The city of Ishgard glittered under the soft glow of lanterns as Amarassa descended the steps of the Brume, her cloak brushing the cobblestones. Tonight was not a night of duty or battle—it was a rare evening promised to her by none other than Sir Aymeric de Borel. When she reached the steps of the Congregation, he was waiting, clad not in armor but in a dark tailored coat that softened his noble bearing. For a moment, the famed Lord Commander looked less like a statesman and more like a man eager for simple company.
Their evening began with a quiet walk through the streets of the Jeweled Crozier, where merchants had left stalls open late for the festival. Amarassa laughed as Aymeric paused to admire a delicate glass bauble, the two of them blending briefly into the crowd as if they were ordinary souls, not leaders of nations. He purchased it without hesitation, pressing it gently into her palm. “A keepsake,” he said softly, his voice carrying warmth that rivaled the lanterns overhead.
Later, they dined in a tucked-away tavern overlooking Coerthas. A fire crackled in the hearth as they shared stories—her tales of distant journeys, his reflections on rebuilding Ishgard’s future. Conversation came easily, flowing like a river over stones, with laughter weaving between sips of mulled wine.
When the night grew late, they stepped onto the balcony. Snowflakes drifted gently from the heavens, catching in Aymeric’s dark hair. Amarassa reached out, brushing one from his shoulder, and their eyes met. For that fragile, perfect instant, the weight of kingdoms and duty faded. There was only the hush of falling snow, the warmth of his hand finding hers, and the promise that even in a world of endless battles, love could carve out its own quiet victories.
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