FFXV: The Promise, Chapter 1

“Once this is all over, I say we break down the borders–come together as a nation. …I’m gonna make this world a better place. You with me?”

“Uh-huh. Ever at your side.”

FINAL FANTASY XV
The Promise

M.E. 779-VII-20th

“Welcome to Galdin, friends, and welcome to the tenth annual Festival of the Dawn!”

It was hot on the quay that midsummer noon, and the throngs of happy people crowding the place were making it even hotter. A cool breeze was trying to make its way off the water and through the crowd, but it was little competition for the warm air generated by all the clapping and cheering that went up as the mayor gave the official festival welcome. People had been steadily pouring in all morning from many miles around to take in the sights, to enjoy the games and physical challenges set up all along the beachfront of the Vannath Coast, to peruse the vendor booths that walled the west side of the widened boardwalk–and, of course, to savor the culinary curiosities of the Mother of Pearl restaurant, restored and under famous new management. Yes, the Day of the Dawn had become quite the lively spectacle over the last few years, as Galdin bore witness to its own dawn, transformed from a diminished-then-abandoned resort to a thriving fishing village and port. And everyone there who still remembered the ten years of the Long Night would have it no other way.

Well, almost everyone.

“I know many of us have been here for quite a few hours now,” the mayor went on, as the applause died down, “paying our respects, sampling the wares, and watching the sun climb higher into the sky on a day that I don’t think could be more beautiful if it tried. We have so much to be thankful for and to celebrate on this day. And to help us with that, please welcome our very special guest, the Honorable Lord Mayor of the City of Insomnia, Corvinus Rosso!”

Towards the podium, which was set at the beginning of the boardwalk (where, in former times, one might have found the kiosk of an quirky entrepreneur called Aldare) and facing the car park and the beach, stepped an unremarkable middle-aged man wearing a distinct yet plain metallic gray suit, the wind playing tricks with his fine red hair that time was beginning to whiten. At his side stood a tall burly figure of about the same age, in the full dress attire of the old Crownsguard, whose face was starting to show more lines than scars these days, his still jet-black hair pulled back tightly enough to show them all off. Only the man’s passively stern look and the occasional stream of sweat dripping down his face indicated anything like a mood as he took his place to the left of the smaller man.

The Honorable Corvinus Rosso gave a smiling kiss to the cheek of Galdin’s mayor as she stepped back from the podium, and then raised both arms to wave to the crowd, as polite applause rang out anew. The smile he wore on his smooth face was a big one, but not quite the proud, tooth-filled grin associated with most politicians. There was an authenticity to his look, and with it a weightiness, as if he was far too conscious of the fact that smiling right now was of the utmost importance.

Not all would be moved by it, though.

“Thank you, Madam Mayor,” Rosso began in his measured and sometimes halting tone. “It is truly a humbling experience to be asked to join you all today and to give this address. And I know the word ‘humbling’ can get thrown around and overused, but I truly can think of no more appropriate word. I know what the City of Insomnia means to the land of Lucis, what it has meant to us all. And to stand before you all, before the people of Lucis and beyond, as the chosen leader and representative of that great City is a role and a privilege that I do not take lightly. And I hope never to take it for granted.”

He paused to take a breath and collect himself, already a little overwhelmed. The breath was sharper than even he was expecting, and the crowd broke anew into applause to buy him some time without an awkward silence, which he inwardly appreciated. The man at his side inwardly appreciated it too. Noct would’ve liked this guy. Probably would have found him a bit much, but he would’ve liked him.

“As I made my way here,” he resumed, “from the Citadel with so many others in that slow and solemn midnight procession, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the words of the old prophecy: ‘When darkness veils the world, the King of Light shall come.’ How ironic that now, under cover of night, we come to him.”

Ah yes, the procession. They’d started that ten years ago, just after the tomb was finished. The Tomb of the True King they’d called it. The three of them had been insistent it not be located within Insomnia. It had to be somewhere where all who wanted to visit or make pilgrimage or what-have-you, whether from Lucis or elsewhere, could get to it with as little hassle as possible. Somewhere out of the way, but not too remote. In the end they chose the Vannath Coast, the area around the old Galdin Quay. People had wanted to resettle there anyway, but with word that the King would be coming there to rest, people flocked to build new structures and repair old ones. The tomb and the town had been built up together. In fact, that first procession ten years ago had been a funeral cortege, solemnly bringing the King’s body from the Citadel, where it rested in a makeshift grave in the gardens hastily prepared three years earlier, to its final place of rest.

It also helped that there was before the Dark Days a fishing hole along the rocks once favored by the King, but no one needed to know that.

“Thirteen years ago today,” the Lord Mayor continued, almost wistfully, “the last King of Lucis called on the power of the Crystal and of his forebears to end a decade of darkness and usher in the Dawn, preserving the lives and futures of his people at the cost of his own. His tomb, just behind us on the coast here, stands as a testimony not just of the love and devotion of the people for their King, but of his love and devotion for them.”

The new tomb truly was a thing of beauty. Built in the same style of the tombs that littered the Lucian countryside, it had been so seamlessly integrated into the natural jetties and rock formations of the Vannath Coast it could be hard to tell if parts had been inset or just carved out of the stone. It was a monument not just of love and devotion, but of skill and craft such as had not been seen since the last of the Insomnian skyscrapers had been built. And there it now sat, east of the quay, looking south, forever in full view of Lucis’ other most sacred sight: the ancient, twin-horned gathering place of the gods, the Umbral Isle of Angelgard.

The big man allowed himself a half-hidden sigh as the Lord Mayor went on, recounting the elements of the now ten-year-old tradition.

“It’s still a surreal feeling to make that six-hour drive through the City, over the Astral Bridge, around and within the mountains overlooking the Allural Deep, and finally across the Leiden countryside. But now it is also inspiring to see the crowds of people lining the streets and gateways of Insomnia or filling up the waystations at Hammerhead and Langwythe, and of course the residents, visitors and workers here in Galdin Town and Quay, bustling with a life and action not seen here in almost two hundred years. All of us gathering in the darkness of night but in complete security, knowing that no daemons are lurking and that before long the sun will indeed rise.”

That was another thing that got the crowd breaking into a quick burst of applause. In the thirteen years since the Dawn, there hadn’t been a single daemon sighting or sign of attack. The Starscourge had finally been lifted for good along with the final destruction of the Usurper (or, as some would have him, the Immortal Accursed), Ardyn Izunia. And yet, for some time afterwards, nighttime activity was a thing reluctantly pursued, if at all. When the first procession and vigil had been announced, it was met with no small amount of anger and derision. Were they crazy? How could it be safe? Sure, the daemons were gone, but…what if they weren’t? What if they came back? Were fancy headlights and street lamps going to be enough, especially for those in open cars, in the event that, say, a tunnel wall decided to come to life and eat someone? But after that first event passed without incident and in grand fashion, and as the procession and vigil became an annual ceremony of remembrance, attitudes relaxed and the crowds began to grow. This year, it wouldn’t have surprised anyone to have seen people lining the whole dry, dusty, rocky route past the Three Valleys, camped out along the Callaegh Steppes near the old mines, even hanging from the stone arches of Saulhend Pass just to the north.

“It’s a surreal feeling to stand keeping silent vigil at his tomb, awaiting the coming of the dawn’s light just as those who watched him march back into the City to reclaim his throne must have done.” (Here the Lord Mayor placed a well-intended hand on the big man’s arm, and he did his best to return the favor by not rolling his eyes.) “But it’s also inspiring to hear the horns from the boats on the water sound the appearance of the sun over the horizon, to see our friends from the great nation of Tenebrae scent the Eternal Flame of the True King with their dried sylleblossoms, to hear the brightening sky fill with the strands of the great Hymn to the Six, who guided our king and continue to watch over him and over us all.

“Yet it never stops being surreal–surreal because”–here he paused for a moment, trying to find the right words–”because we scarcely know what to do with that kind of a selfless act. The ceremonial, the camaraderie, the festivity, the solemnity–somehow it all still seems too little. How can we possibly say ‘Thank you’ enough, King Lucis Caelum CXIV?”

The cheers went up at the sound of the name of the True King (even if it wasn’t his full name). The big man allowed himself to wonder how long that would last, how long before a generation that didn’t know the Starscourge or the Long Night would come along and regard all of this as the quaint musings of a dying breed.

“If I may be so bold, it’s not in the big moments like today that we honor his memory and his sacrifice, but in the little moments that pepper all our days, every little sacrifice and memory we make. Everything he was and did led him to his supreme moment. Our supreme moments may not be nearly as world-changing, but we can still do our best to make sure that we and everyone around us are everything we can be.

“But for now, and at the risk of supreme inadequacy, let me bring this reflection to a close by offering an impossibly simple: Thank you, Your Majesty. And godspeed you–”

“Death to the insurgency!”

The big man heard the footsteps barreling down the boardwalk even before he heard the shout. He turned on instinct, putting himself between the Lord Mayor and whoever this was in one fluid motion. He saw this wild-eyed man, dressed in black athletic gear, shouting at the mayor, knife raised, about 60 feet away and closing in on them. He braced himself to catch the attacker and try not to hurt him too badly. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to last long enough for people to get upset about it. And what’s another scar, anyway?

“Long live the King! Death to the…”

The sound of the gunshot did startle him, but only half as much as the sight of the wild man suddenly dropping on his side along the wooden paneling of the boardwalk, clutching at his leg, still screaming but now more out of agony than zeal. The knife flew forward out of his hand, landing just a few feet away from the big man, who still stood in front of the Lord Mayor. He hadn’t even had time to plant his feet right for what he wanted to do. As the echo of the shot faded into the air, he quickly scanned the gasping crowd to see if he could find the source of the bullet.

Standing amongst the people in the car park, with his left hand propped on some poor woman’s shoulder, was a man in a black hooded poncho, a lone eye staring from the shade under the hood and right at the downed man on the boardwalk. A smoking gun was steady in the hand of his outstretched right arm, an unusual gun with winged metal flares and filigrees decorating the barrel. It was topped with an even more unusual scope, a rectangular electronic thing mounted on a thin stand, like a small computer monitor. Actually, if one didn’t know any better, one would say it was a cell phone.

The big man didn’t know whether to laugh or yell. So he did neither. Instead, for the first time today, he rolled his eyes and made no attempt to hide it. Then he walked towards the downed intruder, who was still hysterically clutching at his blood-soaked knee. The hooded figure was moving towards the same spot, gun still raised and pointed, as the crowd parted awkwardly for him, still trying to process this bizarre interruption of an otherwise glorious day. The big man motioned back to the Lord Mayor and the others on the platform, letting them know (albeit with a resigned tone of voice) that it was alright. As the figure jumped and pushed himself up onto the boardwalk, all could easily catch sight of the black leather skull and crossbones design on the back of the poncho, as well as the fraying red plaid trim at the bottom. Catching sight of the whole shape for the first time, some murmurs of recognition began to circulate in the crowd, but the uneasy silence was broken by one excited and starstruck visitor up front.

“It’s the Angel of Duscae!”

The figure got still and turned his hooded head back towards the people, just enough for them to see a scruffy smirk. The murmuring changed to cheers and shouts of awe and appreciation. The Angel? Here? In Galdin? Unheard of! As the people started to process the new turn of events, the figure they were calling the Angel walked up to the big man, who just stood by with his arms crossed. The gun was still pointed down at the crazy man, but for some reason his finger was no longer on the trigger, just on the handle which he kept tapping his thumb on at irregular intervals.

“‘Sup, big guy?” came the voice from under the hood, in a tone and pitch that just sounded like a cheesy grin.

The big man just groaned and the Angel swiftly turned around, seemingly almost leaning against him, and with a flick of the finger of his free hand he spun the phone-like scope on the gun until it was fully backwards. He smiled down at it and again tapped the black handle before turning back to face the big man, whose stern countenance was getting increasingly exasperated.

“I’m starting to regret never teaching you how to be subtle,” he half growled.

“Good to see you too,” came the retort. “And: you’re welcome!”

“I had him.”

“What were you gonna do? Bear hug and headlock him into not stabbing you?”

“Always worked on you two.”

“Yeah, but…we were a different kind of crazy.”

“Speaking of which…” The big man motioned his head towards the sight behind them: the wild-eyed man trying in vain to drag himself further away from the two of them.

“Oh yeah,” said the Angel, spinning on his heel. “He’s been down there a couple of minutes, hasn’t he?”

The big man snorted. “Not like he’s getting anywhere.”

The familiar yet mismatched pair crouched down around the man who’d been the focus of this unintended excitement, while the crowd began to disperse gabbing their own little theories amongst themselves. The Lord Mayor cautiously approached but remained standing behind where the big man was. “Who is he, Lord Amicitia?”

The big man huffed at hearing his name being spoken so formally. It took all the Angel could muster not to laugh out loud at the reaction. Yeah, he thought, now how do you like it, my lord?

“Looks like we’ve got a True Lucian on our hands, Your Honor.”

Rosso peered over the big man’s shoulder to get a close look at the trespasser, a bit of a chill running through him even under the noon sky. The black athletic gear the man was wearing had been marked up with dye and paint, emblazoned with the roughly sketched profile of a skull with a beard and hair made of wings–a corruption of the old royal crest, but now the mark of the growing extremist sect that called themselves “True Lucians.”

Not all had taken to the dissolution of the Kingdom of Lucis in the wake of the True King’s death. Some didn’t mind the idea of Insomnia and other cities and towns being independent, so long as the government of the Crown City still held some sort of primacy or unifying power. Others had wanted the Amicitia family to take the reins of the monarchy, being the last noble house left and one so closely tied to service of the Lucian line. But some–not many, but some–seemed to take their fanatical devotion to the Kingdom, and especially to the King who restored the light, too far. Calling themselves “true servants of the True King,” they had made it clear that they considered anything less than the full restoration of the ancient monarchy an abomination. The last few years had seen occasional threats, some strongly worded radio ads, the odd bit of property defacement. But never had they been so brazen as today. An attack on the Lord Mayor of Insomnia, especially on the Day of the Dawn, was a significant change in the game. This was increasingly becoming the thing they claimed to fight against: an insurgency that had to be put down, just as the True King had put down the Usurper.

If only these insurgents had known the true mind of the True King.

The big man glanced over at the hooded marksman. “I’ve got this from here.”

“You sure? I could stick around and assist.”

“No offense, ‘Angel,’ but you’re a little out of your territory here.”

At that comment the jovial expression under the hood hardened. If not for the eyepatch, the big man would have seen both eyes narrow.

“It’s our territory, Gladio. No more walls. Just like we promised.”

In the few tense seconds that followed, the Shield considered pushing back. But in the end, he just let his gaze drop, almost imperceptibly, and took the words in the spirit in which they were given. For all their differences in approach, they were both trying to serve the same goal. “Okay, I get it. I do. But it’d probably just be easier for everybody if…”

“Yeah,” the hooded man interrupted with a sigh, “I know, it’s fine. Got places to be anyway.”

“Yes, you do,” said the big man as he dragged the unhappy radical up to his feet. “And while you’re at it,” he added with a mischievous grin, “tell that walking heart attack over at Meteor he’s lucky to have you on retainer.”

“Oh, trust me, he knows.” The voice under the hooded had resumed its playful tone. “You know, he’s actually slimmed down a little.”

“Really,” the big man asked with a cocked eyebrow.

Another sigh. “No. Not really.”

That got an actual laugh, brief but substantial. The two stood there looking at each other for a couple more seconds. It dawned on the big man that it had been a long time since they’d actually seen each other. Who knew when the next time would be? “Well,” he breathed out, breaking his own spell, “I’ve got some trash to take out. See you ‘round, soldier.”

And with that, Gladiolus Amicitia turned and left him on the boardwalk, criminal cargo in tow, Lord Mayor Rosso not straying too far behind. The Angel of Duscae watched him go, feeling a swell of pride even after all these years. Soldier, he couldn’t help but think. He called me a soldier.

“See ya, big guy,” he said more to himself.

– – – – – – – – – –

By the time the sun was starting to sink on the other side of the coast, the crowds were much lighter. The officials from Insomnia who’d been first to arrive were among the first to depart, not long after the botched welcome address, and as the afternoon wore on the density of the masses began to thin out. By now all the games had been played, all the memorabilia had been bought, all the stories had been told, and (if it can be believed) all the food had been eaten. Galdin was slowly but surely taking its daily life back from the fun and excitement of this annual day of letting loose. The residents were heading back to their homes that dotted the hillside between the boardwalk and the highway, while the visitors were climbing into their cars or boats and headed back whence they came.

Only one vehicle was going the opposite way. Down the winding road to the quay traveled a unique motorbike–of Niflheim make, if anyone was keeping track of such things–with the rider’s now-familiar poncho flapping in the wind as it went along. He stopped it at the usual spot near the edge of the car park and popped off, heading past the boardwalk, down the beach and over to the long stone path among the rocks that now led around the horn to the Tomb of the True King.

As he ascended the steps to the plaza in front of the tomb door, he was confronted at the top by the Crownsguard. Two members stood guard at the tomb at all times, he knew, if only for ceremonial reasons. No one was ever really prohibited from approaching the tomb, by day or by night, and certainly not on the Day of the Dawn. But even in death, the last King of Lucis was never to be left alone. One of the two guards–younger, a newbie–made a motion as if to reach for a weapon, so strange was the sight of the hooded figure coming up the steps. But the other, who’d stood guard here many times over the last few years, stretched out his arm to forestall his comrade in arms. “Might want to take a closer look and reconsider.”

The younger one looked through the waning daylight at the figure. Even silhouetted against the setting sun as he was, certain details could still be made out. For instance, while the poncho was fastened by metal buttons at the neck, just at the base of the hood, the front remained open. And past the buckles and the fringe of the lining that was peeking out, the young man could still make out the unmistakable and highly unexpected (to him) sight of the gray fabric and silver tracery of a Crownsguard vest.

He boggled at the sight. It didn’t matter who you were or your connections or how skilled at forgery. There was only one way, both after the Long Night as before it, to have that gear. I guess some rumors are true, he thought.

“At ease, fellas,” came the light voice from under the hood, as he reached into the folds of his poncho. The young guard once again hesitated like he should reach for a weapon, but the man’s hands reemerged, holding a small wrapped package each.

“Brought you a little snack,” he said with a smirk, tossing out the packages. Each guard caught the one flying at him and pulled back the paper to get a look at the bounty beneath: tomato and sweet pepper hugging tender bulette shank wrapped in a pocket of flat Cleigne wheat. “Ahh,” the older guard remarked, almost reveling in the smell alone, “now this is a real treat, sir, thank you. Where did you ever get these?”

“Hey! I’ve got all kinds of skills!” he playfully shot back, mock offense coloring his voice. “Although,” he went on, thumbing behind him at the canopied restaurant on the water, “the head chef over there would probably beg to differ.”

“Still though,” the guard went on, “bulette’s not an easy kill, sir. Or harvest. Even for ‘the Angel of Duscae.’”

“What can I say?” he said, simply, his tone shifting a little. He wasn’t here just to make small talk. Well, not exactly. “Uh, guys? Can you give me a minute here?”

“Oh,” said the older guard, reality kicking back in, “yes, of course, sir.” He motioned to his younger comrade (who was excitedly stuffing his face already) with his head and added, “We’ll just be at the bottom of the steps if you need us.”

They made their way down, leaving the hooded man on the plaza. He took in the scene slowly, moving his head from one end to the other, accompanied by two or three quiet clicking sounds. This place could be overwhelming at the most unassuming of times, but on this day it was almost too much to bear. The sheer amount of gifts, flowers, and other tokens of remembrance and appreciation, from Lucians and Tenebraeans and what few Accordans remained, obscured most of the floor of the plaza, though staying clear of the flame. Even if he wanted to make it to the door, there would be no way to do it without disturbing the collection, without intruding upon the love of the people for their last King.

He never visited this place in daylight, and certainly never before on the Day of the Dawn. And this was why.

Standing before the Eternal Flame of the True King, he reached up and pushed the hood back, letting his shaggy blonde hair catch the wind. The years hadn’t been unkind, so to speak, but he was certainly far from twenty, the last age–maybe the only age–he was a truly and fully happy person. He crouched down to examine the fire with his one exposed eye, and the scent caught him immediately. Even amidst all the flora and fauna crowding the area, he could instantly perceive the odor of the sylleblossom potpourri in the smoke coming from the pit, the Tenebraean contribution to the annual memorial. It took him back. It was just like the scent of the letter that had started his whole journey in earnest. He could have been thirty years younger right now.

It suddenly occurred to him that he’d been without his best friend for so many more years now than he’d ever actually had with him. A slow-burning and all-too-familiar grief began to carve lines into his weathered face. He pushed it back. There’d be time for that later.

“Hey, buddy,” he practically blurted out. “How’re they biting these days?”

The fire remained silent. As would be expected. He was sad, not stupid.

“Looks like you reeled in quite the catch today,” he went on, glancing across the plaza again. “I mean, look at all this! It’s like you’re the King or something!”

A couple more quiet clicks sounded as he looked across the field of tributes. He may as well do a little work while he’s here. It was a nice distraction, anyway. Kept him from getting too lost in his head.

“Hm?” he turned back suddenly to the fire. “Oh, you want your present, do you? You haven’t gotten enough of those? And besides, what makes you think I brought one?”

He tried laughing as he spoke his unfortunately rhetorical questions, but it came out as more of a squeak. Then he just shook his head with a soft snort and reached into the folds of his poncho for a special something he’d brought just for this solemn occasion. He pulled his hand back out and revealed a small pouch and spilled its contents near the lip of the flame pit: a handful of baby Caem carrots and Eos peas. He let out a genuine laugh at the ridiculousness of his own joke as the veggies tumbled onto the stone pavement. Sure, it had taken a lot of work to bring the farmlands back after a decade of no sunlight. But what’s the point in having a best friend if you can’t screw with him, even in death?

“You better have cleared your plate, mister, the next time I see you!” he said, exaggeratedly wagging his finger. The fire remained impassive and unamused, and for a moment he felt like the King really was glowering at him through this perpetual campfire. He regarded it with a sad sort of smile, and glanced past the flames to the massive tomb door. A long sigh escaped his body, and then he reached into his poncho to reveal Noct’s real present.

He turned it over in his hands, looking it over one more time: a pale-colored fishing lure, hand-carved into the shape of the Carbunkle, that protective faerie-puppy-like totem Noct had always carried with him. He’d made this one himself, guided by his own memories and Ignis’ stories. It wasn’t quite like the one Noct’s father had given him all those years ago after the accident, but he’d put his heart into it and it came out rather well, he thought. He was especially proud of how well he’d been able to showcase the creature’s long ears, despite the limitations of the lure’s shape. And as he set it down in front of the flame, he was pleased to see the red-painted horn on the figurine’s forehead catch the light, seeming to glow like an actual ruby. That part he’d been most worried about getting right.

“For the guy who always reels me back in,” he spoke softly as he let the thing go.

He stood up straight, groaning a little as he did so. Standing from a crouching position, like many a thing these days, wasn’t as easy as it used to be. So much for being thirty years younger.

Reaching back to lift the hood over his head again, Prompto fixed his eyes once more on the door to the tomb, protected by its army of flowers, notes, a handful of vegetables and a fishing lure. He inhaled deeply and held it for a few seconds, letting the realness of the moment hit him. Then he closed his eyes and slowly pushed the breath between his lips, letting some of that awkward tension go. He would really like to be more comfortable here, but again: this is why he never usually comes on this day.

He placed his fist over his heart, and bowed his head profoundly. “Sleep well, Your Majesty.”

He’d wanted to say that without his voice cracking. It didn’t work. Oh well.

Spinning on his heel, he made his way back down the stairs. The two guards were seated on the bottom step, still enjoying their snack, but they turned their heads back and stood up as they heard the footfall behind them. “I wouldn’t eat those too fast, guys,” the Angel spoke, the playfulness back in his voice, “but I also wouldn’t let Iggy catch you with them either.”

“Why is that, sir?” asked the older guard, curiously as the hooded man swept past him to start on the rocky path back.

“Eh, who knows?” came the response. “Maybe he’d get jealous.”

“Of course, sir,” said the smirking guard, as his younger companion still strove to take all of this weird familiarity in.

“Oh, and,” the voice boomed from under the hood, with a little more menace than usual, “you take good care of him.” He pointed back at the tomb behind him as he kept walking, but without looking back. “I was his best friend for a reason.”

“Absolutely, sir,” the senior guard firmly responded.

He made his way back to the car park and hopped on his motorbike. The sun had now set, and he was running late. But as he gripped the handles, he allowed himself just a few more seconds to close his eyes, take a deep breath, and let it go. That was a lot, more than he’d been ready for. He’d expected it to be hard, but it still took him by surprise. For a moment he felt the full weight of his years. Whoever said time heals all things might have meant well, but he sure didn’t have his life–even if it was sustained by five of the best years a kid could have ever dared to ask for.

He kicked the bike to life, circled the car park, and made his way back up the winding hillside road to the highway, then turned left to zoom through the tunnel back to fertile lands of Duscae. The King was under the care of the Crownsguard and the Gods now. But he still had a promise to keep. So it was back to Saxham, back to the Disc, back to the epicenter of a land without walls.

Final Fantasy XV: The Promise
Chapter 1: Day of the Dawn