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Chapter Text

Y’shtola Rhul walked through the stone corridors of the Waking Sands quickly, a woman on a mission. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn’s newest recruit had returned from his first outing for them, one that had gone sideways in spectacular fashion. The Amal’jaa had succeeded in summoning their god, the Immortal Flames unit sent to stop them had been betrayed from within and tempered to a man, and Marcus Dorne had been left to face down Ifrit’s fury alone. After hearing all that, Y’shtola couldn’t help but agree with Minfilia’s suggestion to pay him a visit.

The white haired Miqo’te’s hurried pace slowed as she approached her destination. The new Scion had retired to a small chamber that served as a resting room shortly after making his report, though it was still quite early in the day. Understandable, after what he had been through, though Y’shtola didn’t think he would be getting much rest. She checked herself, knowing from regrettable past experiences that appearing too hasty or eager would only make her ‘mission’ that much more difficult. She knocked on the wooden door and waited. A voice, muffled by the heavy door, invited her to enter. A bad sign, she knew.

She opened the door and stepped inside. Marcus looked at her from his seat on the room’s bed, his brow furrowing in confusion at the sight of her. He was clad in simple underclothes, the pieces of his armor placed on the nearby table along with the various lapping cloths and oils of armor maintenance. For her part, Y’shtola could tell at a glance Minfilia had been correct. “Hello.” She greeted him, closing the door behind her.

“Hi.” The Echo-blessed adventurer replied. “What brings you here?”

“I wanted to check in on you after your mission.” Y’shtola answered. “Fighting a Primal is no easy experience.”

“I’m fine. Is there anything you need?” He asked, looking as if he was ready to rise to attend to whatever task she had for him. Oh dear. From the others’ words, she expected he was one of that kind, but she hadn’t anticipated it being this bad.

“Take off your shirt.” She said firmly.

Marcus’ face turned a slightly darker shade of red. “I’m sorry?”

Y’shtola had already drawn her wand. “There is no call for modesty. I would prefer not to need to ask Yda to hold you in place, but I will if you insist on being stubborn.”

Marcus visibly weighed his options for a moment before nodding. Tentatively, he began to disrobe. Y’shtola glanced again at his armor. If his gingerly movements were not enough sign, all it took was one look at the damaged metal to confirm her suspicions. The edges of the armor plates had warped and began to run. Marcus finished taking off his shirt and at the sight of his bare torso, Y’shtola’s normally impeccable composure found itself tested.

His skin was a mess of burns and lesions. It was unsurprising that the minor exertion of taking his shirt off had left him taking deep, slow breaths, his abused flesh undoubtedly screaming at even that little aggravation. And it was little wonder why. He had been in an inferno so intense his armor had started to melt around him. That he was even still alive was a testament to his resilience. The Mothercrystal did indeed choose her champions well.

 Y’shtola had seen many terrible wounds in her time and any squeamishness had long been burned out of her. However, the sight of these obviously severe injuries coupled with Marcus’ retreat into solitude, even being willing to carry out whatever task he thought she had for him left her more than a little angry. He no doubt thought something foolish like he did not want to impose on her by asking for the aid he so clearly needed. That or he had the arrogance to think he did not need help even when he could not undress himself without wincing in pain. But since one of the first lessons she had learned was that berating your patient only impeded the healing process, she held her tongue. For now, at least.

“Turn around, please.” Y’shtola said, walking closer. Marcus wordlessly complied, exposing his broad back, in a similar condition to his front, to her. She took a moment to assess the worst of the damage and plan her approach, then raised her hands and began to heal. Marcus hissed and stiffened as his skin began to mend. He took shaky breaths as the curative magicks washed over him. Y’shtola watched his reactions with a practiced eye. Healing was, ironically, a painful process. Wounded flesh was first aggravated by the energies restoring it, with relief from the pain coming afterwards. Y’shtola considered it the mark of a poor healer to accept that pain as an inevitable byproduct of the process and made a point of minimizing her patient’s discomfort as she worked.

“How did you find facing a Primal?” She asked, knowing that getting him talking would help distract him from the aches. And she wanted to sound him out, get a better measure of his character. “It must have been harrowing indeed, to stand against such fury.”

“Honestly, I don’t recall much of it.” Marcus said. He made to turn back to face her, but she stilled him with a touch. “I just… fought. It died and I didn’t, the rest is a blur.”

 She noted his lack of bravado, though his nonchalance at blacking out in such a manner suggested more than a little experience in this kind of intense, life and death battle. That aligned with Thancred’s observations, he had guessed that Marcus was a veteran soldier before starting his adventurer career in Eorzea.

“It cannot have been easy, contending with Ifrit alone.”

“It wasn’t.” Marcus let out a sigh. “I wish I could have saved the Flames with me. But after seeing what Ifrit did to them, I understand why I need to fight by myself.”

Another good answer. Thancred had been intensely apologetic over not arriving until the Primal was slain, but Y’shtola agreed with Marcus’ assessment. The sad truth was, only those blessed by Hydaelyn could fight Primals. Not for the first time, she lamented the Echo’s rarity. She would give quite a lot to have that power for herself.

Marcus’ back was now raw and red, but still much improved from when she started. Mindful of the limits of how far conjury can push a body, Y’shtola knew to prioritize more damaged areas rather than strive for perfection. “Now for your front.”

Marcus dutifully turned around to face her. Ironically, the burns on the front of his torso seemed less severe than his back. Perhaps he had been projecting his aether forward, towards the enemy, and it had warded him from the worst of Ifrit’s flames? An interesting theory, though impossible to confirm. She raised her hands to his chest and began to heal once more, Marcus letting out a long sigh as her magicks touched his flesh. He met her eyes for a moment, then apparently found a spot on the wall to be far more interesting. Y’shtola’s mouth quirked. He was far from the first of her patients to become self-conscious during healing, but she still found some people’s priorities amusing.

“I do hope this will not become a common occurrence.” She said, thinking now was a good time to present her case.

 “I think that’ll depend on how many more fire demons I get sent to kill.” Marcus replied glibly.

Y’shtola frowned as she moved from his torso to begin healing his arms. That had not been what she meant, but she did not care for his casual tone. Her next words were delivered a touch harder than she intended. “I have no doubt you will continue to stoically endure whatever injuries you receive in the course of your duties, but having to track you down to provide the healing you need is not a good use of my time.”

Marcus grimaced, but said nothing. Y’shtola could only hope his lack of response was because he accepted her point. She was still stuck on how cavalier he was about the prospect of fighting more Primals. Either he was not taking this seriously, or worse, he was taking it very seriously and was fatalistically resigned to his end.

She liked him, she was willing to admit. He had an easy air about him, striking humility for someone so capable, and a clear willingness to lend his aid with little to no regard for what might be in it for him. His many admirable qualities made it clear why Thancred had seen such promise in him, why he had been named a special emissary for Ul’dah, and why Minfilia was so quick to welcome him into their fold. But Y’shtola was reluctant to warm up to him just yet.

She had been fond of several of the adventurers with the Echo the Scions had recruited, some by she herself. And the majority of them were now dead.

The rate of attrition was grim, but sadly unsurprising. Though Marcus’ recent misadventure fighting Ifrit alone was a rare state of affairs, the Scions’ Echo-blessed recruits often did fight Primals with only a handful of comrades. And they had the survival rate one would expect from doing something that dangerous. There were just too few people with both the Echo and the strength to fight that the Scions could call on. Y’shtola dearly wished she could stand with them against the darkness, rather than being forced to stay on the sidelines. But fate had decided that was her role and wishing would not make it otherwise, no matter how distasteful she found it.

Marcus’ skin was still more red than she would have liked, but she could tell his body was nearing its limit. Conjury could only encourage one’s natural healing, and pushing too far would have graver consequences than his now mild burns. She cut off the flow of her aether and straightened up. Marcus leaned back and let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

“It was my pleasure.” And it was, truly. Even without the satisfaction she always felt from healing the injured, from using her talents to help others in one of the most direct ways possible, she was happy to heal him. He deserved at least that much and if it eased her guilty conscience a smidge, so much the better. “If your burns still bother you by tomorrow morning, seek me out.”

Marcus nodded his agreement as his mouth opened wide in a yawn. The drain on his stamina from the healing was making itself felt. Given how this encounter had started, Y’shtola made a mental note to check in on him tomorrow regardless.

“Sleep well.” She told him.

“You too.” He murmured, eyelids already drooping.

Y’shtola closed the door behind her softly, leaving him to his well-deserved rest.

Chapter Text

It was a slow day in the Waking Sands. There were no scheming Ascians or stirring Beast Tribes or rampaging Primals to deal with and the Scions were enjoying the rare chance to relax for a change. Yda had managed to cajole Minfilia, Y’shtola, and Tataru into a “Girl’s Day” which Urianger wasn’t sure even Yda knew would entail. Papalymo had retreated to a quiet room to continue his work on documenting their mentor’s works, the Lalafell seeing it as his duty to preserve Master Louisoux’s teachings for future generations. Urianger himself was sitting in the main chamber, taking the opportunity to avail himself of a particular tome he had been meaning to get through while Thancred and the Scion’s new champion were at another table engaging in a less cerebral pursuit.

There was the soft sound of a card being placed, followed first by others being flipped then an annoyed grunt. “Stop cheating.”

“We’ve been over this.” Thancred repeated, sounding nearly as annoyed as Marcus was. “The Plus rule is an established part of the game. I am hardly ‘cheating’ just because you won’t do the math.”

Urianger tried to tune the conversation out in favor of continuing his reading, but alas The Prophecies and Foretellings of Elder Siange was almost unbearably dry in the best of times and even the dubious entertainment of an argument about Triple Triad rules was alluring by comparison.

“What’s the rule again?”

Thancred’s voice took on the tone of someone reciting something learned by rote. “When a card is played, if two or more of the sides are touching other cards, and the sum of the ranks on the touching sides are identical to the sums on the other touching sides, the other cards are flipped.”

Urianger raised an eyebrow behind the safety of his hood and googles. Perhaps there was more thinking to that card game than he knew. He shook off the thought with a corresponding shake of his head and forcibly returned his attention to his book. As much of a chore as getting through Prophecies and Foretellings was, it was Siange’s seminal work. Master Louisoux himself had recommended it to Urianger, though not without a warning that he would in all likelihood find watching paint dry to be more engaging. There were many useful insights into the study of prophecies contained within, but by the gods Urianger thought he was verbose.

It was almost a mercy when Marcus’ next complaint a few minutes later intruded into his concentration. “Okay, now that’s cheating.”

“Now what?”

“You have two five-star cards, that’s against the rules. You’re only allowed one in your deck.”

Urianger looked up from his book to see Thancred scoff. “No one ever plays by that rule.”

Marcus pointed an accusing finger. “Hey, if you want your stupid Plus rule, then we’re following all the rules.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll remake my deck.” Thancred said, holding out his hands in a placating manner.

Urianger kicked himself for losing focus again. This always happened when he tried to get through this book. He would make a little headway then find something else to distract him. He briefly contemplated moving to another room, but thankfully the card players slipped into an agreeable quiet as they played. At least, they did for several minutes until the sound of several cards being flipped again provoked a protest.

“Hey, you don’t get those. That doesn’t…” There was a pause and Urianger could almost picture Marcus calculating in his head. “No, the sides don’t add up. The Plus rule doesn’t apply.”

Urianger gathered up his things. With Minfilia out, the solar would be a quiet enough space to read free of distractions. Thancred spoke as he marked his page. “This is not because of the Plus rule, it’s because of the Same rule.”

“What the hell is the Same rule?”

The heavy tome tucked under his arm, Urianger walked out of the main chamber in search of some peace and quiet. He made the snap decision that he didn’t see the cards Thancred was hiding under the table and left them to their game.

Chapter Text

Tataru paused outside the door. The Rising Stones was mostly empty, but Thancred, Alphinaud, and Alisaie were somewhere and she briefly considered going to solicit their aid. After a moment’s thought, she dismissed the idea. Thancred and Alisaie would not see the problem and Alphinaud would not be willing to call their friend on it. He’d probably say something like how the Warrior of Light’s many heroic deeds had earned him the indulgence. Which was simply not the point at all.

Resolved to handle this by herself, Tataru knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Marcus called, so she did.

The heavy wooden door swung open and Tataru purposefully strode right into the fairy darting through the air.

“Oh! My apologies.” The little flying creature exclaimed, wings beating frantically as it tried to recover its flight from the sudden impact.

“No, no, I should have been looking where I was going.” Tataru said, reflexive manners deploying themselves as she raised a hand to her stinging nose. She took a second look at the fairy. It resembled nothing so much as a doll made in the shape of a mythological pixie, but it lived, moved, and talked on its own. She had never really understood where it had come from, it was apparently the spirit of a weapon Marcus had forged? How a sword even had a soul, she wasn’t entirely sure.

“You two okay?” Marcus asked, leaning over from his work. A bright figure flew up and over his shoulder and came to halt in front of Tataru. This fairy, woven of glittering magicks, raised a hand and with a swirl of energy the pain in Tataru’s face faded.

“Ah, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Lily.”

“Um.” Tataru regarded the glittering sprite. “Thank you… Lily?”

The glowing fairy spun in midair, which she took to mean “You’re welcome.” and flew up along with its companion to hover over the dresser, safely out of the way of errant Lalafells. Tataru spotted the bright blue shape curled on the table next to the dresser and felt a flash of irritation. She knew it wasn’t the same one, but seeing any carbuncle reminded her of her own, treacherous one. She was spared further thought on her old grudge with the aethereal construct by Marcus speaking to her.

“What can I do for you, Tataru?” He asked, hands still in motion.

She turned to face him. “I wanted to talk to you about…” She trailed off at the sight of a young dragon, sitting on the back of the chair and glaring at her. Almost unwillingly, she locked eyes with the dragonling. Its unblinking stare felt hypnotic and she couldn’t tell if it was thinking incredibly deep and profound thoughts, or no thoughts at all. With an effort, she forced her gaze past it to Marcus.

“We need to talk about your pets.”

“What pets?” Marcus asked, the question sounding completely sincere despite the fact that he was even at this very moment grooming his Chocobo. Indoors, no less. Tataru’s nose curled at the… distinctive smell of Chocobo dander.

“You mean, other than all of these?” She waved a hand to encompass the fairies and dragon and Chocobo.

Marcus and the Chocobo shared looks like the bird somehow understood what she had said.

“Colonel is not a pet, he’s my partner.” The yellow bird kwehed in agreement. “Same for Anima.”

“Sorry about before.” The fairy puppet chimed in from its perch.

“And Midgardsomr is definitely not a pet, more like… a guest I suppose?”

Tataru looked at the dead-eyed dragonling again. So it was named after the king of dragons, huh? She still couldn’t tell what, if anything, was happening behind those disproportionately large eyes of its. She resolved to ignore it.

“Whatever you want to call them, they-”

A piercing screech cut the air. That was not a poetic turn of phrase, it felt like the sound was stabbing her in the ears.

“Oop, right.” Marcus said casually, barely heard after Tataru clamped her hands over her aching ears. “I forgot it was feeding time.”

He reached into an icebox and pulled out a slab of raw meat the size of Tataru’s torso. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he lobbed the meat towards the window. Tataru’s mouth opened to complain about the mess when a massive bird head came through the window and snapped the meat out of the air.

The Yol swallowed its food with an audible gulp. It’s head turned to Tataru and gave her a look that, despite its recent meal, seemed awfully hungry. She tried not to think about how it could likely swallow her whole and turned back to Marcus.

“Whatever you want to call your animal companions, there is a problem with them being here.”

Marcus’ head cocked in confusion for a moment before comprehension spread across his face. “Oh right, of course. I get it.”

“You do? Good.” Tataru had been expecting an argument on the subject, though not one she would have shied away from. The Rising Stones were not a zoo where he could deposit every random critter he picked up in his travels. “I’m glad you understand. This is, after all, everyone’s home, not just your own.”

“Yeah, I really should have thought of this sooner.” Marcus nodded. “Whatever I owe you for the feed I’ve grabbed from our stores, just let me know.”

“Wait, no.”

“I’m sure it’s a lot, Yol and Colonel both have quite the appetite.” Marcus was saying, blissfully unaware of her attempt to correct him.

There was a metallic whir and the sound of gears working. A suit of magitek armor rose out of its crouch to stand. How did Marcus even get it in here, it was bigger than the door. And how had she missed seeing it until now? It had been like an optical illusion, her eyes glossing over the shape because she never expected something so large to be indoors.

“Maggie?” Marcus asked. “What is it?”

Now, Tataru was a sensible woman and did not believe the magitek armor was alive and aware and capable of understanding words like Marcus seemed to think. But she had just watched it activate itself with no external stimuli and now it appeared for all the world to be looking at her. Staring down the barrel of a magitek cannon, she decided to keep being sensible.

“I’ll have an invoice for you for the food costs shortly. Thanks for being so understanding.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ll try to keep track of what I owe going forward.”

“Good.” Resisting the urge to back out of the room, Tataru turned and left. She made the executive decision that she was going to let F’lhaminn convince Marcus to not keep his animals around the Rising Stones. And his Imperial war machina.  

Chapter Text

I always knew we would win. Okay, not always always. I was resigned to the occupation lasting forever, like a lot of people. But I found the courage to fight, well before the tide started to turn. Actually, right before the massacre, when things were at their bleakest. But I stuck it out. Okay, back then, after the massacre, I had serious doubts then too. The Reach being ransacked, losing Meffrid… You know what, let me start over, tell this properly.

It started with an explosion in the night.

It was not too from Castellum Velodyna. A little farther west, in the East End, where the flames were visible through the trees to the men stationed at Castrum Oriens. The Eorzean Alliance held the Castrum, of course, but the Resistance had a squad stationed there to coordinate with the Alliance leadership. So in the scramble to investigate what the commanders thought was almost certainly a prelude to an attack on the Castrum, several of the Resistance fighters, including me, were with the party that found the Imperials.

It was an attack on the Castrum. At least, it had been. Now, it was a collection of burned corpses and wrecked war machina.

It was a stroke of very confusing luck. Either thanks to some treacherous informant or just plain bad luck, the Imperials had been approaching from a direction and time that would have let them get with spitting distance of the Castrum before encountering any Alliance patrols. And with the magitek they were packing, they could have done a lot of damage before they were driven off.

So we were pretty fortunate they died in such an eye-catching manner. But, how did they die? Fire, obviously, but where did the fire come from? And why were there some men who had puncture wounds rather than burns? First we thought maybe a magitek weapon had malfunctioned, but the models with the attack party didn’t have that kind of ordinance. The Alliance decided the Imperials must have been bringing in a bomb to use on the Castrum that somehow went off before they could get it into position. Even though there was no trace of any such a bomb, they insisted the components must have been vaporized by the blast and the unburnt men were killed by shrapnel.

But we knew. We Ala Mihgans, we understood even if they did not. After all, they worship the Matron. They wouldn’t know divine fury if it bit them in their pointy ears… No offense intended, of course. But the Destroyer, he’s a god of action, who can and will strike down our foes. I expect he was especially eager to rain his wrath down on the Garleans, after they tried to stamp out our faith. The attack on his holy place, Rhalgr’s Reach, was clearly the final straw.

Still, we let the Girdanians believe what they wanted. No sense in arguing with our allies over something like that, right? I admit, I hadn’t expected them to keep believing it when there was another explosion, this time deep behind the front lines. Spotters said it looked like the Empire was setting up a cannon, and again the Adders said it must have gone off accidentally and blown itself up.

Now look, I am the last person to defend those bastard Garleans. But they aren’t that stupid. If they were, we would have liberated ourselves roughly nineteen years ago. No, something else was happening. And it was obvious what to anyone paying attention. Rhalgr’s wrath was being visited on our oppressors.

The Serpents started to come around, eventually. When the Garleans sent out their fliers, we were in trouble. They fly too high for our cannons, but theirs can still fire down at us no problem. That’s how they won the first war, I heard. Anyway, they could have rained fire on us, but we kept finding them as crashed wrecks on the ground. They were, somehow, being swatted from the sky. I know there had been some talk that maybe your Ishgardian dragoons having been responsible, but none were active in the areas we were finding downed flyers. Come to think of it, I don’t think I saw any at all throughout the entire war… Ahem, anyway.

Those magitek flyers could have done serious damage to us, but they had trespassed in Rhalgr’s domain, and he would not suffer their presence. I heard General Aldynn say we were damn lucky those flyers kept being inexplicably brought down. He said they could have wiped out our entire offensive if left unchecked. But I know it wasn’t luck. The Bull of Ala Mhigo has spent too long in Ul’dah, if you catch my meaning. He’d forgotten how Rhalgr protects his children.

But I bet even he was reminded after Specula Imperatoris. Don’t get me wrong, the slaughter at the tower was monstrous. But the Imperials could have just kept firing, see? They had that damn cannon of theirs, they could have rained death on us and taken out the other towers too. But they didn’t, because Rhalgr stopped them. He was so disgusted at them killing their own, he reached down and destroyed their cannon himself. I know, I know, the Garleans claim it was some man who did it, but come on. They just want to deny our gods like they always do. That cannon was the size of a building, how could a man destroy something like that?

Alright, I see that look. You don’t believe me. Maybe you think it was just coincidences, or luck, or accidents like everyone else. And don’t think I’m trying to dismiss all the hard fighting that went into the liberation, all the sacrifices we made or the support we got from others, like yourselves and the Scions especially. Rhalgr didn’t win us the war or kill Zenos or anything like that. But he was helping us.

I saw it with my own eyes. My unit was hunting an Imperial patrol about a week ago, out in Rustrock. And we found them, but they had holed up in the Hidden Tear and called in reinforcements. We were trying to figure out a way to dig them out without damaging the shrine, but then we saw it. A flying war machina, one of the tall pillar types, coming over the ridge at us. We were caught in the open, completely exposed, and it already had a firing angle on us. But before it could shoot, it exploded.

I was running for cover and missed it, but there was nothing nearby that could have brought it down. Nothing on the ground, anyway. It must have been hit by lightning. Lightning from a clear blue sky.

“That’s how I know Rhalgr was protecting us. He protected me.” Wiscar felt emotion begin to choke his voice. He had had perhaps a few too many drinks, celebrating the liberation of Ala Mhigo after twenty long years of slavery. But not so many that he couldn’t tell the Ishgardian irregular, one of the adventurers the Alliance used to pad their Grand Companies, was less than impressed with his story.

For a moment he considered making his case again, then admitted to himself he wasn’t in much shape to make a convincing argument about much of anything and for that matter he didn’t really care what some outsider felt about what he knew was true. After saying as much, he pushed his way through the crowded bar to find a more receptive audience. And mayhap another drink or two.

With a silent prayer of thanks to the Fury for his resumed solitude, Estinien returned his attention to his ale, a sour and harsh drink just like the land it came from. He had wanted to treat himself after finally bringing an end to Niddhog’s legacy of destruction, and thought this dive was far enough off the beaten path that he wouldn’t run into Ayermic and his inevitable questions. With the entire city making the most of their newly declared freedom, he was just one more man joining in the party.

He smirked as he took another sip of the strong beer. The boy had almost been right, at times. And, who knows? Estinien’s search for Shinryu had led to him crossing paths with Imperials often, mayhap the Destroyer truly had put them in his path. He’d certainly reaped quite the tally of destroyed magitek flying machines as his aerial travels brought him into their sights and they had challenged his passage through the skies.

His brow furrowed as he thought. Something the boy had said didn’t sound right. He tried to think back, all the dust and rocks of these inhospitable mountains had blended together in his mind over the long weeks of his hunt. Had he been in Rustrock about a week ago? He could have sworn he had been farther east, closer to the city.

He must have been, he concluded with another long sip of his drink. If not him, what else could have taken out that magitek flyer?

Chapter Text

It had become a familiar refrain. The tearing of the wrapper, the ruffle as its contents were examined, and the sigh of frustration.

Y’shtola’s gaze flicked over the source of the noise before returning to the papers spread out before her. She was hard at work turning her disjointed notes and scattered musings into a comprehensive treatise on Dynamis. Difficult work, and not just because trying to recall how it felt to briefly be Dynamis was like trying to remember a dream someone else had. She could not say her companion’s presence was unwelcome, she enjoyed hearing his voice even when it was growls of irritation. Nor could she say he was particularly distracting, she had long since learned by necessity to tune out far greater rancor.

But if Y’shtola Rhul was one thing, it was curious and the ritual on display was both strange and unexpected enough to grab her attention. “What are you doing?”

Marcus Dorne, Eorzea’s very own Warrior of Light, was sitting cross legged in the middle of a pile of discarded purple parchment packages strewn across the floor, with a steadily growing stack of gold backed cards to his left and a smaller stack on his right. As she watched, he placed the group of cards in his hand onto the left stack, which had started to wobble under its own weight.

“Going though these packs.” He answered, gesturing at the pile of as yet unopened purple wrappers.

Y’shtola resisted with some difficulty the urge to roll her eyes. “To what end?”

Marcus spoke over the sounds of his tearing open yet another pack. “I won big at the Saucer a little while ago and wanted to get a certain card. They got different people and stuff on them.” He held up an example from his current pack. The stony face of the Flame General stared back at Y’shtola. “But it’s super rare, so I grabbed a whole bunch of packs to be sure I got it.”

Looking at the spread of carnage from his search thus far, Y’shtola had a moment of private gratitude that he had only spent the Gold Saucer’s fake currency on this endeavor rather than actual gil. “And what card do you want so very badly?”

Marcus set his current handful of cards aside, frowning at none of them being his designated target either. “Mine.”

Y’shtola sat up a little in surprise. “Yours?”

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair. A sign she had learned meant he was feeling self-conscious. “We all have cards, we’re pretty important and all that. I’ve just never seen my actual card. Or G’raha’s, for that matter. I’m starting to think I don’t even have one.”

“And that would indeed be terrible.” Y’shtola said drily. “One cannot be said to have been successful in life unless they are featured in a gambler’s card game.”

“Easy for you to say.” Marcus grabbed a set of cards and held them up in a fan. “You have three.”

Y’shtola examined the trio of cards which did indeed show her face from different angles. Not for the first time, she quietly lamented giving Tataru license to use her likeness commercially. “Why do you have those readily at hand?”

“Well ah, I… um…” Marcus’ aether rippled as a hint of red bled into his cheeks. He rallied and looked her in the eye. “Is it hard to guess why I like having a few pictures of you?”

Y’shtola felt the corners of her mouth twitch upwards. “Fair enough.” She turned back to her work. “I do expect you to clean all that up after you find two cards of yourself.”

“Will do. Wait.” Marcus cocked his head in question. “Why two?”

Y’shtola kept her gaze on her papers. “The first one is going to be mine.”

Even without him in her line of sight, she saw the pulse outward from his aether. It was flattering, though this was one of the times she felt he was a little too easy to please. He was a simple man, it was one thing she loved about him.

“Ack, no!”

The sound of the overburdened stack finally succumbing to gravity and Marcus’ attempt to catch the falling cards made Y’shtola chuckle. Shaking her head in bemusement, she returned to her work.

Chapter Text

It was night in Thanalan, but Vesper Bay did not sleep. Though the bustling harbor town remained a curiously provincial place for various reasons, neither the Scions’ desire for privacy nor the Syndicate’s desire to spite them could change that Vesper Bay was an important port for those entering and leaving the lands of the Sultanate. Even after nightfall and many merchants and the like retired inside to avoid the chill from the desert setting in, the city remained active. The darkness had its own populace.

Thieves, criminals, those that for whatever reason could not conduct their business in the light. The city was a dangerous place after dark, the Brass Blades not patrolling as much as they should. Another casualty of Lolorito’s feud with the Scions. It was sometimes said that if you wanted to gamble, you didn’t need to travel all the way to the Gold Saucer. You just needed to walk the streets of Vesper Bay at night. Some streets, it wasn’t even a gamble. More a certainty that you would be encountering ne’er do wells.

But there were also places even the criminals feared to tread. Some buildings were off limits, lest you wish to lose your freedom if you were lucky, your life if you weren’t. The Waking Sands was one such place.

The unofficial headquarters of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn was not a large or glamourous building. Indeed, it was downright forgettable. It was easy to see why the Scions had chosen to set up shop there, when they were in hiding from the empire and to a lesser extent the world at large. But after their pivotal role in the Ultima Weapon crisis, the Scions’ base was put on the map in a way you had to bury your head in the sand to miss.

Even in a crime ridden city, no one robbed the Scions. The dumber would-be thieves feared the rumors of nightmarish, impossible magicks wielded by the Archons the Scions kept on staff. Smarter thieves knew those to be mere rumors, but also knew the Scions were plagued by financial woes and simply weren’t a good target to steal from. And the more conscientious of criminals thought that repaying the saviors of the realm with petty theft was a good way to end up outside Thal’s good graces.

Even so, on this night two men more daring or more foolish than most were already inside the Waking Sands.

One man looked down the hallway, left and right, for the third time that minute.

“Hurry up!” He hissed impatiently.

His companion didn’t look up from the door he squatted in front of, lockpicks carefully at work.

“Calm down.” He whispered again, altogether more collected than his companion. The lookout checked the hallway for the fourth time.

“You said you could get us inside.”

It was only thanks to long practice the thief didn’t sigh in exasperation. “And I can. I didn’t say I could get us inside instantly.”

That mollified the lookout for another thirty seconds, while the thief set to work teasing open the tumblers of the lock. It was the finest make on the market; a certain security conscious member of the Scions insisted Minfillia upgrade their defenses as soon as upgrades became available. What was once dismissed as paranoia was taken more seriously after the imperial raid.

“What’s taking so long?”

Now the thief did sigh. “You said you were up to this. If you were going to lose your nerve, you should have stayed in bed.”

There was the interesting sound of a man trying to huff in indignation while whispering. “I haven’t lost my nerve.”

“Only if you mean you never had it in the first place.”

Just then, the lock gave. The thief carefully eased the door open soundlessly and the duo slipped inside. Several dimmed lanterns in an overhead light fixture provided just enough light for them to take in their surroundings. The most dangerous space in all of the Waking Sands.

The women’s dormitory.

They were in a common room, set up with a seating area and a small kitchenette. Support pillars in each corner held up a high roof for this far underground, a curious architectural quirk the lockpicker questioned. Across the room was another hall, lined with doors. Behind each door was the room of a female Scion and a swift death to anyone who intruded. And, in two such rooms, was also each man’s prize.

“Which one is it?” The lookout asked. He’d been quiet before, now he was borderline inaudible. The thief pointed.

“There and there.” He pointed at two doors. Then a third opened.

The lookout froze. His companion jabbed him, returning him to his senses and he followed the other man in dropping low, crouching behind the dubious cover of a nearby table. The sound of footsteps echoed towards them and both men stopped breathing.

The woman approached the common room, yawning profusely. The thief swore inside the safety of his head. This close, he could make out the long blond hair and place the voice. It was Yda, the Scions’ masked brawler. Only, she wasn’t wearing her mask.

This could be very, very bad. The thief thought. Even in the dim light, Yda probably wouldn’t miss them crouching behind this table. And if she found them, she might pound them into paste out of sheer embarrassment. The only thing that gave him a glimmer of hope was the cup held in one of her hands. If she was just up to get a glass of water, then she would be returning to bed quickly.

Just as Yda was about to enter the common room, a creaking noise came from behind her. She whirled about to see, half covering her face with her free hand, and the thief knew they weren’t going to get a better opportunity. He tapped his friend on the shoulder and burst from concealment, lunging for a pillar. He ducked behind the reassuringly solid stone, looked back, and almost groaned.

His friend had felt the tap but missed its meaning entirely. Instead he’d simply stood up and was now looking around for his companion in confusion. Their eyes met at the same instant that Yda spoke.

“Hmm, must have been nothing.”

The thief, knowing his friend had only a second to act, would have told him to duck back down and trust in the table. Instead, the lookout did the exact opposite. He jumped.

Jumped high. Nearly twenty fulms high. High enough to reach the light fixture, and the lookout did. To the thief’s amazement, the lookout latched onto it like he’d planned it. It took him another few seconds to realize he had.

That idiot! The fixture was plainly visible. All Yda had to do to see him was tilt her head. Not to mention that with some doofus hanging off it, the light from the lanterns within was blocked and the room was much darker than it should be. And where would Yda look the second she noticed how dark it was?

To his amazement, Yda did not look up when she entered the room. She looked around furtively, no doubt checking if there was anyone to see her maskless, but she didn’t look up as she crossed the room to the water basin. Purely on a professional level, the thief was beyond annoyed at her.

Levitation spells are not that uncommon! Check every corner Yda! And if you don’t want to be seen without the mask, don’t walk around without it. What would you do if someone else is thirsty, huh?

Still, to his and his compatriot’s benefit, Yda reached the basin without seeing anything amiss. She filled her cup, drank, and filled it again.

“Getting jumpy these days.” She said to herself. “Too much time pretending to be someone I’m not.”

The thief added ‘thinking aloud about things you don’t want overheard’ to his list of grievances towards Yda. The light shifted and he snapped a glare at his friend. Even Yda couldn’t miss the shadows moving on her; he had to stay still. What he saw opened a pit in his stomach. Because it looked like his friend’s grip was slipping.

The lookout was busy praying to any god who would listen not to let him fall. The metal framework he clung to was hot and it was making his hands sweat. He struggled to maintain his grip, knowing it would cost his life to fall or even move too much. But it was alright. Yda had her water and she was now turning to leave.

“Huh, what’s that?”

A litany of colorful obscenities sounded through the thief’s mind. He stayed completely still, knowing that even if his friend was busted there was still a small chance he might escape himself if he kept his wits. He held his breath, heart nevertheless pounding in his ears, until he heard the sound of the door latching.

“That’s odd.” Yda said, closing the door to the main building. “How’d that get open?”

She pondered the conundrum for a moment, then shrugged and turned around. She crossed the room with a brisk stride, entered the hallway, and a few seconds later there was again the sound of a door closing. The thief finally exhaled, just in time for the lookout to lose his grip. He plummeted to the floor, but with impossible grace contorted his body to land lightly on his feet. With the thick stone flooring, the thief barely heard a thump and guessed no one outside the room heard anything at all.

Crisis averted, the duo carefully crept to the closest of their targeted doors. A name card written in a flowing script identified the occupant as one Minfilia Warde. Better known as the leader, founder, and Antecedent of the Scions.

“Remember,” the thief whispered, barely audible even to his own ears. “We get in, grab it, and get out. No hesitation, no mistakes.”

The lookout nodded, not willing to risk making any noise at all.

The lock on Minfilia’s door was no less robust than the one for the dormitory and the thief took his time. His words aside, they were in no rush. Better to take it slow than risk the room’s occupant being awakened by the scraping of his picks. Minfilia slept lightly, after all. For a mercy, his friend was too afraid of getting caught to badger him on his progress this time and soon the lock opened. With extreme care he pushed the door open, bracing for the timber to creak and give them away.

Luck or the gods were with them; the door made no noise. The dim light from the corridor illuminated the room’s floor in a column stretching from the doorway, a column the thief took care not to let reach the bed against the wall. The room was small, shockingly so to somehow who expected the Scions to be rewarded like kings for their tireless work in saving the realm. The thief knew better. Their work was much less glamourous, and paid worse, than you’d expect.

He spent a moment watching for movement, but the bed was still. Satisfied their entry was unnoticed, he focused on the desk against the opposite wall of the bed. Slowly, carefully, both men crept inside. Minfilia kept a tidy room and a tidy desk and their quarry should be right on top of the stack of papers atop it. The thief reached the desk and was about to start checking when he heard a voice like thunder in the stillness of the sleeping room.

“Uh oh.”

The thief whirled around, only not smacking his moronic companion to avoid making more noise. The lookout just stared at him, face going white.

“Where’s Minfilia?”

He looked hurriedly at the bed, unoccupied but with pillows heaped in such a way as to create the appearance of someone sleeping in it. The implications of this crashed down around him at the same moment as the lights came on. He froze like a cornered prey animal, the comparison feeling uncomfortably apt.

“Thancred.” Minfilia greeted him as casually as if they were meeting in the Solar on official business. Her eyes jumped from him to the newly christened Warrior of Light. “And Marcus too. What brings you to my quarters?”

She stepped inside, followed by Y’shtola who was holding up a lantern in what Thancred couldn’t help but take as an accusing manner. Both women radiated a dangerous sort of calm, not a hint of anger in either’s expression yet Thancred could feel his lifespan shrinking by the second. His mind was in overdrive, trying to provide an excuse for their presence here that might still save their mission. Unfortunately, Marcus spoke first.

“We weren’t going to steal anything!” He insisted.

Thancred almost groaned. Why not just admit it outright?

Marcus continued, perhaps sensing the hostility directed at him by three people now. “We were just going to take it and replace it with something else!”

“By ‘it’ I assume you are referring to the report you submitted regarding your latest battle against Titan?” Minfilia asked, all smiles. What little color was left in Marcus’s face drained away. “The one where you refer to the Lord of Crags as a ‘sodding, rock-brained bastard?’”

“So, hehe, you already read it?” Marcus tried for disarming humor and fell painfully short. “In my defense, I was drunk when I wrote that.”

“I am well aware.” Minfilia said. “Your official report that was going to be entered into our records and ideally be distributed to the scholarly community for study mentions that. Four times.”

“Which is, uh, why I wanted it back?” Marcus offered lamely. Minfilia absorbed that without comment and turned to Thancred, inviting him to explain. Fortunately, he’d used the time Marcus had bought him to come up with what might be his best chance.

“Marcus explained the situation to me and I thought I might help him retrieve the offending document to save face.” Thancred said. That was entirely true. He was just a good friend trying to help his buddy out of a jam.

“Truly? There was not your own offending document you sought to recover?” Y’shtola asked.

Thancred’s stomach plummeted, but he hadn’t come this far to give up the game now. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t the faintest idea what you could be referring too.”

“Then you intended to send me this collection of ribald poetry?” Y’shtola asked, holding up a familiar little book and dashing his last hope. “Including some downright lewd illustrations and the note offering to replicate certain verses with and on me?”

Sweet merciful Twelve, the sheer venom in her voice could kill a man. On some level that unlike the rest of him wasn’t cringing in fear, Thancred was impressed she hadn’t already done so.

“Ah, I may have sent that to the wrong person.” Thancred offered, knowing full well the book had been intended to go the besotted barmaid with the pretty smile and impressive chest before it had ended up in a pile of Y'shtola's research materials by accident. “I may have also been drunk?”

“And instead of informing us of your… lapses in judgement, you decided to break into our room in the middle of the night? Violating our privacy and the sanctity of our chambers to avoid owning up to your mistakes?” Minfilia summed up. Thancred looked from her to Y’shtola, two of the most compassionate women he’d ever met, and didn’t see an ounce of mercy between them.

Minfilia looked to Y’shtola. “Y’shtola, might I ask a favor of you?”

“You may not.” Y’shtola was already passing her the lantern with one hand while drawing her wand with the other. “In this matter, I insist.”

Marcus tried to run, but didn’t get far before he tripped over Thancred’s outstretched leg.

“You rat bast–!” He was cut off by a cannonball of wind that hit him with enough force to pick him up and slam him back into the wall.

Thancred was already running down the corridor, pure fight or flight instincts taking hold. His mad scramble might have carried him to the dormitory’s entrance ahead of the magical retribution in pursuit, were it not for a door in his path opening.

“What all the ruckus?” Yda, now properly masked, asked. She gasped at the sight of the desperately fleeing bard and before Thancred could react her fist sank into his gut.

“Thancred!?” Yda knelt next to him as he tried to hack air back into his lungs. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see who it was and I just reacted… wait, what are you doing here?”

Thancred was spared from having to answer by the wave of enchanted water that clubbed him over the head and flowed around him to drag him backwards.

Back into the nonexistent mercy of one Y’shtola Rhul where, judging from the shouting echoing down the hall, he'd be lucky if he was only chewed out until the sun came up.