The Exarch paced.

Even considering his recent string of mistakes and mishaps, he felt this was the worst yet.

Perhaps that was unfair: by any objective measure, it was his first success, and the least imperfect of his summonings thus far. This should be good news. But this little accident of location grated at him.

She hadn’t landed particularly far, at least, still within the bounds of Lakeland’s sparse violet woods. It could be worse. She could be in Kholusia. Or the sea. That was thin comfort.

And, fortunately for him, she had actually arrived clothed. He doubted he would have been able to convince her of anything if she’d tumbled naked into the woods, judging by his experiences trying to manage the few Scions who hadn’t been so lucky upon their arrival. That was a positive sign in itself, suggesting her soul was fully intact, if her effects were able to be transported here alongside her. She would be of little more use to him as a pale extension of a distant soul than she would be at the bottom of the sea, whether or not the legends held true about the Warrior of Light being able to breathe underwater.

He supposed that was a little cold. If nothing else, he didn’t mean her any harm.

No, for a mercy, there she was, her image shimmering across the ocularum, looking as dour as the day he last saw her in the light of the Source some thirteen decades past. It was hard to tell what she was thinking, as always: her scowl seemed perpetual, whatever emotions and intentions she felt obscured beneath the thick blanket of storm clouds that dominated her face. He didn’t require some special insight into her nature to know she wasn’t happy about this, but it was harder to gauge what she might be planning. For a blessing, she did seem to be headed in the direction of the Crystarium; there was no other obvious path forward for one in her position, at any rate.

The Exarch pressed the fingers of his uncrystallized hand against his eyes, rubbing at a prickling pain that threatened to bloom into a headache. He was procrastinating. He had a nagging feeling that the moment he stepped away from the mirror, she would trip and fall right into some grisly fate-- the gleaming maw of a sin eater, the claws of one of the abominations unleashed from the Tower by certain unnamed Ascian parties. Rationally, he knew there was little in this world or her own that could pose much threat to her. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that the next disappointment loomed just out of view, like a meteor hurtling toward them just out of sight.

He sighed, released the magic animating her frowning reflection on the mirror’s surface, and turned to leave.

He could hear the raised voices before he even reached the city gates, and while he couldn’t make out the words, he knew they weren’t exchanging pleasantries. Lyna’s voice, cutting through the quiet with all the sharp confidence of command, was not particularly reassuring; she wouldn’t be the one to de-escalate any confrontation.

Then, suddenly-- shouting, the ringing of steel, the crunch of gravel scattered underfoot. The ache in his bones and skull eclipsed by the sinking fear in his gut, he ran the rest of the way to the gate, only skidding to a stop when he saw the two women some fulms apart from each other, still and unharmed.

“Captain,” the Exarch panted. “Is everything--”

“What the hells was that?” The other woman’s furious tone cleaved through his question as if he hadn’t spoken at all. She hauled her greatsword up, making the gesture look weightless, and drove its point into the ground before her, as if her obvious anger needed any punctuation. A few fulms away, the corpse of a sin eater slowly dissolved, pure aether fluttering like ash. The sight always made him sick: whiter than white, like a wound from which existence itself had been bled dry. Lyna looked away, her jaw set and gaze fixed on the other Viis.

“That was a sin eater,” the Captain said, grimly. “That does not answer the question of who you are. My lord, this woman--”

“It’s alright, Captain,” the Exarch reassured her in his most placating tone, once reserved only for nightmares and twisted ankles. “There is no cause for alarm.”

It had the intended effect, Lyna’s prickly guard visibly easing into uncertain wariness.

The intended effect on her, at least.

“It is not alright,” the swordswoman snapped, leaning heavily on her blade. Were the gesture made by someone else, it might signal a shift away from confrontation. Somehow her every motion, however mild, managed to carry a threat. “I wake up here, and then that thing--”

Then the Warrior of Light stopped, the realization hitting her as palpably as a brick.

“You did this.” It was an accusation. If that were not clear enough, the way she wrenched her greatsword from its place in the ground and advanced a few steps toward him left no ambiguity.

“I brought you here, yes.” The Exarch didn’t flinch, standing his ground despite the blood that rushed into his ears. Gods, it was like cornering a bear. He raised a hand to signal Lyna to remain at ease. The captain, visibly chafing at the command, nonetheless complied.

His voice remained calm. “I understand that you are upset. But I assure you your friends are safe, and you are not a prisoner. I will answer whatever questions you have– I will even return you home, if you ask.” It was not a lie, although he had no intention of letting that happen. He would return her, eventually, after all. (Gods willing.) “I ask only that you first take the time to listen to my plea. Know that I do not exaggerate when I say the fate of countless lives is at stake, yours included.”

Hmm. Not his worst performance, at any rate. He’d rehearsed this speech a hundred times, constructing and dismantling rebuttals, questions, demands-- months spent precluding the possibility that she would or could refuse. He had nigh obsessed over the question of her motivations: exactly what drove the Warrior of Light? How best to appeal to her? Taciturn and ineloquent, she was not known for her speeches, and either avoided acclaim or exchanged it for notoriety. He could recall nothing from their brief time together all those years ago that spoke to a great sense of selflessness, nor compassion, nor nobility. He had never asked, but he suspected she had only been at St. Coinach's Find at all as a favor to Cid Garlond, to whom he understood she owed her life severalfold.

And so she must have some concept of loyalty, or at least debt. He knew of her service to the Scions-- if not from stories exchanged over the fire, as his fellow expeditionaries gossiped of the legendary Warrior of Light in their midst, then from historical record some hundred years later. They said she had felled Primals-- Ifrit, Titan, Garuda, and more-- and slain the mad Archbishop Thordan. They said she came from Othard, fleeing the Garlean Invasion when she was yet a girl. He recalled a woman who seemed content with a mercenary life, if only she were left alone.

A few details stood out in this patchwork tale. The first was the accusation of attempted assassination that hung over her and the Scions; not for any credence he lent it, but for the threat of execution which drove her and her companions into Ishgard and the role they would play in the Dragonsong War. The second was the fragmentary tale of her journey from across the sea, and the dire straits she seemed to have endured since a tender age.

This left him with two approaches: an appeal first to survival, and then to loyalty. He was willing to bet that the lives of her fellow Scions weighed more heavily than those of the faceless innocents.

Now, as his words faded into the stagnant air, he was left to wait and see whether he had gambled correctly. Who knew? Perhaps she was a reckless idiot, lobbed between one catastrophe and the next, little more than a weapon. But however little warmth he felt for the Warrior of Light, he doubted she was quite so simple.

From beneath his hood, the Exarch studied her expression, seeking any hint of her thoughts. Her narrowed red eyes gazed back, inscrutable and implacable.

That silence stretched a lifetime. Finally: “Fine,” she conceded, begrudging every syllable. “I’ll listen. That’s it.”

The Exarch resisted the urge to let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” he said instead, although the battle was hardly begun. He lowered the hand warding off Lyna, trusting she would keep her suspicion in check. “Captain, this is Mahiwa Szet. She hails from my homeland.”

“I see.” Lyna had not lowered her wary gaze. For the best, really. “I should have known she was of that sort.”

The Exarch did not reply. Best not to open that bag of snakes just yet. “Master Szet, this is Lyna, Captain of the Crystarium Guard. I apologize for the cold welcome. As you can see,” he gestured towards what remained of the eater’s slowly dissipating corpse, “we live in dangerous times, and cannot be too cautious.”

Szet glanced toward the eater, studying it for a moment, then back. “Get on with it.”

The corners of his mouth turned in an unamused smile. “By all means. Captain, we shall speak later.”

“My lord,” Lyna answered with a salute.

The Exarch waved an arm towards the gate. Szet considered the invitation for a moment, before shouldering her sword and following his direction. He was forcefully reminded of the woman’s frightening stature as she passed him, stride long and purposeful. She was taller even than Lyna, who already towered over the Exarch, despite her relative youth. While Szet shared the Captain’s lanky, long-limbed Viis frame, her strength was visible with every movement. Like watching a lion at rest, each languid stride carrying an implicit reminder of its ferocious potential. He had to hurry his step to keep up with her, although thankfully she seemed oblivious. Were it an intimidation tactic, it would have been a brutally effective one.

Lyna took his hint and remained behind, although he could sense her gaze on them long after they turned towards the Crystarium. He contemplated the merits of an apology for the poor attempt at summoning-- he doubted she would care about his good intentions-- for the few seconds of silence. Szet stared upward, expression unreadable. Her pace slowed as she took in the sight before them. “The Crystal Tower." He couldn’t tell if it was question or observation.

"The very same," the Exarch confirmed, following her eyes. The Tower shone more brilliantly here than it ever had in the Source; he found it inspiring and menacing in turns. "I promise to explain more. But we should start at the beginning."

"Who are you?" Szet eventually pulled her eyes away from the Tower to cast another dark look at him. Her gaze was intense; a less steely composure might have shattered under the weight of it. She wasn’t finished. “You take my people. You take me. You all but feed me to voidsent. No doubt you risk their lives. And you want me to be patient?”

She took a step to close some of the distance between them. With each accusation, her voice held steady, cold anger advancing on him like a glacier. It might have been easier to bear if she had raised her voice.

“Who are you. What do you want.”

There was a certain kind of calm, born of moments whose importance was unmistakable and decisions that would forever alter the course of fate. In the eye of that storm, all else faded, save the course ahead. He had felt it when he first shut the door to the Crystal Tower, all those years ago. He felt it now.

The Exarch tilted his chin up to meet her gaze. The glamour obscuring his face and voice from precise recall seemed to hold-- else, she did not remember him at all, he thought with bitter amusement.

"You are right, of course. I have no right to ask patience of you-- nor to ask anything else. I have imposed on you already by bringing you here. But nonetheless, I must ask.”

He raised a hand toward the Crystarium, whose glittering domes and arches stretched between them and the perverse brightness of the sky beyond.

“I am the caretaker of the Tower and, by extension, the Crystarium. The citizens have bestowed me the title of ‘Crystal Exarch’, which will do for now. Who I am is not important.”

He continued, without permitting a pause she might seize. He remembered all too well her penchant for being contrary.

“Look around you.” He turned to the gate behind them: beyond it stretched Lakeland’s lavender boughs and bluffs, bleached like bones in the sun-- and beyond that, the sickly glowing corona that made up the horizon. “What you see is a world consumed by Light, whose aetheric balance has become dangerously distorted. If naught is done, this world will die, along with everyone in it.”

He turned his face to her once more. Her eyes were fixed on the sky.

“Perhaps that matters to you in itself. Perhaps it does not.”

He spoke carefully, softly, measuring out the weight of each syllable. He bargained for the lives of millions. Every breath, every pause, counted.

“What you should know is that the fate of this world is inextricably linked to your own, and its death would spell a calamity of apocalyptic proportions. A disaster that would shatter the lives of your friends, your loved ones, everyone you’ve ever met. And, though I have no right to ask more of you than has already been demanded, I must. You alone hold the key to restoring balance to this world, and in so doing, saving your own.”

The Exarch took a long breath, and allowed the gravity and tension of the moment to gently unspool. Szet stared up at the Light, wordless.

“I realize this is all quite unbelievable,” he continued, more neutrally. “But you need not take my word for it. A number of your companions are within a day’s travel, and can answer your questions themselves.”

The woman’s head snapped down from the sky, eyes digging into him once more. “Who?”

“Alisaie and Alphinaud will be the easiest to reach.” The Exarch began walking once more, and was relieved when this time she matched his stride. It would be difficult to recover his dignity if she sprinted ahead, and his aching joints were feeling the effects of his brief run earlier. “But before we venture down that path, I would have you speak with the residents of the Crystarium and acquaint yourself with the situation. That will answer many of your questions more vividly than my words could.”

She remained silent as they passed under the first glass arch of the Crystarium. The quiet hum of voices, faintly echoed against the city’s open architecture, always reassured him: despite everything, life persisted. Before them, the aetheryte crystal slowly spun where it was suspended in the air.

“I suggest you visit the Crystalline Mean, the markets of the Musica Universalis, and the Cabinet of Curiosities.” He could provide directions, if he were more inclined toward charity. He did not. She could hardly wander off completely, anyway. “I ask only that you do not mention the world you come from. It would result in… confusion. If anyone asks, you might say we share a homeland, if you wish to answer.”

He paused, long enough to watch the woman’s face as she took in the city and his instructions and to ensure she did not have any pressing questions. It seemed she did not.

The Exarch gestured forward.

“Through there, past the aetheryte plaza, lies the Dossal Gate, which leads into the Crystal Tower itself. When you are ready to speak further, you will find me there. Speak to the gatekeep and she will admit you. I shall see you then.”

Szet gave no reply. After another moment spent studying the tableau of glimmering glass and wrought metal before them, she turned away to stalk off toward the market without bothering with a farewell. He watched her for a few long strides, before turning toward the Tower.

In truth, while the Exarch did not relish the Warrior of Light’s company, he felt the minutes creep by ever more painfully in her absence.

He was used to waiting; what else had the past decades been but that? In comparison to the years he’d devoted to biding and preparation, slowly watching his plans bloom, this was hardly a single breath.

And yet, now that she was here, wandering about the Crystarium in all her flesh and blood, it all felt different. There was a sense of urgency for which his long-practiced patience was wholly unprepared. Now that the wheels were in motion, there was no turning back. It made the hours since she disappeared into the crowd feel interminable, as if he were watching the world pass by in floes and pieces from the bottom of a frozen sea.

It hadn’t been that long, truthfully. He had no reason to suspect she had managed to run off, let alone managed to come to some harm; crime was all but nonexistent within the Crystarium, where the needs of every man were met by the work of the whole, nevermind his doubts that any of his citizens could leave so much as a scrape on her. That was a troubling thought, itself. He had to reassure himself that any commotion would have gotten back to him by now, but the nervous impulse to go check up on things remained.

All this and more could be answered by his ocularum. But he was ever reluctant to turn its lens onto the Crystarium itself; it always seemed another step along the authoritarian path his people were already so determined to push him down. Before he could be too sorely tempted, there was a muffled knock at the door. As always, sound strained to carry past the monstrous, Allagan-wrought construction. “My lord,” came the guard’s voice. “Your visitor is here. Shall I admit her?”

“Yes, thank you,” he called back, and spun on his heel to face the door to the chamber. How to present himself--? It was probably a lost cause to attempt gravitas, after the incident at the city gates. He smoothed the edge of one sleeve as the door swung open, quickly shifting back into a neutral stance, staff held beside him.

Szet’s eyes flashed across the room as she entered, sharp and suspicious. There was little to capture her attention, except for the absurd scale of the vault they stood within. Even she, towering as she was, seemed small and insubstantial by comparison. Her gaze settled on him as the door swung shut behind her with the guard’s departure. The sound shuddered through the room, with a finality out of place in the uncertainty of ‘first’ meetings.

As she crossed the room towards him, the Exarch was once again reminded of a predator. How many people had not survived an encounter with the single-minded purpose fixed upon him now, he wondered.

“Ah, Master Szet,” he said, as if surprised to have a guest. “Are you finished exploring the Crystarium, then? I trust the residents were able to answer at least some of your questions.”

She stopped a few fulms in front of him, folding her arms over her chest. It was close enough that he had to tilt his chin up noticeably to hold her eyes. He was tempted to think the tactic was deliberate, rather than simply a product of her build. Again, he held his breath, expecting the illusory disguise to catch and tear as she stared down at him. No reaction.

“Some,” Szet conceded. “Not enough.”

“Hopefully I can clarify those that remain – fantastical though the answers must sound.”

She let out a quiet grunt, which he took as assent, and turned to begin examining one of the carved walls. As he recalled, she had never tolerated idleness well. That seemed to be confirmed by her restless prowling.

"You have some idea of the plight of this world now, having spoken to some who call it their home." he began.

"The Light, the 'Flood', Norvrandt. Not what any of this has to do with us."

The Exarch rolled his eyes, safely out of her withering gaze. The annoyance didn't reach his tone. "Yes, of course. The people of the city have no knowledge of you or your world."

"But you know," she hazarded, with audible skepticism.

Was that an attempt at provoking him? He was hardly about to rise to such paltry bait, after all the bitter exchanges he'd shared with the Ascian. He smiled, instead. "Luckily for all of us. Now, if you'll allow me to demonstrate--"

Szet's head snapped towards him at the rustle of his sleeve as he waved his staff. The Tower's magic rushed silently around them, filling the room with almost total darkness, except for the wavering illusions of fourteen worlds, suspended in a ring around them. She stepped closer to one-- the First, by chance-- and her fingers passed through it like vapor.

“Long ago, beyond any living memory, there existed one, whole star– before it was fractured and fragmented. The world you call home is the Source, mirrored by thirteen shards. The one on which we now stand is the First.”

The Exarch indicated the floating illusion representing the Source as he spoke, stepping around the rim of the circle of orbs. He stopped across from her, the First floating between them. The light shimmering over its surface illuminated her face in the darkness, and he was surprised to see an expression that was almost wondrous there. It vanished almost as soon as the soft glow touched it.

“Imagine a beam of light, passed through crystal again and again. Although it is the same light, each time it is refracted, its shape and hue change. So it is with the thirteen shards. They are not mere copies, but refrains. Its people – the people you met today – are just as real and alive as you or I.”

He paused long enough for her to question or protest, then continued. “As I said before, the fates of the Source and its shards are inextricably linked. When the aetheric balance of a shard is disturbed, the infection will inevitably spread to the Source. Eventually, when the imbalance becomes too great, the shard will be drawn into the Source to seek equilibrium. The result is what you know as an Umbral Calamity.

“Seven shards have been rejoined thus far, unleashing seven Calamities. Even as we speak, the First teeters on the brink. It has taken all we have to stave off ruin, for the eighth would spell certain doom – for the Source as well as the First. During your journey here, did you see anything? Visions?”

Szet’s steady gaze didn’t waver. There was something terribly lovely about her eyes in this light, sharp and brilliant as ruby.

“I saw… something.” She sounded doubtful on that point. “Flashes. Didn’t make much sense.”

The Exarch nodded. “Your companions, the Scions, experienced them as well. Time and space flow chaotically between stars, and a glimpse of some distant past or strange future is not uncommon. It was Urianger who witnessed the clearest vision: the Eighth Umbral Calamity, and the devastation it wrought on the Source. He watched the Scions fall, one by one, along with millions more. He saw you die.

“For the sake of everyone, First and Source alike, we must not allow this to happen. Which brings us to the monstrosity you saw at the gates. Sin eaters, they are called.”

“They’re voidsent,” Szet interrupted, matter-of-factly. “But Light. They feed on aether.”

That was a cleverer observation than he’d given her credit for. Beneath his hood, he raised his eyebrows. “Indeed. They are the monstrous result of corruption by the Light, alike to the corruptions of Darkness you are more familiar with. Eventually,” he said, his voice soft and grave, “the people of the First would change as well, every one. It’s only a matter of time.”

That particular truth cut when he grasped it too fully. Saying the words aloud was painful, and left his throat feeling thick and choked. He tried not to think of Lyna – this was too important to lose his concentration. With a swallow, he continued: “The sin eaters are symptom, not cause, but they offer a path forward. If they are eliminated, it should be enough to bring the First into balance. If nothing else, it will buy us time.”

“Say I believe you.” She stepped forward, passing through the illusion of the First that separated them. “Why me?”

“You are uniquely suited to the task,” the Exarch replied. With a gesture, he banished the illusion. The darkness faded back into the luminous blue light of their crystal surroundings. “Just as you are impervious to the influence of primals, so you are able to resist the Light’s corruption.”

The quiet, lingering uncertainty he held did not reach his voice. There was no way to be sure without putting his theory to the test. He didn’t dare to share those doubts and risk losing her cooperation altogether; on that point, he assuaged his unhappy conscience with the reminder that she too would die if they failed – if not today, then upon some distant, grim tomorrow. As much as he disliked the woman, he would not lure her into the jaws of a cruel death if he had any other choice. By the same token, better to lie to her than to allow her to doom herself and the rest of the world by refusing.

“As I said, I do not expect you to take my words on faith,” he continued, conciliatory. “Alphinaud and Alisaie–”

“Where are they?” Szet interrupted. If anything, he was surprised it had taken her so long to interject.

“Alphinaud is on the island of Kholusia, to the west. His intention is to explore the possibility of diplomatic aid from the city-state of Eulmore, dim though the prospect may be. Alisaie is working as a bodyguard in the desert of Amh Araeng, to the south, studying the sin eaters and training her skills. Both the twins are within a day’s travel.”

Her gaze was as cold and heavy as iron as it bore down on him. “Alone?” She took a half step forward; the effect was not lost on him as the angle from which she loomed over him grew even more severe. “Out there?”

The Exarch felt his pulse quicken in his chest as he lifted his chin, unblinking.

“Of their own volition,” he answered evenly. That much was an unqualified truth. “I could not keep them here if I tried– and as I said, you are not a prisoner here, nor are they.”

Her expression remained difficult to read, but by the lack of reply, he supposed she must be satisfied enough with the answer. After a long beat, she folded her arms over her chest and turned away.

“Everyone else?”

“They are well.” Ah, so it was loyalty. He could make use of that. “And safer than most can claim. You shall have the chance to speak with them soon enough.”

Szet gave a soft huff. Although she had already wandered a few feet away, he could see her watching him from the corner of her eye.

“You will find the Amaro tamers by the Crystalline Mean. They will arrange your passage to Kholusia and Amh Araeng, whichever should you choose first.”

Allowing her the choice between the two was a gamble; he could have just as easily invented a pretext to foreclose one route or the other. He would be surprised to hear that Alisaie had even one charitable word to say about him, after her own mistaken summoning. As such, the risk of further alienating the key player in his plans through Alisaie’s bitterness was greater than he would have preferred. In the end, that risk was overshadowed by the importance of keeping Szet from sensing the bars of a cage closing around her, even one only imagined. He hoped that the freedom to choose would earn a measure of trust– or at least, to preclude further erosion of her patience.

And, in truth, the Exarch was curious to see what she would do with that freedom. That, too, was a vital part of his plans.

“If there are any amenities you require before you depart, you need only say the word. The master of the markets, the artisans of the Crystalline Mean, or–”

“No.” Szet certainly had a way with words. Apparently finished with the conversation, her long stride turned resolute as she crossed back towards the massive chamber door. As she heaved it open, though, she stopped, half-turning back towards him. The dark look she gave him lasted several uncomfortable seconds, before she broke her stare and disappeared into the hallway beyond.

The door fell shut with a heavy thud that, for once, was almost a comfort. The Exarch let his weight settle onto the staff, allowing his carefully-guarded composure to bleed away as his shoulders sank and eyes slipped closed. His encounter with the Warrior of Light all those years ago, although hardly amicable, had done little to prepare him for becoming the object of her full and unyielding attention; at most, he had been an irritant to be ignored, not an obstacle to be demolished. The experience was more… bracing than he had expected.

With a thumb and forefinger, he gently pressed down on the headache beginning to bloom behind his eyes, and sighed. He had a feeling it would not be his last in the coming weeks.

Once again, all he could do was wait.