The third day of rehearsals began with screams.
Not the usual screams of Natsu nearly killing someone, or of Gray complaining about his villain role, or of Lucy having a nervous breakdown because she had to touch Erza again.
No.
These screams were of genuine terror.
"WHAT IS THAT?!" Lucy pointed at the theatre's audience, her eyes so wide they looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets.
Where before there had been empty rows of red velvet chairs, there were now people. Hundreds of them. Men, women, children, the elderly. All sitting in silence, all looking at the stage, all with expressions of expectation.
All completely, absolutely, unsettlingly fake.
"Illusions," I said from my spot leaning against the side of the stage, a teacup in my hands. "Your audience."
"YOU COULD HAVE WARNED US!" Lucy had hidden behind Erza, peeking over the redhead's shoulder as if the ghosts were about to attack at any moment.
"Warning you would have spoilt the surprise." I took a sip of my tea. "Besides, your reaction was much more amusing this way."
Gray was staring at the illusory audience with a mixture of fascination and discomfort, his arms crossed over his bare chest, he had lost his shirt at some point between breakfast and now, as always.
"They look… too real," he murmured, his eyes following an illusory woman who was adjusting her hat.
"That's the point." I placed the cup on the floor and pushed myself off the wall, walking to the centre of the stage. "On opening night, there will be real people in these chairs. People who have paid for tickets, who have expectations, who will judge every word, every gesture, every breath you take." I gestured to the ghost audience. "If you can't perform in front of illusions, how will you perform in front of real people?"
Natsu, who until now had been strangely quiet, tilted his head to the side like a confused dog. "Can they hear us?"
"No. But they can react."
"React how?"
As if in answer to his question, I snapped my fingers.
The entire audience began to boo.
The sound was deafening, hundreds of illusory voices expressing disapproval, some throwing ghost tomatoes that dissipated before they hit the stage, others making rude gestures that I probably shouldn't have programmed but which were historically accurate for dissatisfied audiences.
"LIKE THIS," I said over the noise, a smile appearing on my face at the sight of their horrified expressions. "If you're bad, they'll boo. If you're good…" another snap of my fingers, and the audience erupted in applause, "…they'll applaud."
Lucy had her hands over her ears, her face pale. "This is AWFUL!"
"This is REALITY." I crossed my arms. "Now. Let's begin. Erza, Lucy, you're first. The siblings' promise scene."
Erza, who had remained motionless throughout the demonstration, finally moved. Her eyes scanned the illusory audience with that analytical gaze she used to assess opponents, her shoulders tense under the armour she still insisted on wearing even during rehearsals.
"Understood." Her voice was firm, but I noticed the way her fingers closed around the hilt of the non-existent sword at her waist, a gesture of comfort, of familiarity.
Lucy reluctantly came out from behind her, her legs trembling slightly as she walked to the centre of the stage.
"Do you remember your lines?" I asked.
They both nodded.
"Then begin."
Lucy took a deep breath, trying to find the Miquella posture we had practised the day before. Shoulders back, chin up, deliberate steps. She approached Erza, who had assumed a slightly stooped position, Malenia returning from a battle, wounded, exhausted.
"Sister." Lucy's voice came out… adequate. Not perfect, but adequate. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing." Erza replied, but her posture was too stiff, too mechanical. She was reciting lines, not living them.
"Let me see." Lucy reached out her hand to touch Erza's arm.
And then it happened.
The illusory audience began to murmur. Not boos yet, but that low, discontented sound of an audience that isn't impressed. Some figures started to shift uncomfortably in their seats. A woman in the third row yawned ostentatiously.
Erza froze.
I saw the exact moment she realised, her eyes darting to the audience, her shoulders tensing even more, her jaw locking. Suddenly, she was no longer Malenia returning from a battle.
She was Erza Scarlet, S-Class mage, completely and utterly paralysed by the judgement of strangers.
"Erza," Lucy whispered, her hand still extended in the air, "are you alright?"
Erza didn't answer.
The audience began to boo.
"Right." I put my hands on my hips, observing the scene with a mixture of frustration and understanding. "Stop."
Lucy lowered her hand, relieved. Erza remained frozen, her eyes fixed on some point in the illusory audience that had particularly disturbed her.
I walked over to them, ignoring the boos that continued around us. With a gesture, I silenced the audience; the ghosts remained, but were now mute, just watching.
"Erza."
She blinked, seeming to come back to herself. "I… I'm sorry. I don't know what happened."
"You froze." It wasn't an accusation, just a statement of fact. "It's normal. Most people freeze the first time they face an audience."
"I'm not most people." There was frustration in her voice, anger at herself. "I've faced armies. Monsters. Dark mages. This shouldn't affect me."
"Battles are different." I stopped in front of her, forcing her to look at me. "In battle, you know what to do. Attack, defend, survive. It's instinct." I pointed to the silent audience. "This is something else. This is exposing yourself. Letting people judge you not for your strength, but for your vulnerability."
Erza swallowed hard, her eyes finally meeting mine.
"How do you make it look so easy?" she asked quietly. "Yesterday, when you sang… you didn't hesitate for a second."
"Because I've been judged so many times I've stopped caring." I shrugged. "When you live long enough, you learn to pretend to be other people. It's that or go mad." I tilted my head. "Some would say I've done both."
"…Was that a joke?" Gray asked from the corner of the stage where he had sat down to watch.
"Of course it was. I'm hilarious."
[You are not hilarious,] Eos observed. [You are disturbing.]
(Same thing.)
I turned my attention back to Erza. "Let's try again. But this time, I'll demonstrate first."
"Demonstrate?" Lucy frowned. "How?"
"Like this." I turned to her. "Move, Lucy. Let me show you how it's done."
Lucy blinked, confused, but obeyed, moving to the side of the stage where she joined Gray and Natsu.
I took her place, facing Erza.
"You're still Malenia," I said. "You've just come back from a battle. You're wounded, exhausted, but hiding it because you don't want your brother to worry."
Erza nodded, reassuming the stooped posture from before.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
(Miquella. The Unalloyed. The brother who loved so much he created an entire world to save his sister.)
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer Azra'il.
My posture changed, shoulders relaxed but erect, chin held high with a grace that was neither feminine nor masculine, just… ethereal. My steps became lighter, more deliberate, each movement carrying a weight that wasn't physical. Even my breathing changed, becoming softer, more controlled.
My appearance was already naturally androgynous, my features delicate but not fragile, a jawline that could belong as much to a young prince as to a warrior maiden. Now, with the right posture and the right expression, the illusion was complete.
I was no longer pretending to be Miquella.
I was Miquella.
"Sister." My voice came out different, softer, gentler, laden with a concern that didn't need to be feigned because I understood what it was to love someone so much it hurt. "You're hurt."
Erza opened her mouth to reply with her rehearsed line, but the words died in her throat.
She was looking at me as if seeing me for the first time.
I took a step towards her, then another, each movement fluid and intentional. When I was close enough, I raised my hand and touched her face.
The touch was gentle. Delicate. The kind of touch that said "you are the most important person in my world" without needing words.
"Let me see," I whispered, and my other hand found hers, our fingers lacing with a familiarity that transcended rehearsal.
Erza didn't move. Didn't breathe. Her brown eyes were fixed on mine, wide, and I saw the exact moment she forgot this was acting.
"M-Miquella…" Her voice came out hoarse, broken, and it wasn't a rehearsed line, it was instinct, it was reaction, it was her responding not to me, but to the 'brother' she was seeing.
I smiled, the sad, gentle smile of someone who knew that time was running out. "Don't hide your wounds from me, sister. You don't have to be strong around me."
A tear ran down Erza's face.
She didn't even seem to notice.
With the hand that was still on her face, I wiped the tear away with my thumb, the gesture so natural it could have been repeated a thousand times before.
"I will find a cure," I said, and my voice carried a promise that echoed through centuries of memory. "I promise."
The illusory audience was in absolute silence.
Not the silence of disapproval, the silence of people who had forgotten how to breathe.
I broke character.
It was like taking off a mask; my posture returned to normal, my shoulders slumped into their usual laziness, and the ethereal weight that had surrounded me dissipated like mist in the sun.
Erza blinked, seeming to wake from a trance. Her face was red, not just on her cheeks, but down her neck, up to her ears.
"…How did you do that?" she asked, her voice still hoarse.
"Do what?"
"I…" Erza swallowed hard, her eyes avoiding mine. "For a moment, I really thought… I really believed you were…" She didn't finish the sentence.
"The trick is not to pretend," I said, going back to my usual spot leaning against the side of the stage. "You don't pretend to be Malenia. You find the part of you that is Malenia and let it take over."
"But I'm not—"
"You are." I interrupted before she could finish. "You're a warrior who has dedicated her life to protecting the people she loves. Who would fight to the last breath for her comrades. Who hides her pain so as not to worry others." I arched an eyebrow. "Sound familiar?"
Erza was silent, processing.
From the side of the stage, Lucy was dumbfounded.
"You've acted before," she said, not as a question. "Like, PROFESSIONALLY. There's no way you can do that without experience."
"I had some good teachers. And a lot of free time."
Lucy narrowed her eyes, clearly not convinced.
Gray snorted. "Good teachers, she says. As if any teacher could teach… that." He gestured vaguely to where I was standing.
"Oi." Natsu, who had been strangely quiet during the entire demonstration, spoke up. "Why's Erza so red?"
Erza made a strangled sound.
"Intense emotional reaction," I explained in a completely neutral tone. "It's common when the acting is good. The emotions get confused."
"Oh." Natsu nodded as if that made sense. It probably didn't, but he had learned to accept things he didn't understand. "Cool."
"IT'S NOT COOL!" Erza protested, her face still on fire. "I wasn't— I just— The acting was very convincing and I—"
"Erza." I interrupted her spiral of denial with a lazy smile. "Relax. It's a compliment. If you can have that same reaction when Lucy does the scene, the audience will cry."
Erza opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.
No sound came out.
The illusory audience began to applaud.
"Gray. Your turn."
The ice mage stood up from where he had been sitting, cracking his neck from side to side as if preparing for a fight and not a theatre rehearsal.
"What do I need to do?"
"Practise synchronicity." I walked to the centre of the stage, gesturing for him to follow. "During the play, you'll use your magic as normal, but I'll apply the blood illusion in real-time. We need to make sure the timing is perfect."
Gray nodded, positioning himself in front of me.
"Create something. Anything."
He brought his hands together in the familiar gesture, Ice Make, and a spear of ice formed in the air, crystalline and blue.
I reached out, touching the icy surface. The illusion magic flowed through my fingers, and the blue began to darken, turning red, then crimson, then the blackish-red of coagulated blood.
Gray watched the transformation with a grimace of discomfort.
"Still not used to this."
"You'll have to get used to it." I took a step back, analysing the result. "Now create more. Several things in sequence. I need to practise applying the illusion on the move."
He obeyed. An ice sword, then a shield, then a spiked chain. Each construct that came from his hands was crystal-blue; each one that my magic reached transformed into something from a nightmare, weapons that looked made of frozen blood, chains that dripped with a dark liquid that dissipated before it hit the floor.
I didn't even need to move. Just a gesture with my fingers, sometimes not even that, just the directed intention, and the blue turned crimson, the crystalline turned visceral.
"That's disgusting," Natsu commented from the side, watching with a mixture of fascination and revulsion.
"That's ART," Hannes corrected from somewhere in the audience, having finally woken up from his most recent faint. "Dark and disturbing art, but art nonetheless!"
Gray created one last construct, an elaborate ice cage with bars that looked like frozen bones. I moved two fingers in the air, almost lazily, and the illusion spread across the icy surface, turning it into a prison of solidified blood. Gray shuddered visibly.
"Right. I think the synchronicity is good." He dissipated the construct quickly, as if he couldn't bear to look at it any longer. "Can we move on to something else?"
"Not yet." I crossed my arms. "The synchronicity is good, but the acting isn't. You're creating the constructs as Gray Fullbuster. You need to create them as Mohg."
"And what's the difference?"
"Mohg didn't do magic out of necessity. He did it out of obsession." I began to circle around him, as I had with Lucy the day before. "Every drop of blood he manipulated was a declaration of love. Distorted, sick, but love nonetheless."
Gray frowned. "Love?"
"Mohg genuinely believed he loved Miquella. That stealing him, imprisoning him, trying to turn him into something different… it was all for love." I stopped in front of him. "You need to find that emotion. Not the gratuitous evil of a cheap storybook villain. The absolute certainty of someone who is doing the wrong thing for the 'right' reasons."
"That's…" Gray searched for the words, "…disturbing."
"Real villains usually are." I shrugged. "Think of something you want so much you would do anything to have it. Now imagine you've got it… but you've destroyed it in the process. And imagine you can't see that you've destroyed it. That you think it's all fine. That the person you 'love' should be grateful."
Something changed in Gray's face.
I don't know what he was thinking of, perhaps Ur, perhaps old regrets, perhaps something he had never shared with anyone. But something in those words resonated.
"Again," I said. "Create the cage again."
He brought his hands together.
This time, when the ice formed, there was something different. His movements were slower, more deliberate, almost… affectionate. As if he were building something precious. Something to hold the world's most important treasure.
The cage that appeared was more elaborate than the last. More beautiful. More frightening.
I applied the blood illusion, and the result made even Natsu take a step back.
"That…" Lucy swallowed hard, her eyes wide. "That was frightening. VERY frightening."
"Perfect." I smiled at Gray. "You've found Mohg."
Gray looked at his own creation, the frozen blood cage that shone under the theatre lights like a macabre jewel, and shuddered.
"I need a break," he murmured. "And maybe a therapist."
"Therapist later. Rehearsal now." I turned to the next target. "Natsu. Your turn."
"HAAAAA!"
Natsu's flaming fist passed inches from my head as I dodged to the side, the heat from the flames making my hair fly back.
"Too wide," I said, blocking the second punch with my forearm and redirecting his force to the floor. "You're wasting energy."
"But Radahn was POWERFUL!" Natsu protested, regaining his balance and preparing another attack. "He didn't worry about conserving energy!"
"Radahn was powerful AND efficient." I stepped inside his guard and applied pressure to his elbow that made him let out a yelp of surprise. "Brute force without control is just destruction. Brute force with control is devastation."
Natsu backed away, shaking the arm I had manipulated, his eyes shining in a way I was starting to recognise, it wasn't anger, it was fascination.
"Do it again."
"What?"
"That move. What you did to my arm. Do it again, but slower."
I arched an eyebrow, but obeyed. I demonstrated the move in slow motion, the way I had used his momentum against him, redirecting the force instead of blocking it.
Natsu watched with an attention he rarely dedicated to anything that didn't involve food or fights.
"Where did you learn to fight like that?" he asked when I finished. "I thought you only used a sword!"
"I met an old monk on a mountain a few years ago. He tried to kill me at first, but after I survived, he decided I was worthy of learning."
Natsu blinked. "He tried to KILL you?"
"It was his way of saying 'hello'. Old men are strange." I shrugged with a casualness that didn't match the story. "Anyway, he died."
"Of what?"
"Old age. Or boredom. It was never clear."
[Does this monk even exist?] Eos asked.
(No. But the story is good.)
[You've invented a fictional assassin to add more drama.]
(Drama is important for the narrative.)
Natsu seemed a little disturbed by the story, but the excitement soon returned to his eyes.
"So YOU can teach me later! Since the monk is dead and all."
"If you survive the play, sure."
"…Was that a joke too?"
"Maybe." I returned to my fighting stance. "Now, again. But this time, I want you to think before you punch. Radahn wasn't an uncontrolled barbarian. He was a general. A strategist. Every one of his blows had a purpose."
Natsu frowned in concentration, an expression that looked almost unnatural on his face, and attacked again.
This time, the punch came more controlled. Still powerful, still flaming, but with a precision that hadn't been there before.
I dodged, blocked, redirected. Natsu adapted, adjusted, attacked again. For a few minutes, the two of us moved across the stage in a dance of blows and dodges, fire and movement.
When we finally stopped, Natsu was panting but smiling.
"This is WAY cooler than I expected!"
"You're improving." I wasn't even out of breath, which clearly irritated him a little. "Keep practising those moves. And for the love of all that is holy, CONTROL the flames. We've already lost six curtains."
"It was only five," Natsu protested.
"Six. You burned one while I was teaching Gray."
"…Oh. Does that one count?"
"All property destruction counts, Natsu."
From the corner of the theatre, Hannes sobbed something about fire insurance and the production budget.
The following days passed in a blur of rehearsals, screams, tears (mostly Hannes's), and gradual progress.
The illusory audience became a constant presence, sometimes hostile, sometimes receptive, always judgemental. On the fourth day, Erza finally managed to complete an entire scene without freezing. On the fifth, she managed to get a standing ovation from the audience.
Lucy mastered Miquella's androgynous posture with a dedication that surprised me. Her voice still needed work, but her movements were almost perfect, each gesture carrying the weight of centuries of wisdom trapped in a body that refused to grow.
Gray found a disturbing balance with Mohg. Sometimes, during rehearsals, I'd see something in his eyes that reminded me why I never underestimated people who seemed cold on the outside. The most dangerous ice was always the kind that hid deep waters.
Natsu… well, Natsu still burned things. But at least now he burned them with style. The martial arts moves I had taught him integrated with his chaotic style in a strangely effective way, turning uncontrolled punches into blows that looked choreographed, because technically they were.
Happy took his role as Lux so seriously that he started meditating. MEDITATING. The cat that couldn't sit still for more than three seconds was sitting in a lotus position in the corners of the theatre, trying to achieve "inner peace" to better channel his character.
No one knew how to react to that.
And Lyra continued to appear periodically to rehearse the soundtrack, our harmony growing more attuned with each session. The deep voice of an ancient goddess meeting the soft voice of an angel, earth and sky, tragedy and hope.
On the sixth day, the costumes arrived.
Lucy's seamstress appeared first, a short woman with grey hair in a tight bun and ink-stained fingers that moved constantly, as if sewing invisible clothes in the air.
"Where is Miss Heartfilia?" she asked, her eyes scanning the theatre with a professional efficiency. "I need to do the final fittings."
"HERE!" Lucy ran to her, her eyes shining with anticipation. "Marina! Did you manage to finish everything?"
"I said I would, didn't I?" The woman, Marina, huffed with an indignation that was clearly feigned. "Fifty years in the business and people still doubt me."
She held up the brown-paper-wrapped parcels she was carrying, depositing them on a nearby table with a care that contrasted with her brusque tone.
Minutes later, Tormund arrived, the huge blacksmith Erza had dragged to the theatre days ago. He was carrying metal boxes in his arms as if they weighed nothing, the muscles in his arms flexing with every movement.
"The armours," he announced with his thunderous voice. "Ready. As promised."
"In a few days," Erza said, genuinely impressed. "I didn't expect you to actually manage it."
"Lass, I told you I love a challenge." Tormund smiled from behind his thick beard. "This was the best one I've had in years."
Everyone gathered around as the parcels were opened.
The first was Gray's.
When the dark fabric was unfolded, revealing Mohg's robes, the silence that fell over the group was almost palpable.
It was… there was no other word… monstrous.
Layers of dark red and black fabric overlapped like open wounds, the details looking like dried bloodstains even though it was just carefully applied dye. A heavy cape hung from the shoulders, its edges as ragged as bat wings. And the crown… the crown was a macabre work of art, curved horns emerging from the dark metal as if sprouting from the skull itself.
"This…" Gray took the crown with hesitant fingers, "…I look like a demon."
"You ARE a demon," I said. "In this play."
"I know, but…" He put on the crown, looking at his reflection in a mirror someone had left in the corner of the stage. His face paled. "…Wow. This is… this is a lot."
"The work is impressive," he admitted reluctantly, adjusting the robes. "Disturbing, but impressive."
Marina huffed, clearly pleased with the reluctant compliment.
The next was Lucy's.
Miquella's robes were the perfect opposite; where Mohg was darkness and blood, Miquella was light and hope. White fabric flowed like water, with golden details that caught the light in ways that seemed almost magical. The accompanying cape was a pale shade that seemed to change colour depending on the angle, sometimes white, sometimes gold, sometimes a faded pink.
Lucy put on the clothes in reverent silence, then spun slowly, watching how the fabric moved around her.
"It's… it's beautiful," she whispered, her eyes watering. "Marina, you've outdone yourself."
The seamstress made a sound that could have been pride or indigestion. "Just did my job."
Natsu was next.
His "armour" was a creative combination of pieces Tormund had found, massive bronze pauldrons that looked like the tusks of some ancient beast, heavy greaves that creaked slightly as he walked, and a breastplate that had been modified to look more barbaric than functional. The helm was the centrepiece, dark metal with a red crest that cascaded down his back like a mane of fire.
Natsu put on everything with an almost childlike joy, each piece drawing exclamations of approval from him.
"I LOOK LIKE A REAL WARRIOR!"
"You look like a barbarian," Happy observed, flying around him to see from all angles.
"EXACTLY!"
And then it was Erza's turn.
Tormund opened the last metal box with an almost reverent care, revealing the pieces of Malenia's armour one by one.
Bronze and gold mingled in every component, the tones darker and more worn than the shining armours Erza normally wore. There was a tragic elegance to the design; it wasn't an armour made for victory, it was an armour made for endurance. To keep fighting even when there was no hope left.
The helm came last. Golden wings emerged from the sides, not as decoration, but as a statement, a fallen angel, a warrior who had known heaven and chosen to remain on earth.
Erza put on each piece in silence.
No one spoke as she worked, adjusting straps, fitting plates. When she finally put on the helm, letting her scarlet hair flow from underneath like liquid flames, everyone held their breath.
She really LOOKED like Malenia.
Not an actress wearing a costume, but the Blade of Miquella herself, standing on the stage, ready to defend her brother to the last breath.
"It's not functional for real combat," Tormund warned, though his voice carried evident pride. "Without the right enchantments and materials, it doesn't offer adequate protection. But for the stage…"
"It's perfect," Erza said, and there was something in her voice that sounded almost… emotional.
Lucy wiped away a tear that was stubbornly trying to fall. Gray nodded in reluctant approval. Natsu clapped enthusiastically.
And then everyone turned to me.
"And you?" Lucy asked, her eyes scanning my usual outfit, the same blue hanfu, the same worn trousers, the same scuffed boots as always. "Where's your costume?"
"I said I'd sort myself out."
"But—"
"Wait here."
I left the stage without further explanation, walking to the makeshift dressing room backstage. The door creaked as I closed it behind me, and for a moment I stood in the dark, my hand resting on my chest.
[Are you sure about this?] Eos asked, her voice softer than usual.
(No.)
[You don't have to wear it. We can create something—]
(No. This story deserves to be told properly.) I took a deep breath. (And it deserves to be worn again. At least one last time.)
I opened my inventory.
The Raging Wolf armour was there, where it had always been since I left the Lands Between. Every piece perfectly preserved by the dimensional space, untouched by the time or rust that should have consumed it long ago.
I put it on, piece by piece.
The chainmail first, cold against my skin for a second before it warmed, fitting my body like a second skin. Then the breastplate, the pauldrons with their feather details, the ornate greaves. Lastly, the helm, that helm with its intricate engravings, its stories carved into metal.
When I was finished, I looked at the cracked mirror leaning against the wall.
The me from the past, a Tarnished, looked back at me.
Not the Azra'il who slept twenty hours a day and complained about having to get out of bed. The warrior who had crossed the Lands Between countless times. Who had died and been reborn more times than she could count. Who had faced gods and demigods and things that had no name.
The warrior who had defeated Malenia.
[Are you ready?] Eos asked.
(No. But when has that ever stopped me?)
I opened the door and walked back onto the stage.
The silence that fell over the theatre when I appeared was unlike any other.
It wasn't the silence of expectation, or of judgement, or of discomfort. It was the silence of people who were seeing something they couldn't fully process.
The armour shone under the theatre lights, an ancient silver, almost greyed by time, but still emanating a quality that no ordinary metal possessed. The engravings that covered every surface told stories in patterns that the eye had difficulty following, spirals and lines that seemed to move when you weren't looking directly.
The pauldrons with their feather details cast strange shadows, like the wings of something that was neither bird nor angel. The chainmail visible between the main plates was of such a fine weave that it seemed impossible, each tiny link perfect, interconnected in ways that defied common metallurgy.
And the helm… the helm was a work of art that made Tormund's work look amateurish in comparison. Floral engravings intertwined with geometric patterns, creating something that was both beautiful and intimidating.
The dark red scarf over my shoulders was the only warm colour in the whole ensemble, faded in some places but still vibrant, swaying slightly with my movements.
Erza was the first to recover.
Her armourer's expert eyes scanned every detail with a hunger I recognised, the hunger of someone who has dedicated their life to understanding weapons and armour finding something they couldn't classify.
"This…" she took a step towards me, almost involuntarily, "…this isn't a replica."
"No."
"This armour is REAL. And ancient." Another step, her eyes glued to the pauldrons, the engravings, the impossible details. "The patterns, the metalwork… I've never seen anything like it. Not even the best blacksmiths in Fiore could make this." She finally lifted her eyes to mine. "Where did you get this?"
"I took it off a corpse."
The silence grew heavier.
Lucy made a strangled sound. "Y-you WHAT?!"
"Relax. The original owner wasn't using it. It had been a few centuries since he'd stopped needing it."
"That was a joke, right?" Gray asked, though his tone made it clear he wasn't sure.
"No."
More silence. Erza was still studying me, her eyes scanning every scratch, every mark on the armour. And there were many blade grooves, dents from impacts, stains that could have been blood a long time ago. A history of battles engraved in metal.
"The details…" she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. "I've never seen work like this. Decades of experience, perhaps centuries… whoever made this wasn't a blacksmith. They were an artist." Her eyes met mine again. "Who was the original owner?"
"Someone who fought a lot and died alone." I shrugged, the metal creaking slightly with the movement. "Like most warriors."
Gray frowned, his arms crossing over his chest. "There's something… strange about it. A magic I don't recognise."
He was right, of course. The armour emanated something, not an obvious magic like those of Fiore, but something more subtle, more ancient. A vibration that everyone could feel even without being able to name it.
Loneliness. Struggle. Loss. Determination.
Echoes of a thousand deaths and a thousand rebirths.
"Ancient magic," I said. "From a place that no longer exists." I tilted my head, letting a wry smile appear from under the helm. "Or maybe it never existed. Depends on who you ask. And whether that person is alive or not."
"That doesn't make sense," Lucy protested.
"Most things don't."
Natsu, who had been strangely quiet during the whole exchange, finally spoke up.
"The armour is cool," he said, his voice carrying a simplicity that cut through all the tension. "It suits you."
[That was… surprisingly perceptive of him,] Eos commented.
(Sometimes Natsu surprises me.)
[Rarely.]
(But sometimes.)
Lucy took a hesitant step towards me, her eyes scanning the armour with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"This armour… it means something to you, doesn't it?"
I looked at her for a long moment.
The question was simple. The answer was not.
"Everything means something to someone," I said finally. "Even the things we pretend don't." I ran a hand over the helm, an almost automatic gesture, my fingers tracing the familiar engravings. "But if you're asking if I have an emotional attachment to a battered old piece of metal that probably belongs in a museum or a rubbish bin…" I let the sentence hang for a second. "…it's none of your business."
The tone was light. Playful, almost.
But something in my eyes must have betrayed the truth, because Lucy didn't press.
Erza, however, continued to watch me with that analytical expression. She knew there was more to this story. Much more.
But she also knew I wasn't going to tell it.
At least not now.
"Good." I clapped my hands once, the metallic sound echoing through the theatre. "Everyone dressed. Everyone ready." I looked around, taking in the sight of the group, Malenia, Miquella, Radahn, Mohg, Lux. "The premiere is knocking at the door. We'll have one last full dress rehearsal. With costumes, illusions, music. Everything."
From the corner of the theatre, Hannes, who had fainted again when he saw my armour, began to stir, slowly waking up. When his eyes focused on all of us, dressed as the characters from a story he didn't even know was real, he began to cry.
From happiness, this time.
Probably.
"We're going to do it," Lucy said, and there was a conviction in her voice that surprised me. She no longer looked like the nervous girl from the first day. She looked… like Miquella. Or at least, someone who was beginning to understand what it meant to be Miquella.
"We are," Erza agreed, her voice firm despite all the embarrassment of the last few hours. Malenia's armour looked natural on her, as if it had been made for her from the beginning.
Natsu punched the air with enthusiasm, flames dancing around his fists. "IT'S GONNA BE EPIC!"
Gray, still uncomfortable in his demon costume, just shrugged. "…We'll see."
Happy, trying to maintain the seriousness he had practised for the last few days, nodded solemnly. "I won't let you down."
I looked at all of them, this strange, noisy, imperfect group. Mages who had accepted a theatre mission thinking it would be easy and had ended up immersed in a story that wasn't theirs, carrying characters who bore the weight of a real tragedy.
Something tightened in my chest.
[You're emotional,] Eos observed, her voice irritatingly gentle.
(Shut up.)
[It's cute.]
(I said shut up.)
"Rest tonight," I said, turning my back before anyone could see whatever was on my face. "Tomorrow is going to be a long day."
I walked off the stage with steps that echoed on the wooden floor, the familiar weight of the armour reminding me of other walks, other stages, other stories.
[Do you think they're ready?] Eos asked as I walked through the theatre corridors.
(I don't know.)
[But you hope they are.]
I didn't answer.
But perhaps the silence was answer enough.
---------
💬 Author's Note:
---------
Now I want to hear from you 👀
What are you thinking about the theatre arc so far? Are you enjoying this slightly chaotic, emotional vibe, or are you already missing the good old classic Fairy Tail chaos and fights?
And a special question for the readers who played Elden Ring:
If Azra'il had to wear a different in-game armor as her costume, which one would you pick? ⚔️
Or are you, like the author, part of the "play naked and trust your skills" school of thought?
Please leave a comment, reading your thoughts is honestly half the fun of writing this 💙✨