FFXIVWrite 2025 Prompt: Echelon
The chamber was dim, lit only by the pale shimmer of aether-lamps that cast long shadows against the stone walls. Salaifa leaned forward over the low table, fingers steepled, eyes sharp as a drawn blade.
Ahrahd stood across from her, his posture unyielding, his report delivered without inflection. “There is no longer doubt. The Ocular have Egil Nylor. They will wring him dry, one way or another. Either they’ll persuade him to work willingly, or they’ll tear from him every shred of discovery he’s made.”
Salaifa’s lips pressed into a line. “Nylor is not a man to break easily. Especially when they do not have his sister.”
“No,” Ahrahd said, voice low. “But the Ocular excel in making the impossible routine. Conviction has limits. Pain does not.”
The silence between them was thick, filled with the unspoken knowledge of the bodies they had seen before—men and women carved open by curiosity masquerading as progress, corpses left to rot in cages once the corruption consumed too much. Salaifa could almost hear the echoes of screams in the pause.
Ahrahd’s next words came like stones falling. “There is more. Confirmation has arrived: the Ocular are not content with slaves and enhancements. They are making soldiers. How many? Unknown. How stable? Unknown. But it is weaponized now. That much is certain.”
Salaifa’s eyes narrowed. “An army.”
“Or a commodity,” Ahrahd replied. “Perhaps both. A market for soldiers that cannot be killed in the usual ways. Or a force to stand against nations entire. The Ocular are not short of ambition.”
Salaifa’s hand tightened on the table. “We have seen the mutilated dead, Ahrahd. We have seen what happens when they fail. The corruption hollowing them out, bodies twisted beyond use. They would turn that horror into an industry.”
“They already have,” Ahrahd said. His tone did not shift, but his gaze darkened. “The slaves harvested for corruption are still the foundation. As for Garlemald—their overtures continue, but aether-tainted ceruleum is a dangerous consort. They cannot yet rely on it. So they persist with flesh.”
“Flesh breaks,” Salaifa said. “Flesh can bleed.” She leaned back, tapping a finger against her lips. “The question is not whether they will succeed in numbers. It is when. And whether we are ready when they do.”
Her thoughts turned, inevitably, to Buoy. To the unusual success that had survived when so many had failed. And to Buoy’s brother, who had not yet been broken. There were lessons there—dangerous ones—but lessons nonetheless.
Ahrahd spoke again, his tone steady, cautious. “You lean toward offense.”
“As I always have.” Salaifa’s eyes burned. “The Ocular will not wait politely for us to plan. They move, we must move faster. We cannot let them dictate the pace.”
“Patience buys survival,” Ahrahd countered. “They are not ready to march. A premature strike could leave us bloodied, weaker than before. Better to know where their soldiers stand before we engage.”
“And risk letting them complete their army?” Salaifa’s voice cracked like a whip. “No, Ahrahd. We stay ahead—or we are devoured.”
His silence was disapproval sharpened into stillness. She met his gaze without flinching.
“We need to be ready with our contingency plan,” she said at last.
The faintest crease formed at the corner of his brow. “You are certain.”
No, she thought. Not at all. But Salaifa straightened, voice sharp as steel. “I am. Make the preparations.”
Ahrahd bowed his head, the smallest sign of obedience. Yet even as he turned to leave, the air seemed heavier with his reluctance. Salaifa felt the same weight pressing on her chest. Doubt burned in her gut, hidden beneath the armor of command.
The alternate plan was a blade with no hilt. To wield it meant blood.