The forge within the Aetherveil pulsed with a steady glow, a rhythm of light and heat that seemed to breathe with the ship itself. Crystals hummed in resonance with the flow of aether, faint sparks crackling against the steel walls. Sirius stood in silence at the edge of the chamber, his hands clasped behind his back, watching.
In the center of the room, a small figure worked tirelessly.
Nibelo — the moogle with the turquoise pom-pom that glowed faintly like a star adrift in darkness. His tiny hands gripped tools almost too big for him, yet each movement carried precision. The broken sword laid before him — one of the relic shards recovered from a ruined world — slowly began to take shape under his tinkering. Metal whispered against metal, sparks leapt, and the scent of tempered steel filled the air.
Sirius's gaze lingered on the pom-pom. It pulsed in rhythm with the forge, brighter when the hammer struck, dimmer when the moogle paused to study the flow of aether through the blade.
A rare sight, he thought.
"This one is not like the others. His pom-pom hums with starfire. His hands are small, but they shape futures."
The realization settled heavily on him. Armies, warriors, kings — they could train, fight, and die in endless cycles. But without a forgemaster, without someone who could bind the threads of power into steel and crystal, their resistance would falter. Chaos thrived not just on brute force but on consuming weapons, relics, and symbols. To counter it, the Fallen needed a craftsman, someone who could rival history's greatest smiths and yet be unshackled by fate.
Nibelo struck the blade again, his ears twitching with every faint ring. He tilted his head, muttering to himself in that squeaky kupo-tone:
"Needs more flow… the aether's stuck. Nyo-kup, come on, move already…"
Sirius felt the weight of choice pressing in. To send this moogle across worlds would not be simple.
In Ivalice and Gaia, moogles walked freely. They were messengers, tinkers, even adventurers. But in other realms… Sirius narrowed his eyes, recalling threads of fate from worlds he had walked.
VII's Midgar: No moogle stirred in its polluted alleys.
VIII's Balamb Garden: Scholars and SeeD cadets would see him as nothing more than myth.
XIII's Cocoon: A moogle like Nibelo would draw too many eyes, mistaken for fal'Cie trickery.
XV and XVI's Eos and Valisthea: Where gods and empires held sway, such a creature would be mocked, caged, or worse.
"Sending him openly would put a target on his back. Vulnerable. Mocked. Perhaps even destroyed before his true work begins."
The thought made his jaw tighten. The moogle deserved better than that. He was no mere curiosity to be paraded.
His gaze fell to the fragments of trinkets and relics around the forge. Inspiration flickered. Not a weapon — not yet. But something protective, subtle.
A bracelet.
Not one made by Sirius alone, but forged by Nibelo's own hands, so pride and ownership would anchor him. Sirius would guide him, offering fragments of enchanted alloys and lost etchings of fate. Once complete, he would breathe power into it — a concealed form, one that allowed Nibelo to appear as a human boy to mortal eyes. To gods, the truth would remain visible, but to common eyes he would walk unremarked.
That way, Nibelo could learn in secret, unburdened by prejudice, but still remain himself when the mask was lifted.
From deep within the ship, Aether's voice stirred, gentle and solemn.
"If you cloak him, Master, he will walk unseen. But no veil can hide his flame forever. Sooner or later, all will look to him."
Sirius's gaze hardened. "Then let them look — when he is ready."
He lingered longer in silence, watching the moogle wipe his brow, wings twitching with effort as he set the reforged sword aside. Pride lit Nibelo's face when the blade thrummed faintly, aether flowing through it once more.
Nibelo flexed his paws, his ears twitching. He could feel Sirius's gaze even when the man said nothing. The silence was heavier than any hammer strike.
"Kupo…" he muttered under his breath, "why do I feel like I'm being measured for something I don't understand?"
So childlike. So untested. Sirius wondered if he had the right to ask more of him.
"The Black Mages of Gaia were also childlike," he mused. "Through guidance they found meaning. They too were mocked, feared, but grew into strength. Should I deny him the chance, he will remain a tinkerer in a market stall. But if I grant him the path, he may yet become the smith who forges the blades that strike Chaos."
He exhaled slowly, the faint shimmer of fate-threads drifting through his vision. One thread glimmered faintly above Nibelo, trembling as though waiting for his choice.
Better to risk him with protection than let his fire dim untested.
Yet even with protection, Sirius knew the truth. A forgemaster would be sought by both allies and enemies. Nibelo would not survive long alone.
He would need a shield. A bodyguard. Someone who understood sacrifice, who had already faced death. Someone willing to watch his back without complaint.
Sirius turned from the forge, eyes narrowing as another thread of fate shimmered before him. A thread tied to fire, sacrifice, and ashes.
In the weave of fate, he glimpsed Nyx Ulric's final moment — the ring of Lucii burning his flesh, his body consumed by fire. Yet the thread had not severed completely. It glowed faintly, stubborn, unwilling to vanish.
"Yes," Sirius murmured. "A man who would burn himself to shield others. He will serve."