Evening fell over a quiet forest.
Arlen sat casually by a crackling campfire, absentmindedly poking at it with a stick. Across from him, Irene sat with her staff planted beside her, eyes closed as she meditated.
Glancing at her, Arlen flipped his wrist and produced a communication lacrima. As he infused it with magic, two projections appeared midair—Makarov and his father, Duke Yass.
He briefly explained his encounter with Irene Belserion.
The reactions were immediate—shock, followed by concern for his safety.
Arlen flicked a glance toward Irene.
At some point, she had already opened her eyes and was now watching him with a faint, knowing smile.
Unfazed, Arlen calmly reassured both Makarov and his father, telling them not to worry. He also asked Makarov to inform Ur and Ultear that he wouldn't be returning anytime soon.
Amid their repeated reminders and concern, he cut off the connection.
"You really are an interesting little one," Irene said slowly, her voice cool and composed, carrying a subtle pressure. "You already know who I am, yet you still dared to contact your father and guild master right in front of me."
"Aren't you afraid of angering me?"
Her voice was pleasant—low, cool, with a slightly husky maturity.
Arlen met her gaze directly, unflinching.
"I think it's better to be open about it in front of you than to act behind your back," he said evenly. "Besides, this is insignificant to both of us."
"Since I've decided to accompany you for now, there's no need to hide anything—aside from personal matters. It's better for both sides. Wouldn't you agree?"
"…Heh. You really do have a sharp tongue."
Irene studied him from head to toe.
Her first impression of Arlen had been that of a cold, noble young master—handsome, sharp-eyed, reserved. The type who spoke little and kept his distance.
Yet here he was—
Surprisingly talkative.
A complete mismatch from his appearance.
What she didn't know was that he had once been exactly as she thought.
It was Fairy Tail that changed him.
As for Arlen—
He couldn't ignore her.
Not just because of her terrifying power.
But because—
This was his home.
And his father was a duke of Fiore.
He couldn't pretend nothing was happening.
And more importantly—
There was something he wanted to confirm.
Erza.
After witnessing Anna and Layla—two women separated by 400 years yet nearly identical—he couldn't help but wonder:
Was there also a connection between Irene… and Erza?
He held back the question.
For now.
Time passed.
Half a year, in the blink of an eye.
In those six months, Arlen and Irene traveled across much of Ishgar, seeing countless places and people.
Their relationship shifted—
From wariness…
To familiarity…
To something resembling companionship.
They were, in some ways, alike.
Detached.
Calm.
Though Irene—
Saw everything as insignificant.
As if the world itself were beneath her.
One warm afternoon, they arrived at a scenic lakeside and stopped.
"This place is nice," Arlen said, glancing around. "Let's stay here tonight."
"…It is," Irene nodded.
She had grown used to his presence by now. Even her tone had softened—no longer as cold or domineering as before.
With a wave of his hand, Arlen summoned a finely crafted table. Tea appeared soon after.
The two sat together, quietly enjoying the view.
Traveling didn't mean sacrificing comfort.
And over the past six months—
They had lived quite well.
"Irene," Arlen said, setting down his cup. "Can I ask you something?"
"…Go on."
"If it's something I can answer, I will."
"I want to ask… do you know someone named Erza?"
"Erza?" Irene frowned slightly. "Who is that? A friend? A guildmate?"
"She's both," Arlen replied. "But more importantly… she looks extremely similar to you."
"Almost identical."
"The only differences are age… and temperament."
"I've wanted to ask this for a long time."
"…I see."
Irene fell into thought.
There was no such name in her memory.
But then—
A fragment surfaced.
A memory she thought long buried.
A painful one.
A baby.
Wrapped in cloth.
Her body trembled.
Magic began to surge uncontrollably.
Arlen immediately stood and moved to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"What's wrong?" he asked, frowning. "Did you remember something unpleasant?"
Irene took a deep breath, forcing her magic to settle.
Her voice, when she spoke, was low… layered with something fragile.
"…Let me tell you a story."
"A story from four hundred years ago."
Arlen listened in silence.
Irene had once been the queen of the Kingdom of Dragnof.
To fight against the invading dragons, she created Enchantment Magic—granting humans the power of dragons.
Thus—
Dragon Slayer Magic was born.
After the death of the Sage Dragon Belserion, Acnologia appeared on the battlefield and ended the war.
As if mocking all who had died.
After the war, Irene took on Belserion's name.
She swore revenge.
But the power of Dragon Slayer Magic came at a cost.
She began to transform.
Into a dragon.
And at that time—
She was pregnant.
A week after the war, her body began to change.
Her husband abandoned her.
Her kingdom turned on her.
For three years—
She suffered.
Tortured.
Imprisoned.
The scar on her abdomen—
Came from her husband's blade.
Betrayed by both lover and country—
Her rage consumed her.
She fully transformed into a dragon.
And destroyed everything.
But even then—
She couldn't accept herself.
Unable to return to human form, her mind began to collapse.
She wandered for centuries.
Until one day—
She met Zeref.
Through his magic, she regained a human appearance.
But the cost remained.
She lost her sense of taste.
And the ability to sleep.
"When I gave birth…" Irene's voice softened.
"I tried to transfer myself into my child."
"But when I saw her smile…"
"I couldn't do it."
"I tried again."
"And again… she smiled."
"I gave up."
"I was afraid… that one day, I would lose control."
"So I abandoned her."
"In a village."
"After that… I wandered the western continent."
"And eventually joined the Alvarez Empire… to repay Zeref's kindness."
Her voice carried everything—
Hatred.
Despair.
Regret.
And when she spoke of the child—
Gentleness.
And guilt.
Arlen looked at her quietly.
At this moment—
She wasn't the "Scarlet Despair."
Nor the empire's supreme mage.
Just—
A broken, lonely woman.
Four hundred years of suffering…
Had turned a once noble, courageous queen—
Into a cold, calculating, merciless witch.
How ironic.
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