Make it to 100 votes I'll add an extra chapter.
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The first year was the hardest.
Flamme returned to the temple every few months at first, bursting through the entrance with stories of her travels, her eyes bright with wonder. She talked of cities and forests, of fellow mages she'd met, of spells she'd discovered in dusty libraries. Each visit was too short, each departure too soon.
Fafnir and Serie stood at the temple entrance every time she left, watching until she disappeared into the forest. Neither spoke of how much longer the silences stretched after she was gone.
The second year, her visits became twice a year. Spring and autumn. She was busier now, her reputation growing. People sought her out for her knowledge, her power, her wisdom beyond her years.
"She is becoming who she was meant to be," Serie observed one evening, after Flamme's autumn visit had ended.
Fafnir said nothing. He was still staring at the empty path.
"You knew this would happen," Serie continued. "From the beginning. You knew she would leave."
"I know." His voice was quiet. "Doesn't make it easier."
"No," Serie agreed. "It does not."
---
By the fifth year, Flamme's visits had dwindled to once annually.
She was twenty-one now, fully grown, a mage of considerable renown. When she visited, she brought gifts—rare books for Fafnir, exotic magical components for Serie, trinkets and stories from lands they would never see.
But she also brought distance. A self-sufficiency that hadn't been there before. She no longer needed their approval or guidance. She sought their company because she wanted to, not because she had to.
Serie noticed first. She always did.
"She is independent now," Serie said one night, after Flamme had returned to her travels. "Truly independent."
Fafnir heard something in her voice. "That bothers you."
Serie was quiet for a long moment. "She does not need us anymore."
"She'll always need us. Just... differently."
"Will she?" Serie's ancient eyes were distant. "She is a grown woman. She has her own life, her own path. One day, she will have her own family. And we will become... memories."
Fafnir reached out and took her hand. "Is that what's really bothering you?"
Serie didn't answer.
But she didn't let go, either.
---
Three years later, everything changed.
Flamme arrived at the temple in high summer, her visit earlier than usual. Fafnir sensed her approach from miles away—her mana signature was unmistakable now, grown powerful over the years.
But there was something else. Another signature. Strong. Male. Human.
Fafnir's eyes narrowed.
He met them at the entrance, Serie appearing silently beside him moments later.
Flamme looked different. Happier, somehow. Softer around the edges. And beside her stood a man—tall, broad-shouldered, with kind eyes and the calloused hands of a warrior.
"Dad. Mom." Flamme's smile was radiant. "I want you to meet someone. This is Alric."
The man stepped forward and bowed respectfully. "It's an honor to meet you both. Flamme has told me everything about you."
Fafnir's expression didn't change. "Has she."
Alric straightened, meeting Fafnir's gaze without flinching. Most people couldn't do that. Fafnir had to give him points for courage.
"Alric is an adventurer," Flamme continued, seemingly oblivious to Fafnir's frosty demeanor. "We met on a job two years ago. He's... he's my partner now."
The implication hung in the air.
Serie studied the man with her ancient, unreadable gaze. "Partner."
"Yes, Mom." Flamme's cheeks colored slightly. "My lover. My companion. The man I intend to spend my life with."
Silence.
Fafnir's jaw tightened.
---
Dinner that evening was... awkward.
Fafnir sat across from Alric, watching his every move with the intensity of a predator assessing a threat. Every time Alric looked at Flamme, Fafnir's eyes narrowed. Every time Alric touched her hand, Fafnir's grip on his utensils tightened.
Serie, by contrast, was remarkably calm. She asked Alric polite questions about his background, his profession, his intentions. He answered honestly—born in a small village, orphaned young, made his way as a sellsword before finding his calling as an adventurer. He'd been a warrior for fifteen years, had faced demons and bandits and monsters of all kinds.
He loved Flamme. That much was clear from the way he looked at her.
After the meal, Flamme cornered Fafnir in the library.
"Dad."
He didn't turn from the bookshelf he was pretending to organize. "Yes?"
"You're being ridiculous."
"I have no idea what you mean."
She walked around to face him. "You've barely said two words to Alric all evening. You've been glaring at him since we arrived. He noticed, by the way. He's just too polite to mention it."
Fafnir's jaw worked. "He's touching my daughter."
"She's twenty-four years old, Dad."
"I don't care if she's a thousand. He's touching my daughter."
Flamme's stern expression cracked into something softer. "You're worried about me."
"Of course I'm worried about you." His voice was gruff. "I've spent sixteen years worrying about you. It's not something I can just stop."
She reached out and took his hands. "I know. And I love you for it. But Alric is a good man. A really good man. He's brave and kind and honest. He makes me happy."
Fafnir looked at her—his daughter, grown and in love, looking at him with those same warm eyes she'd had since childhood.
"He'd better," he muttered. "Or I'll turn him into a stain."
Flamme laughed and hugged him. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."
---
Serie's assessment came later that night.
"He is acceptable," she said, finding Fafnir brooding at the temple entrance. "The warrior. Alric."
Fafnir didn't turn. "You think so?"
"I do." She stood beside him. "He is skilled—I can sense it. His mana is well-controlled for a human warrior. More importantly, he loves her. Genuinely. Deeply."
"Anyone can pretend."
"Not for an entire evening under our scrutiny." Serie's voice was dry. "He did not flinch once. Not at you, not at me. He looked at her like she was the most precious thing in the world." She paused. "Much as you do, actually."
Fafnir finally looked at her. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"It is supposed to make you see what I see. A good man who loves our daughter." She reached out and took his hand. "She chose him. Trust her judgment."
Fafnir was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "I still don't like him touching her."
Serie's lips twitched. "I know."
---
The years that followed were kind.
Alric proved himself worthy. He visited the temple with Flamme whenever their travels allowed, always respectful, always patient with Fafnir's lingering coolness. He brought gifts—finely crafted weapons for Fafnir's collection, rare herbs for Serie's experiments. He asked about their magic, their history, their lives, genuinely interested in understanding the two immortals who had raised his love.
Fafnir's resistance softened, grudgingly, over time. He would never admit it, but Alric grew on him. The man was brave without being foolish, strong without being arrogant, devoted without being clingy.
When Flamme announced their engagement, Fafnir only grumbled for a week instead of a month.
Serie considered that progress.
---
The wedding was small. Private. Just the four of them in the temple they all called home.
Flamme wore a simple dress made from fabric Lukas had brought years ago, saved for a special occasion. Alric wore his best armor, polished until it shone. Fafnir officiated, reading words from his original world that none of them understood but all of them felt.
Serie stood beside Flamme, her ancient eyes soft in a way they rarely were.
When the ceremony ended and Alric kissed his bride, Fafnir looked away.
But he was smiling.
---
Five years later, everything shattered.
Flamme arrived at the temple alone.
Fafnir knew something was wrong the moment he sensed her approach. Her mana was... different. Darker. Heavy with something he couldn't name.
He met her at the entrance. Serie appeared beside him moments later.
Flamme looked at them. Her eyes were red-rimmed, hollow.
"Flamme?" Fafnir's voice was careful. "What happened? Where's Alric?"
She didn't answer at first. Just stood there, trembling.
Then, in a voice that barely resembled her own: "He's gone."
The words hung in the air like a physical weight.
"Gone where?" Serie asked, though her expression suggested she already knew.
Flamme's composure crumbled. "A demon. A powerful one. We were hired to hunt it, and it was stronger than we expected, and Alric—" Her voice broke. "He pushed me out of the way. Took the hit meant for me. And I couldn't—I tried to heal him, but the wound was—"
She couldn't finish.
Fafnir moved without thinking, crossing the distance and pulling her into his arms. She collapsed against him, sobbing.
Serie stood frozen for a moment, then approached slowly, placing a hand on Flamme's back. Her ancient face was pale, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
"We are here," Serie whispered. "We are here, child."
Flamme cried for a long time.
---
The days that followed were dark.
Flamme stayed at the temple, barely eating, barely speaking. She spent hours staring at nothing, lost in memories. When she did speak, it was often of Alric—small moments, shared jokes, plans they'd made for the future that would never happen.
Fafnir and Serie did what they could. They brought food she didn't eat. They sat with her in silence. They held her when she cried.
But they couldn't fix this. Some wounds went too deep.
It was Serie who finally broke through.
"You blame yourself," she said one evening, finding Flamme in the courtyard where she used to practice magic as a child.
Flamme didn't deny it. "If I'd been faster. Stronger. If I'd sensed the demon earlier—"
"Then you might both be dead." Serie's voice was firm. "Alric made a choice. He chose to save you because you were worth saving. Do not dishonor that choice by wishing it had been otherwise."
Flamme's eyes filled with tears. "But he's gone, Mom. He's gone and I'm here and I don't know how to—"
"You live." Serie's ancient eyes held hers. "You grieve, and you hurt, and then you live. For him. For yourself. For all the people who will need the mage you are becoming."
Flamme stared at her for a long moment.
Then she broke again, but differently this time. Not the hollow despair of before, but something raw and painful and necessary.
Serie held her through it.
---
Months passed.
Flamme slowly returned to herself—a different self than before, harder in some ways, more fragile in others. She threw herself into her work, hunting demons with a vengeance that worried both her parents.
"She's going to get herself killed," Fafnir said one night, watching her leave after a brief visit.
"She is channeling her grief," Serie replied. "It is what she needs right now."
"It's not healthy."
"No. But it is necessary." Serie looked at him. "She will find her balance eventually. We must trust her."
Fafnir wanted to argue. But he knew she was right.
---
A year after Alric's death, Flamme returned with news of a different kind.
She sat them down in the library, her expression carefully neutral. Fafnir's instincts immediately went on alert.
"I need to tell you something," she began. "And I need you to listen before you react."
Serie's eyes narrowed. "Go on."
Flamme took a deep breath. "After Alric died, I went to a healer. A very skilled one. I wanted to know if there was any chance... any chance I might be carrying his child."
Fafnir's heart lurched. "And?"
Flamme's composure cracked slightly. "There's no chance. There never was." She looked down at her hands. "I'm barren. I'll never have children."
Silence.
Fafnir felt the words like a physical blow. His daughter—his bright, warm, loving daughter—would never know the joy of being a parent. Would never hold her own child the way he'd held her.
"How do you know?" he asked, his voice rough. "Healers can be wrong."
"This one wasn't." Flamme's voice was steady, but her eyes glistened. "It's not recent. It's been this way since birth, apparently. I just never knew."
Serie rose and crossed to her, sitting close and taking her hand. "I am sorry."
Flamme managed a weak smile. "Me too. I always imagined... you know. Coming back here someday with little ones. Letting you spoil them the way you spoiled me."
Fafnir's throat tightened. He stood and joined them, wrapping his arms around both his girls.
"We have you," he said roughly. "That's enough. That's always been enough."
Flamme cried then, softly, leaning into their embrace.
And in that moment, Fafnir understood something he hadn't before. In the original timeline—the story he'd known from his previous life—Flamme had no descendants. No family line. He'd always wondered why.
Now he knew.
Fate, he thought. Even with everything I've changed, some things remain the same.
---
The years continued their relentless march.
Flamme grew older, wiser, more powerful. Her reputation as a mage spread across the land. She trained students, advised kingdoms, hunted demons with a ferocity born of grief.
She visited the temple whenever she could. Less frequently now, but the visits meant more. She would stay for weeks sometimes, just being with them, the way she had as a child.
Fafnir and Serie aged in their own way—which is to say, they didn't. But something in them softened with each passing year. They held hands more often. Sat closer. Finished each other's sentences without thinking.
Flamme noticed, of course. She always noticed.
"You two are finally figuring it out," she said one evening, watching them from across the library.
Fafnir raised an eyebrow. "Figuring what out?"
"Each other." She smiled—that same warm smile, though softer now with age. "It only took you, what, thirty years?"
Serie's ears twitched. "We have always been... companions."
"Mom. You're holding his hand right now."
Serie looked down. She was, in fact, holding Fafnir's hand.
She did not let go.
"Companions," she repeated, but there was no conviction in it.
Flamme laughed—a real laugh, the kind that had been too rare since Alric's death. "I love you both. You know that?"
Fafnir's chest did that thing. That warm, tight thing that never went away where she was concerned.
"We know," he said quietly.
---
The day arrived without warning.
Flamme appeared at the temple with a child in tow.
Fafnir felt her approach—her mana signature, as familiar as his own—and something else. A smaller signature. Controlled, calm, remarkably stable for someone so young.
He met them at the entrance. Serie appeared beside him moments later.
Flamme looked... different. Older, certainly—she was thirty now, in the prime of her life. But there was something else. A peace she hadn't carried since Alric's death.
"Dad. Mom." She smiled. "I want you to meet someone."
She gently pushed the child forward.
The girl was small, with long hair and ancient eyes that held centuries before they'd lived them. She looked at Fafnir and Serie without fear, without awe—just quiet curiosity.
"This is Frieren," Flamme said. "My disciple."
Fafnir stared.
Frieren. The protagonist of the story he'd known in his previous life. The elf who would outlive everyone she loved, who would carry Flamme's legacy across millennia.
Even with his interference. Even with everything he'd changed. She was still here.
Fate, he thought again. Truly, fate is a mysterious thing.
Serie studied the girl with sharp interest. "An elf."
"Yes." Flamme's hand rested on Frieren's shoulder. "I found her in a village to the east. Her parents are gone, and she was alone. Her mana control is..." She paused, smiling. "Well. You'll see."
Frieren looked up at Serie. "You're the legendary mage. Flamme talks about you all the time."
Serie's eyebrow arched. "Does she."
"She says you're the strongest mage in the world. But also that you're really bad at showing your feelings."
Silence.
Fafnir choked back a laugh.
Flamme winced. "Frieren, we talked about filtering—"
"It's fine." Serie's voice was carefully controlled. "I am certain I do not know what she means."
Frieren studied her for a moment. "Your ears are twitching."
Serie's hand twitched toward her ear before she caught herself. "They are not."
"Are too."
Fafnir lost the battle and laughed out loud.
Flamme covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.
Serie shot them both a look that promised retribution. But beneath it, just visible to those who knew her, was something softer.
Another child, her eyes seemed to say. Another one to love.
---
That evening, after Frieren had been settled into Flamme's old corner of the library, the three of them gathered at the temple entrance.
"She's remarkable," Flamme said quietly. "Her potential is... I've never seen anything like it. She'll surpass me someday. I'm sure of it."
Fafnir looked at her. "You sound proud."
"I am." She smiled. "She's my disciple. My legacy. Everything I've learned, everything you both taught me... I can pass it on to her."
Serie was quiet for a long moment. Then: "You have chosen well."
Flamme's eyes glistened. "Thank you, Mom."
They stood together in the darkness, three immortals and the mortal woman who had made them a family.
After a while, Flamme spoke again. "You know, when I first came here, I never imagined any of this. I was just a scared little girl running from a demon. I never thought I'd find parents. A family. A life."
Fafnir's throat tightened. "Neither did we."
"The strange thing is," Flamme continued, "I think my birth parents would be happy. About all of it. About you. About the mage I became. About Frieren." She looked at them. "I think they'd thank you. For taking care of their little girl."
Serie reached out and took her hand. Fafnir did the same.
"You were worth taking care of," Serie said softly. "You always were."
Flamme smiled—that bright, warm smile that had first melted their hearts decades ago.
"I love you both," she said. "Forever."
"Forever is a very long time," Fafnir murmured, echoing words spoken long ago.
"Good," Flamme replied. "That's how long I plan to love you."
---