The Syndicate

They brought him to a quiet, richly carpeted chamber at the side of the colosseum, far from the noise and cells. Oil lamps burned with violet flame. Two men waited.

One was a guard, well-armed.

The other… was old, dressed in flowing silks, with rings on every finger and a long hooked cane in his hand. His Ul’dahn accent was thick and clipped.

“You’re smaller than I expected,” the old noble remarked. “But efficient. I appreciate efficiency.”

Finn furrowed his brow. “Uh… thanks?”

The guard beside the noble handed a sealed document to the arena officer. “This one’s been bought. Officially registered. He’s now under Syndicate protection.”

Finn blinked. “Wait. Bought?”

The noble chuckled. “You put on quite the show. The Syndicate needs protection while traveling — and discretion. You’re fast, clever, and you sure know how to finish. That’s rare. I’ve made arrangements.”

Finn’s eyes widened slightly. “You mean I’m free?”

A pause.

The noble grinned. “Let’s say… relocated employment, with significantly better meals.”

Finn sighed. “So, not a holiday anymore.”

“No,” said the noble, turning. “Now you work for the richest men in Ul’dah.”

The guard smirked. “Could be worse. You’ll get paid this time.”

Finn crossed his arms, muttering under his breath.

“…The richest men you say?”