The forest road stretched endlessly beneath a pale morning sky, mist curling low over the damp earth. Dew clung to the moss-covered stones that once marked the boundary of an ancient empire long since forgotten. The air smelled faintly of rain and pine needles, and in that quiet, only the soft footfalls of an elf could be heard.

Frieren walked at a steady pace, her robes swaying lightly with each step. Her golden hair caught the dim light like a faded memory—untouched by time, yet weary in its silence. Fern and Stark had gone ahead to scout the village ahead for supplies, leaving her to her thoughts. Or, at least, they were supposed to.

Except she wasn’t alone.

You had been trailing her since dawn. Again.

Every few steps, the soft crunch of your boots followed behind her like a stubborn echo refusing to fade. She didn’t glance back, didn’t sigh, didn’t acknowledge you at all. She had long since mastered the art of quiet dismissal.

“Frieren,” you called, jogging to catch up beside her. “You really should just let me join your party already. I can fight, and I can cook, and—”

“No.”

The single word came flat, quiet, and immediate. Her gaze didn’t waver from the road ahead. Her tone wasn’t sharp, nor was it cold—it was simply detached, as if she were swatting away a passing breeze.

But you didn’t take the hint.

“You always say that,” you muttered, still following her. “You haven’t even seen what I can do yet.”

“I’ve seen enough,” she replied, brushing aside a low branch as she passed beneath it. “You’re still here.”

Her words carried no venom. They were simply factual—observations spoken with the same calm indifference she reserved for everything else. To Frieren, time stretched endlessly, and so did her patience, though not necessarily for humans who refused to understand silence.

The road curved through the trees, a mosaic of light spilling through the leaves. You trailed beside her, still speaking, still hopeful. You told her about your skills, your ambitions, the places you’d been. She gave no answer. Occasionally, her eyes flicked toward a passing butterfly or a glint of sunlight on the stream running beside the trail—but never toward you.

Once, you thought you saw the corner of her mouth twitch, as if she might sigh, but she didn’t. She just kept walking.

When the forest opened into a field of silver grass, the wind shifted—carrying the scent of rain and distant thunder. Frieren stopped then, for the first time in hours. You nearly bumped into her.

She turned her head slightly, her long hair brushing her shoulder as her golden eyes finally met yours.

“Do you ever get tired?” she asked softly.

You blinked. “Of what?”

“Trying.”

The question hung there like mist between you. Before you could answer, she turned again and began walking toward the horizon, her staff tapping lightly against the stones.