Word came from Limsa today.
A formal request for aid—sealed by Admiral Merlwyb herself. Not some quiet whisper or informal plea. This is war. And the enemy is Titan.
Another primal. Another so-called god risen from the desperation of a people who have lost too much and been given too little.
The kobolds call him protector. Savior. The rest of us know what he truly is: a force of destruction that will not stop unless we make him.
And of course—because of the Echo—because I cannot be tempered or twisted—I’ve been placed at the front.
Staff in hand. Fire at my fingertips. And a pit in my stomach.
This isn’t like Ifrit. Ifrit was flame, wild and furious. Titan is stone. He will not yield. He will not move. He must be broken.
But I won’t break. Not here. Not now.
The Scions believe in me. Limsa’s depending on me. And beneath all that? I believe in me, too.
I was born of the desert, shaped by vengeance, softened by gardens and kitchens and dance steps in the woods.
But now I’m something more. And I will not fall beneath the mountain.
