At the Southern Farming Settlement , Morning
Rosa stood at the crest of a low ridge, her white cloak shifting gently in the wind as she overlooked the fields below. Terraced rows stretched into the valley, dotted with workers knee, deep in the dark soil. The smell of tilled earth and damp grain lingered in the air , a sharp contrast to the rocky scent of the mines miles north.
Behind her, the unfinished chapel swayed slightly with the breeze, its wooden frame creaking. A sealed letter rested inside her satchel, marked with the Imperial crest. She had read it that morning by candlelight and folded it away when the first light touched the fields.
"Ma'am," a young man called, jogging up the slope. His sleeves were rolled, his hands rough from work. "The settlers are wondering what to call this place. Hard to pray for rain or luck when you've got nowhere to direct the prayer."
Rosa's eyes followed the sun glinting on the wet furrows. "What names have they thought of?"
"Some of the old farmers said Balamb Fields," he replied, smiling faintly. "Said the hills reminded them of the gardens near the coast."
"Then let that be its name," she said softly. "Balamb Fields."
He grinned and ran off to share the news. Before long, the name spread in shouts and laughter. Balamb Fields. The first true sound of belonging in a place that had been nothing but wilderness weeks ago.
Rosa allowed herself a small, quiet smile. A name gave people roots , and roots gave them reason to stay.
A healer approached from the camp below, clutching a ledger. "Lady Rosa, food stores are running low. If the next convoy doesn't come through soon, we'll have to ration more strictly."
"Then cut the soldiers' allotment first," Rosa said, her tone calm but firm. "The laborers keep the fields alive; the soldiers only guard them."
The woman blinked. "Ma'am? That may not sit well with the garrison."
Rosa turned her gaze back toward the valley. "Then they can plant if they wish to eat more. The hands that till deserve the first share."
The healer nodded and hurried off, half, relieved, half, uneasy. Rosa watched her go, then withdrew the folded letter again. The writing was sharp and precise , unmistakably Cecil's.
Rosa,
The one who controls the food controls the people. Harvests will decide the balance of power long before swords do. Maintain the granaries and ensure that loyalty flows with the grain. If the Empire's convoys falter, the fields must not.
, Cecil
Rosa traced the edge of the parchment before folding it away once more. Cecil's words were pragmatic, not cruel. He understood better than anyone that control did not always come from fear , sometimes it came from mercy shown at the right time, in the right measure.
Down by the terraces, children chased a pair of stray chocobos, their laughter echoing off the hills. A few of the white, armband soldiers stood guard by the irrigation lines, their armor dulled by dust and sweat. Rosa's eyes lingered on them briefly, then drifted back to the workers.
"Keep the northern trenches flowing," she called to a passing overseer. "And make sure every household receives its share before sunset."
He bowed quickly and set off. The people listened to Rosa not out of command, but because she gave them reason to. Among mud, hunger, and uncertainty, her voice carried calm , the kind that could bind hearts more effectively than any order.
As the sun dipped lower, Rosa turned toward the chapel, its half, built frame casting long shadows across the fields. The Empire's convoys would not last forever, and when they stopped, the one who held the grain would hold the future.
For now, though, the name Balamb Fields rang bright and new through the valley, and Rosa smiled as if she had planted something far more enduring than crops.