N.B : If you'd like to get early access to the next chapters of Universal hope (Chapter 23-30) why not consider supporting me at Patreon.com/Weeb Fanthom. Your donations will be very much appreciated. On my Patreon, supporters get the complete, uninterrupted chapters in full.
Next day…
Over the past 2 days, the air in the refugee camp had changed somewhat. It was a subtle shift, like the first, faint scent of rain after a long drought. The pervasive despair was still there, a heavy blanket woven from loss and hunger, but for the trio in the Yeager shack, a small, defiant patch of warmth had been stitched back into its fabric.
Eren awoke not with the usual jolt of guilt-fueled energy, but with a slow, groggy blink. The deep, dreamless sleep had been a foreign country, and he was reluctant to leave its shores. He lay still for a moment, listening to the familiar sounds: his mother's soft breathing from her cot, the distant crow of a rooster, the gentle rustle as Mikasa, already awake, moved about the single room.
There was no frantic urge to leap up and prove his worth through back-breaking labor. The cold stone of self-loathing in his chest was still present, but it felt smaller, less sharp-edged. It was a burden he now knew he didn't have to carry alone.
"Good, you're awake," Mikasa said, her voice quiet. She was kneeling by the small hearth, carefully feeding twigs into a low flame under a pot of water. "Your mother is still resting."
Eren sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I can get more water," he offered, his voice still rough with sleep, but lacking its usual defensive edge.
"We have enough for now," she replied, not looking at him, but he could hear the faint approval in her tone.
When Carla stirred, her eyes immediately sought out Eren. The deep, worried crease between her brows, a permanent fixture for weeks, had softened. She saw him sitting calmly on his pallet, saw Mikasa moving with her usual efficient grace, and a genuine, weary smile touched her lips.
"It's a good morning." she said, her voice soft but clear.
It was the simplest of statements, but in that small room, it felt like a proclamation.
After a meager breakfast of thin porridge, a task emerged. A heavy winter coat, one of the few valuable possessions they had salvaged, had been torn at the seam under the arm. The fabric was thick and stubborn.
"I can try to fix it," Eren announced, eyeing the coat with a determined frown. "I've seen you do it, Mom."
Carla smiled. "It's fiddly work, Eren. It requires patience."
"I can be patient," he insisted, a flicker of his old stubbornness returning, but this time it was directed at a chore, not at his own demons.
Mikasa wordlessly fetched the sewing kit; a small, wooden box containing a precious few needles and spools of thread. Eren sat on the floor, the coat spread across his lap, and squinted at the tiny eye of the needle. His often clumsy hands suddenly looked comically oversized for the task. He fumbled, the thread refusing to cooperate.
Mikasa watched him struggle for a full minute, a silent, amused spectator. Finally, with a sigh that was more fond than exasperated, she knelt beside him.
"Like this," she said softly, taking the needle and thread from his hands. Her movements were swift and sure. In a second, the thread was through the eye. She handed it back to him.
Eren grumbled something under his breath but took it. He stabbed the needle into the fabric, pulling the thread through with more force than finesse.
"You'll pucker the fabric," Mikasa noted, her voice a low murmur. "Smaller stitches. Even pressure."
He huffed but adjusted his technique, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. The simple, repetitive motion of pushing the needle through the tough cloth, pulling the thread taut, became a form of meditation. There was no emerging threat here, no cosmic horror. There was only the needle, the thread, and the slow, deliberate act of mending.
Armin arrived mid-morning, a slightly stale roll saved from his own rations hidden in his pocket. He paused in the doorway, taking in the scene: Eren, tongue slightly stuck out in concentration, clumsily stitching a coat; Mikasa sitting nearby, sharpening her knife with a stone, her gaze occasionally flicking to Eren's work; Carla watching them both with a quiet, profound relief.
A real smile, the first in what felt like an eternity, broke across Armin's face. "Did you declare war on that coat, Eren?"
Eren looked up, a mock scowl on his face. "It started it. This fabric is treacherous."
Armin chuckled, the sound light and free. He sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling the roll from his pocket and breaking it into three pieces. They ate in comfortable silence, the shared, stale bread tasting better than any feast.
"You know," Armin began, his voice softer now, "I finally talked to my grandpa. Really talked to him."
The air in the shack, already warm, seemed to grow stiller, more attentive. Eren's needle paused mid-stitch. Mikasa looked up from her whetstone.
"It's... it's fine now. Or, it will be," Armin continued, looking down at his hands. "He apologized for keeping everything from me. He said he was trying to protect me, that the truth was a burden he never wanted me to carry. He's still my grandpa. He's just... from much, much farther away than I ever imagined." A small, wry smile touched his lips. "He promised no more secrets. At least, no more about who we are."
Eren let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The last unresolved thread of their collective trauma, the tension with Grandpa Arlet, had just been snipped.
"That's... that's really good, Armin."
Mikasa gave a single, firm nod, her expression one of deep satisfaction. It was one less weight on Armin, and by extension, one less weight on all of them.
The conversation, now lighter than air, drifted away from heavy topics and became about nothing at all, and everything.
"Remember," Armin began, brushing crumbs from his lap, his tone brightening again, "that time we tried to build a raft out of scrap wood down by the river in Shiganshina?"
"It was a noble effort," Mikasa stated, a tiny smirk playing on her lips. "Right up until you tried to use my good scarf as a sail."
"It was an emergency!" Eren protested, but he was grinning now. "And it was the perfect wind-catcher!"
"It was a perfect way to almost lose your only scarf to the current," she countered, her tone dry.
Armin laughed, a real, full-bellied laugh that made Carla's smile widen. "And then the fish! That giant, grumpy-looking carp that always seemed to sun itself on the rock by the old bridge. Eren was convinced it was mocking him."
"It was!" Eren insisted, his sewing forgotten for a moment. "It had those beady, judgmental eyes! Every time I tried to skip a stone, it would just… stare."
"He spent a whole summer trying to hit it with a pebble," Armin confided to Mikasa, as if she hadn't been there for every failed attempt.
"I came close!" Eren argued. "That one time, I skimmed the water right next to its fin! It flinched! I saw it!"
The memories, warm and golden, wove through the shack, pushing back the lingering shadows. They talked about silly games of theirs, about Old Man Heinrich's famously sour apples, about dreams that had nothing to do with Titans or walls. For a few precious hours, they weren't weapons or victims. They were just three kids again, bound by a shared past that predated all the horror.
Eren finally finished his stitching. He held up the coat. The seam was lumpy and uneven, a chaotic line of thread that veered wildly in places. It was, by any objective measure, a terrible repair job.
But Carla took it from him, her fingers tracing the clumsy stitches. Her eyes shone with unshed tears.
"It's perfect, Eren," she whispered. "It's the most perfect thing I've ever seen."
And in that moment, he understood. It wasn't about the coat. It was about the act. It was about sitting still, about focusing on a small, manageable problem, about creating instead of destroying. The lumpy, uneven seam was a testament to a battle far more important than any he'd fought as an alien creature. It was a battle for his own soul, and for one peaceful morning, he had won.
Later, as the afternoon sun slanted through the cracks in the wall, Eren looked at his friends. Armin was animatedly describing a theory about tidal patterns, his hands flying. Mikasa was listening, her head tilted, a softness in her grey eyes that had been absent for so long.
A profound sense of peace settled over Eren, so unfamiliar it was almost dizzying. The road ahead was still dark, paved with uncertainty and danger. The Omnitrix was still a heavy weight on his wrist, and the memory of what he had done to Armin was a scar that would never fully fade.
But right here, right now, in this dusty, cramped shack, surrounded by the people he loved most, the world felt… whole. The wounds weren't gone, but they were clean, and they were being bound, stitch by clumsy, determined stitch.
__________________
Wall Sina, evening time…
Ser Valerius and the masked knight moved with the quiet efficiency of men who had found nothing, their failure a tangible weight in the air. The sprawling, chaotic territory of Wall Rose had yielded no fresh sign of their quarry. There were whispers, of course; a stolen chicken coop in one village before it was dismissed as theft. But of the beast itself, there was no solid trace. It had vanished like smoke, its trail growing colder with each passing hour.
As they passed through the immense, silent gate of Wall Sina, the atmosphere shifted. The rustic, faintly desperate scent of Rose was replaced by the sterile, controlled air of the capital. Gas lamps cast pools of unwavering light on clean cobblestones, a stark contrast to the uncertain darkness they had just left.
"Nothing," Valerius finally murmured, the word tasting like ash. "It's as if the ground swallowed it. We will resume at first light, with a wider net."
The masked knight gave a single, slow nod, the expressionless white porcelain of his mask reflecting the lamplight. His silence was an agreement, and a condemnation of their wasted day.
They proceeded to their headquarters, a fortress disguised as a bureaucratic archive, its true purpose buried deep beneath ledgers and law books. As they approached the central chamber, they heard voices. One was the familiar, low rumble of Sir Aldric. The other was a voice they heard less frequently, but whose authority was absolute: Queen Frieda Reiss.
They paused at the threshold, waiting to be acknowledged. The chamber was lit by the same massive torch lamp, its light illuminating the map of the walls still spread across the central table. Aldric stood over it, his broad back to them. Queen Frieda stood opposite him, her posture regal yet burdened, her hands clasped gently in front of her simple dress. She looked less a monarch and more a weary scholar-queen, her eyes holding a deep, ancient sorrow.
Aldric sensed their presence and turned, his golden eyes flicking from Valerius to the masked knight and back. "Report," he said, his voice flat.
Valerius stepped forward and bowed deeply to the Queen before addressing his superior. "Your Majesty. My Lord. The trail has gone cold in Rose. We found rumors and panicked livestock, but no definitive sign. The beast is adept at evasion. We will try again tomorrow."
Queen Frieda offered a small, understanding nod. "The people are already frightened enough. Perhaps it has moved on, or most likely perished."
"It has not perished," Aldric stated, his tone leaving no room for doubt. He turned his gaze back to Valerius. "And our… other avenue of inquiry? Has our guest decided to be more forthcoming in my absence?"
Valerius exchanged a glance with the silent knight. This was the true purpose of their return. The hunt in the field was one thing; the hunt for information within their own walls was another.
"With respect, my Lord," Valerius said, choosing his words carefully. "We have just returned. We came to you directly. Has there been any progress on that front?"
Queen Frieda was the one who answered, her voice soft but firm. "There has not. I have attempted to… reason with him. But his mind is shielded in a way I have never encountered. He is not Eldian. His presence is an anomaly, a stone from outside the norm." A faint flicker of frustration crossed her serene features.
"The magic he wields is foreign, its structure alien to our understanding."
Aldric's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "The staff we confiscated confirms that. It resonates with a power that is neither Titan nor anything born of this world." He finally turned fully to face his subordinates, his golden eyes burning in the lamplight.
"He arrived here through a tear in the fabric of reality itself. A portal of violent, purple energy. It stands to reason that the beast, with its own impossible abilities, is a product of the same blasphemous origin. He summoned it. He must know how to find it, or how to control it."
"Then we must persuade him to share that knowledge," Valerius said, his voice hardening.
"That has been the goal," Aldric replied, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. "Come. Let us renew our 'discussions'."
He gave a curt bow to Queen Frieda. "Your Majesty, if you will excuse us. The methods required now are best not witnessed by the throne."
Frieda's eyes held a complex mixture of relief and guilt. She nodded silently, turning away from the table as if the map of her kingdom had become a thing of shame. "Do what you must, Sir Aldric. Just… remember the man within the prisoner."
"We are ever mindful, Your Majesty," Aldric said, though the words were a hollow formality. His focus was already elsewhere; on the descending staircase that led to the dungeons below.
The air grew colder and damper as they descended, the clean scent of polished wood and old paper giving way to the smell of wet stone and cold iron. The torches here burned with a dimmer, smokier flame. They passed several empty cells before stopping before one that was reinforced with bands of cold-forged steel, etched with faint, glimmering runes that pulsed with a soft, golden light; a containment field of the Knights' own design.
Inside, sitting calmly on a simple stone bench, was their prisoner.
He was an older man, with a strong, lined face and a full beard streaked with grey. He wore simple, rough-spun clothes that were not of Paradis make. He looked like a traveler, a scholar, perhaps a wizard from a child's fairy tale. But his eyes held a deep, weary intelligence and a core of unyielding defiance.
Aldric stepped up to the bars, his form blocking most of the light from the corridor. Valerius stood to his right, a poised and observant scribe to his lord's executioner. The masked knight took a position slightly behind and to the left, a silent, looming specter.
"You've been awfully quiet," Aldric began, his voice a low, conversational rumble that echoed in the stone chamber.
"Our Queen, in her infinite compassion, has tried to appeal to your reason. I, however, am a simpler man. I believe you know something about the beast that now prowls our lands. The one that shares the stench of otherworldly magic that clings to you."
The prisoner looked up, his gaze meeting Aldric's without fear. "I know nothing of any beast," he said, his voice steady, though hoarse from disuse.
"I came here seeking shelter. I was… greeted… by you and your men, who immediately caged me like an animal and took my property." His eyes flickered towards a shadowed alcove where his staff, its central gem dark and dormant, was locked in a separate, heavily warded case.
Aldric gave a thin, humorless smile. "Property? A curious word for such a potent artifact. For a 'defenseless old man,' you travel with formidable tools. And your method of arrival… a rip in the very sky. You expect me to believe that a being capable of such a feat is unconnected to the monstrosity that appeared in our capital at nearly the same time? You summoned it. It is your creature."
"I summoned nothing," the prisoner insisted, his calm beginning to show a hairline fracture of frustration. "My arrival was an accident, a miscalculation in a spell of translocation. I am as much a victim of circumstance as you claim to be."
"Victims do not carry weapons that hum with forbidden power," Valerius interjected coolly. "Nor do they shield their minds from a power as fundamental as the Coordinate."
Aldric took a half-step closer, the air growing colder still. "Let's not resort to excessive force, old man." As he spoke, his right hand moved, not with a jerk, but with a deliberate, slow finality, to rest on the worn hilt of the cruciform sword at his hip. It was not a threat of immediate violence, but a promise of it. The gesture was laden with the weight of centuries of purges and holy wars.
"Tell us what you know of the beast. Its nature. Its weaknesses. Where it will go."
The old man's body stiffened. He was a powerful wizard, but stripped of his staff and trapped in a cell that suppressed his magic, he was mortal. He could feel the aura of deadly intent radiating from the knight. He swallowed, but his gaze remained steady.
"Do your worst," he said, his voice dropping to a resolute whisper. "My life is a price I am willing to pay." A profound, personal sorrow flashed in his eyes.
"At least my sacrifice allowed my niece to escape your clutches. She is safe. That is all that matters."
The confession was a tiny crack, and Aldric drove a wedge into it immediately. He leaned forward, until his face was mere inches from the cold steel bars, his golden eyes burning like miniature suns in the dungeon's gloom.
"Is she?" Aldric purred, his voice dangerously soft. "A young girl, alone in a hostile, primitive world? With powers not so different from your own? It is only a matter of time. We found you. We will find her too. Your sacrifice will have been for nothing…Hex."
The use of his name, a name he had not given them, struck Hex like a physical blow. His composure shattered. His eyes widened, the defiance replaced by a spike of raw, paternal terror.
Hope.
They knew. They were hunting her.
He surged to his feet, his hands gripping the bars. "You leave her out of this! She is just a child!"
"She is a source of the same corruption you represent," Aldric said, straightening up, his hand still on his sword. "And we are the purge. We will cleanse this world of all unnatural blights. Starting with the beast, then the girl, and finally, you."
He held Hex's terrified gaze for a long, charged moment, letting the dread sink in. Then, he turned to leave.
As Aldric's back was turned, the fear on Hex's face congealed into a cold, hard resolve. The meek prisoner was gone, replaced by a dweller of Legerdomain.
"You are arrogant, knight," Hex spat, his voice regaining its power, echoing in the small cell. "You think your cold iron and your holy runes can hold a master of magic forever? You have no conception of the forces you are meddling with."
Aldric paused but did not turn back.
Hex's lips curled into a grim, knowing smile. "It is only a matter of time," he echoed Aldric's own words back to him, "until I am free of this cage. And on that day, you will learn the true meaning of fear."
The threat hung in the dank air, a promise as cold and sharp as the dungeon's stones. The Knights had not broken him. They had only reminded him of what he was, who he was…and what he was fighting for.
His brother's sacrifice to let them escape Ledger domain from Addwaitya's grasp would not be for nothing!
Chapter 23-30 are already available on Patreon.com/Weeb Fanthom.