The laughter of the tavern spilled out into the night streets of Rabanastre, warm and bright. Serah's voice rang with cheer, Mog squeaked indignantly at some joke, and Vivi's shy giggles rose above the din.
But outside, another rhythm played — boots echoing softly along narrow alleys, slipping through shadow where torchlight did not reach.
The hooded man who had followed Clive's party all day wove through the bazaar's winding paths until he reached a secluded square. Here, the walls loomed close, cutting the sound of the tavern into a dull hum.
Another figure was waiting, leaning against a worn archway. He was dressed as a common laborer, but his posture betrayed discipline: a straight back, a hand never straying far from the hilt of a short blade hidden beneath his cloak.
"You're late," the second man murmured.
The hooded agent pulled back his cowl just enough to show a hard jaw and dark, tired eyes. "I had to be certain they weren't watching me as I was watching them."
"Report."
The agent exhaled slowly, as though weighing every word. "The group calls themselves hunters. At least, that's what they claim. But none of them fight like hunters I've ever seen. Every one of them is… strange."
The second man narrowed his eyes. "Strange how?"
"The swordsman," the agent began, thinking of Clive's grim face and massive blade. "He wields his weapon like a knight, but not in any style of Dalmasca, Rozarria, or Archadia. His strikes are heavy, precise, deliberate. He fights like a man who's lived through campaigns, not skirmishes."
The second man grunted. "And the blonde woman with him?"
"She's… different. Her magick isn't like the common white arts of Dalmasca. It feels older, deeper. Almost divine." He shook his head. "When she raised her staff, I swear the air itself bent. The wounded Resistance men said they felt a calm settle over them just by standing near her."
The second man frowned, arms crossing. "…Oracle work. Rozarria has no oracles. Archadia wouldn't risk sending one into the field."
The agent nodded grimly. "Exactly. She's not of either empire. Which makes her dangerous."
"And the pink-haired girl?"
The hooded man's voice dropped lower. "She wields a weapon I've never seen. A bow that transforms into a sword. She fights with rhythm — striking, shifting, striking again — as if guided by some pattern only she understands. Not Rozarrian, not Archadian. Alien."
The second man's brow furrowed. "And yet she bled alongside us against Vulturo. She's reckless, but not cruel."
"Reckless can still get men killed," the agent said firmly.
The second man waved for him to continue.
"The child," the agent went on. His tone carried unease now. "Not a child. A mage. His spells are sharper, older than anything in our grimoires. The crowd stares whenever he casts. Fire and thunder like his don't belong to this age."
The lieutenant's voice hardened. "And the red-coated warrior?"
The agent hesitated. "He unsettles me most of all. His blade is massive, but he moves with restraint, discipline. Every step, every strike is measured. He carries himself like a commander, not a sellsword. Men who've led armies walk like that."
The second man was silent for a long moment. The torchlight flickered against his face, casting hard lines. "And your conclusion?"
The agent's eyes narrowed. "They are not from Dalmasca. Not from Rozarria. Not from Archadia. If they are spies, they are unlike any I've seen. If they are allies… then Amalia must decide. But until then, they are a risk."
The second man finally spoke, voice low and careful. "We cannot afford more enemies. Rozarria presses from one side, Archadia from the other. Dalmasca bleeds enough already. If these strangers are truly from Rozarria or Archadia, we'll know in time. If they're not…" He let the thought hang.
The agent's lips thinned. "You'd let them walk free?"
"For now," the lieutenant said. "We'll watch. If they mean to harm Dalmasca, they'll show their hand. If they mean to help… then we may need them. But until then, we treat them as both threat and opportunity."
The hooded agent nodded reluctantly. "Then I'll keep my eyes on them."
"Do that. Report everything. Amalia will need to hear of this soon."
---
Neither man knew they were not alone.
A shadow lingered at the edge of the square — quiet, still, eyes hard as steel. Clive had followed the hooded man from the tavern, careful as a hunter trailing prey. He pressed against the wall, the faint torchlight glancing off the curve of his blade, as he caught every word.
Their voices confirmed what his instincts already told him: they were being watched, weighed, judged.
They think we're spies… he thought grimly.
The meeting ended. The lieutenant slipped back into the alleys, and the hooded agent melted into the dark.
Clive stayed a moment longer, fists tightening at his sides, then turned back toward the tavern. The warmth of laughter greeted him as he entered — Serah waving her mug, Mog bouncing indignantly at losing another argument to Vivi, Luna smiling faintly, Auron's single eye glinting under the torchlight.
Clive sat with them quietly. He didn't speak of what he'd heard. Not yet.
But his gaze was sharper than before, scanning the tavern's corners, watching the door. He knew now that unseen eyes would be on them wherever they went in Dalmasca.
And until Amalia herself appeared again, the line between ally and enemy would stay razor-thin.