One, two, three; the rushing, frozen air is intimately familiar and the moon, a beloved old friend.

“Be better than I was yesterday.”

Four, five, six; each arc of his blade sheds fractals of light across the arena like crescent moons.

“Become Ishgard's shield, Her blade, Her—”

—Zephirin sees a shadow and nearly drops his sword with a shock. He releases a quiet hiss and levels his heavy blade towards it.

"Who's there?"