Zestial’s hammer slipped.
The nail bent sideways.
Scout froze on the worktable.
Alastor froze too.
Gray, who had been leaning over the half-repaired crate, made the mistake of speaking first.
“Thought you were good at that.”
Zestial stared at the bent nail.
Then at the hammer.
Then at his hand.
“I am.”
Gray blinked.
“Doesn’t look like it.”
Alastor turned his head slowly.
Gray noticed.
“What?”
Alastor smiled.
It wasn’t a friendly smile.
Gray stepped back.
“I was joking.”
“Yeah,” Alastor said.
“Badly.”
Zestial set the hammer down.
“Leave it.”
Alastor didn’t look away from Gray.
“He’s been working since morning.”
“And I said I was joking.”
“You say a lot of things.”
Gray’s shoulders tensed.
Cana, from the doorway, sighed.
“Boys.”
Makarov’s voice came from behind her.
“Alastor.”
That did it.
Not because Alastor was scared.
Because Makarov used the quiet voice.
Alastor took a breath through his nose and looked away.
Gray rubbed the back of his neck.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
Zestial picked up the bent nail.
“I know.”
Scout gave a low, unhappy mrrp and pushed a small pile of straight nails away from Gray.
Gray looked down.
“Is the cat mad at me?”
“Palico,” Alastor and Zestial said together.
Gray raised both hands.
“Right.
Palico.”
Scout gave a clipped meow.
Zestial’s mouth twitched despite himself.
“Scout says you’re on probation.”
Gray stared.
“It can do that?”
Cana leaned against the doorframe.
“Apparently.”
Makarov stepped into the storage room and looked over the worktable.
The shelves were better than before.
The crate was halfway fixed.
Zestial’s notebook sat open with sketches of braces, hinge plates, and what looked like a folding support frame.
Makarov glanced at the bent nail.
“Trouble?”
“No,” Zestial said.
“Yes,” Alastor said.
Zestial shot him a look.
Alastor folded his arms.
“What?
You missed a nail and looked like the world ended.”
“It didn’t.”
“Your face disagreed.”
Zestial looked down at his hand again.
His fingers were still.
Too still.
Makarov noticed.
Of course he did.
“Take a break,” he said.
“I can keep working.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
Zestial closed his notebook.
Scout hopped onto his shoulder, tail flicking once.
Alastor followed him outside without being asked.
The back yard was quieter than the guildhall.
Not silent, but close enough.
Erza was near the porch with a wooden sword, going through slow movements Makarov had approved.
Cana sat on the steps, pretending not to watch her.
Gray stayed inside, probably because he had learned one thing today.
Zestial sat under the tree near the fence.
Alastor dropped beside him.
For a minute, neither spoke.
Then Alastor said, “Gray’s an idiot.”
“He’s not.”
“He is at least part-time.”
Zestial huffed.
“Maybe.”
Scout gave a soft trill and settled in Zestial’s lap.
Alastor leaned back on his hands.
“You’re mad because you missed the nail?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Zestial rubbed his thumb over his palm.
“I’m mad because I shouldn’t have missed it.”
Alastor frowned.
“That’s dumb.”
“It’s not.”
“It’s a nail, Z.”
“I know it’s a nail.”
“Then why does it look like it insulted your bloodline?”
Zestial didn’t answer.
Alastor waited.
That was new.
A few weeks ago, he would’ve filled the silence with jokes until Zestial either laughed or threw something.
Now he waited.
Zestial noticed.
His shoulders loosened a little.
“I can see the design in my head,” Zestial said quietly.
“Not just the shape.
The weight.
The angle.
How it should lock.
How it should flex when your arm changes.
I know what I’m trying to make.”
Alastor nodded.
“But my hands don’t always keep up.”
Scout gave a sympathetic mrrp.
Zestial looked down at them.
“This body knew how to fix things.
I’m sure of that now.”
Alastor went still.
Zestial kept his voice low.
“Not like this.
Not weapons.
Not armor systems.
But small things.
Straps.
boards.
loose nails.
hiding scraps.
Tower stuff.”
Alastor looked toward the guild.
No one was close enough to hear.
Still, he lowered his voice too.
“So that wasn’t from before?”
“Some of it was.
Some wasn’t.”
Zestial flexed his fingers.
“The planning feels like me.
The weapon knowledge feels like the magic and the memories coming back.
But the hands…” He paused.
“The hands remember things I don’t think I learned before.”
Alastor stared at his own hands.
He thought of claws.
Fur.
Scales.
The rush of choosing a monster and feeling his body answer.
Then he thought of the Tower.
Of grabbing younger kids and dragging them behind broken stone.
Of wanting to bite guards before he ever had fangs.
“Yeah,” he said.
“I get that.”
Zestial looked at him.
Alastor shrugged, but it didn’t reach his face.
“I wasn’t always this angry.”
“No.”
“You answered too fast.”
“You asked.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were about to.”
Alastor snorted.
Then the smile faded.
“I remember being calmer.
Before.
Still loud.
Still stupid sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Careful.”
Zestial almost smiled.
Alastor rubbed at the Wildguard on his wrist.
“I joked more.
Didn’t snap as fast.
I mean, I got mad, sure, but not like this.
Not like everything’s already halfway to a fight.”
Zestial watched him carefully.
“That’s been bothering you?”
“A little.”
“A lot?”
Alastor looked away.
“Yeah.”
Scout stood, walked across Zestial’s lap, and placed one paw on Alastor’s knee.
Scout gave a quiet mew, “You’re not bad.”
Alastor’s mouth twisted.
“That’s a lot from one meow.”
“Scout has range.”
Alastor let out a weak laugh.
Then he looked at Zestial.
“Do you think he was like that?”
“The kid before?”
Alastor nodded.
Zestial leaned back against the tree.
“I think he was protective.”
“You think?”
“I remember pieces.
Not enough.
But I remember you putting yourself between guards and smaller kids before the rebellion.
Before us remembering everything clearly.”
Alastor swallowed.
“That might’ve been me.”
“It might’ve been both.”
“That’s not clean.”
“No.”
Alastor looked at his hands again.
“I don’t want to be someone who shoved a kid out of his own life.”
Zestial’s face tightened.
“Me neither.”
They sat with that.
No joke fixed it.
No clever line made it lighter.
Zestial finally said, “I don’t think we shoved them out.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
Alastor looked at him.
Zestial’s answer was calm, but not comforting.
“I think we woke up inside lives that were already ours somehow.
Or became ours.
I don’t know.
It’s messy.”
Alastor breathed out.
“Magical identity soup.”
Zestial snorted.
“That’s stupid.”
“But accurate.”
“Unfortunately.”
Scout gave a questioning trill.
Zestial glanced down.
“No, we’re not calling it that in the notebook.”
Alastor smiled faintly.
“Shame.”
From the porch, Erza’s wooden sword stopped moving.
Both brothers looked over.
She wasn’t facing them, but she had heard something.
Maybe not the words.
Maybe just the shape of them.
Cana noticed too.
She didn’t say anything.
Erza lowered the sword.
“I’m taking a break,” she said.
Makarov, from the door, nodded.
“Good.”
Erza walked toward the tree.
Alastor and Zestial exchanged a quick look.
Careful.
Erza stopped a few feet away.
“Can I sit?”
Zestial nodded.
She sat across from them, wooden sword resting over her knees.
For a few seconds, everyone pretended the conversation hadn’t happened.
Erza ended that.
“Sometimes I remember doing what they told me.”
Alastor’s jaw tightened.
Zestial stayed still.
Erza looked down at the sword.
“Carrying stone.
Sorting metal.
Cleaning blood.
I remember it like my hands did it before my head understood why.”
Zestial’s voice was careful.
“That makes sense.”
“I don’t feel like the same person I was before the Tower.”
Alastor looked at her.
Erza’s left eye stayed on the wooden sword.
The artificial one stared ahead, too steady.
“I don’t think I can be,” she said.
No one answered right away.
Then Alastor said, “Maybe that’s not all bad.”
Erza looked at him.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I mean, some of it’s bad.
A lot.
But if you can’t be who you were before, maybe you get to decide what stays.”
Erza studied him.
“That sounds easy.”
“It’s probably awful.”
Zestial nodded.
“Definitely awful.”
Alastor gave him a look.
“Supportive, thanks.”
“I’m being honest.”
“Less honesty please.”
Erza’s mouth twitched.
That was enough.
Cana called from the porch, “Break means water too, you know.”
Erza turned.
Cana held up a cup.
Erza stood and took it.
“Thank you.”
Cana shrugged.
“Don’t make it weird.”
Alastor leaned toward Zestial.
“She says that a lot.”
“She means it.”
“She also makes things weird first.”
“She does.”
Cana pointed at them without turning around.
“I can hear you.”
Alastor raised his voice.
“We were praising your consistency.”
“Try harder.”
Zestial looked back at his hands.
The mood had lightened, but the question hadn’t gone away.
Maybe it wasn’t supposed to.
Later that afternoon, Makarov changed the training plan.
“No magic for the first half-hour,” he said.
Alastor stared.
“That’s not training.
That’s standing.”
“It can be.”
“That’s upsetting.”
Makarov ignored him and placed three wooden tools on the crate.
A hammer.
A practice knife.
A measuring string.
He looked at Zestial.
“Fix the small box without magic.”
Zestial frowned.
“I can summon better tools.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because your hands need to learn what your mind knows.”
Zestial went quiet.
Alastor watched him.
That one landed.
Makarov looked at Alastor next.
“You’ll run the yard.”
Alastor perked up.
“No monster legs.”
He deflated.
“Human legs first,” Makarov said.
“Then partial form later.
If your body can’t handle the base movement, transformation only hides the weakness until it hurts you.”
Alastor looked at the track marked in chalk around the yard.
It wasn’t long.
It still looked annoying.
Gray appeared near the fence.
“Can I race?”
Makarov didn’t even look at him.
“No.”
Gray slumped.
Cana smiled.
“You got denied before you finished volunteering.”
“I could’ve won.”
Alastor pointed at him.
“Tomorrow.”
Makarov said, “No.”
Alastor lowered his hand.
“Eventually.”
Makarov didn’t answer.
That meant maybe.
Probably not.
But maybe.
Zestial sat at the crate and picked up the ordinary hammer.
It felt wrong after magical tools.
Too plain.
Too limited.
Then he forced himself to breathe and started anyway.
The first nail went in crooked.
He pulled it out.
The second bent.
He set it aside.
The third went in clean.
Scout gave a soft approving trill.
Zestial didn’t smile.
But his shoulders eased.
Across the yard, Alastor started running.
The first lap was easy.
The second was irritating.
By the fourth, his ribs reminded him Porlyusica existed.
Makarov kept watch.
“Human.”
Alastor grit his teeth and kept running.
Gray watched with interest.
“You’re slower without magic.”
Alastor puffed out a breath.
“You’re shorter without a shirt.”
Gray looked down.
He was still wearing one.
“That doesn’t even work.”
“It will later.”
Cana laughed.
Erza stood nearby with her wooden sword, watching Alastor’s feet.
“You lean too far forward.”
Alastor slowed.
“What?”
“When you want to go faster,” she said.
“You lean like you’re already transformed.”
Makarov smiled faintly.
Alastor looked down at his own stance.
She was right.
He hated that she was right.
No.
He didn’t hate it.
He was impressed.
“Good eye,” he said.
Erza went still for half a second.
Then Alastor realized what he’d said.
Her left eye flicked to him.
The artificial one stayed fixed.
Alastor winced.
“Sorry.”
Erza looked at him for a long moment.
Then said, “It was.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“A good eye.”
Cana’s smile softened.
Zestial paused at the crate.
Makarov said nothing.
Erza lifted her sword again.
“Run with your weight under you.”
Alastor nodded.
“Yeah.
Okay.”
He tried.
It felt worse at first.
Then better.
Annoyingly better.
After the half-hour, Makarov allowed partial forms.
Alastor chose Great Jaggi legs again.
This time, he ran with Erza’s correction in mind.
Weight under him.
Not lunging.
Not chasing.
Moving.
The difference was immediate.
He didn’t just go faster.
He stayed balanced.
He turned without nearly tearing up the ground.
He stopped without stumbling.
Alastor looked over at Erza.
She nodded once.
He grinned.
“Okay, that was useful.”
Erza looked away, but her shoulders eased.
Zestial finished the box near the same time.
It wasn’t pretty.
One side sat a little uneven.
The lid stuck for half a second before opening.
But it held together.
No magic.
No summoned tools.
Scout inspected every side with grave seriousness.
Then the Palico gave a firm meow.
Zestial looked relieved.
“Passable?”
Scout tapped the box twice.
Makarov walked over and lifted the box.
“It holds.”
Zestial nodded.
Makarov handed it back.
“Good.”
“It’s not as good as what I pictured.”
“No,” Makarov said.
“But it’s real.”
Zestial looked at the box.
That mattered more than he expected.
After training, Gray cornered Alastor near the water barrel.
“Tomorrow we race.”
Alastor grinned.
“Absolutely.”
Makarov called from inside, “No racing without permission.”
Gray scowled.
“How?”
Alastor cupped his hands around his mouth.
“He has old man hearing.”
Makarov’s voice returned.
“I also have old man punishments.”
Alastor lowered his hands.
“Respectfully postponing the race.”
Gray groaned.
Cana passed by and patted Gray’s shoulder.
“Smartest thing either of you said today.”
Zestial joined them with the small box under one arm.
Alastor pointed at it.
“Hey.
You made a box.”
Zestial narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t make it sound stupid.”
“I’m not.”
“You are a little.”
“I’m really not.”
Zestial searched his face.
Alastor smiled, quieter this time.
“You made it without magic.
That’s good.”
Zestial looked down at the box.
“Yeah.”
Scout gave a pleased mrrp.
Gray leaned in.
“What’s it for?”
Zestial paused.
Then handed it to Scout.
Scout immediately placed straight nails inside, followed by buckles and two pieces of chalk.
“Supply box,” Zestial said.
Scout hugged it possessively.
Gray looked impressed.
“Okay.
That’s useful.”
Zestial blinked.
Gray shrugged.
“What?
It is.”
Alastor gave Gray a look.
Gray frowned.
“What now?”
“Nothing.
Just marking the historic moment where you said something right.”
Gray kicked at his ankle.
Alastor dodged.
Makarov shouted, “No fighting!”
Both boys froze.
Cana didn’t even look up from her cards.
“Old man hearing.”
That night, Alastor went to his own room.
He stood in the doorway for a second.
Zestial’s door across the hall was cracked.
His own door stayed cracked too.
Scout sat between them with the new supply box beside him, tail wrapped around his paws like a guard on duty.
Alastor crouched.
“Nice box.”
Scout gave a proud trill.
“You know, Z made that while having an emotional crisis.”
Scout tilted its head.
Alastor lowered his voice.
“I’m proud of him too.”
Scout slow-blinked.
Alastor stood and went inside.
For once, he didn’t hover.
Across the hall, Zestial sat at his desk with the ordinary box in his lap after Scout finally allowed him to inspect it again.
He opened his notebook.
For a while, he didn’t write designs.
He wrote questions.
What did this body know before me?
What did I bring with me?
What came from the magic?
He paused.
Then added:
Does it matter if the result is still me?
He stared at that line for a long time.
Then, slowly, he wrote one more.
Yes.
But maybe not the way I’m afraid it does.
Across the hall, Alastor lay in his own bed, staring at his hands.
He remembered being calmer.
He remembered being protective.
He remembered the Tower.
He remembered monsters.
None of it fit neatly.
Maybe it never would.
He turned onto his side and looked through the cracked door.
Scout was still there.
Zestial’s light was still on.
The hallway was six steps wide.
That was close enough.
For tonight.