Clive swore he could still smell the acrid scent of blood and death even now.

It had been several months since the massacre of Bearers in Auldhyl, an atrocity orchestrated by none other than his own mother and her Black Shields. He never had the heart to return to the place. Not even now, when the Empire’s grip on Rosaria had finally begun to loosen after the destruction of Drake’s Tail.

That was, until today.

They’d received a tip: slavers were gathering at the abandoned town, with ships ready to ferry Bearers off to whatever godsforsaken corners of the Twins their buyers desired. With the largest Mothercrystal in Ash destroyed, Bearers had become dangerously valuable, even as the toll on their bodies increased with each spell cast. Being traded now was a death sentence. And Clive wouldn’t allow it. Not here. Not again.

“Down, girl. Keep hidden.” Clive dismounted his chocobo as they neared the village, giving Ambrosia a gentle pat before gesturing for her to stay out of sight. As she disappeared into the shadows, Torgal padded up beside him, a low growl already rumbling in his throat. This was going to be trouble.

With measured steps, Clive made his way into the town and toward the docks. The reports had undersold it. This wasn’t a gathering—it was a full congregation. Slavers packed the area, wagons lined up with shackled Bearers, and ships waiting, ready to set sail.

There was no time for subterfuge. He had to act now.

Flames burst from his palms as he charged in, sword already drawn, striking down the first slaver before the man could even scream. Torgal leapt into the fray beside him, fangs tearing into those who fled.

The dock erupted into chaos—screams, spells, blades clashing. Clive moved like a storm, cutting through enemy after enemy, ducking arrows and retaliating with fire that turned wood and flesh to ash. But they were many, and well-armed. He was powerful, but even he could only hold so long alone. Chains looped around his arm and a sword grazed his side, when a blinding flash of light exploded at the heart of the dock. A pulse of magic, raw and otherworldly, detonated outward with a shockwave that sent everyone flying.

Slavers were thrown into the sea. Wagons split. Masts cracked. The very earth trembled. Clive hit the ground hard, skidding across the splintered dock.

When the dust had settled, no ship was left afloat. The slavers were reduced to cinders. And just in time, the Cursebreakers arrived. Clive swept the sweat from his forehead with the back of his gloved hand before sheathing his blade. He hated to admit it, but his recklessness had nearly cost him. If not for that strange blast of magic, he would’ve been overwhelmed before he could even prime into Ifrit.

But… what was that explosion?

No Bearer could conjure magic of that scale. There were no crystals nearby. And yet the aether he’d felt was unmistakably powerful, similar to a Dominant, but… not quite.

Carefully, Clive stepped toward the blast’s epicenter. He expected to find scorched wreckage. Maybe a foreign bomb. Something he could explain. Instead, he found a person. They lay curled on the ground, knees tucked to their chest, sound asleep in the middle of what had been a battlefield.

Clive stared. What? He crouched, inspecting them. Their clothes were strange, no armor, no signs of protective gear. Just layers of fabric unlike anything from the known realms. Foreign, certainly. Maybe from the outer continents?

Torgal whined softly and nudged the stranger’s arm. Once, twice. On the third nudge, they stirred and sat up slowly, stretching their arms overhead like they’d just woken from a particularly cozy nap and not a blast of magic.

Clive blinked. What was going on? “You,” he said, voice rough with caution. “How did you do that? You have no brand. You’re no Bearer. Who are you?”