Thirteenth Sun of the Third Astral Moon
I told myself I would not wear another man’s colors.
Today, I did.
The Maelstrom flies bold over Limsa Lominsa—red banners snapping in the sea wind, cannons watching the horizon. I stood before them and swore my service. Not out of blind loyalty. Not for glory. But because the realm is shifting, and standing alone no longer feels like strength.
I chose the sea’s banner because it does not pretend to be clean. Limsa was built by pirates, and it survives because it understands harsh truths. That, at least, I respect.
They issued me a chocobo as part of my enlistment. A sturdy bird with iron in his stride and no patience for foolishness. I’ve named him Ironclaw. He doesn’t shy from the sound of cannon fire. Good. We’ll get along fine.
The Scions move again. Whispers of smoke on the horizon, of threats stirring beyond the obvious flame of Ifrit. “Where there is smoke…” they say. I’ve learned enough to know smoke never drifts without cause.
Politics tighten around the realm like a drawn net. Beast tribes, primals, and now greater powers watching from the shadows. The Maelstrom prepares for war as if it never truly ended. Perhaps it hasn’t.
Wearing their colors feels… heavier than I expected.
But when I mounted Ironclaw and rode beneath the crimson standard, I did not feel owned.
I felt ready.
If Eorzea burns again, it will not find me standing idle.
The axe is sharper now.
And I no longer stand alone.
