Almost.

“Go,” says Y’shtola. The approaching spectral warriors are a wall of light. They emit a strange heat–like standing too close to one of Cid’s machines. It sinks into Thancred’s bones like the hottest day in Ul'dah never has.

Urianger has the three younger ones protected as they battle their own encroaching horde. Nerys has long fled to the Tower with the Exa-with G’raha to put an end to it all.

And Y’shtola looks at this amassing, unwieldy horde; looks at the way it threatens to flank them both and cut them off from assistance. There is a resolve in her he does not like. It pulls him to that awful night in the sewers when they shared what seemed to be their last duet of magic and blades.

He doubts she plans on invoking the power of Flow. And even if she does...there is no pulling her from it a third time. Not with the Elementals and her sister on another world; not with Emet-Selch dead.

Thancred puts his back to hers, raising his gunblade. “Hey. I'm not going anywhere without you. That's a promise.”

“Thancred,” she says as magic crackles around her. Prickles the hair at the back of his neck, raises chills and flesh along his arms. “There’s still an opening for you. to escape”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me.” Thancred takes aim. “Or my promise.”

For a moment she does not reply. Her back is stiff against his and he feels the tension in her; shivers as her magic licks at the air around him. Reminding his body of a time when it used to wield...well, never anything of her caliber. But aether used to flow through his hands as easily as it did for her.

“Oh...very well.”

“Thank you ‘Shtola.” A smile curves his lips. “Now my lady, may I have this dance?”