didn’t pull away.

She just lay there, curled against Flamma like something fragile trying not to break.

Flamma rested her chin lightly atop Serie’s head.

Then Flamma spoke, voice low against Serie’s shoulder.

“Why are you doing this?”
A pause.
“I’m only twenty-five. That’s still young. For a human.”

Serie didn’t answer right away.

Her hand had stilled, resting lightly against Flamma’s back.

“You are,” she said finally.
“But time doesn’t care about that. Not for people like you.”

Flamma frowned.

“I’m not dying.”

Serie’s voice was quiet.
“Not yet.”

She pulled back just enough to look at Flamma — eyes red, but steady.

“But I’ve seen it happen. Over and over. Bright lives. Short ones.”
Her voice trembled.
“And I keep thinking… what if I blink and you’re gone?”

Flamma didn’t argue.

She just reached up and brushed a tear from Serie’s cheek.

“Then don’t blink.”

Serie let out a shaky breath — half a laugh, half a sob.

Flamma pulled her close again.

Her lips close to Serie’s ear.

“When our time comes,” she whispered,
“I’ll be waiting for you. At Aureole.”

Serie’s breath caught.

Her eyes closed.

She didn’t speak — couldn’t.

She just pulled Flamma closer, arms wrapping around her like she could anchor them both.

Her arms tightened.

“No matter how long it takes. No matter what I become.”

Flamma didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

She just pressed her forehead to Serie’s, eyes closed, and let the silence speak for them both.

After the 5 hour cuddle between (Serie and Flamma)

The restaurant was quiet.

Just the two of them, seated near the edge of the cliffside terrace, overlooking the sea.

Waves crashed below in slow rhythm, distant and steady.

The sky was streaked with gold — late afternoon slipping into dusk.

Serie sipped her tea.

Flamma picked at her plate, half-listening to the wind.

They talked softly.

About small things.

Old missions.

Books they’d read.

People they’d met.

It felt normal.

Almost.

Then Flamma leaned in, elbows on the table, voice low.

“Can I ask you something?”

Serie glanced up, curious.

“Of course.”

Flamma hesitated.

Then:

“Is this really you?”

Serie froze.

Her cup paused mid-air.

“What do you mean?”

Flamma’s eyes didn’t waver.

“Your mana.”
“It’s… huge. Three times what it used to be. Even suppressed.”

She swallowed.

“You never suppress it. Not like this. Not ever.”

Serie didn’t answer.

Not right away.

She set her cup down slowly.

Looked out at the horizon.

Then back at Flamma.

Her expression was unreadable.

But her voice was quiet.

“You noticed.”

Serie’s lips parted.

She looked like she wanted to say everything —
to spill it all, right there on the table.

Her eyes shimmered, not with tears this time, but with weight.

With knowing.

But before she could speak—

Flamma reached across the table and gently touched her hand.

“Don’t.”

Serie blinked.

Flamma’s voice was soft, but firm.

“I read something. In one of the old goddess myths.”

She leaned in, eyes searching Serie’s face.

“It said never to share secrets from the future.”

Serie’s breath caught.

Flamma held her gaze.

“Is that true?”

Serie didn’t speak.

She just nodded.

Once.

Slow.

Flamma exhaled.

“Then don’t tell me.”

She squeezed Serie’s hand.

“Just stay. Just be here.”

Serie looked down at their hands.

Then back up.

Her voice was barely a whisper.

“I want to.”

Flamma smiled — not brightly, but with quiet warmth.

“Then that’s enough.”

Flamma turned toward Serie, her expression thoughtful.

“You’ve changed,” she said softly.
“You open up more now. You let yourself be seen.”

Serie didn’t deny it.

She just nodded.

“I’m proud of you,” Flamma added.
“Not because you’re stronger. But because you’re softer. And you let yourself be.”

Serie looked down, then back up.

Her voice was quiet.

“You helped me.”

Flamma tilted her head.

Serie continued.

“This journey. With you.”
She paused.
“It’ll shape me. Even after you’re gone.”

Flamma didn’t flinch at the word.

She just smiled — a little sad, a little warm.

“Good.”

Serie reached across the table, brushing Flamma’s hand with her fingertips.

“I’ll carry it.”
“You.”
“All of it.”

Flamma nodded.

“Then I’ll live on.”

The wind picked up, brushing past them like a whisper.

And for a moment, the future didn’t feel so distant.

Just waiting.

Just watching.

Just ready.

Her voice barely rose above the wind.

“I can feel it.”

Flamma turned toward her.

Serie didn’t look back.

“Something inside me. My consciousness.”
“It’s starting to pull.”

She paused.

“Like it wants to return. To the present.”

Flamma didn’t speak.

Serie’s hands gripped the edge of the bench.

“But I’m holding on.”
“Just a little longer.”

She finally looked at Flamma.

Her eyes were tired, but full.

“Because you’re still here.”

Flamma reached out, gently taking Serie’s hand.

“Then stay.”
“Until you’re ready.”

Serie nodded.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be.”

Flamma smiled — soft, understanding.

“That’s okay.”

Flamma stood up slowly, brushing off her coat, then turned to face Serie.

Her silhouette was framed by the setting sun — gold and crimson spilling across the horizon behind her.

She opened her arms.

“I know I’m young,” she said softly.
“But I hope this hug… can comfort you. Even just a little.”

Serie looked up.

Her eyes shimmered.

Then she rose without a word and stepped into Flamma’s embrace.

They held each other.

Tight.

The kind of hug that says everything words can’t.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows behind them.

Serie closed her eyes.

The warmth of Flamma’s arms surrounded her.

The scent of salt air.

The hush of waves far below.

The fading light.

She felt it then.

A shift.

Subtle.

Like something deep inside her had loosened.

Her breath slowed.

Her grip softened.

And then—

Darkness.

Flamma Pov

Flamma held Serie close.

She could feel her breathing slow.

Feel her body soften.

Then—

Serie went limp.

Flamma’s eyes widened.

“Serie?”

She eased her down gently, cradling her against her chest.

The sun was still setting, but something felt… off.

The air shimmered.

Just for a moment.

Then—

Serie stirred.

Her eyes fluttered open.

But they weren’t the same.

Not the same depth.

Not the same weight.

Flamma blinked.

Serie looked up at her, confused.

“Why are you holding me like that?” she asked, voice groggy.

Flamma stared.

“You fainted. At dinner.”

Serie sat up slowly, rubbing her temple.

“Dinner?”

She looked around — the cliffside gone, replaced by the familiar walls of their shared quarters.

Books.

Scrolls.

The soft hum of mana wards.

“Are you ready for class tomorrow?” Serie asked, voice casual.
“We’re teaching together, right?”

Flamma didn’t answer right away.

She just looked at her master — her normal, composed, slightly aloof master.

But something lingered.

A warmth.

A memory.

A promise.

Flamma smiled faintly.

“Yeah,” she said.
“We are.”

Serie Pov

Serie’s eyes opened.

The ceiling above her was familiar — stone arches, soft candlelight, the quiet hum of mana wards woven into the church walls.

She blinked.

Sat up slowly.

Her body felt light.

Not weak.

Just… emptied.

Across from her, Frieren stirred.

Kanne and Lawine were leaning over her, faces lit with relief.

“You’re awake!” Kanne said, smiling wide.

Lawine gave a small nod, arms crossed but clearly pleased.

Serie turned toward them, her voice still quiet.

“How long were we out?”

Kanne glanced at the sun filtering through the stained glass.

“Ten minutes. Maybe less.”

She reached out, helping Serie to her feet.

Serie stood, steady.

She looked around — the church was peaceful, untouched.

But something inside her had shifted.

She stepped toward the open doorway, the breeze brushing past her robes.

Outside, the sky was clear.

She looked up.

And smiled.

Flamma.

The memory wasn’t sharp.

It didn’t ache.

It just… glowed.

Serie closed her eyes for a moment.

Let the warmth settle.

Then turned back to the others.

“Let’s get ready,” she said softly.
“We’ve got work to do.”

Chapter Text

They walked slowly back toward the wagon.
The forest path was quiet, dappled with late afternoon light.
Serie stopped.
She sat down on a flat rock just off the trail, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun hung low — golden, soft, unhurried.
Frieren noticed.
She slowed, then turned, watching her.
Serie never did this.

Never paused without purpose.
Never looked at the sky like it held something personal.
Frieren walked over, her voice low.
“Are you feeling alright?”
Serie didn’t look away from the sun.
“I’m okay.”
A pause.
Then she turned slightly, her eyes meeting Frieren’s.
“What did you see?”
“When we were both unconscious.”
Frieren blinked.
She hesitated.

Then sat down beside her.
“I don’t know if it was real.”
“But I saw myself. With the Hero party.”
Her voice was quiet.
“We were traveling again. Laughing. Like nothing had changed.”
Serie nodded slowly.
She didn’t speak right away.
Just watched the sun dip lower.
“I have a hypothesis,” she said softly.
“That it was all real.”

Frieren turned to her, brows knitting.
“Real?”
Serie nodded.
“Not a dream. Not illusion.”
“I think we went back. Somehow.”
The light shifted across her face — warm, almost reverent.
“I spent a whole day with Flamma.”
Frieren’s breath caught.
Serie’s voice was steady, but there was something fragile beneath it.
“She was younger. Still reckless. Around her 20’s.”
“She made me tea. Told me I was too serious.”
Frieren didn’t speak.

Serie finally looked at her.
“I truly didn’t want it to end.”
“Flamma was just as smart.”
“Just as caring as the day I left her for Aureole.”
Frieren’s eyes softened.
She didn’t speak right away.
Just let the memory settle.
Then a small smile tugged at her lips.
“She always was,” Frieren said quietly.
“Even when she pretended not to be.”

Serie nodded.
“She knew I was scared to return to the future. Didn’t say it outright.”
“Just kept me close. Like I used to do with her.”
Frieren’s smile lingered, touched with something wistful.
Frieren watched the last sliver of sun dip below the trees.
Her voice came quietly.
“When I was younger…”
“I always thought she was too strict.”
Serie glanced at her, but didn’t interrupt.
Frieren’s smile was faint, touched with something deeper.
“Too many rules. Too many lectures.”
“I thought she didn’t understand me.”

She paused.
“But now…”
“I think she was a near perfect teacher.”
Serie’s expression softened.
Frieren looked down at her hands.
“She didn’t just teach spells.”
Serie stood slowly from the rock, brushing off her robes.
Frieren followed, and together they began walking again — side by side, the wagon still a ways off.
For a while, they didn’t speak.
Just the sound of their footsteps and the soft rustle of leaves.
Then Serie glanced over.
Her voice was quiet.

“What did you see?”
Frieren looked ahead, her expression unreadable.
“When we were unconscious,” Serie added.
“You said you saw the Hero party.”
Frieren nodded.
“I did.”
She hesitated.
“We were traveling. Like before.”
“Fern was there too. And Stark.”
Serie raised an eyebrow.
Frieren’s gaze drifted upward, toward the darkening sky.
“Himmel was there.”
Her voice was softer now.
“And Heiter. Eisen.”
She smiled faintly.
“They looked the same. Like no time had passed.”

Serie didn’t interrupt.
Frieren’s steps slowed just a little.
“Himmel was laughing. He said something dumb, and Heiter rolled his eyes.”
“Eisen was sharpening his axe, like always.”
She exhaled.
“It felt like home.”
Serie glanced at her.
“Did they say anything to you?”
Frieren nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“Himmel said he was proud of me.”
Her voice caught slightly.
“That I’d kept going.”
Frieren slowed her steps, then spoke — not quite looking at Serie.
“I almost told him.”

Serie turned, surprised.
Frieren’s expression was distant.
“Himmel.”
“I almost said I loved him.”
Her voice was soft, almost fragile.
“But he stopped me.”
She let out a quiet breath.
“He looked at me strangely. And I think... he knew.”
“That I wasn’t the Frieren he remembered.”
Serie said nothing.
Frieren glanced down.
“He said, ‘You’re not her yet, are you?’”
The words lingered in the air — delicate, devastating.

“I couldn’t answer.”
Her eyes were shadowed with something deeper now — regret, gratitude, maybe both.
“Maybe I wasn't meant to change anything.”
“Just remember it better.”
As Frieren turned toward the wagon, Serie reached out and gently pulled her in close with one arm.
Frieren stiffened, caught off guard by the gesture.
Serie didn’t usually do this.
But she kept her hold — not for comfort, not for drama. Just quiet.
“This is what it's like for us,” Serie said.
“Being elves.”
Her voice was steady, almost tired.
“It doesn’t matter how strong we get. Or how much we learn.”

“We’ll never be able to stop people from dying.”
Frieren looked away, saying nothing.
Serie let her go a moment later and turned toward the wagon.
“That's the part no one prepares you for.”
Serie looked at Frieren for a long moment.
Then she released her and nodded toward the wagon.
Through the open flap, Aura sat quietly.
Linie was curled in her arms, fast asleep — peaceful, undisturbed.
Serie’s voice was quiet but clear.
“A month ago, I wouldn’t have believed that.”
Frieren turned.
“What?”
Serie gestured toward them.

“That a Demon could sit beside an Elf and a Human without trying to kill them.”
“That she’d protect a child. Hold her like that.”
Frieren’s gaze lingered on the scene.
Serie crossed her arms.
“We always have to keep going. Even when we lose people.”
“There’s always something ahead — something no one’s seen before.”
She looked at Frieren again.
“Everyone has a chance to change history. Just once. And sometimes it’s enough.”
Frieren didn’t say anything.
“You know…”
“In a weird way, the Demon King and Himmel weren’t so different.”
Serie blinked, turning to her.
“Excuse me?”

Frieren shrugged a little.
“They both had a dream.”
“Humans and demons coexisting. No killing. No war.”
Serie stared at her for a moment, then let out a short breath — almost a laugh.
“That’s one hell of a comparison.”
Frieren’s smile didn’t fade.
“Himmel wanted peace through kindness. The Demon King tried to force it.”
“But the end goal… not so different.”
Serie looked back at the wagon.
Aura hadn’t moved. Linie stirred softly in her arms, still asleep.
“And now,” Serie said quietly,
“Someone like her is trying to live that dream without either of their influences."
Frieren nodded.

“It’s strange.”
Frieren and Serie climbed into the carriage together.
The warmth hit them immediately — soft lamplight, blankets tucked around resting shoulders, and quiet chatter that paused as the two stepped in.
Fern glanced up from where she sat near the back.
“You’re both alright?”
Stark gave a grin.
“Took you long enough.”
Linie stirred but didn’t wake. Aura didn’t move, her expression peaceful as she cradled the child protectively.
Denken sat near the front, adjusting the map folded beside him.

He looked up as they entered and offered a nod.
“We’ve got one more day,” he said plainly.
“If nothing slows us down, we’ll be there by tomorrow morning.”
Frieren eased down beside Fern, her eyes briefly meeting Serie’s before they settled ahead.
Outside, the stars were bright and quiet.

Chapter Text

The house was gold. Top to bottom. Even the forks in the drawer were gold. It looked like someone tried to impress a god and gave up halfway through.

Macht stood by the window, arms crossed. He hadn’t moved in over an hour.

Solitär sat at the table, writing in her notebook. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

“They treat me like I'm a god,” Macht said.
“Like I’m some wise old man who’s seen the light.”

He scoffed.

“I turned their city into statues. And now they smile at me.”

Solitär kept writing.

“They think I’ve changed.”

“Have you?”

Macht didn’t answer right away.

“No.”

He walked across the room, slow and quiet.

“I haven’t hurt anyone in years. That’s all they care about.”

“They think that means I’m good now.”

Solitär looked up.

“You don’t agree?”

“I don’t know.”

He sat down across from her.

“I want to understand them.”

“Why do they forgive? Why do they keep trying.”

He tapped the table once, like it helped him think.

“But I can’t.”

“Because you’re a demon?”

“Yeah.”

He looked at her, eyes sharp but tired.

“It’s like there’s a wall in my head. I see what they do. I hear what they say. But it doesn’t click.”

“Does that bother you?”

“It pisses me off.”

Solitär wrote that down.

“You want to be better?”

“I want to understand.”

He leaned back in the chair.

“They built this house for me. Like it means something.”

“It’s just gold.”

Solitär stopped writing.

“You could leave.”

“So could you.”

She shrugged.

“I’m here to study them.”

“I’m here to figure out what I’m missing.”

“And if you don’t?”

Macht looked out the window again.

“Then I’ll prove them wrong.”

Solitär didn’t move.

The journal sat closed in her lap, but her fingers still gripped the pen.

Macht watched her.

“You keep asking.”

“It’s my task.”

“No. It’s your hope.”

She didn’t answer.

“You want me to change.”

“I want to know if you can.”

“Same thing.”

Solitär looked at him.

“You think I’m sentimental.”

“No.” Macht’s voice was quiet. “I think you’re bored.”

She blinked.

“You think I’m doing this for entertainment?”

Macht watched her.

“You’re not just studying me.”

She didn’t look up.

“No.”

“You’re trying to learn them.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Solitär’s pen hovered.

“Because they change.”

“And you want to?”

She paused.

“I want to understand what makes them change.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s close enough.”

Macht smiled faintly.

“You’re quoting me.”

“You were right.”

She turned the page.

“They grieve. They forgive. They protect. I don’t know what those things feel like.”

“You think I do?”

“I think you might.”

Macht leaned back.

“You’re wasting your time.”

“Maybe.”

She wrote: The subject recognizes the observer's parallel inquiry. Possible shared detachment. Unclear whether either party seeks true emotional change or simply comprehension.

Macht tilted his head.

“You think understanding them will make you stronger?”

Solitär looked up.

“I think it will make me different and in turn stronger than the rest of my kind.”

Solitär was still writing.

Macht’s voice cut through the quiet.

“How much longer?”

She didn’t look up.

“Until what?”

“Until you figure out how to break the dome.”

Her pen paused.

“You’re agitated.”

“I’m tired of waiting.”

“You’ve waited centuries.”

“Not like this.”

Solitär finally looked at him.

“You think I’m stalling?”

“You’ve studied it for years.” His tone sharpened. “You’ve mapped its runes. Measured its pulses. You’ve dissected every inch of it. And still—nothing.”

Solitär closed the journal.

“It’s divine magic. It doesn’t behave like ours.”

“You said you were close.”

“I said I was learning.”

Macht stood.

The shadows around him thickened slightly.

“You enjoy this.”

“No.”

“You enjoy keeping me here.”

“I enjoy understanding.”

“You enjoy control.”

Solitär didn’t flinch.

“You think I’m like a human.”

“No.” Macht’s voice dropped. “They fear me. You study me. That’s worse.”

Solitär stood too, slowly.

“You want the dome gone.”

“I want the world back.”

“So you can destroy it?”

She turned toward the window, where the golden shimmer of the dome pulsed faintly against the night.

“The elf who cast this barrier…” she said quietly.

Macht didn’t respond.

“She’s one of the most powerful mages I’ve ever seen. Or heard of.”

Macht narrowed his eyes.

“Serie.”

Solitär nodded.

“Her spells don’t behave like ours. They don’t even behave like human magic.”

“You said it was divine.”

“It’s close.” Her voice was almost reverent. “As close to the Goddess as you can get without being her.”

Macht scoffed.

“You believe in their Goddess now?”

“No.” Solitär turned back to him. “But I believe in Serie A.”

“You admire her.”

“I respect her.”

“Same thing.”

Solitär didn’t argue.

She walked to the edge of the room, where her diagrams of the dome were pinned to the wall — layers of runes, pulses, counter-scripts. She touched one lightly.

“I’ve tried everything. Demon magic fractures against it. Human magic dissolves. Even divine relics lose charge inside its radius.”

Macht stepped closer.

“Then you’re wasting your time.”

“No.” Her voice was firm. “Because it’s not perfect. It breathes. It adjusts. It learns and that means it can be killed.”

“Like her.”

Solitär nodded.

“Exactly like her.”

Solitär traced her hair through her fingertip.

“You remember the last time you fought her.”

Macht didn’t answer.

“It wasn’t a battle.” Her voice was quiet, almost clinical. “It was like watching an apprentice being scolded by a teacher.”

Macht’s eyes darkened.

“Careful.”

“I’m being honest.”

He stepped closer.

“She caught me off guard.”

“She dismantled you.”

“She cheated.”

Solitär turned.

“No. She understood you.”

Macht’s jaw tightened.

“You think she’s better than me.”

“I think she’s older. Wiser. And not interested in proving anything.”

“She humiliated me.”

“She spared you.”

Silence.

The dome pulsed faintly outside, golden and serene.

Solitär walked past him, slow and deliberate.

“You want to break her magic. But you haven’t even broken her silence.”

Macht turned sharply.

“What does that mean?”

“It means she hasn’t spoken your name since that day.”

He stared at her.

“You’re trying to provoke me.”

“No.” She opened her journal again. “I’m trying to remind you what you’re up against.”

Solitär closed her journal and set it aside.

She walked to the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small lacquered box. From it, she took a brush — carved bone handle, bristles soft and pale.

She held it out to Macht.

He stared at it.

“What is this?”

“A brush.”

“Why?”

“The series will never come back.” Her voice was calm. “If we act, she’ll send a first-class mage. Strong, but not divine. Disposable.”

Macht narrowed his eyes.

“You’re certain?”

“She doesn’t waste effort.”

He looked at the brush again.

“What do you want me to do?”

Solitär stepped closer, turned slightly, and gathered her hair over one shoulder.

“You’ll do my hair.”

Macht hesitated.

“Why?”

“Because I asked.”

He took the brush.

Her hair was long — a cascade of silver-black strands with faint violet undertones, like moonlight caught in ink. It was impossibly soft. Not like human hair. Not like demon fur. Something in between.

He began slowly.

Solitär closed her eyes.

The strands fell like silk between his fingers — smooth, cool, and strangely weightless. They didn’t tangle. They didn’t resist. Each stroke left the hair glossier, more orderly, like he was polishing moonlight.

Solitär sat still, her posture relaxed.

Her face, usually sharp and unreadable, began to soften. The tension in her brow eased. Her mouth, always held in a line of quiet calculation, curved faintly — not into a smile, but into something gentler. Her eyes stayed closed.

“You’re good at this,” she murmured.

“I’ve never done it before.”

“You’re still good.”

He kept brushing.

The rhythm was steady. Down from the Horns, through the ends, then back again. A few strands clung to the brush, but she didn’t mind. Macht paused to remove them, then resumed without comment.

“It’s soft,” he said quietly.

“It’s meant to be.”

“It doesn’t feel like demon hair.”

“It is. I learned some human magic to soften my hair”

She tilted her head slightly, letting him reach the back more easily.

“You’re being gentle.”

“You asked.”

“You could’ve refused.”

“You didn’t give me a reason to, and there's no point in refusing your request."

Solitär’s shoulders lowered a fraction more.

Her face, now fully relaxed, looked almost human.

“I like this.”

“You like being brushed?”

After a moment, she spoke.

“It feels nice when I do this myself.”

Macht didn’t respond immediately.

“I didn’t expect it to feel better when someone else did.”

He paused mid-stroke.

“Do you do this often?”

“When I need to think. Or when I don’t want to.”

She opened her eyes, just slightly.

“It’s calming. The repetition. The softness.”

Macht resumed brushing.

“You don’t seem like someone who needs calming.”

“That’s why I do it alone, I can't let people see what I truly feel.”

…

The door creaked open.

Glück stepped inside, pausing when he saw them.

Macht was still brushing Solitär’s hair. She sat with her eyes closed, face relaxed, posture soft.

Glück blinked.

“Am I interrupting?”

Solitär opened her eyes.

“No.”

Macht didn’t stop brushing.

Glück stepped closer, hands tucked behind his back.

“Can I join?”

Solitär glanced at Macht, then nodded.

“Yes.”

Macht stopped brushing and set the brush aside. Solitär sat up straighter, smoothing her hair with one hand.

Glück smiled.

“I came to ask something.”

“Go on,” Macht said.

“Would you come to dinner? At the castle. With me and my family.”

Solitär tilted her head.

“You want us there?”

“I do.” Glück looked at Macht. “You’ve been quiet lately. I think they’d like to meet you.”

Macht raised an eyebrow.

“You think I’d enjoy dinner?”

“I think you’d enjoy being with more people."

Solitär stood.

“We’ll come.”

Glück smiled again — wide, genuine.

He wore a formal jacket with a high collar and patterned trim, a cravat tied neatly at his throat. His hair was combed back, and his posture was proud but not stiff. He looked like someone who belonged in a castle, but didn’t mind stepping out of it.

“It’s not fancy,” he said. “Just food. And people.”

The morning sun hit the golden streets just right — soft light bouncing off polished stone, casting long shadows behind the three of them.

Glück walked ahead, hands folded behind his back, posture relaxed.

Macht und Solitär folgen side by side.

People lined the streets — not in fear, but in quiet awe. Whispers floated through the crowd.

“Is that him?”
“That’s Macht…”

“He looks different than I imagined.”

Children peeked from behind their parents. Merchants paused mid-sale. Guards stood straighter.

Macht didn’t react. His expression was neutral, eyes forward.

Solitär glanced around, noting every stare, every hushed voice. She didn’t smile, but her posture shifted — just slightly — like she was aware of being seen.

Glück turned to them as they passed a bakery.

He looked at Solitär.

“Your hair looks beautiful this morning.”

Solitär blinked.

“Thank you.”

She didn’t say it like a reflex. She said it like she was testing the words.

Glück smiled.

“Did you do it yourself?”

Macht answered before she could.

“I did.”

Glück raised an eyebrow.

“You brushed her hair?”

“She asked.”

Glück chuckled.

“Well, you did a good job.”

Solitär’s hand brushed lightly over her shoulder, smoothing a strand that had drifted out of place.

They kept walking.

A small voice broke through the hush.

“Miss?”

Solitär turned.

A boy — no older than six — stood in front of her, clutching something in both hands. His tunic was too big, sleeves rolled up, cheeks flushed from running.

He held out a flower. A pale yellow one, slightly wilted at the edges.

“Your hair is really nice,” he said, eyes wide. “It looks like sunlight.”

Solitär stared at him.

Not coldly. Not sharply.

Just… unsure.

She looked at the flower. Then at Macht.

Macht gave no signal.

She reached out and took it.

“Thank you.”

The boy beamed, then darted back into the crowd.

Solitar didn’t understand it.

A flower. For her.

From a child.

She’d seen children before — in passing, in villages Macht had spared. They usually ran from her. Or stared with wide, frozen eyes.

This one had smiled.

Why?

She hadn’t done anything. She hadn’t smiled back. She hadn’t bent down or softened her voice.

And yet—

“Your hair is really nice.”

She replayed the words in her head, not because they mattered, but because they didn’t.

It was strange.

That strange, quiet thing that had settled in her chest like a breath held too long.

It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was something in between.

She didn’t have a word for it yet.

But maybe, if she wrote it carefully — slowly, like she always did — it would make sense.

Eventually.

Chapter Text

Frieren stood at the edge of the cliff, cloak pulled tight, eyes fixed on the valley below.

The castle gleamed like a monument — every wall, every tower, every spire made entirely of gold. Not gilded. Not decorated. Solid. Heavy. Eternal.

Around it, the village sprawled outward in perfect symmetry. Homes, streets, wells, carts — all gold. Even the trees had turned, their leaves stiff and metallic, frozen mid-rustle.

It was beautiful.

It was wrong.

A dome shimmered around it all — translucent, pulsing faintly with magic. It stretched from the castle’s highest tower to the farthest edge of the village, like a protective shell. Or a quarantine.

Fern stepped up besides Frieren.

“It’s all gold…”

“Yes.”

“Even the people?”

Frieren nodded once.

“Most of them.”

Stark crouched nearby, scanning the terrain.

“That dome — it’s holding the gold back?”

“It’s containing it,” Frieren said. “Serie’s magic.”

“So it’s spreading?”

“It was.” She narrowed her eyes. “Until she stopped it.”

He sat a few paces back, sharpening his blade out of habit.

“And inside?”

Frieren didn’t answer right away.

“Two demons.”

“Macht?”

“And one other.”

She turned to the group.

“We approach carefully. No sudden moves. No assumptions.”

Fern looked uneasy.

“Do you think they know we’re here?”

Frieren’s gaze returned to the dome.

“Not yet.”

Serie smiled faintly.

“You sensed them.”

Frieren nodded.

“Two demons.”

Serie’s gaze drifted toward the dome below.

“I’m impressed. When I sealed Macht inside, I only knew of one.”

She tilted her head, almost curious.

“You’re certain there’s another?”

Frieren didn’t answer immediately.

“It’s faint. But it’s not Macht.”

Serie’s eyes darkened, just slightly.

“Then something has changed.”

She stepped forward, hands folded behind her back, studying the golden city like a scholar examining a failed experiment.

“The dome holds even after all these years. The gold is contained for bow. But if another demon has emerged…”

She didn’t finish the thought.

Instead, she turned to Frieren.

“We have to go inside.”

It wasn’t a question.

Frieren nodded.

“We need to understand what happened.”

Serie’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer.

“We have to be careful. Macht is clever. But if there’s another…”

She looked back at the dome.

“It may not be bound by the same rules as I imagined.”

Without a word, she and Frieren began walking back toward the others, their footsteps quiet against the stone. The wind had settled, but the air felt heavier now — as if the mountain itself was holding its breath.

Fern looked up as they approached. Stark axe already in hand. Eisen remained seated, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes.

Denken rose from where he’d been sitting, brushing dust from his coat.

Serie stopped in front of them, her voice calm but firm.

“Frieren, Denken, and I will enter the dome.”

She glanced at each of them in turn.

“There is a second demon inside. One we did not account for. Macht is no longer alone.”

A silence fell over the group.

Denken’s brow furrowed.

“When I was a child… I only ever saw Macht. No one else. Not even rumors.”

He crossed his arms, thoughtful.

“This is strange. Very strange.”

He looked toward the dome, then back at the group.

“It’s smart to limit our numbers. If Macht sees all of us at once, he’ll measure our strength. Better to keep him guessing.”

Stark nodded slowly.

“So we wait here?”

Serie gave a small nod.

“For now. If things go wrong, you’ll know.”

Fern looked uneasy.

“What if the second demon is stronger than Macht?”

Frieren met her eyes.

“Then we’ll need you, but it's unlikely for MAcht to turn to other demons for help, he never gets along with anyone stronger than him.”

But she didn’t say when.

Serie paused at the edge of the group, her gaze settling on Aura.

The former commander sat slightly apart, her posture composed but distant. Linie was curled beside her, arms wrapped around Aura’s waist, head resting against her shoulder.

Serie’s voice was soft, but clear.

“Aura.”

Aura looked up, her eyes meeting Serie’s without hesitation.

“Would you come with us?”

There was no command in her tone — only invitation.

“You knew Macht. Better than most. Your insight could be useful.”

Aura didn’t speak right away. She glanced down at Linie, who clung to her a little tighter.

Then she nodded.

“Yes. I’ll go.”

Linie stirred, her grip tightening.

“You’ll come back?”

Aura placed a hand gently on Linie’s head, her voice low and steady.

“I will.”

Linie hugged her harder, burying her face against Aura’s side.

“Promise?”

Then she leaned down and whispered something only Linie could hear.

Linie nodded, eyes shining, and let go.

Aura stood, her expression unreadable, and stepped toward Frieren, Denken, and Serie.

Denken gave her a brief nod.

“Four’s a good number. Enough to probe. Not enough to provoke.” That what they fought us in boot camp

Serie turned toward the dome.

“Then we move.”

The group watched in silence as the four figures began their descent — Frieren’s cloak trailing behind her, Denken’s boots crunching against the stone, Serie walking as if gravity didn’t apply, and Aura, quiet and composed, her eyes fixed on the golden city below.

Behind them, Linie sat alone, arms wrapped around her knees, watching until they disappeared from view.

She didn’t cry.

But her silence was loud.

Footsteps approached — soft, deliberate.

Kanne knelt beside her first, her cloak brushing the ground as she gently placed a hand on Linie’s shoulder.

“She’ll be okay,” Kanne said softly. “Aura’s strong. And she’s not alone.”

Linie didn’t respond, but she leaned slightly into the touch.

Linie blinked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“She promised.”

Kanne smiled gently.

“Then she’ll keep it.”

Without a word, both Kanne and Lawine wrapped their arms around Linie, pulling her into a quiet, protective hug.

Inside the Dome

Serie stepped forward, her eyes scanning the surface. She raised one hand, fingers moving in slow, deliberate patterns through the air.

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

The spell was old. 

The dome rippled.

A seam appeared, no wider than a doorway, and the golden light bent inward like water parting.

Serie turned to the others.

“Stay close. The barrier will close behind us.”

Frieren nodded. Denken adjusted his coat. Aura said nothing.

They stepped through.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the air changed.

It was warmer. Still. Too still.

The golden village stretched out before them — pristine, symmetrical, untouched by time. Streets paved in gold. Houses gleaming. Trees frozen mid-bloom, their leaves metallic and unmoving.

And people.

They walked the streets, carried baskets, swept porches, chatted quietly.

All of them were fully gold.

Living.

As the group passed, heads turned. Eyes followed.

And the whispers began.

Soft. Fragmented. Like wind brushing against glass.

“Outsiders…”

“They don’t belong…”

“Not golden…”

“Not ours…”

Frieren slowed, her eyes scanning the faces.

“No one seems hurt.”

She spoke quietly, more to herself than the others.

“They’re living. Talking. Smiling. It’s… normal.”

Aura’s gaze was sharp.

“Too normal.”

Denken nodded.

“Like a stage play. Everyone knows their lines.”

Serie didn’t speak. She walked ahead, her eyes fixed on the castle rising in the distance — towering, ornate, and impossibly golden.

The whispers followed them.

“They’ll change…”

“They’ll see…”

“They’ll become…”

Aura slowed her pace, eyes drifting upward.

She scanned the rooftops — one house, then another, then another.

Her voice was quiet.

“Someone’s watching us.”

Frieren looked up as well. The roofs were empty. No movement. No shadows.

Just gold.

Aura frowned.

“I felt it.”

Serie didn’t look up.

“There’s no one there.”

Aura didn’t argue, but her gaze lingered.

Denken glanced around, his expression thoughtful.

“Where are we going?” Aura asked.

Serie answered without hesitation.

“To the main castle. Macht’s domain.”

Denken’s eyes narrowed.

“Strange.”

Frieren turned to him.

“What is?”

He gestured to the people — the golden villagers sweeping porches, carrying baskets, chatting in soft voices.

“When I was here as a boy… they weren’t like this.”

His voice dropped.

“They were flesh. Normal. Human.”

He looked around again, slower this time.

Frieren nodded.

“And it’s complete.”

Aura’s gaze returned to the rooftops.

“Then who’s watching?”

Serie didn’t answer.

The castle gates loomed ahead, tall and gleaming, etched with intricate patterns that shimmered in the light.

As the group approached, the gates opened — not with sound, but with a slow, seamless glide.

And there he stood.

Macht.

Tall. Composed. Smiling.

His robes were immaculate, his posture relaxed, his eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.

Beside him stood another figure — shorter, round-faced, with a warm smile and golden skin.

Gluck.

Frieren slowed. Aura’s hand drifted toward her weapon. Denken’s eyes narrowed.

Macht spread his arms in welcome.

“Visitors. How rare.”

His gaze swept over them — Frieren, Denken, Aura — and then landed on Serie.

The smile faltered.

Just slightly.

He lowered his arms.

“Serie.”

His voice was smooth, but softer now.

“I didn’t expect you.”

Serie stepped forward, her expression cold.

“We had an agreement.”

Macht tilted his head.

“Did we?”

Her voice sharpened.

“You were to leave the people untouched. I would not return. That was the deal.”

Macht’s smile returned, thinner this time.

“And yet, here you are.”

Before Serie could respond, Gluck stepped forward, hands raised in calm.

“Please. There’s no need for hostility.”

He looked at Serie with genuine warmth.

“The people asked for this. They wanted better lives. Stability. Beauty. Macht gave them that.”

Denken frowned.

“You’re saying they chose this?”

Gluck nodded.

“He’s been a pillar of this community for decades. He didn’t force anyone. They came to him.”

Aura’s eyes narrowed.

“And he turned them to gold?”

Gluck smiled.

“He elevated them.”

Serie’s gaze didn’t waver.

“You twisted the terms.”

Macht raised a hand, almost placating.

“I preserved them. Improved them. They are happy.”

Frieren looked around — at the golden villagers, the perfect streets, the frozen trees.

“They’re quiet.”

Macht nodded.

“Peaceful.”

Serie stepped closer.

“And yet you’re afraid.”

He looked at Serie, then Frieren, then Denken — slowly, deliberately.

“Of course I’m afraid.”

His voice was calm. Measured.

“Three of the most powerful mages in the known world are standing at my doorstep.”

He gestured lightly toward Aura.

“Four, if we’re counting former Allies.”

Aura didn’t react.

Macht folded his hands behind his back.

“But fear doesn’t mean guilt.”

He met Serie’s gaze directly.

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Serie’s eyes narrowed.

Macht stepped forward, just slightly — enough to close the distance without threatening.

His voice softened.

“I chose peace.”

He looked past Serie, past Frieren, toward the golden city behind them.

“Not out of fear. Not out of weakness. But curiosity.”

He turned back to them.

“I wanted to understand human emotion. Not mimic it. Not manipulate it. Understand it.”

His gaze settled on Aura.

“And yet here you are.”

Aura stiffened.

“One of the last Seven Sages.”

He tilted his head.

“Working alongside Frieren. The mage who killed your master.”

The words hung in the air.

Aura’s eyes flicked to Frieren, then back to Macht.

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet.

“I’m trying to change.”

She looked down, then up again.

“Like you seem to be.”

Macht studied her for a long moment.

Then he smiled — not mockingly, but almost… gently.

“Then perhaps we’re not so different.”

Serie’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re still a demon.”

Macht didn’t deny it.

“And yet, here we are. Talking.”

He gestured toward the castle.

“Would you like to come inside?”

Serie didn’t move at first.

Her eyes scanned the castle façade, the golden spires, the polished stone that reflected the sky too perfectly.

Then she stepped forward.

“We’d love to.”

Her tone was smooth.

But not warm.

“It’ll give us a chance to talk. About what’s really going on.”

Macht’s smile twitched — just slightly.

He bowed his head in mock courtesy.

“Then welcome.”

He turned, leading the way through the open gates.

Glück followed beside him, posture relaxed, eyes flicking back toward the group with quiet curiosity.

Frieren walked just behind Serie, her gaze sharp and silent.

Denken kept one hand near his coat, where his spellcards were hidden.

Aura lingered a moment longer, her eyes drifting toward the rooftops again.

Still empty.

Still watching.

Then she followed.

Then, as Macht paused to gesture toward a corridor, Serie leaned slightly toward Denken — just enough that her voice wouldn’t carry.

“Tell me,” she whispered, eyes forward, “if he feels off to you.”

Denken didn’t look at her.

Didn’t speak.

Just gave the faintest nod.

Once.

Macht led them through a corridor lined with stained glass — scenes of harvest, celebration, and quiet domestic life. All human. All idealized.

“Glück and I made a deal,” Macht said, his tone conversational, almost cheerful. “I don’t kill his citizens. In return, we coexist.”

He glanced back at the group, eyes bright.

“Simple, isn’t it?”

No one answered.

He continued.

“Sure, it was difficult at first. There were misunderstandings. Fear. Resistance.” He waved a hand, as if brushing away the memory. “But now we have a good arrangement. They live. I live. And the city thrives.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Harmony through restraint.”

Frieren’s gaze didn’t waver.

Denken’s fingers twitched near his coat.

Serie’s voice was quiet.

“And what do you get out of it?”

Macht turned, walking backward for a moment, arms spread.

“Conversation. Culture. The pleasure of being understood.”

He stopped before a set of ornate doors.

“And the occasional guest.”

The doors opened.

Inside, the hall was vast and gleaming — polished floors, high ceilings, golden trim on every surface. But it wasn’t empty.

On a velvet couch near the far wall sat a small demon girl.

She looked no older than seventeen — slender, quiet, with pale skin and silver eyes that shimmered faintly in the light. Her hair was long and dark, tied loosely behind her back. She wore a simple dress, not ornate, not ceremonial. Just… normal.

She looked up as they entered.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

Macht stepped forward, his voice softer now.

“This is my daughter.”

The group froze.

“She’s a demon,” Macht continued. “Born here. Seventeen years ago.”

He glanced at the girl, then back at the others.

“Her mother was… ordinary. A demon, yes. But not strong. Not interested in peace.”

His voice dipped.

“She ran when the child was born.”

He turned back to the girl.

“So I raised her. Alone.”

The girl didn’t move. But her eyes never left them.

“I wanted her to have a normal life,” Macht said. “Not one of violence. Not one of fear.”

Aura’s breath caught.

She stared at the girl — at the quiet posture, the soft dress, the way she didn’t flinch under their gaze.

Something shifted in Aura’s chest.

She remembered Linie.

She remembered herself.

“You’re trying to protect her,” Aura said quietly.

Macht nodded.

“I am.”

Serie’s eyes narrowed.

“And you think turning a city to gold is normal?”

Macht didn’t look away.

“I think it’s the best I can give her with what i have.”

They sat together on the long velvet couch — Macht at one end, Solitar beside him, then Aura, Serie, and Flamma, each settling in with a cautious kind of quiet.

The room was still.

Aura turned slightly toward the girl.

“What’s your name?”

The girl blinked once, then answered softly.

“Solitar.”

Aura smiled.

“That’s a beautiful name.”

Solitar tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“Thank you.”

Aura hesitated, then asked gently:

“How is Macht? As a father?”

Solitar’s eyes lit up — not with magic, but something warmer.

“He’s wonderful.”

She glanced at him, and for a moment, the cold, calculating Macht seemed… human.

“He reads to me every night,” Solitar said. “He makes breakfast himself. He taught me how to play the harp. He even learned how to braid hair just so I wouldn’t have to go to the stylists.”

Aura’s breath softened.

Serie watched silently, her gaze unreadable.

Flamma leaned forward, studying the girl with quiet intensity.

Solitar looked back at Aura.

“He’s kind. He’s gentle. He never raises his voice.”

Aura nodded slowly.

“That’s… not what I expected.”

Solitar’s smile faded just a little.

“Most people don’t expect that from Demon like us.”

“People might not understand you at first.”

Solitar looked down, fingers curling in her lap.

Aura continued.

“But if you keep trying… if you keep showing them who you really are… they’ll start to trust you.”

Solitar glanced up, uncertain.

“Even if I’m a demon?”

Aura nodded.

“Especially then.”

There was a pause.

Solitar’s eyes shimmered faintly — not with magic, but something more fragile.

Hope.

Aura smiled gently.

“You don’t have to be perfect. Just honest. Just kind.”

Across the couch, Serie watched quietly, her arms folded, a rare softness in her eyes.

Frieren stood behind them, silent, but her gaze lingered on Aura — thoughtful, proud.

Solitar whispered:

“I’ll try.”

Aura reached out, brushing a strand of hair from the girl’s face.

“That’s all anyone can ask from us.”

MAcht and Solitar minutes before meeting the group

The golden hall was quiet.

Macht stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the horizon. The light shimmered across the polished floor, casting long shadows behind him.

Then—

“Macht!”

Solitar’s voice rang out as she burst into the room, her footsteps light but urgent.

Macht turned sharply.

She ran to him, eyes wide, breath quick.

“There are four travelers approaching.”

She paused, letting the words settle.

“They have Serie with them.”

Macht’s face paled.

His jaw tightened.

“Serie?”

Solitar nodded, her voice lower now, almost coaxing.

“It’s time.”

She stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm.

“We can have our revenge. But you have to do exactly what I say.”

Macht hesitated.

His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to her.

“They’ll know.”

Solitar smiled — soft, sweet, but wrong.

“Not if I hide.”

She turned, already walking toward the far room.

“I’ll pretend to be your daughter. Quiet. Innocent.”

She looked back over her shoulder.

“You welcome them in. You act afraid. You act sincerely.”

Her voice dropped.

“And once they trust us… you’ll sneak me into their camp.”

Macht didn’t move.

His hands trembled slightly.

Solitar’s eyes narrowed.

“You said you’d protect me.”

A long silence.

Then Macht nodded.

“I’ll do it.”

Solitar turned without another word.

Her footsteps echoed against the marble as she darted up the grand staircase, her silhouette briefly framed by the golden light spilling in from the windows above.

She didn’t look back.

Macht stood still for a moment, watching her disappear.

Then he exhaled — slow, shaky.

His hand hovered near his chest, fingers curling slightly.

He stepped forward.

One foot, then another.

Toward the great doors.

His face was unreadable — not cold, not cruel. Just… uncertain.

But I'm ready.

The light from outside grew brighter.

The travelers were close.

And the performance was about to begin.

Back in the room

The golden hall was quiet.

Macht stood near the center, composed but watchful. Serie faced him directly, her stance firm, her gaze unwavering.

Aura and Frieren stood just behind her — silent, but present.

“Why have you come?” Macht asked, voice low.

Serie didn’t flinch.

“To kill you.”

The words landed like stone.

Aura’s breath caught.

Frieren’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

Macht blinked once.

Not in fear.

Just… surprised.

“I see.”

He looked at Serie for a long moment, as if weighing something.

Then, softly:

“Before you do… may I ask a favor?”

Serie didn’t respond immediately.

Her eyes searched his face, cautious.

“A favor?”

Macht nodded.

“It’s not for me.”

He glanced toward the staircase — where Solitar had vanished.

“It’s for someone else.”

Aura shifted slightly, sensing the tension.

Serie’s voice was quiet, but sharp.

“Speak.”

His voice was steady, but softer now.

“My daughter doesn’t deserve the life I’ve given her.”

He paused.

“She’s kind. Curious. She wants to understand the world, not rule it.”

Aura listened, her chest tight.

Frieren’s gaze remained fixed on Macht, unreadable.

“I’ve kept her here,” Macht continued. “Hidden. Protected. But it’s not enough.”

He stepped closer, slowly.

“When I’m gone… I want her to have a chance.”

Serie’s eyes narrowed.

“You want me to take care of her?”

There was no mockery in her voice — just disbelief.

Macht nodded.

“Yes.”

Serie stared at him.

“Why would I do that for you?”

Macht didn’t look away.

“Because I promise not to do anything else.”

His voice was quiet. Final.

“No more magic. No more manipulation. I’ll stay here. I’ll wait. Until you’re sure you can trust her.”

A long silence.

Aura’s breath hitched.

Aura turned, her gaze finding Frieren.

Her voice was soft.

“Can we… Please try to help Solitar?”

Frieren looked at her, eyes calm, thoughtful.

Aura continued.

“She’s not like him. Not really. She wants to understand. She wants to be better.”

She hesitated, then added:

“There could be more like her. More demons who want to change.”

Frieren didn’t answer right away.

She glanced toward the staircase, where Solitar remained hidden.

Then back at Aura.

“It’s not easy.”

“I know,” Aura said. “But it’s worth trying.”

Frieren studied her for a long moment.

Then she nodded.

“We’ll keep an eye on Solitar.”

Macht looked up, listening.

“I want to see how she interacts with people her age,” Frieren continued. “Outside these walls. Away from all this.”

Aura nodded quietly beside her.

“She deserves that chance.”

Frieren’s gaze didn’t waver.

“We’ll bring her beyond the city. Let her live among others. Learn. Grow.”

She glanced at Serie.

“Denken will stay here. Watch Macht. Make sure he keeps his word.”

Serie gave a small nod, her expression unreadable.

Macht stood still for a moment.

Then he bowed his head slightly.

“That sounds like a fair deal.”

His voice was quiet. Resigned.

“I’ll remain here. I won’t interfere.”

Frieren studied him.

“If she proves herself… we’ll decide what comes next.”

Macht nodded again.

“That’s all I ask.”

“We’ll return in one week.”

Macht nodded slowly.

“To make the decision on if you live or die?”

“Yes.”

His voice was steady.

…

Before Solitar departed, she descended the staircase slowly, her expression composed, almost serene.

Aura waited near the door, watching her with cautious hope.

Frieren stood beside her, silent.

Macht approached his daughter.

He opened his arms.

“Come here,” he said softly.

Solitar stepped into the embrace.

To the others, it looked tender — a father saying goodbye.

But as Macht leaned in, his lips barely moved.

“Your plan is genius,” he whispered against her ear.

“They’ll never see it coming.”

Solitar didn’t react.

She simply nodded once, subtly, her face still calm.

Macht pulled back, smiling faintly.

“Be good,” he said aloud.

Then he waved her off.

Aura turned, guiding Solitar toward the gates.

And behind them, Macht stood still — the perfect image of a grieving father.

But the truth lingered in the quiet.

At the City edge

The sun hung low over the golden city as Aura and Solitar walked side by side toward the outer barrier.

Aura held Solitar’s hand gently, her grip protective but relaxed.

Solitar leaned into her, her steps light, her expression soft.

Ahead, Serie stood at the edge of the shimmering wall, her hand raised as she began to trace the spell that would open the gate.

Solitar’s eyes flicked upward — just for a moment.

She watched Serie’s fingers.

Listened to the cadence of the incantation.

Memorized it.

Then she turned back to Aura, her face brightening.

“Will I get to meet other kids?” she asked sweetly.

Aura smiled.

“You will.”

She squeezed Solitar’s hand.

“My daughter Linie’s waiting. She’s kind. A little shy. But I think you two will get along beautifully.”

Solitar giggled softly.

“I can’t wait.”

Aura laughed gently, brushing a strand of hair from Solitar’s face.

“You’re going to have such a good time.”

The barrier shimmered, then parted.

And as they stepped through, Solitar glanced back once — her eyes calm, calculating.

Then she smiled again.

Perfectly innocent.

Chapter Text

The camp sat just beyond the shimmering edge of the barrier — a modest setup of tents and wards, quiet and secure. The late afternoon light cast long shadows across the grass.

As Aura and Solitar approached, three figures broke into a run from the central tent.

Linie, Kanne, and Lawine.

Linie reached Aura first, throwing her arms around her with a soft cry.

“Mama!”

Aura dropped to one knee, hugging her tightly.

“I’m here,” she whispered, pressing her cheek against Linie’s hair. “I promised, didn’t I?”

Linie nodded, eyes wet but smiling.

Kanne and Lawine slowed behind her, grinning.

Then their eyes shifted to the girl standing quietly beside Aura.

Solitar smiled — small, polite, almost shy.

Kanne tilted her head.

“Who’s this?”

Lawine crossed her arms, curious.

Before Aura could answer, footsteps approached from behind.

Serie and Frieren walked up, their presence quiet but commanding.

Serie looked at the group, then at Solitar.

“She’s Macht’s child.”

A silence fell.

Kanne blinked.

Lawine frowned.

Linie looked up at Solitar, uncertain.

Frieren’s voice was calm.

“She’ll be staying with us. For now.”

Solitar gave a small wave.

“Hello.”

Serie watched her for a long moment.

Then she turned to Frieren, her voice low.

“The world’s changing too fast around me.”

Frieren nodded.

“It always does.”

Aura stood, placing a hand on Solitar’s shoulder.

“She’s here to learn. And we are to observe her if she deserves to live.”

Linie stepped back, still clutching Aura’s hand, her gaze drifting to the girl beside her mother.

“Do you want to play something?” she asked, voice soft, uncertain.

Solitar tilted her head, then smiled — wide, bright, a little too perfect.

“I would like that very much.”

She followed Linie toward the tents, her steps light and deliberate, each one placed as if rehearsed. Kanne watched them go, leaning slightly toward Lawine.

“She’s… formal,” she murmured.

Lawine didn’t reply. Her eyes stayed fixed on Solitar’s back, brow faintly furrowed.

Aura stood still, her expression unreadable.

Frieren and Serie approached quietly, watching the girls settle near the fire pit.

Linie had gathered a few stones and a stick, drawing a loose circle in the dirt. She laughed as she explained the rules — something simple, something made up.

Solitar crouched beside her, mirroring the motion with uncanny precision. Her laugh came a moment late, high and clear, like an echo of Linie’s.

Frieren ist ganz langweilig.

Serie folded her arms, eyes on the horizon.

“She’s… eager,” she said, after a long pause.

Frieren nodded, slowly.

“She wants to belong so hard.”

Linie tapped her stick against the circle of stones.

“Okay, so if your stone lands inside, you get a point. If it hits someone else’s, you lose one.”

Solitar nodded, watching intently.

“Understood.”

She placed her stone with careful precision, mimicking Linie’s grip and posture exactly.

Kanne wandered over, arms swinging loosely.

“You two starting a tournament without us?”

Lawine followed, crouching beside the circle.

“What are the stakes?”

Linie grinned.

“Bragging rights. Forever.”

Kanne plucked a stone from the pile and tossed it lazily. It bounced once, landed just outside the ring.

“I’m already winning,” she declared.

Lawine rolled her eyes and flicked her stone with practiced ease. It landed squarely in the center.

“That’s how it’s done.”

Solitar watched them both, then adjusted her grip again — subtly, precisely — and flicked her stone. It landed in the exact spot Lawine’s had, nudging it slightly.

Linie clapped.

“Nice!”

Kanne raised an eyebrow.

“Lucky shot.”

Solitar smiled.

“I observed your technique.”

Lawine glanced at her, then at the stone.

“You copied it.”

Solitar tilted her head.

“I learned it.”

Kanne chuckled, tossing another stone.

“Well, if you’re learning from us, you’re doomed.”

Linie laughed, nudging Solitar playfully.

“You’re doing great.”

Solitar smiled again — the same wide, symmetrical smile.

Lawine watched her for a moment longer, then turned back to the game.

…

The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the camp. Most of the group had drifted toward the tents, laughter fading into quiet conversation.

Frieren sat near the edge of the fire pit, legs stretched out, watching the last flickers of the game. Aura settled beside her, arms loosely crossed, gaze distant.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Frieren said, softly:

“She moves like you did.”

Aura blinked, then looked at her.

“What do you mean?”

Frieren nodded toward Solitar, who was still crouched beside Linie, placing stones with careful precision.

“The first few months. When we traveled together.”

Aura’s expression didn’t change, but her voice dropped.

“No one trusted me.”

Frieren didn’t deny it.

Aura exhaled.

“I didn’t know how to act. I watched you all. Tried to copy how you laughed. How you looked at each other.”

She paused.

“It felt like wearing someone else’s skin.”

Frieren glanced at her.

“You learned.”

Aura nodded.

“Eventually. But it wasn’t real, not at first. I just wanted to be… less frightening.”

Her eyes lingered on Solitar.

“She’s doing the same thing.”

Frieren’s voice was quiet.

“Do you think it’ll work?”

Aura didn’t answer right away.

Then:

“I don’t know. I had a choice. I’m not sure she understands what that means yet.”

The fire crackled softly between them.

Near the fire pit, the game had long ended. A pile of blankets had been dragged out under the open sky, and the girls had collapsed into it one by one — first Linie, curled against Aura’s side, then Kanne and Lawine, limbs tangled and half-laughing as they settled in.

Solitar lay at the edge of the pile, her posture still too straight, eyes open longer than the rest. Eventually, she closed them — slowly, deliberately — and lay still.

From a short distance away, Frieren and Aura watched in silence.

Linie murmured something in her sleep, shifting closer to Solitar.

Aura smiled faintly.

“She seems happy.”

Frieren glanced at her.

Aura’s voice was low, almost thoughtful.

“For a long time, she was the only one. The only demon child in a group of mages and humans. She never said it, but I think it made her feel… apart.”

She nodded toward the sleeping pile.

“Now she’s not.”

Frieren watched the rise and fall of Linie’s breath, the way her hand had found Solitar’s in sleep.

“Do you think it’s good for her?”

Aura hesitated.

Footsteps approached.

Serie.

She lowered herself beside Aura without a word, her robes brushing the grass.

For a long moment, they sat in silence.

Then Serie spoke, voice low.

“You’ve changed.”

Aura didn’t look at her.

“I had to.”

Serie’s gaze lingered on the sleeping pile.

“I never thought it was possible. Not for you.”

Aura’s jaw tightened.

“I didn’t either for a while.”

Serie turned to her.

“And now the great sage of destruction is leading the way in revolutionizing demon coexistence.”

There was no sarcasm in her voice. Just quiet awe.

Aura let out a breath, almost a laugh.

“Don’t say it like that. I’m just trying to keep her safe.”

Serie nodded.

“That’s what makes it real.”

Aura looked down at her hands.

“I still don’t know if I’m doing it the right way.”

Serie’s voice softened.

“You’re doing something no one else could in over 10,000 years”

Serie’s fingers brushed through the long strands of silver-white hair.

“Your hair’s grown out beautifully,” she said, almost absently. “It suits you.”

Aura snorted.

“Thanks for not killing me when we met.”

Serie smiled — faint, dry.

“You made a compelling case.”

Aura raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Serie nodded.

“Exactly.”

Aura shook her head, amused despite herself.

“You’re a strange woman.”

Serie looked back at the sleeping girls.

“We all are. That’s why it works.”

Aura followed her gaze, her expression softening.

“I don’t know if it’s working yet.”

Serie stood, brushing off her robes.

“It’s working enough for us to be able to coexist.”

Journal of Coexistence — Day One
Subjective Time: First full cycle within the camp
Status: Embedded

I have successfully entered the camp of Serie’s group.

They believe I am here to learn.

This is true.

They believe I am harmless.

This is not yet proven.

The initial approach was facilitated by Aura. Her presence was essential. She is Macht’s mate, and her emotional credibility within the group is high. When she introduced me, the others did not challenge her authority.

Serie accepted me with minimal resistance. Frieren observed me closely but did not intervene. The others — Linie, Kanne, Lawine — responded with curiosity, not fear.

I smiled. I tilted my head. I used soft vocal tones. These behaviors are associated with non-threat status in human and humanoid interactions.

They fell for it.