By Lyra Zwahn

Content Warning: Action, Violence

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“Daniir, I’m tellin’ ye,” the scarred Roegadyn grunted. “Yer chasin’ a specter,” he said with crossed arms over worn chainmail, “and won’t do ye no good.”

He was Cold Sea, a veteran Yellowjacket of Middle LaNocea, and he stood in the shadow of Aleport’s gate. A cold rain hissed sideways onto the stone beneath his feet, and waves crashed against the dock with thick sea foam at high tide. 

Inspector Ray Daniir, a Lalafell and former paladin, was unimpressed. He frowned, tossed his cigar with a spark, and tugged his hat down against the wind. “Maybe,” he smirked and exhaled a stream of smoke, “but it’ll be a splendid ghost tale.” 

Within the towering central column forming the spine of Limsa Lominsa, a rogue with bloodshot eyes slumped at a table in the Drowning Wench. Her cohorts were boisterous in the warm glow of the tavern, but one glimpse of Ray walking in sent them off for another round at the counter.  

“Nice night,” the rogue joked. She smiled weakly. 

“Just lovely,” Ray smirked and brushed rain from his beige trench coat. 

 “Ul’dah,” she whispered, “last I heard, anyroad. Took ‘em ‘ere. Fer safe keepin‘, I reckon.” 

“Got a name?” Ray asked. 

“Yeah. Keltmerl,” the rogue frowned after trying to drink from her empty tankard. 

Ray signaled to the barmaid for another round for his friend, whose expression much improved. 

“The Exchange … on a back street. Look fer a Miqo’te peddlin’ rings, got a limp. Tell ‘em yer lookin’ fer Keltmerl,” she continued with a yawn as the barmaid topped off the mug with frothy mead. The rogue watched as the barmaid rounded the other tables on her way back to the counter. “Word is the old man didn’t pay ransom. So, don’t get yerself killed for naught.” 

“Hmph,” Ray huffed and nodded. He tossed a sack of gil onto the table and sprang to his feet. He needed to catch the next airship to Thanalan. 

The rogue offered a toast as Ray marched back into the darkness and the mist.  

Storms followed Ray east with rain falling in sheets the entire way. Thunder rumbled in the distance when he arrived in Ul’dah via Chocobo carriage at dusk. Even then, the Sapphire Avenue Exchange bustled. Ray puffed a cigar as he passed market boards and eager retainers. He rounded a miniature aetherite and planters bursting with lush ferns, and he walked up the shallow steps to the back alley where the noise silenced, where poor refugees huddled for warmth in doorways away from the rain. 

“Fine jewelry for the discerning socialite,” the ragged Miqo’te man called from his spot on the ground, gesturing to a variety of items spread across the cloth in front of him. 

“Got anything by Keltmerl?” Ray asked. 

The peddler froze. He stood without saying a word and hobbled down the alley – his goods unattended. Ray followed close behind while catching glances from residents looking away in fear. The peddler stopped to point at a green, wooden door. 

And, with that, he left in silence. 

Ray cautiously toed the unlocked door open to reveal a darkened foyer; a flicker of candlelight hinted at more inside. He rested his hand on the dagger beneath his coat and slinked into the darkness. Ray felt his way along the coarse wall toward the flickering light. He rounded the corner to see a young Elezen boy, alone, gagged, and tied to a chair.  

Their eyes met. 

Something struck Ray hard on the neck; his jaw hit the tiled floor. Dazed, he drew his dagger, but it was kicked from his grip. A large hand grabbed Ray’s coat and lifted him from the floor with ease, followed by a knee to the stomach. He was slammed breathless to the floor. 

“Told ye it’d do ye no good,” a familiar voice hissed. Cold Sea – yes, Keltmerl himself, towered over Ray in darkness. He offered a sinister grin as a spell sent Ray into slumber. 

A train whistle snapped Ray awake. Groggy, he stumbled and fell onto sand in the morning light. The locomotive rattled closer as a voice boomed across the ravine. 

“Time’s up, Daniir,” Keltmerl bellowed. “Yer sleuthin’ brought this upon ye. Ere’s good coin to be had for makin’ ye suffer.” He laughed heartily, “So, choose: the whelp, or yer rat.” 

Ray got his bearings and realized he stood before a railway switch. Two figures were tied to opposite wings of the diverging tracks – on one side: the kidnapped boy, and the other: the rogue informant who laid there bludgeoned and silent. 

Ray’s choices were clear: kill an innocent child … or the person who may be his only friend. The train whistle howled only seconds away. There was no time; he had to choose! 

Ray chose himself. 

With divine fury and paladin might, Ray called Hallowed Ground and braced himself against railway ties. He collided with the train in a cacophony of shrieking steel and scorching steam. He bore down in a fearsome grimace as timber snapped beneath his feet and a shield of purest white – a barrier of courage formed between himself and the driving metal.  

For that moment, Ray’s original form returned: a regal and tall Elezen with smooth, lavender hair. He bore cerulean armor with an otherworldly sheen, and with that shield drawn from his aether – with his true form and full strength unleashed, he pushed back against the locomotive. He was driven down the tracks; his heels split wood and sent iron spikes dancing through a shower of sparks and flames. 

An otherworldly screech echoed across Thanalan as the train came to a halt, and the conductor – face black with soot – peeked out from a crumpled window in astonishment. Ray topped backward onto the rippled ground in front of the mangled train, once again in his Lalafell form. His strength was spent. He trembled, and his body bled. But, still, he laughed. 

In the end, he saved them all. 

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