The eastern barracks smelled like oil, steel, and fear.
Rows of soldiers stood in formation under the flickering lights of the magitek towers. Their armor was spotless, their faces blank. A generation raised by regulation, children of the state born not from love but from quota.
Moss had long stopped wondering which decree had taken him from his parents. The empire said overpopulation was dangerous, that only "necessary births" were allowed. The rest were conscripted at birth—raised for service, for obedience, for war.
He and Dole had grown up in the same dormitory, two of the many "Resource Class Infants" bred for imperial efficiency. Moss learned to fight. Dole learned to burn. Neither learned to live.
"You heard the new decree?" Dole muttered beside him, dark hair tied back, his black mage insignia dull with wear. "They're calling it the Frontier Initiative."
"Another campaign?" Moss asked.
"Not exactly." Dole's eyes flicked toward the officers at the front. "Expansion. They say the empire's out of room. Sending soldiers to establish settlements beyond the crystal grid."
Moss frowned. "Beyond the grid?"
"Yeah." Dole's smile was thin. "Where magitek doesn't work. Guess they finally found a use for all the old meat they can't feed anymore."
The officer's voice cut through the murmurs.
"By decree of His Radiance Emperor Gestahl, those assigned to the Frontier Initiative are hereby honored as pioneers of a new age. Land and title will be granted upon successful establishment of a sustainable settlement."
The soldiers around Moss exchanged weary glances. They knew what it meant. The empire didn't give land to the living. It buried the unwanted in the dirt and called it glory.
After dismissal, Dole leaned against a wall, eyes unfocused.
"You going?"
"Orders are orders."
"You really still care about that?"
Moss didn't answer. He just looked down at the parchment in his hands—the seal of the emperor pressed into crimson wax.
In truth, he didn't care about the empire, the mission, or the promises of land. He just wanted the noise to stop.
When he reached the stables, Bran was waiting—feathers brushed, saddle ready. The handlers looked uneasy. One spoke quietly, "Not many birds left, sir. The machines took their place."
Moss stroked Bran's neck. "Machines don't breathe."
The chocobo leaned into his hand, eyes half-lidded. In that single touch, the world felt real again. Not righteous. Not good. Just alive.