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Chapter Text

The road into Tur wound like ribbon through green hills, flanked by wild poppies and golden grasses that swayed beneath a sleepy breeze. The cart creaked rhythmically over smooth cobblestone, and the air smelled like sun-warmed stone, crushed thyme, and something else floral, rich, faintly spiced. Fern sat upright on the bench seat, posture immaculate, travel pack nestled in her lap, hands folded tight atop the buckles like a ceremony of control. Her boots were clean. Her cloak was smooth. Everything on the outside screamed “competent.” Which was good.

Because inside?

She was screaming.

Next to her, Frieren leaned back with her arms tucked behind her head, sleeves bunched at the elbows, robe sliding half off one shoulder like it didn’t belong to gravity. Her long silver hair glinted in the high sunlight, and her eyes were almost closed, lashes casting faint shadows across her cheeks.

She looked like she belonged to another time. Another world.

And Fern could smell her.

Not the usual dusty-linen scent that clung to them both after long travel. Not the mild soap she used once every two days when Fern reminded her. Not the laundry spell that known clings to them all.

This was different. Barely-there, but distinct. Something crisp, like winter wind over a sacred grove. Something sweet beneath it. And warm. Not heat-warm, not summer-warm, but deeper. Resonant. Something old.

Something… Alpha.

But that couldn’t be. Frieren was a Beta. She said so herself, once, with the same flat indifference she used when talking about fighting spells or the budget for their travels. Elves didn’t “present” like humans. Their biology was different. She’d said that plainly, her face unreadable, her attention already shifting back to a book about migrating magical spell-foxes.

Fern shook herself. No. It was probably a new tea blend. Or the flowers. This region had wild honeysage. That could explain it. That had to be it.

“This place is nice,” Frieren said suddenly, voice slow and dream-soft. “Quiet.”

“You said that about the last village,” Fern said. She didn’t mean to make it sound like a scold, but it slipped out that way. She coughed into a fist. “It was quiet.”

“We’ll stay a week,” Frieren added, ignoring her. “Maybe more.”

“We stayed three months last time.”

“That town had spell shops. Too many. I got distracted.”

She yawned and reached back, stretching until her ribs rose and the cape surrendered the last of her shoulder. Fern fastened her eyes on the far road, where Tur opened like a painting you could walk into.

Red-roofed houses clustered along the riverbank, their chimneys trailing soft puffs of smoke. Vines crawled up every wall, spilling over fences in tangled bursts of violet and gold. Flowers bloomed like they’d been blessed thick petals in every corner, tucked between paving stones, spilling from baskets on windowsills. Children ran laughing down the lanes. Market stalls were bright with cloth, fruit, and medical items. Musicians strummed near the inn steps, their notes mingling with the breeze.

And in the middle of it all, at the far end of the main road, stood the cottage.

The cottage stood near the end of the main street, set back just enough to have a little garden for itself. White stone. Polished wood. A porch deep enough to turn into shade at different hours of the day. Chapel-arched windows tilted open like someone had remembered to let the breeze in. Larger than any room they’d rented in a month. It wore care the way older things wore it—quietly, at the corners.

“Is this… ours?” Fern asked. She heard the suspicion in her own voice and didn’t apologize for it.

Frieren hummed. “Technically, it belongs to the Continental Magic Association.”

“That’s Serie’s magical seal on the door.”

“I know.”

Fern frowned. “You hate taking her handouts.”

“I do.”

“You said you’d rather sleep in a ditch.”

“I’ve said many things.”

“You said—”

“She has a good taste in spellbooks,” Frieren interrupted, already hopping down from the cart with that lazy grace she always moved with. “And  I made peace with you benefiting from what she has.”

Frieren paused to stretch. The motion pulled her robe tighter around her chest. Fern didn’t look. Couldn’t. She busied herself instead unloading their bags, thankful for something solid to carry. Something simple.

Stark bolted the moment they stopped, a blur of red coat and cheerful shouting, already roped into a footrace by half the local boys. Sein lingered near the chapel courtyard, shaking hands with the village priest, the air around him humming faintly with gentle magic. His steps were measured. Calm. Holy in a way that felt quiet and real.

And Fern? Fern followed Frieren inside and immediately began nesting.

It was habit now. She unrolled the bedding. Aired out the curtains. Lined the herb shelf in perfect rows, strongest to softest. Sorted tea. Cleaned the windows.

The place didn’t need it. Her payment for her first class mage duties were what kept them from budgeting too much now. Paid lodging meant they didn’t have to pay. More money to spend on grimoires and since that made her Mistress happy, it made Fern happy.

Frieren, meanwhile, was already sitting cross-legged in the center of the wooden floor, flipping through a slim pink spellbook with a picture of cake on the front and hearts on the corners.

Fern squinted. “Is that…?”

“Cake magic.”

“I thought that was a joke when you bought that.”

“It’s not,” Frieren licked her thumb and turned the page. “There’s a vanilla icing spell. Simple sugar structuring. I want to try the strawberry one first.”

Fern raised an eyebrow. “You’re seriously studying a beginner’s baking spellbook?”

Frieren nodded solemnly. “Magic is best when it’s sweet.”

Fern took that sentence and put it with the others she kept: small absolutes that could carry you longer than most people promised they would.

Later, when they had a list made and a plan to walk the market, Frieren didn’t get up. She had her knees tucked under her now and her hair had leaned forward to hide half her face while she read. Fern stood with her hand on the doorframe, then took it away and smoothed her palm down her skirt.

“I’ll look around town,” she said. “See what’s where.”

Frieren made an agreeable sound that meant she wasn’t listening.

Fern stepped back into the warm day and let the town fold around her in patient layers. She walked the market lanes once for looking and a second time for deciding. She noted the stall with plums dark as lacquer and the cheaper pears she could stew to the same effect. She found a little shop that sold enchanted thread for mending, and another that stocked the boring herbs that keep a household from becoming a problem. She counted the steps from the front gate to the waterline and filed away the depth of the shallows. At the edge of the square, an old woman sold rock sugar molded like animals; Fern wanted to buy two for Stark and didn’t, not yet.

By the time she went back, the cottage felt like it had adjusted its weight to include them. She stood in the doorway to the room that would be hers and looked at the bed. The thought of sleeping alone for more than a night should have been ordinary relief. Instead something in her chest loosened and made her weak.

It struck her only then this was the first time she and Frieren hadn’t been expected to share a room. The cottage was big enough for each of them to have a door, a bed, a stretch of quiet that belonged to no one else. No more whispered spells by candlelight, no more listening to Frieren breathe three paces away, no more pretending that the sound didn’t matter. Privacy should have been comfort. It felt, strangely, like loss.

She brushed the doorframe with her fingertips, almost guilty for liking the space and hating it in the same breath.

She put her pack at the foot of the bed. She loosened the ties on her coat and shrugged it off her shoulders one sleeve at a time, as if someone were watching and might be soothed by the neatness of it. She set the coat over the chair back and smoothed the fold with the side of her hand.

The window faced south. Light fell across the floorboards in long, soft bars. She sat on the edge of the bed and pressed her palms to the mattress like she was testing a spell, and the bed answered with a small exhale of feathers.

The scent from the road had followed them inside, folded thin over everything until it was almost nothing. Almost. She closed her eyes and told herself it was honeysage on the air. She told herself the house would learn different once they’d cooked in it, once they’d hung damp laundry, once the day worked them both into a more familiar smell. She opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling beam and counted slowly to thirty and back.

From the other room, a page turned. Then another. Then Frieren’s voice, soft with satisfaction: “Vanilla.”

Fern lay back carefully, as if the bed might object, and let her body come down around her breath. She stared at nothing for a long moment and felt the ache of wanting to be good at this—at staying steady when nothing was steady at all.

After a minute she got up and went to find the broom, because there are only so many breaths you can count before a day asks to be lived.

Chapter Text

Morning rose slow and golden. The sunlight pressed gently through the lace-curtained windows, carrying the scent of lilacs and warm stone. The town murmured below rooster crows, laughter, soft bells from the chapel tower.

And Frieren?

Was still in bed.

Fern stood in the kitchen with a mug of strong black tea and the rising suspicion that she had, once again, become the only adult in the house.

She crossed the hallway, knocked once, and opened the bedroom door.

“Up.”

A groan from beneath a pile of pillows.

“We’re expected in town.”

A hand emerged. Waved vaguely.

“There are baked peaches at the market,” Fern added.

A rustle. A reluctant noise.

“You told the locals you’d decline their local mage meeting-”

“Because I don’t want to go.”

“But I said I would attend.”

Silence. Then Frieren finally emerged, bleary-eyed, her hair a mess of silver tangles, robe sliding off one shoulder again.

She blinked once. “Did you make tea?”

Fern pressed the mug into her hand.

The sun reached its peak, draping the town in light thick as honey. Outside the cottage, laughter drifted from the festival square where Stark was locked in a tug-of-war with half a dozen children. He was winning.

Inside, it was quiet.

The kind of soft, golden quiet that made time feel suspended.

Fern was wiping down the kitchen counter for the third time not because it needed it, but because she needed to do something with her hands. Across the room, Frieren was perched on a stool, legs tucked up under her, flipping lazily through her cake spellbook like it was an ancient tome of a much more important spell.

She had finally dressed, but barely. Her cape hung loose over one shoulder again, her collar undone. Her skin glowed faintly from the heat, and her hair, still damp from a too-short bath, clung to the curve of her throat.

Fern watched her take her cape off and throw it on another chair before settling in and fanning herself.

The scent was stronger today.

It filled the room, wrapped around Fern in clean and wild invisible threads, like fresh spring water over stones. There was a sharp note of something sweet underneath it. Not perfume. Not herbs.

It felt old. Deep. Like instinct carved in mana.

And it wasn’t human.

Fern had asked once casually, offhand what elven pheromones were like.

Frieren had shrugged and said, “We don’t really talk about it.”

Apparently not.

Because right now, Fern couldn’t even look directly at her without something in her chest tightening.

“So,” Frieren said, tapping the page with a sleepy sort of reverence. “This says to whisk until ‘shimmering.’”

“Does that mean magically or physically?” Fern asked, voice hoarse.

Frieren blinked slowly. “Magically.” She smiles wide, “see this spell works off the visuals of being a baker which is odd, but good.”

Fern hummed, “What if I had no idea of what a cake being baked looked like?”

“It has pictures. I bet your friend would be able to learn this easy.”

“My friend?” Fern questioned.

“Ubel, remember she wrote you a letter.”

Fern does and the letter isn’t anything bad.  She’s just checking on her. Fern would write back, as for the spell she looked over and then Her Mistress was doing it.

Frieren rolled up her sleeve just one and began conjuring a low, steady whisking spell in the air, her fingers drawing small loops of mana. The bowl on the counter stirred to life. Egg, sugar, flour, and a dash of cherry wine mixed themselves with terrifying precision.

“You’re taking this seriously,” Fern murmured.

“I like cake and you like cake,” Frieren glanced up, eyes lidded. “And I want to see what happens when I layer the icing mid-rise.”

“Of course you do.”

They worked in companionable silence Fern chopping fruit with unnecessary concentration, Frieren managing spells with lazy mastery. The scent of sugar and warm vanilla filled the cottage, and it mixed with her scent until Fern couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

By the time the cake was done, Fern’s hands were trembling.

The scent of something sweet felt like it was inside of her.

The sun slipped behind the mountains like a yawn, and the sky turned lavender and gold. Lanterns flickered to life along the porch rails, casting soft halos across the table where four plates sat, steam rising from rice and vegetables, and the glazed fish Sein had seared with fire over the open hearth.

He had said nothing all afternoon. But his presence filled the space like incense clean, steady, anchoring. When he brought out the holy-washed pitcher of tea, his eyes flicked between Fern and Frieren only once.

He said nothing, but Fern felt it. Sein was good like that.

They ate in a quiet rhythm.

Stark devoured his second helping before anyone else had finished the first. “Best fish I’ve had in months” he mumbled, mouth full.

Frieren nodded. “You didn’t burn it this time.”

Sein took the compliment with a twitch of his mouth. “Miracles happen.”

Fern barely touched her food.

When Frieren handed out cake, they’d devoured it all but Fern who tried not to look too hard as Frieren ate. Stark ate half the cake with Frieren’s encouragement.

“We can make more.”

Fern felt her mouth go dry.

Because Frieren had leaned back in her chair, jacket gaping slightly at the collar, one leg hooked over the other. Her skin was flushed from the baking heat. She held a fork delicately, lifting a bite of cake to her mouth like it was nothing. Just sugar and flour.

Just divine.

Her scent curled stronger than ever now. Not offensive. Not overwhelming. But constant. Sweet like cherry blossom sap. Sharp like polished quartz. Something primal sang in it, something deep and wrong and right all at once. Fern could feel it in her jaw. Her throat. The low ache blooming in her belly like spring frost.

She sipped her tea too fast and nearly choked.

“Fern?” Stark asked. “You, okay?”

She nodded once. Didn’t trust herself to speak.

“Fern don’t drink so fast,” Frieren said., then just took another slow bite of cake, eyes half-closed.

“I’m going to perfect the icing next,” she said, licking a smear of frosting from her thumb.

Fern stared at her cup like it held answers. Or poison.

Sein cleared his throat softly and stood. “I’ll clean.”

“No, I’ll-” Fern started.

“You’re tired,” he said, gently but firmly. “Sit.”

Frieren offered him the rest of the cake with a lazy gesture.

He took it inside, and Fern watched him go, wondering if he could smell it too.

Probably not. He didn’t react.

Or maybe he just understood more than he let on.

The porch had emptied. Stark had gone to join the kids in the village square’s night games. Sein was cleaning, quiet as ever. Frieren sat at the far end of the garden bench, fanning herself with a folded spell page.

The evening was cool now. But she still looked warm.

Fern stood in the doorway, one hand on the post, trying to summon the strength to walk over. Or turn away. Or breathe normally.

“You’ve been staring for ten minutes,” Frieren said, eyes closed.

“I’m not,” Fern said.

“You are.”

Fern hesitated. “Are you… feeling, okay?”

Frieren looked at her. Really looked. And for a moment, something unreadable passed between them.

“I’m fine,” she said softly. “Just the weather.”

Fern nodded. Too quickly.

“Definitely.”

Just the weather.

Definitely.

Chapter Text

The morning began like most mornings: tea, breakfast, and a list of small magical favors the villagers wanted done before the festival. They were used to this kind of thing. Every town, no matter how far north or east, came with its share of small obligations. Frieren called them “thank-you spells.” A purification spell for the well. A quick repair on a cracked field rune. A minor weather spell so the crops would not drown in unexpected rain.

Fern handled the paperwork and polite smiles while Frieren handled the magic. It had become their rhythm, unspoken and easy. The people in this town were kind, if a little nervous at first, but that always happened. Once they realized Frieren’s presence did not mean inspection or judgment, their gratitude came quickly. Someone handed them baskets of fruit. Someone else pressed small loaves of bread into Fern’s hands. The air smelled of dust, river moss, and warm yeast. Somewhere a lute played, the notes carrying softly between the houses.

By the time they finished, the sun had climbed high enough that every roof shimmered faintly with heat. The sound of children running through the square mixed with the chatter of vendors and the rhythmic clack of streamers being tied to posts. The town felt alive in a simple, human way. Fern thought it might not be so bad to stay for a while.

When they returned to the cottage, the quiet hit her like a sigh. Outside, the heat was bright and bearable. Inside, it settled heavy on the walls. She felt it cling to her skin, to her thoughts. Her shirt stuck slightly at the chest, and her thighs were damp. She did not need a calendar to know what it meant. Her heat was not here, not really, but close enough that her body hummed with it. The suppressant tea she had forced down before dawn helped, but barely.

It was probably why she kept reaching for Frieren. Probably.

At breakfast she sat beside her instead of across. When they walked through town, their sleeves brushed. When Frieren stopped to examine one of the lantern spell arrays in the square, Fern hovered just behind her, close enough to catch her if she stumbled. Frieren noticed once, briefly, a cracked gemstone in her hand.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” Fern said quickly.

Frieren blinked, then simply turned back to her work.

By noon, Stark had managed to turn half the town’s children into his work crew, a laughing mess of streamers and paint buckets. Sein was stationed by the fountain, murmuring quiet incantations as the water turned clear and cold under his spell. The festival would be ready by nightfall.

Fern and Frieren headed home as the sun reached its highest point. Frieren pushed the cottage door open, stepped inside, and immediately shrugged off her jacket. She hung it on the hook like a reflex, revealing the loose black-and-white shirt and soft linen pants beneath. Fern realized she had never seen her wear something that thin. The fabric clung faintly when she moved, showing more of her shape than usual.

“I’m going to test the syrup spell,” Frieren said, walking  into the kitchen.

Fern followed, the air between them warm and thick. “Which one?”

“Blueberry. It’s the most unstable.”

“That sounds… promising.”

There was a chalk circle drawn neatly on the porch stones. A bowl of freshly shaved ice sat nearby, glittering like crushed glass. The faint hum of mana tightened the air. Frieren looked perfectly calm, the tip of her finger tracing the runes as she murmured to herself. Then there was a pop, a fizz, and a sudden flash of light.

Blue syrup sprayed in every direction.

The doorway dripped. The porch gleamed. Frieren blinked down at herself, splattered from collarbone to knee. Sticky blue streaks ran down her shirt, her stomach, and her thighs. For a long moment, she said nothing.

“Well,” she said at last, brushing her hair back from her face, “it worked. Just violently.”

Fern stood frozen, staring. A single drop rolled from Frieren’s collarbone, down the pale line of her chest, and disappeared into her waistband.

“You’re covered in it,” Fern said softly.

“I’ll rinse off in the stream,” Frieren replied, already reaching for the hem of her shirt.

She pulled it up and over her head without hurry, sunlight catching the syrup on her skin. The movement was easy, unselfconscious, and devastating. Then she turned and walked out barefoot, the faint blue sheen along her spine glinting in the light.

The door swung shut behind her.

Fern stood in the kitchen, the spellbook still clutched in her hands. Through the open window came the faint sound of water, a small splash, the soft exhale of Frieren’s relief as she washed clean. The scent of berries and sunlight drifted back through the air, sharp and sweet, like the memory of summer.

Her chest ached. Her pulse would not slow. She told herself it was the heat. It always was.

But when she closed her eyes, she could still hear Frieren’s quiet hum in the stream, could still see how sunlight had touched her skin, and could still feel the pull that had nothing to do with the weather.

“I’m in hell,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

She was dreaming.

She could tell by the way everything felt. Soft. Too soft. The bed beneath her was heavier than usual, the sheets thick and plush. Her body was too warm, like she had stepped into a sun-drenched bath. Her skin prickled with sweat, her breath slow and deep, curling in her chest.

Scent wrapped around her like a second blanket. Clean, sharp, magical.
It smelled like moonlight and warm stone and something else, something Alpha.
It was familiar.

It was Frieren.

And in the dream, she was straddling Fern’s lap.

She wasn’t naked. Not yet. She wore one of those loose, sleeveless tops she favored when she was too warm and did not care if Fern saw the slope of her collarbones or the soft dip of her chest.
Except here, in the dream, Frieren leaned in, arms braced on either side of Fern’s head, the fabric gaping just enough to reveal the smooth curve of her breasts.

Her eyes were half-lidded and heavy-lashed. Her scent filled the air until Fern could taste it on her tongue. Every breath pulled more of it in, sweet and dizzying.

“You look like you want to ask for something,” Frieren said. Her voice was a low purr, confident and slow, like she already knew the answer.

“I…” Fern tried to speak, but her throat locked.

Frieren’s mouth brushed her neck. Once. Light and unhurried. Her lips were cool against overheated skin. The world seemed to hum quietly around them, as if the dream itself held its breath.

Then Frieren smiled. “I know what you want.”

Fern’s hips lifted, instinctive, helpless. The air thickened. The dream deepened until even the edges of it began to blur.

“Wait,” Fern whispered, confusion cutting through the heat. “You’re a Beta.”

Frieren’s laugh was soft against her skin. The sound sank straight through Fern. “All elves are Alphas,” she said. Her breath was warm against Fern’s ear. “Didn’t you know that?”

The words hit harder than they should have. Fern’s whole body reacted, the sound of that voice winding through her blood until she could hardly breathe.

Frieren’s hand trailed down her chest, over her stomach, then lower, between her thighs.

She was already wet.

Frieren knew.

Her touch was steady and sure. Fingers pressed against her in a firm, claiming rhythm that sent a tremor through every nerve. Fern gasped and arched, the heat inside her breaking open.

“I barely touched you,” Frieren said, the corner of her mouth lifting.

“I can’t help it,” Fern whispered, voice shaking. Her body felt too full, too hot, too much. Every breath carried that scent.

Frieren kissed her, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that melted the rest of the dream away. It was sweet and terrible and thorough, the kind of kiss that would stay with her.

When she finally pulled back, her voice came soft against Fern’s mouth. “I want to taste everything.”

Fern came in her sleep with a sharp, gasping moan.

Her back arched. The sheets were damp beneath her.

She woke panting, thighs clenched, hands fisted in the fabric above her head. For a long moment she did not move. The ceiling blurred above her. Her pulse thudded in her ears. Her skin felt fever-hot, her chest rose too fast, and the smell of her own arousal hung heavy in the still air, mixed with linen and the faint trace of Frieren’s scent that never seemed to leave her pillow.

She blinked hard. Once. Twice.

She had been dreaming about her Master: an Alpha.

And if she did not do something soon, if she did not find a way to cool off, hide it, control it, it would happen again.

Outside her door, quiet footsteps passed along the hall.
Frieren. Probably going to boil water.

She did not knock. She did not open the door. She just moved softly across the floorboards, her bare feet making small creaks in the wood.

But her scent drifted in through the crack. Clean, wild, steady.
Strong. Familiar. And now unmistakably, inescapably Alpha.

Fern closed her eyes again.

“Goddess,” she whispered. “Help me.”

Fern needed a potion.

A spell. A salve. A suppressant. Something.

She had spent the morning pretending to be fine. Pretending her thighs were not still slick from her dream, pretending her hands did not shake every time Frieren leaned too close. But the moment her master touched her forehead, cool fingers brushing her damp skin with casual tenderness that almost sent her to her knees, Fern knew she could not stay in the cottage much longer.

She had woken late. Later than Frieren. That alone was strange enough to draw attention.

When she stumbled out of her room, hair mussed and eyes still unfocused, Frieren had already been sitting at the table with a pot of tea and her spellbook open beside it.

“I heard sounds from your room earlier,” Frieren said, eyes not leaving the page. “I was worried.”

Fern froze. “Sounds?”

Frieren looked up. “You never sleep in. I thought you were sick.”

Her voice held only quiet concern, nothing else, but it made something inside Fern twist tight. Frieren worried for everyone, but this…this was personal, gentle, a kind of worry that still smelled faintly like care.

“I’m fine,” Fern said quickly.

Frieren tilted her head. “You are pale. Drink some tea. It will help.”

Fern did as she was told. She took the cup, sipped once, and kept her eyes on the rising steam. She wanted to stay, wanted to bask in the attention, in Frieren’s voice softened by concern. But she knew it was for the wrong reason.

Her heart ached anyway.

She forced a smile. “I just didn’t sleep well. I’ll go to the market. We need herbs.”

Frieren hesitated, as if she wanted to ask something else, then only nodded. “Be careful.”

Fern grabbed her coin purse, slipped her shoes on, and left before her resolve could crumble.

Outside, the heat was already climbing.

Tur’s market rested between two gentle hills, its cobblestone paths wrapped in vines and soft afternoon light. The air smelled of sugar, metal, and river clay. Normally, Fern liked the order of it-the way the merchants arranged their stalls, the careful labeling of bottles, the hum of mana beneath everything.

Today, the market pressed against her like a fever.

Her scent was sharper than usual, just enough that her pulse seemed to echo it. And worse, she could still smell Frieren. Even here. The faint trace of her mana followed Fern like a second shadow, a silvery ghost of warmth that clung to memory and skin alike.

She moved quickly, weaving through the crowd. Her mind repeated the list she had made only to distract herself. Tea leaves. Dried fruits. Anything to make it look like an ordinary errand.

But her real purpose waited in the shaded part of the apothecary row.

She ducked into a narrow stall draped in gauze and pressed her palms together politely. “Do you have anything for pre-heat suppression?” she whispered. “Something discreet.”

The woman behind the counter was an older Beta with tired eyes. She studied Fern for only a moment before nodding. “Not on display,” she said softly, reaching under the counter. She returned with a small bottle wrapped in wax paper and sealed with red wax. “It will calm your cycle and mask your scent for a short while. One day, maybe less.”

Fern accepted it, thanked her quietly, and slipped it into her pocket.

The bottle felt too heavy in her hand.

She turned to leave and nearly collided with another customer entering the stall. Muttering an apology, she hurried toward the next street over, her mind still spinning.

Halfway down the lane, another booth caught her eye a cluttered corner lined with grimoires and paper charms. The merchant was a tall woman, her voice soft but quick as she waved Fern closer.

“You look like a spellcaster,” she said, smiling. “Looking for something to study or something to use?”

Fern hesitated, then stepped closer. “Something for… regulation,” she murmured. “A spell that helps control the body during heat cycles.”

The woman nodded as if the request was nothing unusual. “Not an easy kind of magic to handle, but possible. It requires precision. I can sell you the grimoire.” She turned and retrieved a narrow book bound in blue fabric. “This will take time to learn. It teaches how to channel mana flow into the endocrine pattern, stabilize scent output, and ground sensory overload.”

Fern traced the cover. The mana inside the book pulsed faintly, steady and strong. “How much?”

“Twenty silver.”

She paid quickly and tucked the book into her satchel beside the herb bottle. Two paths to control: one human, one magical. She would use both if she had to.

But before she could slip away, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Fern!”

Her stomach dropped.

Stark waved from across the lane, a bright grin on his face and a basket of pastries balanced on his arm. Sein followed him, holding two drinks, looking as calm and perceptive as ever.

“Didn’t know you were out,” Stark said when he reached her. “You okay? You look kinda… red.”

Fern forced a thin smile. “It’s just warm.”

“You’re sweating,” Stark pointed out.

Sein offered her a drink. “Hot tea in the morning, errands at noon. You’re making yourself sick.”

“I’m fine,” Fern said quickly.

Stark leaned closer. “You sure? You’re holding that bottle like it owes you money.”

Fern drew a careful breath. “It’s medicine.”

“For what?”

She hesitated. “For me.”

Stark blinked. “Oh. Like a cold?”

“No,” Fern said, too fast. “Just something for the heat.”

He frowned. “You mean the weather?”

Sein’s mouth twitched into something dangerously close to a smirk. “That’s not what she meant.”

Fern shot him a look that promised retribution. “I’ll be fine. Tell Frieren I’ll be home soon.”

“You sure you don’t need help carrying anything?” Stark asked, still full of honest concern.

“I’m sure.”

She turned and slipped back into the crowd before either of them could follow.

Behind her, Stark watched, puzzled. “She’s acting weird, right?”

Sein took a slow sip of his drink. “Weird, yes. Unexpected, no.”

“What do you think’s going on?”

Sein’s tone was almost amused. “Just your usual pre-heat crisis. Apprentice down bad, master oblivious, emotional stability somewhere in the distance.”

Stark blinked. “That’s… really specific.”

Sein nodded. “Experience.”

Fern heard none of it.

By the time she reached the end of the lane, her hands were shaking. The bottle knocked against the side of her satchel with every step.

She returned to the cottage late in the afternoon. The air inside felt cooler, shadows stretching long across the floor.

Frieren looked up from the table when Fern stepped through the door.

“You were gone for a while,” she said. “Did you find what you needed?”

“I did,” Fern answered. Her voice was steady, though her pulse was not.

Frieren studied her for a moment, golden eyes soft and unreadable. “Good. I’m glad.”

Her words were simple. Her tone gentle. But it was enough to make Fern’s chest ache.

Because the worry was still there.

And Fern wanted it to mean something else.

She set her satchel down, smiled faintly, and said, “I’m going to rest for a bit.”

Frieren nodded, already turning back to her book. “All right. Don’t forget to drink your tea.”

Fern’s smile faded as she walked to her room. She reached into her bag and touched the bottle, then the grimoire beside it. Both pulsed faintly with promise.

This time, she would need more than tea.

When evening fell, the cottage had grown quiet again. The noise from the square faded to a hum beneath the windows.

Fern stood in her room, the small bottle and blue grimoire laid side by side on her desk. The air was cool, touched by night wind. She could still hear Frieren moving about in the next room, the low rustle of pages, the sound of a cup being set down, the steady rhythm of her breath that carried faintly through the wall.

Fern stared at the two items for a long time. The potion glowed faintly in its wax seal. The grimoire’s mana pulse was calm and steady, the kind of magic that asked for trust.

She had always taken her suppressant tea when they traveled. It was habit. Routine. Something for her body to stay even while moving through different climates, towns, and inns. She had never needed anything stronger. Not until now.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the bottle. She thought about Frieren’s eyes that morning, the worry that softened them, the quiet voice that asked if she had been ill. Fern had wanted that concern to mean something else, had let herself imagine, for one dangerous heartbeat, that it did.

But it hadn’t. It never would.

So she broke the wax, tipped the potion back, and swallowed.

It burned all the way down.

For a moment, nothing changed. Then it did.

The potion worked.

Too well.

The shift came slowly, like fog sinking over water. A layer seemed to drop over her senses. Her skin stopped tingling. The low, constant ache between her thighs went silent. The pulse that had lived just under her ribs quieted until she could not feel it at all. Her body settled into an uncanny stillness.

She could still think. Still move. Still smile. But something deep inside had dimmed.

And the strangest part was that everything else went back to normal.

When she finally stepped out into the main room, Frieren was sitting at the table with her book open, a candle burning low beside her. She looked up.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

Fern nodded. “Much better.”

Frieren studied her a moment longer, then closed the book. “Good. I was thinking of running through some spells in the garden before dinner. Come with me?”

“Yes,” Fern said, her voice even.

They went outside together. The garden was half-shadowed by twilight, rows of herbs whispering in the breeze.

They began their routine, slow and practiced. Defensive barriers first, then mid-range projectile spells, then a few Zoltraak drills to maintain speed.

Frieren corrected her stance once, her hand brushing Fern’s shoulder.

Fern didn’t flinch. She didn’t feel the warmth of that touch. She didn’t feel the flutter in her chest that usually followed. She didn’t feel the pressure of wanting to turn and say something she could never say.

She just absorbed it and carried on.

By the time they finished, the sky had turned violet. The boys returned from the village just as the first stars appeared.

Stark smelled like bread and dirt, talking too loudly about chasing chickens for an elderly Omega who swore they were cursed. Sein followed behind him with a bottle of wine and two gossip scrolls from the inn, the picture of quiet amusement.

Frieren made tea. Fern helped with the dishes. There was laughter, and for a while, the cottage felt whole again.

The candles flickered softly. The night wind moved through the open garden doors.

Fern sat at the table, perfectly composed. Her body was still. Her scent was flat.

Frieren noticed.

Not outright. Not aloud. But she watched. Her gaze flicked across the table again and again, lingering too long each time. Her expression was calm, but there was a thread of quiet calculation there, an unspoken question she had not yet decided how to ask.

Fern felt it and turned away, smiling faintly.

She wanted to reach across the table and say, It’s me. I broke something in myself so I wouldn’t break in front of you.

But she didn’t.

She smiled, finished her tea, and asked if they could review healing spells tomorrow.

Frieren agreed, still watching her as she rose to clear the cups.

Later, in her own room, Fern lay still. The suppressant still held. She didn’t ache. She didn’t pulse. She didn’t dream.

Through the thin wall, she could hear Frieren moving again, the soft rustle of a page turning, a faint yawn, the click of a light being dimmed. Then only the quiet rhythm of her breathing.

Fern stared at the ceiling, wide awake.

The night stretched long. The air was cool.

And in that stillness, something small and silent inside her waited for the moment it could start feeling again.

Chapter Text

Fern didn’t stir when the bed dipped.

She didn’t open her eyes when the cool press of skin brushed her back or when bare limbs slid across the blankets and tangled gently with her own.

It had happened before, but she hadn’t expected Frieren to find her way into her room this time.

Frieren was a wild sleeper, like a toddler with too much mana. When the moon was full, or the air too heavy, or when the sky was blue, she’d toss and roll until the blankets gave up entirely. Sometimes she drifted out of her own bed altogether and ended up somewhere else.

And more than once, that somewhere else was Fern.

The first time it happened, Fern had woken with a heart attack and a lap full of ancient elf. The second time, she’d only panicked halfway. The third time, she sighed, adjusted the blankets, and went back to sleep.

Now it was practically seasonal.

But this time was different.

Because Fern had taken a suppressant hours earlier. Her instincts were flat. Her blood, quiet. Her body, dull.

She felt nothing.

Which was why, when Frieren’s thigh slid across her own and her arm curled around her waist, Fern only blinked once in the dark and said, “You’re in my bed again.”

Frieren made a soft sound against her shoulder, something between a sigh and a hum. “Too warm in mine.”

“You’re always too warm.”

“Mm.”

A pause. Fern lay perfectly still.

“…You’re not wearing pants.”

“No.”

“Frieren.”

“I was hot.”

Fern stared at the ceiling.

“You’re going to get pushed out again.”

“I’ll risk it.”

A beat. Then Fern reached behind her and shoved.

Not hard. Not angry. Just practiced, one leg braced as she rolled her master clean off the edge.

There was a muffled thud and a long exhale.

Fern turned on her side. “Blankets are mine this time.”

Frieren, sprawled half on a throw pillow, blinked at the ceiling. “You’re colder than usual,” she murmured, then pushed herself up and wandered, half-asleep, back to her own room.

In the morning, they didn’t speak of it.

Fern made breakfast. Frieren read a spellbook upside down for ten minutes before realizing it. Her hair was a mess.

She looked at Fern once, briefly, with a soft, puzzled frown.

And Fern felt nothing.

She told herself that was good.

But when Frieren’s hand brushed hers while passing the tea and nothing fluttered, nothing tightened, nothing pulled, she wondered if maybe she had taken too much.

The afternoon sun poured over the garden like golden syrup. The stone walls of the cottage radiated warmth. Bees drifted lazily between flowers. Magic shimmered faintly in the air, calm and alive.

Fern knelt in the dirt, reweaving a warding spell through the garden bed, chalk-dusted, sleeves rolled high. Her movements were fluid, precise, and efficient.

The suppressant was working.

No fire. No ache. Only focus.

Her body was calm. Her magic was sharp.

And that was when she felt it.

Someone was watching her.

She looked up.

Frieren stood a few paces away beneath the shade of a tree, sleeves pushed up, hair pulled messily from her face. Her book was open but unread. Her eyes were on Fern.

Not glancing. Not idle. Watching.

Fern blinked. “Is something wrong?”

Frieren didn’t look away. Her eyes were slow, heavy-lidded. “No.”

Fern dusted off her hands. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

A small silence. Then Frieren tilted her head. “You’ve been quiet today.”

“I feel better.”

“That’s good.”

She said it softly, like she wasn’t convinced.

Fern stood, brushing the dirt from her knees, and finally saw it: the faint sheen along Frieren’s collarbone, the way the fabric of her tunic clung to her ribs. She had loosened the tie at her waist. A trickle of sweat slid down the hollow of her throat.

“How long have you been out here?” Fern asked.

Frieren blinked once. “I don’t know.”

“You’re too warm.”

Frieren looked down at her hands, the book long since closed. “Maybe.”

“You should go inside.”

A pause. Then, softly, “Maybe later.”

“You’re not usually like this.”

Frieren said nothing.

She only blinked again, slow, as if thinking through water, then turned and walked toward the porch, shoulders loose, hand lifting once to swipe at the sweat on her neck.

Fern stayed where she was. Her heartbeat was even. Her mind, clear.

But something low in her chest began to hum. Barely a ripple.

She looked down at the flowers again, at the shimmer of mana that glowed through the petals, then up toward the faint trace of scent Frieren had left behind.

Not strong. Not deliberate.

Just the barest edge of something ancient, powerful, and beginning to warm.

The sun had only just dropped below the horizon when Frieren stood at the edge of the bath.

Steam hung in the air, curling toward the rafters. The water was charmed to stay cool on hot days, but when she stepped in, it still felt too warm.

She sank slowly, pale skin gleaming under the candlelight, and let the water lap up her thighs, her stomach, her chest.

Her exhale rippled the surface.

Still too warm.

Her body felt heavy, her skin oversensitive. The thin shirt she had worn earlier had clung to her all afternoon. Even now, the memory of heat lingered against her.

It was nothing, she told herself. Probably just the weather. Maybe her mana fluctuating from training.

And yet she could not stop thinking.

She had been distracted all day. Her book unread, her tea left cold.

And Fern.

She could not stop looking at Fern.

The quiet way she moved. The sharp pulse of her mana again. The clean line of her throat when she drank from her cup.

Frieren shut her eyes.

It was just the temperature. Nothing more.

Her body needed cooling down.

That was all.

Across the cottage, Fern brushed out her hair in the dim lamplight, robe tied loosely at her waist.

She had meditated earlier twenty minutes of perfect stillness. Not forced, not fought for, just quiet.

The suppressant still held.

She was herself again.

Even when she had passed Frieren in the hall, her body stayed calm. The Alpha’s scent had been faint, sweet, familiar, but it no longer unsettled her.

Still, she noticed things.

Frieren was not reading. Frieren had stared too long. Her skin flushed. Her hair tied up, which she only did when overheated.

Fern was not stupid.

Something was changing.

She turned down the bedcovers and opened the window. Night air brushed her face.

She told herself she felt fine, balanced, steady. But deep down, she wondered how much longer Frieren could keep hers.

Back in the bath, Frieren reached for a cloth and ran it over her arm.

Her skin jumped under the touch.

She frowned, then trailed the cloth over her collarbone, her throat, slower this time, trying to steady her breath.

Her pulse was faster now. She hadn’t even noticed.

She sank lower into the water, eyes half-closed, trying to let the cool surface calm her.

It’s just the heat, she told herself again.

But her body, flushed and trembling under candlelight, was no longer convinced.

Chapter Text

The market was already alive by midmorning.

Bells jingled, merchants called out in singsong voices, and the scent of warm bread, peaches, and lavender spells drifted through the air. Fern moved through the crowd with her usual quiet precision, the hem of her robe brushing the cobblestones, the breeze tugging gently at her hair.

She wasn’t in a rush.
But she had a purpose.

The suppressant had worked. She felt steady now calm, balanced, clear-headed. Her pulse was even. Her magic precise. She could breathe again without thinking about it.

Even so, she stopped at the apothecary stall to buy more.

It was practical. Responsible. Just a precaution.

She stepped up to the shaded counter, nodding to the merchant who already recognized her from the last visit. The man reached beneath the table for the small wax-wrapped bottles before she even asked. Fern passed him the coins, but before he could seal them away, a familiar ripple of mana brushed her senses.

Frieren.

Fern didn’t have to turn around to know. The temperature seemed to change slightly. The background chatter dimmed.

She looked over her shoulder.

Frieren stood a few paces behind her, sleeves loose, hands tucked calmly into them, her posture the picture of composure except for her eyes. They weren’t on the bottles. They were on Fern.

The elf blinked slowly, her pupils dilated, the faintest sheen of sweat gathering along her collarbone.

“Did you need something?” Fern asked quietly.

Frieren hesitated. “No. I was just walking with you.”

Fern watched her for a moment longer, the sunlight catching in Frieren’s hair. Then she nodded. “Alright.”

She tucked the bottles away in her satchel, thanked the merchant, and turned toward the main street again.

Frieren fell into step beside her.

They walked through the village, past stalls of spices and thread, past the fountain where children were chasing bubbles cast by bored apprentices. Frieren didn’t say anything. She stayed close. Not touching, but near enough that Fern could feel the faint brush of her mana every few steps.

When they reached the baker’s corner, Frieren reached for the same loaf Fern had already chosen. Their fingers touched. The contact was brief, harmless, nothing...but Fern saw it: that fraction of a pause, the way Frieren’s breath caught just before she smiled politely and stepped back.

They walked the rest of the way home in silence.

By the time they reached the cottage, the air was thick with summer. Fern unpacked quietly, storing herbs and paper bundles in their places. Frieren moved slower than usual, her hair slipping loose again and again no matter how she tied it. She had taken off her outer robe entirely.

“Are you feeling alright?” Fern asked as she passed her a cup of water.

Frieren nodded. “Just hot.”

“You were fine this morning.”

“I was distracted.”

“By what?”

Frieren looked at her then, eyes heavy-lidded. “Work.”

Fern didn’t press.

She just nodded and finished sorting the supplies, though she could feel Frieren’s gaze linger on her longer than it should.

By afternoon, they had settled into the rhythm of chores.

Stark and Sein were in the village helping repair a collapsed fence near the mill. Fern took laundry to the line and reset the garden ward, her movements smooth and practiced. Frieren followed with a broom, sweeping idly, occasionally glancing up as if making sure Fern was still there.

“Could you hand me the mana infused thread?” Fern asked without looking back.

Frieren stepped close closer than necessary. Her fingers brushed Fern’s as she passed it over.

Fern’s heart didn’t move. Not even a flutter.

She tied the last knot, stood, and met Frieren’s gaze head-on. “You should rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re flushed.”

Frieren looked down at her hands, as though realizing she was still holding the broom. “Maybe.”

Her voice was quiet. Uneven.

Fern tilted her head. “You’ve been sweating since the market.”

Frieren’s mouth curved faintly. “So have you.”

“I’m not the one wearing three layers.”

That earned her a faint laugh dry, breathy, almost fond.

Frieren turned, set the broom aside, and leaned against the doorframe. “You’re very calm today.”

“The potion works.”

Frieren nodded once. “That’s good.”

But she said it like she didn’t think it was.

Later, Fern sat on the back steps, her sleeves rolled up, a cooling charm turning slowly in her palm. The air was soft, golden, thick with the smell of cut grass.

Frieren sat behind her, half in the shade, her knees drawn up, a book in her lap she wasn’t reading. Her shoulder brushed Fern’s once when she adjusted her position. Neither of them spoke.

It wasn’t uncomfortable.
It wasn’t peaceful either.

Just… close.

That night, the lanterns were dimmed one by one.

The cottage grew quiet. Crickets hummed in the garden. The boards creaked as the day’s heat lifted from them.

In her room, Fern changed into her nightclothes, washed her face, and lined the small bottles of suppressant neatly on the table by the bed. Habit. Comfort. She uncorked one, took a measured sip, and grimaced at the bitter taste.

Then she blew out the candle and lay back, staring at the ceiling until her eyes adjusted to the dark.

She heard Frieren moving through the hall the light scrape of a door closing, then another opening, the soft sound of bare feet on the wood.

A few minutes later, she heard her settle.

In her own bed.

For the first time in years.

Fern smiled faintly. It was strange, this space between them. She liked having her own room, the quiet, the privacy. But she could tell Frieren didn’t. The elf had never said it, but Fern could feel the uncertainty when their doors shut at night.

She closed her eyes and let sleep find her.

Across the hall, Frieren lay awake.

The sheets were cool, the air even cooler, and yet she couldn’t settle. She shifted once, twice, adjusting her pillow. She was not used to being alone. The silence pressed in like water.

Her eyes traced the faint glow of mana through the wooden frame of the door across the corridor. Fern’s mana. Controlled. Still.

She turned over. Tried to sleep. Failed.

Something in her chest ached in a quiet, unfamiliar way.

It wasn’t heat this time. Not exactly.

Just absence.

The space between rooms felt like a canyon.

And Frieren, who had walked continents without loneliness, lay there awake, wishing the cottage were small again.

Chapter Text

Fern woke rested. Her body was calm. Suppressed. Clear. Her thoughts were steady, her mana smooth as silk. It was going to be a good day.

She dressed quietly, tying her robe as she stepped into the hall. The scent of tea met her before she even reached the kitchen fresh, strong, spiced just how she liked it.

And Frieren was already there.

For a moment, Fern just stood in the doorway, blinking. It wasn’t often she found her master awake before her. Usually, she was the one coaxing Frieren out of bed, half asleep and draped in blankets like a cat refusing to move.

But now, Frieren was standing at the counter, hair a wild. Her nightshirt hung loose and wrinkled, her cheeks faintly flushed from the morning heat-or something else Fern couldn’t place.

She looked happy. Genuinely happy.

“Good morning,” Frieren said brightly, turning with two cups of tea in hand.

Fern blinked again. “You’re up early.”

“I wanted to see you before the others woke,” Frieren said, offering a cup with both hands. Her fingers brushed Fern’s deliberately as she passed it over.

Fern took it, smiled faintly, and sipped. The tea was perfect. Of course it was. “You’re in a good mood,” she said.

Frieren tilted her head. “Is that strange?”

“No. Just… sudden.”

Frieren’s smile softened, small but real. She stepped closer…closer than necessary and leaned lightly against the counter beside Fern. Their arms touched.

“The breeze felt nice this morning,” Frieren said, as if that explained everything.

She couldn’t help looking at the elf’s skin, rosy and warm looking already. Fern’s eyes narrowed. “You’re sweating.”

“It’s warm.”

“Did you sleep?”

“I watched the stars.”

“You’re touchy.”

Frieren blinked, as though the observation genuinely surprised her. Then she reached up, brushing a loose strand of Fern’s hair back behind her ear.

“You were shedding,” she murmured, voice low, almost teasing. “It was distracting.”

Fern froze, her breath catching just enough to notice it. Frieren’s fingers lingered at her temple, gentle and too deliberate, before they finally fell away.

Fern set her cup down carefully. “Are you alright?”

Frieren’s eyes softened. “I’m fine.”

“You’re flushed.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Frieren smiled again, faint and slow, a curve that felt too intimate for morning light.

“Maybe I’m just happy to see you.”

Fern frowned, “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

Frieren paused mid-sip, looking over the rim of her cup with innocent calm. “I rested.”

“That’s not sleeping.”

“I meditated.”

“Which is not sleeping.”

Frieren’s lips twitched with a pout. “You’re scolding me.”

“Someone has to,” Fern said, tying her robe tighter as she crossed to the counter. “You’re worse than Stark.”

Frieren’s eyes followed her, that same quiet smile flickering as Fern opened the pantry and began setting out ingredients.

“I’ll make breakfast,” Fern muttered, already pulling down a jar of preserves. “You’ll stay still.”

Frieren obediently sat, folding her legs neatly under the table. “You don’t have to.”

“I do,” Fern said. “You made tea.”

“Because I like when you drink it,” Frieren said, soft but unguarded, “It’s the one thing I know I can make you that you like.”

Fern’s hands stilled for half a second before she went back to slicing fruit. “Then eat something with it.”

They sat together at the table, breakfast half-finished between them.

Fern tried to eat. Frieren picked at her fruit and stared at her like she was something soft and precious and edible.

Fern noticed everything.

Frieren’s scent was sharper than yesterday, faint but cutting through the morning air like citrus through cream. Her legs brushed Fern’s under the table. Her fingers lingered when she passed the jam.

And her eyes kept drifting down to Fern’s lips, her collarbone, her hands.

“Are you sure you’re, okay?” Fern asked, “Maybe Sein can help.”

Frieren blinked, the question pulling her back. “I’m fine.”

“You’re still flushed.”

“It’s summer.”

“It’s not that warm yet.”

Frieren’s lips curved. “You worry too much.”

“You make it easy Mistress.”

Frieren laughed quietly, the sound low and almost melodic.

Chapter Text

Outside, in the garden, Frieren walked beside Fern with an air of loose, drowsy affection. The morning was bright, the air humming with heat, and bees circled lazily through the lavender stalks.

Fern stooped to check a barrier line along the soil. Frieren followed close behind, her shadow folding neatly over Fern’s back.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Fern asked again.

Frieren reached out, catching the edge of Fern’s sleeve between two fingers. Her touch was light, her voice lighter still. “I’m perfect.”

They walked for a while, checking the town’s defensive barriers, though there was little to correct. Fern realized how much she missed this. Time spent just walking beside her master. She watched the elf pause to smell flowers, to brush her fingers through grass, to linger over the soft shimmer of spells woven into the air. The sweet trace of her scent drifted with the breeze, and Fern inhaled deeply. She smelled the same, but not quite the same at all.

“Mistress, may I ask a question?”

“Of course.” Frieren smiled, and Fern thought she loved these moments best.

“If I’m not asking too much…what was Flamme?”

“A mage?”

“In a more biological sense.”

Frieren nodded slowly. “I see.” Fern could tell she understood the subtext. “She was a human woman.” Frieren sighed, her scent turning faintly sweet for a moment, enough to make Fern think nothing could possibly be wrong. “I should go back to reading your history tomes with you.”

Fern laughed. “Oh, Mistress, I meant was she an omega?”

That question slipped out before Fern could stop herself. It felt foolish, but the curiosity burned in her anyway. Frieren looked up sharply, then softened.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Flamme was an omega.” She studied Fern. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m curious.”

“Curiosity is good.” Frieren’s tone warmed, "Serie is an alpha.”

Fern blinked. “Huh?”

“From Flamme’s notes. She wrote that Serie was testy sometimes, and I'd smelled it on her when we last spoke.”

“Where are those notes?” She didn't want think about Frieren smelling  Serie, that made her head spin. 

“Oh, now the history tomes interest you.” Frieren smiled. “Serie has them. Flamme had this whole plan to bring the elves back, and Serie took it. She called it... explicitly freaky...her words, not mine. Harsh for spells and research.”

“Explicitly freaky.” Fern echoed the phrase, amused.

“Don’t worry about it. She was wrong about some things.”

“Like what?”

“She said all elves are alphas. She wrote about it like it was some late biological adaptation, an evolutionary trait. Out of the ones she knew, all were alphas.”

“All elves are alphas?”

“She’s wrong.”

“Kraft was an alpha,” Fern countered.

“He’s a man-like what, fifty percent of human men are alphas?”

“He’s an elf.”

“That’s one.”

“Serie is an alpha.”

Frieren nodded thoughtfully. “It explains her love of violence and her constant need to find ‘students.’”

“Mistress, you’re younger than them.”

“Fern, you have nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried.” She glanced at Frieren and caught something in her eyes-hungry, for just a fraction of a second. “I just want you to be taken care of properly. You don’t seem well today.”

Frieren laughed, the sound bright as bells in the wind. Fern could have listened to it forever. Then Frieren leaned forward and rested her forehead briefly against Fern’s shoulder.

“I feel good around you.”

Fern froze. Her heart thumped once, a sharp, startled beat in her chest. The suppressant still held. Her body didn’t react, but her mind whispered, This feels so nice.

The afternoon came soft and heavy.

Frieren appeared beside her with a tray a plate of sliced peaches, chilled pears, and a small cup of juice charmed cool to the touch. Fern looked up from the book she had been reading.

“You didn’t eat much earlier,” Frieren said, her voice gentler than usual.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

Frieren set the tray down and crouched beside her cushion. She picked up a slice of peach and held it out between two fingers. “Try it,” she murmured.

Fern hesitated, then leaned forward and took the fruit. It was cold and sweet and perfect.

Frieren smiled at her like she’d done something meaningful, something tender, something that carried more weight than either of them dared to admit.

The sunroom was warm and quiet. One of the outer doors stood open, letting a slow breeze drift through. The soft creak of branches and the hum of bees filled the air like background magic.

Fern had come here to read. To think. To stay calm. The suppressant herbs still pulsed steadily in her blood—she could feel their even rhythm under her skin, the muted calm of her mana. It was working. It had to be.

And yet her thoughts wouldn’t stop. Every breath felt sharper than it should, every sound too clear, every flicker of movement impossible to ignore. Her mind was alert in a way her body wasn’t supposed to be.

Then Frieren walked in.

She flopped down beside Fern, stretching long and loose like a sleepy cat. Her shirt hung off one shoulder, her hair unraveling from its knot, her scent thick with warmth and that same dreamy, rich edge.

“You’re going to fall asleep here,” Fern said, keeping her eyes on her book.

Frieren hummed lazily. “I might.”

“Your bed’s a few feet away.”

“But you’re here.”

Fern’s fingers tightened on the page. Her throat went dry. “That’s not a reason.”

Frieren smiled, slow and drowsy, then laid her head in Fern’s lap without asking.

Fern froze. It should have been awkward. It should have set something off. But the suppressant still held, dulling everything below the surface. Her body was calm. Her pulse steady.

Her mind, though, was chaos.

She could feel the weight of Frieren’s head against her thighs, the soft slide of her hair across the fabric of her skirt, the slow rise and fall of her breathing. She smelled like clean linen and sun-warmed skin and something deeper something old and familiar that Fern couldn’t name without blushing.

She stayed like that, fingers twitching once before resting gently in Frieren’s hair. She brushed through it once. Just once.

Frieren sighed softly, a sound like satisfaction, and nuzzled closer.

The movement made Fern’s stomach tighten. Her breath caught, just for a moment. The suppressant dulled the heat in her body, but not the storm in her thoughts.

She told herself it was fine. That this was normal. That Frieren was just tired. That it didn’t mean anything.

But her chest ached anyway. Not from heat. From how good it felt. How right. How dangerous.

They stayed like that for a long time no words, just the weight of Frieren in her lap, the clink of melting ice beside them, and the hum of the world continuing outside.

When Frieren finally stirred, her voice was thick with sleep. “You smell so nice like this.”

Fern’s throat closed. She didn’t answer. She was afraid if she spoke, something inside her might give way.

Chapter Text

They went to bed early.

Dinner had been simple: vegetable stew, fresh bread, a pot of tea that stayed warm between them. Nothing special, nothing heavy. Just the sort of meal they always shared on work days.

Except Frieren spent the whole evening close.

Too close.

She stood beside Fern at the stove instead of across the room. She passed utensils hand to hand when she didn’t need to. She lingered at Fern’s shoulder while they ate, her knee brushing Fern’s under the table as if by accident, though it never moved away.

Fern noticed all of it.

Frieren pretended she didn’t.

When the meal was over, Fern washed the dishes and Frieren dried them, slow and careful, her arm brushing Fern’s back every time she reached for a plate. Her eyes were soft, heavy with something she didn’t speak. She stayed near Fern until the very last moment, hovering in the doorway like she wasn’t quite willing to say goodnight.

But she did.

A small nod. A faint smile. A gentle “sleep well” that trembled almost imperceptibly at the end.

Then they separated.

Stark was already snoring.
Sein had shut his door.
Fern whispered “goodnight” and disappeared into her room across the hall.

And Frieren stood there for a heartbeat longer, pretending she didn’t feel the pull in her chest, pretending the distance didn’t sting, before quietly retreating into her own room and closing the door.

She lay in the dark, hair sticking to her temple, shirt clinging to her chest, one leg kicked out from under the blanket. Her body buzzed, restless, as though something wild was pacing beneath her skin.

When sleep finally found her, it didn’t come all at once.

It started like memory, soft, slow, familiar.

A bed too warm. Breath against her collarbone. Fingers brushing her hip.

Then a voice.

“Let me, Master.”

At first, she didn’t recognize it. Not as Fern’s. Not until she felt her: light, solid, real, the scent of her skin like clean air after rain.

It was Fern.
In her lap.
One leg bent beside her, hands resting on her shoulders, bare and radiant in the dim dreamlight, smiling as though she already knew what Frieren was afraid to name.

“I don’t,” Frieren tried to speak. “This isn’t right.”

But Fern kissed her.

Gently. Deeply.

Hands slid into her hair. The pressure of a body against hers, warm, yielding, impossibly close.

Frieren’s breath hitched. She wanted to stop it. She should have stopped it. But the sound that left her wasn’t protest.

“Fern.”

Fern’s fingers moved to her cheek, thumb tracing her jaw, guiding her like a student who had forgotten the lesson.

“It’s alright,” Fern whispered. “Just breathe.”

Frieren obeyed.

Her thoughts blurred. Her body felt heavy, wrong, electric. When Fern’s hips rolled forward, slow and sure, Frieren felt the friction, felt herself inside something hot, slick, alive.

The shock ripped through her. She gasped, mind fracturing between disbelief and hunger.

It was impossible. She had never felt this before. Not like this.

Not as the one taking.

Her hands tightened on Fern’s thighs, desperate, unsure whether she meant to hold or pull away.

“You needed this,” Fern murmured, voice like a spell. “I want it.”

Frieren shuddered.

The world went white around the edges.

And then she woke biting her lip, shaking, drenched in sweat. Her pulse hammered in her throat. Her body ached, trembling under the sheets, heat pooling low in her belly in a way that felt both alien and familiar.

For a long time she didn’t move.

The room was dark and still.
Only the faint sound of Fern’s breathing drifted through the wall, steady and peaceful and far away.

That distance felt unbearable now.

Frieren sat up, the blanket sliding down her chest. Her nightshirt clung damp to her skin. She pressed both hands to her face, heart stumbling as the remnants of the dream replayed in hot, mortifying flashes.

The weight. The sound. The need.

None of it should have been hers.

Inside her. 

She was a beta. Always had been. Always would be.
Elves did not change.
Her mind repeated the words like a spell she had forgotten the ending to, but her body refused to believe any of it.

Her thighs still trembled. Her pulse still raced. Her skin still burned with the ghost of Fern’s touch, which she had absolutely never felt in real life and absolutely should not be able to imagine that clearly.

Panic rose sharp and cold in her chest.

The door to her room was already closed, thank the Goddess. If Fern had come in just then, Frieren would have thrown herself out the window purely out of self-defense.

She let out a shaking breath and sagged back against the wall, trying to steady herself.

Fern’s scent lingered faintly in the air, soft and unmistakable, familiar enough to make her toes curl.

Frieren breathed it in once before she could stop herself. That single inhalation felt dangerous.

And in that breath, terrifying and sweet, she realized she didn’t just want the closeness she missed.

Maybe...She wanted her....Fern.

The thought made her knees weaken. She dropped back onto the bed, flopping face-first into the pillow with a muffled groan.

“I do not have a spell that stops sexy nightmares,” she whispered into the mattress.

Then she dragged the blanket over her head and stayed there, wishing very sincerely that unconsciousness were a spell she could cast on herself.

Chapter Text

The village was already awake by sunrise. Fern heard it through the window before she even sat up: distant laughter, clattering pots, and the thump of crates being moved for the festival stalls.

Sein and Stark were already gone.

They had slipped out before dawn to help with the real work of the morning. Stark had been recruited by the elders to haul festival tables, stack crates, and lift anything too heavy for three people to move on their own. Fern had heard him in the hallway, trying to tiptoe while somehow still clattering like a dropped suit of armor.

Sein had left with him, quieter, heading toward the shrine at the edge of the village. Some of the priests had weaker spellwork and needed help with basic medical charms like easing joint stiffness and treating heat exhaustion. Sein had been muttering softly about gauze and cooling salves as he slipped out the door, already in healer mode.

By sunrise, both of them were long gone. The only person still in bed was Frieren.

Fern tied her robe, stepped into the hall, and paused at her mistress’s door.

Frieren was almost always the last one awake. She slept deeply, drifted slowly into mornings, and never rushed unless she absolutely had to. It was normal to find her still in bed long after the others were gone.

But today, Fern hesitated anyway.

She pushed the door open a crack.

Frieren was curled up on top of her blanket, hair mussed, one arm half-dangling off the bed. Her nightshirt had twisted around her torso like she had been fighting it in her sleep. Her cheek was pressed into the pillow, a soft pout on her lips.

She looked exhausted.

And warm.

Too warm.

“Mistress,” Fern whispered. “It is morning.”

Frieren did not move.

Fern stepped inside.

“Mistress.”

A soft groan slipped out of Frieren, barely more than a breath. She shifted, burying her face deeper into the pillow.

Fern tried again, leaning close. “We are supposed to help with the festival.”

Another muffled sound.
Almost a complaint.

Fern swallowed, then placed a gentle hand on Frieren’s shoulder.

The elf twitched, then stilled, sinking into the touch like she had been waiting for it.

Her voice came out low and rough with sleep.

“Five more minutes.”

Fern’s breath caught.

Frieren never asked for more minutes.

“You will miss breakfast,” Fern said, trying to steady her voice.

Frieren made a quiet noise that might have been disagreement, or surrender. Hard to tell.

Fern squeezed her shoulder softly.

“Mistress. Please.”

At that, Frieren blinked awake. Slowly.

Her golden eyes were unfocused, her lashes heavy, her expression soft in a way Fern almost never saw.

“…Fern?” she whispered.

“Yes. It is morning.”

Frieren exhaled, long and warm, then pushed herself upright with noticeable effort. Her hair fell in a pale tangle over her shoulders.

She rubbed her eyes like someone much younger.
“I slept badly.”

Fern did not say anything. She did not need to.

Frieren’s body language said enough. Drained. Overheated. Unsettled.

But when Frieren looked up at her, something in her eyes softened further. A quiet relief.

“You woke me,” she murmured, voice still thick. “Good.”

Fern felt warmth bloom under her skin.

“We should go,” she said quickly. “Everyone is already working.”

Frieren nodded, then reached for Fern’s sleeve as she stood. Not hard. Not intentional. Just a tiny, lingering touch Fern felt all the way to her ribs.

She guided her mistress to her feet, steadying her.

Frieren let her.

Outside, the morning was bright and full of noise.

Inside, Fern could not stop hearing her own heartbeat.

It was a work day. Full-body effort. A steady mix of magic and sweat that Fern was used to handling at her mistress’s side.

But the day was good.

Better than good.

Fern was thriving.

The town felt soft around the edges in the morning light, its people kind and cheerful, stopping now and then to offer pastries or fruit or simply a word of thanks. Children darted between stalls carrying ribbons. Priests nodded warmly when Fern walked by. Even the air seemed gentle.

Fern worked spells to clean walkways, sweeping grit and pollen into neat piles with a practiced flick of her wrist. She directed Stark and Sein toward anything that required strength while she focused on sealing spells for vendor stands and reinforcing the support beams of the oldest stall in the market.

When she bent to hammer something, her robe lifted slightly. Nothing indecent, just the smallest rise of fabric as she leaned forward.

Frieren looked.

Too long.

Fern did not notice. She was absorbed in her task, humming under her breath, hair falling forward as she tightened the last wooden peg with a sharp tap of mana.

But Frieren noticed.

Frieren was struggling.

Not with the work, although her arms already glistened with sweat under the morning sun.

Not with the magic either. She had been shining statues all day and making things glow with lazy elegance.

She was struggling with everything else.

The way her shirt clung to her chest.
The way her braids felt too tight and her underclothes too damp.
The way Fern moved.
The way Fern’s scent was faintly sweet. She wanted it thicker.
The memory of Fern’s lap from yesterday.
The dream.
Her dream.

“Mistress?” Fern called across the square.

Frieren blinked, startled.

Fern waved her over to the vegetable stall, where the canopy charm had collapsed.

“I need a stabilizing spell. I know you have a spell for this.”

Frieren nodded and moved quickly. Too quickly.

She held the frame. Fern stepped close. Reached over her shoulder.

Their arms brushed.

Frieren sucked in a breath.

Heat bloomed behind her ribs.

Fern did not notice.

But Frieren did.

Her skin. Her scent. Her voice when she said, “Hold it steady.”

By the time they broke for water, Frieren was flushed and sticky, sitting in the shade behind a stall.

Fern brought her a cup of cool juice without comment.

Frieren’s hand shook when she took it.

And Fern noticed.

She sat beside her. Not too close. Not too far.

She did not say a word.

But the air between them crackled.

And Frieren, sun-warmed, sweat-damp, and full of want she could not name, sat perfectly still.

Because she was not sure she would let go if Fern touched her again.

The sun hung low, and the heat had settled like a second skin.

The work was slowing. Stalls reinforced. Spells checked. Half the cobblestone sweepers resting in the shade with juice and simple sweets.

Frieren was glowing.
Not in her usual ethereal way.

She was flushed.

Cheeks pink. Neck damp. Her jacket had come undone halfway, and her undershirt clung to her sides like wet paper.

She looked miserable.

Fern noticed first when Frieren stopped holding herself up.

She sat down heavily beside her under the wide awning behind the western tents and pressed her forehead to Fern’s shoulder without asking.

“I am hot,” she muttered.

“I know.”

“It is not just the weather,” she added after a moment, voice quieter.

Fern froze for half a second, then reached up calmly and brushed Frieren’s bangs back from her face.

“You are burning up.”

Frieren did not answer.

She simply leaned more of her weight against Fern.

A kindly merchant woman, older and thick-armed and smiling, approached with a pitcher of something cold and sweet-smelling. Berry juice with crushed mint, faintly enchanted to rehydrate quickly. She smelled unmistakably like an Omega, warm and gentle and honey-soft in the air.

She stopped in front of them and looked Fern over first, then Frieren, then back at Fern. Her eyes narrowed as if she were trying to puzzle out exactly what she was seeing. Apprentice and master? Sisters? Something else entirely?

Whatever conclusion she reached, her entire face brightened.

“Goodness, sweetheart, you look like you are about to fall over,” she said to Frieren with warm concern. “Here. Drink this.”

Frieren looked up slowly and blinked.

Then blinked again.

“You smell nice,” she said softly and honestly.

The woman laughed. “Are you always this blunt, dear?”

Fern felt her stomach tighten. It was the same tone Methode used whenever she complimented Frieren, all indulgence and fond amusement.

Frieren took the cup with both hands and sipped carefully. The Omega woman smiled at the two of them like she had just witnessed something precious.

Fern was not sure whether to sink into the ground or gently take the cup away before her mistress said anything else.

Fern stared.

She had not caught Frieren’s scent in days. Not clearly, not beneath the layers of sweat and magic and cooling spells. But now she could smell it again.

Just faintly.

Soft and sharp, like citrus rind crushed under fingertips. Sweetened at the edges. Thicker. Older.

Undeniably Alpha.

And the merchant woman, standing so close, smelled unmistakably like an Omega. Warm. Gentle. Earthy. The kind of scent that invited kindness without effort.

Frieren’s scent rose in response.
Subtle. Instinctive.
Growing stronger by the second.

Fern’s breath caught in her throat.

Something was changing.

“You okay?” Fern asked softly.

Frieren did not lift her head.

“I like the juice.”

“You did not answer the question.”

Frieren did not move for a long moment.

Then whispered, “I think I need to lie down before dinner.”

Fern nodded.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

The room was soft with golden light. The window was open just enough for a breeze, and the only sounds were the distant hum of the village winding down and Frieren’s shallow breaths; slow, uneven, warming the skin above Fern’s thigh.

She had fallen asleep like that.

Sat down, sighed, and melted into Fern’s lap like it was the only place in the world she trusted.

Fern didn’t move.

She barely breathed when she reached for the old book on the side table, careful not to jostle Frieren’s head.

She had tried to prepare part of dinner earlier, but every time she leaned forward Frieren slid deeper into her lap, clinging like a warm, exhausted cat who refused to be shifted. Sein had come into the kitchen, taken one look at the scene, and quietly confiscated the knife from Fern’s hand.

He whispered, "Fern, you cannot chop vegetables like this. You’ll lose a thumb. Move."

"I can help," Fern protested softly.

"Not while holding a feverish elf. Also, you burn porridge," he said, already pulling ingredients toward himself. He nodded toward Frieren, asleep and overheated. "Her scent is too bright for me to cook near anyway. Makes my eyes water."

Fern blinked. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Sein lowered his voice further, glancing toward the doorway. "Smells….ripe. I am saying that politely."

Fern’s pulse jumped. "Should I… make her bathe more? Or something?"

He stared at Frieren again, head tilted. "I do not believe bathing would solve the underlying issue. But I know where to find answers. I have been searching all the bookcases in this house. Someone kept some very interesting volumes."

He lifted a wrapped text from under his arm.

Fern’s breath hitched. "What is this?"

"A little help," Sein said, offering it. "These books are rare. Very rare. I am not even certain this is a copy, but it looks like one. Someone in this house had access to things we would not be trusted to even touch in the capital."

Fern’s stomach flipped. "Why would it be here?"

"Someone highly favors you, perhaps," he said quietly. His expression softened with just a hint of mischief. "Page twelve. But please go read in the parlor. I want to finish dinner without passing out."

Fern stared down at the sleeping elf in her lap. "You really think it was just left here?"

"Yeah, this place has a barrier spell on it too," he smiled, "Haven't felt this safe spelling since home. Plus, In the capital this would be locked in a vault," Sein said. "Someone trusts you." He winked. "Between us."

And then he disappeared back into the kitchen, humming to himself like none of this was strange at all.

Fern exhaled slowly.

Her heartbeat too fast.

She opened the book.

A devotional history of the Goddess written during the early elven settlements. Part theology, part biology, part cultural speculation. Most copies had been burned, lost, or hoarded by scholars who couldn’t decipher half the spells encoded in the margins.

The last time she saw it, it had been locked behind glass in Aubest. She'd been given a tour of the First Class Mage library's more hidden books. 

Now it was resting on her lap.

With Frieren asleep against her.

Fern’s heartbeat caught, surprised by the mix of awe, guilt, and the strange warmth gathering in her chest.

She turned to page twelve.

And read.

She flipped the page.

And read.

On the First Stirring of the Alpha Nature
In the elder days it was known that the children of the Goddess bore within them a seed of higher nature, yet this seed slept long and deep.
Among our kind it may wake not in youth, nor in the turning of early centuries, but only after long wandering and much suppression of the inner mana.
When the stirring comes, it announces itself not with violence, but with subtle windings of the spirit:
A restlessness of the limbs.
A warming of the flesh, as though touched by the sun from within.
A trembling of mana that once lay still.
An unbidden leaning toward one whose presence soothes the soul.
These signs may be faint, easily mistaken. Yet they mark the beginning, the whisper of instinct returning to its rightful shape.

What had Sein given her??

Alpha Ruts: First Manifestation
Typically occurs in high-mana Alphas later in life if suppressed too long or under extreme biological stimulus.
Symptoms include physical agitation, internal temperature imbalance, mana surges, instinctual scenting, and compulsive proximity to compatible Omegas.
Loss of sleep, increased hydration needs, touch-seeking, fixation on mate scent, vocal tone shift.

Fern blinked.

That tracked.

She glanced down at Frieren, who shifted slightly, lips parted, a soft exhale brushing Fern’s inner thigh.

Then turned the page.

Physical Changes, Phase II
Most common:
Cock growth or manifestation,
Knot formation,
Increased stamina and ejaculation volume,
Minor scent distortion,
Faint psychic link inclination toward bonded partners.

Fern froze.

Then read it again.

And again.

Cock growth.
Knotting.
Volume.
"To facilitate breeding."

Her cheeks warmed.

She looked down again.

Frieren’s shirt had slipped open more. She had tried to cool down before collapsing into Fern’s lap, and her collarbone glistened faintly. One hand was fisted in Fern’s robe, breath shallow.

She looked small like this.

But the text was clear in its own strange, reverent way.

Whatever stirred in Frieren was physical, but something old.

Something elves were said to carry quietly, unknowingly, until it rose.

Fern didn’t move.

Her fingers curled slightly in Frieren’s hair.

Her thighs tightened beneath her robe.

This wasn’t dogma.
It wasn’t fact.

But the Goddess’s stories had weight.

And for the first time, Fern wondered if those stories were not distant legends at all.

Maybe this was happening to her mistress.

“Frieren.”

Nothing.

Fern brushed a thumb over the point of her ear. “Come on. You’ll miss dinner.”

Still nothing.

Then a groan, low and lazy.

Frieren shifted deeper into her lap, nuzzling like Fern was a pillow made of clouds. “I’m fine here.”

“You’re drooling.”

Frieren blinked one eye open. “…That’s rude.”

“You still need to eat.”

“I want peaches.”

“You can’t have for dinner.”

Frieren made a soft, pathetic sound.

Fern, who had just spent an hour reading about ruts and knots and instinctive mating drives, felt her stomach tighten.

She reached down, firm but gentle, and tugged her Master up by the hand.

Frieren followed the movement without resistance. Like gravity. Or trust. Or instinct.

They entered the dining room a few minutes later, and Fern guided her gently to a chair.

Frieren sat close.

Too close.

She practically melted against Fern’s side, hair damp at the roots, cheeks pink, and scent buzzing sweet and sharp in the air.

And the others barely noticed.

Stark was half-asleep on his plate.
Literally.

He sat slouched forward, chin nearly dipping into his rice, eyes glassy with exhaustion. But he kept eating, slow and stubborn, as if sheer muscle memory could finish the meal for him. Every now and then his hand drifted sideways instead of up, and he’d poke himself in the cheek with his chopsticks.

Fern watched him blink at his food like it might blink back.

“Stark,” she said gently. “Go to bed.”

He hummed, sleepy and pleased. “But the dumplings are… really good…”

“You can have more tomorrow.”

He nodded, eyes already closing again. “Okay… but make sure no one eats them…”

“Stark.”

“…I’m up.”

He was not.

Fern sighed fondly. She reached out, guiding his bowl away before he knocked it over. He mumbled something that sounded like “thanks, Fern” and drifted toward the hallway like a large, friendly bear trying to remember where its den was.

Across the table, Sein was putting on his boots, humming as he checked the time on a little pocket sundial. He tightened the straps with practiced ease, looking significantly more awake than he had at dawn.

“You’re going out?” Fern asked.

“Of course.” Sein stood, tugging on his coat. “This town has a surprisingly lively gambling scene. Very cultured. Very spirited. Very willing to lose coin to an outsider who knows basic probability.”

He grinned.

Fern shook her head. “Don’t stay out too late.”

He said, “No promises,” already halfway to the door. “Tell Frieren to drink water.”

Then he was gone, swallowed by the noise of the evening crowd gathering outside.

Dinner passed in a blur of quiet touches and soft sounds.

Frieren sat pressed against Fern’s side, barely eating unless Fern nudged a plate closer. Her hand drifted from Fern’s sleeve to her arm, then back again, like she couldn’t decide where to anchor herself. Fern fed her a peach slice at one point. Frieren accepted it with a small, tired hum.

The candles burned low

The room grew warm.

And Frieren leaned into her without hesitation, every small brush of skin sending a soft, electric awareness through Fern’s ribs.

By the time Stark was snoring in his room and Sein had vanished into the nightlife, the cottage had fallen into a deep, gentle quiet.

Only Fern and her overheated, half-dazed mistress remained, pressed close in the dim light like they had somehow become the center of the evening’s gravity.

“…You okay?” Fern whispered.

Frieren nodded.

Then, barely audible, said, “Don’t leave.”

Fern’s pulse rose, heat blooming behind her ribs.

“I won’t.”

Fern helped her undress, like always, guiding her to the edge of the bed, easing the light shirt off her shoulders, brushing her hair down gently. slipping on her night shirt....Once this had been so easy. She was careful. Steady. Detached, if you didn’t know her well.

But her pulse was racing.

And the magic in the room trembled like a held breath.

Frieren fell into the sheets with a soft groan.

Curled. Shifted. Then reached.

“Come here,” she whispered.

Fern stopped at the edge of the bed, fingers tightening around the hem of her nightclothes. Her voice came out softer than she meant. “I’m right here.”

“No.”

Frieren rolled onto her back. One hand lifted toward her.

“Come here.”

Fern climbed into the bed. She barely settled before Frieren pulled her in.

It was instinct.

Frieren wrapped around her like a second blanket, one leg tossed over Fern’s hip, one arm winding around her waist, her face buried into Fern’s collarbone like she needed the scent to sleep.

Fern stiffened.

But she didn’t pull away.

Not even when Frieren murmured, “You feel good,” the words warm against her throat.

Not even when soft fingers curled beneath the edge of her shirt.

She held.

Let Frieren tuck herself in tight.

And she stared at the ceiling, trying not to feel the way her own body responded, deep and slow and needy beneath layers of suppressant-steady control.

The moon moved in the sky.

The small clock on the dresser ticked softly.

And in the deepest part of the night, Frieren whispered, half-asleep:

“I want to stay like this all summer.”

Fern closed her eyes.

And let herself believe she could survive that.

Chapter Text

The first thing Fern felt was warmth.

Then pressure.

Then fingers beneath her shirt.

She blinked, groggy, one hand lifting on instinct to rub her face. She stopped short when she realized Frieren was on top of her.

Not beside her.

Not near her.

On her.

The elf’s body was pressed close, one leg fitted between Fern’s thighs, an arm hooked around her waist, and her face buried in Fern’s neck. Her breath was hot and uneven.

And her scent, gods, her scent, was everywhere.

Sharp citrus softened by heat. Honeyed spice and forest air. It clung to Fern’s skin and sank into her chest. It rolled down her spine and made her whole body light.

The suppressant had worn off.

Fern felt everything.

“Frieren.” Her voice cracked.

The elf didn’t stir.

She only pressed closer. Fingers tightened at Fern’s lower back. Her thigh slid higher with slow, instinctive need.

Fern swallowed hard. “Frieren.”

There was a pause, then a whisper.

“You smell so good.”

Her voice was hoarse. Sleepy, but thick with hunger.

“I can’t stop smelling you,” Frieren murmured. Her lips brushed Fern’s pulse. “You’re everywhere.”

Fern lifted a hand and placed it gently on Frieren’s shoulder.

“Master, stop.”

“I don’t want to.”

There was no hesitation in her tone. No embarrassment. Just truth, soft and unguarded, spoken directly into Fern’s collarbone.

Frieren’s hands drifted lower.

Fern caught her wrist. “Wait.”

Frieren finally went still.

They stayed like that in silence. Their breaths tangled in the warm morning air. Fern could hear how fast Frieren’s heart was beating. She could feel how badly her own body wanted to give in.

She had no suppressant left for the day.

She breathed once, then twice, steadying herself.

“Let me up. Only for a minute.”

Frieren made a low, desperate sound, but she rolled off her. Barely. Just enough for Fern to slip free, barefoot and flushed and shaking from head to toe.

She stood in the sunlight pooling across the floor, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven waves.

Then she looked back.

Frieren lay there, flushed and golden in the morning light. Her lips were parted. Her nightshirt hung crooked on her shoulders. Her hair was a soft, tangled halo on the pillow. Her thighs pressed together as though she could feel the absence of Fern like a missing limb.

She looked at Fern with something unguarded.

Want.

Real want.

For the first time.

Fern stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her with shaking fingers.

The cool air met her skin like a spell, sharp and bracing. She leaned a hand against the wall, trying to steady herself, but her breath came too fast and her chest felt too tight.

Her pulse thudded in her ears.

The suppressant was gone.
Completely gone.

And the scent clinging to her was not hers.

She closed her eyes.

Frieren.
Frieren everywhere.

Her breath against Fern’s neck, her thigh sliding between Fern’s legs, her voice low and wrecked whispering I can’t stop smelling you.

Fern’s knees weakened.

She let herself slide down the wall until she was sitting on the floorboards, robe pooled around her legs, one hand over her chest because her heart would not slow down. Morning light filtered through the small window near the door, painting the hallway in pale gold.

She tried counting her breaths.
Tried anything to pull herself out of the heat fog curling under her skin.

Nothing helped.

Her body trembled. Her mind refused to settle. Her skin still felt scorched from the weight of Frieren’s body against hers.

And worse, she missed it the moment she stepped away.

Somewhere in the house, a kettle clicked as it cooled. The distant hum of festival preparation drifted through the open window. Life moved normally. Quietly. As if nothing had changed.

But everything had.

Fern pressed both hands into her hair and forced herself to breathe deeply until the shaking eased.

It would be fine.
It had to be.

She only needed a minute to get control back.

When her pulse finally steadied and her legs felt like they could hold her, she rose slowly. She smoothed her robe, willed her expression into calm, and lifted her chin.

Then she looked at the closed door.

Through the wood she heard it faint and soft:

Frieren shifting in the bed.
Her voice, sleepy and blurred, calling Fern’s name.
Warm.
Wanting.

Fern gripped the frame.

She could not go back in. Not yet.

She turned toward the main room. The short hallway felt too small, the air too thick, her body too aware. She walked slowly across the floor, telling herself to breathe evenly, to move normally, to pretend she was not on the verge of unraveling.

Each step tasted like citrus and heat.

Each breath tasted like her mistress.

And as she reached the edge of the kitchen light, Fern understood something with startling clarity.

Frieren wanted her.
Truly.

And Fern was no longer sure how long she could keep pretending she did not want her too.

Chapter Text

Fern had pulled her hair back and kept her robe high at her neck, as if structure alone could hold her together.

It couldn’t.

Because Frieren was still glued to her side.

They had been assigned to check spell lines through the festival lane for the morning. Simple spells to keep heat from gathering too thick on the cobblestones, cooling spells for food stalls, and small boundary spells to discourage forest creatures drawn by noise.

Fern would have preferred to handle all twenty herself.

Instead, she had an overheated elf, half glowing, half drifting, and wholly attached to her, following close behind like a sleepy shadow with wandering hands.

“Let me carry that,” Frieren murmured behind her, voice low and warm against Fern’s spine.

“You don’t have to,” Fern said.

“I want to.”

“I’m fine.”

Fingers brushed her wrist. Stayed there.

“Please.”

Fern let her take the spell kit, mostly so Frieren would stop touching her skin directly. It did not help. Frieren stayed just as close, body warm enough that Fern could feel it even through her robe.

They reached the third vendor tent when Fern felt it.

Not Frieren.

Everyone else.

The shift of eyes. The hush of breath. A ripple of startled energy along the row of booths.

Because Frieren smelled like something.

Sweet. Heat drenched. Bright, ancient, wild. A scent so heavy and instinct-rich it pushed through the air in waves, brushing against Fern’s senses and crawling down her spine.

Two young girls arranging ribbon garlands stopped mid-fold.

A merchant dropped her parasol.

Another woman stared openly, uncertain, caught between fascination and confusion.

Fern tightened her grip on the spell anchor until her knuckles whitened. She forced herself to speak in a steady voice.

“Master, maybe you should go rest. I can finish these.”

Frieren stepped closer.

Pressed her cheek to Fern’s shoulder like it was automatic.

“I don’t want to rest,” she said softly.

She was not trying to cause a spectacle.

She was simply in it.

Whatever was rising in her, rut or instinct or awakening or whatever the Goddess wanted to call it, was unfurling like a slow tide. A tide that smelled overwhelmingly of longing, heat, and unspent touch.

And Fern, steady and trembling, kept working because she had to.

She finished the line. Drew the sigil. Locked the spell with a flick of her wrist.

When she turned for the next post, she found three people staring openly at Frieren with wide pupils and slack jaws, like they had never seen anything like her.

Fern swallowed.

“Master, please stay close.”

Frieren’s hand slid into hers without hesitation.

“I was going to,” she whispered.

And heat rolled off her again, sweet and devastating, curling around Fern like incense.

POV SWITCH FRIEREN

Frieren smelled Fern before she fully registered the morning.

Fern always smelled good. Subtle, familiar, calming. But today?

Today Fern smelled like home.

Soft and low, reaching into some deep part of Frieren’s chest she had never bothered to name. It was more than instinct. It was gravity. The way Fern’s scent curved around corners and clung to the air like little threads of string pulling Frieren back to her.

Every time Frieren stepped closer, it felt better.

So she stayed close.

People were staring. Not at Frieren. At Fern.

A merchant blinked twice. Two girls sorting ribbon garlands froze mid-tie. A hunter slowed as he passed, nostrils flaring.

Their eyes widened.

They were looking at Fern like she was moon-touched. Like she glowed.

One woman actually bit her lip.

Frieren, warm and loose and a little dizzy, slid closer and pressed herself to Fern’s back like she could shield her with her body.

Mine.

The thought rose without warning. Not sharp. Not angry. Solid. Heavy.

Fern did not move away.

Fern smelled like apple skins warmed by sunlight. Like clean cotton on a fresh-made bed. Like mana, rain, and something ripe.

Frieren could not stop breathing her in.

Someone nearby whispered, “Who is she bonded to?”

Frieren blinked once.

Fern’s shoulder tensed.

The girls behind the booth giggled under their breath, a scatter of sound like thrown petals.

Frieren tilted her head. “Why are they looking at you?”

Fern kept her eyes on her sigil, fingers very tight around the spell anchor.

Frieren pressed her cheek to Fern’s temple. “You smell really, really good.”

“Master.”

“Like something I should be inside.”

Fern froze.

So did everything around them.

For a moment, the world was ribbons and wind and the hum of unfinished spells. Then Fern turned, slowly, eyes wide, cheeks burning, hand still glowing faintly from the stabilized charm.

“Frieren,” she said softly.

Frieren blinked.

Then she smiled.

Dreamy. Loose. A little feral around the edges.

“I want to touch you.”

Fern’s breath shook.

“I know.”

Chapter Text

The walk back to the cottage was short.

It felt like a mile.

The path that usually took two minutes stretched itself thin in front of them, the air thick with the fading heat of afternoon and Frieren’s scent blooming in slow, heavy waves. Fern kept a hand on her elbow the whole way, steadying her without gripping, guiding her without forcing. Every few steps Frieren drifted sideways like she was caught in a warm current only she could feel.

The afternoon festival crowd had thinned, but a few villagers still lingered outside their homes. Each time someone lifted their head, Fern felt it. The pause. The look. The strange, quiet attention.

Not because of her.

Because of Frieren.

Her scent was too strong now, thick and sweet like honey left out in the sun. Even the breeze seemed to carry it.

A child with a ribbon ball stopped mid-throw. A man hanging lanterns blinked twice and stepped politely aside. A shopkeeper waved, then hesitated, eyes narrowing as if trying to place what exactly she was smelling.

Frieren either did not notice or did not care. She leaned into Fern’s side on instinct, sleepy and unsteady, her cheek brushing Fern’s shoulder every few steps.

“Careful,” Fern murmured.

Frieren hummed something soft, almost content. “I am careful.”

“You are not.”

“I am trying.”

Her voice had gone hazy again, blurred at the edges. Her pupils were slightly blown. Her steps dragged like her body wanted to melt into the ground or into Fern’s hands. She clung to the charm kit once, then forgot she was holding it and let Fern take it back without protest.

By the time they reached the cottage gate, Frieren had slowed to half her usual pace. Fern opened the wooden latch and guided her up the path, the gravel crunching under their feet.

The porch steps were only three small boards.

Frieren took them like they were a mountain.

She reached the top, paused, blinked down at her own hands as if surprised they were attached to her, and leaned heavily against the doorframe.

“I am not dizzy,” she said.

“You are lying.”

Frieren blinked again, slower this time. “Maybe a little.”

The wind picked up, brushing past them. Frieren’s scent rolled with it, warm and bright and aching. Fern swallowed, opened the door, and helped her inside.

The short walk had never felt so long.

Fern got her to the bed without much resistance. She guided her to sit, pulled the covers back, set a glass of water on the nightstand. Her hands were steady everywhere except her fingertips. They trembled.

When she pressed Frieren’s shoulder gently toward the mattress, the elf went down without a word.

Frieren lay back, staring at the ceiling, breath slow and heated. Her hair fanned across the pillow. She looked dazed. Flushed. Still far too warm.

Fern turned to leave.

“Wait,” Frieren whispered.

Fern paused.

“I do not know why I said that,” Frieren murmured, her voice barely above a breath. “I did not mean to say it out loud.”

There was no guilt in her tone. No embarrassment. Just confusion, soft and disoriented.

“I am not myself,” she added.

Fern nodded. “I know.”

“I meant it. I just did not mean to say it.”

Fern looked at her. At her face, her parted lips, the curve of her shoulders beneath the thin sheet. She looked like someone caught between fever and longing.

Fern did not say it was fine. Because it wasn’t.

Instead she whispered, “Rest.”

She reached the door before she had to stop and brace a hand on the wall. She breathed out slowly, forcing her pulse to settle.

Because her whole body was aflame.

Because Frieren’s words had not been a mistake.

Because Frieren, her master, her Alpha, had looked at her like she was something she wanted to keep.

And whispered I want to touch you like it was a prayer.

The house was silent.

Fern sat at her small desk near the garden window, quill in hand, letters half-written.

One for Sense.

The latter had taken more thought.

She didn’t know Methode well, only met her during a First-Class training visit three years ago. But she remembered her confidence. Her grace. And the way her voice had gone a little soft when someone mentioned Serie.

She would know.

Letter to Sense 

Sense,
I am sorry to bother you, but something is happening with Frieren and I do not know who else to speak to. She has been warm and a little dizzy, and her scent keeps rising. She has also been… close. Very close. I do not think she means to act this way, but I can feel something shifting.

I think this might be her first rut. I am trying to stay calm, but she is overwhelming in ways I do not know how to put into words.

If you have ever seen this before, please tell me. And if you can also tell me something personal about Serie… I think it would help me understand what is happening.

Fern

She stared at the words for a long time.

Then folded it anyway.

A sound drifted from the bedroom.

Low. Soft. Half a moan, half a groan, like someone dreaming too deeply.

Fern rose so abruptly her chair scraped the floor. She walked down the hall quietly and opened the door just enough to see inside.

Frieren was sprawled across the sheets, one leg loose, mouth parted, cheek flushed deep red. Her hips shifted in small, restless motions. Her fingers curled around the blanket.

Her scent filled the room.

Sweet. Sharp. Heavy with need.

Fern backed out immediately and shut the door, spine pressed to the wood as she tried to breathe.

Frieren was asleep.

Completely asleep.

And still responding like that.

Fern’s stomach dropped. Her pulse leapt.

The first thing Fern did when she left the bedroom was fetch two strong cleansing sachets from her trunk—her emergency supply, meant to mask scent during dangerous missions or fragile diplomatic visits.

She snapped one open and tucked it behind the door of the bedroom.

Another she crushed in her palm and tucked into her own collar.

The scent that rose was sharp, lavender-laced, and biting. Not enough to erase Frieren’s entirely, but enough to blur the edges. Enough to protect her from wandering noses.

Because her Alpha’s scent was in full bloom now.

And it smelled like everything Fern had ever wanted to crawl inside of.

She sat back at her desk, hand steady now, breath still catching in her chest.

She pulled out the letter to Methode and continued writing.

Short Letter to Methode 

Methode,
I hope you are well. I have a question I am a little embarrassed to ask. You always seemed so calm around Serie… even bold. I still do not know how you found the courage.

How did you learn to handle someone so powerful without losing your balance?
Anything you can tell me would help.

Fern

She folded the letter neatly.

Set it beside the one for Sense.

Set both aside for the next delivery.

The house was quiet in a way that made every breath feel too loud.

Then the door creaked.

Stark stumbled in from the garden, hair wild, shirt half-unbuttoned like he had fought a losing battle with a tree. He sniffed the air once.

Then again, slower, more confused.

“Is it just me,” he asked, “or does it smell really sweet in here?”

Sein walked in behind him, pipe at the corner of his mouth, wearing the expression of a man who knew exactly what was happening and found it both amusing and inevitable.

“Do not worry about it,” he said, flicking a hand in Fern’s direction. “Nothing dangerous.”

Stark sniffed a third time. “But it smells like perfume and smoke and… peaches?”

Fern blinked. “Peaches.”

That was new.

Sein raised a brow. “Hm. Yes. Definitely peaches.”

Stark looked horrified. “Why peaches?”

Sein patted his arm. “You would not survive the explanation.”

He turned toward Fern then, leaning against the table, his eyes flicking from her face to her collar where the scent-blocking sachet peeked out. Then to the hallway leading to Frieren’s room.

His voice dropped low.

“You used two sachets. She must be radiating.”

Fern swallowed hard. “She is sleeping.”

“She is simmering,” Sein corrected. He tapped ash from his pipe. “And when she wakes up again, you should be prepared. Omegas will be losing their minds over her scent long before sunset.”

Fern flushed, heart skipping. “It cannot be that strong.”

Sein snorted. “Fern, I walked past her door and almost had to sit down.”

Stark blinked. “Sit down why?”

Sein ignored him completely.

He nodded toward the book on Fern’s desk.

“I saw you reading earlier. Keep going. You will need the context.”

Fern stiffened. “Context for what.”

“For not being shocked when half the town starts hovering around her like bees around jam,” Sein said gently. “She is spiking. Alphas do that in waves.”

Fern pressed a hand to her sternum. “I know. I just… I do not know how long this will last.”

“Few days. Maybe a week.” Sein shrugged, casual as if discussing weather. “And if she is entering late onset, it might rise in layers.”

Fern almost dropped the quill she was holding. “Layers.”

“Thick ones,” he muttered. “Read the book.”

Stark finally caught up. “Wait. Frieren is sick?”

“No,” Sein said. “She is alive.”

Stark opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Decided not to ask anything else.

Sein clapped him on the back. “Come on. Let’s fetch dinner from the inn. Fern should have the house quiet.”

“Why?” Stark asked.

Sein grinned. “Because proximity is gasoline.”

Stark stared.

Fern covered her face with one hand.

Sein moved toward the door, calling over his shoulder, “Keep reading, Fern. And breathe lightly. She can smell every thought you have right now.”

Stark followed him out with a confused, “What does that mean,” but Sein was already halfway down the path, pipe smoke trailing behind him.

Silence fell again.

Fern stood still for several long breaths, the book heavy in her hands.

Then she crept down the hall and eased Frieren’s door open.

The scent-blocker behind it held. Barely.

Frieren lay sprawled across the sheets, cheeks flushed, one hand fisted in the blanket, breath uneven and slow. Her hips shifted lightly, as if chasing a dream too warm to stay still in.

Fern closed the door.

Leaned against it.

And whispered to the empty hall:

“Sein is right. I need the book.”

She slid down to the floor, opened the text to the folded page, and let the quiet thrum of her pulse settle into something like resolve.

Tonight, she would read.

And tomorrow, she would survive whatever her Alpha woke up as.

Chapter Text

Fern carried the book, a plate of bread and fruit, and a small lamp into her own room. Frieren had not woken for dinner, not even stirred when Fern checked on her. She lay deeply asleep, flushed and warm, radiating heat like a banked fire that refused to cool. Fern closed the elf’s door very gently and retreated to her own bed.

Her hands shook when she opened the book again.

She ate slowly at first, trying to distract herself with the quiet rhythm of chewing and turning pages, but her attention kept drifting back to the text. Old warnings. Ancient instinct. Elven biology that had slipped out of the world’s common knowledge. She read until her eyes blurred and the lamplight softened. She read until her muscles loosened and her pulse quieted. And somewhere between a paragraph about the first stirring of instinct and a footnote about temple rites, her thoughts drifted into that warm, heavy space just before sleep.

A dream rose in the darkness. Frieren’s voice. Frieren’s hands. Frieren’s weight pressing down on her like something inevitable and meant to be. Fern felt the heat of it, the softness, the pull deep in her body. She murmured something against her pillow, lost to it.

She did not wake until she felt heat behind her.

Then pressure.

A slow, weighted breath against her neck.

Fern’s eyes opened wide.

She lay on her side, blankets half-tangled around her, and someone was directly behind her. Pressed close in a way she would have recognized even in a nightmare.

Frieren.

Her arm was wrapped completely around Fern’s waist, the hand splayed low across her stomach with a possessive sort of looseness that was somehow worse because it was unintentional. Her forehead rested between Fern’s shoulder blades, warm and soft. One knee had slid between Fern’s thighs, high enough that Fern felt her breath catch.

And lower…

The pressure was unmistakable.

Warm.
Solid.
New.

Not grinding or deliberate. Just a heavy, living presence pressed firmly against her hip, pulsing with the slow rhythm of Frieren’s sleep.

Fern did not move.
She did not even breathe.

This had not existed last night.

She could feel her own heartbeat thundering in her chest while the elf behind her breathed steady and deep, completely unaware of how her body had changed. Every tiny shift sent another warm, thick pulse against Fern’s skin. The pressure grew slightly with each breath, subtle enough to deny but real enough that Fern felt her face flush.

Her mind roared with the truth.

This was not theory.
Not speculation.
Not one of the book’s cool, ancient descriptions.

This was happening.

She was feeling it.

Frieren shifted again, a soft sound escaping her, and the warmth pressed tighter along Fern’s hip. The elf murmured into her back, half-asleep and completely unguarded, and Fern thought she might genuinely combust.

She closed her eyes and whispered, barely audible, “Goddess help me,” because her legs felt weak even lying down.

It took every ounce of training she had to slip free of Frieren’s hold without waking her. Her movements were slow, careful, almost fearful. She eased herself out of the bed, feet touching the cold floor with a shock of relief, and backed out of the room as though escaping a sleeping dragon.

Frieren did not stir.

Not when Fern left her warmth.
Not when the air cooled around her.
Not when Fern closed her own door with both hands shaking.

Only in the hallway did Fern allow herself to exhale.

Morning

Fern moved through breakfast like a practiced ghost.

She toasted bread, cracked eggs, warmed tea, and boiled water for a long, grounding bath. Her hands knew what to do, even when her mind replayed every heartbeat of the night before. She poured too much sugar into Stark’s tea and almost dropped the kettle when she remembered the slow, unconscious way Frieren had pressed against her.

Stark stumbled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in all directions, yawning loud enough to rattle the plates.

“Morning. Everything smells amazing.”

Fern nodded tightly. “Eat fast. We have twenty charm resets before lunch.”

Stark groaned and slumped into a chair.

Sein arrived next, neat and quiet, closing the door softly behind him. He studied Fern for only a moment before speaking.

“Your face is completely stiff. What happened to your composure?”

“I am fine,” Fern said, which was a lie so thin he did not even bother responding to it.

Instead, he raised a brow. “Do I need to give Frieren the Alpha talk when she wakes up?”

Fern almost broke the spoon in her hand.

“That is not funny.”

Stark blinked. “Why not? Nothing is more embarrassing than scenting random omegas you do not know.”

Both Fern, an omega, and Sein, also very much an omega, turned slowly to stare at him.

Stark looked between them and shrugged. “I am the only Alpha here. I can say it.”

Sein tapped the table thoughtfully. “When she wakes up, we might actually need to talk. The locals will lose their minds if she keeps scenting like this.”

Fern did not disagree.

She handed Sein the letters. He tucked them neatly into his coat without asking.

“Read more of that book today,” he said. “If she keeps changing like this, even the omega children in town will start swooning.”

Fern swallowed.
She already knew.

Midday.

Frieren was still asleep on Fern’s bed.

Her shirt had ridden up almost to her ribs.
Her breathing was shallow and warm.
Her dreams were obviously still affecting her; Fern could see it in every tiny twitch of her hips and the restless tension in her thighs.

The pressure was still there beneath the blankets.
Still warm.
Still heavy.

Fern stepped out of the room and closed the door slowly, her pulse hammering in her ears.

Sense’s Letter Arrives

It arrived first, sealed in warm magic, sloppy and rushed.

Fern read it immediately, devouring every word.

Fern,

You are handling this with more grace than most.  Mine does the same when the heat begins. The instinct rises, the scent sharpens, and they pretend nothing is happening. It never fools anyone for long.

Our masters are the same, but also very different.

Serie never bothers. She walks through the halls like the world ought to part for her and when random omegas swoon near her she treats it like a minor weather pattern. If she wants attention, she asks. If she wants more than attention, she asks for that too, and she does not blush about it. I have never seen her embarrassed a single day in my life.

Serie can be insatiable when the season turns, fully aware of her effect on everyone around her, and Lernen has had to ban entire groups of omegas from the upper levels during peak weeks because she forgets they have weaker constitutions. She calls it “natural selection.” It is not funny, although she laughs every time.

But, serving her is rewarding. While I don't enjoy the antics, the mages that seem to try to get her attention when able, or her lack of maturity. She is...something else. I wouldn't want anything else few alphas have ever made me feel this way. She is very different. I would do anything for her.

I wish you steadiness and clarity in the days ahead as the air around your elf will not allow it.

Take care of yourself.

Sense

And her chest tightened with a complicated mix of relief and dread.

No letter from Methode yet.

Frieren Wakes

Heat.
That was the first thing she felt.

A deep, slow pulse of it, pooling low in her stomach and spreading out through her limbs.

She groaned and pushed herself upright.
Her sheets were damp.
Her legs were parted.
Her sleep shorts clung uncomfortably in places they never had before.

She reached down instinctively and froze.

Something felt different.

She pressed lightly, more out of confusion than curiosity, and felt a firm, heated swell under her palm that made her breath break in her throat.

She stared down, dazed.

“That cannot be right,” she whispered.

Her voice sounded raw.
Soft.
Unsteady.

She touched again, cautiously.

The warm pressure responded with a slow, undeniable pulse.
Her chest tightened.
Her stomach curled.
Heat flooded her cheeks.

“I am Beta,” she tried to tell herself, barely managing to speak the words.

She had never changed.
Never wanted.
Never burned.

Then she remembered Fern’s scent clinging to her.
Fern’s warmth beside her.
Fern’s breath.
Fern’s dreams.

Her body pulsed again beneath her hand.

Very gently, Frieren whispered,

“I think I am not.”

Chapter Text

The sun was low, bleeding soft gold across the cottage walls. The house was quiet. Almost peaceful.

Fern walked slowly, carrying a tray: light dinner, water, cool fruit. Her body moved on its own, careful and practiced, but her mind was absolutely not here.

Sense’s words, ‘Serving her is rewarding.’…oh that would haunt her.

Frieren’s scent, her sleep, her shape pressed into the mattress.

Oh, that line would be burned into Fern’s soul for the next fifty years. She could not get Frieren’s scent out of her head, nor the image of her sprawling across the bed, nor the way her shape had pressed into the sheets like she was melting.

Fern took a breath, nudged open the door with her hip, and whispered, “Master, I brought you something to-”

The tray dropped.

Absolutely everything fell. Fruit. Water. Stew. Bread. Gone.

She did not even feel her fingers open. They just did.

Because Frieren was naked.

Standing across the room, bathed in molten gold from the last light of the day. Her robe was tossed over a chair. Her sleep shorts lay in a defeated puddle on the floor. Her hair hung in pale waves around her shoulders, still damp from sleep.

She was calmly looking into the long mirror beside the wardrobe.

No shame. No panic. No attempt to cover herself.

Just studying her body like it belonged to someone else. Like she was checking spellwork.

Fern’s eye twitched.

Sense’s voice echoed in her skull. "I have never seen her embarrassed a single day in my life."

Fern had never truly believed they would be the same. Serie and Frieren were opposites in nearly every way, so different that Fern had half–convinced herself Sense must be wrong.

Then Frieren spoke.

Not coy. Not flustered. Not remotely aware of the carnage happening inside Fern’s chest.

“Fern,” she said, perfectly calm. “I thought it would have more weight.”

Fern made a sound that was halfway between a dying animal and someone being blessed.

Frieren continued, still inspecting herself. “It feels normal. Lighter than expected.”

Goddess help me, Fern thought, because I am going to fall over.

She snatched a robe off a hook and threw it at Frieren’s face with the force of a divine smiting.

“Put that on,” Fern choked.

The robe hit Frieren, slid off, landed on the ground.

Frieren blinked. “Why.”

Before Fern could answer, footsteps thundered down the hall.

“Fern, are you hurt,” Stark called.

“No one come in,” Fern yelled.

Stark flung the door open anyway.

Sein followed.

Both stopped dead.

Stark’s eyes went huge.

Sein’s expression barely shifted. More of a subtle oh, interesting.

Stark pointed with both hands, then immediately slapped both palms over his own eyes like he’d been stabbed in one. “I didn’t see that. I saw nothing. Fern, tell me I saw nothing.”

Fern slapped his arm. “You saw nothing.”

Frieren lifted a hand in greeting. Completely naked. Completely calm. “Hello.”

Sein shrugs, “Nice size at least.”

Stark peeks, “Oh! Yeah…wow, but why? She’s so small.”

Sein muttered, “Alpha elves are known for proportional mana channeling. That is actually quite average.”

“Average,” Stark sputtered.

Sein only shrugged, amused. "Mana theory. Very proportional."

Stark squinted at him. “Why do you know that.”

Sein lifted a brow. “Lots of new reading.”

Fern screamed into both hands.

Sense’s words rang in her skull. Serving her is rewarding. Fern wanted to die. Immediately.

She shoved Stark and Sein toward the hall. “Everyone sit. We are doing the talk.”

Stark resisted. “What talk. The talk about why Frieren is naked in her bedroom?”

“Yes,” Fern said. “Exactly that talk.”

Stark shrugged, “I apologize for barging in t is her room.”

Fern groaned, “No why your pervertedness is a problem, not this time.”

Frieren tilted her head. “Are they helping?”

“No one is helping,” Fern said, pushing them all into the hallway. “Everyone is causing problems.”

Stark looked back into the room. “I know I should not say this but that is impressive.”

Fern threw a pillow at him, which only hit the doorframe.

Sein sighed. “I believe we should treat this educationally.”

Frieren walked calmly to the bed, still not bothering with the robe.

“What do I need to know,” she asked.

Sein steepled his fingers, then immediately stopped and pointed at her with a flat look. “You have to put clothes on. At minimum.”

Frieren blinked. “Why.”

“Because,” Sein said patiently, “social rules. Also, because Stark is going to pass out if you keep standing there. Put the robe on.”

Frieren looked down at herself, vaguely puzzled, then shrugged and slipped the robe on… without tying it.

Sein pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tie it.”

She tied it. Loosely. Very loosely.

Sein exhaled like this was the best he was going to get.

“Now,” he continued, returning to lecture mode, “when an Alpha goes into rut, impulse control declines, instinct heightens, and attraction aligns toward the Omega who triggered the response.”

Frieren nodded. “Fern.”

Stark gave Fern a happy thumbs up.

Fern curled in on herself.

“And you must control yourself,” Stark added helpfully. “Or the omegas around you will drop like flies.”

Sein sighed. “Not how I would have phrased it, but yes.”

Frieren frowned. “I do not want everyone. Just Fern.”

Stark grinned. “Good. Keep it that way.”

Fern covered her face with both hands. “Master. You thought you were Beta? Has this happened before”

Frieren nodded. “Yes. Except one summer after we killed the Demon King. Something similar happened, but I assumed it was an accident. Or something in the food. Himmel helped.”

Stark’s head whipped around. “Himmel was an Omega?”

Fern hit him with a second pillow. “Stop talking.”

“I thought it was some odd magical flowers we ate,” Frieren said.

Sein stood up. “I will get more food. We will need energy for the rest of this conversation.”

Stark followed him out. “Seriously though, Himmel? I need a moment.”

Fern shut the door behind them, turned back to Frieren, and took a deep breath.

“Master. You cannot be naked around everyone. You are an Alpha now.”

Frieren blinked. “Why do things have to be different?”

Fern shook her head. “No. Now it is real. And you are. And your body is. And I cannot even finish that sentence.”

Frieren looked at herself again in the mirror. “It still feels lighter than I expected.”

“Close. It. Please.”

Frieren complied this time, loosely tying it.

Only loosely. Very loosely. Ridiculously loosely.

Fern tried to breathe.

“Listen,” she said. “No more bed sharing until your rut ends.”

Frieren tilted her head. “Until tonight?”

“No,” Fern corrected. “Until after summer. At least.”

Frieren considered what Fern said, quiet for a moment, then asked with the same innocent seriousness she used when requesting new spell components, “If we slept together, could I make you go into heat.”

Fern’s soul fled her body.

“No,” she said. “Absolutely not. Never say that again.”

“You could help me.”

“Absolutely not,” Fern yelped. “Stop asking things like that.”

Frieren shifted her robe, unaware of how much of her thigh she was revealing. “But I ache without you.”

She gestured downward.

Fern’s knees went out. For a terrifying moment she almost sat on the floor.

Frieren watched her with soft, confused eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to feel you.”

Fern stood so fast the bed creaked. She turned her back and pressed both palms to her burning face.

“I know,” she said. “And that is exactly why we need distance.”

Frieren was silent for a long moment. No arguments. No insistence. Just breathing.

Then she spoke, softer, almost shy. “I like sleeping with you.”

Fern’s spine straightened.

Frieren continued, “When we shared a room on the road, it was warm. You always breathed softly. I did not realize I missed it until now.”

Fern swallowed. “We can’t do that anymore. Not right now.”

“It felt safe,” Frieren said. “And peaceful. And I liked when you curled into me without waking up.”

Fern made a strangled noise.

Frieren touched her own fingers, as if they remembered holding Fern. “And now I have a room of my own. You said that was an adventure. I was thinking I could explore.”

Fern’s entire face ignited.

“Explore,” she repeated.

“Yes,” Frieren said. “You said having my own space meant I could explore.”

“That is not what I meant,” Fern croaked. “That is not even close to what I meant. I am done. I am absolutely done for the night, Mistress. We will start over tomorrow. You are going to stay in your room. I am going to stay in mine. We are going to breathe like normal people and pretend none of this conversation ever happened.”

Frieren tilted her head. “But I still want to sleep with you.”

Fern made a sound that could only be described as emotional combustion.

“Goodnight,” she said, fleeing the room with all the dignity of a startled rabbit. “We are starting over tomorrow.”

Frieren watched her go, blinking softly.

“…But we sleep better together,” she murmured to herself, confused and warm and aching in ways she was only beginning to understand.

Chapter Text

The sheets were fresh.
The lamp was dimmed low.

It should have been easy.

But Frieren could not sleep.

Not even close.

She shifted for the fourth time in an hour.
Then the fifth.
By the sixth, the blankets had become an enemy, twisted around her hips like stubborn vines, refusing to lie still.

Her cock throbbed every time she moved.
Not painfully.
Not urgently.
Just… insistently.
Like it was aware of her.
Like it had opinions.
Like it knew Fern was in the next room, breathing softly, warm and alive and maddening.

Frieren scowled at her own lap.

“I told you to stop,” she muttered.

It did not listen.

Of course it did not listen.

She sat up with a frustrated sigh, robe falling open around her shoulders. The fabric slid down her skin in slow, traitorous ways, catching heat along every place she was already too warm. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythm that had nothing to do with meditation practice.

She looked down again.

Still there.
Still heavy.
Still thick and full and resting along her thigh like it owned the place.

And the worst part?

It didn’t feel new.
It felt familiar.
Like it had always existed beneath the surface and her body had simply… stopped pretending.

Her hand hovered over it.

Her fingers brushed bare skin, tentative.

It jumped.

Her entire body jolted with it.

She clapped her other hand over her mouth, startled. Her cheeks heated and she didn’t even try to pretend it was from the lamp.

“…Fern,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

Her thighs pressed together. Wrong move. Her cock pushed up harder, seeking pressure, seeking friction, seeking-

“No,” she hissed, grabbing a pillow and smacking herself in the face with it. “Absolutely not.”

She flopped back onto the bed dramatically, like a knight defeated in battle. The mattress dipped around her. The blankets sighed. The magic lamp flickered as if amused.

She was not amused.

Her hips lifted into her own palm again.

“Traitor,” she told them.

She rolled onto her side, groaning into the pillow, trying to think of anything that was not Fern-shaped or Fern-scented or Fern-voiced.

Anything.

Potatoes.
Laundry.
That one tax document Heiter kept losing.
The Demon King’s third lieutenant whose name she never bothered learning, he was so lame.

Fern, whispered her traitorous brain. Fern, Fern, Fern.

She slammed her forehead into the pillow lightly.

“This is undignified.”

The pillow did not disagree.

Her thighs slid together again without permission. Her body pressed against the mattress. A little slick gathered where it absolutely should not have been, warm and slick and humiliating.

“No,” she said again, because surely repeating it would make her body listen.

It did not.

She flipped onto her stomach and immediately regretted it, her cock pressed straight down against the sheets, and her breath hitched loudly.

The mattress muffled the sound.

She imagined Fern hearing it anyway.

She imagined Fern walking in.
Imagined Fern smelling her.
Imagined Fern climbing over her, voice soft and sure.

She grabbed another pillow and shoved her face into it.

“Stop thinking,” she whispered into the stuffing.

Her hips rolled.

She did not stop thinking.

Time became a blur of heat and frustration.
The room thickened with her scent, sweet, sharp, restless.
Her mana hummed, unfocused, like sparks gathering in her ribs.

Eventually, when exhaustion edged out desire for a moment, she let her body sink into the sheets.

Her eyelids grew heavy.

Her cock throbbed once more, softer now, like a reminder.

And sleep finally…finally…dragged her under.

It did not come kindly.

It came full of Fern.

Frieren’s Dream

The dream did not begin gently.

It caught her.

Like warm hands around her waist.

Like breath against her ear.

Like a spell whispered too close.

Frieren felt the world shift beneath her feet, softening into something that wasn’t the cottage or her bed or anything she could name. The air thickened, warm and sweet, and a familiar scent curled around her like ribbon.

Fern.

Not imagined Fern.
Not memory Fern.
But Fern as she existed in Frieren’s senses now—ripe, warm, soft at the edges and sharp at the center. The scent of an Omega thrumming with quiet gravity.

Frieren’s knees buckled.

She found herself seated.

A lap.

Not hers.

Fern’s.

Her eyes fluttered open in the dream, if they had ever been closed, and Fern was there, straddling her thighs, knees pressed to either side of her hips.

Not shy.
Not hesitant.
Not confused.

Confident.

Like she already knew exactly what Frieren needed.

Her hands pressed against Frieren’s shoulders, steady and warm. Her thumbs brushed slow circles over her collarbone.

Frieren’s breath stuttered.

“Fern,” she murmured, voice thick.

Fern leaned in, forehead touching hers.
Her lips brushed Frieren’s mouth once, gentle as a promise.

“I know,” Fern whispered.

The words pulled a sound from Frieren she didn’t recognize something low, something deep, something hungry.

Fern kissed her again.

This time harder.

Frieren’s world cracked open.

The dream shifted with the touch warmth spreading down her chest, pooling low in her belly. Her cock pressed desperately up between their bodies, brushing the soft heat between Fern’s thighs.

Fern gasped.

Not in surprise.

In welcome.

Her hips rolled once, slow and steady, sliding down against Frieren’s length. Frieren’s head tipped back, a groan tearing from her throat, raw and helpless.

Her hands found Fern’s waist, fingers digging in.

She didn’t even realize she had moved until Fern whispered against her neck.

“Do it again.”

Frieren obeyed.

Her hips bucked up, pressing deeper into the wet heat dragging along her cock. It felt unreal—too soft, too hot, too perfect. She wanted to sink in. To fill. To claim.

To keep.

Fern moaned softly into her ear, breath trembling.

“You need this,” she whispered.
“I want it.”

Frieren shuddered.

Her restraint frayed like old thread.

Her hands slid down, cupping Fern’s hips, guiding the movement as Fern rocked up, down, up, each shift drawing another pulse along Frieren’s length. She could feel the slickness gathering, feel how ready Fern was for her, how easily she could-

“I could take you,” Fern breathed, mouth against her jaw. “Let me.”

Frieren’s entire body jolted.

Her cock throbbed violently, leaking warm need.

Her fingers dug into Fern’s thighs.

“I-” she tried.

But the words tangled inside her.

Fern kissed her again—slow, deep, hungry. Her tongue brushed Frieren’s and her hips sank lower, sliding her wet heat right over the head of Frieren’s cock.

Frieren’s breath broke.

“Please,” she whispered into Fern’s mouth.

Begging.

She didn’t care.

Fern smiled.

Then guided Frieren into her.

Not fully.

Just enough.

Just the tip.

Just enough for Frieren to feel how tight she was. How hot. How desperately her body wanted the rest.

Frieren’s eyes rolled back.

Her hips jerked, helpless.

Fern held her face with both hands, voice low and sweet.

“Take me,” she murmured. “I want you to.”

Frieren thrust.

Hard.

Wet heat wrapped around her.

Squeezed her.

Pulled her in.

Her vision went white.

“Fern-” she gasped.

Her cock pulsed.

Her hips snapped.

She sank deeper.

Deeper.

Deeper.

Until she felt herself fill Fern in one long, impossible stretch...And exploded.

Heat burst through her, flooding everything, thick and hot and overwhelming. Her whole body convulsed. Her cock jerked inside Fern again and again, each pulse dragging another cry from her throat.

Fern held her through it.

Held her close.
Held her tight.
Held her like she belonged there.

“Good,” Fern whispered into her ear.
“Just like that.”

Frieren fell into the sound.

Into the warmth.

Into the pleasure.

And drowned.

Waking Up

Frieren woke up because something felt wrong.

Not emotionally wrong. Not existentially wrong.

Physically wrong.

Wet.

Warm.

Sticky.

She blinked into the pillow. Sat up halfway. Looked down.

And stared.

The sheets were soaked like she had fought a small water elemental and lost. Her thighs glistened with a sheen that absolutely did not belong to water. Her robe was bunched up at her waist. Her cock lay heavy against her stomach, still half-hard, still twitching like it wanted a round two she had absolutely not signed up for.

Frieren went very still.

Then whispered, with the gravitas of a dying general on the battlefield:

“Unacceptable.”

She slapped both hands over her face.

A muffled noise came out.

It was not dignified.

It was not elf-like.

It sounded suspiciously like a whine.

Her cock twitched again.

“No. Stop that. You have done enough.”

She tried to stand up.

Her legs buckled.

She sat right back down in the very mess she was trying to escape.

Which made a sound.

A terrible one.

A wet sound.

Frieren made eye contact with the ceiling as if begging it to kill her on the spot.

She tried to clean the bed with a quick spell, but all she managed to do was make the mess smell faintly of lavender, which was somehow worse.

She whispered, mortified, “I cannot let Fern see this.”

Chapter Text

Frieren eventually managed to fix the sheets.

It took three cleaning spells, one long stare at the mattress, and a whispered apology that did not help her dignity at all.

When she finished, the bed smelled aggressively of lavender and soap and something like defeat.

She stared at it.

Then at herself.

Then at the door.

“…I am skipping breakfast,” she decided firmly, like someone making a terrible but necessary choice.

She washed too fast, refused to look at her reflection for more than a heartbeat, and pulled on clean clothes with sharp, irritated movements. Her belt went on too tight. She loosened it. Retightened it. Gave up.

Her body felt loud.

Every step pulled awareness low in her stomach. Every breath carried the memory of Fern’s scent, soft and grounding and entirely unhelpful.

She pressed her forehead briefly to the wall.

“You are ancient,” she told herself. “You have the Demon King. You can survive one bad morning.”

Her body did not agree.

So she simply did not go to the kitchen.

Fern noticed immediately.

She noticed because Frieren always ate breakfast. Even when she was tired. Even when she pretended she was above such things.

The kitchen was too quiet.

Fern stood at the counter with two cups of tea growing cold between her hands.

“…Of course,” she murmured.

She gathered herself, straightened her posture, and went to find the problem.

Frieren did not go to the kitchen.

She stood outside her bedroom door for a long moment instead, hand resting against the wood, breathing slowly until the heat in her chest eased into something manageable. Not gone. Just quieter.

She adjusted her clothes with careful precision, the way she always did when she needed to feel like herself again.

Striped black-and-white shirt smoothed flat.

White jacket settled over her shoulders.

Gold cuffs aligned.

Skirt belted.

Cape clasped at her throat, the red jewel cool against her skin.

Everything in place.

She looked like Frieren again.

Mostly.

She stepped into the hallway barefoot at first, then frowned, went back, and pulled on her boots with unnecessary force. The sound echoed softly in the cottage. No one commented.

When she emerged into the front room, Fern was already there.

Of course she was.

Fern stood near the table, cloak folded neatly over one arm, basket hooked at her elbow. Her hair was glossy and perfectly parted, robe tied high at the neck, posture calm and composed like the day had not already gone sideways.

She looked up when Frieren entered.

Their eyes met.

Something in Fern’s expression shifted, subtle but unmistakable. Relief, maybe. Or simply recognition.

“You’re up,” Fern said.

“Yes,” Frieren replied. Then, after a beat, “I’m dressed.”

Fern’s lips twitched. “I see that.”

Frieren hesitated in the doorway, suddenly unsure where to stand. She took one step forward, then stopped.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

Fern blinked. “For what.”

“For… last night. And this morning. And my body.” She gestured vaguely at herself, frustrated. “It’s being difficult.”

Fern set the basket down slowly. “You don’t need to apologize for something you didn’t choose.”

Frieren absorbed that. Her shoulders lowered a fraction.

“I don’t like not knowing what I’m doing,” she admitted. “I thought I understood myself.”

Fern walked closer, stopping at a careful distance. Close enough to talk. Not close enough to touch.

“You still do,” she said gently. “You’re just learning something new.”

Frieren nodded. Then frowned. “I don’t feel new.”

“No?”

“It feels like something I forgot,” Frieren said, choosing her words with care. “Like finding a spell you wrote centuries ago and never cast.”

Fern’s breath caught, just slightly.

“That… makes sense,” she said.

Frieren glanced at her, then away. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“You aren’t,” Fern said immediately.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Fern paused.

That one took longer.

“…You’re not,” she said, carefully. “But we do need to be mindful.”

Frieren’s gaze softened. “I am trying.”

“I know.”

They stood there in the quiet for a moment, the cottage filled with morning light and unspoken things.

Frieren shifted her weight, then took one small step closer. Not touching. Just nearer.

“I slept better knowing you were here,” she said. “Even when I couldn’t sleep.”

Fern’s fingers curled at her side.

“That’s why the separate rooms help,” Fern said gently. “It gives us space to think.”

Frieren considered that. “I liked sharing a room.”

Fern flushed. “I know you did.”

“I liked waking up and knowing where you were,” Frieren added. “It made things simple.”

Fern swallowed. “Some things aren’t simple right now.”

Frieren nodded again, accepting that without argument.

“Will you still walk with me,” she asked, quieter now. “Even if we don’t sleep together.”

“Yes,” Fern said at once. “Of course.”

Frieren relaxed visibly at that, like a tension she hadn’t named finally loosened.

“Good,” she said. Then, with a hint of something shy, “I like being near you.”

Fern closed her eyes for half a second.

“All right,” she said. “Then we’ll go together.”

Frieren smiled, small and genuine.

She fell into step beside Fern as they headed for the door, matching her pace instinctively, cape brushing Fern’s sleeve with each step.

Not touching.

Just close.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The town was already fully awake by the time they reached the main square.

Summer heat shimmered faintly above the cobblestones, carrying the smells of baked bread, crushed herbs, and people who had already decided it would be a long day. Fern walked half a step ahead, eyes forward, posture calm and deliberate, the way she always did when she was bracing for something.

Frieren walked beside her.

Not drifting.
Not wandering.
Not distracted.

Matching her stride exactly.

Fern noticed it because Frieren never did that.

She usually lagged behind to look at something shiny, stopped short to watch a child chasing a ribbon, wandered off mid-conversation because a bird did something interesting. Today, she stayed close. Her cape brushed Fern’s sleeve every few steps, the red jewel at her collar catching the light when she turned her head.

And she turned her head often.

Not to look around.

To look at Fern.

“You’re walking faster,” Frieren observed.

Fern slowed without thinking. “Am I.”

“Yes.” A pause. “It’s fine. I’ll keep up.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Fern felt that settle between her shoulders like weight.

As they moved through the crowd, Fern became aware of the shift in the air. It was subtle at first. A pause in conversation. A glance that lingered a heartbeat too long. Someone stepping aside without realizing why.

Frieren did not notice.

Or rather, she noticed nothing except Fern.

When someone nearly collided with her, Frieren adjusted her path without complaint, drifting closer to Fern’s side instead. When a vendor called out cheerfully, Frieren smiled politely, then immediately turned back to continue whatever thought she had been forming about Fern’s basket.

“You remembered the cooling wraps,” she said. “That was thoughtful.”

Fern swallowed. “They’re standard.”

“You always remember what I forget.”

Fern did not respond to that.

By the time they reached the apothecary, Fern’s awareness was split in two directions. Half of it tracked the way people’s gazes slid toward Frieren and stuck. The other half tracked the way Frieren leaned in whenever Fern spoke, like she needed to hear her better, like the rest of the world had faded slightly out of focus.

The bell above the apothecary door chimed.

Fern stepped inside first.

Frieren followed.

The air shifted.

Fern felt it before she saw it. A change in posture from the people already inside. A ripple of attention moving, not sharply, not aggressively, but unmistakably.

Frieren tilted her head. “This place smells medicinal.”

“Yes,” Fern said shortly. “Stay close.”

Frieren obeyed immediately.

She drifted nearer, shoulder almost brushing Fern’s arm, eyes calm, expression open and curious. She looked exactly as she always did, save for the faint flush along her cheekbones and the way her attention never strayed far from Fern’s face.

Someone at the counter glanced over and then looked away too quickly.

A Beta near the shelves fumbled a bottle.

Fern ignored all of it and went straight to the display of dampeners, scanning labels with clinical focus.

Behind her, Frieren waited.

Patient.
Quiet.
Watching.

“Some of them are looking at you,” Frieren murmured.

Fern stilled. “They’re not.”

“They are,” Frieren said mildly. Then, after a beat, “But you’re busy.”

Fern exhaled slowly through her nose. She could feel it now, the pull in the room, not sharp enough to be dangerous yet, but present. Alive. Like a low tide beginning to turn.

She selected the strongest vial without hesitation.

“Hold this,” she said, passing Frieren the basket.

Frieren took it carefully, like it mattered.

Her fingers brushed Fern’s for half a second longer than necessary.

Fern’s pulse jumped.

“Let’s go,” she said, too quickly.

Frieren nodded at once.

They paid. They left.

And the moment they stepped back into the sun, Fern felt the tension spike, sharp and undeniable now, curling outward from Frieren like heat off stone.

Fern did not wait.

She caught Frieren by the sleeve and pulled her decisively into the shadow of a nearby alley.

“Stop moving,” Fern said.

Frieren blinked. “Why?”

“You’re leaking.”

“I am?”

As soon as they stepped out of the apothecary, Fern tugged Frieren into the shadow of a nearby alley.

“Stop moving,” Fern said.

Fern reached into her pouch and pulled out the vial the strongest topical dampener they had. A silvery oil, cool to the touch, that absorbed into skin and gently flattened scent.

“Turn around,” Fern said softly, already uncorking it.

Frieren obeyed. Her robe shifted at the neck as she pulled her silver hair aside. Fern swallowed.

The nape of her neck was damp with heat too warm, pulsing faintly. Fern dabbed the oil to her fingertips and rubbed in slow, practiced circles.

Frieren sighed.

“You have good hands,” she murmured. “Soft. Steady.”

“Please stop talking.”

“Why? You don’t like compliments?”

Fern didn’t answer.