For most of his existence, life had been more burden than blessing, and he had found the royal blood in his veins nothing more but the means devised to rouse him from bed and thrust him into whatever machinations his forebears had devised. Garlemald, her emblem affixed to every conceivable possession of his, his own Third Eye a physical manifestation of her claim over him, held little meaning. Its expansion, its defense, whatever pride and glory she could muster, was little more than the specks of dust in the sunlight— A mere distraction for his eyes, as they trailed away from the tomes he spent most of his time with.

Life was but a pitch-black hallway, one free of any obstacles that could give it meaning. There would be no need unsatiated, and thus he would continue to march it with dull footsteps until his feet wore down to nubs, whereafter his corpse would be enshrined, forced to decorate the walls for the next Galvus, or whoever scorched the earth to claim the right to walk onwards. There had been flashes of light, things of mild interest, which might quicken his step briefly, but no sooner after he reached them would they lose their luster, whatever light they had easily snuffed at his touch. He thought of the swordsman whose martial art he had uncovered, how Yotsuyu’s burning hatred carved patterns into the walls around him— Interesting, but nevertheless meager set dressing.

The hall would continue, endless.

Until one day, he saw a hare.

Amidst the darkness, her white hair shone as bright as the moon— the Warrior of Light.

He had chased her, briefly, if only to keep his muscles from atrophying, yet no sooner did he bring his foot down upon her back did he become disappointed again. Eorzea’s Champion, Hydaelyn’s Chosen, had only managed to chip his blade— She was not even worthy of a scrawl upon his halls, much less the effort needed to wipe her blood from his armor.

And so, he leaves her behind, as he’d always done.

Except, the tell-tale thumping of her steps comes from behind him, past him, until she scampers deep into the dark ahead once more.

It is the second time they meet, that he feels his steps quicken at the sight of her in true curiosity. He sheds no blood, scarcely sweats even, and yet there is a low thrum in his veins as he sees her dodge his attacks, her motions wild and reckless yet somehow possessed with foresight. There is no wound upon his skin, but his nerves are alight with the promise of it— And it dawns on him that this Eorzean “savage” held more sentience than the drones that surrounded him for most of his life. His father, worldly and duty-bound, content to meander in the palm of his Ascian sire, his servants and soldiers not even fit to be considered pawns in his search for purpose— No, it was only in those leoporine, yellow eyes that he saw for the first time his own reflection.

The candle which burned in one’s core, eager to become consumed in the throes of battle.

Live, he bids her, and he is genuine.

There is no answer.

As she runs off into the dark, he feels each thump of her footsteps resonate deep within his marrow.

That night, he dreams of that boy of four short summers, covered in welts, a fire burning within his breast for the first time in his short existence. His mouth is full of blood, his mind bursting with questions, and in that dream he tries to imagine that boy as a young Veena, tries to see gold instead of blue in those eyes— Did she struggle, as he did, under the yoke of existence?

A meaningless question, for it did not change the answer.

She would rise to the occasion, as he had. This, he knew to be true.

And thus, the royal hunt had begun.

No longer was he an aimless husk, nor this endless hallway devoid of all meaning. Within it he could see her clearly amidst the dark, his pulse quickening at her gaze, filled with the same silent yet burning hunger he felt within. One might think the conclusion foregone in such a hunt, that such prey belonged within the beast’s maw, but Zenos knew better. Just as he had felt as a stripling, his blade pushed deep into the first man he ever killed, the adrenaline of their encounter quickly fading with the warmth of his body— Were one willing to burn one’s candle to the last, one could reach the zenith of existence.

In that state, even a hare could slay a beast.

He would chase her to the ends of reality, awaiting the day his blood would sing with her requiem. Farther than he had ever conceived, until their final waltz took them to the skies above, past death’s crushing veil, to the very ends of existence.