Today was supposed to be my day off. I had a few coins in my pouch, no active contracts, and every intention of finding something soft and stylish that didn’t smell like chocobo feathers or burning sand.
I walked into the Weaver’s Guild thinking I’d browse.
I walked out as an apprentice.
Don’t ask how it happened. One moment I was admiring a bolt of crimson silk, and the next I had a needle in one hand, a pile of undyed rags in the other, and a stern Elezen woman criticizing my posture. Before I knew it, I was learning how to stitch without stabbing myself, measure without magic, and curse under my breath without being heard.
Turns out weaving isn’t just needle and thread. It’s patience. It’s rhythm. It’s a kind of magic all its own—pulling beauty from nothing, like casting a glamour that doesn’t fade.
I made a robe.
It’s not perfect. The sleeves are uneven, the neckline is crooked, and I’m pretty sure there’s still a bent pin stuck somewhere inside. But it’s mine. I made it with my hands, not my fire.
Funny thing is… I feel powerful in it. Not the same way I do with spells, but close. Like I’ve woven a piece of myself into the fabric. Not just flame—but focus. Not just magic—but making.
I didn’t burn anything today.
And somehow, that feels like progress.
They get ya… next thing, you’re hooked and can’t stop synthesizing magical items. You might even take up gathering magic to sustain your addiction.
