The morning air was sharp but clear when Moss and his riders left Narshe's gate. The chocobos set a steady pace, talons drumming against the packed earth. Riding made the distance pass in half the time a walking patrol would've needed, and the sight of the land rolling by gave the group a sense of purpose few of them had yet earned.
The new riders were eager, some overconfident, but Moss had seen that before. Every campaign began the same way: laughter, chatter, and the illusion that danger could be kept at arm's length.
"Remember," he called, glancing back over the line, "this route will be yours to ride in the months ahead. Learn every bend, every rise. The land remembers where we're careless."
A few nodded, though one or two only smirked.
Cid rode alongside him, looking uncharacteristically at ease for someone who hadn't seen open sky in weeks. "Feels good to stretch my legs," he said, tugging at his gloves. "Forge work's fine, but it doesn't exactly get the blood moving."
"Just don't start trying to hammer the wildlife," Dole muttered from behind.
Cid chuckled. "If it bites first, I'll consider it fair game."
Their laughter carried briefly through the line. The rhythm of travel took hold, the steady beat of chocobo talons, the jingle of harnesses, the soft wind moving through coarse grass. The hills gave way to the low plains that spread between Narshe and the path toward Vector Hold. By midday, they were halfway to their next checkpoint.
The air was calm, clear of any shimmer or warp of aether. A few riders relaxed, testing their mounts' jumps over a fallen log beside the trail.
"Careful," Moss warned. "Don't get clever this far out."
But the mood was light, and one of the trainees, young, confident, pressed on. "Just keeping the chocobo sharp, Captain!" he called, grinning as his bird cleared the log with a smooth, practiced leap.
Another followed, then another, laughter trailing in their wake.
Moss was about to remind them to keep formation when Bran's feathers bristled beneath him. The air ahead shimmered faintly, an unnatural ripple bending the light.
"Hold!" Moss barked.
Too late. A rift opened in the treeline, and an aether beast lunged out, all sinew and flickering blue mist. It collided with the last jumper midair, throwing both rider and mount sideways into the dirt.
The laughter vanished.
"Form up!" Moss spurred Bran forward, steel already drawn.
The riders scrambled into motion. Cid wheeled his chocobo aside and hurled a flare bomb that burst into bright white light, scattering the creature's focus. Dole's hand ignited with a flare of crimson as he cast Fire, the spell catching the beast across the shoulder.
Lyra rode forward, staff raised, the faint green glow of Cure closing the trainee's wounds before the bleeding worsened.
Moss drove Bran straight through the haze, his blade flashing. The chocobo struck hard, talons kicking, and Moss's sword found its mark through the beast's neck. The creature disintegrated into fading sparks.
When the air cleared, silence pressed in again.
Lyra knelt beside the fallen rider. "He'll live," she said softly. "Nothing deep."
Moss exhaled, scanning the others. "That's why you don't drift," he said. "The wilds out here don't forgive carelessness."
The young riders nodded, faces pale. Then Dole winced sharply as his chocobo pecked him on the head.
"Ow! What's your problem?" he muttered, rubbing the spot.
The tension cracked; a few chuckled, and even Moss's expression eased.
"Lesson learned," he said, turning Bran toward the road ahead. "Let's finish the run."
The column reformed, quieter now. They rode on toward the next settlement, each trainee with a new respect for the silence that followed laughter on the trail.