Ul'dah never truly slept. The desert heat might fade with the sun, but the city's heartbeat only quickened under the lantern glow. The markets rang with the cries of traders hawking silks and spices, the clang of hammers from the forges, the jingling of dancers' bells as they spun in torchlight. Music drifted through alleyways, laughter rolled out of tavern doors, and dice clattered on tabletops as fortunes changed hands in smoky corners.
Galuf Halm Baldesion had found his favorite haunt in all of it—an old tavern nestled in the Pugilist's Quarter, where the laughter was loud, the mugs were heavy, and no one minded if you knocked over a table during a brawl so long as you paid for it after.
The old man sat with his boots up on a bench, his enchanted handguards glinting faintly whenever the lamplight caught them. A mug of ale sat in each hand, and he still wasn't sure whether he planned on drinking them both or saving one for whichever fool dared challenge him to an arm-wrestle. Either way, the night promised fun.
He tipped back the first mug, foam clinging to his beard, and laughed so loudly half the room glanced his way. He still remembered the trial. The collapse, the portals crumbling into one, the monster stitched together from five worlds' worth of nightmares. He remembered standing shoulder to shoulder with the others—Zack shouting like a madman, Aerith shining like a star, Noctis leaping like lightning, Reks bracing himself like a wall—and laughing even as his fists bruised from pounding that beast's hide. He had come away battered but burning with energy, the kind he hadn't felt in years.
The guildmasters had wanted them to split, walk their own paths. Fine by him. He'd walked alone plenty before, and he wasn't about to sit quietly polishing old trophies. If Eorzea had fights to offer, he'd find them, laugh at them, and drink with whoever was still standing after.
"Oi, stranger!" a deep voice bellowed over the tavern's din.
Galuf lowered his mug and peered up. Three men loomed over him—not the half-drunk sellswords he expected, but warriors with the bearing of veterans.
The first carried an axe wide enough to split an aurochs in one stroke. His hair was shot through with grey, his arms corded with scars. The second leaned lazily on a lance whose shaft was etched with old battle marks, his smile wry, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. The third rested his hand casually on a sheathed katana, his expression unreadable, but there was a calm edge to him that told Galuf he had cut down more foes than he cared to count.
"You've been laughing too loud," the axeman said, grinning wide despite the mock accusation. "What's so funny, eh?"
Galuf slammed his mug down with a booming thud and stood, a grin splitting his weathered face. "Life, lad! Life's too short not to laugh. But if you want a reason, how about a contest? One mug, one breath, last man standing!"
The tavern roared with approval. Chairs scraped, mugs were slammed full of frothing ale, and a crowd gathered, clapping and stomping. The four men stood shoulder to shoulder at the table, each grabbing a mug as if it were a weapon.
"Down in one go," Galuf barked, raising his. "Or I'll call you soft!"
They drank. Foam ran into beards, ale spilled over hands. Galuf tipped his back like a man half his age and finished first, slamming the mug onto the table with a victorious shout that rattled the windows.
"Still got lungs like a dragon!" he boomed, wiping his beard with the back of his hand.
The lancer smirked. "And fists like one too?"
"Only one way to find out." Galuf cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing like popping firecrackers.
The crowd screamed for a fight, and within moments the center of the tavern was cleared. Chairs shoved back, tables pushed aside, bets shouted across the room. The brawl began with laughter and light shoves, but it quickly sharpened into something serious, the kind of test only old warriors truly appreciated.
The axeman came at him first, swinging his meaty fists like hammers. Galuf blocked with his forearm, laughing even as the impact rattled his bones. The lancer darted in next, quick as a striking viper, jabbing blows that tested his defenses from every angle. The samurai hung back, steps measured, blade sheathed but posture taut with disciplined readiness.
Galuf danced among them, ducking, weaving, his fists answering every strike with a booming laugh. His knuckles slammed into the axeman's gut, sending the man staggering. He pivoted, throwing a kick that knocked the lancer back into a table, the wood cracking beneath him. The tavern howled with delight.
Pain flared in his hip and knee, joints crackling louder than the crowd. He winced, then bared his teeth in a grin. "Still got fight in these bones!"
With a roar, he launched himself forward, fists blurring with speed that belied his age. A spinning strike caught the lancer square in the chest, sending him sprawling across the floor. The patrons erupted in cheers, stomping mugs against tables.
The samurai finally stepped forward. Silence rippled through the room, anticipation crackling like stormlight. Galuf met his gaze, chest heaving, sweat glistening under the lantern glow. For a heartbeat they circled, predator and prey, though it was impossible to say which was which.
Then Galuf lunged, fists a blur. The samurai deflected each strike with the flat of his sheathed blade, sparks flying as steel met aether-infused knuckle. They moved like dancers, like duelists who had done this all their lives. Finally Galuf slipped past the guard and landed a clean strike against the man's shoulder.
The samurai staggered back, then chuckled low, shaking his head. "You've still got iron in you, old one."
"And you three," Galuf panted, grin wide despite the blood at his lip, "are no rusty relics yourselves."
The crowd roared. Ale sloshed from mugs. Someone struck up a fiddle, and the tavern seemed ready to collapse under the weight of its joy. The four men clasped hands, sweat and blood binding them together like brothers forged anew in fire.
Kaelen Drast, once a general of the flames, who had commanded armies but now lifted mugs instead of banners. Odrin Holt, dragoon of forgotten wyverns, who still leapt in his sleep when the wind roared. Torvik Brandt, tactician turned swordmaster, who had traded battlefields for quiet wandering. Retired, they claimed. But Galuf knew the truth. A fighter's fire never truly died.
"Rusty?" Galuf bellowed, raising a fresh mug high as the tavern's rafters shook with cheers. "Not a chance! You're iron, through and through. You're the Iron Old Guard!"
The name struck like a hammer, and the three veterans roared their approval, slamming mugs together until ale spilled across the floor. From that moment the night belonged to them—old fists and young fire, laughter and bruises in equal measure.
When dawn finally crept across the city, Galuf staggered out of the tavern with the three men beside him. His ribs ached, his knuckles were raw, and his head spun with ale, but he felt more alive than he had in years. They parted at the crossroads with clasped hands and promises to meet again.
Galuf walked alone toward the horizon where the desert met the sky, his grin softening as the morning light painted the stones gold. "Not bad for an old coot, eh? Still plenty of fight left in me."
His laughter echoed down the empty streets, rolling into the rising sun. Whatever Eorzea dared throw at him next, he was ready.