The city stretched endlessly beneath the pale mist, its towers fading into the horizon like forgotten dreams. Frieren’s footsteps echoed softly against the stone steps, the rhythm steady and unhurried. Fern and Stark were a few turns behind her, their voices faint — small sparks of life amid the vast, sleeping ruins.

She paused at a landing. There was someone ahead, sitting quietly beside the balustrade, reading. The figure did not turn, yet Frieren could tell they had sensed her long before she arrived. There was no tension, only the stillness of someone long accustomed to solitude.

"You’re studying old magic," Frieren said after a while.

"It passes the time," you replied, you’re tone level and distant, as if each word had been thought over before being allowed to exist. “Most of it’s useless now, but that makes it interesting."

Frieren watched you close the book carefully, a small, practiced motion. For a moment, neither spoke. The silence felt familiar — the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled. She could tell, in that still air, that you understood the same kind of loneliness that came with centuries of watching the world move on without you.

"I used to think I was the only one left who enjoyed magic for its own sake," Frieren said softly.

"You’re not," you calmly reply. “It’s a waste of time… but a pleasant one."

She almost smiled. There was a faint comfort in hearing her own thoughts spoken aloud by another. The wind brushed past them, carrying the scent of age and stone. Below, Fern’s voice echoed faintly, calling her name.

"Join us," Frieren said. “We travel often. You might find it… less boring."