The darkness of the Cave of the Eye swallowed us the instant the shimmering barrier closed behind us, abruptly cutting off Natsu's shouts, who was likely already trying to set fire to the solid cave rocks out of sheer frustration, or perhaps gnawing his own fingernails with impatience.
Typical of him, always needing to be dragged into things like a stubborn child, always the explosion before reason, the flame before contemplation. But, deep in my chest, where the warrior's discipline I had forged at such great cost constantly wrestled with a stubborn, almost maternal affection for that hot-headed idiot, I knew that his chaotic energy, his flame, and his canine loyalty would be… useful, somehow. Or, at the very least, a loud and welcome distraction for whatever awaited us in the depths of this treacherous island, which already exuded an aura of danger and mystery.
The air here was different from the beach, where the salt and sun still danced on my skin like a vibrant promise of freedom and warmth. Here it was colder, a cold that pierced the armour, laden with the smell of ancient, mouldy stone, of damp moss clinging to the walls like a second, sickly green skin, and something else, a subtle, almost forgotten hint of… old, dormant magic, a stagnant energy that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end in a silent warning.
It was almost like the smell of the forbidden books in the guild's restricted library section, those dusty tomes with cracked leather bindings that the Master kept under lock and key, and which, I confess with a pang of guilt and a hint of youthful pride in my audacity, I had already curiously peeked at on sleepless nights, seeking knowledge, power, and, who knows, trying to understand a little of Azra'il's peculiar taste for forgotten tomes and creative curses.
Elfman. Poor lad. I could imagine his pale face, probably bordering on green, and his eyes wide like a frightened animal's, as he watched Mirajane march with her irritating stubbornness and a determination that, I admit, was to be respected, towards the path of the Spiral.
That path radiated an energy so raw and wild it made even my own hair stand on end beneath my armour. Mira… she had always been a box of explosive surprises, a volatile combination of pure demonic power and an attitude that could cut steel. Even before… well, before everything that made her close herself off even more, she was already a hurricane.
That 'She-Devil' facade, always ready for a fight, always with a jibe on the tip of her tongue, hid an almost palpable ferocity, especially when it came to protecting those two siblings of hers. There were no pleasantries there, but there was a strength that I, even amidst our constant rivalry and our exchanges of barbs, could not deny.
She had demonic power, yes, but a power that would fight to the last breath for Elfman and Lisanna. And that, that visceral loyalty to family, was something that, as much as her arrogance irritated me, I deeply understood. Respected. Perhaps even envied a little.
Mirajane's decision to face the path of brute force surprised me, I confess, more than I would care to admit. There was a new flame in her eyes, a fierce, almost desperate determination I hadn't seen in a long, long time, one that reminded me a little… of myself, in my darkest, most stubborn moments, when the only way out seemed to be to fight with everything, against everything and everyone. And the mention of Azra'il… That woman.
She was a chapter apart in my life, an enigma I was still trying to decipher, a strange melody that had settled in my heart and refused to leave. Her lessons on the 'Path of the Sword', as she called it with an almost solemn seriousness that starkly contrasted with her usual air of existential boredom and her apparent, profound aversion to any unnecessary physical effort (unless, of course, it involved irritating someone in a particularly creative way), were not just about technique, about the handling of different blades or the correct posture for a deadly blow.
Oh, no. They went much, much further than that. They were about finding the balance between body and mind, between the fury of battle and the calm of the soul. They were about the intricate, often brutal dance between the raw strength I so prized and the cunning strategy I still struggled to master. About how a blade was not just a cold, sharp piece of metal, but an extension of the soul, a reflection of the warrior's indomitable will, a silent song of discipline, purpose, and, above all, of protection.
"True strength, little Redhead," she had told me once, using that irritating nickname only she dared to use, but which, for some inexplicable reason, didn't annoy me as much coming from her. Her voice was low and resonant like the chime of an ancient temple bell, a soft melody amidst the chaos of my world.
We were sitting on the guild's roof, our usual secret refuge from the noise and confusion below, the vast, dark lake of Magnolia stretching out before us under the pale, cold moonlight, a liquid mirror reflecting the starry sky and, perhaps, our own deepest, unspoken thoughts.
The night wind, cool and smelling of pine from the distant forests, played with her long, snow-white hair, which seemed almost ethereal under the moonlight, a stark contrast to the darkness of the night that enveloped us.
Her bright blue eyes, usually so cold and analytical like a hunting falcon assessing its prey, at that moment seemed to carry the weight of countless secrets and an uncomprehended, vast melancholy as they stared at the dark, still water, its surface breaking the silver reflection of the stars into a thousand shimmering pieces.
Our legs were almost touching, separated by mere inches of cold tile, and her proximity, the subtle scent of strange herbal teas and fresh ink from her books that always emanated from her, made my heart beat in a strange way, a fast, irregular rhythm I didn't understand, an anxiety that was almost… pleasurable. It was confusing.
"is not just in your ability to destroy your enemies with a rain of swords, to wield a thousand blades with a blind, implacable fury, Erza. That is just strength, raw power. And strength, in itself, if not guided by wisdom and heart, can be empty, dangerous, self-destructive."
She paused, her blue eyes meeting mine for an instant, and I found myself holding my breath, waiting for her next words as if they were an oracle, a key to some secret I yearned to unlock within myself.
"True strength, little Redhead," she continued, her voice now softer, almost a whisper, "lies in your resilience. In your ability to adapt to life's storms, to bend before the wind without ever breaking, to protect those you value even when darkness threatens to swallow you, even when everything around you seems to be falling apart. You have an indomitable spirit within you, Erza Scarlet. A born leader, a queen among warriors, even if you don't yet realise the full extent of it, even if you still fight against your own ghosts and fears. But even the mightiest eagles, those that rule the skies with their steel talons and piercing gaze, those that seem untouchable in their majesty, sometimes need to face the wind head-on, the most furious, merciless storm, to gain altitude, to grow stronger, to truly learn to fly."
Her words, spoken with that irritating, almost supernatural calm of hers, which always seemed to know more than she let on, but with a glint in her blue eyes that seemed to see beyond my armour, beyond my facade of unshakeable strength, to the very core of my frightened, lonely soul, that which I tried so hard to hide from the world, still echoed in my mind like a distant bell, a strange, persistent melody, a reminder of who I was, and who I could become if I had the courage.
That night, with our hands resting on the cold roof between us, so close I could feel the subtle, unexpected warmth emanating from her skin, the tips of our fingers almost brushing, an unfamiliar, unsettling feeling, a bittersweet mixture of comfort, an almost painful restlessness, had settled in my chest, like a trapped bird trying to escape an invisible cage.
My heart raced, a frantic, uncontrolled beat against my ribs, and I quickly looked away, feeling my face grow warm, confused by the intensity of what I felt, not understanding why there was this strange agitation, this shortness of breath whenever she was near, whenever her piercing, wise eyes met mine.
Her gaze, previously lost in the distorted reflection of the moon on the dark water, turned to me, and the intensity in her blue eyes held me, immobilised me, making the breath catch in my throat, my stomach give a lurch. "What wouldn't people do for freedom, Erza?" she had whispered, her voice low, but laden with the weight of a past I knew, instinctively, to be as, if not more, dark and painful than my own, an ancient pain she hid so well under layers of indifference and sharp sarcasm. The question wasn't rhetorical; it was a silent challenge, a mirror to my own scarred soul.
And I understood, with a painful, immediate clarity. Freedom. That word. That flame that had kept us alive in the oppressive darkness of the Tower of Heaven, the desperate dream that propelled us even when hope seemed a distant, cold, almost extinguished star. The price we had paid for it, each of us, in our own way. The blood shed. The lives lost. The parts of ourselves left behind, buried under the rubble of that hell, that prison of nightmares.
She understood, Azra'il understood in a visceral way, in a way that few in the guild, with their relatively normal lives and mundane concerns, would ever understand, what it meant to be a slave, what it meant to have your wings clipped before you even learned to fly, what it meant to fight tooth and nail, with every drop of blood and every breath of hope, for every crumb of dignity in a world that only wanted to crush you, to silence you, to erase you.
And I wondered, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, who Azra'il Weiss really was, that creature with hair white as the full moon, blue eyes like the deepest winter sky, and a soul that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand battles and a thousand losses, who had entered my life like an autumn wind, sweeping away the dry leaves and revealing uncomfortable truths about the world and especially, about myself.
And why, despite all her darkness and mystery, despite her frequently cutting words and her often unnerving presence, her presence had become something so… essential to me, a strange beacon in the confusion of my own feelings, an unexpected melody my heart stubbornly wanted to follow.