"What the fuck."
The word slipped out sharp, harsher than Aelius usually allowed himself. He didn't like cursing—too crude, too easy, and far too common for someone like him. Why waste breath cursing somebody with words when he could actually curse them? But this time it got away from him, forced out by what he was staring at.
Right here, in the pages of a Book of Zeref, sat a drawing. Not words, not a theory or diagram. A drawing. Crude, rough lines, the strokes of someone more concerned with memory than artistry. But he knew what it was. He knew who it was.
His grandfather's true form.
The sight made his hand tighten against the cover until the leather groaned. That twisting, shifting thing scrawled in black ink—an image of a being that had no place in this world—was something only he should have known. Something that belonged to his blood alone. Yet here it was, preserved on fragile paper in an artifact outlawed across Fiore.
Aelius stared, unblinking, his chest tight. "…Why the hell would this be here?" he muttered, voice low under the mask.
The book shouldn't know. Zeref shouldn't know. No one should know. And yet, staring back at him, grinning in every crooked line, was proof that someone else had seen the same nightmare that had once stared down at him as a child.
It was shocking, baffling—wrong in a way that gnawed at the back of his mind like teeth.
What did his grandfather have to do with Zeref? Why would he—that thing, that monster who'd haunted his bloodline—be preserved in one of Zeref's Books of Demons? A book that should've only held the makings of abominations, not some crude sketch of something that should've died with his lineage.
And this book itself… it wasn't right. He'd heard of them, of course. Every mage worth the ink in their veins had heard of them, and the Magic Council even circulated vague descriptions—warnings for the guilds, guidelines for how to identify one if, by some miracle, it surfaced. Black leather. Dark symbols. A stench of malice that clung to it like mold.
This one—close, yes. The leather was black, the aura of corruption undeniable. But the symbols writhed like worms under rain. And the leather—
Aelius frowned behind the mask, fingers tracing its cover. It wasn't beast-hide. Not like the others were said to be. Not cured dragon-scale or boiled chimera flesh. It was something else. His first thought was residue from the heart—that pulsing, grotesque mound of tissue that had been wrapped around it—but even as he pressed his thumb against the cover, he knew that wasn't it.
It felt like no other leather he'd touched before. Almost wet. Slimy without being slick, pliant without being fragile. Gooey yet firm.
His stomach tightened with realization. It felt like the things back in his grandfather's domain. Not hide. Not scales. Not bark or cloth, or paper.
Meat. Flesh pressed and stretched, cured into something that mimicked leather, only it never truly lost what it was. Skin, pulsing faintly beneath his touch, as if memory still lingered in the tissue.
His thoughts fractured at the sound behind him—a wet, heavy thump. He spun, muscles already coiled, magic prickling at his fingertips, prepared for something with teeth or claws to come lunging from the dark. But it wasn't that.
It was the wyvern—or what was left of it.
The thing that had once been muscle, scale, and fury was now nothing more than a collapsed heap of rot. Its wings sloughed away in strands, its jaw slack as black ichor ran out in slow rivulets, pooling beneath its carcass. Flesh came apart in sheets, bones jutting like the splinters of a shipwreck. The cavern's pulse had weakened with the book's removal, and without that tether, the beast had simply… unraveled.
Likely held together by the book, or the heart, or both.
Now, reduced to slop.
Aelius's stance eased, though only slightly. His eyes lingered on the mess, and for a moment, he simply stared. The tension he'd been carrying drained into something far quieter—disappointment.
"Figures," he muttered, his voice carrying flatly in the chamber.
He had half-expected, half-hoped for a fight. A real fight—fangs, claws, fire, and fury. Something to throw himself against until the rest of the world bled away. Fighting was one of the few things left that stirred something alive in him, the one place his chaos of curses and plagues didn't feel like a burden, but a weapon meant for war.
Instead, he was left with a pile of spoiled meat and a corpse that hadn't even had the decency to die on its own.
He shook his head and turned his back on the heap. There was nothing left here worth his time. The job was done. Not that he was entirely sure he could take credit—what did he really do? The wyvern had fallen apart on its own, rotted out from whatever unholy tether bound it to the heart and the grimoire. But results were results, and the client would never know the difference.
Two million jewels for less than a day's work.
The thought alone loosened something in his chest—if not satisfaction, then at least a grim sort of comfort. Maybe, just maybe, he could use it as leverage. Bribe Master with it, slip the old man the coin to ease that perpetual weight of his gaze. Two million could cover the costs of the next town the guild managed to level in their drunken brawls and half-thought heroics. Maybe that would buy him some silence, even if just for a while.
"…Doubt it," Aelius muttered under his breath, though the corner of his mouth twitched faintly upward behind the mask.
Jewels weren't the answer, not really. Not when the problem was him. Still, money made for a convenient bandage, and if it bought him a reprieve from Master's scorn—even a short one—then maybe this trip into rot and ruin had been worth more than he thought.
With a thought, the grimoire flickered from his grasp, swallowed by the pocket of space that held his requip. The sensation lingered on his fingertips, sticky and faintly nauseating, as though the book left an impression on his nerves. He flexed his hand once, twice, but the feeling refused to vanish. Why he didn't wear gloves when touching a cursed tome, he will never know.
He considered, briefly, testing his luck in the town above. Seeing if anyone—some scholar, some priest, some whispering rat in a tavern—might recognize the tome. The idea was tempting. Answers had always been a luxury to him, and here, cradled in his arsenal, was a riddle that could shake the world.
But temptation wasn't enough.
Aelius wasn't stupid.
Whatever scraps of normalcy, whatever hollow peace he had carved out for himself—it wasn't worth the risk of dragging Zeref's shadow into the open. He had no illusions about what the Council, or worse, his guild, would do if they learned he had such a thing in his possession. Petty curiosity wasn't enough to burn whatever it was he had.
So he swallowed the itch and set his shoulders, leaving the thought behind like the rotting bones in the cavern.
The only sound was his own footsteps echoing against the wet stone.
And soon enough, the sound faded, the slick slap of wet stone giving way to the hollow scrape of his boots on drier steps. The air lightened as he climbed, stale rot thinning into something crisper, faintly touched by pine. He kept his pace steady, not hurried, though the oppressive weight that had clung to him since entering the cavern slowly peeled away.
Birdsong reached him before the sky did—sharp, clear notes cutting through the silence like tiny knives of life. Each step forward brought more of them, overlapping, building into a chorus that sounded almost foreign after the cavern's suffocating quiet.
The last few stairs blurred under his stride, and when the ruin's mouth finally opened above him, he let his eyes narrow against the daylight. The trees swayed gently, branches breathing in a rhythm the cavern had denied. The grass bent under the breeze, insects hummed.
Something small skittered up the stone to his left—a spider, its legs catching faint motes of light as it darted higher into the cracks. A trivial thing, but its presence struck him all the same.
It was like the land itself could breathe again. The ruins no longer pulsed with that choking, unnatural heartbeat. The air no longer reeked of stagnant blood. With the wyvern dead and the book ripped from its cradle, the corruption had lost its anchor, and the world, ever eager, rushed to fill the void.
When he finally reached the town, the stares were already waiting for him. Fearful, curious, reverent—he'd long since stopped telling the difference. He didn't need to knock on the mayor's door; the man hadn't recovered from the spectacle Aelius had made earlier, and by the sound of it had locked himself away, leaving the business of reward to someone else.
Inside the hall, it was quiet, just one figure waiting. A young woman stood there, clutching a bulging bag of jewels to her chest as though it were a lifeline. She couldn't quite hide the tremor in her hands, or the way her gaze flicked toward him and away again, as if meeting his eyes—even through the mask—was more than she could bear.
She opened her mouth, tried to speak, the words catching somewhere between her throat and her tongue. "I—I need proof. That the wyvern, that it's—"
Aelius didn't let her finish. He stepped forward, his presence filling the space in an instant, and plucked the bag from her hands as if she'd been holding it out the whole time. His gloved fingers closed around the strap, the weight of two million jewels settling comfortably against his palm.
"Melted," he said flatly, the single word carrying enough weight to silence her.
Her lips parted, maybe to protest, maybe to plead, but no sound came. By the time she found her voice again, he was already turning on his heel, cloak dragging against the floor as he headed for the door.
Outside, the street noise faltered at his emergence—merchants, laborers, even children seemed to fall quiet, their heads lowering or turning aside. He didn't care. His pace didn't break, his hand tightened slightly on the bag, and the matter was already over in his mind.
"I think I'll walk this time," Aelius muttered, more to himself than anyone else, his voice carrying low and steady through the mask. He shifted the bag of jewels at his side, the faint clink muffled by the cloth, and turned north—away from the train station where iron wheels screeched and strangers pressed too close.
The thought of another ride in that cramped, reeking box made his jaw tighten. The journey here had been worse than the job itself—no space to breathe, no silence to drown in, just chatter and stares and the constant scrape of humanity. He'd rather take his chances with mud and dust, with the ache of his own legs, than suffer that again.
Besides, the road offered him something else: time. Time to think, to sift through the gnawing questions still clinging to him like burrs. His hand hovered briefly at his side, fingers twitching as though tempted to call the book out of his requip then and there. He didn't, not yet. But the weight of its presence lingered, heavy even in absence.
So he walked.
Dust rose in small puffs beneath his boots, curling and drifting back to earth like smoke. The path cut northward, weaving through low hills speckled with brush and the first hints of wildflowers struggling out of dry ground. Crickets sang in the grass, their steady rhythm a counterpoint to the silence of his own thoughts. Every few steps, he adjusted his stride, not out of fatigue but out of habit—his body too accustomed to battle, never entirely relaxed, always pacing himself as though the next fight were just over the rise.
He glanced to the horizon. The sun was still high, bleeding pale gold across the fields. A breeze pressed faintly against his cloak, carrying with it the smell of wheat and earth, so achingly alive compared to the wet, fetid rot of the cavern below. It should have calmed him, but it didn't. The contrast only sharpened his memory of the corruption, of the heart beating against stone, of the way the book had almost felt like it was waiting for him specifically.
Aelius's fingers flexed. He could almost feel the leather again, slick and wrong beneath his hand, as though the book were more flesh than binding. He quickened his pace without realizing it, boots striking harder against the packed dirt, the thought coiling tight in his chest.
"…Why me?` always me," he muttered.
The road had no answer. Only the long stretch ahead, quiet and endless, and the book's phantom whisper threading through the back of his skull.
"The 'hero' of my story," Aelius said, spitting the word as though it left a sour taste behind the mask. "One I never agreed to play in." His voice was flat, more to the wind than to any listening ear. He rolled his eyes, stepping over a fallen log that split the road in half, its bark long stripped and pale from sun and rain.
Not like it mattered anyway. The pieces had already moved, the board already set. He had acquired a book of Zeref—a grimoire that by all rights should not exist in his hands, much less follow him like a shadow. Not just any book, either, but one that felt tailored, every page whispering as if meant for him and him alone.
That suspicion gnawed at him, heavier than the weight of the jewels he sent to his requip space. A trap? A test? Or simply another cruel joke from a world that seemed determined to remind him of the blood in his veins? He wasn't sure, and the not-knowing burned hotter than the prospect of what the book might contain.
The bigger question clawed at the edge of every thought. Does he play with fate? Does he summon the demon, or whatever monstrosity sleeps between its pages?
He sighed, the sound like steel dragged across stone. He doubted it. Not now, not yet. That kind of power, that kind of gamble—it wasn't worth it. Living took enough effort without inviting the jaws of fate to clamp down tighter.
And so his mind drifted, unspooling into places that weren't kinder, but at least carried less immediate threat of destruction and ruin.
The Master, first. Yes—always the Master. Aelius still entertained the faint hope that the bribe would do what words never could, buy him some shred of reprieve. A million here, a million there, all vanishing into repairs, into liquor, into whatever kept Fairy Tail standing despite its endless appetite for chaos. Perhaps the old man would accept it as a peace offering—an act of loyalty without the need for speeches or apologies.
Then his thoughts twisted, inevitably, to Erza. Erza and her little circle, always so righteous, so certain. He could picture her already—arms folded, eyes sharp as blades, waiting for his return with that infuriating patience she mistook for virtue. And of course, her posse would be there as well, like hounds scenting blood, each one convinced their curiosity equaled concern.
It almost made him laugh. Almost.
Because the Master had been right when he left yesterday. Their eyes would be on him now, not because they trusted, but because they doubted. They'd whisper, wonder if he'd vanish again, disappear for another four years into silence and shadow. And it irked him more than he'd ever admit aloud.
He'd never given them reason to distrust him. Never played at bonds he had no intention of keeping. He had been clear—painfully clear—about where they stood with him. About where he stood with them. And yet, they never seemed to hear it. They heard what they wanted instead. Painted him into their story whether he wanted the role or not.
And yet—for all his disdain, all his carefully sharpened edges—he found them entertaining.
Enough, at least, to keep him around.
Fairy Tail was a circus masquerading as a guild, a menagerie of idiots who mistook stubbornness for strength. And against every reasonable expectation, against all the odds and sense in the world, it almost was strength. Courage, honor, friendship—words he had always considered empty noise, brittle things to cover weakness—but in their mouths, in their fists, in the sheer absurdity of their conviction, they became something else. Something that actually worked.
It never ceased to baffle him.
He let out a low hum, shaking his head as though to clear the thought, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward under the mask. An expression no one would see, and one he'd deny if they did.
Still, he couldn't help the image that formed—him, pushing open the doors of the guild hall after his little venture. A dozen voices clamoring at once, half in demand, half in mockery. Someone—probably Natsu—hurling a table across the room in some ridiculous attempt at a greeting. Maybe it would miss him by inches. Maybe he'd let it hit him just to see the look on their faces.
The thought was enough to pull a quiet, amused exhale from his chest. Not quite a laugh—he didn't laugh anymore—but close.
"They'll never change," he murmured to himself, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of it all. "And maybe that's why they survive."
His hike carried on, the road stretching ahead in monotonous silence, broken only by the crunch of his boots and the occasional hiss of wind through the trees. By his estimation, it would be a full day's march before Magnolia. He'd already resigned himself to the idea of making camp come nightfall—he had even pulled a flask from his requip space, tilting it lazily in his hand—when something ahead caught his attention.
A cart.
It sat crooked at the roadside, one wheel mangled and bent, spokes jutting like snapped bones. Standing beside it was a figure—not quite a child, not quite grown, but young. A woman small enough in stature that at first glance she could've been mistaken for a kid.
She wasn't crying, though. No, she was furious.
Each kick of her boot against the broken wheel came with a muttered curse, her face screwed up in frustration. She pushed, she tugged, she kicked again, as if sheer stubborn willpower might bully the cart into fixing itself. Dust smeared her skirt, strands of hair sticking to her forehead with sweat, and still she fought the wood like it had personally wronged her.
Aelius slowed, flask dangling in his hand. The road was wide enough to walk around, to ignore her struggle, and keep moving northward. That would've been the simplest path.
But instead, he stopped.
The whole display—this small, young woman waging war against splintered wood—was absurdly familiar. Not the girl herself, but the raw defiance she carried in her posture, the way she threw her weight at the impossible problem. A fight she couldn't win, but one she refused to back down from.
He tipped the flask back, swallowed a mouthful, then muttered under his breath, "Figures. Can't even walk home without finding someone else punching above their weight."
"Doubt kicking it will fix it, kid."
Aelius's voice cut through the quiet road, flat and unbothered, carrying just enough edge to make the words bite. He sent the flask back into his requip space with a flick of thought, his hands falling to rest lazily at his sides.
The young woman jumped like she'd been struck by lightning. Her head whipped around so fast her hair nearly slapped her in the face, wide eyes locking onto the cloaked, masked man standing a few paces away.
Her mouth opened, then snapped shut again, clearly scrambling between indignation and alarm. For a second, she looked like she might actually brandish the broken cart wheel at him like a weapon.
Aelius tilted his head, watching, amused at her reaction but giving no sign beyond the faintest roll of his shoulders. He didn't move closer. Didn't need to. Her panic was theater enough.
"You—" she started, voice pitching high before she forced it lower, trying for authority she didn't have. "Don't sneak up on people like that!"
"You were busy trying to kill the cart," Aelius said evenly. "Didn't seem polite to interrupt."
Her face flushed, somewhere between embarrassment and irritation, and she crossed her arms tightly, glaring up at him. "And what are you supposed to be, huh? Some kind of highway bandit?"
A chuckle threatened his throat, but he swallowed it down, letting only silence linger. Watching her squirm under his mask was enough for now.
"Mm…maybe," Aelius hummed, head angling slightly as though weighing the idea. His tone was dry, almost lazy, and yet sharp enough to make her shoulders tighten. "Though you don't seem to be worth robbing, if I'm being honest."
The young woman's jaw dropped. For a heartbeat, she just stood there, sputtering wordless outrage before finally managing, "Excuse me?!"
Aelius's shoulders rose and fell in the faintest shrug. He drifted a step closer, boots crunching against the dirt road, though his hands still hung loose at his sides. "No offense," he added, which of course meant the exact opposite. "Just saying—broken cart, half-snapped wheel, one scrawny traveler with nothing but dust and bad luck. Doesn't exactly scream profitable venture."
Her face flushed a deeper shade, equal parts indignation and humiliation. She bristled, chin lifting, trying to look taller than she was. "Shows what you know. I happen to be on important business."
Aelius tilted his head again, voice low and smooth. "Important business that got stopped by a wheel."
That seemed to sting more than anything else, and she kicked the wood again with a frustrated noise before realizing she'd just proved his point.
Aelius let silence stretch after that, studying her through the slits of his mask, his amusement hidden but present in the faint curl of his stance.
"'You're not very nice, mister.'" The girl crossed her arms, trying to scowl up at him, though the effect was more pout than threat.
"And you're not very tall," Aelius shot back without missing a beat. His voice was flat, not cruel exactly, but sharp enough that it cut through the air like the snap of a whip.
Her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again as she tried to summon a retort. Nothing came. She huffed, cheeks puffing, and muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like jerk.
Aelius exhaled through his mask, the faintest rasp of amusement threading the sound. He shifted his weight, eyeing the cart, the uselessly bent wheel, then back at her, as though trying to decide whether she was worth the trouble of more words—or perhaps whether he was just bored enough to keep poking at her.
"Where's a little girl like you heading to by yourself anyway?" Aelius asked, tone as casual as if he were asking about the weather.
"I'll have you know, I'm twenty." She snapped the words out, chin lifting defiantly, though she barely came up to his chest.
Aelius tilted his head, studying her, eyes narrowing behind the mask. "…Huh. Short little thing like you, older than me."
That landed harder than she wanted to admit—her mouth twisted, her hands curling into fists at her sides as she stamped a boot against the dirt. "I am not short!"
"Could've fooled me," Aelius muttered, almost to himself, but loud enough for her to hear. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, just faintly.
"Are you going to rob me or help?!" she burst out, her voice pitching high with exasperation. The way her arms flailed when she said it nearly made Aelius laugh—not that he would.
He let the silence drag, watching her with that flat, unreadable stare through the mask until she fidgeted. Finally, he tilted his head, speaking slowly, like he had all the time in the world.
"Tell me what you need help with," he said, voice low and even, "and I'll give you an answer."
Her jaw clenched, like she didn't want to admit it, but her eyes flicked toward the cart and the splintered wheel she'd been abusing. She huffed through her nose, crossing her arms as if to hold on to the last bit of pride she had left.
"…The wheel," she muttered. "It's broken. I can't lift the cart myself."
Aelius let his gaze fall on the cart, then back to her, then back to the cart. He sighed through his mask, long and deliberate, just to watch her bristle.
"You want me to play carpenter," he said, deadpan.
"You want to keep standing there wasting my time?" she shot back.
"Where you heading?" Aelius asked, his tone flat, more like an afterthought than genuine interest.
"Magnolia," the girl answered, arms crossed, jaw tight, like she was daring him to laugh at her.
Aelius exhaled through his mask, a quiet sound almost like a scoff. He stepped toward the wagon, ignoring her defensive stance. One gloved hand touched the wood—then, with a flicker of violet light, the whole thing blinked out of sight, swallowed into his requip space.
The road looked suddenly empty.
The girl's eyes went wide, her arms falling to her sides. "What—what did you just do?!"
"Fixed your problem." Aelius brushed his hands off lazily. "Your cart won't break down again if it's not here."
Her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again as she jabbed a finger at him. "You—you stole it!"
"Borrowed," Aelius corrected, tone bone-dry. "I'll give it back in Magnolia." A beat, then a faint tilt of his head. "Probably."
She stomped her foot, glaring up at him. "That's still stealing!"
"Then report me when we get there," Aelius replied without breaking stride, already turning north. His cloak swayed lightly as he walked, hands hanging loose at his sides.
The girl sputtered, standing frozen for a second before jogging after him, her voice sharp. "Hey! You can't just walk off like that! That was my cart!"
"You're welcome," Aelius muttered, not slowing down.
"Welcome…? You want me to thank you for stealing my cart? My stuff?" The girl's voice pitched high with indignation, half sprinting to keep pace with Aelius's long, unhurried strides. Her small frame bounced against the uneven stones, hands planted firmly on her hips despite her flustered scowl.
"Yes," Aelius said, flat and unembellished, the barest edge of a smirk curling beneath his mask. He didn't slow his pace.
She blinked, stunned. "Yes?! You—"
"Do you want to get to Magnolia, or keep yelling?" he cut in, voice even but pointed, his gaze forward on the road.
Her arms dropped in exasperation, though her frown deepened. "This is insane! You can't just—steal someone's cart and expect a thank you!"
"You wanted to go," he replied simply, the words like gravel tossed into the wind. "I'm getting you there faster. Gratitude is optional."
She huffed, cheeks pink, and stomped the ground in frustration. "That doesn't make it okay! You—ugh, I can't believe this!"
Aelius chuckled quietly, the sound low and restrained. "If I truly wanted your things," he said, glancing down at her with a faint glimmer of amusement in his eye, "you wouldn't still be standing."
Her jaw tightened. "…Then why are you helping me?"
"Because you're entertaining," he answered, shrugging as though it were the simplest fact in the world. "And I suppose I'm in the mood."
The girl frowned but didn't respond, clearly trying to process whether he was serious—or just dangerous. Then, without warning, she spoke again, voice quieter, edged with curiosity: "So… you're not just… a thief?"
"I'm many things," Aelius said vaguely, stepping over a fallen log as if it were nothing more than a crack in the road. "But that's not important right now. What matters is you're moving, and so am I."
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she fell into step beside him, determined not to be left behind. "I'm not just going to let you walk away with my stuff," she muttered.
"Feel free to try," Aelius replied, a flicker of amusement crossing his face, his tone detached yet oddly patient. "Just keep up."