Makarov discovered the problem while completing their guild records.
He had names.
Alastor.
Zestial.
Erza.
Scout, though the brothers had repeatedly insisted that Scout was a title rather than a name.
What Makarov did not have were surnames.
He looked across his desk at the three children seated before him.
“None of you has a family name?”
Alastor leaned back in his chair.
“Would we be sitting here if we did?”
Zestial elbowed him.
“What?” Alastor asked.
“It’s true.”
Makarov didn’t reprimand him.
That somehow made Alastor sit straighter.
Erza kept her hands folded in her lap.
She was wearing borrowed armor, although she had removed the gauntlets before entering the office.
They rested beside her chair.
“I don’t remember one,” she said.
“Neither do I,” Zestial added.
Alastor shrugged.
“Maybe we never had one.”
Makarov glanced at the unfinished records.
“A surname isn’t required to join Fairy Tail.
Plenty of people have only one name.”
“Then leave it empty,” Alastor said.
“I can.”
The answer came too easily.
Alastor narrowed his eyes.
“But?”
“But names matter.”
Zestial looked at him.
“You just said we don’t need one.”
“You don’t need one for the paperwork.” Makarov placed his pen beside the forms.
“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t think about it.”
Alastor crossed his arms.
“Think about what?”
“What you want people to call you.”
“They already call me Alastor.”
“People will attach other names to you whether you choose them or not.
Some will come from your deeds.
Some from your mistakes.
Some from people who want to decide what you are before they know you.”
The three children became quiet.
They understood that kind of naming.
Prisoner.
Slave.
Weapon.
Troublemaker.
Monster.
Makarov looked at Erza.
“A family name can tell people where you came from.
It can also tell them where you decided to begin.”
Erza’s left hand rose toward her hair.
She caught a strand of red between her fingers.
“Scarlet,” she said.
Alastor glanced at her.
“What?”
Erza continued looking at the strand.
“Someone called it scarlet once.”
Her voice had become distant.
Not empty.
Remembering.
They had been younger in the Tower, although Erza no longer knew how much younger.
Time had not been measured in birthdays there.
It had been measured in work shifts, punishments, and the rare nights when everyone returned to the sleeping quarters alive.
She had been sitting beside Jellal after one of those shifts.
There had been blood on her clothes.
He had looked at her hair and told her it was the same color.
Erza had become angry.
Her hair was not blood.
Jellal had smiled and corrected himself.
Scarlet, he had said.
Not the color of blood.
The color of sunrise when it reached the sea.
Erza had never seen the sea at sunrise.
She had wanted to.
She released the strand of hair.
“He said my hair was scarlet.”
Makarov waited.
The office was quiet enough for voices from the guild hall to pass through the floorboards.
Someone shouted about a broken chair.
Someone else denied breaking it before being accused.
“Was he important to you?” Makarov asked.
Erza’s fingers tightened.
“Yes.”
The word hurt.
It remained true.
Makarov turned the record toward her.
“Then you may use it.”
Erza looked at the empty space beside her name.
“Erza Scarlet,” she said.
She tested the sound carefully.
The Tower had taken many things from her.
It had taken her childhood.
Her eye.
People she loved.
It had twisted kindness into something painful enough that remembering it still made her chest tighten.
But this memory belonged to her.
Not the guards.
Not the Tower.
Hers.
“Erza Scarlet,” she repeated.
This time, her voice did not shake.
Makarov wrote it down.
Erza watched the letters appear.
They did not look like chains.
Alastor leaned over to inspect the record.
“That sounds dramatic.”
Erza looked at him.
“In a good way,” he added quickly.
“It suits her,” Zestial said.
Scout stood on the corner of Makarov’s desk.
“It is distinctive,” he said.
Makarov heard a series of thoughtful meows.
“What did he say?”
“He approves,” Zestial answered.
“I said it was distinctive.”
“He approves distinctly,” Alastor said.
Scout glared at him.
Makarov looked between them before deciding not to ask.
He turned to the brothers’ records.
“And you two?”
“Alastor Scarlet,” Alastor suggested.
Erza stared at him.
“No,” Zestial said.
“I was testing it.”
“You failed.”
Alastor looked at the blank line beside his name.
“What are we supposed to choose?”
“That depends on what you want it to mean,” Makarov said.
Alastor’s expression tightened.
“And if we don’t know?”
“Then wait.”
Zestial looked up.
“We can choose later?”
“A name chosen because you were rushed is not much better than one forced upon you.”
Alastor studied Makarov as if looking for a trap.
There wasn’t one.
Zestial glanced at his brother.
They had shared hunger.
Fear.
The Tower.
A life they remembered only in fragments.
Whatever name they eventually received would need to belong to both of them without defining either one alone.
Alastor pushed both unfinished records toward Makarov.
“Leave ours empty.”
“For now,” Zestial added.
Makarov nodded.
“For now.”
He returned the records to their folder.
Erza put on her gauntlets and stood.
Her posture seemed different—not transformed, but settled.
At the office door, Alastor called to her.
“Erza Scarlet.”
She looked back.
He grinned.
“It really does sound dramatic.”
Erza considered him for a moment.
Then the corner of her mouth lifted.
“In a good way?”
“In the best way.”
Erza left the office with Alastor behind her.
Zestial remained seated.
Makarov noticed.
“You have something else to discuss.”
Zestial placed a folded sheet of paper on the desk.
Alastor stopped in the doorway and looked back.
“You brought more paperwork?”
“It helps organize the request.”
“Your request needs sections?”
“It has two parts.”
“That sounds worse.”
Makarov unfolded the page.
“I want to apply for two apprenticeships,” Zestial said.
“With whom?”
“A local craftsman and Porlyusica.”
Alastor returned to his chair.
“I want to watch this.”
“You’re involved.”
“I no longer want to watch this.”
Makarov read the first section.
Zestial wanted to learn metalworking, armor repair, tool maintenance, magical-material safety, and how to judge whether equipment was structurally sound before placing it into his Requip storage.
The second section concerned anatomy, herbal preparation, emergency treatment, and injuries caused by magic.
Makarov read the final line twice.
“You want to study transformation injuries.”
Zestial nodded.
Alastor pointed at him.
“I am not a class subject.”
“You dislocated two fingers changing them into claws.”
“They went back.”
“That doesn’t make it safe.”
“They work now.”
Zestial looked at Makarov.
“You see the problem.”
“I do,” Makarov said.
Alastor sank into his chair.
Makarov placed the request on the desk.
“Why two apprenticeships?”
“Because making equipment without understanding the body wearing it is dangerous.
Scout can teach me hunter maintenance and field treatment, but the armors and tools have different metals, plants, magic, and anatomy.”
“Human anatomy is not that different,” Alastor said.
“You temporarily grow wyvern legs.”
“Only parts of them.”
“That is the problem.”
Scout nodded.
“Significant structural complications.”
Alastor looked down at him.
“Whose side are you on?”
“The side keeping its limbs attached.”
Makarov heard only their meows and Alastor’s offended response.
He decided not to ask.
“I know a craftsman named Aldren Pell,” Makarov said.
“He repairs tools, armor, wagon fittings, and some magical equipment.”
“Will he teach me?”
“He might determine whether you can be taught.”
“That’s enough.”
“And Porlyusica?”
“I’ll ask her.”
Makarov almost smiled.
“Ask from outside broom range.”
Aldren Pell’s workshop stood near Magnolia’s eastern commercial road.
The building had stone lower walls and tall shutters opened to release the heat.
A sign above the entrance displayed a hammer crossed with a pair of tongs.
Metal rang inside.
Zestial stopped outside the door.
Alastor looked at him.
“Nervous?”
“No.”
“You checked the address four times.”
“I wanted to be certain.”
“You checked the sign.”
“The address could have been wrong.”
Scout adjusted the supply box strapped across his back.
“You are nervous.”
Zestial looked down at him.
“You polished your gauntlets for twenty minutes.”
“I represent professional standards.”
Alastor opened the door before either could delay longer.
Heat rolled over them.
A broad man stood behind an anvil, tapping the bend from a metal bracket.
Gray had begun spreading through his dark hair, and a scar crossed the back of his right hand.
He looked at the children.
Then at their guild marks.
“No.”
Zestial blinked.
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“You came from Fairy Tail.”
“Yes.”
“No explosions.”
“We weren’t requesting explosions.”
“No testing weapons indoors.”
“We weren’t—”
“No promising to pay after your guild settles its repair bills.”
Alastor leaned toward Zestial.
“Has the guild settled any of them?”
“That’s not helping.”
Aldren set down his hammer.
“What do you want?”
Zestial handed him Makarov’s note.
Aldren read it.
Then he looked at Scout.
“The Palico understands equipment?”
“I understand field maintenance, material preparation, armor inspection, weapon care, and the many ways hunters damage all four,” Scout said.
Aldren heard several confident meows.
“He knows field maintenance,” Zestial summarized.
Scout looked up at him.
“That was aggressively incomplete.”
Aldren held out his hand.
“Show me something you made.”
Zestial summoned his hunter’s knife.
Aldren inspected the uneven edge and badly wrapped handle.
His expression became pained.
“Who did this?”
“I did.”
“No.
You damaged metal until it surrendered.”
Alastor covered his mouth.
Zestial’s ears reddened.
Aldren returned the knife.
“Come tomorrow before sunrise.”
“You’ll teach me?”
“I’ll decide whether you can learn.
You do not touch the forge until I give permission.”
“How long will that take?”
“As long as necessary.”
Zestial looked at the knife.
“I’ll be here.”
Aldren pointed at Alastor.
“Not him.”
“What did I do?”
“You looked at my furnace with interest.”
“That is unfairly perceptive.”
“The Palico can come if he stays off the rafters.”
Scout looked upward.
“I had not considered them.”
“Now he has,” Zestial said.
Porlyusica refused before Zestial finished knocking.
“No.”
She opened the door only far enough to glare at them.
Zestial held Makarov’s request in both hands.
“You haven’t read it.”
“You brought paper.
Makarov sends paper when he wants something unreasonable.”
“This was my idea.”
“Then you have learned his worst habits quickly.”
“I want to study medicine.”
“No.”
“Field treatment.”
“No.”
“Herbal preparation.”
“No.”
“Transformation injuries.”
Porlyusica stopped closing the door.
Her eyes moved toward Alastor.
He smiled carefully.
She pointed at him.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing today.”
“That answer is never reassuring.”
Zestial offered her the page.
“My magic gives me knowledge of equipment.
It doesn’t teach me enough about the bodies using it.
Scout knows medicine from his world, but the ingredients and magical conditions here are different.”
Porlyusica took the request.
She read it in silence.
“You want to help him continue doing foolish things.”
“I want foolish things to stop becoming injuries.”
“That is not the same as preventing them.”
“No.”
Porlyusica looked over the paper.
“What will you do when he ignores your advice?”
“Treat the injury.”
“And afterward?”
“Find out why he ignored me.”
“And if the answer is pride?”
“Tell Makarov.”
Alastor stared at him.
“Immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Cold.”
“You’ll live.”
Porlyusica folded the request.
“No magic in my workroom unless instructed.
You touch nothing without permission.
You taste nothing.
You do not smell an unknown substance directly.
You will not assume a plant is safe because something similar existed in another region.”
Zestial straightened.
“Understood.”
“I did not say yes.”
“You started listing rules.”
Porlyusica glared at him.
Alastor recognized the expression.
Zestial had won.
Acknowledging that fact would endanger everyone present.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” Porlyusica said.
“Clean clothes.
Tie back your hair.
Leave your weapons at the guild.”
“Thank you.”
“And leave him there too.”
She pointed at Alastor.
“I support this condition,” Scout said.
“You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on the side least likely to poison itself.”
Porlyusica heard the exchange as several meows followed by an offended human voice.
She looked at Zestial.
“What did he say?”
“He accepts your conditions.”
“Good.”
She closed the door.
Zestial carried two obligations back to Magnolia.
Before sunrise at Aldren Pell’s workshop.
Afternoons at Porlyusica’s house when she permitted them.
Guild training between both.
He should have looked overwhelmed.
Instead, he looked settled.
Alastor nudged his shoulder.
“You’re happy.”
“I have work.”
“Same thing for you.”
“You need work.”
“I have work.”
“Annoying Gray is not work.”
“I’ve spent enough time on it that it qualifies as a profession.”
That night, Alastor dreamed of stone.
He stood at one end of an enormous circular arena.
High walls surrounded him.
Iron gates had been built into each one, their bars thick enough to restrain creatures larger than houses.
Sand covered the ground.
Old claw marks crossed the stone.
A supply chest waited behind him.
Above the gates, four stars had been carved into a black slab.
The first was already burning.
The light moved to the second.
A horn sounded.
Alastor spun toward the nearest gate.
Chains tightened.
Machinery groaned behind the wall.
The gate began rising.
Two powerful legs appeared beneath it.
A long tail struck the sand.
The creature on the other side released a sharp, challenging bark.
Alastor recognized the rhythm.
Great Maccao.
A second gate began to open.
Tusks scraped against iron.
Bulldrome.
Alastor reached for his magic.
Great Jaggi answered.
Kulu-Ya-Ku.
Arzuros.
Nargacuga, if only the eyes.
The forms he had already used were still available.
Nothing beyond them responded.
He understood the rule without being told.
If he wanted what waited behind those gates, he would have to defeat it with what he already possessed.
The Great Maccao ducked beneath the rising gate.
Bulldrome charged before its own had fully cleared the ground.
Alastor shifted into a Great Jaggi hybrid and lowered his stance.
“Oh,” he said.
Bulldrome thundered toward him.
“This is going to hurt.”