Aelius left the guild long before sunset.
No dramatic farewell, no parting words. Just the quiet scrape of a chair against the old floorboards and the dull clatter of his empty bottle left abandoned on the table. The guildhall's noise had returned, in the way it always did after storms—not quite as loud as before, with undercurrents of wary glances and unspoken words trailing behind him as he passed. No one called out. No one tried to stop him.
And he was relieved. Truly, genuinely relieved that Levy didn't.
Though he suspected—no, knew—it wasn't mercy or some grand gesture of forgiveness. More likely, it was because she was still hurt. Still stung by the weight of what had been said and unsaid between them. The words he'd buried for too long had come out sharp and jagged, and even an accepted apology didn't stitch those wounds closed overnight.
He'd never been good at that sort of thing. Never would be.
The evening air hit his face as he stepped outside, cool but not cold, the scent of grass and river water thick on the breeze. The town of Magnolia was winding down, shopkeepers closing their stalls, lights flickering on in scattered windows. It wasn't quiet—Magnolia never was—but compared to the clamor of the guild, it was a softer noise. One he could breathe in.
Aelius kept walking.
The roads narrowed as he left the town proper, cobbled streets giving way to dirt paths and the occasional overgrown trail. It wasn't aimless wandering—though to anyone watching, it might have looked that way. He had a destination, even if he hadn't named it yet. Somewhere far enough to silence the noise in his head.
He knew better than to believe he could outrun it.
At one point, a cat darted across his path, vanishing into the brush with a flick of its tail. Aelius didn't startle. Just kept moving.
His boots found the familiar slope of the path that led toward the lake—not the usual cliffside, not the library, but a smaller outcropping ringed by crooked pines and wild grass. A place where the world felt thinner somehow. Less tethered. The same place he'd come to before, years back, after leaving a battlefield strewn with corpses he no longer remembered the faces of.
The water was still tonight. No storm. No wind. Only the ripples from a pair of ducks skimming the surface in lazy arcs.
He sat.
And for a long time, Aelius just sat there, cloak settling around him like a second skin. His flask was empty—no great surprise—and he toyed with it between his fingers before setting it down in the grass.
Somewhere behind him, far off in the distance, Magnolia still burned bright with lights and life. And he could almost hear it. Laughter. Raised voices. The steady hum of a place that never truly slept.
But none of it touched him here.
He thought of Levy. Of the way her voice cracked, of her expression when she asked him that question he hadn't been able to answer. Of how she'd let him leave without a word this time.
Aelius let out a slow breath and tipped his head back, staring up at the scattered stars.
He wasn't made for that world. He'd known it the moment he set foot in that guild, years too late and a lifetime too frayed. But now he'd gone and done it. Tethered himself to something again. To someone.
"Friend."
The word tasted foreign in his mouth.
He said it. He may not have believed it entirely. Not yet. But the mark was there now, inescapable as a scar.
Aelius reached for his flask again, thumb running along the worn yet ornate metal. Neshi's name flared in the back of his mind—sharp, unwanted. He crushed it down.
Not tonight.
He layed back against the earth and let the world spin around him, unseen, uncaring. The sky stretched endlessly above, and the lake held his reflection like a stranger's face.
Aelius closed his eyes.
The night stretched on, the stars indifferent and eternal, and Aelius lay beneath them, every line of his body wound tight despite the stillness.
He was angry
Not at Levy. Not at Gray. Not even at the guild.
No—the fury was for himself.
For falling so easy.
For cracking so fast.
Not because he'd called Levy a friend. Not because of that. He could live with that. He'd been dancing on the edge of it for a while anyway, and pretending otherwise was just another tired lie in a long, miserable collection.
It was the way it happened.
The way he'd let them pull words from his mouth, drag memories from the dark where they belonged—not because he chose to, not because it was earned, but because it was expected. Because someone looked at him with wounded eyes and trembling voices and the goddamned room went quiet and somehow, somehow, it became his burden to fill it.
A confession by demand.
A ghost story for their fireside.
And why?
What does he—the man who killed a god, who'd bled in places no map dared mark, who'd made peace with monsters and left comrades buried in unmarked graves—care about their expectations?
Nothing.
He shouldn't.
But he did.
That was the flaw. The crack in the armor.
Aelius clenched his jaw and sat up, grabbing a stone from the ground beside him and hurling it into the water. The splash was sharp, a brief protest in the hush of the night.
Another followed, then another.
He was so damn tired of this.
Of the weight that never left. Of people peeling back old scars with gentle hands and good intentions, thinking they had a right to it because they sat under the same roof. Because they drank from the same bottles and shared the same missions.
What right did any of them have to Neshi's name?
To Caius's blood-soaked grin?
To that bastard Alaric and the horrors he left behind?
Aelius's hand lingered at the edge of his cloak, fingers brushing the cold, familiar curve of the mask's edge. He had many, spares for his spares. The things had seen more blood and fire than most men drew breath. been cracked, scorched, and buried beneath rubble and earth—and yet they only gave against the strongest. Hell, they could probably take a direct hit from a Wizard Saint and still be sitting smugly in the dirt, waiting for him to pick it up again.
And yet…He set it down with care.
Not like something fragile, but like something old. Important. A relic, maybe. A tether. As though putting it down too carelessly might make the past it carried spill out across the stones.
His fingers lingered on the edge a moment longer than they should have. Then let go.
He ran a hand over his face, the stubble rough against his palm. His throat was dry. His flask still empty. The ghost of a half-burned, throat laugh escaped him—bitter and small—at how everything seemed to be running empty lately.
He thought about going back. About slipping through the side entrance where no one would notice, snatching a fresh bottle from Mira's shelf, ignoring the glances and unspoken words. The temptation hung there for a moment like a weightless thing.
But the thought of those faces waiting for him—pitying, guarded, expectant—made his skin crawl like something sharp and wet had skittered down his spine.
No.
Not tonight.
He wasn't in the mood to be dissected by people who didn't know what to do with the pieces.
The only company he'd stomach was the cold and the quiet.
The worst part—the part that chewed at him—wasn't even that he'd spilled it. It was how easy it was. How fast the words came when someone just pushed a slight amount.
After everything.
After years spent building walls high and thick enough to bury gods, some little girl with a book and too-big eyes opened her mouth, and suddenly he was recounting sins like a priest on death row.
And that meant something was wrong with him.
Something brittle. Something weak.
Aelius dragged in a slow breath and let it out, watching the mist drift in the cold air.
"Soft," he muttered to himself, disgust curling around the word like a blade's edge.
Soft. And worse—predictable. The old stories were right. Even the strongest weapons snapped when wielded by fools. And somewhere along the line since his return, he'd let himself be forged into something sentimental.
He rose, slinging his cloak over one shoulder. His boots crunched against the dry grass.
The word continued to gnaw at the edges of his mind like a slow rot, leaving splinters of bitterness in its wake. Aelius hated it. Hated the very thought of it, the weight of it settling against his shoulders like an old chain pulled from a shallow grave.
But the truth was, he wasn't even surprised anymore.
It was bad—it was—to feel this much. To let anything slip beneath the armor. To let hands find the cracks. It was dangerous. It always had been. He knew better. Gods-damned knew better. Yet here he was again, dragging his battered conscience behind him like some weary corpse that refused to stay buried.
And he could tell himself it was weakness, sure. That he'd gotten soft. That it was a flaw to be corrected, an infection to be cut out clean. He could call himself a fool and mean it, spit the word like poison in his own reflection.
But there was a part of him—the ugly, scarred, knowing part—that whispered the other truth.
He was too deep in the stone now to be pulled out.
Too much of his soul forged and folded over itself by years of bloodletting and betrayal, tempered by a thousand sins and a thousand more regrets. Whatever softness crept in had already sunk its roots, and carving it out would only leave a hollow, brittle thing in its place.
And if there was one thing Aelius refused to be—it was brittle.
So maybe—maybe—he didn't cut it out.
Maybe, instead, he learned to wield it.
Shape it into something sharp.
Something ugly and useful.
A blade wasn't weak because it was flawed. A blade was weak when it let the flaw control its edge.
Aelius smirked, the expression a mean, crooked thing that never reached his eyes. He tipped his head back and stared up at the star-pocked sky, the old constellations smudged like faded ink.
"Fine," he muttered, voice low and rough. "If I'm too deep to drag out, then I'll just drag the world down with me."
There was no poetry in it. No tragic hero's vow, no noble redemption arc. It was survival—pure and simple. A declaration made not to anyone else but to the war inside his own skin.
He'd carry the softness. Carry the blood. Carry the old names, broken oaths, and quiet nights spent helping the girl with ink-stained fingers.
But he'd carry it his way.
Bury it beneath the monster's grin. Twist it into a weapon no one saw coming. Use it when it mattered; discard it when it didn't. That was how you survived long enough to matter in a world built to kill men like him.
He reached for his empty flask out of habit, felt its weight in his palm, and chuckled bitterly. "Sentimental bastard," he told himself, shaking his head as he shoved it back into his coat.
The night stretched ahead, dark and cold and indifferent.
But this time, it would have to keep up with him.
Aelius reached for the mask where it rested beside him, his fingers brushing along the cold, timeworn surface. Despite everything—the fury, the weariness, the creeping sickness of sentimentality that clawed into the marrow of him.
It was about what it meant.
About what it let him be.
Without another word, he pulled it over his face, the familiar weight settling against his skin like the embrace of an old, cruel friend. The world dimmed a fraction through its narrow slits. The air tasted different. Or maybe that was in his head. Either way, it was back on, and the man beneath it could fade just a little deeper into the stone.
Aelius turned from the ledge, his coat catching on the wind as he mad his way back into town.
He moved through the empty streets of Magnolia. The canals shimmered in the dim light, water catching stray reflections of lanterns and stars alike. His footsteps were near silent, a ghost's passing through a town not yet ready to sleep.
He wasn't looking for anything in particular. An inn, maybe. Some corner of the world where no one asked questions. Where expectation didn't hang around his throat like a noose. Where no one would call him friend or anything else.
But ahead, along the canal's edge, someone moved.
A slender figure balanced along the narrow stone rail, arms stretched wide for balance, hair a bright fall of gold in the lantern glow.
Lucy.
Aelius spotted her, though she hadn't yet noticed him—not properly. She was walking that precarious edge, half-distracted, humming some quiet, tuneless thing to herself. It might've been nerves or one of those small moments people stole for themselves when they thought the world wasn't watching.
He made no sound as he approached, boots whispering over old stone.
And then—she caught sight of him.
Her eyes landed on the dark figure, his mask catching the lamplight in a brief gleam like a predator's eye. The familiar flare of his cloak, the unmistakable weight of his presence—it hit her like a sudden shift in gravity.
She Jumped.
"Ael—!"
Lucy's footing betrayed her in that instant. The surprise broke her rhythm, and one boot slid off the damp, narrow rail. A sharp gasp tore from her throat as she teetered sideways toward the cold black canal.
She might have fallen.
In fact, she was falling.
But his hand moved faster.
In a single, unhesitating motion, Aelius reached out, fingers closing around her wrist with that unnatural, unyielding strength of his—the same force that could shatter bones or fell titans if he willed it. Lucy's momentum snapped short like a marionette's string yanked taut.
Her breath hitched as he pulled her up and forward, back to solid footing, back against the firm weight of his chest.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
She was breathless, wide-eyed. His grip still firm around her wrist, though his gaze was unreadable behind the mask.
"You… you scared the hell out of me," Lucy stammered, half out of shock, half nervous laughter.
Aelius didn't answer right away. He let go of her wrist, though not abruptly—something about the way he released her felt deliberate, careful even. He stood there, broad-shouldered and still as a grave marker, watching her silently through the slits of his mask.
"Watch where you're stepping," he said, voice low but even. No dramatics, no weight behind it—just a simple, unvarnished piece of advice, like someone pointing out loose stones in the road.
Lucy let out a shaky breath, brushing her hair behind her ear, trying to gather what dignity she could after nearly tumbling headfirst into a canal.
"Yeah, thanks for the save," she muttered, managing a half-smile.
Aelius gave the faintest incline of his head—a gesture so subtle it barely qualified as a nod—before turning his gaze back down the canal path, as if the conversation had already run its course.
"Don't make a habit of it," he added, starting to walk past her.
The hours after blurred—the kind of haze Aelius was all too practiced at navigating. Steps in the dark. A borrowed bottle. A room in an inn that smelled like old wood and rain-soaked wool. He hadn't spoken to anyone. Didn't care to. The town's quiet nighttime lull was a relief, its people retreating behind shutters and lamps like the world itself was finally too tired to judge him.
And then morning came.
Gray light spilled in through warped glass, soft and indifferent, another day he hadn't asked for. Aelius dressed without much thought—the mask left on the nightstand for a time until instinct sent his hand for it.
So, instead of the familiar path toward the guild hall, instead of bracing for the eyes and the unspoken weight that came with them, he found himself standing before a house.
A big one.
Set a little ways into the trees on the outskirts of town, where the branches thinned just enough for the sun to split the mist hanging low over the lake beyond. The place was old but solid—stone and timber, with a wide front porch and heavy shutters. It had the kind of bones that spoke of quiet nights and no visitors.
Aelius liked that.
Beside him stood the realtor, a man in his middle years with a thinning hairline and an easy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He held a thick folder of papers under one arm, and from the way he kept glancing between the house and Aelius—and especially at the unimpressive cloak and mask—it was clear he wasn't entirely convinced this was a transaction about to happen.
The man cleared his throat, trying for casual.
"It's, uh… a fair bit of property," he offered, gesturing broadly to the forested land around them. "Bit of history, too. Was owned by a merchant family that moved to Alvares. It's been empty since. Not exactly the kind of place most folk look for these days, what with the upkeep and, ah… taxes."
Subtle. Meant to be, anyway.
The implication hung there like smoke—can you even afford this, stranger?
Aelius didn't so much as twitch. His gaze never left the house, eyes catching the morning light beneath the hood of his cloak, unreadable behind the slits of the mask.
"Good," was all he said.
The realtor blinked. "Pardon?"
Aelius finally turned his head, slow and deliberate, until the man was pinned in that unwavering stare.
"I wasn't looking for the kind of place 'most folk' want."
Another pause. A gust of wind stirred the trees, sending ripples across the lake's surface.
Aelius's hand dipped into his coat and withdrew a small, heavy pouch. It made a distinct, unmistakable sound when it landed in the realtor's palm—the solid clink of jewel, more than enough for a down payment, likely more than the man earned in a month.
"I'll take it."
The realtor's brows lifted, his mouth parting in surprise before he schooled it into a hasty professional smile. "Of course, sir. I'll have the papers drawn up as soon as possible."
Aelius said nothing more, already moving toward the house. The porch boards creaked under his weight, each step a low, hollow groan in the morning quiet. His hand came to rest on the weather-worn railing, the old wood rough beneath his glove. He stood there for a long moment, saying nothing, watching the way the wind stirred the mist over the lake. The surface shivered like glass, reflecting a sky heavy with the promise of rain.
And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime stretched thin over blood, mistakes, and names spoken like accusations, He felt contentment.
The house was… more than enough.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't pristine. Ivy clawed its way up the sides of the stone walls, and moss had claimed one corner of the roof where no one had bothered to chase it off. But it was solid. Old timber and stone, built to last. And most importantly, it was secluded. Just far enough into the tree line to feel like the rest of the world could fall to ruin, and it wouldn't so much as shake the foundations.
The property stretched wider than he'd expected too—enough space between the trees and the back end of the house for training grounds, and perhaps a place to test out the more dangerous spells and artifacts he'd accumulated over the years. The kind of things you didn't unpack in town, unless you felt like dealing with the Rune Knights or some meddling fool with too much sense of duty and not enough sense of caution.
Here… no one would hear if something went wrong. Or see it, for that matter.
He liked that.
Aelius ran a hand along the railing again, the texture grounding. It would take work—there'd be dust to clear, maybe the bones of old memories to sweep out—but it was his now.
The mask shifted as he tilted his head back, eyes half-lidded behind the slits, watching the sun claw its way through the thinning mist. The sound of birds over the water, branches creaking, no voices, no demands. No wide-eyed looks. No pity.
Aelius let out a breath, slow and steady.
This would do.
No—it would be perfect.
He turned, pacing the length of the porch with the silent, practiced gait of a man too long accustomed to the sound of his own footsteps in empty places. His eyes trailed over the old door, the deep grain in the wood. Another glance at the treeline.
Already his mind was ticking over—materials he'd need, who he'd have to pay off to get certain supplies brought in without questions asked. What wards to set around the perimeter.
A proper den.
Aelius let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
Home.
The word lingered in his mind longer than it should have, like a stray ember refusing to gutter out in the ash. Aelius rolled it around silently, tasting the shape of it behind the mask. It felt foreign—not unwelcome, just… unfamiliar. Like an old cloak you forgot you owned, heavy with dust and memories you didn't want to pick apart.
A place that was his. Not a shared space at the guild, not a cold camp on the fringes of cursed ground, not a war-torn ruin where he could be alone because no one else was left standing. But his. Minutes new, still empty, still unclaimed by anyone else's presence or expectations.
And it felt good.
Aelius let one gloved hand press flat against the rough grain of the porch post, the solidity of it grounding as though if he stood there long enough, the place might begin to remember him. Might carve his name somewhere into its bones the way old homes do with those stubborn enough to linger.
It was too big for him. Too quiet. And yet… exactly right..
He could work here. Bleed here. Fail here without it being another spectacle for eyes that judged without knowing what they watched. The forest beyond the house was dense enough to muffle sound, the lake reflective and still. It was close enough to town that he wouldn't have to fight through the wilderness to reach the guild when he had to. And far enough that no one would come calling unless they were prepared to mean it.
The mask tilted slightly, his gaze following the shifting mist over the water. That word again.
Home.
Aelius liked it. He wouldn't say it out loud—he'd barely admit it to himself. But it settled in his chest like a weapon forged to fit his grip, something cold and reliable and utterly his.
Even if it would be a ruin in a decade, burned down by his own hand or some idiot with more courage than sense, for now… it was his.
And that was enough.
He could run experiments here. Proper ones. No interruptions, no guild brats stumbling in and mistaking a circle of runes for a drinking game. The cellar was large—he'd checked—with a stone foundation, thick walls, and no windows. Perfect for the kind of work you didn't advertise.
He stood at the edge of the property where the treeline thickened and the ground sloped down toward the water. The lake glimmered pale blue beneath the morning sun, still and undisturbed. You could almost mistake it for peace if you didn't know better. Aelius did.
But he liked the quiet. Even if it wouldn't last.
His hand rose to the edge of his mask, fingers ghosting over the familiar lines before he let them drop again. Not here. Not yet. This was still new territory. And if there was one thing he'd learned, it was that new places had a way of revealing their teeth when you got too comfortable.
Still, that word wouldn't leave him alone. Home. It wasn't real, not in the way others meant it. It wasn't a hearth and a family and a name etched over a door. It was a patch of earth you didn't have to bleed for the right to stand on. A place you could shape to fit yourself instead of the other way around.
He was already deciding where to put the study. The shelves for the texts. A vault for the dangerous things no one else needed to see and a workshop for some of his more volatile experiments. Things with names better left off paper. Old things, hungry things, artifacts he wasn't supposed to have and wouldn't be giving back. And, maybe—though he'd never admit it aloud—a chair by that window on the second floor overlooking the water. An extension over the lake, another chair, perhaps an umbrella to shade him while he read.
It wouldn't fix him—not instantly, anyway—But it might be enough to make the weight of things easier to bear.
Aelius glanced back at the house one last time, then started toward town. He had supplies to gather, a cellar to prepare, and a place to build.
Let them look. Let them talk.
For once in his blood-soaked life, he had something they didn't.
His own ground.
And this time, it would answer to him.
Aelius spent the next few hours moving through town like a ghost that refused to disappear. The marketplace was waking up properly now—merchants hawking fruit and cloth and metalwork, wagons rattling over cobblestones, the low din of conversation and barter filling the streets. People noticed him, of course they did. A man in a cloak, mask in place, carrying sacks and crates of things no sane person paired together was bound to draw stares.
He ignored them.
The things he gathered weren't for the curious. Or the fearful.
Jars of powdered chalk. Iron shavings. Rare herbs and dried animal parts some shopkeepers didn't want to admit they sold. Sheets of treated parchment, coiled cords of silver-threaded rope. Binding salts. Oil for lanterns that would burn in any air. Nails hammered from cursed iron. Bottles of pigment made from crushed stones found deeper than men should dig.
Some of it he carefully slipped into his Requip space as he moved, the magic folding each item into the cold, quiet dimension where he kept the things he didn't trust to any vault but his own. A flask of phoenix ash. A ring etched with sigils older than Fiore itself. Blood-seal ink in stoppered glass.
But not everything. Some of the heavier supplies—planks, barrels of fresh water, crates of mundane tools, stone for reinforcing the cellar's walls—those had to be ordered and left for later pickup. The local smith eyed his request for reinforced shackles and cold iron rings with unease, but he paid in advance, more than enough to silence questions. Jewel spoke louder than curiosity.
The runic supplies, though—those were the priority. Chalks, salts, inks, and the metal dusts he'd need for stabilizing circles designed to hold not just physical force but spiritual strain. The cellar of his new place wasn't a prison, not exactly. But it would be capable of containing things that might otherwise tear straight through stone and sanity alike.
When his Requip space was full, the magical inventory heavy with the sting of iron, salt, and something else older still, he left the remaining supplies stashed with trusted vendors, marked for delivery to a place that until recent, had been left to rot.
The house in the woods.
It was already starting to take shape in his mind. What the cellar would look like once the circles were carved and laid. Where he'd string the runes. The placement of containment markers and fail-safes. A room designed not just to hold but to warn. A place he could work in peace and, if need be, bury a problem too dangerous to let live.
Aelius adjusted the strap across his shoulder, the faint weight of his flask knocking against his side like an insistent child. It was funny, all this work, everything that needed to be done to the cellar just so he could have a drink.
He left town through a side road, taking the quieter route back toward his new claim on the edge of the wild. Behind him, the guildhall still loomed against the skyline. He didn't look back.
Not today.
There were things to build. Runes to etch. His flask, too refill.
He didn't notice it at first—the hum.
A low, wordless thing, not a song, not a chant, but a steady vibration in his throat while his hands worked. It wasn't cruelty. It wasn't rage. It wasn't even indifference. It was something older, something bone-deep, a hum that spoke of routine and control, of careful, measured movements forged in long-forgotten war camps and blood-soaked libraries. Not contentment, not joy… but somewhere in between.
The days blurred, lost in a smear of half-sunrises and fading dusk, hours folding over one another as he worked. The house—forgotten, half-rotted, and left to the elements—slowly took shape beneath his hands. New beams replaced splintered rafters. The cellar walls were scrubbed clean of mildew and mold, and there, in the earth beneath the house, the real work began.
Aelius didn't waste time with mundane comforts. The living spaces could come later. What mattered was below.
The basement—no, the workshop.
Thick wards were etched deep into the stone, the symbols inked with a mixture of iron dust, crushed hematite, powdered bone, and reagents few in Fiore could even name without coughing blood. Rune circles layered over one another in dense, intricate patterns meant not to keep invaders out but to keep what he was going to make within.
To hold the worst things this world—or any other—had ever produced.
Poisons that made Basilisk's Fang venoms seem like cooking herbs. Mists that could strip flesh from bone in seconds. Alchemical concoctions so unstable entire towns could vanish to mist if a single vial cracked. Aelius had no intention of killing the town. He wasn't here for slaughter, but the work he needed to do required safety measures few could dream of.
Every leak, every drift of toxic air, every thread of aether that could bleed out would be caught, rerouted, and neutralized by his designs.
By the third afternoon, just as he was finishing the last defensive tether along the north wall, the realtor returned.
Morlan was his name, still balding, still pale, still as jittery as a rabbit in a wolf den arrived with the official papers in tow. The man hesitated on the path, visibly uncomfortable, eyes darting to the half-sealed cellar door, the dark symbols bleeding through the wood like oil stains. His nervous cough broke the thick silence.
"I, uh… brought the paperwork. Title transfer, deed… uh… receipt."
Aelius appeared in the doorway above the steps without a sound, mask in place, shoulders streaked in dust and soot, gauntlets smeared with dried ink and dark blood-like stains.
Morlan swallowed hard, holding out the stack of parchment like a peace offering to a god he wasn't sure wouldn't smite him where he stood.
Aelius said nothing. Just reached out, took the papers with one gloved hand, and produced a small pouch from the folds of his coat. The weight of it made the man flinch when he caught it—thick with jewel.
The man muttered a hurried "Enjoy your, uh… place," and was gone moments later, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of fear and sweat in his wake.
Aelius watched him vanish into the trees before turning back to his work.
His house.
His workshop.
The hum returned as soon as his hands touched stone. The wards flickered faintly in the gloom, and the poisons waiting in sealed vials whispered promises in glass tongues.
It was home.
A place of his own. A forge for the ruinous things he concocted.
And for now — it was quiet.
Another day slipped past without Aelius noticing. The cellar was nearly finished—every rune etched, every containment ward calibrated, every line of defensive script tested and reinforced. The old stone walls hummed faintly, holding back the venomous energies of the ingredients and sigils meant to contain poisons potent enough to leave a crater where this forest stood. He could feel the place settling under his hands. It wasn't a home not truly, not yet—but it was a space that belonged to him, and for the moment, that was enough.
Upstairs, he'd shed the heavy cloak, stripped to the waist as he worked, the singular scar over his chest catching the slanted sunlight that fell through dust-choked windows. The mask, though, remained. Ridiculous, maybe. A man hammering rotten floorboards in a mask. But it wasn't about practicality. It felt wrong to bare his face to these walls—to let the house see a face it hadn't earned yet.
He was elbow-deep in salvaging an old support beam when a ripple of sound reached him. Footsteps—a handful of them—moving through the underbrush outside. He didn't move. Not yet. He waited until they reached the edge of the clearing.
And then a familiar voice called out.
"Aelius!" Natsu's voice, sharp and clear in the still afternoon air.
Aelius didn't immediately look up. He pried the last stubborn nail loose with a flick of his wrist before straightening, one hand braced against the beam.
The others stepped into the clearing behind Natsu—Gray, arms crossed and wary as ever, Erza watching him with unreadable calm, Levy lingering near the back, concern in her eyes. Happy floated beside Natsu, his expression a little more serious than usual.
"You've been gone for four days," Gray said flatly.
Aelius shrugged. "I wasn't aware I was required to file a report."
Erza's gaze narrowed, but it was Natsu who spoke again, voice softer this time, something a little more serious under the usual bravado.
"We thought you left again."
Aelius's head tilted slightly at that. "Why would I?"
Natsu scratched the back of his head. "Because… you kinda have a history of leaving after arguments."
A beat of silence hung in the air.
"And how, exactly," Aelius began ignoring Natsu, as he leaned against the beam with casual, practiced menace, "did you lot find me?"
Natsu's grin sparked back to life, but it wasn't teasing this time. "Could smell you."
Aelius arched a brow beneath the mask. "Excuse me?"
"You always smell a little like… decay," Natsu admitted, wrinkling his nose, though there wasn't cruelty in it. "Like old magic. Like something that should be dead, but isn't. I just followed the trail."
Even Gray looked mildly unsettled at that admission, but Aelius only sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Right forgot about that."
"I don't think we were expecting this," Levy piped up then, her voice soft but clear, gesturing to the half-repaired house, the tools, the dust in his hair and the sweat on his skin. "You... Making a place."
Aelius glanced around as if seeing the scene through their eyes for the first time. The old house. The tools. The scent of cut wood and fresh earth. It was absurd. A war relic, a killer of gods, patching up walls like some weathered craftsman.
"I needed quiet," he said at last. "And somewhere to work."
"And if you were thinking about leaving again…" Natsu added, voice low, "We were gonna drag you back."
Aelius met Natsu's gaze—no mockery, no jest—and then let out a rough breath, somewhere between irritation and weary amusement.
"I'm not going anywhere," he muttered. "If that's what you were worried about, you could've asked Levy or the master. I told both of them I'm sticking around."
Levy smiled at that, small and quiet, and for the first time in a long time, Aelius didn't feel the impulse to bury the moment in sharp words.
"Good," Natsu grinned, cracking his knuckles. "Now c'mon—we're helping you fix this place up."
Aelius let out a weary groan, running a hand through his hair, the tips of his fingers catching on the rough edges of sweat-dried strands. His voice wasn't sharp—no venom, no bite. Just tired, sincere confusion.
"Why?" he asked, leveling his gaze at them, his emerald eyes visible through the slits of his mask. "And spare me the usual 'it's what friends do' nonsense. Most of you barely know me. You don't owe me a damn thing—and I sure as hell didn't ask for it."
It wasn't a challenge. Not a threat. It was the voice of a man so used to being alone that he couldn't fathom anyone choosing otherwise.
There was a beat of silence. Then, Natsu—never one for subtleties—shoved his hands behind his head, grinning despite the somber air. "Maybe we don't know everything about you," he said, shrugging. "But we don't have to. You're one of us. You walked through those doors, took the mark, drank at our tables, fought beside us. That's enough for me."
Gray gave a snort, crossing his arms. "I don't need your whole sob story to give a damn whether you keel over in some dark hole. You're stuck with us, like it or not."
Erza stepped forward then, her gaze steady and cutting through Aelius like a well-honed blade, but without malice. "It isn't about debts or worth, Aelius. It's about choice. And whether you believe it or not, you're one of ours. That means you don't get to vanish without someone coming after you."
Aelius scoffed, shaking his head. "I don't need—"
"You might not," Levy's voice cut through, softer but sure. She stepped past the others, close enough that her voice was just for him. "But sometimes people care anyway. And you don't have to know how to deal with that… just don't push it away."
The words hung there, and for a moment, Aelius hated how they settled in his chest like a stone — something he couldn't easily cast aside.
He sighed, raking a hand down his face again. "I swear… you're all idiots."
"Yeah," Natsu grinned. "Takes one to know one."
That earned a ghost of a huff from Aelius, something caught between a snort and an exhausted, reluctant smirk. He waved them off, turning back to his half-finished beamwork.
"Well," he muttered, more to himself than them, "if you're staying, someone grab a damn hammer."
They got to work without much more argument—Natsu, Gray, and Erza settling into tasks with varying degrees of focus, and Levy sticking nearby, watching the way Aelius moved like she was studying some obscure language. The house creaked and settled under their combined efforts, tools clattering, boards being hammered into place, dust swirling in shafts of sunlight through half-fixed windows.
Aelius, for his part, barked the occasional direction or correction but otherwise worked in grim, steady silence. He hefted a beam onto his shoulder like it weighed nothing and set it into place, securing it with a precise efficiency that made even Erza raise a brow.
At one point, Natsu made for the cellar door, curiosity getting the better of him.
"Oi," Aelius snapped, pointing a gloved finger toward him without even looking up. "Stay out of the cellar."
Natsu blinked, hand still halfway to the latch. "Why? What's down there?"
Aelius set his hammer down, straightened, and turned his masked gaze on the lot of them. "The equivalent," he said slowly, as if speaking to a pack of particularly stubborn children, "of very, very expensive paint drying. Paint that, if smudged, might turn the guild one member short."
Natsu swallowed. Gray, for once, had the sense to step back. Even Erza gave a measured nod.
"Got it," Levy murmured.
Satisfied, Aelius went back to work, though he paused long enough to glance over his shoulder. "Where's Heartfilia?" he asked, tone casual but with a thread of expectation.
Levy perked up, dusting her hands on her skirt. "Lucy? She said she was going shopping. I would say she will be here soon, but we couldn't tell her where we were going…considering we didn't even know."
Aelius gave a quiet grunt, not clarifying why he'd asked, then grabbed his next board and went right back to hammering.
By late afternoon, the house had begun to look… livable, kinda. The roof still needed patching, a few walls remained stubbornly crooked, and the porch was a death trap if you weren't paying attention, but the first floor was mostly cleared, the debris gone, and a fresh stack of lumber sat neatly against the side of the house. The cellar was sealed tight, untouched, just as Aelius had ordered.
His….guests gathered by the forest, dirt-smudged and sweaty but with a strange lightness to them—like the act of doing something so mundane had burned away the lingering tension of the past week.
Aelius stepped out onto the half-finished porch, mask still in place, though his bare arms were streaked with dust and sweat. In one hand, he held a small pouch of jewel.
"Here," he said, and without flourish, tossed it toward Erza, who caught it reflexively. "For your trouble."
Erza blinked. "Aelius, we didn't—"
Levy stormed forward before anyone else could speak, scowling up at him. "What did I say," she started, jabbing a finger at his chest, "about treating life like every interaction is a transaction?"
Her words hit harder because she didn't shout. She said quietly, a sharp rebuke that made even Natsu shuffle awkwardly.
Aelius sighed through his nose. "This is different," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "You lot took time out of your days. Hard labor. Could've been out doing missions. Earning for yourselves. I don't… expect people to just show up and help without something in return."
Levy folded her arms, a stubborn tilt to her chin. "And what did I tell you last time?"
He didn't answer.
"That night, when you tried to pay me for—" she cut herself off, face coloring slightly, not about to bring up the details of him half-collapsing in her room days ago. "For staying. For being there. You don't have to buy people to keep them around, Aelius."
He was quiet for a long moment. The others lingered nearby but said nothing. Even Erza and Gray kept their peace.
Finally, Aelius spoke, voice low and not quite defensive. "I don't know another way to thank people."
Levy's expression softened, her shoulders easing just a little. "Then learn," she said gently. "Or let us teach you."
Aelius looked away, the mask hiding most of his face—but not the quiet exhale that followed.
"Fine," he muttered. "But don't expect me to be good at it."
Natsu grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it, buddy."
And with that, they made their way back down the path, leaving Aelius alone again, the house quiet save for the rustle of trees and the steady lap of lakewater in the distance.
Aelius settled on the grass at the lake's edge, the earth still soft and damp from the afternoon sun. The water shimmered in languid ripples, catching the colors of dusk—streaks of gold and violet bleeding into deep blue. The old soldier in him marked it: good place for a deck, the ground was firm enough, the slope shallow. Easy to build out, easy to fish from, or just sit and waste hours no one would miss.
He leaned back on his elbows, mask still on, though the urge to take it off and feel the evening air on his face tugged at him. Not yet. Not here. Not while his head still wasn't quiet.
What would Alaric think of this?
The name slid into his thoughts like a dull blade. Not sharp enough to bleed, but enough to ache. Alaric would've laughed, probably. Said he knew all along the great mister mask was a softie. But he would've been happy for him.
But the others?
Aelius could picture them. Faces he'd buried with his own hands. Men and women he'd fought beside, laughed with, bled with. Those he killed, those he killed with. Some would sneer, most probably would. Or worse—pity. Maybe see this as a weakness, as a waste. The house. The lake. The peace.
Aelius exhaled, the sound thin and sharp through the slits of his mask.
"Too late now." He muttered it to the sky, to no one. He was too deep into the stone now, carved and weathered by hands far crueler than his own. Maybe it wasn't redemption. Maybe it wasn't atonement. He didn't even know if he deserved either.
But for the first time in years, he'd made something. Built, instead of broken.
And if the ghosts of his past disapproved—well, they could keep their silence in their graves.
He ran a hand along the grass beside him, rough fingertips brushing over wild clover and cool soil. He'd build the deck tomorrow. Finish sealing the cellar the day after. Maybe even leave the mask off one evening, just to see what the air felt like without it.
He wasn't cured. He wasn't clean. And maybe never would be.
But for now…he was more than a cancer.
At least, for one more night.