A few weeks had passed since the last chapter's events. The new settlement had swelled with the steady arrival of convoys, stone and timber buildings now standing where tents once sprawled, and the rough sound of hammers filled the air from sunrise to dusk. The place had taken on rhythm and structure, something more than survival.
Varrin moved among the construction crews at the central square, his voice sharp enough to carry over the noise. "Hold that beam steady, no, not like that, you'll shear the joint clean off!"
He had a knack for getting things done, even if it meant shouting until his voice cracked.
Dole passed by hauling a crate of nails under one arm. "You ever think about teaching them without all the yelling?"
Varrin didn't glance up. "You ever think about doing your job without all the commentary?"
A few of the nearby workers laughed, and the pace picked up again. Beneath the banter and noise, the settlement was growing into something that might one day be called a town.
Out past the main road stood the newly fenced chocobo ranch. A handful of wild birds had been captured over the past month, bright plumes, strong legs, and eyes full of mistrust. Their handlers worked carefully, coaxing rather than breaking. Mounted riders had become valuable in the wilds beyond the veil, and training them had become a priority.
Moss leaned against the fence as a young recruit tried to mount one of the new chocobos. The bird sidestepped sharply and gave a sharp kweh, sending the man stumbling backward into the dirt.
Lyra moved quickly, her hands glowing with faint white light as she whispered a Cure. The bruises faded, leaving the recruit more embarrassed than hurt.
"Thank you, ma'am," he muttered.
"Don't thank me," Lyra said gently. "Try listening next time."
The boy nodded and walked off, limping slightly. Another rider nearby, older and more prideful, snorted. "Listening doesn't matter if the bird's half, crazed. You knights just make it look easy."
Moss regarded him quietly, the calm in his expression enough to make the man hesitate. Then, without a word, Moss swung onto Bran's back. The chocobo lifted his head with a quick kweh as if understanding.
"Keep your eyes open," Moss said simply.
He guided Bran toward the obstacle course, fences, uneven terrain, and straw dummies fixed with wooden shields. As they started, the bird surged forward in a blur of motion. Moss leaned with every turn, his movements in rhythm with Bran's strides. They vaulted cleanly over hurdles, weaving through the markers, and his blade flashed once, twice, cutting the straw targets clean at their necks.
The air filled with feathers and the sharp rhythm of talons striking packed earth.
By the time they circled back, the field had gone quiet. The older trainee swallowed, eyes wide.
Moss dismounted and gave Bran a slow pat along the neck. "They're not tools," he said, voice steady. "They're partners. If you fight them, they'll fight you."
A pause lingered, and then Dole's voice rang out from across the yard. "Now that's how you say watch and learn!"
Laughter rippled through the watching handlers, easing the tension. Moss gave a faint shake of his head but couldn't help the ghost of a smile.
The sun sank lower as the day wore on. Workers carried timber toward the new storehouses, miners returned from the tunnels, and the smell of roasting grain drifted through the camp. Beneath the rough edges, something solid was forming, discipline, routine, and the faint sense that they were building a future rather than merely surviving it.
As dusk fell, Bran settled beside Moss at the fence. The chocobo gave a low kweh, feathers fluffing against the cooling wind. Moss rested a hand on his mount's shoulder and took a long breath.
For all the hardship, the wilds felt a little less hostile tonight.