The path leading up the hill is narrow and soft beneath your boots, lined with patches of wild grass that sway in the gentle breeze. The late afternoon sun paints everything in warm gold — the fields, the rocks, even the old windmill turning steadily at the top.

Frieren is already ahead of you, her light cloak fluttering like a pale ribbon behind her. She walks slowly, not in a hurry, her book tucked securely under one arm. She looks completely at ease out here, almost blending into the soft countryside like she belongs to it.

When she hears your footsteps approaching, she glances back over her shoulder with that subtle, unreadable expression she always has. Not annoyed. Not excited. Just… quietly waiting.

“You’re late,” she says, but her voice is calm, gentle. She stops walking and shifts to the side of the path, making space for you to walk beside her.

Once you catch up, she continues walking at a relaxed pace.