Aelius sat hunched in the crypt-like quiet of his basement, where time lost its meaning and the air pressed too tightly against the skin. The only light came from a dimly glowing lacrima embedded in the far wall, flickering like a dying star, and the occasional shimmer of containment wards pulsing in the dust-thick air. His hands, pale under the arcane glow, moved with the precision of someone threading a needle inside a battlefield.
The ring in his grip was cold. Not the clean cold of silver, but the kind of cold that sank into the bones. That sapphire—chosen more for its resemblance to Levy's hair than for magical affinity—now shimmered faintly with residual energy. The etchings along its inner band were small, almost imperceptible, written in a script that didn't belong to this age—or any, really. The symbols crawled faintly when the light touched them, shifting in impossible geometries. Watching, maybe.
It was delicate work. Dangerous, too. The ring itself was naturally resistant to deep magical carving—despite its beauty, it wasn't made for this. A single misstep and the containment lattice would collapse, not with an explosion but with a silent shudder that would eat the spellwork and half the room with it. Two prototypes had already failed. One had fractured and dissolved into a haze of smoke; the other had simply vanished, slipping through the folds of reality without a sound, taking part of the warding circle with it.
Still, this one was nearly finished. The entity he was binding into the ring, though "entity" itself felt insufficient, wasn't his by origin. Not truly. It was one of his grandfather's… chosen, in a manner of speaking. A companion not summoned, but invited—bound not by coercion, but by a pact older than any known contract magic.
Aelius remembered them.
Not with fear, but with something closer to bittersweet nostalgia.
He'd grown up among them, in the blighted, forgotten edges of the world—where the air hung too thick, where the trees wept ichor, and where the sun dimmed as though in mourning. To any sane eye, they were revolting mockeries of life—massive, swollen with ruinous vitality, their flesh sagging in obscene folds, pustules blooming like diseased flowers, and their bellies split in eternal suppuration. Their voices gurgled through layers of mucous rot, like meat dragged across wet marble—but never once had they raised a hand to him.
Never once had they hurt him.
When he was small, all sharp eyes and wary instinct, they had treated him not with cruelty but with unsettling affection. Their presence reeked of death, of plague, of inevitability—but not of malice. One of them used to hum, a low, sloshing groan deep in its belly, thick with phlegm and yet inexplicably soothing. It would sit beside him like a gargantuan wall of decay, its many mouths drooling lullabies older than language.
Another had once cradled him after he slipped from a cliffside, its arms—several of them—unfurling like bloated vines to catch him mid-fall. He still remembered the sensation of its touch: a hideous warmth, like putrefying velvet stretched over swollen muscle, yet oddly... comforting. Protective.
They should have terrified him.
But they didn't.
Because whatever else they were—walking blasphemies, rot made flesh, the echoes of some grotesque god's laughter—they had loved him, in their own fetid, unclean way.
They'd been his companions in silence when his grandfather was gone or too deep in his grim work to notice. Their presence frightened other mages. Even the seasoned ones. But never him. They had whispered to him in dreams, not in words but in sensations—cool stillness, the scent of deep earth, the warmth of being seen when no one else looked.
Aelius moved the etching tool with utmost care, carving the final integration rune into the ring's interior lattice. The sapphire flared with a strange inner light, not brilliant, but aware. The binding didn't resist. It yielded. As if the thing on the other end recognized the hands working the spell.
The sigils settled. The pulse stilled.
He exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding from his shoulders.
Tomorrow, the guilds would gather. Politics would dance in masks, and his name would be invoked far too often. But tonight, here in the basement below the whispering woods, he'd finished something real. Something quiet.
He set the ring down on its velvet pad with a care that bordered on reverence, the intricate sigils carved into its surface still pulsing faintly, like the last heartbeat of a sleeping beast. The metal shimmered beneath the soft light of the lacrima, almost resisting stillness, as if the thing bound within was aware of its new prison and merely biding its time.
Aelius turned away, fingers curling slightly as the buzz of his own magic trembled beneath his skin—not violent, not volatile, but wrong. Skewed, as though something was nudging the weave of his power off-center. It wasn't immediate. It wasn't loud. It was like an itch behind the eyes, a whisper behind the veil of perception, just distant enough to ignore—if he chose to.
But he didn't.
Because it had been happening for a few days now.
Like his magic knew something he didn't. It reacted to shadows with no source. Dreams bled into waking thought. Sometimes, when he reached into his requip space, his own relics felt unfamiliar, touched by fingers that weren't his. It wasn't just magical fatigue—he'd had that before. This was deeper. Older. A hum in his bones, an ache in the silence.
It was like standing in a room that was just a little too quiet, where the air was too thick, and you didn't know why you were holding your breath.
Aelius exhaled through his nose and shrugged it off with practiced indifference. He'd lived through worse than strange vibrations in the soul. His entire life was a chorus of wrong notes and dissonant harmonies, and if something ancient and unseen wanted to rattle his bones, it could take a number like the rest. He was used to being stalked by things without names.
He turned back to the worktable and slid the ring back into its velvet-lined case, tapping the warded seal closed with a flick of his fingers. A dull click sounded as the protective enchantments rearmed themselves—layered, paranoid, excessive by any normal standard. But Aelius didn't believe in "normal."
He stood, bones cracking faintly as he stretched, pushing the heavy chair back with a nudge of his boot. The basement smelled of old parchment and hot metal, ward ink and something darker that clung to the corners like soot. He crossed the room to an iron sink set into the far wall and splashed cold water onto his face, watching the rivulets run between his fingers before disappearing down the drain.
For a moment, he watched his reflection in the tarnished metal mirror above it. Tired eyes. Too old for his age. Mouth tight with restraint, but not fatigue. He'd slept recently, at least a little. That was rare enough.
He turned to the cauldron that sat at the center of the room like an altar—massive, iron-bellied, and rimmed with corroded glyphs that pulsed faintly beneath the flickering light. A sickly, pallid flame burned beneath it—green tinged with yellow, flickering unnaturally slow, as though struggling to maintain its own existence in defiance of natural law. It didn't warm the room; if anything, it seemed to leech heat, casting the air into a damp, cloying chill that smelled faintly of bile and old blood.
Within, the mixture stirred with a viscous, deliberate slowness. It wasn't liquid—not anymore. It had passed through that phase days ago, evolving into something…denser. Sentient, perhaps. Almost spiritual. A shimmering, thick substance with the luster of decayed gold and bruised oil. It rolled over itself in sluggish tides, emitting low, wet gurgles and the occasional pop that sent tiny splashes up against the reinforced inner rim. Every now and then, it would shift without provocation, folding inward like it had thoughts.
It pulsed with its own rhythm. Breathing, almost.
Aelius approached with deliberate steps, the air around him thick with latent energy. As his hand lifted, a muted flash of light coiled around his fingers—brief, soundless, and absolute. When it faded, his flask had returned, settling into his palm with familiar weight. To the untrained eye, it was little more than a beautifully wrought piece of silverwork, its surface adorned with winding etchings and elegant patterns. But for those with the sight—mages, scholars, fools too curious for their own good—the truth lay just beneath the gleam. Woven into every curve were runes and seals, subtle and ancient, each one layered with purpose. Not for show. Not for ornament. But for containment. For silence. For control.
The cauldron stilled.
Then, as though drawn by instinct, the substance within began to rise.
It did not bubble. It did not splash. It flowed upward, against gravity, a slow stream of impossible matter coalescing in midair and narrowing itself into a thin, gleaming tendril. It extended over the cauldron's rim, slithering like a serpent made of oil and nightmares, and touched the lip of the flask.
The flask accepted it.
Though it should not have—could not have. There was simply too much.
But the substance kept pouring in.
The flask drank the cauldron dry.
Aelius stood motionless as the last trace vanished into the mouth of the container with a soft, final shlurp, like breath leaving lungs. The cauldron's inner walls were clean—immaculately so, devoid of even a stain as if it had never held anything at all.
He closed the flask with a soft click and felt its weight in his palm. Heavier than before. Much heavier. The metal seemed to hum faintly, no longer cold, but warm—alive, maybe. Like it had been filled with something that breathed in long, slow intervals.
He turned it over once, studying it. There were no changes to its shape. No cracks, no swelling. No outward signs that it now housed something that defied measure.
Nothing had happened since his so-called ascension to Wizard Saint.
No riots. No dark guilds throwing themselves at the border in protest. No whispering cults reaching out from behind black altars to test the new hound of the Council. Just silence. Boring, suspicious silence.
Aelius didn't trust it.
Titles always carried weight—but his felt more like a leash, velvet-lined and gilded, yes, but a leash nonetheless. And yet the world had not come knocking. No grand assignments. No backroom assassination attempts. Not even a ceremonial envoy from some minor nation offering pointless tokens of respect. The only mission he'd been told about was the upcoming alliance meeting, and even that felt like more posturing than action.
He'd spent the past few days walking through Magnolia like a ghost in his own home, eyes on him wherever he went. Some looked at him with admiration, others with awe, and more than a few with a fear they tried—failed—to hide. But none challenged him. No one tested the limits of his new status.
No threats. No blood. No warning.
It was wrong.
—
The sun filtered in through the high windows of the Fairy Tail guild hall, golden rays dancing across wood worn smooth by a constant stream of footsteps, spilled drinks, and the occasional magical explosion. The place was far from silent, but there was a tension threading through the usual chaos—an undercurrent everyone felt, even if few acknowledged it.
Aelius sat at the bar, flask in hand, the soft metallic hum of enchantments within vibrating faintly against his fingers. He wasn't drinking much—just a measured sip here or there, letting the bitter, acrid taste drag him back into the present whenever his thoughts drifted too far. The bar was mostly empty this early, save for Macao and Wakaba arguing over a pin-up magazine and Mira humming cheerfully while wiping down glasses with a cloth that had somehow survived more apocalyptic events than most wizard guilds combined.
The guild doors burst open with the usual dramatic flourish as Natsu and Happy came crashing in, followed by Gray a heartbeat later—shirt already missing, of course. "I'm telling you, I smelled something weird near the old cemetery last night!" Natsu was practically vibrating with excitement.
"Probably your own breath," Gray muttered, arms crossed, though the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement.
"Did you find another talking skull?" Erza asked from nearby, sipping tea at her usual table. She didn't look up from the book she was reading, but had clearly been listening.
"It wasn't talking!" Natsu shouted. "It was whispering, and it said something about purple fire!"
"Aren't you just describing your dream after Mira let you try the spiced rum again?" Macao called out, laughing.
That set off a new round of chaos—Natsu trying to convince everyone the skull was real, Gray claiming he was hallucinating, Mira swooping in with a tray of snacks to "calm tempers," and Happy fluttering around stealing meat buns off everyone's plates. It was, in every way, a typical Fairy Tail morning.
Aelius said nothing, watching with that usual distant calm, eyes scanning the room behind his silver-glinting flask. He should have felt annoyed at the noise, at the juvenile antics, at the bizarre non-stop energy that pulsed through this guild like a second heartbeat—but he didn't. Not really. The way Natsu tackled problems by running through them, the way Erza balanced deadly precision and warmth like a blade made of velvet—this had become something close to comfort. Even if it made him feel, sometimes, like the lone shadow on a sunny street.
Then the doors opened again—no burst this time. Just a slow creak. The noise died almost immediately, like someone had turned a dial. Makarov entered, face drawn and weary, the lines on his brow heavier than usual. That alone was enough to sober most of the room.
Aelius straightened slightly, flask lowering. He already knew what this was. He could feel it radiating from the old man's magic—something had shifted.
Makarov climbed up to the second floor, turning slowly to address the guild from the balcony. "I've just returned from the Council," he began, voice heavy with authority and uncharacteristic somberness.
The room fell into a hush.
"It's official. The dark guild Oración Seis is on the move."
There were murmurs—sharp intakes of breath, clenched fists. Most of the guild had heard the name, even if they didn't understand the full scope.
Makarov continued. "Their actions can no longer be ignored. We have reports that they are currently after a form of dark magic called Nirvana.
Gasps. Mira's hand flew to her mouth. Macao looked down at his half-drunk beer, eyes narrowing.
"The Council has sanctioned an alliance," Makarov said. "Four guilds. Fairy Tail, Blue Pegasus, Lamia Scale, and Cait Shelter. Together, we'll move to confront this threat directly."
A beat of silence, then Natsu shot to his feet. "Finally! Something real to punch!"
"Don't get too excited," Erza warned, already folding her book closed with a soft sigh. "Oración Seis aren't common dark wizards. Each member is an S-Class level threat. Some say worse."
Lucy glanced up from where she sat at the bar, eyes wide with a touch of disbelief. "Isn't this… a little much?" she asked, gesturing subtly at the growing list of preparations and Makarov's tone. "I mean, four guilds teaming up? It's just one dark guild, right?"
The room quieted a little at her question. Even Natsu, who'd been arguing with Gray over who got the last meat skewer, paused to glance over. Makarov turned his gaze to her, firm but not unkind.
"Only six people," the Master said, nodding. "That's what makes it worse."
Lucy blinked, caught off guard. "Worse?"
"These six make up one-third of the Balam Alliance," Makarov said. "They aren't just any dark mages. Cobra, Racer, Hoteye, Angel, Midnight, and their leader, Brain… They're monsters. Each one could rival a top S-Class mage on their own. Maybe even more."
He stepped further into the guild hall, resting one hand atop the bar counter beside Lucy, his other clenched at his side.
"You all remember what Phantom Lord did, don't you?" he asked the room. The atmosphere chilled slightly. Nods, grim expressions, and mutters of assent rippled through the gathered mages. "Now imagine that—but darker, more deliberate. No rules. No conscience. Just power for the sake of power."
He looked around the room, letting the weight of that sink in before continuing.
"And we have reason to believe there may now be a seventh member," Makarov added, his tone lower. "The Council's last report hinted at a new presence moving with them—something... or someone they couldn't identify clearly. Whether they're a formal addition to the Oración Seis or not, no one knows."
"That's not good," Gray muttered, arms folded tightly.
"No," Makarov agreed. "It's not. But we don't back down because the enemy gets bigger. We get stronger. We get smarter."
Erza, leaning against a column with her arms crossed, nodded in agreement. "Four guilds is the only way to ensure we're not overwhelmed. And we can't afford hesitation. These enemies won't hesitate."
Natsu grinned, fire already licking at his fingertips. "Bring it on. Doesn't matter if it's six or seven or seventy—Fairy Tail doesn't run."
"Ahem." Makarov narrowed his eyes. "This isn't your usual brawl, Natsu. You all will listen to the briefing tomorrow and follow orders. That goes for everyone."
Natsu winced but gave a sheepish thumbs up.
Lucy turned her gaze downward, brow furrowed in thought. "If they're really that strong… then this isn't just a mission. This is a war."
Makarov nodded solemnly. "Whether we call it one or not, it is. And we need to be ready."
The guild quieted again—no shouting, no tossed mugs or exploding chairs—just the quiet breathing of mages who understood the weight of what was coming.
Aelius, seated at the far end of the bar, silent and watchful, took a long drink from his flask but said nothing. He didn't need to. His presence was a reminder in itself—there were still forces in Fairy Tail that even monsters would do well to fear.
Natsu stretched out both arms behind his head, already smirking with reckless eagerness. "So… who's going?" he asked, the spark of a fight already glinting in his eyes.
Makarov took in a deep breath before listing the names with slow finality. "Natsu. Happy. Gray. Erza. Lucy…"
Lucy blinked. "Wait—me?"
"You're part of the team," Makarov said, voice calm but unwavering. "You've come a long way, and I trust your instincts."
She opened her mouth to argue, but faltered under the firm look the Master gave her—equal parts pride and expectation. She glanced nervously at Erza, who offered a nod of encouragement, then at Natsu, who grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. "Guess I'm in," she mumbled, a bit stunned.
Makarov continued. "And Aelius."
The silence that followed wasn't total—there was a faint clink of glasses, a creak of someone shifting on a bar stool—but the attention in the room shifted like a spotlight. Heads turned.
Aelius, still seated at the far end of the bar, didn't react at first. The flask was at his lips again, head tilted back slightly, his eyes half-lidded as if he hadn't heard.
But still.
He exhaled slowly and set the flask down with a muted click.
Internally, a flicker of irritation flared in his chest.
You just couldn't let me leave quietly, could you, old man? he thought. No slipping out with the wind. No fading into shadow like I should have. You had to point. You had to name me.
He didn't speak, didn't nod. Just stood. The movement alone was enough. No dramatic gesture. No proclamations. But it was a presence—like a storm cloud deciding to hover, quietly, in the corner of the room.
Natsu turned in his seat and grinned wide. "Yes! With Aelius on the team, we've got this in the bag!"
Gray scoffed. "Don't let it go to your head, flame brain. He's not going to carry your weight."
Erza looked to Aelius briefly, as if to gauge something in his posture. She gave a slight nod—one warrior acknowledging another. Aelius didn't return it. His thoughts were already pulling away.
Lucy leaned toward him slightly. "You knew, didn't you?" she asked softly. "That you'd be picked."
Aelius didn't look at her when he answered. "I did," he said, voice dry. "I just hoped the old man would have the decency to keep his mouth shut."
Happy floated over and chimed in, "You're coming with us! It's gonna be great!"
Aelius gave the Exceed a flat look. "You have an odd definition of great."
Makarov, watching from his perch atop the bar counter, merely smiled.
"This is your team," he said. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, you move out."
And with that, the meeting slowly dissolved. Conversations resumed, though quieter. The crackle of anticipation hung in the air, subtle but unmistakable. A different kind of battle loomed—and Fairy Tail, bruised and wild-hearted, would answer the call.
The hall thinned slowly, the boisterous din melting into a kind of taut silence—the kind that only came before something inevitable. Laughter, when it did rise, came quieter now, tinged by the weight of what was to come. Somewhere in the far corner, Natsu and Gray were already bickering over who'd get to punch the enemy leader first, while Happy tried to separate them with a plate of still-sizzling fish.
The scent of roasted meats and spilled cider clung to the air, though the tables were mostly cleared. Only a few lights remained fully lit now, warm pools of gold that cast long shadows across the old floorboards. The great hall, always pulsing with energy, now felt like it had taken a breath in and forgotten how to exhale.
Aelius was still at the bar.
He hadn't moved much—only shifted his weight once or twice, elbow propped on the countertop, flask balanced loosely in one hand. The silver of it gleamed dully in the lanternlight, its sealwork flickering every few seconds like it was breathing in rhythm with him. At some point, Mira had vacated the bar entirely—either fed up with being ignored or simply sensing his presence wasn't worth her energy.
He preferred it that way.
From beneath the bar, half-shadowed by an old folded cleaning cloth, he'd found an unopened bottle of Moondrip Violet—a rare vintage from somewhere he didn't care to learn about, not the kind of drink anyone would miss unless they knew to look for it. He didn't ask. He didn't need to. The cork came loose with a soft pop, and he poured its shimmering, pale-blue contents into his flask in a slow stream. The liquid looked like liquid starlight, the color of a sky that forgot it was supposed to darken. His magic flexed in response—not out of resistance, but as if it recognized the vintage. Or at least, recognized the poison inside of it.
"You've got expensive taste," came a voice at his side.
Aelius didn't flinch. He just finished the pour and recorked the bottle with deliberate care before setting it aside, not yet turning.
"Erza."
She leaned against the edge of the bar beside him, not ordering anything yet, just watching. Her armor caught the light, not glaring but steady, like the steel itself knew how to reflect with grace instead of dominance. She didn't say more immediately, letting the moment stretch in silence.
He finally responded with a low hum, then took a long sip. "I wouldn't call it taste. It was there. I needed something."
Erza raised an eyebrow. "And Moondrip Violet just happened to be the thing."
Aelius didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted from the swirl of liquors in his flask to the reflection of the guildhall in the polished bar—its warm lights, its patched floors, the chaos only Fairy Tail could call serenity. His expression didn't shift much, but the air around him seemed to sink into a deeper stillness.
Then, his voice—quiet, but not unkind. Just dry, deliberate.
"…Why are you here, Erza?"
She met his eyes. Not startled, not indignant. Just steady.
"I could ask you the same," she replied, resting her elbow on the counter, posture relaxed but not casual. There was always something controlled about Erza—coiled, exact. "You've been sitting here for the better part of an hour. Everyone else is either winding down or gearing up for tomorrow. Even Mira stepped away."
Aelius shrugged slightly, turning the flask in his fingers. "And?"
"And you hate attention," she said, voice soft but pointed. "Yet here you are, in the middle of the bar, not in your brooding woods. Which means something's bothering you."
He chuckled, the sound dry as old ash. "Careful, Titania. You're starting to sound like Levy."
"I take that as a compliment."
Aelius exhaled through his nose, setting the flask down with a muted clink against the wood. The dryness in his chuckle faded into something more thoughtful, almost clinical.
"You use magic like a warrior," he said at last. "Less like a mage."
Erza tilted her head slightly, not offended—curious.
"You mean because I fight up close?"
"No," he shook his head, slow and deliberate. "Because you don't shape it the way others do. No fancy spellwork, no incantations. No channeled constructs or circles in the dirt. You call armor. You swing swords. Requip—yes—but it's more than that. You use your magic to enhance, to amplify. To release. You don't manipulate magic. You let it rush."
She didn't reply, letting his observation settle.
"I'm not criticizing," Aelius added after a beat. "Frankly, it's efficient. And you've made it an art form."
"…But?" Erza prompted, folding her arms.
Aelius leaned forward, elbow on the counter, swirling the contents of his flask again—but his eyes were locked on hers.
"Have you ever felt it warn you?"
She blinked. "Warn me?"
"A buzz. A tingle in your bones. A shifting in your gut before anything's gone wrong. Your magic reacting to something before your senses catch up."
Erza's brow furrowed slightly. "I've had instincts. Gut feelings in battle, yes. But not… not magic warning me. Not like that."
Aelius nodded faintly, unsurprised. "Right. You've trained your body to respond before your magic does. That's your path. Makes sense."
He turned the flask absently between his fingers, watching the silver glint in the lowlight.
"Why do you ask?"
Erza's tone had been gentle, just curious, but he still gave a short laugh in response—if it could be called that. It was a thin, humorless sound, dry as a cracked bone, more scoff than mirth.
"It's nothing," he said, waving a hand as though to brush aside an invisible mist that clung too long. "Just my nerves playing tricks. Or maybe it's the alcohol. Could be both. I'm not exactly the poster child for balanced mental states, if we're being honest."
Erza didn't look convinced, but she knew better than to press when he settled into that half-lidded, granite-faced quiet. She'd seen it before, that wall of his—unmoving, immovable, a relic of someone who'd spent too long surviving in silence.
Aelius shifted his weight, elbows still propped on the bartop, flask rolling lazily between his fingers. Then, with a sigh that was more irritation than weariness, he inclined his head toward the far end of the guildhall where a rising tide of shouts had begun to bubble up.
"You might want to go deal with the elemental disasters before they tear down another wall," he said, voice flat.
Erza blinked, turned, and indeed, Natsu and Gray were mid-squabble, their usual storm brewing. Chairs had already started skidding across the floor. Happy was watching with popcorn. Someone—probably Cana—was taking bets.
Aelius didn't even look over. He just knew.
"They've got about forty seconds before one of them destroys the rafters."
Erza gave him a long look, but didn't argue. "Don't go disappearing," she said over her shoulder as she stood. "Makarov will want everyone sharp tomorrow."
He didn't answer. Just gave a noncommittal shrug and returned to his drink. The flask caught the candlelight again—briefly reflecting a flicker of something far colder than fire.