The chamber was dim, lit only by the slow-turning constellations overhead and the low, amber glow from the hearth. The artificial night sky had shifted again—now deep indigo bleeding into violet at the edges, stars drifting in lazy, hypnotic spirals. The air smelled of starlit liquor, smoke, sweat, and the sharp ozone bite of two elves who had long since stopped pretending they could be gentle with each other.
Serie was on top.
She straddled Percia's hips with deliberate weight, knees bracketing her waist, small hands planted on either side of Percia's head. Golden hair spilled forward like molten sunlight, curtaining them both as Serie rocked slowly—agonizingly slowly—grinding down with precise, rolling pressure that made Percia's breath hitch every third pass.
Percia lay beneath her, dark robes pushed open and rucked up around her waist, onyx hair fanned across the thick animal hide like spilled ink. Her midnight-blue eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, but they weren't focused on the golden gaze above her.
They were distant.
Serie felt it immediately.
Percia's body responded beautifully—muscles trembling, hips lifting instinctively to chase the friction, inner walls fluttering around the two fingers Serie had buried deep inside her—but her mind wasn't there.
It was elsewhere.
White hair catching moonlight.
Emerald eyes steady and patient.
The ghost of soft lips brushing knuckles—lingering, reverent, promising nothing and everything at once.
Serie's rhythm faltered for half a heartbeat.
She withdrew her fingers slowly—slick, glistening—watching Percia's body clench around nothing, a soft, involuntary whine escaping the taller elf's throat.
Percia's back arched off the hide at the loss, head tipping back, throat exposed. Without thinking, she lifted her own hand—the one Frieren had kissed—and brought her knuckles to her lips. She pressed them there, eyes fluttering shut, tasting the faint memory of warmth that still clung to her skin.
A low, broken groan slipped out as her hips rolled upward again—searching, needy.
Serie stared.
Then she moved.
She crawled up Percia's body in one fluid motion, straddling her chest now, thighs framing her ribs. Wetness still shone around her mouth from earlier—when she'd had Percia's clit between her lips, sucking until the taller elf had sobbed—but she didn't wipe it away.
Instead she leaned down, golden eyes blazing.
"At least pretend you're here with me," she hissed, voice rough with something dangerously close to hurt.
Before Percia could answer, Serie shoved those same two fingers—still slick with Percia's arousal—past her lips.
Percia's eyes snapped open.
She sucked instinctively—tongue curling around the digits, tasting herself, tasting Serie. A muffled sound vibrated around them.
Serie's other hand fisted in onyx hair, yanking Percia's head back against the hide.
"Look at me," she ordered, low and sharp.
Percia did.
Midnight met gold—dazed, guilty, wanting.
Serie fucked her mouth with those fingers—slow at first, then harder—until drool slicked Percia's chin and her throat worked around the intrusion. All the while, Serie ground down against Percia's stomach, chasing her own friction, thighs trembling.
"You think about her while I'm inside you?" Serie's voice cracked—just once—offense and hunger tangled together. "While I make you come so hard you forget your own name?"
Percia couldn't answer. Not with fingers in her mouth. Not with Serie's weight pinning her, not with the way her own hips jerked helplessly every time Serie rolled against her.
Serie withdrew her fingers with a wet pop.
She didn't give Percia time to breathe.
She slid back down, shoved Percia's thighs wider with her knees, and buried three fingers deep in one brutal thrust.
Percia's back bowed violently—mouth opening on a silent scream.
Serie didn't let up.
She fucked her hard—fast, punishing—curling on every inward stroke to hit that spot that made Percia's vision white out. Her thumb ground merciless circles over Percia's swollen clit, relentless, unforgiving.
"Come," Serie snarled. "Come for me. Not her. Me."
Percia shattered.
Her whole body seized—walls clamping down, thighs locking around Serie's wrist, a raw, guttural groan tearing from her throat. Wet heat gushed over Serie's hand, soaking the hide beneath them.
Serie didn't stop.
She kept the same brutal pace—driving Percia straight through the aftershocks into overstimulation. Percia's hands scrabbled at Serie's shoulders, nails digging crescents through fabric, half-pushing, half-pulling.
"Too much—Serie—fuck—"
Serie leaned down, mouth crashing against Percia's in a messy, claiming kiss—teeth clacking, tongues sliding, tasting salt and desperation.
She swallowed every broken sound Percia made.
When Percia came a second time—harder, sharper, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes—Serie finally slowed.
She withdrew her fingers inch by torturous inch, letting Percia feel every drag, every ridge.
Then she crawled back up.
Straddled Percia's face.
"Again," she rasped, voice wrecked. "Make me come. Make me forget you were thinking about someone else."
Percia didn't hesitate.
She gripped Serie's thighs, pulled her down, and buried her tongue deep—lapping, sucking, devouring like she could erase her own distraction with sheer force of will.
Serie's head snapped back.
She rode Percia's face with ruthless rhythm—hips grinding, clit dragging against tongue and lips and teeth—until her own orgasm hit like a shockwave. She screamed—actual scream—back bowing, ears pinned flat, thighs clamping around Percia's head so hard it hurt.
She came hard. Twice more in quick succession—Percia relentless beneath her, tongue never stopping, fingers digging into hips hard enough to bruise.
When Serie finally collapsed forward—forehead pressed to the cool stone wall, chest heaving, body quaking—Percia gentled her touch. Soft licks. Soothing strokes along trembling thighs.
Serie stayed there a long moment—panting, spent, golden hair plastered to her sweat-slick back.
Then she slid down.
Collapsed half on top of Percia—chest to chest, legs tangled, faces inches apart.
She reached up.
Brushed a tear from Percia's cheek with her thumb.
"You're still thinking about her," she whispered. Just… tired. "I can feel it."
Percia closed her eyes.
The knuckles of her right hand still tingled.
She brought them to her lips again—slow, deliberate.
Serie watched.
Then she leaned in and kissed the same spot—soft, almost reverent—covering Percia's lips with her own over the place Frieren had touched.
"Stay here," Serie murmured against skin. "Just for tonight."
Percia exhaled—shaky, raw.
She wrapped both arms around Serie's smaller frame.
Pulled her close.
"I'm here," she whispered.
It wasn't entirely true.
But it was true enough for now.
─────────────────────────────────────────────────
Percia woke to the soft rustle of turning pages and the faint scratch of a quill across parchment.
The chamber was bathed in pale morning light—lazy sunlight slanting through high arched windows, catching motes of dust in slow golden spirals. The artificial constellations had faded entirely, leaving only the real sky above the domed ceiling, a soft blue streaked with thin clouds.
Serie was already up.
She sat at the low black stone table in the center of the room, back straight, golden hair spilling over her shoulders like liquid sunlight. Piles of grimoires and paperwork surrounded her in neat, towering stacks—recommendation scrolls, candidate dossiers, sealed missives from distant mage associations, even a few ancient tomes bound in dragonhide that looked like they hadn't been opened in centuries. A single quill hovered beside her, dipping itself into an inkwell without being touched, scribbling notes in her precise, angular script.
She hadn't looked up once since Percia stirred.
Percia tilted her head against the pillow, onyx hair fanning across the hide. She watched Serie for a long moment—the way the light gilded the tips of her pointed ears, the way her burgundy cloak draped loosely over the back of her chair like spilled wine, the way her golden eyes remained fixed on the page, giving nothing away.
"You usually push back your work when I'm here," Percia said quietly. Voice still rough from sleep and the night before.
No response.
Serie turned another page. The quill continued its mechanical dance.
Percia exhaled—slow, resigned—and tried to sit up.
Her core clenched in immediate, deep protest. A dull, throbbing ache radiated outward from her pelvis, down her thighs, settling into her muscles like lead. She shifted her weight to one elbow; her legs trembled violently beneath the thin sheet, refusing to bear her. She collapsed back onto the hide with a soft grunt, breath catching.
She looked at Serie again.
The sunlight painted her in soft, warm strokes—highlighting the sharp line of her cheekbone, the faint freckles scattered across her nose like forgotten stars, the way her lashes cast long shadows when she blinked. But those golden eyes stayed locked on the grimoire. Unreadable. Distant.
Serie finally set the quill down.
She rose without hurry. The burgundy cloak fluttered around her ankles as she crossed the room—silent footsteps, deliberate grace. When she reached the bed she stopped, looking down at Percia with an expression Percia couldn't quite place: not anger, not hurt, not even the usual teasing possession. Something quieter. Something older.
"Get dressed," Serie said. Voice flat. Calm.
Before Percia could respond, Serie lifted one hand.
A soft wave of mana washed over her—cool, clinical, precise.
The deep ache in her core vanished instantly. The trembling in her thighs steadied. The soreness between her legs smoothed away like it had never existed. Even the lingering stickiness of dried arousal on her skin and inner thighs disappeared, leaving her clean, refreshed, almost too pristine.
Percia blinked.
She flexed her fingers experimentally, then her legs. No protest. No echo of the night before.
"I liked that feeling," she murmured—half complaint, half confession.
Serie didn't answer.
She lifted her hand again and rested it on Percia's cheek.
Another spell—subtler this time. A faint shimmer passed over Percia's mouth, her tongue, the back of her throat. The residual taste of Serie—salt and sweetness and starlight liquor—vanished completely. Gone. As though the hours they'd spent tangled together had been erased from her senses.
Percia looked up.
Serie met her gaze.
For a heartbeat, something flickered in those golden depths—something raw, unguarded, almost fragile—before it shuttered again behind the familiar mask of composure.
Serie's fingers slid into Percia's onyx hair—gentle, careful—combing through the tangled strands with slow, deliberate strokes. She tucked a lock behind Percia's ear, thumb brushing the sensitive shell once.
Then she leaned in.
Her lips pressed to the very edge of Percia's mouth—not quite a kiss, more a resting place. Warm. Lingering. A quiet claim and a quiet surrender all at once.
"Get ready," Serie murmured against her skin. "The final section starts soon. I'll be judging the candidates myself."
She straightened, fingers trailing one last time through Percia's hair before falling away.
"It'll be holding it in a garden," she added. "I think you'll enjoy it."
Percia searched her face.
Serie's expression had smoothed back into perfect neutrality—calm, unreadable, ancient.
But the gentleness of her touch still lingered on Percia's scalp like a brand.
Percia nodded once—slow, quiet.
Serie turned away.
The burgundy cloak fluttered again as she returned to the table, picking up the quill as though nothing had happened.
Percia watched her for another long moment.
Then she pushed the sheet aside and rose—legs steady now, body light, mind heavy.
She dressed in silence.
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Tucked within the eastern wing of the Continental Magic Association lay a garden that felt like a quiet miracle. It was a space of silver fountains and vine-draped trellises that pulsed with a faint, spectral light, all connected by paths of crushed white quartz. Pale marble benches followed the curve of flowerbeds overflowing with starlilies and frostroses and more—species long lost to the outside world. Within the sanctuary of Serie's personal wards, these blooms thrived, a swirling kaleidoscope of vibrant, protected life.
Serie crouched on the ground next to swaying lavender, observing it with detachment. She judged with the same calm finality she applied to everything else in her long life: intuition first, logic second, mercy a distant third.
A young girl with bright orange hair stood before her now. Serie didn't even glance up. When the girl called out to her, Serie tilted her head once.
"You have failed the test," she said simply.
She failed three more in quick succession. Each rejection was delivered in the same flat, uninflected tone. No explanations. No consolation. Just the truth as Serie saw it.
Percia had wandered away early on.
She knelt now beside one of the frostrose beds, robes pooling around her like spilled ink. Her fingers drifted through the pale petals—soft, deliberate, almost reverent. The flowers shivered at her touch, releasing a faint, cool fragrance that smelled of winter dawns and forgotten forests.
Serie had never cared much for flowers.
Not in the eight thousand years Percia had known her.
This garden—and many others before it—was a recent development. Perhaps a millennium old. Perhaps less. Percia couldn't quite place when the change had happened, only that one visit the stone paths had been bare and functional, and the next they had bloomed.
She remembered a flash then: orange-red hair catching sunlight through leaves, forest-green eyes looking up at her with unguarded laughter, small hands offering a crushed handful of wildflowers like they were treasure.
The memory slipped away as quickly as it came.
She wondered who that was.
Footsteps approached—light, purposeful.
Percia looked up.
Fern stood there, purple hair catching the dappled light, violet eyes brightening the moment they landed on Percia. She approached without hesitation, completely ignoring the small, terrifying figure watching her every move.
"Percia," Fern said, voice warm with familiar concern. "Have you been looking after yourself? You never came to see us. Stark was pacing holes in the floorboards worrying."
Percia straightened slightly, brushing a stray lock of onyx hair behind her ear.
The motion shifted the high collar of her robe.
Bruises bloomed across the pale column of her throat—dark purple-red, unmistakable hickeys ringing the base of her neck and climbing toward her jaw. Fresh enough that the edges still held a faint flush.
Fern froze.
Her cheeks ignited scarlet.
She stammered—once, twice—then whipped her head toward the other elf.
Serie sat motionless, one leg crossed over the other, golden eyes half-lidded in mild amusement. A single mark peeked from beneath the fall of her golden hair: a bite at the juncture of neck and shoulder, deep and possessive, half-hidden by the collar of her white top.
Serie's lips curved—just the smallest, sharpest smile.
Fern gasped.
She spun back to Percia, violet eyes widening, then narrowing, color climbing higher until her whole face burned.
"You—both of you—what about Frieren—"
Percia blinked slowly.
"Frieren already knows," she said.
Fern looked one heartbeat away from spontaneous combustion.
Before she could erupt, Serie's voice cut through the air—soft, dangerous.
"Are you not here for the interview, child?"
Fern's head snapped toward her.
"I'm not interested in the position anymore," she snapped. The words came out sharper than she'd ever spoken before—out of character, raw. She opened her mouth to stay more but faltered, settling on glaring instead.
Serie raised one elegant eyebrow.
Fern's gaze flickered—instinctively—to the immense well of mana that surrounded Serie like an invisible ocean. Her brows furrowed slightly. She focused, violet eyes narrowing, before looking away.
Serie leaned forward, suddenly intrigued.
"What do you see?" she asked, voice low and curious.
Fern hesitated.
Then, quietly:
"It's fluctuating."
The garden went very still.
Percia looked up sharply.
Serie stared at Fern for a long moment—golden eyes bright, assessing.
Then she smiled. Not the sharp, dangerous one from before. Something rarer. Something almost approving.
"Be my apprentice," Serie said.
Fern blinked.
Then shook her head—once, decisively.
"No."
Serie tilted her head.
"No?"
"Frieren-sama is already my master," she said. "Besides…"
She paused—long enough that the silence pressed against the vines overhead, a breeze running through the garden as though it was listening.
Fern's violet eyes flicked first to Percia—still kneeling among the frostroses, fingers buried in pale petals—then to Serie by the water. The glance wasn't angry anymore. It was colder. Disappointed in a way that cut deeper than any shout.
She huffed and turned to leave.
Fern had taken three steps down the quartz path—back rigid—when Serie's voice cut through the garden like a silver bell struck once.
"You pass, by the way."
The words were quiet. Calm. Almost casual.
Fern stopped.
Her shoulders tensed. She didn't turn immediately.
Fern finally turned—slowly.
Violet eyes met gold.
Serie hadn't moved. She sat with the same unruffled poise, one leg crossed over the other. Her expression remained serene, but there was something new in those ancient golden depths: not amusement, not challenge. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the faintest trace of respect.
"This portion," Serie continued, voice carrying effortlessly across the garden without rising, "is not about whether you want the position. It is about whether you are capable of holding it. And you are."
She tilted her head slightly.
"The first-class mage title is yours. No further questions. No further demonstrations. You may collect the certification from Sense before the sun sets."
Fern stared.
"The title is yours," Serie said. "Use it. Don't use it. Burn the certificate if it pleases you. But it is yours."
Fern didn't respond immediately.
She looked at Percia again—longer this time. The disappointment in her violet eyes hadn't faded, but it had softened at the edges. Something closer to sorrow.
"Frieren-sama deserves better," she said quietly. The words weren't aimed at anyone in particular. They simply hung in the air between them.