The streets of Magnolia bustled with life that morning. Sunlight spilled down from a cloudless sky, painting the rooftops golden and casting sharp shadows along the cobblestone roads. Merchants shouted over one another from behind their stalls, wagons creaked as they trundled past, and children's laughter carried down alleyways.
For most, it was a normal day in a lively city.
For Yuta Dragnir, it was overwhelming.
The boy kept his head down as he trailed behind the old man leading him. His boots scuffed against the stones, and every time he caught a stranger's eyes, his stomach tightened. Too many people. Too many voices. Too many smiles. People in this city looked at each other as if they belonged. As if the air they breathed was theirs by right.
Yuta couldn't understand it. He didn't belong anywhere.
He clenched his hands inside the sleeves of his patched cloak, fingers twitching with the familiar cold pulse that lived in his veins. The curse was restless. It always was when people looked at him for too long. He wanted to shrink into nothing, to vanish before they realized what he really was.
"Chin up, lad," Makarov Dreyar said, his voice rumbling like the steady thump of a drum. The small, round guild master puffed lazily on his pipe as he walked, unconcerned by the busy streets. "You keep staring at your boots and people'll think you're sneaking off to do something shady."
"I'm not sneaking," Yuta muttered, barely above a whisper.
Makarov shot him a grin. "Good. Then stop skulking like a stray. You're family now."
Family.
The word sat heavy in Yuta's chest. It was warm, but it hurt, too. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe this tiny old man who had found him in the ruins and said things no one had ever said before. That he wasn't a monster. That he didn't have to be alone.
But believing and belonging weren't the same.
Still, he followed.
"Almost there," Makarov said. His stubby finger jabbed forward. "See that building?"
Yuta lifted his head.
The guild hall rose above the other rooftops like a fortress of wood and laughter. Thick beams supported its wide frame, banners painted with a stylized fairy fluttered proudly from poles, and open windows spilled sound into the street. Shouting, laughter, the crash of something breaking.
It was chaos contained in wood and paint.
Yuta stopped in his tracks. "...They're fighting in there."
"Every day," Makarov said cheerfully.
Before Yuta could protest, the guild master shoved the wide double doors open.
The sound hit him like a punch.
Dozens of voices clashed in a wall of noise. At least a dozen men brawled near the bar, fists flying, mugs exploding into shards. A stream of fire whooshed across the room, exploding against the rafters and showering sparks on tables already splintered. The air smelled of smoke, ale, and sweat.
And at the very center of it all, standing proudly on a table with her hands on her hips, was a girl.
Silver hair tumbled past her shoulders, catching the sunlight like liquid. Her piercing blue eyes blazed as she pointed down at the men clawing at one another.
"You losers call that fighting?!" she roared, her voice slicing through the chaos. "I could crush every one of you with one hand tied behind my back!"
The guild jeered back, some laughing, some shouting challenges. A tankard flew at her head; she caught it mid-air and smashed it over the table for emphasis.
Makarov sighed. "And that'd be Mirajane Strauss. She's trouble, that one."
Yuta's gaze lingered. Mira was loud. Fierce. Terrifying in a way that made his skin prickle. But there was something about her grin, sharp and mischievous, that dared him to step forward. He quickly looked away.
Too late.
Her eyes locked onto him.
"Oi, gramps!" Mira shouted, hands cupped around her mouth. "Who's the brat?"
The room quieted just enough for Yuta to feel every gaze shift his way. His throat tightened.
"This here's Yuta," Makarov announced. "Starting today, he's one of us. Treat him kindly—or don't, I don't care. Just don't kill him."
The guild erupted in laughter.
Yuta flinched, chest burning. They were laughing at him. Just like the villagers had. Just like always.
He clenched his fists. The curse stirred, shadows licking at the edge of his vision.
"...He's cute," a soft voice said.
Yuta blinked. A smaller girl, maybe his age, stepped out from behind Mira. Her white hair was shorter, her smile gentle. Lisanna. She gave him a small wave, her eyes warm.
Beside her, a boy with the same white hair but a scowl folded his arms. "Hmph. Doesn't look manly."
"Shut it, Elfman," Mira snapped.
Elfman flushed red. "I-I'm not a crybaby!"
The guild burst out laughing. Yuta blinked, startled. They weren't laughing at *him* anymore. They were laughing at each other. It was… different.
Then Mira jumped off the table, boots landing in front of him. She leaned in close, eyes scanning him up and down. Yuta froze, heat rising in his cheeks.
"So," she drawled, a grin curling her lips, "what's your deal, huh? You look like you'd fall over if someone poked you."
"I-I wouldn't!" Yuta blurted, stepping back.
"Oh yeah?" Mira smirked. "Prove it."
Before he could ask how, her fist thumped against his shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him stumble back. The guild howled.
Yuta's vision blurred.
The curse surged. Cold, heavy, endless. Shadows coiled around his feet. His chest ached, his throat closing as the monstrous presence inside him stretched.
The air went still.
A massive, twisted silhouette loomed behind him, hollow eyes burning as it stared at the crowd. Wood groaned beneath his boots, as though buckling under its weight.
Mira's grin faltered.
The guild fell silent.
"Enough!" Makarov's voice cracked like thunder. His magic rolled out in an invisible wave, pressing the shadows back into Yuta's body. The curse hissed, resisting, before retreating like smoke.
Yuta gasped, stumbling. His chest heaved. "I-I didn't mean to—I'm sorry—"
Makarov rested a hand on his head. "It's fine, lad. That's why you're here. You'll learn control."
The silence held. Dozens of eyes stared.
Then Mira snorted. Loud. Unashamed.
And she laughed.
"Well, well! You've got some bite after all," she said, grinning wide again. "Guess you're not completely hopeless."
Yuta blinked at her, stunned.
Mira jabbed a finger into his chest. "You're mine from now on, got it? Rival, toy, whatever I decide. Don't think you'll get off easy just 'cause Gramps likes you."
Lisanna tugged at her sister's sleeve. "Be nice, Mira…"
"No way," Mira shot back, smirk sharp. "This one's fun."
The tension shattered. The guild roared with laughter again, mugs clashed, fists flew. The fight reignited as if nothing had happened.
And Yuta?
He stood in the middle of the storm, chest still aching, but something in him felt… different. They hadn't shunned him. They hadn't driven him out. They'd laughed, teased, fought—and left space for him in the middle of it all.
For the first time, he felt like maybe, just maybe… he wasn't alone.
And somewhere, behind the chaos, Mira Strauss smiled like a devil who'd just found her favorite new toy.
---