The road stretched beneath a pale sky, the horizon hazy with heat. The convoy moved in a long, steady line—wagons creaking, chocobos stamping against the packed dirt. Dust rose behind them, catching the light like ash. The soldiers kept their places, watchful, while civilians clung to wagons and supplies, the chatter of wheels and hooves the only sound.
Dole rode beside Moss, his staff balanced loosely across his knees. "The next stop should be a frontier town," he said. "The last one still under the empire's reach. We'll see what's left of its order before we move on."
Moss looked ahead. "Still flying the banners?"
"From what I heard, yeah. The empire's been pulling in every convoy it can. They're sorting who's useful and who isn't."
Moss's jaw tightened. "That doesn't surprise me."
"Doesn't mean it sits right either," Dole muttered. "You'll see—other groups are arriving too. All the empire's strays gathered in one place."
By early afternoon, the towers of the frontier town came into view. The walls were rough but standing, the gates open. Beyond them lay a patchwork of new timber and old stone—structures rebuilt atop forgotten foundations. Smoke drifted from chimneys, and the air smelled of iron, cooked grain, and oil.
The convoy passed through the gate, greeted by a handful of guards too tired to salute. Inside, the place was loud and alive. Traders bartered, smiths hammered, and children darted through the mud. It was less a town than a heartbeat—uneven, fragile, but alive all the same.
Moss slowed as they passed a row of cages stacked by a merchant's stall. Inside were small, white-furred creatures with pom-poms bobbing from their heads and tiny wings folded at their backs. Their bright eyes watched the crowd.
"What are those?" Moss asked.
"Moogles," Dole said. "Native to the frontier. They 're smart, build communities, and are even capable of using magic. Pretty capable for what the empire calls a lesser species."
Moss frowned. "So why are they caged?"
Dole's tone darkened. "Could be study. Could be food. The empire doesn't see much difference."
The moogles chattered softly as they rode past, their voices like faint bells. Moss looked away. Even here, the empire's shadow lingered.
At the square, convoys from across the frontier gathered—soldiers, engineers, farmers, laborers. Moss spotted a few faces from earlier campaigns, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of recognition. Not loyalty. Just shared exhaustion.
A familiar voice broke the noise. "I'll be damned! Moss, Dole!"
They turned to see Cid, sleeves rolled up, his apron scorched from the forge. The man's grin was as wide as ever, soot streaked across his face.
"Didn't think I'd see you two again," Cid said, clapping Moss on the arm. "Been keeping the forges hot and the wagons rolling. The locals pay well enough if you don't mind the smell of burnt oil."
"Better than marching," Dole replied.
"Anything's better than marching," Cid said with a laugh. "Heard some of the other convoys got in earlier today. Empire's trying to organize work groups. Labor, defense, scavenging runs—you name it."
Nearby, Lyra knelt beside a wagon, sorting through crates marked with the empire's seal. Her white robe was smudged with dust, but she moved with quiet purpose. She looked up when she noticed them. "You made it. Good. We've been waiting to see which direction you'd head next."
"Still deciding," Moss said. "We'll stay the night and talk to the others before moving out."
Lyra nodded. "That's wise. The settlers here trade supplies for ore, food, or monster bounties. No one eats for free, not even the empire's chosen."
The group gathered near Cid's forge that evening, the orange glow lighting their faces. Workers and soldiers alike passed by, talking about scouting parties and nearby rivers that might serve as good settlement sites.
Dole poked at the fire with a stick. "You'd think after all this, they'd treat everyone here the same. But no. The officers still act like they're gods among mud."
"They've been raised to believe that," Moss said quietly. "But they bleed like the rest of us."
"Maybe," Dole said. "Still doesn't make it easier to stomach."
Lyra looked between them. "You both see it for what it is. That's enough. Some don't."
Cid let out a short laugh. "I don't care what they call me as long as I've got metal to hammer and a fire to work by."
Moss smiled faintly. "That's more than most."
The noise of the town faded with the night. Lanterns flickered along the walls, and the low hum of conversation turned to distant murmurs. Moss leaned against Bran, resting a hand on the chocobo's neck. The bird's feathers were warm beneath his glove, and its steady breathing matched his own heartbeat.
Alive.
Tomorrow, they'd start asking questions—find where people are settling, who to trade with, and possible ways of life in this new place. For now, the frontier town felt like the last familiar place before the world truly began.