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Of Dragons and Fairies

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“The gull’s savagery and suspicion had been due partly to pain and partly to the unnerving knowledge that it had no companions and could not fly.”

– Richard Adams, Watership Down 






A black dragon flew over the lands of Alakitasia. The beast would have blended in with the night sky were it not for the daytime-blue swirls on its scales, nor the rage the creature emanated.

However, Alakitasia had already been ravished by the beast. Once a land filled with dragons, it was made a graveyard by the one that proclaimed himself the Dragon King. Whether they had been killed at the Dragon King Festival in Ishgar, or slain in their homeland later, was insignificant. It only mattered to the black dragon that they were dead.

He did not know why he kept coming to the land, however. He loathed it with every inch of his body—every scale, every vein—even though the beings that he despised were long-since eradicated. Yet, he kept returning.

The black dragon landed by the ruins anyway. The most dragons had been found here, and the most slaughtered. The last he killed was decades ago, but instinct brought the beast to his hunting grounds regardless. It was an ironic place to rest, but even the so-called Dragon King could not fly forever, and the ocean was vast and empty.

He had no home and no name, but even beasts had preferences. He preferred not to be here, regardless of his primal urges. Was he looking for something? No, only destruction, and it was already here.

Such a sad existence.

The dragon huffed, the first almost-verbalized thought he gave himself in years. He should really head back to the land of Ishgar in the morning. Perhaps to that mountain range to properly rest, after he had ensured that the many dragons of that continent were dead too. There were more places to hide there, so it was hard to tell.

Scanning the ruins with blank eyes, he settled on a nearby plateau to lay for the night. It looked like it had been bigger, but the front end had been destroyed in some collapse. It was big enough, however.

He landed, circling a few times to try and get his limbs to cooperate with the position he wished to be in. Even after centuries, muscle memory still betrayed him from time to time. Had he ever slept differently? It was hard to recall.

However, his elbow passed over a rough patch of stone as he finally settled. Annoyed, the dragon bent his neck to spot the source of his discomfort, hoping to remove it instead of moving again. Unfortunately, it was scratches in the stone itself, not mere rocks.

No. That wasn’t it…

It was writing.

The black dragon had never been interested in histories or accounts, but for some reason, he knew ancient draconic, the language of his bane. Perhaps it was the magic that transformed him into one—or had he known it before? He was going to ignore it—or perhaps scratch it out—before he spotted a name that was painfully familiar.

The writing wasn’t entirely cohesive, written in some hurry. It was an odd place for a dragon to give an account anyway. He readjusted himself, tentatively reading the wretched thing.

I do not have much time, the writing began, rather foolishly. They have locked my mouth, so I must write in vain hope, that no dragon befalls my same fate. Take heed and turn back from this land at once.

Was this about him? Dragons never showed fear, so it would have to have been a strong entity to cause such a reaction, and he was the beast that destroyed this land. However, he does not remember leaving any alive long enough to attempt such a silly ploy. How strange.

The humans of this city have discovered forbidden magic. It robs my brethren of their freedom and their thoughts. Of our sentience. The dragons here are beasts because there is nothing left of them. They obey the whim of their cruel masters.

My mind has already begun to erode. I fear revealing the secrets that I know to them, but I have been unable to strike myself against their will.

A dragon committing suicide? It was unprecedented. The black dragon grew uneasy. This was not a foe that bested this dragon in strength—it mocked it. It was humiliating even to him.

Lest they raise their armies against my home, the Hidden Land that I swore to protect, I will continue to fight the magic. Should I, Acnologia, even be seen alive henceforth, know that I have failed.

He stared at the last line—no, the name. Acnologia.

He couldn’t forget it if he tried. That wretched creature, that traitor— The name burned into his skull.

Acnologia. AcnologiaAcnologiaAcnologia Ą̷̛̛̬̗́̊̈́̐̕͜ć̴̝̕ń̶̞͓̠͐̉̊̅̌o̶̡͇̗̰̹̻̗̝̺̗̩̦͖̒͠l̸̛̠̿̾̈̋̋͗͂̕͠͝͝ő̴̧̨̦̦͉͍͍̠̫̤̼̰̊̉̽͒̎̎̍͑͂̕͠ģ̶̞̳̰̱̙̥̈͘͜ḯ̷̛̼̳̺̇̒͆̾̀̀̄̽̐̈́̅̄͐a̵̡̮̪̪͗͌͑̓̍̃̐̏͗͠

His skull ached. He couldn’t breathe. Rage was filling him—burning him—but at the same time, he stared at the line, which numbed him to his core.

ever be seen alive henceforth…

Acnologia left.

He came back—different.


“Wh-why are you doing this?!” the doctor screamed, face covered in dust and tears. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything.

The dragon glared at him with empty eyes.

The city continued to burn.


The lines grew before until it was all he could see.

…My mind has already begun to erode…



He looked up at the great white dragon from his seat on the cliffside. “Is something the matter?”

Acnologia chuckled. “No. I just wanted to express my gratitude.”

The doctor blinked, confused. The dragon returned his gaze with kind, ancient eyes.

“Despite our differences, we can share our minds, and our hearts. No matter what you are, I have always appreciated your company, Doctor.”


There had been nothing behind his eyes.


Should I, Acnologia, even be seen alive henceforth, know that I have failed.


He dug his fingers into his scalp in a desperate attempt to ground himself. His chest heaved.


The dragons of his homeland were wise and learned. He has killed screaming beasts. He has killed pleading allies.

He was a fool.

His nails were breaking his skin. His eyes burned.

He was a damn fool.

The beast curled over the message, and, for the first time in nearly a century, cried, for he had only been but a hurting man all along.








A man walked through the forest, alone.

It was a rare occasion, although it was driven by a mere errand. The Julican Forest was a peaceful place, void of any bad memory or haunting bloodshed—at least, none he had been a part of. His past weighed on his shoulders, turned to sorrow with the fading of his madness. It was a sin he would bear responsibility for, given the chance; however, with the dragons extinct, there wasn’t an opportunity for repentance. The best he could give those he slain wrongfully was vengeance.

That was another slow, long road, however. So, the man did his best to busy himself lest he fall into madness again. A medicinal and herb collection was a pointless but comforting hobby. It took him back to his roots. Not that he was a doctor anymore, or that he could ever claim to be, after what he had done.

The ex-doctor had forgotten whatever else remained of his identity after he became the so-called Dragon King, but after his rage subsided, memory slowly returned. Not that there was much to it. He always had a miserable existence. One of the only things of importance that he could latch onto was the dragon name of Acnologia, his old friend that he had failed, lost to dragon tamer magic that he discovered centuries too late. Perhaps it was in reverence to him, or perhaps it was a childish attempt at redemption, but the man took the dragon’s name, nonetheless.

Acnologia, after his bitter realization nearly two hundred years ago, had turned his endless rage to the magic that caused the war. Unfortunately, most of the evidence was destroyed—whether by himself in his rampage or by other forces. The best he could find were whispers of the terrible art: dragon tamer magic.

There were many types of tamer magic in existence now, but no word of dragon tamer magic. The nature of it was consistent, however: the caster could control the body and even the mind—in a blank state—of whatever target of species. Truly, only something humans could envision. Although, human tamer magic was not an impossibility either; it was just more aptly known as slaver magic.

In his musings, Acnologia wandered deeper into the Julican Forest—or whatever the hell they called it in this century. He already got the fertilizer he came here for, but he lingered out of boredom. He also had little desire to walk home to his cave, and with a full moon and a clear sky, flying wasn’t as an inconspicuous an option as he would have liked. Well, this far away from the town, the forest was still a peaceful option. No unnecessary noise, no interruptions, no annoying humans.

Not that all humans were bad. Acnologia was stable enough nowadays to recognize that he was a human—or at least once was. But he was also a dragon, and to a dragon’s senses, humans were loud and obnoxious sometimes. Besides, living for four hundred years has given him an appreciation for how longer-lived species put up with fast-paced humanity. Sometimes, they were smart; other times, they were like yipping puppies who couldn’t shut up and think.

It was a nice, quiet night, however, so he was going to enjoy the forest for the time being before he returned to the mountains. There wasn’t room for him to lay properly, but he had gotten much better at sensing things through his human form—like touch and taste—as well as his true form.

He was very glad that he did. It was a rough transition that he largely ignored the first two hundred years, but it was worth it. Especially on nights like these, where the air was cool, and the crickets were peaceable. And the smell of dew and oak was a nice change to the usual—wait, what the hell was that?!

Abruptly alert, Acnologia focused on the scent that accosted him. It wasn’t natural. It was sharp and tumultuous, and to his great chagrin, definitely magic. Sure, there was a mage guild in the town nearby, but this didn’t seem to be the usual variety. It was old and simultaneously unfamiliar, and now that he noticed it, the very air seemed to be tinged with its shiver.

Normally, Acnologia would leave it alone. The affairs of the mage guilds were not his own, and from he did know of them—and that damned magic council—he really didn’t want to be bothered with it. There were a few cases he intervened or at least watched the matters at hand, because he was alive in this world too and there were things he didn’t want to deal with it, but for the most part, he remained neutral. Let him scare the people from time to time with the ol’ “Black Dragon of the Apocalypse” nonsense, he didn’t care. They didn’t mess with him that way.

However, the more he focused on the magic, the more he had the undeniable realization that it was dragon magic. Not that a dragon was here, otherwise, he would have smelled them as a creature. (And no dragon, if there were any left, would be stupid enough to share a forest with him.) Nonetheless, it was primal element magic that he sensed, and only dragons and dragon slayers could wield that.

So he picked himself up and followed the scent. There was a large possibility that this would be a problem for him, and he would rather deal with it now—especially if it was going to be a world-scourge or something. At the very least, he was morbidly curious as to what could possibly exude such magic. 

He should have turned around when it was some creepy black spire building. If anyone should have aesthetic, it should be humans, and they still sucked at it. Was this some shitty dark guild matter? Actually, Acnologia hoped it was, because then no one would miss them when they were gone. Because he was tempted to kill them for their design sense alone.

The wards on the building were impressive, but he ate them without trouble, passing through the threshold as if welcome. The thrumming in the air grew louder. Thicker.

Acnologia was undeterred. The runes on his arms were in place, suppressing his magic signature, which he was glad of now that he was in a somewhat stealth situation. (Which is to say, in case he decided to leave and not bother with the mess.) Normally, he never bothered with such precautions, but his errand brought him dangerously close to a mage guild and he was not in the mood to attract attention, and mages who knew what they were doing tended to get squirmy whenever he was nearby.

He had a sinking suspicion he knew what this was. It had been happening for some years now—the creation of dragon lacrimas. It was a dangerous art to make them, and even more dangerous to actually use them. Acnologia was against the concept for multiple reasons. One, it killed humans, which he supposed was a bad thing, but more importantly, it was screwing with dragon magic. And as strange as a method to make a slayer, he didn’t want anyone else to go through the madness he did. Besides, they were also pulling these lacrimas from dragons he killed, which irked him for reasons he didn’t bother to figure out. Maybe because he didn’t want to be involved in this nonsense. (He had enough for feel guilty for.)

He has destroyed many of the dragon lacrimas already, although he had no way of knowing how many were in existence. They seemed most problematic, however, when placed in humans, and then they became much harder to track. He would have been more concerned were it not for the high fatality rate the process incurred. Well, anyone idiotic enough to become a dragon slayer in an age without dragons probably deserved to die anyways.

If his theory about the strange magic was true, then it was just another lacrima to destroy. Acnologia ambled to the source, and sure enough he was right about the cause.

He never guessed the rest of the circumstance.

It was a child. A damn child, with the lacrima rapidly absorbing into his tiny, skinny body, and a man he immediately did not like standing over him. The child was conscious, but only barely, and he wasn’t sure if it took a dragon to hear his erratic heartbeat.

The man practically trampled the child when he was startled by Acnologia’s presence. “Who the hell are you?! How did you get in here?!” he growled.

Acnologia merely glowered at him. “Where did you get that lacrima?” They weren’t legal. He has yet to see anyone with good intentions around those damn things. And because the humans knew that, they were surprisingly inconspicuous about their operations. Pulling locations to blow up from people was far easier than sniffing them out.

“That’s none of your business.” The man smirked. “Now pay for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong!” Obviously a mage, the man sent a spiral of magic-infused shikigami at him, most likely with the intention of sucking his life-force dry. It would have been annoying to eat such disgusting magic, so Acnologia merely deflected it with the back of his hand, knocking the ethernano out of the paper. While not the same intimidation technique as eating one’s magic in front of them, he was pleased to see the man begin to tremble.

“Who…who are you?!”

He slammed the man against the nearest wall, having closed the distance between them in a second. The man’s sternum cracked against his hand. Whoops. Wait, he didn’t care. “None of your business,” Acnologia replied, somewhat cheekily.

His frown returned immediately as the child continued to wheeze. He was starting to convulse, too. Damn, he was so small—not even adults could survive. “Where. Did. You. Get. The. Lacrima?” He pushed harder, feeling his entire rib cage begin to give.

The stupid mage tried to cast a spell instead of answer. This time, Acnologia inhaled all of the ether out of his disgusting magic to save the time. Finally, the man began to reek of fear.

“Th-th-the Bosco trade!” the man hissed. He offered a bloody, insincere smile. “I just did it to save my son’s life.”

“Bullshit.” He should really just kill the man right now. Acnologia got the information he wanted, and this guy was pissing him off big time. “You know you’ve doomed him.”

The smile turned even more rotten. “He’s my son.” The implications were clear enough, and Acnologia had enough of him. He pierced his heart with a bolt of magic, and the man dropped to the floor. He didn’t have the time nor the patience to deal with some sleezy human.

The child was the pressing concern now.

He was seizing, his little body desperately trying to handle the immense power put into him. It might also be to the nature of the lacrima itself—Acnologia could see the sparks of electricity peeling off of him. Mages tended to be immune or at least resistant to their element, but the magic was newly introduced, and the boy’s skin was burning. With a mild sense of horror, he noted that he nearly blew out his right eye.

There was nothing Acnologia could do regarding the seizing, but he could prevent further injury. He grabbed the boy and effortlessly turned him on his side, and to his relief, the ragged breathing came somewhat steadier. There was a wad of leather in his mouth, most likely given to him by his idiot ‘father,’ and with annoyance, he took it out. Sure, if the kid grew his canines this quickly (which he wouldn’t) it might be warranted, but it would be more troublesome if the kid choked.

As for the cause, Acnologia paused, considerate. This wasn’t a situation he had handled before, and though he had watched many dragon slayers get imbued, none were by lacrima and all were adults. The magic was enchanted on, and never in such bulk. It was possible that he may be suffering from overload, or he might just be suffering from the element chosen. He was wary of giving the boy magic deficiency syndrome, but he didn’t see much else of an option: he syphoned the excess energy.

He didn’t want to eat raw-lacrima (condensed ether-nano was hard even on his stomach) so he re-directed it outward, blowing a hole into a nearby wall. The boy went lax. Good. His heartrate wasn’t so erratic anymore, and the seizing calmed to the occasional twitch of electricity.

Damn, he was still burned pretty badly, however. It had been lifetimes since Acnologia acted as a doctor, or even used healing magic in any serious manner, but it wasn’t something to be forgotten. In fact, with his magic reserves more potent, and his knowledge more refined, it would probably be more effective, even though he didn’t feel worthy to wield it.

Not that his history would matter to the kid in this moment. Frowning at the long-forgotten sensation of his base healing spell, Acnologia bent over the child and held his hand over his eye. It was no sky-magic—it wouldn’t reverse the wound—but it would remove the pain. (Maybe he should study healing magic again.) Eye wounds hurt like a fiend anyway, so the boy better be grateful.

He smelled more burns, so he removed the boy’s shirt to investigate. There was a large, spiraling electrical scar on his left pectoral, no doubt from the central congregation of the lacrima before it was dispersed through his body. Acnologia healed that one as well and then searched for more. There were none, which meant that the boy was either lucky, or he was inclined towards lightning magic from the start.

The boy wouldn’t die—he was mostly sure. He could leave him be, and be on his way, but… Acnologia was reminded of the man he killed, sprawled unpleasantly across the floor. If he was his father, then maybe the kid shouldn’t wake up to that. They were also in the middle of nowhere, and even though he was now imbued with incredible magic, he was just a child. Children weren’t supposed to be alone.

With a heavy sigh, Acnologia scooped up the boy. He would have loved to exit this sky-forsaken creepy dark guild house, but there wasn’t anywhere else to go. He settled for another room. He found a cot set up upstairs—there was more evidence that this was a budding base of operations of sorts—and laid the boy there. Now, he just needed to figure out what to do with this mess.


Kids slept like a rock—or maybe it was just kids with lacrimas newly inserted into their bodies. Regardless of the reason, it gave Acnologia plenty of time to explore and to think.

He poked around the base because there wasn’t anything else to do, and he was too restless to sleep himself. It was pathetic. His opinion of the dark-haired human dropped lower, if that was even possible. It was all dark trade offers, shitty enchantments that reeked of paranoia, and plans on stealing some artifact from a guild he was apparently a part of. It was overly conniving and far too sad to even be amusing.

As to the boy, he was at something of a loss. Acnologia had no delusions that he was a fit enough person to deal with a child. Besides, rifling through the father’s stuff proved that the kid had other family. (Even though his mother was paid off to leave, which was utterly depraved in itself and reaffirmed his justification in killing that bastard.) He could leave him in Magnolia, where it looked like he was from, and let the kid figure out the rest. Problem solved.

The other problem, however, was the very fact that he was a dragon slayer. He couldn’t imagine going through that without guidance. He had had the other slayers and even the dragons he was supposed to help to give him pointers, despite being distracted by his own motives. Even then, he handled the mental changes…poorly. It was a known fact that acquiring dragon senses and magic included the hormones, which was a difficult transition. He, of course, handled it extremely poorly and let himself be overwhelmed by his rage. The kid deserved a warning at least, and guidance at most. Not that Acnologia thought himself qualified in the slightest.

Even then, none of that would hold a candle to what his fate held for him. Granted, Acnologia couldn’t be positive that becoming a slayer through lacrima would guarantee him the same fate of becoming a dragon, but the possibility was there. He felt responsible for it, in a way. He did claim himself king of the dragons, all of those years ago, he thought bitterly. Maybe this was Fate’s twisted way of making him own up to it.

Before he could continue the train of thought, he heard the child begin to stir. Acnologia returned to the room just as he was waking up, groggy and still dazed. His gray eyes could barely focus. “…Dad…?”

“No,” Acnologia grunted, already annoyed and regretting his decisions. “Sorry to disappoint.”

This, even in his less-than-present state, began to drive the child to panicked alertness. “Who— Who are you?! Where’s my dad?!”

Dead. By miracle, he had the resolve not to blurt it outright. Later, when he thought the little thing wouldn’t have a complete conniption. “Gone,” he replied, still curtly but nice for his standards. “He’s not important right now. You’re the one who almost died.”

The child eyed his warily. He could smell his anxiety. “You didn’t answer my first question.”

“Don’t ask more than one at once, pipsqueak.” Acnologia pinched the bridge of his nose. No, don’t yell at the human child. Be nice. Be nice. He sighed. “I’m…” Shit, he didn’t think this through. His name was still feared in some circles, and he wasn’t keen on giving it out lest expectations come and find him. He needed a better epithet than the ‘Black Dragon of the Apocalypse.’ “…a doctor.” It felt like a lie, but considering the circumstance, this was a viable option. He did give him aid.

The boy still looked wary, but he softened at the response. Good to know doctors were still respected in this era. “Did my dad bring you here to help with the procedure?”

He scoffed. “No. Of course not.” So, the kid knew he was going through a procedure, at least. Weird thing to call it though. “Doctor’s aren’t normally called for illegal lacrima insertions.”

The kid blinked owlishly at him. “I-illegal…lacrima?” He fidgeted in his seat. “Why would a medical lacrima be…illegal?”

He couldn’t help it this time: Acnologia laughed. Wow, that shit-face really had this naïve boy in the palm of his hand, didn’t he? He managed to quiet his laughter at the disturbed look on the boy, but it was hard, because that was hilarious. “I don’t know what he told you, but it wasn’t a medical lacrima,” he explained. “Wait. What did he tell you?”

“H-he said that it would help me be stronger, be-because my body was weak…” The smell of shame rolled off the tiny boy in waves. Weak? Acnologia didn’t smell anything particularly wrong with the boy, although, the dragon lacrima was already doing its work.

Ironic thing was, it wasn’t a lie, in a direct sense. But it was obviously an avoidance of the truth. “Did he tell you that you were more likely to die than not from that insertion?” he rebutted, perhaps too harshly. Kid looked like he was about to piss himself. Shit. Acnologia sighed. “Look, what your old man put in you was an illegal dragon lacrima. It’s a miracle you survived, and that was with no help from him. And even though you did survive, your life is going to be different from now on.”

The boy looked downcast and thoughtful. Somber. “What do you know, about all of this?” he asked, almost accusingly. Poor twerp was probably still trying to believe in his father.

Acnologia bent down in front of him, meeting his eyes. He was not a vain creature, but he knew what he looked like, so he knew what the boy saw: reptilian eyes, arcane markings, and when he pulled his lip upwards in a half-hearted attempt at a smile, sharp teeth. “I’m a dragon slayer—like you are now.”

“I thought you said you were a doctor?”

He stood back up. “People can be many things, whether in open or in secret.” And did he know the truth of that: man, dragon—healer, killer. Any more ‘contradictions’ and he would be like that black wizard bastard. “I don’t care what you believe of me, just remember that.”

The kid looked like there was more he wanted to say, but the fatigue was catching up to him in the passing of his panic. Either he was really tired, or the brat was starting to trust him. Huh. Naïve indeed. “Later,” he commanded, sensing the boy’s intent. “Go back to sleep.”

“But—” The boy tried to fight it, but Acnologia was not an Arcane Dragon without precedence, and sleep magic was simple, if one knew how to manipulate ether-nano itself. The boy never stood a chance.

Snoring lightly, Acnologia tucked the boy into the crook of his arm. He had a plan this time.


“For the last time!” An angry woman’s voice resonated from the little forest cottage. He didn’t need to see her to know she was waving that broom around. “Do not try to sell me your damn coo— Oh. It’s you.”

Porlyusica frowned in the doorway, lowering her broom. “You were just here,” the misanthropic woman accused. “Don’t tell me you lost that fertilizer.”

“Of course not.” (He left it by that tree. Hopefully it was still there when he returned for it, and if not, it wasn’t worth the woman’s wrath.) “It’s something new.”

There were very, very few people that Acnologia chose to associate himself with, but the hermit of Magnolia’s forest was one of them. She never asked many questions, and her straight forwardness was to be admired. They shared a sense of isolation and knowledge of the medicines and gardening, making their acquaintanceship mutual. It was ironic, knowing that she was some otherworldly counterpart of the dragoness Grandeeny, a dragon that he should have been allied with but inevitably betrayed. It wasn’t information Porlyusica gave freely, of course, but their voices and their scents were identical. Her Edolas secret was safe with him, however. He couldn't care less. In a way, it was an odd chance at redemption. And, in return, he knew that the old woman couldn't care less about his patronage, after all these years, despite being dragon with a blood-drenched past. He also knew that she was still somewhat affiliated with the human population, making her a suitable resource for him in this moment.

Acnologia pushed aside his cloak, revealing the sleeping child in his arm.

Her eyes widened with recognition, and she dropped the broom altogether. “Laxus?!”

“Oh good, you know him.” She ushered him inside, and he laid the kid on her patient-bed. “That would make this easier.”

“Explain. Now.”

He did. Acnologia spared no detail, too tired to think of any consequence to hiding any information and unwilling to do the same thing that human did. Porlyusica listened without interruption, so the explanation went quickly.

She held her head in a tired hand. “So, Ivan is dead, hm?”

“I hope you’re not looking for an apology.”

Porlyusica sighed, sounding as old as he was. “No. He was always a bad apple.” She looked at the child. “It’s going to hurt them, however.”

It would. Human attachment was fascinating in that matter. You miss those who hurt you and hate those who never wished to. He supposed dragons weren’t that different, however.

Acnologia pulled out a slip of paper. “Here’s the location. The boy might want to see for himself, one day.” He paused, hesitant of incurring her random outbursts of anger. “…the body is also still there.”

Her forehead twitched. He could picture the broom vividly. “I expect that to change before I send Makarov there.”

“…yes ma’am.”

Her scowl melted back into a frown. “Dragon slayer magic… To think it still exists.” Porlyusica side eyed Acnologia. “Is there anything I should expect to come of this?”

“Plenty,” he grunted. “But with enough emotional grounding, he’ll be fine for now.”

“And later?”

It was a fate he wished could be avoided. Maybe by some miracle, it would be. “I will bear responsibility for that.”

Acnologia left the child in her care, knowing that she would take him back to his grandfather when he was awake and stable. He gave her the rundown of what to look out for, but he did promise that he would check up on the kid every once in a while, to make sure nothing drastic happened.

King of the Dragons, huh? Fate really did have a twisted sense of humor.