The road to Äußerst stretched long and golden under late autumn sun, the spires of the City of Magic rising gradually against the horizon like crystal needles piercing low clouds. The air grew sharper here—charged with ambient mana that prickled the skin and made every breath taste faintly of ozone. Mages of every stripe passed them on the wide stone highway: cloaked figures murmuring incantations, apprentices trailing behind with overloaded satchels, the occasional first-class mage gliding by with an aura that bent light around them like heat haze.
Frieren drifted beside Percia, silent and content, green eyes half-lidded as though the entire spectacle were mildly interesting at best. Fern and Stark trailed a respectful step behind—Fern absorbing every detail with quiet intensity, Stark trying (and mostly failing) to look like he belonged among people who could probably turn him into ash with a flick of the wrist.
Inside, the city hummed—floating lanterns drifting between towers, streets paved in pale marble that reflected spell-light in soft rainbows, the distant chime of bells tuned to ley-line frequencies.
They followed the main boulevard toward the heart of the city: the Continental Magic Association headquarters, a towering edifice of white stone and living vines that seemed to breathe mana. Serie's domain. The living grimoire herself.
As they approached the wide plaza before the grand steps, the crowd thinned. Mages bowed heads or stepped aside without a word. A stillness settled—unnatural, expectant.
And there she waited.
At the top of the broad marble stairs stood a single figure, small and motionless as a statue carved from sunlight.
Golden hair cascaded in loose waves to her waist, four sections tied neatly at the base while bangs framed her face in precise symmetry. Golden eyes—bright, unblinking, ancient—regarded the approaching group with absolute impassivity. Large pointed ears rose sharp against the sky. She wore her usual loose white top with its green brooch, white shorts, and the long red cape draped over her shoulders, gold fastenings glinting, green jewels dangling like captured stars.
Serie.
She did not smile. Did not frown. Merely existed there—older than mountains, wiser than libraries, more dangerous than most gods ever dared to be.
The group slowed to a halt at the base of the stairs.
Silence stretched. Thick. Heavy. The kind that made even the ambient mana feel like it was holding its breath.
Fern's grip tightened on her staff until her knuckles paled. Stark swallowed audibly, axe suddenly feeling very small and very mortal on his shoulder. Frieren tilted her head slightly, studying her old acquaintance with mild curiosity, as though noting a new variety of flower.
Percia stepped forward alone.
She stopped three steps below Serie—close enough for conversation, far enough to preserve the ancient distance between them.
Serie's golden gaze never wavered.
Then, without a word, she extended one slender hand, palm up. The gesture was simple. Expectant.
Percia reached beneath her cloak.
From an inner fold—where no pocket should have existed—she withdrew a small, unadorned wooden box no larger than her palm. Dark wood, polished by centuries of handling, etched with the faintest traces of glyphs so old they looked more like natural grain than deliberate marks.
She tossed it lightly.
Serie caught it one-handed without looking away from Percia's face. Her fingers closed around the box with deliberate care.
A beat.
Serie tilted her head—just a fraction.
"…You're late," she said. Voice soft. Flat. Carrying effortlessly across the plaza.
Percia exhaled through her nose. Almost amused.
"You're lucky I even showed up."
Serie's lips curved up. The smallest possible smile. Rare as snowfall in summer.
"Despicable as always."
She tucked the box into the folds of her cape without opening it. Whatever lay inside—a fragment of forgotten spellwork, a seed from a tree that bloomed only once every millennium, a single tear crystallized from the Goddess's eye—would remain her secret for now.
Her golden eyes flicked past Percia to the others.
To Frieren first. A long, assessing look. No warmth, but no hostility either. Recognition. Old debts. Older rivalries.
Then to Fern—violet eyes meeting gold without flinching. Serie's brow lifted a hair. Interest.
Finally to Stark. To the axe that laid across his shoulder.
Her gaze returned to Percia.
"You've collected strays again."
Percia shrugged one shoulder. "They collected me. Temporarily."
Serie hummed—low, thoughtful.
Then she descended one step. Then another. Until she stood level with Percia.
She reached up—small hand brushing Percia's cheek in a gesture so light it might have been wind.
"Happy birthday to me," Serie murmured. Dry. Almost fond. "You remembered."
Percia's midnight-blue eyes softened—just a fraction. "I always do."
"Come," she said simply, "you will stay with me while you are in Äußerst."
She didn't wait for agreement.
She simply turned and ascended the stairs again, red cape sweeping behind her like spilled wine.
Percia watched her go for a moment.
Then she sighed—soft, resigned—and started after her oldest friend.
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The grand doors of the Continental Magic Association swung shut behind Percia and Serie with a soft, resonant thud that echoed through the marble halls like the closing note of an ancient spell. The sound lingered a moment longer than it should have, as though the building itself recognized the weight of two such old presences passing through.
Outside on the wide steps, Frieren stood motionless, green eyes fixed on the sealed doors. Fern and Stark flanked her, both still processing the casual way Percia had simply walked away with the most feared mage alive.
Frieren spoke first, voice quiet and certain.
"She'll leave with us after the exam."
Stark blinked, shifting his axe on his shoulder.
"Uh… technically she said we'd separate after reaching Äußerst. Like, word for word. I remember because I was trying really hard not to die of awkwardness at the time."
Frieren didn't even glance at him. She kept watching the doors, expression placid.
Fern didn't hesitate. Her boot connected solidly with Stark's shin—sharp, controlled, just enough force to make his knee buckle without breaking anything.
"Ow—Fern!"
"Shut up," she muttered, cheeks faintly pink. "Read the room."
Stark rubbed his leg, muttering something about "violent purple-haired witches," but he didn't argue further.
Frieren finally turned away from the doors.
"Come," she said to Fern. "We still need to register for the exam."
Fern nodded once, violet eyes still flicking toward the closed entrance for a heartbeat longer before she fell into step beside her master. Stark limped after them, grumbling, but obedient.
The three disappeared down one of the side corridors toward the examination wing, leaving the plaza empty except for drifting motes of light and the faint chime of distant wards.
Inside, Serie led Percia through corridors lined with floating grimoires and crystalline orbs that pulsed in slow, hypnotic rhythm. The architecture had shifted again since Percia's last visit—vaulted ceilings higher now, walls veined with living silver filigree that hadn't been there a century ago, new alcoves displaying artifacts whose origins even most first-class mages could only guess at.
Percia's gaze swept the changes without surprise.
"It's different again," she observed in their native tongue—an ancient dialect of elven so old that even the oldest living grimoires only preserved fragments of it. The syllables were soft, liquid, carrying tones no modern elven ear could fully parse. To anyone overhearing, it sounded like wind moving through forgotten leaves.
Serie shrugged one slender shoulder, golden hair shifting like liquid sunlight.
"My apprentices," she replied in the same tongue, tone dry. "They get restless. Rearrange things. Think it makes them look clever. I let them. It keeps them occupied."
They walked side by side, strides matched perfectly despite the centuries between them. Mages—apprentices, researchers, even a few first-class—paused in doorways and alcoves to stare. Whispers started immediately, soft and rapid, spreading like mana through ley lines.
"Is that really—?"
"With Serie-sama herself—"
"Who is she? I've never seen—"
Serie's golden eyes flicked sideways. The stare was brief, cold, absolute. The temperature in the corridor dropped several degrees. Whispers died instantly. Mages scattered like startled birds, heads bowed, retreating into side rooms or suddenly finding urgent work elsewhere.
Percia rolled her eyes.
"Still terrifying them on sight," she murmured, lips curving just enough to show teeth. "You haven't mellowed at all."
Serie's expression didn't change, but the faintest spark of amusement flickered in those golden depths.
"They need occasional reminders," she said. "Keeps the hierarchy clear."
Percia huffed—a sound that might have been laughter in someone less restrained.
"You enjoy it."
"I tolerate it."
They turned a final corner into a quieter wing. The corridor here was narrower, walls unadorned except for faint, pulsing runes that recognized Serie's presence and dimmed respectfully. No apprentices dared follow this far.
Serie pushed open a set of double doors carved from pale, living wood. Beyond lay her private chambers: a circular room with a domed ceiling open to an artificial night sky where constellations slowly wheeled in patterns no mortal astronomer had ever charted. Shelves curved along the walls, filled with tomes that hummed faintly when looked at too long. A low table of black stone sat in the center, already set with two crystal goblets and a decanter of something that shimmered like captured moonlight.
Serie gestured idly. The doors closed behind them, sealing with a soft click of ancient wards.
She crossed to the table, poured two measures of the luminous liquid, and offered one goblet to Percia without ceremony.
Percia accepted it, fingers brushing Serie's for the barest instant—old habit, older than most civilizations.
Serie lifted her own goblet slightly.
"To another century survived," she said.
Percia mirrored the gesture.
"And another birthday tolerated."
They drank in silence. The liquid tasted of winter stars and memory—sharp, cold, achingly familiar.
Serie set her goblet down first.
"You brought Frieren," she observed. Not a question.
Percia leaned one hip against the table edge, midnight-blue eyes distant.
"She found me. In a dungeon. With her students."
Serie's brow lifted a fraction—the closest she ever came to surprise.
"And you stayed."
"For now."
Serie studied her oldest friend for a long moment.
"You're softer than you used to be."
Percia snorted softly.
"Don't start."
"I'm not starting. I'm observing." Serie's voice remained flat, but there was something almost gentle beneath it. "You let them follow. You paid for their dinner. You're walking corridors with me instead of vanishing into the mountains the moment you arrived."
Percia looked away, toward the wheeling false stars overhead.
"They're… persistent."
Serie hummed.
"Like someone else we both know."