The forest of the Black Shroud was unlike anything Noctis had ever known. The air carried a thick, green weight, humming with energy so unlike the suffocating silence of Lucis. He moved slowly through the shaded grove, his boots sinking into moss, every step stirring the smell of earth and sap. Branches arched overhead like cathedral ceilings, filtering sunlight into golden shafts that painted the dirt path.
"This place…" Noctis muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "It feels… alive."
The trinket at his side pulsed faintly, as though agreeing with him. He exhaled, fingers brushing over it, remembering the words Sirius had spoken: "You will grow here, in ways your world never allowed."
He wasn't sure what that meant yet. But the path led him to a wide clearing where a building of carved wood and woven vines stood tall—the Lancer's Guild.
---
The sound of spears cutting through the air met his ears before he even entered. In the courtyard, rows of lancers drilled in unison, their long weapons thrusting and sweeping in perfect rhythm. The sharp whistles of their instructors cut through the air, commanding precision, discipline, and endurance.
Noctis hesitated at the gate. Their movements were crisp, their discipline palpable. Compared to them, he felt sloppy, untrained. His heart sank.
What am I doing here?
He thought of his Royal Arms—ghostly blades that had answered his call in Lucis. They had been his birthright, his burden, his salvation. But here, there was no magic arsenal, no divine gifts. Just a spear, a body, and discipline he didn't yet have.
A stern voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
"You. Stranger."
Noctis looked up to see a tall figure approach—Ywain, Guildmaster of the Lancers. His gaze was sharp, his stance impeccable, a man carved from years of discipline.
"You stand at our gates as if unsure whether to enter," Ywain said flatly. "Do you wish to learn, or do you wish to turn away?"
Noctis swallowed. His voice came quieter than he intended. "…I want to learn."
Ywain studied him a moment longer, then nodded toward the training yard. "Then step forward. Show us your resolve."
---
Noctis was handed a spear. It was longer and heavier than the swords he knew, the shaft firm against his palm. He turned it awkwardly, trying to find balance.
A practice dummy was wheeled into place, its straw body scarred by countless strikes. Ywain's voice carried across the courtyard. "Strike. Show us your instinct."
Dozens of eyes turned to him—trainees, instructors, apprentices. The weight of their gaze pressed down on him like a physical force.
Noctis raised the spear. His hands trembled. His body wanted to falter. But something stirred deep inside—an instinct from battles long past, from fights that had demanded everything.
He inhaled sharply, his trinket pulsing. His body blurred, warping forward with a crack of displaced air. In an instant, he reappeared before the dummy, his spear thrust deep through the straw chest.
The courtyard fell silent.
The spear quivered in his grip. Noctis stepped back, chest heaving, eyes wide. He hadn't planned that. It had just… happened.
The trainees whispered.
"What was that?"
"Did you see him vanish?"
"Some kind of magic?"
Ywain approached slowly, his expression unreadable. He studied the ruined dummy, then Noctis. "Unrefined," he said at last. "Uncontrolled. But…" His eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. "Vast potential."
Noctis swallowed hard. His chest tightened, not with fear, but with something else—pride. For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel useless.
---
The next hours were grueling. Noctis joined drills alongside the others, his arms burning as he thrust, spun, and parried again and again. Sweat soaked his clothes, his legs ached, and his shoulders screamed under the weight of the spear.
He stumbled more than once, his form sloppy compared to the others. But every mistake was corrected, every falter met with sharp words from instructors.
"Balance, boy! The spear is not a sword—it is reach!"
"Your grip is weak. Hold it like it's part of your arm!"
"Again. Again!"
Noctis pushed himself harder, his jaw clenched. Each thrust grew cleaner. Each step steadier. His body remembered battles fought with kings and gods, even if his weapon was new.
By the time the sun dipped low, his arms felt like lead, but he managed to hold his stance, his spear steady, even as sweat dripped into his eyes.
---
That night, Noctis sat outside the guild beneath the towering trees. The moonlight filtered through the canopy, silver against his tired face. His spear lay across his lap, its weight both burden and comfort.
He turned his trinket in his hand, its glow faint but steady. He thought of the others—Zack, Aerith, Galuf, Reks. He imagined them training in their own guilds, pushing themselves, laughing, stumbling, fighting to grow.
His lips curved faintly. "We'll get stronger. All of us."
But then his thoughts drifted to Lucis. To his throne. To Prompto's jokes, Gladio's loyalty, Ignis' calm wisdom. To Ardyn's cruel laughter. To his own death.
His hand tightened around the trinket. "…Not this time. I won't just sit on a throne and wait for the end."
The forest rustled gently, as though in response.
---
High above, Sirius observed quietly, threads of fate shimmering faintly around the young king.
"He doubts himself," Sirius murmured. "But he moves still. Even when burdened, he takes a step. That is his strength."
He watched Noctis' warp-strike replay in the thread, the spear glowing with potential. A new path had opened—one not written in Lucis' destiny.
Grow, prince of Lucis. Learn discipline. Learn trust in yourself. For one day, your spear will pierce more than straw.
---
As the night deepened, Noctis rose, his body sore but his heart steadier than before. He lifted his spear, staring up at the moonlight filtering through the trees.
"I'll get stronger," he whispered. "This time… I'll fight, and I'll live."
The trinket pulsed softly in his hand, carrying his vow across worlds to his companions.
And for the first time since his throne, Noctis Lucis Caelum felt the stirrings of hope.