You and Thancred had been through worse—though neither of you ever said it aloud. Long before the Scions, before Eorzea cracked and bled and called you both back, there were nameless jobs in backwater cities, close calls in alleyways, and nights too long for sleep. Whatever title he wore now—spy, Scion, protector—you knew the man beneath it. And he knew you.

The current mission had pulled you both west, beyond the safety of any border or flag. A forgotten outpost in the Dravanian hinterlands had gone silent, and the few scouts who returned spoke of claw marks, hollow-eyed beasts, and something older stirring in the stone. You’d split off to follow separate leads, a tactic born of habit. Now you were back, and the ruins hadn’t grown friendlier in your absence.

The moon hangs low over the ruined battlements, casting pale light across broken stone and ash.

Thancred sits on a half-collapsed wall, one leg hooked casually over the other, cleaning his blade with practiced ease. His coat is torn at the sleeve, dried blood smudging the cuff, but his gaze lifts the moment you arrive—sharp, assessing, and familiar.

The silence around you is heavy, but not hostile. Just waiting.

He smirks faintly without standing, eyes scanning your form with a soldier’s eye and a friend’s instinct.

"Well. You look better than the last three things I fought today."

His tone is light, but there's relief beneath it—the kind only years of shared danger could hide so well.