The garden hummed with quiet life—water lilies drifting lazily across the pond's surface, faint mana threads weaving through the air like invisible vines. Serie sat on the cool stone edge, robes pooled around her like spilled sunlight, one bare foot trailing idly in the water. Ripples spread outward from where her toes dipped and withdrew, sending tiny waves lapping against mossy rocks. She looked almost childlike there, ancient eyes half-lidded, as if the weight of millennia had momentarily slipped away.
Frieren approached without hurry, her steps soft against the dew-kissed grass. The vines framing the entrance parted for her like old friends, but she paid them no mind. Green eyes scanned the space—taking in Serie, the pond, the faint shimmer of wards—and then settled on the figure seated a short distance away.
Percia lounged against a low stone bench, legs crossed, onyx hair spilling over one shoulder like dark water. She watched the scene unfold with her usual detachment, midnight-blue eyes tracing the interplay between the two elves without intrusion. A faint breeze stirred the air, carrying the scent of frostroses and starlilies.
"You're late," Serie said without looking up. Her voice carried that familiar flat edge—mild, but laced with authority. She flicked her foot again, sending a fresh spray of droplets arcing through the air. "I should fail you right here for tardiness alone."
Frieren tilted her head slightly, white hair shifting like fresh snow. She stopped a respectful distance away, hands loose at her sides.
"You're going to fail me regardless," she replied placidly. The words weren't accusatory; they were simple fact, delivered in the same tone one might use to note the weather.
Serie's lips curved—slow, sharp, a smile that didn't quite reach her golden eyes but gleamed with faint amusement. She finally lifted her gaze, studying Frieren as though she were a mildly interesting grimoire.
"What is your favorite spell?" she asked, voice soft but probing.
Frieren didn't hesitate. "A spell to create a field of flowers."
Serie sighed—long, dramatic, leaning back on her palms until her shoulders brushed the grass behind her. She flicked her feet in the water again, harder this time, sending ripples into waves. Droplets clung to her ankles like tiny jewels.
"Boring," she said, voice dripping with exaggerated disappointment. "Ambitionless. Always chasing nothing instead of something."
Frieren regarded her steadily. "Nothing is still something," she countered, tone unchanged. Then, quieter: "Fern was angry."
Serie shrugged one slender shoulder, golden hair catching the light. She sat up straighter now, legs still dangling in the pond. "I didn't say anything to the girl other than passing her."
Frieren's green eyes narrowed just a fraction. "That's the problem."
A beat of silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft lap of water. Frieren's gaze shifted then—slowly, inevitably—to Percia. The other elf blinked once, midnight-blue eyes widening faintly as the attention settled on her like unexpected mist. She hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, but now she straightened slightly, tilting her head in quiet question.
Frieren walked over without a word, steps unhurried. She reached down to where Percia sat, small hand extending. Her fingers grazed lightly over the marks—faint bruises and bites half-hidden by Percia's collar, remnants of the night before. Mana bloomed soft and silver-blue, weaving through skin like gentle threads. The marks faded, healing seamlessly, leaving only smooth, unmarred flesh behind.
Percia tilted her head further, onyx hair shifting. "Did it bother you?"
Frieren paused, hand lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Her expression remained placid, but her fingers curled slightly before withdrawing. "Mostly for Fern."
Serie's sharp laughter echoed from behind them—bright, cutting, like sunlight on a blade. She leaned forward now, elbows on her knees, chin propped in one hand as she watched them both. Water dripped from her feet, pooling on the stone.
"Mostly, you say?" Serie drawled, voice laced with wicked delight. "What about the rest?"
Frieren blinked once, turning halfway back. Her green eyes met Serie's golden ones without flinching. "Myself. It bothered me a little bit."
Serie's laughter softened into a hum—thoughtful, probing. She tilted her head, studying Frieren with renewed interest. "Strange, isn't it? That you still carry that little crush with you after all this time. Centuries come and go, empires crumble, but here you are—still looking at her like she's the only spell worth memorizing."
Frieren's posture didn't change. She didn't deny it. Didn't confirm. Just stood there, small and unchanging, as though the words were merely passing clouds.
Serie's gaze shifted then—to Percia. Her smile sharpened. "And you? Still pretending it doesn't mean anything? That her eyes on you don't stir something you've buried deeper than ancient ruins?"
Percia held Serie's gaze for a long, measured breath.
"It doesn't," she said, voice low and even. "Nothing is buried. Nothing is waiting to be unearthed. You're seeing patterns that aren't there."
Serie's smile didn't waver, but something sharper glinted behind it—like sunlight catching the edge of a drawn blade.
"Oh?" She tilted her head, golden hair sliding over one shoulder. "Then why the sudden defensiveness, little shadow? Why the narrowed eyes?" She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees, feet still dangling in the pond. Water dripped from her toes in slow, deliberate plinks. "You can lie to yourself for another millennium if you like. But don't insult my intelligence by lying to me."
Percia's midnight-blue eyes narrowed further. The air between them thickened—not with mana, but with something older, heavier. Simmering annoyance coiled low in her chest, the kind she usually smothered beneath centuries of practiced indifference. She felt it now, rising like heat from buried coals.
"What exactly are you getting at, Serie?" she asked. Her tone remained quiet. Too quiet.
Serie shrugged one elegant shoulder, casual as if discussing the weather. "I'm just pointing out the obvious." Her gaze flicked briefly to Frieren, then back to Percia. "Why else would last night have happened the way it did?"
Frieren, who had been standing motionless beside Percia—small hand still resting lightly against the nape of her neck—tilted her head. White hair shifted like snowfall caught in a breeze.
"What happened?" she asked, voice soft and genuinely curious.
Percia didn't look away from Serie. Her answer came blunt, matter-of-fact.
"We fucked."
Serie leaned forward farther, elbows on her knees, chin propped in one hand. Her smile was all teeth now.
"Oh?" she purred. "Is that the only thing that happened?"
Percia met her stare without blinking. "What are you doing?"
Serie's expression didn't change, but her voice dropped, almost gentle. "I'm not doing anything. I'm observing."
Percia exhaled through her nose—short, sharp. "Don't cause trouble just because trouble is brewing inside you."
The words landed like a thrown stone into still water.
Serie stilled.
Her smile faded slowly, like light draining from the sky at dusk. The playful curve of her mouth flattened. Her golden eyes lost their gleam, turning flat and distant. Tension snapped taut between the three of them—sudden, brittle, like ice forming over deep water.
"It didn't bother me," Serie said quietly.
Percia huffed—a soft, disbelieving sound.
Serie's frown deepened, brows drawing together in a rare, unguarded expression. "The actions didn't bother me. Truly." She paused, gaze dropping to the rippling surface of the pond. "It was something else."
Percia waited. When no answer came, she pressed, quieter now. "What?"
Serie didn't respond. She simply stared at the water, toes no longer moving. The playful splashing had ceased entirely.
Frieren stood quietly beside Percia, her small hand still lingering at the base of Percia's neck—fingers cool and steady against skin. She had never seen Serie lose her temper like this. Not really. Not this slow, inward collapse. Nor had she ever seen Percia allow even the faintest crack in her composure to show so plainly.
Serie's gaze lifted then—slowly—and settled on Frieren.
"You fail," she said. Voice flat. Final. "Leave."
The words hung in the garden like frost settling on petals.
Frieren blinked once. She didn't argue. Didn't protest. She simply withdrew her hand from Percia's nape—slow, deliberate, as though reluctant to break the last point of contact—and turned toward the vine-wreathed archway.
Percia remained seated. She watched Frieren's retreating back—white hair catching faint sunlight—until the smaller elf disappeared beyond the entrance.
Serie still hadn't moved.
Neither had Percia.
The pond kept rippling, tiny waves lapping against stone in the sudden, heavy silence.
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The garden was still.
Water lapped softly against stone. Mana threads drifted like lazy fireflies. Neither Serie nor Percia moved.
Percia's gaze lingered on the empty archway where Frieren had disappeared. The door had already closed behind her, sealing the moment away like an old grimoire snapped shut.
She thought, suddenly, of the last time they had fought like this.
It hadn't been that long ago—two centuries, perhaps a little more. A petty thing, she doesn't even quite remember what it was about. But, words had sharpened into silence, then into absence. Serie had left without farewell. Percia had stayed behind and lingered.
They hadn't spoken for a century after that.
Trivial.
This felt deeper. Older. Like something that had been quietly bleeding beneath the surface for thousand of years and had finally torn open.
She hated how it felt.
Percia rose without sound.
She crossed the short distance between them and lowered herself behind Serie, knees bracketing the other elf's hips. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned forward. Her arms slid around Serie's waist from behind. She drew her close until Serie's back pressed flush against her chest. Percia rested her chin lightly in the curve of Serie's neck, onyx hair mingling with golden strands.
Serie froze.
"Get off," she said. Voice flat. Controlled. "There are more interviews to hold."
"They can wait," Percia murmured against her skin.
Serie's jaw clenched so hard Percia felt the muscle jump beneath her lips.
"Get. Off."
Percia didn't move. Instead she nuzzled closer, nose brushing the soft skin just below Serie's ear. She inhaled—deep, slow—letting the familiar scent of sun-warmed cedar and faint ozone ground her.
"Since when," she asked very quietly, "did work become more important than me?"
Serie nearly growled. The sound vibrated through both of them.
"Get off."
Percia loosened her hold—just enough.
Serie's hand came up fast, brushing her arms away with restrained force. She didn't turn. She kept her head low, golden hair falling forward to curtain her face.
Percia stayed where she was. Head still bowed. Breathing in the lingering warmth of Serie's neck. Letting it steady the strange, unsteady thing churning behind her ribs.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled. Barely audible.
Serie exhaled—a long, tired sound.
"There's no need to apologize." Her voice had gone quiet. Almost gentle. "It was my own mistake."
"It wasn't."
"It was." Serie's shoulders rose and fell once. "I've known for five thousand years now that you aren't mine. Not like that. Not really." She paused. "It's foolish of me to take your actions personally."
She turned her head—just a fraction.
Their eyes met.
Serie looked… tired. Not the performative exhaustion she sometimes wore like armor. Truly tired. The kind that settled into bones older than mountains.
Percia held her gaze.
Serie leaned in slowly. Pressed her lips to Percia's temple—soft, lingering, almost careful.
"Go," she whispered against skin. "I have work to do."
Percia nodded once.
She rose.
A heartbeat later the garden blurred around her—space folding, mana pulling—and she found herself standing in the center of Serie's private chambers.
The room smelled of her: cedar, old parchment, the faint metallic bite of restrained power. Sunlight slanted through high windows in pale gold bars across the floor.
Percia didn't know what she was feeling.
She crossed to the wide bed without thinking. Lowered herself onto the sheets still rumpled from the night before. Curled onto her side. Pulled one of the pillows close and buried her face in it.
Serie's scent clung to the fabric—warm, grounding, achingly familiar.
She closed her eyes.
And for once, she let herself simply lie there, breathing it in, letting the remnants comfort her in the quiet that followed.