Chapter Text
“Five.”
Raha denies the lump in his throat, leaving his mouth awfully, painfully dry.
“Four.”
The labyrinth of dark metal and crystalline conduits buzzes around him, setting his every nerve on edge like an exposed wire.
“Three.”
He winces, struggling to keep both eyes open. One shuts despite his most valiant efforts.
“Two.”
…And before he even says the final word, Raha’s heart lunges in his chest. Estinien leaps into the fray, landing within the shield’s nexus field a moment too early.
A moment too early. Too soon. Not by bells, or by breaths, but only a sliver of time so minuscule that Raha’s calculations accounted for it.
What he had not accounted for was that the fabled Azure Dragoon’s training had always prepared him to strike before the clock hit zero.
—
Hotter and hotter it burned.
Unbeknownst to the Archons of Sharlayan, Labyrinthos was akin to a wound that would not scab over. An excavation into the flesh of their very star. And for a long time, there were next to none in the way of ill effects. Due to its careful monitoring and strictly kept artificial systems, Labyrinthos held strong regardless of the rising tide. When the Allagan facility embedded deep, deep underground was roused, the ever-expanding research chamber forged by the Forum acted as an irritant to its reactor.
Labyrinthos had become a burden upon the strata that cradled the ancient structure beneath it.
Four years ago, the reactor, by all logical means, should have imploded. Not only would Labyrinthos’ vast catalogued research have been lost, but Sharlayan itself would experience the fallout of the blow. What that would entail, however, become a hypothetical study not even the Forum wished to engage with too closely.
The Allagan reactor predated even the oldest surviving Imperial record.
Left unchecked, the resulting detonation would carve a hole deep enough to threaten mass extinction, possibly to a greater degree than an Umbral Calamity.
—
Estinien awakens with a start, bathed in a sheen of sweat. A bead drips from his temple to the edge of his cheek, and yet he does not feel the bite of the Ishgardian winter.
After his vision ceases its incessant swimming, he begins to process his surroundings in earnest.
The bed he lays within is dressed with off-white and deep cobalt satin sheets, awash in streaks of sunlight dancing between the blinds. As he turns his head from right to left, he observes that the room is mostly made up of those colors—save for some pale yellows and lighter accent blues.
It’s a large room. The neatly curated room of a nobleman.
And through the curtain, beyond the split open blinds, he can see trees. A temperate mix of broadleaf and deciduous hardwoods. Some seem to be in bloom, their blossoms faint against the canopy.
Without the cover of snowfall, birds fix themselves within the boughs, twittering in the morning light.
A groan escapes him as he sits up. The back ribs in his chest are notably sore. His body aches as if he’d fought against a great wyrm, and yet, such a taxing event eludes his recollection; in fact, the last thing he remembers is…traveling southeast, near Camp Dragonhead…?
Gridania perhaps, then. Some sort of accident along the border with a spot of bad luck?
Speculation aside, Estinien spies his lance against the wall by the door. Or—at least—he believes it to be his lance. In his heart of hearts, he recognizes the weapon as his own, even though it appears darker somehow. Weathered. Worn. As though altered by unseen hands. Something else lingers there, just beyond his mind’s grasp.
As soon as he musters the strength to pry himself from the bed, there are three consecutive knocks at the door.
“My lord?” a firm female voice calls out to him. “Breakfast is ready.”
Only a fleeting glance is spared towards the servant’s words as Estinien shrugs on a nearby coat and collects his lance. He does not find his armor to be within the room, so he’ll have to make do without it for the time being. So long as there are no dragons about, this should not be an issue.
His turns the handle to reveal what he had come to expect: a young woman in breathable, lightweight fabrics, modestly tailored and subdued.
“Your lord is not here,” he says, moving to step beyond her.
“…Come again, my lord?” the woman prompts. She blinks, shaking her head faintly as she swivels her head to follow. “Do you…not want for breakfast?”
Estinien stops in his tracks. Ha. To think himself mistaken for any such birthright to a noble house.
He turns to look at her, absorbing her confused expression.
“I am no lord. Pray—tell me where we are.”
“…You are within Mistress Alisaie’s abode…?” He notes the continued confusion, her gaze briefly darting away before it returns. “Shall I…fetch her?”
“Yes.” And on second thought: “My thanks.”
“That shall not be necessary.”
A miqo’te man rounds the corner as he speaks, raising one hand to the servant in tandem with his winsome smile. Estinien is not particularly fond of the way the stranger turns that smile onto him a heartbeat after.
“Is aught amiss, my friend?” the miqo’te asks. “Alisaie has her mind set to some work of her own devising, though I would be happy to lend my aid should you require it.”
Notably, the servant woman bows first to the stranger, then to Estinien, before departing without further comment.
Estinien stares at the newcomer, absorbing his pleasant demeanor. He is well versed in nobles and their falsified niceties. “I am in search of my armor. Tell me—are you the master of this house?”
Those fuzzy red ears droop slightly. The man scratches idly at his cheek, his uncertainties plain on display. “Your—what…?” He pulls a displeased face, and this, Estinien is unsure how to interpret. “I—yes? Forgive me: whatever do you mean…?”
Grip tightening on his lance, Estinien weighs the weapon in his hands, keen on intuiting the source of its disquieting change. It bears a faint resemblance to the sensation of the Eye.
The Eye.
His eyes widen marginally and he takes an empowered step closer to the man, rejuvenated through his pain and disorientation from the revelation alone. “Where is my armor?” he demands, jaw tight. “How have I come to be in this place??”
“Estinien,” the nobleman says. Though it lacks the heat of a threat, hearing his name from the lips of a powerful stranger comes about as an omen. “Please—do relax.”
The man raises both hands in surrender. “I imagine your armor lies within the wardrobe. ’Tis possible, however, you did not bring it along with you from the first.”
Estinien wastes no time in swiveling, directing himself in the way he came. He shoulders the door forcefully enough that it slams against the wall, and he throws the wardrobe wide open. Though his own echoed name lingers in his mind, his focus must remain on the Eye. And, though there is armor in the wardrobe, it is not the raiments of the Azure Dragoon.
Nor is he able to sense the Eye.
He cannot sense it anywhere.
Footsteps trail him before the man lingers in the bedroom doorway. As Estinien’s head whips around the vicinity, he catches the puffy red tail swish back and forth, as if with anxiety. Culpability.
“You do not act yourself, Estinien… What has happened? Did—” An aborted thought. “Are you…?”
Guilty. Certainly he is guilty. A biased party, hoping to wrest the power of the Eye for himself.
Estinien whirls around, marching closely on his space to contend with his folly.
“Where. Is. The. Eye,” he demands. Teeth pressing into a sneer, his gaze wildly searches the noble for any sign of malcontent. The stranger must drop this facade eventually.
“The…Eye…?” Both of the man’s brows raise in alarm. He knows he’s been sniffed out. “The Eye of Nidhogg??”
“Enough! I know not how I came to be here, but if this was done in the effort of lifting the Eye of Nidhogg from my person, you have not been made aware with what power you contend.”
Still, the man does not cow to Estinien’s seething rage.
“I—I would have neither the capability nor the desire to take the Eyes from you. I am rather fond of the burdens I bear, actually.
“And I would highly suggest you not threaten me in my own home.”
Estinien growls in the back of his throat and strides nearer to seize the miqo’te by the front of his collar. “The only threat present is what will come should any attempt to claim the Eye of Nidhogg. I ask again, where is it?”
Even grappled, not an ounce of fear lingers behind the nobleman’s gaze. It reminds him of the Dravanians, and those vivid red eyes stand reminiscent of Nidhogg’s brood—though where theirs, and Nidhogg’s own, bear the deep hue of fresh-spilled blood, the nobleman’s glow as brighter, almost unnatural, gemstones.
“If this must be done, so be it,” the man says. He raises one hand and touches two fingers to Estinien’s temple. The world vanishes into blackness.
The dark lasts no longer than a heartbeat, but when sight returns, the nobleman has already forced Estinien back. His hands move with measured, wordless precision. Those same two fingers carve a horizontal line through the air, then a vertical one, each stroke leaving behind a lingering trail of aether. With a final flick of his wrists, the lines bend at impossible angles, corners blooming into existence until a square hangs between his palms.
Estinien’s grip on his lance tightens and twists, but the moment he lunges, the stranger rotates his hands inward. The aetheric construction obeys instantly, folding around Estinien from every side. The glowing frame seals itself with a resonant hum, and his lance bounces off the perfect crystalline cage.
Estinien looks above, observing the sheen of the shield’s roof. With a grunt, he focuses all the force he can manage to strike the cage once more. The frame does nothing but quiver.
“Now, now, stay put in that box, would you? This is for your own safety, my friend.”
Gritting his teeth, Estinien heaves in ragged breath. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”
“Oh, dear,” the man says quietly, his expression faltering. “…I suppose this would explain your agitated state.” A hand rises to his chin, analyzing Estinien like a specimen for study. “I am G’raha Tia. Tell me…what is the last thing you recall?”
The words catch Estinien off guard, stealing the fight from him.
He had known, upon waking, that something was amiss. His confusion had been impossible to ignore. Yet the nobleman’s reaction suggests far more than a few missing hours or a lapse in memory. It implies a gulf of time he has yet to comprehend.
And then there is the way he speaks to him.
‘Friend.’
The brief uncertainty burns away, consumed by fresh fury.
“Enough!” Estinien slams his hand against the barrier. “Answer me. Where are we? Or is even that much beyond you?”
“At present, you are in Sharlayan. Old Sharlayan, to be precise. You have been under our care for the better part of two days.
“And, to be clear,” the man continues, “in the brief periods during which you were conscious, I observed nothing untoward in your behavior. You recognized me nigh immediately, and appeared to know my beloved as well.
“You even stepped out for breakfast yesterday.”
Though he wants to ask more questions, Estinien knows he’s not going to get anywhere if he cannot parse what questions to ask.
How unsettling that this man seemed to be confused about questions pertaining to the Eye, yet alludes to a relationship with the Azure Dragoon himself. It is simply not possible for people who claim to be friends of Estinien’s to be unaware of the value and vengeful essence the Eye of Nidhogg harbors.
The noble—G’raha Tia, he said—turns an inch towards the door. “I will step out for but a moment. If you would, please refrain from causing any trouble. I promise to see this matter resolved without delay.”
And once he leaves, Estinien closes his eyes, focusing on the sound of his footsteps trailing away.
When he can no longer hear them, he raises his lance and relentlessly punctures the barrier in the same spot—or near enough to it—that he struck it before. Fifteen blows in, sweat beads at his brow, breath turning ragged.
He roars, pouring the last of his strength into the final thrust. The aether gives way at last, splintering into fragments of light.
Freed of its disruptive confines, he gathers aether to himself and casts Return.
Estinien has never favored aetheryte travel, though Old Sharlayan is unfamiliar to him beyond its isolation—an island far removed from the mainland. Likely, he would need a boat, and there is no certainty he would be ferried to safe harbor.
Still, the thought of arrival steadies him. The sensation of being unmade and reconstituted is always unwelcome. But it is brief. In an instant, he will be standing on the firm stone of Ishgard’s aetheryte plaza.
But that is not what happens.
As the aether settles and his location comes into focus, there is stone beneath his feet—real and stable, as expected. But the surroundings are all wrong.
No white stone. No familiar spires.
Instead, he finds himself in an unfamiliar city of dark walls and crowded streets, bustling with people from all across the realm.
A city he has never seen before.