Chapter Text
The Journey Begins
The morning they left the capital was gray, with thick clouds hanging low over the rooftops and a damp chill threading through the air. There wasn't much fanfare. No parades. No crowds. Just a few early risers sweeping porches or opening their shops, barely glancing up as Frieren and Tsumi made their way to the city gates. Tsumi had a small pack on his back, Himmel's old traveling cloak draped over his shoulders, a bit too big, still smelling faintly like old woodsmoke and sweets. He liked that. It made the ache in his chest feel a little less hollow.
Right outside the gate, Frieren stopped walking. Without saying anything, she rummaged through her satchel and pulled out a staff. It was worn and elegant, carved from pale wood that shimmered faintly in the light, with faint etchings along the sides that almost looked like runes. It had no flashy ornament, no gems or dangling charms—just a simple beauty to it, old but proud.
She held it out toward him.
He blinked. "Huh?"
"This was Flamme's," she said, eyes fixed on the horizon. "My master."
Tsumi stared at it for a second, unsure if she was serious. "Wait. That Flamme? The legendary mage? Like, your actual teacher?"
"Yes."
"And you're just… giving it to me?"
"You'll need it."
He didn't move. "But I don't know any magic."
"You will," she said, that same look crossing her face—the smug, unreadable expression that always made him feel like he was about to be blindsided by something enormous.
He stared at the staff a little longer, then slowly reached out and took it. It felt warm in his hands. Not like sunlight, but like old embers—something that had burned bright long ago and still remembered how.
"Don't break it," she added, deadpan. "It's older than most cities."
He snorted. "No pressure."
And so, just like that, the thousand-year-old elf and her 45-year-old son, who still looked like a kid barely past his first decade, stepped out into the world. The road stretched out before them like a winding ribbon of mystery, and behind them, the capital faded into the morning mist.
They didn't talk much at first. Frieren wasn't big on conversation unless it had purpose, and Tsumi was used to that by now. Instead, he watched the world change around them. The buildings grew fewer, then the trees more numerous. Villages came and went. Meadows and fields rippled under soft breezes. Animals scurried across paths. Time stretched.
He tried twirling the staff once. It clonked against his knee and nearly took his eye out.
"Don't be stupid," Frieren muttered without even looking.
"You didn't even turn around!"
"I didn't have to."
Days passed like that. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was just... there. Companionable. Occasionally, they'd stop by ruins or forgotten shrines. Frieren would chant something low under her breath, her fingers moving in precise shapes. Tsumi would try to follow, but nothing happened. Not yet. She didn't seem disappointed. If anything, she looked mildly entertained every time he failed.
"You've got talent," she'd say blankly.
"I just blew dirt in my face."
"It's a start."
One afternoon, as they camped beneath a sloping cliff with jagged stones jutting out like broken teeth, Tsumi finally asked, "What was Flamme like?"
Frieren didn't answer right away. She poked the fire with a stick, watching the embers jump.
"She was scary," she said eventually. "Impossibly talented. And annoying."
Tsumi raised a brow. "Sounds familiar."
"I wasn't talking about me."
He smirked, rolling over onto his side. "You miss her?"
"Sometimes."
He let the silence settle again, the crackling fire the only sound. "Do you think I'll be as strong as her someday?"
"You have potential."
"That doesn't answer anything."
"You'll see."
He groaned into his bedroll. "You're worse than the priest. At least Heiter told stories."
"You want stories?" she asked, glancing over.
He peeked out from under the edge of the blanket. "Yeah. Why not."
She paused. "Once, Himmel fell into a river trying to impress a group of kids. He claimed he could jump across the whole thing."
Tsumi stared. "What?"
"He missed by several feet. It was in spring, so the current was strong. We spent an hour pulling him out."
"That sounds like him."
"He tried to pretend he meant to do it."
Tsumi burst out laughing, loud and real, the kind that made his stomach tighten and his eyes sting just a little. Frieren smiled, barely—a tiny tug at the edge of her lips, quickly gone.
They kept walking. More days passed. They came across an abandoned village with stone paths overtaken by moss and ivy. Tsumi wandered through it while Frieren inspected some old magical seals near a collapsed shrine. As he walked, the staff in his hand felt less like a prop and more like something that belonged there. With him. Like it had been waiting.
They met travelers too—merchants, monks, adventurers. Some recognized Frieren. Most didn't know Tsumi, but they all reacted the same way once they learned who he was.
"Wait… you're her son?"
"You do look like her."
"Are you human?"
"Are you actually five?"
He learned to nod, smile, and deflect with vague answers. It was easier than explaining his past life, his human heart inside an elf's slow-growing body. But the confusion never quite left him. Sometimes, staring into a pond or a mirror, he still saw Tatsumi. Still heard Akame's voice. Still remembered that cold night when he'd thought it was the end.
He didn't bring it up with Frieren. Not yet. Maybe one day.
That night, while the stars glinted coldly above them and the forest hummed around their camp, he sat with the staff across his lap and asked, "Do you think Himmel's proud of me?"
Frieren didn't look up from the spell she was scribbling into the dirt.
"Yes."
"Even though I haven't done anything?"
"He saw who you could be."
He ran his fingers along the old etchings, tracing the grooves. "I don't know what that is yet."
"You will."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
Tsumi exhaled, his breath forming little clouds in the night air. He didn't feel strong. He didn't feel like a hero or a mage or a warrior. Just a kid still trying to make sense of where one life ended and another began.
But as he stared at the staff, at Frieren's calm face bathed in firelight, and the stars that stretched endlessly overhead, he felt something steady growing in his chest. Not peace, not yet—but maybe... the start of it.
Tomorrow, they'd keep walking. And he'd learn. And fail. And try again.
That was the journey.
Ø~Ø
Together, they wandered across forgotten trails, dug through half-buried ruins swallowed by time, and cleared out old dungeons that smelled like mildew, rot, and ancient failure. Frieren had this habit—an incredibly annoying one—of crawling into tiny treasure chests because "there might be a hidden compartment." There never was. Every single time, she got stuck. And every single time, Tsumi had to grab her ankles and yank her out while she deadpanned instructions like, "A little to the left. No, the other left." He always rolled his eyes but couldn't stop the quiet laughter that bubbled up. Her awkwardness reminded him of Sheele—especially when she clumsily tripped over her own robes or got distracted by a shiny rock. It was the kind of unintentional chaos that made her feel weirdly human despite being over a thousand years old.
But when it came to teaching magic? She was a demon in elf's clothing.
"Again," she'd say, arms crossed, face blank, while Tsumi's hands trembled from channeling too much mana.
"That was my twelfth try—"
"It was wrong. Again."
And he'd do it again. Because with Frieren, there were no shortcuts. No kind reassurances or little ego boosts. Just constant repetition and perfection demanded in every inch of a spell. She didn't even yell. That would've made things easier. Instead, she just stared with those unreadable eyes, like disappointment and apathy were playing poker in her skull.
She started small. Basic conjuring spells—making a small flame or a puff of wind. Then levitation, which he was horrible at. His first attempt flung a tree branch straight into his own face. Then came barriers, which were simple in theory but infuriating in practice. His shields kept forming as thin, paper-like veils that crumpled under pressure. Frieren said nothing, just watched as he kept at it, lips slightly pursed like she was trying not to make a comment.
Eventually, she introduced Zoltraak.
"Isn't that an advanced attack spell?" he asked, wide-eyed.
"You're not bad. You'll manage."
"No I won't."
"You'll try."
He nearly set their tent on fire the first time. The second time, it blew up a boulder. The third, he passed out from mana exhaustion.
Somewhere along the line, though, something changed. His control improved. The flow of mana started to obey him. The conjuring spells stopped flickering. Levitation came easier, smoother. His barriers actually blocked things now, and Zoltraak—well, sometimes it exploded a little too hard, but it worked. And Frieren… she didn't compliment him. Not directly. But he noticed how she stopped hovering. How she stood with her back turned during practice, like she didn't need to watch every move. That was praise, in her own cryptic way.
"Did you ever want me to be a swordsman?" he asked her once, while they rested by a quiet river, the sky smeared with pink and gold from the setting sun.
She sipped her tea and stared across the water. "Himmel thought you'd be a good one. But I knew better."
"Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence."
She shrugged. "You swing swords well. But your magic has potential."
"So I'm your project?"
"You're my proof."
He blinked. "Proof of what?"
"That I'm a better teacher than Himmel."
He snorted. "Are you serious? You're using me to win some ancient bet?"
"Yes."
"Wow. And here I thought I was special."
"You are. Just also useful."
He grumbled, tossing a pebble into the river, but he didn't really mind. It was kind of funny, knowing that even now, centuries later, she was still trying to one-up the man she'd spent half her life pretending not to care about. And if he was the guinea pig caught in the middle? Well, it wasn't the worst thing. He was learning. Growing. Becoming something he never thought he'd be.
He used to believe his path was set in steel and blood. A sword drawn for justice. A blade turned against tyrants. But this new life had given him another kind of weapon—one that glowed and shimmered with potential. Something quiet. Something vast.
Frieren didn't say it often, but when she did, it stuck.
"You're doing well, Tsumi. Keep going."
And that was enough.
Ø~Ø
By the time Tsumi reached the age of sixty, he still looked like a scrawny nine-year-old kid with messy sky-blue hair that always looked like he'd just woken up and forgotten to comb it. His ears were long and pointy like his mother's, and his eyes—those vivid, contemplative green ones—had started to carry a weight that didn't match his childish face. Most villagers they passed assumed he was a human child traveling with his unusually chill and mysterious mother. They had no idea he was older than their mayor, and had enough magical prowess to vaporize a small mountain if he really wanted to.
His mana had been steadily growing, far beyond what Frieren expected. One quiet morning while they were sitting under the shade of a moss-covered tree, watching dew drip off the tips of leaves, Frieren casually mentioned, "Your mana output is roughly five times that of Heiter."
Tsumi nearly choked on his bread. "Are you kidding? Five times? Seriously? I knew I had good control, but that's insane!"
"It's decent," she said, in that nonchalant tone that always made him unsure if she was mocking or praising him.
"Decent? That's godlike compared to most humans."
"Heiter was a good priest. You're an elf. Mana comes easier."
Tsumi leaned back against the tree and smirked, trying to hide how proud he felt. "Give me a decade. I'll surpass you, too."
Frieren didn't even blink. "I've been concealing ninety percent of my mana since you were born."
He froze. His smirk dropped into a slow, confused blink. "…Excuse me?"
She took a calm sip of tea, looking off into the trees like she'd just commented on the weather. "Ninety percent. Maybe ninety-two. Depends."
He stared at her. "Ninety. Percent."
"Yes."
"You've been walking around with less than a tenth of your power this whole time?"
"Mhm."
"That's… That's insane! That's not fair! That's—"
She turned her gaze to him, as blank and dry as ever. "Would you like me to show you?"
Tsumi hesitated. His pride said yes. His stomach said no. His instincts—which had been sharpened in his last life in a world full of cruel tyrants and deadly women—screamed to run. But he was a Tsumi now. A mix of Tatsumi's stubbornness and Frieren's eternal patience. So he squared his tiny shoulders and said, "Go on. Do it. I can handle it."
"Okay."
The moment she dropped her concealment, he regretted everything.
It was like a massive wall of pressure slammed into his chest. A silent hurricane with no wind, no sound, just a terrifying weight that smothered the air and curled around his skin like invisible flames. His breath caught. His knees buckled. The trees around them shivered, birds scattered into the sky, and the nearby grass flattened as if an unseen wave had passed through.
He collapsed. Hard.
The world spun, blurred, and then everything went black.
When he came to, it was three days later. His head was pounding, and his limbs felt like someone had swapped them with lead pipes. He sat up with a groan and saw Frieren calmly reading a book by the fire, looking unbothered.
"You lasted longer than I expected," she said without looking up.
"You expected me to pass out?!"
"Yes."
"You're horrible."
"You asked."
He groaned again and fell back onto the bedroll. "I saw my life flash before my eyes. All of it. Twice."
"You needed the reference. Now you understand why mana concealment is important."
That was the beginning of his second major training arc: concealment. It turned out that magic wasn't just about how much power you had, but how well you could hide it. Frieren explained that experienced mages—and demons—could detect mana presence like bloodhounds. If you went around flaring your magical signature like a lighthouse, you might as well be begging to get ambushed.
"Especially when you're as strong as you are," she'd said one day, while lazily poking a log in the fire with her staff. "You look like a harmless little elf boy. That's an advantage. Don't waste it."
And so he didn't.
Tsumi dedicated weeks—then months—on suppressing his mana to nearly undetectable levels. At first, it was like trying to hold his breath while running uphill. His magic kept leaking out in tiny spurts no matter how much he focused. Frieren made him practice in villages, around old adventurers, around animals. She'd sometimes suddenly release her mana while he was in deep meditation just to throw him off. It worked. He got better. Fast.
The weird part? It came more naturally than he expected. Like muscle memory, except it wasn't from this life. Something inside him just knew how to restrain power. Maybe it was the old assassin instincts from Night Raid. Maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, it helped.
By the end of that year, Frieren nodded once—a barely visible approval—but Tsumi felt it like a medal pinned to his chest.
"You're getting there."
"I've been there," he bragged, stretching his arms. "Even you didn't notice me sneak up behind you this morning."
"I was asleep."
"I call that a win."
"You snore."
"I don't—wait, I do not!"
"You do. Like a tiny walrus."
"You know I'm gonna get back at you for that, right?"
"Try."
And he did try. Every day. Because that was their dynamic. A never-ending tug of pride and patience, teasing and training, sarcasm and subtle affection. And through it all, Tsumi was growing. Slowly, steadily, in ways that mattered.
He didn't just want to become stronger for himself. He wanted to live up to Himmel's expectations. To be the proof Frieren had bet on. To honor the lost memories of Night Raid. And maybe, just maybe, to stand one day as her equal—not just her student or surrogate son, but someone who could walk beside her, spell for spell.
But there was still a long road ahead. And a thousand more weird, hilarious, and slightly painful lessons waiting just around the corner.
Ø~Ø
As promised, they set off to visit Heiter's grave. It had been years since they'd seen the old priest, and Frieren had insisted on bringing along a few bottles of strong liquor—"For pouring, not drinking," she'd said with that perfectly unreadable tone. Tsumi didn't argue. It was Heiter, after all. That man had once drunk three entire barrels of celebratory wine after Himmel's statue had been unveiled, then passed out while sermonizing to a flock of sheep. They figured he'd want his grave properly honored—with booze, sarcasm, and a bit of dry elf commentary.
The three of them—Frieren, Tsumi, and their tired old mule—arrived at the little village cemetery just past sundown. The grass was overgrown, fireflies floating lazily through the air like sleepy spirits. But when they checked the old place, Heiter's grave wasn't there.
There was no tombstone. No fresh flowers. No empty bottles.
Just grass and stone. And silence.
Tsumi scratched his head, confused. "Did they… bury him without a marker?"
"Maybe it faded," Frieren said, narrowing her eyes. "Or maybe they moved it?"
That's when they heard a voice behind them.
"Um… what are you doing?"
Both of them turned.
There stood a girl. Around Tsumi's height, with neat purple hair pulled back in a loose braid, a simple robe, and a wooden mage staff that looked like it had seen more than a few years of travel. Her expression wasn't hostile—just curious. A little cautious.
"We're looking for my friend's grave," Frieren replied plainly. "Heiter."
The girl tilted her head. "Why?"
"To drench it in alcohol."
The girl blinked. "Heiter-sama… isn't dead."
Tsumi stared. "Wait—what?"
"He's alive," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
It took a full second for the news to land in Tsumi's brain. Then his ears twitched. His face lit up like a festival lantern. "He's alive?! Are you serious?!"
The girl nodded, a bit startled by his sudden cheer.
"Where is he?" Frieren asked.
"His house. This way."
She led them through a quiet trail into the woods, where the path curved between mossy trees and a brook whispered alongside. Eventually, the little forest cleared, revealing a humble wooden cottage with smoke trailing from the chimney. Vines clung to the sides like nature trying to give it a hug, and a row of herbs hung by the window.
The door opened before they could knock.
And there he was.
Older. Wrinkled beyond belief. His beard was like a tangled curtain of gray, and his eyes had gone more watery than Tsumi remembered. But he stood tall—well, as tall as an old man could. And most shockingly of all… he didn't smell like alcohol.
Heiter blinked once. Then smiled.
"…Frieren? Tsumi?"
Tsumi could barely believe it. "You're alive."
"You're taller," Heiter replied with a chuckle. "Two inches, I'd say."
They stepped inside. The house was warm, cozy, smelling of herbs and dried flowers. The girl made tea while Heiter pulled out a chair and insisted Frieren sit. She didn't refuse.
"It's been twenty years," Heiter said, his voice more gravel than it used to be, but still unmistakably his.
"You were supposed to be dead," Tsumi said, his tone torn between scolding and relief.
"I was close. Liver failed on me, remember?" Heiter gestured to his belly. "Then she showed up."
The girl—now pouring tea—glanced over shyly.
"Name's Fern," Heiter continued. "Found her in a burned-out village. She had nothing. Took her in. She's got a knack for magic."
Frieren eyed the girl for a moment. "You're teaching her?"
Heiter grinned. "Tried. But I think she learns more from my snoring than my sermons."
Fern blushed and quietly handed Frieren her cup.
Tsumi looked between them, the warm light of the cottage flickering in his eyes. He could see it—how peaceful this place was. How full of life. And it made him happy. Even if it also made him realize how long twenty years really was.
He hadn't even noticed the weight in his chest until it started to lift.
Ø~Ø
Fern looked at him like he was just another kid. Her eyes were curious, maybe a little guarded, but definitely not suspicious of the fact that the so-called "kid" in front of her had already lived nearly five decades. Tsumi knew it the moment their eyes met—if he opened his mouth and told her the truth, it'd crush whatever innocence was left in the way she smiled. He could already imagine it: the awkward stare, the silence, the "…wait, you're how old?" Followed by the inevitable, "…that's creepy."
So he didn't say it.
Instead, he gave her a lopsided grin and asked, "Hey, uh… do you wanna go outside and play?"
Fern blinked, surprised by the question. She looked back toward the cottage, maybe checking to see if Heiter or Frieren would say something. But neither did. Heiter was busy pouring another cup of tea, and Frieren was already eyeing the bookshelf like she planned to spend the next four hours inspecting every single title.
"Play?" she asked.
Tsumi gave a confident nod. "Yeah. Like with magic. Not kiddie stuff."
She hesitated, her fingers brushing the fabric of her robe. Then he leaned closer, lowered his voice like he was sharing a secret, and said, "I've got a staff. A real one. With runes and everything. Wanna see?"
That did it.
Her eyes lit up a little, and she tilted her head. "You have a magic staff?"
"Yep." He swung it around like it was some kind of baton, then caught it mid-spin and tapped it on the floor with a small spark of mana. "Cool, right?"
Her lips curled into a smile. A small one at first. Then bigger. "Okay. Wait for me."
She hurried inside and came back with her own staff—a bit taller than her, made of rough, aged wood with little bits of string tied to the handle. Clearly used, clearly cared for.
Together, they stepped outside.
The late afternoon sun was just starting to dip behind the trees, painting the forest path gold. The light scattered through the branches above, and the wind carried the faint scent of pine and old rain. It felt timeless, like the sort of moment Tsumi wouldn't have noticed in his past life—back when everything had to be about missions and death and survival. Now, it just felt peaceful.
Fern picked a spot under the trees and planted her feet, raising her staff like she meant business.
"You first," she said, clearly expecting him to show off.
Tsumi grinned. "Alright. But don't cry if you get jealous."
He lifted his staff and summoned a basic levitation spell, focusing his mana just enough to lift a few rocks from the forest floor. They floated up lazily, spinning in a slow circle above his head before he sent them dancing around in a figure-eight pattern.
Fern's eyes widened. "Whoa…"
"I can also do this," he added, channeling just a bit more to spark a tiny Zoltraak spell, which he immediately shot harmlessly at a fallen log. It fizzled on impact, leaving a neat little scorch mark.
Fern clapped once, then raised her own staff. "Okay! Watch this!"
She summoned her mana—messier, a little raw, but full of energy. A gust of wind kicked up, stirring the leaves, and then a small ball of light sparked at the end of her staff. She launched it into the sky where it burst like a miniature firework.
Tsumi laughed. "Hey, that's actually pretty good."
"Really?" she looked hopeful.
He nodded. "Better than my first spell. I almost set a chicken on fire."
She giggled. "You're lying."
"I'm dead serious. Ask Frieren."
They spent the next hour just practicing spells, tossing tiny bursts of mana at trees, making stones levitate, and occasionally tripping over their own feet. Tsumi held back, of course. He didn't want to show her just how much he could actually do—not because he was arrogant, but because he remembered what it felt like to be around people who were too far ahead. And Fern deserved to feel proud of herself.
Eventually, they ended up sitting on a rock near the stream. Fern was breathing hard, her cheeks flushed from excitement, but she looked happy. Really happy.
"You're kinda weird," she said.
Tsumi blinked. "Weird how?"
"You talk like an adult."
"Maybe I'm just mature."
She narrowed her eyes. "You also complain like an old man."
He laughed. "Fair. I've had… a lot of years to practice."
Fern tilted her head. "How old are you, really?"
That gave him pause. He stared out at the stream, watching the water twist and slide over stones, the light bouncing across the surface like it was trying to distract him from answering.
"…Old enough," he said eventually.
Fern raised an eyebrow but didn't press.
And he was grateful for that.
Ø~Ø
Frieren lay awkwardly on her back, half-buried under a mountain of toppled books. Her legs stuck out from beneath the mess, one boot twitching slightly as Heiter sighed and began lifting the tomes off her one by one. Fern stood nearby, nervously hugging her staff, unsure whether to laugh or panic.
"You really need to stop stuffing those top shelves," Heiter muttered, balancing a stack of thick grimoires in one hand while nudging a particularly heavy-looking book off her stomach with the other.
"I was looking for a spell on advanced barrier magic," Frieren mumbled, her voice muffled beneath a worn leather-bound volume titled The Complete History of Ancient Demon Sealing Techniques.
Heiter finally got the last of them off and offered her a hand. She sat up, brushing dust and old parchment fragments off her robes. Her face was as unreadable as ever, but Heiter knew her well enough to catch the tiny crease in her brow. Embarrassment, probably.
"Since we're all gathered," Heiter said, settling back into his creaky chair, "I want to ask you something."
Frieren didn't respond right away. She plucked a bent page out of her hair and gave him a look.
"I want you to take Fern under your wing," he said plainly.
"No," Frieren replied immediately.
Fern flinched, blinking. Tsumi, sitting nearby with a cup of tea, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He just sipped quietly, waiting.
Heiter leaned forward. "She's got real talent. You can see it too, can't you?"
"I already teach Tsumi," Frieren said flatly. "You want me to juggle students now?"
"You're an elf. You've got time," Heiter countered. "Fern's a human. She doesn't."
Frieren paused.
Tsumi glanced at Fern, who was doing a terrible job hiding the hope in her eyes. She was pretending to read a book, but she hadn't flipped a single page in minutes.
"She's a kid," Frieren finally said.
"So was Tsumi when you started teaching him."
"I didn't agree to it. Himmel tricked me into that."
Heiter smiled. "So I'll trick you too."
Frieren narrowed her eyes.
"Look," Heiter said, more serious now. "Once I die, she'll be all alone. I'm old, Frieren. I've been lucky to last this long. You know what it's like to outlive everyone. So does Tsumi. But Fern? She'll be left behind before she even gets to really live. Don't let her grow up thinking this world doesn't care about her."
Frieren looked over at Fern. The girl was still pretending to read, clutching the book tighter than necessary. She reminded her of someone. Or maybe several someones.
Heiter leaned back with a small sigh. "She has potential. Lots of it. You can guide her. Make her strong enough to stand on her own someday."
Frieren still didn't say anything.
Heiter tapped the side of his chair. "And while you're at it, look for a spell of immortality."
That got a reaction.
She blinked. "Immortality?"
"Yeah," he said with a smile, like he'd just asked her to pick up groceries.
"Are you afraid of death?" she asked, curious more than mocking.
"Of course I am. Everyone says they're not, but they are," Heiter chuckled. "I'm not ready to leave yet. I've got people I care about. I want to see what happens next."
"Hm," Frieren muttered. "Never thought of you like that."
"You think I'm brave?" he grinned.
"I think you're loud and drunk."
"Fair."
They sat in silence for a while. Tsumi had put his tea down and was now watching Fern, who had finally given up the act and was just staring at Frieren.
Heiter smiled. "I think Fern and Tsumi will get along just fine."
"They already do," Frieren said softly.
"So?" Heiter raised an eyebrow. "You taking Fern?"
Frieren stared at the girl. Then at Tsumi. Then back at the ceiling like she was weighing every star in the sky.
"…Fine."
Ø~Ø
Heiter passed away quietly in his sleep just a few weeks later. There wasn't a fuss, no dramatic final words—just the stillness of morning, the kind that feels too quiet, like the world itself paused for a second.
Frieren didn't say much. She was the one who found him, still clutching a book in his lap, a half-filled glass of wine on the table beside him. Tsumi helped prepare the burial. Fern held herself together well—too well for someone so young—but Tsumi caught her wiping her eyes behind her sleeves when she thought no one was looking.
They buried Heiter under the old pine tree behind his cottage, just like he had once said he wanted. The gravestone was simple, the way he would've liked it: Heiter – Priest, Friend, Fool. Frieren poured a bottle of his favorite booze over the grave, just as promised. It soaked into the soil as Fern knelt beside the mound, pressing her forehead to the cool stone, whispering a goodbye only the wind could carry.
Tsumi stood nearby, arms folded, looking down at the grave in silence. He didn't cry, but there was a long ache in his chest, heavy and still. Another friend, gone. And many more to go. He already knew how this would feel, again and again. But it didn't make it easier.
That night, none of them spoke much. Frieren just read in her corner, Fern sat near the fireplace clutching her staff, and Tsumi leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The shadows of the flames danced across the old walls, turning everything gold and flickering like a memory.
The next morning, they packed their bags. The house was left clean, quiet, and still. Just as Heiter would've wanted.
Fern didn't cry when they walked away from the house. She didn't look back either. She just walked forward, her steps quiet but steady.
And like that, the little human girl with the wooden staff began her journey alongside two elves, one 60 and the other over 1,400. It was an odd trio, but somehow, it worked.
TO BE CONTINUED