Chapter Text

One

There’s waking up, and then there is waking up. Calliope decides to herself that what she is currently experiencing is definitely of the latter sort.

Her limbs are heavy and exhausted, bordering on being just on the edge of pain. It feels like that one time she was on mandated leave and in utter boredom decided to mess with the newest research project of the Words of Lahabrea, only to promptly be run over by their most recent creation. It made her give them and Lahabrea himself a wide berth for a good decade, which, knowing him and his cantankerous ways, he most likely counted as a win. Alas, Hyth had been around to take care of her back then, and in the second the memory passes through her mind she casts out her thoughts and energy along their bond to grasp for the familiar beacon that is the light of her best friend.

Her mind, barely just getting into gear, halts in its tracks.

Where her beacon should be she finds…nothing.

She cannot connect to Hythlodeus. The bond remains dark.

Her expression freezes as she sets her mind towards the other star within their cluster. At least Hades with his immeasurable aether should be reachable, no matter the distance. But her mindscape remains blank and dark, no stars to guide her to safety. Unease worms itself into her heart and only centuries of practice keep her from breaking into a cold sweat. Pushing the mounting anxiety to the side she opens her eyes instead.

She is in a sort of cave, a totally unremarkable hole obviously underground considering the soil and stone she can make out in the dim light. Moving her pounding head by a fraction she catches sight of movement and immediately tries to hone in on it, wary of any danger in unfamiliar surroundings.

The movement originates from a…person? It looks like a woman, oddly dressed, but even more unusual are the feline features - especially the ears and tail. A familiar perhaps? Humanoid familiars were all the rage a few centuries ago - and she had been so very tempted to get one if only to mess with Hades.

Seeing as the strange woman makes no move to come closer and instead just watches her calmly, Calliope tenses aching muscles and pushes herself upright. Her head, taking its cues from a slighted Altima, drums a new wave of pain into her, forcing a miserable groan past her lips.

“Awake again, are we?”

Calliope, as a rule, does not startle easily and so she remains unmoved despite the sound of the woman’s voice filling her with confusion. The vocal conducting spell she had long ago woven into her own aether - as was common practice for every Azem - turns the strange gibberish that the woman speaks into something she can understand, but the language underneath is one wholly unfamiliar to her.

“What in creation happened?”

The strange woman’s eyebrows draw together - from the mannerism Calliope assumes that facial expressions work as she is used to, so the frown can be interpreted in several ways. Mayhap the woman did not understand her either? Odd then, since the Amaurotine dialect that Calliope employs on her travels was once designed to be understandable by almost all creations on Etheirys. It takes a surprisingly long moment for her to call forth the spell for active oral conducting - most likely a result of her pounding headache - but the spell catches eventually and manifests around her in shimmering golden sigils.

“Forgive me, I was just wondering if you knew what happened to me?”

The cat-eared woman tilts her head, her eyes alighting with what Calliope presumes to be awakened interest.

“You fainted after touching the crystal. You were out for maybe ten to fifteen minutes, but your pulse was steady and the crystal in no way malicious, so I figured I’d let you rest undisturbed. Now, what was that language you were speaking just now? A distant dialect from your original home? I’ve never heard its like before. Nor have I seen this type of spell being cast before.”

Calliope blinks in confusion. It has been a long time since she had interacted with people who were so far removed from Amaurot that they had never even heard its language before. How in creation had she ended up so far away, in what could only be the other side of the star? And then the words of the cat-eared woman catch up in her head and she looks down in confusion. Indeed, her hand appears to be gripping a strangely basic crystal, almost crude in its form and making. She carefully rubs her thumb over the cool surface, pushing the tiniest amount of aether into it.

An answering glimmer alights in the depth of the crystal, but it is faint as if the spell or construct stored within are spent for now. Resolving to figure out this mystery once she has caught her bearing she carefully puts it into the folds of her jacket that she was apparently clever enough to put on before venturing forth. Its cut is foreign to her, the colors unusual, but then she has never really cared about clothing, ever.

The clearing of a throat pulls her attention back to the stranger. She looks up calmly, parsing backwards to the last question asked. An inquiry into her language, unusual, but easy enough to answer.

"It is the language of my home, the gleaming city of Amaurot."

She waits for recognition, or at least an ease in the other woman's shoulders. But the tension remains, the other's face still openly questioning.

"Ah-mau-rot? How fascinating, I have never heard of this place. And even stranger, since I was told you were of Limsa Lominsa, but it appears that I was mistaken. Be that as it may,” she says and motions towards a blade she is holding in her head. “I found this in the goobbues’s back. The creature had no choice but to react with fury and attack us on sight. The weapon is the kind commonly used for the cutting of rope in these parts, so I assume the culprit in question is of the sea-faring type, mayhap even a pirate."

Calliope barely refrains from frowning. Limsa Lominsa? Goobbue? What quaint names, and ones she has never heard of in her travels, nor at home. The first, obviously, refers to a place, most likely a small place then, perhaps far from any major civilization. If she is this far from home, it would certainly explain why she cannot get a glimpse of her friends’ beacons. Stranger still, that she cannot remember how she got hurt in the first place…

Allowing her eyes to survey her surroundings for new clues she distantly makes out the dissipating aether of what must have been a large creature. Maybe that creature, the goobbue, is responsible for her state of mind? She spares a quick glance to the exact spot where its aether has dissipated, but nothing appears to be out of the ordinary. Yet another question getting in line with the rest of them.

Making circular motions with her shoulders to loosen the cramped muscles, Calliope prepares to actually move and leave the cave, sparing a last glance towards the feline-featured woman who just watches her movements with an inscrutable expression.

"I suppose I shall look for the closest settlement. You wouldn't happen to know which direction these are?"

"Summerford Farms. They are to the east, you cannot miss them. Do you not remember visiting the place?", the feline woman asks with a tilt of her head.

"Nay, I must have hit my head more than I thought, things are a bit fuzzy," Calliope admits with an embarrassed smile. It's not even far from the actual truth, but for the moment she'd much rather get her bearings on her own than burden a stranger.

"If the condition persists, mayhap you wish to consult a healer. Matters of the head should not be left unsupervised."

Calliope bows her head in acquiescence.

"Thank you for your kind words. Indeed, I shall be off now. Thank you for your assistance."

"To be fair, your help in dispatching the creature was immeasurable. Thank you. Stay safe, and may the Crystal guide you."

It doesn't sound as if she meant the crystal in Calliope's pocket, but she is eager to be off and puts her immediate question out of her mind. All in its time.

----

Everything about her circumstances is wrong.

The layout of the land reminds her of a coastal region, with lime-colored rocks and cliffs and lush green vegetation in between. It is fairly warm, warmer even than her native Amaurot, but not unbearably so. A kind man, dressed in peculiar metal encasings, at what could only be the aforementioned Summerford Farms pointed her towards a city she could already make out towards the west just off the shoreline and so she went, trying to make sense of what was going on.

Limsa Lominsa turns out to be a fairly well bustling town of pirates. It is, to Calliope’s endless shock, populated by the strangest looking individuals she has ever seen. She now realizes that the truly man-like guard at the Summerford Farms must have been a coincidence and she probably should have paid more attention to the occasional farmer or traveler on the road. But here now in this port city are even more cat-tailed and cat-eared people, though of different coloration and other variations. There are people with bunny ears and very small people and some who tower even over her. Once she almost runs into a thing - or person more likely - that looks more like a bipedal version of what these people refer to as lions or coeurls. It is mind-boggling and the names for all these different kinds of people are entirely new to Calliope’s vocabulary - which is a surprise in itself considering how well traveled she is. Normally, learning new things, getting to know new cultures and peoples elates her like nothing else in the world. But not even the most interesting new creature or magic can distract her from the most chilling revelation of all.

Nobody speaks Amaurotine. Nobody has even heard of Amaurot.

Never in all her centuries since ascending to the office of Azem, and even in the many, many decades where she was just another member in the Words of Azem, did she come across a place that was not even distantly aware of Amaurot and its people.

And even after having rested in a secluded corner and recovered from whatever happened to her, her soul bonds remain dark and cold. From what she can infer, as the only one of them without superior soulsight, the bond is not cut off but merely dormant. As if a great passage of time and space occurred that left the other two entirely out of her reach. It also appears to her fumbling exploration a little thinner than she remembers it, but very tense as if stretched across a distance it shouldn’t be stretched across. Expanded and dormant, the bond remains stable as far as she can tell but unwilling to test and further strain its unusual state, Calliope decides to leave it be after poking at it for two days straight.

Considerably worse is the strangely morphed canvas of the night sky above her. Her sister Urania has always been the strongest of their siblings when it came to celestial bodies, their meaning and guidance both, but even Calliope was known to orient herself based on the light in the skies on her travels and as such an expert on their shifting guidance, familiar with every ilm of the celestial night.

And while she recognizes a few dozen stars and clusters in the world’s ceiling above her, there are so many lights just missing, with another score newly alighted. Even stranger than that is the giant, white sphere dominating the skyscape that she has never witnessed in her entire life. Its light blinds her and simultaneously fills her with trepidation. A sliver of unease coats her thoughts whenever her eyes behold its light and she knows in her heart that its mere existence heralds trouble of the worst kind. Etheirys did not have a satellite celestial body, but studies of the sea of stars had revealed millenia ago that other stars were often accompanied by what was then termed a ‘moon’. This might even be one such thing, but how it came to be is so far beyond her knowledge that she cannot even hazard a guess.

While the lunar specter haunts her at night, the strangeness of the people confounds her during the day.

She slowly learns about the beastmen and the conflict between what is apparently divided into two factions: the “civilized” people and the “beasts”. And if that wasn't enough, even the civilized people are at odds with one another, most prominently a foreign nation called Garlemald whose inhabitants were locked in a military conflict with the people living in and around Limsa Lominsa. Supposedly, a dire escalation of hostilities just a few years ago had ended in some sort of natural disaster that completely changed the face of the subcontinent they are on, called Eorzea.

Calliope is loath to inquire too specifically, unwilling to divulge her own unfamiliarity with what people deem the "known" local history and geography. She has never heard any of the names mentioned before, and whenever she comes across maps of the local group of islands - the biggest one called Vylbrand - or even the subcontinent to the east - called Aldenard - it is completely unfamiliar to her. Long practiced habits make her pick up and memorize as many names and places she can see on the maps shown to her, but the more she sees and learns, the more her worry grows.

Even beyond the horror of being in an unknown place, she carelessly stumbles into a dozen blunders that she only manages to deescalate due to her charms and easy manner.

(Hythlodaeus will rightfully be amazed at her antics once she tells him about it all.)

Apparently she had been around this place even before waking up in that seaside cave and had supposedly been part of the so-called “Arcanists' Guild” and a somewhat shady organization by the designation of "rogues".

These rogues practice a type of blade-wielding combat that fell out of style amongst the Word of Azem a few centuries ago, but are unremarkable beyond that. They leave her be for the most part, especially after she casually mentions the terrible head wound she still suffers from. Interestingly enough these rogues inform her that she had been staying in a room at the local inn where she is indeed admitted without even a single question into her business.

The room itself yields an assortment of basic weapons and gear, a few non-perishable foodstuffs and a surprising array of materials and crystals. She puts everything back where she first picked it up but decides to make use of the space for as long as she needs it and promptly falls into the cushy bed.

In contrast to the helpful rogues, the arcanists however fill her with shock and contempt upon their first interaction. They apparently employ a crude form of creation magic that galls Calliope in their wrongness. It is a small miracle that these people are able to pull off any feat of magic considering the twisted, unrefined shape of their spells. However, the one time early on that she tries to demonstrate proper creation magic to them, the sudden and utterly unexpected drain on her magic stumps her to the point that the spell fails entirely. Her instructor chalks it up to a bit too much eagerness in making up "new" and "untried" spells, but she instinctively knows better.

A thorough examination of her own state of being afterwards only leads to some very disturbing and worrying facts:

One: Her body is weak, physically, and much smaller than it should be. The conditioning and training of her youth is nonexistent, her physical capabilities practically those of a child.

Two: Her aether reserves are a hot, steaming mess. They are a fraction of what they should be and trying to weave even intermediate spells leaves her gasping for air and close to fainting. It is a miracle the vocal conducting she had used after waking up hadn’t thrown her into unconsciousness right away.

Three: Her memory could aptly be described as cheese. There are chunks of it just missing, gaps and holes that defy explanation. Moments of her youth, of her apprenticeship or even her blissful life with Hades and Hythlodeus are gone - even though she knows that they should be there. Memories of her teacher and mentor are blurry, not unlike an active block on ability to recall Venat as she lived and breathed. Even her own family is affected - she knows of her eight sisters and their father, but very little beyond recalling their names or speciality. It is absolutely horrifying for someone of her age and station and she thoroughly checks herself over for any sign of a disease or affliction gone wrong but cannot find any trace of something malicious. She does notice that her aether reserves are not just smaller, but a little thinner as well as if something diluted her essence or stretched her beyond what was healthy. But without someone gifted in soul- or aether-sight she cannot know for sure.

This fact also elevates reconnecting with Hythlodeus or Hades a matter of survival instead of one of her heart. The reminder sends a pang through her chest, her thoughts heavier than she remembers them being in a long time. Never before has she understood the sentiment behind what people call homesickness but in this strange land, so suddenly cut off from her people she thinks she can finally empathize.

And yet she is the Shepherd to the Stars and guiding the lost back home is her duty and her calling, now and forever more. Being among the lost may be a first for her, but at least Hythlodaeus will get a laugh out of it once she gets home.

Chapter Text

Two

Four days pass with Calliope trying to frantically make sense of her circumstances and learn all she can until she finally remembers the crystal she had pocketed in the cave. Another inspection of the crystal in question does yield the same results: The spell stored within is still dormant, having been intended for a single use. However, Calliope has always excelled at spell-altering, a subsection of concept creation that specializes in manipulating very small fractions of established and stabilized concepts. Her most powerful incantation, a summoning spell that could pull up several attuned individuals from all over Etheirys to the spellcaster, is but a reversal of a commonly used mass teleportation spell. Altering the spell in the crystal is literal child’s play to her once she can do so safely.

More important to her is the revelation that the spell inside the crystal is a subsequent adaptation of her summoning spell, modified for a single use and a single person to be summoned. Finding the intended destination of the summoning is tricky - usually such spells are centered on the caster as the fixed location and the recipient the variable, but this spell designates the target as the fixed location and the to-be-summoned-caster as a movable one. Curiously, the spell also contains something that pertains to breaching the native barrier of the material reality which is a concept that Calliope was once forbidden from dabbling in by Hades himself. Whatever initial concern she may have had about activating the crystal again vanishes upon learning this small tidbit, her natural curiosity igniting like a bushfire.

Whoever designed this crystal was confident enough that whoever picked it up would be the intended person to be transported to the caster, with enough leeway in the spell matrix that the original caster could move about freely as the target would always be taken to their location, no matter where they were. If the entire thing hadn’t been such an inconvenience, Calliope would be overjoyed with the implications and the crystal’s use for her own purposes. For now however, she intends to twist the spell to at the very least work again, so that she can finally - hopefully - get some answers.

And so she finds herself sitting at the beach just across the shore of Limsa Lominsa on a surprisingly lush evening, fiddling with the dormant crystal. Her fingers are tracing idle patterns on the cool surface of it as she reviews the spell matrix once again.

If she were to make an hypothesis, she would claim that whoever designed the spell had been a member of the Word of Azem, potentially even one of her own disciples. Creating a variation of her own signature spell implies familiarity with it and sufficient access to the spell array itself - a secret that Calliope has literally been forbidden to share with the wider world.

(Hythlodaeus in true administrative fashion had, upon her conception of the summoning, admitted that such a spell would always be classified as dangerous simply due to the lack of consent from the summoned individuals. Following his advice, she had registered the spell only through select channels, namely the current Azem at the time, to make sure that her usage of the spell would not put her in hot water.)

With her memory as patchy as it is she cannot be sure which one of her disciples might be the original creator of the crystal but recognizing some subsections within the array to be exact replicas of her own spell bolsters her spirits and fills her with the confidence to see this plan through.

Delicately, Calliope channels her thin aether into the crystal yet again. This time, she allows it to only alight on the subsection she needs - the one limiting the number of uses and forcing it into a dormant state. Rewriting the lines should have been an afterthought, but with her capabilities so diminished it still takes the better part of three hours to do so and leaves her breathing heavily, clothes soaked with sweat.

Curiously, the section pertaining to the forced dormancy of the spell also includes a very small overwrite tied directly to the creator. It’s not locked into a specific signature which would have made tracing the creator laughably easy, but instead is simply hidden deep within the twisted array so that only someone truly familiar with the crystal could access it. An emergency backdoor perhaps, in case the creator needed the target again at an unspecified moment in the future? Definitely another question to be pursued once she actually gets to interrogate whoever is waiting on the other side.

With the alteration done she uses a little more of her dwindling reserves to anchor the newly revised spell in perpetuity before allowing her body to slump backwards. The crystal still glimmers faintly in her hand and she is so very tempted to activate it right away, but then a cool breeze passes her prone body, the sweat soaked garments instantly draining warmth from her form. A full-body shiver makes her mumble a low curse followed by a groan as she pushes herself upward again.

She ought to wait until morning at the very least. Return to the city proper and rest, allowing her still meager aether reserves to replenish overnight before venturing forth.

With a sigh she pockets the crystal and cleans off some of the sand clinging to her form before she sets out on the little rocky trail leading back to Limsa. Despite the sun having been long gone, the city is alight with laughter and cheers and music, all manner of humanoids gathering in any corner to chat and drink, sometimes even dance. Calliope has been avoiding the masses so far, hesitant to truly interact with these strange people but with the promise of an answer to her circumstances just around the corner, she finds herself willing to let loose and relax a little.

Having observed the most common gathering grounds in the past days, she quickly saunters over to the deck that houses the Culinarian’s Guild. Scanning the already assembled patrons she picks a table off the side where a group of three people is calmly nursing their ales, any remains of their dinner already cleared away by attentive waiting staff.

“May I?”

Two pairs of questioning eyes swivel over to her, the third pair already having warily watched her approach. By now she at least knows how these people are classified - the tall woman is a highlander, the very small person a lalafell and their bipedal coeurl-friend a hrothgar.

The latter is the one eyeing her warily, one hand casually out of sight under the table but by the way their shoulder muscles tense up, they are most likely keeping a tight grip on some sort of weapon. But the highlander, after looking her up and down, just offers a wordless nod towards the unoccupied chairs.

Calliope adopts her most beguiling manner and smiles serenely as she pulls out the chair not directly across the group but slightly diagonal before cheerfully signaling for a waiter to come by.

“Thank you kindly, I did not want to sit in the middle of that,” she explains to them and motions towards the chaotic - and loud - center of the deck where what looks like an entire ship crew is in the middle of celebrating something that involves copious amounts of alcohol. Out of the corner of her eyes she sees the hrothgar’s shoulder relaxing slightly, though one arm remains underneath the table.

“Good choice,” the lalafell pipes up, “Once the bloody Harpooners get going, no table in their vicinity is safe. I’m quite surprised Lyngsath allowed them to celebrate here of all places.”

Calliope raises her eyebrow but before she can make her own inquiry, the highlander woman chimes in.

“That’s because Lyngsath is still sweet on the Harpooners’ First Mate, Drysgeim. They’ve probably disappeared somewhere already.”

“Must be quite the comely individual if he is willing to risk the intactness of the deck,” Calliope quips with a wink in the direction of the highlander woman who guffaws and then takes a deep drag of her ale, toasting the lalafell at her side to do the same. The looks shared between them and their hrothgar friend are probably meant to be not as obvious as they are, so for the sake of keeping the peace Calliope turns her head to the side and pretends not to notice their silent communication, instead watching the proceedings in the center of the deck with a half-grin.

At that point, a feline-eared waitress approaches them allowing Calliope to quickly place her order for the day’s special and a tankard of her own. As she turns back to the table she finds herself the focus of all three pairs of eyes, all of them unexpectedly interested. She allows her eyebrows to rise a bit in curiosity but keeps her demeanor easy and relaxed.

“You have the look of an adventurer on you,” the highlander woman starts.

“I do?”

“Yes, you do,” the lalafell continues. By now Calliope is pretty sure it’s a man.
“Your clothing is among the kind that many new adventurers can afford that allows some modicum of protection against the elements and simple foes alike.”

She lifts her shoulders in a soft shrug and smiles at them.

“I have been known to enjoy an adventure or two”, understatement of the century, but what do they know, “Though I was injured a little while ago and have since been idling around. Why is that of importance to you?”

“We’re adventurers ourselves,” the highlander explains and motions to herself and her two companions. “And have been looking to increase our group size by another person or two. You weren’t put off by Smaljav’s glare and seem to have your wits about you. Seems like a good enough fit. What’d you say?”

Calliope leans back, actually caught by surprise. She had planned to pump these fairly amicable looking people for information and gossip, so the offer to join in on their work is surprising.

“What exactly do you do? Seems careless to sign up for a task I know nothing about.”

The highlander woman leans back and sends her a sharp but pleased smile.

“We’re usually up the side of Western La Noscea, cleaning up sea-side caves of bandits or beasts or beastman. The city likes to send patrols there, anything the yellowjackets don’t have time for. The pay’s good, and so far we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew.”

“Then why expand your group if things are going well? Rewards are better when shared between three, not four.”

The woman grins again like a shark but then raises her hands in the universal gesture of meaning no harm.

“True. But things have been getting more dangerous recently and the next big thing we were targeting is rumored to be a smuggling hideout for the Bloody Executioners. I’d rather split the reward with one more person than have us end up dead because I was being stingy.”

“We also saw the book tied to your belt,” the lalafell chimes in, “And considering that none of us are magically inclined, it seems like a niche that would serve us well to be filled.”

Before Calliope can reply, the waitress returns with her food and drink, setting both down in front of her with a smile before counting out the coins that she is due. Calliope watches this with sharp eyes - Amaurotines had long ago gotten rid of cumbersome currencies but most civilisations outside of Amaurot still clung to such ancient means to facilitate transactions. As such, it is always good to be on top of the game; it would be terribly embarrassing if she couldn’t bring back souvenirs from her recent foray due to a lack of acquired funds.

Satisfied with the transaction, Calliope digs into her surprisingly tasty food, keeping one ear on the chaotic mess happening behind her and another on the three in front of her. After swallowing her third bite she casually waves the eating utensil - looks like a fork, functions like a fork and she saw others use it like a fork - in the direction of the highlander woman and hopefully indicates for her to continue talking.

“Jotemi has the right of it, adding a spellcaster to our mix seems like the right choice. Smaljav and Jotemi are good with their blades, though I prefer the axe. Name’s Ideswif by the way.”

Calliope nods at each of the three as she swallows.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ideswif, Jotemi, Smaljav. I have to admit I like your proposal. How about you give me some details as I finish this and then we hash out the rest?”

The lalafell smiles up at her and waves for another round of ale as he launches into a thorough explanation. He details the location they had been scouting the past two days, the number of enemies that usually patrol the hideout, potential traps and dangers, as well as the general timeline they had been drawing up between the three of them. Ideswif offers witty comments in between that make Jotemi roll his eyes good-naturedly and every time it happens, Calliope cannot help but be charmed by their easy camaraderie.

Once she is done with her food she takes a hefty swig of the drink - zesty, with a bit of a lemony aftertaste - and then leans forward, giving her full attention.

“Very well then. I admittedly tend to work alone but I have a few skills in my repertoire that should come in handy for a group effort. I am confident that between the four of us, we can probably make short work of this smugglers’ den.”

----

Calliope dodges the serrated blade by a hair’s width and drops to her knees, trying to use her momentum to roll forward and out of the reach of the pirate currently trying to maim her.

She has been alive for several millennia and should really know better, but by the stars, she hates herself right now. She just had to jinx it. This is all her fault and she will never speak of this incident until she returns to the star and especially not tell Hyth about it, no matter how much he begs for it.

The clank of metal hitting metal echoes through the cave as Calliope manages to create a little distance between herself and her attacker. The attacker in question, a ridiculously tall roegadyn woman, has been giving her nothing but grunts and stupidly dangerous swings of her two serrated daggers. Calliope really shouldn’t hesitate but there is a sliver of doubt still in her heart: One of her primary directives has always been to ask questions first and not resort to violence so quickly but this woman makes it incredibly hard to open a conversation which leaves her undecided. If only she could make this woman see the error of her ways…

A cry of pain and a deep voice calling out Ideswif’s name pull her attention to the other end of the sloping cave complex. Realizing that her comrades appear to be in actual danger the decision has been made for her.

With a whispered apology on her lips she pushes her arm forward, fingers almost clawlike as she invokes one of the earliest spells she ever learned. Blinding white aether manifests in a thin shape in her hand before it solidifies into a long, narrow blade of shining, radiant gold, the handle decorated with swirls of the same metal that curl protectively around her hand. She pulls the sword into a secure grip and lunges forward before the roegadyn smuggler can do more than widen her eyes at the casual display of magic that probably nobody in these lands can even conceive of.

The drain on herself is worse than she has anticipated but it’s not completely awful and her favored style of combat only pulls on ambient aether so she should be fine for the time being. The tip of her blade connects with the smuggler’s hip, Calliope carefully siphoning ambient aether - water and earth aspected - to simultaneously blast into the woman upon contact.

What she does not expect is the audible shockwave originating from her sword as the roegadyn woman is blown backwards.

‘Huh’, she thinks to herself and regards the weapon curiously. Her spell should not have had such an impact. These smugglers must be a lot weaker than Jotemi anticipated, why else would the roegadyn be blown away like a poorly realized concept? Especially with her own spell not even at full strength. Another question for later.

Seeing the smuggler’s limp form is all the confirmation Calliope needs before she turns around and starts sprinting in the direction of the sounds of battle. She rounds the corner at a breakneck pace and immediately catches sight of Jotemi and Smaljav standing comically back to hip over the curled up and whimpering form of Ideswif, surrounded by half a dozen smugglers brandishing axes and swords, while another four bow-wielding enemies are readying their next arrows from the rickety wooden platform at the other end of the cave.

There is but a single heartbeat for Calliope to make a choice. And as Hades once succinctly put it, her instincts lack subtlety.

“Get down!”

By a not so small miracle, both lalafell and hrothgar drop to their knees and curl down their torsos. Calliope, mid-swing already, screams an invocation that turns her blade into a flaming hot radiance. The sizzling energy extends and her spell travels in perfect horizontal balance through the entire cave, a white arc of pure destruction that turns everything it touches into ash.

The cave walls rumble ominously, the smell of burning matter filling the air as dust and debris spread, cloud-like, from every point of impact.

Calliope huffs as she feels the drain on her aether and sinks down to one knee. Not even the top ten of her stupidest decisions ever, but one that Hades will surely gripe about. At least she stays conscious, an outcome she has quite frankly only gambled on. Considering that Ideswif looked hurt, she will have to use at least one more spell before the day is done and that one will surely send her over the edge.

Gritting her teeth she pushes herself upwards again and carefully makes her way over to where she last saw her three comrades.

“Smaljav? Jotemi? Are you unharmed?”

The dust settles just enough that she can discern their distinctive forms. The exhale that rushes past her lips is of pure relief when two affirmatives reach her ear as she tries to detect where exactly Ideswif is lying. Her toes bump into something warm and sturdy and thanking the stars for small mercies she quickly identifies the highlander woman who merely seems unconscious but alive.

“Well now, let’s get you patched up so we can get out of here.”

What Calliope lacks in aether- or soul-sight, she makes up in sheer control and finesse when it comes to spellcraft. Hades with his ridiculous aether reserves might claim to be the more powerful sorcerer, but in an actual duel between them, Hyth always bets on Calliope to take the victory home. She is crafty and she is precise and even though she tends to go overboard with the visuals of her spells - because grand tales require epic-looking feats of magic - she is a damn good mage of her own. Add to that her family's specialisation in the healing arts and you have one perfectly trained healer out in the wildest areas of their precious star.

(Though her moving into the Words of Azem was something of an anomaly - all her sisters found their duties within the Words of Emmerololth, as expected. But her, a minder? She would have thrown the towel within a decade.)

Her hand carefully makes contact with the closest part of Ideswif she can reach, aether already gathering in a tell-tale golden glow around her fingertips. Healing, she knows, is not so easily defined with a spell matrix. Sigils and runes are pointless when the required effect differs every time the magic needs to be called upon. Instead, it is the soft glow of gentle aetherflow that serves best for healing, which she now channels slowly into the highlander’s body.

Again it is only Calliope’s control and quick reaction that allows her to avoid the looming catastrophe. The body she is healing is infused with her healing spell far quicker than she has ever witnessed, the energies already spilling out of Ideswif and sinking into the ground underneath her. Calliope immediately slows the spell down to a trickle, trying to feel out why in creation the woman’s body is already filled to the brim.

It was so easy to forget how she herself is diminished from her usual form, the issue easily forgotten when her height appears to be perfectly normal amongst the people of this land. But even beyond the size of their bodies, these people in general are also…smaller in aether? It is incredibly difficult for her to make an educated guess, but based on the reaction to her spellcraft something about these individuals is lesser than anything she is used to. Perhaps it is a different density? Or volume? Is their lack of aetheric consistency the reason these people are so small? Or does their stature beget the aetheric imbalance?

She needs a spell array, a handful of crystals and a quiet workspace to figure this out. And not do this while sitting in a rumbling, dusty cave full of contraband.

“What…what was that spell you used? I have never seen something like that.”

Jotemi’s voice is quiet, hesitant and careful but through the settling dust she can see that his eyes are fixed on Ideswif’s form. Opposite him, Smaljav is already standing again, weapons drawn, back to them as he keeps a wary eye on their surroundings.

“It is my own. I might have put a little too much force into it, but I was willing to forgo finesse for practicality. I did not want to risk our attackers getting back up again.”

Her spell’s work is done, Ideswif’s wounds closed. Gently, she rubs her fingers over the woman’s brow, uncaring for the sweat and dust leaving a trail of dirt on the sun-kissed skin. Usually she would jolt an unconscious person back into the land of the living, but with her recent observations she decides not to risk it. At this point, she could accidentally short-circuit someone’s brain and that would be Not Good.

“Will she be alright?”

“Right as rain, as they say. I can probably carry her, you two clear the way for me? I need a hot bath, a cool drink and a soft bed, in that order.”

Having stated her immediate needs, darkness creeps into the edge of her vision and if she could roll her eyes she would, as Calliope’s mind sinks into the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Three

For a long, blissful second after consciousness returns, Calliope believes herself to be back home but the moment is quickly made short by the torturously insistent headache making itself known. With the pain comes remembrance and as her other senses are telling her that she is once again within the city limits of Limsa Lominsan even her faintest hopes are squashed.

“She’s waking up.”

Before opening her eyes she can already hear the creaking of a wooden stool as someone leans over her and as she carefully works her eyes open she comes face to face with Ideswif. For once she laments not wearing her mask; as used to not wearing it as she is during her travels, it can be useful whenever she wants to hide her expressions from prying eyes. Now she longs for its comfort and anonymity and with startling realization she remembers not having found it on her person since waking up in that strange cave. Did she lose it perhaps? If her aether wasn’t so out of sorts she could just make a new one, but…

“Hey, Azem, can you hear me?”

She blinks at hearing her title only to belatedly remember giving it as her name. Of course they hadn’t reacted to it then and considering how blithely they use it now, it still holds no meaning beyond its designation as her name. Raising her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose and rub her eyes, she wets her lips to speak.

“I can hear you just fine, forgive me, I just needed a moment to get my bearings.”

Opening her eyes again she allows her gaze to wander from Ideswif to Jotemi standing further away at the room’s only window, letting each detail of her surroundings paint a fuller picture. Considering the sounds and smells coming from the half-open window, she must be further up than her own room and a great deal closer to Limsa’s Aetheryte Plaza.

“Are both of you alright? Is Smaljav well?” she asks as she pushes herself until she is sitting, withholding a wince when she rolls her stiff shoulders.

“We’re just fine, Smaljav had a few minor scratches and the healing you put on me certainly did its job surprisingly well,” Ideswif replies as she leans back to give Calliope some space, crossing her legs and resting her chin on her hand, elbow propped on her knee. “Bit of a pickle with the cave ready to bury us, but Smaljav and Jotemi got us both out just fine. I woke up on my own, we carried you back into town. You’ve been out of it for a day, it’s almost midday now.”

“I’m relieved to hear you’re all safe and sound. And I apologize for endangering you with my spell usage. I underestimated its impact,” Calliope admits calmly, her mind already running through options to experiment with future spell casts to find a balance between energy and effect. Mayhap it was a coincidence, an unexpectedly strong localized aether current that emboldened her spells? Definitely something to be examined in detail later.

“Nonsense, without you, we would have met our demise for sure. Llymlaen blessed us when she bade you sit down at our table. But how fare you? We could not find a wound upon your body so we assumed you were merely exhausted by the truly astounding feat you pulled on us. Jotemi described to me the spell you used to fell the entire score of remaining smugglers, it sounds remarkable!”

Calliope smiles at Ideswif’s enthusiasm and pushes off the blanket covering her lower half. She is clad in the simple underwear she took to putting on since finding it in that room of hers, but the rest of her clothing seems to be folded into a neat bundle at the feet of the bed. Being practically naked in front of others is somewhat unsettling, so she reaches for the bundle almost without second thought and starts pulling the fluffy white shirt over her head immediately. Only when it falls to cover her chest does she feel comfortable enough to loot at both Ideswif and Jotemi again.

“I should be able to use such spells freely and without fainting afterwards, but it appears my injury from a week ago is still holding me back. Mayhap I should have rested more, but I cannot resist the promise of an adventure.”

Both highlander and lalafell widen their eyes at her words, sharing a quick glance but then looking back at her.

“You certainly do not look the part of dangerous thaumaturge,” Jotemi calmly states as he approaches the bed to join the conversation proper. “I mistook you for an arcanist based on the arcane book you had on your belt when first we met, but I see now it was but a ruse. How come you do not use one of the traditional implements of the thaumaturges’ guild?”

Calliope hums non-committedly, carefully gauging her next words. ‘Thaumaturge’ must be their term for a spellcaster, but she has not yet heard of a related guild, nor of their traditional implements. Best to stick to the truth then, in careful dosage.

“I am not part of such a guild - to be honest, my being an arcanist and carrying such a book is merely borne of my curiosity. I learned my craft from my mentor a long time ago and most spells I use these days are my own. Her form was very different and does not translate well into my, ah, preferred style of combat.”

“Your mentor must be terrifying.”

At that, Calliope throws her head back and laughs, the sound of it drowning out any noise from outside. People back home tend to forget that every Azem, for all their traveling and guiding and gentle storytelling, is a fearsome warrior that is used to battling for survival against the dangers that await in the wider world. Despite what many Amaurotines like to believe, Etheirys is hardly a tamed place, even after millennia of study and research, and in their enlightenment they often forget that outside of their gleaming metropolis, the star retains a life of its own.

Even before taking on the mantle of Azem, Calliope had been one of the best. Fast and deadly, there was no foe she could not conquer, no beast she could not subdue. Venat’s training only honed that edge and even though becoming a Paragon might have tempered her fires within the confines of the city, she often returned to being un unbridled blaze when out on her own.

She does not mean to frighten these people, but there must be something in her gaze or her too wide smile that has Ideswif straighten her posture and tense her shoulders for a moment.

“We both are,” Calliope offers casually to dispel the moment. “I am just taking it slow for the time being.”

“With those capabilities, it’s a loss if you were to hang around with the likes of us, taking care of bandits and smugglers. Why aren’t you joining the bigger crews, like the Company of Heroes, or working directly for the admiralty?”

Jotemi’s words give her the much needed reprieve to calm down, her fingers deftly unlacing the bodice of her dark robe before she can pull that one over her head as well. In truth, she had not considered she ought to work with other people instead. If there were more dire problems than the aforementioned bandits and smugglers, she hadn’t heard of it. Yet if Ideswif’s crew would spread the word of her skills - as they undoubtedly will - those who have need of her could then come find her.

Until then, she has a quest of her own to solve.

“I’m saddened that you think of yourself and the work you do so little. I go where I am needed. If you recall, you merely gave me the option to join on your mission - it was entirely my own choice to accept. Ideswif was right to get another person for the job and I believe that any regular arcanist would have done just fine and you all would have made it out,” she tells them in her most confident tone, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed so that she can put on the long pants and simple socks that comprise her current gear. Happiness fills her as she notices her boots standing on the floor next to the bed, the sides covered in sand and dirt, but still perfectly intact and more importantly in reach.

“In that same vein, have you had a chance to tell anyone of your mission’s success yet?”

Ideswif huffs but gesticulates in response.

“Aye, we did. Smaljav and I went last night, got our rewards and all that. Seems like we really stirred up the hornets’ nest though, there’s already talks of Executioners targeting more yellowjacket patrols and word one the street says that the contraband secured overnight is pulling some names into the light that were trying to stay hidden. They upped our payment due to the success, quite the windfall to be honest.”

“Mighty useful, considering that we put quite the target on our back”, Jotemi continues. The highlander nods in his direction, then looks back to Calliope pulling on the last of her socks.

“We might have to stay low for a bit, maybe even take a little vacation on the continent. I’d advise you to do the same, but something tells me you’re not concerned with staying in the shadows.”

“I have a few things to figure out. But I’ll watch my back twice as often, no need to be concerned for me.”

“Gotcha,” Ideswif nods then points towards the table under the window which currently holds a little satchel and a small chest. “Your share. You probably don’t actually need the work in the near future, but if you do, you should hit up Baderon at the Drowned Wench. He’s a fair fellow, just tell him my name and he’s bound to give you reputable jobs.”

The name rings a faint bell in Calliope’s mind, and at least the Wench is familiar enough considering that it’s where her room is located. She nods gratefully as she stands up slowly, carefully cataloging her body’s responses to the change in altitude and posture. Her head complains mightily, but it’s more of a dull pressure than an acute ache at this point so she ignores it for now.

“Thank you for caring for me and allowing me to recuperate in your own lodgings. Mayhap we can join paths again in the future, but either way, rest assured I will record your names and remember you duly.”

Even after saying the formal words for what feels like the millionth time she intones them with utmost sincerity, carefully committing their faces and names to memory. Her recorder is gone and it being a concept that she never bothered studying she cannot create one of her own, so all she is left with is her own mind, unsound as it currently is. She should look into other ways to commit her chronicles for the time being, perhaps the people of this city have some manner of device that will suit her needs.

‘Really Calliope, what if you lose it in a volcano and need to recreate it from scratch? It’s a useful concept to take, you will rue the day you find yourself without its utility!’

The memory of Hythlodaeus’ teasing voice comes unbidden, the moment sharp and clear in her mind. So clear, in fact, that she feels as if she can smell the spring breeze on his balcony carrying the scent of Anomatheca flowers, taste the rich yet bitter taste of coffee brewed by Hythlodaeus himself, feel the cool metal of the small table he keeps on his balcony underneath her fingertips. If she turns her head she can see the light lavender-colored strands drifting in the air, catch just a hint of his scent from where he is resting on the settee behind her, his palms warm on her hip. The balcony is so far up that no sounds of the busy streets below them reach her ears; all she can hear is sweet birdsong and Hades’ relaxed breathing from where he is slumbering to their left…

Reality asserts itself with vehemence, the warm hand on her forearm unknown and unwelcome. Her eyes blaze with fire but she manages to keep the words on her lips from being intoned as she catches sight of nothing but concern in Ideswif’s expression.

“You spaced out for a moment, is everything alright? Do you need to rest a few more minutes?”

She tries not to let her unsettledness show as she takes her arm out of the highlander’s reach, being so careful about not balling her own hands into fists. Why does a simple memory fill her with such distress, such pain? It is unusual and peculiar and with a mental sigh she adds it to the list of things to figure out.

“Forgive me, I just recalled something dear to me and got distracted. I have best be on my way, thank you again and best of wishes to your friend Smaljav as well. My services are yours if you ever have need of me again.”

Offering both of them another gentle smile she strides towards the room’s exit, hearing Jotemi start whispering quietly but paying him no mind. As she opens the door she does not hold back her wince as the rays of the sun press down on her, reflected and amplified by the white-washed walls of Limsa.

The birds, seagulls they call them, cry out merrily above her, interspersed by the distant sounds of merchants and sailors. It is still most decidedly foreign to her, but Calliope is starting to grow fond of it to some extent. There is a port city none too far from Amaurot that she and her sisters were wont to visit in their younger years, but it was never even an ilm als lively as Limsa is.

Limsa’s people’s temperance bolstering her steps she quickly makes her way back to the room she calls her own. With her weakness still so prominent, she would be a fool to attempt activating the crystal again, so instead she allows herself to undress before falling into the waiting bed.

By the stars, she wants to awaken the spell so badly, finally find the answers to some of her questions. But every Azem knows their limits and it would do her no good if she were to seriously injure herself while she has no idea how to get home, or even get help from her soulbonds. No, the proper course of action is to wait, recuperate, and only start this venture when she is ready.

-----

She lasts all of five hours.

At least she takes the time to grab a proper meal from a stall somewhere outside, take a long and relaxing bath and check up on all her gear and armor. The arcanist book will be of no help to her, clunky and unwieldy as it is, but there is an assortment of blades in her room that she carefully secures on her person. Her robes are still in one piece, yet she goes through the effort of cleaning them as best as she can without resorting to magic and how it galls her to be so inefficient in her movements, but needs must.

Once she deems herself presentable, evident by the reflection in the mirror above the room’s dresser, she steps into the very center of the room and takes a deep breath. The crystal in her hand is cool and dark, only the ambient light allowing her to recognize its blue coloration. Gripping it a bit more tightly, she inhales once more, holding the air inside her lungs as she counts until five, then releasing it.

Raising the crystal-bearing hand to be on eye-level, she slowly and carefully pushes the least amount of aether into it to activate the no longer dormant spell matrix.

Instantaneously, the spell’s latticework comes to life, an array of arcane sigils awakening around her, spinning too fast for her eye to catch only to slow down within seconds, coming to rest on the seemingly darkened floor. Seeing the spell matrix this way finally allows her to pinpoint the six key configurations within, waiting to be filled with what she can only assume to be more spell crystals, components that will finalize the larger spell it can invoke.

The crystal in her hand hums, the magic within wanting to be slotted into place inside the larger spell circle, but with narrowed eyes Calliope holds it tight. A part of her wants to study the newly revealed spell work, find more clues that point towards its creator, but at the same time, her current crystal should already suffice.

Ruthlessly ignoring the larger spell around her demanding its due, she pulls on the section within the crystal that describes the original first spell it was supposed to cast. The energy inside the crystal pulses and frizzles, the physical structure not meant to hold the radiance that is her own magic. It has no option but to give and as another moment passes, the magic catches, enveloping Calliope in another summoning towards the crystal’s creator.

Blinking her eyes rapidly, she allows them to adjust to the sight of aetheric blue light all around her, bright and encompassing, and so very different from the dingy room she was in before. She is floating in place in a vast emptiness, only it is not quite empty but instead filled with shimmering lines and layers of what can only be aether. Small lights twist and turn, other lights move about at a languid pace, traversing the distance as if they have some destination in mind. Somewhere far away, the blueness transforms into distant lilac and purple, then violets and even hints of gold. It is absolutely marvelous and easily one of the most beautiful sights Calliope has ever seen.

But as she watches the unhurried dance of distant lights, she becomes aware of something more substantial and larger just behind her. With barely a thought she twists her form in place to turn around.

Even without air, a gasp is heard as she lays eyes on the most gigantic crystal she has ever seen.

It towers below and above her, its size almost incomprehensible. It is also brimming with power, literally crystalized aether, its most efficient form of bundled storage, the energy woven so tightly that it is compressed into its inherent crystalline structure. Calliope is above average when it comes to aetheric reserves, yet intimately familiar with an Amaurotine with the unquestionably highest amount of aether, but not even Hades could come close to this gargantuan well of power before her.

She wants to drift closer, to touch and examine this marvel, but at the last moment becomes aware of yet another presence in her immediate space. It is cleverly hidden, using the substantial aetheric gravity of the crystal to mask and hide their own signature, but Calliope spends a great deal of time with one of the most powerful sorcerers known to mankind, she has had no choice but to learn to sense things even with him around. If she were to guess, she’d think she is finally about to talk to the crystal’s creator, a flickering cloud of something else that disrupts the flow of energy around her.

In a move ingrained through countless centuries of practice, she raises her free hand to her forehead, then pulls it down quickly as if to drag away a veil in front of her. A brightly shimmering, golden sigil springs to life in its place, an intricate design that marks her station and rank.

The Seat of Azem.

In the same movement of her arm she holds it out to the side and manifests her elaborate golden rapier in her hand before gripping the heft and drawing the weapon once diagonally across, then slashing it to the side, keeping it in a loose but ready stance.

“Show yourself.”

The flickering presence moves a little closer but still maintains its masking spell, trying to stay invisible and out of sight. But she must have caught its acknowledgment, for only a second later, a deep, reverberating voice echoes all around her.

“That sigil should not be known to you at this point in time. Who are you?”

The voice is deep and despite the upward tilt at the end it is nonetheless commanding. It is the tone of someone used to giving orders and instructions, to teaching and educating. But more than that, even distorted as it is in this space and behind the illusion, it tucks at a memory inside of her, and despite the many dark holesin it, it pulls onto a myriad of them until knowledge and recognition come to the forefront. Tilting her head, Calliope lets her weapon vanish into thin air, tension leaving her shoulders as she smiles full of hope.

“Venat?!”

Chapter Text

Four

Tilting her head, Calliope lets her weapon vanish into thin air, tension leaving her shoulders as she smiles full of hope.

“Venat?!”

The illusionary spell drops and Calliope’s eyes take in the female figure towering over her. Clad in a skintight white bodice and with luminous wings extending as far as Calliope can see, the woman slowly floats down to her until they are somewhat at eye level. Her face is devoid of color, her expression clear of emotion, both making her appear strangely cold and distant.

Calliope barely recognizes hints of Venat’s face in this woman, as if someone took a look at her former mentor in order to replicate it, but failed to include the warmth and patience and sheer love of life in the recreation. If she hadn’t heard the voice, even Calliope would struggle to identify any of this as her precious teacher.

“Nobody has called me by that name in a long time. How did you come to know it?”

At this, Calliope tilts her head a little, allowing some of her confusion to bleed into her expression.

“How could I not know the name of my mentor, my guiding hand, my predecessor? You recognize the sigil, but do not recognize me? Are you not Venat herself, but merely an image using her voice and her memories?”

The figure draws back under the torrent of questions, but keeps her hands loosely at her side. Calliope silently curses herself for releasing her weapon - hearing what she assumed to be Venat’s voice lowered all her honed reflexes and inhibitions so now she is left almost entirely defenseless in case of an attack.

“Forgive me, I did not expect you to come here at this point in time. I recognize the symbol because it was once mine own for I am Venat, or at least once was. But tell me, who are you? You speak and behave like mine own friend, yet that sigil along with its last bearer should be lost.”

“What do you mean, lost? I am here, right now, perfectly alive and more than that, I am myself, ready to continue my work. Speak plainly, please.”

“Oh my dear Calliope,” the woman-who-must-be-Venat sighs deeply and drifts even lower as if to lessen the distance between them. Now, there is an actual expression of grief on her blanched features.

“Your questions confuse me, yet the conclusion I must draw is one that fills me with sadness. Tell me, my dearest friend, what is the last thing you remember of Amaurot?”

Calliope opens her mouth, wanting to rush ahead but then the actual question halts her in her tracks. What is the last thing she remembers of her home? Haltingly she puts her thoughts into words.

“I remember…a day of preparation. Hythlodaeus seeing me off, the sun high in the sky and the heat almost oppressive if it wasn’t for the ingenuity of our forebears. Emet-Selch wasn’t there, though I don’t…” she pauses awkwardly, furrowing her brow as she desperately tries to remember more. “I don’t remember why he couldn’t come. Hythlodaeus was…he was…sad? It’s a bit fuzzy, to be honest. After that, travel, and talking to people, but I cannot...”

She curses under her breath, one hand coming up to rub her temples. Why is recalling this so difficult? Belatedly, she adds: “The next best thing I know is waking up in a seaside cave, in a place so far from home that the inhabitants of the coastal city have never even heard of Amaurot, can you imagine.”

Perhaps this strange version of her mentor has some answers, so she looks up into the being’s eyes with hope shining in her own. Yet all she can discern are pursed lips and an unreadable gaze.

“Calliope, it pains me to be the one to tell you, but that day you speak of is long gone. That your own memory is so unreliable speaks of a misshapen procedure. Tell me, do you remember anything of the intention or even outright plan to send a part of yourself into a distant future?”

Coldness envelopes her as she draws back in utter shock and confusion. The words sound stern, almost accusatory and yet there is a little itch at the back of her mind, like a lost memory rearing its head. The implications alone are enough to stop her heart and yet, as her mind spins frantically around the words spoken and the ones unsaid, more and more smaller clues crystalize in front of her mental self, slowly fusing together to create a fuller picture.

With sudden despair, she looks up into Venat’s face, her body frozen in place by a revelation too painful to even think about.

“When you say long gone…how many years has it been to you since last we spoke?”

The immediate silence is deafening. The blood rushing in her ears is too loud, her own breathing too frantic in the nothingness between them. And then Venat speaks in a voice so burdened by grief that it’s like a physical weight pressing her down even further.

“It has been twelve thousand years.”

A sob is trying to crawl past her tightening throat, her hands feebly grasping her chest as if to give herself more room to breathe. It is not just physical distance making her unable to reach her soulbounds. It is time itself that has torn them from her.

“What…what of my…Emet-Selch? Hythlodaeus?” she croaks weakly, wetness gathering at her lashes as she peers up.

Venat only offers a facsimile of mourning on her foreign face.

“You are not meant to be here, Calliope. I once shared a terrible truth with you, a plan so daring that I could only entrust its secret to a handful of individuals. Your faulty memory, I believe, is a consequence of my actions.”

Calliope almost angrily wipes her cheeks as she shakes her head, forcing words out through her tightening chest.

“What plan are you speaking of? What memory that I lost is so significant, what event so momentous that it would alter even you? Tell me!”

Silence reigns for several beats, Venat’s eyes yielding no clue as to her thoughts. Then she sighs, and even though her form does not change, Calliope gets the impression of hanging shoulders and a back bending under untold pressure.

“Forgive me. I did not expect to ever converse with you again, my dear Calliope, assuming you to be lost. It is why I am hesitant to share what I assumed you’d experienced. Alas, what do you remember of the Final Days?”

The Final Days.

Upon hearing those damning words, Calliope folds into half, hands clutching her head as if the pressure can offer her relief from the onslaught of memories and images that assault her as if a dam has been broken, torn down by the mere utterance of thsimple words. More forceful than the memories flooding into her mind are the emotions square and center of what she remembers living through.

Agony.

Terror.

Despair.

And amidst it all…

Defiance.

She suddenly remembers.

Images and thoughts continue their assault and only a very faint fraction of her mind recognizes a triggered subsection of a spell inscribed into the very fabric of her soul lighting up.

‘This was always the plan.’ she distantly realizes with sudden certainty.

Memories return to her in a torrent of misery and heartbreak. She remembers the unease as the blight started to spread, the terror of her fellow citizens who did not understand why such a tragedy was befalling their enlightened society. Remembers her own bitterness at witnessing the fall of what everyone once considered the best and brightest of mankind, the pinnacle of knowledge and creation, philosophy and literature. Paragons of medicine and arts succumbing like flies to the frantic madness of trying to find a cure and once that proved impossible, at least procure a balm to slow the descent into oblivion.

At the center of her past self’s anguish were her own sisters, lamenting mournfully as all they had created, all they had inspired into existence was erased and torn down by something none of them could comprehend.

But there is something worse than remembering the fate of her precious sisters, an unending well of sorrow and misery that is now being bared to her.

It comes to her then, in crystal clear memory and all too sudden, the image of Hades, face twisted in despair and anger, on the opposite end of their kitchen table. Hythlodaeus, quietly weeping at their side as the argument between herself and Hades finds no solution, only poisoned words and vitriolic accusations being thrown into an increasingly heated dispute.

She remembers the Convocation’s last resort, a plan to invoke and create a being so powerful that it would protect their precious star, halt the doom from consuming them by rewriting the very laws of existence. Even had Venat not beseechingly shared her knowledge and her plans, Calliope would have scoffed at the rest of the Fourteen, refusing to accept their proposal which was synonymous with defeat at a price she in principle refused to pay.

Yet in that moment, breakfast crumbs and coffee stains still on the table between them, she had realized that in order for Venat’s plan to come to fruition, she would have to break with Hades, allowing the unforgivable betrayal of their hearts to come to pass.

In the present, Calliope wails in misery as she relives the same grief that almost broke her spirit twelve thousand years ago already. She remembers Hades leaving their home, never to return and her past self preparing to leave on her own mission, not yet knowing that she was doomed to never see Amaurot again once she left.

And instead of following along with Venat’s grand plan, in a last act of rebellion before all she knew would be destroyed forever, Calliope had worked on her own little creation, a scheme so bold and secretive that she had feared to share its details with anyone. But now those very details slot into place in present Calliope’s mind, painting a picture of the impossible feat that only she could envision and make reality.

Aether gathers around her form unbidden, setting her eyes aglow with the radiant determination that is her power as she finally understands and stares up at Venat with bitterness shining through but banishing the defiance back into the depth of her soul, all too aware that everything has shifted in the past few minutes.

“I remember enough.”

Try as she might, she cannot withhold or even coat the sharpness, the bitterness and defiance both, in her hoarse voice. And even after the passage of millenia, she expects Venat to hear it plainly. Yet the white-clad woman in front of her shows barely any reaction, only closing her eyes briefly.

“The future self of yours who foretold the doom and warned us of what would come to pass is the one whose body you appear to inhabit at this moment. I conversed with her briefly but recently. I do not know how you came to awaken within her, but all our plans hinge upon everything happening exactly as she foretold.”

At this, Calliope barely refrains from crossing her arms, trying not to let her inner petulance take control, now of all times.

“Which means that my being present here changes things in unprecedented ways, does it not?”

“Indeed. I worry greatly what this could possibly mean. The friend I made in Elpis never mentioned an encounter like this. I fear this change is…anomalous.”

Calliope shrugs her shoulders lightly. Almost nonchalantly she fixes her eyes on a distant trail of slowly spiraling aether.

Oh, she knows now. Knows what Venat in a misguided attempt to protect her chose to withhold. She remembers conversations with researchers stationed in Elpis during the time that her mentor was working there. Having been forewarned she did not blow the ruse of her “familiar” having been there, and under the very same ploy asked for the researchers’ assessment of said familiar.

Sharing the same likeness as herself, all that set the familiar apart from her own self had supposedly been its thin aetheric essence and a lack of knowledge regarding the Amaurotine world and its customs. If she truly has manifested in the body of her future self, the one who once would - will? - travel onto the distant past, then it would explain her inexplicable weakness. There had been a few marks on her body that she had ignored at the time of examination, deviations from what she remembers herself to look like. A few unknown scars, hair that is longer than she is used to, nails that aren’t cared for properly. Small things that nonetheless now add up to confirm Venat’s words: She truly is no longer her Amaurotine self, but instead inside the body of her own soul reborn.

It proves without a doubt that her daring little scheme worked.

Admist the grief still churning in her heart and mind, a sliver of ultimate triumph worms burrows through the confines of her soul. Hiding the smile that wants to appear on her lips, Calliope turns back towards Venat.

“Thank you for speaking to me and...helping me understand the circumstances of my being here. I recall you being reluctant when sharing the peculiars of my future self’s adventures. Is there anything of importance I ought to know?”

Venat visibly hesitates for several moments before she responds.

“Since you were not present, it behooves you to know that I did not vanquish Zodiark. I merely banished Him and sealed His fragments in a prison.”

“I remember as much. Your disciples asked for my aid in your ploy to sunder and seal Him before I could turn them away.”

“And seal Him I did. I turned His prison into a moon, forever close enough to observe, but far enough that the mortals of this star could not do any harm.” Again she hesitates for just long enough that Calliope notices. “There are however those who would see Him freed; Ascians, they call themselves. Your future self opposed these people throughout her many years of adventuring.”

Another pause. Calliope keeps her expression clear, but worry and suspicion alike turn her stomach into knots. It is the same unease that first beset her when Venat initially told her of this future self of hers, yet at the same time withheld so much of the finer details. What reason could she have to refrain from sharing all there was to know? What does Venat fear that she would do?

“Of course,” she nods as if going along easily. “Whenever I catch a hint of these elusive people, I shall make it my priority to stop them. Anything else?”

“Upon encountering them, do not be confused by their appearance or the magic they invoke. Born from Zodiark and the obsession He infused in those who called Him forth, they are not the people you knew all these millennia ago. They are lost to you, now and forevermore.”

Her breath freezes in her lungs as realization sets in.

“...what do you mean, those who called Him forth? The Convocation? Are you saying they survived the doom and are still alive, after all this time?”

Again that annoying pause as if Venat will not speak freely. Calliope’s muscles burn with the desire to close the distance between them and physically try and shake the words from the woman in front of her. It is not a desire she has known since childhood, the sudden flare of temper a strange dichotomy to the icy shock and chilling despair just a few minutes ago. But now there is a burning panic inside of her chest, seizing her heart. If the Convocation, if Hades…

Once again, aether converges on her form unbidden, alighting her in a fiery glow as her sigil flares into existence. She can see Venat’s eyes following the unexpected burst of light and energy but her mind is wholly focussed on getting an answer to her questions. Taking a breath she steels her heart.

“Venat, are Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus still alive?”

A sigh is all the response she gets. Calliope barely just holds back an angry growl, the glow around her intensifying as the fury inside of her spikes.

“Answer me!”

Venat bows her head and closes her eyes.

“Hythlodaeus was one of those who offered their lives to bring Zodiark forth.”

Guilt unlike any she has ever felt before turns the fury inside of her to ash in an instant. No longer fueled by her anger, the golden aether around her winks out, leaving her strangely cold and bare. Her thoughts and her focus fall into herself, her mind desperately seeking out the soulbond that connects her to her oldest and closest friend.

But there is nothing.

A dormant bond. Cold and lifeless.

How could he do this? Leave her, leave Hades? Why would he offer himself when they had promised each other to never abandon one another, to always remain steadfast and hold onto each other no matter where their life’s path would take them? How could he feel that all he had left to give was himself, to give in to the desperation of the Convocation’s plan?

With unbidden clarity, Calliope once again returns to that doomed morning in their kitchen. She had been so focused on Hades, on making him see reason only to get lost in her own grief once realization had set in. But as she feels her memory surging through her, she recognizes the tears in Hythlodaeus’ eyes with crystal clarity, feels the helplessness settle in his bones as Hades and Calliope turn away from one another, surrendering their trinity, their bond, with a finality that echoes through their home, and now, through time.

The tears that roll down her cheeks are hot, leaving a burning trail along her skin as Calliope tries to hold back the violent hiccups that claw at her throat. Her lips are mumbling silent words, repeating Hythlodaeus’ name again and again as she desperately recalls any and all detail that could give her hope in this darkest of nightmares.

In that moment, a cool hand gently cups her cheek and as she abruptly opens her eyes, she finds Venat having closed the distance between them, her much larger yet nonetheless slim hand encircling half of her face in a soothing caress.

“Oh Calliope. Please, my dear friend, do not believe yourself to be the one at fault. The fate that befell Amaurot was a tragedy that we were all helpless to stop. And I believe that Hythlodaeus made his choice for you. He trusted both you and Emet-Selch to find a better way forward.”

“But I left him first, Venat. If I hadn’t abandoned them, maybe I could have…”

Her words are barely more than a whisper but Venat just brushes her fingers over her cheeks once again to wipe away the fresh tears streaming down.

“I may not be the same Venat of Amaurot, but I understand your grief all too well. I wish I could have spared you the pain, but I never expected you to be aware of yourself or retain any of your memories of the days of old.”

Hesitatingly, Calliope raises a hand to touch Venat's and grips her fingers tightly.

"I need…time. Is there…" she sighs, a coherent sentence too difficult in her current state of mind.

She looks off to the side, towards the massive crystal still hovering behind Venat.

"I assume I cannot stay here."

Now Venat draws back, the loss of her hands on Calliope's face leaving her unmoored.

"I think it best if you were to return to the Source. The fragment of Etheirys that was once ours," Venat clarifies as Calliope frowns in confusion. "I do not know all the details of your future self's early adventures, but if there is someone I'd trust to take up her path and walk it with the care it demands, it is you."

Brushing a few more errant tears away from her cheek with the back of her hand, Calliope fails to subdue the desire to break down even further. Her chest hurts, her lungs aching as her abused throat struggles to allow her to breathe. She longs for..for..

Home.

She wants to go home.

A new wave of grief hits her, and the tears surge anew, her wail lodging in her throat as she lacks the air to actually give it voice.

Again, a cool hand finds her burning cheek and strokes her gently. Distantly and through the rush of blood in her ears she hears Venat murmuring quiet words to her. A spell comes to life around her and before she can even think about protesting, the surge of energy crests, turning everything around her into whiteness for but a moment.

The next thing she is able to sense is the smell of salt and the sea and the sound of seagulls and distant shouts and bellows. Blinking her burning eyes she finds herself back in her room in Limsa Lominsa, exactly as she left it except for the fiery light of the sunset now painting the walls orange.

The last remaining dregs of her energy and will dissolve as the reality of her situation sets in and unwilling to keep up any pretenses anymore, Calliope allows her body to crumble to the ground as she gives in to the grief and heartbreak over everything she has now lost what feels like a second time in her long, long life.

Chapter Text

Five

Calliope's eyes stare unblinking into nothingness as her hands slowly move the mug in them back and forth, constantly catching that one splinter that sticks up from the table she is sitting at.

It has been three days since she activated the crystal, two days of which she spent curled up on her bed in a state of constant crying. Only on the morrow of the third day did her tears finally abate and her stomach notify her of its emptiness. Which eventually led her here, to the Briny Foam, a tavern located towards the Lower Noscea end of the city that happened to open up early enough for her to request a hot cup of tea.

She must have looked as she felt, for the bleary eyed roegadyn behind the counter just squinted his eyes at her before mumbling unintelligently and pushing a mug with something decidedly not tea but nonetheless hot into her waiting hands and foregoing any payment.

The strange drink, which could be called a distant cousin of tea, did warm her up to the point where it actually roused her spirit and now, the mug in question cold and empty she tries to put her errant thoughts into order.

The heartbreak over the loss of her home is only temporarily numbed, and whenever the reminder of Hythlodaeus’ fate circles into her active thoughts, her breath hitches. It takes considerable effort, but she always pushes those thoughts into another direction instead, unwilling to dissolve into yet more tears now that she is actually out and about.

With a sliver of purpose, she sets her mind towards the most immediate path before her: mimicking her future self’s actions and adventures. She knows practically nothing about her other self’s travels since Venat only shared with her the barebones of her existence and everything that was related to the doom that would befall Amaurot. She knows nothing of her thoughts and ideals, her habits or even her life in general. With a little pang Calliope realizes that her having succeeded in her plan also means that now that her path picks up again, her future self’s road has ended.

Does it count as murder if the person she has effectively ended is just her own self from the future?

Frowning heavily she looks down at the mug and inspects the little fault on the table’s surface, the splinter that is now prominently sticking up thanks to her fidgeting with it.

Apart from the proprietor of the inn she is staying at and the few people from the Arcanist’s Guild or the rogues, nobody in the city recognized her. And even the people from the guild and the rogues did not seem to be life-long friends, mostly just recent acquaintances. Her future self must have been new to the city as well, unable to form any lasting bonds yet. Maybe she could ask the inn’s owner for how long she has already rented the place. It might raise an eyebrow and lead to a question or two, but now that she is aware of the person whose place she usurped, Calliope cannot help but be curious about her.

Thus, first and foremost on her mental list is an inquiry into her name.

Now that she thinks about it, it is a little suspect, bordering on funny, that so far nobody has referred to her by name. At first she had assumed it being a byproduct of being in a new place so far from home, but now that she knows that her former-future-self had been in the city long enough to join a few groups or go on outings, it strikes her as odd.

Mayhap the arcanist’s guild or the innkeeper will have her name written down? After all, whatever agreement they came to regarding the renting of her room, or even the membership in the guild, must have been put into writing at some point. These people may be far removed from bureaucratic Amaurot, but surely they keep books and records, do they not?

Second on her list is picking up where her former path trailed off.

The cave she woke in was close to Summerford farms, and the feline arcanist she met after waking up had not seemed like one of the usual guardsman of Limsa Lominsa, nor did she strike her as someone of the arcanists’ guild now that she has something to compare her to. Mayhap she was but another adventurer from further away. What was it the miqo'te had said? Something about the knife in the creature’s back belonging to pirates or at the very least someone of the sea-faring occupation. Yet there had been no follow-up to the remark and as far as Calliope knows, the knife remains in the cave, ready to be picked up by any wandering folk.

And now that she is retracing her steps, it begs to question why she came to that cave in the first place. Whatever was there to be found could either have been of some natural interest, or, and that option seems far more likely to Calliope, someone sent her there to investigate. After all, the inn room she is staying at does not paint the picture of some scholar with casual interest in seaside caves. No, it truly seems the most likely conclusion that she had been working for someone.

But for whom would a new and fledgling - considering the gear in the room - adventurer work?

Setting her mind to comb through all of her past week’s interactions, Calliope remembers the nudging remarks of the innkeeper, mentioning more adventuring avenues. He had not struck her as someone specifically waiting for a report from her, but the hypothesis of him having pointed her future self in a direction seems incredibly likely.

Yet another reason to check in with that man.

However, before setting out to wherever he points her, she really needs to get herself some proper gear and actually examine her current capabilities in detail. Now that she knows that she isn’t going to miraculously recover her old strength, she better make sure her skills are on a level that she can stay alive. Considering the reaction of Smaljav and Jotemi, her spellwork will definitely draw attention, though their unfamiliarity with casters in general makes it hard to gauge just how far removed she is. But even if her aether reserves are shoddy at best, her knowledge and experience of being with the Words of Azem, and then later having ventured under the position of Azem, should serve her well.

The arcanists’ guild might be a good starting point, but then there is the reaction of that ‘teacher’ laughing at her futile attempts at actual creation magic to consider. Now, days removed from that incident, she can actually feel the embarrassment of the moment creeping up on her. Of course the man laughed at her - all he could see was someone who but recently joined the guild and quickly made an idiot of themselves.

Calliope’s lips twitch into the ghost of a smile as she recalls her own confusion and how blissful her ignorance has been. And even though the reality of her situation is a great deal more dire than she even initially anticipated, she knows that at least her own path once again prevails. She does not need the arcanists’ guild, though carefully questioning them on the effects of their most powerful casters should not be pushed entirely off the table. Just maybe not the same man again that she pestered last time.

Taking a deep breath, she grips the cold mug more tightly and looks up towards the bar. The roegadyn has disappeared who knows where, but she can make out some clanging from behind the door next to the sign that reads ‘kitchen’. With quiet steps she approaches the door in question and listens in a little more closely.

The rattling noise could easily be from pots and pans being moved about, with the occasional drawer or cupboard being opened and closed rather forcefully. As she contemplates the nondescript door, she can practically hear Hades’ sigh in her head, bemoaning her inability to stay out of other people’s business. Her heart gives an unhappy twinge, the grief wanting to overpower her again, but she once again pushes it away with as much mental force as she can manage. Instead, she reaches out to push at the door and finds it unlocked. Once open, she can see the kitchen and the roegadyn from earlier just ramming another drawer closed again, his angry muttering now audible. As she opens the door a little further to stop in, it gives a violent squeak, making the man turn on his spot to have a look at who entered unbidden.

Carefully raising her hands in what she hopes is a universal gesture of peace, Calliope offers a lopsided smile and points to the mug she is still holding in one hand.

“Just wanted to make sure this makes its way back to where it’s supposed to be. Are you alright?”

The man exhales noisily but closes the distance between them calmly and takes the offered mug.

“Just can’t find the gods-damned keys. I knew I had ‘em earlier when I opened up, but I can’t find ‘em for the life o’ me.”

Calliope visibly brightens up, her lips growing wide with her cheerful smile.

“I happen to be very good at finding things. How about you describe them to me and I help you look for them, as a thank you for the drink earlier?”

His frown deepens for a second but then his expression clears as he shrugs his shoulders.

“Be my guest, s’not like I haven’t already looked in every nook and corner. ‘Bout ready to believe someone nicked ‘em.”

“All the more reason to double-check, it wouldn’t do to alert the guards only to have them find those pesky keys under a towel or something,” she says with a little wink.

“Fine, keys be three on a chain, one’s silver an’ dainty, the other two bronze and a little rusty. There’s, uh, a little keychain like a fork on ‘em as well. Can’t mistake ‘em.”

She nods readily, her gaze already traveling over the available surfaces.

This is a trick she doesn’t even need a spell for.

Turning away from the man for a moment, she closes her eyes and tunes herself into the surrounding aether. Her aethersight is good enough that she can roughly make out most items in her vicinity, every single piece slightly tinted in the aether that was strongest in its creation. For a second she almost gets sidetracked, wondering how the people in this age make anything without creation magic, but then she instead focuses on the roegadyn in the room and the churning light that marks his spirit.

While a small part of her consciousness stays in the present, the majority of her mind dives into his memory and mind. In quick succession she relives the notable moments of his morning -

Exiting the ship he calls his home, still stumbling from the long night.
Grabbing a fresh batch of lemons from the vendors in Hawker’s Alley.
Opening the door to the Briny Foam and putting the keys next to the wine bottles in their shelf, second row from the right.
Wincing at the sunlight as he unlatches the window shutters and throws them open.
Frowning at the face of the young woman entering, who clearly looks like she has cried through the night.

- and blinks as she returns to the present.

Briefly she wonders if the people of this age have skills similar to her own, but then postpones the question for another time as she repeatedly drums her index finger on her chin, pretending to think things over. As quietly as possible she opens the door to the main room again, this time only opening it towards where she remembers it to start creaking and peers out towards the bar.

The angle barely works, but work it does and rewards her with the promising glint of something metallic, exactly where he put it in the memory she has just seen. Smiling to herself she opens the door a little further, noisily and on purpose, as she turns towards the roegadyn with a smirk on her face.

“You’ve turned this kitchen on its head already, but have you checked the bar yet? I recall seeing something very key-shaped just next to the wine bottles on the shelf.”

Throwing down the towel he was holding, the gray-skinned man makes his way over towards her, mumbling quiet words that she cannot make out under his breath. Pushing past her she is able to witness the exact moment he spots the keys in the shelf, his eyes widening and his whole demeanor straightening as he shouts a loud holler of happy surprise and dashes over to snatch the offending keys.

“By the Twelve, I’m an idiot,” the man exclaims as he puts the keyring into a little pouch at his belt, shaking his head a little in exasperation. “Really saved me more of a headache there, lass. How about I get ya another drink on the house, as a sign of gratitude?”

She laughs in response and raises her hands to fend off the offer.

“No need, really. I’m already feeling much better; whatever it is you gave me earlier really roused my spirit, which is all I needed. But say, I’m still fairly new to town whereas you strike me as a local, maybe you can give me some pointers for things I need?"

He grins at her as he puts a hand on his hip, motioning with the other hand for her to continue.

“Ah, you see, I’m in the adventuring business and need to get some new gear for myself. Problem is, I don’t just want something mundane, I need a little bit of custom work. Preferably a little delicate, involving crystals?”

His eyebrows rise a bit towards the end.

“Sounds like ya know exactly what ya want, girl. There’s Naldiq & Vymelli's, though they’re more into makin’ fine armor and by the sound of it, you need somethin’ a little more fiddly than that. Have ya considered goin’ to Ul’dah instead? Their goldsmiths are the best on the continent.”

“I was hoping to stay in Limsa a little longer, isn’t there anyone else?”

“Well,” he says slowly and starts scratching his chin. “Ya can always try Sorcha,’s she’s got a shop in East Hawkers’ Alley. Usually peddles basic fares to most adventurers, but if ya ask nicely, she might be willin’ to get a few extra bits and pieces? She has a cousin in Ul’dah, so I bet she be willin’ to help ya out.”

She puts on her sweet smile, grateful to have a lead at the very least. “Will do, thank you very kindly. May I know the name of my newest helpful friend then?”

Her words manage to make his cheeks go a darker dusty color and he has to clear his throat suddenly, making her smile grow wider.

“Uh, it’s Jagged Oak, and, uh, ya be welcome to come by anytime, girl.”

“Well then, Jagged Oak,” she grins at him, “I will record your name and remember you duly. And I will definitely return in the future for this wonderful warm drink of yours.”

The blush extends to his ears this time and with a pearly laugh and a jaunty little wave she turns around and leaves the Briny Foam.

Chapter Text

Six

Sorcha is a helpful hyur and cheerfully charges three times more coin than Calliope managed to scrounge up so far. However, the promise of an instrument precisely tuned to what she needs makes her at least not outright laugh at the demand. It is a little bothersome to be in a society that places so much value in coin, but it is certainly not the worst transactional item to recreate.

Yet though she knows the spells to create such coinage, her aether stores are low and not readily available for that kind of specialized creation magic. Luckily for her, despite Venat’s actions in sundering the star, she did not destroy one of its most fascinating properties, its richness of aether. Even now in such a distant time and place from her home, Calliope can tell that her surroundings are still abundant in such energies, ready to be harvested by someone with the means to do so. Which, until she gets that little toy made, is not her.

Incidentally, it is part of a conversation she overhears while browsing the market stalls that solves that particular issue for her. When piecing the odd ends and bits of the conversations around her into a coherent shape, she learns that Vylbrand is incredibly dense with aether to the point that it can be found in its crystalized form all around; crystals that in turn are often used, shipped and subsequently stolen. While she is not in the business of thievery, she is very interested in harvesting such crystals herself, a neat, albeit temporary, solution to her creation magic problem.

Since she will need to spend a few days in the countryside, she decides to also start working on the next item on her agenda: Questioning the proprietor of the inn she’s staying at, the friendly chap by the name of Baderon.

She approaches him during the afternoon lull, when most patrons are still out and have not yet returned for the evenings’ proceedings. The man she is looking for is leaning his elbows on the countertop, dozens of papers and notebooks strewn about as he angrily mumbles something to himself.

“I hope this is not an inopportune time to seek you out,” she starts casually and rests her upper body against the counter herself.

He looks up with a frown that clears away as he sees her and instead turns into a wide grin.

“There are no inopportune moments, lass. So, what can I ‘elp ye with?”

“Two things actually. Ideswif said you might have more work for me. Not directly at the beach but a little more inland, if possible.”

He scratches his head for a second, the little trinkets on his bandana twinkling with the movement.

“Weren’t ye the one sent to Summerford? Didn’t ‘ear ye were done there already, but who am I to deny ye some extra work if ye’re lookin’ fer it. Well then, 'ave ye 'eard o' the Skylift out in Middle La Noscea?” he asks as he straightens his posture and pulls some of the papers in front of him together before he continues again.

“If ye've ever visited Woad Whisper Canyon, then ye must've been up and down the thing at least once. It's that big bleedin' scaffoldin' attached to the Descent. Ye've likely seen the lads and lasses out there usin' it to 'aul cargo up the cliff face. 'Ard labor, that, and I 'ear they could use an enterprisin' soul to pick up the odd jobs what no other bugger 'as time to deal with.”

She nods in understanding, distantly recalling the sight of such scaffolding on the cliffs when she joined Ideswif. Seeing her following along with his description, Baderon grins even wider.

“Looks like ye already got ‘round, lass. Once ye get there, track down the 'ead o' the operation─bloke by the name o' Wyrkrhit─and 'e'll be sure to put ye to work on a task or two. Tell ‘im I sent ye and all’ll be well.”

“Thank you kindly, I shall do as you directed. As for the other thing, it might be a little unusual, but would you allow me to see the log entry in your administrative records regarding my tenancy? I have gotten a few things mixed up recently and wished to verify the length of my stay in Limsa.”

Hades should be proud of her for actually making a request instead of sneaking in and going through all the records to find the one she is looking for. While the latter option is certainly more fun, she oddly feels a little short on time and for once willing to actually ask. Or at least lie.

Baderon appears to at least consider her request, though he blinks a little oddly at her before he pushes some of the recently stacked papers away. His shoulders have risen up by a fraction which in turn raises Calliope’s curiosity as she watches him leaf through several pages before grabbing a book from the pile to the side. Another minute passes as he combs through it, and she is almost tempted to let her own gaze wander as she waits when he suddenly exclaims, her eyes snapping down towards the book on instinct.

“Seems like yer luck ain’t the best, lass,” he chuckles, lifting and turning the book around so that she can actually look at the pages - that appear to have been recently damaged by some spilled beverage, rendering almost the entire page unreadable.

Her eyes growing wide she looks up towards Baderon’s face again that is now shifting between a sheepish grin and a grimace.

“Some fellow knocked o’er an entire bottle o’ wine two days ago, right into me logs an’ papers. Been tryin’ to put it all together again, but the stains are a pain in the arse. I’m gonna ‘ave to get every bloody tenant to sign again.”

Of all the rotten luck. She can practically hear Hythlodaeus' snickering at her misfortune and Hades’ acerbic comments, sarcastically questioning whatever it was she might have done to deserve such a fate. Her heart twinges and yet she cannot help the twitch of a smile ghosting across her lips as she pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Stars, but that is unfortunate. Nonetheless, thank you for letting me know.”

She turns as if readying to leave but catches him raising a hand.

“Ah, since ye’re ‘ere now anyway, why don’t ye sign the new bloody papers already? I’d rather not ‘ave the Admiralty breathin’ down me neck about messin’ up the logs for the guild an’ all.”

“Of course.”

As she waits for him to procure the replacement log, she surreptitiously calls forth the twin of her oral conducting spell, one that will allow her to write physical notes that will then appear in the same lettering as the medium she is writing on. It’s a shame she never got around to anchoring the entire set of conducting spells into her soul, but then again she never thought she would end up this far removed from home either.

It brings to question whether her soul is truly as diminished as Venat claimed it would be. So far, all the spells she expected to be anchored within remain accessible to her, yet it makes the addition of other such spells an undertaking of far too risky proportions - even for her. Up until Venat’s revelations regarding the future, Calliope hadn’t needed to delve too far into soul magic apart from the few requisite ones that all members of the Words of Azem are expected to take onto themselves before they travel the star.

But those spells had been researched and refined throughout Amaurot’s history by minds greater and far more dedicated to such craft. In order to actually create new additions, she will need someone to give her an extremely precise rundown of the current state of her soul. Who, according to Venat’s words in the past, will be nigh impossible to find in this future so far removed from enlightened Amaurot.

Yet again, she longs for her soulbonds to be at her side once more.

“‘ere we are.”

Baderon’s words pull her out of her increasingly morose thoughts, halting the spiral of grief that is threatening to take hold of her anew. Attempting to quell the faint shaking of her hands, she steps closer again and takes the proffered quill, then glances down towards where his fingers are pointing at to add her signature. Without hesitation she puts down the name of her office, the designation that she refuses to abandon.

Azem.

A little flourish of aether, a childish trick that Hythlodaeus once taught her, and a splotch of ink next to her title transforms into a miniature version of her sigil. With a pleased smile she hands both quill and log back to Baderon who does not seem to be too surprised at the name itself - it confirms her suspicion that he truly does not remember whatever name her future self used. It may be odd, but she does not detect any subterfuge and decides to let the matter rest for the time being.

----

Four days pass with Calliope doing what she does best at a breakneck pace that easily holds up to her Amaurotine times.

She slays monsters (bats and sea creatures and weird tentacled flying jellyfish) and subdues evildoers (pirates and smugglers), reunites lost items with their owners (specially crossbred millicorn seeds and supplies intended for the Moraby Drydocks), ferries goods (the aforementioned supplies) to their intended destination through whatever obstacles the land throws her way and on one memorable occasion relights the beacon of a lighthouse.

Briefly she wonders if her future self also did all of these things, but the more she ends up helping the common folks in La Noscea, the more she comes to realize that it is pointless for her to keep worrying about it. She cannot abandon her chosen course, nor can she leave the body she inhabits. Her future self is gone, and nothing that Calliope does will change the outcome of her past choice.

If one ignores her nagging worries and doubts, it is freeing to be out and about, constantly putting another step forward, her mind focused on the problem at hand and thus unable to wallow too much. She carries a little backpack for appearance’s sake but keeps most of the odd trinkets she finds in her little extra-dimensional pouch. Her robe may be different - a little too short, too open in the front and lacking the comforting hood - but its general movement and feel are similar to what she is used to wearing on such outings.

Her favored weapons are, as always, bound to her soul yet for a hot hour after setting out from Limsa Lominsa she actually contemplates avoiding her staff or any spellcasting. After all, her combat spells surely are a little too potent and will draw far too much scrutiny, yet after considering the pros and cons of the matter, she purposefully draws her favorite aetherically charged blade forth, almost daring Fate to intervene.

If people start talking about her unusually strong combat capabilities, the interesting parties - amiable and hostile both - will be able to find her much earlier. Surely that is in the interest of everyone.

As expected, those measly four days are enough that every guardsman, caravan owner, shipwright or merchant in La Noscea knows her name and general appearance. Which means that on the fifth day when she saves a ship from being blown up and finds a coded missive, the woman in charge, a Captain Ghimthota, does not even blink when she casually claims being able to decipher the missive. The letter merely details the attack on the Drydocks in astonishing detail, with both Ghimthota and Calliope realizing that if she had not been around that morning, a great many lives would have been lost. Between the two of them they work out that the attack was merely a feint, Calliope cheerfully offering to go forth and aid the actual target of the unexpected strike.

It is at Swiftperch that things take an unexpected turn, plunging Calliope into uncharted territory of not knowing which choice to make.

It transpires as follows: The attack happens as they predicted it to be. Within minutes of Calliope’s arrival, pirates by the designation of ‘Serpent Reavers’ and sea creatures commonly called ‘Sahagin’ pour forth in an attempt to seize the town. Calliope, quick to the blade and even quicker with her spells, blasts all of them to smithereens in the span of five minutes as the Yellowjackets stare at her with wide eyes and gaping mouths. And just in that moment, a masked mage appears from behind the aetheryte.

Calliope’s eyes snap towards the mage and regard them warily. The voice sounds male, but the dark robes hide their features entirely. Yet the mask, black as it is, looks frighteningly familiar, half of its shape identical to Lahabrea’s own signature mask. And as the mage calls forth their summon, a limiter glyph appears in front of their face, one that Calliope herself hasn’t seen in centuries.

The spell itself is textbook creation magic, the limiter glyph all the more worrying. Such glyphs were already out of fashion by the time Calliope entered the Words of Azem, since the practice of sharing suppressed spells was deemed unethical and dangerous. How then did this person gain knowledge of the spell; how did they manage to cast it?

The creature coming into existence turns into merely an afterthought to her. With her blade having stored an abundance of aether during her earlier spellcasts, she knows that it shall not take long to obliterate it. Since the gargoyle remains a threat to the handful of lingering guardsmen, Calliope spares the few seconds she needs to blink next to it, then releases the radiant aether in three carefully placed slashes, the creature quickly reduced to ambient aether once again.

Stumbling backwards, the masked mage cries out in what can only be rage.

“Whence springs this preternatural might!?”

A wand appears in the mage’s hand and without even waiting for any type of reply they start gathering aether for what can only be a destructive spellcast.

“Wait!” Calliope cries out desperately. “Who are you? How do you know such creation magic?”

She barely manages to finish her sentence, yet her words fall on deaf ears. The spell strikes forth and just in time she erects a hasty barrier to soak up and dispel the destructive energy.

“Please, I do not wish to fight you!”

The mage laughs, a deep, hollow sound that echoes within the cloud of dark aether that has accompanied the summoning.

“Then you will die, interloper! None will stand before my might!”

Before she can reply, another voice comes unbidden from the direction of the gate.

“A fearsome opponent...against whom you shall not stand alone!”

Out of the corner of her eyes, Calliope catches sight of the miqo’te she met in the cave, already brandishing a wand of her own, aether gathering in preparation of a spell.

“Wait, don’t hurt them!”

Reaching out a hand towards the masked mage, she drops her voice to its most imploring tone, infusing it with the gift that is so uniquely her own, and decides to try using her mother tongue, Amaurotine.

“As a citizen of Amaurot, I bid you cease this hostility. Let us talk like enlightened beings and return to a debate of words and wit!”

The mage falters, aether dissipating as the spell is halted.

“What would you know of Amaurot, mortal?! You besmirch the wisdom of the Paragons with your hubris, and I will not suffer you to live after such impertinence!”

The next spellcast the mage commences is bigger, its intent plain to her. On her left, the miqo’te arcanist is finishing her own spellcast and out of escalating panic, Calliope throws out another hand and invokes a spell of Hades’ making.

“Halt!”

Filigree chains of golden light snap into existence, winding around both the masked mage and the miqo’te, forcing them both to lose their wands as their arms and legs are bound tight. The drain of energy is monumental, but Calliope grits her teeth and wipes away the sweat gathering on her forehead. She will not be able to keep up the spell for long, but she will be damned if she does not try to figure out what in the Seven Hells is going on.

“And now,” she growls through her teeth as she mimics yanking on the chain to pull the masked mage closer to her. At the same time, she invokes the sigil of her office that flickers to life in front of her in its usual golden radiance.

“We will talk.”

Chapter Text

Seven

“And now.” she growls through her teeth as she mimics yanking on the chain to pull the masked mage closer to her. At the same time, she invokes the sigil of her office that flickers to life in front of her in its usual golden radiance. “We will talk.”

While she cannot see the mage’s expression, she can almost feel their sudden shock. Five long seconds pass until they find their voice again.

“Honored Azem?!”

She raises an eyebrow but otherwise keeps her face impassive, though on her left she can hear the miqo’te take a sharp breath.

“So you recognize the office at least,” she replies calmly in Amaurotine and then switches back to the language the mage speaks. “You are the first person to recognize me, and yet I do not recognize you. What is your designation and name?”

“G-Galen. Secretary at the Administrative Bureau at Akademia Anyder.”

“Well then, Galen, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Forgive my state of dress, but then again you yourself appear to have adapted a different outfit than what is standard regulation. May I inquire as to your business here? And how you came into possession of a suppressed spell?”

Her voice remains cool and stoic even though her fingers itch with the waring desire of shaking his shoulders or embracing him instead.

“Master Lahabrea himself passed the spell unto me, he…,” he pauses in his explanation, as if carefully feeling for the right words to use. “He said I shall employ it here to create a distraction and sow chaos.”

“Master Lahabrea? Pray tell, how did you encounter him in this age?”

“He was there when I woke from slumber and remembered who I was. He informed me of my duty.”

“Your duty, then. Create a distraction, sow chaos? Any idea why that would be required of you, Secretary Galen?”

Even though his eyes are hidden beneath the mask, his head moves to the side as if hiding himself from her gaze.

“I do not dare question Master Lahabrea, I do not know.”

“Do not listen to him!” The miqo’te suddenly butts in and even though she does not struggle against the chains binding her, her shoulders are taut, her features tense. “He and his kind are responsible for countless tragedies. Just a few days ago this mage was responsible for killing several Yellowjackets and a worker of the Summerford Farms. He is a murderer and a liar!”

Calliope waits for the woman to finish, then turns back towards Galen, her eyes narrowing by a fraction. Inside of her, a storm takes form, a multitude of feelings trying to trump over one another, with guilt and grief taking the front. A pair that she unfortunately grows increasingly familiar with.

“Is that true, Galen? Did you cause harm to innocent people?”

He hisses.

“These are not people, but beasts pretending to be men! Not even fit to bear witness to the Paragon’s grace; Master Lahabrea himself told me not to listen to their filth.”

Her hands clench unseen inside the sleeves of her robes.

“And what else did Lahabrea tell you?”

“That a great tragedy had befallen our people, and if I followed his instructions, he could return our star to greatness and bring us home!”

Calliope can feel her fingernails starting to dig painfully into the flesh of her palms. The pain is a welcome distraction, though it makes her almost lose the uphill battle against the strain of maintaining the confinement spell. She tries to summon every onze of will, every bit of icy calm while she tries to objectively take apart every word he said and parse them for the kernel of truth.

What is it Venat has said? Something about those who would work towards freeing Zodiark from the prison He was banished to. Ascians. Possibly taking on the form of those who initially called Him forth? Did she mean people like Galen? And whoever was, is, posing as Lahabrea?

Talking to this man creates a dozen more questions for every answer he gives her. And as much as she wishes to continue questioning him, she cannot ignore the crimes he so easily admitted to. Crimes that the miqo’te woman placed at his feet, only for him to confirm it with an insult towards the people of this age. His hateful reaction confuses her in its spitefulness - yet another mystery being raised without an answer in sight.

Could this hatred towards the people of this age be the reason why her future self opposed these creations of Zodiark? It seems too simplistic, yet judging by the heaviness in her stomach, she is certainly onto something here and merely needs to dig deeper.

Setting her jaw with determination, she raises her eyes to look at Galen. With slow steps she closes the distance between them and without any hesitation lifts her hands towards his mask. A questioning noise comes from his throat as he struggles, but then she has already managed to catch the edge of it and unceremoniously pulls it off.

He looks shockingly young, and more like the hyur of these lands than an Amaurotine. His eyes are a dull green, his cheeks freckled and from the coloration of his eyebrows he must have vivid teal hair. Slowly, her eyes travel back to her hands and the strange imitation of Lahabrea’s mask in them. She does not recall anyone in her time wearing one that looks like this, and though the Convocation would far too often claim that she was gone from the city more often than within it, she knew its citizens and could, if pressed, recall every single mask in existence.

(She and Hades often made a game out of it - recreating a mask and demanding the other person state the wearer’s name or station. Oh, how often he would lose, only to claim that she was cheating, to the general laughter of the three of them.)

This mask does not belong to any citizen of Amaurot.

And yet, a sliver of doubt remains. Mayhap Galen was a young, newly graduated youth, coming into adulthood by the time she already abandoned her title and heart alike. Does she even have a right to pass judgment on this man? If only she had more time to talk to him…

Revelation strikes her, a sudden clarity taking hold of her mind like the clouds dispersing to allow the sun to shine once more. It may be an unorthodox gamble, but there is nobody around to admonish her for it this time. And Galen will probably not know any better, if he truly is as young as she thinks he is.

With a cheerful grin, she raises her eyes towards him once again. Some of her intention must show on his face, for she can see his own eyes widened, cheeks growing pale in sudden fear.

“Secretary Galen,” she intones and evokes the very same spell that Venat used on her upon their first meeting one another, so many millennia ago. A gently spinning circle springs to life around them, with her and Galen aligned in its center, the bound miqo’te an afterthought. The sigil of Azem branches out at the cardinal points, brought to life by her own aether but now feeding on the ambient energy of the land.

“As you have traveled far from home in duty to the star, you have behaved honorably and shown the necessary spirit and sacrifice. Your conduct has proven that even in the face of adversity you are courageous, stalwart and trustworthy. As such, by the sanctity invested into me and my Seat, I hereby submit your name to the Words of Azem.”

The golden aether floods into him to the point that for just a single moment his entire silhouette is turned into light. In Calliope’s other hand, the black mask crumbles and disappears into the very same light. Then the radiance subsides, Galen’s form returning to what it was before, spiky robe and all. With a high chime, the chains of gold around him and the miqo’te disappear as well, Calliope no longer seeing a need to uphold the spell.

“Well then,” she says cheerfully. “As Azem, I bid you welcome to the, in my humble opinion, most diverse and fun circle of exclusivity in all of Etheirys. Our mission is arduous and complex, but if you follow my lead, I am going to make sure that you serve the star to the best of your ability while I ensure you do not come to harm. Any questions?”

He just stares unblinking at his hand, too astonished to form words. To her surprise, it is not Galen who speaks next, but the woman at her side, eyes wide and voice shaky.

“What…did you do?”

Calliope turns towards her, keeping the cheerful grin on her lips.

“Where I am from, the Words of Azem are a highly exclusive group of individuals that serve the betterment of the star. A youth like Galen must have gotten confused when he woke up and was met with what he assumed to be a person of authority. All the more reason for me to take him under my wing and ensure that he actually learns about this place that he finds himself in now.”

Towards the end of her explanation she coyly winks at the miqo’te, making sure that her face is still angled away from Galen so that the motion cannot be seen by him. It seems to render the woman silent for a moment, frowning as if deep in thought. Her pale green eyes slide towards the still stunned robed mage, then back to Calliope. And then she demonstratively and calmly bends down towards her fallen wand and nonchalantly ties it back onto her belt loop.

“While he processes what I assume to be a highly unusual development, why don’t we have a word, privately?”

Calliope knows that tone of voice. The person using it may be wildly different, but stars does she recognize the deliberate calm before the storm. With a half-hearted shrug she moves towards the fenced in crop fields at the cliffside, acting as nonplussed as possible as she leans against the wooden structure. If only she had enough time to look into this woman before being confronted. After all the recent excitement and her blatant spending of her meager aether, it is not entirely risk free to be on her backfoot for once, but with an idle hand she gestures for the other woman to speak.

“I shall refrain from superfluous and mindless chit-chat. Allowing this mage to live is a liability that me and mine cannot allow unless we trust you and your allegiance to the good of this star. So I ask plainly, what are your intentions?”

Well, that is certainly an opener. Even the bluntness reminds her of him. She tilts her head questioningly.

“Whatever do you mean? I may be new to Vylbrand, but I’m just a simple traveler, helping the common folk whenever I am able to.”

“Do not play coy. While yes, your name may already be on everyone’s lips along the coast, you cannot deny that you knew that mage, or at least appeared familiar enough with his visage. And the mage certainly recognized you. So tell me this, and tell me true: Are you an ally of the Paragons?”

“I do not know who those people are.”

The woman narrows her eyes, catching on to Calliope’s deliberately chosen words.

“When they do appear, they appear as black-robed mages,” she elaborates. “Using shadowy magics and summoning fiends to do their bidding. They are known as the Bringers of Chaos, and refer to themselves as Ascians.”

Centuries of practice allow Calliope to keep her face impassive, and the long, voluminous sleeves hide the faint tremor in her hands.

“Now that is a name I have heard before, and not in a friendly manner.”

“So you do know them.”

The accusation in those words is plain so Calliope shakes her head, then looks off to the side, away from the miqo’te.

“In a manner of speaking. I have not encountered them before, but an old mentor of mine warned me about their…collective. I know that they aim to free a being by the name of Zodiark, and I know they should not be allowed to work towards their goal unhindered.”

“You sound shockingly informed about them, yet your words belie a hesitation to call them enemies.”

Calliope sighs.

“I pity them, that is all.” She looks back at the feline-eared woman, trying to gauge her reaction. “I feel as if they are merely misguided in their actions, like this youth over there. If only one could convince them of a different path, make them see reason, they might be turned away from their doom.”

“What makes you think they are all just misguided? Whence comes this insight into them?”

“As I said, my old mentor spoke of them briefly when last we conversed. She would see them opposed at all cost, but with myself never having had direct contact with them, I admit that I find myself hesitant to so thoughtlessly brand them ‘foes’.”

The miqo’te hums in thought yet offers no other word of response. She appears to mull things over for a minute, her hand idly tapping her chin.

“I believe you,” she states eventually. “And as such I feel at liberty to inform you of my work.”

“And name?” Calliope interjects. The woman blinks, then smirks.

“My name is Y'shtola. I generally act as a naturalist of sorts, surveying the aether in the hope that it might offer up some clue as to our predicament. Beyond that, I am a member of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. They are the reason I am currently investigating the aforementioned predicaments in Vylbrand.”

“And have you found your clues yet?”

“Yes. Everything points towards the Ascians manipulating the beast tribes. For what goal, I do not yet know, but the pattern has at last revealed itself to us.”

“And now that you have confirmed their involvement, you are going to do what exactly?”

“Return to our headquarters and speak with the others.”

“Other…Scions? I am admittedly new to these parts, but who exactly are these Scions of the Seventh Dawn?”

For the first time since they started talking, Y’shtola smiles kindly.

“The Scions are an order of warriors and scholars; I pride myself on being of the latter category. We try to avoid too much attention, but generally keep an eye on the beast tribes, the Garleans and the Ascians. With two of these three now connected, I need to inform my fellow Scions.”

“In that case, I do not wish to keep you any longer. I will, however, say it out loud so that there can be no misunderstanding,” Calliope halts for a moment, waiting until she has Y’shtola’s full attention. “If you ever have need of a capable and versatile fighter or protector, you are welcome, now and in the future, to call upon me. I will not stay in Limsa Lominsa for long, but surely you and yours have means to reach me if the need arises.”

Y’shtola looks genuinely touched, then holds out a hand. Smiling warmly, Calliope reaches out as well, meeting the miqo’te in a quick but firm handshake.

It is child’s play to simultaneously latch onto the woman’s essence.

As Y’shtola turns around and walks away, Calliope closes her eyes and focuses on the woman. Using the singular moment of opportunity, she will have to dig as deeply as she can within the few minutes she has left. After all, just as Y’shtola needed validation before trusting Calliope, so too does Calliope need evidence of Y’shtola’s character before she will allow her to report to her comrades. And what better way to make sure than delve into her past.

With an impish grin she allows her mind to surge into the unfolding visions.

Chapter Text

Eight

Calliope closes her eyes and watches.

----

Young Y'shtola , carefully enunciating the words to a spell under the watchful eye of an older woman with a giant hat. They are sitting in the upper story of a marbled structure, tall mountains visible none too far from their building. As the girl recites the spell, a stack of leaves on the table bursts into flames.

‘I did it Master Matoya!’ She exclaims brightly, to which the older woman just huffs: ‘You will do it perfectly a hundred more times before I’ll allow you to move onto the next spell.’

Y’shtola frowns but grits her teeth, leaning forward with all her focus.

----

Slightly older, she next appears in a sprawling city of marble, nestled onto a perfectly formed harbor. The teenager, clad in elaborate robes and carrying a stack of books, walks along a winding cobbled path along the shoreline. Already she holds herself straight-backed, chin up, with an air of confidence all around her, broken only by a hint of wistfulness whenever her eyes trail eastward.

As she passes a little stone pavilion, an older elf steps into her path and nods at her in greeting.

‘Master Lousoix, how may I be of assistance?’

The old elf smiles.

‘I am gathering a group of exceptional individuals who would be inclined to join me on a perilous endevour, a journey - It is my arduous desire to return to Eorzea and combat the growing crisis. Thancred informs me you might be amenable to join such a quest.’

Y’shtola’s eyes glow fiercely as she nods enthusiastically.

----

An older teenager, on the cusp of adulthood, Y’shtola cries out ‘Urianger!’ and throws out her hand to create a protective dome for a hooded elf. Shots ring out as armored soldiers assault the dome.

‘I cannot hold this for long, we must call for aid,’ she cries out unhappily, but then a white haired male hyur and a female hyur with her head covered by armor dash in from the side, using daggers and fists respectively to quickly halt the onslaught of the soldiers.

‘Thancred and I were around,’ the woman announces cheerfully between punches.

‘Don't lie to undermine our efforts, we had but to rush to get here in time,’ the man counters as he sinks his daggers into a soldier’s back. They all carry a distinctive tattoo barely visible on their person.

Y’shtola exhales with relief, then smiles gratefully as she readies her wand again and begins another cast.

----

Y’shtola is an adult now, standing on the docks of what can only be Limsa Lominsa, gazing out over the harbor bay. Her features, normally serene, are now twisted in worry and an inkling of fear.

‘The seas continue to rise... while the lesser moon continues to fall. And ilm by ilm, the world becomes ever more unlike itself.’

She lowers her head, pensive.

‘It is as Louisoix foretold. The coming of chaos has rendered the laws of nature mutable, blurring the boundary between the material and aetherial planes... Little now stands between us and the primals....But they are not here yet. “Though time be against us, hope shall ever be on our side.” Never did the creed of Sharlayan ring more true.’

As she raises her gaze once more, a change comes over her. Now there is unbending steel in her pale green eyes and with a last look she turns to return to her work.

----

Y’shtola is joined by the white-haired hyur, a pale blond lalafell and the hooded elf as they are all standing over a stone tablet, behind them a forest’s thick canopy. The other hyuran woman from before joins them.

‘Master Louisoix guided us true. ‘Tis as we hoped, then?’

They all nod solemnly.

‘This one shall be ours,’ the lalafell proclaims solemnly, to which the hyuran woman at his side just grins and punches her palm with her fist. ‘We got this.’

Y’shtola looks at them all with a mixture of concern and pride.

----

Y’shtola closes her eyes, folded hands gripping tightly as she lowers her head in order to pray more fervently.

In front of her, a stone tablet lights up with brightly glowing blue power that shoots into the air and towards the night sky.

----

Y’shtola and the companions from before all sit around a table in a dimly lit basement. They are all nursing a cup or mug, the distant sound of sobbing audible. All of their expressions are grave, their faces still covered in dust and grim, making the tear tracks all too visible.

‘To Louisoix,’ the hyuaran woman intones in a hoarse voice, and they all raise their beverages in response. They answer in unison.

‘To Master Louisoix!’

----

Y’shtola is strolling through what again must be Limsa Lominsa and catches sight of a couple of suspiciously looking individuals colluding in a corner. She hurries to a nearby wall, perfect for eavesdropping.

‘’Those pirates do not belong to any of the known Lominsan factions...so whom then do they serve? The beast tribes? Surely not.’ she mumbles to herself.

Another man joins the group and she strains her feline ears to hear more.

‘But the timing of their appearance coincides all too neatly with the recent surge in Sahagin and kobold activity... Something is afoot. The question is: what? Twelve help us if it should prove so. Limsa would be hard-pressed to keep a single primal at bay, let alone two. But all is yet speculation. I must needs find evidence.’

Determination hardens her features as she carefully slips away on quiet feet.

----

Y’shtola is sitting on a crate in the harbor, the hustle and bustle around her not reaching her as she gazes through a contraption on her head, surveying her immediate surroundings.

‘Never did I dream that I would possess the means to see aether...yet now that I do, I do begin to take it for granted. How swiftly do the wonders of Sharlayan seem commonplace…’

Ere she can continue, a young girl holding a flower basket steps closer to her, drawing her attention by holding out a flower for her to take. She puts the strangely looking mask away before leaning down and carefully accepts the offered bloom.

‘Um...here, for you,’ the flower girl starts then continues on excitedly. ‘Have you come for the festivities, miss? They say that today the Maelstrom officially makes that great hole in the sea its training ground. You should join in the celebrations!’

Instead of responding, Y’shtola just smiles and waits for the girl to run along before putting her mask back on. Something catches her attention as her head swivels around.

‘Wait. A massive disturbance in the aetheric flow. But whence does it emanate? Seasong Grotto, perhaps? I must investigate.’

With uncanny speed Y’shtola takes off the mask and hops from the crate.

----

Y’shtola watches the black-haired hyur carry out the finishing blow on the goobbue in a blast of destructive aether. As the creature is slain, the woman falls to her knees, trying desperately to catch her breath. Concern overtakes Y’shtola’s features for a second, yet ere she can cast another healing spell, a curious clinking echoes through the cave as a glowing blue crystal tumbles from the fallen creature right into the hyuran woman’s path.

Y’shtola holds out a hand and opens her mouth to cry out, but already the hyur reaches forward and touches the crystal.

A blast of fiery hot aether explodes from the woman and as Y’shtola throws out her hands to form a protective dome over herself, she sees the woman crumble towards the ground, seemingly unconscious.

‘How utterly unexpected; the crystal does appear entirely attuned to water and yet the outburst was marked by an aetheric charge of fire?’

She closes the distance between them and crouches down to check the woman’s vitals.

‘As I had hoped, merely unconscious. One does wonder what secrets you might reveal when awake, my friend. Best investigate our foe as I wait.’

And keeping a careful eye on the unconscious woman, she sets to follow through with her investigation of the defeated goobbue.

----

Calliope opens her eyes and barely catches sight of Y’shtola nodding to a Yellowjacket in what can only be a manner of goodbye. Already the other guardsmen are surreptitiously veering closer towards the aetheryte, all of them eyeing Galen warily.

The memories she saw are at the very center of the miqo’te’s essence, core memories so to say, and with what she has seen, Calliope feels assured that the woman will do as she claimed she’d do. She truly seems to be an honorable, principled and yet very determined individual; all qualities that Calliope in particular respects. After all, her dear Hades could easily be described with the very same traits and he had been a person she always deeply admired.

Apart from Y’shtola herself, even the people that appeared to have strongly influenced her life in recent years look capable and dependable, each and every one of them working towards a shared goal of making the star a safer and better place. And even though the reminder fills her with longing, it allows her to recall her own group of friends, many of them disciples but nonetheless friends she held dear. Perhaps integrating herself into a new group of remarkable individuals will not be the best idea to deal with her grief, but when has she ever been an advocate for good plans? Maybe by the next time she runs into Y’shtola, she can already ask the woman to be invited into their little group.

Putting the thought to the back end of her mind she pushes herself away from the fence and saunters over towards Galen who is still staring at his hands as if they miraculously hold all the answers.

“Unless you picked up a strange form of divination based on the folds and markings of your palm, I do not believe this is fruitful behavior,” she drawls as she gets close enough, keeping an eye on the Yellowjackets all the while. She steps to Galen’s side and puts a careful but deliberate hand on his shoulder, then allows her voice to ring out clearly.

“This man is now in my custody. I kindly ask you not to bother him and allow him to leave with me. I promise that no harm will come to anyone while he is under my care.”

A bit of quiet muttering reaches her ears after that proclamation, but none of the guardsmen step forth, and so she allows her still tense shoulders to finally relax. She keeps her hand on Galen’s shoulder, but then leans closer to him and whispers quietly in Amaurotine.

“Come, the village is secure, but I’d rather talk where none of these people can overhear us.”

That finally gets him to look up from his hands and right towards her.

“H-honored Azem, what is to happen to me now?”

He sounds thoroughly unmoored, voice shaky and quiet and so very, very small, affirming her initial approximation of his age. She also notices that he still does not speak a single word of Amaurotine, though he seems to understand her just fine. Drawing upon the sheer endless compassion inside of her, she gentles her expression to something far warmer and carefully puts her other arm all around his shoulders, making sure that she avoids all the spiky bits on his robe.

“You’re my charge now, Galen. I will ask you to stay with me until I understand the situation and can vouch for both your safety and mine. If you have the means to return to the person who issued those orders, I need to request that you refrain from doing so.”

As carefully as possible she slowly nudges him towards the gates of the village, cheering internally when he finally starts taking uneven but nonetheless repeating steps. To her dismay, they are interrupted by what looks like the guards’ captain before they make it. She turns towards the approaching roegadyn with a quickly summoned smile.

“Sorry to keep you, Azem, I just wanted to thank you, from all of us, for your aid. Without your presence, we would surely have lost more men, and gotten townsfolk hurt. I shall send my regards to Ghimthota, and Captain Reynor as well. Quite frankly, I believe a commendation should be in order for you, but that is not my call to make.”

Her smile grows genuine throughout his words, and with a cheeky two fingers to the side of her head in salute, she inclines her head in recognition of his sincere gratitude.

“I shall pass on the word that Swiftperch is safe, and of course, if you ever need any help in the future, send word and I will be here in a heartbeat.”

He salutes her in their military fashion and then turns back towards the rest of the men and women, most of them no longer following her with their eyes but actually working on tidying up and putting the village back to rights. She sends a cheerful wave to the few still watching and then continues coaxing Galen outside.

As they pass the gate, his quiet words reach her ears. “Honored Azem, you protected these…people. W-Why?”

She sighs.

“First of all, I am just Azem. Not Honored, not Esteemed, not Revered and certainly not Venerated. And you are one of mine now, all the more reason to treat me more like you would treat one of the professors at the Akademia, or even one of the caretakers at the Dimotiko at best. While I appreciate citizens trying to convey their respect of my Seat, I am unused to it during my travels. So please, just Azem.”

He peers at her sideways, then lowers his gaze again and nods.

“Azem.”

Success. Smiling, she looks ahead towards the road and continues speaking.

“As to your question, I protected these people because that is what I do. Even though I have traveled these lands for but a little time now, I find that these people, while often callous, greedy and surprisingly selfish, also possess a singular focus for coaxing life from the lifeless and bringing joy to the joyless. As you should well know, the purview of the rest of the Convocation is Amaurot and its citizens. While they may be allowed to ponder, study and debate everything beyond its boundaries, the wider world is the domain of the Traveler, and as such only Azem is allowed to pass judgment. Until my study has concluded, I will not allow anyone to interfere.”

He visibly gulps. Okay, maybe her tone got a little bit too sharp at the end there, but if he takes that as a warning, all the better. Happy with herself she finally lets go of his shoulders and hums a little melody, trying to offset the visible tension in him.

In the past, she has often made use of the fact that a humming, smiling person is among the least threatening sights, next to babbling children and small animals. Unless, of course, the smiling, humming person was covered in blood. She quickly looks down on herself and wipes her now free hand over her face to make sure that is not the case this time. Only once she is sure that she looks presentable and non-threatening, she glances over towards him again and speaks.

“Say, Galen, may I share a secret with you?”

His wide, green gaze moves over to her only to immediately flee her person upon seeing her holding a finger to her lips, a mischievous smile on them.

“Y-yes?” he responds in a higher tone, then hastily clears his throat. Calliope just chuckles and links her hands behind her back.

“I am actually woefully unprepared for this unusual venture. It has been taxing to get things done, I am so desperate to have someone assist me. All the better it be a citizen of Amaurot with whom I can compare notes and actually keep secrets.” She whirls towards him, halting them both in their tracks.

“Did you know these people do not speak Amaurotine? I had to use magic to initially make myself understood, it was embarrassing!”

She patiently waits for several long moments, cataloging every minor twitch of his features, every little flashing glance he throws her way until, finally, he dares open his mouth again.

“And now?”

“Well, I learned the local language of course,” she responds with a little careless shrug and turns towards the road again, putting her foot forward to indicate that they should continue walking. He falls into step quickly.

“Speaking of local languages, I cannot help but notice that you speak it as well and do not even use Amaurotine. Any particular reason?”

He shakes his head and for the first time she can spy some confusion and disquiet on his face.

“No, I…seem to no longer know it. Much of my memory feels…disjointed, jumbled, as if I accidentally inhaled or ingested something that impaired my ability of recall. When Master Lahabrea woke me from slumber, it took me far too long to even recognize him.”

She hums, then says: “Let’s start with what you can still recall then. Your earliest memories.”

After a brief pause, he begins haltingly: “I do remember some of my childhood, my sister and a few things from the Dimotikon Scholeion. After that, there was a disquiet during my last year at Anyder. Reports of dreadful accidents, spells going awry and citizens getting hurt or even dying in the process. It was unheard of. They…they considered delaying our graduation. I think there were…more debates planned? I remember the whispers of the others as far away dates were announced.”

“But you still graduated?”

“I did,” he nods. “Barely. Yet by that time the Bureau of Affirmation could no longer be reached, so without access to the Archeion Ypallilos the remaining administrators placed me in a secretarial role at the Bureau of Administration at Akademia Anyder on a preliminary basis. Then they…left, I think. It is…very difficult to recall what came after. I…”

His pause is even longer this time and prominent enough that it prompts Calliope to glance over, realizing that his features are slowly turning into an expression of grief and horror.

“I remember my sister as she…She tried to help, she only wanted to save us, but then the...,” he eventually whispers, and then stops talking entirely, a hand pressed against his mouth but unable to hide a violent hiccup and the keening noise that escapes along with it.

Calliope stops walking again, lips pursed as she takes in this man before her.

A part of her worries for his fate, for the state of his mind and how by the stars she can help him soothe his pain and quiet his fears. With the hood down and his face on display, it is so easy to see just how young this man is. She does not know if it is merely a coincidence or if his body was reformed in the same image of the person he used to be before the doom. The dullness of his eyes and the general size of the body indicate that he, like her, is inhabiting a body that had a life in this age before it was seized by his spirit and soul.

It brings to question how exactly these Ascians are able to do a thing that took her many desperate months to accomplish herself. Of course they have the advantage of several millennia of figuring it out, and yet it irks her that her solution is not as brilliant and unique as she initially thought it would be.

The only thing soothing her ruffled feathers is the fact that the failsafes she built in are not something these Ascians considered viable, taking into account the mental state and overall combat prowess of Galen. Yet speculating over their methods is moot, since unless she actually witnesses an awakening of an Amaurotine soul or is able to talk to this Lahabrea, she can only guess as to their procedure.

With deliberate slowness she closes the distance between Galen and herself and so very carefully enfolds him into an embrace. He seizes onto her with an unexpected strength, some parts of his robe painfully digging into her, but the keening wail does not abate and so she resolves to endure it quietly. Absentmindedly, she pats his back where she can do so safely.

Meanwhile the bigger part of her mind slowly coalesces into a single, overpowering emotion that seeps into her every pore.

It is pure, unadulterated rage.

For once, her diminished capabilities come in handy, for the extent of her fury would surely have immolated her immediate surroundings in her Amaurotine days. She wants to hiss and spit and tear into the ones responsible for this situation, and by the stars, if she ever gets her hands on them, even the weakness of this body will not save them from her reckoning.

They took a literal child, discounting the rushed and unofficial graduation, and tore him from his hopefully peaceful rest in the Underworld, deceived him with the few things that were drilled into him from early childhood, armed him with dangerous magic and then sent him out to potentially be killed.

The sheer sacrilege, the barbarity of it!

Her throat produces a soothing hum, but her eyes glare into the air behind him as if she could conjure the ones at fault by sheer force of will. Venat’s words are a nebulous memory in the face of this revelation, and yet they all blend together, crystallizing into a new conviction that takes shape inside Calliope’s mind.

She will end the Ascians.

Not for Venat, not for her future self, not even for the people of this age.

But for Galen.

Chapter Text

Nine

Like most Amaurotines, grief and pain are emotions that Galen is not well versed in dealing with. Even Calliope herself, who witnessed no small amount of tragedies during her travels, could never truly comprehend the sheer extent of agony that can exist in that space in one’s chest at the realization that a loved one has been lost to a cruel fate and will never return to one’s side.

That is, until she spent three, lonely days in her inn room, reduced in her entirety to nothing but tears and chest-tearing agony. The ordeal has already started feeling more like a nightmare during her past few days’ adventure, but now that she keeps a miserably sobbing Galen in her arms, the ache spreads through her once again.

How does one soothe such pain, ease such trauma when none of them ever learned to live a life after surviving the worst they could imagine?

For once in her long life, Calliope does not know an easy answer. The only thing she can do is offer the young man at her side a shoulder to cry on. From what she can observe, he will certainly need a few days, much like she herself did. And then, with a bit of peace and quiet and a healthy dose of optimism, they can maybe get down to business and rectify this affront to all that Amaurot once stood for.

Finding the embers of resolve within herself, Calliope slowly detaches herself from Galen far enough that they can resume their walk. They manage a few more hours, both of them quiet if one discounts Galen’s occasional hiccups and whimpers, always followed by her tightening her grip on his shoulders to offer comfort.

Once his steps start tiring and his movements turn sluggish, she stops them both and briefly scouts for a nearby place to camp, finding one quickly among an outcropping of rocks that easily protects them from the steady breeze. The space is sufficient even without access to creation magics and luckily for her she remembered to pack a few necessities before setting out from Limsa Lominsa, namely a pair of blankets, small snacks and few spare clothes. All too quickly she forces Galen to put the spare clothing on as soon as they are off the road, unwilling to risk him ruining her blankets with those dreadful spikes. Like any Amaurotine citizen he undresses bashfully, not used to being seen in his undergarments, much less the natural form of his body underneath. Turning her back to him she tries to give him whatever privacy she can under these circumstances.

“As strange as it may sound, and as unintuitive as it may feel, you need to make yourself acquainted with this new form of yours,” she advises quietly amidst the rustling of cloth. “Not tonight, but at some point in the near future. You will find your capabilities greatly diminished, your form different from what you remember. If there is anything that disquiets you, you are to come to me immediately.”

He does not respond to her at first, and when she deems him properly changed she turns back around and finds him staring at her with still reddened eyes. She sighs.

“This form is yours now. It is merely prudent to become acquainted with it. See how it differs, learn its limits. We have much to do in the days to come, and it would sadden me greatly if I were to walk my road all by myself, now that I have found you.”

She smiles at him gently, then turns to roll out the first blanket.

“It is not the most comfortable, but it will do. You may rest while I watch over you.”

His movements are still slow and shaky, but he does venture closer and eventually folds himself down into a sleeping position. His eyes still linger on her as she grabs the second blanket and covers his form with it, pulling it up all the way to his shoulders where she tucks it in carefully. Offering him another comforting smile she puts her hand on his head and sends the smallest amount of aether into him, a spell of warmth and care and watches happily as his eyes immediately start drooping.

“Rest,” she bids quietly again, then withdraws as his eyes finally fall shut.

She counts his breaths, waiting for several minutes until she is assured that he is truly asleep. Only then does she allow her own shoulders to slump, her entire body losing its iron determination. Careful not to accidentally jostle him, she slides down the closest rock. The view of the night sky is unobstructed here, and for several blissful minutes she allows herself to just trace over the stars and constellations she knows while she tries so desperately to calm her thoughts and find her inner strength.

Yet no amount of stars can keep her from the white specter looming in their midst.

She has already witnessed the changing shape of it, or at least the perception of the change, but it still makes her feel decidedly uneasy to behold the moon in any of its forms. Venat told her the moon was put out of any mortal reach after all, so she knows it is pointless to try and make out any feature on its surface. Still, she finds herself lifting a tired arm and reaching out towards it, as if by will alone she can bridge this insurmountable distance.

A minute passes with just the sounds of the lush night around her before she lowers her arm again, letting her hand fall into her lap.

Why did they follow through with their plan?

Why did they not wait?

Her eyes burn as she remembers fretful, disorganized days in a home torn from its peace. How blissfully unaware they had been, to not understand the dangers of faith and will, to propose creating a being that would dwarf them all. Untested, unresearched. A fool’s gambit, and yet the only hope they had seen in their despair.

She wonders what Zodiark was like, back when He was first summoned. Was their faith rewarded? Were their prayers answered? In her mind’s eye, He is a being of immense proportions, beautiful and bright,a shining beacon of power and will to repurpose the laws of their star. Perhaps she should ask Venat more questions - about Zodiark and the Sundering and all that came between. But in the depths of her heart she knows why she does not seek out her former mentor, why she dares not ask such pointed questions.

Because when they needed her most, needed her counsel and wisdom and levity and light, she turned her back and pursued her own fool’s gambit, unwilling to trust Venat entirely, but too afraid to forge a new path for her people.

Calliope lowers her head and allows the tears to fall as aether gathers in between her hands and forms into a black half-mask. Shaky fingers follow the shape of it, every dip and swell of the material as familiar to her as her own face.

‘Which betrayal weighs heavier? Your people or your heart?’ A sardonic voice inside of her questions.

Her fingers clench on the mask, the edge now almost painfully digging into her flesh. She never betrayed her duty, searching for another solution until the very last moments of her existence. Yet knowing what became of her people, her family and friends, she wonders if maybe she should have stayed instead and not listened to Venat’s half-hearted and cryptic warnings.

It is not the first time in her life that Calliope feels beset by doubt, but she cannot remember it ever having been so bitter and heavy in her mind. With a heavy sigh she wishes for her heart’s companions to be by her side and settles in for a restless night, the moon bathing her in its silver light.

----

The next morning finds them using their hands to shade their eyes from the blazing sun, a sweltering heat barely kept at bay by the strong breeze carried from the sea. Calliope surmises that it will take them another day at a brisk pace to return to Middle La Noscea and thus Limsa Lominsa, so she decides to already get started on teaching Galen what she knows as she divides the remaining rations between them.

Chewing thoughtlessly, Galen notices his new clothes for the first time, then frowns and raises a hand. Aether gathers around his fingers but it does not come as a surprise to Calliope to see his spell fail, the young man growing paler with every mumbled word.

“A side-effect, I fear, of the bodies we inhabit now,” she offers quietly. “Apologies for the discomfort, but you will have to continue wearing these spare clothes in the meantime. When we are back in the city, we can see about getting you outfitted properly.”

His hand falls and he continues eating, though his spirit does not appear worse for it, for just a few minutes after breaking camp and returning to the road, his eyes are clear again and he listens to her earnestly, asking sparse but insightful questions. She recounts everything she knows about this land and its inhabitants, keeping her lecture factual and without judgment. It has been decades since she last taught one of the newest members of the Words of Azem, but the cadence and structure of such education come back to her easily. Just as easily she weaves questions of her own into their conversation, carefully probing for any knowledge that he might already have of this age.

As it happens, Galen remembers nothing about his life before waking up, which puts him into the same shoes that she is in already. And since she does not even know when and where he was taken by the one deemed Lahabrea, she has even less options to investigate his origins. Slowly but surely the decision to just let her former life rest grows within her, and with Galen added to her responsibilities, she feels increasingly convinced that it would be the wise thing to do. After all, her strength is still too low for her taste, her efforts stretched thin and with such sparse resources at her disposal, it behooves her to choose her tasks with more care than she is used to.

For now, she gladly watches Galen soaking up the knowledge she offers like a sponge, regarding everything they pass along the way under the new light of a fledgling perspective. Maybe it is the lack of spikes, but she could swear that he actually seems interested in the goings ons in this strange land, his gaze often lingering on the occasionally visible sea, which she mentally takes note of.

To her immense surprise and pleasure, they make it back to Limsa by nightfall, no strange occurrences delaying their return. Interestingly enough, some of the yellow-garbed guardsmen nod at her almost respectfully as she passes them and when they ascend to the inn, its proprietor waves her over before she can even make it to her room.

“Lass, ‘tis good ta catch ye before ye retire fer the night. Message came through, ye’re supposed to present yerself to the Admiral when ye get back. Ye’ve really been movin’ up the ranks, eh?”

Feigning surprise is not difficult when she actually is surprised by the news. Even though a part of her has been hoping that her efforts will make someone in charge notice her, she did not expect it to work so quickly, nor the supposedly highest authority in the city to do the noticing.

“Does it have to happen tonight? My companion and I,” she loosely waves her hand to indicate Galen who is halfway hiding behind her. “Have had a long day and were hoping to clean up and recuperate.”

“Oh, aye, ‘tis no problem s’far as I see it. At this ‘our, none of ‘em will be up, so best just present yerself bright an’ shiny in the mornin’.”

“Thank you for letting me know. And while we’re at it, could you please add my companion Galen to the records you keep? He will be staying with me for the time being.”

Baderon looks over Galen more carefully this time, but he seems to find no offense, for he quickly reaches into one of the shelves beneath the counter and procures the book in question. Calliope decides not to wait for him to finish his entry, and bids him a good night, leading Galen towards the interior hallway. She quietly points out what type of behavior Galen may expect of those in the city, making sure that he will stay aware and perceptive at all times.

She points him to the adjacent wash room, then uses the time he spends in there to move a few items that she does not want him to see - yet, and then sets about looking for something else he can wear. Luckily for her, her body is a smidge taller than his, readily apparent when returns without wearing the slightly heeled boots that went with the spiky robes. Even though it looks thrown together, he at least has a change of clothes now, enough that he can venture out on his own if he so desires.

“I shall present myself to the local authority in the morrow; I ask that you stay in the inn until I get back. You have no currency and little knowledge of this truly strange city, and until you have memorized the necessary protocols, I would rather you stay where I can ascertain your safety.”

“I understand, Azem.”

She smiles at him encouragingly, then sets to ready herself for sleep, exhaustion catching up quickly as soon as she lies down. Briefly she considers waiting until Galen is asleep as well, but her weariness wins out and before she can even form a single thought of worry, she succumbs to blessed darkness.

----

“I am Azem, savior and protector of Swiftperch, and I have been told that the Admiral wished to speak with me.”

Presenting her name and credentials to a bleary-eyed Yellowjacket at just past dawn might have been folly, but Calliope cheerfully offers the small woman a cup of coffee, procured by herself in the wee hours of the morning. She longs for the portable thermos cups that Hythlodaeus got for her at every opportunity, an entire kitchen cabinet dedicated to them, but if the people of this age have access to such luxuries she does not know and when she asked at the small movable cart making the coffee, the barista behind the counter had just blinked with incomprehension at her.

Now, the lalafellin guard blinks at her almost in the same way, unable to compute both Calliope’s cheerfulness and the sinful aroma of fresh coffee, but then reaches out for the cup, taking a careful sip, then a second. Her shoulders relax as a deep sigh leaves her body. Calliope’s grin grows wider as she counts the seconds, waiting for the guardswoman to realize that she actually has a job to do.

“Eeek! Llymlaen’s fury take me!”

The cup of coffee sloshes and might have fallen to the ground if Calliope hadn’t reacted in time to catch it, the lalafell too shocked to keep track of it.

“Aah, I’ll take this. And you. I-I mean, I’ll take you upstairs,” the guardswoman exclaims, clearly flustered. “The Commodore is already up, he’ll take over.”

Calliope keeps her amiable mien and follows the guardswoman, all the while keeping her eyes and ears peeled. Being led through the usually off-limits sections of Limsa Lominsa makes her stomach tingle with excitement, and there are several moments where her feet itch to take a different turn and explore on her own.

With a gusty sigh, she reigns herself in and reminds herself to behave, staying faithfully behind the lalafell guiding her. The Fates are kind to her, the journey not taking too long until they arrive at a larger hall brimming with guardsmen. A differently dressed hyuran man is in the middle of ordering several groups onto their daily task when the lalafell and Calliope reach him. The small Yellowjacket salutes briskly.

“Commodore, as requested, the adventurer Azem.”

The man turns to them and his dark eyes zero in on Calliope, who definitely feels seen for the first time since arriving in this city. The silence between them stretches for several seconds, the tension inside of her spiking, making it difficult to keep the smile on her lips open and pleasant.

“Thank you, Hikuku, I’ll take it from here,” the commodore responds curtly, then turns to the group of guards and dismisses them in the same tone. Only once no guards are in immediate range of them does he step closer to Calliope.

“Word of your exploits is already spreading through the ranks, Azem,” he begins quietly, still keeping his dark gaze focused on her own. “In fact, it appears that my troops and I owe you a great debt of gratitude for your timely assistance in the Drydocks and Swiftperch alike.”

He leans a little closer, and even though he is the same size as she is, makes it seem much more menacing than it should be possible.

Calliope, who has spent millennia dealing with a frustrated and trying-to-be-threatening Hades, just blinks slowly, utterly unimpressed.

“Until a few days ago, an adventurer of your description passed through the reports a handful of times over the course of several weeks. Yet in the span of four days, every single report from Lower and Middle La Noscea bears your name,” he hisses sharply. “Usually I would be thanking such an individual profusely, and yet I cannot help but wonder if there is a falsehood hidden behind all of this.”

He takes a step back from her again and purposefully allows his eyes to wander up and down her form, demonstratively giving her another visual inspection.

“You look like a regular hyur to me, yet the reports extolled the virtues, the sheer strength in arms, the remarkable spirit and sound judgment of the adventurer helping the people. I have called you here because I wanted to ascertain the truth of the reports. I can hardly doubt all of my men, and yet I would ask you to recount these past days with your own words, that I may glean the truth from it.”

With barely a twitch in his face, the commodore settles into a parade rest, expectantly keeping his eyes fixed on her.

And Calliope, the sun’s radiance blazing in her eyes, leans forward and raises her hands to gesticulate and embellish.

“Our tale begins on the crack of dawn at the Drowning Wench…”

Chapter Text

Ten

When Calliope was but a very young child and her father took her for an early get-together with other children her age, she discovered the most remarkable thing.

She already knew that her father liked her stories, he was her father, so he was supposed to like them. But as it turned out, the other children loved the stories she told. No matter what outlandish tale she spun - usually sprinkled with the things she overheard from that friend of father’s who sometimes visited - they always cried for more and eagerly joined her in any reenactment.

When she grew older and learned more about the star they called their home, she was taught that in order to have an equal and just society, their forebears had long ago found that men were truly able to find peace if the differences between one man and another were reduced, almost nullified. Thus, the children learned about uniformity and why they all wore the same robes in the same color and would one day be given the same masks to cover their faces. To reveal one’s true countenance, one’s true self was unseemly and to be avoided in respectable society. To stand out and be different led to disharmony and nothing should ever elevate one person above another.

And Calliope understood.

But still, the other pupils and even their caretakers and their caretaker’s peers delighted in the fables she spun. And more than that, her words changed those who listened. It seemed to her as if something that was dark and cold within her peers would catch aflame by her words alone.

One day, her father’s friend would witness such an event, and only once they were alone again did he kneel down in front of her, his black-masked face unusually solemn.

“Calliope, daughter of Caelum. While you may grow in intelligence and beauty, in wisdom and grace as the years pass, you have already awakened the gravest of your many boons. For your words contain more than their meaning, instead, they weave a spell of their own to create something beyond the physical. Your tales-as-spells, Calliope, touch the very hearts of men and inspire them to grow beyond the form they have taken on. Be mindful of such power and remember, that if you make them dare dream beyond what they have accepted to be true, it is your responsibility to care for the seedlings that your efforts have sown within their hearts and souls.”

And Calliope understood.

----

Over the course of half an hour, Commodore Reynor’s demeanor changes from hostile to skeptical to unbelieving and finally to astonished. When she concludes her tale with a little bow, Reynor, who has abandoned his parade rest mid-retelling and replaced it with pacing, looks into nothingness before his dark eyes return to her countenance.

“The miqo’te you spoke of, Y’shtola, has been working with us for quite some time, you see. And she was only too willing to assist the Yellowjackets in the kidnapping investigation, proving herself a stalwart ally of Limsa Lominsa yet again,” he tells her quietly, making sure his words travel no further than the two of them. “As for you…your words lend credence to the reports of my men and women. I apologize for my earlier animosity.”

“I accept your apology. I understand that your feelings were borne from concern over your crew, a feeling I myself know all too well.”

Reynor softens just minutely in response to her words, but it is enough of a tell for her to mentally pat herself on the back.

“You have proven yourself a friend of the thalassocracy. In case I deem your actions to be true, I have orders to present you to the Admiral. Follow me.”

He turns towards the back of the room and, expecting her to follow his command, walks past the remaining Yellowjackets without even looking back towards her. Calliope cannot entirely bite back her amused smile, his fastidiousness a smidge endearing to someone like her who takes great delight in poking holes into such behavior. But she reigns herself in before she can do so - meeting the highest authority of the port city will expedite her plans enormously and as such, she deems it wiser to humor the unsuspecting man.

They take up another flight of stairs, followed by an unassuming lift that deposits them at what can only be the highest level of the entire structure. From the windows in the hallway Calliope estimates that they are indeed very far up above the water level here but ere she can take a proper peek, the guardsmen waiting at the dark metal doors ahead stand at attention and salute with a snappy “Commodore” on their lips, one of them then turning to knock on the door. A muffled, female voice bids them to enter.

Calliope has seen some crudely drawn renditions of the Admiral before, but they simply could not prepare her for the sheer presence of the woman. She visibly twitches as she enters the room, breath caught in her chest at the first sight of the imposing roegadyn.

“Admiral,” Reynor salutes crisply and waits for a nod. “I present to you the adventurer Azem.”

The white-haired woman peers at Calliope with visible interest in her eyes.

“So you are the adventurer I've been reading about in the field reports,” she says quietly as if to herself, then raises her chin and states clearly: “I am Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn, Admiral of Limsa Lominsa. On behalf of my people, I bid you thanks for the deeds you have done these past days.”

Calliope, recognizing the moment and what is expected of her role, gallantly lowers her upper body into a graceful bow. When she straightens again, she catches sight of Merlwyb opening a drawer in her desk, then pulling a little satchel forth that she promptly throws in Calliope’s direction. Upon catching it, the faint sound of clinking coins reaches her ears.

“A token of our gratitude,” Merlwyb explains. “What worth is high regard without just reward, after all? Ha.”

The woman’s laughter is short-lived but honest enough that Calliope answers with an uneven smile of her own.

“I appreciate both,” she offers earnestly and makes sure she keeps eye contact with the roegadyn.

Merlwyb trails around her desk and then leans back against it, hands casually resting on its surface in a surprisingly relaxed and open pose.

“With that out of the way, let us get down to business. Originally I intended to invite you to the celebratory feast that will be held at the end of the week. It is a banquet for the most influential dignitaries of this city and I believed a seat of honor would be the least I can offer to one such as yourself. Yet the speed with which you so brazenly take care of problems that have plagued us for months or even years does render me curious about the woman who, by accounts of trusted informants, has been in the city for several weeks already yet only became ‘active’ so to say in the past five days.”

At that, Merlwyb leans forward and crosses her arms.

“Call it a hunch, or a sense for the capriciousness of the sea, but it occurred to me that this woman might have done as she did by a motive not yet revealed to us. You are no mere adventurer, Azem, of that I am sure. Yet none of those that I trust have sensed any falsehood within you, no desire to secretly harm this ship under my command. Thus, I decided to meet with you directly, face to face, so that I could ascertain more about who you were underneath.”

Merlwyb stops speaking and regards Calliope silently, who in turn blinks languidly and smiles ere she replies.

“Your perceptions are astute and I believe you deserve more than a dance of words, more than capricious steps that wind around the truth at heart without ever treading closer to it.”

She links her fingers behind her back, adopting a somewhat carefree posture.

“The truth is thus: As you already know, I am not from this island, nor of this continent and find myself adrift ever since my home has been destroyed. I truly enjoy using my skills for the betterment of others, and nothing elevates my heart like a winding path before my feet and the promise of new sights to see.

In my home, I held the regard and respect of my people’s most venerated offices and while I do not personally care for power over others, I have come to like having every door open to me, should I wish to traverse it. And so I decided to chart a course that would surely get the attention of the upper echelons of Limsa Lominsa.”

Reynor takes an involuntary step forward, but a sharp glance from Merlwyb has him retracing it again.

“You wanted to ingrain yourself with High Command just on the off chance that you might one day wish to join its upper ranks?”

“Not join, no. But I like meeting new people and I like going to new places. Being friends with those in charge of a place makes both a great deal easier, wouldn’t you agree?”

Silence reigns between them, only broken by the faint cries of the gulls. Eventually Merlwyb breaks away from her relaxed feigning posture and stands tall once more, before she returns to behind her desk.

“Your motives maintain enough self-interest that I am inclined to believe your words. Very well then. Beyond extending the invitation to the banquet to you, I also offer you another task. After the banquet, I will give you two missives I have penned, to be delivered to each of my counterparts in the Eorzean Alliance. Being new to these parts you might not know, but five years ago in our war against Garlemald, we waged and lost the Battle of Carteneau which was followed by a calamity that claimed countless lives.

Those of us who were spared have dragged ourselves from the ashes to look upon an Eorzea we scarcely knew... and despite the years that have passed, the people still suffer and worry, unable to move past their hardships. We cannot press on unless we have faced our past.”

She pauses and looks off to the side for a moment, her eyes finding the blue sky beyond the windows. Calliope wisely holds her tongue and patiently waits for the roegadyn to continue.

“To that end, I am proposing that a memorial service be held in each of the city-states on the fifth anniversary of the Battle of Carteneau”, Merlwyb says with a much firmer tone again, her eyes returning to Calliope. “The letters contain the details of said proposal and I would have you deliver them to our allies as my personal envoy. Will you perform this duty?”

“You can count on me, Admiral,” Calliope says gently.

Merlwyb cracks a smile, her entire demeanor softening.

“I had a feeling you would not decline such a task. It will require you to venture far from the borders of this nation, to the city-states of Gridania and Ul'dah. A somewhat grueling journey, to be sure...were you to travel by sea and land. But I mean to have you take to the skies. Along with the missives I will grant you an airship pass, to be used at your discretion.”

Upon seeing Calliope’s eyebrows rising, Merlwyb blinks, then launches into an explanation.

“Airships bound for the nations of our allies leave from a landing connected to the Bridge. In full disclosure I must inform you that in these times of war, every craft we commit to the clouds risks drawing the eye of the Empire, and every voyage must needs be born of necessity. As such, there are no guarantees for your safety when you do take to the skies.”

“The Empire…the Garlean Empire? The nation you battled back then?”

“Indeed. The would-be conquerors of Eorzea and the greatest danger to our home if one discounts tiresome quarrels with pirates and the beast men.”

Now that she thinks of it, Y’shtola did mention the Garleans when naming the foes of her and her compatriots. And Calliope has heard the name is passing before while listening for stories and gossip on Limsa’s streets, so she can feign at least some knowledge of them, even though she initially thought them to just be the name of another one of these tribes that the people of this place have quarrel with. With a little deprecating smile, she raises her hands and gives a little shrug.

“I admittedly do not know much about them, safe from the occasional re-telling of a confrontation with their spies and soldiers, told by men or women well onto their way to complete intoxication. I was given to understand that they are aggressors who attacked the nations of this continent without reason?”

Merlwyb scoffs.

“That is one way to put it, aye. If you are truly interested in that history, I bid you pester Baderon about it.”

“I shall, thank you,” Calliope says with a nod. “Now, apart from the potentially dangerous air travel, is there anything else I must know about this task of yours?”

“Nothing as of this moment. Although…”

Calliope catches the moment when Merlwyb throws a glance towards Reynor who is still standing off to the side, keeping his own gaze fixed on Calliope.

‘Curious,’ her mental approximation of Hythlodaeus notes.

“There are other parties who would see you granted the privilege of air travel. You have caught the attention of others already, your deeds not going unnoticed. Mayhap they will get in contact with you ere you leave Limsa, but that is out of my hands.”

Oh, how she longs to ask more questions and immediately dig for the truth underneath the cryptic words, but she also knows that she should not push her luck, not now when she has already profited from well-spun webs. And with the knowledge of Galen waiting for her return, she manages to bury the urge. For now.

“I see, thank you for letting me know,” she offers in thanks and adds a little bow of her head. “Then, if that concludes our business for today, I shall take my leave and carry on with my work.”

“Actually,” Reynor speaks up and takes a step forward, looking at Merlwyb apologetically who tilts her head in question.

“I was wondering if we could request your services in the next few days until the banquet and your departure from Limsa. If you have time and are amenable, of course.”

“What is it that you need, Commodore?”

“You were but recently involved in the uncovering of one of the largest smugglers’ dens along the coastline in the past twelve months. All my forces working on it have been having great troubles with retaliatory strikes from the Bloody Executioners and other smuggling rings. I wish to retain your services in protecting these men and women on their patrols along the coastline.”

Mentally mapping the area in question as she knows it by now, Calliope retraces the original adventure she joined with Ideswif, Jotemi and Smalljav and considers her options. While she personally would love to protect the guardsmen, she now has Galen to consider. She knows that he needs time to acclimatize to his new circumstances and it would be detrimental to her efforts if she were to be gone for patches of time while he adjusts.

But then again, why should she not just take Galen with her and have him learn new things by doing them right away? Surely there is no harm in that, right?

“Of course, I would love to help. On the condition that I may bring my new companion, I am teaching him a few things and would like to use the opportunity for him to practice some of it.”

“That can be arranged,” Reynor replies with a nod. “Let us talk about the details downstairs, no need to take up even more of the Admiral’s time.”

Both women break into smiles at that, though Calliope quickly hides hers behind her hand.

“On behalf of Limsa Lominsa and her people, I thank you again, Azem. Unless misfortune strikes, the next time I shall see you will be at the banquet. May the Navigator guide and protect you.”

Chapter Text

Interlude: Lucanus pyr Araglus

The legionarius snaps into a textbook salute, then turns to exit the room. The salute’s receiver, one Lucanus pyr Araglus, just nods and holds back the sigh that has been threatening to escape his lips for the past minute already. Only when the door closes behind the legionarius’ back does he allow his posture to relax, leaning back in his chair.

Lucanus has never spared even a single thought to the superstitions that prevailed even among the citizens of his homeland, and still he feels as if a menacing aura lingers around the missives in front of him. Knowing that he will not get any rest until he has actually sorted the lot of them, he reaches to the side and presses a button on his desk, making sure that the sign above his door outside will display his unavailability for the time being. Satisfied that he will not be disturbed in the next few hours, he gets up and steps towards the side table on the other side of the room, the only item in here that exists beyond mere functionality.

A military base like Castrum Occidens is not exactly the best place to cultivate culture and luxuries, especially far beyond enemy lines, cut off by land and ocean alike from their motherland. Yet the diligent work of many years led to Lucanus greatest treasure - a functional radio with enough range that it could receive some of the stations broadcasting from his hometown.

With a pleased smile, Lucanus turns on the machinery, waiting for the telltale static to come to life. A few careful turns on the knobs at the side finally allow words and eventually music to replace the static and with happiness in his heart he tunes in to the station he favors. As the deep baritone of an opera singer echoes through his chamber, Lucanus allows his shoulders to relax, his eyes falling closed as he gives in to a single moment of bliss, listening to the sounds of home.

He does not linger - dare he say procrastinate - overly long; his work is paramount in maintaining their foothold and planning future assaults and a stolen moment of relaxation and enjoyment is all he can afford. In a way, he is the gateway through which his comrades may conquer even this savage island nation and the more diligently he works, the sooner it will happen.

Sifting through the stack on his desk - sorted by time, with the older ones up top and the newest underneath - still takes the better part of two hours, most of it unimportant nonsense. Lucanus sometimes finds himself questioning why they aren’t employing more force when dealing with the savage people of these lands more often. With the on-going struggle to rise from their pirating days, the inhabitants along the shores of Vylbrand and its small island neighbors should not pose a threat to the might of the Empire. Yet he also understands all too well that the positions on the mainland are of greater strategic value and Castrum Occidens, despite being built to examine the fragment of Dalamud below, merely serves to keep a wary eye on the going ons of the pirates and the equally savage beastmen they share an island with.

The reports as such are the usual yet again: infighting, smuggling, thievery. All neatly documented by his men and women in the field, the task of choosing which reports to forward along the chain of command his purview alone. While he usually reads most of these as soon as they are sent in, it is his duty to sift through them one more time ere he sends off the month’s summary with his next intelligence missive. Considering the repetitiveness of their content he has already joked with the Praefectus that the messages they’ve been sending home have been the same for almost fourteen months now, and it’ll almost be a shame when something of actual interest happens.

Yet when he is about two thirds done, his eyes skimming the passages in front of him, his diligent mind has him suddenly sit up straight, having taken notice of something. His brow furrowing with focus he reads the same page again, and again, until he finds what catches his attention. It is but a name, mentioned in a few places within the report regarding the fixture of a lighthouse.

Following his usual methods, his steady hands reach for the pile of notes he discarded already and pull a few pages closer again. And there, in a report about some farms, he finds the name again. And then again in a page detailing the increase in productivity of a lift structure. And again in another one. And another one.

His attention thus awakened, he takes the remaining reports and leafs through them within seconds, his eyes primed to catch the very same name again. To his growing unease, almost all the remaining reports bear the very same letters. He silently mouths the syllables of the name, wholly unfamiliar to him.

Who could this person be, that they single-handedly get involved in every possible venture and business along the coastline in such a short time? Where did they come from? Who sent them? And what is their goal?

Rubbing his third eye, Lucanus leans back in his chair and considers his next steps. He will inform sas Arvina and then send off the missive as usual. But this…irregularity needs to be addressed, and maybe intelligence in the capital has an idea who this individual may be. Which means that he will mark this occurrence to be reviewed carefully, with a request on how to handle it.

Beyond that, the personnel in Castrum Occidens should be notified - even for a savage, this Azem appears to be singularly capable and future encounters need to be carefully cataloged for in-depth review.

Satisfied with his course of action, Lucanus pulls his notepad closer and starts typing.

Chapter Text

Eleven

“Well now, I still do not understand why you wanted something like this. Even the goldsmith was stumped when they received the design. Is this some new arcanists’ gadget?”

Sorcha’s voice is but background noise as Calliope goes over every little furrow of her commission with a critical eye. The crystals bound by thin golden wire gleam in the flickering lights of the merchant stall’s backroom, each of them cut exactly to the specifications she requested. The array is protected by a spherical cage of thin gold bands the width of her thumb, each of those double-layered to allow the fixation of another spell matrix on top of it. The outermost layer is of a different metal, a specific rose-gold alloy that will allow her to actually mold the spell runes into it.

“Are you even listening to me? Twelve save me, you adventurers really get knocked in the head too much.”

Gleaming eyes dart over towards the merchant then quickly return to the filigree orb. Satisfied with her in-depth check of it, Calliope straightens herself and shifts her attention towards Sorcha who is already standing with her arms crossed, eyeing the exit leading back to the stall currently manned by her assistant.

“Nothing that pertains to the Arcanists’ Guild, merely something I needed for myself. But the craftsmanship is superb, my thanks to the artisans.”

Now Sorcha loosens her stance and smirks at her with satisfaction.

“When you cough up the gil required, you get exactly what you asked for, no more no less. But I’ll pass on the message. Happy customers are returning customers, as my da used to say, so make sure to come by again if you need something.”

Calliope tilts her head and allows herself a moment to actually consider the offer within her current circumstances.

Galen is safely ensconced with the Arcanists’ Guild, pretending to be a new student and actually going through all the material they have on hand. The mental stimuli and sheer mass of new information being forced onto him by both the guild, the city and Calliope is enough to have him fall into bed and be dead asleep within seconds every night. It’s a small blessing, but one that she is more than willing to take with both hands. While she would love to actually set up a proper educational plan and organize something of a curriculum for him, the world - fast paced as it is in this age - does not allow them the time they’d need for such leisure. Thus, she spent a single day walking him through the city, teaching him about the society, the names and properties of its people; how their trade and craftsmanship functions and even the development of their magic. The latter led to her enrolling him with the arcanists and even though he, much like her, scoffed at their displays of ‘summoning’, he agreed to keep such thoughts to himself and simply take in what they might offer.

With her schedule thus freed up, she spent the next four days running back and forth to help out Commodore Reynor as promised, accompanying the contingents that were still working to retrieve the sheer mass of smuggled goods from the cliffside cave. She was only able to flex her casting muscles a handful of times, mostly to fend off overly curious wildlife and only once a group of the actually expected smuggling pirates. Needless to say, she still has not quite figured out how to properly decrease the strength of her spells, but none of the Yellowjackets seemed to mind too much considering their slack jaws and hasty reassurances.

But now the end of the week approaches, and with it, the banquet she got invited to. Back home, an event like that would not put her nerves on such an edge and instead fill her with giddy excitement at the prospect of messing with some of her more rigid colleagues. But in this age, the inclusion of new questions to consider - most of them regarding her appearance - has her uncommonly worried.

Throwing a shrewd glance towards Sorcha, Calliope decides to simply put her emerging network of helpful individuals to use.

“Say, Sorcha, in case one were to be invited to a high-profile banquet with the who is who of the local township, what exactly is expected of that person?”

The teal-haired hyur blinks at her.

“Come again? Are you talking about the banquet hosted by the Admiral herself?”

Then her eyes grow a little wider as she takes an involuntary step closer to Calliope.

“Are you implying that you actually got yourself invited to that banquet?”

Calliope shrugs casually.

“Possibly. Please circle back to my question.”

“Llymlaen take me, you’re not some lowly adventurer are you then? Who would have thought,” she hums to herself and begins pacing. “From what I have observed, you easily have the attitude down so that they will not feast on you as soon as you enter. But no matter your charm, that first impression they will get will define you for the rest of the evening.”

Sorcha whirls around and points at Calliope directly who just blinks innocently and tries to hide her smile.

“You will need to be dressed in style, nothing too fancy, you don’t want to outshine the gold-hoarding pretenders, nor do you want to offend the true wealth. The event is hosted by the Admiralty, so you could lean into the whole uniformity style, but that could also lead to problems if you come too close to accidentally portraying a foreign military power. Really, all that you’re left with is maybe some armor, a little ornamental, or you go the dress route and garb yourself in layers of tasteful silks. Or maybe even both?”

“You’re saying I need to be dressed…differently.”

“Why, yes of course. Your robes may be nice for adventuring, but surely you’re aware that you cannot wear those wherever you go, less so when you attend special events.”

Calliope looks down on her body, trying to critically judge her robe for its faults. After a few seconds pass, she sighs deeply. To her, it’s been centuries since she last had to adapt different clothing to fit in with a place, most societies accepting her Amaurotine robes without too much fuss. But of course the people of this age would not take to it so easily, even the barebones dark robes she fashioned from the things she found in her room no longer sufficient. And considering the myriad of styles she saw on the people passing through the city in the past weeks, it will not be easy to find something simple yet sufficient.

“Pray tell, where would I find something suitable then?”

“Isn’t the banquet tomorrow evening?”

“It is.”

Sorcha groans and puts her palm to her face.

“Is there a problem with that?” Calliope keeps her tone innocent and light and still receives a glare that she can practically feel raking over her skin.

“Why did you not come to me with a request for formal dress when you put in the commission? Now all you can do is a rush order.”

Clarity strikes through Calliope’s mind and with a defeated, self-deprecating smile she reaches for her coin pouch.

“How much is it going to cost me?”

Sorcha’s eyes come aglow with unholy light and Calliope could swear she has seen sharks with gentler smiles on their faces. Alas, she has strangers to woo and coin to spare, so what harm is there in indulging her newest acquaintance?

----

The dress itches.

Calliope refrains from using her clever fingers to bury underneath the embroidered hem and scratch the offending patch of skin, but having to endure the sensation only makes her patience grow even thinner. Adding a sleepless night due to Galen’s nightmares, a morning being bossed around by Sorcha’s assistant, the lack of a proper lunch and a sweltering heat wave passing through by the afternoon makes for a volatile mix that would have the savvy members of her old entourage retreat upon sight of her. But these people here and now are strangers and thus unaware of the dangerously thin ice they are all standing on.

From the hall ahead of her she can already hear the sound of music and the unintelligible chatter of dozens of people. As the guardsman escorting her gestures for her to step through the open gate, she is forcibly reminded of the contrast between the uniformity of Amaurot and those beyond its grasp in this age, for the room is awash in all the colors of a rainbow on with so many different kinds of fabrics that even her sister Terpsichore - who always delighted in painting and color theory and its applications - would be unable to name them all.

At the very least her first survey of the assembled people confirms her trust in Sorcha’s decision, for the outfit she wears neatly fits in with some of the more elaborate getups she sees around her, nor does it look too outrageous to put her in the spotlight. Having listened to Sorcha’s helpful chatter about clothing being a status display, she scans the crowd again and tries to put her newly acquired knowledge to use, trying to make out who might be interesting to talk to - and who should be avoided. Yet ere she can decide on her next victim, her eyes catch sight of white hair and similarly colored feline ears, accompanied by a raised hand motioning for her to join its owner.

As she rounds a pillar and approaches the miqo’te beckoning for her, she is not the least bit surprised to find Reyner standing right next to Y’shtola, obviously in the middle of an earnest conversation. Calliope’s arrival makes him fall silent mid-sentence as he eyes her critically.

“It is good to see you dressed for the occasion. Festivities like these tend to be very loose on the rules, but with you being on display for the curious eyes of the influential, it is certainly beneficial that you clean up well,” he offers quietly in greeting.

Calliope frowns, silently cataloging how Y’shtola herself still wears the same clothing as when she was out doing her ‘studies’ but refrains from commenting.

“To give credit where it is due, I had help,” she says instead. “But hello to you too. I hope I’m not interrupting anything of critical import.”

“Not at all,” Y’shtola replies with sharp eyes but a friendly smile. “We were merely debating the merits of fortifying the lines around Halfstone.”

“And now that Azem is here, I shall report to the Admiral. Do not make trouble,” he adds in Calliope’s direction before nodding respectfully towards Y’shtola, then stepping away and disappearing behind a throng of guests. The two women stay silent for only a moment until Y’shtola starts murmuring quietly.

“Reyner takes his duty very seriously and is not easily impressed. Despite this, he seems shockingly taken with you.”

“I’m good at making friends.”

They both stare at each other as if trying to read each other’s thoughts, then by some unseen signal turn to stand side by side to survey the room. A waitress bearing a beverage tray makes her way into their vicinity and by unspoken agreement they both reach for a glass each. Only after they’ve both taken a sip does Calliope tilt her head a little towards the miqo’te.

“Forgive my curiosity, but what exactly is the issue with fortifying Halfstone? I briefly passed by the area so my knowledge is limited, but it seems odd that allies like you disagree on something that is for neither of you to decide on.”

“What makes you think we disagreed?”

Calliope glances over for a second, then takes another sip of the surprisingly sparkly drink and purses her lips.

“You mentioned the issue without going into detail, baiting an open question to invite an outsider's perspective. Reyner made no move to continue the discussion, using the next best excuse to leave; considering how staunchly he lauded you as an ally, I can only assume he specifically did not want this outsider’s perspective to muddy the waters. All of that tells me that you are in disagreement over something but respect each other enough to have a civil conversation about it, in the open, without rousing the attention of overly curious passersby.”

Silence reigns for several long moments, until Y’shtola purses her lips.

“Very astute. As for Halfstone; the Maelstrom, and by extension Limsa Lominsa, has plans to fortify their position there even further, despite the increase in alterations with the sahagin, the water-bound beastmen using the coastal area as spawning grounds. Reyner is of a mind to drive them back with force, whereas I simply see a different people trying to survive on land that was once theirs, not ours.”

“That…is a surprisingly noble sentiment. Which makes Reyner’s reluctance to further the discussion understandable - he strikes me as someone meticulous but honorable. A part of him most likely agrees with you, but his duty to his people comes first.”

“These days we merely debate for the comfort of an argument grown stale and thus predictable. I believe he uses them as an excuse to avoid guests he dislikes.”

“How shameful. I am sure you can be a perfectly entertaining companion without resorting to luke-warm leftover debates.”

Y’shtola blinks a few times without immediately replying, then her eyes slide back to Calliope who just gifts her her most innocent grin, hoping that her inner strain is not visible. The miqo’te clears her throat and for a second the tips of her feline ears drop just a fraction. But the moment passes and she straightens herself again, the smile she offers to Calliope a little self-deprecating but also knowing.

“You wield your words as well as you do your weapons. Very well then, let us make some rounds and see if there is anyone of interest to talk to.”

There is only so much mental shoulder-clapping Calliope can do, but by the stars it feels great whenever her ploys work out. It even eases some of her inner tension, a little balm on her stretched and battered soul.

It is one thing to learn about a person’s past through using her ability to literally see it, but another thing to actually spend time and converse with the person in question. As it turns out, Y’shtola has a dry, almost acerbic wit that Calliope very quickly comes to appreciate. She learns dozens of new names and faces, some of them even passingly familiar from her time spent in the city already, though most are strangers to her. Nonetheless, she silently takes notes on each and every one of them, especially those who might be of use to her in the future - or who simply seems like good company with a story to tell.

Yet as time passes the thirty minute mark, she realizes that she feels far too much at ease with Y’shtola at her side. There is something to be said about a companion quietly taking apart a stranger’s intellect that reminds her sharply of home, of days spent in hearings with Hades’ whispers in her ear, detailing the failings of whoever was speaking. If Y’shtola notices the sudden melancholy taking over her, she does not mention it, but she does stop introducing Calliope to strangers and instead steers them into a quiet corner.

“You grew pale and quiet, is everything alright?”

Calliope takes the new glass that Y’shtola hands to her and sips the drink if only to avoid answering immediately.

“I will be, I just need a minute.”

“Very well. I believe they will announce the dinner soon, so we might as well hide here until then,” Y’shtola offers and leans against the wall next to Calliope, idly taking sips from her own drink as well.

Stars take her, but Calliope is really starting to like this woman. She has always been terrible about keeping a careful distance from dangerous individuals and even though she knows that Y’shtola and by extension the people she works with may be important to her mission and ought to be kept at arm’s length until she has their measure, she finds that she wants to like these people, wants to share witty banter and chuckle over shared amusements. She wants…

“Oh, forgive me ladies, I did not know this corner was occupied!”

Forcefully dragged from her spiraling thoughts, both Calliope and Y’shtola look up, or rather down, as a smartly dressed lalafell stumbles into their secluded corner, one hand tugging the hand of another lalafell who blushes sharply and avoids their searching eyes. Calliope glances over towards Y’shtola who keeps her eyebrows raised and motions for her to resolve the situation as she sees fit.

Despite coiling tension inside her stomach ready to snap, Calliope almost physically feels the weight of her station, the sensation of a familiar mask upon her brow. The lesions of her childhood echo through her even now, so with only one forlorn, inaudible sigh she pushes herself off the wall and forces her lips into an approximation of Venat’s most serene smile.

“We were just about to leave, you are welcome to use this space as you please. Just keep in mind that the banquet will start soon, you might not want to take too long.” She indicates for Y’shtola to follow her, glad that she complies without comment or complaint.

She is infinitely grateful that Y’shtola does not question her strange mood, nor does she pick up her former commentary on the guests, staying at her side with a warm presence. Idly, they make another round along the outer perimeter of the hall, carefully keeping to the less bustling corners. As they predicted, it takes but a few minutes until a saluting soldier announces the actual feast to begin, bidding all guests to enter the adjacent hall and find their assigned places.

Interestingly enough, they both end up side by side at the long table, just on the left of the head of the table where Calliope assumes Merlwyb will be sitting. As she settles into the chair and familiarizes herself with the cutlery, she hears the swell in mutterings, then a few sharp intakes of breath and looks up just in time to see the Admiral herself enter from a side room, striding in quickly. An entourage of Maelstrom officers follows in her wake and without further ado they break their formation to find their seats, only the biggest fellow to Merlwyb’s right staying at her side as they both stride in Calliope’s direction.

Pale white eyes sweep across the room, only betraying a hint of satisfaction when they land on Calliope, who respectfully inclines her head in silent greeting. Once she is close enough, Merlwyb offers a curt nod and a short-lived smile herself. “Well met, Azem. I presume you have made the best of the time given?”

“With a little help from a friend, yes. A truly manifold gathering of individuals you have here this fine evening.”

“I believe many only accepted the invitation this time to get a good look at the adventurer taking the city and coast by storm.”

Calliope just dips her head a fraction as Merlwyb turns away from her to begin the process of actually starting the feast. Toasts are made in Calliope’s name, then general toasts towards the prosperity of the city and its future before they are all allowed to sit down at last.

The food is startlingly good; it’s different from what Calliope procured within the city in the past weeks, definitely imported from other places, but all of it tastes great. She tries listening with one ear to the conversations around her, but affirms most of her attention and care on the exchange between her and Merlwyb, who imparts wisdom and thinly veiled orders on her with a casual tilt to her wineglass and a sharp light in her white eyes.

She is tempted, so very tempted, to tune into the singing aether around her and delve into the thoughts and memories swirling enticingly. Oh how much she could learn, how much she could see. But there are far too many eyes upon her and considering how much time and space she would need for such an endeavor, it seems prudent to wait patiently for another moment, another opportunity.

No, it is better to reign herself in, just this once. With how tired and strained she is, who knows what else she might accidentally set free if she were to indulge. Today at least, she will stick to her plan, find enjoyment in the rest of this opportunity and then return to her quarters to prepare for a new journey. Her duty will come first.

Chapter Text

Twelve

Both Calliope and Galen come to a stop at the same time as they first set eyes upon one of the airships.

They have seen them from afar, lifting off from Limsa’s second-highest structure, but it is something else entirely to see one of them from up close. As citizens of Amaurot, they both know the marvels of technology and magicks that their people took pride in, its clever implementations, the ease of near instant transportation or even the ingenious feats of raising entire landscapes from the ground.
This rickety vehicle made of wood and metal does decidedly not look like something that will actually fly, much less transport them safely to their intended destination.

“...is this how we will traverse both sea and land?”

Galen’s hesitant words echo in her own mind as Calliope dreads taking even a single step further. And here she’d thought that getting a second pass for him would already be the greatest obstacle to this particular travel, but by the stars, this is untenable. Yet ere she can even find the words for some sort of optimistic reply, something bumps into her shoulder. As she turns, she catches sight of a burly roegadyn carrying a stack of boxes, barely able to see past the burden.

“Oh, so sorry, my bad,” he says in a gravelly voice, then turns on the spot a little to get a better angle. “Ah, you’re the woman adventurer everyone’s been talkin’ about, aren’t you? Sorry ‘bout hittin’ you, didn’t think anybody else would come.”

He then maneuvers around her, continuing with his task but to her surprise, keeps talking in her general direction.

“We’d usually not go for another two days, but the Admiral’s been one persuasive woman, I gotta say.”

“Are you saying that this…ship is yours?” Calliope asks as she follows him slowly and sees Galen fall into step at her side.

“Indeed, ‘s my beauty and don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”

With a mighty groan he bends down and deposits the box next to a stack of similar looking crates on the deck of the ship, then pushes himself upright again and turns around. Free of his burden, he gives the two of them a proper once-over, then puts both of his hands onto his hip.

“Ah, I s’pose I ought to introduce myself; the name’s Broenfarr, my brother Syhrdaeg and I run this fine ship."

Careful not to show her thoughts too clearly, Calliope gives a bland smile and offers a nod in greeting.

"You may call me Azem, this is my companion Galen. We were tasked by Admiral Bloefyhswyn to take the next airship to Gridania. I take it that particular airship is yours."

"Aye," he replies swiftly, "Just loadin’ the last of the crates, then we're off. My brother should be inside to check the machinery. You can get on and make yourselves comfortable."

Calliope watches him walk off again, waiting until he is out of hearing range before leaning towards Galen.
“How good is your wind magic, Galen?”

He visibly swallows, rewarding her with an uneasy glance.

“I have no means of flight, if that is what you are asking.”

She shrugs half-heartedly, then starts walking forward again. Even before taking on her station, she had never seen the need to look into airborne transportation, seeing how both Venat and Hades invited her, repeatedly, to use their means of flying whenever she required it. Despite not knowing where she stands with Venat at the moment, Calliope is fairly confident that calling upon Argos should be no issue, and the faithful familiar could easily replicate itself to carry another passenger. And in a pinch, her transformation should serve her just as well.

(Though falling from a rickety airship does not sound like the best environment to test if her transformation remains accessible to her even in this age.)

“For the time being, let us put some faith in the technologies of the locals. After all, they act unconcerned, so neither should we. In fact, let us take this as an opportunity to educate ourselves further on these lands and add another experience to our records!”

While the wooden floor she walks on sways a bit even while the ship is docked, traversing it is simple, the deck spacious enough that she can easily get to each end of the ship without much issue. As they make their round, they quickly notice another roegadyn who is crouching over an opened hatch on the floor directly in front of what Calliope assumes is the steering wheel. As they approach, they see him wipe his sweaty brow with a stained hand, some of the dark liquid, probably some sort of oil, now also staining his forehead. He does look up at their approach and nods amiably.

“You must be the brother Broenfarr mentioned,” Calliope speaks first, a genial smile on her lips. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. We are Azem and Galen.”

“Aye, I’m Syhrdaeg, s’nice to meet ya,” he says, then wipes his hand on a rag, for all the good it does. He squints at them before he continues: “S’not everyday that we get a special request to fly all the way to the forest on our days off, with passengers no less. It’ll be a bit crammed down there, especially with the cargo, but we cleared out the small cabin and you don’t strike me as the fancy kind o’ people who need silken sheets.”

Calliope shares a quick glance with Galen, and even though she can see his shoulders slumping minimally, he stays quiet.

“Indeed, we’re the adventuring type, so we are more than used to unusual sleeping quarters. How long is this trip going to take?”

“‘Bout five to six days, depending on Llymlaen’s favor. Taking the sea route would easily take twice as much, though turbulences are the same either way, be it waves or wind or aether.”

“Very well. Is there any other crew aboard this vessel or will it just be the four of us?”

“Ha! ‘Tis a feisty lady we have,” he says with a smirk and pets the steering wheel at his side, “And she doesn’t take too kindly to more than my brother and me. ‘Tis why we take shifts, so no worries.”

She grins back at him, already wondering what type of stories she can get out of the two brothers.

“Is there anything we can do to help? Your brother seemed mighty busy ferrying crates, would it be alright if I were to help out?”

Out of the corner of her eyes she sees Galen’s shoulders slumping even further, but she refrains from nudging him with her elbow. She does not intend for him to do what can only be basic physical labor, but showing her willingness to help with such work is vital to his understanding of what her office, what being Azem entails. Syhrdaeg’s enthusiastic response to her offer still seems to register with her young protegé, which definitely counts as success in her book in getting him to understand their duty.

After directing Galen to take their belongings to the small but blessedly separate little room below decks she then cheerfully saunters back to the docking bay. As expected, Broenfarr is still lugging around the crates, and now that she is looking for it she makes out the still sizable stack of them behind him in the docking bay, all of them bearing the same markings. While he eyes her form and not quite impressive physique with a raised brow, he nonetheless accepts her offer of help and directs her to some of the crates. While turned away from him she subtly calls upon one of her enhancement spells, one that will boost her physical strength for as long as she can endure the aether strain.

Yet even her enhanced strength is of little help due to the sheer size and bulkiness of the crates, though still she manages to at least stack them on top of one another, allowing her to carry more than one with each pass. She can literally hear how Broenfarr halts in his tracks when he sees her walk past him while humming a cheerful tune, but she turns her head a fraction to hide her grin.

Is she trying to impress him? Oh yes. But that doesn’t mean he has to know she’s doing this on purpose.

Between the two of them, they make surprisingly short work of the remaining cargo so that by the time Broenfarr dismisses himself to inform the attendants of the airship dock of their imminent departure, she finds that barely an hour has passed, the early dawn barely just transitioning into a sunny morning with the rest of the city slowly waking up below them. Finding a modicum of peace within her heart at the sight and sound of it, she settles at the railing at the bow of the airship, enjoying the unobstructed view of the dozens of maritime docks below, where fishermen and dock workers alike are bustling around like ants. As the minutes tick by, she hears heavy footsteps approaching her and coming to a stop at her side. With a friendly grin she turns her head and spies Syhrdaeg, probably done with his work - the tools are back in the pockets lining his belt and he is wiping his hands on the dirtied rag more thoroughly.

“Your first time travelin’ by airship?”

She chuckles briefly but directs her gaze downwards again.

“Yes. Not my first aerial voyage though, just the first with this type of vessel.”

“Ah, you’ll get used to it in no time.”

“I hope so. It’s not that I don’t like flying, but I much prefer being down there, with the people,” she says and points to the docks she is still watching avidly. At her side, Syhrdaeg puts away his rag and leans against the railing in a similar pose to herself.

“I hear you’ve been doin’ good work down there. Word has it, you’re the next big thing. ‘Tis heartening to hear that you actually care.”

She turns to the side and, allowing her smile to widen, examines him a little more closely. His posture is still relaxed and calm, but she can sense a little bit of tension coiled within still, and there’s a glint of something in his eyes that pulls her thoughts effectively onto their conversation. Experience tells her he knows more than he lets on, and with a jolt she realizes he is more than just an airship mechanic. What was it his brother said, about them leaving earlier than expected and only because the Admiral asked them to? Under a different light, it sounds more like they were being ordered to ship out earlier and not because their cargo was needed urgently.

Forcing her body to remain relaxed despite the revelation, she tilts her head sideways and allows her gaze to wander.

“Of course I care. I’m good at what I do, and I take great joy in seeing the positive changes that take place after I’ve been somewhere. Sometimes it’s less about what I personally do, and more about what me being there inspires others to do. Oftentimes, people have all the necessary tools for change at their disposal, but lack the required conviction. I just…give them a little nudge.”

He chuckles and says, “I can respect that,” then gives her a nod and pushes away from the railing. “Let me know if you have any questions. I’ll gladly answer, and so will my brother.”

“Thank you, I will. Have questions, that is.”

With another chuckle and a massive hand patting her shoulder he moves past her, leaving her to her people-gazing in peace. She will have to notify Galen, to let him know that he needs to be a little more careful with what he says on this trip, but overall she’s fairly confident that it will work out anyways. The longer she stands on the deck of this ship, the more she feels her confidence in the roegadyn brothers grow. Considering their self-assurance and the ease of their movements and behavior, this appears to be a standard procedure really. And even if their vehicle gets damaged, she should have enough of a grip on her aether by now to summon help if necessary.

----

The first two days of their voyage pass remarkably easy. Galen, discomforted by the sight of being so very high above the ground, tends to stay as far from the railing as possible, though he does enjoy the wind and fresh air above deck. During the day he can often be found on a folded blanket, teal hair tucked away so it cannot move with the breeze while leaning back against wood warmed by the engine. Most commonly, his nose is stuck in one of the countless books he brought along, half of them arcanists’ tomes. Calliope leaves him to his own devices, far more interested in the view of the lands - and sea - below or the company of one of the roegadyn brothers, whom she peppers with endless questions regarding both themselves, their families, their work and their homes.

She thus learns that their father is Hyllghot, an engineer working for Naldiq & Vymelli's, making both of them Hyllghotsyn; their mother Fyrilswys, a Maelstrom officer who died at Cartenau. They are both without a partner, enjoying their work too much to settle down; their work - and here they both answer somewhat cagily, as expected - has them move important cargo along the routes to both Gridania and Ul’dah, the two Eorzean sister city states; their home is their ship, the Swallow’s Beak, bought before the calamity and surviving it with nary a scratch. Even though she asks both individually, they speak about the ship in gushing voices, detailing some of the work they have done on it over the years.

Both brothers are equally happy to explain some of the finer workings of the airship to her; Syhrdaeg focusing on the technical minutiae of the Ironworks engine and the fragile inner workings, Broenfar enthusiastically monologuing to her about navigation and how the outer form reacts to changes in wind and pressure alike. She soaks all of it up like a sponge, happy to learn yet another obscure trade.

The evening of the second day she retires to the shared cabin with all of that fresh knowledge cycling through her head, eager to demand more of it on the morrow. The hammock she has claimed as her own moves gently with the faint sway of the ship that she barely even notices anymore herself. She, who has encountered hammocks before during her travels, is perfectly fine to sleep in it, yet Galen, who has only ever known life in Amaurot does not trust the contraption and opted to sleep on a pile of blankets along the wall instead where he is now snoring quietly, fingertips stained with ink from his day of note-taking.

Calliope sighs somewhat contentedly as she carefully wiggles into a different position. She is actively doing something, on the move, talking to people and so very carefully not allowing her thoughts to linger on the utter mess of memories and reminders that continue to prowl in the back of her mind. She is all too aware that her avoidance of it all will not lessen the pain of the trauma once she succumbs to it again, but for the time being she much prefers to ignore it and instead focus on the problems she can solve right here and right now.

Like trying to fall asleep.

The night before she had fallen into blissful sleep as soon as she found balance in the hammock, but tonight it eludes her, no matter how much she wriggles herself into a seemingly better position. The small porthole shows nothing but darkness outside, the faint wispy clouds they sometimes traverse through illuminated by stars and moon alike. And yet there is a tension humming in the air, coiling inside her as the minutes turn into an hour, then two. Even though her colleagues of the Convocation would forever doubt her ability to do so, she does know when to abandon a lost cause, and thus, as the third hour also passes without blessed sleep, she carefully heaves herself out of the hammock.

Forgoing shoes she nonetheless digs through her satchel to procure the simple mantle she bought for this trip, considering that she does not know how she will fare in foreign climate. On bare feet she eventually leaves their tiny cabin and climbs the steps towards the deck.

In the dim light, courtesy of the stars and a few lamps, she makes out one bulky roegadyn at the steering wheel, though it takes her a few more moments of careful squinting to decide that it must be Syhrdaeg. The wind and the hum of the engine most likely silence her steps entirely and unwilling to risk frightening him too much - considering the precariousness of his current task - she very loudly and deliberately clears her throat.

His esteem in her eyes rises by another noth, as his hands tighten on the steering wheel to keep it steady while the rest of his upper body still whips around, tension apparent in his entire frame. Sheepishly she holds out her hands, hoping that she is somewhat visible and smiles.

“Apologies, I did not mean to frighten you, but I couldn’t sleep and hoped that some fresh air might help.”

His own chuckle is barely audible over the ambient noise, but she can see his shoulders lowering as he turns back to the front, shaking his head as if to dispel any lingering fright.

“No worries, ‘tis not unusual to search for sleep and not find it up here. And the air’s heavy tonight.”

She cocks her head.

“Heavy? Is something the matter?”

He gestures for her to step up to him, which she does eagerly.

“We’re approachin’ Mor Dhona. Usually we’d make a wide berth ‘round the area, but the currents weren’t kind, and with the cover of night we decided to risk it.”

“What exactly is wrong with this place?”

After two days of peppering both brothers with all kinds of questions, he at least no longer raises an eyebrow at her unfamiliarity with a topic at hand.

“‘Tis the site of a Garlean Castrum, one of their major outposts in Eorzea. They’re holdin’ tight to the place, usin’ it for their forays. They’ve been redoublin’ their efforts to rebuild their air fleet; we’re afraid it won’t be long until we need to avoid the area entirely.

Beyond the Garleans, there’s also the dragon. Mind you, this happened ‘bout 20 years ago, but back then the Garleans tried to invade with their fleet, take Mor Dhona, which was pretty fertile but empty land back then, only to run afoul of Midgardsormr. Some say he was just sleepin’ in the lake, mindin’ his own business, others say someone called for him, but either way, he summoned a horde of dragons all the way from Dravania. Fierce battle they say, but eventually both Midgardsormr and the massive Garlean flagship fell, right into the lake again. Area’s been tainted ever since, and aether behaves…oddly. Best to avoid.”

She edges towards the railing as he explains, eager to get a look at the land below even though she doubts there is much to see considering the time of day. Yet as she raises her eyes, she can’t help but gasp when her eyes find a peculiar sight upon the horizon.

They must still be ways off but glimmering in the distance, almost shining like a beacon, is a massive pale blue tower, striking in its luminescence even in the dark of the night. It looks manmade, not quite natural and her mind stumbles over the implications, considering the technologies and advancements - or lack of them - she has seen from the people of this age thus far.

Their current trajectory should take them fairly close to the tower, aiming just slightly to the right of it, which, considering the few stars she can make out, must be south. However, next to the breathtaking tower she spots another cluster of unnatural lights, reds and blues that shine with purpose. The sight of it all electrifies her blood, the need to see, to be closer and experience it all surging through her entire being, eyes alight with the blaze of a small sun. Whirling around she breathlessly calls out to Syhrdaeg, trying to convey her need for answers.

“What is that blue tower? And the shining lights?”

“‘Tis the Crystal Tower,” he says after briefly squinting ahead. “And those lights should be Castrum Centi, the Garlean fortress. You can’t see it now, but Silvertear Lake is to the south of both.”

“It is beautiful,” she whispers to herself, eyes once again fixed on the distant sight, edging closer by the minute. Even the red and blue lights are no longer so distant, slowly but steadily resolving into strangely shaped towers and pillars, clustered together and obviously fortified. Far above as they are, she cannot be entirely sure, but she swears there are new lights coming to life and what faintly looks like hectic movement of some sort. Ere she can formulate a new question, some of those lights shoot into the air and then rapidly approach the airship. From behind her, she can hear Syhrdaeg bellow a hearty curse, ere he loudly hollers for his brother to wake. He also pushes some buttons on the console beneath the steering wheel, yelling a “Brace yourself!” to Calliope.

Wide eyed she grips the railing in front of her tightly, watching mutely as he pulls the steering wheel all the way around. The Beak lurches in reaction, the main body listing to the side and whipping back within a few seconds, trying to adjust to the new trajectory. From within the ship's rotund body several crashes and thuds can be heard in quick succession, then Broenfarr himself appears at the top of the stairs.

“Llymlaen’s tits, what’s happening?!”

In the darkness, the red lights are suddenly enveloped in a different light - orange and fiery - that accumulates into several balls of fire that all rapidly fly in their direction. The brief illumination is enough for Calliope to get a proper look at the strange metal vehicles that the static lights are affixed to, quickly identifying them as another type of aircraft. Ere she can wonder who they might belong to, Broenfarr’s bellow answers her unspoken question.

“Imperials!”

Both brothers grip whatever is nearest to them as the missiles impact the side of the ship. Again, it lurches violently, the deafening boom drowning out the sound of the engine and the wind alike. Calliope stumbles towards the brothers, one arm held aloft for balance, the other clutching her mantle.

“Are they attacking us? Just like that?”

“Aye!” Both brothers bellow loudly in unison, Broenfarr already moving away and to the larboard, crouching down to pull at some hidden hatch. Another volley of fiery missiles streaks through the air, some of them just grazing their flank, the rest hitting their stern, the ship shuddering again. Calliope stumbles to the side, barely just managing to grab onto a rope to catch herself from losing her footing entirely.

She watches with fascination as Broenfarr pulls a long-barrelled gun from a compartment, throwing it in his brother’s direction who catches it almost without looking. Despite the ship’s unsteady movement, he runs straight to the stern with unnaturally sure footing, brandishing the other item he pulled: a thin, jewel headed staff.

Bellowing arcane words, fire gathers around the head of the staff and with a surprisingly graceful swing, the fire shoots forward, streaking into the dark of the night in search of a target. Behind them, the small hostile aircrafts shoot another volley, but having to swerve to avoid the spell, their aim is off, the volley missing the airship by several yalms.

Unwilling to just continue watching, Calliope gradually makes her way to the stern as well, one hand always in contact with the railing or a rope, and upon reaching her destination shoots out her left hand to grasp empty air in command until a staff materializes in it with golden light.

“How about this!”

Naturally, fire comes to her first, not red and orange but white and gold. Arcane sigils flare to life around her, fed by her energy, then surge with power and explode in the direction she’s aiming at. Controlling a released spell would usually be a futility for most casters, but her strength of will has always been superior and her aetheric finesse legendary. Sweat beads on her furrowed brow but her grin is fierce and resplendent as she adjusts the direction of the fire. Again, the enemy aircrafts move as if to evade the incoming spell, but at the last second, Calliope throws the hand holding the staff to the side, the magic answering her command and changing its trajectory to hit one aircraft dead center.

Boom.

Despite the distance, the sound of the resulting explosion reaches them within a heartbeat, the night suddenly alights with fire and heat as the aircraft is blown apart. Burning debris streaks through the air, the other enemy aircraft hastily adjusting its flight path to avoid most of it, though not entirely successfully. Upon watching it all unfold, Calliope allows a grin to grace her lips.

“‘Nother pair incomin’, starboard!” Syhrdaeg yells from the steering wheel.

Her head whips to the side and indeed finds the new lights steadily rising up to their altitude. She curses in Amaurotine, then gathers her aether again, intent on finishing the remaining one from the first pair.

“Keep the ship steady!” She cries out as the sigils come to life again. Hoping that her foe is not able to adjust quickly enough she employs the same tactic again: A fairly straight trail of light, and at the last moment where the enemy aircrafts swerves to avoid the spell, she once again pushes the spell sideways, forcing the trajectory to change, ensuring another direct hit.

Two shouted cheers underline the sound of the explosion this time, her fierce grin illuminated by the light of it. Aware that they are not out of danger yet she does not linger on it but instead hastily steps to their starboard railing, trying to pinpoint where the next two aircrafts are coming in.

When she only spots a single red light she bites her lower lip, eyes frantically moving about to try and spot the other one, turning her head a fraction towards the brothers when she remains unsuccessful.

“Where did the other one go?”

The one she can see initiates its own volley of missiles and since Syhrdaeg, bless his heart, is following her earlier order and keeps the ship stable and steady there is no likelihood of the incoming balls of fire missing them. Throwing out her free hand, Calliope almost pushes her upper body over the railing and simultaneously calls upon her own aether once more, willing it to form a protective barrier. She is all too aware that there is a difference between the shield over a person and one meant to envelop an entire vehicle like theirs and if she had a little more time she could tweak the spellcast to be more efficient, but right now she has no other viable alternative than throwing sheer energy and will into it if she wants to protect the Swallow’s Beak.

The strain hits her in the chest like getting stomped on by a minotaur. It hurts to the point that tears spring into her eyes and her throat tightens as a whimper escapes her lips.

The enemy missiles explode harmlessly upon her glittering shield, illuminating the deck as if it were daytime. As she blinks against the aetheric pull, frantically trying to pull air into her aching lungs, she is almost glad that she closed her eyes on instinct, all too aware that she easily could have blinded herself for a crucial moment. As it stands, she can still track the enemy aircraft and even though it hurts she still searches for that place inside of her and pulls every last drop she can get to to once again call forth a golden fireball. The pain is excruciating this time, making her cry out to relieve the agony, ignoring the taste of blood on her tongue as her determination never falters.

Again, the arcane sigils come to life. Again, her spell shoots off towards the incoming aircraft. And again, her ploy works, the enemy not anticipating the precision and control over the destructive little orb that tears through the metal construct as if it were paper. As the shockwave and light from the explosion rock the airship, Calliope allows her body to slump against the railing, the summoned staff vanishing into smaller motes of bright light.

Stars, but she is tired.

‘If only you still had your full strength, or even a fraction more than what you were given here.’

The thought, a weak imitation of Hades’ voice, is bitterly putting into words the doubts that plague her and in this very moment she cannot push them away anymore. Her limitations are aggravating; her, so reduced to a strength that befits not even an Amaurotine child. This was never the plan.

If there is a lesson to be learned here, she cannot see it.

Gritting her teeth and pulling her hands into fists she pushes herself upright again. They are incredibly close to the glowing tower by now, the fight having only minimally changed their intended path. Now, if only she could also spot the last remaining aircraft…

Boom.

The blast hits them on their larboard, wide open and unprotected. Wood splinters as the force of the explosion tears it to shreds, shooting off in every direction. Calliope tries to grab one of the ropes, or even the railing, but her hands do not manage to close over something in time, fruitlessly grasping at thin air as the shockwave pushes her body over the ship’s outer railing.

Her world turns upside down, spins as she tumbles, everything slowing down as her widening eyes take in what is happening.

The Hyllghotsyn brothers, barely just managing to hold onto something sturdy in time to keep their footing.

The cold wind, already grasping at her unprotected body.

Galen’s eyes, looking directly at her, wide and full of shock from where his head peaks out of the stairs leading below.

Gravity asserts itself, pulling her away from the ship.

Above her, below her, around her, the shimmering Sea of Stars.

And there, a darkened shape against the unfamiliar familiar sky, blinking lights betraying its nature: the remaining enemy aircraft.

‘Please don’t be angry, Hades.’

Pulling on the deepest and darkest place within her, Calliope calls forth one last spell, not a firebead to be aimed, no arcane missile to be thrown, only her will given form as she commands it to obliterate her foe. The last thing she sees is the explosion lighting up the night sky, eerily pretty against the backdrop of countless stars.

And then, nothing.

Chapter Text

Thirteen

Grains of sand in her hair. Metal at her back. A scratching noise in the distance.

Instinct commands Calliope to open her eyes.

Adrenaline floods her veins, her muscles tensing in preparation for fight or flight. Above her, a cloudy, overcast sky. She shifts, cold water lapping at her legs. The smell of rot and decay assaults her nostrils.

Something’s wrong.

She turns her head, only to be hit by agony, a hellish pain that has her sight return to blackness for a fraction of a second. But she needs to move, now.

With her mind busy cataloging the pain, her body still listens, her muscles tightening as she rolls herself to the side and upwards, heaving her aching body onto dry land.

The noise comes again, closer this time.

She snaps up her head, looking for its origin. Her eyes land on a large crab creature, similar to ones she encountered in La Noscea already. The giant crab is cautiously inching closer to her position, pincers raised. It’s not hostile, yet, but instinct tells her she needs distance. With her eyes on the creature, she starts backing away.

Her body is nothing but throbbing pain, but her limbs are whole and able to move. Her aether reserves are completely dry - no surprise there - but she can adapt. The lack of gear, armor, weapons and supplies is a nuisance, but centuries of training counter all of it.

The facts are grim, but salvageable. All she needs now is a plan.

While keeping the advancing crab in her field of view at all times, she makes a quick study of her surroundings. To her left, the remains of the wreckage tower above. To her right, nothing but water and obscuring fog. Crabs are aquatic, but she is not. Her only hope lies with the wreckage.

Her eyes, still darting around for anything of interest, alight on a long and thin metal pole. It’s laughably crude, but it should work in a pinch. Unfortunately, the crab is between herself and the newly designated weapon.

No choice then. She will need to be fast.

Fixing her gaze on the eyes of the creature she tenses her muscles and feints towards the water. The creature abandons all caution as well, seeing its prey escape, and tries to cut off her path.

Her feet act according to muscle memory. She twirls in place, then uses her momentum to lunge into a forward roll, underneath the advancing crab. When she comes up, she is between the long and protected right side legs. A quick kick is delivered to one of the leg junctions, then she is off to her actual target.

“Praise be,” she mutters to herself as she finds the metal pole - a thin pipe actually - to be just loose enough that she can pull it out with a little bit of wiggling. It is not her favored rapier, but it’ll do.

Turning to the crab she briefly focuses on its weak points - the joints of its legs, the thin line where the segments of its carapace do not quite touch and the eyes, unprotected as they are while it is watching its intended prey.

Calliope darts forward again. Surely the crustaceans of this age aren’t very smart, right? Again, she feints. Again, she twirls. This time though, instead of ducking low, she stretches and aims high. The crab’s leg is a handy ramp, the top carapace good leverage for her free hand. It takes but a second, and then she is secure on its back, toes and calves clenched along the ridges.

The crab begins trashing in place, but she manages to hold fast. With one hand she pulls on the plate protecting the beady eye; her other hand twirls the pole for a better grip. The creature bucks, again and again. The pincers snap blindly, left, right, but she is faster still, waiting for her opening.

There.

With a cry, she pushes herself upright and plunges the pole into the unprotected eye socket. Deep, deeper, she pushes the weapon, using as much of her body weight as she can. The creature’s trashing grows wilder, desperate. A sharp pincer catches her shoulder but she is too focused to care.

She cries out again with determination, reversing her grip on the pole and then pulls.

The creature shrieks as a flood of viscera and moss-colored fluid explode from the ruined eye socket. At once, the crab’s legs buckle as it slumps unevenly to the ground. Calliope keeps her grip on the metal pole nonetheless, her arm raised and at the ready.

The crab grows still.

She waits, silently counts out the seconds. One. Two. Then three. The creature does not move. With a clank, the metal pole clutters to the ground as Callope lets go of it, all tension draining from her body. Her ribs complain as she takes the first deep breath after a battle won.

She is safe. For now.

----

After sitting on the crab's remains for a good ten minutes to wait for her racing heartbeat to grow calm, Calliope decides to start moving.

She massages her feet and calves briefly, checking both for injuries. Unlike her shoulder, her legs seem fine and with a sigh she gets to work prodding at the wound. Her luck comes through yet again: It’s a thin slice, mostly superficial and even though it requires proper cleaning and dressing, it is nothing that will severely harm her if left untreated for the next few hours. Which means she can safely ignore it and instead focus on making sense of her surroundings.

Somewhere across the water, partially obscured by fog, are faint and intermittent lights. Out of reach, but maybe notable if the wreckage she is on proves useless.

Turning to the wreckage in question, she tracks the shape she can make out. It is truly massive, the sheer size of it only hinted at whenever the fog retreats. There are also natural rocks in some places, the majority covered in a plethora of shimmering blue crystals. She notes the latter with rising interest, remembering the aether density of the crystals she found in La Noscea.

After using strips of her soggy mantle to wrap her feet - a minimum of protection, but in the face of the jutting, sharp metal edges all around, it’s better to be safe than sorry - Calliope sets out towards one such crystal formation. It is wildly uncomfortable to be moving about in her current state but it’s not as if sitting around and bemoaning her fate is going to bring about any change.

The crystals are marginally more useful than expected.

They must have formed after some natural disaster, uneven and chaotic in form and spread. Astral water and umbral lightning comprise the majority of its inherent energy, reacting upon touch. Strangely enough, the aetheric energy seems tainted, almost corrupted. Usually she wouldn’t worry about something minor like that, knowing her Amaurotine soul to be warded against such interference. But with her soul fractured as it is now? A risk for sure, but one she is willing to take.

‘It’s not like Hades can chew me out this time,’ she thinks with bitterness.

While she currently lacks the gear to properly extract the dense crystalline growth, a brief search in the immediate area allows her to find enough smaller crystals that she can break off with a modest application of brute force. On the first shard, she tests a few minor conjurations, mostly aquatic in nature, and even though it leaves an oily aftertaste in her mouth, the magic holds. Fashioning a bag out of another strip of her robe, she collects a dozen more crystals, just to be on the safe side.

Above her, the fog shifts and wavers as she works, sometimes allowing a better glimpse of the massive structure. Calliope notes with interest that the sides and edges of the wreckage to her left form a gentle incline. She is a decent climber, and getting to higher elevation will surely give her a better idea of where she is and how to proceed.

As she works, the sky above remains gray and nondescript, but based on the temperature rising slightly, she concludes that the day is at its peak. She also becomes aware of a host of other creatures that call this wreckage their habitat, though she goes to great pains to avoid all of them. Some of them look…strange, a species she has never seen before, with scales along their bodies and wings at their backs. Like birds, but without feathers?

Erato, her sister, spent almost six centuries employing her gift for the sake of the researchers in Elpis. And she never failed to gush about all manner of creatures that were unusual or different, so surely she would have told Calliope about something like this. Maybe something younger then, something that evolved on its own, without Amaurotine oversight? Or, she thinks to herself, recalling the brief conversation before things went tits up in the night, could these be the dragons that Syhrdaeg mentioned? She mouths the word a few times, testing if it fits these foreign creatures. Dragons. Interesting. And maybe a clue as to where in the Seven Hells she is.

Once done with her crystal gathering, she secures the bundle of them along her waist and thus within easy reach, then scouts for a likely place to start her ascend.

The first hour of climbing is shockingly easy, the wreckage offering sufficient metal piping and elongated ridges. The greatest obstacle is evading the dragons, flapping their tiny wings, but summoning a bit of water or lightning is all Calliope needs to distract them.

Traversing the wreckage allows her to get a closer look at the technologies prevalent within. All of it unfamiliar to her and yet... It’s certainly more advanced than what she has seen on Vylbrand, though the manner of energy conduction appears crude and basic. Lots of metal though, not a single bit of wood or stone to be found.

By the second hour, she cannot even see where she started. The fog rolls in again; the temperature starts dropping. As she rests against a little dent, she hears a new noise from the inside of the metal monstrosity she is climbing. It’s some sort of humming, rhythmic, but indefinable. It also remains distant and indistinct, even as she continues her climb.

Memories of the nightly encounter rear their head when she comes across a gap in the metal plating and catches sight of people in strange garb who look preoccupied with some sort of machinery inside. Metal walkways connect dozens of metal platforms, with hulking metal monstrosities patrolling between them. As she watches, she is finally able to connect the humming sound to these artificial creatures.

A different sort of unease fills her at the sight. Better stay clear, her instincts say.

She continues to climb.

While she internally debates the merits of contacting the people inside the wreckage, her eyes spy something decidedly not metal ahead of her. Calliope blinks, then reaches out a hand to touch the strange, dark leathery surface that intercepts her intended path. It feels like the skin of a reptile, but never has she seen one this massive. Turning her head left and right, she surveys what must have been an enormous serpent that curled around the entire wreckage as far as she can tell.

And yet, the organic matter it is made of is not marked by decay or rot. It is hard underneath her fingers, not quite stone but like very hard and unyielding leather. Dead then, and must have been so for quite some years as well. But as she places her hand on it again, she feels a strange warmth emanating from it. The embers of a fire that once blazed bright enough to rival the sun.

It takes a bit of effort to climb onto the serpentine remains but Calliope is nothing but persistent. Once on top of it, she laughs quietly to herself, realizing that the way the creature curls around the wreckage, its body makes a perfect ramp.

“Thank the stars,” Calliope whispers with a smile.

More than that, it also serves as a nice plateau, allowing her to take a break and inspect her surroundings, higher up as she is now.

Her eyes sweep out over the wider view, immediately alighting on a most welcome sight: Up here, the fog no longer hides notable features of the landscape and closer than she remembers it, she sees the Crystal Tower shimmering on the horizon. Still, without knowing its actual size, it is impossible to gauge the distance between the structure and herself. It does however give her a rough idea of where she is.

It might be a coincidence, but did Syhrdaeg not also speak of a lake south of the aforementioned tower. Could it be? Could she have fallen into the very same lake and washed ashore the ruins of that battle? It seems outlandish, a string of coinciding incidents that should be random and yet are not.

But she is Azem, and the Eldest of her sisters and she knows that there are no coincidences.

Taking a deep breath she turns away from the sight of the tower and inspects the aggravating wreckage again. Touches the hardened scales underneath her feet. Muses upon the nature of dragonkind. Speculations upon speculations, none of them leading anywhere. She should continue.

Almost casually she continues her way up - no longer climbing but walking carefully upon the curled remains. She spots a handful of dragons again, evading them by briefly climbing upon the underside of the serpentine body, then getting on top of it again once she has passed them. As she rounds the wreckage, she also notices another notable feature: something akin to a wing, stretching far above the fog. Its wingspan looks truly massive however; with a frown she measures the size of it against the serpentine body she is walking on, concluding that it is not unlikely the two are attached, belonging to the same individual creature.

The curls decrease in radius, the wreckage growing smaller the higher she gets. Now she can see something new towering at the very end of it.

It is a dragon’s head.

It towers even above the metal remnants, like a bird of prey perching above its catch. From her new angle, she can see that the massive wing connects to the body and to another wing on the other side of it all.

(It has been decades since last she saw a creature this large. And never within the jurisdiction of Amaurot, only ever in the farthest and most untamed reaches of their star.)

To her chagrin, the dragon does not move, and as she trudges further along, she realizes that her earlier hypothesis is most likely correct: The dragon is dead.

And yet…

And yet there is warmth underneath her feet, a pressure in the air that is not due to the atmospheric effects; a presence, within and without, that begs to be seen and heard. With renewed determination, she ascends the last of it all, her thinly covered feet making no sound as she steps onto a metal platform right underneath the massive head.

Around her, the aether thickens.

The metal groans and shudders.

Something wakens.

Calliope whips her head around, trying to find the newly emerging presence. It is massive, dwarfing her, drowning her. She clutches her chest and goes down to one knee, squinting as a massive roar reverberates through the air. Above her, the formerly lifeless eyes of the dragon ignite with ferocity.

Then, she hears it. A voice, deep and encompassing.

“Who treadeth now upon my bones and waketh me from slumber sweet?”

It is a language unlike any she has ever heard and yet there is intent in each syllable, so that her translation magic takes hold. She can see a sphere of shining aether gather in the air between herself and the dragon, but she cannot sense its purpose. The hand that isn’t still pressed to her chest finds the crystals at her belt. Not ideal, but it will do.

Drawing the aether from the crystals, she twists her fingers and pours the energy into her oral conducting spell, ignoring the oily aftertaste as it catches. Unwilling to greet this being while on her knees, she grits her teeth and pushes herself upright again.

“Well met, O Great One,” she addresses the dragon in Amaurotine. “I am Azem, of Ancient Amaurot. It was not my intent to wake you, for it was but a regrettable accident that had me come upon this place.”

The dragon pauses for a moment, the orb of aether floating up and down by an ilm ere it continues.

“Thou speaketh in forgotten tongues, bearing forsaken names. Thou shalt explain thyself.”

Calliope’s features freeze. Did that dragon just…?

She takes an involuntary step forward, one arm reaching out beseechingly.

“Pray, forgive my vehemence and confusion, I myself have slumbered for millenia. O Great One, you speak as if you recognize my speech and name. I must ask you then, what do you know of Azem or Amaurot?”

Another dreadfully long pause.

“Of Amaurot, I know but forgotten tales. Azem - a name that liveth on in mortal memory in many forms. I know of one who speaketh thy tongue; it is She with whom I have made a covenant most binding. Thine mortal form hath been marked by Her, thou hath spoken with her before.

Calliope frowns and drops her arm again. “You must speak of Venat. How did you come to know her? What covenant do you speak of?”

The aetheric orb descends a little further this time, halting right in front of her.

“Thou ask many questions, Azem of Amaurot. Me and mine were granted permission to settle upon this star. In return, She bid me return a favor one day, to test and protect the one bearing her mark. Art thou the one She spoke of?”

Calliope swallows the sigh threatening to fall from her lips. So the dragon came to Etheirys from someplace else, and encountered Venat upon reaching the star. What maddening riddles and circles. She looks up again.

“This vessel may be marked by Venat, so I may very well be the one she spoke of, but my purpose is my own. I have chosen another path forward, one forged by myself alone. If you still wish to honor this covenant and aid me in mine endeavors, I would gladly have you at my side and allow myself to be tested. But I cannot promise to you that Venat will approve of our actions, O Great One.”

The dragon laughs.

“Thou art not who was promised, Azem of Amaurot, but the covenant doth not care for such details. Thus, I proclaim: I shall take to thy side in a form born anew and follow thy path to determine thy worth.”

The aetheric orb shimmers again, the light growing blinding and dense. It warps and transforms and by the time the light recedes, a small dragon hovers in its place, wings beating the air to stay in place.

High above, the eyes of the dragon flare with power again. Calliope watches with fascination as the eyes suddenly detach from the head and float downwards. Two orbs, a single one too large to even fit her palm, come to hover in front of her, flanking the small dragon.

“Thou shalt take mine eyes ere we depart this place. They shall not be left unattended.”

Up close, she can feel the vast well of aether slumbering within the orbs. They are the source of the aetheric pressure all around her, soaking their immediate surroundings with unbridled power. Never, in all her time traveling the star, has she come across a singular source of such potent energies. And yet, as she considers the size of the dragon and its imposing presence, it seems strangely fitting.

Holding out her arm again so that the dragon may land on it, she smiles warmly.

“How may I address you then, O Great One?”

“Thou shalt address me by mine name: Midgardsormr.”

Chapter Text

Thirteen

“Thou shalt address me by mine name: Midgardsormr.”

Calliope tilts her head, memorizing the unusual name and the shape of it on her tongue. A tingling sensation travels down her spine, her heart thumping heavily in her chest for several beats before returning to its normal rhythm. 

A moment of significance. 

She takes a deep breath to shake off the sensation, then continues: “Pray, correct me if I am mistaken, but it is my assumption that you understand the language that is currently spoken by the mortal men of these lands.”

“Indeed.”

Which means there is no need to maintain her vocal conducting spell anymore. As she allows the magic to dissipate she ruefully brushes over the crystals secured at her waist, noting their aether depletion. They may have been tainted, yet no matter how important their usage was, it still means she has very few resources at her disposal. 

In fact, she is in practically the same spot she was in when she fell off the airship - still no means of getting back to her ward, gaining access to her specialized gear or even finding a way off this wreckage. On the plus side, she has acquired a plethora of injuries and a new level of exhaustion. An amazing track record, even for her.

Then again, she muses to herself as she studies the dragon on her arm, she has gained a new ally. Perhaps her newest friend, being something of a local, can help her out with some of those tiny problems?

“Well then, Midgardsormr. You have slumbered here for many years, but is there aught you can tell me about this place? Particularly how to leave it if one is incapable of flight?”

Calliope has never interacted with a dragon before. She is entirely unfamiliar with their body language, barely able to make out that the features on the small dragon shift at all. And yet she gets a strong sense of exasperation as Midgardsormr sighs. 

“‘Tis Silvertear Lake within which mine old form and mine slain foe rest. Hast thou no means of traversing the water?”

“I rarely travel by flying. If I need to cross a watery expanse, I employ spells that allow me to walk on its surface. Those, however, have requirements that are currently not met.”

“Elaborate.”

This time it’s she who sighs. Ere she starts replying, she raises her arm to indicate that the small dragon should hop on her shoulder instead, leaving her hands and arms free. Mindful of the added weight, she walks a little closer to the edge of the platform. 

“For one, the technique requires a somewhat smooth surface. From what I have seen, that is an easy requirement to meet here, the water here being rather calm. But to invoke the magic, one also requires a clear mind and a sufficient supply of aether. While my mind is capable of far more complicated magic, I am currently recovering from a complete expenditure of my aether. I have none left to spare.”

She steps onto the coiled, former body of her newest acquaintance, and scoots as close to the edge of it as she dares. Below her, the fog wafts around the remnants of the dragon and his erstwhile foe. On her shoulder, the dragon grumbles.

“Very well then. As a gesture of goodwill I shall permit thee the usage of these eyes of mine, on the condition that thou shalt not use their might to harm those of mine brood that thou might encounter. They are the source of mine aether, and thou may use it as thou seest fit until I decree otherwise.”

Calliope blinks in quiet surprise for a moment, then allows her lips to shift into a grateful smile.

“That…will solve a great many problems. You have my thanks.”

With utter care, she reaches for one of the massive orbs that are still levitating next to her shoulders. It feels like dipping her fingers into fire, a scorching heat that laps at her skin. The eye lands awkwardly on her palm - it is far too big to carry comfortably, a problem to be solved in the near future - but for now, she just concentrates on the unbelievable amounts of aether inside.

Fire and ice, umbral and astral in equal measure. Underneath those, pulsing lightning and buffeting wind, grounded by water and earth - all aetherial charges present as befits a living being, though the scope of it has her laugh breathlessly. The amount of aether stored within this one eye is massive, a wellspring of energy at her fingertips akin to what she remembers having access to in her time. What she inevitably lost. And what has now been returned to her, albeit conditionally.

Her eyelids lower, her free hand coming forward. Twirling her fingers in muscle memory alone, she pulls a familiar spell into existence, infusing it with the aether she channels from the eye. 

Calliope purses her lips. Her stature is smaller now, so she will need to make adjustments. This body is also more fragile. Something to boost durability then, but not too much, since she favors agility. The design should not change too much either. Having decided, she nods to herself and releases the spell.

Aetheric sparks alight on her form as the magic manifests in an aura around her. Within seconds, it disintegrates her robe and the sleepwear underneath into their base components. Then, the aether conjoins with the remaining material to form something new. 

When the light dissipates, she is clad almost head to toe in black fabric, reinforced by aetherically strengthened fibers. A high collar protects her throat; bracers that end in padded platings cover her forearms and the back of her hands. At last, dark cloth settles on her shoulders and manifests downwards as a soft Amaurotine robe hides her form in its folds. 

At her side, the dragon hums with keen interest.

----

Intent on making the most out of the opportunity presented to her, Calliope ends up healing herself properly, thus taking care of all the scrapes and bruises she has acquired since waking. Hades’ voice briefly admonishes her for her utterly skewed priorities, but with the elation of actually feeling at ease in her own skin for the first time since waking in these lands, she easily brushes it aside. With her mind clear, she once more peers over the edge of the serpentine body, one arm extending to make sure the dragon stays where he is. She notes the slope of the serpentine body, the pieces of metal jutting out further below.

Then she jumps.

Two things happen simultaneously: The dragon garbles some undefined noise and Calliope laughs gleefully. Both are lost to the wind. 

Almost instantly, the very same wind catches her body, her trajectory threatening to send her into the uneven wall of the wreckage below. Right before she touches it, she pulls on the eyes’ aether and invokes her favorite magic, born of the wind. A golden circle manifests briefly. When next she exhales, she is light as a feather. Flexing her legs and pushing herself away from the wreckage, she jolts forward into the air in an enhanced jump. At her side, the dragon utters another unintelligible sound, almost like a scoff if she were to guess its meaning. Surely he will come to appreciate her antics, in due time. She has yet to meet an individual she has not managed to charm, or at least make them grudgingly respect her. 

It is bliss to once again invoke the magicks that are dearest to her heart even if that means using spells that her current body was not equipped for. While fire may come as easy as breathing to her, it is the magic of the wind that she loves most, to the eternal displeasure of the rest of the Convocation.

(How many afternoons did she and her disciples spend playing their version of tag atop Amaurot’s graceful spires? How many safety lectures did they put to shame?)

As he gets used to her mode of travel, Midgardsormr rewards her with an accepting rumble. She detects a singular note of pleasure in his tone, but cannot make out if it is due to the efficiency of her magic or something else entirely. A question for a later and more opportune moment.

For now, she aims her next few jumps so that she may safely reach the lake. Right before touching the surface of the water she activates another almost instantaneous incantation, allowing her to place her feet onto the water as if it were solid, albeit gently shifting ground. She does not stop there however, instead launching into a light jog as soon as she makes contact. Out of the corner of her eyes she can see the two massive dragon eyes trailing along, floating rather creepily. 

Something definitely needs to be done about those. 

A careful glance towards her new dragon companions makes her purse her lips in consideration. Why shouldn’t she make use of his knowledge - surely a being of such might and wisdom could be of help? A judicious application of careful prodding - and careful cajoling - should be all that is needed to get Midgardsormr on the case. 

( ‘Thou shouldst compose thine own ideas, mortal of eld’ - ‘Often, I solve problems by including  those allies of mine whose expertise in the chosen field far surpasses mine own. These eyes are draconic in origin, so who better to consult than your own great mind?’ - ‘Very well. But thine flattery shall be noted.’ )

Between the two of them, they hash out the details of a metal focus she can wear on her belt, containing both partially sealed eyes while hiding what they truly are. This time, she definitely makes out a note of appreciation within his rumbles. It is nothing but conjecture at this point, but considering the capabilities of the modern people, access to this type of energy source would be highly sought after. Less scrupulous people might even dare to try and steal the eyes and (ab)use them for their own purposes! Obfuscating their very nature shall go a long way in making sure they stay in her care. 

By the time her feet touch sand and earth  again, a new belt adornment has been created: a tasteful loop of pale gold, holding two bisected gemstones in its grasp. As she fidgets with the new trinket, her eyes trail along the horizon, coming to rest on the glowing, crystalline structure ahead of her.

“I wish I could take a proper look at this,” she mumbles quietly.

Movement rustles her shoulder.

“What bars thy path?”

She frowns, then deliberately shakes her head and turns away from the tower.

“Duty.” A pause. “Responsibility.”

To the west, along the shoreline of the lake, she can make out differently colored lights that speak of torches and fire - civilization. A settlement that will hopefully help her navigate her way to Gridania. Without further ado, she breaks into a light jog again, this time with a definitive destination in mind.

“I was traveling with someone else before I fell into the lake,” she explains after a pregnant pause. “A disciple. My involuntary adventure set us apart. He...is not familiar with this age.”

“A compatriot. And thou worrieth over his capabilities? Didst thou not choose him for a reason?”

She wants to sigh, but reserves her breath for running a little faster. To the left of her, a lone beast notes her passing with interest, but she is too fast for it to engage her.

“While his body may have reached maturity, he is for all intents and purposes a youth, at least within the metrics of our former home. I elevated him as my disciple to protect him from an unjust punishment. But he has so much to learn, and we have had limited time.”

“The young always learn at their own pace. Thou may be surprised by what younglings are able to achieve when put to the test.”

“Perhaps. I still consider my worry to be reasonable. Thus, no detours, no matter how tempting they may seem.”

Midgardsormr rumbles, then silence reigns again.

An hour passes, marked by occasional combat as the creatures of this land deny her passage whenever she veers too close a handful of times. But now, with the deluge of aether at her disposal, not a single one poses an actual threat to her. Still, she takes note of them, comparing them to creatures she remembers of her own time. Midgardsormr kindly offers their modern designations in between bouts of combat. An unexpected kindness, but a welcome one.

As the lunar specter climbs higher upon the sky above her, she finally reaches the settlement she had seen in the distance. Up close, she realizes it is more of a make-shift shelter than an actual town, with dozens of tents and the rough beginnings of buildings around a spinning aetheryte. 

The people guarding the settlement appear to her as simple adventurers and when she claims to be of the same profession, their demeanor warms considerably and they point her to a single building nestled within the rocks. It turns out to be a tavern, or the beginnings of one, aptly named the Seventh Heaven . 

“It is remarkable how much of our culture lives on, even twisted and changed by the passage of time,” she whispers to Midgardsormr. His response is but a low rumble. 

Once inside, she has her first proper look at the inhabitants of the place. Despite the late hour, a multitude of different folks still linger. She can feel their assessing gazes on herself, but even more than that she can practically taste the open curiosity that awakens at the sight of her. 

Calliope does what she does best: Charm. Inquire. Study.

In between learning people’s names and stories she absentmindedly acquires a place to rest and then prods the helpful patrons a little more, until eventually she learns about the supply train that is to start its treck to Gridania on the morrow. The siren song of other ventures around the corner tries to entice her to stay a little longer - tales of precarious dangers lurking in the area, least of all the Garlean Castrum just west of the settlement, or rumors of a research group wanting to investigate the eponymous Crystal Tower. The itch to get involved threatens to become an almost physical thing, but still, the greater part of her, the one that sounds like Hades and Hythlodaeus both, pulls her towards Gridania.

(The reminder of her partners is akin to the throbbing pain when one digs their fingers into a bruise. No longer a sharp sting, but painful nonetheless.)

According to Klyn, the friendly barmaid keeping her supplied throughout the evening, only one  passage to Gridania is traversable with wagons and it loops north through Coerthas, a permanently snow-covered highland. While Calliope has heard the name in passing before - usually in relation to Ishgard and some religious zealotry - it had not yet factored into her travel plans.

But the hour grows late and she abides by the unspoken decision of the crowd to retire for the night. It is there, safely ensconced in her small but sturdy bunk, that Midgarsormr regales her with tales of Dravania, Coerthas, and Ishgard. 

When she sleeps, she dreams of snow-covered peaks, soaring spires and lightning storms. 

Before the sun is up again, she wakes to the distant sound of creaking leather and shuffling boots as other tenants prepare for their own start of the day. In uncharacteristic silence she joins them, thoughts turned inward. Dissecting the images that remain of her dreams, plucking whatever omen she can from them. Only partially aware of her surroundings she makes it through a simple meal before venturing out in search of the aforementioned caravan.

To the east, the Crystal Tower twinkles in the early morning twilight.

Calliope’s steps pause briefly, her head turning a fraction. She can hear it clearly now - a whisper, a melody.

A promise.

It is achingly familiar, but even as she hums along with the siren call, she turns forward again. She has set her sights on the course, has chosen a path to walk for the time being and while many of her peers would perpetuate the rumours of her flightiness, they, and all of Amaurot, knew that she was steadfastness personified. Reliable, practically a fixture for every citizen and even those beyond Amaurotine jurisdiction. 

A friend of the people. A shepherd, always keeping an eye on her flock.

And right now, her flock encompasses none but one young Galen, an innocent graduate of Akademia Anyder who is as much out of his depth as she is, if not more so.

“Thou art quiet this morning. Full of tension.”

She heaves a heavy breath. 

“I worry. And grieve. It can be taxing to maintain the right course. I am not a construct,” she explains quietly, insistently. “How does one navigate a world like this? Where danger and death lurk around every corner, its people mistrustful, no haven to protect them.

You and yours came here to find reprieve, and still your tale on this star was one of betrayal and pain, sacrifice and loss and so much grief. With my brethren gone, who maintains order? Who protects the peace? And who guides the people?”

Midgardsormr’s tiny claws dig harder into her shoulder. The dragon remains silent.

Calliope sighs.

She holds her next breath for several long seconds, waits for her body to grow still. She is unmoving. A rock in the stream of life, letting it pass around her. Then she allows air to return to her lungs once more, becoming one with the flow again.

There is work to do.

Ahead of her, at the edge of the campsite, she spots a cluster of wagons as well as a surprising bustle of people moving about and loading the vehicles in question.

With purpose, she steps up to the supply wagons, feigning casualness as she introduces herself to the assembled people until she gets sent to a highlander by the name of Shilgen, who brusquely informs her that he is the coordinator for the trip. Once she inquires about additional work for a seasoned adventurer his demeanor changes entirely, his words becoming a great deal warmer. He quickly allocates her to a rotation in the guard duty and ensures she has the necessary equipment.

She does her work as directed, thoughts turned inward. Mayhap that is the reason it takes her so long to notice the subtle glances and hidden considerations. Most of them aimed at her . At an opportune moment, she hides behind a sturdy stack of crates, then dives headlong into their memories without hesitation. Just a peek, she promises herself, just enough to get a grip on who these people are and what exactly their newest issue is.

It is not her, it is the dragon.

She quickly realizes that they object to the presence of her erstwhile companion: At every glimpse they catch of his scaly form, memories bob to the surface - moments of past interrogations, scenes of almost brutal prosecution of anything deemed ‘heretical’ by the inhabitants of snow-bound Coerthas.Their wariness is not baseless, but comes from a need for protection, an avoidance of conflict and pain. With a heavy heart Calliope realizes that there is no changing their minds, for it is not them she needs to convince but those who would actually threaten the caravan over the singular draconic presence. Disappointed, she draws on the eyes’ aether again and adjusts the hood of her robe, fluffing it up and extending its outer boundary and folds so that it very effectively covers the small dragon.

Midgardsormr hums, this time clearly miffed, but he acquiesces without additional comment.

Only a handful of minutes later she rejoins the preparation efforts, her companion no longer visible. The tension noticeably drops and she can even hear a couple of relieved sighs.

Within the hour, Shilgen announces their departure. The wagons slowly pick up speed, wood and metal creaking, as they get pulled by two blanket-covered chocobos each. The adventurers slowly scatter around the wagons in a somewhat coordinated manner until all the sides of the convoy are covered. 

Making sure to keep him hidden, Calliope quietly questions Midgardsormr about any details he might remember of the dragons’ adversaries. His subsequent tale circles back to what he has already started telling her the night before, but now he no longer lingers on the beauty of the landscapes or the bonds between his kin but on the strained relationship with the other inhabitants of these lands. He carefully details the elezen and their religious - zealous - kingdom, the orchestrated tale of betrayal and heartbreak and the inevitable misery and pain. A ruthless and relentless struggle between man and dragon that to his knowledge had still not found a victor, only more and more pain and grief for every side.

As the caravan stops for the night, Calliope realizes that Midgardsormr is a very accomplished and experienced storyteller.

Of course, with the almost exclusively oral traditions of his brood - so much of their collective society kept through dragonsong - it does not exactly come as a surprise, but it still fills her with a sorrow-tainted happiness. It has been so very long since she came upon another master of the craft.

Beyond Midgardsormr’s skill with weaving a tale, Calliope understands the cadence and flow of one well enough to read between the lines - she can clearly hear his own disposition, his own beliefs as to who is at fault for the conflict. Nonetheless it intrigues her to hear of it, if only because it sounds suspiciously like the type of problem she used to oversee, the type she excels at solving. There was a reason she chose to study under Pashtarot during her academy days - her resulting specialty in mediation always so very helpful in convincing the Convocation that her actions were borne of necessity.

(The only time her skill would fail would be the one time it led to their doom.)

But today, now, she cannot help but wonder if meddling with these Dravanian-Ishgardian affairs would not be a valid use of her time and resources. Yes, returning to Galen’s side is her primary concern, but Midgardsormr had a point. For all his youth, Galen soaked up the knowledge she imparted like a sponge and Syhrdaeg and Broenfarr would surely have made sure that he was taken care of. A miniscule delay should be alright, a day or two at most so that she can have a little peek at these zealots in question. A question here and there, open ears and a careful poke into the aether…

What harm could it be?

Chapter Text

Fifteen

“I swear, this was not my intention!”

The spear slams into the tree behind her, barely just missing her chest as she whirls to the side. Her hands are still free of any weapon, but these elezen are relentless. At least Midgardsormr is fine for the time being, hiding atop the sparsely growing trees somewhere above them, wisely keeping out of reach of any thrown projectiles or ranged spells.

But the three spear-wielding soldiers keep pushing her away from the direction of the settlement, with their leader, a robed individual calling himself an Inquisitor, maintaining his careful distance.

“Please, cease your hostilities, it would be a shame if-”

“Shut your mouth, foul heretic!”

Again, she dodges a spear aimed at her stomach and feels her patience fray even further. If these people would at least listen, but so far all she has managed to get in return to her request to speak has been ‘Halone this’ or ‘Fury take you that’, always succeeded by ‘heretic’, the word seemingly one of the worst insults possible considering the tone used for it.

(These people have nothing on an enraged Hades, or worse, a snippy Emmerololth. As much as the rest of the convocation always tried, none could ever hold a candle to how their dearest Mender could address Calliope with her title and simultaneously infuse it with dripping disdain, a miniscule of respect and a maximum of disappointment.)

Clearly, these elezen do not give her a choice.

When next she sidesteps a spear, she throws out her arms, drawing upon the dragon’s aether as she invokes Hades’ binding spell. For a brief moment, her sigil flares in front of her, followed by the sound of rattling chains as the spell manifests.

Surprised yelps echo through the cold air as one by one the guardsmen are bound tight. Even the robed man who took such care to stay back is caught in her spell, a flick of her wrist enough to yank him closer. They all howl and struggle to escape, but so far she has witnessed no magic in this age that could possibly counter it, and so she allows her shoulders to relax a fraction. As she purses her lips and regards the struggling elezen, she briefly debates if calling Midgardsormr down again would be of help - considering that her inattentiveness when chatting with him had caused this entire incident in the first place.

The dragon decides to swoop down that very moment, landing casually on her shoulder. Calliope swallows the grin threatening to appear on her lips and instead tilts her head by a fraction as she regards the assembled elezen in front of her. At the sight of the small dragon they have all quieted, though their glares range from full of hatred and hostility all the way to sudden fear bordering terror.

“Well now, let us try this again, shall we?”

She mimics dusting off her hands, then sweeps them out, palms open and forward.

“As I was trying to tell you, I am merely a traveler to these faraway lands, interested in learning of the Holy See and your rich history and culture. I also am entirely innocent of whatever charge you lay at my feet. However, considering that I overheard a man by the name of Paulemont being worried about undue persecution by a so-called ‘Inquisition’, I do admit to, ah, having had a careful look into things that may be of relation to such things.”

Taking a careful step to the side, she raises one hand to rub between her eyebrows ere she lets her gaze rest on her captive audience again.

“As it turns out, the man had considerable cause to be worried, seeing how I came upon another individual, a suspicious one, mind you, trying to deposit items of interest among this Ser Paulement’s belongings. I retrieved these items and then followed the perpetrator, which is when you, diligent guardsmen that you are, happened to spot me.”

“Filthy lies!”

There truly is no convincing the masses.

Calliope sighs as the robed man starts spewing vitriol, but for all his bluster, at the very least she can read clear doubt in the eyes of the three guardsmen. Yet in their demeanor she also recognizes their fear of the clerical man, clearly their superior if not someone with complete authority over them. She has listened to Midgardsormr’s tales and feels confident in identifying the man as one of the so-called Holy See of Ishgard, a zealous institution supposedly enforcing the will of their deity, the oft-called upon Halone.

(The existence of a deity is questionable, even in this age. A local custom then, much like the Lominsan sailors calling upon Llymlaen, but one that has grown in zealotry and fervor over the decades.)

As it stands, she is starting to believe that convincing the robed man will be exceptionally difficult, and with the time constraints working against her, she honestly considers just silencing him. Unless…

With the new thought in mind, she takes a careful step backwards, then focuses on the man in question. Mayhap his past will reveal an opening she can use to make peace with him.

“Please stay alert while I have a look at something. If they open hostilities again, please give me a nudge,” she quietly murmurs towards Midgardsormr, barely waiting for his assenting rumble ere she follows the trail of power and dives into the hateful man’s memories.

---

Camp Dragonhead looms almost like its namesake, the imposing spires striking through the growing snowstorm as Calliope trudges forward. The day is nearing its end and the tale she will have to tell tonight is not a kind one. But she pushes on nonetheless, Midgardsormr protected from the fierce winds by her hood. Behind her, used to the environment but nonetheless miserable are the three guardsmen, no longer bound by chains but walking of their own volition. Between them, still bound, is the individual who once was the robed elezen, though his robes and even his own appearance have changed considerably.

Once they attempt to enter the camp, another pair of guards try to stop them. Calliope is happy to let one of her entourage take charge here, handing over the prisoner with very strict orders to make sure they cannot be harmed but must be guarded until the commander has had a look. Of her three guards, the one who quietly introduced himself as Valtemont stays with her and directs her towards the main building of the camp.

It truly endears him to her, the shaky but considerate way he points out directions but stays a respectful distance. At least he is no longer cowering in terror, possibly helped by Midgardsormr staying out of sight. He even steps ahead of her just before reaching their destination, then pushes in to hold the door open until she follows.

The inside, once the door closes and cuts off the sounds of the howling blizzard, is surprisingly cozy, almost homely. Though the walls may be bare stone, dozens of torches in between several crackling fireplaces and the smell of spicy beverages turn the unwieldy interior into something with purpose. It speaks of sturdiness, of protection despite the harsh realities of life and combat.

Despite the relative calmness of the world outside, the inside of this space is, mayhap not chaos, but something very akin to it. A small group of soldiers is lined up along the wall to the left, in the middle of some sort of exercise. They are clearly trying to take up as little space as possible, as several other soldiers are frantically moving around them, hastily rushing between make-shift desks along the perpendicular walls and open doors along the far wall. Their lilting, almost musical accent adds to the hum of the room, though Calliope can detect far too much stress and the sour note of fear within for it to be harmonious.

Her gaze catalogues all the small minutiae before it eventually lands on the focal point of the room - a massive table bearing a map depicting what must be the local area, figurines of various shapes and sizes strategically placed. Behind the map table, a sizable desk stands closer to the far wall, this one covered entirely in stacks of paper, additional singular files randomly strewn in between and a precariously placed inkwell just shy of a simple candle-holder.

The map-table is surrounded by a handful of arguing soldiers, some of them bearing tabards or other markings to denote what is probably a higher rank. The side towards the desk is kept free, allowing the man sitting behind it an unobstructed view of the proceedings.

It is this singular elezen man that catches Calliope’s attention for more than just a cursory glance. He is handsome, his pale hair a silvery tint that flickers into blue underneath the orange light of the torches and candles. His armor looks not too different from the ones the fanciful ones around the map table are wearing, but the shield located on a stand next to the desk displays a colorful sigil that is easily as elaborate as any of theirs.

“Commander!”

The elezen in question looks away from his study of the map towards Calliope’s companion instead, allowing her to see more of his facial features. As they approach, she can feel his eyes going over her with excruciating detail, a weight to his gaze that is practically physical. She wonders what it is that is drawing his attention, for his former frown morphs into a genuine smile, his gaze only returning to the guardsman for but a second before it is returned to her.

“Well now, Valtemont, what a fine adventurer you bring to me to brighten this dark day. Pray tell, what exactly is the occasion?”

“Sir, this woman is a witness to a heretic plot that has been uncovered. Florimond and Percevaint are with the prisoner at the moment, waiting for your orders.”

“A prisoner?”

“Yes, Sir. A heretic masquerading as Inquisitor Guillaime. He has…confessed.”

Calliope feels the brief look Valtemont throws in her direction. The still unnamed commander raises his eyebrows in question and waits for what feels like a minute but is probably less than that. Really, if the commander does not mind her being here, Valtemont should get to the interesting parts already.

“The, ah, heretic claims to have been smuggling inculpatory contraband into shipments or belongings of those he and his cohorts deem ‘dangerous’ or ‘not recipient’ to their cause. According to Azem,” Valtemont motions towards her, “The heretic has been masquerading as Inquisitor Guillaime for well over thirteen months.”

Briefly, the commander’s gaze flits back to his guardsman, a frown emerging on his formerly smiling face, before it returns to her. Belatedly she notes the rising tension in his shoulders, the hands that were resting on the table balling into fists.

“And, pray tell, how in Halone’s grace have you uncovered that information? It sounds very unlikely to me that a heretic would so easily confess, much less give out such valuable, tactical intel.”

At this, she shows her polite smile, the professional one that tells nothing.

“I have a certain skill that allows me to gain insight into someone’s past. These visions - brief glimpses into moments of importance - were more than enough to uncover this vile man’s nefarious plot. Once confronted, he all but confirmed them.”

Some of the tension eases, the first hint of a smile returning to his face.

“Ah, yes, we too have individuals possessing the Echo. A bit outlandish perhaps, and some might protest the involvement of an outsider, but I do believe we can make this work. Valtemont, can you-”

Calliope tunes him out for a second, her mind furiously casting for any hint of this ‘Echo’ he spoke of. What in the stars could he have meant? Distantly, a second-hand memory emerges, something she saw within Y’shtola. An offhand comment, something about some of Y’shtola’s compatriots showing signs of this ability, though with different strengths and permutations. It all boiled down to this ‘Echo’ mimicking the sympathetic soul magic she herself was a master of. Echoing perhaps a sliver of Amaurot’s past?

She swallows the hysterical chuckle threatening to spill past her lips and focuses on the commander instead. The man meanwhile has risen from his seat, sending off Valtemont with words she barely just hears again, then motions towards her with a tilt of his head. The universal ‘follow me’ gesture is all she needs to fall into step beside him as he swiftly moves to an adjacent room. His longer legs cover considerably more distance than her own, but she keeps up without complaint, praying that Midgardsormr at least stays in his perch and remains unseen.

The room they enter is far smaller, its space thoroughly diminished by the sheer number of thick shelves covering the walls. Floor to ceiling they are stacked with books and papers, no space left unused. Crammed into the nook underneath one singular, tiny window is an equally stacked desk, its surface barely visible underneath the veritable mountain of papers.

“Don’t mind the mess. This archival office was in perfect condition until about a week ago, we haven't been able to catch our breaths yet, much less sort through these stacks.”

He motions for her to sit down on the lone chair while he himself leans against the shelf next to the door, adapting a fairly nonchalant pose.

“May I ask what happened?”

He considers her for a moment longer, then replies with a wince: “According to the Astrologers, the constellation heralding the end of Midgardsormr’s slumber has shifted rather dramatically. About the same time, dragonkin all across Coerthas and Dravania have shown unusual activity and erratic behavior. Something has happened,” he finished rather cryptically, clearly holding back details.

Calliope narrows her eyes, her brow furrowing as she considers the options before her. She knows not what he sees in her expression, but he continues nonetheless.

“Be that as it may, I haven't been able to spare a single man to send to Mor Dhona to look into Midgardsormr’s status. Our manpower is already diminished, the messengers constantly exhausted from the endless back and forth between all of our posts, the capital and the astrologers.”

He pauses, his gaze roving over the messy shelves before snapping back to her as he leans forward slightly.

“I believed praying to the Fury for aid in these dark times would be futile and yet…here you are.”

No more words are spoken as they evaluate one another, the moment broken only when Calliope sighs, her shoulders shifting.

“First and foremost, might you be willing to divulge your name? I prefer knowing the identity of those I'm dealing with.”

He looks surprised for a second, a brief mirth flashing across his features as he chuckles. Again he shifts, only to offer her an elaborate bow, including a little flourish she has never before witnessed in this age.

“My dear lady, pray forgive me for my lack of manners. I am Haurchefant, a scion of House Fortemps, though far from nobility myself. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

A member of a High House, yet no noble himself. A mystery or at the very least a story that promises to be interesting. She inclines her head in respect, then reaches for the hood obscuring Midgardsormr.

“Two things I must share with you. First - under no circumstances do I mean you any harm. I was on a mission for Admiral Bloefyswyn when the airship I was traveling with was attacked by Garlean forces. This unforeseen detour took me into your fair lands where I almost literally stumbled upon a plot aimed at destabilizing the prevalent society living in these lands.”

She pauses, allowing him to absorb her words. The mention of the admiral draws recognition from him, and a brief smile followed by a satisfied nod. She can only assume that it confirms whatever initial perception he had of her.

“Second, and much more dangerous to the aforementioned plot: As we traveled to this outpost I actually learned a great deal more from our erstwhile prisoner than I initially shared with Valtemont. I believed at the time that the knowledge I learned was far too dangerous to be shared with a common soldier and hoped to speak to someone of…higher standing, so to say.”

At this, she leans forward slightly, catching his gaze with her own eyes, trying to convey the seriousness of what she has seen. He matches her immediately, leaning closer, his posture expectant.

The lines she practiced on the way here vanish from her tongue, leaving space only for earnestness. Quite frankly, she likes this man, his immediate evaluation of her, the unexpected show of trust. She may not be able to see a soul the way Hades or Hythlodeaus could, but she has always excelled at reading people, even those she just met. And she knows, without the shadow of a doubt, that this person right in front of her is one of those whose steadfastness and faith will prove themselves unparalleled when put to the test.

“Here is what I have learned…”

---

Getting smuggled into a theocratic city-state in the middle of an unnaturally summoned blizzard was not what Calliope expected of the following day.

The unnaturally summoned blizzard? A staple as far as she was concerned. Being smuggled into a place because certain individuals were not to be made aware of her arrival? An almost weekly occurrence back in her haydays. And there used to be that one tribe of intelligent, earth-dwelling creatures she once met far in the western reaches who organized themselves based on their fervent belief in a being they called ‘Earth-Mother’ in their tongue. They also happened to live in one fairly large settlement - as such, they should fit the definition of theocratic city-state, even if a bit of stretching of said definition were to be needed.

But a combination of those three is definitely a new experience.

She is currently huddling against the corner of a wall in something of a small nook formed by the nearby wooden beams, an elezen man going by Francel next to her, close enough that she can feel the warmth of his body. On Francel’s other side are Farieaux and Claudine, both handpicked guards by Haurchefant for their discretion and ability to operate without unnecessary zealotry. Haurchefant himself is way ahead of them, but if Calliope were to concentrate, she can just barely make out the sound of his voice where he is arguing with the soldiers guarding the plaza.

Their plan is simple - get Calliope into the city proper, move her unseen towards where the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, one Aymeric de Borel, is located. Then, after somehow convincing said man of the urgency of their mission, get him to escort them to the Cathedral to secure an audience with the Archbishop himself - all while keeping Calliope’s identity as an outsider hidden. Additionally, and something Calliope prays is not going to backfire astronomically, the scaly bundle still snuggled into her hood, courtesy of one amused Midgardsormr, has to remain utterly hidden from anyone’s notice, as smuggling the actual father of dragonkind into a city at war with said dragonkind is probably not ideal.

(It will be a blast when she will one day get to tell the story to Hythlodeaus and Hades when they reunite in the Aetherial Sea. She can practically see the exasperation on Hades’ face, can hear Hythlodeaus’ appreciating chuckles. By the stars does it hurt to think of them.)

Haurchefant’s deliberately loud steps are returning to their little hiding space, all of them keeping as quiet as possible. His face, when he comes into view, is grim, but not hopeless as he checks their surroundings then steps impossibly closer. When he speaks, his voice is almost lost to the howling winds.

“Ser Aymeric is currently not available, I've been informed he is in an audience with the Archbishop this eve. He will not be returning to the Knights’ Quarters until the morrow.”

Which will make it easier to get to both, but harder to get in in the first place. Calliope frowns as Francel curses quietly.

“I assume getting to the Archbishop without this Ser Aymeric in tow will be difficult?”, she asks innocently.

Haurchefants throws a glance towards the plaza again, then crowds them even further into the tiny hiding space.

“Ser Aymeric is related to His Holiness, though not officially,” he murmurs carefully, his voice pitched so it does not travel beyond their space. “Our best bet is to either miraculously catch the Lord Commander as he is leaving, or try again on the morrow.”

“Is there an ideal place to catch him then?”

“A handful of elevated walkways, but they are all exposed; high spaces that none but the dragoons dare linger on during a blizzard. With the current conditions, it is impossible to even see the walkways, so we have no clue as to when he may be approaching.”

Out of the corner of her eyes she sees Francel twisting his shoulders, fidgeting needlessly. Haurchefant notices as well.

“Having an alternative plan on your mind, dear Francel?”

Calliope turns her gaze from Haurchefant’s amused expression to the elezen in question who - despite the late hour and furiously falling snowflakes - can be seen blushing under the attention.

“One you might dislike greatly. You and I meet Ser Aymeric at his home. Farieaux and Claudine escort Azem to the townhouse of House Fortemps. Surely your lord father would be willing to help under the circumstances and keep quiet about her presence.”

At the mention of his father, Haurchefant drops his amused expression and instead turns his head to the side, his gaze immediately directed at something in the distance. Calliope once again wonders what the story is. Are they estranged? Was there a fight? Will she have the time to learn this story before she has to leave?

Before Haurchefant can reply the wind picks up even more, a furious blow of ice and cold that hits them where they are huddled.

“We cannot linger outside for anyone!” Claudine almost yells to be heard. “Best head inside so that we actually survive the night in this storm!”

“With every hour we waste we allow the heretics to draw ever closer!” Francel responds vehemently, distracted from gazing at the commander.

The elezen descend into a heated argument, the lines drawn between those who’d linger and those who’d wait. But Calliope no longer pays any attention to them, intent instead on the ice and snow around her. Something about it feels familiar, the storm clearly unnatural though the source of its strangeness eludes her. Without much thought she motions with one of her barely gloved hands, invoking a spell that will keep her warm, then, ignoring her companions, steps out of their hiding space.

Hands try to hold her back, pulling at her shoulders, but already she stands firm, her gaze drawn up, further into the darkness of the piercing spires above. An idea comes to her then, a thought that is more of a wild stretch than anything else, but for a fraction of a second she can feel something she has known before, the harmony of a spell she has encountered before.

And, yes! There it is, the center of the spell, the summoning. She knows the shape and weight of it, has studied this particular one after begging her colleague to teach her.

Wind is her favorite, and fire her birthright - her own aether, thin as it is, more than enough to counter one crucial part of the spell all around her. She lifts her other arm in the direction of the source, then sends a single strand of her power, golden and bright, into the darkness, willing it to curl around and snuff out the spell keeping the unnatural blizzard alive.

The sudden absence of sound feels like being plunged into deep waters as from one moment to another the howling winds stop, the ice disappearing. All too sudden, she can hear her own breathing, and the shocked inhales of the elezen at her back.

And more than that, with the lack of chaotic white impeding her view, she can see the figure floating in between the spires, can feel their attention on her. Perhaps it is recklessness, maybe just the hint of a memory of Amaurot, but whatever it may be that guides her actions - she smiles, drawing back the hood protecting her from the elements and while doing so, invokes her sigil.

A moment of tension, a breath held in her chest.

High up above, another sigil, albeit a red one, bursts to life as Igeyorhm leaves their position atop the spires and descends to meet Azem.