The forest to the east of Narshe was still and heavy with predawn chill, its canopy drawn overhead like a muted ceiling of slate. The only sound was the soft tread of Bran's talons sinking into mossy earth, each step measured and ghost-quiet. Moss kept a hand on the chocobo's neck, steadying him, guiding him. Bran seemed to understand the need for silence, head low, feathers sleeked flat, breath kept to soft huffs that vanished into the air.
Serra rode behind him, hands gently clasping Moss's waist for balance, though her focus never broke from the faintly glowing mechanism cradled in her arms. The aether-sensitive device pulsed with a rhythm almost like a heartbeat: a dim flare… pause… another flare. Each pulse pulled faintly toward the same direction Moss felt tugging at his own chest.
Not just tugging, calling.
He tried to ignore it, but every few steps the draw returned like a low thrum under his ribs. Even though he still didn't fully understand the bond between himself and the Eidolon he'd encountered, the sensation carried a strange familiarity. Not painful like before. Not overwhelming. Just present. Near.
Too near.
Branches whispered overhead as Bran stepped around an uprooted trunk, the chocobo's gait remaining cautious. Moss had chosen this route deliberately—deeper animal paths, off the old scouting roads, because if something was in these woods waiting for him, he wanted space to retreat in cover if necessary.
Serra's voice was barely above a whisper. "It's increasing again."
Moss glanced over his shoulder. "The pulse?"
"Yes." Her eyes gleamed with that double-edged excitement of hers, half discovery, half fear. "The readings spike every few minutes. Higher than anything I've documented before."
Moss wasn't sure what to say to that. The device and the sensations in his chest rose in tandem, confirming something he'd been trying not to acknowledge.
"It felt like this before," he murmured.
"You mean… the Titan?" Serra asked quietly.
He nodded. "Not as intense. But similar."
Serra swallowed, though her expression didn't shift toward retreat. If anything, she held Moss a little tighter. "Then we should proceed carefully. But I don't want to turn back yet. Not while the readings are this strong."
"You're too eager about this," Moss said, glancing back fully this time. "Most people would be trying to sprint the other way."
She gave a bright smile. "Moss… this is why I came. Not for the Empire. For this. Real aether phenomena. Eidolons. Living proof beyond the veil. If I turn away now, I'd lose the chance for answers I've spent my entire life chasing this, actual Eidolons unlike the crystalized ones in the Empire."
He didn't push further. Serra wasn't the type to bend once her mind was made. And truthfully… he didn't want to turn away either and he was glad to have someone with him.
Another pulse rolled beneath his sternum, stronger than the last.
Closer.
Bran slowed instinctively as the terrain shifted. The trees thinned, the ground sloping gently downward, the air growing colder with every step. Not normally cold—unnaturally so. A soft shimmer layered the forest floor, and Moss leaned down, brushing two fingers against a patch of strange, pale dust coating a fallen leaf.
Frost.
Serra saw it too, breath catching. "This is"
"I know."
He guided Bran forward, more slowly now, letting the chocobo pick his footing through the widening clearing. Pale light shimmered ahead—the faintest blue glow reflecting through the trunks. Water perhaps. Or something worse.
They moved closer, the trees finally parting entirely.
A lake lay stretched before them, still, dark, ringed with pale reeds and frost-kissed stones. But the lake wasn't what dragged Moss's gaze.
The thing at its center was.
A colossal statue of ice stood half-submerged in the water, every curve smooth and impossibly detailed. The figure was unmistakably feminine, her form delicate and poised, hair flowing backward like frozen ribbons caught in a wind that no longer blew. Her arms crossed gracefully over her chest, a crown of sharp crystalline spires rising from her brow. The ice captured moonlight that wasn't even present, glowing softly from within.
Serra's breath finally escaped her. "Shiva…"
Moss felt his heart stutter. Not from awe. From recognition.
The last time he'd encountered one of these manifestations, one of these Eidolons, the world had nearly cracked open beneath him.
But this was no rampaging titan. This was… something else. Calmer, stiller. But unquestionably alive in its own way.
His attention shifted, toward the lake's far shore.
There, enthroned upon a dais carved entirely from ice, sat a figure.
A young woman, or at least shaped like one. Skin pale as snow, hair long and silvery, cascading like a waterfall of frost. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, chin resting against her knuckles, posture relaxed in a way that seemed almost bored. The air around her sparkled with drifting motes of cold aether.
But her eyes were not bored when they lifted and locked directly onto Moss.
A jolt went through him so sharply Bran twitched beneath the saddle. Serra gasped softly, fingers tightening around Moss's coat.
"Did she… look at us?" Serra whispered.
"She did more than look." Moss swallowed, throat dry.
Serra fidgeted with the device, tapping its casing with trembling fingers. "Her aether signature, it's… it's enormous. It's reading far beyond anything I've measured. It's almost like"
The device whined sharply, drowning out her words.
The woman on the throne tilted her head.
Frozen air rippled outward from her form, spreading across the lake like a thin sheet of glass. Moss felt another echo in his chest, sharper, pulling toward her like a thread tightening between two distant anchors.
Serra felt it too; he could see it in the way her eyes widened. "Moss… She's responding to you."
Before Moss could answer, movement flickered in the tree line to the left of the lake.
A pair of eyes reflected blue. Then another pair. And another.
Miqo'te.
Dozens of them. Lean, fast, their limbs poised with feral grace. They stepped out of the shadows, forming a loose crescent around the clearing. Some carried spears tipped with bone or ice. Others carried bows with arrows shimmering with crystalline frost.
None rushed forward. Not yet.
But they watched Moss and Serra with predatory patience.
Moss's hand slid to Bran's reins. "We need to leave."
Serra nodded shakily, still staring at the figure on the throne. "Agreed."
Moss turned Bran slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements. The chocobo backed up a step, talons crunching softly through frost.
The woman on the throne lifted one hand.
Every Miqo'te in the clearing lowered into a crouch, tensing to spring.
"Go!" Moss shouted.
Bran spun and bolted into the tree line just as the first volley of arrows hissed through the space they'd occupied.
Bran lunged into the trees with explosive force, his powerful legs tearing divots through the frost-glazed soil. Moss leaned low into the chocobo's feathers, arms wrapped tight around the reins as branches whipped past in blurring streaks. Behind them came the Miqo'te—light, fast, their footfalls swift as snapping twigs.
"Keep low!" Moss shouted, pulling Serra close as another arrow hissed overhead. The projectile embedded itself into a trunk with a resonant thud, sending shards of ice crackling outward.
Serra clutched both the aether device and Moss's coat, her breath stuttering. "They're so fast, how are they this fast?"
"They're hunters," Moss said through clenched teeth. "Born in these woods."
Bran swerved sharply, avoiding a fallen log by inches. The chocobo's claws dug for purchase, feathers bristling with panic. Moss felt every tremor in the bird's body, every frantic surge of strength.
The Miqo'te didn't shout. Didn't growl. Didn't communicate verbally at all. They moved with absolute discipline, flanking through underbrush, rushing ahead to cut off escape routes. Frost dusted their limbs and shoulders, shimmering faintly with each bound.
"They're enhanced," Serra realized aloud. "Shiva's aether—it's saturating them."
Moss grimaced. "Now's not the time to be impressed with them!"
Another volley snapped through the trees. Bran veered right, talons skidding on a patch of black ice that hadn't been there moments earlier. Moss yanked hard to keep the chocobo upright, the near fall sending a sick pulse through his stomach.
"Moss left!" Serra cried.
He jerked the reins, and Bran plunged between two ancient oaks, their roots jutting like the ribs of a buried beast. Too narrow for the Miqo'te to follow at full speed. It bought them seconds, precious seconds, but nothing more. The hunters adjusted instantly, splitting into two subgroups, circling around.
Serra turned the device toward the forest canopy. "The readings are gods, they're rising again."
"I know," Moss growled.
The cold had deepened into a biting hunger. Frost edged every branch, every leaf, every stone, as if Shiva's presence had overtaken the entire glade and was now expanding outward. His breath came out in frantic puffs. Bran's, too each exhale a mist that froze before dissipating.
A shape landed beside them with a crack of shattered ice.
A Miqo'te warrior had leapt from a tree bough, claws skidding across the ground as she kept pace with Bran for several long strides. Her pupils were blown wide, reflecting blue light from within her irises. She lunged, silent, graceful.
Moss swung a forearm into the strike, shoving her off-course. She tumbled into a roll, immediately rebounding into pursuit.
"We can't keep escaping them like this," Serra shouted. "Moss, they're her guardians. They won't stop."
The forest floor dipped sharply ahead.
A ravine, narrow but steep.
"Hold on!" Moss barked.
Bran didn't hesitate. He launched himself downward, the slope sending them sliding on dirt and ice. Moss braced his boots and weight backward to keep the chocobo from tumbling head-over-heels. Loose stones rattled. Frost dust filled the air. Serra held on with an iron grip despite the way her teeth chattered.
The ravine funneled them between stone walls that slowly widened into an uneven clearing. Bran managed to regain footing and sprint again, but Moss felt the trap before he saw it.
The hunters were already ahead of them.
Two Miqo'te dropped into the path from the cliffs above, spears angled outward. Their muscles flexed with a cat's deadly precision, their forms gleaming with frost-hardened resolve.
"Bran, right!" Moss pulled sharply.
Too late.
The moment Bran shifted direction, a new sheet of ice burst up from the ground like a jagged wall. Bran let out a startled squawk and dug claws deep to halt before crashing into it.
"They're herding us," Serra whispered, horrified.
Moss looked up.
The Miqo'te lines tightened along the rim of the ravine, archers drawing frost-strung bows. Spears angled. Hunters crouched. Their faces were unreadable, neither enraged nor frenzied. Only focused. Only obedient.
A shiver crawled through Moss's spine. This was ritualistic. Coordinated. Not wild aggression.
Serra inhaled sharply. "Moss, behind."
He turned.
The air misted in spiraling currents as something vast stirred deep within the ravine's shadow. A cold so absolute it hummed in his bones spread outward, frosting his eyelashes. Bran backed up, shaking violently, feathers standing on end.
From the deepest part of the ravine, light flared.
A towering wave of frost erupted along the ground, racing toward them.
"Get down!" Moss threw his weight over Serra, pulling her close as Bran ducked and crouched—just as the frost wave rolled beneath them like a tide of shimmering crystal.
The ground solidified, the temperature dropping sharply. When Moss raised his head, the walls of the ravine were glazed with ice, the stones smooth and reflective like mirrors. Bran's talons were frozen halfway into the ground, though the chocobo wasn't trapped—just stuck, trembling violently.
Serra swallowed hard. "This is her. Moss, she's coming."
The Miqo'te didn't advance. They knelt, heads bowed toward the deeper shadows. Their spears angled downward in reverence.
A pale silhouette stepped forward from the froststorm's heart.
Shiva.
Not the statue in the lake, this was the living manifestation. Her form impossibly elegant, each movement sending a ripple of crystalline radiance through the air. Frost trailed behind her bare feet, freezing whatever they touched. Her gaze was cold, ancient, aware, it fell directly on Moss.
Every instinct screamed at him to draw his weapon, to stand, to fight. But he couldn't move. Not from fear, though that was certainly part of it, but from something else.