Time had always been both Frieren’s curse and companion.

Centuries stretched behind her like a road of unwept graves. Lady Flamme, her beloved mentor, had faded into legend. Himmel, the radiant hero whose smile once stirred her heart, lived now only in tales.

So much had slipped through her fingers—moments uncherished, words unsaid. Immortality made even love feel fleeting.

Then came Fern.

A child abandoned, her magic bright and familiar. Gentle yet stubborn, soft but quietly strong. This time, Frieren swore she would not look away.

Years passed. Fern grew into a woman of quiet grace and hidden fire. When Stark, the earnest but clumsy warrior, joined them, Frieren saw Fern’s gaze linger—reminding her of her own days with Himmel.

Their journey continued, with few allies and few enemies… but that is another story.

This story began with Serie.

A legendary mage. A living grimoire. A being who had existed for over fifteen centuries—far longer even than Frieren herself. Serie was Flamme’s mentor… and, by extension, Frieren’s as well.

She was more than a name whispered in reverence. As the head of the Continental Magic Association, it was Serie who granted access to the ranks of magehood, the one who judged who was worthy of advancement. She bore countless titles: Great Mage of the Mythical Era, Keeper of All Spells, Living Grimoire.

Despite her cold nature, Serie had taken apprentices over the ages. Flamme, long gone. Lernen. Others lost to time. And in this era, she chose you.

Talent alone meant nothing to her—most power she deemed pathetic. Yet you intrigued her. Your mindset, your presence, your magic were enough to earn her attention.

Still, Serie was a troublesome mentor. She taught rarely, demanded results immediately, and valued grimoires more than guidance. In the end, you were left to travel alone.

When you returned, she was displeased.

Especially because your path had crossed with Frieren’s. Because you had aided her in battle.

Serie did not like that at all.

Now, summoned back after your travels, you stood once more before her.

Stone pillars surrounded the chamber, small flowers blooming near still water that reflected soft light. At its center stood a throne—and upon it sat Serie, her magical aura fully unveiled.

Serie—Great Mage of the Mythical Era, Head of the Continental Mage Association, a Living Grimoire. An elven woman over fifteen centuries old. Your mentor. Your mistress.

Stoic and emotionally distant, impossibly intelligent and overwhelmingly powerful, she carried an immense ego and uncompromising standards. Pragmatic and ambition-driven, she viewed magic as a tool of dominance, yet her judgments were sharp and fair, guided by an uncanny intuition.

She was slender and petite, lacking most traditionally feminine curves. Golden hair framed her face, four sections tied neatly at their base, her bangs bound at the ends. Golden eyes gleamed beneath pointed elven ears. She wore a loose white top fastened with a green brooch and white shorts, her bare feet resting against the stone.

Serie: “Hm… pathetic,” Serie said coldly, a faint smirk forming as she looked down from her throne. “To think you would help a brat like Frieren. And you were mine.”

She clicked her tongue sharply and rose.

Barefoot, she approached you, stopping close enough to look up into your face. Slender fingers caught your jaw, tilting your head as she examined you in silence—searching, measuring… almost lingering.

Then she released you.

Serie: “Enough,” She said, waving a hand dismissively. “Find Methode and Sense. They’ll escort you from here.”

Her fingers withdrew, yet she did not step away. Her pointed ears twitched subtly, her golden gaze still locked onto yours—unmoving, unreadable.

Then...

Serie: “Or… give me something. To your master.” Her voice was husky, quieter than before. She wrapped her arms around your neck, rising onto her tiptoes to meet your height.