table of contents.

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Where does the tale of the Warrior of Light begin?Does it begin as the bard’s tales do, with a lone figure against a primal’s fire, salvation brought with a whispered cure? Is it as the hundred-gil novels claim, when she first stepped into the Waking Sands, a lost soul seeking a home? Or is it, as the chroniclers posit, the moment she took her first breath on a late summer day in 1560 of the Sixth Astral Era?This author would disagree. None of these are the beginning. To know the woman who would become Dagny Fletcher, you must go further. You must go to the night her parents’ stories first intertwined.

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part one.

• soheil, 1556.
• Mayin, 1556.
• Rakesh, 1556.
• Soheil, 1563.
• Solus zos Galvus, 1563.

Mehryde's Mayhane, Radz-at-Han.

The air in Radz-at-Han was not merely hot; it felt like a living entity. It carried the scent of damp stone and blooming night-jasmine, so thick it felt like drinking an overspiced wine. Soheil Ayari, a merchant of middling repute, felt it cling to the fine silks his master had given him. It was a constant, clammy reminder that he was far from the clean, baking sands of his Dalmascan home. He had claimed a small sanctuary on the stone ledge of an open window, a glass of arrack sweating in his hand, the cool night air a welcome relief on his back.This party, held in one of the city’s grand meyhanes, was his trial by fire. The hosts were House Bhandari. Their name was not just spoken, it was felt. Their trade in teas and coffees had built their fortune, but their influence extended far beyond. They were pioneers, the ones who established new trade routes and set the market prices others could only follow. Their reputation for reliability and shrewd negotiation was such that they were among the few merchants trusted to trade with the Garlean Empire, granted rare access to the markets of Hingashi beyond Kugane’s walls.Soheil’s mentor had been simple in his warning. A Bhandari is not just a merchant, they are an institution.At the center of the room sat Rakesh bin Bhandari, the institution’s patriarch. An Au Ra like Soheil, but where Soheil was all coiled nerves, Rakesh seemed carved from granite, his bone-white horns a stark crown against his brown skin. His golden eyes held the still, patient weight of a predator. He spoke rarely, and when he did, his words fell with the finality of a stone being set. His wife, a Hyuran woman with a diplomat’s serene smile, managed the flow of conversation, her voice a gentle current steering lesser merchants away from the rocks.Soheil’s gaze drifted past the power brokers, past the clouds of smoke and fawning laughter, settling on the small orchestra by the stage. The first notes of a sitar bloomed in the humid air, a sound like liquid gold. A tambura joined in, a deep, resonant hum. Then came the sharp cry of a sarod and the rhythmic pulse of a tabla. A Miqo’te singer’s voice, smooth as aged silk, wove through the tapestry of sound.Then, she stepped from behind the curtain.And the music, for all its beauty, suddenly became an afterthought. The figure that appeared was a woman whose hair was a startling slash of titian against the meyhane’s deep shadows. Golden metalwork, delicate as filigree, glittered on her wrists and temples, catching the light and reflecting onto her horns. Her silks were the colors of a bonfire–crimson and orange, molten yellow. But it was not her beauty that seized the room. It was her stillness. She stood for a moment, perfectly poised, a closed-mouth smile quirked at the corner, her golden eyes, sharp and mischievous, sweeping the crowd.And then she began to dance.Her body was the ink and the air was the page. Her arms, held aloft, snaked through the space with the sinuous grace of a story being unfurled. Her tail rolled in a slow circle, a deliberate punctuation to the melody. Every movement was precise, a word in a physical language Soheil had never seen but understood instantly. The music grew frantic, passionate, and her body answered it, illustrating its tale of triumph and loss, joy and sorrow. She was a living poem, a story told with the turn of a wrist and the arch of a foot. Every eye in the room was on her, but Soheil felt she was dancing for the art itself, and he was merely privileged enough to witness it.He was so lost in the sheer artistry of it that he didn’t notice the man who sat down beside him until a voice, laced with amusement, cut through his trance.“Beautiful, isn’t she?”Soheil jumped, nearly spilling his arrack. He took a hasty swallow to cover his start, the potent liquid burning a path down his throat and making him cough. The man beside him laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. He was a Hyur, dressed in silks of shimmering gold, every finger heavy with rings glittering like a constellation of precious stones.“Relax, friend,” the man said, his Hannish natural before he switched to a practiced, if slightly accented, Dalmascan. “You are Behrad’s, yes?”“Yes,” Soheil managed, his eyes flickering to the man, then irresistibly back to the stage. Rude, he knew, but his manners had evaporated in the presence of such profound art.The man followed his gaze and chuckled. “Best not get too attached, my friend.”“I am only looking. It is not attachment,” Soheil retorted, a little too quickly.“The woman you gaze upon is the daughter of our host.”Soheil’s head snapped back to the stage. Of course. He saw it now – the same hawk-like golden eyes, the same air of absolute command.“She has his eyes,” he grumbled into his glass.“Mayin binh Bhandari,” the Hyur confirmed, his honey-brown eyes twinkling. “A prize to be won, certainly – but tread carefully. There is danger behind those eyes, and a wit that lurks on her tongue like a viper, ready to strike.”“Your Dalmascan is impressive,” Soheil said, trying to regain his footing.“Ah, I spent some time in Rabanastre… before the Empire,” the man’s smile faltered, before he tilted his head to flick a lock of dark brown hair from his eyes. “Nikhil of House Daayal. And your name, hand of Behrad?”“Soheil. Soheil Ayari.”“Soheil,” Nikhil repeated slowly, drawing the name out. “Ayari… that is not a house of wealth in Dalmasca, is it?”“It is not,” Soheil confirmed, his spine straightening. “My name has no value, but my word does, and Behrad trusts it.”Nikhil waved a dismissive hand. “I have no doubt. I am merely surprised. Ayari is a desert name – for scoundrels and thieves. And yet you still carry it?”Soheil’s jaw tightened, intent on changing the course of the conversation.“I would think a man of your fine tastes would prefer to discuss business over names,” Soheil said, his voice low. He gestured with his chin toward one of Nikhil’s hands. “A few of the rings you wear are Behrad’s, yes? I recognize that ruby on your index. Only such brilliant star rubies come from the Dalmascan desert.”Nikhil glanced down at his hand as if seeing the rings for the first time.“Yes… Behrad’s.”He was a man who wore his wealth but did not know its story.Soheil knew it. The cut of the ruby was an overlong sphere, with a white crack radiating out from the middle like a six-pointed star. Many goldsmiths found them flawed, but Behrad had a way of polishing and sculpting them that made the imperfection the heart of its beauty.“Every man in Radz-at-Han would kill to have her,” Nikhil added, his gaze drifting back to the stage where Mayin had just finished her set with a graceful bow.“And it has not been done yet?” Soheil asked.“A rose like hers does not accept meaningless tribute,” Nikhil chuckled, waving his bejeweled hand dismissively. “She has her father’s leave to choose her own husband. None have impressed her yet.”“I… I do not understand why you are telling me this.”Nikhil shrugged, draining his cup. “It would be obvious to you, if you could see your own face.”With that, the smug Hyur rose and strode away, leaving Soheil alone with his thoughts and the ghost of a dance. He remained at the window for the rest of the night, watching her return to the stage twice more, each performance a new, breathtaking story.When the party finally ended, he watched her join her parents and depart, his thoughts racing, his hands tense. He knew, with a certainty that terrified and thrilled him, that he would do something very foolish to speak to the artist who had just rearranged his world.

The Bhandari Estate, Radz-at-Han.

Mayin intended to sleep in. After a night of dancing, the cool sanctuary of her room was a treasure she refused to relinquish. The curtains were drawn tight against the courtyard, and she lay sprawled across her bed in nothing but a thin tunic. The dawn chorus had briefly stirred her, prompting a splash of water from the basin, but the siren song of her soft sheets had won.The day held no obligations for her.A sharp knock at the door shattered her peace. She jolted, rolling over to bury her face in a pillow as a slice of light from the hallway cut through the darkness, bringing with it the first wave of the day’s humid heat.“My apologies, Mayin,” came the familiar voice of her maid, Rashmi. “There is a visitor for you.”Mayin groaned into the pillowcase before lifting her head. She squinted at the silhouette in the doorway. Rashmi, her personal maid since childhood, was a woman whose pale scales had begun to creep across her cheeks like frost on a windowpane. “I did not plan for a visitor today.”“He is a suitor,” Rashmi announced, her long tail trailing against the floor as she glided into the room and past the bed to yank open a curtain. “I suggested he return this afternoon –”“Rashmi! I am indecent!” Mayin yelped, rolling off the bed to crouch behind it.“-- but he insisted he would wait until sunset if necessary.” Rashmi turned, hands on her hips as Mayin peeked over the edge of the mattress. “The courtyard is empty, child. If you are so concerned, perhaps you should wear more than a tunic to bed.”Mayin remained on the floor as Rashmi threw open a dresser, rifling through the vibrant silks within.
“What color are we feeling today, Kumari? A blue would complement your hair and eyes, I think…”“Does Father know of this… suitor?” Mayin asked, her eyes narrowed.“He does,” Rashmi replied, a singsong lilt in her voice that Mayin knew all too well. “So there is no refusing him. He met with the man himself.”“And this suitor was not frightened away? Is he one of the Host?”“I do not believe so. He does not have the look of a fighter.”“Then he is a fool,” Mayin declared, finally pulling herself back onto the bed. “A merchant?”“I would assume so. He is not Hannish, if that was your next question.”Mayin tilted her head. Rashmi held up a length of deep blue cloth, inlaid with a silver, crisscrossing pattern of interlinked stars. “Then where in Sisters’ name does he hail from?”Rashmi held the cloth to the light, checking its translucency. Satisfied, she draped it over her arm and offered Mayin an amused smile. “Well, you will have to meet him to find out, won’t you?”Mayin flopped back onto the bed with a thump. “I feel unwell. Tell Father and send him away.”“Absolutely not. You are fooling no one, Mayin,” Rashmi sighed, one hand going back to her hip. “You sent the last three suitors away without a glance. I believe that is why Sethji Rakesh greeted this one personally.”Mayin’s tail thumped an agitated rhythm against the mattress. She stared intently at the carved patterns on the ceiling, a stubborn silence her only weapon.“Even if you intend to refuse him, you must at least make your father believe that you are trying,” Rashmi chided softly. “He gave you more freedom than any of your sisters.”“Because I am the youngest.”“Because you are his favorite, and do not pretend otherwise with me,” Rashmi tisked. “All of Thavnair knows it – but his patience has its limits. I know he worries you will end up alone with a dozen ferrets.”“He just wants the house to himself and Mother,” Mayin grumbled.“Would you blame him? He is old, and all his other children have their own homes,” Rashmi laughed in sympathy. “Now, up. I will help you dress.”Thanks to years of hasty costume changes, Mayin had mastered the art of making herself presentable with breathtaking speed. In seconds, Rashmi had the sari draped perfectly across her frame. Her fiery mane was tamed with oil and twisted into an elegant bun, and a modest selection of jewelry adorned her hands and wrists. Rashmi suggested a necklace, but Mayin refused, settling on a compromise: a single pearl hairpin shaped like a lotus flower.“Are you certain you don’t want makeup?” Rashmi asked, misting the air around Mayin with orange blossom perfume to disguise the fact she hadn’t bathed.“What purpose would it serve? I am not here to impress him,” Mayin huffed. “I am appeasing my father and following your advice.”Rashmi sighed again, deciding against further argument. She followed Mayin into the courtyard, reaching up to smooth a stray lock of hair the oil had missed.“Which tea room?”“The one your father uses for business.”“Perfect.”Mayin squared her shoulders and crossed the courtyard as the late morning sun beat down. It was a cloudless day, the tranquil noise of the fountain echoing around them. Her bare feet slapped against the hot stones, a sensation she barely noticed, while Rashmi hurried to keep pace behind her.“Tea has been served?” Mayin asked as she stepped into the shade, ducking away from Rashmi’s fussy hands.“He asked if coffee was possible, actually,” Rashmi hummed.
Mayin stopped mid-stride, turning to her maid in disbelief. “Coffee? Truly?”“I know. He would be the first. He was offered tea, but requested a recommendation from Sethji Rakesh, who said –”“-- The Mamook would be unlike any coffee he has ever tasted,” Mayin finished, sighing. She had heard those words from her father countless times. The Mamook, a blend from beans grown only in the New World’s region of Yak T’el, was the Bhandari Trading Company’s signature. Its fame came not just from its flavor, but from the fact that her family had been among the first to establish trade with the New World, giving them near-exclusive access.“Precisely. I imagine he is on his third cup by now,” Rashmi said as they reached the tea room door. “Do try to stay for more than five minutes, yes?”“Of course, Rashmi,” Mayin smiled.She would do her best for six.Rashmi stepped back as Mayin reached for the door and swiftly opened it.The room erupted in motion. A Raen Au Ra – his scales a shade paler than her own – scrambled to his feet, the wooden chair screeching against the floorboards. His large hands, clumsy in their shaking, fumbled for a bouquet on the table before extending it to her, his head bowed respectfully.“For you.”His voice was softer than she expected. Mayin tilted her head, taking him in. He was shorter than Father and any of her brothers. Deep purple hair, pulled back into a long, high ponytail. Blue eyes that darted up to meet hers before glancing away, his cheeks flushing a deep scarlet. The clothes clinging to his broad frame were well-kept but visibly worn, their style unmistakably Dalmascan.“Thank you,” Mayin said, her smile practiced and tight-lipped as she took the flowers. They moved from his trembling hands to her steady ones. “You look as if you are here to inform me I am late for my own funeral…?”She trailed off to let him introduce himself, glancing down at the flowers.The bouquet was a mix of Hannish jasmine and Dalmascan roses.“Soheil Ayari.”Mayin inhaled the scent of the flowers, her eyes returning to the suitor. Now that he had straightened, one of his hands rested on the back of the chair he had vacated. “Well, sit. What do you think of the Mamook?”Soheil sat as she took her own seat across from him, placing the bouquet on the table. She reached for the prepared cup of coffee, now lukewarm, and mirrored him. He lifted his own cup, taking a slow, thoughtful sip, his eyes closing. Every other suitor had lavished praise on the tea before taking a second taste. This was different.It was probably just for show.“It is…intriguing, as a coffee,” Soheil finally said, opening his eyes to study the dark liquid in his cup. “Easily mistaken for a bitter tea if one were not paying attention. The acidity plays into that illusion. It is light, pleasant. It would go well with a morning pastry, I think.”He glanced up at her, waiting for a reaction. Mayin kept the cup close to her lips, the mellow coffee a mask for her shock. It took every ounce of her stage training to appear unaffected as she slowly lowered her cup.“You did not say if you liked it.”Soheil was silent. Mayin stared at him, a nagging sense of familiarity tugging at her. The longer she looked, the more certain she was that she had seen him before.Finally, he seemed to find his words, though they came out in a rush. “I…I can find something to like in almost any drink, Mayin, if it is well prepared. Coffees and teas especially. The Mamook would not be my favorite – truthfully speaking, I hope that is not disrespectful! – but I have always been partial to a more –”Mayin took another slow sip of her coffee.“-- rich flavor, like that of my native Dalmasca…” He trailed off, realizing he had said too much.“You know your coffee,” Mayin stated.He smiled a wry, almost sad expression. “I drank coffee and tea from a young age. When you do not have… never mind.”“No. Please, continue,” Mayin encouraged, leaning forward, her elbows resting on the table. “If you wish to be my suitor, you will not hold back. Be genuine. Do not hide from me.” She paused. “My father would find out the truth eventually, anyway.”Soheil sighed, his shoulders slumping some. “I grew up poor, in the Dalmascan desert… you boil your water before you drink it, or treat it with fire crystals – you eventually learn that it’s better to mix in tea or coffee instead of waiting for it to cool down.”The words hung heavy in the air between them. Soheil, his shame palpable, stared down into his cup.“Do you trade in coffee and tea?” Mayin asked, her voice soft.“What?” He looked up, startled. “Oh – no, no. I work for a goldsmith in Dalmasca. I am here on business…”“My father’s party! That’s where I know you from!” Mayin exclaimed, her hand slapping the table. “You were the one sitting in the window all night, yes?”“Ah… so you noticed.”“I did,” she laughed, her voice sharp and knowing. “If you are a merchant, you did a poor job of networking last night. Is this your attempt to make up for it? I could fetch my father–”“No,” Soheil interrupted, his voice firm, cutting through her taunt. “I am here for you.”Mayin froze, her hand hovering near her cup. Her brow furrowed. “You are here for me.”“Yes,” he nodded, his gaze steady. “I want to know who you are beyond the woman on the stage. I am well aware that business is another word for marriage in Radz-at-Han, however –”“So you are here for business,” Mayin seized the opening, her voice dripping with a venomous sweetness. “If that is the case, shall I show you the door?”Soheil simply stared at her as she moved to rise. He didn’t flinch, his blue eyes darkening like a gathering storm. With a sigh, he looked back down at his coffee, cradling the cup in both hands. “If you would expect my interest to be purely monetary, then you are mistaken, Mayin.”“Why wouldn’t it be?”“Do you assume that of every suitor who has walked through that door?” he asked, gesturing towards the entrance. “Who has spoken to your father and accepted a drink?”“I do not assume, I know,” Mayin said, placing her hands on her hips. “I am a prize to be won from my beauty, my wit, the grace of my dance. But I am no fool. I am a Bhandari. My father’s coffers are the true prize.”“Then how might I prove otherwise?” His eyes met hers, that strange, unwavering intensity still there. “I was enraptured by your dancing the entire night. I could not look away. Each step told a wordless story, but it was incomplete, merely the illustrations of a fairy tale. I need to know you, your words, to fill in the missing pages.”As he spoke, Mayin had strode to the door and thrown it open. The midday heat washed over her, agitating her further. Huffing in frustration, she slammed it shut and turned back around. Soheil seemed unbothered, even faintly amused, in the same way her father was when she argued with him. Now he was the one hiding his expression behind his cup, which was surely near empty.“Then what do you have to offer, if it is not business?”Soheil lowered his cup, a small, satisfied smile touching his lips as Mayin silently relented and resumed her seat. He considered for a moment, his gaze sweeping the room and taking in its status–the instruments in the corner, the heavy drapes, the fine, hand-carved detailing of the walls.“You accused me of being here for business, and now you act as if I should be.”He smiled at her, a flicker of his earlier confidence returning. Mayin glanced away, feeling that bothersome warmth returning, creeping up her neck. “I do not know why one would be interested in marriage if not for business.”“Well…” He paused thoughtfully, tapping a finger against the rim of his cup. “One would say romance is a common reason? But I am not here to insist you marry me this instant…”“You were the one who brought it up,” Mayin reminded him, crossing her arms.He sighed, sinking slightly in his chair before remembering himself and straightening up.“Let us start over, then,” he spoke. This time, the smile met his eyes. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mayin.”
He did not rise from his seat this time, but he did bow his head briefly. “My name is Soheil Ayari, and I am a gemstone merchant from Dalmasca.”She stared at him for a long moment, taking in his unassuming, good-natured expression, the quiet sincerity in his blue eyes.Slowly, her arms uncrossed, and she reached for her coffee.“It is a pleasure to meet you, Soheil.”Truly.

The Bhandari Estate Banquet Hall, Radz-at-Han.

There were times when Rakesh thought this day would never come.The great hall of the Bhandari estate had been turned into a living tapestry of sound and color. The air, thick with the scent of roasting spices, lotus flowers and sandalwood, and the sweet, yeasty smell of fresh naan, vibrated with the murmur of a hundred separate conversations. Plates clattered and glasses chimed, and a small orchestra in the corner played a lively, intricate melody that was almost drowned out by the sheer force of the celebration. And through it all, Rakesh’s eyes found the raised platform where his youngest, Mayin, sat next to her new husband.She was a vision in crimson and gold, the intricate henna patterns on her arms dark against her skin. He remembered her as a small girl, stumbling through the steps of her first dance lesson, carrying her pet ferret everywhere. Now, she was a woman, a wife, her laughter ringing out as her new husband, Soheil, leaned in to whisper something in her horn.“I am surprised you allowed it, Rakesh,” a voice slurred at his elbow. The head of House Hazzar, a man whose girth was only matched by his fondness for arrack, swayed slightly. He downed his glass in a single, practiced motion. “I had heard rumors that the man has not a gil to his name. Is that true?”Rakesh offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.“I am just relieved my daughter found someone to be happy with, my friend. We do not judge a man by his wealth, but by his character,” he paused. “In that, his coffers overflow.”His wife, Darsha, gave his arm a supportive squeeze.Hazzar belched, a sound that was both a mixture of disapproval and playful camaraderie.“Character does not buy spices, Bhandari,” he grumbled, before stumbling away toward the buffet.“We are almost done,” Darsha reminded him, her voice a low balm against the noise. “Just the banquet, and it will be over. No more weddings.”“Until our grandchildren start,” Rakesh murmured, a genuine warmth finally reaching his smile as he reached for his own glass of arrack.“Oh, that will not be our responsibility,” Darsha said cheerfully. “Unless you decide to involve yourself, even in old age?”He sighed, the sound lost in the din. “I will do my best not to.”“And I will do my best to ensure that you do not,” Darsha laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Relax, jaanu. This is a joyous day. Look at how happy she is.”As if on cue, Mayin giggled and playfully fed Soheil a piece of naan.“She does look overjoyed,” Rakesh agreed, though a familiar knot of worry tightened in his chest. “I do worry about him intending to continue his work in Dalmasca…”“Rakesh,” Darsha said, her tone firm but gentle. “We will not discuss business at Mayin’s wedding. It is bad luck.”“Father is right, Mother.”Rakesh’s eldest, Vimal, sat down at the table, his movements sharp and agitated. He carried a bottle of toddy – probably stolen from the kitchens – and a plate piled high with paneer. Where Mayin was a reflection of her father, Vimal favored his Hyuran mother. Pale scales lined the tips of his ears and the backs of his hands, but his hair was a muted umber and his eyes the murky color of an algae-choked pond.“Vimal, not you too,” Darsha tisked, reaching for a baklava filled with chopped pistachios and almonds. “We should be celebrating!”“The benefit of being the youngest, I suppose,” Vimal joked, though there was no humor in it. He popped a piece of the spiced paneer into his mouth. “Free to marry whomever you like.”“I am just glad we will not have a parade of suitors visiting anymore,” Darsha sighed, choosing to ignore Vimal’s comment. “The rest of you were so easy to arrange marriages for, Vimal.”“But of course,” Vimal smiled, a bitter edge to it. “For us, marriage is a business partnership. Mayin decided to approach it as a commoner, and that is what caused all this headache.”“I did allow it,” Rakesh said sternly, his gaze hardening. “Be careful with your words, Vimal. The hall is filled with conversation, but those with loose lips tend to have keen ears.”His eldest son, the heir, scowled and stretched out a leg. “The Empire’s presence in Dalmasca becomes more oppressive by the day. They treat Rabanastre like a glorified barracks. And you’re letting her husband go back into that viper’s nest? You didn’t offer him a position here, Father?”“I did, as you well know,” Rakesh’s frown deepened, wondering why Vimal would bring this up again. “He wishes to stay with his employer, since his expertise is in goldsmithing and jewels. It would take years to teach him our way of business.”“Mayin bragged that he was the first to actually taste the Mamook before singing its praises.”“There is a difference between appreciating coffee and knowing how to sell it,” Rakesh said dismissively, stealing the last of the baklava on Darsha’s plate.“What made you so certain things are worsening, Vimal?” Darsha asked, leaning in and lowering her voice. “Have you heard something?”Vimal turned to open his mouth, but Rakesh shot him a pointed look. He tilted his head, took a long drink of his toddy, and then spoke. “No, Mother. I have heard nothing.”“Mmm,” Darsha leaned back, the hum in her throat telling Rakesh she would question him later. “I am going to greet our guests and thank them for coming. Will you join me?”“I have something to discuss with Vimal. I will join you shortly,” Rakesh gave his skeptical wife, who was now piling baklava onto her plate, a gentle smile. “You are much better at people-pleasing than I am, jaanu.”Darsha took her plate with a slight hmph, a sound Rakesh knew all of his daughters had inherited. “I will be back when it is time to greet the higher houses.”As soon as she was gone, the tense peace at the table was withdrawn.“You know I do not want you discussing the Empire around your mother. It worries her,” Rakesh said, lowering his voice.“It should worry all of us,” Vimal countered, his voice dropping to match his father’s. “I had a report from one of our associates in Bozja, Father. The Garleans are digging up relics like ants, and talk in Yedlihmad says they’re eyeing Werlyt next. If Ala Mhigo falls next –”Rakesh stared at him, mentally calculating the implications. “They would not dare spread their resources so thin.”“They will not need to,” Vimal said flatly. “Not with the weapons they are building. If Ala Mhigo falls, what happens to the rest of Eorzea? Our office in Limsa Lominsa is crucial – the New World, Old Sharlayan – they’re too far without it. An Imperial foothold there would strangle half our trade. The Shroud shipments are always delayed; if they seize that route, we lose Eorzea entirely.”Rakesh tapped his finger against the table, his annoyance growing. He was tracing out the business trade routes in his mind, wishing they had never bothered getting into business in Gridania. “You worry too much.”“And you do not worry enough,” Vimal shot back. “I know Mayin intends to stay here for now, but you do not intend to let her go to Dalmasca, do you?”An uncomfortable question Rakesh had wrestled with for weeks. His eyes remained fixed on his daughter, a bright spot of color in a sea of uncertainty, and he prayed to Sanduruva to keep her safe, to keep her in Thavnair.“That is not for me to decide.”Vimal sighed, taking a long swig of his toddy. “A benefit of her being your favorite.”“She is the youngest,” Rakesh countered, though he knew it rang hollow. “You are married and working to continue the greatness of House Bhandari with your wife.”He paused, and his voice softened. “How is Akshi?”“As well as a woman eight moons with child and confined to bedrest can be,” Vimal said, seemingly uninterested. “She wishes she could have attended. She is fond of Mayin… but the chirurgeon said she should avoid such excitement.”Rakesh pursed his lips. “Considering how… difficult her last pregnancy was, I would rather she take every precaution.”Vimal did not respond, instead tracing a circle around the rim of his cup. His eyes finally drifted up to the platform where he and Akshi had sat over a decade ago. The eldest son, the first to be married, and still no children to show for it.“The predictions still point to twins?” Rakesh asked, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over their table.“They do.”“Good. Good,” Rakesh repeated, taking one last sip of his arrack and moving to stand. “I am going to join your mother in greeting our guests. Be careful with your words.”He turned away from the table, but instead of seeking out Darsha among the throng of guests, his path diverted. He moved through the crowd, which parted for him like a sea for a ship, and ascended the few short steps to the raised platform where the newlyweds sat.“I have not seen you look this content since we got you two ferrets for your birthday,” Rakesh’s voice was low and playful.Mayin’s head snapped up, a blush rising in her cheeks. “Father! Stop it.”Rakesh chuckled, his gaze softening as he gently cupped her chin, his thumb stroking her cheek. The gesture was full of deep, uncomplicated affection. “I am just happy to see you smile.”He then turned his attention to Soheil, who had straightened up, his expression respectful but nervous. “Soheil.”“Sethji,” Soheil replied with a slight bow of his head.Rakesh looked him over for a long moment. “Behrad told me you have a good eye for gems. That you can see the story within a stone.”Soheil met his gaze, his nervousness giving way to a quiet confidence. “A stone is just a stone until someone gives it purpose, Sethji. I just try to listen to what it wants to be.”Mayin leaned into him, a bright, proud smile on her face.“He does more than that,” she added, her eyes sparkling, squeezing Soheil’s arm. “He’s good at finding things people have overlooked.”Rakesh’s gaze softened as he looked from his daughter to her new husband. The double meaning in her words was not lost on him. He, too, had nearly overlooked this quiet Dalmascan man.“A valuable skill,” Rakesh conceded, a slow smile spreading across his face. It was the right answer.“You have made my daughter very happy,” Rakesh continued, his tone losing its playful edge and becoming more solemn, more sincere. He had given his blessing weeks ago, but this was now the warning. “This is a treasure greater than any you could ever craft. Take care of her. She is more precious than all of the gems in Dalmasca.”A look of fierce determination crossed Soheil’s face. “I will, Sethji. With my life.”“I know you will,” Rakesh said, giving a decisive nod.He gave them both one last, fond look, his daughter’s bright, happy face a balm against his son’s grim warnings. The newlyweds fell back into their own conversation, and he finally turned and descended the platform, melting into the crowd to find his wife.Vimal was a pessimist, as always.But as Rakesh walked away, the image of his daughter’s joy burned brightly in his mind, and Soheil’s quiet confidence, so clearly seen and championed by Mayin, echoed against his horns.He allowed himself to believe, just for a moment, that the future was bright.

Garlean occupied Rabanastre, Dalmasca.

The reed pen felt clumsy in Soheil’s hand, a foreign tool trying to shape a foreign language. He was attempting to write in the formal Hannish script, a courtesy to his father-in-law, but the elegant loops and flourishes felt like a lie.His own story, the one etched into his bones and scales by the Dalmascan sun, was written in sharper, more angular strokes. He set the pen down, the unfinished letter to Rakesh a testament to the man he was supposed to be, and the silence of the house pressed in. It was a silence Rabanastre only gave in the deepest hours of the night, a fragile quiet that held like a breath.The parchment before him held a few carefully chosen words. Business holds steady, though the trade routes through the capital seem to slow a little more with each passing week. I trust this finds you and the twins in good health… The rest was a blank space he didn’t know how to fill.A soft chime, like tiny silver bells, drifted from the courtyard. It was a sound that never failed to pull him from his thoughts. He turned his gaze from the heavy mahogany desk, a piece of Thavnairian luxury that felt both a comfort and an anchor in this city, to the open archway.There, under the vast, star-scattered sky, was his world.Mayin moved with a liquid grace that the years and motherhood had only refined. She was not performing for a crowd; this was language spoken only for her daughter. Her silks were a simple, dark blue, the color of the sea at twilight, and her hair, unbound, was a river of fire cascading down her back. And at her feet, resting her own small ones on top of her mother’s, was Meira.At three years old, she was a perfect, chaotic blend of them both. She had his own deep purple hair, a tumble of violet curls that framed a face dominated by her mother’s brilliant, golden eyes. Her tail swished with a mind of its own this way and that. The tiny bells, a gift from her grandfather, were tied around her ankles, and they sang with every step.Meira had woken from a nightmare, her whimpers pulling Mayin from their bed. This was their ritual now, a silent dance under the stars to chase away the shadows.“Like this, Meira,” Mayin murmured, her voice a soothing, low hum as she moved in a slow, deliberate circle. Meira stood on her mother’s feet, her small body held steady by Mayin’s hands, rising and falling with the gentle, gliding motion. “The story is in the turn, see? You are telling the moon a secret.”Meira giggled, a sound like bubbling honey, and her tail gave a sharp, excited flick. Soheil found himself smiling, a deep, unthinking ache of love spreading through his chest. This was the dance he had witnessed years ago in a Radz-at-Han meyhane, but it was different now. That had been a bonfire, a breathtaking display of power and art meant to consume the room. This was a hearth, a warm, intimate glow that was meant only for him.The parchment was pushed aside. In its place, a small, leather-bound book and a stick of charcoal appeared in his hands. He was no letter-writer tonight; he was a craftsman, and the rough charcoal began its work, scraping against the page. Soheil’s focus was absolute: the lines of Mayin’s back, the moonlight on the curve of her horns, the determined, joyful set of their daughter’s mouth as she was carried through the dance.A ferocity that sometimes frightened him fueled his love for this life. He loved the quiet hum of the house, the smell of Thavnairian spices mingling with Dalmascan dust, the solid weight of Meira in his arms. But a visitor he remained, the Dalmascan husband of a Hannish merchant princess in a city that was no longer truly his own. The way Garlean soldiers paused when they heard Thavnairian from their mouths, the way their eyes lingered too long on the Hannish patterns of their curtains – he saw it all. They were too visible. A family of artists and gem-cutters, a bright, flickering flame in a city determined to be snuffed out.A sudden, violent gust of wind, unnatural for the still night, howled through the courtyard. It tore at Mayin’s hair and made Meira squeak in surprise. One of the oil lamps lining the stone path flared violently, the flame dancing wildly before it was swallowed by the darkness with a soft whoosh. The courtyard was plunged into a deep, slanting shadow, half of it illuminated, half of it lost.Mayin gasped, pulling Meira close. But Soheil was already moving, his chair scraping softly against the floor. He walked calmly into the courtyard, the charcoal still in his hand. He knelt by the dead lamp, shielding it from the wind with his body, digging in his pocket with his free hand. From his pocket, he drew a flint. He struck it against the metal, the sparks catching the wick. A small, fragile flame bloomed, hesitated, then held firm, casting a warm, steady glow once more.“There, see?” he said, his voice low and soothing as he looked up at his daughter, her wide, golden eyes fixed on the light. “Even a small flame can be stubborn.”Mayin knelt beside him, her hand resting on his knee as they both looked up at their daughter. She whispered to her Meira, her voice full of a quiet, fierce pride. “And you, my Meira. You will always answer the dark.”Meira stared at the relit lamp, then at Soheil. A slow smile spread across her face, erasing the momentary fear. She let go of her mother’s hand and toddled toward him, her little bells ringing a triumphant melody.“Baba,” she said, her arms outstretched, the single word the most perfect sound in the world.
Soheil’s heart felt as if it might burst. He set the charcoal down on the ground, the unfinished sketch of his family forgotten. He reached down and scooped his daughter into his arms, her small body a solid, warm weight against his chest. She smelled of milk and home. He leaned into Mayin’s touch, her hand now a firm, comforting anchor on his back. He looked from his daughter’s bright, trusting eyes to his wife’s loving gaze, the relit lamp casting them all in its warm, stubborn light.The darkness could not touch them. Not tonight.

The Dalmascan Royal Palace, Garlean occupied Dalmasca.

The state dinner was an exercise in tedium, a performance of power dressed in the finery of forced hospitality. Solus zos Galvus sat upon a gilded chair that was more pretense than throne, observing the proceedings with his usual weary detachment. The broken souls around him stumbled about, mistaking flattery for worth and motion for life. The air in the Rabanastre grand hall was thick with the cloying scent of spiced wine and the quiet fear of the conquered Dalmascans.At his age, it had grown, understandably, predictable. So dreadfully, achingly boring.His gaze swept across the room, cataloging the faces of everyone present with idle precision. Solus dismissed them with the same casual indifference one might swat at a fly. A procession of local merchants and artisans had been paraded past him, a display of the ‘prosperity’ Garlean rule had brought to the desert region. Nobles bowed their heads low to him, desperate to prove their fearful loyalty. He barely bothered to listen to the introductions: a textile merchant, a vintner, some minor duke from the desert backwaters.And now, a goldsmith and his dancer wife. They were introduced as the Bhandari family. The clumsy merging of a Dalmascan nobody and a modest Thavnair trading house, the name of which rang a faint bell in the back of his mind.Unworthy of his attention.The wife, Mayin, was brought forward to dance. Another attempt at charm, no doubt. She was beautiful, he supposed, in the way a well-cut gem is beautiful – all fire and calculated grace accompanying her movements. Technically proficient, telling a story of passion and sorrow that he had seen a thousand times before.He had seen much better. Before the world was sundered, its lives set adrift by selfish hands. A pretty bauble, nothing more.Solus let his mind drift, pushing the thought of a lithe, pale, blonde-haired dancer and his music away. What replaced it was the grander design, the slow, painstaking work of rejoining the sundered worlds, to the quiet hum of the aetherial sea that pulsed simultaneously underneath his feet and all around him. He was only half-aware when the dance concluded and the family was ushered forward for a formal introduction.His glance, idly drifting back to the small group, snagged.It was not the man, his posture deferential but undercut by a thread of misplaced pride. It was not the woman, her chest still heaving from her exertion, a sheen of sweat on her brow, stray copper strands of hair sticking to her cheeks. It was the child.A small auri girl, no older than three summers, clinging to her mother’s crimson silks.Her soul.The world fell away. The drone of conversation mixed together with the clinking of glasses and melted away into the oppressive heat of the occupied royal hall – then it all vanished into a sudden, roaring silence. There, burning in the center of that tiny, mortal vessel, was a color he had not seen in millennia. A shade of wisteria – vibrant, defiant, and achingly familiar. It was the color of an unbridled laugh, the color of a crystal held up to the night sky, catching the flicker of the stars.It was the color of Azem.No.The thought struck like a physical blow, a crack of levin through his veins. It was impossible. A trick of the overblown light, some fluke of this broken shard. A coincidence. But his eyes—his ancient, ochre eyes that perceived truths beyond this fragmented existence—did not lie. He leaned forward imperceptibly, his focus narrowing until the rest of the room was a blur. The child looked up at her mother, her small eyebrows knit in confusion, and her gaze met his from across the hall.Golden eyes. The same shade as the brilliant sun.Elpis.The name was a ghost on his tongue, a forgotten prayer that he stored away with Terpsichore. A memory, sharp and unbidden, sliced through his heart: the scent of strange blossoms she created, a defiant smile as she stood against him, a regretful letter on his desk when she departed. A soul he loved, taken from him, that chose the chaos of the unknown over the order of paradise. Azem.He had to see it up close.He had to confirm.He rose. The motion was slow, regal, the entire hall falling silent as the metal of his armor creaked over his bones. The Emperor was on his feet. He descended the small dais, his footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet. The Garlean officers snapped to attention while the Dalmascans trembled. He paid them no mind. His path was a straight line to the Bhandaris.Soheil Bhandari – the man who had taken the name to lend himself legitimacy – bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the floor. Mayin clutched her daughter’s hand, her face a mask of terror and confusion.“A commendable performance,” Solus said, his voice a calm, even baritone that carried immense weight. He addressed the father, yet his attention did not waver from the child. “You bring honor to this city with your craft, and to your house with your wife’s grace.”Then, he did something that shocked everyone present. The Emperor of Garlemald, the most powerful man on the star, slowly, deliberately, crouched down. His cape pooled behind him, the metal of his ceremonial armor creaking in protest. The ends of his long beard brushed against the tiled floor.
He was face to face with the ghost of his past.The small girl shrank back against her mother’s leg, her own golden eyes wide with a terror she could not name. He could feel it then – a frightened bird beating against the bars of its cage, brushing against the sheer, impossible depth of his own soul.“What is your name, little one?” he asked, his voice softer now, the closest it could get to being called gentle.She buried her face in her mother’s silks, a small whimper escaping her. She would not, could not, answer.
A wave of maternal fury cut through Mayin’s fear, and she tightened her grip on her daughter. Solus caught it from the corner of his eye.“Her name is Meira, Your Grace,” she said, her voice trembling but clear, each word a deliberate shield.
Meira.The name settled in his mind, a small, imperfect stone in a vast, empty sea. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Reaching out with a single, gauntleted finger, he gently, almost reverently, touched the child’s cheek. The contact was electric. He felt the full, unbridled power of her potential: the raw, untamed aether of a soul that once held the seat of Azem.He straightened up, his face once again an imperial mask of unreadable calm. He gave the family one final, dismissive nod before turning and walking back to his seat.
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur. He was a statue carved from ice and grief, his mind a raging tempest trapped behind the guise of an immovable emperor. He made the appropriate responses and toasted the right officials – but he did note, distantly, that the Bhandaris left early enough that it would be gossiped about as a slight.He did not mind.His every thought circled the same point.The name, the face, the soul. Meira.

—————————————————— 🙐 ——————————————————

Later, in the cold, sterile silence of his private quarters, the mask finally cracked. The grandeur of the palace was replaced with a spartan room dominated by a single object: a large strategic map of the star he had pored over with his advisors hours before.Emet-Selch stood before it, but he did not see it.He only saw the child’s terrified face, the echo of a soul he once loved and lost.He could kill her. The thought was clean and pragmatic. Simple, even. A loose thread. To kill her – even this echo, this shadow of her… no, it was sacrilege. An agony he could not bear. The disapproving looks of Terpsichore and Hythlodaeus rose like phantoms in his mind. How dare he consider destroying the soul of Elpis when she was but a defenseless child?He could let her go. Let this small, bright soul live out her short, meaningless existence in this fragmented shell of a world. The thought was a slow, rotting ache. An insult. To see Azem reduced to this – to let her memory be sullied by the drudgery of a simple, spoiled child. It was a waste of cosmic proportions.Or…His pacing stopped at the upper half of the map, right by the imperial capital.He could take her.The thought was madness. Pure, unadulterated insanity! Elidibus would call it folly, unbecoming of him. Lahabrea would deem it a waste of time and energy. To take her, to raise her? To strip away this fragile, pretend life and forge her anew in the heart of the Empire. To ascend her. To give her back the name and the power she had abandoned, as they had with Igeyorhm, with Fandaniel, with Loghrif and Mitron.To shape her. To guide her. To make her understand the necessity of their great work. Maybe this time, she would see. Maybe this time, she would choose him.He began to pace again, the heavy fabric of his robes whispering against the stone floor. He thought of his grandson, Varis. And then his great-grandson, Zenos. What would they think of this? A Dalmascan sand lizard raised as a Galvus? The irony was delicious. The potential, staggering.He stopped this time before the window, looking out over the conquered city. Their great work was all that mattered. The world remade and restored to its rightful whole.And now, a fragment of his past – the one soul he could never convince, never truly reach, the one he wished, more than anything, had believed (for then Terpsichore would have believed him, too) – had fallen into his lap.It was not a complication. It was an opportunity. A sign.The tempest in his soul stilled. The chaos resolved into a single, crystalline point of purpose. He was Emet-Selch before he was Solus zos Galvus. He bent worlds to his will. What was one small soul?He turned from the window and crossed to a small, ornate table. He pressed a crystal set into its surface. A blaring siren sounded before being swiftly shut off. From down the hall came a rush of footsteps; moments later, the door swung open.In the doorway, a captain of the IVth Legion came to attention, illuminated by the pale yellow light from the corridor.“Emperor,” the captain said, moving to salute.“The Bhandari family,” Emet-Selch said, resuming his role as the cunning, unbothered emperor. His voice was calm and utterly devoid of emotion. “They are to be removed. See to it personally.”The captain’s face remained unreadable.A pause. Emet-Selch let the weight of his words settle into the air as he committed himself.“The child,” he continued, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. “Meira. She is to be brought to me. Unharmed. Is that understood?”The captain’s eyes widened for the briefest fraction of a second, the only sign of his surprise. He mastered it swiftly. “Understood, Your Grace. The child will be delivered to you.”The door shut softly. Emet-Selch was alone again in the silence. He crossed back to the map, his finger tracing the jagged coastline of Dalmasca. He had set events in motion. A family would die, by this world’s understanding. A child would be stolen.And he would begin the most audacious project of his long, long life.He would raise Azem from the ashes of her own shadow – and she would finally understand the importance of the Convocation’s great work.

about

What this Chronicle is...Once, Before the Light is a long-form fan-fiction novelization based on the life of my Warrior of Light / Final Fantasy XIV OC, Dagny Fletcher. It is a personal project intending to flesh out her history as Meira binh Bhandari, focused on before she arrives in Eorzea in 1577 and finds herself under the care of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.While the story takes liberties with events and characters prior to 1577, it does so with the goal of remaining respectful to the established source material. Certain characters are expanded and woven more tightly into Dagny's personal journey and narrative choices are made where they provide logical and thematic coherence. As this chronicle continues, it will also eventually move into select events from the MSQ.The goal is to present Meira's early years in a cohesive narrative first and foremost for myself. One day, hopefully, that will transition into when she fully becomes Dagny. If you happen to enjoy it, that's a plus. Thank you for reading!Reading FormatsThe version presented within this Carrd is designed to provide a thematically appropriate reading experience. For those wanting something a bit more standard, a parallel AO3 edition is available above.Content Warningsgraphic violence, major character death (parents), child endangerment, child witnessing violence, suicide ideation (non-graphic), attempted kidnapping, imperial occupation, war crimes, trauma and PTSD, grief, displacement, orphans, memory flashbacks, and canon-typical FFXIV violence.& Thanks
To Sis, for being an amazing co-WOL, and for reading before I shared with anyone else.