The days that followed the Wild Saurian hunt bled together in a rhythm that felt almost… normal.
For once, there were no roars echoing across cliffs, no titanic claws crashing into their shields, no desperate scramble to survive. Instead, the group woke with the sun, their blades, staves, and trinkets ready for whatever tasks Montblanc pushed across the counter. Some hunts were small—packs of wolves harassing farmers on the Dalmascan outskirts. Others took them further, to the Ozmone Plains where the tall grass whispered in the wind and cockatrices darted between the brush.
These weren't trials of destiny. They were simply hunts. Work that needed doing. And yet, in their simplicity, there was purpose.
---
In Jahara, the Garif greeted them with cautious curiosity, their horned masks tilting as they measured the strength of outsiders. The warriors moved with slow dignity, their chants resonating like low thunder.
Clive bowed his head, though his hands still itched for his sword. "They see everything," he muttered under his breath.
"They see truth," Lunafreya corrected softly, lowering her staff in respect. To her, the Garif's silence was reverence, not suspicion.
Auron stood with arms folded, absorbing their wisdom with the same solemnity he gave every warrior. Vivi clung to Clive's cloak at first, overwhelmed by the towering figures, until one of the Garif broke a roasted fruit in half and offered it to him. Vivi's glowing eyes brightened, and for the rest of the day he darted from one Garif to another, eager to learn.
Serah, polite as ever, offered warm thanks for every kindness shown. Mog fluttered above her shoulder, nibbling freely on whatever was passed their way, earning a few surprised chuckles from the stoic tribesmen.
That night, by the campfire, the Garif sang in their deep, resonant voices. For a while, the Fallen sat listening, the weight of war lifting as the desert winds carried ancient songs across the plains.
---
When their travels took them back to Rabanastre, Montblanc pressed them toward Bhujerba. "Sky-city hunts are plenty, kupo! And with you lot, I might finally get to update the Rank boards."
The floating city dazzled even Clive, though he didn't admit it aloud. Marble streets gleamed under the sun, and the whole city seemed suspended in impossible serenity above the clouds. Merchants shouted prices, sky-pirates bragged of spoils, and everywhere airships soared, drifting like silver fish between the towers.
"Does it ever make you dizzy?" Serah asked, leaning carefully over the railing to stare at the endless blue below.
Clive gave a crooked smile. "Only if you think about falling."
Mog fluttered beside her and piped, "Kupo, don't think about falling then!" His pom bobbed cheerfully.
They tried the food, each dish more foreign than the last. Spiced meats that burned on the tongue, bread soaked in syrups so sweet it clung to their fingers, and fish caught by skyhooks from the clouds themselves. Vivi coughed and fanned his face after nibbling the spice, retreating quickly to the sweet bread instead. Mog nearly fainted with joy when presented with a pie stuffed full of kupo nuts.
Between hunts, they slipped into the city's shops. Serah lingered over ribbons dyed in bright silk, her fingers brushing a shade of pink she'd never dared to wear. Mog fluttered around her, declaring, "It suits you, kupo!" until her cheeks flushed brighter than the ribbon itself.
Lunafreya found herself drawn to the tomes of magic theory, her calm expression hiding the flicker of wonder as she traced forgotten spells with her eyes. Auron examined blades in silence, his scarred hand testing the weight of hilts. The merchant kept talking, but Auron's single nod told him more than coin could.
Clive, though, spent more time watching the others than the wares. Their smiles, their curiosity, their laughter—it was unfamiliar, yet strangely grounding. For once, they weren't just survivors. They were companions.
---
Far away in Eorzea, Sirius stood upon a quiet ridge, gazing down at the Black Mages' new settlement. Only ten remained in the village today; the other ten had wandered into the cities, curious about the wider world.
The village itself had grown in quiet dignity. Rows of small houses dotted the land, smoke curling from chimneys. Farmlands stretched out in neat plots, tended by robed figures whose glowing eyes softened as they worked. Wells had been dug, shacks raised, and for the first time, laughter carried faintly on the air.
Line's of tilled earth stretched outward, seeds sprouting beneath their watchful hands. Black Mages knelt in the soil, their glowing eyes fixed not on war but on growth—fields of grain, rows of vegetables, even patches of herbs.
They worked with a patience that belied their origins, murmuring softly to one another as they planted. Each furrow turned, each sprout coaxed upward, carried with it a hope unspoken: food not for themselves alone, but for children yet to come. They dreamed, in their own quiet way, of a future where others might inherit more than fear.
Sirius observed in silence, his cloak stirring faintly in the Eorzean wind. He had not approached them. Not yet. Their path was still their own, unshaped by his hand or his words.
Nor had he attempted what lingered at the edge of his thoughts: to forge a Black Mage not of Mist, but of something new. That would come later, when the time was right. For now, he allowed them to live, to build, to prepare.
His gaze softened briefly as another thread whispered across his vision—the faint shimmer of the chocobo born in Gaia, the hatchling touched by Bahamut's flame. Bird and dragon both, a child of anomaly. Its life pulsed bright and wild, a thread unlike any other. One day, Sirius knew, its path would cross with those who worked this soil. And when that day came, perhaps these Black Mages, who now tilled fields for children they could only dream of, would find in that creature the proof that new life could be forged outside the Mist.
"They are building something real," Sirius murmured to the wind. "A memory reborn… and perhaps a foundation for what must come."
---
Elsewhere across Eorzea, the others lived in their own rhythms.
In Ul'dah, Zack brushed down a chocobo with boyish enthusiasm, his laughter carrying across the stables. He'd tried racing earlier, only to lose spectacularly—but he grinned at the bird and promised, "Next time, we win. You'll see."
In Gridania, Aerith knelt in the earth, her fingers dusty as she coaxed a seed to sprout. The botanists looked on with cautious respect as the shoot broke soil, blooming gently in her palm. She clapped her hands in delight, her voice as bright as the flower itself.
Galuf was already three mugs deep in a tavern, roaring with laughter as he exaggerated his tales of impossible monsters. Some patrons laughed with him, others rolled their eyes, but all listened. His joy was too infectious to ignore.
By the riverside, Noctis cast his line again, water rippling in anticipation. He smiled faintly each time the rod bent, fish unlike any he'd seen tugging at the lure. For once, he wasn't a prince or a king. He was just a young man fishing beneath a foreign sun.
In Limsa Lominsa, Reks sat among veterans, listening more than speaking. Their stories of wars past held him rapt, their strategies and failures burned into his mind. He was no longer a boy forced into war—he was shaping into something else. A soldier who wanted to lead, not just survive.
---
From his ridge, Sirius saw it all. Their hunts, their laughter, their growth. His eyes softened, though his voice was quiet.
"They are training, yes… but more than that, they are learning how to live again."
The Aetherveil shimmered faintly above him, veiled from sight. Aether's voice echoed softly in his mind. "Peace never lasts, Master. You know this."
"I do," Sirius admitted, watching as threads of fate twisted faintly on the horizon. "Chaos is never far. But when it comes… these days of laughter will be the fire that keeps them standing."
He folded his arms, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips.
"For now, let them have this."