Aelius was currently staring down Makarov in his office, and admittedly, he wasn't sure if he was winning. The old man's eyes were steady, clear, and sharp in a way that made even Aelius second-guess himself. Perhaps Makarov had thought things over after Aelius stormed out of the infirmary the day before. Or perhaps Aelius had simply caught him in the middle of paperwork, the weight of guild matters still pressing heavily on his shoulders. Either way, the master wasn't wearing that grandfatherly mask now—the one of gentle smiles, indulgent words, and a patience that seemed endless. No, today the air felt different.
The desk between them was cluttered with stacks of parchment, reports, bills, and requests, the endless tide of guild work that never seemed to stop. But none of it seemed to matter in that moment. Makarov's attention was fixed entirely on him, and there was nothing soft in that gaze. No comfort, no warmth. Just a steel that belied his age.
Aelius crossed his arms, meeting the stare without flinching. He wasn't about to bow, not even here, not even to Makarov. Not when he felt the man's magic pressing faintly in the room, like a reminder that no matter how far Aelius had come, he still stood in the presence of an experienced Wizard Saint.
"You're quiet today," Aelius finally muttered, his tone low, his voice carrying the edge of challenge. "That's not like you."
Makarov didn't answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, folding his small hands across his chest, eyes narrowing slightly. For all his size, for all the humor he usually cloaked himself in, the weight of command radiated off him now, filling the room in a way that made the walls seem closer, the air heavier.
"You realize what you're asking?" Makarov said at last, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had said such things far too many times across far too many years. He leaned back further in his chair, a tired sigh slipping past his lips as his brows furrowed. "I can't stop you—heaven knows you'd do it anyway—but for someone who claims to hate headaches, you seem rather intent on making more of them."
His gaze softened just a fraction, though it never lost its sharpness. "What made you want to take a quest now? You haven't touched one since your return. And the others…" He trailed off for a moment, his expression tightening, as if even he knew the words might cut. "The others might very well see this as you leaving again."
The office went quiet, the scratching of a quill outside the door, the faint chatter of guild members below, all muted against the weight of Makarov's words. His tone wasn't accusatory, not exactly—but it wasn't forgiving either.
He was testing him.
"Maybe I just feel like it," Aelius said, voice low and measured, his hands resting loosely at his sides. "You said it yourself—you can't stop me. There's nothing wrong with me taking a quest. And it's not like I'm unable to handle it."
Makarov's brow furrowed faintly, the old man leaning forward in his chair. "You could've just gone to Mira and had her stamp it. You knew I was going to ask questions."
Aelius tilted his head slightly, the faintest shrug brushing through his posture. "We both know why I'm here and not with her," he said calmly, almost like stating a fact rather than making a point. "Besides, if I went to her in front of the guild… I'd get even more questions, more looks, and a bigger headache than I care to deal with. This way, it's simpler. Fewer interruptions, fewer lectures."
He let the words settle between them, quiet but firm, carrying the weight of someone used to navigating his own path. There was no pride in his tone, no defiance—just a steady logic that needed no permission.
Makarov studied him for a long moment, silent, the air thick with the unspoken understanding between the two.
Between the two hung a silence heavy with familiarity, neither rushing to fill it.
Makarov's eyes narrowed slightly, his voice calm but edged with intent.
"Will you at least tell me why? It's not just coincidence—you don't work like that."
Aelius met his gaze without wavering, the quiet in his demeanor speaking louder than any flourish of words. When he finally answered, his tone was level, stripped bare of explanation.
"Training."
The single word lingered in the air, unshaken, final. No excuse, no story to ease the weight of it—just fact.
Makarov's lips pressed into a thin line, brows drawing together as the silence stretched on. The old master searched his face for more, but there was nothing else offered. At last, he leaned back in his chair with a weary sigh, resignation etched into his frame.
"Like i said, i cant stop you, ill stamp it, i wont ask any more, i doubt id get a proper response anyway, but ill warn you boy, the others wont like it i don't know what you said to ezra yesterday but she seems both more determined and more angry at the same time, she very well might hunt you down...again."
Makarov's lips pressed into a thin line, his brows knitting together as the silence stretched on. He searched Aelius' mask for something—hesitation, doubt, anything—but the boy gave nothing. No explanation, no excuse, just the same unreadable calm. At length, the old master leaned back in his chair with a long, weary sigh, the sound of it carrying the weight of resignation.
"Like I said," he muttered, voice low but edged, "I can't stop you. Never could, not when you've set yourself on something. I'll stamp it." His hand drifted across the desk as if reaching for the request sheet was an effort in itself. "And I won't ask any more questions, because truth be told, I doubt I'd get a proper response out of you anyway."
He let the words hang for a moment, his gaze sharpening before softening again. "But I'll give you this much, boy—don't think the others will take kindly to it. You've been gone too long already. Every step you take alone, they see it, and it stirs the pot whether you mean for it to or not."
Makarov hesitated, his next words heavier, tinged with a hint of caution. "I don't know what you said to Erza yesterday, but whatever it was, it struck something deep. She looks more determined now, but there's anger in it too. A dangerous mix. If you're not careful, she'll come after you…again."
His sigh returned, softer this time, though his eyes never left Aelius'. "And this time, I don't think you'll shake her so easily."
"I've never cared for her interruptions, nor her opinions." Aelius' tone carried no edge, no heat—just a calm dismissal, as if Erza's fury was little more than wind against stone. "Let her think what she wants, let her chase if she must. Eventually she'll see for herself—I'm not the same boy she remembers from all those years ago."
He rose smoothly from the chair, the faint scrape of wood on tile filling the silence as he straightened to his full height. With a deliberate motion, he inclined his head in a small bow, the gesture respectful yet measured, the kind that acknowledged Makarov's authority without yielding his own resolve.
"I'll be off, then, Master," he said, his voice steady, final. "And… I thank you for not fighting me on this decision."
Makarov did not return the bow at once. He sat there in silence, watching the boy—no, the man—who stood before him now. The candlelight in the office flickered faintly, catching on the lines of the master's face, deepening them, as though years of fatigue had suddenly settled on his shoulders.
"Don't thank me too quickly," he said at last, his voice low, carrying that strange blend of weariness and weight that only came with decades of leadership. "I may not stop you, but that doesn't mean I want to see you walk this path. Every time you go your own way, you leave ripples in this guild, Aelius. You think you move alone, but everyone feels it. Whether you intend it or not."
He shifted, leaning back in his chair, the wood creaking under the motion. For a moment, he rubbed at his temples as though the thought itself was a headache, then let his hand fall to the desk with a dull thump. His gaze hardened again.
"You say you don't care for Erza's interruptions. Maybe that's true. Maybe you've outgrown her in more ways than one. But understand this—her anger isn't born of pride alone. She fights because she remembers who you were, and she refuses to let go of the pieces of you she thinks are still buried in there somewhere. That's why she'll chase you, Aelius. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she doubts what that strength is turning you into."
The words hung heavy in the room, like smoke that refused to clear. Makarov's eyes softened, though only slightly. "And I doubt her less than I doubt you."
For a moment, his tone shifted, quieter now, the voice of a man who had raised generations, who had seen them grow and fall. "I stamped plenty of reckless quests in my time. Some of those kids came back, some didn't. What keeps me awake, boy, isn't whether you're strong enough to survive—it's whether you'll come back at all, in more than just body."
Aelius stood there, unmoving, but Makarov could see the way the shadows pooled around him, how the silence was its own kind of armor. He gave a small, bitter laugh, shaking his head. "But maybe that's the part I've never been able to teach any of you. You don't listen when you're young, you only learn when it's too late."
Finally, he leaned forward again, his hand dragging the quest paper across the desk. The stamp pressed down with a dull, decisive sound, sealing the matter. He didn't slide the parchment toward Aelius immediately. He just left it there between them, as though the weight of it belonged to both.
When he did speak again, his voice was quieter, but edged with something stern and final. "Go, then. Train. Hunt. Fight—whatever you think you need. Just remember that if you tear yourself apart chasing strength, you'll find no victory in it. Only ashes."
He pushed the paper forward at last, fingers lingering on it a fraction too long before letting go. "And if Erza hunts you down… don't take her lightly. She's not the same girl you left behind, either."
Aelius's fingers closed around the stamped parchment with a deliberate calm, the faint scrape of paper against wood loud in the stillness of the office. He didn't answer immediately—he simply stood there, motionless, as if weighing the old man's words one last time. Then, with the smallest shift of his shoulders, he gave the faintest roll of his eyes behind the mask, unseen but not unfelt.
It wasn't derision, not entirely—more the quiet, unspoken exasperation of someone who had long since grown weary of hearing the same cautions repeated in different shapes. He didn't need to look at Makarov to know the old man had caught it all the same.
The silence lingered, heavy, stretched taut like a string about to snap. At last, Aelius inclined his head just enough to pass for acknowledgment, a shadow of courtesy rather than respect. Without another word, he turned, the long folds of his cloak whispering against the floorboards as he crossed the room.
His hand paused only once, on the iron handle of the office door. For the briefest moment, his posture shifted—almost as if some answer, some final retort, hovered at the edge of his tongue. But he let it die there. The latch gave a quiet click, and he pushed the door open.
The hallway outside was dim, washed in the warm glow of lantern light and the murmur of the guild below. Laughter, bickering, and the steady clatter of mugs drifted upward, distant but alive. Aelius stepped into it without hesitation, without looking back, his figure vanishing into the half-light of the corridor.
Behind him, the door shut with a dull thud, leaving Makarov alone in his office once more. The old master leaned back in his chair, staring at the empty space Aelius had left behind. His fingers drummed slowly against the desk, his eyes hooded with thought.
"Damn fool boy," he muttered, not without a touch of fondness buried beneath the frustration. Then, quieter still, almost lost to the hum of the guild below—"Don't let me outlive you too."
Aelius descended the staircase with measured steps, the wood creaking faintly beneath his boots. The parchment was already gone from his hand, slipped into the invisible fold of his requip space with a practiced flick of thought—out of sight, out of reach. His cloak trailed behind him in muted ripples, catching lantern-light and shadow alike, and for a moment he might as well have been a phantom slipping down through the guild.
The guildhall was alive, as always—laughter booming from one table, the slam of mugs at another, arguments breaking out over some trivial slight. Yet as Aelius's figure emerged into view, the noise shifted, if only slightly. It wasn't silence, not yet, but a ripple—an undercurrent of awareness that passed from table to table.
Levy was the first he noticed. Her eyes followed him from over the rim of a book, sharp and searching, curiosity and sadness written in every line of her face. She didn't speak, didn't call out, but her gaze lingered longer than most.
Then Erza.
Her presence was heavier, sharper, impossible to ignore. She stood near one of the supporting beams, arms folded tight across her chest, her stare unyielding. She didn't move, didn't speak, but the tension in her frame was unmistakable—the kind of rigid stillness that spoke louder than words ever could. Determination, frustration, and something else, colder, sparking just behind her eyes.
He caught others watching too—eyes at the edges of tables, quick glances stolen between bites of food or mugs half-raised. Whispers held behind hands. A weight in the air that followed him with every step toward the door. Yet no one spoke, no one dared to break the unspoken line that seemed to coil around him.
He reached the heavy doors without pause, his hand pushing against the iron banded wood. The guildhall's warmth and noise pressed against his back, but he never slowed. The door swung open, the cool air of Magnolia drifting in, carrying with it the faint scents of the street outside—stone, dust, and the far-off tang of the river.
He stepped through, and for the briefest instant, before the doors shut behind him, the hall seemed quieter, the gazes heavier, the air itself holding a question no one had dared to ask aloud.
"The harder I try to avoid it, the more the spotlight focuses on me," Aelius muttered beneath his mask, voice carrying just enough weight to betray his irritation. The morning sun was already bright overhead, spilling across Magnolia's streets in golden warmth. Merchants were just setting up their stalls, the clatter of crates and wooden signs mixing with the cheerful chatter of townsfolk starting their day. Children darted between carts, laughter ringing clear in the crisp air, while the scent of fresh bread and roasting beans drifted from nearby bakeries.
Aelius walked with the same deliberate steadiness he always carried, cloak shifting with the motion of his strides, boots clicking sharply against the cobblestones. He kept his pace even, though his gaze—concealed by steel—moved with quiet vigilance, sweeping corners, rooftops, and the shifting faces of the crowd. Even here, out of the guildhall, the sensation lingered: unseen eyes, hushed murmurs, the subtle prickling awareness of being watched. Not just the curiosity of Magnolia's citizens, but the reach of Fairy Tail itself—always circling, always pressing in.
The train station rose in the distance, its arched roof framed against the blue sky, faint whistles and the hiss of steam rolling across the streets. Travelers milled about, their voices carrying in the open air, the scent of coal and iron mixing with morning dew. His path toward it was unbroken, but his words slipped free again, a quiet grumble edged with weary amusement.
"Eyes at my back in every room, questions at every corner… it never ends." Not bitter—just tired, pragmatic, the acceptance of someone who'd long since stopped expecting peace from the weight of his own existence.
The walk through Magnolia's cobbled arteries brought him inevitably to the station. Even at this early hour, it was a hive of motion—porters shouting as they wheeled carts laden with luggage, travelers jostling one another in line, vendors waving paper cones of roasted chestnuts and skewered meats beneath noses. The building itself loomed large, iron girders arching overhead, glass panes catching the morning light until they shimmered like a hundred fractured mirrors. Steam hissed from the engines on the platforms, curling into the air in white plumes that clung to the rafters like drifting ghosts. The smell of coal, hot metal, and oil was sharp, carried on each gust that followed the departing trains.
Aelius cut a path through the bustle with the same quiet determination he carried everywhere. The cloak swayed about his legs, boots ringing on stone, but even in the press of the crowd, people parted instinctively. Whispers passed in his wake, though none loud enough to pierce the constant din of the station. His mask drew eyes like iron to a lodestone; children stopped mid-step to stare, their mothers tugging them along quickly, muttering about strange men in black. A merchant hawking maps fell silent as Aelius passed, clutching his wares closer to his chest as if expecting a robbery.
He ignored it all. He'd long ago stopped letting other people's unease weigh on him. The only destination that mattered was the ticket window at the far wall.
The line moved slowly, winding past tired-looking clerks tapping quills against paper and men sweating in their coats as they complained about delays. When Aelius stepped up to the counter, the ticket master's eyes flicked up—and immediately widened at the steel mask staring back. His throat worked once before he spoke, voice taut with unease.
"D-destination?"
"Eastward line," Aelius answered curtly, voice calm, even. "Nearest stop to the Phrygia ruins."
The man scribbled on his pad, his quill scratching fast, but his gaze kept darting up, as if he couldn't decide whether to hand the ticket over or call for the station guard. When Aelius extended his hand for the slip, the clerk hesitated too long. That hesitation was enough.
"Sir! Masked man—halt!"
The barked order came from his left. Aelius turned his head slightly, watching as two armored station guards strode toward him, rifles slung across their shoulders. Their faces were hard, suspicious, the kind of expressions born of men already convinced of guilt. The murmuring crowd around him shifted, people pulling back, whispering about bombs and terrorists.
"Step aside," one of the guards demanded, gesturing sharply with a gauntleted hand. "You'll come with us for questioning."
"I'm a mage," Aelius replied simply. His voice was measured, unimpressed. "And I'm leaving on this train."
The guards didn't buy it. One stepped closer, hand resting on his weapon. "Show the mark, or we drag you in. You hide your face, you hide your intent."
For a moment, silence pressed in. The crowd watched, anticipation thick, expecting violence to spill out onto the polished floor. Aelius raised his hand slowly, deliberately—not in challenge, but in simple demonstration. With a practiced motion, he pulled the edge of his cloak aside and revealed the ink burned into his skin: the Fairy Tail guildmark, stark and undeniable in the morning light.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate. The guards stiffened, eyes flicking from the mark to his mask, then back again. Recognition set in, followed by unease of a different sort—not suspicion now, but the kind reserved for dangerous men one would rather not provoke.
"…Fairy Tail," one guard muttered, almost as if saying it aloud could undo the tension.
"Problem?" Aelius asked, tone flat.
The guards exchanged a look, then stepped back a pace. "None. You're clear."
The clerk slid the ticket across the counter with trembling fingers, desperate to put the matter behind him. Aelius plucked it up without another word, tucking it into his cloak before moving toward the platforms. The crowd parted again, but this time it was not just curiosity that cleared his path—it was wariness, respect, and the faint edge of fear.
The train waited, iron belly groaning as steam bled from its sides. He boarded with steady steps, boots thudding against the metal stairs, the murmurs of the crowd fading behind him as the doors hissed shut. Inside, the carriage smelled faintly of varnished wood and coal smoke. Red-cushioned benches lined either side, already filled with travelers who pretended not to look at him. He found a seat near the back, sliding onto the bench with slow precision, cloak settling around him.
The weight of eyes lingered for a few breaths, but soon people looked away, choosing to study their shoes or the blur of the station through the windows rather than the masked figure seated quietly at the rear.
At last, he allowed himself a breath, leaning back against the wood. The ticket rested in his palm for a moment before he slipped it into the vastness of his requip space. He stared out the window as the whistle shrieked, long and piercing, announcing departure.
The train lurched forward with a grinding of wheels, Magnolia beginning to slip away in the distance.
Alone at last—though solitude never lasted long. Not for him.
The countryside blurred past his window, green hills and distant farms melting into one another as the train picked up speed, smoke trailing in its wake like a shadow stretching endlessly behind. Aelius sat still, but his mind worked ceaselessly, circling back to the crumpled notice he had tucked away in his requip space. The words on that parchment burned in his thoughts, sharp and strange.
The quest was simple by classification—S-Class, nothing he couldn't handle, nothing beyond his measure even before his absence. Not the Decade Quest he'd once planned to take, no, but still… something about it had caught his eye when he scanned the board. Enough to make him choose it without his usual detached efficiency.
A wyvern.
He had fought such beasts before. They were not dragons—scaled shadows of the real thing, cruel but predictable. Fangs, talons, fire. Brutal, yes, but mortal. He knew their patterns, their weaknesses, the rhythm of their hunting. He could have slain one even in the days before his departure from Fairy Tail. That part did not interest him.
No—what gnawed at him was the strangeness.
The request had described a shift.
Not aggressive at first, the report said. That in itself was peculiar—wyverns were territorial monsters, prone to killing anything that wandered into their domain, beasts of hunger and instinct. Yet this one had been calm, almost passive. Living among the ruins, wings folded, watching travelers pass but never striking. For months, it had remained that way. Then, something changed.
Its scales had taken on a purplish hue, a subtle shift at first, now glaring in the witness reports. And the creature had become violent—ravenous, striking down anything that dared step within the boundary of the old ruins. Merchants, farmers, even the odd mage patrol that tested the perimeter. It did not eat what it killed. The bodies were left where they fell, mangled, discarded. As though death itself had become its only hunger.
That was not the part that unnerved him most.
The villagers had been clever. They knew wyverns, knew beasts. They cut off its food. Roads were rerouted, livestock penned far away, patrols circling to keep all prey from wandering too close. They starved it by design, waiting for desperation to weaken it until a group of hired blades could finish the job. It should have withered. Even a wyvern could not last months without a kill.
But this one did.
Three months, the report said. Three months without prey, without food, without sustenance. It had not grown thin. Its wings were still taut, its body still thick with strength. No limp to its movements, no exhaustion in its presence. When it moved, it moved like something alive and thriving.
That was the hook.
That was what pulled at his instincts, kept him from walking past the parchment and choosing another. Something was wrong with this wyvern. Something beneath the surface of the report, something that no villager, no patrol, no caravan guard could name.
Aelius tapped a finger against the armrest in thought, the sound muffled by his glove. His mask reflected only the blur of light outside the window, but behind it his eyes narrowed.
It wasn't hunger driving the beast.
It wasn't instinct.
Something else had its claws in it.
"Not a Decade Quest," he muttered under his breath, so quiet only the whisper of the engine drowned it, "but not ordinary either."