The heat of midday weighed over Rabanastre, the sandstone city shimmering like a mirage under the desert sun. Markets sprawled through narrow backstreets, stalls bursting with trinkets, old gears, cracked compasses, and rusted blades polished just enough to seem worth buying. The voices of merchants rang out, competing for coin, while the smell of fried bread and spiced meat drifted above the crowd.
Sirius walked openly among them. For once, he did not veil himself, nor conceal his form with the trinket's illusions. Today he moved as he was — tall, calm, with an aura that made people step aside without quite realizing why. He studied the flow of people, their threads weaving together in ordinary patterns of life. Destiny here was quieter, gentler, compared to worlds drowning in chaos. Yet within that quiet flow, he sensed something strange.
It was a flicker, not of a person, but of a presence — a resonance unlike anything else. Subtle, fragile, yet glowing with potential. Sirius followed it down a narrow lane where the shouts of merchants softened into mutters.
That was when he heard the commotion.
A hume mercenary in leather armor was arguing with a small figure behind a stall piled with broken gadgets and mismatched scraps of metal. The figure's voice was shrill, wings twitching furiously.
"This isn't junk, kupo!" the little creature shouted, stamping his tiny foot. His fur was pale cream, his ears long, and his pom — unlike the usual soft pink of his kind — glowed faintly turquoise, shimmering like captured starlight. "It's a working aether regulator — well, almost working, nyo-kup! But you wouldn't know an aether line if it tangled round your ears!"
The mercenary scowled, tossing the object back onto the stall with a clatter. "Bah. Trash is trash. A moogle pawning scraps won't fool me." With a final glare, the man stormed off, boots clanging against the cobblestones.
The moogle slumped forward, ears drooping, wings sagging. His tiny claws fiddled with a bent gear, but even that he dropped, muttering to himself. "Always the same, kupo. Nobody sees what I see. Nobody listens. Just junk, they say. Junk."
Sirius stepped closer. His eyes were drawn to the turquoise glow of the moogle's pom-pom. It pulsed faintly, like a beacon tied to deeper streams of aether. Not ordinary. Not random. Resonant.
"You see flows others do not," Sirius said simply.
The moogle startled, blinking up at the tall stranger who had appeared at his stall. His ears perked, wings fluttering nervously. "Eh? What do you mean, kupo? You mean… you can feel them too? Most humes just stare at me funny when I talk about it."
Sirius crouched slightly, meeting the moogle's curious stare. "Your eyes follow the currents. Not just what's broken… but what lies beneath. Very few can feel that."
The moogle puffed his chest, though his voice trembled. "Of course I can, kupo! Been fixing compasses and regulators since I was pom-high! But…" He lowered his head, ears drooping again. "…nobody believes me. They just laugh. Even other moogles think I'm odd. And now you, stranger — are you mocking me too?"
Sirius shook his head. "No. I recognize you for what you are." He let his gaze flick once more to the turquoise glow. "Your pom resonates with aether itself. It marks you as unique, even among your kind."
The moogle blinked, stunned silent. His paws twitched, as though he wanted to cover the pom-pom but couldn't. "Unique, kupo…? You… you really see it?"
"I do," Sirius replied evenly. "And I know what it means."
The moogle swallowed hard, torn between pride and wariness. Finally, he straightened, his voice sharp as he tried to mask his nerves. "Hmph! Well, seeing it and understanding it are two different things, nyo-kup! Maybe you're just another fancy-talker trying to flatter me so I'll sell you my good pieces."
Sirius almost smiled. "You think I want to buy scraps?"
The moogle hesitated, then huffed, stamping a claw against the stall. "It's not scraps! It's—well—" He trailed off, realizing how defensive he sounded. His ears drooped again. "…I just… I just want someone to see it, kupo. The lines, the flows. To understand I'm not crazy."
For a moment, Sirius said nothing. He only watched as the moogle fidgeted, his pride warring with loneliness. Then Sirius extended a hand, palm open. "I see you. Not as a scrap-peddler. But as something greater. You are meant for more than this stall."
The moogle froze. His turquoise pom glowed brighter, pulsing in rhythm with Sirius's words. He whispered, almost to himself, "Meant for more…"
But then he shook his head fiercely, wings fluttering. "No! No, kupo! I've heard that before. Everyone saying I should leave, find better work, go to bigger cities. But this is my stall! My scraps! I made every gear shine again with my own claws. Don't think you can just swoop in, mister tall-and-mysterious, and tell me I'm meant for something else!"
His voice cracked at the end, and Sirius heard the truth in it — not anger, but fear. Fear of leaving what little he had. Fear of being laughed at all over again.
Sirius did not withdraw his hand. His voice softened, patient. "I do not command you. I offer only truth. The world will try to bury your gift under mockery and dust. But your sight — your resonance — is not meant to be wasted on scraps. You could craft things that touch the very threads of fate itself."
The moogle stared at him, trembling, unable to answer. His pom glowed brighter, as though drawn to Sirius's certainty.
Finally, he muttered, almost against his own will, "…You're a strange one, kupo. Not like the others."
Sirius inclined his head. "Strange enough to see you clearly."
The moogle looked down at his claws, then back at Sirius's open hand. His pride still bristled, but something inside him shifted — a spark of hope he hadn't felt in years.
"Maybe," the moogle whispered, almost too soft to hear. "Maybe you're not lying. Nyo-kup."