📍 Crocus — Training Yard & Stands
📅 July X791
The moon nestled low above Crocus, silver light flowing softly over the training yard hidden behind Domus Flau. The arena roared still, its distant echo a muffled tide. Here, though, the world had quieted—broken only by the steady hum of magic and the whisper of flame.
At the yard's center, Romeo Conbolt stood alone. His flame sword glowed with a gentle violet fire, the flame creeping along the blade's edge like living light. With deliberate care, he swung it in slow arcs—the motion fluid, precise, almost musical. Each movement generated a speck of ember—small, graceful sparks drifting like fireflies before fading into the air.
He didn't practice for show. He practiced to listen—breath, heartbeat, and flame rhythm intertwining. Each swing is shaped not by strength alone, but purpose and presence.
A handful of apprentices from other guild lodgings sat on stone steps watching him in near silence. His graceful control drew their attention and respect alike.
"That flame... It's like poetry," breathed a girl from Lamia Scale.
A boy from Blue Pegasus added, hushed yet impressed: "He moves like a dancer—even when his sword could cut you."
Romeo paused mid-motion, sword clearing, flame flickering, then steady again. He exhaled softly, then turned toward the spectators and offered a shy smile.
"I'm still learning," he said, hair damp with sweat. "Teresa taught me the technique, but this flame… I'm trying to make it something my own."
The Lamia girl tilted her head. "Teresa… the Silver‑Eyed Valkyrie, right?"
Romeo nodded gently, gaze turning upward to the moon's silver arc. "Yeah. She's unmatched in strength—but cold in cost. She says a blade should be silent. That emotion makes it dull."
He lowered his voice, but the echo held weight. "Still—I think a blade can sing. If it bears the right echo."
The crowd of young mages was silent then. Romeo glared at the flickering purple flame. "Echoes are what we carry—feelings, memories, the voices of people who believe in us. They're why we get up after defeat. Why do we keep moving forward?"
That conviction seemed to settle around them like warm light. No applause came. No laughter. Just thoughtful breath.
Then he raised his sword again. The violet flame pulsed, diamonds of light dancing on steel. "This sword," he said, quietly, "holds my father's pride… Lucy's belief… Natsu's reckless encouragement… even Teresa's rigid lessons. All of it burns with me."
The onlookers bent forward. Some lips curved into admiration. Others exchanged careful, hopeful glances.
"You carry them all," one said softly.
Romeo's cheeks flushed. "Yeah… in a way."
From the shadows of the yard's edge, a familiar, warm voice emerged: "You've grown."
Romeo's head snapped up. "Dad!"
Macao approached slowly, his steps intentional and steady. Though a few lines of age traced his eyelids, his posture remained proud, upright. The gathered apprentices bowed automatically.
"You've got an audience too," he observed quietly. "But I came to see it myself."
Romeo smiled, tension falling. "I was thinking about why we fight."
He sheathed his sword gently, letting the purple flame fade. "Teresa says emotion dulls the blade. But—I feel stronger when I remember Fairy Tail. When I think about them."
Macao placed a hand on his shoulder. "That's because you fight with them, not just for them."
Romeo looked out toward the lantern-lit horizon of Crocus, its buildings sparkling with warmth and activity. "I want to be someone my family can rely on. Someone who stands strong—not despite what I carry but because of it."
Macao squeezed his shoulder firmly. "You already are that, Romeo."
As the young apprentices dispersed, voices lighter, steps more buoyant, Romeo stayed back with his father. He lifted his sword again, flame brightening.
"Someday," he whispered, "I hope Teresa sees me—not the student, but an equal."
Macao smiled thoughtfully. "Maybe one day she will. You shine brighter than most—and quietly, you light others too."
Romeo rested the blade on his shoulders. A glow from the flame painted both of their faces in amethyst light. Crocus's distant hum felt peaceful, safe.
He drew a slow breath. "Let's go eat. I'm starving."
Macao chuckled, turning. "Always hungry. Lead the way."
They walked down toward the city, and their armored swords hung lightly at their sides. Their steps were calm, certain—resonant with imagination and resolve.
At the same time, far above in her private booth, Teresa watched—not the arena, not the cheers, but the soft violet glow of flame in the distance.
Her silver eyes shimmered, unguarded. A faint breath escaped her. Her lips trembled. She hadn't planned to show it—but the sight stirred something ancient and honored in her.
"Echoes," she murmured. Quiet as a candle wick, soft as memory. "Not just chains."
Her fingers flexed over her cloak, as though closing on something watery and pure that still exists inside her.
But she didn't pursue it. She simply allowed it to exist for a single apology in her absence.
Below, Romeo's steps faded into the city's weave. The flame faded with the night breeze, but its quiet pulse remained.
There, under the same sky, two swords lit by different fires moved in step—one full of gentle warmth, the other still tempered coolly—but both forged in the same realm of unbroken spirit and echo.