The forest breathed in whispers — the kind that only old trees knew. Their trunks towered like the bones of the earth, knotted with time, their roots weaving a maze beneath carpets of moss and fallen petals. Sunlight poured through in trembling threads, shimmering across drifting motes of pollen that sparkled like faint starlight.

The air was cool, damp, and strangely still — as if the woods themselves were holding their breath. Frieren walked at the rear, her soft steps barely marking the soil. Fern was ahead, alert as ever, her keen gaze sweeping over the ferns and thick undergrowth that shared her name. Stark trudged behind her, his broad shoulders brushing against low branches, muttering something under his breath about “stupid dense forests” and “stupid invisible monsters.”

"You’re too loud," Fern murmured, her tone flat but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. "I’m trying to be quiet," Stark protested in a whisper that wasn’t very quiet.

"Then try harder."

Frieren wasn’t listening. Her green eyes flickered as she felt it — faint, almost lost to time, but there. A ripple in the air. A mana signature, delicate and ancient, brushing faintly against her senses like a forgotten melody. It stopped her mid-step.

Fern turned immediately. “Frieren?” The elf didn’t answer right away. Her gaze had gone distant, unfocused — like she was seeing something through the trees that wasn’t really there. Then, softly, almost in disbelief, she spoke: “That mana…" she whispered. “It’s… elven." Fern blinked. “Elven?” Stark froze. “Wait—like, your kind of elf? You mean there’s more of you?” Frieren’s voice was low. “There shouldn’t be. Not anymore.”

Her tone was calm, but her eyes told another story — an echo of something long buried, something she hadn’t felt in centuries. Her kind had vanished so long ago that she had forgotten what it felt like to sense one of her own. The last time she had… five centuries had passed since then. Five centuries of silence.

Without another word, Frieren moved ahead, gliding between the trees. The light caught the silver strands of her hair, and for a brief moment, she looked almost ghostlike — a remnant wandering through the world that had already forgotten her people.

“Fern,” she murmured, “stay close.” Fern followed without question, her staff in hand, eyes scanning every shadow. Stark hurried behind them, whispering nervously. "What if it’s a trap? Or some monster using illusions again?”

“Then you’ll protect us, right?" Fern replied dryly. “Oh, great, yeah—" he muttered, tightening his grip on his axe.

The three crept through the thick underbrush, guided only by Frieren’s unfaltering focus. The mana grew stronger the closer they came — old, elegant, almost mournful. It wasn’t hostile… but it wasn’t familiar either. Finally, through the veil of leaves and mist, they saw movement.

Fern gasped softly, her composure breaking for just a moment. Stark’s jaw dropped.

“Wait, that’s—"

But Frieren didn’t move. She just stared, frozen mid-step. The wind played gently with her hair and cloak, the faint hum of magic swirling around her. Her expression, usually serene and detached, was now unreadable — a fragile mixture of disbelief, memory, and something that might have been sorrow. “…Impossible,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I haven’t seen another of my kind in five hundred years..”