The lower markets of Insomnia were still alive, even as the war crept closer to the city walls. Smoke and steel carried in the air, mingling with the sharp spice of street food. Lanterns flickered along cracked stone streets where merchants still dared to sell trinkets, charms, and scraps of hope to soldiers who might not return from tomorrow's patrol.
Nyx Ulric moved through the crowd with a soldier's stride, his glaive uniform dusty, his expression drawn. He was tired — more tired than he would ever admit. His blade had cut through magitek armor and daemons, but his thoughts lingered on the same promise he carried every day: Protect the city. Protect the people. Whatever the cost.
He passed a stall of charms and jewelry, slowing despite himself. Rows of rings glimmered in the lanternlight — some cheap copper polished to false shine, others inset with dull stones. Nothing worth his gil. But maybe, for just a moment, something to distract him from the gnawing weight of duty.
"Glaive," a voice called.
Nyx turned. A weary merchant leaned on his stall, eyes sharp despite his haggard look. His cloak was patched, his hands scarred from travel. He lifted a tray, its surface glimmering with rings and amulets.
"Not looking for trinkets," Nyx muttered, already turning away. "Don't have gil to waste."
"Not all rings are trinkets," the merchant said, voice low, deliberate. "Some burn their bearers. Some guard them. Some return them when the fire takes them."
Nyx froze. Burn their bearers… He thought instantly of Regis' cursed Ring of the Lucii, the relic that drained life itself from those unworthy. His jaw tightened. "If that's a joke, old man, it's in poor taste."
The merchant's lips curved faintly. "Not a joke. A choice." He lifted a ring between two fingers — plain silver, unpolished, its surface dull. Yet when it caught the lanternlight, a shimmer pulsed within, subtle, as though something lived beneath the metal.
Nyx frowned. "Looks cheap."
"Cheap enough," the merchant replied, lowering the price absurdly. "Think of it as a charm. For luck. For survival."
Nyx scoffed. He had pockets full of nothing but bad luck. Still… there was something about the way the metal shimmered, something that stirred instinct. Soldiers had superstitions. He wasn't immune to them.
"Fine," Nyx muttered, tossing a few coins onto the stall. He slipped the ring onto his finger, its weight oddly grounding. "One more good-luck charm won't kill me."
The merchant's eyes lingered on him, unreadable. "No. It won't."
Nyx shook his head and walked away, the strange man already fading into the market crowd. Behind him, Sirius — cloaked in glamour — allowed himself a faint smile.
"When fire consumes you," he whispered, "we will meet again."
Flames. The Lucii's fire consumed him, searing flesh and bone. Dawn broke over Insomnia as he fell to his knees, every vein burning with the cursed power of the Ring. His last thought was not of himself, but of those he fought for.
Luna… Noct… at least you'll live.
Then came darkness.
But destiny had already checked its ledger: Nyx Ulric — dead as decreed.
In that moment, the charm ring — the ART Sirius had planted — flared with hidden light. Instead of fading into nothing, Nyx's soul was drawn into the weave of Sirius's design.
Cool air rushed into his lungs. The dim hum of the Aetherveil filled his ears. He gasped, tearing upright on a bed of crystal light, clutching at his chest as if the fire still lingered.
"The Ring…" he rasped. "I… I shouldn't be alive. The Ring made sure of that."
"You are dead," a voice answered calmly.
Nyx turned. A tall figure cloaked in starfire shadows stood over him — Sirius.
"But this," Sirius continued, "is not your world. You died as destiny decreed. Your world will never know you live. Stay there, and death will claim you again. But here… here you can fight Chaos. Carve your own future."
Nyx stared, his chest heaving, before a dark chuckle slipped past his lips. "So I'm a ghost pulled from the ashes." He clenched his fist, feeling the faint weight of the ART ring. "Fine. Guess I'll fight as one."
Sirius lifted a hand. Light bent, forming a projection in the air: Noctis and Lunafreya, side by side, sparring, laughing, alive. Not martyrs, not pawns of fate — simply two young people learning to fight on their own terms.
Nyx froze. Tears stung unbidden at the corners of his eyes. "I died thinking they'd be sacrifices. That they'd never escape their chains. And now… they're just kids. Living. Fighting their way."
His voice cracked, but then hardened. He clenched his fist tighter around the ART. "If they can fight free of fate… so can I. I'll carve their future with my own damn blade."
Sirius nodded once. "Then you will not fight alone. There is someone who needs you."
The doors to the Recovery Bay shimmered open. A boy entered — no, not a boy. A moogle disguised in human form, bracelet faintly glowing on his wrist. Nibelo.
Nyx arched a brow. "Guard duty again? Thought I left that behind with Lunafreya."
Nibelo puffed up, face flushing, pom-pom twitching faintly beneath the glamour. "K-Kupo! I'm not some princess!"
Nyx smirked. "Good. You'll be easier to keep alive, then."
The two locked eyes — one a soldier who had already died for duty, the other a moogle striving to prove he was more than scraps and gears. Reluctance and amusement mingled, a comic spark in the gravity of their meeting.
It was not trust yet. But it was the beginning.