FFXIVWrite 2025 Prompt 6: Munificent
Over a year ago…
The terrace of Mehryde’s Meyhane was awash with lantern light, casting long shadows that swayed with the salt-laden breeze. Roen sat at the far table, her back to the railing where the sea stretched black and glimmering beyond. The satchel rested against her hip, heavy in ways that had nothing to do with weight.
Across from her, the Sener emissary leaned forward, jeweled fingers tapping against his cup. “Lady Roen, you must understand. What you bear is dangerous not only to you, but to all who learn of it. A single misstep, and every thief and charlatan from here to Garlemald will be at your throat. House Sener can protect you—and it. Our vaults are deep, our locks unbreakable. Entrust it to us, and you may walk free of its burden.”
Roen tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “At what price?”
He smiled, showing white teeth. “Gold, enough to see you live out your suns without concern. Ships of your own, should you wish it. Even land. But most of all—peace.”
Her hand curled around the stem of her glass, her fingers pressed tightly against it. “Peace,” she echoed. “Do you think peace is bought with coin?”
The emissary spread his hands, unbothered by her edge. “Peace, Lady Roen, is whatever weight you choose to lay down.”
She stared at him long enough to see the hunger glittering behind his courtesy. She gave a slow nod. “I will be in touch.”
The next evening, she found herself at another table, this one quiet, tucked in shadow. The Daemir scholar was already waiting, spectacles glinting in the lantern’s glow, a stack of papers at his elbow. His hands bore ink stains, not jewels. He inclined his head as she sat.
“Paladin,” he greeted softly. “I will not offer you vaults or riches. House Daemir seeks nothing so base. What you carry is a story—older than memory, older than history. We wish only to study it, to honor it, and perhaps… to understand why men chase eternity at all.”
Roen’s mouth quirked faintly. “And when you understand, what then? Will you write your discoveries neatly in your tomes, to be read and forgotten? Or will you take what you have learned and make the same mistakes my friend’s people made, until blood is spilled once more?”
The scholar flinched, his expression flickering. “Knowledge is never without risk. But ignorance—”
“Ignorance spared your house this burden for centuries,” she cut in. “Do not dress hunger as reverence. I have seen where such pursuits lead.”
The man held her gaze for a long moment, then bowed his head. “Perhaps,” he said softly, “but who is to say that the original bearers or even the current holder has any more right to decide its fate?”
Silence settled between them, heavy as stone. Beyond the railing, the sea roared in the distance, waves against the cliffs. Roen’s thoughts strayed unbidden to the priestess—the fire in her eyes, the weight of her voice. Never return with it. Guard it from men who would chain the world to eternity.
She rose, drawing her cloak about her shoulders. Both Sener’s promises and Daemir’s pleas tried to out voice each other in her head, but neither eased the iron coil in her chest.
The satchel at her hip was small, unremarkable to any passerby, yet it carried the fate of those who had trusted her. She had sworn an oath.
And no matter what offers were placed before her—golden, scholarly, or otherwise—Roen would not leave Thavnair’s shores without it.
