𝑳𝑬𝑮𝑨𝑪𝒀 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑳𝑶𝑺𝑻 • 𝐴𝐶𝑂𝑇𝐴𝑅

LEGACY OF THE LOST

LEGACY OF THE LOST

—ERZA'S NOT EVEN FULLY CLOTHED when her world is turned upside down. She is only in her silk night gown and nothing else when the rift appears in her private chambers to rip through her things like a tornado. It's as tall and wide as her standard cherry wood wardrobe—which she notices it has just swallowed whole—and it's growing each second she stands there staring at it, gawking at the sheer absurdity of its presence.

She should scream; it's what any damsel in her position would do. Alert the guards outside to her predicament so they can take care of it or die trying. And she will, just as soon as she investigates a little further. Because she knows, as soon as it's made apparent that there's any danger, she will be escorted to safety. Far away from this spectacular phenomena.

The hole is halfway through eating her four poster bed, and she has to step away as it gets a little close.

It's pitch dark, like a big ball of night rolling around. And silent. It makes no sound as it snatches up all her belongings. Like a thief.

She takes another step back.

The only explanation she can come up with is magic, but the only magic she's ever seen or heard of is amateur sorcery. And that's more potions and protection runes—heresy—than this raw power she's looking at.

It's absolutely stunning, and she cannot wait to touch it.

Rolling up the milky white sleeve of her gown to her elbow, she stretches out her hand. She really only intends to brush a finger against it—because what loss is a single finger in the name of curiosity? But the hole grows a little large a little too fast and she's placed her whole hand inside the nothingness. The feeling is rather unremarkable, just stale cold.

She realizes quickly that this is possibly her worst idea to date. Because just as she begins to pull back, upset with her boring findings, the rift gives her some resistance. There is no pressure anywhere on her hand, nothing like being grabbed or held down, but she cannot move it. She can flex her fingers, or she thinks she can; she cannot see them to prove it.

"Give me back my hand," she says adamantly, as if scolding a stubborn child.

It doesn't listen, just like a child would.

Instead, it just continues to creep and crawl further up her arm until it's touching her precious gown at her elbow. She frowns, hoping that it is not ruining her favorite night clothes.

It's only now that she begins to call for help, not that she has all too much hope for her arm. They may have to chop it off at her shoulder, which is quite unfortunate. Growing whole limbs from scratch is quite tedious.

"Friedrich! Rostan!" They don't even hesitate to barge through her door, listening dutifully at all hours of the evening for trouble. But they stop dead in their tracks at the sight before them, and she feels a little silly. She must look a mess in her sleeping garments, attached to the strange black mass. "A little assistance, if you would."

Rostan stutters something about going for the other guards, or the captain, or maybe even her father before running away. Friedrich, though, narrows his wide eyes into determined slits, and he dashes forward with his sword drawn. He takes a bold stab at the black hole but the blade just gets stuck and sucked in—as Erza assumed it would—and he has to drop the hilt and back away before his hand is similarly trapped.