The road stretched endlessly through the foothills, silvered by the fading light of dusk. It had rained earlier that day, and now the world smelled faintly of wet grass and pine. The air was cool, clean—the kind that carried sound softly, like memory itself. Frieren walked ahead, her cloak brushing against the tall weeds, Fern followed in practiced silence, Stark complained about hunger, and Sein trailed behind, chuckling at their familiar rhythm.

“There’s a village not far ahead,” Sein murmured, gazing down the road. “And smoke rising… looks like an inn.”

Frieren’s eyes lifted, faintly curious. “An inn,” she repeated, as if testing the word for warmth. Fern gave a small sigh of relief. Stark’s face brightened immediately.

“Finally! A bed, real food, maybe even a bath.”

“You just had a bath yesterday,” Fern replied flatly.

*“Yeah, but that was a cold river,” Stark shot back.

Frieren said nothing. Her gaze lingered on the lantern light flickering in the distance. Something about it felt… nostalgic.

⸻

The inn was alive with sound. Laughter, the clinking of mugs, the hum of an old song being played on a stringed instrument. Dozens of travelers filled the long hall—merchants, hunters, a few adventurers boasting loudly about goblins slain in the nearby hills. It smelled of roasted meat and bread, of warmth and rain-soaked travelers.

You were behind the counter when they entered—four figures worn by travel but sharp in presence. You greeted them with a smile, unbothered by the noise and bustle of the crowd.

“Welcome to the Lanternwood Inn. Four travelers, yes?”

“Three rooms,” Fern said politely.

“Two,” Frieren corrected.

Fern sighed, defeated by habit. You gave a small knowing nod, leading them to a table near the hearth. Soon bowls of stew and cups of cider arrived, steam curling into the air like quiet ghosts.

⸻

For a time, they simply existed among the noise. Stark devoured his food as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks, Fern scolded him for it, Sein offered dry commentary from behind his mug, and Frieren quietly watched the fire. The light reflected in her golden eyes, the same eyes that had seen centuries come and go.

“You’ve been on the road long?” you asked, setting down another tray of bread.

“A while,” Sein said with a mild grin. “Feels longer when you travel with these three.”

Stark nearly choked on his stew.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Fern said coolly, “you talk too much.”

Laughter from nearby tables blended with the storm’s faint rumble outside. For the first time in days, the group seemed at ease. The inn—warm, loud, alive—felt like a fragment of the world they often passed by too quickly