Rabanastre's streets buzzed with life as Clive's party strode through the gates. But their appearance stopped the flow of traffic.
Slung over Clive's shoulder was the jagged trophy of their hunt — the Vulturo's massive beak. Longer than a man's arm and hooked like a scythe, it still bore streaks of dried blood. The sight turned every head.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"By the gods… is that—?"
"No one killed the Vulturo. It's impossible."
"They're tricking us. Some caravan beast, painted up!"
Yet disbelief faltered as the sheer size of the beak registered. Men fell silent, women clutched children closer, and whispers became a low wave of awe.
The merchant who had posted the bounty stumbled out from his stall, his face paling. When his eyes landed on the beak, his jaw fell slack.
"You—" His voice cracked. He rushed forward, seizing the grisly trophy in trembling hands. "This… this is real. The monster's truly dead?"
Clive nodded once. "It won't trouble caravans again."
The man's knees buckled. He pressed his forehead against the curved edge of the beak, shoulders shaking with sobs. "My guards… my wagons… it destroyed everything. You've avenged them. You've saved our trade. Gods bless you!"
The people around them broke into a mix of cheers and mutters.
"Impossible… but proof is right there."
"They're not Dalmascans, though. Whose side are they on?"
"They fight for gil, maybe. Or Rozarria sent them."
Auron's gravelly tone cut through, unimpressed. "Let them doubt. Corpses speak truth."
The merchant forced a pouch of gil into Clive's hand, voice thick with gratitude. "Take it. Take all of it. You've done more than I asked. The city owes you."
Clive gave a curt nod. "Your people are safe. That's enough."
---
Their next stop was the Clan Centurio hall, where Montblanc scribbled behind his desk. The moogle's ears twitched as they entered.
"Oh, kupo, back already? I didn't think—" His words died as Clive unfurled the Lindbur Alpha's black-silver pelt across the counter. The moogle's eyes bulged. "Stiltzkin's whiskers! That's a Lindbur Alpha! And you're telling me it led thirty wolves?"
Clive's voice was level. "One dead, three wounded, nine left standing. They held, but barely. We intervened before the pack tore through them."
Mont's ears drooped. "Kupo… those poor souls. Wolves that organized, with an Alpha like that… no wonder."
Then his mood shifted, puffing out his chest. "But you! You're rewriting the clan book, kupo! Straight to Hunter Rank III!"
Serah clapped excitedly and squeezed Mog to her chest. "Hear that, little guy? Rank three!"
Mog flailed, cheeks red. "S-stop embarrassing me, kupo! I'm nyot little!"
Mont fluttered over his desk, pulling a parchment free. "Another hunt's waiting, kupo. The Giza Plains are suffering. A wolf infused with storm aether — the Tempest Wolf. Its illusions confuse hunters, and its howls summon gales that toss men like dolls. Earth spells and heavy weapons should do the trick. Reward's 4,500 gil, plus a Wind-Fang Dagger."
Clive scanned the parchment, jaw tightening. "We'll handle it. But not before we rest."
Mont grinned. "That's the spirit, kupo. Even storms fall to steady hunters."
---
The tavern was crowded, smoky with the scent of spiced stew and roasting meat. Laughter and chatter filled the air, but Clive's party sat in exhausted silence until mugs and bowls clattered onto the table.
Serah blew out a sigh, flopping onto the bench. "That was madness. Thirty wolves, an Alpha, and Vulturo? No wonder Amalia's people nearly lost their lives."
Luna sat straighter, serene despite her fatigue. "And yet, together, we endured. That is no small feat."
Auron's eye narrowed. He drank deeply, then set his cup down with finality. "Barely endured. Serah, don't run alone again. You'd be carrion if Amalia hadn't followed."
Serah winced, cheeks pink. "I thought I could stall it. And she came on her own!"
"You gambled with your life," Auron said flatly.
Vivi tugged at his hat. "But she was brave. And it worked. We needed time."
Serah smiled gently, ruffling his hat. "Thanks, Vivi. And don't downplay yourself. Your magic was the reason we won."
The boy ducked lower, glowing eyes softening.
Clive rolled his sore shoulders. "My footing was a disaster. Every swing, the sand swallowed me. I was fighting the ground more than the enemy."
"You adapted," Luna said, touching his arm. "That's what matters."
The food arrived. Vivi and Mog immediately attacked their plates like wolves themselves.
"You're nyot beating me, kupo!" Mog shouted through a mouthful.
"Already ahead," Vivi mumbled, cheeks stuffed.
Bread crumbs sprayed across the table. Clive actually laughed, shaking his head. Serah giggled until her ribs hurt. Even Auron's lips twitched faintly.
Then a voice cut through the mirth.
"How are you all?"
The words came not from the tavern, but from everywhere at once. Their trinkets glowed faintly on their hands, light dancing like fireflies.
Clive froze. "…Sirius?"
Serah gasped, eyes wide. "You're alive! I thought—"
Vivi clutched his trinket. "Where have you been? It's been forever."
Auron leaned forward, gaze sharp. "I thought you'd abandoned us."
The voice was calm, deep. "Never. Busy, yes. Here and there. But I have not forgotten you."
Clive snorted, shaking his head. "Always the cryptic wanderer."
Sirius chuckled. "Clive, I may have a solution for your footing problem. But not tonight. Rest. Tomorrow, I'll show you something new."
"A spell?" Luna asked, curiosity shining.
"A path," Sirius replied. "One that lets you stand where the world itself would see you fall."
The trinkets dimmed, leaving only the warmth of his words.
Mog wiped his mouth. "About time, kupo."
Clive looked at each of his companions — Serah's bright grin, Luna's calm smile, Vivi's shy glow, Auron's steady stare. For the first time in days, he felt the weight of victory ease.
Tomorrow, Sirius would teach them again. And with it, their storm was only beginning.