3rd Person POV
The hallway stretched before her, steam curling lazily from the arched doorway at its end. Erza's boots scuffed against the marble as Nami dragged her forward, her grip unrelenting. Behind them, Grayfia's voice floated from some unseen corridor—"And don't forget the exfoliating salts this time, Kuroka. Last time you left scales in the—"
The scent hit Erza first—hot jasmine and something sharper, like lightning after rain. Then the laughter, bright and unguarded, bouncing off the mosaic tiles. The bathing chamber sprawled before them, domed ceilings dripping with condensation, the center dominated by a sunken pool large enough for a dozen. Steam coiled above the water's surface, distorting the figures within.
Rias lounged against the pool's edge, her crimson hair fanning across the water like spilled ink. Akeno floated nearby, her wings stretched lazily, the tips shimmering with droplets. Kuroka's tail flicked above the surface, sending ripples toward Koneko, who scowled as she scrubbed soap into her ears.
All heads turned as Nami shoved Erza forward. "Ta-daaa~! Our feral kitten's finally out of her cage." The water rippled as Rias straightened, droplets sliding down her collarbone. "You're here finally, come on, jump in, it's warm" Erza's fingers tightened on the towel, her knuckles bleaching white. The scars crisscrossing her arms seemed to pulse under their scrutiny—old wounds, poorly healed.
Kuroka's golden eyes gleamed through the steam. "Haa~? Scared of water, little knight?" Her tail flicked, sending a spray toward Erza. "Or just shy about those ugly marks?"
Akeno's wing lashed out, intercepting the water with a crackle of static. "Play nicely," she chided, though her smirk undermined the reproach. She extended a hand toward Erza, electricity dancing between her fingers. "We don't bite. Unless you're into that."
The towel hit the tiles with a wet slap before Erza even realized she'd dropped it. Her muscles coiled—flight or fight, both equally futile. Rias sighed, swirling a finger through the water. "Look. You reek of blood and cheap soap. Either get in voluntarily, or Grayfia'll scrub you down with a steel brush later. Your choice."
Erza's remaining eye flicked to the exit. Nami blocked it, arms crossed. "Uh-uh. No running." Her grin turned wicked. "Unless you wanna owe me a favor for letting you escape." Suddenly, a voice came from the entrance "Erza, get in the tub, dear, let me see your scars and wounds, I can heal them for you"
Robin appeared at the door, a towel wrapped around her form, her arms crossed over her chest. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were sharp, dissecting Erza's injuries with clinical precision. "That gash on your shoulder's festering," she noted, tilting her head. "And your ribs—three fractures, poorly set. You've been walking around like that?"
Erza's jaw clenched. "It's nothing." Robin shook her head and comes closer, tracing her fingers over the scars on Erza's arms. "Now. Strip." A beat of silence. Then Kuroka burst out laughing, her tail slapping the water. "Haa~! Straight to the point!"
Seeing Erza's hesitation, Robin snapped her fingers and all the clothes on Erza's body disappeared, the girl scrambled to cover herself while Koneko jumped up from the tub and pull Erza down. Nami grinned seeing the scene of a petite girl carrying an embarrassed one like a princess down the bathtub, she removed her towel as well and got down the water with Robin following her.
Robin pressed her palm against Erza's shoulder—the one marred by jagged claw marks—and hummed as life green light seeped from her fingertips. The scars rippled, knitting together beneath her touch. "Whoever stitched this did a butcher's job," she murmured.
Rias swam over from her position to take a took "It seems we now know why Arto bought her out, this is almost as bad as him when I found him, he just had more deeper ones" she mused, running a finger over Erza's stomach, where a latticework of old whip scars stood out against her skin.
Robin sighs "Some bones are misplaced to the point they are holding her body together in a twisted order, I can't believe she hasn't collapsed yet." Her fingers glow brighter, sinking deeper into Erza's flesh—realigning ribs with sickening pops. Erza grits her teeth, her knuckles whitening against the tub's edge. Nami whistles lowly, eyeing the girl's tension. "Damn, and here I thought Arto was the only scars map in this house."
Koneko presses a steaming cup into Erza's shaking hands—some herbal concoction that smells of honey and something medicinal. "Drink," she orders, her tone brooking no argument. Erza glares but obeys, the liquid scorching her throat. Almost instantly, the pain dulls to a distant throb.
Rias traces a scar along Erza's collarbone—a ragged line that dips beneath the water's surface. "This one's fresh," she notes, her voice uncharacteristically soft. The water ripples as Kuroka drifts closer, her golden eyes narrowing. "Haa~? Someone tried to behead you, kitten?"
Erza jerks away, splashing water onto the tiles. "None of your business." Robin clicks her tongue, summoning another glowing hand to press against Erza's spine. "Actually, it is, if you want to save your friends, you need to be healthy enough to train, Arto pulled you out of the cage because it seems, he saw himself in you—broken, hopeless, but still biting"
"What the hell does that freaking noble know?" Erza asks as she can feel something inside her are moving, likely her bones are going back to where they should be under Robin's magic.
Robin chuckles, her hands never stopping their work—green threads of magic weaving through muscle and bone. "More than you'd think. That man's walked through hells you can't imagine." She tilts Erza's chin up, examining the faint scar along her jawline. "But that's not why you're here, is it? You don't care about his sob story."
Erza jerks her head away. "Damn right." Nami, floating nearby with her arms pillowed behind her head, interjects lazily, "Then care about this—you're useless to your friends if you're crippled. And unless you plan on biting your enemies to death, you'll need training."
Robin nods "Starting from learning basic things that you lack like literacy, numbers, all the fundamental education. Then comes combat training, magic training, survival training, medical training—all of it." She pulls back, watching green light stitch Erza's ribs together from within. "And judging by those malnourished muscle fibers, dietary adjustments too."
After stabilizing the recent healing, Robin's hand moved to the place that Erza's hair has been covering, her missing left eye, which was taken away violently like a punishment without any medical precautions or any meaningful healing, it's a jagged empty socket. "So this is what happened when you took all the punishment for the friends you led on the strike against the slavers, right?"
The water went still. Steam curled between them like frozen breath. Erza's remaining eye burned—not from the heat, but from the memory of hands pinning her down, the crude blade glinting in torchlight. The way they'd laughed as she screamed. "How...how did you know about that?"
Robin's fingers hovered just above the ruined socket. "So it's true, what Arto said wasn't baseless, he saw your story in the fire in your eye—literally." Erza tilts her head "How?" Rias smirks "To know how, you should mind his story, and the fire in your eye"
The steam thickened between them, heavy with unspoken questions. Erza's fingers dug into the tub edge, the marble biting into her palms. "Spare me the cryptic bullshit," she hissed. "He is just some smug-ass noble who thinks he understands suffering because he bought a few scars at auction."
Robin's hands paused mid-spell, her smile sharpening. "You don't need to understand him, or us, just know that this family knows trauma and can do things to help, unless you prefer rotting in a cell while your comrades bleed out in other cages."
The water rippled violently as Erza surged forward—only for Koneko's tail to wrap around her wrist, forcing her back gently. "Rude," she tutted, pressing Erza back with deceptive gentleness. "No violence in the bath. House rules."
Rias swirled her finger through the steam, conjuring a miniature replica of Arto's masked auction persona—the illusion dripping water from its cloak hem. "That 'smug-ass noble' dismantled an entire research facility of Old Satan Faction and saved thousands of people being experimented on in one night" Koneko and Kuroka tensed up, that's Kuroka's name cleansing expedition and Koneko's rescue—both incidents Erza wouldn't know about.
"He is also leading a campaign called Project Liberty to break apart human trafficking lines across the world" Nami said, making everyone except for Robin surprised "Wait, how did you know?" Robin asked, Nami smirked "I'm his CFO, remember? I know where the money flows, and Arto is funding a massive black ops operation against slavery, but not as a hero, as a strategist, do you know why most corporations in AFM's web haven't recruited any new people recently?"
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Nami collecting money]
The dining table is ready when the women are done bathing, they come down to see Arto and Albedo are already at the dining table, and Albedo, as usual, is clinging to Arto's arm, stroking his hand with her fingers—an affectionate gesture from the succubus that everyone else is already used to.
Erza stops mid-step when she sees her in that same dress she saw Rias wore when they bought her from the Auction House "So that's Baroness Atreides?" Rias nods "Yep, the real one, another person he bought out from the Auction House"
Albedo's eyes moved from looking at Arto to the girls descending the stairs, and immediately she spotted Erza "Well, why am I not surprised? Master's habit of bringing new people home once in a while" she says with an amused smile, while still holding onto Arto's arm possessively. "First Robin, then Nami, then me + Grayfia, Kuroka, and now her?"
Arto exhales through his nose—half-amused, half-exasperated—as he gestures for Erza to sit. "Ignore her. Territorial instincts." His fingers tap against the tabletop, where plates rearrange themselves to accommodate the newcomers. "You look better," he notes clinically, eyes scanning Erza's freshly healed wounds.
Robin slides into her seat beside Nami, summoning a dossier that materializes above her palm. "Forty-seven improperly healed fractures realigned. Twelve liters of necrotic tissue purged." The pages flip autonomously. "She'll need nutritional supplements and daily reinforcement spells for two weeks."
Erza's grip tightens around her utensils. "I didn't ask—"
"You're alive because we asked," Grayfia interjects, materializing behind Erza with a carafe of water. The suddenness of her arrival makes Erza jerk—a reaction Grayfia ignores as she fills her glass. "Master's rule: no one bleeds out under this roof. Even stubborn strays, no matter if he is evil or not, he needs his people healthy and strong, especially his soldier"
Albedo's fingers trace idle patterns on Arto's sleeve, her gaze lingering on Erza's scarred knuckles. "Hmm. Slavery, saw some in the cages in Auction House, it's fortunate Master found you, now it's a new page for us both, junior, use it well" she murmurs, though the possessive edge in her voice softens slightly. The succubus tilts her head, studying Erza with something almost like recognition. "Though I suppose you're more feral than I ever was."
Arto flicks Albedo's forehead without looking, making her pout. "Enough." He turns his attention to the steaming dishes materializing down the table—roasted duck glazed with pomegranate reduction, towers of buttered asparagus, bowls of broth so clear it reflects the chandelier above. "Eat," he orders, though the command lacks its usual sharpness. "Robin's healing drained your reserves. You'll pass out mid-training tomorrow otherwise."
Erza eyes the food warily, her stomach betraying her with a loud growl. The scent of rosemary and seared meat is overwhelming after years of gruel and moldy bread. Her fingers twitch toward the fork, then retreat. "Poison?" she mutters, half to herself.
Nami snorts, spearing a slice of duck with theatrical flair. "Sweetheart, if we wanted you dead, Robin would've left your ribs puncturing your lungs." She pops the meat into her mouth, chewing exaggeratedly. "Mmm. Definitely poisoned....I am totally addicted to this, Grayfia, what the hell did you put in it—ow!"
Grayfia's spoon connects with the back of Nami's head before returning seamlessly to her soup. "Black truffle reduction. And respect." Her tone is dryer than the wine Albedo swirls in her glass.
Arto watches Erza's trembling grip on the fork—the way her shoulders hunch like a starved animal expecting the meal to be snatched away. Without comment, he reaches across the table and serves her a portion of duck, the pomegranate glaze glistening under the chandelier light. "Eat," he says again, softer this time. "Nobody here will take it from you, or use it to harm you, we need your strength, not your misery."
Erza's remaining eye flicks between his face and the plate, suspicion warring with hunger. Across the table, Koneko shoves an entire roll into her mouth, cheeks bulging. "S'good," she mumbles through crumbs, nudging a butter dish toward Erza. "Grayfia'll stab you if you waste food."
A chuckle ripples around the table—even Grayfia's lips twitch—as Kuroka steals a slice of meat from Nami's plate with her tail. The tension eases just enough for Erza to spear a piece of duck. The first bite is tentative; the second nearly makes her drop the fork. Flavors explode across her tongue—rich, tangy, impossibly alive after years of tasteless gruel. Her throat tightens.
Albedo observes her reaction with a knowing smirk. "It's really good, isn't it? I know that look, of slaves gazing the tables of the nobles, eyes widening, hands stretching to grab only the Void. I personally don't survive on food so I don't quite know the feelings, but seeing your expression is... nostalgic."
Erza's grip tightens on her fork, the metal bending slightly under her fingers. "I'm not some—"
"Charity case?" Arto interrupts, swirling his water glass. "No, it was never that simple, I feed you and will teach you so that you can be of use to me, to us, so that you can go find your friends who are now in who knows where, it was a trade, fair and square"
Erza's grip on her fork tightens as she looks at Arto in the eyes, the doubt is still burning in her gaze, betrayal and slavery has marred her more than scars could tell "Then how do I know you won't turn on me the moment I ran out of use to you?"
The clatter of cutlery doesn't stop, at least for Nami, Robin and Grayfia, they have seen this too much to mind, the bet Arto was willing to make to the people he actually cares about "You don't need to worry about that, because the moment I introduced myself to you, you've hold the most dangerous weapon against me, and if I go against our deal, a word from you would be my end"
Erza's fork screeched against her plate, her remaining eye locked onto Arto's face—searching for tells, for micro-expressions that would betray the lie. "And what's that?" He shrugs "My name, you're holding my true name and existence, right now, any faction would kill to get their hands on what I have, on what you saw, Simulation Room, and more. A sentence would turn every eye on this world towards me, your leash on me is stronger than mine on you, Erza Scarlet"
The silence stretched thin enough to hear the clink of Grayfia's spoon against her soup bowl. Albedo's fingers stilled on Arto's sleeve, her crimson eyes flickering between them. Robin leaned forward, elbows on the table. "He's right, you know," she murmured, tapping her dossier. "The moment you walked into the Simulation Room, you became a liability. The fact you're sitting here means he trusts you more than most."
Nami snorted, twirling her wine glass. "That's the bet he is willing to make to earn your trust like he has earned ours, putting his own safety on the line so that you can be at ease that he will never betray you once you're within his inner circle." She tilted her head toward Erza. "And let's be honest—if he wanted to screw you over, he'd have just left you in that auction cage."
Erza's fingers trembled around her fork—not from fear, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. Nobles didn't operate like this. Slavers didn't offer leverage. Yet here was this man, this stranger, handing her a blade to hold at his throat as casually as passing the salt.
"Then you are all on his side, it's all of you against me, that condition is meaningless..." She placed the last piece of doubt on the table, looking at Arto's face, looking for any signs of deception—anything that would betray the trap beneath his offer.
Arto leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "And that is why you have to learn, to train, to be stronger, so that when the time comes, when I am the threat to you, you can survive long enough to be able to turn the world against me. It's true to not just you, to all the people here, all are learning, training, striving so that if one day I became the threat, they can either stop me, or slow me down" His voice was steady, devoid of theatrics—a simple statement of fact.
Robin nods "A mutual binding mechanism—we trust him enough to let him empower us, but never enough to be defenseless. He ensures we can fight him if needed." She taps her wine glass, the crystal ringing softly. "That's why we train, study, and push ourselves beyond our limits."
Erza's fingers relax slightly, the fork no longer digging into her palm. Her remaining eye flicks between them—Rias lounging lazily with a grape between her teeth, Koneko demolishing a tower of cream puffs, Grayfia's immaculate posture as she sips her soup. None of them react like prisoners. None of them flinch when Arto moves.
Albedo's tail flicks idly against Arto's chair. "Master prefers partners, not puppets," she purrs, tracing the rim of her glass. "Even I—a succubus bred for obedience—was given a choice. That's his flaw. And his strength."
Nami leans forward, her grin sharp. "So? Still think this is some elaborate trap? Or are you gonna eat before Grayfia stabs you for wasting her truffle reduction?"
Erza exhales sharply through her nose—then abruptly shoves a forkful of duck into her mouth, chewing with deliberate aggression. The flavors explode again, rich and tangy, and she hates how good it tastes. Hates how her body instinctively leans toward the warmth of the food after years of cold rations.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Erza enjoying the meal]
After dinner, Erza excuses herself to go back to her room for rest, which was approved by everyone. When the door shut behind her, her body fell on the bed, the flavor of the dinner still mesmerizing her. It was the most delicious meal she has ever had in her life.
Her fingers clutched the pillow beneath her—too soft, too clean—as phantom pains twinged along her freshly healed ribs. The scent of rosemary still clung to her skin, mingling with the medicinal tang of Robin's magic. Her stomach, full for the first time in years, ached in protest.
'This has to be some kind of trap....right? There is no way...' Erza thought as she buried her face deeper into the pillow, the scent of lavender overwhelming her senses. Her fingers twitched against the silk sheets—too smooth against calloused skin. A distant memory surfaced: straw mattresses in the slave pens, the stench of unwashed bodies and rusted chains. The contrast made her nauseous.
But what she thinks about the most isn't herself, it's her friends, while she is here in this luxurious mansion, they are still out there, somewhere, still suffering, still doing hard labor while she is here, eat the finest food, bathe in the finest bath, sleep on the finest bed, she hates it, she hates herself, she hates her weakness.
Her fingers curl into fists, nails biting into her palms hard enough to draw blood. The pain grounds her—familiar where nothing else is. The scent of lavender chokes her. She throws the pillow across the room with a snarl, watching it hit the opposite wall with a pathetic whump.
A knock at the door stops her mid-breath. "Come in," she barks, too raw to care about courtesy. The door slides open soundlessly, revealing Robin holding a stack of books on one hand, two cups of steaming liquid on...the other 2 hands she has, weirdly enough.
"Are you ready for our first lesson?" Robin asks with that gentle, silky voice that somehow makes threats sound like lullabies. The extra arms protruding from her back—each tipped with slender fingers—adjust their grip on the books. Erza stares at the floating limbs, her eye flickering between the steaming cups and the tomes labeled Elementary Literacy and Basic Arithmetic.
Erza's fingers dig into the mattress. "I thought training started tomorrow."
Robin steps inside without waiting for invitation, the door whispering shut behind her. "But learning starts now, you can't train unless you know what you're doing, and believe me, Arto's regimen has more than just sword sparring, it would require you to be a magic caster along with a warrior, exactly the power of your Sacred Gear—Requip"
The extra hands deposit the books onto Erza's nightstand with unsettling precision while the primary ones offer her a cup. "Chamomile with honey," she says. "Pain relief and muscle relaxation. You'll need it after bone realignment."
Erza glares at the steam curling from the cup—too sweet, too considerate. "I don't need coddling."
"And I don't need your pride," Robin counters smoothly, sinking into one of the 2 chairs before the studying desk. Her extra limbs vanish as she flips open Elementary Literacy. "But here we are. Lesson one: vowels. You'll be reading battlefield reports by next week if you stop sulking and pay attention."
Erza's remaining eye twitched. She wanted to throw the cup at Robin's smug face—wanted to flip the damn desk and storm out. But the scent of honey curled into her nostrils, and her throat remembered years of dust and thirst. She took a vicious sip, scalding her tongue. The sweetness made her teeth ache.
Robin didn't react to her glare. Instead, she tapped the open book with one finger. "Now, come over here, dear, let me teach you how to interact with the world properly, unless you prefer wandering blindfolded forever."
Erza hesitated—then stomped to the desk like a prisoner marching to the gallows. She threw herself into the chair, making the wood creak. "Fine. Teach me whatever this...language is" Hearing that, Robin is beamed with joy "Well, you're communicating with me in English, so we can start with it first, but I'll also teach you Japanese on the side so that you can navigate around this town in Japan" Erza raises an eyebrow "What is English, and what is Japanese?"
Robin's lips curl into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes as she ruffles Erza's hair "You're so cute, Erza, like a kid at my orphanage," she muses. Erza tilts her head "Orphanage?"
Robin nods "Yes, a home for kids who have nowhere to go or were abandoned by their parents, I found them, gave them a home, food, education, until they get adopted, or grow up and leave me to go on their own path, or stay by my side and become my...helpers" Her fingers pause mid-page, lingering over the illustration of a cartoon apple. "But enough about me—see this? 'A'. First letter of the alphabet. Sound it out."
Erza scowls at the childish drawing. "This is wasting time. I need combat drills, not—" "Knowledge, hmmm~? Then answer me this, if you succeed, I'll end this session here and now and will never ask you to learn anything again, deal?" Robin leans forward, her extra hands materializing just long enough to pluck a folded map from the stack of books.
She unfurls it across the desk—a detailed schematic of the world they are in, she takes a red marker and circles their location, Kuoh, Japan "Let me ask you this, where are your friends on this map? Do you have any names?"
Erza's breath catches. Her fingers hover over the parchment—an expanse of unfamiliar borders and foreign script. The ink blurs. Names she can't decipher. Distances she can't measure. Her remaining eye burns with humiliation as the realization sinks in: She couldn't even point to a continent, let alone a city. What she remembers was only an island and....a tower
"An island....Tower of Heaven...." Erza mutters, but where that place is on the map is beyond her knowledge. Robin nods sagely, tracing the marker along coastlines. "Precisely. Without literacy, without geography, without logistics—you're just a blade thrashing blindly"
She taps the circled location—Kuoh. "This is where you are now. Every step beyond requires knowledge. Your friends could be here—" She points to Scandinavia. "Or here." Her marker slashes across South America. "Or nowhere on this map at all."
Erza's fingers clench around the edge of the desk, the wood groaning under her grip. The truth is a physical weight—crushing, undeniable. She could train until her fists turned to steel, but without coordinates, without strategy, she'd drown in the vastness of the world.
Robin slides the primer toward her. "Lesson one: vowels. Tomorrow, compasses. Next week, shipping manifests and slave trade routes." Her smile is razor-thin. "Unless you'd prefer to swing your sword at the ocean and hope it parts for you?"
A growl rips from Erza's throat—but she grabs the book, knuckles white against the childish illustrations. "Fine. Teach me."
Robin's fingers dance over the page, her voice weaving syllables into sense. "A. E. I. O. U. Now you." Erza repeats them like curses, each letter dragged from her lips with visceral reluctance. The chamomile cools untouched as hours slip by—Robin drilling her with relentless patience until Erza stumbles through a full sentence:"The...cat...sat...on...the...map."
Robin claps her hands "Good, good, you're doing great, Erza, that's how you read, but reading things, and understanding things are 2 different things, you might be able to say it out loud, but can you visualize what the sentence was saying?"
Erza's eye narrows at the question, her fingers tightening around the pencil until the wood splinters. "A cat. On a map. What's so hard about that?"
Robin's extra hands materialize again—this time unfolding a sheet of parchment across the desk. "Describe the cat." Erza blinks. "It's...a cat." "And?" Robin's fingers tap the blank paper. "Its shape, its size, its sound, a lot of things can be a cat unless you can describe it properly." The silence stretches as Erza's jaw works soundlessly. Finally, she grits out, "Small. Fur. Pointed ears."
Robin takes a pen and starts drawing what Erza described as a cat—small, furry, with pointed ears—but adds absurd details: eight legs, bat wings, and a fish's tail. She slides the grotesque sketch toward Erza. "Is this your cat?"
Erza's eye twitches. "No." Robin smirks. "Then describe it better." Erza snatches the pen and stabs it into the paper, dragging jagged lines into something resembling a feline. "Four legs. No wings. Tail like a whip, not a fish."
Robin leans back, satisfied. "Good, now we're getting somewhere." She taps Erza's crude drawing. "Let us continue with other words...."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Robin drawing a chimera and calls it a cat]
More hours have passed but Erza hasn't felt any form of fatigue, the adrenaline of learning keeps her awake, and the curiosity is keeping her wanting to continue as more and more words are making sense to her. Robin guides her patiently, correcting her pronunciation with that persistent gentle smile of hers, like she is not annoyed at all seeing a girl this big like Erza stumble on words.
"Are you not...angry....when I am wrong?" Erza's voice came out rougher than intended, her fingers gripping the pencil like a dagger hilt. The question hung between them—too raw, too vulnerable for her liking.
Robin didn't pause in her tracing of kanji across parchment. "Why would I be?" Her fingers moved with the precision of a surgeon, ink blooming into characters. "You're learning a language you've never seen before. Mistakes are expected."
Erza's eye flicked to the window, where moonlight pooled on the floor. Back in the slave pens, mistakes meant cracked ribs or withheld rations. Here, Robin just...corrected her. No sneers. No backhanded compliments. Just patience. It unsettled her more than cruelty ever had.
"I'm not a slaver, you know, I am a teacher," Robin murmurs, her fingers brushing over Erza's scarred face gently, sending the warmth to the guarded heart inside. The words are so simple, yet they unravel something in Erza's chest—a knot she didn't realize was there. The pencil trembles in her grip, graphite smearing across the page as she stares at the distorted letters.
Robin wraps her arms around the poor girl "And it's the teacher's duty to guide their students properly—no matter how slow, no matter how stubborn, no matter how angry, no matter how frustrated you are with yourself." Her grip tightens—not trapping, but anchoring. "You're allowed to struggle. You're allowed to fail. That's how learning works."
Erza stiffens, the warmth of Robin's embrace foreign against her battle-hardened frame. Her instincts scream to shove away—kindness was just cruelty in disguise, wasn't it? Yet the steady rhythm of Robin's heartbeat against her back tethers her, quelling the storm inside. Slowly, hesitantly, her fingers uncurl from the pencil, letting it clatter onto the desk.
Robin hums a lullaby—something old and wordless—as she cards her fingers through Erza's tangled hair. The scent of ink and chamomile envelops them both "You can stop for a bit, I know you have emotions coiling inside you, there is no need to hide, it's okay to be vulnerable for just a moment, you're safe here, little Scarlet."
Erza's breath hitches at the nickname. No one had called her "little" in years—not since the slavers snapped her spine for daring to protect a younger child. Her fingers dig into Robin's sleeves, nails biting fabric instead of flesh. A sound escapes her—half-growl, half-sob—before she buries her face against Robin's shoulder. The dam cracks as she wraps her around her teacher's waist, holding on to the warmth.
Robin doesn't flinch as tears soak into her blouse. She simply adjusts her grip, cradling Erza's head with the same care a mother would shower her child with. She has done so so many times with the child at her orphanage, and she'll do so again and again, no matter how many times she needs to.
The door creaks open quietly behind Erza, revealing Rias who is carrying a dish of fruit for the tutoring session. Her eyes widened slightly at the scene—Erza sinking into Robin's embrace, sniffling as her body trembled, Robin looked over to the surprised Rias, gesturing to the other redhead to settle the dish down with her eyes.
Rias nods in understanding before setting the fruit dish near the door before leaving as quietly as possible, her bare feet making no noise. Robin's fingers continue their rhythmic stroking through Erza's hair, her hum never faltering even as the younger woman's shoulders shake with silent sobs.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Robin hugging chibi Erza]
By the next morning, when Arto wakes up early as usual to start his day, he noticed Robin didn't sleep in his room last night, only Rias, Akeno, Nami and Albedo, 'It seems the studying session was extended' Arto sighs with a smile before breaking out of the embrace of Albedo and Nami around him, careful to not wake them up.
He walks down the hall, the mansion silent except for the distant hum of Grayfia already preparing breakfast. Passing Erza's room, he pauses—the door is slightly ajar. Inside, Robin is sleeping on the bed with Erza, the red-haired girl is hugging Robin like a lifeline, her face pressed into the older woman's chest. Books are scattered across the floor, pages filled with Erza's shaky attempts at writing. The sight makes something in his chest tighten.
Arto steps back quietly, but the floorboard creaks. Robin's eyes snap open—sharp and alert despite the hour. She meets his gaze through the gap in the door and raises a finger to her lips. He nods, retreating as she carefully extricates herself from Erza's grip, tucking the blanket around the younger woman with practiced ease.
In the hallway, Robin stretches her stiff shoulders. "She cried herself to sleep," she murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion. "First time in years, I'd wager."
Arto places a kiss on her lips "You're good with her." Robin accepts it with a tired smile "Orphans recognize orphans. Even the grown ones." She glances back at the door. "She's been conditioned to see kindness as a prelude to betrayal. It'll take time for her to open up to us"
The scent of brewing coffee drifts up the stairs—Grayfia's silent announcement that breakfast is imminent. Robin exhales, "She insisted on studying until dawn. Collapsed mid-sentence." A wry twist of her lips. "Stubborn as hell. Reminds me of someone."
Arto chuckles, wrapping his arms around her "Well, someone has to work to keep my omniscient lover curious, right?" Robin rolls her eyes but leans into his embrace, the exhaustion evident in the way her shoulders slump against him. "Flatterer," she murmurs. "Though I suppose you're right—she's a fascinating case study. Trauma responses layered over Sacred Gear adaptability, with a side of chronic malnutrition. Textbook rebellion complex too."
"So, how much have you covered?" Arto asks as he turns back to her and bends his knees, of course Robin would take that offer and jumps on his back and lets him piggyride her downstairs "She learned extremely fast, I was surprised how quickly she picked up the knowledge, not mentioning her stamina, I used time-dilation device the whole night and she sat there and studied for what's roughly 24 hours straight"
Arto's hands tighten around Robin's thighs as he carries her toward the kitchen, her breath warm against his ear. "Basic literacy, geography, arithmetic—enough to navigate Kuoh without getting lost." Robin's fingers trace idle patterns on his shoulders. "Though she still writes like she's stabbing the paper. It's...endearing."
"That's good to hear," Arto smiles as he takes the final steps down to the first floor of his home. "thought I must ask, how long until she can start learning magic?" Robin thinks for a moment "A week with this productivity, or more if she gets less interested in studying after training with you in combat, it's hard to say, but there is something I need to talk to you about, it's the place Erza was enslaved—Tower of Heaven—that place is....concerning."
"Concerning how?," Arto repeats, setting Robin down gently as they reach the kitchen doorway. Grayfia's back is to them, her movements precise as she arranges breakfast plates with military efficiency. The scent of steamed rice and simmering miso soup fills the air—domesticity clashing with Robin's grim expression.
Robin leans against the counter, her fingers drumming a restless rhythm. "It's something that Magic Institute prohibited a long time ago, its record is still inside the Institute's vault, When Erza mentioned it I reached into my network to find it and it's....a magical machine to revive someone by sacrificing others, and based on what Erza said, it's likely this thing is being constructed, or even being used already."
Grayfia pauses mid-pour, the steam from the teapot curling around her still form. "A resurrection device?" Her tone is deceptively light, but the porcelain handle cracks under her grip. "That's—"
"—exactly what Edward Elric was trying to stop in Germany," Robin finishes, plucking the teapot from Grayfia's hands before more damage is done. She pours three cups with deliberate calm. "Erza's descriptions match the schematics—human transmutation via mass sacrifice. The Magic Institute banned it after the 2nd World War, you know Holocaust, right?"
Arto tilts his head, history has never been his strong point "Holocaust? What's that, Robin?"
Robin's fingers freeze mid-pour. Tea spills over the rim of Arto's cup, pooling on the saucer like blood. Grayfia exhales sharply through her nose—the closest she ever comes to a gasp.
"The systematic extermination of six million Jews," Robin says, her voice stripped of warmth. Her fingers tap the table—once, twice. "And millions more. Homosexuals. Romani. Disabled. All deemed 'unfit' by Nazi Germany." She meets Arto's gaze squarely. "They weren't just killed, they were sacrificed to create the Philosopher Stone by the Nazi alchemists, that's what Holocaust was—mass murder weaponized into arcane fuel, and that's exactly what Edward and Alphonse stopped"
Arto raised an eyebrow "Wait, WWII ended in 1945, Ed and Al, and Winry are like....mid 40s, but this year is 2006, how is that possible? Shouldn't they be like.....75 or something? What actually happened after they stopped the formation of the Philosopher Stone?"
Robin exhales sharply through her nose—the sound more exhausted than annoyed. "We don't know," Her fingers tap an erratic rhythm against her teacup. "Historical records indicate Edward Elric vanished from public view in 1945 after dismantling the Thule Society's Philosopher Stone production effort in Berlin. The official story was a heroic death of Edward, Alphonse and Winry preventing Hitler's occultists from achieving the Philosopher Stone."
Grayfia places a plate of tamagoyaki between them with deliberate care. "After that event 30 years later, Edward Elric, Alphonse Elric and Winry Rockbell suddenly appeared again and made their appearance to the Alchemical Institute of Germany in 1975." Her fingers adjust the dish precisely. "They didn't age a single day, it's still a mystery until this day, they never mentioned it, even after forming Ametris Alchemical Academy in 1976."
The head maid sits down with the other two "Then this Tower of Heaven—you believe it's attempting the same atrocity?" Her voice was ice wrapped in silk. "Using mass sacrifice to create...what, exactly?"
Robin's fingers tightened around her teacup. "Again, we don't know, it's hard to say what that tower was for now that I can't track it, my network is not picking up anything, the sea isn't a place where my eyes can work efficiency, I've even the checked the amount of island to see what was missing and still nothing." Her knuckles whitened. "But given Erza's descriptions—the chains, the rituals, the branding—it's unmistakably sacrificial architecture."
Grayfia's teacup clinked against its saucer with unnatural precision. "And Erza escaped this place?" "Not escaped," Robin corrected sharply. "Was discarded. She was the one who led the slaves to rise against the slavers, the attempt failed, she was tortured and lost her eye while trying to protect her friends....but her spirit didn't die, she inspired more strikes, so they decided to discard her by putting her in a crater and dropped into the sea, what happened later is as we knew, she was somehow found and sold in the Auction House, now she is here."
Arto exhaled through his nose—long and slow, the way he did when suppressing fury. "And you think this Tower is still active?" Robin's fingers traced the rim of her cup. "I think it's trying to do the same thing, mass sacrificing to achieve something." She hesitated—uncharacteristically. "I'll inform the Magic Institute about this matter, maybe they can send a guild or two on this mission."
Grayfia's spoon clinked against her bowl. "You'll notify them, maybe set a bounty on it for them to want to go, we at least have to know where that place is." She sipped her miso soup with deliberate slowness. At that moment, other members of the family have woken up as well and are going downstairs for breakfast, Erza included. She looked more rested than before, it seems even if she slept at 3 a.m last night, it's more than the amount of sleep she was allowed when she was a slave.
"Good morning, everyone, did you sleep well?" Robin asks firstly as Erza enters the kitchen, still rubbing her eye. The redhead stiffens at the sudden attention—Rias grinning over her coffee, Nami tossing a peach her way without looking up from financial reports—but Robin's casual tone anchors her. "I—yes." Erza's voice scrapes raw. "More than...before."
Grayfia sets a plate before her—grilled fish, rice, miso soup arranged with geometric precision. Erza stares at it like it might bite. Then she looks around, seeing everyone doing something, pressing their palms together and saying "Itadakimatsu" before eating, she looks over to Robin in confusion, she saw this before, but only now she could feel that curiosity inside her.
Robin leans close, her breath warm against Erza's ear. "It means 'I gratefully receive.' You don't have to say it if—" Erza's hands slam together with startling force. "Itadakimatsu," she growls, glaring at her plate as if daring the food to defy her. The table goes silent—then explodes into laughter. Nami nearly chokes on her tea while Rias giggles behind her napkin. Even Grayfia's lips twitch.
Arto—ever the diplomat—clears his throat. "Close enough." He nudges Erza's elbow gently. "Now eat before Grayfia revokes your chopstick privileges." The maid's glare could freeze lava.
Erza hesitates, then stabs a piece of fish with her chopsticks like it's a combat maneuver. The first bite makes her freeze. Her eye widens—moisture gathering at the corner—before she devours the rest with barely-contained ferocity. Grayfia watches, satisfaction glinting in her frosty gaze as she slides a second portion toward Erza without comment.
Across the table, Koneko sniffs the air suspiciously before wrinkling her nose at Erza. "You smell like ink and Robin." Her ears twitch. "You slept with her last night?"
Robin doesn't even glance up from buttering toast. "She studied until dawn. Collapsed mid-sentence." A smirk tugs at her lips as she slides the toast toward Erza. "Though I'll admit, she clings like a koala."
Erza's face flames crimson—her scarred eye twitching as she nearly snaps her chopsticks. "I did not—"
"Relax," Nami interrupts. "We've all had our turn clinging to Robin like a life raft." She flashes a grin, licking miso soup off her injured hand. "Robin is always considered the mother of this house, I bet the girls here called Robin Mommy at least once in their time here, right?"
Rias chokes on her coffee. Akeno's chopsticks almost drop. Koneko's tail puffs up like an electrocuted cotton ball. Even Kuroka turned her smug face sideways after hearing that accusation. Robin sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Must you?"
Nami winks. "Absolutely." She leans across the table toward Erza. "Pro tip—if you start crying, she'll carry you like a baby, cradling you in her embrace, whispering sweet words to your ears, patting your head like a good kid, it's addictive sometimes, I do it when I have nightmares."
Robin flicks a grape at Nami's forehead with lethal precision. "You're incorrigible." "Okay, okay, everyone, enough teasing Erza, she has a training session today with me, let her finish her breakfast" Arto announces while wiping his mouth with a napkin.
Erza's eye narrows at the mention of training, her grip tightening around her chopsticks. "Combat assessment?" she asks, voice low with restrained eagerness. "Combat re-training, from what happened yesterday, potential is there, reflexes, speed, analyzation and adapting skills, good, but like rough gem, you have no stance, no structure, no self-preservation, relying too much on the strength you don't have instead of your entire body, that's me not hitting you with my sword yet" Arto replies while drinking his coffee, "if I did, you'd already lost"
The clatter of Erza's bowl against the table makes Koneko's ears flatten. "Prove it." she challenges Arto, only for him to smile "I don't need to prove anything, because if I wanted to, you would have lost your arm or more" he stands up from his seat "Today you will start training with Kiba under my watch on basic sword fencing. Kiba, are you up for the task?"
Kiba—who'd been quietly finishing his breakfast with an alchemic book before his face "Huh? Ahh, right, sword fighting, I'll be her training dummy. Sector 3" Arto nods "Yes, Sector 3, I'll go set up the training environment, go see me there once you're both done, okay?"
[Simulation Room - Sector 3: Sandbox]
Erza and Kiba step into the Sector to see the set up is already done, it's a simple fencing ring with 2 dull training swords and some light protecting equipments like gloves, face masks, and light armor, Arto is already there, waiting for them with his arms crossed "Alright, I'll explain the first lesson—footwork"
Kiba picks up one of the training swords, tossing it to Erza with a flick of his wrist. She catches it midair, fingers tightening around the hilt instinctively—too tight, Arto notes.
"Too much grip," he says, stepping forward. He taps her knuckles lightly. "You're holding it like a club. You're not trying to crush the handle." His fingers brush hers, adjusting her hold with deliberate gentleness. "Relax. Let the blade breathe."
Erza scowls but loosens her grip slightly.
Kiba adjusts his stance, left foot forward, right foot angled back—fluid, practiced. "Watch," he says, shifting his weight effortlessly between steps. "In sword fighting," Arto starts "The stance decides how you fight and the battle state you are in, narrower stance"
Kiba starts moving to demonstrate Arto's words, his feet are closer together "helps you move easier, good for dodging and quick attacks" Kiba thrusts forward with lightning speed with one small step, and quickly withdraws, Erza barely tracking the movement.
"Wider stance," Kiba spreads his legs further apart, "better balance, stronger defense, but slower movement." Arto strikes Kiba with a hit that make the entire ring ripple, but Kiba holds firmly "As long as your stance are strong, it's not easily to move you, or break your defense"
Erza watches, her eye narrowing as she mimics Kiba's stance—feet too wide, knees locked. "Knees bent," Arto corrects, nudging her leg with the toe of his boot. "You're not a statue." When she glares, he shrugs. "Fall over mid-battle and I'll laugh."
She adjusts with a huff. Kiba circles her, his steps light as a cat's. "First lesson—footwork dictates everything." He lunges—a quick jab of his sword and it hits Erza's shoulder. She staggers back, quickly retaliates but Kiba has switched his stance, making her strike unable to break his stance, and a quick shiftment and his sword is near her throat before she can withdraw. "Dead," he announces casually.
Erza grits her teeth. Arto leans against the wall, arms crossed. "See how the fight quickly ends, Erza, that's why you have to learn footwork first, proper stance allows you to move freely, control the flow, and conserve energy." His voice carries a patience Erza clearly lacks—she shifts her weight, sword trembling slightly in her grip. "Again," she demands.
Kiba nods, resetting his stance. This time, Erza mirrors his posture with deliberate precision—knees bent, feet shoulder-width apart. The moment Kiba lunges, she pivots sharply, deflecting his thrust with a clumsy but effective parry. The dull blades scrape against each other.
"Better," Arto concedes, "but now you're rooted. Flexibility is key—balance between stability and mobility." He steps forward, adjusting her elbow with a tap. "Your arms are too stiff. Imagine holding a bird—tight enough it can't fly, loose enough you don't crush it."
Erza exhales sharply but relaxes her arms slightly. The next exchange lasts longer—three clashes before Kiba feints left and taps her ribs with the flat of his blade. "Dead again," he murmurs, though there's no mockery in his tone.
A muscle twitches in Erza's jaw. She doesn't speak, just resets her stance, knuckles whitening around the hilt. "Relax your wrist, Erza, you're going to use it much, remember, you don't need a strong strike to kill your opponent, you need a precise one," Arto comments while watching her form. "And holding your sword harder won't help you defend yourself better, remember the stance and footwork we practiced?"
Kiba adjusts his grip, tapping the flat of his blade against his palm. "You're anticipating my moves," he observes. "That's good—but you're telegraphing yours." He demonstrates with a slow-motion thrust—the slight tensing of Erza's shoulders before she moves, the way her weight shifts just a fraction too early. "Combat isn't chess. You can't just react—you have to flow."
Erza's next attack comes faster—a diagonal slash aimed at Kiba's shoulder. He sidesteps, but this time, she follows through, pivoting on her back foot to deliver a second strike. Kiba barely blocks it, the impact vibrating up his arm.
"Better," he admits, flashing a quick grin. "Now, let us continue, you have so much to learn, Erza" Kiba gets into his stance again, waiting for Erza to attack him, Erza does so, lunging forward with a thrust aimed at his chest, Kiba deflects it with ease, stepping to the side and delivering a quick tap to her ribs—again. "Dead," he says.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Kiba training with chibi Erza]
4 hours have passed inside the training room, the training session ends with Erza collapsing on the training mat, her breath ragged and sweat dripping from her brow. Her arms tremble as she tries to push herself up—only for Kiba's training sword to tap lightly against her throat.
"Dead," he repeats for the hundredth time, his own breathing barely elevated. "Again." Erza snarls, her fingers clawing at the mat. "I can—"
"No," Arto interrupts, crouching beside her. He presses two fingers against her wrist, counting her pulse with clinical detachment. "Your heart rate's at 190. You're done training for today, follow Kiba down Sector 16, take a shower there and join a physiotherapy session with the doctors there, they'll help you recover your body faster."
Erza's eye flashes with defiance, but her body betrays her—muscles seizing as she attempts to rise. Kiba slides an arm under her shoulders, hauling her upright with surprising ease. "Come on," he murmurs, steering her toward the exit. "Ice bath is waiting."
The hallway hums with distant machinery as they traverse Sector 16's sterile corridors. Erza's gait wavers, her breathing still uneven. Kiba adjusts his grip, fingers pressing discreetly against her pulse point. "Your stamina's impressive," he admits. "But endurance means nothing if your body fails mid-battle."
Sector 16's hydrotherapy suite resembles a futuristic infirmary—glass pods lined with swirling blue fluid, monitoring screens flickering with biometric data. A petite woman in a lab coat approaches, adjusting her glasses as she scans Erza's condition.
"Ah, the new patient," she says, tapping her tablet. "Muscle fatigue grade three, lactic acid buildup exceeding safety thresholds—standard post-combat protocol." She gestures toward a pod. "Strip to undergarments and enter. The solution will accelerate cellular repair."
Erza hesitates, eye darting between the pod and Kiba. He smirks, turning his back. "Don't worry, Scarlet. I've seen enough battle wounds to last a lifetime."
The pod hisses shut behind Erza, the viscous liquid rising to her shoulders. A sudden cold stings her skin—then numbness, then nothing at all. Her vision blurs as the solution's nanites swarm her overtaxed muscles, knitting microtears with eerie efficiency. Distantly, she hears the medic explaining to Kiba: "Twenty minutes for tissue repair, then massage therapy to—"
Her consciousness flickers in the blue-lit suspension. Flashes of the Tower's chains, the branding iron hiss, the way her screams echoed uselessly against stone—then, incongruously, Robin's fingers guiding hers over paper, shaping letters like a child. The humiliation burns worse than any wound.
A chime sounds. The fluid drains, leaving her gasping as the pod door slides open. The medic hands her a robe "Now is the massaging session, please, follow me"
Erza's legs nearly buckle as she steps out, but the medic—Dr. Suzume, according to her nametag—steadies her with surprising strength. The massage table hums to life, its surface warming beneath Erza's back as Suzume's fingers press into knotted muscle with clinical precision.
"Are you feeling well?" Suzume's fingers traced the ridges of Erza's shoulder blades—each knot documented with detached fascination. Erza didn't answer, her face pressed into the padded table as the doctor's thumbs dug into a particularly vicious tangle near her spine.
"Your musculature suggests repeated trauma without proper recovery periods," Suzume noted, tapping her tablet. The screen displayed a rotating hologram of Erza's back muscles highlighted in angry red. "These adhesions resemble veteran combat mages after decade-long campaigns."
The massage table's heating elements pulsed rhythmically beneath Erza's stomach. She focused on the sensation—anything to avoid dwelling on how easily this stranger mapped her suffering. Suzume's gloves hissed as she switched to a menthol-infused salve.
"This will stimulate blood flow to damaged tissues," she explained, spreading the ointment in slow circles. The sudden burn made Erza's fingers twitch. "Pain response intact," Suzume murmured approvingly.
The massage table's hydraulics hiss as Erza sits up, rolling her shoulders experimentally. The deep-seated ache remains, but the sharp stabs of pain from torn muscle fibers have dulled. Suzume hands her a printed recovery schedule. "Ice bath tomorrow morning," she instructs. "Then electrostimulation therapy before your next training session."
Kiba checks his watch. "We should head back now, it's almost lunch time, then a light nap before your studying session in the afternoon with Robin-sensei so that you can have the entire night resting" He tosses Erza a fresh towel from the shelf.
Erza catches it, rubbing roughly at her damp hair. Her movements are stiff—not from injury, but from the unfamiliar luxury of aftercare. The concept itself feels foreign; in the Tower, wounds either healed or festered. There were no ice baths, no salves, no gentle hands assessing damage. Just survival.
Kiba reads her tension easily. "First time in a recovery suite?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe. Erza's fingers tighten around the towel. "We didn't have doctors." The admission slips out before she can stop it.
Kiba's expression doesn't change, but his stance shifts—subtle, like a swordsman adjusting to an opponent's tells. "We do here." He pushes off the wall. "Come on."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Erza doing a massage to Kiba, only to make his shoulder misplaced]
A hearty lunch combined with the fatigue of morning training makes Erza sleepy when she comes back to her room, and when she wakes up to the alarm clock, the scent takes her to the desk where Robin is sitting where she taught her the night before "Feeling better? Come on, it's time for our studying session"
Erza blinks, disoriented by the unfamiliar comfort of waking naturally—no chains, no cold stone beneath her—just the soft give of a mattress and the faint smell of ink from Robin's open books. She looks at the clock to see it's 2 p.m "We'll study until 7 before dinner, then you'll have the entire night for yourself"
Robin's fingers pause mid-sentence, her eyes flicking up from the paper. "You were muttering in your sleep," she remarks, tone neutral. "Something about 'Jellal' and 'punishment.'" Erza's spine stiffens. The name hangs between them like a blade. She reaches for the pen on the desk "Irrelevant."
Sitting down with Robin, the teacher takes out a small cube and activates it by pressing a button, Erza feels something wash over her before everything goes back to normal "What's that?" the student asks while stretching her arms, feeling a bit lighter than usual.
Robin taps the cube with her finger "Time-dilation device, it helps stretch the time inside this room longer to that outside, you can study for like....25 hours but only 5 has past outside" Erza's eye widens "What?!"
Robin chuckles softly at Erza's reaction. "Don't worry, your body won't age faster—it's a localized temporal field. Think of it like... pressing pause on the outside world." She slides a workbook across the desk, its pages filled with neat handwriting and diagrams. "Now, let's review yesterday's mathematics and literacy...."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Erza studying]
Erza leans back against her chair, panting as the lesson with Robin ended after what feels like an entire day of studying constantly "25 hours sharp, that's good, at this rate, we'll be covering the entire primary program in a week" Robin stretches her arms while putting away the cube, deactivating it with a press of the button, Erza feels the strange feeling washing over her again before disappearing "What's next?"
Robin checks the clock—it reads 6:45 p.m. outside the dilation field. "Dinner," she says, standing. "Then free time. You should rest—your muscles are still recovering, and join some family bonding activities like board games or watching movies"
Erza frowns at the word family, her fingers twitching against the desk. Before she can protest, Robin tugs her up by the wrist with surprising strength. "Let's go~" she singsongs, dragging Erza toward the dining hall where the clatter of dishes and overlapping voices already spill into the hallway.
The dining table is chaos incarnate—Nami balancing three dessert plates while bragging about the deal with JP Morgan "You can't believe how Jamie Dimon reacted when I called him to set our deal in risk management, we are freaking Noah's Ark" she declares, waving a fork around while Rias and Akeno are looking half annoyed, half amused at the CFO of the family.
Koneko—who normally maintains impeccable composure—is engaged in a silent war with Kuroka over the privilege with the last banh mi Grayfia made as afternoon snack, their tails twitching in synchronized agitation. Grayfia herself stands at the head of the table, watching the chaos unfold with the detached amusement of someone who's long since surrendered to inevitability.
Erza hesitates in the doorway, her fingers tightening around Robin's wrist. The scene is overwhelming—not in the way battle is, with its clear lines of threat and survival, but in its sheer domesticity.
Nami's laughter rings too loud, Kiba's quiet chuckle as he steals a dumpling from Akeno's plate too casually, Rias's indignant squawk as Albedo "accidentally" spills tea on her financial reports too…normal.
Robin squeezes Erza's hand gently before releasing her. "Sit wherever you like," she murmurs, gliding not towards the seat she usually sits near the head of the table-Arto's position and next to Nami, she takes her to the end of the dining table, where the chaos is quieter and sits the redhead down next to her, facing Kiba who sits on the opposite side of the table. Erza watches as Grayfia sets a steaming pot of.....she doesn't know this dish but the smell is...overwhelmingly good "What is that dish?" Erza asks.
"Butter chicken" Grayfia repeats, "An Indian dish, do you know Indian?" Erza stares at the golden-orange sauce glistening under the dining hall's chandelier. The scent—warm, rich, faintly spiced—makes her stomach tighten "Saw it on the map"
Robin ruffles her hair "That's good, you remembered, maybe one day I'll take you there" The words hang oddly in Erza's chest—a casual promise that implies future, implies choice. Before she can dwell on it, Grayfia ladles a generous portion of butter chicken onto her plate, the sauce pooling around fragrant basmati rice. "Start small," the head maid advises, nodding toward the silverware.
Erza picks up the fork with deliberate care—Robin had drilled utensil etiquette during their marathon study session. Across the table, Kiba demonstrates tearing a piece of naan with practiced ease, using it to scoop up sauce. She mimics the motion, but the bread tears unevenly in her grip, dripping golden droplets onto the tablecloth.
Robin takes a tissue and wipes away Erza's spill without comment, her fingers brushing the redhead's wrist in silent reassurance. The butter chicken is unlike anything Erza's ever tasted—creamy heat blooming across her tongue, the tender meat dissolving almost before she can chew. Her second bite is larger, less cautious. Grayfia's lips turn up as she silently refills Erza's plate.
"Careful," Nami stage-whispers from across the table, grinning around a mouthful of curry. "Grayfia's cooking is addictive. I gained five kilos in my first month here." She pats her stomach dramatically, earning a flick to her forehead from Rias.
The banter continues—
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto washing the dishes]
When dinner is done, Erza comes to her room once again with a plate full of fruit from Grayfia who insisted on eating them "for vitamin intake" she said. Sitting on her bed, she picks up an apple—strangely perfect, without a single bruise—and turns it in her hands. 'Why do I deserve this when they don't?' She thinks about her friends, who are still suffering somewhere in this world that she hasn't been able to find, it feels undeserving to be spoiled like this while they starve.
A knock interrupts her thoughts. Before she can respond, the door creaks open—Robin, holding a small wooden box. "I have something for you, Erza, something that will fill out what was missing" Robin says, placing the box on the bedside table. The hinges groan softly as she lifts the lid, revealing a tube, inside is....an eye. "I made this for you, Erza, to compensate what you've lost"
Erza's breath catches. The eye glimmers faintly under the lamplight. It's too perfect, too alive-looking to be glass. Her fingers twitch toward it before curling into her palm. "Why?" The word rasps out, raw.
Robin tilts her head, considering. "Because sight is more than vision." She plucks the eye from its casing with surgical precision—it pulses once, faintly, in her palm. "This is a real biological eye. It's grown from your own cells, using my magic, the one that once healed countless souls on the battlefields of Leningrad." The admission carries weight; Robin rarely speaks of her past before Arto. "It will sync with your optic nerve... and perhaps, in time, reveal things ordinary eyes cannot."
Erza's throat works silently. The Tower had taken her eye as punishment—leaving her an empty socket as a warning. Now Robin offers restoration as casually as one might offer a spare coat. Her fingers tremble as she reaches out, then recoils. "What's the cost?"
Robin's laugh is soft, almost sad. "No contracts, child. Just hold still." Before Erza can protest, Robin's free hand cups her face—gentle but unyielding. The cool press of fingertips against her temple makes her flinch, but Robin's grip firms. "It's just a doctor's duty, my duty to my family's legacy," she murmurs. The words sound rehearsed, like an oath recited too many times.
The eye hums as it nears Erza's socket. A sharp sting—then heat, then nothing. Her vision whites out. Distantly, she hears Robin counting backward from ten in Russian, the syllables blending into a lullaby. Erza can feel the eye twitching in the socket that has been marred by the process of removing, but from the gentle palm of Robin, the subtle green light is pulling everything together, slowly but surely, as the eye starts connecting to Erza's optic nerve "Just endure it, Erza"
The pain was felt, but it's Robin before her, she doesn't push back, because somewhere in the guarded walls of her heart, a person has slipped through—someone who stayed awake all night teaching her how to read, who didn't flinch when she broke down crying over simple addition problems. Robin's thumb brushes away a tear Erza hadn't realized had fallen. "Almost done," she murmurs.
Green light pulses rhythmically from the eye, filaments like living veins weaving into Erza's ruined optic nerve. The sensation is alien—not quite pain, not quite pressure—like cold water filling a space that had been dry for years. Then, abruptly, clarity.
When the hand lifts from her face, Robin gently peels the hair that is covering Erza's eyes away "Now, open it for me, Erza" the girl obliged and opened the empty socket after so many years of closing it, she gasped when she saw the world whole now in her eyes, Robin's smile, the wooden panels of the ceiling, the dim light of her bedroom, the wood grain patterns of the furniture, even the pores of Robin's skin. The eye moves as Erza scans the room—no lag, no disconnect—just seamless integration. She raises shaking fingers to touch it, but Robin catches her wrist. "Wait."
Robin reaches into the box again, producing a small mirror. Erza's breath catches at her reflection—the eye is back as it should be, like she hasn't changed at all, like she wasn't hurted...at all, the color is the same, the function is the same, and from both eyes, tears flow out the same, but Robin's fingers brush away the tears before they can fall, her touch lingering at the corner of Erza's restored eye.
Without waiting, Erza wraps her hands around Robin and cries in her chest "Thank you" she repeats the words, muffled by the fabric of Robin's blouse, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.
Robin's arms encircle her slowly, one hand settling between Erza's shoulder blades—the same spot where Suzume had noted the worst muscular adhesions. The embrace is firm, almost clinical in its precision, yet Erza clings tighter, fingers digging into the older woman's sleeves.
Robin doesn't reassure her with empty platitudes. Instead, she hums—a Soviet lullaby, low and steady—as her fingers card through Erza's sweat-damp hair. The melody carries the weight of history, of field hospitals and makeshift cots where her family had once sung to dying soldiers.
The contrast isn't lost on Erza; here, in this warm room, the tune becomes something softer—a bridge between battlefield and bedroom, where souls are healed under the light of a Nico doctor's hands.