Fern ate slowly, spoon moving in measured, almost mechanical dips into her stew. Each bite seemed to take longer than the last, as though the food itself had grown heavier with every word Percia had spoken. Her violet eyes were distant, fixed on some invisible point beyond the table's edge, turning over the revelation like a puzzle piece that refused to fit.
A forgotten era. Thousands upon thousands of years scrubbed from every chronicle, every grimoire, every oral tradition passed down through elven lines. And Percia had been there as a witness. Watching the Goddess of all beings. The one whose name mortals whispered in prayer and elves rarely spoke aloud at all.
Fern's spoon paused halfway to her mouth.
Then, voice small but clear in the sudden hush around their table:
"…Then how old is Serie?"
Percia paused mid-chew. She set her fork down with deliberate care, midnight-blue eyes flicking toward Fern—not surprised, merely considering.
She tilted her head slightly, doing the mental arithmetic of epochs the way a human might count change.
"Serie is a bit younger," Percia said after a moment. "By five hundred so years. She was born after everything. She saw only the aftermath."
Fern can just tell that she won't be able to digest properly tonight, "What do you mean by everything?"
Percia dips her spoon into the soup, "The gaps. The in between of everything else. Mortals built their knowledge on fragments of what was left behind. Elves hoard what little remains."
Stark leaned forward, elbows on the table, completely invested now.
"So… what happened? Like, why'd the era get forgotten on purpose? Was it the Goddess's idea? Or did something go wrong?"
Percia picked up her fork again, spearing another piece of meat with casual precision.
"Both," she said. "It tore open doorways to places that should have stayed closed. Things came through. Some were sealed. Some… weren't. The survivors—those of us who remained—agreed it was kinder not to remember. Mortals would have tried to reopen the doors out of curiosity. Elves would have tried out of pride. Demons out of their need to devour. So we let the records burn, let the songs fade, let time do the rest."
She took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
"Some doors still creak, though. If you listen closely."
Fern set her spoon down entirely now, the stew forgotten. Her violet eyes were sharp, focused—not the wide-eyed awe from earlier, but something deeper, more insistent. Like she'd caught the scent of a spell she didn't yet understand and refused to let it slip away.
"Percia," she said quietly, "if the Forgotten Era was sealed away on purpose… who exactly was it that sealed it? And what exactly came through that wasn't sealed? The things that still make the doors creak—do they still exist? Are they watching?"
The fire popped in the hearth. Plates clinked as the barmaid cleared an empty tray.
Percia met Fern's gaze without flinching. She opened her mouth to answer.
The words formed.
But the moment they left her lips, the air around the table seemed to… bend. Not visibly—no ripple in the candle flames, no shift in the shadows—but audibly. The syllables twisted, stretched, folded in on themselves like paper caught in wind. What emerged was not speech at all: a low, staticky hum, layered with distant echoes that sounded almost like voices speaking backward, then forward, then nothing. It lasted perhaps two heartbeats.
Then silence.
Fern blinked rapidly. Stark's brow furrowed; he leaned forward as though straining to catch a missed word. Even Frieren tilted her head, green eyes narrowing in faint confusion.
Percia blinked once. Twice.
"The world can be meddlesome," she leaned back, thoughtful. "Some truths are not permitted to be spoken aloud. Not even by someone who was there."
"It's been eons though, since it has interfered like this."
She reached for her cup of water, took a measured sip, then set it down.
The moment passed. The inn's normal sounds—clinking mugs, low laughter from the bar, the pop of logs in the fire—rushed back in as though nothing had happened.
Fern opened her mouth again, clearly intending to press further.
Percia spoke first, cutting the attempt off with gentle finality.
"Enough about me." Her tone was calm, almost warm in its detachment. "My life is not that interesting. Centuries blur together after a while—mostly dust, old stone, and spells no one remembers how to cast anymore."
Stark exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair.
"This is officially the weirdest dinner I've ever had."
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Morning came quickly.
They ate breakfast in relative peace after that. The only sounds were the clink of cutlery, the low murmur of other patrons, and the occasional chatter from Stark.
"We leave for the City of Magic today," she said. "Serie's birthday is in three days. I'd prefer not to arrive late for a century-long reunion."
Fern looked up curiously, "You don't visit her every year? Why not?"
Percia blinked slowly, as though the question required translating from one timescale to another.
"To put it in human terms," she said evenly, "a year to an elf is roughly equivalent to two weeks. Sometimes less, depending on how busy we are. Visiting every year would be like a human dropping by a friend's house every other day for tea. Excessive. Tedious. Eventually, they start hiding when they see you coming."
Stark snorted into his tea, then winced when the hot liquid burned his tongue. Fern's lips twitched despite herself.
Frieren looks up from her breakfast, "You've never missed one." It's not a questions.
Percia met her gaze across the table.
"No," she admitted quietly. "I haven't."
Stark cleared his throat, pushing his empty plate away.
"Right. So. City of Magic. Big fancy place full of mages who probably look down on axe guys. Got it. When do we leave?"
Percia stood, already reaching for her cloak draped over the chair back.
"Now," she said. "The road's clear this time of morning. Fewer merchants to dodge."
Fern rose next, brushing crumbs from her skirt. Stark followed stretching his stiff muscle from the night before.
Frieren was last. She stood slowly, smoothing her robes with careful hands, then glanced at Percia.
Percia held her gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. She wonders why.
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The road north wound through rolling hills dappled with early autumn gold, the air crisp enough to carry the faint scent of woodsmoke from distant farmsteads. They walked in loose formation—Percia a few paces ahead, Frieren drifting beside her in that effortless, unhurried way, Fern and Stark bringing up the rear.
Stark had his axe out.
Not drawn for combat. Just swinging it in lazy, controlled arcs as he walked—over one shoulder, down in a smooth crescent, up the other side, then repeat. The blade caught the sunlight in lazy flashes, muscles flexing under his tunic with each motion. It was training disguised as idleness, the kind of habit that never quite left a warrior's body.
Fern watched him for three full swings before her patience snapped.
"That's excessive," she said flatly. "You're going to tire yourself out before noon."
Stark shrugged without breaking rhythm. "I'm bored. Also stiff from the dungeon."
Fern rolled her eyes. "Your hands aren't idle. They're showing off."
He grinned, wide and boyish. "Maybe a little. But hey—I can tell who's a real warrior just by watching how they walk. Gait tells you everything. Balance, weight distribution, how they carry tension. Like you, Fern." He glanced sideways at her. "You walk like someone who's never had to run for her life without a spell ready. Pretty low physical capabilities, honestly. All brain, no brawn."
Fern's violet eyes narrowed to slits.
Frieren hummed, "you're playing with fire, Stark."
Stark laughed—bright, reckless—and took off at a jog, axe still swinging loosely at his side.
Fern chased him.
Not a full sprint—more a determined power-walk with murder in her step—but fast enough that Stark had to lengthen his stride to stay ahead. He dodged between trees, laughing the whole time, while Fern hissed threats about "next time I'll aim lower with Zoltraak."
Percia didn't slow. She kept walking, midnight-blue eyes fixed on the horizon.
Stark glanced back over his shoulder, still grinning, then looked at Percia properly—really looked at the way she moved.
Tall. Silent. Each step placed with deliberate economy: heel to toe, weight centered, shoulders relaxed but ready to shift in an instant. No wasted motion. No sway. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had once fought with blades long before spells became easier.
He slowed to match her pace, axe finally resting on his shoulder.
"You walk like a warrior too," he said, almost thoughtful. "Not just a mage. Sword work, right? Or something sharper."
Percia blinked once—slow, surprised.
Then the faintest curve touched her lips.
"More skilled than I thought," she murmured. "You notice things most people miss."
Stark blinked. His grin faltered into uncertainty. "Wait… is that a compliment? Or are you roasting me?"
Percia didn't answer. Instead she lifted her right hand.
Mana gathered in a soft, pale shimmer—cool silver-blue, like moonlight trapped in frost. From the empty air beside her, a staff materialized: tall, slender, dark wood veined with faint iridescent lines that pulsed gently. It hummed the moment it fully formed, a low, resonant vibration that Fern couldn't quite describe. Not sound, exactly. More like a pressure against the skin, deep and ancient, as though the air itself remembered battles fought under forgotten skies.
Fern stopped chasing Stark. Her eyes widened.
"That… mana signature. It's like nothing I've ever felt."
Percia regarded the staff with mild detachment.
"I don't use it much these days," she said. "Other than to do this."
She closed her fingers around the shaft.
A pulse of mana rippled outward—silent, controlled.
The staff shimmered, then collapsed inward on itself in elegant folds of light and wood. When the glow faded, what remained in her hand was no longer a staff at all.
A rapier. Slender, perfectly balanced, blade of dark steel that drank the light rather than reflected it. The hilt was simple—black wrappings over bone-white guard—but the weapon thrummed with the same deep hum, as though it remembered every thrust, every parry, every life it had ended across fourteen thousand years.
Percia turned it once in her grip—casual, practiced—then let the point rest lightly against the ground.
Percia met Stark's gaze again.
"Keep noticing things," she said simply. "It'll keep you alive longer than brute strength ever will."
Stark swallowed. Then managed a crooked grin.
"Got it. Noted. And… thanks? I think?"
Percia didn't reply. She flicked her wrist once more.
The rapier dissolved back into motes of light, reforming seamlessly into the staff. She let it vanish entirely with another small gesture.
Then she resumed walking.
The group fell in behind her—Stark quieter now, axe still on his shoulder but no longer swinging; Fern rubbing her arms as though shaking off the echo of that hum; Frieren drifting close enough that her sleeve brushed Percia's every few steps.