Conrad fans who try to make people believe that their favorite character and their team is the most harassed compared to the Jeremiah / Belly team... Of course... It's hard to accept that you are in a community mainly made up of people who make ultra problematic remarks (misogyny, sexism, homophobia, biphobia, elitism, comments on rape culture, etc.). The character of Jeremiah and that of Belly are so hated by a part of the fandom (most of the time by Bonrad / Conrad stans) that the actors themselves suffer harassment. It's just mind-boggling the proportions that all this takes. But your Manchild is the one who suffers the most hate ? Really ? The joke.
Most hated boyfriend no he's the most beloved only hated by the delusional stans of old man joe goldberg
Jenny Han created a version of “love” that she clearly doesn’t understand. She honestly needs therapy, no joke 😭
She thinks obsession is love.
Psychopaths “love” too.
They adore their object. They treat them like dolls, decide for them what to eat, how to live, think they know better than them.
They know every inch of the adored object, all their habits, and also get aroused just by seeing them. They can even be loyal to this one object and not look at anyone else for years.
Fuck. This is exactly what’s happening with Conrad — it’s deeply unhealthy and absolutely not sexy. Conrad isn’t a “psycho killer stalker” — but he is a controlling obsessive man. And control is not love. Control means “I know better than you, I’ll decide for you.” Real love means “I see you, I respect your choices, I want you to be happy — even if it’s not with me.”
People, do you really not see this??
And it disgusts me that this is being romanticized by the plot
• Not once during the season did he ask her what she feels, who she wants to be with, whether she still loves him, or what’s going on with her and Jere.
• He firmly believes that he gave her to his brother (that alone is a red flag), instead of accepting that she made her own choice.
• He just wants her like a psycho who is obsessed with her and has been stagnating for 4 years.
• He constantly decides for her, never respecting her choices, and even thinking of her as “ridiculous” for choosing Jere and especially for forgiving him. He really decides what’s better for her and it’s disturbing
⟢ Summary: after rejecting your nerdy ass roommate for the hundredth time, you thought he’d bounce back like he always did. But when a new girl enters your group project, you start to realize he’s changing — softening, opening up, and maybe even falling in love again… just not with you.
⟢ Pairing: platonic nerdjo x fem!reader
⟢ Tags: modern au, angst, slow burn, hurt/no comfort, roommates to lovers (with twist), love triangle, nerdjo, toxic arguments, sassy reader, rejection, love confession, first kiss, a lot of regret.
⟢ wc: 4.6k
⟢ Note: idk how to contiune from now on i'm so cooked...
dividers by @/chilumitos and @/cursed-carmine !!
<< part 2 — part 4 >>
the next time you saw him in the library two days later, yuna was there too, laughing softly at something he’d said, sitting close enough their elbows touched when they wrote in their notebooks.
satoru didn’t lean away.
he didn’t really smile either — not in the way he used to when it was you saying something — but he didn’t look uncomfortable this time. if anything, he looked… tired. and quietly grateful for the attention.
you told yourself you were imagining the hollow in your chest. that it didn’t matter who he let sit close.
but the truth settled in your stomach like a stone:
you’d seen him care. you’d pushed him away.
and you weren’t sure you wanted him looking at anyone else like that.
you didn’t mean to stare. it was just that yuna’s laugh was too loud for the library — high and bright, like she didn’t care about the dirty looks from the next table. satoru had that faint half-smile he wore when he wasn’t quite sure how to respond, but he didn’t shift away when her arm brushed his again.
you dropped your gaze to your laptop screen, scrolling through your notes like you were searching for something. but the words blurred, replaced by the memory of his voice from two nights ago: i like you.
he hadn’t said it like a joke. not like you always did.
“hey,” yuna’s voice broke through your thoughts. “you have the lab results from last week, right?”
you handed them over without looking up. satoru was leaning slightly toward her now, peering at the page in her hand. his hair fell into his eyes, and she reached up — without hesitation — to push it back.
he blinked at her touch, then murmured thanks. you forced your eyes back to the glowing white of your screen before you could read his expression.
by the end of the session, you were packing your bag slower than usual, just to avoid walking with them. but when you stepped outside, there they were a few paces ahead — yuna talking animatedly, satoru listening with that patient tilt of his head.
he didn’t notice you. or maybe he did, but didn’t know what to do with the space between you.
you went the long way home.
friday night, you found yourself in the kitchen making tea when he came in, hair damp from a shower, glasses fogged.
“hey,” you said, because ignoring him felt worse.
he nodded, opening the fridge. “hey.”
silence settled, heavier than it used to be.
“you and yuna seem… close,” you said finally, aiming for casual.
he glanced over, one brow faintly raised. “she’s easy to talk to.”
you wanted to say i used to be easy to talk to. but instead you sipped your tea and shrugged. “if you say so.”
he hesitated, like he might say more, then just grabbed a bottle of water and left.
later, you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about how his shoulders had looked broader in that hoodie. about the little frown line between his brows when he’d looked at you, like he was still carrying that night on the street with him.
and for the first time, you wondered what it would be like if he didn’t look at you that way anymore.
by the time monday rolled around, the three of you were deep into the mid-project grind. your table in the library had an unspoken seating chart now — yuna on one side, satoru next to her, you across from them both.
it wasn’t like he’d chosen it. he just… didn’t move when she sat down first.
she’d lean into his space without thinking, pointing at a chart in his notebook, handwriting brushing his arm, hair falling across his page. and he’d shift a little — enough to read properly — but never enough to pull away.
it wasn’t romantic. not yet. but you could feel it brewing in that quiet, steady way satoru did everything.
“your variables are mislabeled,” you said, tapping your pen on yuna’s page.
“oh,” she said with a sheepish grin. “thanks. i always mix those two up.”
satoru leaned over to look. “you swapped them in the dataset too,” he murmured. his voice had that same softness it used to have when he was explaining something to you.
you forced your eyes down to your own notes before you could read too much into it.
living with him now was… strange.
you’d hear him laugh at something yuna texted him while he was on the couch, or see him sitting at the counter with his head bent over his phone, hoodie bunched up around his neck.
he wasn’t avoiding you exactly. he’d still ask if you wanted coffee when he made his, still remind you if there was a bill due. but there was a new caution in the way he spoke to you — like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing.
and maybe you’d started talking to him less, because you didn’t want to hear about her.
the turning point — for you, anyway — came on a thursday night. the three of you were leaving the library again, already finalized your data before the weekend, when the storm hit.
yuna squeaked, clutching her bag like it would dissolve, and satoru — without missing a beat — tugged his hoodie off and draped it over her head.
“here,” he mumbled, pulling the hood down so it covered her hair. his glasses were already speckled with drops, his t-shirt clinging slightly to his shoulders.
you blinked at them, the two of them moving together under the same patch of fabric, while the rain hit your face in cold, relentless sheets.
“we should run!” you shouted over the downpour.
satoru glanced back at you, hesitating for a fraction of a second before nodding. “yeah — let’s go!”
but when you did, his stride matched yuna’s, his arm still half-curved around her as you trailed a few paces behind.
by the time you reached the dorms, your hair was plastered to your head, and your shoes made that awful squelch against the tile.
satoru shook his head like a wet dog, pushing his glasses up his nose. yuna was laughing, brushing water off her sleeves, still holding his hoodie like it was something precious.
“thanks, satoru,” she said with a warm smile.
he ducked his head, ears pink. “it’s fine. you’d have been soaked."
you glanced down at yourself pointedly — drenched sweater, jeans dark with water — but didn’t say anything.
when you and satoru finally made it back to your shared dorm, yuna having peeled off toward her building, the silence was almost louder than the rain outside.
he dumped his bag by the couch, pushing damp hair back from his forehead. “want the shower first?”
you kicked off your soaked shoes. “nah. go ahead, hero.”
his brows knit faintly. “what?”
“nothing,” you said quickly, hanging your jacket to drip in the bathroom.
when he came out fifteen minutes later, hair fluffy and a loose sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, you were curled on the couch with a mug of tea. the steam fogged your glasses a little when you looked up.
“are you mad at me?” he asked finally, toweling at his hair.
you snorted. “why would i be mad? just because you played knight-in-shining-polyester for yuna and left me to drown?”
he blinked, mouth opening, then closing again. “…i didn’t think you needed it.”
you arched a brow. “oh, right. i forgot i’m invincible.”
he shifted awkwardly, looking at the floor. “you… kinda are.”
you stared at him. “i’m sorry—what?”
he froze mid-towel, like maybe he’d said something wrong but wasn’t entirely sure what it was yet. “i just meant… you don’t need me to protect you.”
the laugh that came out of you was sharp, humorless. “wow. that’s… something.”
satoru’s brows furrowed behind his glasses. “it’s not—”
“you really think you get to decide that? that you’re allowed to run around playing hero for other people but not me because… what? you’ve decided i’m invincible?”
“i didn’t mean—”
“or is it just yuna you think is worth the effort?” the words came out before you could stop them, and the instant they hit the air, his whole posture changed.
he set the towel down slowly. “that’s not fair.”
“oh, i’m sorry, are we doing fair now? because it sure didn’t feel fair walking back in the rain while you were busy making sure she stayed nice and dry—”
“i was just—” he cut himself off, jaw tightening. for once, he wasn’t fumbling for a dozen polite qualifiers. “i was just trying to help. that’s all.”
“funny how ‘help’ looks a lot like favoritism.”
something flickered behind his eyes — frustration, maybe. “you’re twisting it. you… you make it sound like i don’t care about you.”
you crossed your arms. “do you?"
the room went still. rain hissed against the window, a slow, steady rhythm. his mouth opened like he was about to answer — really answer — but then he shut it again, looking away.
that, somehow, hurt worse than anything else.
“right,” you said quietly. “thanks for clearing that up.”
“i didn’t—” his voice caught, and when he tried again it was sharper. “you always do this.”
you blinked. “do what?”
“turn everything i say into a fight. like i’m—” his hand moved in some vague, helpless gesture, like he couldn’t find the words fast enough. “like i’m trying to hurt you when i’m not. i don’t know what you want from me.”
the answer — the real one — hovered at the tip of your tongue, but you swallowed it down, replacing it with a scoff. “maybe i just want a roommate who doesn’t make me feel like an afterthought.”
for a second, you thought he’d come back at you, push the argument further. but then his shoulders slumped, his gaze dropping to the carpet.
“guess i can’t give you that,” he said quietly.
the air between you thickened — heavy, humid, suffocating — but you weren’t ready to let it drop.
“then what can you give me, satoru?” the sarcasm was sharp, but your voice cracked halfway through, and you hated that he probably heard it. “because right now it’s not much. unless you count awkward silences and watching you bend over backward for someone you barely know.”
his hands clenched at his sides. “you think i’m— what, choosing her over you?”
“you literally did that tonight.”
“i was just trying to—”
“don’t say ‘help’ again,” you snapped, stepping closer. “don’t pretend it’s just that when you’ve been looking at her like she’s—”
“stop it,” he cut in, and it was the first time you’d ever heard his voice sound that sharp. it didn’t suit him, but it landed like a punch. “you don’t get to tell me what i feel.”
“then tell me!” your chest rose and fell too fast. “tell me you don’t like her. tell me i’m wrong.”
he stared at you, and his silence was the answer you’d been dreading.
something in you went cold. “wow. guess that’s all i needed to know.”
you turned to walk away, but his voice followed, tighter, more urgent. “it’s not like i planned it! i didn’t—”
that laugh — bitter and humorless — ripped out of you again. “of course not. feelings just happen, right? you just— oops, i fell for my project partner, who just happens to need rescuing every five minutes.”
“you make it sound like i’m some… lovesick idiot—”
“if the shoe fits.”
that’s when he snapped.
“i wouldn’t even be in this mess if it weren’t for you,” he said, the words tumbling out too fast, too raw. “you think it’s fun? being stuck in the same apartment as you while you push me away over and over? i—” he cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, looking almost frantic. “i tried. i tried to like you less, to get over it, but you— you never made it easy. and now—”
your heart stumbled. “wait. what did you just—”
“forget it,” he muttered, but his voice cracked at the edges. “doesn’t matter. you’ve made it clear what you think of me. i’m just the nerdy roommate with noodle arms who should stick to people like yuna.”
the sting of his words — of your own words coming back twisted — hit before you could think. your hand moved before your brain caught up.
the sound of the slap was loud in the tiny space.
he didn’t touch his cheek. just stared at you, wide-eyed, breathing hard.
for a long second, neither of you moved. the rain outside sounded like static.
“i can’t do this right now,” you said, voice shaking. “i can’t even look at you.”
and you grabbed your jacket, even though it was still damp from earlier, and walked out into the hallway.
the door clicked shut behind you, but you still heard him call after you, low and bitter:
“go ahead. run away. you’re good at that.”
you didn’t look back. not even when your vision blurred and the elevator doors closed in front of you.
the rain had stopped by the time you made it outside, but the air was still damp, the kind that clung to your skin and made the night smell like wet concrete. you didn’t have a destination — just needed distance. anywhere but the four walls that felt too small, too heavy with his voice still ringing inside your head.
you walked until the city lights blurred into a quiet stretch of side streets, until your phone buzzed twice in your pocket and you ignored it both times. satoru’s name on the screen might’ve tipped you over the edge.
back in the dorm, he sat on the couch exactly where you’d left him. the tv was on but muted, the flickering blue light casting soft shadows over his face. his glasses had slipped halfway down his nose, but he didn’t fix them. didn’t move much at all. just stared at the blank space in front of him like maybe if he focused hard enough, the fight would play out differently in his head.
the towel from earlier was still draped over the back of the couch. he pulled it into his lap, fingers worrying the edge until the threads frayed.
you didn’t come back that night.
he didn’t sleep much, either. kept glancing at the door every time the elevator dinged down the hall. when the morning light finally pushed through the blinds, he was still there, hoodie pulled tight around him like armor.
when you finally returned — sometime after eight — the silence that met you was worse than shouting. he was in his room, door half-closed, headphones in. you thought about knocking. you didn’t.
the next few days slid by in fragments:
you in the kitchen making coffee while he grabbed his keys without a word, him hunched over his laptop at the dining table typing furiously, you both on opposite ends of the couch during a late project meeting with yuna, talking only when absolutely necessary.
yuna noticed, of course. she kept glancing between you two during meetings, her brows knitting like she was piecing together a puzzle she didn’t have all the corners for. she didn’t say anything — but her eyes lingered a little longer on satoru each time, like she was testing the waters.
it shouldn’t have bothered you.
by the fourth night, the tension had calcified into a kind of unspoken truce — you didn’t bring up the fight, he didn’t either. but the dorm felt different now. smaller. like every movement was a negotiation.
you caught him once, in the kitchen, making tea. his back was to you, and you saw the slope of his shoulders, the way his hoodie hung a little loose, the faint muscle line in his forearms when he reached for a mug.
for half a second, you thought about apologizing. the words were right there — but then he turned, caught your gaze, and whatever softness had started to form in your chest burned away under the weight of his quiet, guarded look.
you mumbled something about needing your charger and retreated to your room.
neither of you slept much that night.
it was yuna’s idea.
“your place is closer to campus,” she said during your group meeting in the library, smiling like it was already decided. “we can work late without worrying about the last bus.”
you hesitated, glancing at satoru. his eyes flicked up from his laptop for a second, then dropped back down. he didn’t object.
so that’s how you ended up with the three of you squeezed into the living room that night, laptops open, textbooks spread across the coffee table. the lamp in the corner cast a warm pool of light, but the rest of the room was dim, shadows stretching along the walls.
yuna sat beside satoru on the couch, her knee brushing his every now and then. he didn’t flinch — but you caught the faint, distracted smile he wore when she leaned over to point something out on his screen.
it shouldn’t have bothered you.
you sat cross-legged on the floor, half-facing them, your own laptop balanced on your knees. every click of her keyboard felt too loud. every time she laughed — soft and light — you noticed the way he looked at her, even if it was just for a heartbeat.
you hated how much you noticed.
two hours in, you excused yourself to get water, mostly just to get some air that didn’t feel heavy with whatever was going on between them. when you came back, satoru’s hoodie was draped over the back of the couch, his t-shirt sleeves pushed up. he was leaning closer to yuna, explaining something, and you could see the faint muscle line in his arm as he gestured.
your mouth was dry, and not from thirst.
the session dragged past midnight. eventually, yuna packed up, thanking you both with that easy smile of hers before heading out into the quiet hallway. the door clicked shut behind her, leaving you and satoru alone in the dimly lit living room.
he was packing up his own laptop when he said it.
“you know… you kinda are.”
you froze. “…i kinda am what?”
“jealous.” he said it like he’d been thinking it for a while, like the word had been sitting on his tongue just waiting for a crack in the air to slip through.
the irritation flared before you could stop it. “excuse me?”
his gaze lifted, steadier than usual. “i see how you look at me when she’s here.”
“that’s rich, coming from you.” you set your laptop down a little harder than necessary. “do you seriously think i—”
“it’s not a bad thing,” he cut in, but there was a tightness to his voice. “just… wish you’d admit it.”
you stared at him, heat climbing your neck. “wow. so now you’re reading my mind?”
he didn’t back down. “no. i’m just—”
and maybe it was the hour, or the lingering fight, or the way he was watching you now — but something in you snapped. “you’re just what, satoru? going to tell me again how much you like her? how i should be okay with it? how i should just sit here in our apartment and watch you fall for someone else?”
the air between you was too tight, too still. he stepped forward, and for once, didn’t look away.
“i like you,” he said, and his voice was awkward, a little shaky — but the words landed heavy all the same. “i have since the start. but you keep—”
“stop,” you cut in with a bitter laugh, because the only way to keep from choking on it was to make it a joke. “you don’t mean that.”
“i do.”
“sure you do.” you shook your head, forcing the sarcasm into your tone. “good one, satoru. but i’m not falling for some late-night confession just because you’re feeling lonely.”
something in his expression faltered. the space between you felt colder.
he didn’t argue. just nodded once, like that was all he needed to hear, and started gathering the rest of his things.
when he walked past you toward his room, you caught the slope of his shoulders — lower than usual, hoodie hanging loose in his grip. you didn’t hear his door close, but you knew it did.
the guilt sat heavy.
it didn’t go away the next morning, or the morning after that. it clung to you during lectures, followed you into the kitchen when you made coffee, waited for you in the quiet hallways of the dorm.
you told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. he’d move on. he always did. you’d fight, he’d sulk, and things would go back to normal. that’s how it worked with satoru.
except this time, it didn’t.
he wasn’t sulking — not in the usual sense. he wasn’t shutting down completely or avoiding you. he was… quieter. less clumsy about filling the silence with awkward jokes or nervous chatter. and when he did speak, his words didn’t aim at you anymore.
the first time you noticed it was during another project session. yuna had brought snacks, spilling a pile of chips and candy onto the table with a laugh. normally, satoru would’ve looked at you for approval, some unspoken commentary about the sugar haul. but this time, he only smiled faintly at yuna, a barely-there quirk of his mouth.
you felt your stomach dip.
he still wasn’t smooth about it — his hand knocked over a soda can in the process, nearly soaking his notes, and his ears burned red as yuna scrambled to help him clean it up. but he didn’t glance your way once, didn’t wait for you to roll your eyes at him.
it was small. so small you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.
but then there were more.
the way he held the door for her when the three of you left campus late one evening, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket after like it was no big deal. the way he bent his head slightly when she laughed too loudly, like he was trying to catch it, memorize it. the way he listened — really listened — when she explained her ideas, his pencil scratching quick notes even after she stopped talking.
he’d never been that subtle with you. his attention used to come loud, clumsy, impossible to miss. now it was… careful. almost tentative.
and you hated how easily you noticed.
back at the dorm, the silence between you both changed texture. not brittle anymore, not sharp like it had been after the fight. now it was heavy, dragging. you’d catch him sitting at the table with his laptop open, his expression oddly thoughtful, only for him to snap upright when you walked in.
one night, you came home late to find him asleep on the couch, glasses crooked, yuna’s pen still tucked behind his ear from earlier. you stood there too long, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his hoodie sleeves were shoved halfway up his arms.
you hated the ache that crawled up your throat.
and for the first time, it hit you — really hit you — that maybe he wasn’t yours to reject anymore.
you told yourself it was nothing. just a phase. just him trying to move on from the fight.
until the night you walked into the library a few minutes late, and froze at the sight of them.
satoru was leaning across the table toward yuna, voice low. she was smiling, tucking her hair behind her ear in that absent way she did.
“…i just… i really like working with you,” he said, words stumbling over themselves. “not just for the project, i mean—like, in general. i… i like being around you.”
you couldn’t move. couldn’t breathe.
yuna blinked at him, startled, then softened. “that’s sweet, satoru.”
he ducked his head, shoving his pencil behind his ear. his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his notebook. “yeah. just… thought i should say it.”
it wasn’t a full confession. not quite. but it was more than he’d ever given anyone else — more than he’d ever given you.
and when yuna smiled at him again, you knew.
he wasn’t pretending anymore.
you should’ve looked away. should’ve faked a phone call, circled back out the doors, anything but standing there frozen with your stomach sinking like stone.
but you didn’t. you couldn’t.
satoru shifted in his seat, leg bouncing under the table. his usual stammer was there, but softer, like he wasn’t hiding behind it anymore. like he was pushing through it.
“i know i’m… not exactly, um… smooth. or cool. or anything like that,” he muttered, his hand tightening around his pencil. “but i… i think you’re amazing, yuna. you’re smart, and funny, and—” he stopped, breathed, pushed forward again, “and when you talk, it’s like i actually want to listen. like i don’t want to miss anything.”
yuna blinked at him, her cheeks warming. “satoru…”
he laughed under his breath, the sound nervous but real. “i’m probably making this awkward, huh? sorry. i just—” his hand lifted halfway, then dropped. “i like you. i really like you.”
the air between them changed — thick, quiet, electric in a way you hadn’t felt from him in a long time. not with you.
yuna’s lips parted, slow, hesitant. then her smile softened, and she reached across the table, her fingers brushing his wrist. “you’re not awkward. not to me.”
satoru froze, staring down at her touch like it was something fragile he wasn’t supposed to hold. his ears burned scarlet, his chest rising with a shaky inhale.
and then she leaned in, closing the distance.
it wasn’t long, wasn’t heavy — just the press of her lips against his, light and certain. but the way his eyes fluttered shut, the way his hand clenched into a fist on the table to steady himself — it was enough. more than enough.
your heart pounded so loud you were sure they’d hear it.
when they pulled back, satoru’s glasses had slid down his nose, his face pink all the way to his neck. but his smile — small, stunned, disbelieving — was unlike anything you’d seen before.
“…wow,” he whispered, blinking like he was afraid he’d dreamt it.
yuna laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “wow,” she echoed, eyes shining.
you stood there another second too long before slipping into a chair across the room, pretending to rifle through your notes. pretending you hadn’t seen. pretending you weren’t unraveling from the inside out.
satoru didn’t even notice you come in.
and maybe, along the way, you already fell for satoru.
Aurora Jaeger, Eren's long-lost childhood friend, was taken from him when they were children. After years of suffering under Marleyan control, Aurora is reunited with Eren while he’s undercover in Marley, igniting a bond neither of them expected. Despite her gentle nature, Aurora breaks her vow of pacifism to save Eren’s life, solidifying their deep connection. Secretly married before the Raid on Liberio, Aurora is swept into Eren's world of chaos and destruction. As the Scouts learn of her existence, tensions rise on the airship home. Mikasa’s heart shatters, and Levi demands answers. And Eren will stop at nothing to protect the only light left in his dark world—his bride, Aurora.
In this journey of love, loyalty, and war, Aurora must reconcile her innocent heart with the brutal reality of the man she loves, while Eren faces the truth of what he’s become. (Eren x OC)
Chapter Fifty Seven
A/N: OST for this chapter is “Call of Silence”.
A hush fell over the spacious bedroom in the royal palace, broken only by the soft murmurs of relief and the labored breathing of Aurora. She lay propped up on pillows, sweat glazing her brow, her face awash with an exhausted but radiant joy. Clutched in her arms was a small bundle, wrapped in a warm blanket. A tiny head peeked out from the fabric, sporting a tuft of platinum blonde hair reminiscent of Aurora herself, but beneath it gleamed a pair of strikingly intense green eyes that could only have come from Eren. This was Ymir Jaeger, their newborn daughter and, unbeknownst to most, a being far more special than anyone in that room could imagine.
Aurora held little Ymir close and gazed down at the baby’s delicate features. Tears of happiness rolled down her cheeks, leaving warm, salty trails. She could not believe, after so many months of anticipation and terror, that her child was finally here and safe in her embrace. Aurora’s heart swelled with a mixture of love, relief, and a gnawing fear of what might come next. She had brought new life into a world saturated with death.
Historia stood beside Aurora’s bed, one hand resting gently on her friend’s shoulder while the other drifted near the baby as if she couldn’t resist being close. The queen’s own eyes shimmered with tears she made no effort to hide. There was a tangible awe in her features. For all the time she had known Aurora, shared fears and secrets with her, she had never witnessed such a raw moment of triumph and hope against insurmountable odds. With a shaky exhale, Historia smiled down at the baby.
“She’s beautiful,” Historia whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “So much hair already… and those eyes. Oh, Aurora…” She leaned in to kiss Aurora’s temple and then pressed a gentle hand to the baby’s cheek.
The doctor who had overseen the grueling labor relaxed for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He had been on edge the entire time, aware of the constant tremors of the Wall Titans as they marched. Now, ironically, the trembling outside had ceased. The Rumbling had stopped. In the hush of the moment, that realization settled like a dark cloud in the room. Something was very wrong. The doctor cleared his throat but decided to give the mother and child a few precious seconds of peace before inevitably acknowledging the shift in the air.
Aurora, reclined against her pillows, gingerly brushed her damp hair away from her face. She lifted her watery gaze to the tall window at the far end of the bedroom. The glass gave a panoramic view of the palace grounds and, off to the side, the large, glittering crystal that stood in the courtyard. It was there Eren had encased himself using the power of the War Hammer Titan, ensuring he could manage the Rumbling from within a safe vantage point. As her eyes traveled over the crystalline form, her heart tightened. She longed for Eren to be at her side, to see his reaction when he first laid eyes on their newborn daughter. If only she could share this moment with him, unburdened by the war and devastation that plagued them.
But the hush in the room gave way to a terrified murmur when footsteps clambered outside, and a Jaegerist flung the door open. His eyes were wide and face pale. He caught sight of the doctor, Historia, and Aurora cradling the baby and tried to steady his breathing.
“The Rumbling—” he managed, panting as if he’d run across half the palace grounds. “It stopped.”
A ripple of shock and alarm passed through everyone present. For a split second, Aurora didn’t fully register the words. She just held Ymir in her arms, reluctant to let panic ruin this sacred moment. But the severity in the Jaegerist’s eyes made her stomach sink with dread.
“Stopped…?” she repeated, her voice faint. “That can’t be. Eren wouldn’t—”
“We don’t know exactly why,” the Jaegerist stammered, swallowing hard. “But the Wall Titans have all knelt. They’re not moving.”
Historia’s eyes darted from Aurora to the guard. “That means Zeke—” She didn’t finish the thought. They both knew it all too well. Without Zeke’s royal blood in continuous contact with Eren, the Rumbling would cease. Their minds traveled the same dark path: if the Rumbling had paused, it was extremely likely Zeke was dead.
Aurora’s heart pounded, her arms tightening protectively around her baby. “No,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice. “Eren… oh no.”
The doctor opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off when a loud, resounding crack echoed from somewhere outside. The guard whirled, and everyone’s attention shifted immediately to the window. The crystal encasing Eren—massive, shimmering in the sunlight—developed a spiderweb of fractures.
“Look!” another Jaegerist exclaimed, stumbling into the room behind the first. He was covered in dust and reeked of gunpowder. “The crystal— it’s breaking!”
Even from the bed, Aurora could see the crystal shimmer dangerously. Light danced across fault lines that spread like veins. Everyone in the room, from the doctor to the guards, to Historia herself, felt a wave of both dread and hope. Was Eren safe? Was he emerging?
In a matter of seconds, the crystal shattered into a thousand glittering shards. For a moment, they glinted like stars in the midday sun, raining down onto the courtyard. A powerful gust of air followed, rattling the palace windows. Then, as the dust cleared, Aurora could see the unmistakable figure of her husband standing amidst the rubble, steam rising off his body.
He staggered a bit, clearly disoriented. One hand pressed to his forehead, as though an intense migraine overwhelmed him. But the moment his gaze settled on the open palace window, he straightened. Their eyes locked—his a fierce green, hers bloodshot and glistening with tears. Every emotion Aurora felt—relief, exhaustion, fear, love—was mirrored in Eren’s intense stare. He looked as if he were seeing a miracle.
Eren tried to run, stumbled, then regained his footing, rushing across the courtyard. Aurora could no longer see him through the narrow vantage, but she heard the pounding of footsteps in the palace halls. A moment later, Eren barreled into the room, chest heaving.
“I—” he began, breathless. His eyes darted from Aurora’s tear-stained face to the small bundle in her arms. “Aurora!?”
Aurora’s emotions threatened to choke her. She parted her lips, but no words came out at first. She simply extended her free hand, beckoning him closer. Eren took three large strides and knelt beside the bed, tears already glistening in his eyes.
“She’s here,” Aurora managed in a trembling voice. “Our daughter, Eren. Our Ymir.”
Eren’s vision blurred with tears of raw relief. He leaned in, pressing a desperate kiss to Aurora’s forehead, then her lips, not caring that Historia, the doctor, and a squad of Jaegerists stood witness. He just needed to feel her warmth. He lingered there, letting his mouth rest softly against hers, as if to anchor himself in the reality that she was safe, that their child was born healthy. The entire room felt suspended in the quiet heartbreak and joy of this reunion.
Pulling back, Eren gazed down at the baby. Ymir’s bright green eyes blinked up at him, seemingly calm despite the tumultuous world outside. Eren’s shoulders shook with silent sobs. He pressed a palm to his mouth, desperate to contain the torrent of emotion.
“She looks like you,” he breathed, voice cracking. “She’s… so beautiful.”
Aurora let tears slip down her cheeks, reflecting the same sentiment. “Eren, she’s everything. And you did it… you kept me safe… you protected us both.”
But the tense hush in the room persisted. One of the older Jaegerists finally spoke, stepping forward with anxious eyes. “Commander Jaeger,” he said, remembering the question at hand, “the Rumbling— it stopped. Is that… is that because…?”
A sick feeling washed over Eren as he recalled the events of the battle. He remembered the Allied Forces searching frantically for Zeke within his Founding Titan form, the chaos of cannons going off, then the abrupt finality of losing the connection. “Zeke was… shot,” Eren muttered, not wanting to relive the moment. “I saw him— he fell into the ocean. The others… couldn’t reach him in time.”
A collective gasp rippled through the room. The doctor’s face went pale. Historia drew in a ragged breath and placed a hand over her mouth. They knew precisely what Zeke’s death implied: the Founding Titan’s power, bound by the need for a titan of royal blood, would vanish. And so would their only chance to defeat the Allied Forces.
“Then… how will we survive?” whispered one of the younger guards. His voice quivered in quiet despair. “The entire world wants us dead. If the Rumbling can’t continue, we— we’ll—”
A hush, broken only by the soft crying of Ymir in Aurora’s arms, filled the space. Everyone stared at Eren, expecting him to have a solution. But Eren said nothing at first. He simply glared at the floor as though struggling to accept the final, crushing defeat. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to Aurora’s, yearning for some kind of solace in her tearful eyes.
Aurora didn’t speak. Instead, she gently raised their infant daughter toward him. In that moment, Eren understood she wanted him to hold Ymir, to feel her tiny warmth, the life they had created together. Hesitant, terrified of dropping her, Eren slipped his hands beneath the small body, cradling Ymir against his chest.
The baby whimpered softly at first, but settled immediately upon first contact with her father’s heat, her bright green eyes drifting closed. Eren stood completely still, enthralled by how fragile and small she was. He had glimpsed heaven in that one second, and for a moment all the horror outside vanished.
Then it happened…
A flash of that unmistakable titan lightning crackled across the baby’s form, so faint it might have been overlooked if not for the watchful crowd.
Eren felt something like an electric shock pulse through his arms, traveling up into his core. His eyes went wide. Aurora, witnessing it from her bed, gasped in alarm. Historia, the doctor, and the Jaegerists jumped back, all exchanging terrified looks. Another faint spark danced, and Eren’s mind reeled, trying to make sense of it.
Suddenly, the sound of distant thunder began anew, a low rumbling that escalated into a deafening roar. Outside, the entire ground shook, more powerfully than before. Shouts carried in through the open window from the courtyard as if the kneeling Titans had risen once again.
It was Eren who spoke, face taut with comprehension. “Zeke must have died exactly when Ymir was born,” he rasped, letting out a trembling exhale. He recalled the sporadic memories he had glimpsed of Grisha’s life, how a titan shifter’s powers are transferred to a newborn Subject of Ymir if the holder dies without being consumed. “The Beast Titan… it’s… our daughter, she… inherited it.”
In the stillness, Aurora’s lips parted in astonishment. “That can’t— Are you sure…?”
But even as she asked, the ongoing quake outside confirmed the answer. The Founder’s connection had been severed the moment Zeke died, but now it returned, anchored once more to a new vessel with the necessary royal blood. By some impossible twist of fate, Eren had regained the power to direct the Rumbling, not because Zeke lived, but because Ymir Jaeger, his newborn daughter of royal descent, was now a titan shifter.
“No…” Historia uttered under her breath, one hand pressed to her heart. She looked between the infant and Eren with horror and awe mingled in her expression.
“And now I can do it,” Eren murmured, glancing down at Ymir’s tiny face. “I can finish this. The Rumbling… it’s back.”
The Jaegerists stared at each other, torn between disbelief and elation. They had been certain this was the end, that the Allied Forces would march across the ocean victorious. But with a lightning crack of infant power, the Founder’s plan resumed. They were saved. Or damned. None of them could decide which.
Aurora cradled her arms, longing to hold the baby again, but Eren had to keep little Ymir in his arms and maintain physical contact. He pressed a trembling kiss to the baby’s forehead before sitting beside Aurora on the bed.
The father in him wanted to remain completely in the moment with his family, to hold them both, but war demanded more, demanded that he face the world yet again.
“Wait,” Aurora pleaded softly, voice strained. “You just came back. Please, just— just for a second…”
Their eyes met. A thousand words lingered unspoken between them, heartbreak and love tangled in a single moment. Eren bent down, leaning his forehead to Aurora’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’ll fix this. We’ll be free soon.”
Outside, the courtyard was a cacophony of alarms and jubilant shouting. Soldiers realized that the Titans were moving again, and the walls quaked under the renewed onslaught. Fright and relief blended in uneven doses across every face. ”
Nearby, battered Jaegerists scrambled to form new defensive lines outside the palace. The day had been an endless haze of gunfire and sabotage. Many among them bled from bullet wounds, burns, or lacerations. Eren’s reemergence seemed to lend them new spirit, an almost fanatical spark in their eyes: they would defend him and Aurora’s child at all costs.
Meanwhile in the thick of the battle high above the island, an airship soared through the sky, engines humming. Inside, the cabin reeked of sweat, bandages, and disillusionment. Captain Levi sat by a small, shattered window, watching the battlefield below with stony calm. Mikasa and Armin stood close, peering out at the silhouettes of the fallen Titans. The moment they realized the Rumbling had halted, they all had felt their stomachs drop in dread. But only minutes later, the ground had vibrated with new life, and the colossal horde resumed, unstoppable.
From across the cabin, Reiner clutched his side, steam rising from the patch where he’d been shot in his Titan form. Pieck, in human form, lay close by letting out a quiet exhale of relief. Porco crouched with his head down, bruised and coughing, but alive. Jean and Connie tried to calm Sasha’s frayed nerves as she stared at the ground passing beneath them. Hange, adjusting her cracked glasses, half-laughed in delirious excitement.
“So it’s still going,” Hange noted, voice trembling with exhaustion. “Zeke must be… no, that can’t be right. If Zeke’s dead, the Rumbling should end. Unless—”
“Unless something else happened,” Armin finished. He pressed his palm to the glass. “Eren must have found another way. We have no idea how, but the Titans… they’re on the move.”
Mikasa frowned, tension etched into every line of her face. “We need to get back. With Zeke dead, Eren would have no other way to channel the Founding Titan’s power… unless something else took Zeke’s place.” She trailed off, not sure what that meant.
Levi said nothing, but a dark, comprehending look flickered across his face. If Eren managed to gain a new means of controlling the Founder, it likely spelled more trouble. The one bright spot was that, if the Titans marched, it meant Paradis wasn’t lost just yet. The Allies would be forced to retreat or face unimaginable devastation.
“Set us down in Shiganshina,” Levi muttered to the pilot. “We’ll go from there on foot.”
Down below, the sight was horrifying. The partial rubble of fallen titans littered the area, a testament to the moment the Rumbling had paused. Now, though, those same titans rose, brushing off shattered limbs, regenerating with unstoppable force. The horizon glowed orange with steam, and far in the distance, the ocean churned under the footsteps of thousands of monstrous bodies. The Allied Fleet, once so confident, was likely in full panic mode.
Commander Magath, on a battered flagship far out at sea, could scarcely believe his own eyes. He had been certain they secured victory by killing the Beast Titan. But now monstrous roars rippled across the water, and the thunder of countless footsteps hammered the planet’s crust once again. The entire coastline lit with muzzle flashes as anti-titan cannons tried in vain to hold back the unstoppable wave of heat and flesh. It was pointless.
“How are they still moving!?” Magath shouted, slamming a fist onto a rail. The bridge of the ship was chaos, with officers and crew members rushing to relay frantic orders. The rumble of the massive titans hammered the steel deck beneath them. “Zeke was eliminated— they shot him, I saw him fall. So how is Eren Jaeger controlling the Founder now?”
No one could answer. A sense of doomed finality wove itself into every soldier’s expression. The unstoppable was unstoppable yet again. Their last trick had failed, and the Rumbling advanced, mere hours away from washing them off the map.
Meanwhile in the metaphysical domain of the Paths, Eren and Aurora stood side by side. Exhaustion etched Aurora’s face, but she stayed upright, leaning slightly into Eren’s side. He cradled Ymir in his arms, the infant’s eyes closed in calm slumber. The intangible sands of the realm glowed faintly beneath their feet, and the great, ghostly silhouettes of massive trees surrounded them, reminiscent of the origin story with Ymir Fritz.
In front of them, Levi, Armin, Mikasa, Hange, Jean, Connie, Sasha, Reiner, Porco, and Pieck—who had suddenly materialized here once more—stared in bewildered awe. They recognized the intangible feeling of the Paths, they had believed all was lost when Zeke died.
“Eren,” Armin murmured, stepping forward with cautious reverence, “how… how did you do this? Zeke’s gone. We saw him fall into the ocean. So how—?”
Eren’s green eyes blazed with a furious determination, tears still stained along the edges of his lids. He pressed his palm to Aurora’s shoulder, keeping her steady. “My daughter,” he said, voice low, “is of royal blood, like her mother. When Zeke died, the power of the Beast Titan had nowhere else to go but her. Now, as soon as she was born, Ymir inherited the Beast Titan’s power. That means the Founder is still connected to a royal titan. The Rumbling continues.”
A collective gasp rippled through the group. Mikasa’s lips parted in silent understanding, while Levi’s expression darkened. He remembered hearing Eren mention that if a shifter died without passing on their power, it would transfer randomly among newborn Eldians. He just never expected it to happen the instant of birth, let alone with Eren and Aurora’s baby.
Hange let out a shaky laugh, half-hysterical. “That’s… insane. A newborn. This is the greatest stroke of luck or misfortune… I’m not even sure which.”
Porco, battered but upright, eyed Eren warily. “What about the rest of the Allies? Marley, the Global Fleet? They’ll keep fighting. They won’t stop until they’ve destroyed us, or we destroy them.”
Eren’s gaze sharpened, glancing at Ymir sleeping in his arms. “We continue,” he answered simply. “The Rumbling won’t stop again. Zeke’s gone, but now we have a new link. All that stands between us and survival is their complete annihilation.”
Armin let out a trembling breath. “Eren, are we really— we’re going to kill everyone else? Is there truly no other way? You have access to the Founder’s power now… surely you can look for alternative options?” He cast a pleading glance at Aurora, almost as if hoping she might intervene. But Aurora’s eyes were fixed on her child, a haunted acceptance in her expression. She had never wanted mass genocide, yet she wouldn’t see her daughter or the island wiped out. The fear of losing Eren and their baby overcame every other moral boundary. They had come too far to compromise now.
Eren’s stare pinned Armin in place. “I saw the future many times, Armin, and everyone led to the world wiping us off the map…except for the future in which we wipe them out first. We tried everything. Diplomacy, alliances, subterfuge. The Allies still came to our doorstep with the intent to slaughter every last one of us. We can’t risk any more losses.”
Hange closed her eyes, leaning heavily on Levi’s shoulder. She, too, had fought for a better solution. She felt the weight of countless potential innocents crushed beneath giant footsteps. But her mind reminded her that innocents on Paradis had died for decades, for generations, viewed as devils. The cycle of hatred left them no path except forward, no matter how gruesome.
Sasha whispered, “If we stop now, they’ll finish us off, right?”
Jean answered with a terse nod. “Yes. That’s the cold truth.”
Nodding faintly, Eren tightened his hold on Aurora with his free arm. She clung to him, eyes downcast. A flicker of sadness marred her delicate features, but an even stronger flicker of resolve underpinned it. If they halted the Rumbling, her child would forever live under threat. She wouldn’t allow that.
Armin pressed trembling fingers to the bridge of his nose, tears glistening. He recalled every memory of the old days: the sunny times with Eren and Mikasa in Shiganshina, his dream to see the ocean. He’d seen the ocean, all right, and that ocean was now red with the blood of armies. But he refused to sabotage Eren’s choice. They were in too deep, and loyalty overshadowed guilt.
“Then… finish it, Eren,” Levi said tersely, ignoring the knot in his gut. “We’ll do what we must, or else it’s the end of us all.”
Eren’s gaze swept the group. “Then fight,” he murmured, a spark igniting behind the green of his eyes, “until this entire cruel world bows to us or is trampled. We can’t lose.”
Slowly, the intangible space of the Paths flickered, sending them back to reality. Each soldier returned to their vantage, whether in the airship or on the ground. Eren once again found himself sitting next to Aurora as she leaned against his shoulder, baby Ymir nestled between them. Several Jaegerists who had been silent witnesses to this astral conversation jolted, blinking in confusion, as they realized precious seconds had passed like an eyeblink.
“Eren,” Aurora managed, reaching up to lay a hand on his cheek. “This is how it has to be, isn’t it?”
His voice trembled with regret. “I wish… I wish there’d been another way. But they forced our hand. I won’t let them take you, or Ymir, or anyone else from me.” He kissed Aurora’s brow, then pressed his lips to the baby’s crown of platinum hair.
Outside, day bled into a furious horizon. The Allies bombarded the Titans, panicked upon seeing them stir once more, but it was too late. The colossal figures rose in unison, unstoppable. Marley’s coastal defenses buckled under renewed tremors. The sea churned into massive waves under a thousand monstrous feet. Most of the remaining Allied ships began to retreat, battered, or sank outright under the combined might of the Titan horde.
Aurora closed her eyes, pressing a trembling kiss to her daughter’s brow. “Ymir, you’re the future,” she whispered, tears mingling with sweat. “This is all for you… for all of us to live free.”
In the distance, the thunder of footsteps reached a crescendo. And so the second wave of the Rumbling began in earnest, guided this time by the intangible link to a newly born Beast Titan. The ground shook more fiercely than ever, entire continents bracing for a final onslaught. Though many Allied soldiers fled, countless more fought to the last breath. The ocean frothed with colossal legs, unstoppable, drowning ships and leveling entire fleets.
Overhead, the sky darkened from thickening smoke and dust kicked up by the Titan horde. The day was turning nightmarish, each footstep a devastating quake. War horns blared sporadically, followed by the distinct crack of cannons. But each volley made scarcely a dent in the unstoppable mass.
Despite the horror, one small, shining hope remained for the people of Paradis: they had each other, and now they had a future. If Eren’s plan succeeded, the outside world would be flattened. None would remain to threaten Aurora’s child, to call them devils, to plan another invasion. They could breathe free air at last.
But the cost was immeasurable. Town after town beyond the island’s shores vanished under the stampede. The line between heroism and monstrosity blurred completely, overshadowed by the singular drive to protect their own. Aurora clung to that logic, tears streaking her cheeks whenever she looked down at Ymir’s tiny face. She recalled the battered remains of Liberio, the cabin in Marley where she and Eren had dreamed of a simpler life, of a family untainted by war. Reality had shown them no such mercy, so they forged their own.
Though the war waged for hours more, the final outcome was never truly in doubt. The Rumbling, anchored by the infant Beast Titan, had become unstoppable once again. Commander Magath, surviving by the narrowest margin, evacuated what was left of his command staff. For them, the new age belonged to Eren Jaeger and the devils of the island.
I don't know but I feel like Eren DIDN'T want to look for another solution he just wanted to whip out everything..
Aurora don't you dare start crying and feeling guilty..
If we are thinking logical and not emotional the rumbling shouldn't have happened..
I feel bad about all the other women, children, kids, babies and animals that died and burned alive because Eren wanted to whip out everything and Aurora wanted to be a mother...
I don't know.. But I still feel like Zeke's plan was the most "logical" one. The funny thing is that they called him a monster when what they did... They deserve that title they really are the devils.
Fuck this film. Do not fall for them bringing Stu back. They did that specifically to bring viewers back after firing their main actress and protagonist.
People's lives are more important than your desire for entertainment.
Standing up against genocide is more important than your desire for entertainment.
Aurora Jaeger, Eren's long-lost childhood friend, was taken from him when they were children. After years of suffering under Marleyan control, Aurora is reunited with Eren while he’s undercover in Marley, igniting a bond neither of them expected. Despite her gentle nature, Aurora breaks her vow of pacifism to save Eren’s life, solidifying their deep connection. Secretly married before the Raid on Liberio, Aurora is swept into Eren's world of chaos and destruction. As the Scouts learn of her existence, tensions rise on the airship home. Mikasa’s heart shatters, and Levi demands answers. And Eren will stop at nothing to protect the only light left in his dark world—his bride, Aurora.
In this journey of love, loyalty, and war, Aurora must reconcile her innocent heart with the brutal reality of the man she loves, while Eren faces the truth of what he’s become. (Eren x OC)
Chapter Fifty Four
A/N: OSTs for this chapter are “The Warriors”, “Guilty Hero”, and “The Successor”.
Flashback: Before Zeke and Aurora were pulled into the Paths…
Eren could feel the rumble of his own titan heartbeat reverberating in his ears, an echo that blended with the endless din of battle. Shiganshina was falling apart around him, brick by shattered brick, but he forced the image of crumbling walls out of his mind. Right now, only one thought mattered: getting to Zeke. He saw the moment when the Beast Titan suddenly stalled, as though jerked by an invisible string. Even from a distance, Eren glimpsed Zeke’s body seize up in confusion. Captain Levi, perched on a broken tower and mid-lunge toward the titan’s broad ankle, froze momentarily too, evidently surprised by Zeke’s abrupt pause.
Eren refused to waste the chance. With a furious roar, the Attack Titan crashed forward, lumbering past battered piles of rubble. The ground shook beneath every step, and he batted aside two pure titans that lunged for his flanks. One managed to clamp its jaws around his crystallized forearm, but he wrenched it free, obliterating the creature’s skull with a single savage blow. Blood and steam erupted in a grim spray, yet Eren hardly blinked at the gore. He kept moving, his massive form forging a path through the chaos like a battleship through stormy seas.
All around him, the fight raged on. Mikasa slashed in midair, cables whistling as she darted from rooftop to rooftop, a flicker of black hair and gleaming blades. Jean and Connie wrestled with a Marleyan gun emplacement on a collapsed watchtower, trying to overtake the crewmembers before they could pepper the remaining Jaegerists with more gunfire. Sasha was perched on a broken rampart, eyes narrowed, firing carefully aimed shots at the Allied soldiers who parachuted too close. Pieck’s Cart Titan scuttled over debris, the Jaegerists strapped to her back unleashing sporadic Inferno Blades, though her body was close to its limit from repeated transformations. Reiner’s Armored Titan sprawled on its side not far away, injuries riddling his once-impenetrable plating, while Porco’s Jaw Titan snarled in equal desperation, half its face gone yet still swinging with lethal precision.
Eren barreled through the ring of pure titans converging around the Beast Titan. Shiganshina’s streets became a graveyard of twisted steel and broken stone. The smell of gunpowder, blood, and Titan steam weighed heavily in the air. He thought of Aurora’s beautiful face for half a heartbeat, her platinum blonde hair and ice-blue eyes, the way she had pleaded for him to survive. He clenched his crystalline fists, renewed determination boiling in his chest. If he failed now, everything—Aurora, their unborn child, Paradis itself—was doomed.
But of of the corner of his eye, he spotted a tall figure in the rubble: Commander Magath, kneeling behind a partially collapsed barricade. Even from a distance, Eren recognized the specialized anti-titan cannon, a fearsome weapon known to pierce even the thickest titan armor. Magath swung the weapon, zeroing in on the Beast Titan’s nape. Eren’s heart clenched. If Magath succeeded in blowing Zeke apart, there would be no chance of contact. No contact meant no Rumbling. No Rumbling meant the Allied Forces, with their endless armies, would eventually break Shiganshina. And if they broke Shiganshina, they would inevitably sweep across the island, unstoppable.
“Damn it,” Eren snarled in his mind, though his titan mouth let out a guttural roar. He hammered aside another pure titan, grappling it by the neck and crushing its nape, then sent the twitching corpse crashing into a squad of Allied infantry. His eyes flicked back to Magath, who lined up the shot. Eren pushed forward, titan feet cracking the pavement beneath him, but he knew he might be seconds too late. Magath had a clear line of sight. Zeke, momentarily paralyzed, would be helpless.
Then everything froze. One instant, Eren was in mid-stride, hand outstretched, a fraction away from launching into a final leap toward the Beast Titan. Captain Levi, mere feet from Zeke’s ankle, had both blades raised, ready to sever the tendon. Magath’s bullet, shaped to puncture titan napes, streaked through the air on a perfect trajectory. All movement ceased, as though the world had been paused by an unseen hand…
The bullet hung just feet from Zeke’s vulnerable neck, muzzle-flash still suspended around the cannon. Even the blood droplets and bits of debris were locked in place. The entire battlefield had become a lifeless tableau.
And in that same frozen moment, Aurora and Zeke stood face-to-face within the other realm. The world of the Paths. The swirling sand glimmered with an otherworldly light that made everything feel suspended in a timeless hush. Aurora’s expression was fierce despite the exhaustion lining her features, her labour pains now irrelevant in this intangible space. Zeke’s eyes blazed with pent-up wrath and confusion. They squared off, tension heavy between them.
“What do you get out of this?” Aurora asked, voice laced with contempt as she fixed her icy gaze on him. “All this talk of euthanizing your own people—do you really think that makes you some hero or savior?” She let out a mirthless laugh, a note of bitterness echoing in the empty air. “You’re nothing more than a monster.”
Zeke’s jaw tightened. “Shut your mouth! You have no idea what you’re talking about. None of you do.” His eyes narrowed, and the raw edge of hysteria bled into his tone. “There was only one person who ever understood me, the only one who showed me what had to be done: Mr. Ksaver.”
At that name, Aurora’s features twisted in confusion. “Who is that?”
Zeke’s entire body tensed, a flicker of pain hidden behind his glasses. “He was the only one who truly saw the cruelty this world inflicted on Eldians. My father, that damned Grisha, he wanted to use me just like he used everyone else. He never cared about me. But Mr. Ksaver, he taught me how to endure, how to see the bigger picture.”
“Bigger picture,” Aurora repeated with scorn, eyes glistening with disbelief. “And that picture is… what? Killing off every adult Eldian you can, leaving only the children to be manipulated into your delusional plan? You think that’s your great cause?”
A tremor of rage fluttered across Zeke’s face. “Those children deserve a life free of this curse. Not to mention the only chance this cursed race has is if we stop reproducing. I believed it then, and I believe it now. If enough adults die, and we raise the young ones with the right understanding—”
“What, that you’re their benevolent savior?!” Aurora cut in, voice shaking with contempt. “You want to stand in front of them with open arms, promising them salvation if they just accept your twisted logic? You think they’ll all greet you with applause, hailing you as the man who killed their families in the name of peace?”
Zeke flinched at her words, but he managed to hold her gaze. “You have no idea the weight I carry. Eldians have cursed the world for two thousand years, spreading warfare and tragedy. I’m ending it. My plan will end the fear of titans for good. Mr. Ksaver explained it all to me—this current generation is too stubborn, too consumed by old grudges. But children… children can learn a better way. They don’t have the same baggage. They can be taught to understand it’s the greatest mercy: to end Eldian births so no one ever suffers again.”
Aurora let out a shaky exhale, her head spinning with the monstrous scope of his plan. “You’re insane,” she hissed. “You talk about burdens, about curses, but all I see is a man desperate for approval he never got. You’re still a child inside, Zeke, clinging to some tragic father figure, hoping you’ll be validated by impressionable kids—kids who’ll supposedly look up at you and say, ‘Thanks for slaughtering our parents, we see now you were right all along.’ You have no clue how real people think or feel. You’re just… monstrous.”
His eyes flared, and his voice rose. “And what do you know? You married Eren, who’s ready to flatten the world with the Founder’s power. That’s just a more violent version of the same end! Don’t pretend your hands are clean. He’s a monster in the making—”
“You know nothing about Eren,” Aurora snapped, stepping closer. She could feel the sand shift beneath her feet, each grain radiating intangible power. “He might do terrible things, but I know him. He’s driven by desperation to protect those he loves, not out of some twisted longing for acceptance. And yes, I know he’s dangerous, but he isn’t playing God with children’s futures. You are. You act like a little boy too afraid to confront the man who hurt him, so you become a worse tyrant than he ever was.”
Zeke’s calm veneer shattered. “Don’t talk like you know me. Don’t you dare!” he roared, hands balling into fists. “I’ve fought for this since I was a child, forced to endure Grisha’s fanaticism, forced to pretend I was something I wasn’t. Mr. Ksaver showed me a path. He gave me hope that someday I could save everyone from the cycle, that I could end the suffering. You—”
“You just want someone to say you did good,” Aurora breathed, tears trembling on her lashes as anger warred with pity. “To pat you on the head and say, ‘You’re right, Zeke, you’re so brave, you saved the world by butchering your own people and raising the children to believe in your twisted dream.’ I’m sorry, but you’ll never get that. Not from me, not from them, not from anyone.”
Zeke clenched his jaw, furious at how precisely she saw through him. “Shut up,” he repeated, though it lacked the same edge. “Shut up.”
Then a flicker at the corner of Aurora’s vision made her glance aside. Ymir, the Founder, was watching them both, eyes dull but keenly fixed on the confrontation. Aurora swallowed, remembering the child’s timeless sorrow. All of Ymir’s two thousand years of anguish poured into that stare, silently judging them. Aurora had no idea if Ymir approved or disdained them; the Founder never spoke. But Aurora sensed that each word, each admission, carved a path in Ymir’s silent domain.
Zeke let out a shaky breath, forcing his composure back. “It doesn’t matter,” he said at last, quieter now, though still brimming with tension. “The plan is in motion. Even if you disagree, even if Eren tries to flatten the planet, I’ve set events in motion. I can’t stop—”
Suddenly, the swirling sands glowed faintly. The realm of the Paths rippled like a disturbed lake. Aurora tensed, looking around in alarm. The edges of their surroundings dissolved, shifting into half-real shapes. Ymir’s expression didn’t change, but her posture shifted, as though she were waiting for something else to occur.
Zeke’s body flickered, losing solidity, and he stumbled. “What—?” he gasped, confusion etched across his face. For a heartbeat, Aurora saw the Beast Titan’s form overlapping him, the suggestion of fur and simian muscle. He flickered in and out like a distorted phantom.
Across the battlefield in the real world, time abruptly restarted. Zeke’s body jolted in the Beast Titan’s nape, returning to reality in the precise moment Magath’s bullet exploded into the back of his neck. The impact ripped through titan flesh, sending a massive spray of blood and gore. Captain Levi, who had been poised to slash the Achilles tendon, recoiled a fraction of a second from the shockwave. The Beast Titan toppled sideways, a deafening roar splitting the air. Eren, in that same suspended instant, dove forward, titan hand stretching out. He ignored the hail of bullets, the pure titan jaws snapping at his ankles, everything. He had one objective: contact.
A gut-wrenching crack thundered as the Beast Titan’s nape tore open under the bullet’s force. Zeke’s limp body tumbled free, blood trailing in an arc behind him. He felt the world spin, his consciousness flickering. He was falling, almost in slow motion. The edges of his vision dimmed. He vaguely saw Levi’s shape blurring across the ground, saw Eren’s Attack Titan lunging. Another flash of the battle: Reiner half-collapsed, Armin’s Colossal Titan forging a wall of steam. Soldiers screaming, flames from the Inferno Blades licking across the rubble. Then weightlessness. Then darkness.
Until a massive, warm grip enveloped him. Eren’s titan hand, the fingers glistening with hardened crystal tips, caught Zeke’s broken body just before it crashed to the earth. In that split second, their flesh connected: Eren’s palm on Zeke’s battered body, bare skin meeting. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then reality broke apart once more.
Their surroundings shifted back into the Paths, Aurora was still there, standing stunned, face twisted with surprise and alarm. She saw Zeke flicker back into existence, and now Eren stood among them, tall and fierce, though in this realm he appeared as his human self. No titan forms, no swirling blood. Only the echo of that contact. Ymir, still silent, lingered a short distance away, her gaze flicking among the three of them with cool impassivity.
Zeke felt as though the world had been ripped out from under his feet. One moment, he was in the midst of a hellish battle back in Shiganshina, half his body wrecked from Commander Magath’s shot, Eren’s Titan hand closing around him. The next, he found himself standing in the endless twilight of the Paths once more. The pale, drifting sand swirled around him like ghosts, a silent reminder of every life the Titans had ever touched. His vision swam, but then he realized, with mounting dread, that he was not alone.
He saw Aurora first, her platinum-blonde hair a stark contrast against the dim, starless sky. She stood just a few paces away, the faint outline of her pregnant belly visible beneath simple her flowy garment. Their gazes collided with mutual shock. Zeke couldn’t fathom why he was here again and why she was even still here. Why hadn’t she been sent out of the Paths like he had?
Aurora’s ice-blue eyes flickered with the same shock, but also relief. Eren’s plan—making contact with Zeke—had finally come to pass.
Then Eren appeared a short distance behind Aurora, as if he had materialized from the swirling sand itself. For a heartbeat, he looked disoriented, his eyes darting between Aurora and Zeke. He had known the instant he made physical contact with his half-brother, something would trigger. But seeing Aurora here sent a stab of fear through his chest. “Aurora,” he said, his voice thick with confusion. “How did you—why are you—?” He couldn’t even finish the question. He felt dread creeping up his spine. This was not just the real world. This was the realm of the Founder, a place where time and space warped according to the will of Ymir Fritz.
Aurora swallowed, fighting the urge to run to him and bury herself in his arms. She managed a shaky breath. “I… I don’t know why,” she confessed, her voice trembling. “Ymir brough me here. Maybe it’s because of the baby, or the chain of memories, or— I’m not sure. But Eren…”
She trailed off, looking at him helplessly, as though willing him to find the strength they both desperately needed.
That was when Zeke’s voice rang out, filled with raw panic. “Enough!” he barked, his tone fractured by anger and alarm. He glared at Aurora, then shifted his fiery stare to Eren. “I won’t let you do as you please, little brother. Nor will I let her sabotage everything.”
Eren’s eyes narrowed. “Zeke. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but it’s over. I made contact with you, and I hold the Founder’s power now. So don’t even think—”
But Zeke cut him off by turning sharply toward the shadowy figure at the center of the Paths: Ymir Fritz. She was so quiet, but her mere presence commanded all of them.
Zeke seized the chance and roared, “Ymir! Carry out the euthanization plan now!” His voice cracked with desperation, the words coming out like a command he had spent his entire life preparing for. “End this endless cycle of hatred. Sterilize the Eldians! Make it so none of them can bear children ever again. Do it now!”
Aurora’s heart lurched. She knew the plan by now, but Zeke’s twisted dream threatened her baby, threatened every child who might be born in the future. She couldn’t allow it. Yet, she knew Ymir might still obey him. Royal blood was the ultimate key here. No matter how powerful Eren was with the Attack Titan and the Founding Titan, Zeke’s direct lineage with Dina Fritz gave him a voice Ymir could not ignore.
“Stop!” Aurora cried, stepping forward in a desperate move to intercept Ymir. “Please, don’t do this. You can’t condemn us all just for the sins of the past!” She felt tears well in her eyes, remembering how her mother and father had fled Marley, how Aurora herself had been born to a royal bloodline she never asked for, how her entire life had become a battleground of propaganda and fear.
Eren’s jaw tightened as he watched Aurora’s plea. He turned to Ymir, raising his voice. “Ymir, please listen—listen to Aurora if you won’t listen to me. You have the power to choose. You don’t have to follow Zeke’s orders!” He remembered Aurora telling him about her encounters with the Founder, how Ymir had shown glimmers of independence, how Ymir had once even guided Aurora to safety. He clung to that faint hope.
Zeke only bared his teeth, his face contorting in fury. “She does have to follow my orders, Eren. You don’t grasp the magnitude of the vow she’s under. It’s two thousand years of subjugation to royal blood. She has no free will. She’s a slave. MY slave!”
At Zeke’s bellowed command, Ymir began to move. It was slow, as though every step was carved from stone. Her blank eyes stared ahead, her posture stiff. Aurora, Eren, and Zeke all felt the invisible tremor in the Paths, as though it responded to the will of its silent master. The shimmering horizon rippled, suggesting Ymir was about to shape the power of the Titans according to Zeke’s euthanization plan. Sand rose in swirls at Ymir’s feet, and Aurora’s heart clenched. She could only imagine the horrors about to be unleashed: a future where no Eldian child would ever be born.
“No!” Eren shouted, lunging, but an instant later, thick, heavy chains materialized around his ankles and wrists, snapping him to the ground. A second set snaked from the sand to Aurora’s arms and legs, yanking her down with a vicious jerk. She let out a startled cry, her belly twisting in pain, and Eren’s fury redoubled. “Damn it! Let her go!”
Zeke’s lips pressed into a grim line of satisfaction. “I told you, Eren,” he said, a slight tremor betraying his fear and excitement. “ You won’t win. I am a royal blooded titan. You may hold the Founder, but I’m the one Ymir recognizes as her master.” His gaze flicked to Aurora. “I won’t let you or your pregnant wife ruin everything. I’m saving our people from an eternity of suffering, even if it means erasing our existence.”
“Erasing the existence of my child?” Aurora’s voice trembled. “Is that what you call salvation?” Anger flared in her chest, and she struggled against the chains, though each movement sent pain lancing through her abdomen. She could feel the baby shift, as though sensing her mother’s distress. “You’re a monster,” she whispered, tears burning her eyes. “My child hasn’t even taken its first breath. My child has done nothing wrong. You think you’re righteous? You’re delusional.”
Zeke scowled, his eyes narrowing on Aurora. “You know nothing,” he hissed. “I’ve suffered my entire life for being born Eldian. If the older generations had the decency to not exist, none of us would have to experience this hell. I’m giving these children a chance at peace. They’ll never know the cruelty of the Titan curse. They’ll thank me one day, just as I thanked Tom Ksaver.”
Eren strained against his chains, ignoring the searing pain in his arms where the metal bit into his flesh. The memory of Dina, Zeke’s mother, and how she had been forced to devour Eren’s own mother, Carla, flashed in his mind. It fueled his hatred for Zeke’s twisted logic. “Stop lying to yourself,” he growled, his voice raw. “You’re nothing but a coward who wants to drag everyone down with you so you can feel justified. If you truly wanted to save people, you wouldn’t be killing them. You wouldn’t be risking unborn children—my child.”
Aurora’s tears spilled over, a mixture of rage, fear, and heartbreak. “Zeke, if you go through with this, you’ll prove you’re no better than King Fritz. Forcing Ymir to obey, making her build the Titans to kill more Eldians, to prevent future life… you’re perpetuating the same cycle you claim you want to end. You’re a slave to your own hatred and pain.”
Zeke looked like he wanted to snap back, but at that moment, Ymir paused. She stood in front of the glowing tree, her head bowed. Eren, Aurora, and Zeke felt the tension coil around them like an executioner’s noose. If Ymir stepped inside that tree’s light, Zeke’s plan would become reality. Aurora’s baby, and countless unborn generations of Eldians, would be wiped from possibility.
“Move, Ymir!” Zeke shouted, his eyes wide and desperate. “Don’t listen to them! Complete the euthanization! You have to do it!”
Eren tried one last time to push himself free, hissing with frustration as the chains cut deeper. “Ymir,” he gasped, “please, you don’t have to be a slave. Neither to me, nor to Zeke, nor to King Fritz. You can choose. You can be free, the way Aurora said. You can stop listening to everyone— me included— and live for yourself.”
For a moment, Ymir’s eyes flickered with something other than emptiness. Her lips trembled, her posture drooped as though weighed by centuries of trauma. Aurora’s memory of that brief, gentle touch she’d once shared with Ymir burned in her mind. She remembered how Ymir flinched yet still lingered, as if a small part of her yearned for connection. And Aurora saw it again now: the wounded child in Ymir’s eyes, torn between submission and the faintest glimmer of rebellion.
Zeke saw it too. A cold sweat gathered on his brow. “Ymir, you have to obey me!” he insisted, his voice cracking with panic. “I have royal blood, you can’t just ignore me! I… I order you to do it now! Use your power, sterilize them all!”
The intangible air of the Paths trembled, and Ymir seemed to take a step forward, as if to comply. But then, as though pulled by an unseen force, her head turned slightly toward Aurora again. Aurora’s eyes met Ymir’s, and she exhaled a trembling breath. “Ymir,” she said softly, each word a plea. “You’ve been lonely for so long, haven’t you? You’ve lived in fear, forced to build Titans for men who never loved you. You’ve never had a choice. Let me— let us give you that choice.”
Zeke roared, “Shut up, Aurora!”
But Aurora didn’t stop. She pressed her palm over her swollen belly as she spoke, her face lined with tears. “You can live again,” she whispered. “You don’t have to spend eternity building Titans, forced by us or by him. If you help Eren stop the world from destroying us, if you help ensure our child can be born… you can be free. You can come with me… in the next life. Let me be your mother, so you can be born with a family that loves you.” Her words echoed in the silent air, as though the Paths itself was holding its breath.
Zeke hissed in disbelief, “You’re insane! She’s just a— she’s not even— That’s not how it works!”
Eren, though stunned by Aurora’s idea, recognized something in Ymir’s face. It was the first time he’d seen her show emotion, tears rolling silently down her cheeks, pale and cold in the moonlike glow of this empty dimension. He heard Aurora’s voice in his mind from their quiet moments together, the times she’d told him about how Ymir was lonely, how she might just need someone to see her as more than a tool.
Zeke struggled to hold onto his control, but the sight of Ymir trembling unnerved him deeply. “Ymir,” he tried again, his voice trembling with an emotion he refused to name. “Don’t let them fool you. They’re using you, just like King Fritz did. I’m the only one who truly wants to end the cycle of suffering for good. Are you so cruel you’d let children be born only to devour each other in this war? Ymir, think—”
But Ymir took one step away from him. She reached out with her left hand, grazing her fingertips along Aurora’s cheek, then trailing them down to Aurora’s belly. Aurora gasped softly, her eyes fluttering at the cool touch. A subtle, silent communion passed between them: the longing Ymir felt for freedom, the terrifying hope Aurora held for her unborn child. For the first time, a faint warmth pulsed in Ymir’s chest, a desire not for obedience, but for belonging.
Zeke bellowed, “Stop messing around, Ymir!” A flush of panic reddened his face. “I command you, by the power of the royal blood, to carry out the euthanization plan RIGHT NOW!”
The ground trembled. Ymir’s head jerked, as though compelled by Zeke’s order, and Eren felt the invisible chains tighten around him once again. He refused to yield. Summoning every ounce of determination, he strained, the links digging into his flesh, ripping his arms. Aurora, likewise, felt her arms being bound tighter, pain lancing across her abdomen. She bit her lip until she tasted blood.
“Please, Ymir,” Aurora whispered, her tears dripping onto the sand. “I can’t lose my baby. And you shouldn’t have to lose your life either. We can find a way out, together.”
Zeke, eyes wide with desperation, raised his arms again, pulling something from the swirling dust—a manifestation of his will. It resembled the chain of memories, the intangible constructs that forced Ymir to do his bidding. “Enough of this!” he hissed. “I won’t let you ruin my dream. I—”
Before he could finish, Ymir turned around fully, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Her gaze flicked from Zeke to Eren, then back to Aurora. She lifted her hands and, with a barely perceptible movement, the chains on Eren and Aurora fell away. Eren collapsed forward, shock flooding his veins. Aurora’s breath caught in her throat as she felt her arms free at last. She tottered, trying to keep her balance with her enormous belly and the shock of being released.
Zeke staggered backward. “No,” he croaked, voice cracking. “You… you can’t just disobey me. I have the royal blood. You’re a slave to my will. I… I… order you to—”
But Ymir simply closed her eyes, letting tears track across her dusted skin. In that single moment, the weight of centuries bore down upon her. She remembered being hunted, devoured by duty, forced to spawn monstrous weapons for two millennia. She remembered King Fritz’s mocking face, the commands of every descendent of his blood. She remembered how Aurora had once tried to hold her hand, how Eren had recognized her suffering, how they saw her not as a mindless slave, but as an individual in need of something—love, choice, freedom. And Ymir recalled that gentle warmth, Aurora’s vow that she could live as their child in a new world if she wished it. The notion was strange, perhaps impossible, but it lit a spark inside her. A life beyond this emptiness.
Zeke roared in frustration. “No!” he snarled, sweat beading on his forehead. “Obey me, damn it, you have to obey me— you can’t just— you can’t—”
Eren and Aurora stared, transfixed, as Ymir turned from Zeke and faced them both. Eren felt unsteady, missing his thumbs, blood dripping from his mangled hands. But he summoned the strength to stand beside Aurora, letting her lean into his side. A quiet hush fell over them all, as if the Paths itself was holding its breath, waiting to see Ymir’s final decision.
Aurora’s voice wavered, “Ymir… I promise, we’ll keep our word. If you— if you help us put an end to this war, you can be born free. I’ll do everything I can to—”
Zeke tried to lunge forward, but it was too late. With a single step, Ymir closed the distance to Eren. Her small hand reached up, gently brushing against his forehead. Eren inhaled sharply, a white-hot jolt coursing through his mind. Energy crackled around them, like a silent thunderstorm. The power of the Founder rippled across the dimension, shimmering in gold and white fractals.
A sharp gasp tore from Eren’s throat as visions assailed him—memories of countless Eldians from across time, fragments of their hopes and fears. Aurora trembled, feeling the aftershocks. She couldn’t see the memories herself, but she sensed Eren’s entire body tense, and she placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
Zeke stood there, mouth agape, eyes wide with something akin to horror. “No,” he breathed, voice hollow. He felt the intangible chains coil around his own limbs, pulling him to his knees. “This— this can’t be happening…” The inevitability pressed in on him: Ymir had chosen Eren. Or had she chosen Aurora’s kindness? Either way, he was losing all control.
Eren’s green eyes glowed with raw power, reminiscent of the Founding Titan’s unstoppable might. He cast a glance at Aurora, seeing the relief and determination in her ice-blue gaze. The swirling sands around them roiled as though guided by Eren’s newly accessed power. Ymir’s face was expressionless but for the tears streaming down her cheeks, a silent testament to the heartbreak she had endured and the fragile hope Aurora had offered.
Desperate, Zeke tried one last time, “Ymir, no— I beg you, don’t do this to me. We can still— we can—” But the ghostly chains tightened around him, cutting off his words. He writhed, panting in fear.
Aurora watched, heart pounding, as Eren slowly lifted a trembling hand, raw with wounds. He pressed his palm to the side of Ymir’s face, a gesture of empathy. “You’re free now,” he whispered. “I swear it. You can choose. If you want revenge, if you want to flatten the world that tortured you for two thousand years, I’ll do it. If you want something else— anything— tell me.” His gaze shifted to Aurora, remembering her words about letting Ymir make her own choice, about offering her a chance to break the cycle. “We owe you that.”
Aurora managed a shaky smile, tears glistening. She gently rested her hand atop Ymir’s. “You don’t have to be alone anymore,” she murmured, voice soft. “We can do this together.”
Ymir’s tear-filled eyes drifted from Eren to Aurora, then down to Aurora’s belly. For an instant, the tension in her shoulders melted into an expression that almost looked like longing, something akin to a child gazing through a window at a family gathered around a warm fire. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words emerged—just a trembling breath that carried centuries of pain. Then she gave the slightest nod, tears continuing to track down her face.
A sudden rush of brilliance swept over the Path. Threads of radiant energy coiled up from Ymir’s feet, swirling around Eren and Aurora like an incandescent storm. Zeke let out a strangled cry, feeling his control slip away entirely. The intangible forces that once obeyed him were no longer his to command. He was chained, forcibly made to witness the Founder’s decision.
In that blinding torrent of light, Eren gasped as knowledge— unfiltered, raw potential— coursed through him. He felt the Founder’s might in his veins, surging with unstoppable force. He could sense every titan sleeping in the walls of Paradis, sense the possibility of unleashing them. Yet he also felt Ymir’s sorrow, her desperate longing for a family, for acceptance that was never given to her by King Fritz. Eren felt Aurora’s presence behind him, her fear and her vow to protect the child inside her, to do what was necessary for them to have a future. All of it merged into a single, harrowing choice.
Zeke, shackled in the golden glow, let out a guttural shout, “Eren, don’t you dare—”
But his voice fell to a whisper in the roar of cosmic power. Aurora, one hand protectively over her belly, the other lightly touching Ymir’s shoulder, leaned close to Eren. She whispered, “Whatever you do… I’ll be by your side. We’ve come too far to turn back.”
Eren turned his head slightly, meeting Aurora’s gaze. He read in her expression both terror and a fierce hope, a readiness to do the unimaginable so their child would not be born into bondage. He nodded slowly, tears slipping down his own cheeks. “We do this together,” he said quietly.
Ymir closed her eyes, one last tear slipping free, as though she had given them the final piece of her soul. Her hand upon Eren’s chest pulsed with power, the swirling lights coalescing into a single beam that seemed to fuse Eren’s will with that of the Founder. They all felt an impossible resonance— the weight of two thousand years of history pivoting on a single moment. Zeke strained, fighting with every ounce of his soul to deny it, but he was helpless to watch as Eren and Aurora stood in unison with Ymir’s blessing.
Zeke was left caged, an irony that sent a wave of dread through him. He recognized that posture: the same captivity Ymir had known for centuries. Now it was his turn to watch helplessly, as Eren gripped the power he had sought. Magath’s bullet had sealed Zeke’s fate, forcing him into contact with Eren in that final instant. In the swirling maelstrom of light, he glimpsed Aurora stepping closer to Ymir again, reaching for her with trembling hands, as if to offer comfort. Ymir’s gaze flickered, uncertain, yet no longer the hollow stare of a prisoner. She leaned in, allowing Aurora’s arms to encircle her in a tender embrace.
Zeke’s breath caught at the sight. “No…” he whispered, feeling the entire point of his existence unravel. He thought of Ksaver, the day they discussed the euthanization plan as though it were absolute salvation. He remembered Dina, Grisha, all of it culminating in him believing he was chosen to end Eldia’s torment. Now, here he was, sidelined by the very force he tried to bend to his will. He couldn’t accept that Ymir had made a choice outside his commands. Yet the tears on Ymir’s cheeks told him everything: she had found something else. Something he never once offered her— a chance at life, at love, at being more than a Titan-forging slave.
Finally, Eren’s voice cut through the symphony of light and shadow, firm yet carrying a quiet empathy. “Zeke,” he said, turning to regard his brother, who knelt shackled in the dust. “I told you— your plan is worthless. Maybe I am a devil, maybe I’ll doom the rest of the world. But I won’t let you take away the future from our people, from my child. From Aurora.”
Zeke simply glared, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. “You’re no savior,” he spat, choking on the bitterness in his throat. “You’re just continuing the cycle in your own way. You think you’re free? You’re just a—”
“Enough,” Aurora said sharply, surprising even herself. She was done cowering, done letting Zeke’s twisted worldview overshadow everything. She rested a protective hand over her abdomen, then gazed down at him. “You never asked the children if they wanted your so-called salvation. You never asked me if I was okay with your plan to kill my unborn baby. You didn’t ask Ymir if she truly wanted to follow you. You just assumed you knew best. Maybe you believed it, or maybe you were just repeating the only pattern you knew. But it ends now.”
Zeke thrashed in the chains, cursing. “No, you can’t— you can’t do this, Eren! If you unleash the Rumbling, you’ll kill millions, maybe billions. You’ll be no better than—”
Eren’s voice emerged, quiet but resolute. “I never said I was better than anyone. I’m doing this to protect the people I care about. If the world truly wants to exterminate us, then yes, I’ll become the devil they fear. But you gave me no other choice. Neither did the world.” He paused, casting a sideways glance at Aurora. “But that doesn’t mean I’m forcing Ymir to do anything she doesn’t want to do.”
Zeke let out a strained cry. He glared at Aurora with a mixture of rage and desperation. “This is your fault,” he spat, voice trembling. “If you’d never come into the picture, she would have obeyed me. You ruined everything.” A bitter laugh choked from his lips. “I hope you’re happy. You’ve doomed yourselves to the same cycle— another monstrous war. You’re no saviors.”
Aurora shook her head, sorrow welling in her eyes. “I never claimed to be a savior, Zeke,” she replied softly. “I just wanted to protect my child. I wanted Ymir to be free. If that makes me monstrous, so be it.”
Ymir turned her face upward, looking at the endless sky of the Paths. Then she reached forward, as though pulling something from the swirling sands— threads of Titan creation, but shaped by a new intention. The entire dimension thrummed with possibilities. Aurora’s breath caught, uncertain what Ymir was about to do. Eren braced himself, half-expecting the walls of Paradis to thunder to life under his command.
But the scene froze, like an image paused in time. Ymir’s decision was final: she gifted Eren the Founder’s power, by her own will, and refrained from completing Zeke’s euthanization. The rest would come down to Eren’s next words, next moves. She lingered there, gazing at Eren and Aurora, almost as if waiting for them to vanish back into reality to do what must be done. In that final moment, Aurora glimpsed the faint trace of a small smile on Ymir’s face, a ghost of an expression. A silent thank you, or perhaps a goodbye.
I'm sorry but I can't wrap my head around Eren and Aurora.. They are ALSO monsters and what THEY have unleash is even worse than what Zekes plan was.
Aurora is okay with letting 80% innocent family's, women,children, babies, pregnant women die in the name of "love" and her own selfish reasons (and she has the nerve to call Zeke a monster 🤣😆)
Yayy way to go Aurora😮💨🙄
I'm just curious to see how all of this is going to turn out, because If they go with they're plan and destroy 80% of humanity (including animals) I really want to see her die of guilt because I can't believe she is giving us ALL this speech and then go and do this monstrous thing.🤨😑
Aurora Jaeger, Eren's long-lost childhood friend, was taken from him when they were children. After years of suffering under Marleyan control, Aurora is reunited with Eren while he’s undercover in Marley, igniting a bond neither of them expected. Despite her gentle nature, Aurora breaks her vow of pacifism to save Eren’s life, solidifying their deep connection. Secretly married before the Raid on Liberio, Aurora is swept into Eren's world of chaos and destruction. As the Scouts learn of her existence, tensions rise on the airship home. Mikasa’s heart shatters, and Levi demands answers. And Eren will stop at nothing to protect the only light left in his dark world—his bride, Aurora.
In this journey of love, loyalty, and war, Aurora must reconcile her innocent heart with the brutal reality of the man she loves, while Eren faces the truth of what he’s become. (Eren x OC)
Chapter Fifty Three
A/N: OST for this chapter is “All of The Freedoms”
Falco sat hunched on the small wooden bench inside the cramped jail cell, his arms folded over his knees, face hidden against them. His shoulders rose and fell with every shaky breath. He could hear Gabi pacing behind him, her footsteps echoing against the stone floor in a restless, agitated rhythm. He dared not lift his head to look at her; guilt churned in his stomach, a ceaseless reminder of the woman they had just tried to kidnap.
He still couldn’t believe they had come all this way only to fail, still couldn’t believe that Aurora Jaeger—the woman they’d been taught to see as a devil, the woman who had every reason to hate them—had chosen to spare their lives. They had threatened her, threatened her unborn child, and yet she hadn’t allowed the Jaegerists to shoot them in the back of the head. Falco’s mind kept replaying the moment Aurora had interceded. He could still see the raw pain on her face, the fear laced with compassion in her eyes, as she pleaded with those soldiers to show mercy.
A muffled curse pulled him back to the present, and he finally forced himself to look up. Gabi was standing a few feet away, her hands gripping the iron bars. Her knuckles were white with tension, her brow furrowed in anger. She glared through the bars at a small group of Jaegerists patrolling just outside the cell. Gabi’s fury crackled in the air like static electricity, but Falco sensed the underlying uncertainty swirling beneath her rage.
“Gabi,” he said softly, his voice trembling with the weight of his own thoughts.
She snapped her head around to face him, eyes blazing. “What?”
Falco hesitated, torn between fear of provoking her and his need to speak. “Don’t you feel even a little guilty for what we tried to do?” He paused, swallowing hard. “Aurora spared our lives. She could have ordered us executed on the spot, and no one would have questioned her. We threatened her baby.”
Gabi’s jaw clenched. She turned away, pressing her forehead against the iron bars. “Shut up,” she muttered, the words forced through gritted teeth. “You think I should be grateful that some island devil decided not to kill me?” She spat on the ground, trembling with pent-up emotion. “We never should’ve let her talk so long. It gave her time to trick us. If we’d just knocked her out earlier and left, we’d be on our way back to Marley with our mission complete.”
Falco exhaled slowly and stood, moving to lean against the wall near her. “But she didn’t do anything to deserve that,” he said, voice low. “All she’s ever done is marry Eren Jaeger. And sure, Eren destroyed Liberio, but Aurora herself… I don’t think she’s evil.”
Gabi whipped around, her eyes flashing with something like desperation. “Do you even hear yourself?” she hissed. “She’s complicit in everything Eren Jaeger has done. Liberio was left in ruins. Thousands of our people died, Falco. Don’t you remember what it looked like after the raid? Bodies in the streets, families shattered… She might not have been the one tearing buildings apart, but she knew, Falco. She knew what Eren Jaeger was going to do, and she didn’t warn a single soul.”
Falco remembered the images of Liberio’s destruction too vividly: the flames, the rubble, the screams. He understood Gabi’s anger—he felt it too. Yet something about Aurora’s kindness gnawed at him. “I know,” he said softly. “But maybe she was just scared. Maybe Eren kept it secret from her until it was too late. Or maybe she’s trying to survive, just like us.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Remember what we were told about Eldians in the internment zone conspiring with the Restorationists? Zeke transformed all those people into titans, and then Marley used them as weapons to eat otther Eldians in the internment zone. They slaughtered them and said it was a punishment, but… does that really make sense? Are we sure we’re not the ones being lied to?”
Gabi banged her fist against the bars, startling the Jaegerist guard, who shot her a warning glare. “Now you’re talking nonsense,” she snapped at Falco. “Zeke’s actions were… yes, horrifying, but he’s doing it for a reason. He’s punishing the traitors, right? The ones who turned their backs on Marley.” Her voice wavered despite the anger. She pressed her lips into a thin line, remembering how she had once idolized he cousin Reiner, and Pieck and Porco as well, only to learn they’d sided with Eren Jaeger and these island devils. Everything was so twisted that her head ached just thinking about it. “We are warriors,” she spat. “We have a mission: to eradicate the devils. All of them. Because they deserve it after everything they’ve done—after what Eren did!”
Falco sighed and slid down to the floor again, burying his face in his hands. “I just… I can’t stop remembering the way Aurora looked at us. She was in pain, Gabi. Real, physical pain, plus the fear of losing her unborn child. And she still couldn’t bear to see us executed. Think about it. Would a truly evil person spare her enemies like that?”
For a moment, the only sound was Gabi’s unsteady breathing. She opened her mouth to retort but hesitated, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. Deep down, she felt a pang of guilt. It had gnawed at her the moment Aurora’s face twisted in pain and pity rather than hatred. But Gabi was too angry, too traumatized by the memories of Liberio’s destruction, to let those feelings settle.
She turned her back on Falco. “It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled. “We’re stuck here now. It’s only a matter of time before Marley arrives in full force to take us back and finish what they started.”
Falco let the silence stretch, his thoughts wandering. Aurora’s face lingered in his mind, the flicker of fear, of determination, of mercy. He closed his eyes, wishing he could speak to her again, to understand why she had chosen to show them compassion.
…
Far above from the dungeon’s claustrophobic darkness, inside the warm but tense comfort of the palace in Capital Mitras, Aurora lay on a large bed. Her platinum blonde hair clung to her face in damp strands, and beads of sweat trickled down her temples. She gasped as another wave of pain rippled through her body, her hands clenching the sheets until her knuckles ached.
Historia hovered by her side, face drawn with worry, her blonde hair falling in a loose ponytail. “Breathe, Aurora,” she urged, her voice trembling with concern. “Just keep taking deep breaths. You can do this.”
Aurora let out a shaky exhale and tried to focus, but every time she closed her eyes, the visions came flooding back, like a raging storm battering the fragile walls of her mind. She saw Eren, lying motionless, blood seeping from his headless body. She saw Levi, Hange, Sasha, Connie—faces filled with despair and lifeless eyes. She saw the entire island consumed by flames, monstrous warships pushing inexorably toward the capital. The images were so vivid it felt as though she stood in the midst of the devastation.
“No!” Aurora cried out, her voice cracking as she jerked upward, panting. Her ice-blue eyes darted around the room, searching for something solid and real to anchor herself in the present. “I saw them dying,” she gasped, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Everyone… Eren… Captain… the Jaegerists… they were all…” Her voice choked off, replaced by a soft keening sound of terror.
The doctor, an older man with kind eyes and worry etched across his lined face, moved closer. “Easy,” he soothed, gently checking Aurora’s pulse. “You must stay calm. Stress isn’t good for you or the baby.”
Aurora tried to speak, but another contraction ripped through her abdomen, and she let out a ragged scream. “Oh—God,” she whimpered, her breath coming in short, frantic bursts. She glanced over at Historia, who was gripping her hand with white-knuckled intensity. “I can’t… I can’t do this alone,” Aurora whispered, tears streaking down her flushed cheeks. “I need Eren—”
Historia’s eyes misted with sympathy. “He’ll come back,” she said softly, trying to sound confident despite the fear gnawing at her insides. “He promised, remember?”
Aurora closed her eyes, a tear rolling down her face. “I know,” she whispered shakily. “But what if… these visions I’m seeing—what if it’s real?”
The doctor gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Nightmares,” he murmured, though his uncertainty was clear. “You’re under a great deal of stress, Aurora. These illusions or visions could be your mind reacting to the intense pressure.”
Aurora opened her mouth to reply, but her voice caught in her throat. The truth was, these weren’t just nightmares. She had been to the Paths many times before, had seen Ymir Fritz with her own eyes, felt the chill of the Founder’s hand. She knew these terrors could be glimpses of something that might yet come to pass.
Her mind spun with panic. She thought of the vow she’d made to Eren, of the child growing within her. She thought of how many times she had prayed to Ymir, hoping for some kind of miracle. And now, with every ragged breath, the terror of losing Eren gripped her like a vise.
“Ymir,” Aurora whispered, voice cracking. “Please… do something. Don’t let them die. Don’t let Eren die.”
Historia’s heart clenched at the sight of Aurora, so desperate, so powerless despite all her resourcefulness and strength. She ran her free hand gently through Aurora’s hair, whispering comforting words. “We’ll get through this,” she insisted, though her own voice wavered with emotion. “We have to believe in them, Aurora. Eren… Porco… Captain… they’ve always found a way before. They’ll do it again.”
Aurora tried to nod but was overtaken by another contraction. She clutched Historia’s hand, her fingernails digging into the queen’s skin, but Historia only winced and held on, refusing to let her friend face this alone.
“It’s too early,” Aurora whimpered through the pain, her breath shallow and panicked. “The doctor said I wasn’t due for another few days at least. What if the baby’s not ready?”
A tightness formed in Historia’s chest. “Babies come when they decide to,” she said in a gentle hush. “You just have to be strong for a little while longer. The doctor will do everything he can.”
Aurora tried to focus on the soft glow of the lanterns around the room, the faint flicker of candlelight dancing on the walls. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the visions to recede, but they prowled at the edges of her consciousness, threatening to swallow her whole.
Again, the image of Eren’s lifeless body flashed behind her eyelids, and she let out a broken sob, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. The doctor, eyeing her with concern, leaned in. “I need you to breathe slowly,” he reminded. “We don’t want you hyperventilating.”
She choked out a half-laugh, half-sob. “That’s… not so easy,” she managed, cheeks wet. “When I keep seeing… oh God, they’re all going to die.”
“No, they’re not,” Historia said fiercely, her voice trembling as she fought back her own tears. “You know how strong they are. Eren’s the strongest man I’ve ever met, and Levi… Levi will bring him home. They’ll all come home.”
Aurora drew in a shaky breath, desperate to cling to Historia’s words as if they were a lifeline. Her mind couldn’t shake the echo of those terrible visions, but she forced herself to remember Eren’s face, the warmth of his embrace the last time she saw him, the resolve in his eyes when he promised to return. He wasn’t a man who broke his promises easily.
“Ymir,” Aurora rasped again, blinking back tears. She could almost feel the eerie presence lingering just beyond her reach, as though Ymir Fritz were watching from the shadows of the Paths. Why wouldn’t the Founder do something? Couldn’t she intervene somehow, spare them this horror? Aurora had touched Ymir’s hand once before, felt the centuries of sadness. She knew Ymir was no stranger to heartbreak.
But the Founder’s power was bound by strange rules, entangled with the royal bloodlines and curses that stretched back two thousand years. Would Ymir hear her plea and act, or were they all doomed to the same cycle of suffering that had plagued Eldia for generations?
“I’m begging you,” Aurora whispered, letting her eyes fall closed. “Please don’t let that future come to pass.”
She saw once more the vision of Shiganshina in flames, the bodies of her friends sprawled across the rubble, unseeing eyes gazing into nothing. She thought of Eren’s grin in quieter moments, the rare, unguarded glimpses of the kind boy she had once known. If that future was real, then she would lose him forever, and she couldn’t bear it.
Another contraction gripped her, cutting off her breath. She let out a strangled cry, clinging to Historia’s hand as tears streamed down her face. The doctor hurried to check on her once more, trying to calm her. “It’s going to be all right,” he said, though his voice betrayed a note of worry. “We’ll do everything we can. Just breathe.”
Aurora tried to focus on the present: the doctor’s voice, Historia’s reassuring presence, the soft rustle of bedding. But the shadows of the future loomed large in her mind, a tempest of fear that threatened to drown her. She had never felt so powerless, so utterly at the mercy of forces she couldn’t control.
But she also remembered Eren’s words: “I promise you, I’ll come back.” She let that promise anchor her, ignoring the screaming doubt in her head. Eren was strong, maybe strong enough to fight even the fate she had glimpsed.
The next contraction tore through her body, and she dug her nails into Historia’s arm, sobbing through clenched teeth. Her heart pounded frantically, tears pouring down her cheeks as she gasped for air. “Ymir,” she whimpered once more, the syllables almost lost in the rush of her ragged breaths. “Please… help me. Help them.”
She didn’t know if Ymir could hear her. She didn’t know if Ymir would even care. But she cried out all the same, pouring every ounce of desperation into that plea. For Eren, for all those fighting at the walls, for the unborn child she carried, Aurora prayed for a miracle.
Yet, in the silent halls of the palace, only the echoes of her cries answered her. Outside, the sky had begun to lighten, the faint predawn glimmer casting pale shadows through the window. Somewhere on the horizon, an army of warships advanced on Shiganshina, and Eren Jaeger was undoubtedly fighting for every breath. Aurora felt his absence like an ache in her chest, each contraction and each frantic heartbeat reminding her of how far they were from one another in this darkest hour.
She tried to find solace in Historia’s unwavering gaze, in the doctor’s urgent reassurances, in the knowledge that at least here, in these palace walls, she was safe from immediate harm. The baby stirred within her, and she let out a trembling breath, hoping against hope that the life she carried would have a chance to see a world free from war.
But that image of the future—the smoldering ruins, the thick stench of death, Eren’s lifeless eyes—refused to fade. Aurora couldn’t stop shivering, her body caught between the agony of labor and the torment of what she had seen. Each fresh wave of pain was mirrored by the surge of fear that she couldn’t keep at bay.
Historia brushed a few strands of damp hair from Aurora’s forehead, her expression calm despite the worry etched into her features. She kept her voice steady, determined not to let her friend see her own anxiety. “We won’t let that happen,” she whispered, as if reading Aurora’s thoughts. “We can’t let that happen.”
Outside the window, dawn’s light gradually replaced the dim hush of night. The day had begun, and with it came the tides of war that churned endlessly on the other side of the island. In that moment, Aurora clung to the one shred of hope she had: Eren’s promise, a vow he had never broken to her.
But deep inside, she knew the outcome of this battle was out of her hands. She could only pray that fate would answer the desperate plea of a woman who loved a man deemed a devil by the world, a man fighting against all odds to forge a future for them, for the child that threatened to come too soon, for the island that had spent a century caged by walls of stone and by hatred from across the sea.
…
In Shinganshina…
The din of the battlefield reverberated through the smoky air, a chorus of gunfire, thunderous titan roars, and the eerie shrieks of those caught in the turmoil. Shiganshina’s once-familiar streets lay shattered, stonework and collapsed buildings forming twisted corridors where death lurked at every turn. Levi Ackerman darted through the debris with lethal precision, his dark hair plastered to his forehead by sweat and dust. His eyes, sharp as blades, never strayed far from the massive figure of the Beast Titan looming ahead.
Zeke Jaeger stood among the wreckage in his towering bestial form, bristling with thick fur around his shoulders and chest. He raised one massive arm high, palm gripping a splintered chunk of building, then hurled it outward. A deafening crash reverberated as jagged stones rained down on the Jaegerists desperately trying to keep Zeke contained. Dozens of pure titans lumbered through the chaos, snapping at any living creature unfortunate enough to cross their path. Some swung massive arms, others lunged forward on all fours. Every time Levi turned a corner, he heard the sickening crunch of flesh or saw a streak of crimson splatter across broken walls.
“Don’t let him get away!” someone shouted—a Jaegerist holding a quivering Inferno Blade. His voice teetered on the edge of panic as a pure titan veered into view, snapping its rotting jaws. Before the soldier could react, Levi swept past, hooking his ODM gear onto a half-toppled bell tower. He swung in a wide arc, slicing the titan’s nape in a single, efficient strike. The beast toppled with a monstrous groan, hitting the ground so hard it shook the rubble beneath them.
Levi’s boots hit a chunk of collapsed roof, and he skidded for a moment before regaining balance. “Everyone, hold the line!” he bellowed, his voice carrying. “If Zeke slips past us, we’re finished!” He glanced around, searching for any sign of Eren among the swirling dust clouds and flickers of gunfire. Eren was alive, but that was the extent of Levi’s certainty. He needed to keep Zeke pinned here long enough for Eren to make his approach and force their long-awaited confrontation.
To Levi’s right, Mikasa soared through the air, cables extending from the metal canisters at her hips. Her blades glinted in the dull sunlight as she spun, slicing cleanly through the nape of another pure titan that lumbered too close to the surviving Jaegerists. In the distance, Connie, Jean, and Sasha dashed in unison, thunderspears and inferno blades at the ready, blasting a path through the Allied Forces soldiers that had parachuted behind the walls. The anarchy was so absolute that friend and foe alike struggled to discern any coherent lines of battle.
Porco, his Jaw Titan battered beyond recognition with half its face peeled away by anti-titan artillery, tore through a group of invading soldiers. The remains of an armored vehicle scattered beneath his clawed hands, its metal plating shredded like foil. Pieck, though exhausted after repeated transformations, lumbered nearby in her Cart Titan for. She barked instructions to a handful of Jaegerists, her voice carrying over the tumult, but the deafening booms of explosives swallowed half her words.
From high above, Reiner, riddled with holes and bullet scars, crashed down onto a makeshift barricade of Marleyan tanks. He slammed an armored fist into the nearest turret, flattening it with a metallic crunch. Bullets from anti-titan rifles pinged off his plates, but he pressed on, driven by a desperation that matched Levi’s own. Reiner’s singular thought was to guard Eren’s route to Zeke. He and his comrades had formed an unspoken alliance: all that mattered was preventing the Beast Titan’s escape and halting the Allied Forces’ advance.
The stench of blood and gunpowder choked the air. Bodies lay strewn across the cobblestones, both Jaegerists and Allied soldiers, their uniforms now tattered and stained with grime and blood. The pure titans, numbering in the hundreds since Zeke’s scream, rampaged without reason, devouring anyone caught in their aimless path. Levi’s heart twisted each time he caught sight of one of his men dragged away screaming, but he had no time to mourn. He gritted his teeth, scanning for his target. The Beast Titan reared up again, rotating its massive shoulder as it sought more ammunition to hurl.
“Damn him,” Levi hissed, eyes narrowing at the tall figure. Zeke, from behind the muzzle of his titan, released a guttural cry, sending another volley of debris smashing across the rooftops. Levi ducked under a hurtling stone the size of a horse, feeling the rush of wind on his face. He fired his grapple at a broken spire, yanking himself up and away from a chunk of flying rubble.
He alighted on a sloping roof, veins of cracks splintering under his weight. “He wants me to come to him,” Levi muttered under his breath. “Fine.” With a swift motion, he reeled in the cable and launched himself forward, smoke trailing from his ODM gear. In the corner of his vision, he saw Eren’s Attack Titan rampaging through a row of Allied Forces and he desperately tried to force his way through to Zeke. Eren’s crystallized fists glowed in the sun, and every blow caved in metal or flesh. Gunshots ricocheted in vain off his hardened plating. Eren roared, scattering terrified infantry. Yet Eren too seemed to be searching, his massive eyes darting across the battlefield. He wanted Zeke just as badly as Levi did.
Captain Magath, perched behind a half-collapsed wall somewhere near the battlefield’s fringes, trained his specialized anti-titan rifle on the Attack Titan. His expression was set, eyes narrowed with unwavering resolve. He had waited for this moment, the precise second when Eren was in range. Finger poised on the trigger, he murmured to no one in particular, “I can’t let them make contact.” Magath’s sights steadied on the back of Eren’s head. “If Eren get close too close to Zeke, I’ll kill Zeke if I have to.”
Across the bloody expanse, Levi soared in an arc, flipping just as he reached the Beast Titan’s shoulder. With uncanny precision, he angled the blades in his hands. If he severed too deeply, Zeke might die instantly, spoiling their chance to get him to Eren in time. If he didn’t cut enough, the Beast Titan would regain movement and crush him. Levi’s pulse hammered as he readied the strike.
But in that split second, the entire world seemed to tilt.
Levi’s body lurched. A strange wave of disorientation flooded him, like the ground had vanished. He blinked, and for an instant, he thought he saw pure whiteness, a swirl of dust or sand, and a starry sky. Then reality snapped back into focus. The Beast Titan had twisted at the last possible moment, swatting him aside with a colossal backhand. Levi catapulted away, crashing through a shaky timber watchtower that splintered on impact. Plumes of dust rose around him as he tumbled across broken masonry. For a moment, everything rang with a high-pitched squeal. Pain shot through his ribs, but he staggered upright, spitting out blood, determination flaring anew.
He glimpsed Zeke’s titan hunched now, as if in pain. Something was off about the way the Beast Titan’s giant arms twitched sporadically. Levi readied his gear, about to push the advantage, when a monstrous ripple of energy crackled across the nape of the Beast Titan. Zeke, still inside, let out a choked gasp, but no roar followed. His eyes widened in sudden alarm. Levi paused, confused by the abrupt shift in Zeke’s posture.
Far away, in Capital Mitras, Aurora was mid-labor, tears streaming down her cheeks as Historia tried to soothe her. The doctor’s voice blurred into background noise. Aurora’s heart hammered, each contraction sending waves of agony through her body. Yet the flash of the Paths tore her mind from the physical realm, and she gasped, arms flailing for something to ground her as the world dissolved in a swirl of shimmering sand.
She felt the shift instantly, that jarring sensation of being wrenched away from her body. She cried out, “Eren—!” but her voice fell into a vast silence. A heartbeat later, she stood upright, the crippling pain replaced by a strange numbness. The sky overhead was dark, or perhaps nonexistent, a void of shifting colors and luminous branches that stretched in all directions. The boundless realm of the Paths extended before her eyes: columns of sand rising into the eternal distance, anchored by the colossal tree-like structure at the center.
She trembled, panting, hair clinging to her sweaty face. Looking around wildly, she realized she wasn’t alone. Zeke Jaeger was here. Not in the form of the Beast Titan, but as a man. He wore a tattered, half-burned uniform, his face marked by tension and confusion. For a moment, Aurora’s heart skittered with raw terror. She was unarmed, exhausted, and painfully aware that she was effectively in the midst of giving birth mere moments ago. Yet, in this realm, she felt neither the contractions nor the ache in her limbs, only the faint echo of that agony.
Zeke, equally shocked, took a step back, eyes widening as they locked onto her. “You…” he breathed. His voice held an edge of disbelief. “How… how are you here?” His gaze flitted over Aurora’s pregnant form. He recognized her instantly, the platinum blonde hair, the ice-blue eyes. She was the woman he had glimpsed in those half-conscious moments of switching bodies, the one who had haunted his thoughts with questions he couldn’t answer.
Aurora stood frozen, arms slightly raised in a defensive posture. “Zeke Jaeger,” she managed, voice thick with emotion. Her mind reeled, trying to process that they were both in the Paths again. She recalled the previous times she had felt her consciousness lurch, slipping into his perspective. Now, face to face, there was no escape from the reality of this confrontation.
Between them, the small figure of Ymir Fritz materialized, silent and solemn. Her vacant, ancient eyes reflected centuries of sorrow. She wore rags and stood unmoving, her head slightly bowed, as if waiting. Aurora’s heart twisted painfully at the sight. She remembered Ymir’s lonely expression, the brush of that small hand when Aurora had tried to reach out. Her mind spun with the memory of that heartbreak, the depthless sorrow.
Zeke’s gaze slid from Aurora to Ymir, confusion laced with something akin to fear crossing his features. “Ymir,” he whispered, breath catching in his throat. He’d seen the Founder before in glimpses, but never had he expected to find them both here simultaneously, an intimate meeting orchestrated by forces beyond comprehension. His chest tightened. He was in the midst of battle—he’d just been about to crush Levi or hurl another boulder. Now, everything was still, silent except for the faint hum that seemed to pervade the Paths.
Aurora watched him warily, fists clenched at her sides. “Why?” she asked, voice trembling. “Why is this happening again? Why do you keep dragging me here?” She shot a pained look at Ymir, though she suspected the Founder was not the only culprit. The weird consciousness-swaps she had endured in the past had felt like some cosmic accident, a collision of royal bloodlines and the Founder’s intangible power.
Zeke swallowed hard, remembering the swirl of confusion every time he felt Aurora’s presence in his body, and the unsettling knowledge that Aurora possessed a potency that could unravel his plans. “I don’t know,” he replied honestly, voice low. “I never intended this. I want no part of your… your connection to the Founder.” He stared at her stomach, realizing with a jolt that this woman was in the process of giving birth. “You’re the second cousin I never knew,” he muttered, lips twisting in a bitter half-smile. “My mother’s side… it’s too tangled. None of it matters now.”
Aurora remained rigid, thinking of how only minutes ago she was screaming in agony, how her entire mind was consumed by worry for Eren. “I don’t care about any of that,” she said, voice tighter than she intended. “What I care about is ending this war before it kills the people I love.” She gestured at Ymir, whose eyes flicked up momentarily, swirling with an unreadable depth. “You keep using her power, turning Eldians into titans, destroying lives without remorse. You have no right—” She broke off, tears threatening, recalling her terrifying visions of Eren’s future.
Zeke’s expression hardened. “I have every right,” he snapped. “I do it to save the world from Eldians, from this cursed cycle of suffering. That’s been the mission all along.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “But you… the Founder’s interest in you is… perplexing.” He hesitated, recalling the fear that had gnawed at him for months, the knowledge that Aurora carried royal blood—blood that the Founder could more freely manifest. “Does your existence alone threaten everything I’ve worked for?”
Aurora’s lips parted, fury sparking in her eyes. “Threaten? The only ‘threat’ is you! You kill us. You feed your own people to titans. You—” She faltered as a swirl of emotion nearly stole her words. She forced herself to remain calm, to remember that this realm was intangible, that violence here was overshadowed by the near-omnipotent presence of the Founder. “I want no more bloodshed,” she said, trembling. “I just want Eren to come back alive. I want our baby to live in a world that isn’t bathed in flames. Why is that so impossible?”
Zeke let out a bitter laugh. “Because the world demands it,” he said. “The Allies, Marley… Everyone wants your so-called devils eradicated. Eren wants to unleash the Rumbling, doesn’t he? A million times the bloodshed. You talk about wanting peace, but yet your husband stands on the brink of genocide.” He ran a hand over his face, exhaling. “And yet… the Founder calls you, or maybe you call her. I can’t even tell anymore.”
A quiet hush fell as both turned their gazes to Ymir. The Founder made no move. The ancient child’s hollow stare flicked from one direct descendant to the other. Aurora’s heart constricted at the sadness etched into Ymir’s posture, the droop of her shoulders, the faint lines of sorrow forever creasing that youthful visage.
“Please,” Aurora whispered, voice cracking as she took a tentative step toward the silent figure. “You brought me here before. I… I tried to reach out. What do you want from me?” Her eyes brimmed with tears, her mind drifting to the memory of gripping Ymir’s cold hand, the sense of bottomless loneliness that emanated from her. “If there’s anything left of your will, Ymir… end this. Don’t let Eren die. Don’t let my baby lose its father.”
Zeke watched, mouth pressed into a thin line. He distrusted every quiver of compassion in Aurora’s voice, suspecting it was a trap or a naive hope. Yet he couldn’t look away from Ymir’s small form, the intangible being who held the fate of Eldians in her ancient hands. A swirl of sand eddied around them, as though the Paths itself reflected the tension. Zeke half-expected Ymir to respond, to point in condemnation or salvation, but she remained silent.
A ripple passed through the swirling dark sky above, a silent upheaval of energy. In that fleeting wave, Aurora felt something akin to an embrace, a brush of intangible presence across her shoulders. She recalled how in the real world, she was locked in the throes of childbirth, her body straining as new life approached. The pain was muted here, replaced by a sensation of waiting. Zeke, meanwhile, felt echoes of the Beast Titan’s raging conflict, the stones he had been about to throw, the furious slash of Levi’s blades. Yet all of it seemed distant, as though time had paused.
Aurora exhaled softly, tears gliding down her cheeks. “Ymir… please,” she repeated, voice husky with raw emotion. “You’ve suffered for two thousand years. Let it end with me… let it end with Eren… let it end with all of us.” She gazed at Zeke, anger still flickering behind her eyes. “If you truly want to save the world from suffering, Zeke, how can you continue this path? You and Eren can’t kill each other if we’re ever to break the cycle.”
Zeke’s face hardened again. “You don’t understand anything,” he snapped, glancing away. “My plan is bigger than your petty illusions. And you think Eren will just give up? He’s just like our vile father. If he obtains the Founder’s power without restrictions, he’ll flatten everything. Millions, billions, gone in an instant. Is that the world you want your baby to inherit?”
Aurora flinched, haunted by the memory of the future she had glimpsed. “No,” she murmured. “But I’d still choose Eren over any of you who would tear him down. I love him.” She swallowed, meeting Zeke’s gaze with surprising defiance. “He’s the father of my child, and if you had even a shred of human decency, you would’ve never have done the horrible things you did!”
Zeke let out a slow breath, the bitterness in his eyes shifting to an unsettling calm. “We do not choose these burdens,” he said at last. “But we must carry them.” He turned to Ymir, voice quivering with suppressed intensity. “Founder Ymir… I call upon you for—” But he froze mid-sentence, for Ymir’s gaze, ancient and sorrowful, was fixed on Aurora. That unwavering stare told them all that words might not matter here.
For a flickering heartbeat, the Paths lit with a silent brilliance. Sand swirled around Ymir, forming shapes that half-manifested then dissolved. Was it memory, or mere reflection? Aurora felt a pulse of warmth in her chest, a tingling sense that Ymir reached out, answering her cry. Zeke stiffened, the primal fear he’d felt at the thought of Aurora’s significance throbbing anew. Their eyes locked—Aurora’s wide and anguished, Zeke’s suspicious yet laced with reluctant awe.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the brilliance subsided. Aurora gasped, stepping back, her heart pounding. She knew the fragile moment was over, the Paths pulling them back toward their respective realities. The swirl of intangible sand, the luminous arcs of energy, everything spiraled around them in a cacophony of half-formed visions. She saw glimpses of Shiganshina’s battered walls, of Levi whirling amid monstrous roars, of Historia’s tear-streaked face near a bed stained with blood, of Eren’s titan howling in rage. With the last ounce of her will, Aurora locked eyes with Zeke.
“We can’t keep doing this,” she whispered, voice ragged with both sorrow and fierce desperation. “Enough blood has been shed.”
Zeke said nothing, his expression twisting with myriad emotions: anger, regret, fear, conviction. A hush followed, swirling sand devouring the space between them. Ymir remained a silent sentinel, watching as the swirling brightness sealed away the fragile meeting in the Paths.
I'm sorry but I'm confused... Eren is about to kill 80% of the population how is that fair Aurora? She says she doesn't want more bloodshed and is angry with Zeke for what he is doing, but what about Eren and what HE is going to do?🤔
She goes and preaches about Zeke but she has no problem for what Eren is about to do... I'm sorry but she is a hypocrite 😑
She ALSO doesn't care about anyone but her own.. So i can't take her "side" (they're is no right side), whatever she is saying and truth is everyone is fighting for they're own gain. (As they should)
If you think with a clear head without being biased the only one who is "close" (kinda) and is fighting for the bigger picture is Zeke... He's ways are twisted (as everyone's) but he is the only "natural" one.
Because he doesn't have anyone or close bonds with anyone.
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