The Black Shroud lay hushed beneath the moonlight, its canopy silvered with the glow of stars. The forest seemed alive in a way that set Noctis's nerves on edge, every rustle of leaves and every shift of shadow carrying a weight of unseen eyes. He moved carefully among the trees, spear resting on his shoulder, each step deliberate.
The trial still haunted him. The five portals collapsing into one, the abomination that had risen from that chaos, the way he had fought alongside Zack, Aerith, Galuf, and Reks as though their blades and spells had been waiting for one another all along. And then the guildmasters' verdict, spoken with solemn finality: solo paths, for now.
Noctis had not argued. He was used to solitude. Even before destiny had named him king, silence had always been his companion—lonely nights under empty skies, the weight of responsibility pressing too hard to share. Here in Eorzea, though, solitude felt less like punishment and more like a proving ground.
Ywain of the Lancers had given him his charge. "A beast stalks these woods," he had said, his tone edged with warning. "Hunters have fallen to it, their spears shattered, their blood spilled in silence. Track it. Face it. But remember—the forest is no arena. Here, every step is watched."
Noctis had nodded, though unease prickled at him. Warp-strikes, phasing—these had always been second nature, the edges he relied on when his skill faltered. But Ywain had forbidden them. "Rely on your spear, not tricks," the guildmaster had said, his gaze steady. And so for the first time in years, Noctis walked into danger stripped of the tools he trusted most.
The forest stirred. A shiver ran through the branches, the leaves whispering louder than the wind. A low growl rolled through the shadows, primal and deliberate. Noctis tightened his grip on the spear, his heartbeat quickening.
From the undergrowth burst a beast he had never seen before—a coeurl, its form twisted by corrupted aether. Fangs dripped venom that hissed as it struck the moss. Its body rippled with dark light, muscles bunching beneath sleek, striped fur that shimmered like oil under the moon.
It struck fast, a blur of claws and teeth. Noctis barely threw himself aside, boots skidding across moss and dirt. The coeurl wheeled, tail lashing like a whip, and came again. He raised his spear, deflecting one strike, the clang of claw against steel ringing sharp in the night. Another blow raked his shoulder, teeth grazing close enough that pain flared white-hot.
He staggered, breath hissing between his teeth. Instinct screamed at him to warp away, to blink to a vantage and rain steel from above. But not tonight. Tonight he was no prince of Lucis, no wielder of arcane tricks. Tonight he was a lancer.
He steadied his stance, breath slowing, letting the beast circle. The coeurl's eyes glowed with malice, its body weaving with restless hunger. Noctis let it close, every muscle coiled.
The creature lunged. Noctis did not retreat. He stepped forward, driving his spear upward in a fierce arc. The blade bit into the beast's chest, dragonfire sparking along the shaft. The coeurl shrieked, staggered, ichor spraying, but it did not fall.
Noctis's chest heaved, his arms trembling from the force of the clash. The fight was raw, stripped bare of the safety nets he had always relied on. And strangely, something in him thrilled at it. This was pure, clean. No shortcuts, no escape. Just the fight, and the will to finish it.
He adjusted his grip, eyes hard. The coeurl hissed and leapt again. This time Noctis didn't wait. He surged forward, lifted the spear, and leapt.
The air seemed to pause. His body rose higher than he thought possible, as if the moon itself were pulling him upward, the stars parting like a road only he could see. For one breathless instant, he felt weightless—free of destiny, free of grief, free of everything but the arc of his strike.
Then gravity seized him, and he plummeted.
He came down like a meteor, spear first, a trail of fire and steel. The impact shook the ground, the spear driving through the coeurl's back, pinning it to the earth. The beast thrashed once, twice, venom spraying, then lay still, its corrupted aether bleeding into the soil until only silence remained.
Noctis stood over the corpse, chest heaving, spear trembling faintly in his grip. He yanked it free and let the tip rest against the ground. For a long moment he only stared upward. The constellations shimmered like distant crystals, and something inside him answered, hot and fierce. This leap, this strike—it was more than technique. It was destiny, a truth in his blood.
From the shadows stepped Ywain. His eyes were sharp, his voice carrying the weight of judgment. "You fought as a lancer should. No shortcuts, no tricks. Only the leap, the thrust, and the heart to see it through. You are ready to walk the Dragoon's path."
Noctis lowered his spear, lips curving faintly. He said nothing, but silence was answer enough. Ywain bowed once and disappeared back into the trees, leaving him alone with the corpse and the stars.
Later, he sat on a fallen log by a stream, the spear laid across his knees. The moon rippled in the water, silver light shattering across the current. He thought of Lunafreya, of the promise they had shared, of the destiny that had demanded his life. He had fulfilled that fate once, or so he thought. But here, in this strange new world, the spear had shown him something else.
He wasn't just surviving. He was growing.
Noctis leaned back, closing his eyes. In the silence he could almost hear the others—Zack laughing, Aerith singing, Galuf brawling, Reks holding the line. They were far apart, walking their own paths, but the bond remained, unseen yet unbroken.
He breathed deep, the scent of moss and starlight filling his lungs. For the first time since arriving in Eorzea, a genuine smile touched his face.
"Dragoon, huh," he murmured. "Guess that works for me."
The forest gave no reply, only the ripple of water and the endless watch of the stars. But in that quiet, Noctis found peace.