The moonlight from the cracked archway fell in pale silver strips across the final corridor, turning the stone almost luminous. Percia stepped out first into the cool night air—fresh, pine-scented, carrying the faint rustle of leaves far above. The dungeon's mouth yawned behind them like a defeated beast, quiet at last.
She felt it immediately: the weight of two pairs of eyes boring into her back.
Fern's gaze was quiet, thoughtful, almost analytical—as though she were trying to solve a particularly stubborn spell equation.
Stark's was louder. Wide-eyed, a little horrified, a little fascinated. The kind of stare that came with realizing you'd just witnessed something ancient and personal and weird.
Their consensus was obvious: this elf sucks for leaving Frieren like that.
Percia stopped at the edge of the ruined stone steps leading down the hillside. She didn't turn. She simply sighed—long, slow, the sound of someone who had carried the same weight for far too many centuries.
"You're judging me," she said flatly.
Fern blinked. "We're not—"
"You are." Percia's voice remained cool, but there was a faint weariness beneath it. "I can feel it."
Percia finally turned her head just enough for moonlight to catch the sharp line of her jaw. She doesn't quite understand why she is explaining herself to two kids.
"By human standards," she said, "imagine a woman in her thirties being approached by a pre-teen. Persistent. Curious. Trailing after her for years. Asking endless questions. Wanting to be near. Wanting to learn. Wanting… more, eventually."
Stark froze mid-step.
His face went from curious to openly horrified in the span of a heartbeat.
"…That sounds super awkward."
Fern's cheeks flushed pink. She looked down at her boots, then up again, violet eyes wide.
Percia's midnight-blue gaze flicked to him, then away.
"True," she said quietly. "But, elves do not age the same way. Forty years for her was barely more than childhood's end. For me… it was a long walk through familiar woods. She grew into herself while I watched. Slowly. Patiently. There was no predation. No rush. Only time."
She paused.
"And then I left. Because time is the only thing elves truly have in abundance—and the one thing we learn, eventually, to fear sharing."
Frieren, who had been walking a few paces behind with her usual placid expression, finally spoke.
"She's right," she said simply. "I was young. Very young. And she was kind enough not to treat me like a child."
Stark rubbed the back of his neck, ears still red. "Still… sounds like the kind of thing that'd get you arrested in a human village."
Fern elbowed him. Hard.
Frieren tilted her head at Stark. "Humans move so quickly. You fall in love in weeks. You marry in months. You grow old and die before the seasons turn twice. Of course it seems strange to you."
Percia drew her cloak tighter around herself against the night chill—or perhaps against something else.
"The road forks ahead," she said, nodding toward the dark treeline below. "One path leads to the nearest human settlement. The other deeper into the mountains. Choose whichever you like."
She started down the steps without waiting.
Frieren watched her go for a moment.
Then, to her students:
"She's still running," Frieren observed, almost fondly. "But she's slower about it now."
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The night path wound downward through sparse pines, moonlight filtering in thin silver threads between branches. Percia's boots made no sound on the soft earth; she moved like a shadow detaching from the trees. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke from somewhere distant—human fires, probably.
Footsteps followed. Light ones. Three sets, but one deliberately slower.
Percia didn't stop walking.
"I'm surprised that you are pursuing me," she called over her shoulder, voice carrying clearly in the quiet, "Have you got no pride? I leave for a millennia and you immediately cling on the moment you meet me again."
From behind, Frieren's reply came without hesitation, calm and matter-of-fact.
"We're simply headed the same way." A small pause. "If anything, you're the one being weird. Heading toward a human village? That's not like you."
Percia slowed. Then stopped. She turned.
The group was about twenty paces back—Fern and Stark walking side by side, Fern's staff tapping lightly against the ground with each step, Stark trying (and failing) to look casual while clearly eavesdropping. Frieren lagged several steps behind them, hands clasped behind her back, green eyes fixed on Percia's retreating form.
Percia sighed—long, resigned—and waited.
Fern and Stark hurried to close the distance, falling into step a respectful few feet away. Frieren, however, lingered exactly where she was, twenty paces still separating her from the others.
She huffed softly. "Hmph. You think I'll stand next to you after that?."
Percia blinked and grasped Frieren's sleeve.
"It's inefficient to carry on a conversation twenty paces away," Percia said dryly. "Come here."
Frieren's lips curved—just the tiniest fraction—before she closed the gap in a few unhurried steps. She stopped beside Percia, close enough that their sleeves brushed when the night breeze stirred.
Percia resumed walking. The others fell in naturally around her—Fern on her left, Stark on the right, Frieren at her elbow like she belonged there.
"Why the human village?" Frieren asked quietly.
Percia kept her gaze on the path ahead.
"I need to restock supplies. Ink. Parchment. A few rare herbs that don't grow in the deep wilds anymore. Nothing exciting."
She paused.
"After that… I'm headed to Äußerst. To visit Serie. It's her birthday soon."
Frieren glanced up with genuine surprise, "You know Serie?"
Percia blinked slowly, as though the question itself was mildly confusing.
"We're childhood friends."
Fern doesn't know what to feel anymore. She stared at Percia like she'd just announced she was secretly a dragon in disguise.
"You're… friends with the Living Grimoire?"
Percia blinked again.
"Is that what they call her now?"
Stark scratched his cheek, looking faintly amused despite himself. "Yeah. She's kinda legendary. Scary legendary. The kind of mage who makes demons and humans alike sweat just by existing."
Percia's expression remained impassive.
"She's always been dramatic."
Frieren recovered first, tilting her head.
"You never mentioned that before."
"I never mentioned a lot of things," Percia replied evenly. "You never asked."
"Uh… anyway," Stark said, seizing the opening, "We're actually headed there too. Fern and Frieren are taking the first-class mage exam. To get the certification. Y'know, so they can go further up without getting stopped at every border checkpoint or whatever."
He shrugged, trying for casual.
"Since our destinations line up… maybe we should just travel together? For a while?"
Percia didn't answer immediately.
She kept walking, cloak whispering against ferns that brushed the path. The village lights were visible now—small, warm pinpricks in the valley below.
Frieren glanced sideways at her.
"It would be efficient," she pointed out. "Supplies. Safety in numbers. And you won't have to pretend you don't hear us talking about you the whole way."
Percia exhaled through her nose—almost a laugh, but not quite.
"Fine."
She didn't look at Frieren.
But she didn't pull away when their shoulders brushed again, either
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The village inn was modest—timber beams darkened by centuries of hearth smoke, a low ceiling that made Stark have to duck slightly under the doorway, and the warm, yeasty smell of fresh bread drifting from the kitchen. A handful of locals glanced up from their mugs as the group entered.
They claimed a corner table near the fire. Stark dropped into his chair with a theatrical groan, axe propped against the wall like a tired companion.
"I'm famished," he declared, loud enough that the barmaid turned. "Bring everything. Roast boar, the herb-crusted kind. Potatoes—fried, mashed, whatever you've got. Bread. Cheese. Stew. More bread."
Fern's frown deepened with every item he listed. She leaned across the table, voice low and sharp.
"Stark. We don't have enough coin for half of that. We spent most of what we had on the last town's supplies after the dungeon."
Stark waved a hand. "We'll figure it out. Adventuring tax—monsters tried to eat us, we deserve a feast."
Fern's eye twitched. "That's not how currency works."
They descended into familiar bickering—Stark gesturing grandly, Fern pinching the bridge of her nose—while the barmaid scribbled the order with growing alarm.
Percia, seated at the end of the table with her cloak draped over the back of her chair, said nothing. When the barmaid approached with the total—a sum that made even Stark pale slightly—Percia simply reached into an inner fold of her robes, produced a small pouch of gold coins that clinked with reassuring weight, and slid it across the table without looking.
"Cover it," she said quietly. "And keep the change."
The barmaid's eyes widened. She bowed hastily and scurried off.
Fern noticed first. Her head snapped toward Percia.
"You—"
Stark followed her gaze. "Wait, you just—"
Fern smacked Stark's arm—hard—then stood, bowed deeply toward Percia, once, twice, three times in quick succession.
"I'm so sorry! He didn't mean—we'll repay you, I promise—"
Percia blinked slowly.
"It's no problem." A faint, almost imperceptible shrug. "It would be rather concerning if I've lived for eight thousand years and was still broke."
Stark's mouth hung open mid-protest. Fern froze mid-bow, violet eyes enormous. Even the crackle of the fire seemed to quiet.
Frieren—Frieren, who had been calmly folding her napkin into precise squares—actually paused. Her small hands stilled.
She leaned closer to Percia, voice a whisper meant only for her.
"…I thought you were four thousand."
Percia blinked again, fork already halfway to her mouth with the first slice of bread she'd bothered to take.
"Why did you think that?"
Frieren tilted her head. "You told me once. Long ago. That you met the Goddess. The Mythical Era occured around four thousand years ago.
Percia considered this. She chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, then set the bread down.
"Ah... I suppose there was the Forgotten Era in between the Mythical and Unified Empire Eras. The one hidden from mortals. Records of it were… scrubbed. Even most elves don't remember. That was… a very long time before your village even had trees tall enough to climb."
She picked up the bread again and resumed eating, calm as though she'd just commented on the weather.
The silence stretched.
Fern stared. Stark stared. Frieren stared—though her expression was more thoughtful than shocked, green eyes tracing the lines of Percia's face as though seeing her anew.
Stark finally found his voice, hoarse.
"What"
Percia didn't look up from her plate. "Don't tell anyone I told you that though... I'm not supposed to be talking about that era."
The barmaid returned then, arms laden with steaming platters. Roast boar dripping with herbs, golden potatoes, thick stew, baskets of bread still warm from the oven. The food hit the table with soft thuds.
Percia was the only one who reached for a fork immediately. She speared a piece of meat, ate it methodically, then took another bite of bread.
The others remained frozen.
Frieren recovered first. She picked up her spoon, stirred her stew once, then murmured—almost to herself:
"You never told me that"
Percia shrugged again. "You never asked."
Stark let out a long, shaky breath and finally grabbed a hunk of bread. "Right. Okay. You're eight thousand years old. There is a forgotten era extending many millennia. Cool. Totally normal. I'm just gonna… eat now."
Fern nodded and picked up her spoon. Frieren reached out to a plate of steak.