The Twelveswood was alive with sound. Leaves rustled like whispers, water trickled over stones, and somewhere in the distance a bird called out as if keeping time with the wind. Aerith walked slowly along the path, her staff balanced lightly in her hand, eyes drinking in the green glow of the forest canopy. Gridania was unlike anything she had known in Midgar. There the air had been heavy with steel and smoke, but here every breath felt alive, threaded with voices that did not belong to people alone.
She remembered the trial, the way the portals had collapsed into one, the monster roaring with five different forms, the five of them fighting side by side. It had felt right, natural, like pieces of a song falling into harmony. Yet the guildmasters had decided they would not remain together, at least not for now. Solo paths, they had called it. Aerith didn't mind. Solitude never frightened her. The planet itself was company enough, if one only listened.
Today, the Conjurers' Guild had given her a task. Deep in the Shroud, a spring was sickening. Its waters had grown dark, its flow choked by aether gone astray. Elementals whispered of its pain, but none had yet eased it. Aerith was to go alone, find the source, and soothe it if she could.
She hummed softly as she walked, a tune without words, the same she had once sung among the flowers of Midgar's slums. Birds stirred as if to listen, and a breeze lifted her hair like a playful hand. But when she reached the grove, her steps slowed, her song fading.
The spring lay shrouded in shadow, its once-clear waters now dull and sluggish. Black moss clung to its banks, and around it hovered a swarm of sprites, their forms flickering with angry light. They lashed out at the air itself, scattering sparks that singed the grass.
Aerith's grip tightened on her staff. She could fight them—she had fought far worse—but that was not what the Conjurers meant for her to do. Her trial was not destruction, but healing.
The sprites turned on her, shrieking, bolts of corrupted aether streaking toward her. Aerith raised her staff, light blooming in a protective veil. The bolts dissipated against her barrier, leaving only shimmering ripples in the air. She did not counterattack. Instead, she knelt by the spring, setting her staff gently across her lap.
"It's okay," she murmured. "I know you're hurting. But you don't have to keep lashing out. I'll listen. We'll fix this together."
Her words were quiet, yet the forest hushed as if straining to hear. She closed her eyes and reached out, not with hands but with heart. The water's sorrow brushed her mind, heavy and cold. She felt the pain of roots starved, of soil cracked, of life stifled. It was grief, pure and simple, and grief that had turned the sprites into vessels of rage.
Aerith's chest tightened. She remembered the slums, the poisoned air, the way Midgar's plate had blotted out the sky. She remembered children coughing, flowers wilting, and her own helpless wish to make it all better.
She laid her palm on the water, ignoring the bite of its chill. A soft glow spread from her touch, white and green interwoven, like sunlight through leaves. Her voice rose, this time in song—gentle, wordless, carrying the warmth of a lullaby.
The sprites shrieked again, but weaker now. Their attacks faltered, their light dimming. One by one they wavered, their forms softening until they were nothing more than motes of fading aether. The spring rippled, the dark haze dispersing. Clear water bubbled up from beneath, cool and clean, and the moss fell away like ash on the wind.
Flowers bloomed at the edge of the grove.
Aerith opened her eyes and smiled. "There you are. You were just waiting for someone to listen."
Footsteps rustled behind her. Three women approached cautiously, armor and robes marked with the dirt of travel. A dancer with bright eyes, a knight in gleaming plate, and a robed scholar with a star globe tucked under her arm. They had clearly tried and failed to help the spring themselves, and awe now softened their expressions.
"You healed it," the scholar whispered.
Aerith rose, brushing dirt from her knees. "Not me. The spring healed itself. I just… gave it a nudge."
The knight bowed, her voice steady. "You have our gratitude, conjurer."
Aerith waved her hands quickly. "No titles, please. I'm just a student healer."
The three women exchanged glances, as though sharing a secret she could not read. Aerith only smiled at them, sensing their bond. Whatever their story, they were close, and closeness always deserved respect.
She looked once more at the grove, the flowers swaying as though nodding to her song. Then she turned back to the travelers. "You remind me of petals hiding in shade. Strong, beautiful, but keeping secrets. I think that makes you the Petal Veil."
The women blinked, then laughed softly, as if the name fit more than she could know. Aerith smiled with them, content. She didn't need to ask their truths. Some things were best revealed in time.
As the sun dipped through the canopy, painting the grove in gold, Aerith felt the spring's gratitude settle like a blessing. She had come to the Shroud as a conjurer on trial. She walked away a White Mage, not because of the staff in her hand, but because she had listened when the world called.
That night, as fireflies danced over the river and the stars bloomed overhead, Aerith rested beneath an elm, her staff laid beside her. She thought of the others—Zack in the desert, Galuf in the city, Noctis in the fields, Reks by the sea. They were far apart now, but their stories still threaded together like roots beneath the soil.
She smiled, closing her eyes, the forest's song still humming around her. Whatever path she walked, she would never truly walk alone.