Four days had passed since what the guild had rather dramatically dubbed The Battle of Fairy Tail. A fitting name, Aelius supposed, if not a touch theatrical. In the wake of the chaos, the guild had been quick to recover, throwing themselves into rebuilding both their home and their spirits with the unshakable defiance that made Fairy Tail infamous. Somewhere in the aftermath, amid cracked walls and broken pride, someone had started calling Aelius the strongest mage in the guild—besides Master Makarov, of course. The title had caught on like wildfire, repeated with reverence and awe.
It annoyed him more than he liked to admit.
Not the praise—he was indifferent to that—but the sheer lack of perspective. They'd so easily forgotten Gildarts. The one man who had stood shoulder to shoulder with Makarov in sheer magical might... it was short-sighted. Ignorant, even.
Right now, he sat alone in one of the lobbies of the Magic Council's headquarters, a cold cup of tea resting untouched on the table beside him. The silence here was different—measured, formal, the kind of silence bred in bureaucratic halls and places where things were judged rather than lived.
He was here because his name had been whispered in the Council chambers with growing interest, or disdain depending on who you asked. They'd requested his presence two days ago to "discuss matters of importance." Aelius had delayed them under the guise of injury, which, to be fair, wasn't a lie. He'd also used that excuse to skip the Phantasia Parade—an act that had earned him no small amount of grief from Levy, and no small amount of smug satisfaction for himself.
But the truth? The truth was that the fight had pushed him. Harder than he liked to admit.
Laxus was strong. Genuinely so. His lightning hadn't just been powerful—it had been sharp, intelligent, controlled. Every strike had been calculated to test, to break, to dominate. Aelius had kept his full power reined in for the sake of Natsu and Gajeel, their unconscious bodies littering the battlefield like fragile remnants of another era. But he wasn't the only one holding back.
Laxus, too, had been fighting under strain. Aelius had felt it in the shape of his magic—already thinned from his earlier battles. The Dragon Slayers. Erza. A mage named Mystogan. Laxus had spent magic recklessly in his efforts to impose control, to force the guild to bend to his vision. By the time their battle reached its peak, Laxus was fighting on burned-out reserves, his magic a storm losing momentum even as he screamed at the sky to obey.
If they had both been at full power…
Aelius didn't like to guess. But he didn't like to lie to himself either.
It would've been harder.
That fact didn't shake him. On the contrary, it almost made him smile. Almost.
He shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he finally raised the tea to his lips. It was cold. He didn't mind.
But now, sitting in the white-walled lobby with too much time and too little patience, Aelius knew exactly what these "matters of importance" were. They wouldn't say it outright, of course. No one ever did. The Magic Council had always preferred chains wrapped in velvet. But he knew what this really was—an official branding, a collar fitted with ceremony and pomp. He was to be a Wizard Saint, sanctified and catalogued. A living weapon given a title to make the world sleep easier.
A caged beast, leashed and bound in golden thread. Space to stretch and reach, yet not to run and leap.
He could already hear the carefully crafted phrases waiting for him inside that chamber—honor, responsibility, a symbol of hope. They'd speak of balance, of public trust, of what it meant to be a protector. But none of it changed the truth: they wanted to own what they couldn't control. Wrap the storm in official parchment and hope the ink keeps it still.
Aelius leaned back in the too-clean chair, fingers loosely laced over his stomach. His side still ached faintly—more memory than injury now. He let the silence stretch, refusing to pace or fidget. They could make him wait all they wanted. It changed nothing. He'd walk into that room the same way he'd always done—unapologetically, with fire just beneath the skin.
Let them call him a Saint.
He knew what he was.
He leaned back further, letting his head tip against the cool stone wall behind him. The lobby, pristine and stifling, reeked of bureaucracy more than magic. White marble floors polished until they glared, walls lined with banners bearing the Magic Council's sigil—clean, symmetrical, bloodless. The kind of place where men smiled while signing orders that condemned others to burn. It had none of the warmth of the guildhall, none of the chaos. Just sterilized authority, its blade hidden beneath layers of parchment and polite words.
Aelius's fingers drummed once against the arm of his chair, the motion slow, patient, and pointedly bored. But even he couldn't ignore the approaching footsteps—the measured pat-pat-pat of webbed feet against stone.
A shadow fell across the threshold.
"Sir Aelius," came the voice—oddly high-pitched, but clipped with the practiced tone of someone used to being obeyed. He didn't need to look to know who it was. One of the amphibian-like attendants the Council so often employed—creatures bound by contract and magic to serve as neutral intermediaries, their presence so common in the halls of power that most mages stopped finding it strange.
The frog-like humanoid stood at attention, its blue-grey robes flowing just above its toes, gold-embroidered cuffs denoting its station. Beady eyes blinked twice before it continued.
"The Council will see you now."
Aelius tilted his head slightly to the side, not moving for a beat longer than necessary. Just enough to make the attendant fidget, just enough to remind them that he did things on his own time.
"Of course they will," he said, brushing an invisible crease from his cloak. "Wouldn't want to keep the executioners waiting."
Aelius rose without another word. The motion was slow, deliberate. Not because he was in pain—those wounds were long gone—but because everything about this place made him move like he was walking into a trap. Probably because he was.
He followed the attendant down the grand corridors of Era's central fortress, lined with etched crystal windows and walls humming faintly with protective enchantments. Murals of past triumphs and stained glass saints watched them pass, eyes hollow and reverent. It all reeked of history—of legacy, power, control. Aelius hated it.
The great chamber doors opened with a groaning whisper of old magic and iron. The Council chamber was just as he remembered it: vast, circular, half shadowed by the height of its domed ceiling. Sunlight streamed down through a skylight onto the marble floor below, a harsh beam meant to dramatize whomever stood in the center.
He stepped into the light. Behind the elevated half-circle of desks and thrones, the Council members sat like silent judges.
At the center of them was Grand Doma, the most senior of the Council, his face a map of years and authority. Cold, calculating eyes regarded Aelius with something between appraisal and wariness. Off to one side was Org, sharp-eyed and smiling in that carefully neutral way that told Aelius nothing and everything at once. The others—six of them—remained unnamed and unmoved, observing from the shadows, their presence as imposing as their silence.
Grand Doma leaned forward, resting both hands on the carved wood of his podium. "Aelius. You've kept us waiting."
"I was recovering," Aelius said simply, voice even. "Unless, of course, you'd rather I bled all over your floors."
Org chuckled softly, folding his hands. "We've had worse."
Grand Doma didn't smile. "You are here because your actions have reshaped much, and shaken even more. We do not gather lightly."
Aelius said nothing. His eyes swept the room once. No chains. No sigils to suppress him. Just the theater of politics.
Org spoke next, smoother than his superior, like someone offering a poisoned goblet with a silk napkin. "You understand, of course, what this is. What's coming."
Aelius nodded. "You're not here to reprimand me. You're here to collar me."
A flicker of surprise—or was it amusement?—flashed in Org's eyes. Grand Doma didn't react.
"This is about the title," Aelius said flatly. "Wizard Saint. Public recognition. International responsibility. A tighter leash."
"The title," Grand Doma corrected, "is a symbol. It carries the weight of hope for some. Fear for others. We must ensure it rests on the right shoulders."
"And you think mine are those?"
Org gave the barest shrug. "You stopped Laxus Dreyar. You contained a civil disaster without excessive force. You've demonstrated power, control, and the ability to act decisively. That is… persuasive."
Aelius turned his gaze upward toward the towering ceiling.
"This isn't about recognition," he said after a moment. "It's about ownership. You want to take something wild and dress it in uniforms. Put it in parades. Make it kneel when told."
Grand Doma narrowed his eyes. "We seek to prevent disasters before they start."
Aelius's expression darkened. "No. You just want the disasters to answer to you."
Silence again. But this time, it felt less like tension and more like negotiation. Even Grand Doma's stillness felt tactical.
Then, with a voice as heavy and deliberate as the stone columns surrounding them, Grand Doma spoke again.
"Org failed to mention your…other achievements," he said, and though the words were quiet, they filled the room like a stone dropped into still water. "Bellacora."
Aelius's eyes flicked to the elder, something sharpening behind them.
"We are not so blind as to ignore what happened there," Doma said, his voice measured—though beneath the surface, a flicker of something else stirred in his eyes. Not quite curiosity. Closer to interest sharpened by wariness, like a scholar trying to decipher whether the ancient artifact before him was a priceless discovery or a buried weapon waiting to awaken.
Org remained silent this time, his expression unreadable.
"You are the only mage to ever return from a Century Quest," Doma went on. "And more than that, the only one who succeeded… at least in part."
"I told you last time I didn't succeed," Aelius said flatly, tone clipped and dry.
Doma's gaze didn't waver. "You returned. That alone is more than any of the others could manage."
Aelius said nothing. He didn't like talking about Bellacora. He spoke about it once at the guild and that was more than enough.
Aelius said nothing. He didn't like talking about Bellacora.
He hated it.
He'd spoken of it once—once—at the guild, and even that had been because Virgo would have told everyone anyway. The others had mistaken his silence for humility or grief, but it wasn't either. It was exhaustion. A weariness that didn't come from distance or battle, but from the weight of knowledge. From what he'd seen—and what he'd left behind.
Grand Doma didn't push. He wasn't that foolish. But he did continue, the way only politicians trained in the art of weaponizing comfort could.
"Circumstances aside," the old man said, folding his hands across the desk, "that kind of achievement makes others feel safer. Knowing someone of your caliber stands as a protector of this nation."
There it was—veiled beneath polite cadence, buried under the pretense of praise: the Council's intent.
Not a commendation. A classification. A redefinition. Aelius wasn't a man to them. Not anymore. He was a deterrent. A myth wrapped in flesh. A blade sheathed only in bureaucracy and vague titles. The Wizard Saint, they would call him.
But what they meant was Leashed Monster.
Grand Doma leaned back slightly, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His gaze remained level, steady—not cold, not cruel, but practiced. There was a certain dispassion in it, the kind only a man who had spent decades navigating power could maintain. Aelius recognized it at once.
"Your actions in the forest… aside," Doma said, letting the phrase hang in the air for a beat longer than necessary. "Any future issues of that nature can be… excused, provided there is good reason. And more importantly—any past grievances against you will be waived in full. Consider that part of your elevation's… benefits."
A pause.
"Should you accept, of course."
It wasn't a question. Not really. Not even close.
Aelius almost laughed—but didn't. It would've been bitter, hollow. Because the offer wasn't an olive branch—it was a gilded chain.
It was all part of the performance. The illusion of choice, dressed in formalities. Behind Doma's calm words, behind Org's silence and the other members' guarded stares, the truth was clear:
He had already accepted. The moment he walked into this chamber. The moment he walked into Era, His answer had been made.
And they knew it too.
His mind wandered—just briefly, but dangerously. These weren't the usual magic projections the Council relied on when they didn't want to risk their real skins. Grand Doma and the other so called nobles of fiore were here.
He could kill them. All of them.
One spell. That was all it would take. If it were powerful enough—designed just right—it could level not just the hall, but the whole of the Council's compound. The ancient stonework, the enchanted foundations, the mountain it sat atop—all of it reduced to nothing but bubbling disease and rot. Magic turned corrosive and vile, a curse that didn't burn, but devoured.
It wouldn't even be hard.
And yet… he didn't.
His thoughts flickered again—this time, to Levy.
To the way she'd looked at him after the fight with Laxus. Not with fear. Not with awe. With concern. She had seen the blood, the exhaustion, the thin tension in his voice—and she worried he was hurt. That he was in pain. Her hands had trembled when she reached for him, eyes wide but not afraid.
He remembered the strange pang in his chest when he first heard Makarov was ill. That twist of unease, that tight coil just beneath the surface. It hadn't made sense. It still didn't. And yet it was there. Until Porlyusica—that old witch—had said the old man would recover. Then it vanished, like smoke caught in the wind.
He almost scoffed aloud at himself. Internally, he did.
Pathetic, a part of him muttered. You let yourself fall this quickly? One girl, one guild, one fleeting sense of belonging—and you're already getting soft? You know what will happen to those close to you.
But another part—deeper, quieter—didn't argue.
That part was… okay with it.
It didn't feel like weakness.
It felt like something else. Something that didn't need to be named just yet.
Aelius exhaled slowly, deliberately. Then lifted his head, eyes sharp and level.
"Fine," he said. "Let's get it over with."
Grand Doma smiled. Thin. Political. Satisfied.
And just like that, the cage door closed with velvet hinges.
There were no shackles. No glowing sigils. No brands burned into flesh to mark servitude.
But the weight settled all the same.
Aelius left the Council chambers shortly after without any fanfare. The meeting ended in silence—Doma nodding with that imperious finality, Org scribbling something in his log with that dry, clinical efficiency of his. Whatever came next would be parchment-bound, bureaucratically sealed, and delivered with a pomp he would not show up for. A stamp, a signature, a whispered announcement across the continent.
Fairy Tail's second Wizard Saint.
By the time the town's edge came into view, the sun had started dipping behind the hills, casting a honeyed glow over the lake and the spires of the cathedral in the distance. He paused at the last rise in the road, leaning on the wooden railing that lined the cliffside path, and there it was—bright and bold and comically large, strung across the top of the guild building like some gaudy festival banner.
WELCOME HOME, FAIRY TAIL'S SECOND WIZARD SAINT!!!
He stared at it for a long time, wind tugging lightly at his coat.
The exclamation marks were particularly insulting.
He could see figures moving near the guild entrance—probably the usual suspects. Gray, maybe, or Mira fussing with the decorations. Someone was waving a flag. It was absurdly large, with his name painted in letters that glittered when the light caught them.
Aelius turned without a word.
Not today.
Not now.
The forest was quieter. More honest. The creaking of the trees, the crunch of underbrush beneath his boots, the occasional flutter of wings overhead—it was all cleaner than the cheers and congratulations he hadn't earned, didn't want, and would rather leave hanging unacknowledged. He moved through the shadows like water through roots, veering off the main road toward the narrow footpath that led to his house nestled between the firs and the lake, just far enough from town to feel separate.
The door gave way with a soft groan, welcoming him into silence. Inside, the space was exactly as he'd left it—books stacked on end tables, herbs hanging in dried clusters near the hearth, a single, untouched mug resting by the windowsill. The air was stale in a way he found comforting. No voices. No applause.
He let the cloak slip off his shoulders, hanging it near the door. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he moved to the desk, where half-written pages and old maps waited to be forgotten again.
He sat down slowly, the weight of the day—of what it meant—finally pressing against the curve of his spine.
Wizard Saint.
He could deny it. Tell himself it was just a title, a name etched into paper by old men playing politics. A leash in gold embroidery.
And part of him, the part that still whispered in the voice of the man who came back from Bellacora, could say he was fine with it. That if it kept people like Levy safe—if it kept the guild from burning—then maybe it was worth it.
But he was angry.
Not at the Council.
Not even at the title.
At himself.
Angry that he let them cage him so easily. That he'd agreed with only a flicker of resistance. That he hadn't walked away from the offer entirely.
Angry that he'd been leashed.
Even if the leash was velvet.
Even if part of him had already begun to lie to itself—maybe this isn't so bad…
His hands curled into fists on the table, the knuckles whitening.
No chains. No prison.
But the cage was real.
And Aelius knew it.
He also knew it wouldn't hold forever.
Chaos is chaos—by nature, by design.
You can muzzle it. Cage it in titles and silk-lined chains. Beat it down with expectation, drape it in civility, and call it purpose.
But the flame?
The flame never dies.
It smolders in silence, waiting—coiled beneath skin and scar, tucked behind calm eyes and measured words. You can bury it for a time, maybe even convince yourself it's gone.
But fire doesn't forget.
And when the cage rusts, when the velvet tears—chaos will burn its way out.
Aelius allowed himself a moment to breathe. To exist. To let the rage—not dissipate—but simme-he wouldn't let this control him, but he wouldn't forget this slight.
Then came the crack.
Not a knock. Not a polite rapping. Something slammed full-force into his front door.
It didn't budge.
Aelius's eyes snapped open, brow tightening as he sat upright in his chair, listening. There was a beat of silence. Then—
WHAM.
He rose calmly, walking toward the door with a measured gait. His hand brushed over the frame, where invisible wards shimmered faintly at his touch. The enchantments were old, but potent—woven to withstand spells, monsters, and, evidently, trespassers.
Another slam—this time followed by a sharp yelp.
He pulled open the door.
And there was Levy.
On the ground.
Curled slightly, hands clutching her foot, face red—not from embarrassment, but from what was very obviously pain.
Aelius didn't speak at first. He looked from her, to the perfectly intact doorway, and then back again.
She looked up at him with watery eyes and an expression that managed to be equal parts defiant and mortified. "Okay. Ow."
He blinked once. "Did you try to kick my door in?"
"It sounded better in my head!" she snapped, then winced. "And technically I only tried once. Or twice."
"You thought that would work?"
Levy gritted her teeth. "It was supposed to be dramatic! You know, burst the door open and demand you stop hiding like a brooding hermit—but apparently you've fortified your house like a mountain bunker!"
"I did."
"Yeah. I noticed." She hissed through her teeth, shifting to inspect the bruising already forming on her foot.
Aelius looked down at her, gaze unreadable, then reached to close the door again.
Levy reached out with both hands this time, slapping her palms to the door frame with a thump. "Don't you dare."
He paused. Expression unreadable.
"I didn't come all the way out here to bounce off your damn door and crawl back to the guild like some lunatic," she muttered, glancing up at him. "I was worried. Okay? Sue me.
He didn't respond.
"I know you," she went on, voice softer now. "You're probably sitting in here, beating yourself up over everything—about what you did to Laxus, what you could've done, about the Council hounding you
Aelius looked down at her foot. "You fractured your second toe."
"Great," she muttered. "Add that to my list of regrets for today."
"You shouldn't be walking on it."
She gave him a look. "Gee, thanks. Didn't realize you're a doctor now."
He sighed through his nose, then stepped back and opened the door fully.
Levy blinked, visibly surprised. "Wait... seriously?"
"No," he said dryly. "You're just bleeding on my porch. It's annoying."
But she caught the flicker of something else in his eyes. Concern, maybe.
She gave a short, pained chuckle and tried to stand, wobbling on the injured foot. He caught her elbow before she could fall again.
"You're impossible," she said as he guided her inside.
"So are you," he replied. "At least only your toe broke and not the door."
She smiled, even through the pain. "You let me in."
Aelius shot her a sidelong glance as he guided her inside, the faintest trace of exasperation tightening his features.
"If I hadn't, you'd have gone limping back to the guild and told everyone I let you break your foot on my doorstep."
He shut the door behind them with a soft click.
"Think of it as the lesser evil."
Levy's grin widened, despite herself. "Admit it—you're just a big softie with excellent door security."
Aelius gave her a dry look, the kind that hovered somewhere between unimpressed and mildly tolerant. "I'm sure Evergreen would disagree with you."
"Hey," Levy said quickly, poking him in the arm. "You didn't make it permanent. Porlyusica fixed her eyesight yesterday, so she's fine now."
A beat.
"…If a bit—okay, a lot—terrified of you."
Aelius exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze flicking toward the window.
"Good," he muttered.
Levy rolled her eyes. "You're impossible." But her voice was soft. Almost fond.
Levy plopped down on his couch like she owned it, curling one leg under herself and eyeing him with that mixture of curiosity and mischief that always managed to get under his skin—less like an annoyance and more like a persistent melody he couldn't shut out.
"So," she said, chin resting on the back of the couch. "What's it like? Y'know—being a Wizard Saint. Got any grand, world-shaking assignments yet?"
Aelius raised an eyebrow, expression unreadable. He moved to the nearby armchair, easing down into it with the weight of someone already tired of the title. He didn't answer right away, letting the silence draw out just long enough to make Levy squint suspiciously.
"It's been, what… half a day?" he said finally, voice dry. "So, unless you count paperwork and having to nod at Council members pretending not to look smug, no."
Levy laughed. "Oh come on, that sounds thrilling."
Aelius leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a beat. "They did mention something. Next week. Some alliance being formed between a few legal guilds, Fairy Tail included."
Her interest visibly piqued. "Really? For what?"
"Some major dark guild." He waved a hand vaguely. "Didn't catch the name. Stopped listening after that."
Levy blinked. "You what?"
"They already said I'm going, so I didn't see the point." He opened one eye to glance at her. "Figured if it was important, someone else would repeat it."
She threw a pillow at him. "You're hopeless."
He let it hit him. Didn't flinch. "I've been called worse. Probably by the Council."
"And Evergreen."
Aelius shifted slightly in his chair, not bothering to respond, his gaze drifting down to the large bruise coloring Levy's foot where she'd clumsily tried to kick his magically warded front door off its hinges. The amused glint in his eyes faded, replaced by something quieter—not quite concern, but close enough to pass for it.
"You want help with that foot?" he asked, voice mild but unmistakably genuine.
Levy blinked. The question caught her off guard—not because she didn't expect him to notice, but because he never offered help like that. Not out loud. Not directly. She glanced down at her ankle, now swollen and propped on the edge of his rug.
"Would you?" she asked, skeptical but hopeful.
Aelius gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I have salve and magic. One of them stings less. I'll even let you pick."
Levy squinted at him. "That's your version of bedside manner?"
"I'm not a nurse, Levy."
"No," she said with a grin, "you're a Wizard Saint."
Aelius sighed through his nose, stood up, and moved toward a cabinet tucked against the wall. "Don't remind me."
She watched him go, her grin softening just a little. She hadn't come here expecting comfort. She hadn't even expected to get in the door. But Aelius—surly, sharp-tongued, perpetually exhausted Aelius—had let her in anyway.
And now, apparently, was going to heal her foot.
She chuckled under her breath. "Big softie with good door security," she muttered again, just loud enough for him to hear.
Aelius paused mid-step.
Without turning, he raised one hand—and with a shimmer of magic, a gleaming, elegant sword materialized in his grip. It wasn't overly ornate, but it radiated precision and a quiet, unmistakable lethality. The kind of weapon made for someone who didn't need to show off.
"There is," he said, his voice calm, the edge of steel mirrored in its coolness. "A third treatment option."
Levy blinked. "...Third?"
"For your foot," Aelius replied, finally turning just enough for her to see the sword resting lazily in his hand. "Salve. Healing spell. Or… amputation. Quick. Clean. Permanent."
He didn't smile. He didn't need to.
Levy's mouth fell open for half a second before she barked a laugh—equal parts startled and delighted. "You wouldn't."
His stare was perfectly neutral. "Try me."
She gave an exaggerated huff, crossing her arms over her chest. "You really know how to make a girl feel safe and cared for."
"I specialize in realistic expectations, especially for someone who tried to break in," he said, dismissing the sword in a flicker of light and crouching beside her instead. "Now sit still before I reconsider."
Levy obeyed, biting back a grin as he reached toward her ankle with a strange sort of tenderness—clinical, efficient, but not unkind. The salve he pulled from the cabinet glowed faintly with golden light, and though the touch of it stung, it was far better than having her foot cut off. She figured she'd remind him of that later.
For now, she stayed quiet, watching his eyes as he worked—so focused, so distant. Always holding something back.
"Thanks," she murmured after a pause.
Aelius didn't respond right away. Then, softly—"Don't make a habit of ramming my door."
"No promises."
She gave him a sidelong look, the teasing smile still dancing faintly on her lips, but her thoughts wandered back to something else. Her brows pulled together, thoughtful.
"You know…" she began, slowly, "that sword you pulled out earlier—it was clean."
Aelius blinked, half-turning from where he stood near the kitchen shelf, having just returned the salve to the cabinet. "Clean?"
"Yeah," Levy said, frowning faintly as she leaned back against the couch cushions. "I didn't think much of it at first, but it just hit me. Erza told me about the one you used against Jose. She said it looked like it was forged in a nightmare—jagged, alive, covered in something that definitely wasn't rust."
"It belonged to Alaric," Aelius said, gaze distant, voice low with a weight that didn't need explanation. "I don't remember if I ever told you his name. But he was the prince from the Labyrinth."
Levy opened her mouth to say something, but his tone shifted—cooling, like a breeze slipping between the cracks of a closed window.
"Enough about that," he went on, turning his back to her as he reached for the kettle again. "I'm not particularly in the mood to dredge up the past."
There was a pause—long enough for the steam from the kettle to hiss softly between them.
"So," he added, more pointedly now, "why did you decide to come give me a headache? I thought I made it painfully clear I was going to rest today, not babysit a stubborn scholar with poor kicking form."
Levy snorted, clearly unbothered by the shift in tone. "You say that like I haven't seen you sleep through explosions."
"And yet somehow," he muttered, pouring her a cup without asking, "you're still louder."
"You missed the parade."
"I did."
"You missed the guild celebration."
"I did."
"You missed the cake."
That gave him pause. Slowly, he turned his head just enough to give her a suspicious look. "You made cake?"
"No," she admitted. "Mira did. But it had your name on it."
Aelius stared.
"In icing," she added with a teasing lilt. "I may have helped with that part."
He stared harder.
Levy smiled sweetly, cradling the cup he handed her. "So really, I'm just here to deliver your punishment for skipping out. Door-ramming was step one."
"Next time, I'll ward it with a kinetic rebound," he warned, dry as dust. "I won't be responsible for the bruises."
"Noted," she chirped. Then leaned back with a sigh. "But really… I just wanted to check in. You've been quiet."
Aelius took a slow sip from his own cup. "Quiet is supposed to be the reward for fighting a war."
Her expression softened, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. The steam curled up between them like ghosts of the past best left undisturbed.
But even then, there was something peaceful about it—like two survivors who'd fought the same storm from different shores, now resting, if only for a breath, in the eye of it.
Levy had just started relaxing again, the tea warming her hands as much as her mood, when she noticed Aelius looking at her.
At first, she chalked it up to his usual unreadable focus—his eyes always seemed to be calculating something, as though everyone around him was a variable in an equation only he understood. But this time, his stare lingered longer than usual, and it wasn't cold or impassive. It was… curious.
"What?" she asked, half-laughing as she lowered her cup. "You're giving me that look again. The one where I feel like you're mentally dismantling my soul."
Aelius blinked, then tilted his head slightly, as though coming back to the present.
"Do you want bracelets?" he asked flatly. "Or earrings. Rings are more stable, though not as discreet. Your choice."
Levy blinked. Then blinked again. "Wait—what?"
"Bracelets. Earrings. Rings, Jewelry in general," Aelius said, slowly, as if he were genuinely unsure which part she was struggling with. "Do you prefer one over the other?"
She stared at him, eyes narrowing. "That's… an odd way to start a conversation. You—you're not asking that like a normal person. What is this about? Is this another door-related trap?"
His expression remained unchanged. "No. This is separate from your tendency to injure yourself on my property."
The blush crept up before she could stop it. "So then why are you—?"
"I'm experimenting," Aelius said simply, walking over to a table where a small metal box lay half-open among scrolls, crystals, and the occasional feather or bone. "I want to see if I can embed a summon spell into a piece of jewelry."
Levy frowned, watching him as he pulled out a thin chain with a silver pendant shaped like a tiny flame.
"You want to put a summon in this?" she asked, more puzzled than skeptical. "Like… instead of casting a spell?"
He nodded. "Exactly. A passive trigger—keyed to your magical signature. If your life signs drop, or your magic flares erratically, the enchantment would activate. A guardian would be summoned from the ring itself."
Levy was quiet for a long moment, staring at the pendant.
"Why me?"
"You're available," he said smoothly, "and more importantly, reckless. Statistically, you are likely to be in danger sooner than most of the guild."
"Wow. You really know how to flatter a girl."
Aelius didn't rise to the bait. He was already calibrating the pendant's crystal with a small tuning fork, his fingers moving with clinical precision.
"I could just choose something and be done with it," Aelius said, not even bothering to look up from the glowing fragments in his hand. "But I'm being kind and asking your preference."
Levy raised an eyebrow, the silver flame pendant still dangling loosely from her fingers. "You're calling this kind?"
Aelius hummed. "You get to pick the shape your emergency summon takes. Most people don't get that luxury."
"Most people don't have you looming over them with what amounts to magical life insurance disguised as jewelry."
"Then most people are underprepared."
Levy scoffed, half amused, half exasperated. "Fine. Earrings are too easy to lose. Bracelets can snag on things. Rings… rings are classic. Less flashy. And harder to break."
"Rings it is," Aelius murmured, already moving to make the necessary adjustments. "Dominant hand or not?"
Levy looked at him like he'd asked whether she preferred oxygen or gravity. "How would that even—never mind. Right hand."
"I'm still not sure how you're going to make jewelry feel ominous," she said quietly after a few moments.
"That's a matter of perception," Aelius replied without looking up. "Protection and threat are often opposite ends of the same function."
"That's not comforting."
"I wasn't trying to be."
She laughed under her breath, shaking her head. "You really are the worst at being reassuring."
"I'm consistent."
Silence settled again—companionable this time, with only the quiet hum of steam and the warmth of the tea. Levy let it wrap around her like a second blanket, content to just exist for a while. No missions. No panicked yelling. No Natsu blowing a hole through the side of the guild hall. Just... quiet. Safe, in the oddest, most disconcerting way.
Eventually, Aelius sighed, setting down a faintly glowing array of tools and etched fragments. "I'll need to do more work on the core seal. Should be done next week—if the enchantment doesn't collapse halfway through," he muttered. "But for now."
He turned toward her, holding out a small ring between his fingers. Sapphire-blue, its band chased with fine arcane markings so small they looked grown rather than carved. It shimmered subtly under the lamplight, the blue of the gem nearly the exact hue of her hair.
Levy blinked, hesitating for half a breath before taking it. She didn't say anything, but she slid it onto her right hand all the same.
It slipped on without resistance.
A perfect fit.
She flexed her fingers once, twice. There was no spark, no flash, not even a whisper of magic—but something about the way the air shifted in her palm said it was awake. Watching. Ready.
"You know," she said slowly, turning her hand in the light, "I think I should be worried it fits so well. Like you knew my ring size."
"It changes to fit the bearer," Aelius said dryly, returning to his seat. "I'm not that obsessive."
"Oh good. That makes it so much less creepy," she said with mock cheer, wiggling her fingers again. "Because magic auto-sizing jewelry is perfectly normal."
He gave her a look but said nothing, already reaching for the next piece of enchanted silver on the bench. She watched him for a moment longer, then yawned—long and quiet—before stretching out across the couch.
"Alright," she said, eyes closing. "One enchanted panic-ring, suspiciously good door, and an almost-shattered foot. I think I've met my weird quota for the day."
The day ended in…peace. For a while, Aelius was able to forget his rage at the council, himself, and the title wrapped around his throat like a vice. But even then, his magic was calling to something, warning, reacting to something unseen.
The day ended in… peace. A rare, weightless kind that didn't demand to be questioned. For a while, Aelius allowed himself to forget—forget the tight-lipped smiles of the Council, their velvet-tongued demands dressed up as honors, the title clinging to him like a collar sewn into his very skin. He even forgot his own contempt, the rage he'd bitten down and buried beneath layers of cold rationale.
For a while, in the silence of the cabin and the soft rhythm of Levy's breathing from the couch, he was only Aelius. No saint. No leash. No war machine sleeping in the bones of Magnolia.
But his magic didn't forget.
Even as he sat there, staring into the dark hearth, something inside him coiled. Not tight, not alarmed—just… alert. His magic stirred without his command, responding to something just beyond the veil of perception. Like a wolf sniffing at a scent carried on a dying wind.
A warning.
Not loud, not urgent, but persistent.
It prickled under his skin and pooled behind his eyes, whispering things he couldn't yet translate. Not danger, not yet. But something was shifting. Somewhere.
Aelius closed his eyes, listening. To the trees. To the ring. To the ghosts in his own veins.
Even in peace, his power over death was whispering.