The first handle broke before Zestial finished shaping it.
It didn’t split under Alastor’s grip.
It didn’t fail during a swing.
It broke because Zestial drilled the release channel too close to the grain, turned the piece over, and found a crack running nearly halfway through the wood.
He stared at it.
Scout stood on the workbench beside him.
Aldren Pell continued hammering at the forge.
Zestial ran his thumb along the crack.
“I can reinforce it.”
Aldren struck the glowing bar again.
“No.”
“The damaged section won’t bear most of the impact.”
“No.”
“I could wrap it with—”
“No.”
Zestial looked toward him.
Aldren returned the metal to the coals.
“The wood told you it was wrong before anyone trusted it with their life.
Be grateful.”
“It took three days to shape.”
“Then you spent three days learning where not to drill.”
Scout leaned closer to the crack.
“The grain turns here,” he said.
Zestial looked.
The lines in the wood curved around a knot he had thought was shallow.
They did not curve back.
He picked up the handle, carried it to the scrap bin, and stopped.
Aldren glanced over.
“Something sentimental about it?”
“No.”
“Then why are you holding it?”
Zestial dropped it into the bin.
It landed beside two warped nails, a cracked tong hinge, and the remains of his first attempt at a reinforced grip.
Aldren nodded toward the wood rack.
“Choose another.”
Zestial crossed the workshop.
Scout followed along the bench rather than climb down, stepping over files, clamps, and a row of metal fittings laid out to cool.
Zestial studied the available lengths of wood.
The straightest piece was too light.
Another had good grain but a twist that would become worse when shaped.
The third was heavier, dark near the center, and wide enough to allow him to correct a mistake.
He reached for it.
“Why that one?” Aldren asked.
Zestial stopped with his fingers around the wood.
“It’s large enough for the grip and the release channel.”
“That is what you want to do to it.
I asked why the wood is suitable.”
Zestial lifted it from the rack.
He checked both ends.
No visible cracks.
He ran his palm along the grain.
Straight for most of its length.
A slight curve near one side, but not enough to pass through the part he intended to keep.
He pressed his thumbnail into the surface.
Dense.
Dry.
Not brittle.
“It can take repeated impact,” he said.
“The grain is straight where the handle will narrow.
There’s enough material to shape around the flaw near the base.”
Aldren removed the bar from the forge.
“And?”
Zestial weighed the wood in both hands.
“It isn’t balanced.”
Aldren waited.
“I’ll have to remove more from this side.”
“And if you remove too much?”
“I choose another piece.”
Aldren carried the glowing metal to the anvil.
“Good.
Mark it before you cut.”
That had become the shape of Zestial’s mornings.
Choose.
Explain.
Mark.
Cut.
Discover what he had missed.
Start again.
The memories in his head knew what a hunting hammer looked like.
Some of them knew how the weapon moved.
They knew the violent drop of a charged strike, the turning force behind an upswing, and the way a hunter could use the hammer’s weight to carry momentum into another blow.
The memories did not know Aldren’s wood rack.
They did not know which local steel bent under magical strain or how Magnolia’s humidity changed a handle.
They gave Zestial a finished answer.
Aldren made him learn every question that came before it.
Zestial placed the wood on the workbench and marked the first line.
Scout watched from beside his hand.
“You measured that yesterday.”
“For the other handle.”
“Alastor’s hands did not grow overnight.”
“That isn’t the only measurement.”
Scout looked toward the stack of papers pinned to the wall.
There were eleven now.
Alastor’s normal grip.
Alastor’s Great Jaggi claws.
Arzuros paw width.
The angle of his wrist while partially transformed.
The largest change Zestial had safely observed.
The smallest grip that still allowed a controlled release.
Alastor had complained during every measurement.
He had also held still for all of them.
Mostly.
Zestial drew the next line.
Aldren’s hammer stopped.
“What is this weapon supposed to do?”
Zestial looked up.
Aldren stood at the anvil with the unfinished metal bar cooling beneath one hand.
“Strike monsters.”
“That’s what the boy wants it to do.”
“It also needs to survive changes in his grip, reduce the chance of wrist damage, and release if his claws lock around it.”
“Better.”
Three mornings after Zestial began shaping the new handle, Makarov came to the workshop with Alastor beside him.
Aldren Pell looked from the guild master to the boy and set his hammer down.
“If this is about reducing his measurements again, the answer is no.”
“My hands aren’t that large,” Alastor said.
“They become claws.”
“Only sometimes.”
“That is why we’re here,” Makarov said.
Zestial stopped working.
Scout remained on the bench beside him, one paw resting on the unfinished handle.
Makarov closed the workshop door but stayed near it.
“Aldren, the boys need to tell you something about the weapon.
Only what concerns your work.”
Pell folded his arms.
“That usually means the part that concerns my work is dangerous.”
“Yes,” Makarov said.
Alastor looked at Zestial.
Zestial had rehearsed the explanation twice.
It had sounded better when no one was waiting for it.
“Alastor’s magic contains a private training space,” he said.
“An arena.”
Pell’s attention shifted to Alastor.
“What does he fight there?”
“Creatures connected to his transformation magic,” Makarov answered.
“How dangerous?”
Alastor opened his mouth.
Zestial spoke first.
“The first one nearly killed him.”
Pell’s expression hardened.
“And you intend to send him back?”
“Not now,” Makarov said.
“I’ve forbidden another attempt until his control improves and we understand more about the arena.”
“And until he has a weapon,” Zestial added.
Pell looked at the unfinished handle.
“That is why this hammer matters.”
“Yes.”
“Does the arena accept ordinary weapons?”
“We don’t know,” Zestial said.
“Has anyone tested it?”
“Not safely.”
Pell looked at Makarov again.
“You brought two children to my forge and neglected to mention that one of them intends to carry my work into an unknown magical arena.”
“They weren’t permitted to explain it without me,” Makarov said.
“The arena is tied to private magic that the guild has reason to protect.”
Pell’s eyes narrowed.
“From me?”
“From anyone who doesn’t need the full story.”
The forge crackled behind them.
Pell considered that without looking away from Makarov.
“What do I need to know?”
“The hammer is for Alastor,” Zestial said.
“It must accommodate his normal hands and the transformations we can safely measure.
It needs to survive repeated impacts, warn him when his grip shifts, and release before it damages his wrist or shoulder.”
Aldren’s expression did not change.
He had heard stranger things since taking a Fairy Tail child as an apprentice.
He had not accepted any of them without questions.
Aldren looked towards Zestial, “Can your magic reach it?”
“No.”
“Can any object reach it?”
“I don’t know.”
Aldren returned the metal he had been working on back to the forge.
“Then you’re not building a hammer.”
Zestial frowned.
“Yes, I am.”
One is a hammer.
The other is getting the hammer into a place that may not accept real objects.”
“They’re the same problem.”
“They become the same problem when you prove the second one can be solved.”
Aldren pushed the bar deeper into the coals.
“Until then, learn to make a hammer.”
Zestial looked down at the wood.
He disliked the answer.
That probably meant Aldren was right.
Again.
By the end of the morning, the second handle had not broken.
That was not the same as being finished.
Aldren marked three places where Zestial had removed too much material, one where the grip would rub against the heel of Alastor’s hand, and another where the release channel would collect dirt.
He didn’t throw the handle away.
That felt like praise.
Zestial didn’t mention it.
At noon, Alastor arrived carrying a sack of food over one shoulder.
Erza walked beside him with a practice sword at her hip.
Gray followed several steps behind them, arguing with Cana about whether cheating still counted as cheating if the rules were stupid.
“It does,” Erza said.
“You weren’t even part of the argument.”
“The answer was obvious.”
Cana held up three cards.
“The rules said nothing about using magic.”
“You froze the table.”
“I didn’t freeze it,” Gray said.
“I froze the cards to it.”
“That’s worse.”
Alastor entered the workshop and placed the sack on an empty corner of the bench.
“Food.”
Aldren pointed at the door.
“No eating near the worktables.”
Alastor picked the sack up again.
“Food outside.”
Scout jumped from the bench to his shoulder.
Alastor looked at Zestial’s new handle.
“That mine?”
“Not yet.”
“It looks like mine.”
“It looks like a piece of wood.”
“An awesome piece of wood.”
Zestial wiped sawdust from his hands and followed them outside.
They sat beneath the workshop’s open shutters where the forge heat reached them without becoming unbearable.
Cana handed out bread and cheese.
Gray took the largest piece.
Erza took it from him, broke it in half, and returned one portion.
Gray stared at her.
“What?”
“You know what.”
Alastor sat with his back against the outer wall only after lowering himself beside Zestial.
He stretched his legs across the dirt.
“How was training?” Zestial asked.
“Good.”
Erza opened her bread.
“He fell.”
Alastor looked at her.
“Once.”
“Three times.”
“The first two were controlled descents.”
“You hit the ground face-first.”
“I controlled the direction.”
Zestial looked at Alastor’s hands.
No claws.
No scales.
His fingers still trembled slightly around the bread.
Alastor noticed him looking and changed his grip.
Too late.
“How long?” Zestial asked.
“Fourteen minutes.”
“Master said twelve.”
“Master said twelve without pain.”
“You had pain?”
“No.”
Erza answered for him.
“His left arm went numb.”
Alastor sighed.
“I had reduced sensation.”
“You couldn’t feel your fingers.”
“I knew they were there.”
“Because you could see them.”
Gray laughed into his bread.
Zestial held out his hand.
Alastor stared at it.
“What?”
“Your arm.”
“I’m eating.”
“Other arm.”
Alastor gave him his left wrist.
Zestial pressed two fingers against the pulse and watched his brother’s hand.
“Close your eyes.”
“You’re becoming Porlyusica.”
“Close them.”
Alastor did.
Zestial touched the smallest finger.
“Which one?”
Alastor answered correctly.
Zestial moved to the middle finger.
Alastor answered again.
He tested the thumb.
A pause.
“Index.”
Zestial looked at him.
Alastor opened one eye.
“Close enough.”
“No.”
“It’s one finger.”
“It’s the wrong finger.”
Alastor pulled his arm back.
“Sensation came back.”
“After how long?”
“Not long.”
Erza swallowed her food.
“Eight minutes.”
Alastor turned toward her.
“You remember too many things.”
“Yes.”
Zestial looked at the workshop door.
Aldren had not come outside, but the hammering had stopped.
He was listening.
Zestial lowered his voice.
“The weapon needs to tell you when your grip changes.”
Alastor looked at the unfinished handle through the doorway.
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“A bell?”
“No.”
“Small explosion?”
“No.”
“An insulting voice?”
Scout leaned around Alastor’s head and tapped one paw against his cheek.
“You already have me.”
Alastor narrowed his eyes.
Zestial smiled despite himself.
Cana looked between them.
“What did Scout say?”
“That Alastor doesn’t need another insulting voice.”
Gray pointed at the Palico.
“I knew I liked him.”
Scout gave a pleased trill.
Zestial took Alastor’s left hand again.
This time, Alastor allowed it.
Zestial traced the base of the fingers.
“If the grip is shaped so each finger rests in a specific place, you may notice numbness sooner.”
“Grooves?”
“Shallow ones.
Too deep and they’ll trap your hand when it changes.”
“Can it tighten around me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you transform.”
“That sounds like a reason it should.”
“It’s a reason nothing on the weapon should decide to tighten without you.”
Aldren resumed hammering inside.
One strike.
Approval, maybe.
Or metal simply needed hitting.
With Aldren, it was difficult to tell.
Alastor flexed his hand.
“Shallow grooves.”
“And a grip wrap with different textures.”
“For each finger?”
“For sections of the hand.
If one feels wrong, you release.”
Alastor glanced at Zestial, checking his brother’s reaction before answering.
“If it feels wrong, I release.”
“Immediately.”
“I got it.”
“Not after one more swing.”
Alastor looked away.
Zestial tightened his hold on his brother’s hand.
“One more swing is how handles break.”
“I’m not a handle.”
“No.
You’re harder to replace.”
Gray stopped chewing.
Cana lowered her cards.
Erza watched the brothers without moving.
Alastor’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
The humor left first.
Then the resistance.
He looked down at Zestial’s fingers around his wrist.
“You won’t have to replace me.”
“That isn’t a promise you can make.”
“I can promise to let go.”
Zestial waited.
Alastor met his eyes.
“If the grip feels wrong, I release the Hammer.
No extra swing.”
“And if your hand goes numb?”
“I release it.”
“If the transformation refuses to end?”
“I release it.”
“If you think you can still win?”
Alastor hesitated.
Zestial’s grip tightened.
Alastor sighed.
“I release it.”
Scout leaned around his shoulder.
“And retreat.”
“We were discussing the Hammer.”
“We’re discussing survival.”
Alastor stared at him.
Then at Zestial.
“Fine.
I release it and retreat.”
Zestial let go of his wrist.
“Good.” He turned and walked back into the shop
Gray swallowed his bread.
“You two make lunch uncomfortable.”
Cana looked at him.
“You froze playing cards to a table.”
“That was funny.”
“It was stupid.”
“It can be both,” Alastor said.
Erza considered him.
“That explains a lot about you.”
Alastor pressed one hand against his chest.
“Scarlet, that was cutting.”
Her mouth twitched.
“In a good way?”
Alastor stared at her.
Then he laughed.
The sound followed Zestial back into the workshop.
Aldren stood beside the workbench with his arms folded.
“You heard?”
“I have ears.”
Zestial picked up the unfinished handle.
“I need to change the grip.”
“You already shaped it.”
“The shape is wrong.”
Aldren waited.
Zestial found a piece of chalk and marked four shallow sections along the wood.
“Different textures here, here, and here.
Nothing deep enough to catch claws.
The lower section remains smooth so his hand can slide free.”
“And the fourth mark?”
“A raised band beneath the smallest finger.”
“Why?”
“His sensation returned unevenly.
If he can’t feel the band, he knows before losing the entire hand.”
Aldren looked through the open doorway.
Alastor was arguing with Gray again.
His left hand moved normally.
Almost normally.
Aldren turned back toward the handle.
“You’ll weaken the grip if you cut too deeply.”
“I won’t cut deeply.”
“You said that about the release channel.”
Zestial looked toward the scrap bin.
The first handle remained where he had dropped it.
“I know where not to cut now.”
Aldren’s expression did not soften.
He handed Zestial a narrow file.
“Show me.”
The changes took the rest of the afternoon.
Zestial filed the first section into fine horizontal ridges.
The second received a rougher cross-pattern.
For the third, he used a thin strip of leather wrapped tightly enough to remain distinct beneath the palm.
The raised band caused more trouble.
His first attempt sat too high.
The second caught when Scout tested it with an extended claw.
The third was barely noticeable beneath Zestial’s fingers.
He almost removed it.
Scout closed his eyes and tested the grip again.
“First finger.”
He shifted his paw.
“Second section.”
Again.
“Smooth release.”
His paw stopped over the raised band.
“Clear.”
Zestial looked toward Aldren.
The craftsman held out his hand.
Scout surrendered the handle.
Aldren tested every section with his eyes closed.
He changed grips, twisted his wrist, and pulled free in both directions.
Then he gave the handle back.
“Bring in the boy.”
Alastor entered immediately.
Aldren looked at the open doorway.
“You were listening.”
“I also have ears.”
“Hands.”
Alastor held them out.
Zestial placed the unfinished handle across his palms.
“Normal grip first.”
Alastor closed both hands around the wood.
His right rested near the upper ridges.
His left settled against the leather and raised band.
“How does it feel?” Zestial asked.
“Like a handle.”
Aldren’s eyes narrowed.
Alastor corrected himself.
“I can feel the sections.
The leather sits beneath the center of my left palm.
The band touches my smallest finger.”
“Close your eyes,” Zestial said.
Alastor obeyed.
Zestial shifted the handle slightly.
“What changed?”
“Right hand moved below the ridges.”
Again.
“Left palm is off the leather.”
Zestial turned it in his grip.
Alastor released immediately.
The handle dropped.
Zestial caught it before it struck the floor.
No one spoke for a moment.
Alastor opened his eyes.
“It felt wrong.”
Zestial looked at the handle in his hands.
The weapon had no metal head.
No magic.
No arena bond.
It could not strike anything more dangerous than an inattentive table.
But the first safety mechanism worked.
Not because the wood recognized danger.
Because Alastor did.
Aldren returned to the forge.
“Tomorrow, you fit the head.”
Zestial stared after him.
“That means the handle passed?”
“It means it didn’t fail.”
From Aldren, that was praise.
Zestial looked at Alastor.
His brother grinned.
“The awesome piece of wood survived.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
Zestial ran his thumb over the different sections of the grip.
The first handle had broken because he tried to force his design through unsuitable wood.
The second survived because he had stopped treating flaws as problems that determination could erase.
He had chosen better material.
Changed the design.
Listened when the weapon told him something was wrong.
Alastor rested one hand on his shoulder.
“Tomorrow?”
“The head,” Zestial said.
“And after that?”
“Balance tests.
Reinforcement.
Release tests with your safe forms.”
“And then the arena?”
Zestial looked toward Aldren.
The craftsman did not turn from the forge.
“One problem at a time,” he said.
Alastor sighed.
Zestial smiled faintly.
“First, we make a Hammer.”