The weeks of hunts left their mark on Bhujerba. Clive's party had walked into the floating city as seasoned but unproven hunters, and they walked out of the mines battered, scarred, and carrying the weight of Rank V. The clerk at the Hunt Board had stamped their papers with no more fuss than any other band of adventurers, but the streets told a different story.
When they first arrived, merchants had called them over eagerly, waving trinkets and food. Now those same merchants paused, glancing at them with narrowed eyes. Hunters who once jostled cheerfully at the Hunt Board now stepped aside, voices hushed, whispers clinging like smoke. Guards along the bridges let their gazes linger a moment too long.
Serah slowed as they walked, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "Why are they staring?" she whispered, her voice just for Lunafreya.
The Oracle glanced around, reading the unease in every lingering glance. "Because you are stronger than they expected. And strength, to those who do not share it, is something to fear."
Mog flapped his wings irritably. "Or they're jealous, kupo. They wish they had Mog."
Vivi tugged his hat low, his voice small. "It doesn't feel like jealousy…"
---
They saw her by chance.
A procession moved through one of the upper streets: soldiers in Archadian livery, a Judge at their head, helm gleaming in the sun. And at the center, walking with measured grace, was Princess Ashe. Her wrists were bound in silken rope, but her back was straight, her eyes forward, every step a refusal to bend.
Clive stopped cold, fire rising in his chest. His hand went to his sword.
Auron was beside him in an instant, one hand firm on his shoulder. "Not your war."
"She's a prisoner," Clive snapped, teeth gritted.
"And we would be corpses if you rush in." Auron's voice cut like steel. "Not. Your. War."
Lunafreya's eyes softened as she looked at Ashe. "Her path is not ours to break. Not yet."
Clive's jaw tightened, but he let the hilt of his blade slip from his hand. The procession passed, and Ashe never turned her head, though Clive swore he felt her eyes on him for a fleeting heartbeat. Then she was gone, swallowed by stone walls and Archadian steel.
---
At the inn that night, the mood was thick. The tavern bustled with miners and hunters, laughter echoing against stone, but Clive's party drew only silence. Every time Serah looked up, she caught someone staring before turning quickly away.
They sat in a corner booth. Vivi hunched over, staring into his hands. Mog sat on the table, wings twitching, glaring at anyone who looked their way. Serah fiddled with her bowstring, her smile gone.
"It feels like… they see us as monsters," she whispered.
"You're not wrong," Auron said, sipping his drink. "Respect and fear are twins. One wears a kinder mask."
Vivi swallowed hard. "What if they're right? Maybe we don't belong here. Maybe we're… something else."
"Vivi." Lunafreya leaned forward, her voice soft but steady. "You belong because you fight, because you choose to stand with us. The Wood hears truth, and so do I. Do not let fear write your story."
The black mage blinked, tears shining faintly in the shadow of his hat. Mog, trying to lighten the moment, raised his tiny paw. "Besides, if we were spies, we'd be rich by now, kupo! Mog would own this tavern, maybe two!"
Vivi let out a surprised laugh, small but real. Even Serah cracked a smile.
Clive hadn't touched his food. His hands were clenched on the table. "We bleed in the mines. We nearly die in the tunnels. And instead of respect, they give us suspicion." His voice was low, dangerous.
"That is the way of the world," Auron said calmly. "Strength unsettles the weak. Do not expect their thanks."
---
The whispers grew louder in the days that followed.
"No hunter climbs that fast."
"They fight too unnaturally."
"They're not like us. They're Archadian spies. Or Rozarrian."
The Resistance from Rabanastre fanned those whispers into flames. Jealous hunters muttered in taverns, merchants repeated them in markets, guards nodded knowingly. Within days, the rumor spread through every street of Bhujerba: Clive's party were no heroes, but infiltrators.
Clive ignored the stares, jaw set like stone. Serah's cheerful demeanor dimmed, her smile brittle. Vivi kept his head down, each whisper a stone on his back. Auron never wavered, his silence heavier than any words. Mog boasted louder, flapping his wings as if defiance alone could drown the noise.
Lunafreya moved among them with quiet strength, reminding them in moments of doubt that the truth did not vanish just because the world refused to see it. "We know what we faced," she said one night. "No rumor can erase the scars of our battles."
But the air in Bhujerba grew colder with each passing day.
---
Finally, Clive said what they all felt. "We're done here."
They packed quietly and left the city under cover of dawn, their boots echoing along empty streets. No cheers followed them, no gratitude. Only silence, broken by whispers carried on the wind.
They traveled south, through the Giza Plains, where rain fell in sheets and turned the earth to mud. The storm mirrored their mood, heavy and relentless. By the time they reached Jahara, they were soaked, weary, and wordless.
That night, as they rested in one of the tribe's quiet huts, the trinkets pulsed. Sirius's voice filled their minds.
"Where do you go next?"
Clive looked at the others, then answered. "To Mt. Bur-Omisace."
Silence hummed for a moment. Then Sirius spoke again, his tone sharper. "A Viera village lies on your path. Outsiders cannot enter. The Wood does not permit it."
Serah frowned. "Then how do we—?"
"I will send Aerith," Sirius interrupted. "She alone can walk where you cannot."
The link faded, leaving them staring at each other.
For the first time in weeks, Serah's smile flickered with genuine warmth. "Aerith," she whispered.
Vivi's eyes widened beneath his hat. Mog fluttered up, grinning. "Ha! With her, they'll see we're no spies, kupo!"
Clive said nothing, but for the first time since Bhujerba turned on them, he felt the faintest ember of hope stirring.