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Chapter Text

When she arose in the crypt, she had no memory of who she was once, only that she was called forward by Grace into the Lands Between. Making her way out of the crypt and facing the wretches therein, she was faced with the brilliant majesty of the Erdtree, its golden branches almost blinding her after the darkness she had fought through. Upon seeing it, something stirred in her heart, and though she did not remember, she knew without a doubt: the Lands Between was her home, broken though it was, and she had a chance to fix it.

She knew immediately that power was not what she desired. Varre seemed to think so, likely having met many other Tarnished chasing after the Elden Ring for the power it held. However, she had no desire to hold power simply for the renown of it. If she would restore the Elden Ring, she would do it to bring the Lands Between to peace, for upon her first steps into the Land, she knew it was terribly broken and rifted, which brought her an unnamable sorrow.

She was quickly greeted with the reality that a peaceful resolution was not possible with many denizens of the Lands. Over the course of her first day, she was attacked by several bands of soldiers, but she found her body remembered things her mind did not. As the soldiers ran towards her, the twin blades on her back that she had barely acknowledged found their way into her hands. Her movements were not perfect; she still took some glancing blows, but the soldiers fell before her as her body moved of its own accord. Others of her kind had not been either as skilled or as lucky as she; she glimpsed their corpses near the soldiers’ camp, and she knew she could very well end up among them.

However, she became aware that she possessed something beyond the other Tarnished as she settled down that first night, alongside a small glimmer of Grace. In a shimmer of blue mist, a woman appeared to her, Melina, offering an accord. In exchange for her services as a Finger Maiden, they would travel to the foot of the Erdtree together. What merit Melina saw in her, the Tarnished was unsure, but she accepted her offer. She had naught else to guide her save for the shards of Grace, the golden mists lighting the way along bloody paths.

That night, Melina left her with three things: the knowledge that Stormveil Castle was to be her first obstacle, the strength of runes, and a whistle to summon a steed. As Melina faded away into nothingness, the Tarnished inclined her head to the parapets rising from the distant hill, silhouetted by the golden brilliance of the Erdtree behind it. Indeed, the shimmers of the Grace she sat beside pointed in that direction, which Melina had claimed to be a unique trait of hers. Supposedly, the true guidance of Grace was entrusted to few of her kind.

She turned the whistle in her hands before deciding to blow it out of curiosity. In an instant, a strange creature appeared before her, something seeming betwixt a horse and a goat. He gazed at her with black, glossy eyes, its tail swishing back and forth, and she gave him what she hoped was a welcoming smile.

“Hello, Torrent.” She was still getting used to the sound of her own voice, and she put effort into making sure her tone was gentle. “You chose me, is that so?”

Torrent blew air from his nose, stepping towards the Tarnished. Hesitantly, she outstretched a hand to him, brushing gentle fingers over the downy fur of his nose. After a day that had been nothing but bloody, it gave her solace to engage in such a gentle act. Though the art of battle seemed to come to her as second nature, she did not enjoy it. It would be a necessity if she were to become Elden Lord, she knew without a doubt, but she would deny those she encountered the opportunity for peace, if they would take it.

“I am glad I haven’t incited your bloodlust,” she murmured, her hand rising to scratch gently at the base of his horns. “Truly, you would be the strongest of opponents.”

Torrent let out a nicker that sounded something like a laugh before stepping even closer, nudging at the pack hanging from her belt.

“What?” She fished through her pack, searching through few edibles she had managed to scrounge together, coming up with red rowa berries, and Torrent had eaten them from her hand before she had hardly gotten them out.

“Ah, now I know what you like!” she said with a laugh, running a hand over his mane. As he chewed, a thought occurred to her, and she gave voice to it for his benefit. “I have no name, at least not one that I can remember, but I think having one would be good. I think…I think Rowa would be a good name. What do you think?”

Torrent looked at her with dark eyes, dipping his head a little as if to say: That will suffice.

She smiled at him, glad that she had been gifted his company in her otherwise solitary position. “Very well. Rowa I shall be.”

Rowa went to sleep with her mind full of possibilities and potential strategies, her gaze set on the first step of her goal to claim the Elden Ring: Stormveil.

Morgott sat upon a high balcony, taking in the city of Leyndell below as he waited for his incantations around Stormveil to alert him once more. A new wave of Tarnished had appeared, larger than any group that had ever arrived before in his memory, and while most before had little impact on him, these seemed bent on becoming Elden Lord.

He had already decided long ago what course of action he would take. In order to even have a chance at becoming Elden Lord, the Tarnished would have to go through him, and sooner rather than later. He set up incantations at the gates of Stormveil, not that he had any proclivity to protect that wretched Godrick who dared think himself worthy of any renown, but because it was the main obstacle barring the Tarnished from having more open access to the realm.

Every time, from the moment a Tarnished laid eyes on him, he knew they disdained him without a doubt. Even if they did not know outright of the cursed nature of Omens, they could surely infer it from his bedraggled, monstrous likeness. But he had no wish to gain their admiration despite that; he met them at the gates of Stormveil to stop them from ever becoming Elden Lord. Only a stalwart few had ever proved to be any challenge to him, and they all fell beneath his weapons nonetheless. It was bloody business, but the world would become bloodier if one of their kind ever ascended to the Elden Throne; he had already seen what the atrocious greed of demigods had wrought upon the Lands, and he would not trust a Tarnished to do any better.

A golden leaf, shimmering with its own light, fell past Morgott’s field of view, alighting as a bright speck upon the graying corpse of Granssax before its light slowly faded into nothing. He turned his mismatched gaze upwards to the great branches reaching out above him. Even if a Tarnished beat his illusions and managed by some miracle to make their way into Leyndell, he would see to it that they would not make it to the Erdtree. And even then, he knew the truth of the Erdtree.

The despairing, dangerous truth he had kept to himself for many a long year.

His thoughts were interrupted when he felt the faraway, familiar call that someone had made it to the gates of Stormveil. Another Tarnished, no doubt. He closed his eyes, letting his mind travel as he murmured the incantation to summon his projection.

He opened his eyes upon a parapet beyond the gate, standing to survey his newest challenger. A woman, wrapped in the blue cloths of some warrior clan he could not name, twin blades strapped across her back.

“Foul Tarnished,” he growled, meeting her gaze as it snapped up to him, “in search of the Elden Ring. Emboldened by the flame of ambition.”

Rowa stared at the hulking figure looming high above her. He had not been there when she had first arrived, she was certain of it. He had merely appeared out of thin air. Even from a distance, she could tell he was a strange sort, and that was truly remarkable considering the amount of strange things she had seen in her hard journey to Stormveil. She could see skin as gray as stone, and branchlike, gnarled horns protruding from the right side of his face.

Morgott shifted his stave, the clack against the stone ringing loud in the unusual quiet. Most Tarnished immediately started throwing insults his way, or boasting of their feats, daring him to come down and fight them. But this one did no such thing. Shrewd, dark eyes stared at him from beneath the warrior’s cowl, but she made no sound, nor did she move to draw her weapons.

A strange sort indeed, Morgott felt, but it was no matter. She had not denied his accusation of the search for the Ring, and her silence told him everything. Like every other Tarnished before her, she would fall as well.

With a grunt of exertion, he jumped from the parapet, landing heavily on the bridge before her.

Rowa tried not to flinch at his sudden leap, eyeing him as the dust cleared. He was even stranger up close, towering over her with a makeshift cloak, a huge club of a tail with horns of its own protruding from behind him. She had never seen anything like him before, which was not saying much, and upon seeing his hands and feet, the gleaming eye and face beneath the mottling of growths, she wondered if he was once a human.

“Someone must extinguish thy flame,” Morgott said, dropping into a fighting stance. “Let it be Margit the Fell!”

“I don’t want to fight you.”

Rarely was Morgott surprised by anything, but the firm words spoken behind the cowl gave him a moment of pause before his animosity returned. “Dost thou speak out of mercy, or out of fear?”

“Perhaps some of both,” she returned, meeting his golden gaze.

Morgott stared at her contemptuously, though he granted that she was honest. “And dost thou believe the Elden Ring can be won by mercy?”

“…No.”

“Then why offer mercy?”

“Because if I don’t, then who will?” Rowa ignored his disdain, her curiosity piqued by this Margit and his questions. He was actually speaking to her, unlike all other foes she had met thus far. “You are not inclined to offer mercy, correct?”

“Thou art correct,” Morgott growled, raising his stave. “Mercy wouldst undo thee if thou were to survive this encounter.”

So, he still intended to fight her. With a quiet sigh, Rowa drew her blades, readying herself. With his size and inferred skill, the fight would not be an easy one. “We shall see then, won’t we?”

They clashed.

Rowa was surprised by his agility, narrowly avoiding the swift strike of his stave. His speed belied his bulk, and he used his strength to his advantage, propelling himself into the air with powerful leaps and bearing down on her with earthshaking impact. The only advantage she had was her smallness, as she quickly figured out after a few stinging clips with his stave that facing him head on was not going to work in her favor. She stayed close to him, dodging beneath his strikes with both body and weapon, managing to get in a couple of blows herself before having to back away again.

This Tarnished learned quickly, Morgott was willing to give her that much. Most Tarnished, if they even made it to her position, fell swiftly beneath his attacks, but she had managed to avoid him and get in some attacks of her own. Her blades were quick and precise, cutting into his illusory form, though to him it felt like only a dull pressure.

Old barricades and weapons splintered and shattered as they continued in their chaotic dance across the bridge. Morgott did not relent in his assault, but he was surprised to find that his illusion was starting to decay beneath her careful attacks.

“Well…thou art of passing skill.” He redoubled his efforts, a hint of begrudging admiration seeping into his words. “Warrior blood must truly run in thy veins, Tarnished.”

Rowa barely heard him, focusing all her attention on dodging his blows and getting her own in. Her wounds smarted and her muscles burned, but she refused to let that hinder her.

Finally, an opening presented itself to her. With a mighty leap, Morgott brought a hammer formed of holy magic smashing down on the spot she had stood only moments before with a force that cracked the stone beneath it. In the time that it took him to rise from the tremendous strike, Rowa darted forward and drove her blade betwixt his shoulder and neck.

She expected blood and a cry of pain, but she received none from him. He hunched over, his magic weapons fading as she pulled her blade from him, the wound seeping golden light. With the last of his strength, he lifted his head, meeting her eyes, and she was surprised to find less malice than she expected in the one burning eye she could see.

“I shall remember thee, Tarnished,” Morgott hissed as his form started to fade. “Smould’ring with thy meagre flame. Cower in fear of the Night. The hands of the Fell Omen shall brook thee no quarter.”

“So be it,” Rowa murmured as his form faded into golden dust, his voice seeming to linger long after he had vanished. She stood there for a long moment, catching her breath as uncertainty plucked at her thoughts. No one else she had defeated had died in such a fashion, and as she looked at the stones where they had fought, the only blood she saw the small amount from her own cuts.

She was not convinced that she had truly defeated him. Part of her was content with that outcome; that was one less life ended at her hands. But she had a feeling, if he did live, that he would come for her again in some fashion. From the bodies she had seen around the castle gates, he had already slayed many Tarnished before her. For all she knew, it was his lot in life as the creature he was, whatever kind he may have been.

Margit the Fell. She resolved to remember that name as she turned and loped to the shimmer of Grace nearby, where Melina waited.

Morgott opened his eyes in his true body, back to overlooking Leyndell once more. Fatigue took hold of his body from the defeat of his illusions, and that coupled with the outcome of the battle made it difficult for him to piece his thoughts together for several moments.

A Tarnished had defeated him. After centuries of slaying Tarnished, he had finally been bested.

He should’ve been angry, but he could not quite bring himself to be. She had won in an honorable manner; she had not used any foul trickery like others had tried in the past. Her victory had come by her own skill, and his underestimation.

With a sigh, he looked southward in the direction of Stormveil. He could not see the castle itself, but he could see the tiny figure of the Divine Tower beyond the high walls of Leyndell. He had failed to stop a Tarnished, but he would not let it concern him. She would surely meet her end at the hands of Godrick; he was no great threat on his own, but the power of a Great Rune was a strength to be contended with. Even if she managed to defeat him, there were many more obstacles that lay between her and the Erdtree, including the Calvary.

He let out a little huff of indignance as he remembered her attempt to settle things peacefully. If continued in that fashion, she would certainly meet her end sooner rather than later. Perhaps she did not remember the ways of the Lands Between. In fact, he was sure of it, for she had looked upon his cursed features with no scorn, and any Tarnished who remembered the Omens would surely do so.

He would not see her again. Putting thoughts of the fortunate, upstart Tarnished from his mind, he slowly rose to his feet, turning towards his royal chambers. For the first time in a long while, he needed to rest after a fight.

Chapter Text

The Roundtable Hold was overwhelming for Rowa at first. After spending several days alone, fighting her way to Stormveil, suddenly being surrounded by Tarnished of great repute took some getting used to. Most of them were amiable enough, and she enjoyed Fia’s gentle company most of all. The only one that made her feel ill at ease was Gideon Ofnir. He was too callous, too snakelike, and she disliked him even before he coldly dismissed her.

She tried to avoid him, socializing with the other, more friendly inhabitants of the Hold. However, none of them seemed to have much information on Margit the Fell or Stormveil Castle, and they steadfastly recommended Gideon as the one to go to for information in the Hold. So, she found herself reluctantly entering his room, finding him amidst piles and piles of scrolls, books, and other records of information.

“Margit the Fell, eh?” Gideon had not looked up from the papers he was hunched over. “Any Tarnished worth their salt has heard of him. He and his men, the Night’s Calvary, hunt and kill our kind.”

“I met him at Stormveil’s gates,” Rowa said. “I fought him.”

That got Gideon to look at her, calculating eyes peering at her from beneath the silver crest of his helmet. “You fought him?”

Rowa did her best to ignore the blatant indignation in his tone. “Yes.”

“And I assume by the fact that you are standing here that you won.”

“Yes.”

“Hm. Perhaps you are of some worth after all.” Gideon shifted the papers on the desk around. “Slaying an Omen is no easy task.”

“An Omen?” Rowa asked. “Is that the name of…his kind?”

Gideon paused once more, giving her a shrewd look that made her shift uncomfortably, wishing she were able to have her weapons in her hands. “So, you truly remember nothing of your life before your awakening as a Tarnished?”

“All I know is that the Lands Between is my home.”

“Perhaps that is sufficient.” He jotted something down. “But yes, that is the name of Margit the Fell’s kind. Omens are born under a curse that gives them their vile appearance and affords them no Grace.”

The utmost contempt in his voice made Rowa uneasy. From her impression of Margit, he had not been a monster incapable of reasoning, merely an enemy. “I do not understand why lacking the guidance of Grace makes them so unsavory.”

“Grace is a sign of the Greater Will’s favor.” Gideon spoke slowly, as though speaking to a child. “Foul creatures such as Omens with no Grace means to be reviled by the Greater Will, and the Golden Order.”

There was that name again: the Greater Will. Rowa had heard it several times now, and was becoming increasingly familiar with it as the being who called her back to the Lands Between, bestowing upon her the guidance of lost Grace. However, she was not quite inclined to blindly follow this entity, for it had once banished her from her home.

And, now that she thought about it, Gideon Ofnir as well.

Before she could stop herself, she said, “You were once Graceless as well, however.”

Gideon’s helm fixed on her, shadowed eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “Have you so quickly forgotten your place as a visitor in this Hold?”

Rowa tensed, silently cursing herself for opening her mouth. “Er, no m’Lord, just stating a fact.”

Gideon regarded her icily for a moment longer before mercifully returning his gaze to the desk.  “Since you are apparently of some great skill and have defeated one of the most vicious Tarnished Hunters, I would encourage you to continue in this avenue and set your sights on Godrick the Grafted.”

“So I’ve been told before,” Rowa said. “He holds a Great Rune, does he not?”

“Indeed, though his demigod blood is diluted.”

“How so?”

“He is not a child of Marika, merely a descendant of the Golden Lineage, a grotesque old fool grasping for power with…distasteful methods.”

Rowa did not pursue that line of questioning any further. Godrick’s title was enough to give her an idea of what methods he pursued, which sent an unpleasant shiver up her spine. “Very well. I shall see what I can do.”

“If you manage to defeat him, you will have earned your keep as a member of the Hold. I hope your apparent skills earn you a Great Rune.”

Though his words were somewhat complimentary, Rowa did not miss the veiled hunger in his voice. She stood quickly, more than ready to be out of that room. “Thank you. I hope I will not disappoint.”

Without waiting for his response, she turned and hurried out, feeling his gaze burning into her back as she went.

Stormveil Castle proved to be just as much of a challenge as breaching the outer gates had been. Despite the negative opinions of the castle’s ruler, the enemies Rowa faced were well-trained and numerous. It took her an entire day from dawn to dusk to make her way through the castle, and she found many horrors that she wished she had not seen.

Of everything she encountered, the Omen was the one that saddened her the most. She knew what he was immediately upon seeing him, possessed of the same stony skin and knotted protrusions like Margit. However, unlike Margit, someone had cut away this Omen’s horns, leaving wounds red and raw all over his body. She tried to speak to it, to appeal to the same reason she had seen in Margit, and found nothing but animalistic rage as he tried to attack her. He had been tortured, twisted beyond having any rationale, and with a heavy heart she battled him, finally laying him low. She hoped that slaying him would afford him more mercy than he had been granted in life.

Not long after that, finding Nepheli Loux was a strange but not unwelcome turn of events. Rowa was surprised to learn that her father was none other than Gideon, which was incongruent given Nepheli’s far more welcoming and affable nature. She could not help but notice that when Nepheli spoke of her father, there was no warmth or affection, only a wish to serve, and she felt pity for the girl.

Nevertheless, Nepheli was a capable warrior, and Rowa gladly took the help she offered to get through the rest of the castle. With great strength and a formidable aim, she cut through Stormveil’s ranks with her battleaxe, allowing Rowa the slight reprieve of no longer battling alone. Together, they ascended to the courtyard outside the Throne Room, where Godrick was likely waiting.

Having already seen the grafted horrors throughout the castle, Rowa had some idea of what to expect from Godrick, considering his moniker. Regardless, she could not help the feeling of utter disgust that welled inside her as she sighted Godrick’s misshapen, hideous form. Appendages of many different forms and shapes sprouted from a body that was its own horror, the nickname of “Spider” suiting him far too well.

It took all of Rowa’s strength to speak and say, “We don’t want to fight you.”

Godrick turned to them, and Rowa knew at once that there would be no peace with him. Madness glinted like a bloody flame in his eyes, twisting features that may have once been noble into something inane, the crown jewel atop the sickening patchwork of a body.

“...Well. A lowly Tarnished, playing as a lord.” Godrick leered at both of them. “I command thee, kneel! I am the lord of all that is golden!”

With a final look at each other, Rowa and Nepheli plunged into the battle.

The horror of Godrick’s form was only amplified as they fought him. Hands of grotesque proportion grabbed at them as they dodged his blows, somehow obeying the will of the body they had been grafted to. Rowa concluded that he must have been truly insane, to willingly disfigure himself in such a dreadful manner.

With a swinging blow of her axe, Nepheli struck Godrick’s left arm from his body. He fell with a pained, bloodcurdling cry, and Rowa raised her blades, thinking this was the beginning of the end for him.

She was instantly proved wrong, watching in horror as he grafted a dead dragon’s head to the stump of his arm before them both, a spout of flames bursting from the malformed mouth. The heat was akin to the furnace of a forge, but Godrick did not seem to feel it as they did, laughing madly as he sent swaths of flame across the courtyard, Rowa and Nepheli scrambling to avoid being burned alive.

The fight only became harder as they tried to avoid both Godrick’s weapon and his flames. Rowa barely escaped being caught in the fiery maelstrom several times, the smell of singed clothing hanging rank in her nostrils. However, they managed to chip away at him bit by bit until after what seemed like an eternity, the misshapen body finally fell, the grafted portions beginning to crumble into silvery dust.

If Godrick felt any pain at the decay of his body, he did not show it, his eyes becoming distant as trembling words fell from his mouth, “…I am the Lord of all that is Golden…and one day we’ll return together…to our home bathed in rays of gold…”

Any pity Rowa felt for him was swiftly replaced by shock as the silver dust faded, leaving behind the only his head and part of his torso, the portion of his body that was his originally. He was almost pathetically small and pale, ribs protruding from beneath thin skin in a sickly fashion.

“Well fought,” Nepheli said, her words punctuated with heavy breaths from the exertion of the fight. “He was even worse than I had heard, a monster through and through.”

Rowa nodded her agreement, trying to regain her breath as well.

“Look.” Nepheli pointed to Godrick’s corpse. Above it, something golden shimmered in the air, the image of a ring edged in mist. “The Great Rune of Godrick.”

Rowa stared at it, practically feeling the power thrum from it like lightning in the air. She took a couple of steps towards it, but paused, looking back at Nepheli. “Do you not wish to take it?”

“I have no wish to become Elden Lord,” Nepheli said. “That is all Father’s ambitions. Nevertheless, the Rune is yours to take. Without your help, I would have never made it through Stormveil.”

“Very well.” Rowa stepped forward, reaching out to the Rune. Even before she touched it, she could feel an odd warmth emanating from it, just below the threshold of being too hot. There was a bright flash as she took hold of it, golden mist coiling around her body. A feeling of strength filled her, rushing through her veins, and it built, becoming and more and more until for an awful moment she felt like she might burst…and then it was gone, ebbing away, and she was left feeling greater, stronger than before.

“You are well on your way to becoming Elden Lord,” Nepheli continued. “According to Father, no one has slain a demigod before. I would like to think you have the makings of a true warrior.”

“I don’t want to be a warrior,” Rowa said. “I just…I just want to bring the Lands Between to peace.”

Nepheli gave her an appraising look. “Then perhaps that makes you more worthy to become Elden Lord. The power the Ring bestows is unlike any other.”

“I can begin to imagine,” Rowa said, looking down at her hands. With the Rune now in her, she half expected her body to change in some way, but it mercifully remained the same.

“I have high hopes that you will win the Ring, if today was anything to go off of.”

Rowa glanced at her. “Should you not place your hopes in your father?”

Nepheli smiled thinly. “Perhaps, but he has tried and failed to take the Great Runes for himself in combat, and now resorts to different methods. I, however, think action is more prudent than sitting in the Hold, surrounded by books. You have acted, and have managed to take a Rune, which is more than he has accomplished.”

“Indeed.” Rowa couldn’t help but worry that Nepheli’s words might reach her father’s ears somehow, and she got a sinking feeling that he would not take kindly to her comments.

“At some point, you might consider taking a consort.”

Rowa stared at her. “What?”

“An Elden Lord typically has a consort,” Nepheli explained, far more forgiving of her lack of knowledge than Gideon. “A queen or king to rule alongside them, to aid them in the great task of governing the Lands Between.”

Rowa could find no words. She was only just coming to grips with her current task that she was apparently successful at, and the thought of marriage on top of that seemed completely out of her grasp.

“Marika had two consorts in her time,” Nepheli swept on, seeming pleased to be providing information she was well-acquainted with. “First, she had Godfrey, then Radagon.”

“I…I don’t know what to do about that,” Rowa admitted slowly. “I’m not sure who I would even…”

“You don’t have to find a consort right away. Even I don’t expect you to become Elden Lord overnight.”

Rowa nodded, relaxing a bit. Maybe in time, she would find someone suited for her, if she ever completed her goal in the first place.

Nepheli smiled a little sheepishly. “I hope I have not overburdened you.”

“No, I am fine, thank you. I was merely surprised by the notion.”

“I understand.” Nepheli lifted her gaze to the darkening sky. “Where will you go from here?”

“To whatever lies beyond Stormveil. I have no desire to spend the night here.”

“That would be Liurnia, where you will likely find another Shardbearer.”

“And who is that?”

“My father is certain that Rennala, Queen of the Full Moon was gifted a Rune by Radagon. She lives within the Academy of Raya Lucaria.”

Rowa shook her head, the new information confusing her. “I don’t know her or her dwelling place.”

“You will know the Academy when you see it. It lies in the very center of the lakes that make up most of Liurnia.” Nepheli let out a sigh, hefting her axe. “I would accompany you, but I must return to the Hold and give a report of Godrick’s death to Father. You are more than welcome to come along.”

“Thank you, but I would rather continue onward for the moment.” After a long and harrowing day, Rowa had no desire to contend with the likes of Gideon.

“Very well.” Nepheli extended a hand to her. “May our paths cross again.”

Rowa clasped her hand firmly. “I look forward to it.”

They parted ways, Rowa heading further on into the remainder of the castle, wandering the winding halls. Eventually, she caught a breeze of fresh air and followed it, emerging from the stone maze into an open field. As she trekked through it, she saw it ended sharply in a steep drop-off, and approached the cliff in a bid to survey the land.

Far below, a tree-laden lake spread out, taking up most of the area Rowa could see. Steep cliff faces rose on every side much like her own, giving an almost crater-like impression. In the distance, illuminated by the light of the Erdtree, a castle of gray stone towered above the water, sharp parapets seeming to scrape the very clouds. It was almost ghostly, shrouded in a thin fog.

The Academy of Raya Lucaria, without a doubt.

Rowa gazed at it, taking in its ethereal appearance before turning away. She would find her way down to the water tomorrow, but she was too tired to attempt it tonight.

She made camp next to a small portion of lost Grace, and summoned Torrent to have someone to talk to, not having dared to take him inside Stormveil.

“Hello,” she murmured as the steed materialized. “I thought you’d like to know I made it through Stormveil alive.”

Torrent knickered, bobbing his head in what she assumed was a pleased reply.

“They had Rowa growing on the grounds.” She fished the bundle of berries from her pack, offering it to him. “I took them for you.”

Torrent stepped forward, eagerly nibbling them from her palm.

“I killed Godrick the Grafted, and gained his Great Rune,” she said as Torrent ate. “Does Melina know?”

Torrent huffed but offered no clear answer, and Rowa sighed.

“Well, I suppose she will know sooner or later.” She looked up at the Erdtree’s brilliance. “I wonder…are all the Shardbearers as mad as Godrick was? I’ve no wish to slay them all, but Godrick…he gave me no choice. I hope they are not all as wretched as he was.”

Torrent listened, and that was all she wanted. Eventually, she let him go and laid down to rest, her back to the light of the Erdtree. There was too much to think about between Shardbearers, Runes, consorts, and lords. Perhaps other Shardbearers were not as Godrick was, for she wanted to mend what was shattered long ago.

Page Wilfred stared at the Erdtree Sanctuary, the beauty of its arches and detailed, gold-lined masonry lost on him as he mulled over his task. He had been ordered by his mentor to deliver news of Godrick the Grafted’s death to the Veiled Monarch. It was an important task, one he should’ve been proud to complete, but he was frightened. He had never gone before the Lord of Leyndell before, but he had learned what to expect.

No one had ever seen the Veiled Monarch’s face and lived. That was the most important detail that had been drilled into him from the beginning. Whether it was a curse that struck the viewer dead or death by the King himself no one could say, but the rumors always flew fast and thick, each theory seeming even more fantastical than the last. But, no matter what was said, no one dared to try and find out the truth. The Lord of Leyndell ruled the Golden Order for a reason, possessing power some likened to the strength of a demigod holding a Great Rune. He was invisible, but everyone obeyed his orders without question, whispering tales of grand exploits from the days of the Shattering.

Wilfred’s mentor had instructed him thus: upon entering the Grand Atrium of the Sanctuary, he was to state his arrival, and keep his eyes from wandering. When the Lord answered, he was to deliver the message, answer any questions to the best of his ability, and leave.

It was a simple task, but the young page was skittish nonetheless. The Veiled Monarch was, according to everyone who had given reports to him, an intimidating presence. He was worried that he might accidentally gaze upon the Lord’s face, though he had no desire to, and his life might end before it had truly began.

All these things swirled through Wilfred’s mind as he trudged up the flights of stairs within the Sanctuary, culminating in clammy hands and wobbly legs. However, he dared not delay his duty any further, as the delivery of the news was of utmost importance.

Gilded paneling on the walls, as gold as the Erdtree, presented him with his distorted reflection as he reached the top floor. There was no sign of anyone, no guards stationed around despite him being a short walk from the Elden Throne, giving further evidence to the Veiled Monarch’s love of privacy.

His footsteps echoed through the Grand Atrium as he stepped into the room. To his left, through an open entryway, the trunk of the Erdtree rose huge and high, the one edge of the Elden Throne’s dais that he could see dwarfed by comparison. Even at such a distance, it was a magnificent sight, but he knew better than to go beyond the Atrium’s walls.

He stopped in the middle of the Atrium, glancing up at the tree roots growing through the building. That was of no surprise to him, given the unkempt state of the rest of Leyndell. He cleared his throat, wincing at the sudden loudness, taking a moment to gather his courage before speaking.

“Er, my Lord, I’ve come to deliver a report.”

For a few long moments, there was nothing but silence. Wilfred frowned, mentally debating over whether he should announce himself again when a low, gravelly voice rang through the Atrium, making him jump.

“Now is not the time reports are usually delivered.” The Veiled Monarch’s words seemed to come from every direction, strong and stern.

Wilfred immediately turned his gaze to the floor, trying to keep his posture straight and presentable. “Y-yes, m’Lord, but this report was so important we thought it could not wait.”

“I will judge that,” the disembodied voice growled. “Out with it, then.”

The words tumbled from Wilfred’s mouth. “Godrick the Grafted has been slain and the forces of Stormveil Castle have been scattered!”

The silence that followed his hurried report was deafening, and when the Veiled Monarch spoke next, Wilfred thought he heard a hint of surprise in his tone. “Of great import indeed. Who hath committed this act?”

“Reports say it was a Tarnished, m’Lord.”

“Tarnished…” The Veiled Monarch’s voice became a growl that seemed almost inhuman. “Dost thou know which of their ilk has done this?”

“No, m’Lord. It was a Tarnished of no renown, it seems. The only detail the report gave was that the Tarnished was a woman, but not one recognizable as someone of great repute.”

Another heavy pause. “Is there aught else?”

“No, m’Lord. That is all Leyndell’s soldiers have learned.”

“Away with thee, then.”

Relief flooded Wilfred, and he almost forgot to bow in his haste. He turned and hurried from the Sanctuary, eager to be out from under the Veiled Monarch’s oppressive atmosphere.

Morgott watched the page scurry from his sight like he had been burned before moving his gaze elsewhere, to the great Erdtree. He knew which Tarnished had done the deed, the image of her standing before his dissolving illusion still heavy in his mind. Whether it was mere luck or incredible skill, he could not say, but the fact that she had managed to breach Stormveil and slay Godrick rendered her worthy of taking his Great Rune, he supposed.

The edges of his tattered cloak dragged along the floorstones as he paced along the walkway, his gaze lingering on the crevice in the Erdtree’s trunk. It had rejected him today, just as it had every other day before, but he would not stop trying.

If the Tarnished continued in her fortune, she might one day make it to the place he stood now. But even she would find herself rejected, for the Erdtree would accept no one regardless of conquest.

Even then, she would have to gain another Great Rune before she could even begin to breach Leyndell’s barrier, spun by his own hand. He had made it impossible to surpass, for no one seemed to possess the strength to defeat two Shardbearers, not even him.

The Tarnished had his interest. Her strength had set her apart from the other hordes of her kind who came seeking conquest, who gazed upon him as an abomination to be crushed. Her words, her strange, unnatural proclamation, had echoed through his mind ever since she had spoken them.

I don’t want to fight you.

How could one offer peace to an Omen? Morgott had never been offered that before. She would surely find more cursed creatures in her journey across the Lands, and would she offer peace to them as well?

It was so incomprehensible it made Morgott feel angry. To be offered peace by a Tarnished of all people, after years of disdain and bloodshed…

He shook his head, casting those thoughts aside before the flame of anger could truly ignite within him. It did not bear thinking about, for she, like all other Tarnished, would fall eventually. They had been chosen by Grace, but their existence was an insult to the Erdtree. None of them deserved to become Elden Lord and usurp the Golden Order of his mother.

He would protect the Erdtree to his last breath.

Chapter Text

Rowa started her descent into the valleys of Liurnia, but after being chased by several bands of soldiers, she decided to return to the Roundtable Hold in the hopes that her opposition would disperse by the time she tried again. After the fight at Stormveil, her blades were in sore need of being sharpened, anyway.

When she arrived at the Hold, she was immediately greeted by an open set of doors that had been closed before. At first, she paid it no mind, set in her course to speak to Hewg. She froze in her tracks when she glanced in, all thoughts of Hewg vanishing. A monstrous, gnarled set of fingers sprouted from the floor of the otherwise unremarkable room, easily ten feet tall.

The sight was so jarring that she could not help but step into the room, trying to gauge if it was merely some morbid artwork. Her silent question was answered when the fingers moved, swaying slightly in some unknown wind, and she jumped, half expecting the rest of the hand and an arm to come through the floor. However, nothing more occurred, the fingers seeming to sprout from the floor like some misshapen tree.

“Are you the new Tarnished?”

Rowa jumped again, even harder, whirling to face the old woman seated on a table next to the fingers. She was so old and wizened that Rowa thought she was surely at least several centuries old if not older, hands like bird claws clutching at a long staff and eyes long rendered blind seeming to stare at her directly nonetheless.

“Who are you?” Rowa asked, her eyes darting between the fingers and the woman.

The woman smiled, wrinkling her papery face even further. “You’ve done well. I am Enia, the Finger Reader. I interpret the words of the Fingers, envoys to the Greater Will.”

“These things are meant to be here?” Rowa asked, unable to help the incredulity of her tone.

Enia dipped her head. “Indeed.”

Rowa eyed the Fingers, not sure what to make of it. She never expected to see any manifestation of the Greater Will, expecting to remain nothing but hearsay from others.

The Fingers shuddered, flexing inward then out again, crackling unpleasantly.

“Look there. The Fingers tremble. To welcome you, shardbearer. Let their wisdom wash over you.

 ‘Great Elden Ring, root of the Golden Order. Anchor of all lands, giver of grave, wellspring of all joy. Until it was shattered. The tragic corruption of the Order has taken its toll. Across the realm, life lies in ruin. Fallen to pieces. Foul curses and misery spread, unabating. But the Greater Will has not abandoned the realm, nor the life that inhabits it. So it is that the Tarnished are guided by grace. Called to act. Brave Tarnished, your Great Rune is a handsome shard of the Elden Ring. Seek another of its kind. To become Elden Lord, and restore the Golden Order’.

“Let the words of the Fingers guide you."

Rowa was silent for a long moment, processing the words. The Greater Will and the Golden Order did not quite sit right with her. She had no doubt that the god existed now that she had seen the Two Fingers, but she was hesitant to believe its benevolence. The truth behind the Elden Ring’s shattering remained a mystery to her, but it seemed that the Golden Order was not as perfect as some would make it out to be. Omens, and likely more she had yet to come across, were excluded from it on a basis that seemed of little consequence to her. Curseborn, supposedly, but to what end? Some dangerous madness that they would eventually succumb to, or merely a strange appearance?

She bowed hesitantly to the strange appendages. “Thank you for sharing your wisdom with me. I will think on it deeply.”

She hurried from the room, wanting to be away from the peculiar pair. She resolved to question Gideon about them later, but not before she had a chance to speak with the more amiable members of the Hold.

Upon visiting Hewg, she was pleased to find that a girl she had met along the road in Limgrave had managed to find her way to the Hold. She introduced herself as Roderika, and though she was still a shy sort, she seemed far more sure of herself than she had been when Rowa first encountered her.

After speaking to her long enough to shake off her unsettled feelings and visiting Fia, Rowa turned towards Gideon’s quarters. She needed to learn about more Shardbearers and the Two Fingers, and if nothing else, she could throw it in his face that she had survived Godrick.

“So, you managed to kill a Shardbearer.” Gideon’s helm tilted up slightly as she stepped into his quarters. “I see the light of a Great Rune in you.”

“Yes.” Rowa stopped a respectable distance from his desk. “I slew Godrick, with Nepheli’s help.”

“The girl filled me in on all the details. I suppose I must thank you for helping her, as I am not sure she has the strength to get through Stormveil alone.”

“She is a capable warrior,” Rowa said, feeling defensive for Nepheli’s sake. “She was a great help, and without her I’m not sure I would have survived.”

“She said you offered Godrick mercy. Is that true?”

Rowa hesitated, taken aback by the sudden change in subject. “Yes, that is true.”

Gideon regarded her silently, just long enough for her to feel uncomfortable. “Why?”

“What merit is there in killing indiscriminately?” she retorted, facing his darkened gaze. “I do not wish to kill all who cross my path, and if the chance comes to work with the Shardbearers rather than slaying them, I will take it.”

Gideon shook his head. “Such idealism will never see you on the Elden Throne.”

“Maybe so, but I will not slay everyone who merely bares their teeth at me. I have walked through this land, and it seems to me it is broken and full of blood already.”

“And who do you think brought that about?” Gideon growled. “The very demigods you offered mercy to!”

“And who is to say that they had any other choice?”

“They fought because they are fickle gods, grasping at the shards of their mother’s power, razing the land with their conquest.”

“And are we to repeat the same travesties?” Rowa argued. “I, for one, do not seek the Ring for the power it brings, but to restore the Lands and bring it to peace. Offering no quarter will only perpetuate what is ongoing.”

“It will kill you, or if not, you will be forced to face the harsh reality that there can be no peace, no camaraderie between Tarnished and the forces of demigods.”

Rowa frowned. So far, he was frustratingly correct. Neither Margit nor Godrick had accepted the invitation she had extended, though she doubted Godrick was of sound mind to begin with. That brought her back to the harrowing question of the Shardbearers. Were they all as Godrick was, mad with power?

“I met the Fingers,” she said, ready to move on. “It was…odd.”

“So, they have deemed you worthy.” Thankfully, Gideon accepted the shift in conversation. “I was wondering if they might.”

“I gather they are meant to be there, then?”

“Yes. I suppose it must be strange to a Tarnished lacking all memory, but the Two Fingers have always served as envoys to the Greater Will, delivering guidance.”

“They told me to continue to seek Great Runes. Nepheli said the next closest Rune to Stormveil lies with Rennala.”

“She is correct. The Two Fingers deem two Runes necessary to make it to the foot of the Erdtree.”

“How so?”

“The Erdtree is surrounded by the Royal Capital, Leyndell. The city is ruled by a demigod named Morgott the Grace-Given, and he has put a seal around it to forbid any Tarnished not bearing two Great Runes entry.”

“I expect I will need to face this Morgott if I am to hold the Elden Ring?”

“Indeed. He has ruled Leyndell with an iron hand, holding sway over it no matter the armies the other demigods sent against him. But yet, I know frustratingly little of him.”

Rowa paused. In all of Gideon’s pompous proclamations, this was the first time he had truly admitted to a lack of knowledge. “Why is that?”

“Morgott is known as the Veiled Monarch, and for good reason. No one I have ever been able to get a record from has seen his face and lived. He is surely one of Marika’s children, but what the length of his power and proclivity is, has remained shrouded to me.”

Rowa shrugged. She would not let it trouble her; she had already faced multiple enemies with no foreknowledge of their abilities. “Well, could you tell me more about Rennala?”

Gideon shifted some papers quickly, clearly glad to move the conversation to something he could easily explain. “Rennala herself is no demigod. She was once wed to Radagon, who gave her a Great Rune within an amber egg before he left her for Marika. Radagon’s departure, coupled with the death of their daughter Ranni, has driven Rennala into a state of madness as best as I can ascertain. She is, supposedly, sealed in the Academy somewhere.”

Rowa pushed away the flutter of pity she felt. “Mad in what way?”

“That, I cannot tell you. You may happen upon a harmless prisoner with a broken mind, or a raving witch.”

“Very well. I assume after obtaining the Rune I should set my sights on Leyndell?”

“That would be the most logical course. You will have to ascend to the Altus Plateau, either by an old mining village or the Grand Lift of Dectus, both in the north of Liurnia. The quickest way, however, would be to take the route of the mining village, as the lift has been defunct for a long while.”

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.” Despite Rowa’s general dislike of Gideon, she meant what she said. She could not imagine trying to navigate the vast Lands with no guidance at all.

Gideon regarded her for a long moment before returning to his papers. “I look forward to seeing what you will accomplish.”

By the time Rowa returned to Liurnia, it was afternoon, and the soldiers that were previously in her way had moved on. She descended the rest of the way into the valley, finally arriving at the edge of the vast waters that encompassed most of the landscape. Not particularly eager to wade through the swamp, she summoned Torrent, his hooves cutting through the water with easy and sending up a spray of mist in their wake.

As Torrent carried her across the waters, Rowa kept her eyes out. Trees and vegetation grew from the swamp, occasionally intersected by moss-strewn masonry of some old ruin and strange clumps of crystals that gleamed an iridescent blue. She caught sight of distant fires and small smoke trails of distant camps, but she kept her distance from them. Other times, she saw strange creatures wading through the water, maybe human or maybe not but hunched with oddly-shaped heads, and she gave them a wide berth as well.

She travelled for the rest of the day, and the spires of the Academy barely seemed to get any closer. As night closed in, she found her way to a small island protruding from the swamp to make camp. Upon settling next to her meager fire, she was surprised to see a glimmer of blue mist appear next to her.

“Greetings,” Melina said, materializing on the other side of the fire. “You have made the first step of your great journey.”

“I thought I would see you last night,” Rowa said, raising an eyebrow.

“I considered it, but I saw your weariness. I thought it might be best to wait.”

“Maybe so.”

“I sense you have met with the Two Fingers at the Hold. Am I correct?”

“Yes, I met them.” The memory of the disembodied appendages sent a prickle up Rowa’s spine. “As a Finger Maiden, do you serve them?”

Melina dropped her gaze to the grass, her emotionless countenance cracking a little to betray something akin to shame. “I'm searching for my purpose given to me by my mother inside the Erdtree long ago, for the reason that I yet live, burned and bodyless. There is something for which I must apologize. I've acted the Finger Maiden yet I can offer no guidance, I am no maiden. My purpose was long ago lost...”

“That is no reason to be ashamed,” Rowa said quickly. “You have done a great deal for me already by offering your help, and in truth, I am not yet inclined to follow the Two Fingers.”

Melina looked up once more, her good eye widening slightly in surprise. “Indeed?”

“The Two Fingers, the Greater Will, seem to want to restore the Golden Order, the way things were before, but…” Rowa shook her head. “I am not convinced that is the best way to bring peace to the Lands Between. The Golden Order likely had detrimental flaws.”

“I do not remember enough to speak any truth on that matter. What flaws do you suppose?”

Rowa hesitated, debating whether or not to share her true thoughts.

“You may speak freely here,” Melina said as though she knew her mind. “The influence of the All-Knowing stretches far, but not unto me.”

Rowa sighed. She figured Gideon would figure out her lack of devotion to the Golden Order eventually if he hadn’t already, regardless of if Melina spoke the truth. “The very existence of the Tarnished, for one. To be called back after being banished, and to be reviled by many for it…it does not sit right with me.”

Melina nodded. “To set aside blind devotion and think on these matters is befitting for a Lord, I think.”

Rowa shrugged. “Perhaps. The more I learn about the Lands, the more I realize just how broken it is, and I am not sure if returning to the way things were would be best.”

“You may be correct. I only wish I could offer more insight.”

“Do not concern yourself with it. The longer I am here, the more I learn. Things shall become clear to me in time.”

“Perhaps as you face Shardbearers more closely aligned with the Golden Lineage.”

“What do you know of the Shardbearers?”

“Little,” Melina admitted, “only that they vie for the Elden Ring through Radagon or Marika’s pedigree.”

“Once I have Rennala’s Rune, I will head for the base of the Erdtree as we agreed.”

“You are kind to do so. However, you must be aware that repairing the Ring will take three Runes at the least.”

“Am I to assume Morgott the Grace-Given has the third Rune?”

“You shall surely meet him in Leyndell, one of the most mysterious demigods.”

Rowa nodded, her gaze drifting to the brilliance of the distant Erdtree. “Once I gain the Ring, shall it be wise of me to take a consort?”

“Perhaps. The Lands are vast…and lonely at times. To be Elden Lord alone is no small undertaking, but once you take the Ring, you will be free to have anyone of your choosing.”

“Only if they are willing,” Rowa said firmly, “and I would like to be careful about it. It is more than ruling together, is it not? It is life, trust, and commitment, I would think.”

“Those are noble things I hope the Lands will bequeath unto you.”

“And if not, I hope you shall remain a friend and ally to me, once our accord is fulfilled.”

The look that passed over Melina’s face was odd, one Rowa had not seen before. It was a hint of surprise and something sadder. “Indeed. You have been kind to me.”

“I would hope you will visit me more often. I…I enjoy having someone to talk to.”

Melina’s lips quirked upwards slightly, the closest to a smile Rowa had seen thus far. “Certainly, if you wish it.”

They conversed for a while longer, until night was fully upon them. Melina finally departed as weariness overtook Rowa, but she went to sleep with a gladder heart.

Rowa awoke to the smell of smoke. It was so strong it startled her into wakefulness, fearing the embers of her small fire had gotten out of control, but she swiftly saw that was not so.

Daylight had not yet arrived, the songbirds just beginning to twitter their delicate songs. Rowa stood, looking around at the misty marsh surrounding her, trying to discern if it was fog, smoke, or both.

In the distance, to the southwest of her little island, she caught the unmistakable orange flicker of fire, emanating from somewhere beneath the high crags that surrounded the valley she was in. At first, she supposed it was some sort of forest fire, perhaps caused by one of the bands of soldiers she had ran into the day before, but as the mists shifted, she saw that was not so. As she got a better view of the cliffs, she saw no trees alight, nor did she see any birds fleeing from the flames.

She considered leaving it alone, until the breeze brought faint shouting, hoarse cries drifting through the mist. Deciding to investigate, she summoned Torrent and headed for the fire, hoping it was nothing but a skirmish between soldiers.

As she moved between the trees, the shouting faded in and out, before stopping altogether. The smell of smoke only grew more prominent as she neared the cliffs, blotting out the humid earthiness and faint floral perfumes of Liurnia.

Finally, upon reaching the beginnings of the cliffs, the situation became clear to Rowa. A large crevice opened up between the crags, resulting in a large, tunnel-like formation that arched upwards at least a hundred feet. Shorter cliffs jutted from the ground within the overarching half-cave, a sprawling village built upon them and connected by bridges. It was the village that burned, smoke spiraling up in thick plumes to the rocks above, and as Rowa entered the shade of the cliffs, searching for a way up into the village, her heart dropped. Bodies littered the swamp water, recently slain. At first glance they seemed human, until she looked closer and saw they all seemed to have misshapen legs of varying deformity, none of them looking fit to be walked on.

“Rowa?”

Startled by the sudden voice, Rowa’s blade was in her hand in an instant as she leapt from Torrent’s back into the water. A figure rose up from the shrubbery nearby, and Rowa steeled herself, expecting a fight, until the figure stepped closer.

She lowered her blade in confusion. “Nepheli?”

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Nepheli moved stiffly, clutching at her left arm with a piece of cloth that was already bloodsoaked.

“You’re hurt!” Rowa started forward, but Nepheli shook her head.

“It doesn’t matter. I deserve some pain, for it is only a fraction of what the poor souls of this village have experienced.”

Rowa stared at her for a long moment before glancing at the bodies nearby, an icy dread crawling into her stomach. “What…what happened here?”

“My father…he sent his men to raid this village, searching for a key to one of the Shardbearers. The people here, they were Albinaurics, already downtrodden by life and no harm to anyone.”

“Albinaurics?” Rowa echoed, her dread increasing.

“People made by sorcery. Their bodies are deformed, their existence a cruel experiment by sorcerers, but they are people with souls nonetheless.” Nepheli shook her head, her eyes red-rimmed as she gazed at the bodies. “They could not fight back at all. My father’s men…massacred them all.”

Rowa swallowed, becoming dreadfully aware of the eerie silence from the village above them. Everything was still, lifeless.

“He has redoubled his efforts for the Ring now that you have acquired a Great Rune,” Nepheli murmured, “but I did not think he would ever do something so awful.”

“Gideon did this…because of me?” Rowa asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“He did this by his own ambition,” Nepheli said firmly.

Rowa shifted her position, regarding the other with a new wariness. “And…and did you…?”

“No!” Nepheli’s reply was sharp, fire flaring in her eyes. “I did not know what he was doing at first, but once I learned the truth, I followed his men here…but I was too late.” She bowed her head, letting out a shaky exhale. “I witnessed a sight much the same, in my infancy. The oppression of the weak. Murder and pillage unchecked. A waking nightmare, made by men. But this time, I'm a woman grown, and though the suffering cannot be undone, I can still mete out justice. Justice to the oppressors.”

“And did you?”

“Yes.” Nepheli raised her head once more, her face as hard as the steel of her axe. “I slayed every one of my father’s men, who gladly pillaged and murdered these poor people, except…their leader. He bested me, and I barely managed to escape before he killed me too.”

“I will slay him for you,” Rowa decided. The raw emotion written across Nepheli’s face, the blood that stained her skin and clothes, spoke to the truth of her words.

“He is a strong foe!” Nepheli cried. “He is an Omenkiller, trained in the arts of slaying those deemed monsters.”

“And I hold a Great Rune, granted to me with your help. If I am to be worthy of the Elden Ring, I cannot let this stand.”

“Very well. I would accompany you if I were able…”

“Rest,” Rowa said, helping her to sit down again in her hiding place. “I will return to you when I am victorious.” She made to rise, but Nepheli grabbed at her hand, stopping her.

“If I am not here, I will be at the Hold. Father…he will not be pleased with what I have done.”

Rowa forced herself to nod calmly, scalding anger towards Gideon boiling hot in her chest. Her rage only grew as she found a way to ascend into the village, finding the death that lay within. True to Nepheli’s word, armored men of various stations littered the ground, brought down with the cleaving wounds of her axe, but for every one of them, there were ten Albinaurics, many having died huddled together in positions of fear. To her dismay, she found one still alive but mortally wounded, hidden away in a small recess he had managed to crawl into, and his cries for mercy as she approached splintered her heart.

“I won’t hurt you,” she promised, trying to keep her voice calm as she knelt before the man, his misshapen body quivering with fear. “I am not with them.”

The Albinauric man regarded her for a long moment with eyes sunken deep into a wrinkled, lopsided face. “Wh-what a relief, oh goodness me. I am Albus. An Albinauric, as you can see. We are finished. The whole village is finished. The cursemongers have destroyed everything. Not one that remains has their wits about them. I beg you, would you look after this medallion? You must keep it out of the cursemonger's hands.” From his tattered, dirty robes, he drew forth a half of a medallion, inscribed with strange markings, and pressed it into Rowa’s hands.

“I will guard this, I promise you,” she said, taking the object. “What is it for?”

“A chosen land awaits us Albinaurics.” Albus’ eyes grew distant as he envisioned the haven. “The medallion is the key that leads to the city. It's only a quaint treasure, for we who cannot make the journey.”

Rowa swallowed back the lump building in her throat. “I…I am so sorry this has come upon you.”

A wheezing chuckle shook his frail body. “To an Albinauric, this is only the last of many hardships we have endured. We are cursed from our formation. The Golden Order determined us outcasts long ago.”

“You are not cursed to me,” Rowa said.

“Then you are unusually kind.” Something of a smile twitched at his thin lips. “It is a blessing to hear that, here at the end.”

Rowa looked down at the medallion in her hands, letting out a long, shuddering breath. “If you wish it, I can put an end to things, if you are suffering.”

Albus shook his head. “There is no need. My legs will soon fade, and with them, my life.”

“Then I will take this medallion with me and make sure it never falls unto evil hands.”

Rowa left Albus with the flame of anger ignited even brighter within her, and it did not take her long to find the one she had sworn to hunt. She saw him, the Omenkiller, moving about in front of a roaring bonfire on the other side of one of the village bridges. Even from afar, she knew he was monstrous, wearing the mask of some horrid grinning devil and carrying a blade inset with Omen horns. The sight made her feel sick, and red gathered at the edges of her vision.

“What do you want, Tarnished?” The Omenkiller asked as he noticed her approach, the voice behind the mask sounding like the grate of steel on stone. “Are you one of Ofnir’s?”

Rowa brandished her blade. “Never.”

The Omenkiller turned to face her fully, propping his grotesque blade on his shoulder. “Then are you with that whelp that tried to off me? Nearly ground her into dust before she slipped away.”

“Do you not have any remorse?” Rowa hissed. “Any sorrow for what has been committed here?”

The Omenkiller laughed, a harsh sound that echoed off the cliffs around them. “Why would I feel sorrow for these half-alive, sorceryborn monsters? Have you lost your mind?”

Rowa already knew her decision. There would be no mercy for this one. She could see the gleam of fresh blood on his armor, glinting hellish in the light of the bonfire. And his voice was mocking, unrepentant, contemptuous of the bodies that lay around his feet.

Strength coursed through her veins, new and invigorating as she raised her blade. Vaguely, she was aware that the Great Rune of Godrick bolstered her, and she let that assure her as she threw herself towards the Omenkiller with all her might.

The fight was long and arduous. Nepheli had spoken truthfully when she called the Omenkiller a great foe, and Rowa was certain that it was only by the power of her Rune that she persevered. The Omenkiller fell, and she did not wish to see whatever face lay beneath the grin of his mask, leaving his body untouched as she limped away.

As she retraced her steps through the destroyed village, she saw with sorrow that Albus had succumbed to his wounds, his body lying peacefully where she had left him. To him, she gave the honor of burial, stacking rocks and other bits of wreckage to give him a proper grave. As she gazed misty-eyed at the meager burial, she felt sure that the Golden Order was no true order. Not unto those that fell beneath its scorn.

Finally, sore and limping, she found her way back to where Nepheli had lay hidden.

There was no one there.

Rowa bit her lip painfully hard. She had hoped against hope that Gideon’s harsh personality would prove to be something merely of circumstance as a hard-fought Tarnished, but this would not stand. She could not abide beneath one such as him, who had left such bloodshed in his wake.

When she arrived at the Hold, the main room, housing the Table of Lost Grace, was empty. All was quiet, and still.

She inhaled, wrapping her fingers around her sword. She did not wish to break the vow of peace over this place, but something was amiss.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled, thoughts of confronting Gideon thrust aside. The place of peace now screamed danger.

Carefully, she paced up to the Table, gazing upon the swords and the shimmers of Grace therein.

The air wafted faint red, bringing the smell of blood.

Rowa ducked, and she felt the displaced air as something whistled by a hairsbreadth above her head, slamming into the Table with force that rattled the swords. She whirled, finding herself faced with the uncaring metal mask of one of the other members of the Roundtable. She had seen him before, loitering about…near Gideon’s room.

“What is this?” she snarled at him.

He did not answer, trying to wrench his sword from where it was embedded in the Table, grabbing at her with his free hand. She evaded his grasp, grabbing his wrist darting behind him, twisting as hard as she could. With a pained grunt, he let go of his sword, and she kicked him in the back of the knees, forcing him to the floor.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but stay down,” she snarled, blood roaring in her ears as she whipped out a cord from her pack, binding his behind him.

“Oh, dear, what’s going on?” Roderika’s pale figure appeared in the door, staring at them both wide-eyed.

“Don’t go near him,” Rowa ordered, now thoroughly on the warpath as she stormed towards Gideon’s quarters, her bellow ringing loud through the halls. “Ofnir!”

Gideon did not so much as look up from his desk. “Is something amiss?”

Rowa felt like she was about to explode. She marched up to the desk and ripped the papers before him away, throwing them to the floor. “Don’t give me that. Why was I attacked upon my arrival to the one place that is meant to be safe?”

Gideon seemed unfazed by her anger, lifting his head to gaze at her evenly. “Oh, my apologies for that nasty business. Ensha got rather ahead of himself, it seems. As his master, I'd like to express my regret.”

Rowa ground her teeth together so hard her jaw hurt. “You…speak of regret, when you have just massacred a village full of innocent people?”

“Ah, yes, that.” Gideon’s words were clipped, businesslike in a way that only incensed her further. “It was necessary to learn the locations of hidden Shardbearers.”

“At the cost of scores of lives!”

“Half-lives.” His tone curdled with distaste. “Albinaurics are hardly people. They are experiments made by sorcerers, left to rot with their deformities.”

“You say what you will,” Rowa spat, “but I will not partner with a man such as you!”

His helm tilted slightly, eyes gleaming beneath. “More of that mercy talk?”

“Not mercy, decency!”

“To allow the Albinaurics to continue to suffer in their wretched state?”

“Perhaps it would not have been that way if the Golden Order had not cast them aside in the first place.” Rowa clenched her fists so hard she quivered. “I will not serve beneath an Order that deigns lives worthless in such a way, no matter their origin.”

“And yet you slew the Omenkiller I contracted.”

“With fresh blood still on him.” Rowa bared her teeth. “He showed no remorse, no quarter, and so I do not regret it.”

“And so, tell me…” Gideon, for the first time, straightened fully, the pale of his face just barely visible in the candlelight. “Will you slay me as well, mighty one?”

The fire crackled and popped as they stared at one another. In the back of her mind, Rowa knew he was trying to bait her into a fight she could not win. He was strong enough to have soldiers at his beck and call, and if she challenged him now, she would die, and he would take the Rune she had already procured.

He might become Elden Lord, and that was something she knew she could not allow.

“No,” she said at last, her voice a harsh whisper.

“So much for your justice, then.” Gideon said, sounding almost bored. “If you shall not slay me, I suppose you are free to continue to use the Hold as you see fit.”

“Never for any of your twisted ambitions. Where is Nepheli?”

“Ahh, you've already heard? Indeed, it seemed the whelp harboured suspicions. So I have no further use for her. Honestly, what's a man to do. A determined plebian is more wicked than an Omen horn, quite frankly. I suspect... that's just what the Queen wants. A dose of ambition, to incite the Tarnished.” Gideon regarded her for a moment. “Downstairs.”

With the greatest amount of effort she had used so far, even greater than fighting Godrick, Rowa turned her back on him and marched from the room. She passed by the mercenary, Ensha, leaving him tied and resisting the urge to kick him. Roderika asked her something as she went through the forge, but she barely heard. Gideon harbored no ill ambitions or power over the girl, so she would leave her alone for now. All that mattered was finding Nepheli, and ensuring she was safe.

As Gideon said, she found Nepheli sitting on the floor next to the stairs, a proper bandage on her arm. She knew at once things were not right, Nepheli’s face even more drawn and despondent than it had been at the village.

“I heard you,” she murmured as Rowa approached, “shouting at him.”

“Yes,” Rowa said hoarsely, crouching at her side.

Nepheli huffed quietly, hanging her head. “I thought no one could outmatch my volume, so I guess I have to congratulate you.”

Rowa sighed. “What happened between you two?”

Nepheli was quiet a long moment before answering. “My father cast me out. For indulging my emotions. Forgetting the mission. Punishment for offing his pawns. Father...rather, Lord Gideon has offered me guidance all my life. I would have done anything for him, to place him on the throne of Elden Lord. And yet I...Though it was not my intent...I betrayed him...”

Seeing her loyalty made Rowa angry at Gideon all over again. “You did not betray him. You did the right thing.”

“I...can no longer trust in father,” she carried on. “To think he'd order his men to enact such tragedy... Where is the justice he purports, in that? He once told me that if he became Elden Lord, he would never allow the downtrodden to be cheated ever again. Was he simply lying to me?”

Rowa knew the answer to her question, but she remained silent.

“No, no, no...” Nepheli pressed a hand to her forehead. “How could I say that? Father has always given me his guidance...and now...I've lost it...”

“You do not need his guidance,” Rowa said, “for was it by his guidance that you let me have Godrick’s Rune?”

Nepheli paused. “No.”

“And do you regret doing so?”

“No.” Nepheli’s answer was firm. “You earned the Rune as a warrior, and…it seems you are worthy of its power.”

Rowa smiled a little despite herself. “I cannot be sure of that myself, but it seems you do not need his guidance as much as you think you do. If he is to cut such a bloody path to being Elden Lord, perhaps it is best you do not follow it.”

“You are right. Only…I am not sure where I will go now.”

“You are free to journey at my side, if you wish.”

Nepheli shook her head. “You have my thanks, but my path has never been to such great things as you shall surely encounter. My people are called to drive away foulness, and nothing more.”

“Then we will part ways once more,” Rowa murmured. “I cannot stay here…with him.”

“Nor shall I, in time.” Nepheli smiled sadly. “But, I think we shall meet again in the future, hopefully just as soon in less sorrow.”

“Then may our paths cross again.”

Rowa left the Roundtable Hold again, still full of anger. If she returned, it would not be for Gideon, or the Two Fingers. She would stand before the Elden Ring, and abolish the Golden Order.

“The Albinauric village in Liurnia was razed by men following Tarnished.”

Morgott scowled at the report, gripping his cane tightly. He had not had any interactions with Albinaurics that he could recall, but he had no ill will towards them. They were like him, outcasts.

“And which Tarnished didst they follow?” he asked, considering the Tarnished carrying Godrick’s Rune. Such hypocrisy would be befitting for a Tarnished, to claim mercy and turn to fell an innocent village.

“Gideon Ofnir, the All-Knowing.”

“Ofnir…” Morgott snarled the name to himself. That particular Tarnished had been nothing but a thorn in his side, gathering others under him and sending them out with the ambition of becoming Elden Lord, no doubt to further his own conquest.

The soldier in the atrium below cleared his throat. “Ofnir sent an Omenkiller among his retinue to the village.”

The hair along Morgott’s spine prickled, a reaction he had not been able to rid himself of from the days of his youth. The mere mention of the dreaded hunters sent him into dark memories, of he and his brother scrambling to find places to hide when an Omenkiller managed to break into the sewers.

“However, the Omenkiller, among many others of the group, were slain,” the soldier carried on.

That caught Morgott’s attention once more. “By whom?”

“Unsure, my Lord, but a Tarnished was sighted in the vicinity of the village around the same day, and it appears to be the same woman that slew Godrick.”

Morgott’s scowl only deepened. This Tarnished was becoming more and more of an enigma to him. He had never heard of a Tarnished deliberately going against Ofnir before.

“Is that all?” he growled.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Thou art dismissed.”

Morgott squinted at the Erdtree. Mercy to Omens. Slaying pillagers. He remembered her face clear as day, and how little he had thought of her, another Tarnished seeking conquest.

Now, he did not know what to think of her. Her actions were surprising, even ones that might warrant his approval…

He shook his head. Approving of a Tarnished, what folly! Perhaps the long years were beginning to wear on him. But, he would watch her with interest, to see how far she got in her conquest before she fell like all the others before her.

Chapter Text

“You are sorrowful.”

Rowa startled, having been so lost in her thoughts that she had not noticed Melina materializing nearby. “It is no matter.”

“Something worth sorrow must be of some matter,” Melina said calmly, settling on her knees and folding her hands. “Will you tell me what troubles you.”

Rowa sighed, thumbing at the traces of wetness that had escaped her eyes. “A whole village was slaughtered, not even regarded as true lives, for the sake of finding something that might lead to a Shardbearer. It makes me wonder how many others have suffered the same fate before.”

“I cannot answer that for certain,” Melina said, “but the reign of the Golden Order was long beneath Queen Marika. Of her, I know a little more.”

The ache of Rowa’s grief eased as her curiosity rose to replace it, eager to learn more about the mysterious ruler of the Lands. “Can you tell me?”

“She banished her first husband, Godfrey, from the Lands Between, divesting him and his kin of the Grace they once held. I believe they had three children. After that, she took Radagon as a husband, and he was fiercely loyal to the Golden Order.”

“She made her husband become Tarnished?” Rowa’s face twisted with contempt. “Why?”

“That, I know not. Godfrey was a fierce warrior, but once all the enemies of the Order were laid low, the Grace left him.”

“She was using him,” Rowa concluded with a frown.

“Perhaps.”

“What happened to the children?”

“They remained in the Lands, becoming Shardbearers, though I know not which of the demigods are the offspring of Marika and Godfrey.”

“And Marika?”

“Vanished,” Melina said simply. “She has not been seen since the Ring was shattered.”

“For the best, maybe,” Rowa murmured. “I wanted to learn more about the world, but everything I come across is more broken than the last, and it pains me.”

“To be a Tarnished is to know pain, but you must use it to strengthen your fervor to become Elden Lord, and change the order of the world.”

“Can the order be changed?” Rowa asked. “Can I remove a god from power?”

“The Greater Will is not the only god in this land, and its influence can be dimmed. However, I must warn you, there are powers far worse than you can imagine, things that must be locked away.”

Melina’s grave words sent a prickle up Rowa’s spine. “Will I know these things if I come upon them?”

“You will,” Melina said. “Rest assured, these things are not idly come upon. You must only be sound of mind, and wise enough to resist them.”

“I understand.”

“But not every power is destructive. There were ages before the Golden Order, which were prosperous in their own right.”

“That is good to know.” Rowa realized belatedly that having Gideon’s apparent plethora of knowledge would be useful for such things as the previous ages of the Lands Between. However, she would rather struggle to figure it out for herself than go back and ask for his help. “Without Gideon, I am not sure where I will learn more.”

“Your next destination is the Academy, is it not?” Both of them looked towards the misty spires. “You may find knowledge there.”

“You are right.” Rowa could not help a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Melina.”

After resting and mending her wounds from the fight with the Omenkiller, Rowa started in the direction of the Academy once more. She put her back to the still-smoking ruins of the Albinauric village, trying to put it from her mind, but the sight, sound, and smell of death would not leave her soon.

Her discussion with Melina had left her more assured of her path. Despite its fractured state, the Golden Order was still the most powerful entity in the Lands, and after the murder and mistreatment she had witnessed, it could not stay, at least in its current state. She knew in the back of her mind, regardless of whatever order she brought about, there would always be conflict and dissention. That was the way of not just this land, but every land. However, she had seen enough to convince her to try and do better than the Order had done. If Albinaurics were created by sorcerers, then maybe that meant stopping their creation altogether, but she would not deny the living ones their lives. She would try to do the same for Omens, though she knew nothing of their origins, and they seemed rarer. There were likely more out there somewhere, and other creatures that had not found the Golden Order’s favor.

Her travels across the waters of Liurnia were relatively uneventful. She avoided being attacked by an oversized crab and its spawn, and sighted some spectral figures wandering amidst some sunken ruins that she did not wish to enter. However, she kept her distance from whatever she deemed to be potentially dangerous, not eager to shed more blood so soon after the horrors of the village.

The first interruption on her trip came when evening was close, and she happened upon a half-sunken pavilion of some sort, so small two people could barely fit underneath it. A girl stood in it, pale hair coiled into braids that hung looped from her head, framing an equally pale face. As Rowa approached, the girl gave a small, hopeful wave, her peculiar posture becoming evident. She was hunched forward, as though she bore some invisible weight that pressed down on her shoulders.

“Hello,” the girl said quietly as Rowa approached.

“Hello,” Rowa returned, hopping off Torrent. The girl had no weapons on her person that she could see, which was odd but refreshing. An ally, perhaps.

“It's rather chilly here, isn't it? My mistress sent me off on an errand...but I was accosted by a ruffian, and now I'm in a bind.” The girl’s pale cheeks colored slightly, and she fidgeted with her dress “Could I ask you to lend a hand, perhaps? That thug made off with a precious necklace. I need someone to retrieve it. Only...he, too, is Tarnished. If you've any qualms confronting your own, I shall find another...”

Rowa gave her a scrutinizing look. “You know I am Tarnished?”

The girl’s cheeks grew even redder. “Er, yes. Forgive me, I know that must paint me in a suspicious light, but I am very familiar with Tarnished, and I have learned to spot them easily.”

“Not all bad experiences, I would hope.”

“Oh, no. Most were quite kind like you, except this time…”

“I would be willing to help you.” It did not escape Rowa that she may have been walking into some sort of ambush, but she decided to give the girl the benefit of the doubt. She seemed sincere enough, and her disposition was peculiar in a way that seemed like it would be off-putting for most, which was a poor way to lull innocent travelers into a false sense of security.

The girl smiled brightly. “Oh, thank you dearly. What a blessing that we've met like this. The thug should be resting at an abandoned home down the way...” She pointed northward through the trees. “Please, I must have the necklace back.”

“I intend to return quickly.” Rowa mounted Torrent and set off in the direction she indicated, keeping one of her blades in hand, ready for trouble.

She found the dilapidated old shack exactly where the girl had promised, and she approached it carefully, searching for any hidden enemies. She was pleasantly surprised to find no group lying in wait, merely one man crouched over his fire on the shack’s doorstep.

He was a crude sort, not of any particular stature but brutish enough in appearance and tongue to be intimidating to a diminutive girl traveling the road. Rowa quickly learned that he was indeed the one who had taken the girl’s necklace, and they went back and forth as he had the audacity to try and haggle her for it. Not wishing to deal with the man any longer than necessary, she traded him a handful of runes she had found in her travels, taking the necklace and a reluctant promise to stop stealing in return.

The girl’s face was so joyful upon her return that Rowa felt ashamed for doubting her sincerity. When she handed the necklace over, the girl clasped their hands together, her skin almost too cool to the touch.

“Oh, yes, that is my missing necklace. Thank you kindly. I am in your debt. Did I forget to announce myself?” The girl blushed red before bowing awkwardly. “I am Rya, in the service of Lady Tanith of the Volcano Manor. I seek stalwart Tarnished who might join our house. You are very brave yourself. Not only a steady hand, but a steady heart, merciless, even to your own kind.”

“Your praise is high,” Rowa said, her own face heating at the compliments.

If Rya noticed her embarrassment, she did not comment on it, pulling an envelope from her voluminous sleeve and handing it over. “Such strength is precisely what my mistress seeks. Please, take this.”

Rowa turned the envelope in her hands, eyeing the red seal on it curiously. “…Thank you for this gracious invitation.”

“Brave Tarnished, seek the Altus Plateau, the realm of the Erdtree. Most Tarnished are Doomed to wander the outskirts of the Lands Between, peering wistfully at the tree, but you are no ordinary Tarnished. And once that is proven, the Volcano Manor will fully extend its invitation. To fight, amongst a family of champions.”

Rowa met Rya’s hopeful gaze with an apologetic smile. “You have my thanks, but I cannot accept it immediately. I have other destinations I wish to reach quickly.”

Rya looked crestfallen, but nodded her acceptance. “I understand, but if you change your mind, do come to Volcano Manor. It would be an honor to have someone as kind as you among the ranks of our champions.”

“I am grateful to be chosen,” Rowa said, her smile turning true. Rya was one of the most peculiar people she had met thus far in the Lands, at least in terms of her form, but her innocent demeanor and enthusiastic sincerity made her deeply endearing. “You are welcome to travel with me a little ways, if you fear running into trouble once more.”

“You have my thanks, but I have already asked too much of you already.” Rya bobbed a small bow, only hunching her bent form even further. “I will be fine on my own. I have not ran into many troublesome people in my time, today was merely an unfortunate exception.”

Rowa hoped her optimistic outlook would not be brought low by whatever encounters lay ahead of her. “As you wish.”

Rya bid her farewell with much enthusiasm, the grateful smile never once wavering from her face. Rowa departed from her with her spirit uplifted. Not all was broken and twisted in the Lands; there was still good to be found.

Morgott stood before the Erdtree, only it was not as he had known it for so long. It shimmered with a different hue, another power beyond that of the Golden Order, shimmering a crimson gold. The sight made his stomach twist with the fear that he had failed to uphold his mother’s legacy, but it also made his blood rise and sing in his veins, the accursed blood he had long fought to suppress. It felt right, and it disturbed him greatly that his affliction should react to the Erdtree so.

He stepped towards the tree, and the surge in his blood only increased in its intensity. Despite the peculiarity, he stretched out a hand unto the trunk. Perhaps now it would finally accept him, though he did not understand what had come about to form this new brilliance, so different from the glimmering indifference he had lived beneath for so long.

His hand touched the tree, and he was met with an onslaught of images pouring across his vision. He saw the misshapen forms of the Misbegotten in all their asymmetry, and then Omens of all shapes and sizes, bearing tails, wings, and horns. At the sight of them, he felt a deep sense of kinship, and they rose up in a glorious light that left him breathless. They, the most afflicted people in the Lands Between, seemed full of a joy he had never seen upon any of their kind before, not even his brother. No longer did the shadows of the curse linger over them, though they were not changed in appearance from the forms he was familiar with.

For a moment, he saw something within the shifting light of the Erdtree. A body, hanging from the arc of a rune, a golden braid tumbling down the cracked skin. From it emanated golden light, small shards coursing outwards in breaths of shimmering dust. The shards flew out across the lengths of the Lands, unto every corner and even beyond, passing through the fog to the countries that lay beyond.

Morgott was not sure what to make of the strange imagery, but he knew who it was that hung upon the rune. He had only glimpsed her a few times in his memory, a distant figure gleaming with the light of godhood that he was wholly unworthy to even approach, much less call her mother. However, call her mother he did, and in reverence, in love to her and the golden lineage from which he somehow hailed with his wretched state, he upheld its remnants with the strength he had gathered and nestled within him with the Great Rune.

Make of thyselves which ye desire…

Then, Morgott’s vision shifted downwards, to the shadow that lingered beneath the glow of the unfamiliar Erdtree. A fear welled in his chest that he could not control, for he had dreamed of this same thing many times before. The shadow grew, then gave way to the sight of flame and three fingers in the midst of it.

And from the shadowed flames came the faintest whisper:

May chaos take the world.

Morgott woke with a stifled gasp, his hand outstretched instinctively to shield himself from the maddening flames. He lowered it slowly, coming to his senses and realizing he lay within his bedding in his secluded chambers.

Such dreams had tormented him before, as did they with all Omens. Spirits haunted them, hounding them continually and tearing into their dreams, and though he was accustomed to them, they never got any easier.

He had dreamed of it all before. The strange Erdtree with the joyous creatures, the horrid flames lurking beneath, and his mother’s golden body hanging within. The changed tree, he had come to realize through much study of the books and histories Leyndell offered, was likely a vision of the Erdtree in the time of the Crucible, an age now long forgotten from whence the Omen and Misbegotten came. The flames, he knew with certainty from his childhood, was the scourge of many Omens that were consigned to the Shunning-Grounds, something terrible and recondite that he and his brother sought to seal away, though he dreaded it might one day break free.

The image he could not make sense of was his mother. Perhaps it was true, that she was within the Erdtree after all this time, but it seemed as though the light of Grace outpoured from her. How was it so, and why? Indeed, Tarnished were guided by this lost Grace that had once been theirs long ago, but was it not divested by the Greater Will, who had called them back to fight to become Elden Lord?

Even now, Morgott did not know why his mother had shattered the Ring. Godwyn had died, but was that alone enough to bring her to destroy the perfection she had lived in? None of the other demigods, in the few times they had ever spoken without intending to put each other to the blade, knew what to make of it either. Marika had vanished, and with the power granted by the shards of the Ring, they had swiftly gone their separate ways without ever being sure of the truth. To Morgott, all that mattered was that he upheld his mother’s order until the Erdtree was opened.

But yet, the Erdtree would not open to him, with his accursed blood. He rose from his pile of bedding, the shredded and piled pieces of cloth just as unsightly as his own form moving through the gilded room. Stepping out onto the grand balcony, he faced the Erdtree, even more brilliant with the dark of the night sky outlining it. The tree was unchanged, appearing just as he had always known it: a brilliant, unsullied gold.

It almost seemed cruel that it would not accept him, for all he wanted was to mend the Golden Order and restore his mother to the throne she once held. He held no contrition for her in his heart, though he had never truly known her. With his curse, she had no choice but to banish him and his brother to the Shunning-Grounds, until such time that the Ring was shattered.

With a heavy sigh, he dragged the end of his stave along the grooves in the masonry beneath his feet, shifting the fallen leaves. Change had finally come to the Lands after a long stagnation, in a form he did not particularly care for. He had crushed many Tarnished attempting to become Elden Lord…until that woman appeared. She had bested him, and now she wandered unfettered with a Great Rune. That alone concerned him, but even more her disposition. She sought peace, a trait he had not seen in any other Tarnished, and he had spent much time mulling over what would happen if she were to make it to the Elden Throne. He still did not place much faith in her, but she had exceeded his expectations continually, and her meeting Morgott the Grace-Given seemed to be more and more likely.

A part of him wondered if the Erdtree would finally open if the Tarnished were to approach it, and something traitorous wondered if he should let it happen should the time come. Things had been the same for so long…

Morgott’s stave clacked hard against the masonry, a frustrated growl rumbling in his throat as he banished the thoughts. She had still not yet proven her worth to him; what mercies he had seen and heard were an act for all he knew. All Tarnished were pillagers, seeking to uproot his mother’s cause.

He glanced back at his bed, considering trying to rest further as weariness pulled at him. But he squared his shoulders and faced the Erdtree, putting rest out of his mind. There were too many considerations, the wayward Tarnished occupying his thoughts with too many possibilities, and he loped towards his offices to await the dawn, hoping that the day might bring another, more clarifying report of her exploits.

Chapter Text

It took Rowa nearly two days to make it through the Academy of Raya Lucaria.

She was only vaguely aware of the host of sorceries the Lands Between offered, having seen Margit fashion weapons of gold and Godrick’s grafting rituals, and the Academy threw her headfirst into the unknown world of magics. Upon attempting to infiltrate the half-sunken gate town outside the Academy, she was faced with sorcerers wielding their staves inset with stones of green and azure, who sent bolts of aquamarine flying her way with unshakeable accuracy. Try as she might, she could not avoid every projectile, and despite their mesmerizing appearance the sorceries dug burned her skin like sharp rocks when they struck her.

The sorcerers themselves were as strange as the magic they conjured. At first, upon seeing the stoic stone masks staring lifelessly at her, she thought they were yet another species of creature, albeit an unsettling one to look upon. However, she came to realize they were as human as she when she smashed the hilt of her sword against one of the stone masks, breaking off a huge chunk to reveal the half-stunned human beneath. That revelation eased her unsettlement about the place, though the array of sorceries set her on edge. All she knew were swords and shields, not shards of starlight conjured out of midair.

She managed to capture one of the sorcerers after waiting until the cover of night and grabbing the unfortunate that happened to be stationed to guard the entrance to the gate town. She dragged some information from him on the state of the Academy, most importantly that the entrance was sealed with a spell that required a key. Said key was guarded nearby…by a dragon.

Rowa was not thrilled to hear that. Dragons were something she knew little of, yet another part of the Lands Between she had heard of only vaguely. Apparently, the sorcerer she extracted the information from was in a similar position, though he visibly quailed at the mention of the dragon. According to him, it was a dragon that had eaten many sorcerers, and the very mention of it was terrifying to their kind. In order to verify the sorcerer’s testimony, she captured another of his kind and dragged him to the same refuge behind a crumbling house. This sorcerer too claimed the same, that the key to Raya Lucaria was heavily guarded by a great dragon.

Rowa did not intend to let that stop her, but neither did she feel equipped to fight such a beast. That same night, she stole off to the west of the gate town, finding the ruins of some temple. After finding a glimmer of Grace therein, she crossed the ruins to the other side, finding an open stretch of water uninterrupted by any vegetation save for delicate flowers of deepest blue. And it was there that she saw the beast.

It was terrifyingly magnificent, even in the dark of night, and though the cliffs of the Academy cast a long shadow that prevented the Erdtree’s golden light from reaching it, the beast glowed with its own aquamarine iridescence, casting a shimmering path across the water. Even asleep, its body loomed large and high, its wings folded at its side and its long tail curled about sharp, deadly claws. Its scales were a muted azure that gleamed like steel, adding shimmering majesty to the horns that lined its head and back.

Rowa advanced as slowly as she could. Even from a distance, she could hear it breathing, a slow and steady rumbling that vibrated through her body. She crouched low in the shin-deep water, dampness seeping through her clothes to her skin, but she hardly noticed it for all her attention focused on the sleeping beast in front of her.

It did not escape her that there was a likelihood of dragons being intelligent, given to reason and morality like many other creatures of the Lands, but what she had learned about this one made her unwilling to take the risk. It was dangerous before it was reasonable, and the sheer size of it alone made her unwilling to try and fight it, much less wake it.

She drew close, edging towards the rocky outcrop behind it. Bodies in various states of decay littered the ground, bearing the shredded scraps of the blue-and-red robes she had seen on the living sorcerers in the gate town. She carefully picked through the bodies, searching for the key unsuccessfully, and reluctantly moved even closer to the sleeping dragon, slinking between the great body and the rocks behind it.

She pressed her back against the rocks, sidestepping her way along the marshy ground. At one point, the dragon stirred in its sleep, and an icy sweat broke out beneath her clothes as she went completely still. It did not wake, however, and she eventually continued her careful movements, hardly daring to breathe. Finally, she found the right body, a key of blue stone buried in the remains of its robes. She took it and went back in the manner she had come, not letting her success bring her to be careless with the beast next to her.

Once she made her way out from behind the dragon, she hurried away as quietly as she could, but it was not until she was well past the temple ruins that she felt like she could breathe again. The sorcerers were right to fear the dragon, as she now had a healthy apprehension after merely secreting a key away from under its sleeping nose. She did not plan on meeting it awake, however, and she hoped the same for any more she might encounter. They were not beasts to be tangled with idly, that much was certain.

By the time she returned to the gate town, the night was nearly done. There were still many inhabitants of the town to be dealt with, but she managed to slip by a good few of them in the gray predawn mist. The ones she did fight were just as perilous as her first time around, their sorceries seeming to bypass her meager armor entirely, and by the time she reached the Academy’s door, she was bleeding in several places.

The door to the Academy was not like any she had ever seen before, though its purpose was undeniable considering the grand bridge that led up to it. A barrier of blue light emblazoned with a white seal shimmered brightly before her, and when tried to breach it with the tip of her blade, it was as though she pressed against a solid door of wood or stone, wholly unmovable.

With the shouts of more sorcerers swelling behind her, she took out the key, hurriedly searching for a keyhole of some sort, but she quickly learned there was no need. Upon holding the key in front of her, there was a flash of light, and the world dropped away. A frightened gasp left her mouth at the weightless feeling in her body, and then she was standing in a new area, a balcony of some sort leading indoors. She nearly stumbled and fell at the sudden change, but she managed to keep her balance, moving to the edge of the balcony to peer over it. The air was thick and gray with mist, but far below, beyond the jagged cliff faces, she could see the trees of Liurnia’s swamp and the light of the Erdtree filtering through.

Thus, Rowa entered the Academy of Raya Lucaria.

The enemies within were even more troublesome than the ones without, and this time she had no good fortune as to meet a fellow Tarnished to ally with. It seemed the very stones were imbued with sorcery, making her get turned around and lose her sense of direction. She wandered for hours, contending with the enemies as best she could, and many of them were sorcerers like the ones outside.

By the time she found the great Red Wolf, she was exhausted, and the creature offered her no quarter either. It was a wild animal, unable to be reasoned with and unresponsive to her words. She found it beautiful with its fiery red fur, but judging by its fierceness as she approached, it would hound her through the rest of the Academy if she did not stop it.

To her surprise and dismay, the Red Wolf was capable of sorcery as well, a blade of searing blue grazing her arm as she dodged aside, just barely avoiding being impaled. However, after facing so many sorcerers with the same type of magic, she was able to anticipate the creature’s attacks, allowing her to scrape by and search for openings to retaliate.

At last, the Red Wolf fell, and Rowa practically fell with it, stumbling her way to the next shard of Grace. Hands trembling with exhaustion, she hastily bound her wounds, biting her lip as she pulled shards of the blue stone—glintstone, she had learned—from her skin. She sequestered herself in a far corner behind an old desk, hoping that no sorcerer would happen along, and promptly passed out from exhaustion.

She woke up alive an indeterminate amount of time later, which was a pleasant surprise. The herba she had applied to her wounds had done its work, dulling the pain enough to make it easier to move. Revivified by the rest, she continued on her way, seeking out Rennala.

She met many more enemies of equal or greater fierceness than the ones before, but this time, there were less meandering hallways to traverse. It took some time, some fights, and precarious scaling of otherwise broken paths, but she finally made it to the Shardbearer she sought.

When Rowa first stepped into the library, she was awestruck by its sheer size and majesty. Books piled up in articulate stacks in every corner, rising in chaotic symmetry with the arching architecture and stonework. Great chandeliers, yet unlit, hung from the vaulted ceiling. It was wondrous, yet Rowa found it strangely empty unlike the rest of the Academy.

Until her foot struck something, and she looked down into the pale, grinning face of a child.

With a startled cry, Rowa jumped backwards, and the child scooted back as well. The laughter of children swelled in the darkened corners of the room, then one by one candelabras flared to life on the floor, revealing many children crawling on the floor like infants, all pale and grinning.

Rowa hastily looked at every face surrounding her, and found they were all eerily the same. Every child was a girl, bearing the same dark eyes, brown hair, and scholarly robes. She reached for her blade, unsure of what to expect, but then the children were not staring at her anymore. Their heads turned upwards, and after a moment of hesitation, she looked up as well.

Suspended by some invisible incantation, a woman drifted down from the ceiling, clad in magnificent robes of azure and crimson. She reclined in the air, her garments drifting about her as she descended, and she seemed to glow with an ethereal essence.

Something trembled within Rowa as she spied an amber egg nestled in the woman’s arms, a warm and golden feeling building in her chest that she had felt before when taking Godrick’s Rune. It was a stirring of familiarity, the Rune in her possession reacting to another of its kind. She knew without a doubt that this was the Shardbearer, Rennala of the Full Moon.

“Hush, little culver.” Rennala’s voice rang out soft and unwavering, and she seemed to take no notice of Rowa’s presence.

“Queen Rennala?” Rowa asked hesitantly. If she was mad as Gideon claimed, it was not readily apparent in what way.

The queen made no reply, a golden light emanating from the egg and surrounding her in a spherical aura. The strange children turned their gazes towards Rowa once more, the fragments of sorcery gathering at their fingertips.

Books of all shapes and sizes flew through the air, buoyed by magic of a purple coloration. Several hit Rowa with bruising impact before she managed to sequester herself behind a pillar.

The voices of the children filled the air, high and sweet: “Sleep tight, bound tight, in mother’s umbra…”

Rowa flinched as more books slammed into the pillar with destructive force, her thoughts racing. The children had to be a product of some enchantment; their faces were too alike for them to not be, and she hoped it was so. She did not want to slay children.

She chanced a glance from behind the pillar. The children were all over the library now, some staying directly beneath Rennala’s golden gleam while others crawled in the far shadows. It was as if they were multiplying.

“Queen Rennala?” She tried calling to the Shardbearer again, hoping to elicit some sort of response, but the woman did not seem to hear, wrapped in her aura with the egg. The children heard her call, however, and many gazes turned on her. Books and candelabras piled through the air, and she darted back behind the pillar as the projectiles slammed against the far wall.

The children could have been illusions, but she would not know for certain until she tried. Gripping her blade tight, she set her sights on a pile of books not more than ten feet away, and she could see the feet of one of the children on the other side. Taking a deep breath, she hurled herself across the open space, feeling the displaced air as more books sailed in her direction, narrowly missing her.

She made it to the pile, pressing her back against it. She peered around the other side, and seeing the child had not turned towards her yet, she stretched forth her blade and pressed the tip against the child’s back, hard enough to elicit a reaction and rip clothing. However, there was no reaction or cry of pain. The child merely turned towards her with the same strange grin, gray dust pooling where the blade at punctured.

The children were illusions without a doubt, though ones capable of sorcery. Rowa gritted her teeth and raised her swords, slicing downwards before the child had the chance to conjure a retaliation. The child did not even seem to feel the blow, dissipating into a cloud of dust.

Rowa turned her gaze to Rennala once more, the voices of the remaining children filling her ears. She could not tell if the children were intentionally of Rennala’s making, but they seemed to be defending her. She picked out one child that was different from the others, directly beneath Rennala’s light, her head wrapped in a glowing halo of gold like the aura above her.

Not knowing what else to do in this situation, Rowa sprinted from behind the books, heading for the child. Books flew at her, slamming into her body with punishing force, but she managed to slice some out of the air before they struck her. Leaping over children and dodging projectiles, she bore down on the child with her blades. The child had no reaction, merely fading away as the swords struck her, but her disappearance had an effect on Rennala.

Rowa jumped back as the aura around Rennala cracked and shattered like glass, sending the queen tumbling to the floor with a plaintive cry as the amber egg rolled across the floor. The children all faded away into nothingness, their ashes swirling into the egg, and everything went still.

Rowa let out a deep exhale, the pieces falling together in her mind. The children had been a product of the Rune in the egg, sent out to protect Rennala, but it was a strange manifestation for such a powerful object.

Rennala stirred on the floor, and Rowa tensed, ready to face a wrathful sorceress, but once more the queen did not seem to realize her presence. Instead, she started pulling herself weakly across the floor, reaching out towards the egg.

“My beloved…have no fear, I will hold thee. Patience…” She spoke to the egg with all the tenderness of a mother. “Ye will be countless born, forever and ever…”

Rowa stepped forward hesitantly, Rennala’s madness starting to become clear. She was obsessed with the Rune and nothing else, and remembering Gideon’s words, she wondered if the loss of her daughter had brought about such a broken fixation on the power the Rune bore. Perhaps that brokenness had brought about the many children as manifestations of the daughter she lost.

She opened her mouth, hoping to try and speak to Rennala, to pull something sensible out of her. Before she could speak, something odd happened. Shadows bloomed out of the amber egg, rising to the ceiling of the library and spreading out like a milky fog. Even Rennala looked surprised, ceasing her movement and looking up at the shadows in wonder.

“Upon my name as Ranni the Witch…” A disembodied voice spoke from the shadows, low and tinged with anger. “…mother’s rich slumber shall not be disturbed by thee, foul trespasser.”

Rowa readied herself as the shadows overtook her as well, plunging her surroundings into darkness. Another unfamiliar manifestation of sorcery, it seemed.

Azure gleamed in the shadow, and a figure of light stepped forward, bearing a long and ornate scepter.

“Send word far and wide…” The light solidified into Rennala, who stood regal and tall, her eyes as hard as flintstones. “…of the last Queen of Caria, Rennala of the Full Moon, and the majesty of the night she conjureth.”

The shadows around Rowa gave way to a silver lake backed by a brilliant full moon. The beauty of it was breathtaking, but Rowa did not have time to dwell on it. Rennala sent bolts of glintstone streaming towards her, and one burned a searing cut into her leg before she managed to stumble out of the way. The queen gave her no quarter, sending spell after spell into the air as she moved along the water like a dancer in a performance.

Rowa was not sure what to think; she did not know if this was the true Rennala, or if it was some trick. But there could be no quarter given, for if she did not strike the Shardbearer down, she would be slain, for not once did the spells let up.

Thus ensued a dance across the water. Rowa would close in and land a few strikes before Rennala leapt away, sending all manner of spells in her direction. She even summoned spirits of dragons and wolves to her aid, leaving Rowa scrambling to strike them down before they became too many.

Mad or not, Rennala’s power was fearsome, and Rowa opened several wounds and gained many more in the fight. Her blood stained the moonlit water beneath their feet, and she could feel her strength beginning to lag, but it became clear to her that this Rennala must have been an illusion as well, despite the real sorceries and the pain they inflicted. Even when slashed mightily with Rowa’s blades, the image of the queen did not cry out or flinch, continuing in its course.

Finally, Rowa got an opening, and she plunged both of her blades into Rennala’s chest, twisting with all her might. The illusion started to dissipate, and Rowa stepped back, standing for a few moments before her legs gave way and she fell. She stared at the fading water, suddenly feeling weak. Something warm and wet trickled down her arms, her legs, pooling darkly on the floor. Darkness pulled at the edges of her vision, and she tried to get up, but fell even harder, her consciousness fading.

In her last thoughts before oblivion claimed her, she wondered how many others had come this far, only to fail.

Rowa opened her eyes, and blinked once, twice, trying to clear the blurriness in her vision. After staring for a moment, she realized she was looking at the vaulted ceiling of the Raya Lucaria library, which confused her. She thought surely her long battle with sorcery had been too much, and she would bleed out, but…

A hand touched her head, Rennala’s crowned countenance leaning into her view. “At last, thou awaken, my sweeting.”

Rowa pushed herself up with a yelp, scrambling away on her hands and knees before looking back at the Shardbearer. Rennala merely looked confused by her reaction, tilting her head. She sat gracefully on a chair in the center of the library, the amber egg cradled in her arms. The great chandeliers had been lit, shedding warm light over the enter length of the room, and no more did strange children or moonlit waters pervade it.

“Be not afeared, my dear one,” Rennala said, a small frown pinching her delicate features. “There is naught to alarm or assail thee.”

Rowa was silent and length, waiting for something more to come forth and attack, but nothing came. She then turned her attention to her body, and found all her wounds were gone, the tears in her clothing showing nothing but unblemished skin beneath. She felt just as healthy, neither hungry nor thirsty despite her sleep, with a vigor she had not felt since entering the Academy.

“What…what happened?” she asked, staring at the queen.

“Thou art born anew, and I have restored the riches of thine health,” Rennala said, her expression pleased.

Rowa checked herself over just to be sure, and found her body just as it was before. “I…forgive me. I attacked you, and you healed me even so.”

“There is naught to forgive,” Rennala said. “With thee, thou brought the voice of my dear daughter, whom I have not heard in a long while.”

Rowa studied Rennala closely. She seemed to be a broken woman, clinging to the shards of what she had left, but not dangerously mad as had been first supposed. Pity returned full force in Rowa’s heart, though she was more guarded, not quite willing to place her trust in another so soon after Gideon’s underhandedness.

Her eyes landed on the egg, and she remembered the Great Rune. But no longer did familiarity stir at the sight of the egg. Rather, something more gathered within her, as though the power of Godrick’s Rune had been amplified. Without quite knowing why, on some unknown instinct, she stretched out her palms, cupping them together. The air above them shimmered, bringing into view the image of two Runes, bound together side by side.

“Ah, such brilliant power,” Rennala murmured, gazing at the Runes, “so much like the strength of my dear children.”

Rowa let her hands fall, the image vanishing. There was no accusation in Rennala’s voice, merely a distant melancholy. Whether she understood the Rune’s power had been taken from her or not, she could not say, but it did not seem to matter. It seemed the egg retained some semblance of power, and that was enough.

Then, it occurred to her that Rennala had lived, and her heart rose afresh. Death was not a necessity to attain the Runes, this she knew now with certainty. Rennala was just as broken as many others in the Lands, but she did not have to die. That gave her hope going forward, especially for the next Shardbearer.

“Please,” Rennala said, opening one arm, “will ye not come closer to me once more? Ye need not distance thyself from me.”

Rowa hesitated, but came to realize that, for however long she had laid asleep, she had done so on Rennala’s lap. If the queen truly meant her harm, there had been ample opportunity beforehand. What had occurred before was the Rune’s doing, a defense mechanism seemingly employed by her daughter Ranni.

She got to her feet, approaching Rennala. Her disposition was not unlike Fia, gentle and demure, and that was further emboldening. When she got close enough, Rennala reached out, taking hold of one her hands. Despite the pale appearance of Rennala’s skin, her hands were warm and soft.

“Thou art so very kind, and so full of life,” Rennala said, running a gentle thumb over the back of her hand. “I know ye are not one of my sweetings. Wilt thou tell me thy name?”

Realizing her impertinence, Rowa bowed her head. “Er, I am Rowa.”

“Rowa…” Rennala echoed, a smile twitching at her mouth. “And why didst thou come unto my realm?”

“I…I wish to restore the Elden Ring, and seek the means to do so.”

“Ah, yes…” Rennala’s gaze grew distant and unfocused. “The Ring was shattered, and there was war…” She trailed off, lost in old memories.

“The Lands Between are broken,” Rowa said, “and I do not want it to be any longer, which is why I have come to you.”

Rennala’s focus returned to her once more. “What shall I offer to thee, dear one?”

“Your knowledge, if you are willing to share it,” Rowa started, remembering the information she sought. “What subjects do these books cover?”

“Many,” Rennala said. “There is much in the world that has been documented here.”

“History?”

“Indeed, though much has been lost to time.”

“I wish to learn more of the Golden Order, and the ages that came before it.”

Rennala frowned. “The Golden Order…once I thought it a worthy governance, but no more am I deceived.”

“You do not follow the Golden Order?” Rowa was surprised to hear that from a Shardbearer.

“Nay, never did I truly follow it. I allowed its influence to come unto my house…” She trailed off, and Rowa could guess what she spoke of. The statue of a man in the back of the room, consigned to the shadows, had not escaped her notice.

“I do not follow the Golden Order,” Rowa said. “I have seen and learned of injustices that have been committed in its name, and when I restore the Ring, I do not wish to keep things the way they are. But, I wish to learn more details about the Golden Order and what creatures have fallen out of their favor, so that I may know what to do going forward.”

“I shall aid thee.” Rennala stood to her full, regal height, gliding across the floor to one of the piles of books. It did not take her long to pluck a book from the stack, turning to present it to Rowa. “Is this akin to what ye seek?”

Rowa took the book, a dusty, aged thing, and came to a new realization about herself: she did not know how to read. At least, not well. Upon opening the book, she found she could pick out some letters, the occasional word, but much of it was meaningless scrawl.

“I…I do not know,” she admitted softly, flicking through the pages. “It seems I cannot read.”

Rennala was unperturbed. “Then I shall read it for thee.”

Amazed by how swiftly she had gained the queen’s favor, Rowa obliged. Rennala returned to her seat, and Rowa sat near her, listening intently. The book spoke of many species, both intelligent and not, many of which she had not encountered. When she inquired after the most current disposition of the intelligent species, Rennala’s somber answers brought forth the truth she expected. Demi-humans, Omens, Misbegotten, Trolls, were pushed to the fringes of the land, or subdued into slavery. The Golden Order had little care for them, even the ones that dedicated themselves to the Erdtree.

The account was of some detail, and Rennala read a long while before growing weary. She laid down to rest, drifting into the air once more, and Rowa busied herself looking of the book. Most of it was words, but there were some pictures, including a depiction of the Erdtree and the Elden Ring. The Ring caught her attention, for it appeared different than the interlocked rings she had seen before. Instead, they were arcs, open and receptive, though the core of the ring remained.

“Well done.”

Rowa looked up at Melina, who had appeared nearby.

“You have gained the Rune, yet the Shardbearer lives,” Melina continued softly. “That is your desired outcome, no?”

“Yes, it is.” Rowa set the book aside. “However, I do not think I can ask her to help me in my endeavors. Her mind is fragile, and she is not suited for the battles I must fight, at least not anymore. She took me in with no question, and while I am grateful for it, I fear she shall be easily killed if she leaves this place, which is not what she deserves.”

“There are yet other demigods,” Melina said. “Perhaps one of them shall join you.”

“I hope so. It is heartening to find an ally in Rennala, but I hope some others will be of sounder mind than she.”

Melina’s gaze drifted to the book. “Have you learned what you wished to know?”

Rowa ran a hand over the worn cover of the book. “Somewhat. It seems records of the ages before the Greater Will are sparse, but I have learned more about the Golden Order and the lengths of its conquest.”

“And what do you make of it?”

Rowa lifted her chin, her words strong and assured. “The Golden Order must be eradicated.”

“What new age shall you impose?”

At that, Rowa’s assurance died away. “That, I am not sure of yet.”

“Arriving at the Erdtree may grant you more insight.”

Rowa snorted. “You would say that.”

“I speak not only to my own advantage, but to yours,” Melina insisted. “You will not know what the Erdtree will bestow to you until you arrive.”

“You are right. I will not remain here too long, for it seems this book will take a good while to read in whole. Rennala read for hours, and only got through a small portion of it.”

“You may come upon another with such skill in your travels, or learn to read it yourself.”

“Yes.” Rowa tilted her head curiously. “Do you know how to read, Melina?”

A small frown puckering her face, Melina leaned forward to peer at the book. “I…I have never considered such a question before…but it seems I do not know how.”

“I am glad it’s not just me, then.” Rowa smiled crookedly. “Makes me feel not as ignorant.”

“That does not equate to ignorance, at least not in my mind. You have wisdom, regardless of literacy.”

Rowa ducked her head, her face warming at the compliment. “I hope I live up to your words.”

Rowa stayed a while longer with Rennala. She stayed two days more at least, though time was hard to grasp in the isolated library. In that time, she learned in more detail about the slaveries and desecration of many races, some from the book and some from Rennala’s own experiences. There was undoubtedly more to learn, but eventually Rowa decided she must not tarry too long. She was not the only one vying for the Elden Throne, and the power of two Runes together was bound to attract unwanted attention eventually.

“Must ye away so soon?” Rennala asked upon being informed of Rowa’s departure. “There is still much for thee to learn.”

“I cannot linger. The Erdtree calls,” Rowa said, truly apologetic. Leaving Rennala alone again so soon after a long period of isolation felt cruel, but the queen was not strong enough to come along.

“Then I bestow this unto thee.” Rennala held out the book. “It will serve thee better than I.”

“But I cannot read.”

“Nay, but you may yet have use of it.”

Rowa took it, clutching it to her chest. “Thank you. I will visit you when I have the chance.”

“I shall await thy return with fervor, and if it is thy wish to be born anew, so shall I gladly grant it unto thee.”

Rowa departed the Academy, the seals on the gates depositing her on the far side of the crumbling bridge in the north. Following Rennala’s instruction, she set her sights on the old mining village in the northwest, which would provide her a way up to the Altus Plateau.

The mining village was not abandoned as she had quietly hoped. It was populated with creatures that had taken up residence in the tunnels spidering up the cliffs, wily and hostile. However, compared to the sorceries of the Academy, they proved to be of little threat. As she made her way upwards, she came to realize that she was not fond of high, narrow precipices and rickety bridges that looked and felt like they might snap at the slightest application of force. When she made it into the last network of caves, she was deeply glad to be away from the cliffs and the sight of the misty waters of Liurnia far below.

She was once again forced to creep past a sleeping dragon, this even bigger than the one near the Academy. Onyx scales gleamed along its body like obsidian, and it put out enough heat to equal a blast furnace. Having no wish to fight such a creature, she made her way past it, navigating the last stretch to the plateau.

The closer Rowa got the Erdtree, the more golden things became. The Altus Plateau was immense and beautiful, fields of golden grass stretching out until they met the distant, ornate walls of the capital. Ethereal banners, shimmering like heatwaves, swayed in the cool breeze beneath an aureate sky. The Erdtree loomed even larger, its branches now stretching through the sky directly above, leaves drifting down to touch the gilded grass.

Rowa found herself meandering along the road that led to the city. Despite the ruins littered in the distance and the smoking mountain behind her, the plateau was still a thing of unfathomable beauty. The city ahead, even from a distance, boasted of great grandeur, and she couldn’t help but wonder what the land might have looked like before war had scored it.

The first night she camped on the plateau, Melina visited her once more.

“The Erdtree...is close. Only a little further till the foot of the Erdtree, and the accord is fulfilled,” Melina murmured, her eye fixed on the mighty glow.

“The closer we get, the more beautiful it seems,” Rowa said, drinking in the golden lands around them.

“When we arrive, I will once more have command over my own movement. Then, I shall learn the truth of my purpose.”

“I hope that knowledge will grant you happiness.”

Melina frowned slightly. “Happiness…I am unsure of, but surely my role.”

Rowa wasn’t sure what to make of Melina’s seeming melancholy towards mention of the future, but it was no use asking, at least not yet. It seemed she herself was not sure of the length of her own feelings, but fulfilling the accord would perhaps bring more knowledge to her.

Rowa continued to make her way across the plateau, heading towards the Royal City of Leyndell. Soldiers dressed in surcoats emblazoned with crests of the Erdtree roamed the highways, and she did her best to keep clear of them. The closer she got to the walls, the more she saw how heavily guarded they were. Wanting to keep her infiltration as discreet as possible, she found a rocky outcrop close to one of the tremendous gates and hid there, waiting until the cover of night.

Nighttime offered less cover than it had in the lowlands, with the Erdtree shining so near, and when darkness fell, she found a lone soldier patrolling the road. However, it was no ordinary soldier, a black rider on a shrouded horse. The mere sight of it sent a chill up her spine, and she had no desire to catch its attention. She waited until the rider was far down the road before beginning her ascent to the gate, sequestering herself between a steep hill and the huge staircase that rose to the gate.

Nearing the wall of the city, she pulled herself up onto the staircase in full. Two mounted sentinels stood at the gate, their armor and weapons gleaming a formidable gold. Keeping to the shadows, she crept forwards, passing by so close to one of the sentinels that she could reach out and touch one of them if she wished. She slipped through the immense gate before the sentinels or their horses could notice, and had to fight to keep her steps measured and calm. Only when she was a good distance through the gate and had found a suitable grove to hide in did she allow herself to breathe once more.

Before her, the true city towered in earnest. The gate she had infiltrated was only the outer wall, and yet another wall remained before she was within Leyndell. A sigh escaped her, and she turned her sights to the road that stretched northeast. No gate was immediately apparent, but the road was likely to lead to it.

Morgott had heard the reports of the infiltration of Raya Lucaria, and he was unsurprised to find that the same Tarnished that had vexed him was the perpetrator. However, all reports claimed the same outcome: Rennala, Queen of the Full Moon, yet lived. No one had seen the Tarnished since then, and he was left to wonder if she had finally met her end in the Academy, or if she had still persevered and had delivered mercy to the Carian Queen as she had claimed.

Days passed and he heard nothing more on the Tarnished. He began to think she had truly been defeated, and he tried to put her out of his mind, focusing his attention solely on running Leyndell once more.

Until one night he woke out of a dead sleep as the sorceries he had placed all around the city warned him of an intruder.

He shot upright on his bed, shutting his eye as he focused on the spells. He had almost forgotten he had placed them; they were meant to alert him if anyone bearing a Rune passed into the outskirts of Leyndell, and none had come that way since the last clash between Malenia and Radahn. His heart sank as he felt the power of not one, but two Runes, now bound together in one body, and he knew at once who it was.

Summoning his power, he cast his mind far, not even bothering to rise from his bed. He could not delay in confronting the intruder.

Rowa navigated her way up the hill alongside the stairs, following the road and the curve of the outer wall. The stairs would have been easier, but it felt too open for her tastes, even at night. So she crept her way up the brush-strewn slope, keeping an eye out for any soldiers.

Her progress was interrupted when wood crackled somewhere nearby. She went still, turning her head slowly to search her surroundings, expecting to see nocturnal wildlife. However, nothing stood out to her, nor did she hear anything more, so she started up the hill again.

“I see thee, little Tarnished. Smouldering with thy wretched flame of ambition.”

Rowa’s blood went cold as the growl cut through the still air. She recognized it, but she did not put it to a face until she lifted her eyes to the crest of the hill and saw the figure standing there, silhouetted in the light of the Erdtree.

“You…” she said, voice low in disbelief. “I thought I slew you.”

Morgott stared down at the Tarnished. She had not changed in appearance much, save that her garb was more tattered, but he saw the new light in her eyes. The Runes gleamed within her, shining bright, and he felt his own stir within him in reply.

“Did I not say I would remember thee?” he replied, his voice harsh with disdain. “Thou art ignorant of the many sorceries of the Lands Between.”

“It is hard to know when you remember none of it,” Rowa said, still reeling at Margit’s sudden appearance. “Is this an illusion as well?”

Morgott stepped forward, tightening his grip on his stave. “Dost thou wish to do battle once more and learn for thyself?”

“No,” she retorted. “I wish to know what you want of me.”

“Dost thou continue offer mercy?”

“Yes.”

“Ye slew Godrick, yet spared Rennala.”

Rowa blinked, taken aback by his apparent knowledge of her exploits. “I offered Godrick mercy, but he would not accept it. He was violent and raving mad, a grafted horror. Rennala…she is broken, but remains gentle despite it.”

“And are all who do not accept thy ambition to become Elden Lord to be put to the sword?”

“No!” Rowa cried. “I am not so idealistic as to think everyone in the Lands Between will accept me, but it is only if they wish to slay me that I will retaliate in kind.”

Morgott was silent for a long moment. He had never thought a Tarnished capable of such considerations, pillagers that most all of them were, as he had posed such questions to many before her.

“Why dost thou struggle to become Lord? What kindles the ambition within thee?”

“This land is broken and I wish to mend it, starting with abolishing the Golden Order.” Rowa expected her response to be met with gladness by the Omen, only for his expression to darken even further, into something angry.

“I will not let thee commit such heresy.”

“Why? Are you not an Omen, scorned by the Golden Order?”

“By Marika’s will, the Golden Order must live on.”

Rowa couldn’t believe her ears. “For what reason?”

“So that it may be ready when Marika returns,” Morgott snapped, frustration beginning to simmer within him. No one, outside of his estranged family members, had ever dared to bring up things such as these, and to be challenged by a Tarnished of all people only made it worse.

Rowa shook her head. “You are mislead.”

“I am loyal!” Morgott growled, gripping his stave tightly.

“To an order and a god had no care for you.”

Morgott stepped closer to her. “Do not think I am so foolish as to follow the Greater Will, for it has given birth your scabrous kind.”

“And why do you hate the Tarnished so?” She was growing tired of his disdain.

“Thy kind hast pillaged and killed wherever thou goest, and would seek to overturn the order of the land.”

“I am no pillager! I do not wish to kill, and I have done what I have done only by force.”

“And am I to trust that from thee alone? What assurance have I that thou art not yet another of the All-Knowing’s pawns, sent out from that wretched Hold?”

“I have no dealings with Ofnir anymore. I parted ways with him after he massacred a village.”

So, what he had gleaned from the reports on the Albinauric village massacre was true; she had gone directly against Ofnir. “They were a village of reviled half-lives, is that not what Ofnir and his ilk think?”

“I hold no such beliefs,” she replied, meeting his gaze.

Morgott glared back. “Thou wouldst do well to disparage Omen-kind if not others of cursed origin.”

Rowa paused, nonplussed by his depreciative words. “Why?”

“Do not feign ignorance with me, Tarnished!” Morgott snapped, his frustration rising. “All know the fell curse of the Omen!”

“I do not! I woke with no memory of my life before, and I have no reason to disdain your kind.”

“So thy ignorance is not of thy own doing.” Morgott scowled. “If thou were to regain thy memories, thou wouldst likely spurn the Graceless curse.”

“If that is the case, then I do not want to regain my memories,” Rowa said, something sympathetic pulling at her heart as she began to understand the length of his self-loathing. “Omen, Albinauric, Misbegotten, they are all living souls that should not be disdained for what they are.”

Something uncomfortable prickled under Morgott’s skin as he saw her gaze soften, and he instinctively hunched further into his cloak. “I do not believe thee.”

“I thought not.” Rowa considered her next words carefully. The man before her only continued to be an enigma despite their conversation. “Why are you loyal to Marika? Why do you insist on serving her when she has alienated your people?”

Morgott narrowed his eye. She was not yet worthy to know of his true identity. Only if she were willing to fight her way to the foot of the Erdtree would he allow her to know the whole truth. “Grace has been bestowed upon me despite mine curse, so I will serve the Queen of Grace.”

As he spoke, Rowa saw the glimmer in his eye she had been blind to before, a light not unlike the shards of Grace she had followed across the Lands Between. “You…have been given Grace? But you are not Tarnished, are you?”

Morgott bristled at the mere insinuation. “Nay.”

“Do you seek the Elden Throne?”

His answer was long in coming. “…Of a sort.”

“And if you were to take the Ring, what age would you bring about? Would you set things back to the way they were before?”

“…Aye.”

“But you do not serve the Greater Will, only Marika.”

She was getting too close to the truth for his liking, so he turned away. “I have had enough of thy prattle.”

“So you did not come to try and slay me once more?” Rowa asked, surprised at his sudden dismissal.

He paused. In truth, he was curious if she, so infuriatingly different from many others of her kind, would be accepted by the Erdtree, though he dreaded to think that a Tarnished would take the Ring. “I came to weigh thy intent. Enter the Royal City if thou darest and are set in thy path.”

Rowa watched as he turned his back to her, mystified. Only when he disappeared beyond the crest of the hill did she start after him, calling, “Wait! Do you serve Morgott?”

When she reached the top of the hill, she found him gone, and she was alone once more.

Chapter Text

“So, you have met Margit the Fell once more,” Melina said.

At the mention of his name, Rowa glanced outside the old shack she had taken shelter in for the night, half expecting to see the Omen’s huge figure come looming out of the shadows. “I was not sure he was gone for good, but when he did not reappear immediately, I put him from my mind.”

“As did I.” Melina lifted a hand to stroke Torrent’s leg.

“Did you know he was an illusion at Stormveil?”

“I suspected. As I sought a Tarnished, I watched many with dreams of conquest rise to face him, and never once was he wounded in all the battles he fought. Some Tarnished even formed parties amongst themselves to try and outnumber him.”

“And what became of them?”

“His defeat at your hands is answer enough.”

Rowa couldn’t restrain a shiver, remembering their fight and how closely they had stood on the hill only hours before. “And yet tonight he did not try to fight me again. He wanted to judge my intent, but I’m not sure why. He seems to think I am no different than Gideon.”

“Spoken words do not necessarily reflect the heart,” Melina said. “Is that not so?”

“It is,” Rowa agreed, “but with that I cannot understand what he truly thinks. He was given Grace, and he is loyal to Marika…but not the Greater Will.”

“Marika and the Greater Will are not one in the same. Margit may have loyalty to her alone, which extends to her Golden Order.”

“It’s too late to know now.”

“I think you shall meet him again.”

Rowa frowned, picking at one of the rips in her tunic. “I don’t know why he would bother with a ‘little Tarnished’ like me again.”

“Despite his words, I think he sees something in you, not unlike myself.”

Rowa raised a skeptical eyebrow at her. “And why is that?”

“As I said before, I watched as many Tarnished fell beneath his great strength. Sometimes, a Tarnished would escape him and return to fight him at a later time. Even at the second encounter, he gave them no quarter, and the Tarnished would fall just the same. But you have had this second encounter with him…and he made no move to slay you.”

“Maybe I am of some use to him alive,” Rowa said, thinking aloud. “Maybe he would try to take my Runes for himself, since the title of Elden Lord weighs on his mind… but he didn’t tonight, though he had much opportunity to try.”

Melina shook her head. “His intentions are unknown to me as well, but I am certain he finds something of interest about you.”

“We may yet see, I suppose.” Rowa paused before asking, “What do you see in me?”

Melina’s good eye widened fractionally, and her brow creased in a pensive furrow as she sought to speak her thoughts. “You…are not the first Tarnished I have formed an accord with, in hopes that I would be brought to the Erdtree. In you, I see things I have seen before in others: a hope and a desire to restore the Lands Between to a place of peace, greater than it is now and perhaps greater than the age of the Golden Order before.”

“I am glad we are not all ignoble.”

“There were many whose intentions were good,” Melina conceded, “but most thirsted after the words of the Two Fingers like water, and upon learning I could provide no guidance for them, abandoned me.”

Rowa wrinkled her nose. “I was not impressed with them. That seems to be a foolish reason to leave you behind.”

“Many were burdened by memories of their lives before, and upon finding the Lands Between in such disarray, sought any sort of guidance to make sense of the brokenness. You, however, have no such burdens to carry.”

“I do not care what my life was before,” Rowa said, “and I think you are right. Memories would only be a burden to me. Even so, if I did remember, I do not think I could ever bring myself to abandon you. Your company is a comfort to me.”

Melina hesitated in her reply, struck by the kindness of Rowa’s words. She had never spoken of her previous experiences to any other Tarnished before, and had been unsure of what response to expect. However, her heart rose at the promise, and she dared to believe that it would prove true.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper for the strange emotion she felt. “You bring me just as much comfort in turn.”

Margit the Fell did not appear again, and the next morning, Rowa continued her search for a gate through the inner wall. She kept a good distance from the road, as patrols of soldiers passed by often, but she followed it nonetheless as it followed the curve of Leyndell’s walls to the north.

The farther she progressed, the more she saw the lengths of the city’s protection. As the road began tapering in the direction of the wall, she found it guarded by huge creatures she had never seen before, made of stone in the likeness of men with a molten core burning in their torso. Rennala had briefly mentioned these creatures, Golems, but had not dwelt on them, as she deigned them constructs rather than living beings.

Their size was imposing, and they were all the more intimidating for the massive weapons they wielded, one carrying a greatbow the size of a small tree and the other carrying a carven sword of equal mass. Rowa kept as much distance between them and her as possible, creeping through the golden underbrush up the hill. The Golems did not notice her at a distance, continuing their patrols with slow, measured steps that shook the ground beneath them.

Morgott must have been a powerful demigod, judging by the amount of soldiers and other creatures in his employ. Rowa was still uncertain, but she would not have been surprised to learn Margit was a servant of this demigod, given his aforementioned loyalties.

The more she gleaned about the secretive Shardbearer, the more she found herself trying to anticipate their encounter. Would he be raving mad, a twisted abomination like Godrick? That was all she had to compare, as she had learned Rennala was not a demigod herself, but the mother of three that she had yet to encounter. As peculiar as Rennala had been in her own way, she had said herself that her might could not be compared to that of her children.

Rowa’s ruminations about the next Shardbearer were interrupted when she finally crested the long hill, the road taking a sharp curve to the east. There, it finally met a gate formed by magic, shimmering gold. A soldier on horseback stood in front of the gate, clad in intricate armor much like the sentinels she snuck past the night before. Confrontation with this one seemed inevitable; she had seen no other route of entry into the city, and she could not try to slip by with the magical seal.

She decided to discard the element of surprise, the area surrounding the soldier an open field that offered no hiding place. She exited the bushes, heading up the final stretch towards the gate.

As she approached, the sentinel’s helm turned in her direction, but he did not immediately attack, addressing her instead. “…Tarnished.”

“You are correct,” Rowa said, stopping a respectable distance away. “I have business in the city.”

“As do all of your kind.” The voice that spoke from beneath the helm was low and growling, almost inhuman.

“I have the means to break the seal. If you let me pass, I will not fight you.”

“I would never let such a disgrace befall the Sacred Tree, or my king. Your kind are not fit to approach the Tree, much less rule it.”

Rowa nodded grimly. “So be it.”

The sentinel raised his weapon, a strange, curved blade that looked fashioned from bone. The air crackled, and before Rowa could make any move, a bolt of crimson lightning descended from the sky, striking the upraised sword.

Rowa leapt backwards, goosebumps prickling along her skin with the energy thrumming in the air. She expected to see the sentinel and his horse topple from the strike, but they remained standing. The lightning coursed the length of the sentinel’s blade and sparked over his armor, but he only seemed invigorated by it, and she realized this was yet another form of sorcery.

The sentinel gave her no time to consider her course of action, his steed charging her with full force. The charge in the air increased with his proximity, and she could practically taste the energy. She dodged the first mighty sweep of the blade, backing away from him to try and form a plan of attack and stay out of range.

The steed wheeled about with surprising agility for a horse of its bulk, and it became apparent that it was no ordinary horse. It opened its mouth with a strange hissing sound, and fire dripped from its jowls, singeing the grass beneath its hooves.

Rowa threw herself to one side as a stream of flames burst from the horse’s mouth, the heat scalding against her skin. By the time she pushed herself upright, the sentinel was charging towards her, blade upraised to strike.

She darted straight towards them, seeking out the chinks in the sentinel’s armor. Narrowly avoiding the horse’s thundering hooves, she twisted around, driving one of her swords into the gap at the sentinel’s knee. He let out a howl of pain, sounding more like an animal, and Rowa dodged away the electrified blade swung in her direction.

Once more, it was only Rowa’s small size in comparison to her opponent that prevented her from being struck down immediately. The sentinel and his peculiar steed were a mighty force, and they gave her few openings to try and retaliate.

The fight came to a halt when Rowa miscalculated and the horse clipped her, sending her tumbling to the ground. She scrambled to her feet to meet the sentinel once more, but found him still, holding his blade upraised.

Too late, she saw the flicker of crimson light on the ground around her. Her body spasmed as a bolt of crimson lightning struck her from the sky, and a pained scream tore from her throat. She fell to the ground, seized with agony, and she could hardly breathe.

“You fought well, for a Tarnished.” The sentinel approached her, embers falling around the horse’s hooves. “I will not prolong your agony.”

Rowa let out a groan as he loomed over her. She could hardly think, desperation filling her as she saw the crimson gleam of his blade, and she tried to move, to bring her own weapon up to defend herself. Within her, the two Runes seemed to react to her peril, a warm feeling coursing through her and dulling the pain, giving her clarity. With a tremendous effort, she flung herself out of the way moments before the sentinel’s blade struck the ground where her head had lain.

“How do you yet move?” the sentinel hissed. “None have survived the lightning of dragons!”

Rowa did not answer, putting all her remaining strength into surviving. Using the sentinel’s surprise to her advantage, she charged, slamming her body against the side of his steed with enough force to unbalance him. The horse let out a growling whinny, startled by the impact, and reared, knocking the sentinel off his mount as it ran away into the trees.

Rowa was upon him in an instant, pinning his arms with her knees and hovering her blade over the small patch of skin bared between helm and breastplate. Between labored breaths, she growled, “Do you yield?”

The sentinel did not reply for a long moment. “Your strength…is not unlike the dragons I have aspired to embrace.”

Rowa ignored him, inching her blade closer to his skin. “I said, do you yield?”

“You give me little choice with a blade at my neck.” The sentinel paused, and Rowa thought she saw a flash of reptilian eyes staring at her from the slits in his helmet. “I yield, but only in the confidence that my king shall not let you pass into the Tree.”

Satisfied, Rowa rose, hastily binding his arms with some cord and leaving him on the roadside. She approached the sealed gate on quivering legs, just barely upheld by the Runes within her. The lightning still crackled beneath her skin; she could feel it like small pinpricks all along her body, and more pain was sure to come later.

The gate loomed before her, carved in white stone by an expert hand of some bygone age. Unsure how else to open it, she stretched forth a trembling hand, touching the shimmering mist. For a moment, nothing happened, and then a faint glimmer passed through her hand. The mist fell away as though it had been touched by the rays of the morning sun, revealing a great bridge before her.

Rowa stepped forward and entered the Royal Capital of Leyndell.

Morgott felt when the Tarnished broke the seal, cementing his grim observation that she would was set in her path. He had not slept again that night, watching and waiting to see what would become of her.

He saw her battle with the mightiest of his Tree Sentinels, and something tumultuous rippled through him when he saw her fall, struck by draconic lightning. To come so far, only to be beaten so close to her goal seemed a shame to him, even for one of her kind. However, he was surprised when she rose again and swiftly beat down his sentinel, limping her way through the gate.

Minutes later, a harried knight came running into the Erdtree Sanctuary, calling for him anxiously, and he rose to attend his armies, who were likely to be thrown into disarray by the upstart.

“Someone has defeated the sentinel at the north gate and entered the city!” the knight cried. “With your approval, we shall gather the troops and hunt down the intruder before—”

“Do not,” Morgott interrupted.

The knight went silent for a moment before uttering a surprised, “My lord?”

“Let this intruder come,” Morgott proclaimed. “I know what she seeks, and I will contend with her myself.”

“If-if that is what you wish, my lord,” the knight mumbled, bowing hastily, “but it is only…”

“Speak thy mind,” Morgott snapped when he trailed off.

The knight jumped at the sharp order, his tongue loosening with fear. “Some knights may not take heed to that order. I do not doubt your wisdom in allowing such a thing, but others may not be willing to allow an intruder, a threat to the sacred city, continue unchallenged.”

“Then let them be insubordinate.” Morgott was not surprised. The soldiers of the Erdtree were loyal to a fault, and to let one such as this Tarnished walk through Leyndell would not be something they would easily allow. “But if they fall to the hands of this intruder, then their blood does not fall upon my hands.”

“Yes, my lord. I will send word, but there is one more thing…”

“Then speak it quickly.”

“Strange creatures have appeared around the city the likes of which none of us have seen before.”

That caught Morgott’s attention as something unexpected. “Of what sort are they?”

“They bear instruments and are veiled in white cloth. Some of the more learned of the Order think they are creatures of old…who herald the coming of a new lord.”

Morgott knew exactly what sort of creatures they were, having read of them in his studies, and he scowled habitually. “Leave them be lest they try to harm thee.”

“Yes, my lord. There is nothing else to report.”

“Be on thy way, then.”

Knight and king parted ways. Morgott approached the Elden Throne and the phantom seats that surrounded it, ever wondrous despite the traitors that had once sat upon them.

For years, he had been assured of his path: to guard the Erdtree with the Grace he had been given and await the coming of a suitable Lord. None of the Tarnished had ever been deemed fit in his eyes, none except for one he had always watched for but never seen. And now this one Tarnished had come and usurped all he had stood upon, for it seemed she truly had a wish to repair the brokenness that he had seen much of.

And yet she wished to uproot the Golden Order.

Her coming and ability to take hold of the Runes had upset the stagnancy the Lands Between had been caught in, and Morgott could not deny the vague relief it brought him. However, her intended actions tamped down that relief in favor of hostility. To let the Order he had struggled so long to protect was not something he could let go of easily.

He stepped past the Elden Throne, facing the Erdtree and the wall of thorns. Perhaps now, with the coming of a threat to the Order, the wall would fall and let him in…

He touched the thorns, and was met with the same searing pain he had experienced many times before. In retaliation, he summoned a sword of gold, slashing with all his might, but the briars met the strike without so much as a wound.

Some wild desperation overtook him, and gripping his summoned blade, he started swinging at the thorns over and over again, his grunts of exertion ringing over the silent thrones. He battered at the wall with all his strength, but it would not yield, and eventually he grew weary, his vigor spent. With a shuddering sigh, the sword vanished from his hands as he fell to his knees, gazing at the impenetrable wall with desperation.

“Mother…” It had been a long while since he had tried to address Marika. When he first began to have dreams of the Erdtree, he had entreated it often, hoping to gain some sort of response in sleep or in waking. After receiving nothing in return, and being caught up in the wars of the Shattering, he had rarely spoken out to her. But now, with the Tarnished swift approaching, he felt the need to.

“Have I not served thee well?” he murmured. “If I have done thee any wrong, I know it not. And yet, your blessed Tree will not open to me. A Tarnished approaches, bearing Runes by which to mend the Ring, and I wonder once more at the blessing of Grace. I am an Omen, yet I have been given Grace, and so has it been bequeathed to the many Tarnished who roam the Lands, who seem just as unworthy as I to stand before the Ring.”

Morgott paused, hoping to hear something from his mother, anything from her voice that he had long seared into his memory, but all he heard was the skitter of fallen leaves drifting across the floor of the Throne in a gentle breeze.

“I do not want to hold the Ring, only to free thee and restore thy reign,” he continued softly. “Yet, I remain cast out. I do not know what shall become of this Tarnished, if she shall be spurned like the one who came before. She seeks to uproot your Golden Order, and in my mind she is an enemy like all her kind, but my heart…it hesitates.”

Morgott shut his mouth, surprised by his own words. His perception of this Tarnished had slowly started to change over the continuous reports of her activity, though he had not wanted to admit it to himself, and it had only become even more tumultuous after his confrontation with her the previous night. Upon sensing her arrival, he had appeared before her with the intent to fight her once more, but he had found himself walking away without raising a hand against her.

“She approaches the Throne, and I know not what will come of it. Surely, she will seek to enter the Tree, if not my Rune. I do not know if I should guard the Tree, or let her try to enter it, if only to see what comes of this chosen Tarnished. I should slay her, but I have tarried here for so long…”

Silence greeted his confessions, and with a heart-weary sigh, he got to his feet.

One final test. He would present her with a final test of the fiercest warrior he had ever known, and if she persevered, then he would present her with the truth of his self, and if she reviled him finally, an Omen amidst the golden land of the Tree, things would be put right.

Turning his back on the silent Erdtree, he descended to begin weaving his sorceries.

Chapter Text

The regal beauty of Leyndell was mostly lost on Rowa as she limped her way into the gatehouse on the other side of the bridge, searching for a good place to rest. She was fortunate enough to find a glimmer of Grace within the gatehouse itself, providing a temporary shelter. After ensuring the room was empty, she flopped down beside the Grace, her skin prickling with hot needles of pain. As she began binding her flesh wounds, Melina appeared at her side, her brow furrowed.

“You are hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Rowa grunted.

Melina reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder, and Rowa paused her bandaging. When they had touched before, Melina’s skin had felt cold and lifeless, unreal in a way that befit her ghostly comings and goings. But now, warmth radiated through Rowa’s tunic to her skin, a living glow that was comforting and real.

“You…” Rowa struggled to find words. “You’re…”

Melina smiled knowingly. “My utmost thanks, for bringing me to the base of the Erdtree. Here, I can govern my own movement, and thus the accord is fulfilled.”

Rowa nodded, looking down at the bandage she had halfway around her arm, some emotion she couldn’t name ballooning in her chest. “What…what will you do now?”

Melina’s smile faded. “I shall depart to ascertain my purpose.”

Rowa bit at her lip. She had anticipated that answer, but was no less unhappy to hear it. “Must you?”

“I must. I have wandered so long without cause, and this is my first chance in my memory to learn what I have been born for.” Melina’s fingers tightened in a small squeeze. “But, I do not depart from you with gladness, for I have grown fond of your company.”

“As have I,” Rowa said, her words strained with pain and emotion.

“I only wish this to be a temporary parting. Once I learn my purpose, I hope I shall be able to return to your side once more, for I feel our fates are more closely intertwined than I had first imagined.”

“I hope so, too.”

Melina gazed at Rowa a moment longer before pulling away, the place where her hand had rested feeling cold in its absence. “Are you sure you will be well? The dragon sorcery still has a hold of your body.”

“The Runes upheld me.” Rowa did not wish to prolong the departure, her response terse. “I feel I shall be able to continue as I have before.”

“Very well. I wish you a fortunate encounter with Morgott.” Melina stood, and Rowa noticed the new luster in her form, the realness of the space she inhabited that she had not possessed before. “Farewell. I shall leave Torrent, and the power to turn runes into strength, here with you. I wish you luck, in realizing your ambition. You have fought long and hard, and I have no doubt you will become Elden Lord. May you take the throne.”

And then, she was gone, dissipating into blue mist as she always had, but Rowa now felt a distinct lack, as though she were missing something she had not known she possessed. It was Melina’s presence, that she had not acknowledged was affixed to her, and now there was nothing but empty space where it had once lay.

In order to stave off the nascent loneliness, she summoned Torrent, who gave her a forlorn look upon appearing.

“I didn’t want her to go, either,” Rowa said, guilt striking her. “You could have gone with her, you know. I wouldn’t force you to stay.”

At that, Torrent huffed and shook himself, which she supposed was his form of refusal.

“I thank you for staying with me.” She grabbed some berries from her pack and he began to nibble them from her palm. “I must rest before we continue, but I shall not ask you to carry me. A city like this does not seem friendly to hooved creatures like you.”

Torrent snorted, sounding almost indignant, and swished his tail.

“I only want to keep you safe. You cannot fault me for that. I do, however, have a request of you now.”

Torrent raised his head, giving her a pointed stare. Rowa reached out, brushing a hand across the soft fur of his nose.

“Will you stay with me while I heal? Dragon sorcery remains in my body, and I need someone to keep watch.”

Torrent folded his legs, settling down at Rowa’s side, and she smiled despite the pain of Melina’s departure.

“Thank you.”

She bandaged the remainder of her cuts and bruises, leaning against Torrent’s warm body as she waited for the herba poultices to dull the pain. The dragon sorcery still crackled beneath her skin, but she did not have any way to remove it, so she could only hope that time would see it fade from her body.

The pain began to fade, and she slipped into the twilight between wakefulness and true sleep as a dream took hold of her mind. She had not dreamed much since coming to the Lands Between, only remembering vague nonsensical flashes occasionally, but this one was startlingly vivid.

She wandered murky stone corridors, her boots splashing in stagnant water filled with dirt, algae, and other refuse she did not want to name. At first, she walked with no aim. Every time she came to an intersection, she was greeted by corridors that appeared just the same as the one she came from. But then, through the hazy shadows, she caught sight of a distant, fiery gleam, and she followed it.

She finally stepped into a different room, a long hall with pillars of stone lining its length and rubble strewn about the floor. A door awaited at the opposite end of the hall, standing out from the gray stone. It was mottled and almost fleshlike in its appearance, a red glow flickering like a bloody flame from within.

You have seen the pain and fracture that stain the world.

The disembodied voice did not startle Rowa or set her on edge. It was calm, soothing, and it seemed to come from beyond the strange door.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I have.”

Then come, and melt it all away.

Before Rowa could reply, she was jerked abruptly from her doze by Torrent butting his head against her arm. She sat up, blinking away the drowsiness. “What is it?”

Her answer came in the form of sounds. Armored footsteps clunked through the gatehouse somewhere nearby, accompanied by low voices. They were soldiers, likely looking for her.

Rowa shot to her feet, the dream all but forgotten as she tried to ignore the aches in her body. Torrent stood up as well, giving her a questioning look.

“Leave,” she ordered hastily. “The city will be no place for you.”

Torrent obeyed silently, dissipating into azure mist as Rowa hurried for the city entrance of the gatehouse before the soldiers could find her.

Leyndell was breathtaking and dangerous all at once.

Rowa stared out over the city from the ramparts, even the greatest gilded spires seeming tiny beneath the Erdtree’s massive presence. Despite the huge dragon corpse that sprawled across a large portion of the city, many streets were still accessible, which she learned as she descended from the ramparts. Rows upon rows of streets stretched out, separated by buildings of pale stone and gold, curving and doubling back, massive staircases reaching terraced levels above and below. It was a labyrinth to one who did not know it, and not an empty one either.

Soldiers fitted in golden armor patrolled the streets, though not nearly as many as Rowa expected there to be. Word had surely gotten around that she had infiltrated the city, and it seemed odd to her that there were not more out looking for her. However, she could not complain, as avoiding the soldiers there were was hard enough in the twisting maze of streets and buildings.

She wandered for what felt like hours, always on edge and taking great care to avoid being spotted. She was not sure where to find Morgott, but she did not have the strength to fight her way through the many layers of opposition in her search. What energy she did have would need to be preserved in the event Morgott decided to initiate a fight, which in her experience was highly likely.

She needed someone to guide her through Leyndell, so she slunk off to find them.

The breaching of Leyndell’s seals came as a surprise to Page Wilfred, but the response of the Veiled Monarch to the situation was even more surprising. When the chosen knight returned from his audience with the Lord of Leyndell, his report of the king’s orders were met with dismay and outrage. Some questioned the king’s decision to let the intruder Tarnished pass through unchallenged, but Wilfred decided he was not going to be one of them. His single audience with the Veiled Monarch had instilled even more fear and respect of Leyndell’s ruler into him, and he was not about to risk disobeying orders.

To him, it was just as well that the Veiled Monarch deal with the Tarnished himself. Rumors had begun to circulate of what kind of monster this Tarnished must be, ever since Godrick met his end at her hands. The speculation became even wilder as news of her exploits continued to reach Leyndell. She was now in possession of two Runes, and knowing well the strength of the demigods holding only one, this Tarnished was likely a monstrous sort. Maybe she was like the Draconic Sentinels, giving herself over to some greater power and becoming warped in the process.

Wilfred’s thoughts buzzed with countless possibilities, every one of them more frightening than the last, and in order to avoid running into the Tarnished, he sequestered himself in an old garden deep within Leyndell’s residential district. Unlike the others, he had no desire to stay in the barracks. If the Tarnished wanted to find soldiers for some reason, that was going to be the first place she looked, and he did not want to be involved.

At first, he kept careful watch over the entrance to the little yard, every rustle of the leaves setting him on edge. However, hours began to creep by, the sky changing to a hue signaling the arrival of late afternoon, and no one had tried to enter his hiding place. All he had heard was the distant voices of soldiers on some lower terrace, and the breeze brushing against his ears. The Tarnished had likely moved on, meeting her end at the Veiled Monarch’s powerful hand.

Wilfred began to relax, plucking at the leaves of an erdleaf shoot. This relaxation gradually turned into boredom as time dragged on with no indication of the Tarnished’s defeat, and he pulled his flute from his tunic, debating on twiddling a few tunes.

“Don’t move.”

Wilfred’s yelp was cut off as a hand clamped down on his mouth, something sharp pricking at his spine. He started to move, but the sharp object pressed harder, painfully.

“I said, don’t move.” A woman’s voice hissed close to his ear once more, and his heart leapt into his throat as he realized who it was. “Nod if you understand me. Do you know where the King of Leyndell is?”

Wilfred nodded hesitantly, straining to see her out of the corner of his eye to no avail.

“I am going to let you speak,” Rowa said, “but do not scream. Do you understand?”

Again, he nodded. Some wild part of him considered disobeying, hoping that soldiers would come to his aid, but she would have enough chance to cut him down before they arrived.

“Now, where is the King of Leyndell?” The hand moved from his mouth to an equally tight grip on his shoulder, and he let out a frightening gasp.

“I…I’m not sure where he sleeps, or takes his meals.” The words stumbled from Wilfred’s mouth as he felt the now free hand relieving him of his smallsword, leaving him defenseless. “But he takes audience in the Erdtree Sanctuary, near the Elden Throne.”

Rowa lifted her eyes to the tree hanging over the city, its trunk becoming swallowed by buildings that blocked her view. She could see a splice in the trunk, a dark wound against the aureate wood.

“There,” she said, pointing past his head. “Is that the Elden Throne?”

Wilfred followed where she indicated, nodding hastily. “Yes.”

“Take me there.”

Wilfred considered refusing, not wanting to betray the king and kingdom he had pledged his life to. But then he remembered the orders of the Veiled Monarch, to let him face the intruder Tarnished himself.

“Has the Veiled Monarch not shown himself to you?” he asked.

Rowa frowned. “Not to my knowledge. Why?”

“He gave us orders to not engage with you. He said he wanted to face you himself.”

“Is that so?” That made sense of the lack of soldiers, but Rowa was surprised Morgott had not yet appeared to face her. “Will he be there? At the Elden Throne?”

“I don’t know. I…none of us have ever seen him.”

“Then take me there.” Rowa felt him shudder, and she added, “No harm will come to you.”

Wilfred’s fear was overpowered by confusion as she moved in front of him, beginning to bind his wrists together with a length of cord. She was not the monstrosity he expected, a demi-human or a Misbegotten or some other new amalgamation. She was only a woman, with sun-browned skin littered with bruises and dark hair pulled back in a braid, dressed in blue cloth garments that had seen better days.

Rowa noticed the perturbed expression settling on the page’s face, still young and round with boyhood not quite shed. “What is it?”

Wilfred jumped a little, looking away from her. “Er, it’s just that…you’re not what I expected for someone who has defeated two demigods.”

Rowa smiled a little as she understood. “I am just a woman, a Tarnished like every other. Now, please take the most secluded route if you please.”

Wilfred did not please, but as evidenced by the swords at her side, he had little other choice. So, he led her through the back alleys, through cramped crevices just barely big enough for a human to slip through. And as he did, he saw the bandages on her body, noticed the limp in her step and the sickly pale of her skin. She was hurt, and he did not think she would survive a confrontation with the Veiled Monarch.

They passed beneath the dragon’s head, walking along old scales hardened like stone, so entrenched that they had become like part of the city itself. Wilfred brought her to the Sanctuary, the gilded building’s grandeur oddly offset by the tree roots that had started to take over the structure. They entered through a door on the street level, and he led her up the many flights of stairs before stopping just outside the Atrium.

“Here is where we are granted audience,” Wilfred said, keeping his voice low for fear of his king hearing him. “I know nothing more.”

Rowa peered into the huge room. Through one of the open archways, the trunk of the Erdtree was visible, and huge roots curled up from the outer balcony, spreading through the masonry. At first, it seemed empty, until she saw something golden shimmering on the floor, beginning to coalesce and form a shape.

“Get out of here.” She turned to Wilfred and cut his bonds. “You did what I asked.”

Wilfred just stared at her for a long moment. He hadn’t expected to be let go. At the very best, he had envisioned himself remaining tied and thrown into the sewers for the monstrous Omens to find.

“Go!” Rowa hissed when he did not move, pushing at him. The spinning gold was starting to take a human shape, and she did not know what to expect.

Her shove woke Wilfred from his surprise, and with one final look at her, he turned and fled down the stairs of the Sanctuary, wanting to put as much distance between him and this strange Tarnished as he possibly could.

As his footsteps faded, Rowa faced the growing image. Her wounds ached still, and the journey across Leyndell had not helped, the dragon lightning within her prickling like needles, but she faced the light resolutely. It started to form into the likeness of a man, imposingly huge and carrying a battleaxe the size of a small tree.

“Morgott?” Rowa asked.

The shade made no answer, advancing on her slowly. A wild mane of hair sprouted from his head, falling around a braided beard and a face as hard as stone. However, his eyes were lifeless, possessing no true gleam like Margit’s had. He was like the illusion of Rennala she had faced, possessing no true life, but as he hefted his axe, Rowa knew he did not intend to let her pass to the Elden Throne unchallenged.

With a fatigued grunt, Rowa raised her swords, trying to summon the strength of Runes that had saved her before. If nothing else, she had no reason to hold back. This illusion was not alive.

She learned quickly that the illusion moved with a speed that belied his bulk, narrowly avoiding being struck by a swing of the tremendous axe, the blade singing as it cut through the air. She led the illusion in a wild dance across the intricate tilework of the Erdtree Sanctuary, the battle seeming a blasphemy in such a sacred place. But neither Rowa nor her opponent let thoughts of impropriety stop them as steel clashed upon illusion.

Rowa’s body screamed at her as she fought, her heart hammering in her chest. The pain of her wounds was drowned in the fire of battle as she narrowly avoided each massive, cleaving strike, but she could feel her strength waning far quicker than it had before. If she was going to survive this, she had to end the fight quickly.

The illusion lifted his axe high above his head, and she tarried just long enough in his range for him to commit, golden eyes fixed coldly upon her. The axe came down with earthshattering force, and the blade grazed her right arm before becoming embedded in the stones of the floor. She stumbled as pain exploded through her arm and shoulder, but pushed herself forward, raising her left arm and driving her sword straight through the illusion’s translucent neck.

For a moment, everything went still, and Rowa let out a huge breath as the illusion began to break apart. She stared into the illusion’s eyes as his face began to fade. His expression had never once wavered from hard determination, and she wondered if this was a projection of the demigod she had yet to face.

Then, the illusion was gone, and she was left alone once more.

Her body hurt all over, and she knew it would likely take more than herba to heal the wounds she had sustained. But she continued doggedly onward, using the overgrown roots to ascend to the balcony that overlooked the Sanctuary in lieu of the broken staircase. To stay and rest before continuing would be too dangerous, and she was so close to the Elden Throne, what she had sought since her awakening.

Exiting the Sanctuary, she found herself on an open pathway of pale stone that led towards another spired structure. She could see the Elden Throne now, a massive stone platform affixed to the trunk of the Erdtree and upheld by pillars that disappeared into the formless mist below. The splice in the trunk she had seen from afar was indeed part of the Throne, a small opening in comparison to the entire Erdtree but tremendous to her, a great opening into the heart of the Tree crowned by a carving of the Elden Ring.

Rowa limped her way to the room that waited just below the stairs to the Throne. It was an odd place, piles of books stretching to the ceiling against the walls of the circular room, a shrouded dais of some sort off to the side. She did not linger there long, passing through to the stairs.

And then she ascended, beaten and wounded as she was, towards the towering archway, and when she cleared the final step, she stopped and looked.

Across the huge terrace, framed by the might of the Erdtree and the opening therein, sat the Elden Throne. Compared to the Erdtree, it was little, only a chair carved of wood, but its place was unmistakable. Smaller thrones, incorporeal like morning mist, surrounded it in a half circle atop stones turned golden by the fallen leaves.

Rowa felt like she was caught in a dream, the sight sweet after her long struggle. All she wished was that Melina stood beside her, to see the Throne as well.

“Graceless Tarnished…”

Rowa was jerked from a dream back into reality as a voice called across the quiet Throne. Her heart dropped as she recognized the voice at once; she had heard it only the night before.

“What is thy business with these thrones?”

A figure stepped from the shadows beyond the Elden Throne, and Rowa beheld Morgott the Grace-Given.

Melina saw the Erdtree, and she saw who hung imprisoned within. She saw Marika, bound and broken, and knew for certain who her mother was.

And so she approached her mother. She felt the pressure of the Greater Will, wishing to push her back and away from her purpose, but she could not be ruled, for she had no true body.

Marika was silent, but she was not lifeless. Melina gazed upon her, and she saw the mystery bound within her skin. She did not know what it meant, not truly, but it called to mind the echoes of Marika’s voice that she had heard across the Lands Between.

Let us be shattered, both. Mine other self.

“Mother.” Melina addressed her softly, hopefully. “You had said unto your children to make themselves lords, gods, but you gave me no such commission. So I ask of you, for what purpose was I born? Why have I walked alongside these Tarnished warriors?”

In the gray innermost of the Erdtree, she listened for Marika’s answer.

Chapter Text

Rowa was sure her eyes were deceiving her at first, but she had seen the hulking, horned figure enough times to recognize it. “Why are you here? Where is Morgott?”

Morgott stopped beside the Elden Throne, his stave clacking against the stones. Even after summoning a shade of his father as a final test, the Tarnished had persevered, and it stirred turmoil within him. He never thought he would find himself here again, a Tarnished standing before the Elden Throne, but he had grown weary in his continual protection, the cycle of slaying to uphold his mother’s remnants, and in that weariness he had grown overconfident. She had bested him at Stormveil, and he had been paying the price ever since.

But that other, traitorous part of him hoped the long stagnation would finally be at an end.

“I am he whom thou seek,” he said, waiting for her to show revulsion at the sight of him, but it never came. She merely frowned, swaying a little on her feet.

“But you’re Margit,” Rowa murmured, her thoughts scattered with fatigue and pain. “I didn’t…I didn’t think…”

“A necessary guise.” Morgott shifted, stepping closer. He could see the bandages, and the wounds deeper still, lightning festering like a fresh burn beneath her skin. It would be easy, too easy, to slay her here and end the usurper once and for all.

The pieces began to fall into place, surprising though they were. The gleam of Grace about him, his steadfast loyalty to Marika, why no one had ever seen him. “You…are Marika’s son?”

“I cannot deny it, cursed though I am,” Morgott said. “Dost thou not feel the kinship of the Runes?”

Now that he said it, Rowa did feel the stirring of the two Runes within her, responding to another nearby, within Morgott. “I do.”

Morgott scowled. Still, she showed no sign of contempt. “Thou dost not despise the sight of an Omen possessing such golden power?”

“I’ve no reason to, as I’ve said.”

“Then thou’rt to remain a fool.” Morgott took a couple of steps towards her, vexation plaguing him. She would not make this easy and hate him. “Heed my words, upstart Tarnished. The Rune I possess is the anchor for all others, and thou must take it to mend the Ring. Even if thou dost not despise me, thou wilt have to slay me to accomplish thy ambition.”

“I do not desire that. You care for the Erdtree, do you not?”

“Aye.”

“Then I would not have you slain and abandon it. Rather, we should combine our power for a shared purpose.”

Morgott let out a single, humorless laugh. “Fie! Thou art even more of a fool to think that I would share a purpose with a Tarnished.”

Rowa frowned at his dismissal. “We both seek the betterment of the Lands Between.”

“But thou wouldst accomplish it by uprooting the Golden Order of Marika.”

“Because it is not good, not now! Surely you are not blind to the suffering in the world.”

“Only because the Elden Ring is broken, shattering the Order with it.”

“And was it good? Before the Ring was broken?”

Morgott paused, something apprehensive flickering across his face. “That, I know not. But it was Marika’s, and I shall preserve it until she returns.”

Rowa pitied him all the more, beginning to understand what spurred him. “If she could return, do you not think she would have done so already?”

“Do not dare to presume anything about my queen mother!” Morgott hissed defensively.

Rowa tensed, expecting him to leap at her at any moment. “I do mean to presume anything. I only speak from a logical standpoint. Do you even know where Marika has gone?”

She saw his eye flicker to the golden boughs arching across the sky above them, and his tone was weary when he said, “I know not, not truly.”

“It seems to me that you are in your right mind, and you are capable of ruling well. It would be a waste to continue to be at each other’s throats.”

“And was thy offer refused by Godrick and Rennala?”

“Godrick, yes,” Rowa admitted, “but he was truly mad. Surely, you must know that. I did not make any petition to Rennala. She has been broken by sorrow, and I felt that asking her to make the journey with me would only be condemning her to an undeserved death.”

“So thou hast petitioned me, who scorned thee from the beginning.” Morgott scoffed. “’Tis pitiable in mine eyes.”

“I did not know who you were until now, but I do not think you would be inclined to kill me, at the very least.”

“Is that so?”

“I think, yes.” Rowa was gambling with her life, but she knew she was in no condition to fight Morgott, illusion or not, and if she was wrong her death was likely imminent. To die so close to the Erdtree would be a sorrowful end, but she had no other choice. “You could kill me and take my Runes to become Elden Lord. You could have done that last night, but you didn’t.”

“I wished to see how far thy ambition would drive thee.”

“And yet, you have not attacked me here.” Rowa’s heart pounded in her chest as she drew her swords, her only form of protection. “To prove that I believe you do not intend me harm, and to prove my intent to have peace with you, I leave myself at your mercy.” She threw her swords, and they clattered across the stones, coming to rest near the ethereal thrones.

Morgott’s gleaming eye fixed upon her, and without a word, he prowled towards her, stepping over the discarded blades. With every step he took, Rowa’s heart beat faster, and she began to think that she had been wrong. He lifted his hand, and she did not even see the sword appear at his fingertips. The next thing she knew, a blade of gold was pointed towards her, the tip hairsbreadth away from her throat. One wrong move would pierce her skin, and she dared not breathe.

Morgott eyed her carefully, waiting for his threat to bring out some form of retaliation. He expected to see the azure shimmer of Carian sorcery any moment, but it did not come. He watched her expression, and saw nothing but fright there, her skin paling even further. She made no move to defend herself, and it seemed she was well and truly at his mercy.

“Foolish Tarnished,” he snarled. “Dost thou always parley with thy life so freely?”

“Only when I feel I have no other choice,” Rowa whispered. The floor was beginning to feel like it was shifting beneath her feet, and it was all she could do to not sway into his blade.

“Thou’rt truly weakened to trust one such as me.”

 “As I said, you could have slain me last night if it truly was your intent.”

Morgott glared at her a moment longer before dropping his hand, the sword disappearing. Rowa sagged a little, feeling lightheaded.

“So I was right?” she asked breathlessly.

“For a time.” Morgott stepped back, but did not relax. “I shall not slay thee yet, for I wish to know if thee in all thy peculiarities can breach the impenetrable thorns.”

“Thorns?”

“Sithee.” He pointed towards the cleft in the Erdtree. “Thou didst not think the Erdtree could be so easily breached, surely.”

Rowa looked where he indicated, dismay blooming within her. Where there may have once been a doorway into the heart of the Erdtree was a barrier of thorns, crawling up the effervescent wood. “Is that why you have not taken the throne?”

“I do not wish to take the throne, but to restore my mother to it.” Morgott could see her self-assurance dying away like a frostbitten blossom, as he figured it would. “But nay, never have I been able to pass, nor didst the Tarnished who came afore thee.”

Rowa looked up at him, startled. “Another Tarnished made it here? The Elden Throne?”

Morgott’s grim demeanor only seemed to darken further. “He came with much power, and caught me unawares. He approached the Erdtree, and it spurned him.”

“What became of him?”

“‘‘Twas not I who felled him, but he is as good as dead, and now thou’rt in his place.”

“Was he unworthy to take the Ring?”

“In mine eyes, there is only one Tarnished I would ever deem worthy to hold the Ring, but long have I awaited his return to no avail.” Morgott eyed her with the same contempt, but it was less vicious than that day at Stormveil. “So I let thee live for this moment, only to see if thou might end this stagnation, unworthy as thy motives are.”

Rowa raised her chin, trying to appear confident despite the doubt growing within her the longer she looked at the thorns. “What makes you think I will be any different than this previous Tarnished?”

“Nothing beyond thy good fortune and thy Runes.” Morgott moved aside fully. “So, Tarnished, approach the Erdtree and see if thou’rt the Elden Lord.”

Rowa stared at him for a long moment. She did not trust him completely, but she could not pass up this opportunity to try and enter the Erdtree. So, with shuffling, unsure steps, she walked past him towards the stairs that ascended into the trunk.

Morgott watched her go. He must have gone mad to allow the likes of her to approach the Erdtree, but he already had a feeling of what the outcome would be. If the favored Tarnished from before was not enough to appease the Greater Will, what more had she to offer? The previous Tarnished had done everything right, it seemed. He was a respected member of the Roundtable Hold, listening intently to the words of the Two Fingers, and that had not been enough. This woman had forsaken it all, but he was willing to give her a chance after her long struggles, if only for the fleeting hope of bringing an end to the fractured stalemate.

Rowa mounted the stairs, facing the thorns. Even here, she could see the shimmering mist of Grace hanging all about, drifting towards the sealed door. With bated breath, she approached the seal, stretching out a hand to touch the interwoven vines.

Searing pain shot up the length of her arm, and it stole the breath from her lungs, sending her to her knees. She curled in on herself, shuddering as wave after wave of pain radiated from her hand all the way up her arm. It seemed like an eternity before it began to subside into a dull ache in her fingertips, and when she could see clearly again, she looked up to see the mantle of thorns unchanged.

Disbelieving of what had occurred, she reached out, meaning to try again, but Morgott’s gnarled stave intercepted her hand before she could touch it.

“It is meaningless to try again,” Morgott said lowly, standing over her. “I have tried all manner of spells and weapons. If it does not open to thee now, it shall open never.”

Rowa turned her bleary gaze up to him, mumbling out a single, trembling word, “Why?”

“We are all forsaken.” Morgott avoided her eyes, studying the thorns instead. His heart sank at her piteous shivering, knowing well the pain. For a fleeting moment, he had thought things would change. “Not just demigods, but Tarnished as well.”

Rowa’s world was spinning, and her arms trembled as she tried to sit up. “Is it…because I…oppose the Golden Order?”

“Nay,” Morgott growled. “The Tarnished before thee was one of utter devotion to the Order, and yet the thorns did not part for him.”

Rowa shook her head. It didn’t make sense. “The Greater Will…divested Grace to us…only to turn us away?”

“So it seems.” Morgott eyed the Tarnished trembling at his feet. If she were to follow the previous Tarnished, she would depart in search of a way to breach the thorns to meet a horrid end. His gripped his stave tightly. He could not allow that to happen again, but would the Flame call to her?

Before he could make any decisions, he sensed the presence of another drawing near and turned abruptly. A woman the terrace of the Elden Throne, looking up at him, one eye sealed shut with a mark. Their gazes met, and a chill went up Morgott’s spine. He had long ago learned to recognize the gleam of Marika’s power in her lineage, no matter how diluted it became, and this woman possessed it like the other demigods. His surprise only increased when he saw her garb, and the curved dagger at her hip. She was a child of Marika and a Maiden, both.

He had been foolish to forget the Maidens. No Tarnished of any repute was without one, and it was only reasonable that the wounded Tarnished at his feet would have one in her employ. But she was not a simple Maiden; she was a child of Marika that he had never seen before.

He made to move towards her, but she was already gone, vanished into thin air, leaving only him and the Tarnished. Unsettled, he turned back to Rowa.

“Tarnished,” he said, “where is thy Maiden?”

Rowa heard Morgott speaking, but he sounded far away, and she could not understand him. In her delirium, she mumbled out, “If you wish to kill me now, do it quickly.”

Morgott sighed wearily, looking up at the thorns. “I shall not slay thee yet,” he decided. He now wanted to know more about the strange Maiden, and killing the Tarnished would not help him to that end, nor would allowing her to succumb to her injuries.

Rowa blinked as Morgott’s stave came to hover right in front of her, momentarily torn away from thoughts of dismay at being shunned. “What…?”

“Take hold of it,” Morgott ordered harshly, “unless ye wish to wither away in front of thy failure.”

Rowa wrapped her hands around the knobby stave, and she found it warm like wood heated by the sun. The stave was lifted, and her body went with it. She was set on her feet, but her legs nearly gave, and she ended up clinging to the stave with her entire body.

“Strewth!” Morgott hissed. “If ye fall, I shall not deign to help thee.”

Rowa hung on with all her remaining strength, her feet dragging along the floorstones. Everything faded into an odd haze; for a while, all she could see was the shifting surface of Morgott’s dingy cloak and the masonry passing by beneath her. The next thing she knew, she was staring at a pile of mismatched cloth, and it occurred to her that they were now inside.

“Rest thyself there, Tarnished.”

At Morgott’s order, Rowa let go of his stave and fell into the pile. Morgott growled something above her, her consciousness fading rapidly on waves of burning pain.

“Grace is the soul’s breath, the Erdtree is the soul’s release, ashes thou wert and art…”

Warmth flooded Rowa’s body, chasing away the pain. With a relieved sigh, she gave into unconsciousness.

Morgott performed his healing incantations as she finally passed out. For a moment, he thought she had succumbed to her wounds, but the faint rise and fall of her chest told him otherwise. The effects of his sorcery would not be immediate on wounds as substantial as hers, so once he was certain she would not smother herself on the makeshift bed, he left her alone. The Maiden he had seen was now the center of his thoughts.

The evening sky blazed crimson and orange and everything in between as he loped towards the Erdtree Sanctuary. Activating one of his seals, he had to wait only a matter of minutes before a soldier came trotting into the atrium below his hidden vantage point, standing to attention.

“At your service, my lord.”

Morgott weighed his words carefully. “Send word to all of Leyndell, that the Tarnished intruder is no longer a threat, as I promised.”

“Indeed, my lord. Were you injured?”

“’Twas no great matter. Think not of my health.”

“As you wish.”

“Thou art dismissed.”

Morgott ascended to the Elden Throne once more, the thrones bathed in the rosy fire of the sunset. It was quiet, and it was as though the confrontation that had only happened minutes before had never come to pass. The Erdtree stood tall and strong, but so did the thorns behind the Throne.

If the Greater Will had the wherewithal to speak to him, Morgott was sure it would be mocking him.

“Maiden.” He addressed the empty pinnacle, his voice echoing. “Thou who hast accompanied the fortunate Tarnished unto this Throne, thou who art of Marika’s blood. I adjure thee as a fellow demigod to come speak with me. Never before have I gazed upon thy face, and thy presence vexes me greatly. There is much I would wish to speak to thee about.”

He fell silent, the echo of his words fading away. He waited for a moment, and though no one appeared, he got the feeling he had been heard nonetheless.

He retreated to his own quarters to take his evening meal, and as he ate seated on the floor, he felt a presence enter his room. He gave her time to reveal herself, but when she did not, he spoke into the silence.

“Ye cannot veil thyself from me, blood of Marika. Thy presence to me is as brilliant as the Erdtree.”

Blue shimmered in the air, and the Maiden appeared, folding herself into a graceful kneel not far from him. “It was not my intention to hide myself from you. I only wished to observe you, before I accepted your invitation.

“An Omen of the Golden Lineage affronts thee, no doubt,” Morgott rumbled, expecting horrified surprise before any other reaction.

“That is not so. Before today, I had no knowledge of my family, my lineage. Forgive me, if I seem hesitant, but you are new to me, as are all other demigods.”

Morgott narrowed his eye. “But thou art the Maiden of the Tarnished I have taken?”

“Indeed.”

“What is thy name?”

“Melina.”

“I have no memory of that name among the demigods.”

“You wouldn’t, because I did not remember you as my brother until today.”

Morgott scowled at the familial association, but he pushed that aside in favor of more pressing matters. “Explain this to me. I do not understand.”

“I have wandered the Lands Between for a long while, bodiless, searching for a Tarnished that would be able to bear me to the Erdtree, since I could not make the journey. I met with many Tarnished, and some abandoned me when they realized I was no true Finger Maiden, but even more fell along the way.” Melina gave him a look. “Most of them fell by your hand.”

Morgott met her gaze stonily. “Thou’rt not a Finger Maiden?”

“No. I do not divine any words from the Two Fingers.”

“Is it by your influence that this Tarnished seeks to tear down the Golden Order?”

Melina shook her head. “No. She made that decision on her own, by witnessing the many atrocities of the Lands Between.”

“What use of a Maiden has she if thou hast no communion with the Fingers?”

“We made an accord. In exchange for the power to turn Runes into strength, she would take me to the foot of the Erdtree.”

“Why here?” Morgott asked, though he could begin to guess the answer.

“Here, I can move freely, and I was able to go forth and remember my purpose bestowed to me by my…our mother.”

“And what is thy purpose?”

Melina was quiet for a long moment. “To be a Maiden to the Tarnished seeking to become Elden Lord, until the end.”

Morgott bit back an irritated growl. He sought understanding, but the more Melina spoke, the more cloudy things seemed. “The Erdtree rejected thy Tarnished. There is naught else to do.”

“That is not so,” Melina said softly. “There is one more duty meant for a Maiden.”

“And what is that, pray?”

Melina paused again. “To walk alongside the flame.”

Unease stirred within Morgott. “Of what flame dost thou speak?”

“Despite appearances, the Erdtree can yet be entered.”

“Spare me such foolish notions. I have tried every sort of weapon, every divination to breach the thorns—”

“This flame has not been used, for it is difficult to reach, and harder still to light,” Melina interrupted. “I speak of the flame of ruin, high on the mountain.”

Morgott’s unease turned to utter dismay, then to anger. “Do not speak such blasphemies!”

Melina was unfazed by his anger. “The only way to enter the Erdtree is to burn it.”

Morgott stood to his feet, looming over her. “I see now it is no wonder the Tarnished has such little regard for the most sacred. Thou hast taught her foul heresies. Whatever thy purpose is, it is surely nothing to do with that wretched flame.”

“This is my purpose, given to me by Marika,” Melina said firmly. “As a Maiden, I am meant to serve as kindling for the flame, so that it may burn the thorns away.”

“Silence!” Morgott hissed.

“Do you know why the Tarnished are called by Grace, seemingly by the Greater Will, yet the Erdtree will let none pass? I have learned the truth, that it is not the Greater Will who has called the Tarnished back, but Marika. It was she who took their Grace away, and she who has bestowed it again.”

Angry disbelief swelled in Morgott’s heart. “That is not so!”

“Why then would the Greater Will call them, only to turn them away? Marika and the Greater Will are not of one mind. The Greater Will seeks to keep its hold on the Lands Between, while Marika seeks to break its hold through the Tarnished.”

A cold feeling overtook Morgott’s anger. He remembered the dreams, the Grace pouring outward from Marika’s body…

“You have seen it, but you have only now understood it.”

“You are lying,” Morgott retorted.

“What have I to gain in deception?”

“Thou desirest the Elden Throne for thyself.” A golden sword appeared in Morgott’s hands as a red haze started to overtake his vision. This was heresy of the highest order.

“I have no desire for the Elden Throne, nor could I take it with no physical form.” Melina stared at the shining weapons hanging perilously close to her head. “Why do you not believe me? Would you rather the Lands Between wallow in the same half-life for eternity?”

“No!” Morgott spoke so forcefully that it echoed in the room, finally speaking what had cloyed at his heart. “I long to see the Lands Between flourish.”

“Then why do you not believe that Marika wishes it so?”

“Grace was given to me, an Omen. Why wouldst Marika bestow Grace unto the Tarnished, but also to my sullied countenance? All I have ever wanted was to restore her to the Throne.” The fire drained from Morgott. “I am not enough.”

Melina lowered her gaze. “She gave Grace to every demigod, so that we may make of ourselves what we desire, be it a lord, a god. You are her son as much as any other, and so you were bestowed Grace as penance for what was withheld at your birth. However, Marika knew all your hearts were to be set on different visions for the Lands Between, and conflict was inevitable, so she established another aspect of her plan…”

“…Tarnished,” Morgott hissed.

 “But she never considered you lesser than they. She knew that shattering the Elden Ring would trigger war amongst you. Strongholds would be destroyed, and stalemates reached. So she set forth the hope that one day, a Tarnished with no armies and no predispositions would one day restore the Lands Between. Thousands of Tarnished have fallen, but this one…” She raised her eyes to his again, her look meaningful. “…not yet, if you see fit.”

“I only let the Tarnished live so that I may speak to thee. Now that I have, I am of less proclivity to keep her alive.”

“And vanquish the first hope of change in all this time? You said it yourself, that you have hoped for something to set things right.”

Morgott eyed her warily. “Yet ye seek to oppose Marika’s Golden Order, a cardinal sin.”

“Marika wishes for the Golden Order’s destruction. Do you not see it in her will? The act of breaking the Elden Ring was opposition in of itself, and now she hangs imprisoned because of it.”

“Where?”

“Within the Erdtree itself.”

The pieces started to fall into place in Morgott’s mind. He was still greatly skeptical, but he had never been able to make sense of the Shattering himself. “Why does Marika seek to undo her own work?”

“She grew to hate the Golden Order and the rules it imposed on the Lands. Maybe she thought it good, once, but she did not remain that way.”

“What reason have I to trust thee?”

“By your own knowledge, you know she broke the Ring and was imprisoned for it. Why else would she do that to herself, if not to one day escape the Greater Will’s influence altogether?”

Morgott took a step back, stunned into momentary silence. It was so much, too much, all his notions of rightness flipped on its head. He had been doing his mother a disservice all this time, and stinging regret struck his heart. “What have I done?”

“Your intentions were noble.”

“Noble or not, perhaps I should go cast myself from Leyndell’s highest tower.” Morgott clenched his quivering fist. “No matter what, I will always be a stain upon Marika’s lineage.”

Melina’s calmness did not waver. “On the contrary, I think the Lands Between would benefit from you.”

“Why is that, pray?” he leered.

“You may be key in preventing utter destruction.” Melina paused, letting the proclamation sink in. “Do you know why the first Tarnished to reach the Erdtree turned to the Frenzied Flame?”

Cold dread settled like a weight on Morgott’s shoulders, his self-loathing temporarily forgotten. “Nay, I never knew.”

“He sought the answer to parting the thorns, for it seemed egregious that the Greater Will would spurn a man as dedicated to the Golden Order as he was. He learned of the flame of ruin on the mountain, but then he learned what must be done to kindle it.”

“What must be done?” Morgott asked lowly.

“The one who walks alongside the flame, shall one day meet Destined Death. This is the prophecy for all Maidens who serve the Tarnished, even me, and now that I have regained my memory I understand it all the more. The Tarnished who came before, Vyke, learned of this prophecy and understood its meaning, but he could not bring himself to kindle the flame.”

“How dost thou know this?”

A shadow passed over Melina’s face. “I was his Maiden for a time, before he cast me off in favor of a true Finger Maiden. Now, here at the Erdtree, I see the echoes of his actions, everything he did after he left me behind.”

“I do not understand,” Morgott growled. “What does the prophecy mean? Why could he not kindle the flame?”

“For the flame to be born and Destined Death reawakened, a sacrifice is required. Vyke…he was of noble heart, too noble, for in wanting to spare his Maiden’s life, the Frenzied Flame took hold of him.”

“Thou…” Morgott gazed at her with new horror. “Thou art a sacrifice?”

“As are all Maidens.”

“And this is Marika’s purpose for thee?”

“Yes.”

Morgott could not believe his ears. “Thou accepteth this purpose without dismay?”

“I too have been marked by an Outer God, and I walk close alongside Death. I was chosen by Marika to be a Kindling Maiden for this reason, for I have already been burned by the flame of Death. Were I to burn once more, there would be no pain in it.”

Morgott studied the seal on her eye. “Wouldst thou truly die?”

“I do not know,” Melina answered honestly, “but I have long observed the Lands Between, and I decided long ago that this world is not one I would will to eternity. If I must burn for the sake of a new age, then so be it. I cannot mourn a life I never lived.”

Morgott was silent for a long while, trying to settle his racing thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost hesitant. “Ye said I am to play a part. Of what dost thou speaketh?”

“I must burn for the sake of the Erdtree, but I am sure you are well aware that the Tarnished I am with is of noble character.”

“Supposedly,” he growled.

“I do not want to risk another propagation of the Frenzied Flame, so I intend to keep the circumstances of the kindling a secret until the end. She will need someone more powerful than I to ensure the Flame does not whisper lies after I am gone, and…I would not wish her to be alone in this world.”

Morgott scoffed. “Why would I look after a Tarnished, much less accompany one?”

“Because this is likely one of the few chances we will ever have of reviving the world,” Melina said. “This is what Marika has waited for, planned for, all this time. You wish to serve her, do you not?”

“Do not try to twist mine desires to thy advantage.”

“I speak only from a place of truth. You know the ills of the world right well, though you have distanced yourself from them, and so has the Tarnished. But her heart is full of mercy, and that mercy may cost the world a new age, or let it burn altogether. However, I am sure the Flame would never call to you.”

Morgott remembered pursuing Vyke into the mountains, finding him with his eyes burned away by a yellow flame licking at the sockets. Nothing before or since had filled him with such stark terror, and even the memory of it sent a shiver through him. “It would not, but I must take time to consider these matters.”

“I think that wise. Much has been discussed.” Melina stood to her feet.

“What is her name?” Morgott asked suddenly. “This Tarnished…I have not yet learned her name.”

“She calls herself Rowa.”

Morgott’s face dropped into an irritable scowl. “Do not jest with me.”

“It is no jest,” Melina said with a perturbed frown. “That is the name she chose for herself.”

“She would name herself after beast fodder?”

Melina’s frown lifted into the faintest hint of a smile as she understood. “My understanding is that she considers it a simple name for a simple woman.”

Morgott snorted. “So be it.”

“Thank you for speaking with me, and for healing her. It is good to see that hope yet remains for the Lands Between.”

“I promise thee nothing yet.”

“But you have stopped to listen, which is enough.” Melina offered him a small bow. “You have only to call for me, and I shall appear.”

Then she was gone, dissipating like fine morning mist, leaving Morgott alone with many considerations.

Chapter Text

Morgott stayed awake long after day’s light had gone, too shaken by his conversation with Melina to even think of sleeping. He wanted to believe that she was wrong, or lying, and that all his efforts over the past years had not been utterly futile. But the greater, more logical part of himself surmised that she had spoken nothing but the truth. After years of trying to make sense of it all, the Shattering, Marika’s disappearance, his Grace, the solution now lay before him, but it was not one he could have seen before. It was though a veil had been stripped away, presenting him with a startlingly new perspective of the Lands Between, and his mother. She had taken on punishment, shattering the Ring, and herself as well, for the sake of the Lands Between.

But if not the Golden Order, then what? There were many powers in the Lands, and to Morgott, they all seemed as fickle as he and his siblings, fighting for scraps. If there was to be a new age, it would be a waste for it to be destined for downfall as this one had been.

He stared long at the candle in the corner of the room. Deep within, he had grown to desire change, but now that he had it, it was harrowing and frightfully unknown.

“Mother.” He spoke to the air. The Erdtree was near, and if Marika truly lay within, then he may be heard after all. “Didst ye know I would consign myself to thy Golden Order?”

Silence was all he received, as expected, but he had truly hoped for an answer. He had seen Marika only from a distance in the short span of time between his ascension from the Shunning Grounds and her disappearance, and a word had never passed between them. He did not know if she had predicted his actions, or if his protection of the Golden Order had been a terrible pitfall in her plans, but both outcomes filled him with deep regret.

“Didst ye ever love my father?” he asked lowly, almost in a whisper. He had supposed she had come to hate Godfrey enough to banish him, but that presupposition had also been turned on its head. “Did it pain thee to send him away?”

Again, he heard nothing, and he sighed. When the Tarnished first began to appear, he had hoped, prayed, that his father would be among them. To him, Godfrey alone was fit to take the title of Elden Lord, not Radagon or any other ambitious Tarnished. But, as time went by and waves upon waves of Tarnished came and went, Godfrey never appeared and his hope began to dwindle. Now, with the advent of a Tarnished with the means to mend the Elden Ring, he began to entertain the idea of setting that hope aside entirely, as painful as it was. He could remember even now that Godfrey had always been a warrior, not a lord, and perhaps the call to return from banishment was not one he was willing to answer.

Eventually, he ceased his idle contemplations, rising to find the records of Leyndell’s reports. He had kept them all, even the ones from before his reign, finding them an invaluable window into the world he had grown up beside but never within. He sought records of the Finger Maidens, for he had been far too engrossed in the Shattering to pay any mind to them when they first appeared, and had continued to ignore them since. But now, after meeting Melina, he wondered if Marika had a hand in commissioning them all, not just her own blood.

It took a great deal of time to sift through all the books and bindings, but Morgott paid no mind to the hour or the amount of time that had passed, driven by a feverish desire to learn more about the mother he had thought he understood. Finally, after a long search, he came across a old parchment, yellowed but well-preserved. The text was written in a stiff, spindly hand, as if the one who wrote it was more used to wielding a weapon than a quill, but it was legible enough.

I came across a heresy most foul today, unbecoming of the righteous Golden Order upheld by our absent Queen Marika and her consort Radagon. I beheld a woman traveling along the stretch of the Altus Plateau as I camped at the ruins of the Second Church of Marika, keeping vigil on the road to Gelmir. She approached me, but she did not pay me any mind, her eyes fixed on something I could not perceive.

I asked her what her business was, and she answered that she was in search of a Tarnished to serve. This shocked me, as her garb was that of a Finger Maiden, a most holy office. I then asked her why a Tarnished might be deserving of a Finger Maiden to guide them, and she answered that she was doing what was commanded of her by Marika.

I have never before heard of such heresy, that the beloved queen would grant outcasts a Maiden of their own. I sought to question her further, but she had already passed by the church, and I could not abandon my post. But if the Tarnished are to be slain, then surely the Maidens that serve them must be as well.

Morgott had read enough, setting the parchment aside. Melina was not the only Maiden commissioned by Marika, but of them all, she was the most suited for what must be done. He had seen the seal on her eye before in old texts, speaking of Destined Death.

A shiver went up his spine. The way into the Erdtree was twofold. It had to be burned by the great flame on the mountain, but for the fire to take hold, Destined Death would have to be released once more. He knew well who it was that held Destined Death, for he had done much in making sure they never crossed paths. But he had a feeling that this was yet another of Marika’s designs; she knew that the Black Blade would guard Destined Death until the end, rendering the Rune safe from all except the one most fit to take it.

And was the Tarnished who lay wounded in his own quarters worthy to take it?  Morgott considered begrudgingly that perhaps, maybe, she was. She did not treat death and life lightly, except when it was her own life she played with.

Morgott let out a growling sigh. Was this truly how things were meant to be? Was he to hand over his Rune and stand aside to let her go forth to repair the Elden Ring? And even if she did repair the Ring, what of the Greater Will? A god could not be slain, not easily, at least.

He would need to learn of her ideals in further depth before he could make any decision, so he would have to wait until she healed. Then he would determine if the joining of their purposes was the path he was meant to travel. And that raised another question: if they were to work together for the betterment of the Lands, what would be the nature of their union?

The one answer he knew most clearly was altogether foreign and frightening, an outcome he had never thought himself worthy of, but there was no mistaking the power of such a union. He had seen it with his father and Marika, and then with Marika and Radagon. The idea of an Omen taking a consort was almost laughable to him, but Melina had proved to him that his perspective of the world was not as ineffable as he had once thought it to be.

But, if there were to be a union—a marriage—between him and the Tarnished, it would be for the Lands Between and nothing more. He could not imagine ever holding true sentiment for the Tarnished, much less receive it from her in return. No matter how much she claimed to care for the downtrodden of the Lands, no one could ever hold compassion for an Omen beyond that of pity. If she were willing to undertake such a commitment, then perhaps her claims of desiring a truly better age for the Lands were not as unscrupulous as he had first thought them to be. For why else would an uncursed being as she bind herself to his monstrosity?

Morgott considered these things until the two moons had progressed far into their nightly course, until at last sleep took hold of him even as he sat amongst the aged writings.

He dreamed once more of the Erdtree, standing golden and as tall as the sky, and he saw his mother’s body hanging within, Grace outpouring from her. He looked upon the image with new eyes and new regret, now that he understood the truth. He wondered if Marika had been trying to show him the truth through the dream across the years, and guilt pierced him deep.

But the dream did not continue in its usual fashion. Someone stood alongside him, and he turned, meeting Melina’s gaze.

“I hear the echoes of Marika all across the Lands,” she said. “Shall I share them with you?”

Morgott’s mouth moved before his mind could catch up. “Yes.”

“Let my hand rest upon you, but for a moment.” Melina’s palm touched his own before he could flinch. “May her words bring you clarity.”

Morgott saw Marika before him, but not her broken body hanging in the Erdtree, or the many statues of her likeness that were spread throughout Leyndell. He saw her as he had only once: whole and strong, beautiful and terrible, the light of Grace shining from her so brightly he thought it might blind him. for a moment, the piercing gaze of gold held his, and he thought his heart might stop, but her eyes turned elsewhere, to an audience he could not see in the dream.

And when Marika opened her mouth and spoke, her voice was exactly as he remembered it, melodious as a harpy’s song but ringing with the dread of a knell, spellbinding on all who heard it, either to their ascension or their doom.

“The Erdtree governs all. The choice is thine. Become one with the Order. Or divest thyself of it. To wallow at the fringes; a powerless upstart.”

The image of Marika vanished, only to be replaced by another, where she stood tall and mighty. But there was something more in her face, a shadow, perhaps, dimming the light of Grace from her only slightly.

She spoke again: “I declare mine intent, to search the depths of the Golden Order. Through understanding of the proper way, our faith, our Grace, is increased. Those blissful early days of blind belief are long past. My comrades; why must ye falter?”

Morgott stared at her likeness. There was no denying it now; she had grown to disfavor the Golden Order, until finally that disfavor had turned destructive.

The image of Marika shifted once more to another echo.

“My Lord, and thy warriors. I divest each of thee of thy grace. With thine eyes dimmed, ye will be driven from the Lands Between. Ye will wage war in a land afar, where ye will live, and die.”

Morgott’s blood went cold.

“Then, after thy death, I will give back what I once claimed. Return to the Lands Between, wage war, and brandish the Elden Ring. Grow strong in the face of death. Warriors of my lord. Lord Godfrey.”

The truth he had never even imagined was now set in stone. Marika had sent away his father and his warriors, and in doing so, had created the Tarnished, not the Greater Will, as a means to the end of destroying the Golden Order.

He could feel the blood of hundreds, perhaps thousands of Tarnished pooling around him, rising in a drowning flood, only adding a further accursedness to his own despoiled blood. He wanted to amend his wrongs, to fix the damage he had caused to his mother’s plans, but what could he do?

The answer had faced him only hours before at the Elden Throne. The Tarnished, fortunate enough and strong enough to have already gathered two Runes, who dreamed of a new age without the Golden Order.

As his mind sank into dreamless sleep, he knew what must be done.

He would help the Tarnished.

Rowa’s rest quickly became unsettled. Conflicting sorceries warred inside her body, golden radiance battling the crackling pain of the dragon. The discomfort catalyzed her troubled thoughts, for even in the twilight of waking and sleeping, she felt the sting from the rejection of the Erdtree, not just in her skin but in her heart.

From the very moment her memories began, her calling to the Elden Ring had been clear, but now that had been shattered. If Morgott spoke truly, the thorns could not be breached, but why would such a thing be put in place? It was not her lack of faith in the Golden Order that warranted the rejection, for Morgott and the previous Tarnished were greatly devoted, so what had brought about the barrier? What had incurred the Greater Will’s disfavor with the Grace-Given and the Tarnished alike?

The questions spun in her mind, whipped into a frenzy by the ills of her body. Disheartened, her mind descended into the world of dreams full of uncertainties.

She stood before the fleshlike door in the crumbling hall once more. Crimson light throbbed behind the door like a heartbeat, and with it came the voice.

You have been rejected. Spurned.

“Yes,” Rowa replied. “I don’t know what to do now. The thorns cannot be passed, so how now can I become Lord?”

Burn them , the voice said, speaking like one but with the strength of many. Burn it all.

“With what?”

The throbbing light beyond the door grew brighter, changing from crimson to orange. Rowa caught a glimpse of something, a small ember, and it ignited a small spark in her eyes. She felt it burning, but it was wilder than the dragon sorcery, clinging to her.

The Flame.

Her mouth moved of its own volition. “The Flame.”

Melina waited beside Rowa’s slumbering body patiently. Even now, with a more concrete body, time had little effect on her. The years she had spent waiting for a successful contender seemed long and short all at once, and waiting for Rowa to wake seemed that way as well, but for reasons she had yet to fully come to terms with. She wanted Rowa to wake, so that she could learn the news that they were not to be parted. As they had both hoped, their paths remained intertwined now that Melina had come into her understanding of her purpose.

Something warm glowed in Melina’s heart, and as she awaited Rowa’s awakening, she came to understand that it was true gladness. Emotion of any sort had always remained far from her, out of her grasp, though she did not necessarily strive to find it. For so long, her mind had been set solely on finding a way to the Erdtree, and emotion was something that would only get in the way. Traveling with Rowa, and finding true friendship instead of abandonment, had finally stirred the long-dormant feelings, and it had been more painful than she had anticipated to leave Rowa behind upon reaching Leyndell.

The joy she felt upon being able to return to Rowa’s side was almost staggering, but it was not without melancholy. Now she knew her purpose for certain, and the end she must meet for the sake of the new Lord. It was deeply bittersweet, but she was determined to make the most of what time they had left together.

She hoped that, through the echoes she had shown him in his dreams, Morgott’s understanding of Marika’s intentions would be cemented. When she left him, she knew he was still doubtful, so perhaps hearing Marika’s own words would convince him where she could not, and he would realize that his and Rowa’s intentions were not as different as he perceived them to be. She wished that they would become partners, compatriots, if not something even more, so that when she was gone Rowa would not be left alone in the world.

Melina’s ruminations came to an end when Rowa stirred on the makeshift pile of bedding. She waited patiently for Rowa to open her eyes, giving her Tarnished companion a soft smile. “Greetings, friend. It is good to see you, even after such a short parting.”

Rowa did not reply, starting to get up. Thinking she was disoriented, Melina reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Be at ease. You are safe.”

But still, Rowa did not so much as acknowledge her presence, acting as though she were not there. She stood up, heedless of the touch, her body swaying ever so slightly.

“What troubles you?” Perturbed, Melina stood as well, trying to get a look at her face, and when she got a good look at her eyes, she went cold. An ember of that destructive, chaotic flame burned in Rowa’s eyes, a tiny spark that could easily become an all-consuming blaze if it was not stopped. “Can you hear me?”

Rowa walked forward silently. She saw only the distant gleam of a beckoning fire, calling her, speaking to the pain of rejection and thwarted ambition. She opened the doors and stepped into the hall, following where the voice led. All else was like a dream, and she was unaware of her surroundings or the worried voice calling for her.

“Rowa!” Melina followed her friend, trying to get in front of her. “Do not pay heed to whatever you are being shown! It is living destruction!”

Rowa heard none of her pleas, her body acting automatically and shoving Melina aside so roughly that she stumbled into the wall. For a moment, Melina watched as she continued down the hall before turning away to find the one person who may be of some help.

“Morgott! Wake up!”

For an instant, Morgott thought it was Marika’s voice that called to him. When he opened his eyes, he saw it was not so, though who he saw was likely as close to Marika as he would ever get.

“Morgott!” Melina stood near to him, and the crease in her brow, the worry in her tone, set him on edge.

“What is it?” he growled irritably, already rankled by his dreams.

“The Frenzied Flame has called to Rowa.”

All agitation was washed away in a wave of dread. “What? Thou art certain?”

“I saw the gleam of the Flame in her eyes, and it calls her to the depths as we speak. I tried to wake her, but I cannot.” Melina placed a hand upon his own. “Please, try to wake her! I know she has yet to win your approval, but—”

“I will do it,” Morgott said, rising to his full height. To allow a Tarnished to walk his grounds was one thing, but he would not let the Frenzied Flame defile the Golden City again.

Rowa walked through gilded halls and open verandas she did not know. The Erdtree blazed huge and bright nearby, but she did not see it. The voice whispered, and she was led, wanting nothing more than to overcome the rejection she had faced and claim the Elden Ring.

She descended to the small backstreets beneath the building Morgott inhabited. They were small and dark, the high walls rising up close on either side blocking out most of the light from the Erdtree. She turned several corners, coming upon an old hatch built into the cobblestones, with a metal grate that lay beside it, and she knew upon seeing it that was where she needed to go.

She stepped forward, looking through the slats in the grate, and saw the glimmer of murky water shimmering below, and the light of yellow fire reflected back at her.

Come.

Rowa reached for the hatch, unaware of the shiver that passed through the cobblestones as a figure leapt from the edge of a nearby building, landing behind her. Her fingers were inches from the handle when a huge hand seized her by the arm, jerking her backwards.

“Cease this, Tarnished!” Golden light shone as the seal of the Erdtree touched Rowa’s skin, and she gasped like she had been deprived of air, coming back into herself. Disoriented, she pulled against the hand holding her, thinking it was an enemy.

“Be still!” Morgott ordered, unwilling to let her go until he was certain the Flame had dimmed from her eyes.

 Rowa caught sight of Morgott’s unhappy countenance, stirring recognition in her, but true clarity rushed upon her mind when she saw who stood next to him. She stopped struggling, breathing out, “Melina?”

“Your eyes do not deceive you, my friend.” A small, true smile graced the Maiden’s lips, and she glanced at Morgott. “The Flame has receded. You may release her.”

After a moment, Morgott let go of Rowa, and the Tarnished flung her arms around Melina in a tight embrace. Melina stood stunned at first, before slowly bringing her hands up to return it. Though they had been parted for little more than a day, Rowa had felt the absence of her companion keenly after the long days of travel together.

Morgott watched them embrace silently. He understood better now what Melina had meant about Rowa’s love of companionship. It had been a long time since he had seen such a genuine display of affection from anyone, and it set an ache somewhere deep in his heart.

“How are you here?” Rowa asked, drawing away to look at Melina.

“I discovered my memories, my purpose, and it is to remain with you in your quest to become Elden Lord,” Melina said.

“And your mother…?”

“Marika hangs imprisoned within the Erdtree.”

Rowa’s face fell, her eyes flickering to the luminous branches visible from the alleyway. “I cannot free her. The Erdtree would not open to me, nor anyone else. I am sorry.”

“Do not be sorry,” Melina said. “There is yet hope.”

“That discussion can wait,” Morgott cut in. “There is a far more pressing matter at hand.”

Irritated at his interruption, Rowa shot him a hard look. “What do you mean?”

“Dost thou not see how ye were led in body and mind?” Morgott asked, his fear morphing into frustration now that the greatest danger had passed. The seal he had placed below the city had not been enough to contain the Flame as he had hoped.

Rowa’s agitation died away as she looked around the tiny alleyway. Her body felt stronger than it had at the Elden Throne, but her wounds still stung and her legs quivered. “How…how did I get here?”

“What do you remember?” Melina asked softly.

“I…” Rowa furrowed her brow, trying to make sense of the vague memories. “There was a voice…a light…and it wanted me to become Lord.”

“Is this the first time it has spoken to you?”

“No. I dreamed of it once before, when I first entered the city.”

“Thou wert foolish to heed it at all,” Morgott rumbled. “I know what it is that beckoned thee, for it is also in my mind.”

Rowa hesitated in forming a response as a new expression rippled across his face, one that sent a shiver through her. It was fear she saw, and it must have been something truly terrifying to elicit fear from a demigod as strong as he.

“Do you remember,” Melina said, “when I told you that there were powers in the world that were not to be entertained?”

“Yes,” Rowa murmured. “This was one of them?”

“The worst of them,” Morgott said. “There is no curse or power more vile than the Flame of Frenzy.”

“The Flame…” Rowa remembered the light throbbing behind the fleshlike door, and she turned her gaze towards the hatch in the cobblestones. “It is…down there?”

“Far beneath the city, sealed by mine own hand.”

Before more could be said, a sound issued from the grate, a low, keening wail that spiraled up from some unknown distance. It was almost as though the Flame protested the loss of its host from its tomb far below, but it was too sorrowful, too human to be any noise conjured by the depraved presence.

“What is that?” Rowa asked, just loud enough to be heard over the distant noise.

The wailing unsettled Morgott for different reasons, and he turned his back on the grate. “’Tis nothing to concern thyself with. It would be wise to return to the Royal House before ye are seen by mine soldiers.”

“You cannot tell me that is nothing!” Rowa protested.

Morgott glared down at her. “Strewth! Can ye not leave this one thing well enough alone?”

“You have seen where lack of knowledge has gotten me!” Rowa gestured to the alleyway they stood in. “And, I assume that if you have gone to the trouble to come to my aid, you are yet considering working towards the good of the Lands Between with me. If that is so, then there must be no secrets between us. Do not keep this from me!”

Morgott regarded her in conflicted silence, and as he did, the wail faded into silence. For a moment, he no longer stood above ground but below it, where such cries were heard in perpetuity through the murky, molded tunnels.

“Those are the cries of Omens,” he said at last.

“Omens?” Rowa echoed, taken aback.

“Aye.”

Rowa paused, trying to make sense of the information. “Why are they down there?”

“All Omens born of nobility, if not slain at birth, are cast into the sewers to live and die in squalor.”

“And you would leave them?” Rowa asked, dismayed.

Morgott bristled. This topic was not one he had anticipated breaching anytime soon. “The matter is not as simple as ye would think it.”

“Is it not?” Anger began to simmer hot in Rowa’s chest. “They are kin to you whether you like it or not, and you are a king! Why would you leave them in such a terrible place, unless you as a demigod have been granted separation from the evils that regular Omens are forced to endure—”

“Speak to me not of knowing evil, when thou hast been so easily led close to ruin!” Morgott growled, towering over her.

“But you have left your kind to rot!” Rowa replied hotly, uncaring of her unarmed and weakened state as infuriated dismay seized her. “It seems to me you are a hypocrite! You claim to want what is best for the Lands Between, but you will not use your position to help your own kind?”

“Do not accuse me of being a charlatan, Tarnished!” Morgott thundered, the words echoing off the walls of the alley. “Ye presume falsehoods!”

“Such as?”

“I spent many a year in the black pits, just like every other Omen in this city.” Morgott’s voice dropped to a low, menacing hiss. He had not spoken of that time in many a year, much less with one such as her. “I was not spared the pain ye have heard proof of, and only at the Shattering was I granted the chance to become something more than a reviled outcast. So do not accuse me so flagrantly, and speak so unashamedly of things ye think ye know. For thou might make me reconsider my intent to aid thee.”

The blaze of Rowa’s anger was doused in a flood of surprise and regret. “You…you were going to help me?”

“I considered it,” Morgott snapped. “Thy Maiden and I spoke long of many things, and my mind had been swayed to thy favor.”

Melina had watched the exchange silently. She had nothing to offer on either side of the argument, and she had expected such a clash, given their previous exchange at the Erdtree. But now she said, “Indeed. He and I spoke of ways to take the Elden Ring, and the ways in which your purposes might be joined.”

Rowa nodded, suddenly feeling quite small and ashamed of herself. “But…will you at least tell me why you have left them down there?”

Morgott did not answer for so long that she thought he would not give an answer, but he finally did, the ire gone from his voice. “I freed the ones who would come. Those that remain were broken in mind irreparably, and there is naught I can do for them.”

Rowa could find no response she thought worthy, her perspective of Morgott suddenly shifted once more. A demigod he was, but no stranger to suffering regardless. He, perhaps, knew suffering the best of all the demigods, and had endured much under the stigma of the Golden Order for his appearance as much as the other outcasts she had come upon. And yet somehow, he remained loyal to his mother and stayed of sound mind. It was dismaying and admirable all at once.

She wanted to speak, to apologize for her assumptions, but before she could make herself act, Morgott was walking away.

“Come,” he said flatly, not looking back. “Thou’rt not fully healed, but there is much that must be discussed once ye are.”

Rowa glanced at Melina, who gave her a small nod of assurance. Melina wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulders, and the pair followed the Omen King back towards the Erdtree.

Chapter Text

Morgott led Rowa and Melina back to the room they had originally been in. They passed beneath archways embellished with intricate accolades, the walls bearing detailed reliefs of various seals likely relating to the Golden Order. To contrast the architecture, roots and vines had broken through the masonry in various places, spidering across the stone much like the rest of the city. The onset of nature over the manmade structures spoke to the decline of Leyndell, but it was strangely fitting for the quiet halls.

Rowa appreciated the archaic beauty of the Royal House as they passed through it, but the majority of her attention was fixed on Morgott’s towering form ahead of her. He had not uttered a word since leaving the streets, and she could no longer gauge his emotions. She could not believe that he had decided to help her so swiftly, and she wished to question him about it, but he was likely not in the mood for prolonged discussions.

By the time they reached the room, Rowa’s legs were quivering from the effort. In the grand scheme of the city, she had not travelled far at all, having hardly even left the building, but even that distance left her feeling winded. She sat down on the pile of bedding with a small groan, her wounds smarting and her head feeling too big for her shoulders.

She expected Morgott to leave her there, but he ducked in the doorway after her, so she said, “There’s a canteen of water in my pack. Can I have it…?”

Morgott’s glimmering eye fixed upon her for a moment before he turned towards the discarded haversack in the corner of the room. The canteen was little more than a pebble in his massive palm, and her fingers even tinier as they ghosted over the rough plane of his skin as she accepted it from him. A peculiar shiver ran through him at the sensation, but if either her or Melina noticed, they did not speak of it.

When Rowa finally stopped drinking to breathe, she noticed Morgott had hunched over a little nearby, golden motes of light shimmering in his palms. She withheld her questions, watching with interest as something began to take shape in the light. His lips moved in a silent incantation, and with a small burst, a glimmering image of a cross sprouting from the likeness of the Elden Ring appeared in his hands

“What is that?” Rowa asked, unable to help herself any longer.

“’Tis the seal of the Erdtree,” Morgott said, stepping towards her. His face was hard, but there was no anger in his voice anymore. “With this, I have sealed the Flame of Frenzy below, and so I bestow it to thee as well, so that thy mind may be protected.”

Surprised, Rowa reached out to touch the seal. It was warm, not unlike the power of the Runes, but as her fist closed over it there was no feeling of overwhelming power, only a pulse of energy running through her. A pleasant feeling overshadowed her discomfort, and for a moment she glimpsed the seal between her own fingers before it faded away.

“Thank you,” she murmured, letting out a relieved sigh as the remaining tension in her body began to seep away.

“Your incantations are powerful,” Melina noted. “It should do well to keep the Frenzied Flame at bay.”

“Time will tell, for the Flame seeks Tarnished and none else,” Morgott said, fixing Rowa with calculating look. “Tarnished, ye must set thy mind against the Flame.”

Rowa shook her head. “I don’t know how.”

 A frustrated growl rumbled in Morgott’s throat. “Dost thou know how to call upon the power of thy Runes?”

Rowa blinked, looking down at her calloused palms. “I’ve only summoned them in times of great distress.”

“But they are always there, waiting to be called upon. In the same way, the seal I have bestowed upon thee shall remain ready for thy call. Should the Flame assail thee, ye must resist it.”

“How do I call it?”

“Ye must become aware of its presence within. Reach out like thou hast done in times of danger to thy Runes, and thou shalt find it.”

Rowa took a deep breath, putting the image of the seal in the forefront of her mind as she tried to channel the same train of thought that led her to summon the power of the Runes in front of the Dragon Sentinel. She envisioned herself reaching out towards the seal, and reawakened that same feeling of desperation. She did not know what the Flame of Frenzy was truly, but if the unsettlement it elicited from both Morgott and Melina was to be trusted, it was something she did not want to contend with.

Warmth bloomed in her hands. She opened her eyes to the sight of the seal glowing above her palms, and she grinned.

Morgott was momentarily startled. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen someone smile so genuinely. He was used to the sadistic grins of Tarnished hunting parties as they approached him, but there was no ill intent in Rowa’s face.

“It seems thy skill is of some merit despite knowing no sorcery,” he said with begrudging respect. “Now rest thyself before thy wounds worsen further.”

Rowa willed the seal away, and it vanished as she let her hands fall into her lap. When she looked up, Morgott was already turning away, heading for the door. “Wait.”

Morgott paused, glancing back at her with wordless acknowledgement.

“Thank you for healing me, and treating me well despite our previous meetings and the distrust between us.” Rowa spoke slowly, measuring each word. “And, I wish to say that I am sorry for what I said to you. I spoke too rashly, and I hope that you will endeavor to help me despite my wrongdoings.”

Morgott was once again taken aback. He was used to hasty apologies from frightened knights who had spoken hastily and interrupted them, but the only person who had ever approached his true face with any remorse for their actions was his brother, and even that was a remnant of a time long gone. For a moment, his gaze lingered on her face, expecting to find insincerity or outright mockery there, but her eyes were averted, as though she were well and truly ashamed.

Thoroughly vexed, he set his back to her fully before anymore strangeness could occur. “Do not deign to thank me yet, Tarnished. No accord has been reached between us.” He took his leave, not wishing nor quite knowing how to respond to her apology.

Rowa did not call after him again, watching as he ducked through the door and shut it behind him. “Melina,” she said once she was certain he had gone, “do you think I have ruined this chance at a partnership?”

“I think not,” Melina answered. “Having witnessed Morgott for many a long year in his campaign against the Tarnished, if he had no intention of at least considering you, he would have made that plain for you to see.”

Rowa supposed she would have to take that as her source of comfort until she could discuss matters further with him, so she turned her thoughts away from him. “Before I rest, I must know what has transpired. What is the way into the Erdtree that you have discovered?”

“First, you must know that things are not as we have previously been led to believe. You have been called by Grace to the Erdtree, but not by the Greater Will. Rather, you have been summoned by Marika herself, who acts independently of the Greater Will.”

“Marika?” Rowa echoed. “Why?”

“She grew displeased by the Golden Order, but she also knew her children would fall into war for the Elden Ring, for she kept the truth of her intentions hidden in order to save them from the Greater Will’s scrutiny. So, she set another plan in motion, to make the Tarnished in the hope that one would break through the fracture and make a new order.”

“And she was imprisoned in the Erdtree for shattering the Ring?”

“Yes.”

Rowa contemplated it, the picture coming to light in her mind as though illuminated by dawn after a long night. “Does Morgott know of this?”

“He does now, though he did not when you met at the Elden Throne. I spoke to him long about it, and I believe Marika’s involvement with the Tarnished has changed his heart to help you.”

“I see. So, everything we both knew about the purpose of the Tarnished was wrong?”

“And I, as well. Before, all I knew was what I heard in the Roundtable Hold. But now that my memory is restored, I see the truth.”

Rowa thought back to the Roundtable Hold, and all the Tarnished she had met seeking purpose in their own way. “The Two Fingers were lying to the Tarnished, all this time.”

“Whether they knew the truth, or it was withheld from them as well, who can say? It is troubling, to think that the Greater Will and Marika are in such a battle of wills.”

“Ofnir!” Rowa burst out, driving a fist into the shredded bedding.

Melina faltered, perturbed. “What?”

“He knew Marika was the one behind the Tarnished, and he all but told me.” Rowa let out a resigned sigh, resting her chin on her hand. “The day I left the Roundtable Hold for good, he told me that ambition was what the Queen wanted to incite the Tarnished. I was too angry to even listen, but if I had realized what he meant, perhaps I could have formed a more convincing appeal to Morgott earlier, and some of this could have been avoided.”

“It is surprising to me that he would speak of it at all, since the All-Knowing holds his own advancement above all else, and I suspect he has not yet forfeit his bid for the Elden Throne.”

“I agree,” Rowa murmured, frustrated but unsurprised by further revelation of Gideon’s underhandedness. “I think we have not seen the last of him.”

“Nor do I, but do not let it trouble you, my friend. You have forged your own path of understanding without relying on Gideon or the flawed view of the Two Fingers, and though you have hit another obstacle, the path forward remains.”

“Indeed, so enlighten me on how we should continue onwards.”

“The thorns are impenetrable. A husk of the Erdtree's being, that spurns all that exists without. The only way to stand before the Elden Ring, and become the Elden Lord, is to pass the thorns. My purpose serves to aid in that very act. So I'd like you to undertake a new journey with me to the flame of ruin, far above the clouds, upon the snow mountaintops of the giants. Then I can set the Erdtree aflame and guide you down the path to becoming Elden Lord.”

Melina reached into her cloak, drawing out an object and passing it to Rowa. It was a medallion of some gray metal, engraved with the likeness of two figures facing each other with a mountain range stretching between them. The only spot of color was a single, orange gem nestled in the mountain’s peaks, that seemed to glimmer like fire itself as the light caught it.

“This is the medallion to the Grand Lift of Rold, which lies beyond Leyndell,” Melina said. “It was given to me by Marika long ago, though I have only now relearned its purpose. It shall allow you passage into the mountains to light the forge.”

“This flame,” Rowa murmured, turning the medallion in her hands, “is it a flame to be feared?”

“No. It is set apart from the Flame of Frenzy, and can be controlled. The Frenzy is a destructive agent of a chaotic god that will burn all in its path, servant and enemy alike, but the Flame of the Giants is merely a construct to be used as the one who controls it wishes.”

“And must the Erdtree be burned?”

“It is the only way for the thorns to be removed, and it is a twofold path.”

“How so?”

“For the flames to truly burn the thorns, the Rune of Death must be unbound, but the only way to reach the Rune is to journey to the Forge and light the flame first.”

“Is this by Marika’s design?”

“It is.”

“And what will unbinding the Rune do?”

“It shall allow death, true death, back into the order of the world, for it was removed by Marika long ago, even before the Shattering as part of the creation of the Golden Order.”

Rowa considered the plight of the world. Nothing died for good, but nothing seemed to truly live anymore, either. “Is it good to bring death back into the world?”

“I think it so,” Melina said. “Life and death are part of the original order, and removing one half has plunged the world into brokenness. Marika came to realize this error, among others, so she set forth the path to the Rune of Death alongside the very thing necessary to enter the Erdtree. Once the Forge of the Giants has been set alight, the way to the Rune shall appear.”

“And which demigod holds this Rune?”

“No demigod. Only a Shadow.”

For some reason, a chill ran up Rowa’s spine. “A formidable and worthy guard?”

“Indeed.”

“Do you think Morgott shall accept this course of action?”

“I have told him. He was opposed to the idea at first, but I am sure those thoughts are waning. He knows better than anyone the impenetrable nature of the thorns, and now that he understands Marika’s role behind the Tarnished, he is of more proclivity to join you.”

“I hope so. I will need his Rune to mend the Ring, and I have no desire to do battle for it, especially now that I understand him better.” Rowa paused thoughtfully. “Did he truly live in the sewers?”

“I cannot speak to his experiences, but I do know that the sewers are held as a Shunning-Ground for Omens. This I am sure of without a doubt.”

Perhaps that owed to his bedraggled appearance. It surprised her, that a man who lived in one of the most decadent places in the Lands Between would not seek at least some form of better clothing. But then, he had kept his true face hidden for many a year. She wondered with a pang of sorrow what it must be like for him to rule a kingdom whose subjects would turn on him in an instant if they knew what he truly was.

“I truly hope we can come to some agreement,” she murmured. “I think he is one of the most selfless people I’ve come across in my travels. He has devoted himself to something that despises him for his mother’s sake. I’m not sure if I could ever do such a thing.”

 “He does not seek power for himself, and perhaps the Lands Between would not be caught in this broken age if all the demigods were of the same mind,” Melina said. “My view of him has shifted much now that I have regained my memories and conversed with him at length. I do not wish him to ruin either, if only for my understanding that he is my brother.”

“Your brother…” Looking at Melina and her gentle features, the notion seemed almost absurd to Rowa, for there was not a single similarity between them she could see.

“We are both children of Marika, though we do not bear the same father.”

“Who is your father?”

Melina gaze became distant. “That has not been imparted to me in full. Even now, I am not sure who it is, in utter certainty.”

“What about Morgott?”

“His father is Godfrey, the First Elden Lord.”

Rowa thought back to the apparition of the hulking warrior she had faced before reaching the Elden Throne. “Godfrey…Morgott said there was one Tarnished he would deem worthy of ascending to the throne. Do you think he spoke of his father?”

“Without a doubt. Though Godfrey was banished while Morgott was yet a child, his regard for his father has never waned.”

The more Rowa learned of Morgott’s predicament, the more she was amazed at his loyalty towards the order that scorned him. “Maybe that is why he had no mercy for other Tarnished, though I cannot say I have been impressed by many of them either.”

“Perhaps.”

Rowa set the medallion to the side, giving her a grateful smile. “Thank you for speaking to him on my behalf. I am not sure if I would have been able to speak reason to him myself without knowledge of Marika’s intent, and I am glad your purpose is to remain at my side.”

Melina smiled back, though it was bittersweet within. “As am I.”

Rowa’s smile faded as she became somber once more. “I must ask something of you, and I wish to know your honest opinion.”

“I shall do my best.”

“I wish to know if Morgott can be trusted.” Rowa lowered her voice on the chance the king was somehow listening. “He has not slain me, and treated my wounds, but Gideon also treated me with hospitality in the beginning.”

“You wish to know if Morgott would commit the same foul acts as Gideon has?”

“Yes. I would like to combine our strength, but not with someone who would trample upon the lives of the innocent for power.”

“I have long observed Morgott, beneath his guise as Margit the Fell. I have been alongside many Tarnished as they fell, and have seen from afar countless more. He showed no quarter, but he did not act out of ambition, but a sense of duty to Marika’s remnants. He did not perceive the Tarnished as innocent, but as pillagers seeking to destroy. It seems like an unfair view, but after seeing Gideon’s actions, would you not think the same?”

“I suppose so,” Rowa murmured.

“He disdained the Tarnished for the threat he perceived them to be, but never once did I see him take the life of another for what they were born as, Omen or otherwise. To say he is completely without fault would be a falsehood, for he fought ruthlessly in the Shattering and the time thereafter, but no one is truly without wrongdoing no matter how good their intentions.”

“You speak truly.” A wry smile played across Rowa’s face.

“Now that I know Morgott’s nature and motives, I am certain that if you were to form an accord with him, he would never commit an act of violence against the innocent as Gideon has. Gideon desires knowledge and power, but Morgott desires only to fulfill Marika’s wishes.”

“He does not seem to hold himself in high regard, unlike Gideon, but after seeing the treatment of Omens I cannot place much blame on him.” Rowa frowned at the carved walls. “Why would Marika condemn her own son to the sewers?”

“I cannot say how much Marika was complicit in the act, for the Greater Will exacted a high price upon her that she tried to shed with the breaking of the Ring.”

“It is a contemptable course of action nonetheless. I am beginning to see why he proclaims himself cursed and unworthy.”

“He has been alone a long while. Perhaps the presence of another, such as yourself, will begin to turn his mind away from such a disparaging sense of self.”

“Perhaps. I believe pursuing an accord with him would be worthwhile, for I do not wish to fight him for his Rune even more so now. He has remained sane though his life seems full of much pain, and I would not wish to add to that amount.”

“A noble sentiment for one who was so recently an enemy.”

“It is hard to know if he remains an enemy or not, but given his previous fervor for hunting Tarnished, I would say not. He has entertained your plan for breaching the Erdtree and healed my wounds, and I see no cunning within him.”

“Having observed Gideon, I can say there is no deceit in Morgott. He speaks the truth, no matter how harsh it is.”

“I suppose we shall see what agreement we can reach once I rest.”

“We have spoken a long while, and it would not be well to keep him waiting,” Melina suggested. “Will you now rest?”

“I suppose.” Rowa sighed, stretching herself. The bedding she rested upon was not orderly by any means, but it was far more comfortable than the hard ground. “Hopefully it shall not be disturbed this time.”

“Powerful incantations are woven about you, along with the seal you have been gifted. You should rest without worry.”

“I want it to be known that I do not desire to be a scion of this Frenzied Flame, and should it try to take me again, it will not be by my own will.”

“I understand, and I will impart this to Morgott, should the need arise.”

Rowa leaned back against the bedding, the mere act of reclining adding weight to her eyelids. “Thank you.”

Melina stood, seeing the veil of sleep quickly descending over her. “Torrent and I shall keep watch over you. May you rise refreshed.”

Morgott’s quill stilled as he felt the disturbance in the air, letting the silence hang for a moment. “If thou hast come to petition me in the fear that I will forsake thy Tarnished for her insolence, then be not afeared. Of all the insults I have born, rash assumptions are of the very least.”

Melina shimmered into existence behind him. “I come not for such a petition, though your assurance is good to hear. Rather, I come to know your mind, now that you have seen the echoes of Marika.”

Morgott lifted his gaze to the decadent balcony beyond the desk he hunched over, watching the golden leaves flutter past in the cool breeze, and it was a while before he spoke. “I see now that thou speakest the truth of Marika’s role amidst the Tarnished. Indeed, she banished my lord father and his warriors, but I never supposed that it was she who would call them back. Yet now I see clearly, and it is with no small amount of reluctance that I suppose I must help the Tarnished, as penance for my actions against Marika.”

“I remind you that you acted in good faith towards Marika.”

“Would she see the years of bloodshed as such?”

“I cannot speak her thoughts, only what she has imparted to me. However, I think it is telling that Grace has remained bright within you.”

Morgott growled but made no true reply, his tail swishing once across the floorstones thoughtfully.

“I have told her of the way into the Erdtree, and she is willing to undertake it. What is your mind?”

“I can only assume that Marika has planned this. Therefore, it is of less grievance to me that the Erdtree be burned, but before I decide truly, I must know what future she envisions for the Lands Between.”

“In truth, she does not know fully what future she would have.”

Morgott scoffed. “I suppose such shortsightedness should be expected of her kind. The Tarnished seek power, but know not how to wield it.”

“She does know that she would remove the Greater Will, and make the world better for all kinds. Perhaps the matter of the Crucible would be of some interest to the both of you.”

“The Crucible?” Morgott turned to look at her. “Why?”

“Rowa would see a world where others are not downtrodden, be they Omen, Misbegotten, Demihuman, or otherwise. Surely you know that Omens were first birthed from the powers of the Crucible.”

“I do.” Morgott shifted, his eye glimmering. “I have seen it. In dreams.”

“Then perhaps it is meant to be so.”

“But how?”

“That, I know not, but it is of no matter so long as the way to the Elden Ring is closed.”

“I shall think on it. My lord father…he commanded the Crucible Knights, or so I have read.”

“Then maybe he saw the benefit of the Crucible where the Golden Order did not.”

“I would not doubt it.” Morgott paused, his mind drifting to the few, distant memories he had of his father. “I wonder if he had aught at all to do with the Golden Order, for he kept his Crucible Knights while Elden Lord.”

“I cannot say, for I never knew him. But it seems he embraced what had been deemed cursed.”

“He did.” An ache began to bloom in Morgott’s heart, but he swiftly crushed it before it could take root. “I will not dismiss the matter, but what becomes of it will depend upon the willingness of the Tarnished to undertake my conditions.”

“What conditions?” Melina asked, a pang of uncertainty running through her.

“I have decided that if I am to fight alongside this Tarnished, and hand over my Rune to mend the Elden Ring, I will not make such a pact on mere word alone. I would have us undertake a vow.”

“A vow of what sort?”

“The most sacred and binding vow in my knowledge.”

It was all Melina could do to restrain her surprise. “Do you mean…?”

“It is a vow of word and deed, a binding of the very soul in a promise. Such a thing is not undertaken lightly, and I would not stake the fate of the Lands Between on nothing less.”

“You would join her…in marriage?”

“Aye. If she be willing, then that shall be proof enough of her desire to seek the betterment of the Lands Between.”

“You would bind yourself to a Tarnished only days after deciding to ally with them?”

“I seek alliance not with all Tarnished, but with this one alone, for I have deemed her of some worth. I possess no affection for her, nor do I expect to receive it in return, but if she is to take my Rune for the Ring and become Elden Lord, I would not stand idly by and leave the Lands Between to her alone.”

Melina dipped her head, beginning to warm to the idea. “I understand. As I said before, it would be well for her to not be alone once the time comes for me to depart, and perhaps this is the best way to bring that about.”

“I seek the betterment of the Lands Between and nothing more,” Morgott grunted. “I will do what I must, but I do not intend to be an object for her amusement.”

“She would not see you as one, but you have seen that the Flame preys upon her, just as it did Vyke.”

Morgott rumbled discontentedly. “It seems the Flame has not reached her in full, for I see she knows not of thy intent.”

“She does not, but you have seen our bond. Once I am gone, she will need someone by her side as she walks the path to Destined Death. The Black Blade will not hand it over easily.”

Morgott glared at her before looking towards the balcony. “As I said, I will not give affection nor receive it in return. I would bind us for the Lands Between, to be assured of her willingness to create a new age worthy of Marika’s blessing. Such a thing is a small sacrifice to make in mine eyes, for it is naught compared to much of the suffering I have endured, and I would never be wedded otherwise.”

“So be it.”

“If thou art afeared that I wouldst betray thy Tarnished, then worry not. I would not turn against her unless she were to turn upon me first. I know betrayal right well, for life itself has turned upon me much.”

“I thank you for the assurance, but I do not fear that. Sound mind and judgement is a rarity in this time, especially among the remaining Shardbearers, but you seem to have remained steadfast.”

“By some great miracle.” The hardness of Morgott’s tone lessened as he grew contemplative. “Radahn rots, Rykard is lost to the serpent, and I know not what became of Ranni. Malenia perhaps remains of sound mind, wherever she may be, and Miquella as well, but I have not heard of either in a long while. As for my brother…I set aside my hope for him as soon as I saw the bloody flames.”

“When the world is put right, perhaps you might try to reach out to your brother again.”

“I hold no great assurance that he will ever be made right. He hath committed many atrocities that perhaps even the likes Godrick would shy away from.” For a moment, the stony set of Morgott’s expression slipped away to reveal a deep sadness, and Melina glimpsed it before it was gone. “But there are more pressing matters to consider with thy Tarnished. Tell me, would ye think it a waste to pose such a vow at all?”

“I cannot speak for her,” Melina said, “but she has already undergone many challenges and pains for the Ring. I cannot think that she would shy away from something as bloodless as this, for she holds fast in her desire to resolve things with you peaceably.”

“Her needless mercies.” Morgott spoke with contempt, but it lacked the vitriol he had held previously.

“Perhaps not so needless as you think it.” Melina turned her good eye to gaze upon the drifting leaves of the Erdtree. “If there is nothing else you wish to discuss, I will take my leave to watch over her rest.”

“Go.” Morgott waved a huge hand dismissively. “The Flame sleepeth not.”

“Very well. If she is strong enough, I will bring her to you when she wakes.”

“If thou seeth fit.”

Melina faded away, leaving Morgott to contemplate vows and accords by himself.

Rowa’s sleep was dreamless, and when she woke next she felt greatly invigorated. Evening rays shown through the latticed window, setting the floorstones aflame with their light as she took her time coming into wakefulness. The scraps of bedding around her were nothing short of luxurious in comparison to the hard ground, and she had no desire to leave them quite yet.

“Hello, my friend. I trust you slept undisturbed?” Melina sat on the floor nearby, and Torrent lay at her side.

“I did,” Rowa said, blinking the bleariness of sleep away as she slowly sat up.

“How do your wounds feel?”

“Better,” They hardly ached at all anymore, and the hot pain of the dragon lightning had faded into a distant and dying ember.

“Morgott would like to speak to you as soon as you are willing, but first you should eat and drink.” Melina gestured to a tray on a nearby table. It was laden with a metal pitcher, a cloth, and a pile of pickled meats that made Rowa hungry at the sight. She got to her feet, wobbling a little but finding her equilibrium soon enough.

“I assume this is not your doing,” Rowa said as she approached the tray.

“No, though I did remind Morgott that Tarnished must eat and drink like anyone else possessed of a body.”

Rowa snorted, picking up one of the meats and sniffing it appreciatively. “Somehow, that is of no great surprise to me.”

“Long isolation can make one forgetful of hospitality.”

“I suppose so.” Rowa set upon the food with a voracious appetite. It was not a splendorous meal by any means, but it was good and filling, and she took advantage of the opportunity to eat her fill. As she ate, she spoke to Torrent of all that had happened since she had entered Leyndell in earnest, and he listened with quiet interest.

Once she had eaten all she could, she used the water and the cloth provided to clean herself. It was no bath, but she managed to remove some of the deep grime clinging to her skin and hair, leaving her feeling greatly refreshed.

“I believe I am ready to speak with Morgott,” she said as she tried to untangle some of the deepest snarls in her hair. “Is he still willing to consider an accord?”

“He is.” Melina rose, and Torrent took his leave. “I shall take you to him.”

Melina led Rowa through a different wing of the building than the one she had seen before, and it was just as strangely magnificent. They went down a flight of stairs and across a covered walkway that offered a clear view of the Erdtree’s trunk descending into the sunset-lit mists below the structures of the city, taking them into the back terraces of the Erdtree Sanctuary. From there, navigation became a little harder with large roots that needed to be bypassed, but it was not too strenuous.

As they wound their way through the veritable maze, voices drifted to them on the breeze, and as they climbed an overgrown staircase Rowa recognized Morgott’s rumbling tones. At the top, they reached a large terrace off of the highest level of the Sanctuary, and Rowa could see the gilded inlays of the Atrium ceiling through a root-filled arch. It took her a moment to find Morgott, surprised when she spotted him sitting upon a large, gnarled section of root stretching up to the golden rooftops, his feet and tail hanging off in something of a lackadaisical manner that was somewhat amusing. She opened her mouth to call out to him, but Melina’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“Wait,” Melina said. “He is at audience with his men.”

Rowa nodded, compelled by interest to move closer to the root Morgott sat on and hear the full conversation. Another voice, belonging undoubtedly to a knight, echoed from the Atrium floor far below, and she caught the end of his report.

“…recusants pinned them down in the lowlands. As of the report they were holding out, but there seem to be a few scores of the recusants.”

“If they are able to hold out until nightfall, they should find relief. I will send out forces to aid them.” Morgott’s reply was firm and of some surprise to Rowa. She had halfway expected him to set aside endangered men.

“Very well, my Lord.”

“Thou art dismissed.”

Footsteps echoed in the Atrium, fading away as the knight departed. Morgott shifted on his perch, noticing the waiting pair below on the terrace.

“It seems thou art of better health, Tarnished,” he noted, taking in her more put-together appearance and healthy pallor.

“I am, and you have my thanks for it,” Rowa replied.

Morgott gathered his feet beneath him and leapt from the root, sailing through the air with a strange grace. He landed not far from them, and though the stones shook beneath the impact, he rose fluidly with no trace of effort, a reminder that his nimbleness greatly belied the awkward, disproportionate set of his body.

“Was thy rest peaceful?” he asked.

“It was. If I dreamed, I remember nothing of it.”

“Hm. I suppose that is of some comfort.” Morgott gave her a hard look, but it was not disdainful, merely calculating. “Thou wouldst undertake the burning of the Erdtree, would ye not?”

“I would, for it seems to be of Marika’s design and the only way to enter.”

“And thou wouldst have me alongside thee in this endeavor?”

Rowa wondered if she had imagined the hint of uncertainty in his tone. “If you are so willing.”

Any imagined uncertainty was gone as Morgott continued stonily. “I shall not deign to set foot in the Forbidden Lands until we have reached an agreement on the age of the world to come.”

“So be it.”

 “Furthermore, I shall not grant thee my Rune until the Elden Ring is at hand.”

Rowa was not terribly surprised by this proclamation, but it reawakened her worries of distrust. “If this is so, what assurance do I have that you would remain true to your word?”

“I would have us bound together, so that I shall be assured of thy intent and thou in return.”

“Bound in what way?”

Morgott’s gaze became piercing. “I would take thee as my consort, or not at all.”

Rowa’s lips parted, but no words came forth. Her first thought was that he was trying to be rid of her by presenting her with a shocking condition he did not expect her to accept, but there was still no trace of the contempt she had seen several times now. He looked upon her with grim sincerity and nothing more.

She finally tore her eyes away from him, seeking out Melina. Her companion stood nearby, and there was no inkling of dismay written upon her face.

“He does not speak in jest,” Melina said as though she knew her thoughts. “He asks you with truthful and noble intent.”

Slowly, Rowa looked back at Morgott. The Erdtree and the sunset cast him in hues of golden fire, which reflected bright and burning in his eye. She saw for the first time the true length of his power. A demigod, a Shardbearer, a king. Whatever trials remained in the mending of the Elden Ring, she felt they would be lesser in the face of his might.

And he had offered her a place at his side.

She met his gaze, speaking with as much confidence as she could muster. “I will do it.”

Chapter Text

“Thy rashness usurps thy judgement once more,” Morgott said, disguising his apprehension behind harshness. He had prepared for the possibility that she would accept, but not so swiftly and without further questioning. “Is this truly what ye desire?”

Rowa saw Morgott’s shoulders tense, his grip on his stave tightening as tail swished once, slowly. She thought he was angry at her for her swift response, but she realized that was not so. In his anger he was looming and thunderous, but that was not what she saw now. He hunched inward on himself, the edges of his cloak spilling over his shoulders to hang over most of his body, as though he sought to hide away within it. He seemed afraid, but she did not declare it outright for fear of endangering the opportunity that lay so close at hand.

“This is what I desire,” she said. “The notion of being a consort or taking one is not foreign to me, and it has been presented to me before. To be Elden Lord extends beyond the mending of the Ring to the betterment of the Lands Between, and I know nothing of ruling, but you do. Having you alongside me would not only help me win the Ring, but better the Lands after it is mended.”

“It is a deep vow of great strength,” Morgott warned. “Once taken, ye shall be unable to turn a blade against me, nor I against thee, lest we bear the very wounds we inflict.”

“That is just as well, for what little desire I have had to do battle with you once more has waned greatly in the face of your hospitality.” Rowa gave him a searching look. “Are you willing to take up such a vow and set aside our past quarrel?”

“I would not offer such a proposal if I were unwilling.”

“Then why do you hesitate at my acceptance?”

“Because I hath witnessed proof of thy imprudence not one day ago, and it is not only thy life ye contendeth with in this vow.” Conflict hounded Morgott’s mind. She had accepted a binding vow to his monstrous self so readily that it left him shaken. Did she act only out of obligation, or pity as well?

“I have thought over the possibility of joining you at length, though admittedly marriage was not an outcome I expected. Even so, Melina and I have weighed you against the likes of Gideon Ofnir, and we have determined you are more honorable than he.”

“It is folly that thou wouldst even deign to compare me to his like. Never would I stoop to the depths that Ofnir now wallows in.”

“Which is why I take no issue with joining you.”

“Not even mine Omen blood repels thee?”

Rowa had foreseen such a question. “What you are means nothing to me. I wish only to judge you by your intent, which seems to hold true, so I will join you. Why do you not believe this to be true?”

“Because every eye that hath gazed upon me hath seen a curse, a blight to the Golden Lineage, and no more.”

The more Rowa saw of him, the more the weight of long years in isolation became visible to her. She remembered the enriching warmth of Melina’s touch when she finally took physical form in Leyndell, and a notion came into her mind.

“Will you give me your hand?” she asked.

Morgott recoiled as though burned by the Flame of Frenzy. “What?”

Rowa stepped closer, holding out one of her hands. “I wish to prove to you that I do not fear you as an Omen, since my words do not convince you.”

Morgott fought the urge to back away from her unexpected closeness. To be touched by another at all had been a rarity in his life, much less one of any compassion, and the idea made him bristle.

“Please.” Rowa could not help the pleading note in her voice. “I would hope my status as a Tarnished would not offend you, considering you have asked to wed me.”

“Nay.” That was the last thing on Morgott’s mind as he stared at the hand outstretched to him. Her fingers had touched his palm earlier, and though some time had passed, he could now feel the phantoms against his skin, and the feeling they had elicited. He could no say for certain what that feeling was, but it was not a bad one, springing from some deeply buried portion of himself, and he would not be opposed to experiencing it once more.

Slowly, with great care as though preforming a delicate task, Morgott extended his hand in silence.

With careful, deliberate movements like approaching a wounded animal, Rowa rested her palm atop his own. She braced herself for him to pull away, but was gratified when he did not, accepting the contact. Her hand from wrist to fingertips barely covered the width of his, and despite its stony appearance his skin was softer than she expected.

Morgott felt frozen despite the warmth of her hand on his, and he was unable to tear his gaze away where they touched. Her hands were not well-kept at all, grime from her travels beneath uneven nails and her palm thick with callouses, but compared to his own hers seemed almost like a doll’s, unblemished and crafted to perfection. As he looked and felt, he could finally place that stirring he had felt when their hands touched earlier. Experiencing another’s harmless touch after so long an abstinence awakened something buried deep within him, an old wound carved by the blade of a loveless existence that bade him never love any in return, and yet love he did, for the sake of recompense for his cursed birth. And now the wound reopened and bled out deep longing, just enough for him to feel it, his heart shuddering in silent dismay at its presence. He had thought the ache of yearning for such simple things had long abandoned him in the wake of war, but perhaps he had merely become numb to it until a new presence brought it forth.

Melina watched the exchange with silent interest. She had not expected Rowa would make so bold an attempt to prove her goodwill, and neither had she expected Morgott to accept it. Despite his proposal, his wariness was greatly visible to her, and Rowa saw it too. But her insistence that frustrated Morgott might have been the key to changing his thoughts.

“Thank you for indulging me,” Rowa said, surprised that the contact had been so prolonged. His touch was as she expected: warm and alive like anyone else.

Despite the reawakened, aching zeal in Morgott’s heart, his mind offered up dark thoughts. He lifted his gaze to Rowa’s, and she smiled a little, but he was hesitant to trust it. He was being used and using her in turn, for the good of the Lands Between. This was merely a gesture of good faith towards him and nothing more. She would care not for the deep feeling she had unknowingly incited.

“I hope this will further convince you that I bear no disdain for Omens,” Rowa continued. His face betrayed nothing to her, but his body seemed to have emerged from its apprehensive hunch slightly. “In desiring a better world for the downtrodden of the Golden Order, standing alongside a king who is of the same blood seems a wise decision. If this does not convince you, then I truly have nothing more to offer.”

Morgott hesitated a heartbeat longer than he felt he should have, and Rowa jumped when he suddenly pulled his hand away. “Enough of this. I see thy intent, as vexing as it may be.”

“I only wish for you to see that I have no qualms with your blood,” Rowa said, lowering her hands. “You have treated me fairly despite your misgivings, and I hope I have made my own goodwill clear.”

Morgott drew his hand into the recesses of his cloak. It felt oddly cold after feeling such warmth. “Be not mistaken, all I have done is not for thy sake or any Tarnished, but for furthering Marika’s intent.”

“After seeing the nature of many of my brethren, I cannot fault you for having no goodwill towards them. However, I am grateful that you would seek an accord with me at all despite that.”

“Ye have thy Maiden to thank for my change of heart.”

“I did only what I thought would lead the Lands Between to a better end,” Melina said as both of them looked towards her. “I owe thanks to Rowa for finally bringing me to the Erdtree after my long absence, and for giving me the opportunity to meet a brother I never knew.”

“Did you know of her existence before we arrived?” Rowa asked Morgott.

“Nay. She was as unknown to me as she was to herself, but shared blood is of little importance to me anymore. What I have sought for a long while is a worthy change in the world, which thou and thy Maiden now present.” Morgott stepped forward, his shadow falling over her. “But I have been told thou knowest not what age to bring about in sureness.”

“It is true.” Rowa craned her neck to look up at him. “I am unsure how the world would be mended beyond the removal of the Greater Will, but it seems to me there must be some way.”

“What know ye of the Crucible?”

Rowa squinted, the name stirring familiarity. “I have heard tell of it in brief, within an account read to me by Rennala. It is…some older form of the Erdtree?”

“The oldest known, from which sprung all manner of life native to the Lands Between.” Morgott faltered as his dreams came to mind. He had never spoken of them to anyone save his brother, but he had idled in wrongness and hesitance for too many years already. “I hath seen it, in mine dreams.”

“For how long?” Rowa asked, leaning closer with interest.

“Since my memories began, though they hath increased with my station as king.”

“Why do such dreams come to you?”

“I have thought on it long. I believe it is the cursed blood in my veins finding kinship with the echoes of the Crucible that remain.”

“Perhaps it is not as accursed as you think it.” Rowa spoke more to herself than to him, but the words slipped out.

Morgott stared at her, indignation igniting within him, for who was she to proclaim what was cursed or pure, holy or tainted? A harsh retort rose hot on his tongue, but he restrained it at the last moment. The Crucible had been the beginning, and it was then that there was no curse, no disparaging of kinds. The Golden Order had proclaimed the Omens cursed for the sake of the world the Greater Will would have. So he supposed it was well within Rowa’s right to proclaim him lacking of any curse, though he did not feel it so.

“This account Rennala gave you,” he said, “what was its contents?”

“It is a history of the Lands Between, and it spoke of the Crucible as the first form of the Erdtree,” Rowa replied.

“Is that all?”

“I do not know. It is a long work, and I did not have the time to hear it in full. Rennala gifted the book to me, but I have not learned anything further.”

“What hindered thee?”

Rowa steady gaze wavered. “Er, I cannot read. Nor can Melina.”

A sigh rumbled in Morgott’s throat. “I suppose that is to be expected of warrior-kind.”

“I brought it with me. It should be among my things…” Rowa trailed off as Morgott moved, the edge of his cloak brushing her as he passed by, bringing the faint scent of erdleaf with him.

“Come,” he called over his shoulder. “I shall see it for myself.”

Rowa traded a look with Melina before they both followed him.

“It seems Rennala spoke truthfully,” Melina observed. “Perhaps that account will be of some use after all.”

Back in her temporary lodgings, Rowa fished the hefty tome from her pack, unwrapping the cloth she had bound it with to keep it unsoiled. Morgott observed the embellished cover, dyed with hues of red and blue to form an intricate pattern that revealed its Carian origin before he even saw the words on the cover. It was just as well the work was not of the Golden Order; it would likely speak more truthfully about the Crucible from the Carian perspective.

Rowa handed the book to Morgott with slight apprehension. Only one of his palms swallowed the book whole, leaving it too easy to imagine pages being ripped by overlarge, indelicate handling. Her misgivings died away when he plucked at the book’s cover with two fingers, opening it with careful but forthright intent. With a gingerness that seemed unnatural for one so large, he flicked through the pages, skimming the words and diagrams until he arrived at a likeness of the Elden Ring, each sphere open with light pouring out unfettered. Here, he stopped, fingers hovering above the page as he gazed at it.

“I ran across that picture before,” Rowa said, craning her neck to see. “Do you know it?”

“It is a depiction of the Ring, but not as it is now,” Morgott said, not taking his eyes from the page. “I have seen this likeness elsewhere, in texts relating to Farum Azula, the city of beasts and dragons.”

“Does that have some meaning to you?”

“Of a sort. The knowledge of what there was before the age of the Golden Order is lesser, but it is known that the Elden Ring was once held by a Dragonlord, and this image of the Ring was used to depict that time.” He gestured to the picture. “I did not think on it before, but this text likens this state of the Ring to the time of the Crucible.”

Rowa frowned. “Does that mean we must find this Dragonlord?”

“I think not. Now that the connection is clear to mine eyes, I understand the form the Ring must take to come closer to the Crucible once more.”

“If I may,” Melina said, “the Golden Order is built upon the very idea of order, to spurn what is deemed chaotic. When you gaze upon the image of the Ring as it is now, what do you see?”

The Elden Ring of the Golden Order was forever burned into Morgott’s mind, and he knew it like the back of his hand. “A closed ring, barring entry to anything more than what already lieth within. Denying all beyond the Greater Will’s blessing, such as mine own kind.”

Rowa thought she heard a hint of melancholy in his words, but when she glanced his way, his countenance was as stone.

“The Greater Will has sealed off the blessing of Grace, and thereby the Erdtree, from those it deems opposed to the idea of order,” Melina said. “To restore the full blessings of the Lands Between to all kinds, the Elden Ring must be opened in such a way again, I would imagine.”

“But isn’t chaos what the Frenzied Flame wanted?” Rowa asked, eyeing the lines emanating from the image of the Ring. “To allow what is deemed chaotic…”

“What is deemed chaotic and true chaos are greatly set apart from one another,” Morgott said, swiftly understanding her course of thought. “The remnants of the Crucible such as I may be sundered from the Golden Order, we are not scions of destruction as intended by the Frenzy.”

“Why does the Golden Order treat them as outcasts, then? I see no difference in your kind from men, aside from the pain of mistreatment.”

“Simply put, because the Greater Will could not control them,” Melina said. “Omens, Misbegotten, and the other kinds closest to the Crucible come from the age before the Greater Will ever started influencing the Lands Between, and therefore it cannot hold sway over those who retain the likeness of that time.”

“So instead, the Greater Will cast them out.”

“That is what I am inclined to believe.”

“All the more reason for it to go.” Rowa looked expectantly at Morgott. “What do you make of it?”

“Having long considered the nature of the Golden Order and the Greater Will, I believe thy Maiden speaketh truly.” Morgott turned to the next page in the book. “The text saith more on the Crucible. Perhaps it shall give light to how this reversal shall be accomplished.”

The scrawl on the pages was meaningless to Rowa. “Will you read it to me?”

Morgott scowled. It was not an unfair question, but he was still highly unused to being in the company of another soul at all, rendering the notion of reading aloud foreign. He tried opposing, though more out of unfamiliarity with the practice than true distaste. “Two days in my house and ye already make demands of me?”

“It is not a demand, but a request. If we are to work together, I should know just as much as you, do you not agree?”

Morgott’s scowl deepened, but he lowered his gaze to the pages before him, showing her she had won. “One day, thou shalt learn to read for thyself.”

“Maybe you might teach me.”

As tempting as a scathing reply was, Morgott decided it would be a waste of breath. He searched through the words on the page, skimming over technicalities and notes on whichever Carian scholars contributed to the true matters of the Crucible. He cast a furtive glance in the direction of his audience and found Rowa gazing into the distance, her brow furrowed as though in deep thought. Melina too was staring at some indeterminate point, though likely more for his benefit.

He returned his focus to the old, yellowed pages cupped within his palm and envisioned himself sitting alone among towering stacks of books, where he would read aloud to himself just to hear a voice.

And so he read of the Crucible.

“The traces of the Crucible have faded, like many other facets of the Lands Between. Just as the Eternal Cities have been laid low by the falling stars of ill omen sent by the Greater Will, so have the remnants of the beginning also been condemned.

“But the Crucible will not cease from existence merely because the Greater Will would have it so, for it was once part of the Erdtree, and all life itself. Though the crimson gold has been sundered from the Erdtree, Omens, Misbegotten, and other forms of life from the Crucible are still born into the world, but no longer are they seen as a blessing. Those that are not killed are enslaved or abandoned.

“The spurning of the Crucible has been most distressing to all who bear its mark and have lived long enough to witness the coming of the Golden Order. Many dynasties have come and gone since the first days, but never before has the essence of the Crucible been cut off from the Lands Between. The Dragonlord held no quarrel with the Crucible, for his Beastmen found kinship with the primordial blood, but when he fled and left the Elden Ring to the Greater Will, all was changed greatly. Death was sealed away, and that which was once considered a blessing is now accursed. Crucible-born souls are not welcomed by the Erdtree for rebirth, and when their bodies die, their souls are left to wander without rest. Marika and the Golden Order speaks of a better world, but for many it has plunged their lives into chaos.

“The maltreated races have not the strength nor the courage to rebel against the new age. The Nox already attempted a rebellion of their own, and theirs is a harrowing example of the strength the Greater Will boasts of.

“But the Crucible remains a part of the Lands Between, no matter the strength of the Greater Will. Refugees to Caria cling to the hope that one day that the Erdtree will flourish crimson gold once more, restoring what was scattered and cursed. As long as those bearing the mark of the primordial remain in the world, so does the Crucible itself. No matter the age, or the god of the land, that which gave the Lands Between life will not be severed from it.”

The entry ended, but Morgott did not lift his gaze. He had never read anything outside of the Golden Order’s purview, and had not expected the critical approach of the Carian perspective. Anger was his first instinct for his mother’s sake, but he quickly pushed it away. Marika had once championed the Golden Order, but now she awaited its destruction.

Rowa was so caught up in her own thoughts that she did not immediately notice the low rumble of Morgott’s words had stopped. She thought of the enslaved Omen at Stormveil, the hundreds of Albinaurics forgotten and broken, slain for the sake of greed, and last of all the man before her, who had lived long years as an outcast. The pain that riddled him revealed itself more and more the longer she was around him.

“Is that all?” she murmured at last.

Morgott turned the page, and was greeted with a drawing of an Omen. It appeared to be a study on how to heal the wounds of excised horns, and the sight made the shorn remnants on the left side of his head throb with phantom pain. “For the moment.”

“I believe I have heard enough. My only remaining questions are for you.”

Morgott looked up, meeting her pensive gaze. “What wouldst thou ask of me?”

“When you dream of the Crucible, do you see this tree of crimson gold?”

“I do.”

“And is what you see good?”

Morgott faltered. Of all the formidable changes that had come upon his life since he had met this Tarnished at Stormveil, deigning his curse a blessing was one he could not yet bear. But he responded truthfully nonetheless. “I see the cursed ones rejoicing.”

“Then would you see such an age to fruition?”

Morgott had never given much thought to his future beyond Marika and Godfrey’s return. He figured he would simply fade into the background, forgotten once more, though not without the hope that both his parents would look upon him favorably for his actions. But now that hope was dashed to pieces in his mistakes, and the fate of the world now rested with him and the Tarnished.

He had done all he could for the cursed kinds in and around Leyndell as king, yet the dream of cursed joy and crimson gold had lingered. The opportunity to see that dream realized lay at hand, as difficult as the path would be. He could finish the work his lost brother Miquella started, and make not only the Haligtree but all the Lands Between safe for the outcasts once more.

“Aye.” Something melancholy touched his heart, for himself and his fellow kinds. “I would see the world of the Crucible to fruition again.”

“Then we are in agreement,” Rowa said. “I do not expect a world of perfection, but I will mend the Ring to the likeness of the olden days, where strife was lesser.”

A feeling stirred in Morgott, so foreign that it frightened him to even dare entertain the faintest flicker lest it be doused by the cold waves of his dread-long life. For the first time in many years, he felt the tiniest inkling of hope for the future.

“If you wish us to be wed, then we should do so soon,” Rowa continued, “unless you have reason to delay.”

“I have no reason,” Morgott grunted, hoping his hesitation at her readiness had gone unnoticed. “We shall be bound, and thy Maiden shall bear witness.”

“So be it,” Melina said. “What shall you use to seal this union?”

“Think not of it. I will see to the seals.” Morgott dropped the Carian history book into Rowa’s hands, locking eyes with her. “Two days hence, we shall be wed, and begin the formation of the coming world. Do I have thy word thou wilt honor this commitment?”

Rowa clutched the book tightly, hope rising great within her. The way to the Elden Ring remained full of peril, but perhaps mercy had won her a solid path. “You have my word.”

Chapter Text

There were very few things Morgott truly considered to be his possessions. He may have been the Lord of Leyndell, but he considered himself a steward of the city. It truly belonged to Marika, and so did everything in it. The only things Morgott kept to his name were his cloak, his stave, and the few gifts he had been given in his life. It was these gifts that he sought as the night progressed, the silver glow of the Full Moon shining through the thickly-latticed windows to mix with the candlelight, forming dancing patterns of silver and gold across the ivory floorstones.

He had left the Tarnished to her own devices, whether it be to rest or to stay awake, but not without proper warning about remaining within Royal House’s walls. Now that she was no longer enthralled by the Frenzy, he hoped she would heed his words, for she seemed to be of no great proclivity to roam about despite her quickly healing wounds. Nevertheless, the protective seal he had bestowed upon her would forewarn him of any foolish undertaking that he could quell before it truly got out of hand.

And yet he wondered if it was he that now had a foolish undertaking as he retrieved the tiny keys to the chest that held his belongings. Once more he considered that maybe he truly had gone mad after the long years of isolation and war, for in such a short time he had gone from posting his most powerful sentinel at the gates of the city to repel a great enemy, to deciding to wed the Tarnished for the sake of his mother’s desires.

He stared at the key in his palm, the metal burnished and sullied, rarely used. Perhaps it had not been such a short time after all, for he had watched her movements since that day at Stormveil. Indeed, she had proved herself of some distinction with her departure from Gideon’s retinue. To do such a thing was a dangerous move, for without the blessing of the Roundtable Hold many Tarnished had forsaken the quest for the Elden Ring, living out their days in the stricken countryside, locked in eternal conflict with the denizens of the Lands Between or their own kind. But she had prevailed, either by fortune or the strength of her will, bringing with her a lost child of Marika who imparted the hidden truth to him. Perhaps it was truly fated that this Tarnished ascended beyond all others, even Vyke. Fate or not, he would wed her because he did not fully trust her to not put a blade in his back if strife came between them. He knew no other way of forming such an accord.

He moved deeper into his study, seeking out the chest hidden well in the farthest recesses. The image of the Tarnished glaring at him, her face twisted with anger for the sake of Omens she had not even seen, remained vivid in his mind. Perhaps it was then he had decided to wed her, for though her baseless accusations had frustrated him, they had also awakened a wistfulness somewhere deep in him. The abandoned Omen child, son of the queen but no prince, wished that someone had moved with such righteous zeal to bring about an end to the harsh circumstances of his life in the Shunning-Grounds before it had ever amounted to the weight he now carried. But what was done was done, and if her intentions were true, he would use them to lift his people from the depths they had been relegated to.

Morgott found the chest untouched, secreted behind a large table. He pulled it out into the open, inserting the key into the lock. The mechanism squealed as he turned the key, rusted from being unused, but it gave after only a little pressure. He lifted the lid, and found the two treasures inside just as he had left them long ago. One was a gift from his mother, the other his father, but he did not regard one over the other. As far as he could remember, he had received neither directly from the hands of his parents, but it was gracious enough of them to gift him such wonderful items at all.

From Marika came the talisman of blessing, the Erdtree’s Favor. It had been with him since his memories began, and for a long time he did not know the significance of the talisman other than that it depicted his mother in an icon of gold alloy, crested by the blooming branches of the Erdtree. It was not until he was introduced to the world above ground that he came to understand the true meaning of the talisman: a blessing bestowed personally by Marika. He had no memory of receiving it, but the reverence used when others spoke of the Favor was enough to convince him it was true.

From Godfrey came the talisman of the primordial. This one had no name, nor could he find any likeness of it among the records. It was a golden medallion split into four sections by the engraving of a four-leaf flower sprouting from the center, each quarter bearing an opal of deep blue. The metal always felt warm beneath his touch, pulsing with a life of its own familiar to him. He had been told that such medallions were imbued with the essence of primordial life, though that seemed of little consequence to him until now.

Morgott held both treasures in his palm, studying their gleam in the light. Even after being in the Shunning-Grounds, and after so many years hidden away, their lusters remained undimmed, unspoiled by the passage of time, as though they had taken on the ageless qualities of their creators. One of them would go to the Tarnished, for he had nothing else to seal the union by, and he would not dream of laying a finger on any of his mother’s possessions. He would have to decide which to hand over and which to keep, a decision that did not come easily.

He curled his fingers, the metal clinking together, and he moved across the room to the window. The Erdtree rose high to his right, and he gazed long at the golden boughs stretching across the dark tapestry of the night sky.

“Mother.” In the past few days, he had made more entreaties to Marika than he had since the end of the war. But change had come upon his world like a whirlwind, uprooting everything he once new and leaving him to navigate a new and perilously unknown scape. “Is this the path thou wouldst have me travel?”

A few leaves drifted through the air beyond the lattice.

“In little more than a day, I shall wed this Tarnished so that I might aid her in the quest for the Elden Ring without hesitation or concern for her goodwill towards me. If I am wrong and this path displeases thee, I beseech thee to grace me with knowledge. No more do I wish to be a hindrance to thy desires.”

An animal, likely a wolf, howled somewhere beyond the walls of Leyndell before the night fell into deep quiet.

Morgott said no more, watching the leaves flutter down between the spires of the city as though he might glean some answer from the patterns they wove. Only when he grew weary did he finally turn away, clutching the treasures close to his heart.

“Brothers? Where art thou?”

“Godwyn!”

Morgott ran across the damp stones, his feet momentarily catching in the overlong, tattered robe about his body. That, however, did not hinder his momentum enough to prevent him from launching himself at the tall, resplendent figure that seemed to cast away all the gloom of the sewers with his mere presence.

“Have a care, brothers,” Godwyn chided, though any sternness was ruined with a chuckle as little horned figures practically climbed up his body, finding footholds in his silk wrappings. “Both of ye grow heavier with each passing day.”

Morgott barely heard, too busy burying his face in the golden tresses of hair that flowed from Godwyn’s head like water. A sturdy arm came up to support him, the other holding Mohg likewise.

“It’s been a long time!” Mohg rasped, baring needled fangs.

“Indeed it has been.” Godwyn smiled at them both, and to Morgott it was almost brighter than the light of Grace in his eyes. “I too have felt the passage keenly. Thou must forgive me for mine absence.”

Morgott looked over Godwyn’s shoulder, searching for another figure even more imposing than his brother, but all he saw was the empty sewer corridor. Godwyn and Godfrey often came together, and rarely did they ever visit alone. “Has Father not accompanied thee?”

Godwyn’s smile faded a little. “Nay.”

 “I desire to see him!” Mohg said. “And Serosh!”

“It shall be a while before ye see him again.” Godwyn was not smiling now. “He has gone away.”

“He won mountains from the Giants, and Mother hath sent him and his clans to now wage war in a land faraway.”

“When shall he return?” Morgott asked. He did not understand Godwyn’s sadness. Godfrey was the greatest warrior there was, and he could win any conflict.

“I know not, but he did not depart ‘ere without thinking of thee.” Godwyn set them back on the floor, and they watched with great curiosity as he reached for something in his robes. “He left these gifts for ye.”

Morgott and Mohg stared at the two talismans hanging from Godwyn’s fingers, transfixed by their beauty. Both were medallions of amber with a flower blooming at the center, one bore four jewels of deepest blue, the other of brightest red.

Mohg was the first to move, reaching for the red-jeweled one. “What are these?”

“Talismans treasured by his warrior peoples, said to carry great power.”

Morgott took the other, the metal heavy in his hands. It was cool to the touch at first, but it quickly grew warm, pleasantly so, like the rays of light that shone through the sewer grates at certain times of day. Something inside him seemed to stir at this warmth, and he looked up at Godwyn.

“It is warm,” he said. “Why is that so?”

Godwyn knelt, raising an eyebrow as he touched the medallion. He did the same to Mohg’s before giving an answer. “I was told that they are imbued with the power of the Crucible. Perhaps thy blood maketh a reply to it.”

“But our blood is accursed, is it not?”

Godwyn sighed, placing a hand atop Morgott’s head, careful to avoid the growing mass of horns as he threaded his fingers through his hair. “To be deemed accursed by some does not a true curse make.”

Morgott did not know what to say, holding the medallion close to himself.

“To bring these gifts to ye is not the only reason I have come,” Godwyn said. “In Father’s absence, Mother hath granted me lordship.”

Morgott exchanged an awed look with Mohg. If anyone deserved lordship, it was certainly the strong and mighty Godwyn.

“And with that lordship, I hath been granted an estate of mine own, one I do not intend to live in alone.”

“What?” Both twins whispered the question with joint hope and dismay.

Godwyn smiled again, but it was still tinged with sadness. “I intend to have ye live with me, indeed. Before his departure, Father charged me to look after ye, and it is not fitting to leave ye relegated to such disarray as this.”

“What shall Mother say?” Mohg asked quietly.

“Nothing, for she shall not know, not yet. She of all the Lands Between must know that the natural order of the world might be suppressed, but one day it shall sprout anew. The branch may be broken, but the roots are deep.” Godwyn held out his hands to them. “Come. Let us away from here.”

Morgott awoke to daylight shining through the lattice, dappling his body in light and shadow. He blinked blearily, carefully sitting up, his muscles stiff from his awkward position on the floor. For a while, he did not move any further than that, mulling over the dream.

Rare was it that he dreamed of memories, and rarer still did he dream of his brothers. To think of either of them was a painful experience; Godwyn was long gone, lost in the Night of the Black Knives, and Mohg might as well have been for the lengths by which he had given himself over to an outer god.

The memory had become all but a distant phantom with the passage of time, and the renewed clarity brought him wistfulness. Things had been far from simple, even back then, but to his young mind they had seemed so. He looked down at his hands, where the treasures had remained firmly clasped despite his sleep.

“The natural order of the world…shall sprout anew,” he murmured. He had forgotten Godwyn had said such a thing, and he wondered if this was an answer from Marika.

He lifted his head to the window, watching the leaves spiral by, and determined that it must have been. Omen dreams were never without purpose, even when they were plagued by dark spirits, and this one was plainly visible. Perhaps Melina’s arrival had broken some seal, allowing Marika to reply to him in her own way.

“Very well. I shall continue down this path in accordance with thy will.” Morgott stood. Tomorrow he would be wed, and there was much to be done.

When Rowa was not resting, she wandered. She was grateful Morgott had not confined her. The idea of being stuck in one room seemed unbearable after spending so much time traveling the vast realm.

She found the Royal House had many halls and many doors, some open, others closed. She peered into the open ones, finding abandoned studies, bedchambers, and other rooms she could not guess the function of. They all seemed lonely and bare, lacking any form of personalization, as though the occupants had taken all that was precious to them in their departure.

Rowa tried to imagine the halls full of people, royalty and servants alike, but it was a difficult image to conjure. As great as the house was, it lacked all the livelihood and warmth that should be a part of a home. Everywhere she went, her boots echoed against the stone, the only sound against the quiet, a constant reminder of the utter emptiness.

For a moment, she envisioned herself truly alone as Morgott had been, but she swiftly put the image away. To be in such isolation was almost unthinkable to her after traveling with Melina and Torrent. She was grateful for their guidance and companionship, for it seemed few Tarnished had anyone they could truly call a friend, but their presence also made her detest the idea of being without anyone.

In that, she was amiable to the arrangement Morgott had proposed. It was a little daunting to think of being wed to him after their tumultuous meetings before arriving in Leyndell, but she was glad she would not be alone on the Elden Throne. For as magnificent as the Throne was, it had seemed terribly lonely as well. When the Elden Ring was mended, she hoped the loneliness of the world would follow.

Her wanderings eventually found her in a terrace garden, with a wide view of the Erdtree. A stone pathway ran between plots of sunflowers, erdleaf, and other flora that were bursting with life but not overgrown. At the far end of the garden, the end nearest the Erdtree, a golden sapling sprouted from the earth, its thin branches reaching for the sky as though it sought to imitate the mighty tree so near to it.

Feeling that Torrent would enjoy walking in the garden far more than the stone halls, Rowa summoned him, and they strolled together in the pleasant warmth of the oncoming afternoon. Melina was absent, having taken to her own way of wandering as only a spirit could, but she would appear again when she chose, or when Rowa called.

“Tarnished.”

Rowa turned as Morgott’s call rolled across the garden. She had not seen him since the previous night, though food and drink had appeared in her room by the time she awoke in the morning. She spied his figure moving amidst the manicured rows easily, the tallest sunflower only cresting his broad shoulders.

“I am here,” she called.

Morgott rounded the end of the plant bed, startled by the sight of Torrent. “What sort of creature is that?”

“This is Torrent,” Rowa said, running a hand over the steed’s mane. “He was given to me by Melina to aid me in my travels.”

Morgott met Torrent’s gaze. Though Torrent did not speak, Morgott saw the intelligence in his glossy eyes. He wondered if this creature was another invention of Marika, or something else altogether.

“Are there any other traveling companions thou hast kept from me?” he asked.

“No,” Rowa said. “Only Melina and Torrent have accompanied me.”

Morgott quickly realized that Torrent’s origin was not obvious, and he pushed the matter aside. Marika’s creation or not, he seemed amiable, a silent understanding passing between them.

“Is this your garden?” Rowa asked.

“I tend to it, aye.”

“It is very beautiful.” Rowa looked up at the golden sapling in front of her. “This tree, especially.”

“I hath tended it since it was a mere seedling.” Morgott searched the sapling for any sign of fallen seeds or branches broken by wind, but saw nothing. “This garden was Marika’s, and I would not see it fall into disarray in her absence.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“It whittles away the hours not dedicated to the city.” He spoke gruffly, but Rowa heard no true discontent in his tone.

“You have done good work. I imagine Marika would be proud of how you have kept it.”

Startled by the compliment, Morgott’s silence hung in the air for a moment longer than he wished it as he struggled to reply, before finally deciding to change the subject. “Tomorrow at daybreak, we shall meet at the Elden Throne. There shall we be bound.”

“As you wish it,” Rowa said. “Do you require anything of me?”

“Only thy willingness.”

“I have willingness aplenty.”

Morgott grunted, moving on. “I brought thee thy afternoon and evening meals.” He held out a basket containing another pile of pickled meats and a flask of water.

“Ah, thank you. I was just starting to get hungry.” Rowa accepted the basket, eyeing him curiously. “Do you eat this type of food as well?”

“Aye. ‘Tis the meat the huntsman catch for all the city. I’ve no need for aught else.”

“Then would you care to join me and eat together?”

“Why?” Morgott rumbled after a hesitant moment.

Rowa could see him hunching in on himself again, and she frowned internally. She had hoped the proposition would not disgruntle him, but it seemed she was wrong. “Only because we are to be wed. It is not strange that…” she hesitated, grasping for the right word, “…allies would dine together.”

“I shall not,” Morgott replied brusquely. “Come to the Elden Throne at dawn.” Before Rowa could reply, he turned in a swirl of his tattered cloak, retreating towards the door. She watched him go, exasperated but not surprised by his dismissal.

“What do you make of that?” she murmured to Torrent once he had gone.

Torrent snorted and shook his head. She could have sworn she saw him roll his eyes.

Melina appeared in Rowa’s temporary lodgings at dusk, finding both her and Torrent. “Greetings, my friend.”

“Hello, Melina,” Rowa called over her shoulder, in the middle of taming her hair into a half-formed braid. “Did you enjoy yourself today?”

“I did.” Melina approached her curiously. “What are you doing?”

Rowa sighed, untangling her fingers from her hair and letting it fall as a mess over her shoulders. “Morgott informed me that we shall be wed at dawn. I thought I might try to make myself slightly more presentable for the occasion, but it seems I know little about being presentable.”

“I might try, if you wish.”

Rowa cast her a dubious look. “I’d be surprised if you could tame this bird’s nest.”

“I have seen many Tarnished companions aid one another in this way. I have never done it myself, but my memories may be enough.”

Rowa shrugged. “Very well. I’m not pleased with what I’ve managed to do, so you are more than welcome to try.”

Torrent gave Melina a small nicker of greeting as she crossed the room, beginning to undo the tangled braid of Rowa’s hair. “Torrent says he and Morgott crossed paths.”

“They did,” Rowa confirmed. “Morgott was caught unawares, but it is my fault for not introducing them sooner.”

Torrent grumbled, and Melina translated. “He says that Morgott does not take umbrage with him, and that for all his harshness, he is a worthy ally.”

Rowa raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

“Torrent needs but a moment to judge the disposition of others. In the same way he chose you by but a glance, so has he determined Morgott to be worthy of the bond you shall soon undertake.”

“That…is a relief.”

Melina was silent for a moment, carefully separating Rowa’s hair into sizable strands. “Does it trouble you to make this pact?”

“I would be lying if I said it did not bring me some apprehension, even after all we have discussed.” Rowa let out a heavy breath. “As Morgott said himself, it is not something to be taken lightly. I feel like I stand beyond the fog once more, knowing I should step into it but not being able to see the way forward.”

“Do you regret crossing the fog?”

“No.”

“Then I would think you will not regret this path either. It will be hard, just as your travels in the Lands Between have been, but it will likely be worthwhile.”

“You give good counsel, as always,” Rowa murmured.

“Truthfully, I know little of fear, or the true breadth of feeling in its many kinds. My life has been that way since the beginning, even in my restored memories.”

“Even as a child?”

“I was never a child. My memories begin as I am now. Such is the power of the gods.”

“I suppose we are alike in that respect. I remember no childhood, nor anything before crossing the fog.”

“Do you wish that you did?”

“I am content as I am. I suppose I was a warrior once, though I would think not by choice. That is all I am sure of.”

“You are not the only Tarnished to forsake what once was. I have seen those who, like you, arrived with no recollection of their past. Others came with their memories but found them too terrible to live with, and devised sorceries to forget.”

“With that knowledge I am even more content. The future is what matters now, with the restoration of the Lands Between, and tomorrow shall be a step towards accomplishing that.” Rowa fiddled with the tattered end of her sleeve. “But I do wonder how many Tarnished would just as soon slay Morgott, or any other demigod, for their Runes rather than attempt an alliance.”

“Gideon believes there can be no harmony between the Tarnished and the Shardbearers,” Melina said. “With the demigods’ great power, few Tarnished ever had any chance to learn otherwise, so the view persisted that they must be slain for their Runes. It is true that many of them are mad and monstrous, but not all.”

“It is truly ironic that the demigod who hides himself for his perceived monstrosity is the most levelheaded of them all,” Rowa said drily.

“It is, indeed.”

They lapsed into thoughtful silence. The light of day faded away, and the room was almost dark when Melina finished her task.

“I have done my best,” she said, stepping back.

Rowa reached up, feeling her hair. Melina had coiled it into a braided crown tight against her head, leaving only a few of the shorter strands to hang loose at her ears. She smiled, skimming her fingers over the tight, intricate design. “I dare say you are a natural at this, my friend.”

“I have had a long time to learn it,” Melina said.

Rowa stood up, feeling a bit cleaner, a bit lighter, than she had before since awaking in the Lands. “Thank you. Now I will go into this deep alliance with more dignity. No matter the reason, a marriage is an auspicious undertaking, but it is a shame…”

“What is it?” Melina asked when she trailed off.

“Nothing, merely…when the idea of a consort was first posed to me, I envisioned meeting a man and marrying him for no other reason than love.” Rowa shrugged, smiling ruefully. “But I see now the silliness of that notion. Those things matter not when the very world is broken, and Morgott’s willingness to aid me through this union is an opportunity I cannot forsake for a distant fantasy.”

“You do not dislike him, no? Perhaps you may come to find what you envisioned in him, one day.”

Rowa snorted. “I would be hard pressed to believe that, considering the only reason for this marriage is him not trusting me to put a blade in his back.”

“You did not expect to find an ally in him at all, so I would not be so swift to discount the idea.”

“You speak truly.” Rowa’s incredulity faded, but as she tried to imagine the idea, the image that came to her mind was her hand atop his, and she became deeply embarrassed at herself. “I…I suppose I should rest soon. Tomorrow is an important day.”

“Very well,” Melina said. “May your sleep be undisturbed.”

Morgott did not sleep that night. He pored over the liturgies and prayerbooks from the time daylight shone bright until hours after it had gone, seeking the vows necessary for a binding incantation such as the one he was about to undertake. There were many variations of vows, used across the Age of the Erdtree for different marriages tailored to the requests of the participants, and he sought the most distant, most plain ones he could find. It took a while, for many pages were filled with declarations of love written in so many ways it made his head spin. But he finally found a vow that would not appall him to speak aloud.

Once that was done, Morgott turned his attention to the incantation itself. Used in many marriages, the incantation originated from the power of the Erdtree, and with his extensive knowledge of that branch of magic, it did not take him long to learn it. Dipping into only a fraction of his magical reserves, golden light wreathed across his fingers in flowing lines, dancing around the two talismans he had chosen before settling within. Though the glow dimmed, the incantation still hung like a fine mist over the talismans, ready to be used.

Then, it was only a matter of waiting until dawn. A nervous energy seized Morgott, preventing him from even entertaining sleep, and he found himself at the Elden Throne long before daybreak. There, he paced the length of the terrace, dragging the tip of his stave through the piles of golden leaves and along the artistic grooves in the masonry, the Erdtree so bright it might as well have been day.

He wondered what his parents’ marriage had been like. Was their wedding an event of joy, or merely a solemn duty such as the one he was about to undertake? Did they even know each other before they were wed, or were they practically strangers like he and this Tarnished? Did they eventually grow to love—

Morgott ended that train of thought abruptly, dismayed at himself. There was no love to be had here. This was marriage of utter mistrust, to ensure he would not be betrayed by her, and they both knew it. She would never look upon him with the love he had heard tell about in stories, the love Queen Rennala and Radagon supposedly once had for one another. For the coming rebirth of the Crucible would not change his appearance, his likeness, and who could love that?

He paced restlessly. The first songbird trilled to the dark sky, and the pale light of dawn began to seep into the sky beyond the Erdtree’s branches. As the time grew near, he wondered if the Tarnished would turn away at the last minute, seeing the arrangement as folly, but such notions were quickly cast aside when his Great Rune stirred within him, sensing the closeness of another. He looked towards the staircase, and saw Tarnished and Maiden ascend to the terrace together. The difference in her hair startled him; he had expected nothing of the sort from her, nor had he attempted any change of his own.

Rowa’s stomach fluttered with nervousness as she saw Morgott standing near the Elden Throne, but she tried to do away with it. She had seen his apprehension at the idea, and it would do no good for them to both be worried. She had to step forward into the unknown again, but this time there would be no familiar homeland waiting for her. Only a man, whose loyalty ran as deep as his pains.

Morgott met her gaze, and found she looked very grave. He broke the silence as the pair approached, his voice ringing across the thrones. “This is thy last chance to turn away.”

“I will not,” Rowa said, coming to stop in front of him. “I am ready.”

“Very well.” Morgott looked at Melina. “Maiden, thou shalt bear witness, in Marika’s stead.”

“As you wish,” Melina said.

Morgott set his stave on the ground stepped forward, and Melina moved away as he took her place at Rowa’s side. He drew forth the two talismans, and Rowa gazed at them intently, the light of the Erdtree giving both of them a golden luster as they swayed from woven cord. She had wondered what he intended to use for a token, and was taken by surprise at the beauty of both objects.

“We shall now begin,” Morgott said, turning to face Rowa fully. “We stand ‘neath the light of the Erdtree, to bind ourselves to one another in the most sacred vow. I, Morgott, King of Leyndell, exercise my right to create this union. May the Erdtree, and Queen Marika the Eternal, look upon this union with favor and shed many blessings unto us.”

He stepped forward, towering over Rowa. He had agonized over which token to bestow to her, and he had finally decided it would be the Erdtree’s Favor. It seemed fitting, for a Tarnished of Marika’s creation.

“Tarnished,” he said, “I will now bestow this to thee. Turn around.”

A bit surprised by the lengths of the ceremonial rites, Rowa carefully did so. Even now, she tensed a little, subconsciously anticipating some sort of attack from behind, but it did not come. Morgott’s huge hands reached around her head, holding each end of the cord bearing the glittering talisman. It crossed her mind that he could truly crush her if he saw fit, but it was not to be so.

With great care, Morgott settled the cord around her neck, his fingers just barely brushing her skin as he tied the ends. Her skin was warm just as her hand had been, and from this angle he could see the full design of her hair. Something in him almost thought it was kind of her to try to have some decorum, as pointless as it was. Then the knot was tied, his hands retreating and leaving the talisman behind.

“Now, thou wilt do the same to me,” Morgott instructed, holding out the medallion.

Rowa merely nodded, accepting it. She could not find any words to say, the gravity of the proceedings hanging heavily upon her. The weight of the talisman around her neck was gentle against her chest, almost warm, and the medallion in her hands seemed the same. She could see the faintest glimmer of an enchantment over them both.

Morgott turned his back to her, carefully kneeling on both knees to put his head on a level she could reach. He felt taut like a bowstring ready to be released, anticipating disaster to strike. At this moment, he was more vulnerable than ever, and it would be fitting with the cursed course of his life for the Tarnished to try and plunge a blade into his neck like she had done at Stormveil. He was ready to summon a rain of phantom daggers in the blink of an eye.

Rowa approached Morgott, taking great care to avoid the massive tail and the edges of his cloak. Even kneeling, she had to rise up on her toes to reach over his broad shoulders, her heart quickening as she nearly leaned against his back. She avoided touching the mass of horns, but she did catch a wisp of his hair. For as stringy and tangled amidst his horns as it seemed, it was surprisingly soft, hanging somewhere between true hair and fur.

Then she was finished, stepping back from him, the warmth of her closeness fading. Morgott let out a breath he hadn’t known himself to be holding, slowly standing to his feet as he realized nothing had come of his vulnerable position. He touched the medallion unconsciously, his blood stirring within him at the presence of the primordial.

He faced her once more. Now, the final steps. He extended both of his hands to her, and she gave him a startled look. She opened her mouth, but did not speak, the silent question hanging in the air.

“Take my hands,” he said.

Rowa approached it with the same caution as she had a couple of days prior, carefully resting her palms atop his. But this time, he was not unresponsive to the contact. He curled his palms slightly, his thumbs coming to rest on the backs of her hands and practically enveloping them. Rowa stared at their hands intertwined, amazed at his willingness to do so.

“We will speak the vows,” Morgott said. “Echo my words.”

Rowa nodded, lifting her eyes to his. He held her gaze for but a moment before looking away, focusing on some distant point. He spoke a line of the vows, and she replied, repeating his words back to him. They made their way through the liturgy, he the speaker and she the echo, each with their own stirrings within brought about by the promises they spoke of to one another.

“With this token, I bind myself to thee in thought, in word, and in deed, by the Grace of the Erdtree. I shall stand at thy side and shield thee from the perils that life bringeth. I shall fight for thee with all my strength, so that the world might never overtake us. Let me be bound to thee in body and soul, so that we might become as one. I am thine, and thou art mine, from this day forth until the end of our days.”

When the vows ended, Morgott summoned the incantation of the sacred binding vow. A golden stream of light poured forth from both their talismans, and their bodies themselves, meeting in the air between them. The two streams twisted upwards together in a twofold coil, manifesting in the image of two conjoined rings that rested beneath the cross of the Erdtree. The image shimmered in the air and faded away, dropping golden motes of light on the two beneath.

Rowa slowly became aware of a difference within her, brought about by the magic. She could feel Morgott, perceive his presence, and no longer merely by the proximity of his Great Rune. It was merely him, that she was now bound to in all his power and might.

Morgott felt it as well, but he had expected this. It would make things much easier for him, if they were ever separated. But he paused, as though time itself hung still for a moment with the great shifting of the world, his world, as he realized he was now irrevocably bound to the Tarnished woman in front of him, to see the Lands Between bettered or die trying.

He finally let go of her hands, looking at Melina, who looked back serenely. “Maiden, thou hast seen these sacred vows to their completion, without question?”

“Without question,” she replied.

“Then it is done.”

And so, as the first rays of daylight shone across the Elden Throne, Rowa and Morgott were married.

Chapter Text

Rowa stood in Morgott’s study, taking in what she assumed to be one of his most personal retreats. Books were stacked everywhere, but not unlike the library in Raya Lucaria, they were arranged neatly. There were just as many papers as there were books, distributed around the desk in the middle of the room, across from which a balcony opened to the spires of the city now beginning to fully reflect the light of day.

Once the ceremony was done, Morgott had led her here with hardly a word aside from his request that she follow him. For something that was so deeply important and life-changing as a marriage, there was little fanfare to be had for it, which she supposed was to be expected, for what could be celebrated? They had been joined in the vow, but not out of love, or even friendship. No one outside of their little group could even know, for they were both enemies to the soldiers of the Golden Order, and that only brought up more questions. When the Elden Ring was mended and the Crucible remade, would the peoples loyal to the Greater Will accept Morgott and his kinds, or would there be more war?

She watched Morgott move across the room, barely touching the rows of books. Everything was in order, and there seemed to be not a single object out of place, as though he were a guest trying to prevent soiling the home he was allowed to stay in. She wondered if he anticipated acceptance, or if he even wanted it. She was no stranger to having enemies at this point, but that seemed little in the face of what she had gathered of his suffering. She had no family to be rejected from as he did, no memory of a life shunned beneath the earth.

But she did know loneliness, the feeling of Melina’s short absence still heavy on her mind. And Morgott was undoubtedly lonely, that much was clear. She reached up, toying with the talisman around her neck. Its weight was foreign but not unpleasant, and she supposed she would get used to it in time. Maybe this binding would begin to free him from what weighed upon him.

“Tarnished.” Morgott’s call caught her attention as he approached her. “These are thine to wield once more.” He held her twin swords in his hand, his size making them look like little more than kitchen knives.

Rowa’s first thought it was disingenuous of him to return her weapons to her only after the seal was formed. She had hardly considered them since their first meeting at the Elden Throne, her thoughts heavily occupied by the impending alliance, but annoyance flared inside her nonetheless. She almost told him as much, until she looked closer at the weapons. Ever since departing the Roundtable Hold for good, the wear and tear had become increasingly noticeable on the blades, since she no longer had access to a smith. But now they shone unblemished, all traces of filth gone from them.

Any pretense of annoyance faded as she took the blades, testing the edges upon her hand. They were sharper than ever, even the slightest touch pricking her skin. “You sharpened them?”

“They were in poor condition,” Morgott grunted, turning away. “It is a wonder how thou hast survived this long with such blades.”

“I had no smith once I left the Roundtable Hold,” Rowa murmured, too surprised at the condition of her swords to have any reaction to his habitual derision. “Thank you.”

Her gratitude fell on deaf ears, for Morgott was already searching for something else amidst the organized stacks. Figuring he would not appreciate the books being disturbed, she waited patiently beside Melina as he sifted through the papers and wondered just how much information on the world could be found within this single room. It seemed, now that everything was said and done, that the apprehension had left him, though he was no more amiable for it.

Finally, Morgott came up with something, a large scroll of sorts, and laid it upon the desk, unrolling it wordlessly for her to see.

“What is this?” Rowa asked, stepping forward to get a better look.

“A map of the Lands Between,” Morgott said. “We must begin plotting our route through the mountains with both haste and caution. There are many dangers betwixt here and the Great Forge.”

Rowa did not reply, becoming engrossed in the map. She had never seen a map of the entire realm, relying on others’ guidance and her own eyes throughout her journey thus far. Even though she was unable to read what was printed, their position was made clear by a rendition of the Erdtree sprouting from the middle of the map. The rest of the Lands Between almost seemed to curve around it, littered with other landmarks, some of which looked to be made by Morgott himself.

“When was this map made?” Melina asked, peering at it.

“‘‘Twas rendered before the Shattering,” Morgott said, “but I find it truthful enough.”

Rowa’s gaze drifted to the eastern landmass jutting away from the Erdtree. There was hardly anything drawn within the spidering lines, save for a couple of marks, and one massive circle with the depiction of a fire inside it. “That…is that is the Forge?”

“It is. It standeth at the peak of the mountains.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Nay. I hath only read of it.”

Melina gazed at the depiction of the Forge. Rowa would be the one to walk alongside the flame to meet the road of Destined Death. She would embrace the fire and burn with it, to set the Erdtree aflame. She envisioned the fire, but her mind was struck not with the image of red flame, but ones of ghostly gray.

“Melina, do you know anything of the mountains?”

Melina refocused on the present, meeting Rowa’s questioning gaze. “I’m afraid not. I only know that we must ignite the flame of the Forge.”

Rowa frowned pensively. “How shall we light it when we arrive?”

“Think not of the kindling,” Melina said. “I shall see to that. All that you must concern yourself with is the journey, and the arrival.”

“So be it.”

Morgott kept his gaze fixed on the map. Rowa’s dismissal of the kindling was a relief, but it also incited a dread for what was to come. The bond between them was deep and prevailing, and everything he saw lent itself to the secrecy between him and Melina. The Frenzy would prey upon her easily if she learned the truth, for she would certainly sacrifice her own flesh and mind before allowing Melina to carry out the duty given to her. And once Melina had accomplished her task, how deep would the roots of anguished loss run?

“I ascended to the mountains but once,” he said. “I did not come close to the Forge, but I saw enough to know the land is rife with dangers. Spirits spurned by the Erdtree wander in great numbers, and fire-worshipers seek to protect the Forge of the flame they revere.”

“We should try to avoid them then, should we not?” Rowa asked.

“‘Twould be prudent to do so, but the paths on the mountain are narrow and give little chance for deviation.” Morgott traced the path he had taken, the only path he knew, up in a roundabout turn to circumvent the artist’s depiction of large cliffs, ascending higher and higher, across the frozen river and the lake it fed, and around to the small mark he himself had made on the map, little more than a dot. A mere blot of ink, to show where his journey had ended, when he finally found the one he pursued and locked him away. Even the mere memory of that time, when the twisted form of Vyke had assailed him, left him feeling colder than the bitter chill on the mountain ever had been.

“If we cannot avoid them, then we will have to fight,” Rowa said.

“I found the night thinned the number of enemies, and gave many an opportunity to evade notice. However, the cold became even more biting with it.” Morgott cast a critical eye towards her. “Thy current garments shall not suffice for it, I am sure.”

Rowa looked down at herself. Her blue vestments were in poor condition, dirtied and torn by many battles. The cloth was thin and ragged, ripped away completely in some places, leaving the woven leather padding beneath it bared. If Morgott’s garb had not been of a similar disrepair, she would have almost been ashamed to be wed in it.

“Where would I come by new garments?” she asked.

“There are many articles left ‘ere by servants and soldiers long fled. Surely thou shalt find something of good use among them.”

“And does the cold not concern you?” Rowa gestured vaguely to his own, ill-clad state.

“Nay. My form does not succumb to such weaknesses.”

Rowa had not considered the effects of his Omen body much beyond his greater stature and the more prominent features, but she looked with curiosity now, and noticed the coating of gray hair seen sparsely on his arms dominated his midriff thickly behind the tattered cloak, likely providing thick protection against the elements. “I suppose not.”

Morgott saw her studying him, and turned himself to hide his form more fully beneath his cloak. “Girding thyself should be thy first step. I must first consult the texts to learn more about the places I did not venture before finding a route through the peaks, and it shall take me a while to find such records.”

“Very well. Is there anywhere in the building you would suggest to find clothing?”

“Nay. There is no one place where much can be found.”

“Then is there anywhere you would not have me venture?”

Morgott paused. There were many rooms in the Royal House he had only glanced at once and never entered again, finding no use in them. But nowhere had he seen something he would forbid her, for as peculiar as it was, the house was now as much hers as it was his through their joining. “Nay. Only remain in the house, and do not venture outside of it.”

“As you wish.” Rowa watched him turn towards the stacked books, and was once again struck by the wealth of knowledge he seemed to know how to navigate. “May I ask something of you?”

Morgott stopped, restraining a sigh. There was always another question to be asked with her, it seemed. “Aye.”

“If you find something of worth, would you mind reading it to me?”

“Was once not enough for thee?”

“I wish to learn more of the world we seek to mend, for my heart knows it is my home. Is that not a worthy cause?”

Annoyed more at the foreignness of the action than the request itself, Morgott growled begrudgingly, “I suppose it is of some merit.”

“Then I humbly ask for your help. You would not wish to be bound to the perpetually ignorant, would you?”

Morgott thought he heard a hint of humor in her tone, but he did not look at her. “Nay. I shall do this, but do not think that thy request shall add fervor to my search.”

Rowa resisted a roll of her eyes. Every kindness he afforded was quickly followed by disparaging comment of some sort. It frustrated her, but she tried to keep his situation in mind. “Thank you. I look forward to it.”

Rowa wandered the halls again, but this time with purpose, seeking out clothes that would suit her for the mountains. It was surreal to her, that she was now wed, but little else had changed aside from her subconscious knowledge of being bound to Morgott. She could feel his presence if she concentrated, a flickering ember sustained by the talisman around her neck, but that was all.

“Do you feel it?” she asked Melina, who glided silently alongside her. “Do you feel the bond through our connection?”

“No,” Melina said. “It remains between you and Morgott alone.”

Rowa hummed thoughtfully, toying with the talisman as she peered into abandoned rooms. “It is strange that such a great change has happened, yet I feel as though hardly anything has come to pass at all.”

“Such is the way of change in the world, I have found. It either comes upon you suddenly like a bolt of lightning with no warning, or it is gradual like the blooming of a flower.”

“I suppose this shall be a gradual change then. I wonder, when an age has passed, if I will look back upon this day with regret or fondness, or any feelings at all.”

“I hope it is fondness,” Melina murmured sincerely, for she was increasingly certain she would not see that time herself.

They went from room to room, investigating the contents within. Like Rowa had observed the day before, many rooms were laid bare save for the largest pieces of furniture, but there were some with items remaining as Morgott had promised. They found suits of heavy, horned armor forged of golden alloy still hanging on their stands, well-made but much too large for Rowa. Other rooms held thick robes of leather and cloth, fit to cover the whole body down to the toes. Gowns of fur, lace, and opalescent silk hung in forgotten wardrobes.

Armor and clothing was not all they found. As with the halls, there were many depictions of seals related to the Golden Order, the Elden Ring, and the Erdtree, either carved into the masonry or spread upon paintings and tapestries. But beyond that, there were also likenesses of people, their serene portraits hanging within the dim, forgotten rooms. Rowa did not recognize any of them initially, though she could guess well enough. A woman of golden hair and eyes, her face irradiant even through the paint. A man of red hair with a stern visage, his eyes golden but seeming sad. Two figures in the same frame, a girl of red hair and a boy of gold, staring from the frame with boldness.

But then she found the portrait of someone more familiar. As she tried to move aside a large, patterned chestplate of gold to reach the wardrobe beyond, she spied another painting, propped against the wall haphazardly as though dropped there and forgotten. She would have ignored it had it not been for the visage that was depicted there. A man of cold disposition stared from the frame, his hair hanging around his face in loose tresses of white-gold. His his eyes were brilliant gold in a face of regal bearing, but it was overshadowed by a scowl that ran in deep lines across his skin.

“Melina,” Rowa said. “This painting…it seems familiar to me.”

Melina approached it, and immediately recognized the face, changed though it was. “I believe this is Morgott in his Veiled likeness.”

Rowa stared at the picture, startled. It was his face indeed, though in the likeness of a man, it seemed terribly unnatural. “I did not think his title to be…literal.”

“It seems it was at one time, long ago.”

Rowa wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but she finally tore her gaze away, unsure what to make of it as many questions spun through her mind. Had he once been free to walk among his own subjects?

It took a good while of searching, but finally they came across a decent tabard in Rowa’s size. It was of white cloth, and it had a laced bodice and a belt, the hem long enough to stretch to her knees. The material was woven thick and warm, but not heavy enough that it would likely impede her movement.

Pleased with the find, she looked around a while longer before deciding to return to Morgott for his opinion. When she and Melina entered his study, they found him sitting in the exact same place, seemingly unmoved despite the several hours that had passed.

“This cloth is of good make,” Morgott said, skimming his fingers across the tabard. “And ‘twill hide thee well amidst the snowfields.”

“Then should I seek more of this kind?”

“Aye, but not yet. Sit.”

“What for?” Rowa asked, startled by the sudden command.

“Thou wished me to share my knowledge with thee, didst thou not?”

“Ah, yes.” Rowa smiled to herself, turning to find a spot to sit before he could see it. Given his terse reply to her request, she had not expected him to be swift at all. She briefly considered asking him about the portrait she had found, but decided to leave it for another time.

Morgott looked at the papers in front of him. Now that he had done in once, reading to her was not as daunting as it was irksome. But he would not begrudge her the knowledge she needed, especially not after pledging himself to her that very morning.

He read of the Fire Monks, and their zealous pursuit of the embers of the Forge at the highest peak of the mountains. He also spoke of his own observations, albeit from a distance, and Rowa listened quietly. His descriptions, both his and the ones from the text, took her to a frigid land overshadowed by an old fire, and she did her best to envision it.

Melina too envisioned the land and the fire. A way forward to them all, but to her, a way forward to the end she was meant for.

The day came to a close as they ruminated over the texts, and they parted ways as the sun set. King and consort went to rest, and the day ended unremarkably for the gravity of the bond forged that morning. But as he slept, Morgott dreamed of the warmth of a hand in his own, and when he woke up he found himself alone and feeling frustratingly bereft, the medallion on his neck a pale echo of the warmth he had felt.

The next day passed similarly. Rowa continued her hunt for better clothing similar to the tabard she found, and found some boots worthy to replace her well-worn pair. Additionally, she went searching for medicinal items like herba to replenish her meager stash for the road, since she was likely to need it. Several thick clusters grew in Morgott’s garden, and with his blessing she took some.

Morgott continued his study of the mountains, as well as formulating a plan for his continued duties as king in his physical absence. His illusions as Margit would serve him well in this regard, and his soldiers would likely never know he was gone. He read to Rowa of the knowledge he had uncovered once more, and she listened gladly.

On the third day since they were wed, preparations continued likewise, until they received an unexpected visitor.

The apparition appeared with no warning or preamble. One moment Morgott and Rowa were alone as he read to her, and the next a pale specter sat alongside them in an empty space on a side table.

Rowa barely had time to glimpse it before Morgott was up and across the room. In a single, fluid action, he summoned a golden sword as he moved, bringing it level with the apparition’s neck, the dangerous edge hanging a hairsbreadth away. Rowa shot to her feet, reaching for her sword, but she hesitated when the ghostly figure did not so much as flinch at Morgott’s advance. All three of them stilled.

The apparition had the appearance of a woman in witch’s garb, her face—or rather, faces— overshadowed by the huge brim of her pointed hat. One face was connected to the rest of the body, the right eye closed with a seal, and the other hung just to the side, seemingly disconnected with the rest of the body. Four arms and two sets of hands lay interlaced upon her lap, a fur cloak set about her shoulders.

“Surely thou knowest that is a gesture of folly.” The figure raised her head slightly to look Morgott in the face, unfazed by the blade at her throat. “Thy blade shall pierce nothing.”

Recognition stirred in Rowa’s mind. The voice was soft but strong, and she had heard it somewhere before.

Morgott did not move an inch, glaring at the apparition. “Who art thou? How hast thou breached the seals on the city?”

“It is a shame that circumstance has not allowed our paths to cross in full,” the apparition said. “I am Ranni.”

Morgott stared long at the figure, shocked into silence. He had supposed Ranni dead long ago, but now that she had spoken, he knew it was her without a doubt. He had never laid eyes upon her, but even in such a strange vessel, the gleam of a demigod remained strong about her.

“I heard your voice,” Rowa said, “in Raya Lucaria.”

Ranni’s head tilted in her direction with acknowledgment, the single eye of the non-detached face seeming bright even in the pale illusion. “Thou didst indeed. Stay thy blades, both of ye. I mean thee no harm, and even if I did, I am not truly in Leyndell. At least thou shouldst know this, Morgott.”

Rowa hesitated to do as she said, looking to Morgott for his reaction. He did not move at first, but he finally lowered his blade slowly, letting it dissipate into golden motes. She followed suit, sheathing her swords once more.

“My thanks,” Ranni said. “Allow me to extend my humblest greetings to thee, stalwart and fortunate Tarnished, and to thee, venerable Omen King.”

“What is thy business here?” Morgott demanded harshly, unsettled by both her presence and her knowledge of his station.

“I hath watched this Tarnished with great interest, ever since she met my mother Rennala, and I came to realize we might be of use to each other. As she ascended to Leyndell, I wondered at her fate at the hands of the Veiled Monarch. I am surprised to see that neither has fallen to the other, but the formation of a bond deeper still.”

“There is a shared purpose between us, strange though it may seem,” Morgott said, suddenly deeply aware of the medallion hanging at his neck. “This bond is only to assure no deception. Why dost this Tarnished interest thee so?”

“She took the power of my mother’s Rune, but in return, gave my mother a joy that she has not had since long before the war. And so I saw her power as a contender for Elden Lord, and determined her to be a potential ally.”

“An ally in what way?” Rowa asked.

“Now, that depends upon thy intent. I heard thee speak of deposing the Golden Order within Raya Lucaria, but dost such an ambition remaineth strong within thee now that thou’rt bound to the Order’s most zealous follower?”

“Be not mistaken, I am no zealot,” Morgott said. “I only wish to do as Marika desireth, which I now know is to do away with the Golden Order.”

A smile curved both sets of Ranni’s lips. “Indeed. I had long suspected her to be of that mind, and it is good to see that proved to be true. So, thou shalt remove the Golden Order and the Greater Will from the world?”

“Aye.”

“Then what wouldst thou have in its place?”

Rowa started to speak, but Morgott raised a warning hand. “Enough of our business. Now, state thine quickly.”

Ranni’s smile took on a sharper edge. “Thou’rt a suspicious one.”

“I am wary of all my kin, many of whom hath born themselves to ruin in the pursuit of power,” Morgott growled. “Speak.”

All traces of mirth vanished from Ranni’s countenance, something dark and ambitious taking its place. “I would have the world free from the fickle nature of the gods, for their meddling had cost me near everything, even mine own flesh. And in that, I intend to depart this land, to live my life upon my Dark Moon, but I am prevented from doing so by the current world, in more than one way. Foremost, what remains of Radahn and his great strength allows no movement of the stars, which renders me sundered from my Moon. Secondly, the Greater Will still reigns, and its presence inhibits my departure regardless of the patterns of the stars.”

“So you seek to depart through our mending of the Ring,” Rowa concluded.

“Indeed.”

“But what more than that?” Morgott pressed distrustfully. “Thou didst not appear to merely inform us.”

“No. I cannot, in good conscience, depart the Lands Between without my brothers being laid to rest.” Ranni’s brusqueness wavered in favor of somber resignation. “Both of them are all but lost. Warriors have gathered in Caelid at the behest of one of Radahn’s men to give him the honorable death he is long overdue for, and I trust they will accomplish their mission. But Rykard lieth deep beneath Gelmir, in a fortress only Tarnished are permitted to enter. I ask thee to travel to Gelmir and grant him the death that should have found him a long time ago. Additionally, I bestowed to him a Mirrorhelm of the Nox so that he would not fear interference from the Greater Will, but he no longer shall need it. I would have thee recover it, so that I might use it anew.”

“And what shall we gain in return?”

“First, thou wouldst gain peace, for I know Rykard’s forces continue to assail thee. Second, once Radahn’s hold on the stars is released, the way to the Eternal Cities shall be opened, wherein I will be able to take the treasure they forged long ago and give it to thee.”

“The god-slaying blade,” Morgott mused. He had read of it, but had not considered it in mending the Elden Ring, thinking it far out of his reach.

“Thou wilt need this treasure, if thou wishest to remove the Greater Will once and for all. Lay Rykard to rest, and at the mending of the Ring, the blade shall be thine to use.”

“What shall become of Marika, then?”

Ranni’s indifferent expression did not waver. “I care not what her fate is, though I can assume that she had hoped to be severed from the Ring. Whatever pity I may have had was lost when she sundered my father from my mother.”

Rowa tensed, her eyes darting to Morgott as she anticipated an outpouring of anger from Ranni’s callous words. But she saw no anger, the barest hint of something sorrowful flickering across his stony countenance. He understood, she realized, for his father had been taken away as well.

“Dost thou have any other way of surely removing the Greater Will?” Ranni continued.

“Nay,” Morgott said at length, realizing their lapse in consideration. They had no idea what waited for them within the Erdtree, but the Greater Will would not allow them to remove its power easily.

“Then this is thy only path. Free my brother from his suffering, and the god-slaying blade shall be thine. Thou can rest assured of my goodwill, for the Greater Will must be removed before I can depart.”

“Is death the only way to free your brother?” Rowa wondered. “Is there nothing else?”

“Whatever humanity there was to be found in Rykard hath long since been lost,” Morgott said. “Even then, his atrocities are too numerous to be counted. The Serpent hath consumed him in full, leaving naught but a hungering remnant in his stead. No mercy can be given him except death.”

Ranni turned a small, sad smile on Rowa. “The Omen King speaketh true. To me, Rykard’s actions matter not, but indeed his mind is lost. I had hoped that he would resist the Serpent and remain his true self, but the Shattering proved too much. Like Radahn, death is the only way to freedom, though thou hast my gratitude for seeking a different path.”

Rowa dipped her head in resignation. “Very well.”

“So my offer remaineth before thee. Give Rykard rest, and secure the future of the Lands Between.”

Rowa didn’t know what to say, or if she should say anything at all. It seemed like a worthwhile venture, but she knew next to nothing of Rykard, nor this fabled blade. But before she could decide on any response, Morgott spoke.

“I shall accept this exchange…” He turned a vaguely inquisitive look upon her. “…unless mine consort has reason to disagree.”

“I-I suppose not,” Rowa stuttered, caught off-guard by his acceptance after his initial hostility. “You wish to accept so swiftly?”

“Gelmir lieth near in the west. ‘Twould not be a long undertaking to reach it, and the recusants there would gladly accept another Tarnished into their fold. For the treasure of the Eternal Cities, this journey is a small price to pay. Marika desires the Greater Will gone, and Ranni’s form is proof of her similar desire. Is that not so?”

“Thou’rt correct,” Ranni said. “I shed mine Empyrean form so that the Greater Will and the Two Fingers may no longer hinder me. Now that this is so, I am free to seek the treasure of the Eternal Cities, to rid myself of the dread god once and for all.”

Rowa resolved to question Morgott more deeply on those matters later. “Then, if we were to do this, what would become of Rykard’s Rune? He is a Shardbearer, is he not?”

“He is,” Ranni said. “The Rune shall be thine to take, as will be Radahn’s. I’ve no use for them, as I cast off my own long ago.”

“I take no issue with that.”

“Nor I,” Morgott said.

Ranni inclined her head, revealing her dual visage more clearly. Rowa was struck by the familiarity of her fully-formed face, how it seemed to mirror Melina’s with a sealed eye. “Then now that the matter is settled, I ask of thee, what world wouldst thou create to replace this one?”

“We would see the Crucible reborn, its burnished gold running deep as it did in the olden days.”

“A fitting ambition for the Omen King and his new consort.” Ranni give Rowa a quizzical look. “Thou’rt a strange Tarnished, indeed, to wed thy former enemy so quickly and to take on the vision of what many deem to be accursed.”

“I wanted to avoid more bloodshed, and act honorably,” Rowa said. “I have seen the way the Golden Order treats the ones spurned by it, and there is no honor in that.”

“In a world filled with blood, perhaps that is what shall change it for the better.” Ranni steepled both sets of fingers. “Very well. My brother’s rest and the Mirrorhelm for the god-slaying blade. Do we have an accord?”

Morgott caught Rowa’s eye, and when she nodded, he said, “Aye. We have an accord.”

Melina sensed Ranni’s arrival in her invisible form, and stood ready to appear at Rowa’s side, but when she saw the demigod’s apparition, she stopped herself. The witch’s first face, tied to the rest of the body, was strikingly familiar, and awakened memories she didn’t know she had.

Marika’s body flashed through her mind, and the mystery in her skin.

Mine other self.

Whispers drifted across her mind, faint memories only now reborn by the reflection of a face that she knew like her own. Maybe it was her own.

“Strong Empyrean, thou hast fought long and hard with the power I bestowed to thee.” The words rang powerfully in her ears, seeming to sap what little remnants of strength remained in her body, broken and shuddering. “Thou becamest Death and hath spread thy roots deep, but I cannot let it remain so.”

A hammer hung in a strong grasp. Eyes of gold glinted as Marika beheld her, and behind the Eternal Queen prowled the Shadow that had defeated her, his teeth bared in a warning growl. She could not move, rendered still by the Black Blade’s power.

“I see the curse abides in thee as well.” Marika’s gaze was pitying. “Thy other self vies for power within thee. I shall not slay thee, dear child, for ‘twas I who bore thee, but the power of Death can live in thee no longer. Thou shalt be shattered.”

The hammer was raised, and she welcomed the sundering it would bring.

Hands took hold of her face, gentle and soothing. She felt broken, bereft of something, but also free. And yet, she was so tired…

“Sleep now, child.” Marika spoke somewhere above as she was blanketed in golden light. “Rest until thou art awakened, and know the name I shall give to thee…Melina.”

Chapter Text

“I must say, I did not expect you to trust her so quickly,” Rowa said once Ranni’s apparition was gone.

“I do not trust her,” Morgott said, moving to look at the map once more, “but I realize we have erred. We know not what will await us within the Erdtree, but the Greater Will shall not allow its power to be taken without a fight. The god-slaying blade of the Eternal Cities was forged specifically for the Greater Will and the Fingers, and with it we shall be able to overcome the might of an outer god.”

“Do you fear betrayal from her?”

“Nay. She is set on the path she hath chose. In the days before the war, I had heard tell of her discontent with her Empyrean fate, and now that she has come, I see that discontent remaineth within her.”

“And what does it mean, to be an Empyrean?”

“To be an Empyrean is to be one chosen by the Greater Will for ascension to godhood in Marika’s place.” Morgott eyed Gelmir on the map. “Perhaps the Greater Will chose Empyreans knowing of Marika’s rebellion, or perhaps not. There were three, with the twin Empyreans Malenia and Miquella alongside Ranni, but all of them defied their fate. Ranni has shed her flesh in its entirety so that the Greater Will may not control her any longer, while Malenia and Miquella were cursed, and in their curses chose another path.”

“Where are Malenia and Miquella?”

“Gone, vanished since the Shattering. I hath not seen them, nor my Calvary. What fate they met, I know not, but I do know they would not wish to see the Golden Order continued.”

At that moment, Melina shimmered into existence, and Rowa turned to her eagerly. “Melina, did you see what just happened?”

“I did,” Melina said calmly. “An unexpected visitor, but not an unwelcome one, I gather.”

“Maiden, what is thy mind?” Morgott lifted his eyes to her. “Dost thou see any reason for us to not depart on this venture?”

“I do not. Ranni’s proposition seems beneficial for both parties. I know nothing of this god-slaying blade she speaks of, but it seems a worthy trade.”

Rowa eyed Melina’s likeness. As she had thought, it was a mirror image of Ranni’s fully-formed face. “Melina, do you know Ranni? You resemble her greatly…”

A small frown appeared on Melina’s normally placid face. “I do not know Ranni, though I too was struck by the familiarity between us. I am not yet sure what it means.”

Morgott studied her, unable to discern if she spoke truly or if this was yet another omission for the sake of the quest. “If that is so, then it seems of little consequence at the moment. We must look towards Gelmir now with haste.”

“I suppose.” Rowa finally diverted her attention from Melina towards the map. “Where does Gelmir lie?”

“Here.” Morgott pointed to the westward landmass jutting away from the Erdtree, riddled with lines that seemed to indicate uneven terrain. “Surely thou sighted it in thy travels, on the other side of the Altus Plateau.”

“I did,” Rowa said, remembering the distant, smoking mountains.

“It should take no more than a few days’ travel to reach the territory of Gelmir, and we shall move uninhibited. But once we reach Gelmir itself, the danger shall rise.”

“Rykard’s forces?”

“Indeed,” Morgott said grimly. “Even now they continue to fight with my men. His forces are bolstered with wayward Tarnished who disdain the Erdtree, or seek some purpose lacking the guidance of Grace.”

“How do we know this is not some trap laid by Ranni, to send us to our deaths?”

“Thy caution is not misplaced, for Ranni’s cunning is great, but she is sincere in this. She seeketh no destruction for the Lands Between itself, but that is Rykard’s ambition in the half-life he is now condemned to. The Serpent’s hunger ruleth him.”

The picture became grimmer to Rowa with each passing moment. To one like Rykard, gone far beyond the point of no return, death seemed to be the greatest mercy.

“However, I shall not trust in Ranni’s word alone,” Morgott continued. “I shall send one of my Calvary ahead, to ensure no falsehood.”

“How deep in Gelmir does Rykard dwell?”

“Somewhere near his old home, built into the mountain itself.” Morgott pointed to a mark on the map, a square near the main peak. “Rykard hath little dominion in the throes of his madness, but he hath allies that direct the Tarnished forces. Their hiding place is called Volcano Manor.”

“I know that name,” Rowa murmured.

Morgott frowned. “Where from?”

“Give me a moment.” Rowa dug through her meager sack of belongings, coming upon the envelope she had received from Rya in Liurnia, forgotten and slightly crumpled. She pulled it out, showing it to Morgott. “This is an invitation to Volcano Manor, I believe.”

“Where didst thou find it?” Morgott saw the red wax seal on the envelope was indeed Rykard’s crest.

“It was given to me by a girl I met in my travels, as thanks for retrieving a stolen necklace.”

“A Tarnished?”

“I think not. She was kind to me, but a little odd. Her form was hunched in a manner I have not seen on any other.”

“One of Rykard’s envoys, I presume.” Morgott held out a hand. “Thou wouldst wish me to read it?”

“If you would.” Rowa handed the letter over. She had all but forgotten about it as other things took her attention in her travels, but now she was truly curious as to the contents.

Morgott broke the seal, unfolding the parchment. The letter was written in an elegant, flowing hand, much better than he would have expected, but it was clearly not Rykard’s own.

"Brave Tarnished, seek the Altus Plateau in the realm of the Erdtree. Prove yourself by making this journey, and the Volcano Manor will fully extend its invitation. To fight, amongst a family of champions."

“Thou hast secured thyself an invitation to the hall of Rykard, indeed.” Morgott gave her a skeptical look. “Didst thou speak truly about how thou achieved this?”

“I did,” Rowa huffed. “There was a girl on the road who wished me to retrieve her necklace from some ruffian. Nothing more than that.”

“She does speak truthfully,” Melina said. “Though I was not manifested in body, I saw it all. There is no more to it than that.”

“I believed Rykard’s ilk to present a true challenge.” Morgott returned the letter to Rowa. “Perhaps it is not so.”

Rowa smoothed the creases in the parchment thoughtfully. “Now that I have learned more about Rykard, such a gentle girl as the one I met does not seem like someone he would employ.”

“A guise, perhaps, but it matters not. Thy way into Rykard’s stronghold is set, but if I am to accompany thee, I must devise a way to do so undetected.”

“Could you not take a different form?” Rowa asked, remembering the odd painting she had seen a couple of days prior.

Morgott gave her a sharp glance. “Where didst thou attain that notion?”

“I found a painting that looked very much like you, except…”

“Human,” Morgott finished. He had forgotten about that portrait, having discarded it long ago as a useless frivolity and a reminder of the falsehood he was forced to live under. Something uncomfortable seized him at the thought of her seeing it, and he wondered if she preferred what the Mimic Veil had given him.

“Human, yes,” Rowa said slowly, disliking how disparaging it sounded.

“Thou’rt not mistaken. ‘Twas I who was rendered there, but it is a time long passed. No more do I possess the means to wear such a guise.”

“Well, few have seen your true face and lived, is that not so?”

“It is.”

“Then why not have you as my traveling companion? No one would think it strange, surely.”

Morgott rumbled discontentedly as he considered the idea. “Most Omens are known to be mute.”

Rowa gave a little shrug. “I do not mind speaking for the both of us.”

“I alone speak for myself.”

Rowa frowned at his abrasive demeanor. “If you have a better idea, then please enlighten me.”

“Thou’rt of little patience,” Morgott muttered. “I cannot see a way forward yet.”

“Why do you not wish to follow my idea? Do you trust so little in my ability to speak?”

“Aye,” he said flatly.

Rowa scowled. “I may be of little patience, but you are of swift judgment.”

“What knowest thou of speaking to thy enemy, when thou lackest all memory? If thy true intent is discovered, they shall surely slay us.”

“I left the Roundtable Hold alive, despite being deeply at odds with Gideon Ofnir.”

“Ofnir let thee live because he sees in thee some merit to further his own ambition.” Morgott turned his gaze away from her as he admitted begrudgingly, “But, he desireth control and power above all else, so I suppose thou hast some skill, to sunder thyself from his clutches without great conflict.”

It took Rowa a moment to reply, startled by the reluctant but gratifying observation. “Well, in truth, it was not without conflict…but does that mean you shall consider my proposition?”

“I will think on it.” Morgott clacked his stave against the floorstones decisively. “Go now, and begin thy final preparations. At dusk, I shall send out one of my riders to see Gelmir, and by dawn I shall know if Ranni has enacted some treachery. If all is well, we shall depart the city by night on the morrow.”

“What shall happen to you, when we leave Leyndell?”

Melina was lifted from deep thought by Rowa’s question, and she met her companion’s concerned gaze. “I will not be able to move of my own will once more. I will only be able to appear by Grace, as before.”

“Does that not trouble you?”

Melina brushed a hand over Torrent’s mane, who rested beside her. “No. I am to accompany you on your quest, and we must depart Leyndell, whether it be to Gelmir or to the Great Forge. I would lose my agency in either case.”

“I see.” Rowa studied the seal on Melina’s eye. “Do you truly remember nothing of Ranni?”

“I do not, though it is as strange to me as it is to you, the resemblance between us.” Melina touched her closed eye.

“Do you think, if she had seen you, that she would have known you?”

“Morgott said she shed her flesh. Who is to say the vessel she inhabits now is in her likeness?”

“That is true. I am not sure what such a four-armed body is meant to represent.”

“Nor am I.”

“What do you remember, then? What has the Erdtree granted you?”

“Memories of my mother, beyond the vague recollections I had before.”

“What was she like?”

Melina stroked Torrent’s horns absentmindedly as she sought the right words. “There are many even now that revere Marika as a god, and before arriving in Leyndell, I did not know how true their adorations were. But now I see that they were not in vain, at least not before she was imprisoned. She was mighty, beautiful, and terrible all at once. She was as the Erdtree itself, full of Grace and power, seeming stronger than all the world.”

A small icon of Marika was carved into the gilded framing above the door, and Rowa’s gaze was drawn to it as Melina spoke. The image, beautiful though it was with erdleaf flowers blooming around it, did not quite reveal Marika’s godhood. It was likely no image did; only by seeing her in the flesh would Rowa understand what Melina spoke of.

“But, for all her power, she was not unmerciful, for she gave me a task, and set this blade in my hand.” Melina drew forth the curved dagger from her cloak, the silver metal gleaming orange in the candlelight as she turned it.

“That is an odd blade,” Rowa said, noting the spur in the metal near the hilt. “What is its purpose?”

“I am unsure. It does not seem to be of any particular power, nor have I ever had to use it.”

“Hopefully you will never have to.”

Melina nodded, stowing the dagger away. “No matter its usefulness, I shall keep it with me, for it was a gift from Marika in the time of her wholeness. This is all I have to commemorate it, for now in her imprisonment, she hangs shattered like all the Lands Between.”

Melina’s face remained serene, but Rowa asked, “Does that sadden you?”

“I shall not let such things fill my heart,” Melina said, “for the world is full of peril now, and what little love remains must stay steadfast.”

“What do you think will become of Marika, when the Ring is mended and changed?”

“I know not whether she shall live or die, but she shall gain what she has desired for a long time: true freedom from godhood. But it shall not be your burden once the Greater Will is vanquished.”

“Marika and Ranni both have tried to free themselves,” Rowa mused. “One would think the power of godhood would be a blessing, not a curse.”

Melina gazed at the icon of Marika above the door, the faintest hint of a wry smile pulling at her lips. “The only ones who truly think it is a blessing are the ones who have not felt its touch at all.”

The peaks of Gelmir rose in the distance like the jagged claws of some beast attempting to reach the star-studded tapestry of the night sky. Some days, the smoke from the natural furnaces deep within the mountain poured forth in thick, dark plumes that all but obscured the peaks from view, but now it was clear, only the slightest tinge of ashen gray drifting about the precipice.

Morgott wondered what it would be like, to walk through the canyons beneath the smoke-veiled sky. He had heard tales from his men of the land, broken and torn beneath a war that had never truly ceased even long after the other demigods had fallen or departed, but never had he set foot there himself. He dreaded the idea, but he would not shy away from it now that he was set in this path. Of everything undesirable about him, he would not suffer being a craven. Now that Marika’s intent was clear, he would abandon his guard of the Erdtree and descend into the depths of the lands he had long distanced himself from.

But he did dread it, for it had been an age since he had stepped outside the bounds of Leyndell in his true form. In the first days of the Tarnished uprising, he and his Calvary had spread across the countryside, hunting upstarts before they could amass any true power. He had done so in his illusory form, so he was not wholly unfamiliar with the state of the world, but going out in the flesh was something he had not done since the Shattering. Though nothing had come of the skirmishes between Leyndell and Gelmir in an age, there was always the fear that, in his absence, something would happen to his kingdom.

As he gazed at Gelmir, he found the fact that he would not be alone unexpectedly comforting.

At last, something shifted in the study behind Morgott, giving him a pause from the thoughts of the imminent quest. He turned away from the window to face the darkened room. The candles had long burned low, and now they went out entirely, plunging the room into near complete darkness. From the deepest shadows of the room, there arose a figure clad in armor forged from an alloy the color of midnight. From head to toe, the shadow-bound man was armored as a knight, a great glaive of similar darkness hanging upon his back. What little light there was seemed to dim and bend towards the specter, as though his mere presence was enough to banish any illumination.

The hair on Morgott’s neck prickled, though out of instinct rather than fear. He had cast aside all reservations towards such umbral figures long ago, and stared at the dark space beneath the intricate ridges of the knight’s helm undaunted. Not even the faintest shadow of a face could be seen staring back at him, but he felt the invisible eyes all the same, the gaze bringing with it a weight that pressed upon him like the heaviness of the air before a storm. But for all the gravity he bore, the knight knelt before the king in a posture of obedience.

“Rise,” Morgott said. “Thou didst well to come here.”

The knight rose without a sound, awaiting further inquiry.

“Thou hast gone to the lands of Gelmir as I commanded thee?” Morgott asked.

The knight had indeed, though he did not speak with words from the mouth, but from the mind. It was a strange thing, his response like a cold breeze washing over Morgott’s thoughts.

“And was there any sign of treachery on the part of Lunar Princess Ranni? Is there anyone who is not of Rykard’s forces?”

There was not.

It was settled, then. He and the Tarnished would depart to Gelmir as soon as they were able. “Thou’rt to keep watch over Gelmir, but stand ready. I shall have need of thee yet. Be on thy way, and know that thou hast served me well.”

The knight bowed and vanished as quickly as he had come, taking the heavy aura with him.

Morgott sighed, turning back towards the window. Were the Mimic Veil still in his possession, he would not have to trust in the Tarnished alone. He did not completely doubt her ability to be discreet, but what he truly disliked was relinquishing his power, being rendered voiceless. Only when he ascended to a hard-won kingship did he finally feel he had control in a life that was otherwise decided for him from his birth, and he was loathe to give that up.

But the Tarnished had proven trustworthy thus far, though he had anticipated a betrayal at every turn. If no other idea presented itself to him, he would have to trust her even further, as harrowing a thought as that was.

At daybreak, he arose to meet the Tarnished with her morning repast. Normally when he arrived, she was just beginning to wake, but on this morning she was already up and about, fashioning boluses out of moss taken from the gardens.

“Tarnished,” he said as he stepped through the door, “how long until thou’rt ready to depart?”

Rowa stood to take the food from him. “A couple of hours, I would think. Have you received word about Gelmir?”

“The soldier I sent found no evidence of treachery on Ranni’s part. I shall have a vigil remain, but there is no greater danger as of now. We shall depart at dusk.”

“How shall we secret ourselves through the city? Should I be ready to fight if we are discovered?”

“That will not be necessary. I will take measures to ensure we are not discovered.”

“And what of entering the Volcano Manor? Have you arrived at a better conclusion than I?”

Morgott frowned. “Until something presenteth itself to me, I will entertain thy notion for the moment.”

Rowa tried hard to keep a straight face. “So be it.”

“Thou shalt meet me in my study at dusk, and depart from there,” Morgott said, already turning to leave.

“Very well.” Something teetering between excitement and worry fluttered within Rowa’s chest as it began to sink in that she would truly be journeying alongside the demigod to whom she had so deeply committed herself to.

They went their separate ways to finish preparing, each with their own thrills and dreads of journeying together.

“Dusk draws near,” Melina said. “Will you now join Morgott?”

“I suppose I shall,” Rowa said, securing the last of the bindings around her boots.

“Then it is here I shall bid you a short farewell. When you next find Grace, I shall be there as I was before, but I trust you shall not feel lonesome in Morgott’s company.”

“We shall see.”

Melina held out a hand. “If you would let my hand rest upon you, but for a moment.”

Rowa reached out, touching her companion, and Melina’s form shimmered and dissipated into blue mist. This time, she was aware of Melina joining her, like a hand settling on her shoulder in warm assurance, and she took comfort in it as she gathered her pack. Casting one last look at the room that had become her temporary home in Leyndell and knowing she would deeply miss that soft pile of bedding, she left it behind.

Morgott was slightly taken aback when Rowa entered his study. He had never seen her in anything other than her tattered blue tabard, and her new white vestments looked strange in their difference, but not unpleasant or unfitting. Meanwhile, he had made no changes to himself save for a makeshift belt of repurposed rope around his waist with pouches full of dried meats, herbs, perfumer powders, and other little items he deemed useful.

“Tarnished, dost thy Maiden accompany thee?” he asked.

“She does,” Rowa said.

“Then thou’rt ready to depart?”

“I am, and I assume you are as well.”

“Come. My soldier awaiteth.”

Rowa took a deep, fortifying breath and followed him.

They walked in silence, each caught in their own thoughts. Morgott had set all his seals in place so he could remain present in Leyndell even from afar, but the tension of parting from the city still weighed upon him.

They descended stairways and passed through terraced halls, and as they got closer to the ground level, Rowa became increasingly aware of a strange feeling. At first, she feared it was the presence of the Frenzied Flame, but as her awareness grew, she realized it was not so. Rather, it was a weight, a coldness, settling on the back of her neck, making a shiver run down her spine. Several times, she glanced at Morgott, but if he noticed anything he did not reveal it, his face stony and his gaze straightforward.

“Morgott,” she said at last, her voice sounding almost too loud in the quiet, “I feel…odd. Something isn’t quite right.”

Morgott’s unhidden eye glanced towards her, and the hardness of his countenance loosened slightly. “’Tis only the presence of my soldier. Set thy mind against it, and do not let it trouble thee.”

Rowa nodded, trying to take his assurance to heart. By the time they reached the doors to the street, it felt like the steel of a frigid sword was pressed between her shoulder blades.

Morgott noticed a shudder in her breathing, the paleness of her face, and something guilty pricked at him. So accustomed was he to the presence of his Nightriders that he had not thought they would be of any great consequence to a Tarnished, but he had been mistaken.

“Worry not, Tarnished,” he said. “The weight lieth heavy, but it is naught at all.”

Rowa tried to push the feeling away, breathing deeply as she watched Morgott move to the doors. Undoing the bar lock, he carefully pushed open one, the cool night air rushing in as he peered out, searching for anyone amiss before curling a finger at her.

“Come, Tarnished.”

Rowa stepped out onto the darkened street. At first, she thought it was empty save for them, until she glimpsed a shadow flickering across the front of the building across from the Royal House. Her heart jumped into her throat when it struck her that it was a living shadow, a horse and rider clad in vestments seeming darker than the deepest shadows. She had seen one of their kind before on the road from Altus to Leyndell, and it was an even more chilling sight now than it had been then. It was this soldier that put off such a heavy aura, full of coldness and unease.

She saw the darkened space beneath the soldier’s helm, and felt the weight of an invisible gaze. She stumbled back, straight into Morgott, but he made no move to shy away from her.

“The weight lieth heavy,” Morgott said again, feeling a twinge of pity for the woman in his shadow.

Rowa pressed herself closer to Morgott, his massive form and his cloak practically swallowing her as the soldier drew closer. The dark steed passed over the stone street, but not a sound came from its hooves. Her fingers itched to draw her swords, but Morgott’s calmness restrained her barely.

“This Nightrider shall bear us safely out of Leyndell.” Morgott’s voice rumbled deep in her ears, seeming to lessen the cold weight slightly. “He is not an enemy.”

The Nightrider’s helm looked at her, then towards Morgott. She heard no words from the soldier, but she felt as though an exchange had taken place.

“This is the Tarnished I spoke of,” Morgott said. “My consort, and my companion on this journey.”

The Nightrider’s gaze fell upon Rowa once more, but this time, a voice came with it, soft but chilling like a winter breeze. I greet thee in gladness, my lady.

Startled by both the voice and the title, it took Rowa several moments to find a response. “It…it is a pleasure to meet you, likewise.”

“Thou shalt take us to the outer walls,” Morgott said. “Are the streets clear as I ordered it?”

They were.

“Then come, Tarnished.” A large hand, gentler than Rowa would’ve expected, urged her forward towards the Nightrider. She went with reluctance, but Morgott remained close at hand, a warm presence that began to balance out the coldness of the Nightrider.

“Canst thou withstand the weight until we are free of the city?” he asked.

“I can.” Rowa squared her shoulders. This was one soldier, not even an enemy, and she had likely faced those far more skilled and deadly than he. But still, she was grateful for Morgott’s thoughtfulness, unexpected though it was.

“Then walk alongside the Nightrider. So long as thou art near to him, no one we pass shall glimpse thee, nor I.”

The Nightrider spurred his steed into a walk, moving silently over the stones. The Omen King and the Tarnished followed wordlessly, their own sounds becoming muted beneath a deep aura.

As true night fell over Leyndell, the would-be Elden Lord and her companions, visible and invisible, departed the city to continue the quest for the Elden Ring.

Chapter Text

The streets of Leyndell were quiet. They had been barely populated since the war, but now they were truly empty, and it unnerved Rowa as they passed between darkened buildings that seemed abandoned if not sealed completely. The light of the Erdtree, and any light at all, seemed far away, unable to penetrate the pervading shadow that lay over the winding streets and staircases. The golden roofs possessed no luster, nor the streets any gallivanting shadow shapes.

Rowa glanced at the Nightrider, riding tall and imposing next to her, as she understood with increasing clarity how heavy his influence was. The chill of his darkness encompassed all her body, save for one warm, glimmering point at her throat. The warmth of the Erdtree’s Favor did not diminish in the face of the Nightrider’s presence, and she instinctively touched it, taking comfort in it. It blended with the warmth at her back, where Morgott walked, his breath rasping far above her head. She idly wondered if the Erdtree’s Favor remained strong by the imbuing of his power, for it was he who seemed to be the master of these strange riders.

They walked through many twisting, turning roads, a far different route than the one Rowa had taken upon her arrival. They were not concealed to tight alleyways and makeshift pathways across the towering corpse of a dragon, but there were no soldiers or otherwise anywhere about.

Rowa startled when something finally moved. On a promenade a level above them, a shadow flickered between two buildings. Hinges squeaked, and a door slammed shut, sounding thunderous in the quiet. Rowa reached for one of her swords, anticipating a call to go up, but Morgott halted her.

“Stay thy blade, Tarnished,” he rumbled behind her, hushed but not quite whispering. “The soldiers feel the Nightrider’s passing, and have learned long ago not to interfere. We are cloaked ‘neath his darkness, and are hidden from the eyes of all. What men are about will see naught but the rider.”

No more noise rang through the street, and Rowa tried to calm her pounding heart. “Is that why it seems so dark?”

“Aye, but ‘tis nothing to be afeared of.” Morgott’s visible eye seemed to glow in the encroaching shadows, a single star of gold against the night, and Rowa took comfort in it.

As they drew near to the city walls and the towering ramparts, Rowa became aware of another noise through the night stillness, but it was not the sound of footsteps or voices like she anticipated. It was a distant, high trilling, coming from somewhere above them, almost musical. Morgott heard it as well, and lifted his face to the ramparts, seeking out any sign of the oblong, white-clad figures.

“What is that noise?” Rowa whispered.

“’Tis the horns of the Oracle Envoys, who now stand upon the ramparts of the city,” Morgott said.

“Are they men of yours?”

“Nay. None know what they are, or from where they come, only that they appear to herald the coming of a new Lord.”

Rowa glanced back at him. “Is…is it I that they herald?”

“Mayhaps.” Morgott pointed upwards. “Sithee.”

Rowa looked, and beyond the veil of the Nightrider’s shadows, up on the highest parapets of Leyndell’s wall, several white figures amassed in the light of the Erdtree. Even from a distance, she could see the unnatural, spherical shape of their forms, and long arms bearing gleaming horns from which the high piping came. They were altogether strange, even in a world full of varying kinds, and she had no great desire to meet one.

“We must not tarry, Tarnished,” Morgott said behind her, and they moved on.

The closer they came to the walls, the more familiar the scape of the city became to Rowa. She recognized a couple of landmarks she had passed by on her way into the city; a broken cart, a building missing a portion of its filigree. When they passed into the walls themselves, she knew they were going the same way she had entered the city, through the gatehouse.

The gatehouse itself was unchanged, and everything was as it had been when she passed through before. The sliver of Grace remained bright and undimmed, and though the Nightrider did not acknowledge it, Morgott paused briefly, gazing at it with an expression she could not read.

She had been in the gatehouse not too long ago, but it felt like an age had passed. So much had changed in so little time, and she almost felt she had been naïve to think that mending the Elden Ring would be as simple as arriving at the Erdtree. But now there were more journeys to take, more Runes to be seized, and as a woman wedded to a demigod, no less.

They crossed the bridge above the moat, and Rowa kept her eyes ahead, expecting to see a sentinel such as the one she had encountered before, but the way was clear. “Where are the guards?”

“They were forewarned of the Nightrider’s coming and turned aside to let him pass,” Morgott said. “They feel the weight just as much as thou.”

The southward road following the curve of the walls was just as empty, save for the two imposing forms of the Golems, the fires within them burning brightly in the night. But as the little party drew near to them, they did not so much as move a finger, remaining still as statues. They passed between the two huge sets of stone feet, and Rowa held her breath, but they came away unscathed.

They followed the road for a long while, passing by crumbling ruins and a Minor Erdtree sprouting close to the outer wall. The piping of the mysterious Envoys had faded, leaving only the rustle of the faint breeze in the trees and the crunch of their footsteps in the grass. Leaves from the Erdtree drifted through the air like slowly falling stars, seeming deeply contrary to the land below it. The earth was pockmarked with craters where huge ballistae had once struck, and some even remained, jutting up from the ground as tall as trees.

Rowa’s familiarity with the landscape ended when they turned aside from the southward road, instead heading up another trail she had not taken before towards the west. The huge outer walls of the city loomed in front of them, and as they crested a hill, the gate to the Altus Plateau came into view. Compared to the southern highway she had arrived on, this entrance was far less grand. An embellished archway allowed the path of dirt and cobblestone to wind its way beyond the city’s walls and down into the land beyond.

As the little party came near to the threshold of the gate, where they would pass from Leyndell into Altus, Morgott paused. The Nightrider sensed his lord’s hesitance and stopped at once, alerting Rowa, and she turned to see him standing still, gazing through the gate into the distance.

“What is it?” she asked when he did not move. “Is there something amiss?”

Morgott had not meant to stop for so long, if at all, but as they came close to the gate, he had been struck by the reality that he was indeed leaving the city he had ruled for so long, the thought making him falter. The world beyond was vast, and he wondered if this was truly the right thing to do as a king, to leave his city, his men, his mother, behind.

“It has been a long while since I last stepped beyond the city’s bounds,” he murmured, averting his eyes from her searching gaze.

Rowa nodded, seeing that same hunch in his shoulders. “Does the idea…frighten you?”

“I think of the safety of the city and its people in my absence,” he said brusquely. “I waver at the thought of leaving, as a king.”

Rowa figured there was deeper feeling beyond that, but she did not press the issue. “You do not leave it unattended and defenseless, and we must go forward for the betterment of the city and all within it. That seems a worthy cause for a king.”

Morgott looked at her, inwardly grateful for the calm logic she brought even as he balked. “Thou speaketh truly.” He forced himself forward, unwilling to appear a craven in her eyes, and stepped through the gate.

Nothing changed physically, but he felt the difference all the same. The knowledge of all his seals in all their many places vanished behind a veil of magic, no longer stark and open to his sight. So to did the unconscious knowledge of the presence of the Erdtree dim ever so slightly, but it was merely a flicker. Before him, the path into the world lay waiting, an expanse opening huge and far in his mind just as it was in his sight.

“Come, Tarnished,” he said. “We must go onwards.”

The road cleaved between two ridges, several encampments of soldiers dotting the tops of the cliffs. The faint orange gleam of firelight was visible down below, but the little party passed down the road unseen by the sentries above.

When they at last broke away from the ridges, freeing them to leave the road and travel more covertly in the woodland, Morgott bade the Nightrider to take his leave and keep watch on the roads ahead. His departure was like night and day to Rowa as the cold aura of his presence vanished with him, freeing her from the pervading sense of dread.

Invigorated by the change, she summoned Torrent to ride upon, to account for the stark differences between her and Morgott’s strides. They set out and an easy pace through the woodlands as Torrent matched Morgott’s speed, the golden greenery around them infused with silver by the dimness of night.

“May I ask who your Nightriders are?” Rowa asked as they went. “In my travels, I have seen nothing else like them.”

Morgott kept his eyes trained on the woodland ahead. “I know not, in full truth, who any of them were. It is likely they themselves have forgotten. But I do know they were once warriors of great skill who lived and died, their souls spurned by the Erdtree. They were left to wander the Lands Between purposeless, leaderless, much like ye Tarnished. ‘Twas I who found them, and accorded them new purpose ‘neath my banner, as a Calvary of the Night.”

“That is kind of you,” Rowa admitted. She had seen a few spirits wandering here and there across the land, but she would never paid them any mind like him.

“Nine there are in all, and their power is great, perhaps even more so than they possessed in life,” Morgott continued. “Their shrouds are dark and the shadows they bring darker still, but never shall they harm thee for the weight they bringeth.”

“I am glad of it,” Rowa said sincerely.

They traveled until the night was surely over halfway in its course, the walls of Leyndell almost completely out of sight in the distance. They finally stopped to rest in a small glade, and though there was no Grace nearby, both of them needed a rest after going without sleep for nearly a whole day.

Rowa prepared a tiny fire, and Morgott sat on the ground opposite her, divesting his attention to the forest around them. Unlike the silence of the Royal House, the night forest was full of sound. The rustling of leaves in the breeze, the chirping of nocturnal bugs, the distant howls of dogs. So much noise set him on edge, and every little shift left him wondering if an attacker was near, but Rowa was unconcerned.

“Do not tend the fire long,” he warned. “‘Twill draw eyes.”

“I will douse it once the food is ready,” she replied, holding a branch skewered by several pieces of meat over the fire.

Morgott watched as she set several rowa berries by the fire’s edge to roast, which compelled him to ask, “Thou didst name thyself after such fruits, is that not so?”

“I did,” Rowa said. Thus far, she had been the one to initiate all conversations beyond his simple warnings, so she pressed a little further. “Why do you ask?”

“Why wouldst thou choose such a name for thyself? ‘Tis little more than fodder for beasts.” Morgott ignored the glare Torrent gave him. “I see no merit in it.”

“Perhaps Melina already told you, but such berries are simple, and I am a simple woman.” Rowa turned the skewer slowly. “In the Roundtable Hold, there are many champions among the Tarnished, but I am not one of them. No one I have come across has known my face from whatever lay beyond the fog. I am not a noblewoman nor a leader, not a priest nor a princess, nor a scion of some great house. I am of no renown, and I am content in that, so I need no great name.”

“And yet, for all the champions, thou’rt the only one to seize two Shards of the Elden Ring.”

“It was not by my strength alone. For Godrick’s Rune, I had the help of another Tarnished who was noble in battle. For Rennala, it was sheer good fortune that she is kindly, and has not the will to slay a wounded and defenseless Tarnished.” Rowa gave him a wry smile. “If you had been committed in slaying me, I am sure I would have met my end.”

Morgott searched her countenance for any trace of resentment towards him, but found none. “Dost thou consider thyself weak?”

“No, but I acknowledge there are many mightier than I, and there is strength to be found in numbers.”

“Many Tarnished are solitary, preferring to live and fight alone save for a Maiden out of greed and an unwillingness to share whatever power they may win,” Morgott said. “Perhaps thy merit is within thy lack of greed.”

“Maybe so,” Rowa mused. “If Rykard is indeed as mighty as you say, then in the coming battle your strength is welcomed if not necessary to defeat him.”

“Our paths hath not crossed since he committed the great blasphemy, but his shadow hath remained in the west, striking against me without rest. I do not doubt his might.”

“We shall know for certain soon enough.” Rowa pulled the meat from the fire, testing its heat with her fingers. Satisfied by the roast, she removed the pieces from the skewer, gesturing at Morgott. “Take what portion you wish and I will eat the rest.”

Morgott’s tail shifted a little with discomfort. “I will take my meal later.”

“You have not eaten since before we left, almost a full night ago, and we have been moving the whole time. You must be hungry now.”

“I do not wish to eat.”

“Why?”

“Strewth, must thou be so meddlesome?”

Rowa matched his irritable glare with one of equal fervor. “I do not think it is meddlesome to make sure my traveling companion and husband is keeping his strength.”

Husband. The title startled Morgott into silence. It was not incorrect, but he had refrained from such intimate forms of address given the nature of their arrangement, and so had she, up until this point.

“This is not the first time you have refused to eat in my presence,” Rowa went on, unaware of his surprise. “Why do you do it?”

“My countenance is accursed enough to look upon,” Morgott said haltingly. “So I seek to refrain from revealing further cursedness.”

Understanding slowly came to Rowa. “Your…teeth?”

Morgott did not answer, which confirmed her assumption.

“I care not what your teeth look like, whether they be like mine or another creature.” Rowa stood, stamping out the fire and darkening the little encampment. “But if it troubles you so, I will turn my back while you eat.”

Morgott was glad of the sudden darkness, for it disguised the surprise he could not restrain. “I…thou hast my thanks.”

Rowa handed him his portion of the meat, then sat down with her back facing him as she had promised. Given his obstinance to her attempts at being cordial, she expected him to refuse even so, but after several moments, she heard the crunch of meat between teeth. She smiled to herself as she ate, and once she finished, she kept her back turned, studying the patterns of the stars visible in the gaps between the trees.

“One of us should keep watch while the other rests,” she said. “In my travels I have slept untroubled, but the world is full of peril.”

“Three Runes may yet turn eyes,” Morgott murmured. “’Twould be wise, indeed.”

“I will take first watch, if you wish.”

“Very well.” Morgott did not have the strength to argue. He had slept poorly the night before, and though he was used to such weariness, leaving Leyndell and remaining on alert had exacted its toll on him. He felt out a comfortable patch of grass, lying down awkwardly, as he was all too aware of being in another’s company. His tail curled over his feet, and he positioned himself halfway on his side, facing away from Rowa. The grass beneath him prickled a little, but it was not the most uncomfortable place he had slept.

Rowa heard him moving, and turned to face him. She had not seen him resting before, and he looked a little odd for the newness of it, but she was glad he was capable of relaxing. “I will wake you in a few hours.”

Morgott grunted a vague reply, his reclined position only heightening his weariness. His instincts told him to stay awake in an unfamiliar place, to remain alert with the sounds of the night all around him, but the needs of his body won over. The ground was not as comfortable as the pile of scraps he was accustomed to, but it was far better than the cold stones of the sewer halls. His eyes fell shut and he began to drift into sleep.

Rowa settled herself against Torrent’s side, ready to keep watch for the next few hours. Without seeing Morgott’s face, she did not know if he was asleep until a faint, rhythmic rumbling reached her ears. It startled her at first, until it clicked in her mind, and she smiled at bulky shadow of Morgott’s form. If he did not know already, he would likely not appreciate the knowledge that he snored, so she would keep it to herself, but is was comforting to know he did something so simple as snoring, even as a demigod.

“I think he is beginning to trust me,” she whispered, just loud enough for two sets of ears to hear. Torrent huffed behind her, seeming unsure, but Melina gazed upon the two travelers from her incorporeal form and knew it to be so.

As quiet settled over the little encampment, Melina turned away from it towards the north. In the distance, even through wood and stone, she could see the light. Through a town of windmills and pink blossoms, a gleam of black flame burned atop the highest hill like a beacon. They had passed by the town on the way to Leyndell, but she had no memories then.

Something stirred in her sealed eye, an emptiness yearning to be made whole. She touched it, but that did not assuage the emptiness. The black flame called to her with an aching familiarity, but she couldn’t quite remember how she knew it.

She looked down at herself, at her hands, at the blade on her belt. For a moment, she saw not a silver dagger, but a twisted greatsword, imbued with the same black fire that burned in the distance.

“O scions of the black flame, take my fire, and go forth into the world. Take my fire, and slay the gods.”

Who had spoken those words? Was it herself? They hung on her lips like they should belong there, but yet…

“I free thee now, from Death, from the black flame, from that which wouldst undo thee.”

Melina could bear the void behind her eye no longer, and she set her gaze on her Tarnished, and on the Omen King. But her mind remained full of flames.

Chapter Text

Rowa whittled away the hours of her watch by experimenting with the power of her Great Runes. She subconsciously knew they were there within her, but she struggled to use their power at will.

For a long while she merely sat in meditation, honing in on the presence of the Runes. The Great Runes were not the only ones within her; she had absorbed a great deal of smaller ones from fallen foes, which bolstered her strength. Runes were the lifeblood of everything that had form, it seemed, and the greater the Runes, so greater was the strength one possessed.

Morgott was strong, but it would be foolish to rely on his strength alone, and now that she better understood the path to the Elden Ring, it would likely exact a high toll on her. Even as a Tarnished, how long would it take her to return from the dead once more, were she to perish? Days? Months? Years? She did not know the answer, but it was easy enough to figure where Morgott’s thoughts would turn if she did not return swiftly. He would see it as a betrayal, an abandonment, and she did not want to bring that about, for his sake and the Lands Between.

She sat with her hands cupped, staring long at the shimmering vision of the two Great Runes she held. They were different but conjoined, two facets of a greater whole. Slowly, she tried pulling their strength into her body at will, bit by bit. A warmth trickled from her palms into her arms, and further into herself like a tiny rivulet of water from a spring. The power took hold of her, and the weariness of travel began to die away, replaced by a new vigor. It would not last long, and once it wore off she would be even more tired than before, but she understood that the more she practiced channeling the power, her endurance to bear it would increase.

As she worked, she found that if she focused hard enough, she could catch faint echoes from both Runes. They were not quite memories, but afterimages, whispers of things spoken with such conviction that they had been etched into the essence of the Rune.

From Godrick’s Rune, she heard his voice, not yet given over to the resonance of madness she had witnessed. “With this Rune, I shall become a worthy heir of the Golden Lineage. As Godwyn befriended the great dragon Fortissax, so shall I do the same! I will be a warrior to rival Godfrey himself!”

Another voice came from Rennala’s Rune, one Rowa did not recognize. It was deep and powerful, but almost hesitant. “O Queen of Caria, and moon of my life. I bequeath to thee this Rune as a token of repentance, proof of my peaceable intent, and proof of my love for thee.”

A pang of sorrow touched Rowa’s heart. It was the voice of Radagon, undoubtedly, and it seemed to her that he spoke in all sincerity of his love for Rennala. What had become of them then, that he would leave his wife and shatter her?

She glanced towards Morgott, and she wondered if they would echo Radagon and Rennala’s outcome, if not in love then in deed. Would the marriage remain true once all was said and done, or would it be broken once they had what they wanted? She did not intend to do so, but she did not know Morgott’s mind. Would the vows beneath the Erdtree mean anything at all?

Her musings were interrupted by a faint noise breaking the quiet of the night. She dropped her hands, the Runes fading away as she tensed. The noise went on intermittently, a low keening of sorts, but she could not identify the cause until Morgott’s form shifted. With a start, she realized the noise came from him, almost akin to a growling whimper.

“Morgott?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

Morgott did not reply, his form twitching beneath the ragged folds of his cloak.

Rowa called his name again, creeping towards him. Once more, he did not respond, and she leaned over him carefully, seeing his visible eye was shut tight. He was still sleeping, and dreaming.

A low growl rumbled somewhere in the depths of his chest, and he shifted, rolling almost fully onto his back. Rowa took a step back, trying to assess the situation. He was dreaming, but was it distressing enough that she should wake him?

As she stood caught in indecision, Morgott continued twitching, experiencing something she could not see. His tail shifted over the grass, and his fingers curled inwards at his side. Another growl, even deeper this time, laden with menace towards some unseen threat.

Rowa made her decision, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Morgott, wake up. You’re dreaming—“

In the blink of an eye, he seized Rowa’s wrist in one massive hand. She reared back in surprise, but he did not release her, holding her fast. She braced herself for the onslaught of irritation and discontent for waking him up, touching him, or both, a retort rising to her lips instinctively. However, her preparation was rendered useless when he did not speak.

Her surprise morphing into curiosity, Rowa leaned closer once more, peering at him through the darkness. His eye was still closed, his breathing deep and measured.

He slept on.

Rowa frowned, but before she could decide anything, Morgott moved again. He let go of her wrist, only to clasp her hand in a more careful fashion, with a gentleness akin to the day they were wedded, his hand completely swallowing hers. He drew their conjoined hands to rest atop his chest, leaving her standing awkwardly stretched over his frame.

She stood waiting for another shift, but it did not come. It seemed whatever had plagued his mind in sleep had fled away, the hard lines of his face now lax, the fitful twitching stilled. Her hand grew warm between his huge palm and the coarse material of his cloak, and that heat slowly made its way up into her face as she began to realize what had transpired.

She had meant to help him be rid of any malicious dreams, but not like this.

Despite the awkward positioning, she could not bring herself to remove her hand from his grasp. What she saw now was a glimpse of what lay beneath his cold manner as an outcast demigod trying to find worth in a world that had deemed him cursed. It was not lost on her that she would be hard pressed to see this vulnerability in him during waking hours. In this small moment, he looked more at peace than she had ever seen him.

Was she truly the one who had brought such peace about? She had not expected anything of the sort from him, but the consideration brought about a warm, pleased feeling in her heart.

With utmost care, Rowa carefully maneuvered herself onto the ground beside him, doing her best not to jostle them both. He slept undisturbed, even as she leaned gingerly against his side to relieve her arm of the tension from being stretched up and over his frame. She found he was quite warm in general, and it would be hard not to let it lull her to sleep.

She was seized by the impulse to reach out and touch his tail, which lay spread across the ground beside her. Of all of Morgott’s somewhat inhuman features, his tail was the most striking, and it looked soft with its coating of fur. Her fingers twitched with desire, but she restrained herself. It would not be right to do so without his permission.

She caught Torrent’s gaze from where he sat, and she dared to think he was amused at the predicament. “He can’t get angry with me for this. It’s his doing, after all.”

Morgott saw many spirits over the vast countryside, their presences haunting his mind. They were innumerable, yet they wandered lost, unable to find peace or companionship in the twilit existence the Erdtree’s rejection brought them.

Even over great distances, they entered his dream, aimlessly searching for purpose over rot and ruin, commoner and noble alike. Many of their faces were contorted, broken into some ghoulish, silent scream that went beyond the horrors even life offered. Some walked, but some did not move at all, crumpled over, waiting, begging to be taken into the Erdtree or to find Death.

Some even clutched at their eyes as though they had been burnt away. There, the trace of Frenzy lingered, and even in their twilight they murmured broken things through phantom lips, speaking of fire, of chaos taking all the world.

Morgott tried to recoil, but he could not escape the scores of spirits haunting him. Voices rasped close by, but their voices were too broken to form words. Monstrous faces loomed in his mind’s eye before fading with equal suddenness, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not get away. Their likenesses became as the ugly masks of the Omenkillers, smiling at the prospect of slaying him.

Then, something touched him, a warmth against his shoulder, calm and soothing. The faces, the whispers, the spirits all went away, and in desperation he grasped at the warmth, wanting to keep it close. It soothed his fear, his assaulted mind, and the dream fell away.

As Morgott began to climb into wakefulness, he was greeted by the warmth in his hand. His thoughts turned sour, thinking it a product of yet another vivid dream that would vanish upon fully waking. But as he came back to the waking world, the feeling did not fade, but increased, spreading over his torso to a spot at his right side. For a wild moment, he wondered if he was somehow in the sewers or in Godwyn’s house with Mohg at his side.

The prickle of grass beneath his legs and tail quickly dispelled this notion. He opened his eyes, staring up at the faded gold of the Altus Plateau by night, with the sky and the stars speckled in the gaps. The warmth persisted, and now thoroughly confused, he looked down at himself. A small hand rested beneath his own, provided by the figure resting warmly at his side. Startled, he shifted himself, and Rowa turned to look at him through the night dimness.

“A shame you didn’t sleep the whole time,” she said quietly, for lack of anything better.

Morgott sat up, and Rowa let out a yelp of vague protest as she was jostled from her position. He stared at her, deeply confused. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I could ask you the same question.” Rowa’s face flushed hot in spite of herself.

Mortified, Morgott stood up, retreating several paces as he tried to make sense of the situation. His hand was cold with the new absence as the dream trickled into his awareness. “What happened?”

“I thought you were dreaming,” Rowa offered. “You looked distressed, so I tried to wake you up, but…”

To Morgott, it was almost worse to leave it unsaid, the words hanging heavy in the air between them. Even more vexing, her touch, her presence, had driven away the specters. He kept his eyes averted from her, embarrassed and confused all at once.

He did not speak for so long that Rowa felt compelled to ask, “Was I right? Did you dream?”

She thought he was ignoring her, until he finally answered, “Aye.”

“What about?”

Morgott drew his hand into his cloak, pressing it against his side as he tried to rid himself of any foreign sensation. He had never gone beyond the boundaries of Leyndell without Godwyn before, and he saw now the consequences of his absence. Godwyn’s power had prevented him from being assaulted by the many spirits of the Lands Between, even before the Shattering, but now he was afforded no such protection. Leyndell’s barriers had granted him reprieve, but now that he stood beyond, he would have to take greater pains for his peace of mind.

“Omens are oft assailed by spirits in their dreams,” he said lowly. “That is what I dreamed of.”

Rowa gave him a sympathetic look. “Does it trouble you?”

“I am long accustomed to such things. Thy assistance is unnecessary.” Morgott paused, floundering for words. “However, I suppose thou hast my gratitude for thy attempt.”

“I vowed to shield you,” Rowa said, deciding to hide her skepticism at his dismissal of her help. “I was merely trying to fulfill that vow.”

Morgott could find no reply fitting for her sincerity, so he said, “I will not rest again this night. Thou art free to take thy rest if thou wishest.”

“Very well.” Now deeply weary from her watch, Rowa was grateful for the reprieve he offered, her curiosity towards his dreams overpowered by the need to rest. She stood up, loping towards Torrent.

“Thou hast my apologies, for taking hold of thee in such a manner,” Morgott said before he could decide against it, the words feeling heavy and cumbersome on his tongue. “I shall seek further restraint of myself.”

Rowa glanced over her shoulder, finding him staring at the grass instead of her. His shame was perceptible, and to her surprise, there was no harshness to cover it. Hoping to relieve him of it, she said, “Think nothing of it. I did not mind. It seemed I was of some help, which was my intention.”

As much as Morgott’s impulses demanded he distrust such a declaration, he could not find a reason to deny the validity of her feelings. There was nothing to be gained in being forced to sit beside him while he slept, and if she had truly wanted to get away, she would have done so, or awoken him.

He said nothing more, so Rowa returned to Torrent’s side, settling down in the grass next to the steed, propping herself against his side. It wasn’t long before she began snoring softly, and Morgott relaxed slightly, still burning with shame at his unconscious actions.

Seeking a temporary distraction, he lifted his gaze to the trees around him, studying the branches. There were several thick, straight boughs that could easily support his weight, and he picked the one that allowed him the most visibility of the land around him. He jumped up, pulling himself onto the branch with hardly a sound, pressing his back against the trunk and letting his tail dangle. He could see the forest around them, as well as his traveling companions. He briefly locked eyes with Torrent, who gave him a questioning look.

“I prefer it this way,” Morgott growled, just loud enough for the steed to hear. “It is easier to keep watch.”

Torrent let out a quiet huff of breath, lowering his head to rest in the grass.

Morgott set his eyes on the westward horizon through the treetops. He could make out a starless smudge of the sky, brought about by Gelmir’s smoke, but try as he might to focus on that, he could not shake the sensations plaguing him. He could still feel Rowa’s hand, her weight against his side. It had been so long since someone had been so close to him, in waking or sleeping.

How long had she sat by his side? Was it minutes, or hours? Every duration he conjured seemed unbelievable, but he could not deny what he had felt and seen. She had stayed alongside him even after he had taken hold of her unwillingly, and if she had not acted for his wellbeing, she could have pulled away.

His bitterness told him it was not solely for his benefit, and she was working for her own goals, but what more could be gained? She had his help, his sword, his vow. There was little more he could give her beyond that to secure the path to the Elden Ring, and his troubled dreams had no part in it. There was nothing to be gained from sitting with him as he slept, unless she truly had concern for him.

That notion pulled at the wound in his heart, giving rise to the same yearning he had felt when they first touched hands. He grit his teeth. It was almost shameful how low he had stooped, the feared hunter of the Tarnished now finding deep longing manifested by the touch of one.

He glanced down at Rowa’s figure, and forced himself to relax. Everything about her was unlike any other Tarnished he had seen, and though he had expected her congeniality to give way a long time ago, she proved him wrong again and again. Perhaps it was not so shameful to feel such longing then, for though there was no love between them, she had compassion for many, including him, and he supposed it was not wholly unwarranted. As she had reminded him, he was her husband.

He considered the title carefully. It went deeper than being called a consort, which seemed ceremonial and lacked any intimacy. In that, he supposed he should not lack due consideration and care towards her in return, for what it was worth. He too had spoken the vows beneath the Erdtree, and if she sought to honor them through concern for him, it would be wrong of him to not act likewise.

A particularly tremendous snore interrupted Morgott’s thoughts, and he scoffed quietly, glancing towards the ground. Rowa’s head had fallen against Torrent’s back, her mouth hanging open, and she looked far from graceful. She did not reflect the power of the Runes she held at all, but then neither did he. As he eyed her sleeping countenance, he wondered if she would be considered beautiful. It seemed a vain contemplation, but he truly did not know if she was. He had never given the idea of beauty much thought beyond that of nature, and he had interacted sparingly with anyone who was not his demigod kin. Their beauty was unmatched in its godly facets, he knew, making all else seem plain by comparison. So he did not know if she was beautiful, but with all the ugly and broken things he had seen in his life, he was certain she was not one of them.

He was ashamed of his actions, sleeping or not, and he would have to take care to prevent such a thing from occurring again. He looked down at his hand, stone gray and gnarled. More and more, he found himself believing that she did not fear his cursed self. If she thought him ugly or frightening, such things had not dissuaded her from sitting with him.  

He clenched his fist, trying to clear his thoughts. Being an Omen was not as much of a curse as he had been brought up to think, and he had to remember that. For indeed, they had their quest before them to bring about an age where the Crucible would be restored. The notion of the curse came from the Greater Will, whose power continued to wane.

With a deep sigh, he tilted his head back against the tree, trying to set his mind on their travels and what to anticipate in the coming days. But even still, Rowa’s presence lingered in his mind as the night marched on.

Rowa awoke to the grey light of predawn filtering through the trees. The air was cool, and she shivered a little, grateful for Torrent’s warmth at her back. Stretching herself, she sat up, and looked around for Morgott. When she did not see him, a prick of panic drove away her grogginess as worried thoughts crowded into her mind against her better judgement. Had something happened? Had he decided to abandon her while she slept?

“Thou didst awaken earlier than I supposed of thee.”

Relief flooded Rowa as Morgott’s voice reached her. She glimpsed movement in a nearby tree moments before Morgott dropped to the ground in near complete silence, seeming no worse for wear.

“I wish I slept longer, but there’s no point in it now, I suppose.” Rowa squinted at the trees around them. “Was your watch uneventful?”

“Aye. I saw nothing of concern.”

“Good.”

Morgott looked everywhere but her eyes as his shame attempted to rekindle itself. “Was thy rest untroubled?”

“It was.” She could hear his discomfort, his normally strong and commanding tone softened by the weight of uncertainty. She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, standing to her feet and brushing herself off. “Let’s eat quickly and be off, shall we?”

A nameless tension eased within Morgott at her smile. “Aye, we shall.”

By true daybreak, they were on the move again, heading west with the Erdtree at their backs. They spoke little, but the silence was not one of tension as much as it was vigilance. Both of them were undesirables to the eyes of many, and they were more likely to find enemies than friends.

Eventually, the trees thinned out into open plains. Phantom banners towering high towards the sky waved like wisps of fog in the breeze. The northern highway was visible in the distance, a winding line of dirt and stone cutting through the sea of grass. They kept well away from the road, but occasionally they glimpsed a patrol of soldiers.

Though he was well aware of the threat they posed, Morgott was glad to see his men, even from far away. It was rare that he ever saw them beyond the bounds of the Erdtree Sanctuary where they were granted audience. When the world was mended, he hoped there would be place for men as loyal to the Erdtree as they, for though they would be enemies if they learned his truth, they had gone great lengths to preserve the Golden Order with unquestionable loyalty.

They travelled over hill and dell, following the course of the road towards Gelmir. At one point, when they crested a large hill, Rowa spotted some buildings far ahead of them on the northern horizon, fashioned in and around some particularly steep ridges.

“What is that place?” she asked Morgott, gesturing to the settlement. “Is it part of Leyndell’s dominion?”

“Of a sort,” Morgott said, recognizing the buildings with grim certainty. He had glimpsed it in his illusory form before, but even then he had not ventured close. “It is a village, but what it once was is long lost. Some manner of sorcery hath seized it, enthralling those who live there, and when I sent men, they did not return.”

“Should we anticipate an attack as we get closer?” Rowa regarded the village with new wariness. The structures now seemed foreboding.

“Whatever foul sorcery hath taken hold of that place is contained within the bounds of the village, it seemeth. With good fortune, we will pass at a great distance, and remain untouched.”

Rowa nodded, nudging Torrent forward, and she kept one eye on the village until they passed beyond its view.

Melina saw the village again, unable to keep it from her vision as Rowa and Morgott walked within sight of it. The black flame burned, and now with the village truly visible to her, she saw the one who kindled the flame and brought it there. An apostle, clad in sickly pale robes fashioned from skin.

Melina’s sealed eye burned, and her mind provided one word: godskin. The black flame wreathed around and through the apostle, and it did not harm him. She heard a cry across the expanse, not in voice but in spirit, an echo of words spoken long ago: “O Queen, though I am weak, I seek to regain my strength so thou shalt not look upon me unfavorably. I shall remain here for as long as it takes, until my power is renewed or thou return to us.”

More images came to Melina’s mind. The twisted blade held aloft. A black flame blazing, with deep crimson-black surging in its depths.

She could not make sense of it. The more she tried to understand, the less she did. A thread of frustration entangled itself in her thoughts. She had sought Marika’s guidance for answers, but now she was left with more questions than before she regained her memories. Would she ever understand herself truly, before the end came?

She turned away from the cursed village and the apostle. No matter the unknowns of her past, Marika had commissioned her, and she would see it through for the betterment of the world.

Rowa and Morgott’s travel remained uneventful throughout the day. They stopped briefly to take a midday meal, but had no other delays. In keeping to the woodlands and plains, they saw few other creatures save for wild beasts, who made no quarrel with them.

As evening was just beginning to cast its long shadows over the trees, Rowa spotted the mist of Grace in the forest, near a rocky copse. Morgott agreed to settle there for the night. There would be no point in going much farther; a humid wind had begun to blow from the west, bringing the scent of rain with it, and the stone overhangs coupled with the trees would provide ample shelter.

Melina appeared alongside the shard of Grace as promised, meeting them with a faint smile. “I am glad your travels have been unhindered thus far.”

“As am I.” Rowa dismounted Torrent, who tossed his head and nickered happily at Melina. Morgott gave her a nod of acknowledgment, seating himself against one of the stone outcroppings, the overhang just large enough to provide cover from the coming rain.

Rowa struck up a tiny fire like the night before, chatting with Melina as she did. Morgott watched the golden mist of Grace drift towards the darkening sky, half listening to their conversation. He was almost envious of the ease with which Rowa seemed to speak. Ever since her surprising arrival into his life, he had been forced to speak more than he had in an age, and the right words seemed to stumble from his mind and off his tongue. Though at first he had spoken to her with the same vitriol as all other Tarnished, that was no longer fitting, nor was the commanding tone aimed towards his soldiers. He struggled to find the right words with this Tarnished, who was now more than friend or enemy.

When Rowa and Melina’s conversation delved into the practical uses for Altus blooms after having yielded nothing of particular interest or alarm, he diverted his attention entirely. He fished the map from his makeshift belt to take stock of their current position. He placed the map on the ground, pressing keeping a careful hand on the edge so the wind would not disturb it.

He could guess well enough where they were on the map, bordering on halfway across the plateau. It would take only two more full days of travel at most to reach the bridge to Gelmir, but he did not dread arriving at their destination as much as he did being forced to travel the ridge overlooking the valley with the Minor Erdtree. He had seen it before with his illusory eyes, the Minor Erdtree decaying and the valley shrouded with gray mist. His men, if they were wise, did not enter the valley for fear of the horrid creatures that prowled the area. They speculated on what could have brought the decay and the monsters that thrived on it, but only he knew the real answer. A curse had blighted the area, seeping from the depths of the world, where a shadow of Death lay upon the tomb of a demigod.

Morgott dreaded seeing the gray, cloying fog of Death, only for the pain it would bring. He had not seen the tomb himself, but he knew what was there. His brother’s body, living yet dead, a stagnant life-in-death propagated by the half-wheel mark branded into his flesh. Godwyn’s soul was dead, yet his body remained, the Death spreading from that which would not die.

When the Rune of Death was fully unleashed, perhaps then would Godwyn finally die. Morgott wished it were not so, but the half-life his body wallowed in now seemed a fate far worse. He lifted his gaze from the map, watching the branches above him shiver in the wind, lost in thought. But as he watched them move, it struck him that something was not right.

A coldness trickled down his spine as he was jerked into the present. At the same time, Torrent stirred, shifting his hooves and rumbling discontentedly. Rowa turned her attention towards him, but Morgott did not. He looked at the branches, then at the map fluttering in his hands. The wind stirred them, but all was deathly silent.

“Tarnished!” he barked.

Rowa looked over at him, startled by his outburst. “Yes?”

Morgott stood, his thoughts racing. The grass quivered in the breeze, yet he heard no whispers. “Something is amiss.”

Torrent huffed, hoofing the ground agitatedly.

“Torrent senses it as well,” Melina said, a small frown puckering her face.

“What is it?” Rowa asked, instantly on alert.

“Listen,” Morgott said lowly.

Rowa listened, and it dawned upon her as she saw the weak flames of her fire sputtering in the wind, with not a crackle to be heard. She reached for her swords, searching the woodland around them for any sign of enemies. “What is this?”

A memory struck Morgott’s mind, and with it came clarity of the situation. Thinking quickly, desperately, he stepped towards Rowa. “Give me one of thy blades.”

She whipped around, regarding him carefully. “Why?”

“Quickly!” he hissed.

Perturbed by the unusual request, Rowa hesitated.

“Make haste, Tarnished!” Morgott now loomed over her, every hair on his body prickling with dread.

“Do as he says,” Melina said.

Rowa finally made her hands move, pulling one of her swords from her belt and pressing it into Morgott’s waiting palm.

“Stay here by the fire,” he ordered. “Act as though nothing hath transpired and thou remainest unaware. Keep thy back to the woodland.”

Before Rowa could ask any questions, he had vanished into the foreboding silence beyond the small circle of light cast by the Grace and the fire. She stared after him for half a moment, until her body caught up with her mind. She faced the little fire, her back towards the dark, and seated herself on the ground. Her heart pounded in her chest, every instinct screaming that turning her back was wrong, but she forced herself to sit naturally, her legs crossed.

“Go,” she hissed at Melina and Torrent.

Melina glanced at Torrent, who faded away at will, but she remained, kneeling next to Rowa. “No harm can be inflicted upon me in this form.”

Rowa felt the breeze stirring her hair, but not a sound came from it. Something was truly wrong, but she could not understand why. She clenched her fists against her pantlegs, a shiver crawling through her. Every nerve was alight with terrible anticipation, and with each moment that passed, the dread only grew.

An inkling of distrust wove its way into her thoughts. For a terrible moment, she wondered if Morgott had left her to be slain. She twitched, her body urging her to turn and face the unknown head on.

“You must trust him,” Melina whispered, barely loud enough for her to hear. “Stay still.”

Rowa clenched her jaw. The air wafted red around her, smelling of blood, and a weight dropped in her stomach. She had experienced this before, when…

A shadow moved in her periphery, and it took every ounce of her strength to pretend like she had not seen it. The Great Runes trembled inside her, their power just barely restrained.

The silence pressed down with a crushing weight. Each second felt like an age. The scent of blood grew thick, and Rowa felt a whisper of displaced air at her back.

Several things happened at once.

Rowa sprang to her feet, the power of the Runes roaring in her veins as she whirled around, coming face-to-face with a figure crouched only a few steps from her, clad in dark armor fashioned in the grotesque likeness of a skeleton. She grabbed at her remaining sword in the same instant that the figure charged forward, a dagger gleaming in his hand. She raised her hands to shield herself, flinching back.

Morgott’s tremendous frame materialized from the shadows behind the assailant. He drove Rowa’s blade deep into the cinch between the chestplate and pauldron. The assailant let out a strangled cry and dropped to his knees, his armor making no noise against the ground.

Rowa stepped towards him, her surprise quickly morphing to anger as she recognized the skull mask staring back at her. “Ensha!” she hissed.

Morgott spotted a phial hanging from Ensha’s waist, and used the end of his stave to knock it free, send it rolling into the grass. He lifted his stave and brought the end down with devastating force, shattering the phial. Dark mist curled up from the glass, dissipating into the air, and all sound came back at once in a forceful wave.

“Did Gideon send you?” Rowa asked, heedless of the returning noise for the growing rage inside her.

Ensha grunted as Morgott pulled the blade from his back, but he said nothing, the eyeless sockets of his mask boring into her balefully.

Morgott regarded him with growing disdain. “This one is a pawn of Gideon?”

Before Rowa could answer, Ensha pushed himself upright and used his momentum to turn himself, slashing at Morgott. The blade sliced across his arm, a hot brand of pain exploding in its wake.

Rowa saw Ensha turn and the flash of his knife. She was already moving when Morgott’s face twisted with pain, which only spurred her forwards. With the power bestowed by her Great Runes, she drove her sword straight through Ensha’s armor and deep into his body.

Ensha stopped, hanging motionless for a terrible moment before he crumpled to the ground. Morgott watched him fall, the pain of his wound forgotten in the face of Rowa’s startling ruthlessness. He had not expected the woman who had thrown down her blades before the Elden Throne to act so viciously.

Rowa stooped, wrenching her blade from Ensha’s body as the haze of anger began to fall away. She looked up at Morgott, finding his visible eye blown wide with surprise.

“Tarnished,” he rasped, “why…why didst thou slay him?”

Rowa blinked slowly, looking down at her bloodstained blade as her thoughts caught up with her. “He attacked you, so I had to do something.”

“We shall not be able to learn his true intent,” Morgott growled, seeking to disguise how confounded he was by her earnestness.

“He would not have spoken,” Rowa said. “He is one of Gideon’s most trusted men, I gather. He came after me once before in the Roundtable Hold.”

 “Indeed, he was one of Gideon’s most loyal servants,” Melina murmured, gazing impassively at the body. “He would have died before revealing any of Gideon’s secrets.”

Morgott rumbled contemptuously. “He is the only one Ofnir sent. I looked about, but ‘twas only him I saw. The danger is gone, for now.”

Rowa started to relax, the rush of imminent danger receding from her body. With great effort, she restrained the power of the Runes, heaving a sigh as she nudged the broken pieces of the phial with her foot. “Was this the cause of the…quietness?”

The pain of Morgott’s wound began to truly settle in as he knelt to clean Rowa’s blade. “’Tis an invention of the Tarnished I heard tales of, and by good fortune recognized. It quiets all about the wearer, used by Tarnished of the Roundtable Hold for killing adversaries.”

Rowa frowned disdainfully. It was yet another of Gideon’s underhanded designs withheld from her, but when Morgott stood to return her blade, her contempt was forgotten. “You’re bleeding!”

Morgott glanced at his arm, the shallow gash beginning to ooze brown-red blood. It stung, but not enough that he couldn’t ignore it temporarily. “’Tis not deep. We must move to a safer place, and there shall I tend to it.”

Rowa conceded, for indeed the shadowed woodland around them seemed deeply unsafe. Gideon knew where they were, at least for the moment. It struck her that perhaps he even knew the true identity of Morgott, but she did not have time to dwell on it as she hurried to gather their belongings.

“Will you be alright?” she asked Melina.

“So long as you are, so am I,” Melina said, unshaken by the attempted assault. “Worry not for me. When you next find Grace, I will be there.”

The first drops of rain pattered against the leaves, quickly transforming into a steady drizzle. Melina vanished as Morgott and Rowa departed into the rainswept night, leaving the swiftly disintegrating body of Ensha behind.

Gideon’s attention had never once left Rowa since she had left the Roundtable Hold. He had imagined her success would be short-lived once she entered Raya Lucaria. She was nothing compared to the great champions like Vyke had been.

But once more, she exceeded his expectations when she emerged from Raya Lucaria, and he had watched with great interest as she ascended to the Altus Plateau. She had passed through the seal at Leyndell, meaning she had at least two Great Runes in her possession, though he began to wonder if it was the Two Fingers that had denied passage into the city, or another force.

Then, she had vanished. The city of Leyndell was beyond his view, which ever frustrated him, and he waited to hear something about her, but it never came. Days passed, and he began to suppose her finally defeated or another lost to the Frenzied Flame.

She had reappeared yesterday, traveling across Altus once more towards Gelmir, which was interesting in of itself, but so was her new companion. Initial reports spoke of an Omen, which was later clarified to one particular individual.

She was traveling with Margit the Fell.

Of all the alliances Gideon had considered the rogue Tarnished to make, this was not one of them. He had considered the idea of Margit being an illusion, but he had vanished since the defeat of Godrick, and Gideon had not heard of him since until now. So, he sent Ensha to test their mettle, and perhaps take the Runes Rowa had.

Ensha had failed. He had always been overzealous, overconfident, and it had cost him his life. Rowa and her odd companion had escaped his purview for the time being, though he had a good idea of where they were headed. He would see what became of them in Gelmir.

“Nepheli seeks to claim Stormveil, and the rogue Tarnished travels with her defeated enemy,” he mused to the endless books before him.  “What more surprises will come in this strange time?”

Chapter Text

“Here. This should suffice.”

Rowa ducked under the overhang, eager to be out of the rain. Morgott came behind her, filling most of the little crevice with his massive form. It was almost pitch black, and Rowa felt around the rocky enclosure blindly, hoping it was as small as it looked and not a bigger cave with potential enemies. She managed to find a spot to sit, a sigh of relief leaving her as she finally had a chance to rest.

They had traveled until weariness and hunger made them stop, avoiding the open plains and keeping to the woodlands. No more adversaries had appeared, but every small rustle in the underbrush had them on edge.

Morgott glared at the rain beyond the overhang. He hated the damp feeling seeping through his cloak and into his fur, droplets dripping from his tail and horns. It reminded him too much of the sewers, where the dampness had clung to him no matter how hard he tried to be rid of it. He almost shook himself, until he remembered he wasn’t alone, so he sat down on the mossy ground, turning his attention to the cut on his arm.

Rowa dug up some berries from her pack as her eyes began to adjust to the deeper darkness of the overhang, stuffing them into her mouth. She had overexerted herself with the power of the Great Runes, and their flight through the rain had left her famished and weary.

 “Are you hungry?” she asked Morgott around her mouthful, having to raise her voice a little to be heard above the rain.

“Not now,” Morgott grunted, and before she could protest, added. “I must tend to my wound.”

Rowa hummed her understanding, feeling around for her canteen and holding it out to him.  “Use this to clean it.”

Morgott’s eye shone with a silvery reflection as he looked towards her, accepting the canteen wordlessly. She sat back against the stones, keeping close watch on the yawning darkness beyond the overhang’s reach while he worked.

Gideon’s underhandedness left a bitter taste in her mouth. It was to be expected of him, but it was no less incensing for it. But now his activity was confirmed, and they knew to keep a close eye on everything around them. Ensha was likely only the first of more attempts to steal the Great Runes, and she hoped the failed theft would send a message, if not deter him from it altogether. If he grew desperate enough, perhaps he would finally emerge from that dusty old room and try something himself.

A quiet grunt from Morgott drew her attention to him. He had finished cleaning his wound, casting a small healing incantation over it, and was now trying to bind the area with a scrap of cloth. She watched him for a moment, and when it seemed he was struggling to get the wrapping secure with one hand, she said, “Maybe I could help you. It would be much easier to tie it with two hands.”

Morgott looked at her, his expression hidden by the deep shadows over his face, then held out his arm in silence. Rowa pushed herself towards him, finding a spot for her feet beneath the bend of his upraised knee, and took hold of his wrist gingerly, guiding his arm so it was in front of her. She began to lean close in an attempt to see in the dark, until a soft golden glow filled the little hollow. In his other hand, Morgott upheld the sigil of the Erdtree, providing just enough light for her to see her work.

“Thank you,” she murmured, beginning her work. Her hands threatened to tremble from the overexertion, but she tried to remain steady as she wrapped the cloth around his arm.

“Touch not mine blood,” he murmured. “I know not if it shall afflict thee.”

“Very well.” Rowa did not pause, but she took greater notice of the wound and the blood therein. It was copper mixed with dark gold, almost like it was molten metal. “Does the wound pain you?”

“Not terribly,” Morgott said, watching her hands move across his arm, aware of every slight touch. He noticed the quiver in her fingers, but let her continue. “‘Twas only a glancing blow.”

“I’m glad. There’s no telling what sorceries he might have attempted to employ.”

“Were I using my own incantations, I would not be wounded at all,” Morgott grumbled, his pride smarting as much as the wound.

Rowa glanced up at his face, cast in light and deep shadow. “Why didn’t you?”

“I wished to conceal myself, for there are few in these days that know such incantations as I, much less one of Omen heritage. But likely it is of no matter, for Ofnir surely knows we travel together.”

“He knows you as Margit, yes, and perhaps he is led to believe that we have formed an alliance, which is not a falsehood. However, when I was at the Roundtable, he did not know the true identity of the Veiled Monarch. Even now, I think he does not know.”

“Why dost thou think so?”

“You are aware of what takes place in Leyndell, even from this far, yes?”

“Of a sort.”

“If he had ever known, or if he had learned the truth by observing us, he would try to use it against you. I would not put it past him to turn your men against you, or at least try to.”

The weary lines on Morgott’s face deepened. “He hath no qualms with any sort of scheme. Thou speakest truly, but my men remain loyal.”

“He does possess a great disdain for Margit, and for Omens in general. He told me as much when I first defeated you.”

Morgott turned a questioning look upon her. “And didst thou share in his disdain?”

Rowa shrugged, keeping her eyes on her work. “You were just an enemy, one of many, but I thought it unfair that Gideon hated you for your kind. That was the beginning of my dissent with the Golden Order, which I never thought to trust in the first place, and it was brought to completion when I found that broken, destroyed village.”

Morgott said nothing in answer. The bitter undertone in her voice was jarring, but he could not fault her for it. He felt much the same for the Albinauric village, as well as the persecution of his own kind.

“Do you think that when all is said and done, your men in Leyndell will accept you as you are?” Rowa asked quietly after a thoughtful pause.

Morgott looked out into the night, raindrops gleaming in brief flashes as they fell past the little glow of his seal. It was a question he had long considered over the years, but now there was finally a chance he might have to face the answer. “I know not. When my reign began, I was veiled in a different likeness, the truth known to but a few, and the people of Leyndell gazed upon my likeness and accepted it. But then the means to change form was stolen from me, and I retreated from the world. It was then that they called me the Veiled Monarch though I possessed no veil to wear, for since then none hath seen my true self. I released many Omens from the grounds beneath the city, for their freedom and their help in war. There was dissension among the followers of the Golden Order at that, but out of fear and need to focus on the war, they accepted it. Even now, Omens still roam the city in some places, but I know not if they would accept their king as one.”

Rowa thought back to his portrait. “Did you prefer it, being veiled?”

“Sometimes it felt akin to a shackle, and sometimes it freed me.”

“In the coming age, there will be no need for veils.”

“Those who remain loyal to the Golden Order will not accept it easily.”

“When the Greater Will is gone, perhaps they will see the folly of it all. There is nothing that makes the souls of the most devout followers of the Golden Order greater or lesser than other kinds, except that which is dictated by the Greater Will for power.”

All the more did Morgott see the fickleness of the ways imposed by the Greater Will. Rowa’s words struck him deep, and though the years of self-loathing told him that his soul was worth nothing, he restrained himself from that thinking now. Marika, who he had once thought to be the most righteous upholder of the Golden Order that would see him as a cursed abomination, had turned against the system of her own creation.

I declare mine intent, to search the depths of the Golden Order.

It had perhaps began then, in that echo he had seen through Melina, the discontent that had led to the Shattering. Godwyn’s death had been the final reckoning. For it was then she gathered them all who remained, even he and his brother, to give voice to her wishes for them, only to vanish in the wake of the rending of the very world. Unlike his turn of thought, which had been swift in the face of Rowa and Melina’s arrival and revelation, Marika’s descent had been slow, but ultimately devastating. But he could see no other way out beyond shattering the Ring. She must have known her imprisonment was nigh, leaving her fate and the Lands Between in the hands of those who had no demigod war to fight, who had lived and died beyond the fog.

“Are you wounded elsewhere?”

Rowa’s inquiry dragged Morgott back to the present. Only then did he notice her work had long ago ceased, the bandage tied tightly, yet her hand remained on his arm in an unconscious gesture likely brought on by their close proximity.

“Nay,” he murmured. “There was naught else.”

Rowa nodded once, lifting her hand as she realized where it had remained.

“Why dost thy hands tremble so?” he asked.

Rowa studied her hands in the faint light, clenching them to try and stem the shaking. “The power of the Runes within me is too great, and I have not yet learned how to control it well. I used it in the spur of the moment, and it has left me weary. I was able to withstand it somewhat when I had only one, but two has put a greater weight on me.”

“Should the opportunity arise, I shall instruct thee on how to better channel thy power,” Morgott said after a pensive pause. “I too use the power of the Rune I bear. Thou shalt do well to learn it, for ‘twill only become a heavier burden when thou taketh Rykard’s Rune.”

“I would be most grateful for your help, if you lend it.”

“Not this night. Thou shouldst take thy rest afore there is cause to move again.”

“But you took second watch last night—“

“‘Tis no matter to me.” Morgott was increasingly aware of Rowa’s malaise. She looked much like she had when they had first met at the Elden Throne, pale and quivering with exhaustion. “I am not so weary as thee, and the storm shall not hinder mine eyes if we are followed.”

Rowa let go of the desire to argue further. Her weariness was such that even the clammy dampness from the rain did not bother her at all. She pushed herself back and away from Morgott, resting her back against the hardened dirt and stone as the light of his seal diminished. Her eyes fell shut, and the constant drum of the rain quickly pulled her into the depths of slumber.

As Morgott listened to her breathing slow, he decided to let her sleep the whole night. She would certainly be displeased with him for it, but he did not want to risk delay with her condition worsening to the point it had been when they first met. It was just as well, since he did not know if his sorceries were spun strongly enough to prevent him from dreaming, and he did not want a repeat of the previous night’s situation.

He glanced at Rowa as her chin dipped towards her chest. The fact that she had slain the would-be assassin for his well-being pervaded his mind. He had expected her to stay his hand and seek a more amiable resolution, but there had been no complacency in the edge of her sword. She had judged his life worth taking another, though she could very well have been motivated by her hostility towards Gideon.

A cold drop of rain dripped from the overhang onto his tail, bringing him back to reality, and he mentally chided himself. He was putting too much thought into something unworthy of it. He had been willing to do the same as she had done, to preserve the alliance they had formed. There were other things that needed to be done in the time he was awake.

Keeping watch on the rainy night beyond the little shelter, he began to weave his sorceries in the hope they would ward off the worst of his dreams.

Rowa opened her eyes to light. She squinted, tilting her head forward and groaning as her back protested at the movement, aching from where a couple of jutting rocks had dug into her skin during the night. It took her a moment to collect her thoughts and remember her situation, as the little hollow was now empty save for her. Beyond it, Morgott sat within her view, his back partially to her with the Carian history book open in one hand, carefully lifted from her pack while she slept. Only then did it strike her that she had slept the whole night, and he had not awoken her.

“Morgott!” she called, her tone high with dismay. “Did you not try to wake me?”

Morgott looked up at her. With a single glance, he discerned she was far better than she had been the night before, the color returned to her face and her eyes intently focused. “Nay.”

“Why?”

“Thou wert ailing,” he said simply. “Thou wert in need of rest to regain thy strength, and half a night’s worth would not have been enough. I would rather thee rest a full night than risk delay if thou becamest more deeply ill for lack of it.”

Rowa emerged from the hollow exasperated, but she could not deny she felt leagues better than she had before, though a general fatigue still cloyed at her. “And what about your rest? Would it not cause delay if you were to tire greatly or fall ill?”

“I need less of it than thee.” He could go several days with only a few hours’ sleep; he had done so many times in his youth when dreams had plagued him deeply, though it had not been without deep weariness. But as he sat in the morning coolness, the scent of rain hanging in the air, he did not feel tired at all.

“Tonight, you rest,” Rowa said firmly.

Morgott grunted a vague reply that may or may not have been an agreement, reaching for one of the pouches on his belt and holding it out to her. “Take a small handful of this and wash it down with water.”

Rowa took the pouch, opening it to reveal a dubious pale orange powder within. “What is this?”

“A remedy prepared by Leyndell’s perfumers. ‘Twill invigorate thee and restore thy strength taken by the Runes.”

Rowa sniffed at the powder, wrinkling her nose at the slightly acrid scent. “Are you certain?”

“Aye, unless thou no longer hath need of it.”

“I do.” She reached for her canteen, taking a small handful and letting it fall into her mouth. The taste was terribly bitter, and she blanched, quickly taking a swig of water and washing it down her throat before she could spit it out. “Tastes like swill,” she hissed.

Morgott was almost amused at the disgusted grimace on her face. “‘Tis a medicine, not food.”

“Could be a poison with a taste like that.”

“’Twould be foolish of me to give it to thee, for I would suffer the consequences as well.”

“Does the binding vow extend to poisons?”

“I read nothing contrary to that notion.”

Rowa scoffed half-mockingly, taking several more large swallows from her canteen to wash away the traces of bitterness. Despite the foul taste, she could feel her strength quickly returning, as though the previous night had never transpired. “I think it’s doing me some good.”

“As I suspected it would,” Morgott intoned drolly.

Rowa hid her amusement, focusing on the book in his hand. “What were you reading about?”

Morgott looked down at it, remembering its presence. He had carefully absconded it from her pack in the deep hours of the night, searching for something to occupy his thoughts, or potentially provide answers to them. “I was curious if this account had any record of the Rune of Death.”

Rowa peered at the tightly-packed scrawl on the page, meaningless in her eyes. “And did it?”

“Nothing beyond a passing mention.” Morgott had hoped to understand Destined Death better, to know if his brother’s body could be freed from its life-in-death. “Caria was not at all involved in the sealing of Death, nor did they place any great value on Runes. Always were they focused on the stars.”

“What were you hoping to find?”

“Anything,” he said, shying away from the subject of Godwyn. “We know not where the Rune truly lies, only the path to it.”

“If it cannot be known through the means we currently have, then so be it. I assume the Rune’s true location is known only to Marika.”

“That is likely so.” Morgott closed the book, standing to his full height. “Though Ofnir may well know himself.”

“Even if it is true, he does not have the agency to claim it.” Rowa cast a careful look at the trees around them, slowly blooming into deep gold as daylight touched them. It was serene to the eyes, but now there lay a hidden foreboding beneath the calm. “I suppose that is why he is bent on hunting us.”

Morgott returned the book to her. “Then let us not tarry long and give him another chance to find us.”

Their escape the previous night had set them slightly off course. In the urgency of the moment, neither of them had given much thought to specifics aside from heading away from the Erdtree’s light. Thus they ended up further north than anticipated, and it took a few hours’ travel to find the highway again, though they were now further west as well.

Gelmir loomed ever larger in front of them, the peaks of the mountain reaching high to scrape the clouds. Sometimes, an orange glow burned in the ash-covered mist that surrounded the highest points. If the wind blew right, it brought the smell of ash and cinder with it.

What little conversation there was between Rowa and Morgott while they travelled dwindled beneath the sense of maintaining secrecy in an attempt to avoid the All-Knowing watcher. In the resulting quiet, every footsteps seemed too heavy, every snap of a twig too loud. The rustling leaves in the wind no longer seemed as peaceful, for it may well have covered the quiet steps of an assassin.

Morgott’s heart sank when he spied the ridge in the distance through the trees, the land falling away sharply into the deep valley. He tried to keep his gaze away from it, but they had to follow the ridge’s curve to reach the bridge to Gelmir. The branches of the dying tree rose above the edge of the ridge like ugly, dark claws, even more decrepit than when he had last looked upon it.

Somewhere close to midday, they stopped for a brief rest and a meal in a small grove. Morgott tried to put his back to the ridge, but he was ever aware of the presence of Godwyn’s Death. It pulled at him relentlessly, calling him to gaze upon it, though he resisted initially to spare himself the pain.

“I’m going to wash some of the dirt from my clothes,” Rowa announced once she had eaten, gesturing to a little pond nearby in a bid to clean herself and offer him an opportunity to eat alone.

“Do not lower thy guard,” Morgott warned.

“Nor you yours,” Rowa returned, heading towards the pond.

When she was a good distance away, Morgott took some dried berries and meat, eating them swiftly though he hardly had an appetite. The rain had left in the night, leaving a bright, clear sky turned to burnished gold by the Erdtree, but to him everything seemed overshadowed by the fog of Death. The world was darkened in his heart, even as the warmth of daylight touched his face.

Finally, he tired of wrestling with himself, and faced the ridge. He never had the opportunity or the agency to visit Godwyn’s tomb in its true form, for the curse of Death hung over it, and it would surely afflict him were he to go. The sight of the dying Minor Erdtree would be as close as he could get to the tomb, and he wished to pay his respects.

He approached the edge, and as every step revealed more of the decaying tree and the mist around it, so did the old ache of grief rise in his heart. It had been a long time since he had dwelt on Godwyn’s slaying with any great thought, preferring to distract himself with Leyndell’s business, so the pain came unexpectedly strong. He stopped a respectable distance from the edge, but he did not need to get any closer. The valley stretched out below him, almost entire shrouded in fog that left onto the tops of the tallest trees visible, and in the middle stood the Minor Erdtree, still imposingly big but a melancholy sight, the branches bare and lacking all luster.

A gust of wind hit Morgott, and in it he heard the screaming, the howling, the panic of the Night of the Balck Knives. He could hear his own sobbing as he ran for cover, ghostly assassins raising knives of Death against Godwyn, against his house. It was only a night, but it had lasted for an age.

He had seen Godwyn’s body only once, but he would never forget it. Unlike his slain family, his flesh still lived and breathed, but there was no life in it, no soul. A life-in-death.

During the funeral procession, the silence as the shrouded bodies were borne through the city was deafening, for it seemed the grief, the horror of it all was too great for even songs of lament. But one voice had come across the golden parapets, reaching the ears of all.

Standing alongside his sister, robed in black and watching the pallbearers advance towards the way down to the tomb, Miquella had sang out. His voice had quivered, broken with grief, each word punctuated by the hard breath of barely restrained weeping. But he sang, giving a lament to the half-brother he had lost.

Egregium bellatorem mors mala prostravit,
Non fulgebit gaudium in urbe aurea.
Frater ille nobilis, qui semper me carissimum habuit,
Tenetur nunc inclusus tenebris.

Morgott’s lips formed a silent echo of the old words, feeling their sting keenly. Miquella had grieved for Godwyn as though they were trueborn brothers, and he could never make himself be angry at such genuine feelings. Though Miquella had worked against the Golden Order, before his disappearance he had actively worked to find a way to free Godwyn’s body in true Death.

The blighted valley before him was continuing proof that his brother still lay in the shadow, alongside the truly dead bodies of his wife, and many of his children. But when Destined Death was unleashed, the half death would become full, and as painful as it was, Godwyn deserved a true death.

When Rowa returned from the pond, she saw Morgott had moved from their little encampment, standing near the edge of the ridge. She had paid little mind to the valley, having spotted it on the way to Leyndell with the strange and pervading mist about it, but ignored it in its distance from her. But now she feared she had overlooked something of great import, for Morgott stood unmoving, gazing at something she could not yet see.

“What is it?” she called as she approached him. “Have you sighted more enemies?”

Morgott glanced at her over his shoulder, but she saw none of the urgent intensity he had shown in the face of danger the night before. “Nay, there is nothing. I am merely…looking.”

Rowa’s concern shifted to curiosity, and she came to stand by his side, looking out over the valley. She was taken aback by the state of the Minor Erdtree, decrepit and skeletal in contrast to the flourishing gold of the highlands. “That tree, it looks…dead.”

“It is.” Morgott’s tone was so oddly subdued that Rowa looked at him. His face was as stony as ever, but there was something deeper beneath it, hidden in the creases of his face and the gleam of his eye. The stoic visage had cracked ever so slightly, and she thought he looked almost mournful.

“Is something…troubling you?” she asked carefully, unsure if she was overstepping the shaky bounds they had.

Morgott did not answer right away. Another gust of wind swept across them, but the chill was lost on him. As much as he wanted to avoid the conversation, to dismiss her question with a reprimand and stow away the old sorrows in the recesses of his heart once more, it would not be prudent to do so. If she were to become Elden Lord, it would only be right for her to understand what brought the chance for lordship about.

“Hast thou heard tell of the Night of the Black Knives?” he asked at last.

“In passing, amongst the Tarnished of the Roundtable Hold,” Rowa murmured, trepidation creeping into the back of her mind. “It was a massacre of sorts, was it not?”

“It was.” Morgott kept his eyes forward, fixed on the valley. “Assassins fell upon Leyndell clad in shadows, carrying knives imbued with the power of the Rune of Death. They brought death to the deathless, and…Godwyn was the first to fall ‘neath their blades.”

“I’ve only heard that name in the echoes of Godrick’s Rune,” Rowa said. “Who was Godwyn?”

“He was the firstborn son of Marika, the first of the Golden Lineage…and my trueborn brother.”

Rowa looked up at him sharply. “Trueborn? You mean…?”

Morgott did not meet her eyes, the words on his lips hard enough to form without the weight of her gaze. “Son of Marika and Godfrey, born to perfection and Grace.”

The trepidation in Rowa’s mind turned to a wave of dismay as she regarded the dying tree with new eyes. “And so…your brother died that night?”

“He did.” The words came dangerously close to catching in Morgott’s throat. “And he did not. The Black Knives slew him in soul, but not in body. His body lived on, for reasons that remain unknown, but there was no true life within him. A curse was branded in his flesh, a curse of Death so deep that he could not be buried in any place of renown. He was entombed deep beneath the earth at the Erdtree’s roots, where his body lieth even now, and the curse in his flesh hath spread through the earth.”

“To this place,” Rowa whispered, the wind’s biting chill suddenly insignificant to the coldness that had settled in the pit of her stomach.

“Aye,” Morgott agreed grimly.

Silence fell between them as Rowa grappled internally with the information, nor did Morgott speak for the weight upon his heart.

“Why? Why was he slain?” she finally asked.

Morgott heard her dismay, her confusion, and he knew it like his own. “That is the question I long considered, but never found answer to.”

“Can anything be done for him?”

“Unbinding the Rune of Death will put an end to his dishonorable state, I pray.”

Rowa glanced at him again, trying to understand the breadth of his feelings, but his countenance offered her nothing. “I did not know you had a trueborn brother.”

“I had two,” Morgott murmured. “Godwyn my elder, and Mohg, my twin.”

“A twin,” she echoed, both in surprise and sorrow. “An Omen?”

“Aye.”

He wore a frown, but it was not the exasperated, angered expression she was more accustomed to seeing. His visible eye was distant, the piercing gold of his gaze blunted by troubled thoughts, and she asked carefully, “What became of him, your twin?”

“In the days of the Shattering, he became enthralled by an outer god. I bade him turn away, but he would not listen. He left, and hath been lost to me since.”

“Do you think he yet lives?”

“I know not in certainty, but I wish it so.” For a single instance, the steady cadence of Morgott’s voice wavered, the long-repressed sorrows breaking forth from the tight bonds he had set upon them for having to give them voice. From her own uncertainty and for the sake of his dignity, Rowa cast her eyes away from him to the valley. She had vowed to shield him from the perils of life, but it seemed all manner of strife had come upon him long before their paths ever crossed.

She could not shield him from what had passed, but she could stand by his side. With a slow, deliberate movement, she raised her hand and set it upon his forearm, letting it rest there in wordless compassion that she could only hope brought some comfort.

Morgott stood still as stone. He felt her touch, and it almost made the pain worse, for he had borne it alone. A prayer came to his mind, first prayed by Miquella, who had searched for a way to free Godwyn before his disappearance. His lips moved, forming the words in a faint breath.

“O brother, lord brother, please die a true death.”

Rowa heard him breathe out, but she did not catch the words. She figured it was just as well, for it seemed a quiet entreaty between him and the sorrow hidden within him, not hers to know. But it pained her, for she finally saw the love he had kept to himself in his heart, for the brothers he had never spoken of, perhaps for the sake of lessening his own hurt.

“Were your brothers here,” she said at last, her voice almost lost to the wind, “they would be honored by your care for them.”

Morgott wondered if they truly would. Godwyn, rotting in Death, and Mohg, lost to his own heresies. What good was his care if they still suffered?

But then, they had loved him. That, he had never once doubted, for all the changes of the world. He and Mohg had understood each other in ways that no one else ever would, and Godwyn had given them a place amidst his golden house, curseborn as they were, unwilling to let them remain shunned forever. Maybe they would not resent him, despite the ways they had been torn apart.

“We should go,” Rowa said eventually, trying to be as gentle as possible. “We still have a good part of the day left.”

Morgott shook himself from his thoughts, straightening himself as he concealed all the warring considerations in his heart once more. He met Rowa’s eyes briefly, and the sadness on her face was so startling that he asked, “Why dost thou mourn so for demigods gone before thy time?”

“It is not your brothers I mourn as much as you. You have endured so much.”

Unsure of how to respond to her sympathy, Morgott turned, pulling away from her touch. “Mourn not for me. I am accustomed to hardships such as these.”

“But does being accustomed lessen the pain?”

Morgott paused, his tail shifting slightly as he contemplated his answer. “Nay. It is only more familiar.”

“Then let me walk alongside you as I promised. It is not your pain alone, anymore.”

With the weariness of his heart, he could not bring himself to any sharp dismissal. “If it is thy wish, then I cannot truly stop thee.” He put his back to the ridge, suddenly desiring to put distance between himself and the cold reminder of his many pains. “Let us away from here.”

Rowa gave one final look towards the valley before following him, determined to honor her vows.

Melina saw the shrouded valley, and the tree in it, blighted from the roots. But she also saw the cause of the blight far below the earth, a remnant of a once-great demigod, twisted by the curse into something far beyond what was natural. Death spread from the corpse like poison, infecting many places in the Lands Between, giving a half-life to the dead.

Godwyn’s body was barely recognizable, but she could see the mark on his flesh, a spidering brand of black, a half-wheel. Somehow, she had seen it emblazoned to the complete wheel, an emblem of true Death. Her sealed eye quivered with the most strength it had ever had, and she knew the brand was once of great familiarity to her.

She was once truly marked by an outer god, and she began to understand which one. An outer god of Death. But still, she did not know who she had been beneath the god’s influence, or why. She only knew the black flame, the skin of gods, the crimson-dark of Destined Death.

As Rowa and Morgott left the valley behind, so did she. But she departed with the old prayer in her heart, echoing Morgott and Miquella, that Godwyn’s remnants would finally be freed by Destined Death.

Chapter Text

“Tomorrow, we shall reach Gelmir.”

Rowa looked up at Morgott, caught off guard by his sudden statement. Since leaving the ridge, they had travelled in pensive silence, only a few words passing between them even when they made camp for the night, and she had been willing to leave him with his thoughts if he had wished it. “That’s good then, I suppose.”

Morgott swept a keen eye over the underbrush surrounding the little clearing they were camped in, the evening shadows lengthening. “For the sake of the quest, it is, a dreadful land it shall remain.”

Rowa glanced at the jagged peaks in the west. “How so?”

“I hath heard tell from my men of many things. Creatures of fire and falling stars, and evil devices formed of man that seek blood without ceasing.”

“And what of the Manor itself?”

“Of that, I know little, for none of my men hath seen it and lived. But thou shouldst be prepared to spin a tale of little devotion to the Erdtree, for that is the kind of Tarnished the Manor dost seek.”

“I suppose then that I will be speaking for the both of us.”

“Indeed. Though I wish it were not so, I must play the part of my mute kin for the sake of hiding my true self.”

“I will do my best to speak for you in a noble manner, since you will be my traveling companion even in their eyes.”

“I do not expect those at the Manor to treat either of us with great respect, so do not take any slights to heart. Do what is necessary to secure a path to Rykard, and do not let thy rashness take hold of thee, for thou must appear as any other Tarnished seeking a place among the recusants.”

“What do recusants possess?”

“Ambition,” Morgott answered simply. “It is a flame that does not dim easily, and even those rejected a place in the Roundtable Hold still vie for lordship, through any method they find, even if they must hunt their own.”

“I suppose then I must possess that flame well enough, to receive an invitation.”

“Aye, though thou’rt far from the recusant ilk I am familiar with.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“‘Tis neither good or bad, merely what I see.” Morgott took another long look at the trees around them for any signs of danger, but saw nothing. “But thou must lead those in the Manor to believe that thou’rt ready to spurn Grace and turn against thy own kind.”

“Is that what the Manor asks of those who join?”

“Aye.”

Rowa thought on it for a moment, then shook her head. “To me, it sounds like Gideon’s Roundtable with another name.”

“I cannot deny that, though their causes differ greatly. Gideon would see the old order restored, while Rykard would see it burn.”

“There is good in the world that should not be destroyed, but too much suffering has come about beneath the Greater Will to let things remain the same. I wish other Tarnished and demigods would see it the same way.”

“If that were so easy, then much of what has happened would not have come to pass, but thou must make thyself seem as a recusant for our own cause.”

Rowa hummed her agreement, nibbling on a handful of berries as she lapsed into a pensive silence. Morgott took the opportunity to assess her disposition, finding she had remained strong with the apothecary’s tonic he had given her earlier, but her vitality could easily be sapped by the Runes if she used them. The sooner she learned to control the power, the less dangerous it would be.

“Gelmir shall test our strength,” he said finally, trying to sound somewhat amiable. “If thou shouldst wish it, I will tell thee how better to channel thy power.”

“If you would be willing,” Rowa said, surprised but eager for the chance to learn as she hurriedly finished the remainder of her food.

“Tonight will be the only chance for me to instruct thee,” he warned. “Once we are within Gelmir’s borders, we must spare no time until we reach the Manor.”

“Then I will endeavor to learn what I can this night, seeing as I may very well need the strength.”

“Come hither, then.” Morgott settled himself in the grass, and Rowa seated herself opposite him, waiting expectantly. “Canst thou summon the Runes now?”

Rowa hesitated a moment. They had operated on the innate knowledge of each other’s Runes, but had never truly revealed them. It made her feel vulnerable, to reveal to him the source of her strength, but he was trustworthy. She held out her hands, and willed the Runes into existence, hanging bright like small suns above her palms.

Morgott gazed long at the Runes, his intent momentarily forgotten. He had never doubted her possession of them through her strength and the kinship of his own, but seeing them in their true forms cemented their reality in his mind. Power radiated from them, washing over him like a wave, and in both rings he saw the remnants of their previous bearers, faint echoes of Godrick’s diluted Gold and Radagon’s strength tinged by the silvery veins of Caria.

“What do you see?” Rowa prompted when he did not speak.

Morgott met her gaze. The light of the Runes reflected in her eyes, gleaming like the flame of ambition that he had seen at their first meeting, but it was not the same fire he had seen in so many other Tarnished. In her, he glimpsed no destructive hunger, no all-consuming thirst for power, even though she held that which would reshape the world in her hands.

“I see the remains of what once was,” he said at last. “Echoes of the Shardbearers.”

“I have seen faint traces as well,” Rowa confessed, and as she spoke a new question sprung to mind. “Was Godrick a descendant of your brother?”

“Aye, he was.”

Regret pricked Rowa’s conscience, even as she recalled the malformed monster Godrick had been. “Do you then hold my slaying of him against me?”

“I do not,” Morgott answered with little hesitation. “He should have met his end long ago, when he first began his vile deeds, but I…I could not do it.”

Rowa nodded wordlessly, hearing the hint of sorrow in his voice. Whether by the Rune or her own imagination, the echoes of Godrick’s mad, impassioned shouts rang like a faraway call in her ears.

“Two Runes is much power to possess,” Morgott went on, not wanting to dwell any longer on the topic. “Thou’rt allowing too much strength to flow through thee at once, more than what thou shalt need. That is why thou hast grown weary.”

“Can it be controlled?”

“Aye, through practice. Think of the power as a river flowing through thee, held back by thy willpower and lack of need. Thou must learn to temper the river, and control the torrent, only allowing what thou shouldst need in the moment. To do this, thou shouldst take hold of a portion of the Rune, and shatter it in thy grasp.”

“Shatter it?” Rowa asked, alarmed.

“Not in the way thee envision it. Thou art merely taking a portion of the power from the Rune, but not all. Sithee.” Morgott extended one hand, and Rowa briefly glimpsed his Rune above his palm in faint detail. A single ring, pierced through by an anchor line. It shone as gold, but not the bright gold of Grace. It was a deeper hue, tinted with something akin to red. The Rune’s image vanished as quickly as it came when Morgott reached up, a golden crescent appearing in his palm. He clenched his fist, and the arc shattered into dust, which settled over him like a fine mist before dissipating altogether.

“I took what I desired,” he said, lowering his hand, “but the Rune’s power remaineth still. Dost thou begin to understand?”

“I believe so,” Rowa said.

“Then now is thy chance to attempt the same.”

Rowa focused her attention on Godrick’s Rune, letting Rennala’s fade into the background. She raised her hand, closing her fingers over one of the curves of the interlocking rings. It was warm, but not quite truly there, like Melina’s touch beyond the bounds of Leyndell. With great concentration, she pulled at the arc, and it broke free in her hand, but every curve of the Rune remained intact despite her action. The broken arc shattered and dissolved, and the power it brought surged through her with a suddenness that made her gasp.

“Do not let it flow unchecked, Tarnished,” Morgott said, recognizing her struggle. “It is thy power, so it is thine to control. Direct it, or will it into dormancy.”

Godrick’s Rune faded away as Rowa lost focus on it. The power coursing through her was a smaller amount as she had hoped, but it still remained difficult to contain. She shuddered as, with all the strength she could muster, she willed the surge back and away, into the reservoir of the Rune it had come from. The effort left her vision fuzzy, her heart pounding in her chest, and she didn’t realize she had begun to tilt backwards until a strong hand caught her by the shoulder and steadied her.

“’Twill take time for thee to master it,” Morgott said. “‘Tis not easily learned.”

Rowa nodded, her body slowly returning to equilibrium. “Thank you for teaching me. How did you learn this?”

Morgott let go of her, realizing he had let his grasp linger. “I taught myself. I too struggled with the power of the Great Rune when I first took it, and I learned to control it through time.”

“I did not expect to master it in one night, but this is a start.” Rowa smiled wearily, trying to still the slight quivering of her body, but it did not go unnoticed beneath Morgott’s keen eye.

“Dost thou need rest?”

“Not before you have slept first.”

Morgott gave her a sharp look, but did not argue with her. The strain of being awake for so long was starting to weigh on him. “That is all I can teach thee. The remainder of thy ability must come through thy own practice, but Rykard’s Rune may prove difficult to control with what little time there is before we arrive.”

“If it is difficult, then so be it. We have come all this way already, and it would be senseless to delay on my account.”

Morgott hummed in vague agreement. “If thou shouldst insist upon my rest first, I shall do so soon before the night advances greatly.”

Rowa watched as he rose to find a better resting place, an inquiry hanging on the edge of her tongue. She almost did not speak it, but she hastily put aside any hesitance. “There is one matter I want to address, before you do.”

Morgott gave their surroundings another long look, only half-listening as he searched for any danger. “Then speak it.”

“What if…you dream again?” Heat crept up Rowa’s neck, unable to fully quell her embarrassment as Morgott stilled.

“If it should come to pass, then leave me be,” he said at last, keeping his back to her.

“Are you certain?”

“Aye.”

Rowa fiddled with the fringe of her tunic as she asked quietly, “Did I not help you?”

Morgott scowled at the woodland in front of him. He had hoped the matter would be forgotten with the new perils they faced, and her question was not one he could answer easily. She had helped him, but the vulnerability of such an admission was not something he wished to face yet. “I am unsure if thou wert of help, but thou dost not need to trouble thyself in such a way. I am learned of incantations to help my sleep, and was merely unprepared for the first night beyond Leyndell’s bounds.”

Rowa considered disputing the issue, but decided against it for the sake of his rest. “If you wish it so.”

Morgott moved to a sufficiently large patch of grass, settling there. “But if there is any trouble in the night, wake me with haste.”

“Of course.” Rowa lifted her head towards the sky. The fiery hues of dusk were nearly gone, any remnants being outshone by the Erdtree as the stars began to shine. But the Erdtree’s light cast deep shadows beneath the trees around them, leaving many a dark place for enemies to lurk. Even then, Rowa did not find herself fearing the idea of sleep, for Morgott had disproved any misgivings in her mind, and she hoped he felt similarly as he curled his massive frame into something of a restful position.

With his back to her, Morgott moved his mouth in silent recitation of the sleeping incantations he had learned, feeling them wash over his body and heighten the tiredness that hung over him. He stared long at the darkened underbrush before finally letting his eyes fall shut, hoping that this night would be uneventful in waking and sleeping.

As she listened to his rasping breaths slow, her mind turned to his Rune once more. She was glad to have seen it, even for a brief glimpse, and it occurred to her that when he finally gave it to her, she might see echoes such as the ones she had seen in the Great Runes she already had. It was an intriguing idea, but not one she looked forward to, for she thought such a vulnerability should be voluntarily spoken to her rather than revealed through a Rune. She did not have the chance to learn much about Godrick or Rennala, but whatever echoes lay within Morgott’s Rune should be his to reveal in time to her in the increase of their union.

What he had shared about his brothers on the ridge surprised her, both with the knowledge of his family and how deeply she had wished to see his pain end. It was only then, as she stared at his back, the soft rising and falling of his shoulders, that she realized she had become fonder of him than she had thought she would. The kindness below his irritable disposition was not lost on her, and the thought of it made a warmth skitter through her chest. They were becoming less estranged through time and understanding, at least in her eyes, and she did not dislike his company. He was careful where she was rash, treated her well enough, and taught her much about the world.

She hoped her attempts to comfort him and ease the weight of grief over his brothers had not been in vain. It seemed little in comparison to all he had done for her, and it was hard for her to know if she had been of any help. But earlier he had not spurned her touch, not immediately, which was more than she expected to receive. In time, perhaps she would become of better help to him. Perhaps he might even welcome her presence with gladness. She had never seen him smile, or be joyous at all, but one day he might find it, if not in her presence then in the world to come.

Finally, she ceased her contemplations and occupied herself with her Great Runes, though she kept Morgott’s sleeping form in the back of her mind. If he dreamed again, she would wake him, despite his insistence that she leave him. It was the least she could do, and she would not see him suffer.

Morgott came awake slowly, almost unwillingly. A hand on his shoulder pulled him from sleep, and the careful touch reminded him of Godwyn.

“Morgott, wake up.”

Rowa’s voice sent urgency flooding his veins. He rolled onto his back, glancing at her face before focusing on the darkened forest beyond, searching for enemies. “What is it?”

“The night is over halfway in its course,” Rowa said. “It’s my turn to rest, I believe.”

Morgott relaxed, biting back a sigh, pushing himself up with sluggish muscles. He had been in a deep sleep, and for once, did not welcome the waking world as readily as usual.

“I considered letting you sleep the entire night as recompense for my full rest,” she continued with a tinge of amusement at his grogginess.

“’Twould be foolish and unwise, for I am certain that thy fortitude is not so much as mine,” Morgott grumbled distractedly as his dreams started to filter into his memory. His incantations had served their purpose, for he had not seen any spirits or distressing visions. But he had dreamed of the same warmth that had saved him two nights ago, and this time it had wrapped him in calmness, filling him with the desire to reach out to it. Such a desire was bothersome, for he was certain the warmth came from his bond with the Tarnished.

He finally shook his head, trying to clear away the blear of sleep, and noticed Rowa was still sitting next to him. He could tell a question hung on the tip of her tongue, evidenced by the directness of her gaze and the slight furrow of her brow. “If thou hast something to ask of me, then speak it forthwith. The night only marcheth on.”

“I was wondering if your incantations worked as you wished they would,” Rowa admitted. She had not noticed a single twitch out of him this time, and that coupled with his general grogginess left her curious how he had fared.

“I believe they did,” he murmured. “I did not witness anything of concern.”

“It seems you slept well.”

Morgott waved a dismissive hand at her. “Take thy rest.”

“Gladly.” Rowa flashed him a small smile, moving away to her chosen spot to rest.

Morgott assessed their surroundings, making sure everything was as it had been before he slept. They seemed undisturbed, quickly revealed by Rowa’s snoring close by. Not wishing to dwell any longer on the bothersome dreams she seemed to illicit through their bond, he focused on the stars above, letting his thoughts wander towards Godwyn again. Many nights, long before the stars were arrested by Radahn’s great strength, Godwyn would assess the patterns of the stars and contemplate their meanings, especially for the fate of Caria. Mohg had never cared much for such musings, but Morgott had listened to every word, full of speculation but no less wise.

The stars had been frozen for a long while beneath Radahn’s influence, even after his deterioration. In that time, Morgott had memorized almost every star, every position, for they never seemed to change. What they meant, if anything, was of little consequence to him, but he had often envisioned himself discussing it with Godwyn, a melancholy wish lost beneath the gloomy fog of Death.

 It would be strange when the stars began to move once more, weaving their intricate patterns in the void of the sky. He did not hold it against Radahn at all for seeking to stop their paths, for he had heard tell and studied the horrors that came from the lightless expanse. Radahn was one of the more honorable of his demigod kin, and he deserved the mercy of death the moment the Rot seized him. When the stars resumed their patterns, it would be bittersweet, both for Godwyn and for the Conqueror of the Stars.

The night passed without event. Rowa rose with the dawn after a dreamless sleep, and they continued towards Gelmir. They would arrive by the afternoon, and the smell of smoke and embers only grew stronger. The light of day and the Erdtree began to dim beneath the cover of the mountain’s ashes, turning the sky a strange, murky brown like muddied water.

They maintained a path closer to the main road; there were few troops assigned this close to Gelmir, which Morgott said was a result of too many recusant attacks. Close to midday, they neared a small ruin alongside the highway, which seemed unoccupied at first glance, but neither of them could be certain.

“’Twas once a roadhouse for Rykard’s entourage,” Morgott rumbled, watching the crumbling structure for any sign of movement. “We would do well to avoid it. Recusants may yet lie in wait there.”

“Agreed,” Rowa said. The ruin was little more than broken walls, lacking a roof altogether, but there was enough cover for someone to hide there.

They gave the ruins a wide berth, changing their course to pass on the plains beyond it by the ridge, keeping a wary eye out for opposition. A strong wind blew from Gelmir, sending the golden grass rippling in waves and strengthening the scent of the fire mountain. Neither traveler paid it any mind, until beneath the stench if smoke, there came the metallic whiff of blood. Morgott stopped first, and Rowa quickly followed, both caught off guard by the smell.

“I smell blood,” Rowa said, scanning the plains as she reached for one of her swords.

“As do I,” Morgott replied.

It was not quite the scent of another Tarnished out for blood like Rowa had experienced with Ensha. It was similar, but there was a deeper tinge of something else, almost like burning.

Morgott set his face completely into the wind, letting the scent hit him fully. A shiver ran across his shoulders as he smelled the blood and what lay beneath it. He knew it well enough, and there was no mistaking it, for he was familiar with the smell of blood, but only once had it been like this.

“It doesn’t seem like a Tarnished.” Rowa drew close alongside him. “Is it coming from the ruins?”

“Aye.” Still, Morgott could see no movement between the broken walls. “I know this scent.”

“Where from?”

“’Tis not unlike the scent of my brother’s blood, once he was enthralled by an outer god.” His legs began to move before he was even aware of it. “I must see what the cause is. Remain here if thou wishest it.”

“Absolutely not.” Rowa trotted to keep up with his long strides, jointly curious and cautious to approach the increasingly strange ruin.

No sound, nor any movement issued from within, even as they drew well within spotting distance. The eastern wind whistled eerily between the cracks and holes in the masonry, but that was all.

Stave in one hand, the other poised to bring forth a golden sword, Morgott stepped towards a broken section of the wall, peering beyond it into the ruin proper. The stench of afflicted blood hit him like a wall moments before he sighted the two bodies, stretched across the rubble and stained with red. One was dressed in a long, dark robe accented with red, while the other was of some warrior-kind, clad in a strange bell-shaped helmet of latticed metal, a sword still clasped in his hand.

“Dead,” Rowa observed at Morgott’s elbow, wrinkling her nose at the smell. “A mutual slaying, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.” With careful, measured steps, Morgott moved closer to the bodies, and nothing stirred at his approach. He recognized the garb of the robed figure, who was beginning to dissipate into ash. The last time he had seen Mohg, he had been dressed similarly, and the same bloody smell had come from him as strongly as it did this figure. This one was likely a servant of that same outer god, but certainly not his brother, to his relief and disappointment.

“Do you know either of them?” Rowa asked. The strange warrior was far more wounded than the robed figure, almost as though he had fought more enemies than one.

“Nay, but my brother did favor such raiment as this one.” Morgott gestured to the disintegrating robes with his stave. “A servant of the same god, ruled by blood, but I do not sense him, for I would know his presence straightaway.”

Rowa nodded, studying the bodies. “It is strange. This one has not yet become ash.”

Morgott glanced at the fallen warrior. “Such is the nature of the Greater Will. It taketh whom it will and leaveth others.” He straightened, stepping beyond the bodies to survey the remainder of the ruins. “There is naught else here for us. We should continue onward, for Gelmir lieth close at hand.”

Rowa cast a final look at the two slain men, one relinquished to death and the other remaining, before stepping towards the eastern edge of the ruins. Through the gaps in the broken wall, she sighted the highway trundling onward, until it met a canyon that cut through the plateau farther than she could see. A bridge hung over the canyon, made only of rope and wood, and she could not see the other side of it for the fog of smoke and ash that overtook it.

“That bridge,” she said, “is that the way into Gelmir?”

“Aye.” Morgott regarded it grimly. It seemed too simple a bridge to lead into such a land of fire and blasphemy. “I must warn thee, what we hath witnessed here at this ruin is a foretaste of what we shall see once we cross.”

Rowa thought back to Stormveil, the Albinauric village, and all the dark atrocities she had seen. What lay ahead could well be worse than that, and she steeled herself. “I am no stranger to carnage.”

“Nor am I, but there is still much horror to be found in the world. Our passing shall not be made easy by whatever awaits.”

Rowa looked up at him, meeting his grim expression with what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “I am a Tarnished. It has rarely been easy.”

“Nor for I as an Omen,” Morgott returned, faintly relieved that he did not walk into Gelmir alone. “Now let us go forth and shrink not from what lieth ahead.”

Chapter Text

Crossing the bridge to Gelmir was as simple as it could have been, which only increased the eeriness of the land itself. Though they had met no resistance stepping from the bridge to the ground, it was as though they had passed through some barrier, beyond which the scape of the very world changed. The light of the Erdtree, though not completely hidden, was dimmed to a weaker glow beyond a haze of smoke and ash. The land had turned to hard, burnt rock the color of dirt and ash mingled together. Jagged cliff faces climbed high into the sky before them, so tall that they vanished beyond the permanent smoky fog that pervaded everything around, contaminating the air with the heavy smell of sulfur and smoke.

Worst of all was the quiet. There was not a sound, save for the distant, visceral groaning of some chasm superheated by the mountain’s fire. All life was fled away from the torrid slopes, hounded by war and the all-consuming blaze within the depths. Even Leyndell had not been so silent.

The road could barely be called that anymore, a worn path covered in dirt and rubble stretching forth from the bridge, meandering alongside the sheer face of the mountain on one side, and a sharp drop into open air on the other. Not much of it was immediately visible, for it followed the curve of the mountain and soon bent out of view beyond the bridge.

Morgott did not step forth immediately after crossing. He paused, waiting, searching for any sign of opposition, but there was none that he could sense. That was of little comfort to him, for it seemed the very mountain itself elicited some innate dread, perhaps by his foreknowledge of what lay within or perhaps not. The serpent lay somewhere beneath them, the enemy of the very world. Yet still, the rays of Grace still shone forth even here, though rendered faint by the mountain’s fire.

Rowa was unnerved by the silence, the smoky haze lying thick over everything and filling her senses. Looking back over the bridge, she could only just glimpse the grass on the other side, but a few steps forward would have it disappear completely. Morgott had not made a move forward, so she hadn’t either, trusting his perception of the land around them. But she was certain she would forego Torrent’s aid, for the rocky terrain seemed unfriendly to hooved creatures, and subterfuge would be more necessitated in the unknown scape.

“Do we go forward?” she whispered finally, her voice seeming too loud.

“Aye.” Morgott replied with equal softness. The road would not remain empty forever, he was sure of it, but it would be foolish to wait for opposition to find them. He took the first step, the ground hard and unforgiving beneath his feet, and Rowa followed.

It wasn’t long before they came upon the remnants of war. Beyond some spires of stone jutting across and above portions of the road, they came upon barriers of wooden stakes, left from skirmishes unseen. The ground was uneven and cratered, churned by many feet. Broken hafts and discarded blades littered the roadside, some formed into charred piles once set ablaze, leaving only warped metal behind.

Then, there came the bodies.

Rowa was unable to stop the small gasp that flew from her mouth when she stepped around the curve beyond the empty battlefield. Only a few corpses remained on the ground, for the rest were strung up as hideous displays, hanging upside down from wooden gallows on either side of the road. Some were burnt and disfigured nearly beyond recognition, while others remained terribly intact, but all were grotesque. Her stomach twisted nauseously, and though she quickly tore her eyes away, the image was already seared into her mind’s eye.

Morgott, who was a few steps behind her, heard her quiet exclamation, and he knew at once what awaited him. At his own behest, the quivering survivors of Gelmir had spared him no details of the dark practices of Rykard’s warmongers. Hanging corpses as warnings had become commonplace during the Shattering, but he had never wished to stoop to that level. There was enough suffering in Leyndell without hanging grisly trophies about.

He did his best to avert his eyes, but it could not be avoided completely. It did not seem right to gaze upon them in such a state, especially in the knowledge that some of them were his own men, though the bodies were indistinguishable. He found a certain relief in the fact that Rowa seemed to find it as equally appalling as he, judging by her downcast gaze, though he wished they did not have to witness it at all.

“I have seen similar displays at Stormveil, and in the Albinauric village,” Rowa murmured as they passed by the gallows. “It is vile.”

“They were meant to be displays of strength in the days of deepest conflict,” Morgott replied. “I cannot say who started the practice, but it spread across the Lands Between.”

Rowa focused on the road before her. “And did you ever…?”

“Never once did I stoop to such depths,” Morgott said firmly.

“Even with the Tarnished you hunted?” she asked

Morgott glanced sharply at her. “Nay. I did what I deemed necessary, but I found no glory in slaying.”

Rowa did not think he had availed himself to such depravity; she merely wanted to hear him deny it to lessen the sick feeling in her stomach. “That is what I supposed. I never found glory in it either, but there was a time when you supposed that statement to be a falsehood.”

Morgott took in the pallid shade of her complexion, her hurried footsteps as she attempted to put space between herself and the gallows. “No more.”

Eventually, the road became barren again, and both travelers were deeply glad of it. They walked in the shade of the mountain, close alongside the steep cliff faces where crags and shrubs were plentiful, to act as a quick hiding place. The mountain continued to elicit its strange groanings, planting frightful images into their minds. Rykard had been taken by the serpent, but what truly awaited them beneath the mountain was yet unknown.

The tentative peace came to an end when Morgott sensed something amiss. “Tarnished.”

Rowa halted at once, recognizing his urgent tone, and drew near to him. “What is it?”

“I am not yet sure.” Beneath his feet, the ground had begun to vibrate, faintly but with growing intensity, as though something was approaching. The road curved out of sight quickly both behind and ahead, following the natural formation of the mountain and hampering his view. He looked all around for any movement or figure, but could see none on the road or above them on cliffside.

“Thou dost not feel it, for thy senses are not as mine,” he murmured.

“I—“ Rowa was interrupted by the squeal of metal upon metal, echoing sharply off the cliffs. The sound persisted, like the constant squeaking of a rusted wheel, growing steadily louder but made directionless by the reverberation several times over.

“Hide thyself,” Morgott hissed.

Rowa’s heart quickened as she hurried towards an outcropping of rock lying diagonally against the cliffs, the oncoming metallic sound ringing in her ears as she ducked beneath it. Morgott came quickly after her, his frame taking up the majority of the space offered below the slanted offshoot. She crouched low the ground, dead grass prickling her palms, her breath sounding loud in enclosure. From her position, only the mountainside was visible, the road completely blocked by the outcrop, but the noise was just as loud. As the sound grew, she became aware of a vibration in the ground as something large drew nearer to them.

Morgott, crouched awkwardly over her, caught her questioning look. He raised a hand in a silent warning that she accepted with a nod. Beyond the overhang, he caught sight of movement on little sliver of road visible to him. Burnished metal flashed bright even in the dulled daylight as the shrieking sound finally arrived, underscored by the rumbling of some great wheel across the earth. What he glimpsed sent a chill rippling through him, and for a moment he felt as though he were a child again, hiding from the predatory creatures of the sewers, but he quickly dispelled those thoughts as he gripped his stave tightly.

Rowa could not see what approached, but she heard the slight hitch in Morgott’s breath. She pressed her shoulder hard into the stone, the ground trembling beneath her feet. The metallic shrieking finally swelled to its height as the cause of it passed by their hiding place. She anticipated it to stop or come towards them, but it didn’t. Whatever it was continued down the road the way they had come from, the grating noise fading into the distance. Only then did she realize she had not heard a single voice, footstep, or breath, no sign of a living thing, which was somehow all the more chilling.

Quiet fell over the road once more. All Rowa could hear was her own heart pounding in her ears, and Morgott’s breathing right beside her. She leaned closer to him, asking as quietly as possible, “Did you see them? What was that?”

“I did not see them in full, but I am certain they were Rykard’s war machines,” Morgott answered with equal softness. “Hideous contraptions I saw from afar once. I had hoped they would be fallen into disrepair now, but we are not so fortunate. We must avoid them at all costs, for they know no pain or fear. Only the hunting they were made for.”

“Do you think it safe to continue?”

“They are gone away for now, so we must make haste.” Morgott dared to peer out at the road, finding it empty as he suspected. “Night will soon cometh, so we will be hidden then.”

Rowa followed him into the open reluctantly. The machines had left deep grooves in the packed dirt of the road, leaving her to imagine just what exactly they were like. “I would welcome the presence of your Calvary.”

“As would I, but it is well known whom the Calvary serveth. We cannot risk detection, so we must continue alone.”

The fire of the setting sun was dimmed by the smoke of the mountain, casting odd, muddied hues of red and orange across the wasteland. As they went, the shadows deepened, and Rowa saw a plume of smoke rising on the road ahead of them, beyond some spires of rock. She exchanged au glance with Morgott, and he continued with careful steps, so she followed suit.

The flickering glow of a fire became visible against the darkening sky, and the smell of smoke soon followed. When the flames became visible through the underbrush, they stopped, concealing themselves behind a spire and taking the situation in from afar.

A dilapidated structure stood on the other side of the road, looking close to collapse. Beside it, a large bonfire burned, with several more hideous gallows constructed close by, bearing more bodies. The fire blazed brightly, kindled by broken spearhafts and discarded shields, but there was no sign of anyone nearby.

“Tarnished,” Morgott said lowly, “dost thou sense anything amiss? Another Tarnished seeking blood?”

Rowa studied the odd sight carefully. Despite the fire and the bodies, she could not sense the bloodied taint of another Tarnished looking to kill, the air only bearing the scent of smoke. “No, nothing, but Tarnished are far from our only adversaries.”

Morgott waited a moment longer, seeking any potential threat, but found none. “Then let us carry on swiftly. ‘Twill do us no good to stay here, and soon the Manor shall be visible.”

Keeping their distance from the shack, they followed the road, which began to turn southwest around the mountain. Night began in earnest, the muted glow of the Erdtree casting the near-barren land in an odd mottling of pale light and deep shadow. They walked for a while undisturbed, until they rounded a small bend in the road that revealed a large ridge ahead. A building rose atop the ridge, built of white stone and full of many windows, seemingly unblemished by the state of the land around it. The Erdtree’s light gave it an almost ethereal appearance, most of the windows darkened save for a couple of outliers gleaming with flame within.

The road went onwards towards the ridge, until it ended abruptly at what was likely once a grand bridge that stood above a great canyon in the earth. However, the bridge was broken, the stone cleaved straight through by some catastrophe. The far end of the bridge hung suspended many feet above the other half, as though severed by the shifting of the land itself.

Rowa frowned at the sight. They were some distance away, but it was clear that the bridge was the only method of traversal if they were to continue. On their left, the mountain loomed, and on the right the land fell away into nothingness.

“Should we turn around?” she asked when Morgott showed no signs of stopping.

“Nay. This is the only way forward.” The break in the bridge was slightly unexpected, but not surprising to Morgott given the state of the land. The gap between the two halves did not daunt him; it would be easy enough to jump, even with the Tarnished in tow.

Rowa eyed him dubiously. “How will we cross?”

“I shall bridge the gap for us both.”

Rowa was not sure how he would accomplish that, but he was not foolhardy. As the approached the bridge, she caught a metallic smell beneath the ash in the air, her heart jumping. It was not quite the same as Ensha, nor the slain noble in the ruins. There was something else to it, something raw and animalistic.

She started to say something, but stopped herself when Morgott loomed near, his proximity far closer than he usually walked. The tattered folds of his cloak brushed her head as he fell into step right beside her, his visible eye flashing.

“Keep thine eyes ahead,” he said, his voice little more than a breath. “We were followed.”

The hair on the back of Rowa’s neck prickled. “By what?”

“Recusants.”

So she had indeed caught the smell of blood, of another stained Tarnished, the same but yet made different by varying influence. What lay below this scent she could not say, but she imagined it had something to do with what lay waiting beneath the mountain. “How many?”

“Five by my count. They remain distant.”

“We could challenge them.”

“’Twould be of no use. If we cross the bridge, they cannot follow.” Morgott could feel the recusants at his back like the predatory creatures of the sewers. They prowled carefully, but unlike the creatures he was familiar with, they made no attempt to close the distance. For a few moments, he considered that he had not been surreptitious enough in warning Rowa, making the recusants aware that their quarry knew of their presence, until the ground began to tremble beneath his feet, faint but growing.

The recusants were not striking because they knew the war-machines would come and do the work for them.

“There’s something else,” Rowa hissed as she felt the tremors, “I feel—”

Morgott did not let her finish. He did what he had intended to do upon reaching the bridge and scooped her up like she was nothing more than a sack of prawns, cradling her close to his chest with one arm. Rowa yelped at the sudden change, grabbing instinctively his at his shoulder and the cord that tied his cloak. Before she could begin to orient herself, he took off at full pelt, moving faster than she had ever seen him before.

The bridge was still a good length away, but Morgott ate up the distance away, his feet pounding against the churned earth as he sprinted in long strides. Voices rose up somewhere behind him as the recusants realized their quarry was escaping, but he barely heard, his focus on the metallic screeching echoing off the mountain that was rapidly growing louder.

Rowa hung on for all she was worth as Morgott’s steps jostled her, one massive arm supporting her entire body. Air whistled by her face, his rapid breaths rasping in his chest next to her ear, but she too heard the approaching noise, and she moved as much as she dared to crane her neck above his shoulder and see their pursuers.

At first, she could see only the shapes of the mountain and the cliffside, the constant motion making it difficult for her to focus. But then, something rounded the previous bend in the road. Metal flashed in the pale light of the Erdtree, giving her a look at the nature of the constructs that pursued them, and one glimpse was enough to make her mouth go dry.

They were made in the likeness of a woman standing upright, cradling a baby, intricate filigree forming both likenesses. The woman’s face, though detailed, was dark and hollow, and any beauty was overruled by the uncanny nature of the machine. Chains hung from the statue’s shoulders, supporting two great scythes on either side like some monstrous set of appendages. The statue sat upon a pedestal, under which some hidden set of wheels propelled it up the uneven road with little trouble. The grating shriek issued from its mechanisms like the cry of a hunting animal following a scent, and though the statue’s eyes were dark and void of life, Rowa felt like it could see them.

Morgott did not look back, knowing full well what pursued them. Blood roared in his ears, almost drowning out the shrieking, and he felt all the more like he had been transported back to his childhood, fleeing from giant crustaceans or his fellow Omens lost to madness.

His feet struck the stone of the bridge, the cool texture only lending speed to his steps. The screech of Rykard’s creation swelled behind as the break loomed before, the other half of the bridge hanging several feet above them.

Rowa gasped as the construct sped towards them, closing the gap rapidly. She looked forward just in time to see the emptiness beyond the bridge hanging in front of them, and then the world went weightless as Morgott leapt with all his might. He released his stave, letting it sail to the other side as he curled his entire body around Rowa. For a moment, they hung suspended in the air, and Rowa’s heart dropped as she glimpsed the void hanging below.

Morgott landed on the other side of the bridge, his impact shaking the old stones. His momentum carried him forward and he rolled with it, caging Rowa with his arms until he finally came to a stop. The moment he was steady he let her go, springing to his feet and grabbing his stave.

The impact, and the strength of Morgott’s grasp, had driven all the air from Rowa’s lungs. She wheezed, trying to rise, but only made it to her knees as she tried to catch her breath.

A single glance over the edge told Morgott they would not be pursued immediately. The construct stood on the bridge, but did not advance any further, and the voices of the recusants continued on somewhere behind it. When he turned back, he noticed Rowa had not risen, and hurried to her side. “Art thou injured, Tarnished?”

“No,” she gasped in reply. “I just…need a moment to…catch my breath…”

“We cannot stay here.”

Before Rowa could reply or form any protest, she was in Morgott’s arms again. He set out at a fast but even pace, wanting to get them away from their pursuers and the gallows that lined the half of the bridge. The noises of the recusants faded quickly, and quiet settled over the night once more.

It took Rowa a minute to regain her strength, and as she did she considered the oddity of her position. The talisman at her neck seemed warm with the closeness, and she could see his own medallion a few inches away, swaying slightly with his steps. The closest she had come to being held in her memory were the short embraces with Melina, and even that did not quite compare to sitting in Morgott’s arms. From her position at his shoulder, the ground seemed even farther away than when she sat upon Torrent’s back, her legs dangling in the air. His hold was gentle now, no longer crushingly tight through the need to flee, and pleasantly warm in the cool of the night. With the peace between them, she had almost forgotten the length of his strength, but the dull ache around her ribcage where he had held her served as a vaguely unpleasant reminder.

The furred skin of his torso brushed against her fingers as she adjusted herself, and it was softer than she had expected it to be, almost downy in quality. Directly beneath all softness vanished, replaced by a wall of pure muscle, and it reminded her of the hardness he displayed, a grim distrust of the world that had led to their union. And yet for all that, he was not without a softness that had slowly revealed more of itself the longer they were together.

“Thou art certain thou art unharmed?”

Morgott’s inquiry rumbled close to Rowa’s ear, startling her a little. Embarrassment at the situation threatened to overtake her, but she reminded herself that it was necessary. “I believe so. I merely had the wind knocked from me.”

“I…misjudged my strength.”

“It is no matter. I would not have been able to make the jump myself, otherwise.”

Morgott glanced down at her, searching her form for any sign of injury. It surprised him how easily she fit in his hold; he had expected her to be a more cumbersome, awkward passenger, but one arm was enough to contain the whole of her form, and she made it easier by keeping hold of him. He was greatly aware of her warmth against him, the faint brush of her breath against his skin. It was gentle, almost comfortable, and it stirred up the wound in his heart even more violently than the mere touching of hands. He had not experienced something like this since before Godwyn died.

“I think I am fine to walk on my own, now,” Rowa said when Morgott made no move to release her as she had expected.

Morgott stopped walking. “If thou art sure.”

“Fairly.”

Morgott lowered his arm, and she slid from his hold easily, landing on the ground. The warmth of his medallion faded, and only then did he notice it, stirred up by their closeness and serving as a reminder of additional subterfuge. “Tarnished.”

Rowa faced him, startling slightly when he leaned in unexpectedly close. He reached out towards her talisman with his empty hand, summoning a concealing incantation that would hide it from watchful eyes. She saw a small glimmer of light pass from his fingertips to her talisman, and she looked down at it curiously. “What is that?”

“A concealment.” Morgott straightened, doing the same to his medallion, and it vanished from Rowa’s view, leaving his neck seemingly empty. “As with everything else, none need know of our arrangement.”

“That is true. I did not think of that.” Rowa toyed with the talisman. “Thank you for that…and for bearing me over the bridge and beyond.”

He grunted dismissively. “’Twas merely in fulfillment of the vows.”

Rowa restrained a smile, glancing around at the darkened path. “I assume the danger is passed.”

“For the moment.” Morgott studied the road ahead of them. It went upwards, between a cleft in the ridge that split it in two, vanishing around the edge and out of sight. The gallows were no longer escapable, lining both sides of the road in macabre clusters, some even bearing the bodies of trolls as well as men. On their left, the Volcano Manor stood tall and imposing atop the far half of the ridge, an ethereal monolith made aberrantly beautiful by the death and squalor beneath it.

“If thou dost not need rest, we should continue,” he said.

“Even if I did, I would not take it with such things as those machines about.” In an effort to distract herself from the lurid gallows all around as they started up the hill, Rowa asked, “Did you plan to jump the bridge all along?”

“Aye. Didst thou take offense?”

“I do not care for high places, but I am not inclined to think you would drop me.”

Morgott snorted. “I would not. I am used to traversing in such ways.”

“Even with another?”

“Aye.” He paused, his eyes growing a little distant. “My twin, most often.”

“I see,” she answered softly. “I am grateful for your skill and strength.”

“Despite my misjudgment?”

“I would rather suffer sore ribs than whatever that…thing intended.”

“I cannot fault thee, then.”

The road passed by what was likely once a Minor Erdtree, but that could only be guessed by the size of what remained and the flowers blossoming inexplicably in the lifeless soil around the roots. The tree was hardly more than a stump, in even worse condition that the blighted tree in Altus. It had been burned or torn apart, reduced to a ghastly remnant of its former golden glory, but it was the least offensive sight along the road. The path wound up the ridge, curving and doubling back on itself, and around every bend there waited more corpses, more gallows, a troubling representation of the deeper blasphemy waiting to be uncovered.

The night remained quiet. Once, Rowa glimpsed something crawling along a distant ledge on the other side of the ridge, and at first she thought it was some sort of insect, until she realized it was actually a disembodied hand reanimated through unthinkable rite, dragging itself by its fingers. Morgott was disgusted but less surprised by the sight, having seen the sorcery before, but it did not notice the travelers from a distance.

“We will reach the Manor by daybreak, it seems,” Rowa said as the climbed higher up the ridge. The need for sleep was beginning to weigh on her, but she pushed it aside, refusing to take any rest in the open, even with Morgott’s watch.

“We shall,” Morgott agreed. “Art thou ready to take on the role of recusant?”

“As ready as I can be, I suppose. After all, we do seek to undo the current order of the world, but not as Rykard would see it.”

“When we arrive, thou shouldst take no recusant rite. Avoid it, through pretense of weariness or injury, or whatever means thou canst fabricate. Taint not thyself with the cessblood they carry.”

“I will attempt it, but it may mean rejection.”

“Then we shall use other means to reach Rykard.”

Rowa gave him a sidelong glance. “Are you ready to remain silent?”

“I hath passed many days without a word before. ‘Twill be no great undertaking.”

“Even if someone offends you?”

Morgott shot a glare in her direction. “Dost thou take me for a fool? I would not risk discovery over foul words. Insults are little to me.”

“I will attempt the same,” she murmured. “Though, I should ask your forgiveness beforehand, in case I fail.”

“There is aught to forgive yet. I shall grant it if necessary.”

“And what if we are discovered, or rejected? What then?”

“Then we shall fight our way to Rykard.”

“Do you think we are enough to stand against Rykard’s forces?”

“In the days of the Shattering, I cut down armies alone. Whatever the Manor offers shall not daunt me.”

Morgott’s words could have been a boast, but to Rowa they sounded more akin to an acknowledgement of a grim but necessary reality, and she believed him. “Very well.”

When the first inklings of dawn’s pale light had begun to appear in the east, the two travelers arrived at the top of the ridge. From there, the road went straight, and at the end of it lay the Volcano Manor, built into the very stone of the mountain. Beyond the high parapets, orange light glowed unrelentingly, casting a hellish aura over the building. A dark aura emanated from it, not unlike the recondite nature of the Frenzied Flame, and they both felt it within, settling as a chill on their minds.

“Tarnished, art thou prepared?” Morgott asked lowly.

Rowa met his gaze, and the haunting aura seemed to ease. “If you are.”

They set off on the final stretch to Volcano Manor.

From within the Manor, in the highest tower, Tanith watched the unusual pair approach. A Tarnished, dwarfed by a huge Omen who walked alongside her.

“It has been a while since any new contenders have made it through Gelmir’s perils,” she said to the knight standing at the door. “Come, tell me what you think of them.”

The knight stepped to the window, his red-gold armor clinking with the movement. He was surprised to see a Tarnished and an Omen walking together, and there was something oddly familiar about the Omen in particular, something he could not yet place. “They may show promise, my lady. A strange pair, unlike any the Manor hath ever received before.”

“Indeed.” Tanith turned away from the window, moving to don her mask of white porcelain. “Let us see if they are worthy to become family.”

Chapter Text

The gleam of pale flame caught Melina’s eye as Morgott and Rowa approached Volcano Manor. Between the fires of the mountain, there flickered the ghostly flames of death, strewn in the bowels of depravity beyond the façade of the Manor. Another scion of the black flame had walked there, likely seeking to bring an end to the blasphemous serpent. But it was no longer there, either slain or gone away in search of easier quarry.

“Many Maidens shall go forth, to become sacrifices, to burn for the sake of the new Lord.”

Melina blinked as another echo of Marika’s voice drifted through her memories.

“But thou must go unto the flame one day, and burn. Such is thy fate. Fear it not, O Maiden, for thou shalt usher in a new age.”

Melina raised her head to the shattered peaks of Gelmir. It was her fate, her purpose in Marika’s designs…but it was beginning to become her true desire as well. She watched Rowa, watched Morgott, and as time passed she became more assured of the path.

The world would be renewed, and she would lend her aid.

The Volcano Manor was just as eerie as the land around it, if not more so. All sound from the mountain faded behind walls of thickly cut stone, leaving complete and utter silence in its wake. The interior was grand, fit to match the beauty of Leyndell with intricately cut masonry and rich tapestries, but all was cast in blood-red light from sconces that burned with crimson flame to match the stench of recusant blood hung thick over everything.

The gates to the Manor stood wide open, and the moment Rowa stepped over the threshold, her Runes stirred. It was faint, only the smallest fluttering in her awareness beyond the more pervading presence of Morgott’s Rune, but it was there, possessed of the same powerful aura as the other Great Runes. One glance at Morgott was all she needed to know he felt the same as she.

The foyer they entered was empty, no guards or recusants to be seen. An ornate staircase on the far end of the room took them into a grand hall lined with paintings, which opened into a room with a huge hearth hosting a crimson fire. Their footsteps echoed loudly in the hall, overpowering the crackle and snap of the burning wood.

Rowa was the first one to step into the room, and she froze as she saw what awaited them. In an alcove to the right of the fireplace, a woman sat dressed in white robes, her face covered by a pale mask. Beside her stood a huge knight that towered close to Morgott’s height, clad completely in armor embellished with horn-like protrusions, the metal rendered blood red in the firelight. His sword was unsheathed, the point on the floor, his hands resting on the hilt as though it were merely a stave to lean his weight upon. They were backed by a huge portrait of a man dressed in rich attire, a likeness of Rykard.

Morgott stopped as well, but he barely noticed the woman for the knight at her side. He knew the armor the knight wore well, forged in honor of the Crucible, but he had never seen anyone fit to wear it. He had heard tell of his father’s Crucible Knights, seen their armor and read of their exploits, but he had never met or seen them in truth. They had disbanded at Godfrey’s exile, and vanished into obscurity despite Godwyn’s attempts to keep them together.

It took his breath away for a moment, to see one of his father’s fabled knights, but he quickly reprimanded himself. There was no assurance that this was one of the original sixteen Crucible Knights; the one before him may well have been an impostor, come into the armor by chance or treachery. That was more likely, indeed, for none had heard tell of the sixteen since before the Shattering.

“Will you come in, Tarnished?” The woman’s voice rang strong and smooth across the lacquered furnishings. “None come to the Volcano Manor without purpose, and I have come to receive you.”

The invitation willed Rowa’s feet to move, though a knot of uncertainty tightened in her stomach. She felt like she was facing Gideon in the Roundtable Hold once more, contending with a predatory personage. She glanced at Morgott, but he was not looking at her, his gaze trained on their hosts as he followed her. They stopped a respectable distance away from the pair, and Rowa gave a small bow.

“Thank you for receiving me…and my companion,” she said.

“An honor to have you. I am Tanith, the proprietress of this house.” Pale green eyes regarded them from behind the mask. “We rarely receive visitors to the Volcano Manor without an invitation.”

“I was invited, some time ago.” Rowa unslung her pack, digging out the envelope and holding it forth. “I met a scout on the road.”

Tanith took the envelope, taking the paper out and regarding it a moment. “Ah, so you are the Tarnished Rya spoke of. A warrior of promise, I believe she said. However, she said nothing about your companion.”

Rowa tensed. Beside her, Morgott shifted his weight slightly, a quiet reminder of his presence, and she forced herself to breathe. “I met this Omen after encountering Rya. He is loyal, an aid to me, and I would bring him wherever I go.”

“I see.” Tanith studied Morgott, and he met her gaze unflinchingly. “This house has no quarrel with Omenkind as a whole, for we stand against the Erdtree and the order imposed by it. Your companion is welcome to accompany you, but I cannot promise the tolerance of the other members of this house.”

“I understand.” Rowa relaxed slightly. That was one obstacle cleared. “Thank you.”

“But that all depends upon your willingness to turn against the world. Will you join us here at the Volcano Manor, and resist the tide? Why accept the burden of their Grace, or be fooled by the dogmatic ramblings of the Fingers?”

“I do not think the current state of the world, nor the Golden Order, should continue.” Rowa chose her words carefully. “The Volcano Manor seems like the best place to bring about a new world.”

“So you shall join us?”

“Yes, but I do not think myself worthy of any rite yet.”

“Your decision is most welcome, but you are correct. You have not yet proven yourself as a great champion of this house, though arriving here was a trial in of itself. In a few days’ time, we will have a task for you to enact, that you will be compensated for accordingly when the deed is done. But I warn you now, if you are loath to hunt your own kin, so be it, but you must leave this house at once. This is  a war against the Erdtree. We have no place for the meek, nor the luxury of keeping our hands clean.”

“I know what must be done,” Rowa replied. “I will not shrink from the task at hand.”

“Excellent.” Tanith dipped a hand into some hidden pocket in her robe, pulling forth an ornate metal key. “Now you have taken the first steps to becoming part of the Volcano Manor family. Make yourself comfortable. The drawing room is just down the hall.”

Rowa accepted the key, its weight heavy in her palm. “Thank you.”

“An honor to have you.”

With a small bow, Rowa turned away from her to a curtained hall on the right, a great weight lifting from her shoulders. They had made it undiscovered into enemy territory. Now the task of locating Rykard was paramount.

Morgott followed with some reluctance, not quite ready to leave the sight of his father’s knight behind but also not wishing to be parted in the eerie halls of the estate. He had not expected much of Rowa, and was surprised by how well she maintained the appearance of a hopeful recusant. But her nervousness was palpable to him if not the denizens of the Manor, appearing in the tense set of her shoulders and the unnatural jerkiness of her movement, only noticeable to him through enough prior observation.

He almost opened his mouth to say something vaguely encouraging, but stopped himself, remembering his role. He could not fault her apprehension, however, for the Manor had set him on edge as well. The smell of blood and fire and sorcery hung all around in a maelstrom of danger, leaving him to anticipate some enemy looming around every corner, and he could feel what lay beneath. The thrum of the mountain’s fiery heart, and something else altogether terrible. A blasphemy boiling up from below.

The hall beyond the audience chamber was just as luxurious as the rest of the house, bearing no signs of aging or decay like Leyndell had. Doors carved from dark, rich wood lined both sides of the hall, but only one was ajar. Unsure where else to go, Rowa approached it, opening it wider. The room within was large, a long table and chairs taking up the majority of the space. A fire crackled in a hearth on the opposite wall, and a painting of an armored man hung above the mantle that Morgott knew to be Radahn. The room was empty, save for one person at the table, who bore pale braids and had a hunched figure that Rowa recognized at once.

“Rya?” she asked.

Rya turned to face them, her expression moving from surprise to a beaming smile. “Oh, brave Tarnished, how good it is to see you again! I thought you might never come.”

Rowa tried to smile genuinely. Now that she knew the truth of Volcano Manor, Rya’s gentle disposition seemed uncanny and out of place among the death and blood. “I took some time to think on it.”

Rya hurried towards her, only to pause when Morgott took a step forward in return, placing himself slightly in front of Rowa. He could see the veil over Rya’s form, but not whatever lay beneath, and he did not trust it.

“Who is this you have brought with you?” Rya asked, seeming to notice him for the first time and regarding him with wide eyes. “He was not accompanying you when we last met, I am sure.”

Rowa touched Morgott’s arm in quiet warning, and he glanced at her, relaxing his stance slightly. “This is an Omen I met in my travels who is my companion now. He cannot speak, but he no threat.”

“I see.” Rya blinked owlishly, staring at Morgott a moment longer before dipping an awkward bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you, brave Omen.”

Her cordial greeting only bolstered Morgott’s distrust. They may have stood in a house against the Golden Order, but congeniality was rare even so.

“Will you please tell me your name, Tarnished?” Rya carried on. “I realized only after we had parted ways that I never asked.”

“I am Rowa.” It occurred to her then that Tanith had not asked her name, but she likely did not care to know it.

Rya smiled brightly. “I’m glad to have met you properly, Rowa, and that you have finally come. You will be a great addition to the Manor, I am sure.”

“I was told you likened me to ‘a warrior of promise’. I appreciate your praise, but you never saw me fight. Why do you hold me in such high regard?”

Rya’s sallow cheeks colored a little. “Well, so many Tarnished have passed me by in my time as a scout, or tried to attack me outright. But you…you not only stopped for me, but went off without question to retrieve my stolen necklace. It seems to me that only someone of great heart and courage would do such a thing for a stranger.”

“And is heart and courage what Volcano Manor seeks?”

“Not entirely. We take any who can make their way here and are willing to join, but you are different in my eyes. So many of your kind seem bitter and dark, but you are not, I think.”

“I try not to be.”

“Well, that’s the best you can do, isn’t it?” Rya let out a little sigh, her brow scrunching. “I do hope your stay will be prolonged. We have had so many recusants come, only to disappear after carrying out some of the tasks allotted to them.”

“Disappear?” Rowa echoed uneasily.

“Yes. Many warriors of great strength have merely vanished without warning or cause. Not even Lady Tanith knows where they have gone. It is greatly vexing to me, because sometimes I am sure I can hear things beyond the walls, and I wonder if that is where so many have gone…” Rya shook her head, pressing a hand to her temple. “Oh fie, what am I saying? It just isn’t possible. I must be tired, since I am sure such a thing will never befall you.”

“You confidence in me is appreciated,” Rowa said, hoping she sounded nonchalant.

Rya’s smile returned. “Of course, brave Tarnished. Since you have only just arrived, you must be weary.”

“I am,” she admitted, traveling through Gelmir having taken a considerable portion of her energy.

“Have you found a suitable room yet?”

Rowa looked down at the large key still in her hand. “No. There were so many doors that I wasn’t sure where…”

“Don’t worry. I will show you to an empty room.” Rya bustled out of drawing room. Rowa traded a careful look with Morgott, and she was not quite sure what his expression heralded, but he followed her after Rya with no complaints.

Rya led them deeper into the Manor, down the hall and around a couple of corners. There were many doors, some of which were open, but the rooms seemed empty. No one passed them in the hall either, finally prompting Rowa to ask, “Are we the only ones here?”

“There are other Tarnished, but they are likely out, doing the work Lady Tanith has given them,” Rya said. “It does feel rather lonely, sometimes.” She stopped at one of the doors, looking at Rowa expectantly. “This room is unused. It should be plenty of room for you and your companion, however our furnishings may not be suitable for his size.”

“We will make do.” Using the key Tanith had given her, Rowa unlocked the door. The room within was comfortable enough, furnished much like the rest of the house with a large couch, a chest of drawers, and a little sitting table in the center of the room. Various paintings and banners lined the walls, and there were no windows, all light coming from the gilded lantern hanging from the ceiling.

“Do you find it suitable?” Rya asked.

“Very,” Rowa answered. “It is certainly better than the roadside.”

“That is lovely to hear,” Rya said, clearly pleased. “I will leave you now to rest, but I do hope I will see you later on.”

“As do I.” Rowa stepped into the room, Morgott brushing past behind her as Rya shuffled away down the hall. She did not close the door immediately, waiting until Rya was out of sight to test it and make sure they would not be locked in. Once she was sure, she shut it, letting out a heavy sigh as some of the tension bled from her body.

She turned around to find Morgott involved in his own investigation of the room, and she watched curiously as he paced the perimeter with careful steps, looking at the walls, the floor, the ceiling. He was methodical, his gaze passing over what seemed like every object, and he stopped near to her, meeting her eyes.

“Is something amiss?” she asked, bracing for some sort of chaos to erupt.

Morgott paced towards her, looming so close she almost backed up. He leaned down, so close to her head that she could feel his breath stirring her hair, and whispered, “‘Tis safe to converse. We are not being watched.”

Rowa glanced around. “Is all as it seems in this room?”

“For the moment. I sense no sorceries about.” Morgott leaned even closer. “That girl, the scout, is not as she appeareth.”

“In what way?”

“There is a veil about her, hiding something beneath. She is not of men.”

“That would explain her…odd disposition.” Ambivalence stirred within Rowa. Rya seemed too guileless to be involved in any of the desecrations they had seen and heard of, but perhaps that in of itself was a veil. “What of her intent?”

“That, I cannot judge so easily. She does not seem to know the true nature of what the Volcano Manor is. Were we true recusants, then ‘twould be a foolish thing for her to reveal the vanishings if she knew what they truly amounted to.”

“And what do they amount to?”

“I am certain that those who are not slain in the hunt go to meet Rykard, in time.”

“Neither her nor the lady made any mention of him.”

“The girl may perhaps be ignorant in some way, but the lady is not. In the days before the war, I heard tell that Rykard had taken a consort, and I am certain that the lady is she.”

“You believe so?”

“Who else would continue to propagate a blasphemous house in Rykard’s stead?” Morgott scowled contemptuously. “A vile but devoted work.”

“And is she veiled as Rya is?”

“Nay. That is stranger still. She is a woman and nothing more, but the girl…” Morgott shook his head. “She is of another kind, though I cannot yet see which.”

“She seems kind, if naïve…I hope her actions are true, even if her form is not.”

“Waste not thy thoughts on her. We must focus our efforts on Rykard.”

Rowa looked him in the face, raising a hand to her heart. “You feel him, don’t you?”

“Aye. The Runes call to each other, and Rykard may yet sense us in return. Therefore we must act as hastily as possible, but thou must rest first.”

Rowa let out a sharp sigh, frustrated by the limitations of her body. “You said yourself that we must be quick, so I can manage—“

“Thou shalt need all thy strength to contend with the power of a third Rune, much less challenge Rykard,” Morgott interrupted. “‘Twould be foolish to face him weakened, and if we are discovered in that time, thou shalt be prepared for battle.”

“I suppose you are right,” Rowa conceded, moving further into the room and unslinging her pouch. “What of the Mirrorhelm Ranni wished for us to procure?”

“That can wait till Rykard’s defeat. With their lord gone, those that inhabit this place will be less likely to challenge us.”

“That is true.” She turned in a slow circle, taking in the plush furnishings, seeming to her a gossamer veil hiding the dark truth beneath it. “There must be a way to Rykard somewhere in this house.”

“If the lady is truly his consort, then it is likely. If we cannot find a way be our own means, force may be required.”

“I hope it does not come to that.” A pitcher sat on the table, filled with some sort of liquid, and she eyed it dubiously. She sniffed at it, finding it odorless, and raised it towards Morgott. “Is it tainted?”

Morgott took a whiff. “‘Tis merely water.”

Relieved, Rowa rolled up her sleeves, dipping a hand into the pitcher and splashing some water on her face to wash away some of Gelmir’s ashen grime. As she did, she asked, “Do you think I was passable?”

“In what way?” Morgott murmured, drawing near to her again.

“Was I an adequate voice for us both?”

“Any suspicions harbored against us are likely not born from thy words. Thou wert of greater tact than I supposed of thee.” Before Rowa could register the vaguely complimentary nature of his words, he was already turning away. “Rest now, so that we may not linger.”

“What do you think of them?” Tanith, now unmasked, asked her knight.

“They are not the strangest pair ever to come to the Manor,” the knight replied.

A wry smile pulled at Tanith’s mouth. “Indeed.”

The knight bowed his helm. “Forgive me, I was not referring to—”

“Yes, yes.” Tanith waved away his apologies. “Nevertheless, the woman seemed interested in our cause, if a little uncertain, but so are many who come. If she is steadfast, then she will pass the coming tasks.”

“Indeed.”

“And what of the Omen?” Tanith glanced towards the knight, the old sigils on his armor. “You were once of the order that sought to protect them. What do you make of the creature?”

“It hath been long since I hath gazed upon one, my lady, but this Omen seemeth a devoted follower of this Tarnished,” the knight said, choosing to keep the familiarity to himself. He had seen the Omen’s eyes upon him at the meeting, and had regarded him closely beneath the cover of his helm, but still he could not place the odd sense he had.

Tanith turned back to her desk, where she penned the Manor’s letters. “That is just as well. They both may be of use to the Manor.”

A soft knock came upon the door not long after, and with a wave of her hand, Tanith beckoned her knight to open it, already knowing who waited. Rya shuffled her way into Tanith’s study, ducking past the imposing knight. “I have showed our new guests to their room as you requested.”

Tanith, graced the girl with a rare smile. “Thank you, dear child. Frankly, I am still unsure as to the promise you see in that Tarnished, for she does not seem of any particular proclivity or strength. She was indeed the one you spoke of so adamantly, yes?”

“She is indeed,” Rya confirmed, “though she did not have a companion when last we met. I must confess, it is not her strength or prowess that struck me, but the kindness she afforded me as opposed to many others.”

Tanith’s lips quirked downwards. “Child, you know that kindness is not an aspect we seek in recusants.”

“Oh, I know.” Rya looked at the grooves in the floorstones. “But with the limitations of my human form, so few have given me such charity as she, and she returned my necklace.”

“Sometimes I think you are too sweet.” Tanith sighed. “Nevertheless, she and her companion passed the first trial of Gelmir’s land, so they may yet be of some promise.”

Rya let her gaze drift towards the latticed windows. She had never walked Gelmir’s paths; Tanith forbade it, preferring to send her out through transport gates into Altus and Liurnia, sometimes even farther. But nevertheless she had seen the wasteland from afar, the unforgiving spires and the distant gallows, and that was how it had always been.

Tanith’s frown deepened when she noticed the furrow remained upon Rya’s pale brow. “Does something yet trouble you?”

“Ah…my mind does churn a little.” Rya fiddled with the hem of her dress. “It is only that so many recusants vanish, never to be seen again. I…do not wish for that to happen to this Tarnished.”

Tanith rose from her seat, cradling Rya’s face in her hands. “You know as well as I the nature of Tarnished. If they are truly worthy to become family, they go to serve the lord of this house. That is why they come, after all, to escape the broken ways world. This Tarnished is no different. She will eventually depart, one way or another, and you must not let it fill your heart. She may be kind, but she is Tarnished, and there is no changing her path here.”

Rya nodded slowly, her form shimmering beneath Tanith’s touch, pale skin seeping away into fiery scales. “I understand. Serving the Manor is more important, I suppose.”

“Yes, so do not let this notion trouble you. After all, no Tarnished has ever accepted your true form.”

Rya blinked her suddenly emerald eyes. “That is true.”

“Do not concern yourself with one Tarnished. You are above them all, born to a king.”

Rya sighed in resignation, leaning scaly hide into her touch. “Thank you, mother.”

Compared to the ground, the trappings of Volcano Manor were heavenly, even more so than Leyndell, but Rowa could not appreciate it in full. The cessblood scent was inescapable, filling the air with a sense of danger that Leyndell never possessed, even when she was at odds with its monarch.

Nevertheless, as soon as she touched the cushions, she sank towards sleep. She drifted into a doze, stretching out on the soft fabric.

“Tarnished.” Morgott’s voice, startlingly close, jerked Rowa into full wakefulness. He stood over her, looming close, his face grim.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Something strange draweth near.”

Rowa pushed herself to her feet, her drowsiness vanishing. “Where?”

“The hall.” Morgott faced the door, lowering his voice to a faint whisper. “Wait.”

Rowa strained to try and sense what he did, but it was a matter of his Omen blood granting him sight she lacked. To her, there was only the smell of blood and the deep silence, until she heard the patter of footsteps beyond the door. They were even and unhurried, nor did they seem to be concealed in any way. She reached for her sword as the noise reached its peak. A shadow flickered underneath the door, and they waited with bated breath.

The shadow passed by, and the footsteps faded.

Rowa glanced at Morgott, finding he looked as nonplussed as she felt. “Was that what you sensed?”

“It was.” Morgott moved to the door, opening it carefully to try and keep the hinges from squealing. Rowa followed him, and they both peered out into the hallway, just in time to see a large, oblong figure turn the corner and vanish at the far end.

“I’ve never seen something like that,” Rowa whispered, staring at the spot with uncertainty.

“Nor I.”

“Is it worth pursuing?” she asked as he stepped into the hall.

Morgott swept his gaze from one end of the corridor to the other. All was empty and quiet. “It may be a creature ‘neath Rykard’s service.”

Rowa nodded, following his lead. Their footsteps were muted on the carpeted, the swishing of Morgott’s cloak the only noise. Upon reaching the end, they were greeted with another corridor of similar doors. The strange scent grew stronger to Morgott, and he proceeded carefully, following the path the creature had taken. It led to a door close to the end of the corridor, carved similarly to all the others, but the smell came strongly from within.

Morgott caught Rowa’s eye, and she nodded her understanding, reaching for her sword as Morgott reached for the doorknob. He did not try to prolong the action. Upon finding the door unlocked, he flung it open, the hinges squealing abrasively.

A snake’s long, fanged face greeted them, emerald eyes wide in a face of orange-red scales. But it was not merely a snake, for it possessed two arms and two legs like men, standing upright, an emerald cloak tied around scaly shoulders, accenting a pale underbelly.

“Goodness me, Tarnished. Whatever is the cause for such abruptness?”

Rowa and Morgott froze, moments away from drawing their weapons as a familiar, meek voice spoke. They looked around, unable to find the source.

“This is not a guest room, I'm afraid.”

Rowa looked at the man-serpent, and saw the fanged mouth moving. Then, it struck her. “Rya?”

Chapter Text

The man-serpent cocked her head. “Yes, it is I. What is that peculiar look upon your face?”

Rowa opened her mouth and closed it again, unable to find words. When Morgott had spoken of a veil, she had not imagined anything like the creature in front of her.

“Oh, am I still a serpent?” Spindly arms rose to feel at a scaly face, something like a frown deepening on the unusual features. “How dreadful! I never meant for you to see me like this…”

“We’re not here to attack you, if you mean no harm.” Rowa finally spoke, spurred by the deep distress in Rya’s voice. She took a step forward, and a huge hand landed on her shoulder, preventing her from walking farther. She looked sharply at Morgott, who shook his head in warning. He wanted her to go no further.

“I would never hurt you!” Rya said, sounding appalled by the insinuation. She brought her hands to her heart, a quiver running through her body. “I didn’t want you to see me in this form, for you might think less of me for it.”

Morgott nearly forgot himself, almost speaking before clenching his jaw shut. Her expressions were harder to read on a reptilian face, but he recognized her terror of being found out like his own. Such fear was hard to feign.

“I do not think of you less in this form,” Rowa said, beginning to move past her shock.

“Truly?” Rya asked.

“Yes, truly. Your appearance matters not to me, only your character and intent.” Realizing her hands still rested on her sword hilts, she slowly drew them after a moment of consideration. Rya let out a frightened noise as the metal gleamed in the candlelight, and Rowa swiftly deposited them on the ground.

Morgott looked sharply at her, frustration igniting inside him at a potentially dangerous move, but he quickly tamped it back. She had done the same at the Elden Throne, and that had begun to prove to him the sincerity of her claims. If she hadn’t, things may have ended very differently. So he refrained from agitation or admonishment, settling for watching the man-serpent closely.

“Do you see? There is no danger here,” Rowa said, stepping over her blades.

Rya nodded slowly, as though she could not believe what she saw. “Yes…yes. I am sorry for my distress.”

“We only want to know what you are, and why you have hidden it.”

The tension in Rya’s posture bled away, her long, spindly fingers coming to twiddle at the edges of her cloak. The Tarnished would leave eventually, as had all the others, and she would be left alone. But to be looked upon with no fear was a rarity, and for that they deserved the truth.

“Well, I’m not sure what I am,” she said. “I was born into this form. I have always been this way, but Lady Tanith taught me to veil myself. If I were to appear like this as a scout, no one would speak to me, or perhaps attack me. People who have glimpsed my true self have been cruel to me in the past.”

Rowa nodded, saddened but unsurprised. “And are there any others like you?”

“If there are, I have never seen them.”

“What of your parents?”

“I never knew them, but Zorayas is my true name, given to me by them, I would think. Lady Tanith is the only parent I remember, and she cherishes this form that I inhabit.”

Morgott watched the pair closely as it struck him that he had never seen Rowa interact with a creature of an unfavorable species, aside from himself. Now that he stood as a mere spectator, he saw more clearly the respect for the downtrodden she had claimed to hold. She spoke to Rya easily and without fear as though she were any other girl, now that the threat of danger seemed to have passed.

The correlation between Tanith’s likely consort, Rya’s form, and Rykard’s blasphemy did not escape Rowa. “Do you know of the lord of this house?”

“Lady Tanith speaks of him often. She says my service to Volcano Manor is service to him, and that he would be proud of all that I do, but I have never set eyes upon him.” Rya looked around the room carefully, as though searching for something hidden. “In truth, I think there is more to this place than I know. I hear things in the walls sometimes, as I said before, but I’ve also seen things in the dark of night. Figures skulking about that are not Tarnished, who look closer to my form. Lady Tanith says it is nothing, but it has occurred over and over again, and I know I’m not imagining it. I’ve always thought there might be some secret to this place, something my mother has kept from me…I probably sound quite ridiculous, don’t I?”

“I believe you.” Rowa thought Rya’s uncertainty sounded sincere, painting a picture of withheld truths. She glanced at Morgott to ascertain his perspective, and though he scowled back at her, he made no indication of any suspicion. “We too think there are some secrets to this place, and we intend to find them.”

Morgott frowned, but remained silent. The girl seemed truthful enough, but involving her would only complicate things, and the power of the truth was a dreadful thing. It could bring clarity and understanding, but it could also bring horror and dread, and in this case, the latter was more likely. The girl was born by Rykard, that much he could guess, and he was no king whose lineage could be looked upon favorably, at least not in the girl’s lie-tainted perceptions.

Rya brightened at Rowa’s agreement, revealing rows of sharp teeth in something of a reptilian smile. “Oh, what a relief. I suppose I shouldn’t encourage sneaking around, nor would I want to impose anything, but if you discover anything, would you please share?”

“We will,” Rowa said without hesitation. She decided not to mention Rykard yet, for fear of jeopardizing the mission, but if Rya was truly unaware of the darker truths, she deserved to know.

“You have my utmost thanks.” Rya shuffled forward, clasping one of Rowa’s hands in her own. Her real skin was cool and scaly, but soft. “For that, and for treating me as usual despite my appearance. I am all the more glad to have met you.”

“As am I.” Rowa no longer found Rya’s gentle demeanor unsettling, merely unfortunately naïve. Despite her strange features, there seemed to be no true monstrous qualities about her, and though the scent of blood hung heavy, not a whiff of it came from her.

“I would ask that you keep my true form, and my name, a secret,” Rya said. “They were only known to Lady Tanith and I, and now you.”

“Of course.”

“But please do be careful. As I said before, so many Tarnished have come and gone, and I…I wish that would not happen to you.”

“We will be fine.” Rowa glanced at Morgott, but without the benefit of words, his stony expression offered her little guidance in the way of his current feelings. “We should probably leave before we are seen, but I promise to tell you about whatever we find in this house.”

Rya gave her hand a little squeeze before letting go. “Thank you, brave Tarnished, and you as well, sir Omen.”

Morgott turned aside, stepping into the hall. Rowa came behind him, exchanging final pleasantries with Rya before shutting the door behind her. As they faced the quiet halls once more, she let out a heavy breath.

“That was…surprising,” she said.

Morgott rumbled a wordless acknowledgment as they began walking, debating whether it would be safe to speak. Before he could decide, his thoughts were interrupted by the jarring noise of armored footsteps in the hall ahead of them. Rowa stopped in her tracks, and he did too, the pungent odor of recusant blood hitting them like a wall moments before the cause of it rounded the corner.

He was a Tarnished, festooned in the recusant rite, but for all that his apprehension was as unassuming as Rowa’s. His hair was dark and his face made ruddy by days in the sun, the rest of his body clad in alloyed armor bearing several beast crests. Sharp eyes alighted upon the pair, quick and discerning, but a disarming smile veiled his gaze.

“Ah,” he said, his voice deep and clear, “you must be the newcomers Lady Tanith spoke of.”

“Most likely,” Rowa replied after taking a moment to gather herself. “Unless there are others I have not yet met.”

“I doubt there are any others who came with an Omen.”

Morgott kept his silence, meeting the man’s gaze unwaveringly. He seemed unbothered by his Omen appearance, but Morgott did not trust his goodwill. The recusant blood told him enough.

“I am Bernahl,” he carried on. “And you are?”

“Rowa, and my nameless companion,” she said.

“Then I welcome you to Volcano Manor, but I also wish to warn you.” Bernahl’s face was suddenly very grave. “This place is not one of any honor. You should think carefully on that before you commit yourself fully to this house.”

Rowa was taken aback by the sudden shift, but answered, “I understand there is little honor here.”

“You were never of the more venerable Roundtable Hold then, I take it.”

“I considered it for a time, but no more.”

“As long as you understand what you’re saying and getting into.” A shadow darker still passed over Bernahl’s countenance. “The Golden Order, the Finger Maidens…it all leads to pain in the end. Maybe it’s best you avoid it.”

Morgott tensed. Rowa started to ask what he meant, but he was already speaking again.

“Forgive my ramblings,” he said. “I’ve just arrived back from a long journey. If you’ll pardon my quick departure, I’m in need of some rest.”

“Of course,” Rowa replied hesitantly.

“I wish you luck in becoming a true recusant, if that is what you and your companion truly desire.” Bernahl smiled again, but it did not reach his eyes. “I wish you luck.” Then he passed them by, walking on down the corridor, taking the overpowering smell with him.

Rowa stood still until the clanking of his armor had faded into silence. She looked at Morgott, and there was no doubt that they were both equally perturbed by the interaction.

The remainder of the trip back to their room was uneventful, but nevertheless Morgott was compelled to check for changes, anything planted or hidden. Rowa wandered over to the couch, sinking onto it as she processed all that had just occurred.

“What do you think he meant when he said it all leads to pain?” she asked, voicing the first question on her mind.

Morgott did not answer until he was sure the room was safe, and in that silence he considered sharing the truth of Melina’s role with her, but decided against it swiftly. Truth could bring clarity and devastation all at once, and in this case the very world lay at stake.

“I know not,” he said when he was sure the room was safe, “but the words of a recusant are not things thou shouldst dwell long upon.”

“I suppose so.”

“’Twas a foolish thing to draw the girl into this,” Morgott continued. “She will only complicate matters.”

Rowa huffed. “Do you doubt what she said?”

“’Tis not a matter of her intent. Surely thou’rt not blind to her likely lineage.”

“I am not. If she is born of Rykard as it seems, do you think she does not deserve to know? She has been lied to.”

“Even then, the truth may yet be terrible for her.”

“Or perhaps it will give her a better understanding of herself. This is not the first time I’ve seen someone lied to like this,” Rowa argued, thinking back to Gideon’s manipulation of Nepheli. “If she seeks the truth, then I will help her if I am able.”

Morgott let out a frustrated growl. “Nevertheless, I think it unwise, but thou hast already said too much to turn back. Do as thou wishest, but do not expect me to play a part.”

Rowa gave him an exasperated look. “That seems a callous approach from one who seeks to better the world for the outcasts.”

“If we do not seize the Rune, there will be no betterment. I am merely speaking for the sake of our purpose here. The quest is paramount.”

“I will not leave Rya to obscurity,” Rowa said. “When the Rune is claimed, I will help her to the best of my ability.”

“Then that is thy decision, but do not let it hinder the restoration of the Ring.” Morgott turned away from her, signaling his desire to end the conversation. “Rest while thou dost yet have an opportunity, for thy chances are short-lived, it seemeth.”

Rowa scoffed quietly, reclining further onto the couch. She would not let Rya live a life of lies if she wanted the truth, and in the age to come, she would find a more accepting place in the world. Perhaps she might even become a good friend.

The knight stood at the entrance to the hidden passage, awaiting the return of his lady. He knew not what transpired far below the earth, and he had no desire to know. Despite his long service, the Serpent-Lord repulsed him. He saw it as an unnatural joining of two lifeforms, even though he served the Crucible, but he was bound to the Manor, and he could not dishonor the vow he had made.

Finally, he heard a stirring from the passage, and he waited silently as Tanith stepped forth. Her true face was just as much a mask as the one she wore, and he could not guess what had come to pass.

“Why doth our lord stir so?” he asked.

Tanith faced him, and though her face was impassive, he could see a gleam in her eyes. “He senses that shards of the Ring are near.”

The knight was momentarily at a loss for words. “…Truly?”

Tanith nodded. “Not one, but three.”

That surprised the knight even more. “How could this be? Who bore them here?”

“There is only one possibility. The Tarnished and the Omen are the only newcomers, so they must bear them, despite appearances.”

The knight thought back to the odd pair. Never would he have guessed they were in possession of such great power. “What must be done?”

“If they have come for my lord’s Rune, then I shall let them try to take it.”

“Why, my lady?”

Something of a smile touched Tanith’s mouth. “My lord has bested many champions in his time, and I think these two shall be no different, so I will let them seek audience if that is what they wish. If my lord claims four shards of the Elden Ring, then finally his great vision will come to pass.”

The knight did not know what to believe, but as always, he followed her lead. “Yes, my lady.”

No more disturbances came, and Rowa finally dropped into true sleep. Morgott took up a spot on the floor opposite her couch, intent on keeping watch over her and the Manor in general. The aura of fire and blasphemy swirled around them, but it had remained consistent, neither increasing nor decreasing, signaling at least a temporary equilibrium for them that offered the opportunity to rest.

As time passed, Morgott tried to search the Manor through his perception, seeking something that would give him information as to how to reach Rykard, but his attempts were fruitless. In unfamiliar territory, pinpointing sorceries and other constructs became far more difficult without being physically present, so he resigned himself to waiting until Rowa awakened.

Instead, he retreated a little deeper into his mind, intending to take a quick look at Leyndell through his illusory eyes. The city had remained stable, his men wholly unaware of his absence, but he took audiences when he could all the same.

“Please, kill him…”

Morgott’s eyes snapped open as the voice rang unexpectedly in his mind, drawing him back into the Manor’s boarding room. He looked about, seeking any sign of change, but found none. Rowa snored and twitched in her sleep.

Morgott frowned. The voice was unfamiliar to him, but he knew from where it came. It was a distant whisper carried on a breeze. The voice of a spirit, who remained unchosen by the Erdtree.

Only the strongest spirits, bound by purpose or feeling, reached him beyond the purview of his troubled dreams. Intrigued, he closed his eyes once more, focusing on finding the voice.

“Someone…please kill him…kill Rykard.”

Now the spirit had Morgott’s full attention. It was somewhere in the Manor, that much he was certain of, and there was a possibility that it had information on how to reach Rykard. He only needed to follow the voice, and speak to it.

“Kill the great serpent.”

He stood to his feet, momentarily torn. A spirit crying out for Rykard’s death could not be ignored, but he was loathe to wake Rowa a second time. His eyes landed on the key left on the table, and he quickly made up his mind. Taking the key, he quietly left through the door and locked it behind him, ensuring she would be safe, though he did not intend to be gone long.

He faced the long halls of the Manor. Now, he welcomed the silence that filled them, for it allowed him to better concentrate on that distant voice. The spirit’s lamentations continued in a broken, constant cycle, something he had seen before with his Nightriders. Spirits clung to whatever purpose they had in life, and unless they were provided a chance to do otherwise, they remained trapped in whatever tormented them, never to find rest.

He went down many long corridors, the spirit’s voice gradually becoming clearer in his mind. Every hall was as decadent as the one before it, but all were filled with long shadows and red torchlight. There were many doors, but he sensed no life behind any of them. The recusants numbers had never been enough to make a great impact outside of Gelmir’s borders, and the nearly empty building was further proof of that. But he knew with grim certainty where many of the recusants had gone. If not slain by the Tarnished they hunted, they had gone into Rykard’s waiting maw, to become power for the hungering monstrosity he had become. He had seen the dark hunger in Rykard’s eyes in the olden days, a fierce ambition for something he could not name at the time, but never did he imagine it would bear such terrible fruit.

Finally, after many halls and turned corners, Morgott began to hear the spirit’s voice with his ears, though it was little more than a breath. He quickened his pace, following the sound as it gradually grew louder, and eventually he came upon a small alcove containing little more than a chest of drawers. There, the spirit knelt on the floor, white wispy hands reaching out towards nothing, phantom lips moving in an unceasing string of pleas.

“Spirit,” Morgott said, keeping his voice low, “I hath heard thy cries. Tell me what troubles thee so.”

The spirit, dressed in the regalia of a Gelmir knight, turned its head towards him. “Oh…you are not a Tarnished.”

“Nay, but I may be able to aid thee all the same.”

Ghostly fingers curled around as though they grasped the hilt of some weapon yet unseen. “Then please, kill the great serpent. The one that devoured Praetor Rykard.”

“That is why I came here.”

“There is a weapon, forged for that very purpose…the serpent-slaying spear. It was left in his chamber, when we failed to kill him. Brandish the spear and run him through, that unspeakable monstrosity.”

“Thou hast turned on thy lord?”

The spirit sagged, as though weighed down by despair. “Praetor Rykard's ambitions, though blasphemous, marked him a worthy sovereign. But they were reduced to gluttonous depravity, once he gave himself to the serpent. Whatever that thing is, it is no longer Praetor Rykard. Someone must kill him, to spare him, and his ambitions, from further dishonor.”

Morgott regarded the spirit with pity. Loyal, even in death. “I will see it done, but thou must tell me how to reach his chamber.”

“The walls!” the spirit cried, suddenly seeming distressed. “The walls are the curtain that hides the truth!”

Rowa’s sleep was full of fire, but the images were vague and churning. Embers swirled in her mind, but she did not know from where it came, whether it was the mountain’s fire or the chaos of the Frenzy. As she awoke to the sounds of movement nearby, the dream left her momentarily in a confused haze as she tried to make sense of what she had seen, but it was too for her to be sure of anything.

Footsteps sounded on the floor, and Rowa blinked the sleep from her eyes, squinting at the coffered ceiling. She got ready to sit up and ask Morgott how long she had slept, but stopped when she saw movement at the edge of her vision. It was then she knew something was not as it seemed. The figure in her periphery was far too small to be Morgott, and she could hear the rustling of leathery clothing that was not at all like his cloak’s material.

The footsteps drew closer, the figure growing larger. Rowa tensed as she realized something else was amiss: the pendant at her throat, usually warm, was now cool. Morgott was not nearby, and something else was in the room with her.

Rowa shot to her feet, facing the advancing threat, which was not one intruder but two. The first was a man-serpent, and for a terrible moment she thought it was Rya, but it was far bigger than her and of a duller color. Once she understood this, she barely paid the creature any mind for the other intruder. She recognized the leather clothing, the brutish weaponry, and worst of all the sneering, twisted mask.

Her confusion melted into anger. She had hoped never to see such a man again. “Omenkiller!”

“What dost thou mean?” Morgott asked the spirit.

“Behind the curtain, there are many atrocities.” The spirit extended a wavering hand towards the wall behind Morgott. “There! There lies a straight way to Rykard. I once took it, and now you must, to find him and slay him.”

Morgott turned to look at the wall, the pieces beginning to fall into place. The wall looked normal, bearing the same carved reliefs he had seen elsewhere, but as he drew closer, he sensed a veil of sorcery over the spot. He reached out to touch it, but was interrupted when something else quivered in his awareness, alerting him. At first, he was unsure what the unfamiliar feeling was or where it came from, until it grew greater and he realized it came from the medallion around his neck.

Danger, the bond warned.

The strange wall all but forgotten, Morgott rushed back the way he had come, cursing himself for leaving Rowa alone.

Rowa’s rage drove her forward. The Omenkiller had come for Morgott, and the notion filled her with an indignant anger the likes of which she had never before felt. It occurred to her that Morgott himself was nowhere to be seen, but that detail was driven to the back of her mind as the man-serpent charged at her with a crude sword raised high. She jumped backwards, grappling for her own swords as the two trespassers moved further into the room.

The man-serpent struck again, and Rowa countered with her swords. The creature bared its teeth in a hiss, but it still paled in comparison to the monstrous appearance of the Omenkiller, who was moving to flank her from the right.

Rowa saw the Omenkiller raise his sword at the same time the man-serpent readied another attack. Trying to put into practice what she had learned about siphoning the power of the Great Runes, she raised her blades to block them both, letting some of the primal strength flood her body. Metal shrieked on metal as their blades clashed, but she barely felt the impact of either enemy for the power surging through her veins. She twisted her swords in an attempt to throw them off balance or disarm them, but both opponents kept a tight grip on their weapons, backing up to recover.

The man-serpent, who was considerably quicker than the Omenkiller, went for a low jab. Rowa dodged towards him and away from the Omenkiller, circumventing the strike as she tried to restrain the Runes’ power. The man-serpent did not give her time for a retaliatory blow, swinging at her again. She darted out of the blade’s reach, and wood splintered as it struck deep into a chest of drawers instead. She set her sights on the door, aware that they could easily back her into the corner. The man-serpent saw her intent and countered, trying to block her way, and she became locked in a dance of dodging and attempting to advance, blood roaring in her ears.

Morgott heard the fight before he saw it. The screech of metal, the cracking of wood, furniture crashing as it was knocked aside. From the end of the hall, he saw the door to their temporary room hung wide open, the cacophony coming from within. He thundered towards the door, aware of the medallion warming on his skin. That in itself was a relief, proving Rowa was not brought low.

When he arrived in the doorway, he was greeted with the sight of Rowa attempting to hold her own against two assailants. Some of the room’s torches had been extinguished or broken in the fight, so it took a moment for his vision to adjust to the sudden dimness.

Then, he saw the Omenkiller, and all else fell away.

Dark memories he had tried to forget came surging from the depths of his mind, forcing their way forward. The smell of blood, fire, and singed flesh. A cruel blade dragging against stone to torment trapped Omens as their demise approached. Living in terror as a child, that one day the terrible mask would stand before him, unyielding and pitiless.

The fur along Morgott’s spine stood up as the Omenkiller crossed swords with Rowa. A growl built in his throat as long-repressed animalistic tendencies forced their way forward in the face of his most dreaded enemies. His lips drew back into a snarl, revealing the fangs he had tried to keep hidden.

Rowa heard the growl, and thought another enemy had come until she glimpsed Morgott in the doorway. He was almost unrecognizable, his normally regal features twisted with primal rage. Long, ivory fangs gleamed in the dimness, sharp as daggers.

The Omenkiller turned towards Morgott, but that was as far as the butcher got. A haze fell over Morgott’s vision, throwing all caution aside as a golden polearm materialized in his hands. With a snarling roar, he charged straight for the Omenkiller.

The man-serpent leapt forward to try and intercept, but there was no stopping Morgott. He barely felt anything as the man-serpent’s sword grazed the right side of his head near his horns, hoisting the polearm and running the creature clean through. Tossing the body aside like a ragdoll, he advanced on the Omenkiller without stopping, stave in one hand a golden blade appearing in the other.

The Omenkiller raised his serrated sword to counter, but Morgott hardly saw it. His stave crashed down over the Omenkiller’s head with devastating force, a sharp crack ringing in the air as the grotesque weapon of Omen horns split almost in two from the blow, falling to the floor alongside a key of similar make to the one Tanith and given them.

The Omenkiller was not given a moment’s chance. As soon as the weapon left his hands, Morgott impaled him through, slamming him back against the wall so hard the fixtures rattled from the force. The Omenkiller’s body slumped limply, but Morgott did not notice, continuing to hack away in an enraged fog that demanded nothing short of utter destruction.

Rowa, whose own anger had been forgotten at the suddenness of Morgott’s entrance, took the opportunity to tamp back the Runes’ power, stemming it with moderate success after some concentration. When she refocused on her surroundings, she watched with increasing dismay as Morgott battered the already dead body of his enemy. When he did not stop, she stepped forward, reaching out to him. “Morgott!”

Morgott flinched at the unexpected touch on his arm, rounding on her with a snarl. Startled, Rowa stepped back a pace, eyeing the wild gaze and bared teeth carefully.

“That’s enough,” Rowa said quietly. “He’s dead.”

Slowly, the haze of red over Morgott’s senses diminished. He looked down at the Omenkiller’s body, then at the man-serpent’s, then at Rowa. He saw the uncertainty in her expression, and deep shame welled up inside him. “Art thou…unharmed?”

“Only a couple of cuts.” Rowa sighed, sheathing her blades and pushing disheveled strands of hair from her face.

“I…I am sorry.”

Relief filled Rowa as she saw his reason returning. “It’s alright.”

“Nay.” Morgott looked away from her, surveying the destroyed room as he made a conscious effort to relax the tautness of his body. “I acted in an unbecoming manner. I should not have done so, nor should I have left thee alone.”

“Where did you go?”

“The voice of a spirit cried out from deep within the Manor. I went to hear its entreaty, and it hath shewn me a way to Rykard’s chambers. We must make haste.”

“Wait, you’re bleeding.”

Morgott ignored the warm wetness seeping into his hair. “We hath caused enough stir. Surely someone, if not the lady herself, shall come to see. We cannot tarry—“

Rowa planted herself in front of him, forcing him to stop. “You have been cut by an unknown blade. If there is someone coming, a few moments to dress the wound won’t make any difference.”

Morgott hesitantly looked down at her, meeting her stubborn gaze. She did not seem horrified at his savagery, merely concerned. He paused, listening, but he could hear no footsteps or voices approaching yet. “…Very well.”

Rowa retrieved her pack, pulling out some of the boluses she had made. “Sit down.”

“I can tend to myself.”

She eyed the cut, which was just below the large mass of horns on his right temple. “It would probably be faster if I did it.”

Morgott decided not to waste time arguing, lowering himself to the floor. Rowa approached him with the boluses, beginning to dab at the blood, and he saw her hands quivering. “Didst thou summon the power of thy Runes?”

“Yes. I did better this time.” Rowa tried to steady her movements. “But not well enough.”

“I should not have left thee,” Morgott repeated, caught between vigilance and the gentle touches so close to his face.

“He had a key,” Rowa noted, glancing towards the body, which had begun to disintegrate. “He would have gotten in regardless.”

Morgott could not overcome his shame. “But thou wert resting. Thou might have been—“

“He was looking for you,” Rowa interrupted. She meant it to be a reassurance, but her tone curdled with indignation that such a thing had happened. “If I had not awakened, it is likely they would have left me alone. But I am glad I did, to have a chance to lay low such a foul man.”

Morgott felt her breath on his hair, and resisted the urge to twitch at the odd sensation. “Thou dost despise the Omenkiller?”

“Greatly. Anyone devoted to the senseless slaughter of others such as they have earned their fate.” Rowa paused, the image of Morgott’s enraged expression stuck in her mind. “This is not the first time you have encountered one, I trust.”

“Nay. I despise them as much as thee, though I conducted myself…poorly.”

“Your conduct was justified, given what they are. It was merely surprising to me.”

Morgott hesitated. “Thou dost not think less of me for it?”

“Not at all.” The dark understanding that he may well have been hunted at one point made Rowa understand his visceral reaction. Her gaze drifted to the shorn section of his horns hanging above his left eye, raising some new questions, but before she could voice them, Morgott stirred, barely giving her time to finish her ministrations.

“Someone approacheth,” he said, quickly standing to his feet.

Rowa heard the footsteps moments later, and braced herself for another attack, until she heard Rya’s voice call out. “Hello? I heard some commotion, and I…” Rya appeared in the doorway, back in her human form, and stopped dead as she saw the aftermath of the fight. “Oh, dear! What happened?”

“We were attacked,” Rowa said simply.

Morgott thrust aside all pretenses of muteness, regarding Rya with deep suspicion. “Was this some scheme of thy doing?”

Rya looked at him, her eyes going wide. “You can speak?”

Morgott took a threatening step towards her. “Answer me!”

Rya jumped a little at his harsh tone. “N-no! I would never attack you!”

“And I suppose thy lady would say the same?”

Rowa tried to intervene, seeing the fear growing on Rya’s face. “We don’t know if she was involved.”

Morgott scoffed. “Thou dost presume innocence when one of her own kind just attacked thee?”

“My…own kind?” Rya seemed to notice the body of the man-serpent for the first time. Her fear forgotten, she rushed to the creature’s side, kneeling next to the body. She stared at it in awe, whispering, “I’m not the only one?”

“So it seemeth,” Morgott grunted. He still did not trust the girl, but her surprise seemed sincere.

Rya touched the body, looking up at them mournfully. “Why did you kill him?”

“We were attacked,” Rowa said. “There is a secret side of the Manor, and we are close to discovering it in full.”

Rya shook her head in disbelief. “Is that where he came from?”

“I believe so.”

Rya was silent for a moment. “Lady Tanith, my own mother, has deceived me. Was I not born by the grace of a king?”

“If thou dost truly bear us no ill will, then thou wilt let us go unhindered on our way,” Morgott said decisively. “I am sure the Tarnished shall deign to help thee once we hath accomplished what we came to do.”

“Yes,” Rowa said in a gentler tone. “There is something we must do, but I will come find you, I promise it.”

Rya looked from them to the man-serpent’s body, nodding slowly. “Yes. I will not stop you from whatever you need to accomplish. You have been kind to me even in my true form, and I wish to prove my trustworthiness to you.”

“Then return to thy quarters and speak naught to anyone,” Morgott said.

“Of course.” Rya stood, looking between them both. “Do be careful.” She hurried from the room with a final glance towards the man-serpent’s body.

“I suppose there’s no use delaying if you have found a way,” Rowa murmured.

Morgott nodded, gripping his stave tightly. “If thou art prepared.”

“As prepared as I can be.”

Chapter Text

Morgott led Rowa through the network of corridors to where he found the spirit. Unlike him, she could not hear the spirit’s voice until they were close by. The pitiful figure lifted its head at their approach, the soft pleas carrying through the otherwise silent air.

“Ah…Tarnished,” said the spirit imploringly, “I remain here for this purpose I cannot abandon, so please finish what we could not. Go forth and slay Rykard. End his blasphemous existence, so that he will defile his honor no longer.”

“I will,” Rowa murmured. “In doing so, I hope you find rest.”

Morgott approached the strange wall again, this time without interruption. He lifted his stave, and gingerly tapped the gnarled end against it. Instead of striking the surface, the tip went straight through like there was nothing. A large section of the wall shimmered like sunlight on water, then faded away to reveal a dark passageway carved of dark stone, yawning like a black maw against the rich trappings of the Manor.

The pair stood at the entrance for a moment, awaiting any sign of disturbance or movement in the tunnel, but all seemed quiet. Warm air flowed gently from somewhere further in, smelling of ash but a pleasant temperature.

Morgott smelled the air. Beneath the heavy mix of recusants and ash lay the musty odor of serpents. It was similar to Rya’s, but less sweet, defiled by sinister rite. He opened his palm, letting the Erdtree seal flicker to life and cast a warm glow across the stones.

“Come,” he said, his voice echoing oddly down the long corridor, and Rowa followed after him.

The corridor went on a little ways until it branched in different directions. A couple of the offshoots led to what looked to be similar illusory walls that came out elsewhere in the Manor, but they remained in the longest hall that did not return to the house. The farther they went, the more they saw the true breadth of the spidering network of hidden hallways.

Neither of them feared getting lost. For all the twists and turns, the kinship of their Runes and the one held by Rykard led them forward, the pieces of the Ring calling to each other with a voiceless cry. When they found the stairs descending further into the mountain, they knew for certain that they were headed in the right direction.

The lower levels were devoid of illusory passages. Instead, the side halls formed some sort of dungeon, old metal bars running from floor to ceiling to create cells. Flotsam and debris littered the floor, alongside pale, papery refuse that appeared to be shed snakeskin.

Each staircase they found only took them lower, and as they went, the warmth intensified, prompting Rowa to roll up the sleeves of her tunic. A flicker of orange light appeared in the corridor ahead, breaking the dark monotony. They approached the light, stepping through an archway onto a walkway of sorts, open on one side, and as soon as they left the tunnel, they were hit with a blast of heat.

A large, open space stretched out beyond the walkway’s railing, formed from what seemed to be a natural depression in the mountain’s terrain, hemmed in by towering crags. What seemed to be a town lay at bottom of the depression, built in between rivers of magma. The buildings were gray and ash-covered, constructed in a tiered fashion up the mountain’s incline until it met the Volcano Manor’s paler masonry. The air shimmered with heat, but living beings moved amongst the buildings, both on the ground and on the rooftops.

“Man-serpents,” Rowa murmured as she spied the elongated figures moving through the heat waves. “Scores of them.”

“More than I supposed,” Morgott said grimly. “The length of Rykard’s hidden blasphemies stretcheth deep, indeed.”

Rowa squinted, sighting different figures amidst the man-serpents. She leaned forward, a drop of sweat trickling down her neck. “I also see…”

“Omenkillers,” Morgott finished. The visceral urge to tear through their ranks gnawed at him even from such a great distance, burning in him like the oppressive heat surrounding them, but he restrained himself.

Rowa glanced at Morgott, watching his reaction, but he remained composed save for the deepening of a abhorring scowl on his face. “There are so many here. Why?”

Morgott paused, considering the question, speaking as the likely answer came to him. “‘Twas I.”

“You? How?”

“I hounded all Omenkillers from Leyndell, from the whole of the plateau. Those that were not killed fled away, and some found a place here, it seemeth.” It took some effort for Morgott to turn away from the sight. “A foul hovel fitting for foul kind.”

Rowa moved on as well, though her thoughts drifted to Rya. She hoped the girl was prepared for what awaited her as the depravity only increased.

Rya paced the length of her room. She had returned there as had been requested of her, but she could not sit idle. The image of the man-serpent remained at the forefront of her mind, even though he was already dead when she arrived.

She was not the only one. Maybe there were more like her, but would they all try to attack the Tarnished as this one had done?

But the more burning question lay with Lady Tanith. Rya had known from early on the obvious differences, that Tanith could not have bore her from her own flesh, and yet was a mother to her all the same. Yet now she knew there were more of her kind, somewhere within the Manor itself, and surely her mother was not ignorant of that. She had kept these things to herself, lied even, and that shook everything Rya knew about her, sowing seeds of fear and doubt into her mind.

And so she wondered what the truth was now. The truth of her birth, of the other serpents such as her, of the hidden side of the Manor she had suspected but never been sure of till now. The kind Tarnished and her Omen companion had set forth to help her, and she did not doubt them for a moment, but she was not sure what they would find, and the idea filled her with dread. Perhaps they, like many others before, would succumb to the same disappearances of so many before them. Worse yet, perhaps what lay hidden in the depths of the Manor was indeed the cause of all the vanishings she had been privy to over time.

Rya finally stopped pacing, staring at the door to her room in deep debate with herself. They had likely gone already, to discover the hidden things, but that did not mean she couldn’t follow them. She knew their scents well, especially the more foreign odor of the Omen. If she didn’t follow them they might be lost to her forever, or Lady Tanith might send her out on another errand before their return, and she couldn’t stand to wait that long. Her world was not as it seemed, but she would never know the real truth if she continued like nothing happened.

Moving quickly so as not to lose her nerve, Rya hurried into the hallway, making her way back towards the ransacked room. Ordinarily, she would have gone straight to Lady Tanith to relay the news, as she had with previous Tarnished skirmishes, but this time her mother would have to figure it out herself.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she arrived at the room: Rowa and her companion had already departed, but a strong scent trail remained for her to follow. She let it guide her through the halls of the house, until she approached a small alcove she had never paid much attention to. It was unassuming, but a portion of the wall she knew had been there before was now missing, revealing a dark tunnel stretching into depths beyond the Manor she knew.

She balked at first, unsure if she should step into this new place, and a new part of her life by extension. A warm draft of air touched her face, bringing with it a familiar, serpentine scent. It was like herself, but not herself, promising further answers as to her origins, her potential kin. Emboldened by the smell, she stepped into the tunnel.

Morgott and Rowa traversed the open walkway with little issue, too far away to be spotted by any inhabitants of the volcanic town. They passed from the walkway into another tunnel, and continued steadily downwards on carved staircases. As the strength of the Runes’ proximity increased, so did their anticipation of meeting Rykard.

“Tarnished, how dost thy strength fare?” Morgott asked, assessing Rowa’s countenance.

“Well enough,” she answered honestly. The fight from earlier had depleted some of her strength, but not enough to leave her exhausted.

Morgott took one of the pouches from his collection, handing it to her. “This will grant thee vigor, and perhaps lessen the weight of the Runes.”

Rowa recognized the same powder concoction she had taken once before on their trip. She grimaced in anticipation of the taste, taking a small handful and quickly washing it down with her water to avoid the worst of it. Within moments, the invigorating warmth brought by the powder began tingling in her body, sweeping away the traces of fatigue.

“You should partake,” she said. “You have not rested longer than I.”

Morgott realized she spoke truly, taking the pouch back wordlessly. He emptied a portion of the powder into his palm, which looked like hardly anything at all against his massive hand. Rowa was surprised when he did not turn away, tilting his head back and dropping the powder into his mouth. She caught a glimpse of his fangs before handing him the canteen, trying not to let her gaze linger. He took what what was only a small mouthful of water for him and washed it down.

“A weapon awaiteth us near the chamber according to the spirit, meant for hunting serpentkind,” he said, returning the canteen. “‘Twill aid us in the fight.”

“Shall I wield it, or you?” Rowa asked.

“I shall. Rykard shall be challenge enough, and thou wilt need thy strength to take the Rune.”

“Very well, but I will not let you fight alone.”

“I expected not.”

Further conversation was cut short when they came upon yet another staircase. It went down a little ways, then seemed to end abruptly at a wall of stone. They approached with the previous illusions in mind, and as they descended, their Runes stirred greatly, the feeling rising to a crescendo. As he had done before, Morgott stretched forth his stave, and it passed through the image of the wall, causing it to fade away. More heat struck them both, and one look beyond told them they had arrived at Rykard’s chambers.

A huge cavern opened up before them, seeming almost as big as the mountain itself.  Somewhere yet unseen, magma flowed from the mountain’s depths, casting hellish light and deep shadow in jagged turns across the massive space. Pillars of stone stretched from the floor, reaching up into the foggy depths towards an unseen ceiling, where a grotesque set of ornaments hung at odd angles. Chandeliers, cages, and smaller adornments hung bunted across lengths of chain that festooned the cave like twisted festival regalia.

Directly in front of them lay what first appeared to be an outcropping of rock strangely formed, but as they drew closer, they saw the truth. It was an amalgam of bodies, burnt and calcified even worse than what they had witnessed on Gelmir’s roads, corpses twisted and fused together in horrid positions, blackened hands reaching in vain towards nothing.

Rowa looked away, but Morgott did not, searching for the promised weapon. He found it swiftly, a long blade with a hilt of equal length, grasped by one of the calcified bodies. It was undoubtedly the one spoken of, for the blade remained unblemished by any discoloration brought by the serpent’s ire, starting silver and tapering into a ruddy brown. He approached it and took hold of the hilt, yanking it free from the dead clutches. It was weighty, but hardly enough to cause him any strain, and as he hefted it, he felt power thrum within. It was a blade forged for serpent hunting, and its quarry was near.

Rowa saw him lift the weapon, catching his gaze in a silent question. In answer, he moved towards the edge of the outcrop. She followed, bringing the remainder of the cavern floor into view.

And there in the middle of the chamber, like a king awaiting audience, was the Serpent.

Scaled coils like burnished bronze writhed against each other as the creature moved, seeming to sense the presence of another in the cave. A spade-shaped head rose into view beyond the pile of sinew and scales, lifting high into the air, bearing piercing eyes that gleamed with dark hunger. A long, forked tongue slithered from the reptilian maw, tasting the heated air.

Morgott and Rowa halted their approach, watching the Serpent shift. It seemed to be just that at first—the Serpent and nothing more—bearing no trace of any demigod influence. But then an arm crawled into view, overlong and emaciated, attached haphazardly to the intertwined length of the body. The Serpent’s head tilted upwards, climbing towards the ceiling of the cavern as though it sought something there, revealing a duller underbelly.

Rowa saw Morgott stiffen beside her, prompting her to look closer at the Serpent. Beneath its head there lay a peculiar patch of raised scales that almost looked like…

“Well…I knew ye would come, Shardbearers.” A voice spoke out, slow and grating, labored with heavy breaths as though the speaker were being choked, every word an effort. Yellow flashed amidst the Serpent’s scales as a pair of eyes fixed upon them. A face, Rykard’s face, looked down from the Serpent’s underbelly, cleaved unto the creature’s flesh. His eyes, a nose, and a mouth all remained, but they were now formed of the Serpent’s hide. And yet the horror did not end there, for within the Serpent’s coils there arose a crimson, writhing mass, composed of what appeared to be hundreds of small, malformed hands, grasping and twisting, which seemed to compose the inward parts of the dreadful hybrid.

Morgott made no attempt to hide his disgust at the sight, all expectations exceeded to grotesque and nauseating lengths. The last time he had seen Rykard was before the war, and recognizing his face amidst the scales chilled him deeply despite the heat of the cavern. “Rykard, what hast thou become?”

Rykard’s amalgamated head roved, skeletal fingers raking along the ground. “Mmm…I know not thy face…and yet thy voice…”

“Thou hast not known me in this form.” Morgott felt no shame in revealing himself, for in all his perceived monstrosity, he knew he did not even faintly compare to the wretched thing before him. “I am the demigod Morgott, and I am come to put an end to thy blasphemy.”

Rykard’s mouth stretched into something of a grin, a chuckle gurgling in the depths of the Serpent’s body. “Ah…the Veiled Monarch. Never did I imagine thee to be an Omen. The rumors of Marika’s failed pedigree…were true. And now…thou dost enter my chambers, one blasphemy alongside another.”

“Do not compare thyself to me!” Morgott retorted. “For I did not give myself over to a monster for the sake of power.”

“And yet, thou abase thyself by working alongside a Tarnished.” Rykard’s gaze shifted to Rowa, who could not suppress a shiver at the monstrosity’s attention. “Has it come to this…that thou art finally desperate enough to ally thyself with thy enemy…and come to this place in thy own flesh?”

“Nay. We come at the bidding of thy sister, who yet liveth. She knoweth what thou hast become, and she would see thy reign ended.”

The mirth vanished from Rykard’s face. “Thou dost…speak falsehoods.”

Morgott knew then that acceptance would not come easily to Rykard, if at all, entrenched as he was in his depravity. “I do not. Thou art not who thou once were.”

“No…I am better.” Suddenly, a second hand appeared from behind the Serpent’s upturned head. A repulsive, squelching sound echoed through the cavern as something was drawn forth, taking the shape of a blade.

Rowa’s stomach did a slow roll. It was a sword composed of the same crimson, wriggling substance that formed the Serpent’s inward parts, and it sickened her to think that was the fate of the ones who had been devoured.

“Thy Runes…they shall be mine.” Rykard raised both arms, holding the blasphemous blade aloft. “Join the Serpent King as family, and together we shall devour the very gods!”

Rya stepped out onto the walkway, catching sight of the town built into the side of the mountain. A small gasp left her, and she hurried to the railing, trying to get a better look at the figures amongst the buildings. They were certainly man-serpents like her, she could tell even from a distance, but she had no way to reach them. Even so, their scent was not the strongest one, not the one that had called her down the tunnel in the first place. There was a smell stronger still, foreign yet familiar, inciting a feeling of knowing within her. She had been born from wherever that scent came.

She watched her brethren for a little longer, relieved that there were more than the one slain, but eventually the scent became too much to ignore. With eager steps, she continued onwards towards the truth of her kind.

The floor of the cavern trembled, magma bubbling up from deep cracks beneath the Serpent’s body and sending smoky fog pouring into the cavern, illuminated in a hellish orange tint. Morgott lifted the hunting blade, ready to unleash the power contained within, but hesitated. From the fog there came terrible images, skeletal faces wrapped in fire, and they were not just a sorcery or some sort of illusion. Voices rang in his mind, the cries of souls consumed by the Serpent that still festered inside, unable to find freedom, and now they surged towards him, buffeting him with their agony. Even the worst of his nightmares over the years was nothing compared to the suffering that now faced him in the waking world.

Rowa grappled for balance on the trembling floor, trying to determine her next move as the battle began in earnest. She saw the faces appear from the haze and moved to put distance between them and herself, until she noticed Morgott was not acting similarly. He stood frozen as though he were somehow transfixed, staring at the faces as they flew straight for him.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up. The Runes filled her with golden strength as she launched herself forward with all her might. Even so, striking Morgott was akin to hitting a stone wall, but she managed to knock him aside.

“Look out!” she shouted, grabbing his arm.

Morgott snapped from his trance as she bowled into him, her fingers digging into his arm. He quickly righted himself, the desperation on her face bringing him back to the perilous situation. Realizing her intent, he forced the spirits’ agony to the back of his awareness.

Rowa yelped as Morgott pulled her roughly back and away from the flaming apparitions, leaving them to burst harmlessly against the stone. There was no time for words as Rykard attacked again, his sword coming down in a bloody arc through the fog. Rowa dove left and Morgott went right, the blade smashing against the spot where they had stood.

Rykard laughed madly, fixing his attention on Rowa and the power of the Runes inside her. He raised his sword for another strike, and she ran for one of the pillars in the cavern, hoping to take shelter behind it.

Morgott hefted the hunting blade, seizing his chance. He let the power within spill forth, and a stream of light spiraled out of the blade with devastating force. It struck Rykard’s coils, tearing away a large chunk of flesh to reveal the putrid innards.

A hiss of pain, fully inhuman, left Rykard’s mouth. His head swiveled towards Morgott as fire boiled beneath his body, erupting through cracks in the floor. The fissures only increased in size and distance, the ground heating beneath Morgott’s feet. In an effort to evade it, he turned and leapt towards one of the pillars, catching hold of it with one arm while holding the hunting blade in the other hand. Before Rykard could strike, he let another powerful blast out from the weapon, catching the column of sinew below the Serpent’s neck.

The Serpent’s attention diverted, Rowa took a chance and ran forward, leaping over superheated fissures, her blades raised high. With the power of the Runes she barely felt the heat, and plunged her swords deep into Rykard’s coils and pulling, scoring the flesh deep and long.

Rykard roared, more fire erupting from the depths as he writhed, knocking Rowa back in his convulsions. Flames licked along the bloody edge of his sword as he swung it high, and Rowa fought for balance, trying to get her footing. He swept the blade down once in her direction, though she managed to leap back in time, but that little diversion was all Morgott needed.

He launched himself off the pillar towards the Serpent’s coils, hunting blade in one hand and stave in the other. The Serpent’s head, which was still possessed of its own volition, saw his approached and bared its teeth, but it could not act beyond Rykard’s agency.

Morgott landed amidst the scales, and the agony of the spirits contained within almost swept him off his feet, but he responded by driving the hunting blade deep into the Serpent’s body. A horrible sound between a man’s scream and a snake’s hiss emanated from Rykard, but Morgott did not stop. He lifted his stave upwards, summoning gold amidst the ashen fog. Blades of light pierced through the dimness like a bright rain, battering the Serpent’s body from all sides.

Rowa watched in amazement as golden swords fell in droves, their points driving into the Lord of Blasphemy as keenly as steel. Rykard’s subsequent throes drove more magma from the earth, forcing her further away from the demigod lest she be burned, but it seemed Morgott was past needing her help.

Morgott clung doggedly to Rykard’s body, riding out the pained twisting and the cries of the souls inside him. The Serpent’s head snapped at him, needled fangs clashing near his head, but the misshapen nature of the demigod hybrid afforded Rykard no clear way to deal with the enemy upon his back. The rain of swords beat him down into a momentary lull, allowing Morgott the opportunity to wrench the hunting blade free and aim it straight at the Serpent’s gaping maw.

An unearthly screech echoed in the cavern as a blast from the blade went straight through the Serpent’s jaw. Morgott drove forward, impaling through the ruined flesh and pulling downwards with all his might, rending through scale and bone. The screeching was cut short as the Serpent’s head was smashed against the ground, cut almost in two, and the writhing faded, Rykard’s malformed hands falling limply to the earth along with the terrible blade.

The fog cleared as boiling magma calmed, receding back into the ground. Rowa did not move from where she stood for a long moment, her ears ringing with the Serpent’s cries, anticipating a resurgence. Only when she saw Morgott step beyond the body, weapons dangling loosely in his hands, did she dare to let her guard fall, forcing the Runes back. All that remained was a fading echo, a gurgling whisper.

“No one will hold me captive. A serpent never dies…”

Morgott pressed the hunting blade into a crevice left by Rykard, leaving it standing there as he Let the rush of battle fade. “True death shall meet thee soon enough.”

Rowa approached the body. The red, writhing substance oozed from the wounds, but otherwise it was deathly still in stark contradiction to moments before.

“Art thou unharmed, Tarnished?” Morgott asked, brushing some debris from his fur as he turned to her.

“I…I’m alright.” Rowa said, looking him over. He hardly looked exerted at all. “Are you?”

“Aye.”

She could not withhold the awe of his efficiency. “Well done. You put me, with two Runes, to great shame.”

Morgott dismissed her praise with a grunt. “Thy attack gave me the opening. ‘Twas done in an effort to save thy strength, as I did say before.”

Rowa lifted her head towards the ceiling. “Those faces…what were they?”

“The souls of previous opponents.” Even the cries had ceased, leaving a silence in their wake that unsettled Morgott with its suddenness, for he had not sensed their departure. “Condemned to remain within the blasphemous serpent.”

Rowa stopped before the body. It had not begun to dissipate, likely remaining untaken for the blasphemy it held. However, in response to her close proximity, the Runes inside her stirred, and another flickered into existence in front of Rykard’s body. It took the form of a ring bearing a serpentine wave to it, a shard piercing through the leftmost side. It glowed with an orange tint, as though it had absorbed the mountain’s fire.

Morgott gazed long at the Rune. He had never seen another beyond Rowa’s in true form before, awaiting a bearer. Yet the sight of it did not fill him with any great hunger. One Rune was more than enough for him, despite the kinship he felt to it.

“Art thou prepared?” he inquired.

Rowa nodded, the Runes inside her calling out to the waiting shard. She reached for it, bracing herself for the onslaught of power as the warmth touched her fingertips. She took hold of it like she had Godrick’s, and it shattered into mist that spilled into her body. It filled her, growing and growing, and it did not stop when she thought it would.

Something else lay beneath the mere Rune, like embers that had been kindled by her possession. They flared up, coursing through her with a burning path, crowding her mind with visions of fire and a flood of voices. She did not realize her knees had buckled until they struck the ground, sending pain rattling through her bones.

Morgott noticed her fall too late to stop it, but he was at her side in an instant, something sharp and unpleasant driving into his chest. “What is it? What ails thee?”

Rowa heard him calling as though from a great distance, but she took hold of his voice, swimming towards it through the fiery maelstrom that had invaded her mind. Her fists clenched against the stone as, with all the strength she could muster, she tried to come back to herself, willing the power of Rykard’s Rune into submission like she had the others. A strained gasp left her, but she managed to quiet the strange cacophony, finding herself hunched on the cave floor before the demigod’s body.

“Tarnished!” Morgott spoke more forcefully when he saw her eyes flutter open, hovering over her. “Has it overwhelmed thee?”

Rowa raised a hand to signal he should wait, trying to catch her breath. “I…I think I’m alright. Just give me a moment…”

The unpleasant edge in his chest dulled a little at her voice, but did not disappear entirely. He readied his magic reserves for some sort of healing incantation as she shifted to a kneeling position.

With breathtaking effort, Rowa silenced the Rune completely. It still boiled within her uncomfortably, something about it not quite sated, but she put that aside in favor of more pressing matters as she tried to get to her feet. “The Mirrorhelm, we should try to find it before—“

“Oh…oh no…”

Morgott and Rowa turned as a new voice echoed in the cavern. Rya’s diminutive human form stood at the entrance they had come from, her eyes wide and her face slack as she regarded the carnage around her. Rowa forgot all about the Rune and the Mirrorhelm, stepping towards her.

“Oh, Rya, you shouldn’t have come here. It was dangerous,” she said.

Rya barely heard, looking beyond Rowa to the huge carcass of man and demigod. The cloying scent that had led her came from it, and she knew without a doubt that it had birthed her, and the other man-serpents.

She was born not of any king, but of a hideous ritual.

“This…this is what I was born from…” she choked, barely able to force the words out.

Rowa approached her with sympathy, knowing the shock must have been great. “Even if you were born from this, I do not think of you any less for it.”

Rya squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear the sight of the blasphemy, nor the kind Tarnished standing in front of it. All the Tarnished who had vanished had gone unto this vile thing. Her mother had let them, and she had aided in the slaughter. Worse yet, she had come from the hideous devourer, and her mother, one of the few she trusted with her true form, had lied.

“I am something that can never be accepted, not by men, nor serpents,” she whispered. “Even Lady Tanith shouldn’t accept me. Even you shouldn’t accept me.”

Rowa shook her head, her heart dropping. Rykard’s Rune flared inside her. “Don’t speak like that.”

Rya opened her eyes, fixing her gaze on Rowa’s face in wild desperation. “I know you’ve done so much for me, but I wish to ask for one last kindness.”

“Anything,” Rowa said.

“Kill me, please.”

Morgott closed his eyes in grim resignation as that which he had feared transpired in front of him. He felt as though he should come to the aid of the Tarnished, but he knew not how.

Rowa stared at Rya in dismay, unsure if she had heard correctly. “What…?”

“Kill me!” Rya repeated, her voice pitching up with anguish. “I thought I feared nothing, but this…free me from this accursed frame, I beg of you.”

Rowa’s body felt painfully cold despite the heat of the cavern they stood in as a deep ache birthed from some wellspring in her heart that she could not name. “I cannot do that. I could never. Please, think reasonably. You were lied to, and what you were born from does not mean you must die.”

“I cannot bear it!” Rya cried, clutching at her heart.

“Now that you know the truth, you can move beyond it,” Rowa tried, now full of her own desperation as she realized increasingly that what she thought would be good for Rya had brought great pain.

Rya glimpsed Rowa’s swords, and something overtook her. She lurched forward, grabbing for one of them. The strain Rowa had undergone left her slower than usual, and Rya managed to get the sword and pull it partway from where it hung before she caught up.

“No!” she screamed, panic seizing her as she stumbled back, pushing Rya away. The sword was torn from Rya’s grasp as she reeled from the push, and Morgott was across the room in the blink of an eye, placing himself between the two and fixing a wary gaze on the man-serpent.

“Stay thou back,” he warned.

The pain in Rowa’s heart increased tenfold as she understood what had just happened, clogging her throat and eyes. Her vision blurred with tears, and in her distress, the shaky hold she had on Rykard’s Rune slipped and fell away. Rancorous power surged upwards and overwhelmed her in moments, filling her perception with fire and agony, sending her to her knees.

Morgott felt the sudden return of the agonized souls from Rykard’s body, throwing him off guard, and it took him several moments to see Rowa had slipped to the ground, where it dawned on him in horror. The souls were in Rykard’s Rune, in her.

“Tarnished!” he said, grabbing her by the shoulder. “Tarnished, canst thou hear me?”

Rowa just barely heard him, caught in the maelstrom of pain inside herself. All she could think about was Rya as she struggled uselessly against the overflow of power sapping her strength.

Rya looked on in horror as Rowa doubled over, wracked by blood and fire. Thinking she had caused it, she turned and fled the cavern, unable to bear the sight any longer.

Rowa glimpsed her fleeing form and tried to stand, hardly able to form words. “Rya…wait…”

Morgott took hold of her, preventing her from going any further. “Let her go.”

Rowa began to struggle weakly, helplessly against his superior strength as her tears flowed over onto her cheeks. “No…no…she will die…!”

“There is naught thou canst do for her like this!” Morgott hissed, the blade in his chest now sinking even deeper. He could practically see the souls storming in her eyes. “Thou’rt being overwhelmed!”

A single sob shook Rowa’s frame as all her remaining strength failed her. She went limp as a rag in his hold, her voice reduced to a whisper as she gazed at the enflamed faces behind her eyes. “So many…so many voices…”

Icy talons, the likes of which he had not felt in a long time, sank into Morgott’s heart as her words faded away, her body only supported by being draped over his arm. He took hold of her head, pulling it back so he could look her in the face, finding her features pale and slack. “Tarnished! Speak to me!” He shook her a little. “Rowa!”

She remained unresponsive. The only thing that reassured Morgott was the binding vow between them, which had not begun to break. He tried to wake her a couple more times to no avail, suddenly paralyzed by indecision. The Mirrorhelm had yet to be retrieved, and he knew that if they did not find it, Ranni would not uphold her end of their accord. They needed what she had, but he could not take Rowa through the Manor in such a state, for it was likely to be in disarray.

He could purge the souls from her body with his spells, but it could not be done quickly, and anywhere near the Manor was increasingly unsafe. Rykard’s angered followers could come charging in at any moment. However, he could temporarily assuage her.

Rowa’s skin was too hot as he placed a hand on her forehead, the souls subsumed by Rykard’s Rune running rampant inside her. He murmured an incantation, golden light glowing around his palm and drifting to her. A small sigh left her as his seal was put in place, tamping the rancor down to a more manageable level, and the fire receded enough to satisfy him.

He found himself terribly loathe to leave her, more so than he would have ever supposed himself capable of, but that was what must be done, at least temporarily. But he would not be leaving her alone.

Taking hold of his stave in his free hand, he brought the end down upon the cavern floor, the noise echoing through places visible and invisible as he uttered a strong command: “Come forth, hands of the Fell Omen!”

The reply came at once. The light of the magma diminished to nothing as a great shadow fell across the entire cavern. Five knights on shrouded steeds appeared from the deepest shadows silently, heeding the call of their master.

Morgott lifted Rowa’s body in both hands. “I charge thee to bear her away from here.”

One of the Nightriders took hold of her as delicately as one would handle glass, seating her in front of him on his steed, letting her body rest against the horse’s neck.

“Keep watch over her until I return,” Morgott said. “There is a shack along Gelmir’s road. Take her there and clear out all who would oppose thee. Stay there until my arrival, and if her condition changeth, then warn me at once.”

The Nightriders understood his orders. In a rush of shadow and the chill of night, they galloped away, bearing Rowa with them and leaving Morgott alone in Rykard’s audience chamber.

Chapter Text

The knight did not know Rykard had been defeated, but Tanith did. She stilled in her chair, the parchment slipping from her nerveless hand and fluttering to the floor.

“My lady,” the knight said, alarmed by the uncharacteristic action, “what is the matter?”

Tanith did not answer for so long that he debated asking again, but finally she did, her voice low. “Rykard…he is gone.”

“Thou art certain?” the knight asked after a stunned pause.

Tanith nodded once, her form deathly still. “The Shardbearers…they have done it.”

The knight stood frozen, unsure of what to do. He had been in Rykard’s service so long that he had let go of all expectations that the Serpent King would ever be slain. “What would thou ask of me, my lady? Shall I hunt down the ones who slew him?”

“No. The strong take. That was Rykard’s way, as it is mine.” Tanith stood, her face as expressionless as the mask she wore. “I release you now from my service, and Rykard’s, with one final task.”

“Whatever thou dost ask, I will do it.”

“Take Zorayas. Tell her the Volcano Manor is no more, and that she is free to go into the world as she sees fit. Guard her as she walks her own path.”

“I swear to protect her, with mine own life.” The knight had no great wish to leave his lady’s side, but he would do as she asked, even as the Manor’s power failed.

“She has sought the truth of herself, and one day she will find it. Should she ever discover it and be distressed, then offer her this.” From a hidden compartment in her desk, Tanith pulled forth a small phial full of some murky liquid, passing it to the knight. “It will make her forget, and relieve any pain she might feel over her origins.”

The knight accepted the phial. “And what of thee, my lady?”

“I will remain here with my lord.” Something glinted in Tanith’s eyes beyond the expressionless mask. “After all, a serpent never dies.”

Morgott returned to the Manor by the same way they had found Rykard. His medallion seemed frigid in the absence of Rowa’s proximity, but he tried to keep his thoughts on the Mirrorhelm. The Calvary would keep her safe until he could join her again.

When he arrived back in the Manor, the spirit that had guided him originally was gone. There was no way to be certain of its fate, but he took solace in the fact that its wish had been granted at last. Rykard, or what he had become, was no more.

As he walked through the halls, the whole Manor seemed to be different with Rykard’s death. The smell of blood had already begun to fade, and the pervasive, eerie feeling with it. All that was left was a structure haunted by the echoes of a fallen blasphemy. He met no resistance, but as he strode through the corridors, the true breadth of the Manor became dreadfully apparent. There were hundreds of rooms, and he had no inclination of where the Mirrorhelm might be. He began to consider leaving to aid Rowa and returning at a later time as he found room after empty room, but before he could decide, armored footsteps approached him.

The Crucible Knight appeared at the far end of the corridor, and Morgott’s heart sank. His father’s warrior was the last person he wanted to contend with, but confrontation would be unavoidable. The knight stopped, and so did he. For a moment, they gazed at each other in silence, but neither of them moved to brandish their weapons.

“What wouldst thou have to do with me?” Morgott asked. “I cannot linger.”

The knight’s posture tightened visibly. “Thou art not a mute.”

“Nay, and if thou art a true knight of the Crucible, who once served Lord Godfrey, I adjure thee to not cross blades with me.”

“I did serve Lord Godfrey in a time long ago.” The knight regarded the Omen with surprise, now able to place that feeling of familiarity haunting him since they had laid eyes on each other. For all the horns and misshapen features, he bore a striking resemblance to his former lord.

“I cannot trust thee on word alone,” Morgott said.

The knight was not one to prove himself to any who asked, but he was inclined this time. The Omen before him was increasingly intriguing, and he had no desire to become enemies with any of the sacred people whose origins he had devoted his life to. He held out his hand, revealing an old seal of the tree that had become the Erdtree in a shower of crimson-gold.

Morgott could not deny the seal nor the light that emanated from it, causing his Omen blood to stir. His stave warmed greatly beneath his palm at the rare light that was only a fraction of the greater Crucible. “So…thou art a servant of Godfrey, indeed.”

Relieved that his gesture was well-received, the knight let his hand drop, the seal vanishing. “Why dost thou invoke his name?”

Morgott did not hesitate. “I am his son, Morgott.”

A denial leapt to the knight’s tongue, but he restrained it at the last moment. There had been talk, in the old days, of a lost child of Godfrey and Marika. After the birth of Godwyn, the Finger Readers and Erdbishops prophesied that another child, perhaps even two, would be born to Marika and Godfrey. But, for all their words, nothing came of them. No more children were born to the couple, and the prophecies ceased to be in time. Yet some spread rumors that there had been a child—or children—born as promised, but they had been afflicted by what many grew to consider the fell curse of Omenhood, either killed or hidden away to sate the ideologies of the Golden Order.

The knight had never concerned himself with such rumors, nor had any of his fifteen brethren. They had been at war alongside Godfrey for the coming age, battling giants and dragons, conquering the Lands Between in a fierce campaign that left him no time to consider the more private matters of his lord’s life.

Yet, those rumors he had cast aside were suddenly made true before his eyes. He would never forget Godfrey, and the man in front of him was certainly of the same stock. The familiarity he saw was now given reason. He saw Godfrey in Morgott’s stance, the gleam of his eyes, the strength of his stature.

But for the sake of what had previously been known, the knight said, “There was only one son of Marika and Godfrey.”

“One that was unhidden to the eyes of all. Two more there were, I and my brother.” Morgott pulled forth his amber medallion, freeing it from the concealment he had set upon. “Let this be proof of mine heritage.”

It had been an age since the knight had last sighted the legendary medallions of Godfrey’s favor, and that cast away all doubt that he was the son of his lord. Not knowing what else to do, he fell upon one knee, bowing his head before Morgott. “Forgive me, I beseech thee. I never knew…”

“Arise,” Morgott said gruffly, flustered by the sudden homage. “I hath no need of thy apologies.”

The knight got to his feet swiftly, still trying to make sense of it all. “So, thou art the Veiled Monarch I hath heard tell of?”

“Indeed.”

“And thou came at last by thine own strength to end Rykard’s blasphemy thyself?”

“Not by my strength alone. I crossed paths with a Tarnished, whose vision for the world aligneth close enough with mine that we are now paired.”

“And where is thy Tarnished?” A horrid thought struck the knight. “Didst Rykard—?”

“Nay.” Morgott ignored the way his stomach turned at the insinuation. “She was untouched by him, but she took unto herself the souls he consumed with his Great Rune, and now languishes. I must go to her with haste, but I must find something else here before I can.”

“What dost thou seek?”

“A Mirrorhelm of the Nox, given to Rykard in the time before the Shattering by the Lunar Princess Ranni.”

The knight paused, thinking back to the helm. He had seen it, and had been there when it was handed over, but it had lain unused for a long time. However, he had a good idea of where it would be hidden away, knowing most if not all of the hidden reaches of the Manor. “I cannot accompany thee long, for I hath another vow I must fulfill and cannot break, but I can aid thee in finding the treasure thou dost seek before we part ways.”

Morgott considered the offer. With the scope of the Manor and his urgency, it seemed the most prudent choice. “I accept thy aid, if thou wouldst lend it.”

“‘Tis the least I can do for you as my lord’s blood.” To show further goodwill, the knight sheathed his sword upon his back. “Come.”

Morgott followed the knight through the halls, which now seemed even more empty than before with Rykard’s absence. As he walked, many questions rose within him, ones he felt compelled to ask lest he never see his father’s knight again.

“How didst one of thy stock come to a place such as this?” he asked. “Thou dost surely oppose the Golden Order, but Rykard’s blasphemous zealotry is no kinder.”

The knight pondered the inquiry. “When thy father was exiled, the sixteen of us scattered unto all corners of the realm, seeking purpose. I came unto this place, thinking Rykard a worthy contender against the Golden Order. It was not until I had already avowed myself that he gave himself to the blasphemy, but I would not break the oath I made, not then nor ever.”

Morgott listened wordlessly, finding his judgement lessened. Godfrey had been a man of honor, so it stood to reason his most treasured knights would be the same, regardless of the dread brought about by the sworn lord. “And what of thy fellow knights?”

“I know not. I hath not heard tell of any since our parting. I had hoped Lord Godfrey would return in his time, and we would be brought together once more, but time hath proved that a folly, it seemeth.”

“I long awaited his return as well, to restore him as Elden Lord, but I could wait no more.”

“The Two Fingers ordered the Tarnished to slay the demigods, but I take it the one thou’rt with is not one of their ilk?”

“Nay. She rejected the Golden Order and all that it is, forsaking the Roundtable Hold.”

“Thou dost think her a worthy contender for the title of Lord?”

“A vessel for the Ring. Marika wishes to hold it no longer, so the Tarnished shall hold it hence.”

The knight’s helm turned towards him in shock. “Thou hast communed with Marika?”

“I wish it so, but not in truth,” Morgott said. “I hath merely learned of her true intent, which is the undoing of the Golden Order, and to no longer be bound to godhood. However, I hath learned she lieth imprisoned within the Erdtree as punishment by the Greater Will.”

“What must be done to free her?”

“The Erdtree now wards off all who approach. To breach it, the Rune of Death must be unbound once more.”

“A cardinal sin, in the eyes of the Golden Order.”

“Aye,” Morgott agreed quietly, “but a necessary one.”

The knight was quiet for a moment. “To think, I didst consider her an enemy of sorts.”

“I too was mistaken in my cause. I spent long upholding the Golden Order for her sake, only to learn that it was all for naught.”

“Then what is the world that thou wouldst have in the Order’s place?”

“A world of the Crucible reborn, where creatures like myself are no longer deemed accursed, free to live amongst men.”

“Truly?”

“Aye.”

“That is…an admirable world. Better than this one, surely. I could see Lord Godfrey bring about such a world, if he were able.”

Once more, Morgott was taken aback by the praise, answering with a wordless growl of acknowledgement. Further conversation was stalled as the knight focused more intently on the task of finding the hidden part of the Manor he sought. He brought Morgott to another part of the Manor that looked no different from the rest of it, a sitting room embellished with paintings and tapestries.

Morgott watched as the knight stepped further into the room, approaching an empty section of the floor in the far corner. Instead of his sabaton hitting the floor, it went straight through it. The illusion fell away, revealing a staircase that descended into a dark stone hallway.

“Come,” the knight said. “The hidden treasures of Rykard lie beneath.”

Morgott followed him into the narrow stairwell. It was a tight squeeze for the both of them, shoulders and armor pieces scraping against both walls, but they managed to make the descent unhindered. At the bottom, the hall went only a little further before stopping at an ornate set of wooden doors, embossed with intricate patterns.

The knight drew a key from the recesses of his armor, inserting it into the lock. The mechanism screeched from disuse, but the knight’s strength forced the lock open nonetheless. The doors groaned as he pushed them open, but open they did, revealing a storage room beyond. Crates, barrels, and chests were stacked at varying heights all around the room’s perimeter. Some of them were open, revealing items like glintstone shards and Carian clothing from Rykard’s former life. Some paintings were  stacked among them with more care; Morgott glimpsed portraits of Rennala, Radahn, and even Ranni before her current form, but there was no trace of his father’s likeness or influence anywhere. It seemed fitting of Rykard’s path, for he had set out to destroy everything that Radagon had turned to when he left the Carian house.

For a few minutes, the knight searched among the containers, moving them around with a care that reminded Morgott of his own devotion to Leyndell. Finally, he brought forth a chest gilded with silver banding, setting it on the floor in the middle of the room.

“This is what thou dost seek,” he said. “It hath lain untouched since Rykard received it, so I think it shall not be missed by those who remain.”

Morgott peered into the chest. Sure enough, a helm lay nestled at the bottom, fashioned of silver metal in an odd, crystalline design. He touched the metal, finding it cool, and lifted it from its resting place. The metal tinkled with a musical quality as it was moved, revealing that it made of no simple alloy. Even in the dim light, the crystal patterns shone and reflected like they were made of starlight, a thousand faceted fractals shivering and shifting with the movement.

“Thou hast my utmost thanks,” Morgott murmured, turning the ancient treasure in his hands.

“Of course,” the knight replied.

Before he drew away, Morgott noticed something else in the bottom of the chest, previously hidden by the helm. It appeared to be a hunk of stone fashioned in the shape of a spearhead, the blunt end encased in metal inset with a red gem. The other end tapered into a fine point, stained with something red, but it was not the rusted shade of blood.

“What is this?” Morgott asked, leaning closer to inspect it.

The knight peered at the object. “I know not. ‘Tis new to me as well.”

Morgott reached down, taking hold of the gilded end. The size of it was considerable, enough to reach from his palm to his fingertips. He smelled it, finding the innate scent vague and cool, unlike anything else he knew. Yet it did not cause him alarm, not seeming as something unnatural or threatening. He turned it in his hand, brushing his fingers across the stained tip, whatever substance that colored it feeling as cool as the scent, akin to a soothing balm for burns.

“I would suppose it was once given to Rykard by Ranni, given that they were stored together,” the knight said. “I hath never seen aught like it.”

“Nor I.” Morgott opened one of the spare pouches on his belt, letting the odd object drop inside. “I will take it, for Ranni may yet know what it is, or hath need of it.”

“Is there anything else you wish to take?”

Morgott waved a dismissive hand. “Nay. I am no plunderer. Rykard’s spoils do not interest me.”

“Then, if we are soon to part ways, there is something I must impart to thee,” the knight said gravely.

“Speak it freely.”

“When my brethren and I were scattered, it was not for any strife between us, but to search the Lands Between. We sought that which we hath followed, that which we hath sworn oaths to and retain remnants of power from. The power of the Crucible.”

 Morgott hesitated, unsure how to respond at first. “The Crucible remaineth only in my kind,” he said, recalling the Carian literature.

The knight was not perturbed. “Indeed it does, but it was once part of the Elden Ring, and no part of the Ring can truly be destroyed. It may be shattered, but the Runes hath been taken unto thee, the demigods. Likewise, the Rune of Death was sundered and sealed away, but not destroyed.”

“So thou dost think the true power yet remaineth somewhere in the Lands Between?” Morgott asked, beginning to understand.

“I know so, and surely thou must know it to, for thou art of it more than I.”

Morgott thought back to the dreams that had followed him, the Erdtree of crimson-gold, the creatures rejoicing, the way his blood sang despite being greatly sealed. “Thou dost speak truly. None of thy brethren hath come upon it, even after all this time?”

“I think not. Before we parted, we divined a special seal, only to be activated when it was found, so all of us would know to end our search. But it is dormant, never awakened.” The knight paused to think. “Wilt thou seek to free Marika from her imprisonment?”

“Certainly.”

“If it was she who removed the power, she may yet know what became of it.”

“Indeed.” The natural order of the world might be suppressed, but one day it shall sprout anew.

“Stay thy course,” the knight said. “Unseal the Rune of Death and enter the Erdtree to learn of the Crucible. Mending the Ring will begin to put the world to rights, Crucible or not, so long as the one who becometh the vessel is of good faith.”

Morgott’s mind turned to Rowa once more, the image of her ailing form in his arms plaguing him as keenly as his nightmares, to his consternation. “What more wouldst thou say to me?”

“No more. That is all.”

“Then I must make haste. My Tarnished awaiteth me.”

The knight nodded. “There are pressing matters I must attend to as well. Come, I will show you the way out.”

He led Morgott out of the hidden room, back through Volcano Manor’s labyrinthine hallways. To Morgott, it felt like a long while, but in truth it was only a matter of minutes until they were passing through the audience chamber Tanith had met them in when they arrived. The knight stopped when they reached the entrance hall.

“Here is where we must part ways,” he said. “My business is here.”

Despite his urgency, Morgott was compelled to speak some parting words. He found himself reluctant to leave, for it had been long since he had been with someone of such kinship, both as a servant of his father and of the Crucible. “Thou hast my utmost thanks for aiding me.

“To serve thee in this is akin to serving Godfrey himself once more.” The knight dipped his helm. “Were it not for my oath, I would gladly accompany thee.”

“Though I would meet thy aid with gratitude, being without it shall not hinder me. Fulfill thy oath as thou see fit. Perhaps one day thy true lord will return.”

“And I will watch the Erdtree with the hope of one day seeing the Crucible reborn. Until then, I wish thee and thy Tarnished all fortune.”

Morgott lowered his head, hoping his utmost respect was conveyed. “And I thee in return. Farewell.”

“Fare thee well, my lord.”

Morgott turned his back to the knight, heading for the entrance to the Volcano Manor. He clutched the Mirrorhelm close, the whole of his thoughts turning towards Rowa.

And so, the scion and the servant of the Crucible parted ways.

Chapter Text

The Night’s Calvary thundered over Gelmir’s torrid land, heedless of the hanging bodies and ruin that littered every turn. The midmorning light rendered the Nightriders and their steeds as little more than flickering phantoms, shimmering like the heatwaves within the mountain, but it did nothing to impede them from their purpose. Rowa’s limp form swayed with the horse’s strides, but she remained gone to the world, unaware of the Calvary’s presence as her mind was assaulted by the storm of souls taken from Rykard’s Rune.

Like an oncoming stormfront, they rushed down the mountain road. They jumped the broken bridge without pause, and as they continued on, Rykard’s war machines appeared to meet them, drawn by the blood of the Tarnished they carried, unafraid of the advancing couriers of darkness. A single rider broke off from the contingent to meet the machines, equally undaunted by the squealing mechanisms and slicing blades. Before the machine could strike the rider, a mace came down on the visage of the mother and child with devastating force, crumpling the metal and cleaving into the mechanics beyond the façade. With a shrill groan, like the final cry of a wounded animal, the bloodthirsty machine stopped, never to move again.

At the shack Morgott and Rowa had passed by on the way to the Volcano Manor, a host of recusants had gathered, attempting to come to terms with the dimming of their cessblood. They saw the oncoming shadow from afar, like a black wave overtaking the road, only seeing the ghostly riders as they grew steadily closer. In an act of belligerence and overconfidence, the recusants drew their weapons, ready to strike down the approaching figures.

The Calvary stopped on the road ahead of the shack. The shadow that followed them swept over the shack and the recusants, plunging them into the dark of night. Metal rang upon metal as the five Nightriders drew their swords together, as though they were all following the steps of a dance of blades and shadows.

The recusants’ courage waned as darkness engulfed them, the failing of Rykard’s cessblood only furthering their cowardice. As the Nightriders advanced on them, they turned and fled down Gelmir’s road, vanishing swiftly beyond the crags.

The Nightriders swiftly encircled the shack, the one carrying Rowa dismounting his horse. The Tarnished hunter cleared a space for her on the ground and lifted her like she was made of glass, resting her there. Then, he joined his fellows in a solemn watch, as they waited for their king to arrive.

From places unseen, Melina had seen it all. The attack of the Omenkiller, Rykard’s fall, and Rya’s distress. None of it surprised her, for she had seen many similar things in her long vigil over the Lands Between, but what caught her off guard was the ache in her own heart as she gazed upon Rowa’s motionless form. She had known that, whether it be by her own hand or another, Rowa’s heart would be pierced by some pain that could not be remedied, but seeing it come to fruition in Rya’s sorrow left her with her own ache. It was strange, for her heart was so rarely moved in any direction, but it was an effect of their travels together, of the fondness that had been kindled within her for the Tarnished that had finally brought her to the foot of the Erdtree.

And, in feeling that pain, she knew she had done well to urge the union of Morgott and Rowa. Death was her lot, but Rowa’s heart would not accept it easily, unless there was another of equal or greater care to aid her through it. As she watched Morgott and Rowa together, she became increasingly certain that he would do what was needed, and the weight of her own sacrifice lessened.

Though Melina could not touch Rowa, she knelt by her side. The storm of souls raged inside her like a wildfire, but Melina was confident that Morgott could remove them through the power of his incantations and his Omen blood. Nevertheless, she ghosted an incorporeal hand over Rowa’s forehead, hoping she was of some comfort.

“Do not worry,” she said to Rowa’s unhearing ears. “He will be here soon.”

Rya hardly remembered fleeing back to her room, only becoming aware of where she was when she fell upon the familiar rug. She choked on a sob, clenching her fists into the soft carpet as the image of the terrible amalgam remained stark in her mind. She wanted to deny what she had seen, but the scents did not lie. There was no great king like Tanith had always told her. There was only the Great Serpent, bathed in blood and fire, and she had been birthed from it.

Her wild wish of death had not been granted, leaving her with the knife of terrible knowledge buried deep in her heart. She did not know where to turn anymore; Tanith had lied to her, and her Tarnished champion had fallen beneath some agony she may have caused. She curled on the floor of her room, trembling and weeping, wishing a great crevice would open up and pull her down into the mountain’s fire to end her sorrow, for she lacked the conviction to turn a knife on herself.

She did not notice anyone approaching until the door to her room creaked open behind her. A gasp of horror left her as she sat up, expecting to see Tanith standing there, but instead it was Tanith’s knight, which almost seemed worse.

“Don’t look upon me!” Rya cried, vainly trying to shield herself.

The knight looked at her shivering form with pity, knowing at once what had happened. “I was searching for thee, child.”

“Stay away! I…I’m an abomination!”

Undaunted, the knight only stepped closer. “Thou hast seen the Great Serpent at last, hast thou not?”

Realizing he was not going to flee immediately, Rya gave a tremulous nod, answering between uneven breaths. “I saw…that thing. Was it truly the lord Tanith has served all this time?”

The knight nodded grimly. “He was.”

“I was born from him!” Rya stopped sharply, her eyes widening as she looked at the knight. “You knew all this time, didn’t you?”

“I did.” The knight dropped to one knee before her. “Perhaps it was not best to hide the truth from thee, but Lady Tanith saw thy goodness, and wished thee to remain undisturbed by the blasphemies. I hope thou wilt find it in thyself to forgive me for it.”

Rya shook her head. “How can you speak to me so freely? I am an offspring of a hideous ritual.”

“How thou wert born is of little consequence to me. Long ago, before the blasphemy was even given thought, I pledged to protect all manner of life even in the coming age where many would be outcast. I consider Rykard’s actions abhorrent, but in thee I see no such trespass. Thy birth is not thy undoing.”

Rya drew in a deep breath, a new rush of tears threatening to spill over at the knight’s kind words, but she restrained it, asking weakly, “How did Tanith find me? Why did she choose me?”

“There were many spawns of Rykard and the Serpent, but as with all things their numbers came to an end. Thou wert the last and the smallest, born sickly. Lady Tanith took pity upon thee and raised thee up as her own child, for she had once dreamed of bearing children with Rykard.”

“I see.” Rya paused to further compose herself. “Did you come to take me to my mother? If so, I…I don’t believe I can face her right now.”

“I did not come for that reason. The power of Volcano Manor has begun to fail Rykard’s death, and soon all will flee from here. Lady Tanith hath commissioned me to accompany thee.”

“Accompany me where?”

“Wherever thou dost wish to go. Lady Tanith has said thou’rt free to go into the world as thou dost see fit, and I am to protect thee.”

“Wherever I wish to go…” Rya trailed off, now more bewildered than afraid.

“Ah, and another thing.” The knight pulled forth the phial of liquid given to him by Tanith. “This is something Lady Tanith meant for thee.”

Rya studied the murky liquid within. “What is it?”

“’Tis a tonic of forgetfulness. Lady Tanith foresaw thy troubled thoughts, and would have this bestowed to thee, to allow thee freedom from thy knowledge, if thou should wish it.”

Rya took the phial, turning it in her hands. “I would forget the Great Serpent?”

“Aye, I believe that is its purpose.”

The notion of escaping from the knowledge she had stumbled into was tantalizing, but she hesitated. “Would I also forget the Tarnished?”

“I know not in certainty, but it is likely so, since she was so deeply involved in Rykard’s downfall.”

Rya’s lips trembled as she held back another sob, placing a hand atop the phial’s lid. “I hurt her. I saw it in her face, and then…then she collapsed like she had been run through! Oh, it was terrible, and it was probably all my doing—!”

“’Twas not thy doing, child,” the knight interrupted gently. “She took Rykard’s Great Rune and was overrun by the souls within, but she hath not succumbed yet.”

“How do you know?”

“I spoke with her companion, who had not yet left the Manor. As of then, she yet lived.”

Rya let out something between a laugh and a sob, disbelieving at first, but the knight did not waver. She loosened her hold on the phial, and shakily stood to her feet. “I am greatly relieved to hear that. She wanted me to not be afraid of what I was…but in that moment I could not believe her. Now I am beginning to feel grateful for what she said, and how foolish I was to deny it.”

“Thou wert merely afraid, not foolish,” the knight said, standing as well.

Rya lapsed into thoughtful silence for a moment, fidgeting with the phial. “What shall I do with this?”

“I will not sway thee one way or another. The choice is thine.”

“Then I will not forget.” Rya spoke haltingly at first, gaining strength as she went. “I do not want to forget the Tarnished who fought to bring me the truth, and did not hate me for it when she found it.”

“Then thou art free to do so.”

She placed the phial aside. “There are many things I wish to say to her, to them both, but I suppose I have lost my chance.”

“Perhaps not. If we are swift, we may yet come upon them.”

Rya nodded, a glimmer of hope stirring anew inside her. Things would not be the same, but she had been foolish to think that she could never move beyond the knowledge of her origin. “Then let us go quickly.”

Morgott hurried from Volcano Manor, glad to finally put distance between himself and the vile house. With no one else to account for, he was free to move as quickly as he wished, his long strides eating up the distance as he descended the slopes of Gelmir.

Nervous energy thrummed inside him, foreign and disconcerting. He had felt similarly on occasion throughout his tenure as the Veiled Monarch, for there had been many worries and stresses in the upkeep of Leyndell and the Shattering, but this feeling stretched deeper than mere political matters. It was concern for another, and he had not felt it since Mohg left him behind. Rowa’s distress and collapse haunted his mind’s eye no matter how he tried to refocus his thoughts, the memory urging him forward all the quicker.

His worry was not unfounded, he supposed. He knew well the torment that spirits could bring, and he could only imagine how much worse it would be to bear the rancor of the countless souls ensnared and ingested by Rykard. Yet he still felt the icy blade of fear cut deeper than it should have, into that wound in the depths of his heart. That yearning that had been awakened when she had taken his hands into her own had only increased, despite how much he had tried to will it into dormancy. She had stirred it up, and now it trembled at her anguish beneath Rykard’s Rune.

His darker turn of thought bade him think she would reshape the world, and once she sat upon the throne, she would have no use for him anymore. But that presupposition had all but crumbled to dust as he witnessed her care for Rya, her crying out for the girl even as she was grasped by the fiery throes of the souls. Her care was not a falsehood. It was deeply, dangerously true, just as Melina had warned him, and he could not rationalize further doubt of it. The wound in his heart ached deeper still for that knowledge despite all dismay. It quivered for her fate, for it knew what she could provide that would sate the longing born of loveless years…

Morgott tried to calm his racing thoughts. What truly mattered was the exchange with Ranni, taking the Rune of Death, and the fate of the Lands Between. But, like any wound, the one in his heart remained ever in his awareness, painful and waiting to be healed.

The sun was almost at its zenith in the sky when Morgott arrived at the broken bridge. Crossing the gap took nothing more than a single leap, and he sped up his pace even more. The medallion bumped against his chest with the rhythm of his steps, and he could feel the warmth beginning to return to it, bringing him an unprecedented sense of comfort.

Finally, the old shack came into view, and Morgott was relieved to see the ethereal horsemen standing around it, swathing it in shadow. All five helmets turned towards him as he approached, and they raised their swords in salute.

“Well done, all of ye.” Morgott spoke breathlessly, slightly overexerted from his swift travel. However, all weariness was thrust aside when he saw the flash of pale clothing inside the shack’s deteriorating walls. “Continue thy watch.”

The Calvary’s affirmative replied ringing in his mind, he ducked through the lopsided hole that was likely once the doorway, his medallion heating to its full warmth. Rowa lay on the rotting shack floor, looking neither better nor worse than she had when they had parted ways, and he could see the rise and fall of her chest signaling life. He set his stave and the Mirrorhelm aside, awkwardly kneeling next to her, suddenly deeply aware of how small she was by comparison.

“Tarnished?” He knew speaking to her would likely gain no results, but he did so anyway for the hope of any reaction. She did not stir, so he tried again with another word, one that felt unfamiliar on his tongue from lack of use, as well as the closeness it implied. “…Rowa?”

Nothing.

Morgott reached out, and though he knew there would be no reaction, he hesitated to lay a hand upon her, doing so with careful movement. When he touched her shoulder gently, he could feel it once more: the thundering maelstrom of souls swirling beneath her skin, searching for release but finding none, likely continuing the clambering pattern begun within the Great Serpent.

The sheer number of them staggered Morgott. Every soul was eclipsed by another, then another, then another, whirling in the remnants of Rykard’s fire. Wailing faces surged and broke like a wave upon the shore, only to be replaced by another similar one.

Morgott sucked in a sharp breath, removing his hand from Rowa’s shoulder. His concern wedged an even deeper place in his heart as he looked at her supposedly peaceful face. The souls themselves were troubling, but worse still was that she was caught in the middle of it, a position he did not envy. This was not his first time dealing with tormented souls, and though it would take some effort, he was sure he could remove them from the Rune and let them go free.

Golden motes swirled around his hands, coalescing in a brilliant diadem of the Erdtree, the intricate threadings spilling onto his palms. His lips moved in the words of the incantation, one meant to heal and drive out sickness and pain that he had used before on his Nightriders. Not knowing quite what to expect in this situation, he tipped his hand carefully, letting the light spill onto Rowa’s body, and she absorbed it like cloth taking on water.

He watched her intently, hoping to see some sort of reaction, but she did not so much as twitch. He touched her again to gauge the souls, and saw them fighting the seed of gold he had planted in their midst, ravaging it until it faded into nothing.

Morgott tried again. He whispered another incantation into existence, a stronger one, and let the light of gold stream from himself into Rowa’s body. Once more, she remained still. The souls inside her howled at the intrusion, but they rended the incantation into nothingness, just like the one before.

Morgott let out a low growl, weaving yet another variant into being, pouring more of his strength into it. There was some effect, the souls retreating for a moment, but they returned again with fervor, instinctively fighting against any attempt to force them out like a sickness refusing to be cured with medicine. He tried again and again, each time sending more of his strength into the incantations, but the souls refused to be purged. Eventually, he forced himself to stop, feeling his power beginning to wane. He could not exhaust himself, not while Rowa was still overcome.

He paused to gather himself, the coldness of worry beginning to spread wider into his thoughts. He could not drive them out, not like this, but there was another way. It was a deeper approach, requiring him to step inside her sleeping mind, something he had not done since he and Mohg sought to purge the specters that haunted their dreams. It would work, but something inside him quailed at the idea. It was a degree of closeness he was entirely unused to, almost…intimate, though he hardly dared to think that word at all. Yet the souls clung doggedly to the Rune, and it appeared they would not be sundered without stronger intervention.

Putting his misgivings aside, he began to form a new incantation, a different one. His lips moved in silent recitation, and as he did, he leaned closer to Rowa. With careful movements, he cupped the back of her head, and though her hair was full of dirt and ash, it still felt soft on his rough palm. With his other hand, he cradled her cheek lightly to keep her head steady. Her skin was warm, almost feverish.

The incantations facets wove into being, igniting as a golden seal of the Erdtree on the ground beneath them. As Morgott’s recitation came to a close, he leaned even closer to Rowa. He hardly dared to breath as her face filled his vision. His medallion brushed against her talisman, the binding vow thrumming with the strong proximity, but he hardly felt it as his forehead touched hers. The contact was featherlight as he sought to avoid his horns, but the sensation made his heart tremble with some feeling he did not have time to dwell on. With great concentration, he mouthed the final words, letting his eyes fall shut.

At once, he was met with the onslaught of souls, crashing against his mind like a violent tide even more powerfully that before. Their twisted faces loomed behind his eyelids, all the same, all frozen in a silent scream. Then their voices touched his ears, and he heard the echoes of what once was as they had faced the Great Serpent. Some were vainglorious, some were horrified, but all had met the same fate, and now they lay trapped in the endless fire, fixed to Rykard’s Rune.

Morgott could not help but feel a twinge of pity for them even as they stormed his mind, though almost all of them were certainly Tarnished. They were beyond fault now, lost to a fate he would never wish upon them even in life.

They swirled around him, and he responded with the light of the Erdtree, sending gold breaking over them in a retaliatory blast. They scattered like leaves on a strong wind, giving him a temporary reprieve and allowing him to dive deeper into Rowa’s mind.

As he went, he called out, hoping to awaken her. “Tarnished! Rowa!”

No response was forthcoming as the souls came back again. Morgott began fighting in earnest, battling the current in an effort to connect with Rowa’s mind. The Rune inside him called out to the Runes within her, and he followed its guidance. The souls pushed against him, because that was all they knew, but he was past being horrified. Golden light poured from him in a continual stream, and he could feel them fighting back, but the power of the demigod was gone. They had no control anymore, their assault wild and uncoordinated.

A golden sword in one hand, a polearm in the other, Morgott sliced his way through the torrent. Though the weapons were only manifestations in his mind, they cleaved through the fiery rancor as easily as they did flesh. He pressed onward through the mayhem, following his Rune.

At last, he burst through the wall of the storm, into the eye. There, he saw the seal he had placed upon Rowa before the Calvary had taken her. It seemed small, but it had served its purpose, for beyond it there were no souls, only the Great Runes hanging in a formless space, and Rowa standing in the midst of them.

“Tarnished?” Morgott approached her form. She stood still, her eyes closed, and she did not stir at his call like in the waking world, but he now saw why. The Runes taken from Godrick and Rennala glowed with gentle light, gleaming brighter as he got closer, but Rykard’s burned with the embers of Gelmir’s fire, festering like an infected sore. The flames stretched down, licking at Rowa’s skin, seeming to hold her in its bounds.

Morgott lifted his sword, facing the fire. He would purge it from the Rune, and in doing so, free the souls trapped therein. Again, he began the cleansing incantations, the light threading across dthe void like the roots of a tree. The threads arched over the unblemished Runes, finding purchase in Rykard’s, and the souls roared as the cleansing began.

Morgott ignored the upsurge, approaching the Rune. The fire burning along the arc began to flicker as it was doused, the power pouring straight from his mind into Rowa’s. As the incantation reached its peak, he drew his hand back, and plunged the golden blade deep into Rune.

An unearthly screaming rent the air as the souls were sundered violently from their anchor, all their voices crying out at once. Morgott fought the urge to recoil, sinking the blade deeper. The flames tried to creep up the sword’s edge, but the incantation’s damage was too great.

The fire expelled from the Rune in one great shockwave, buffeting Morgott back. The screaming rang in his mind as the souls surged wildly around him, caught in a great tempest as they were forced out. For a moment, everything spun in violent chaos, and he considered drawing back. But then, beyond the screams, another voice reached him.

“Morgott?”

He looked, and saw Rowa’s visage had come awake before the newly cleansed Rune, her mind freed from the overwhelming grasp of the fire. He stretched out a hand towards her, through the embers and the screaming. “Take my hand!”

Rowa needed no second bidding. She flung herself towards him, the one anchor point in the storm of confusion she had found herself in. He grabbed her fast, and surged upwards out of her mind.

Morgott opened his eyes just as Rowa did. She gasped like she had been underwater, deprived of air. Her mind spun, and she could hardly make sense of anything, her vision filled by Morgott’s disheveled face inches from her own.

“Thou art safe,” Morgott said reflexively. The heat faded with the excised souls, her body beginning to return to normal.

“I…I…” Rowa grasped for something to cling to as her memories came crashing back, her hands finding purchase on Morgott’s arms. Rykard, the Rune, Rya…Rya.

Her throat constricted, her vision blurring with tears, and she had not the strength nor the presence of mind to try and remain composed. She began to weep, her grief for Rya bolstered by the horror of being trapped in the storm of souls.

Morgott watched in dismay as she crumbled, her body quaking with barely stifled sobs. As she curled in on herself, he found all words had fled from his mouth, rendering him mute. All he could do was sit and hold her as she cried, unable to speak any comfort, shaken by her tears.

Rowa did not know how long she wept, but finally the onslaught of grief began to ebb, allowing her some ability to grasp her current situation. Her head rested against Morgott’s shoulder, his body curled into an awkward hunch over her. The acrid scent of blood and ash burned her nose, but she hardly cared about the dilapidated shack and the filth around her, nor the weight of the nearby Night’s Calvary.

“Why…” she croaked, trailing off as her voice cracked.

Morgott startled, her voice unexpected. He shifted back a little, trying to get a better view of her, the sharp edge against his heart returning as he saw the full extent of her sorrow written in the glassy redness of her eyes. “What dost thou speak of?”

Rowa tried again, mustering the energy to speak. “Why…did you let Rya go?”

Of course, she would think of the girl. Morgott’s answer was not immediately forthcoming as he sought the right words, speaking them haltingly. “I am not bound to her, as I am thee. Furthermore, my heart is not as thine. Whatever words I could speak to her would hold little sway, for I am not half as kind as thee.”

Rowa choked, more bitter tears burning her eyes. “I brought it upon her…”

“There is no fault in thee,” Morgott said, speaking quietly but with conviction. “The fault lieth only with Rykard, who took upon himself the blasphemy, and he hath paid for it with his life.”

Rowa swallowed around the lump in her throat, pausing as she tried to put together the chaotic images in her mind, trying to think of something other than the sheer horror on Rya’s face. “The Rune, it was too much. What happened?”

“The souls of the blasphemous rancor hath been purged, but the Rune remaineth in thee.”

Rowa nodded, trying to wipe at the tears on her face. Morgott reached for her pack, finding the canteen of water and presenting it to her. She drank wordlessly, accepting his help in holding the canteen steady. When she was done, she let out a tremendous, shuddering breath. “What about the Mirrorhelm?”

“I retrieved it.” Morgott shifted himself to one side, revealing the silver helmet sitting where he had left it. Rowa stared at the silver fractals, but her amazement was dulled by grief and exhaustion.

“What shall we do now?” she mumbled.

“Thou shalt rest truly, and I shall take us the rest of the way out of Gelmir.”

Rowa wanted to protest the idea, noticing that he looked worn, but she lacked the strength to form any meaningful argument. His fingers ghosted over her forehead, and his voice rumbled in her ears as he spoke an incantation. Her eyelids quickly grew heavy, and she gratefully sank against the steady warmth of his body as real, blessed sleep claimed her, where her grief could not follow.

Chapter Text

Morgott sent all but one of his Nightriders away, wanting to lessen their presence as they travelled the rest of the way out of Gelmir. It took a couple of moments to hunt down the Torrent’s whistle, but once he found it, he beckoned the steed forth. Torrent shimmered into existence beside Rowa’s slumbering form, and he leaned down, sniffing at her anxiously.

“Worry thyself not,” Morgott said, though he understood the steed’s feelings more than he had expected to. “Her sleep is one of healing. She will awake and be refreshed.”

Torrent was satisfied with this answer, bobbing his head in a soft snort. He allowed Morgott to place Rowa on his back, her limbs dangling from the saddle as her head rested on the back of his neck. However, he took Rowa’s limpness in stride, his steps carefully chosen to prevent her from slipping off. Morgott was grateful for his intelligence, but he kept a close eye on Rowa’s positioning as they moved out.

The stillness of Gelmir did not seem even half as threatening as it had when they had arrived. Whether or not Rykard’s death had truly shifted the aura of the land could not be ascertained, but everything seemed less threatening, as though the removal of the sibilant undertone had freed it from shackles that had gone unnoticed until their breaking. The mountain still glowed and groaned with its inward fire, but it was no longer dictated by the Great Serpent.

Despite the change, Morgott did not lower his guard, watching the surroundings as the little group made its way up the road. It seemed, however, that Gelmir had only become more desolate. The recusants were fled away, the cessblood scent dimming with each gust of wind that blew through the crags. There was no telling what would become of the land now, but perhaps it would be returned to some old and forgotten stage of life, or blossom into something new altogether.

As dusk approached, they reached the bridge to Altus. Tension bled away from Morgott with each step on the wooden slats, culminating in utter relief as he finally set foot in the golden grass of the plateau once more. The wind still smelled of ash, but beneath it was the sweet and grassy tinge of erdleaf, Altus blooms, and sunflowers. But even then, he did not call upon the group to stop until he sighted a sliver of Grace amidst the trees, shining brightly in the gathering shadows of dusk. His decision to stop was cemented when he saw a pool of water nearby, reminding him how desperately he wished to clean himself and rid his body of the clinging ashes.

Torrent did not protest at Morgott’s request to stop, approaching the Grace. As Morgott eased Rowa from his back, he settled himself on the ground, his purpose obvious. Morgott set Rowa on the ground, letting her upper body lean against Torrent’s side, her head propped on his shoulder.

Beneath the light of dusk and the Erdtree’s radiance, which could not be fully dimmed by his Nightrider’s presence, Morgott noticed just how filthy Rowa had become. She was as grimy as he was, if not more, ashes streaked across her face, her clothes, her hair. It would leave her open to infection if any wounds lingered beneath the dirt.

He would tend to her first.

He brought forth some of the perfumer concoctions from his own pack, and hunted through Torrent’s saddlebag for extra cloth. After cleansing his hands in the water, he applied some of the perfumer’s powder to the cloth and wetted it, bringing it back to Rowa. He took hold of one of her hands, and began to wipe away the dirt with slow, deliberate applications of the cloth. Beneath the cleansing solvent, even the most ingrained portions of dirt fell away, revealing the calloused skin.

When he finished with her hands, he moved to her face, taking even more care. The cloth traced the contours of her cheeks, the curve of her brow, the angle of her jaw. It was not only the filth he wiped away, but the tears that had long since dried on her face, and in the back of his mind he wished that doing so would truly cleanse her of the traces of grief. Her distraught cries still rang in his mind, like the wails of the souls he had purged, and her misery had shook him deeply.

Again, his traitorous thoughts bade him wonder if she would feel the same way towards him, if some ill fortune were to befall him. And then his thoughts turned to the opposite situation, if something were to happen to her…

He looked down at her slumbering face grimly. He could not dismiss the stirrings of worry over her wellbeing. He had grown used to her company, something he had not been fully aware of until she was almost taken from him, and despite what his mind said, he did not want to return to the lonely life that he had been relegated to. There was no hiding himself, no worry of being found out. There was only himself, being bared bit by bit to her, and there was a certain feeling of relieved freedom that he had not felt since a time long ago, when Godwyn’s family accepted him.

He stopped cleaning when he finished her face. Anything more would be improper in his eyes, and he could see no traces of blood seeping through her clothing, but there were some bruises beginning to appear on her hands that he could tend to. As he set aside the cloth and reached for a soothing ointment, he noticed that Melina had appeared sometime during his ministrations, kneeling silently alongside the sliver of Grace. Their eyes met, and she nodded in acknowledgment, but remained silent.

Morgott returned to his work, a new dread rising in his thoughts. Rowa’s grief over Rya was powerful, and how much greater would it be when her companion, her Maiden, was sacrificed? He did not want to dwell on such things, but he had no choice. Guilt prodded his heart roughly, and he suddenly found it hard to gaze upon Rowa’s unassuming face.

He finished applying the ointment and drew away, satisfied with his work. She was not completely clean, but he would leave the rest to her own agency when she woke.

Melina said nothing still, and he passed her by, approaching the pool of water. It reflected the light of the Erdtree and the stars above like a shivering, black mirror. He unfastened his belt, setting it aside, then reached for the ties of his cloak. It had been so long since he had removed it that he almost hesitated to do so now, but he needed to be free of Gelmir’s cloying cinders. The ties dangled loosely, and the cloak slipped from his shoulders.

The water was cool around Morgott’s ankles, perhaps chill enough to be unpleasant to a normal man, but he took no notice. It was clean by comparison to the stinking pits of filth in the sewers, but not nearly as pristine as the tubs he had bathed in while in Godwyn’s house. Nevertheless, it would serve its purpose, and as he waded deeper he welcomed the cool wetness.

He reached the pond’s deepest point, the water stopping close to his waist. He stooped, cupping his hands and pouring water over his head. It soaked into his horns and hair, running in rivulets down his face. As he began cleaning himself in earnest, the dirt sloughed off like a layer of dead skin, bringing him deep relief. He could not abide the feeling of being filthy for too long. It reminded him of the sewers.

However, it seemed no amount of cleansing could rid him of the feeling of Rowa’s forehead touching his own, nor the phantom of her face pressed against him as she wept. His arms still felt the tightness of her grasp as she clung to him like he was all she had.

Soon enough, he would be. Melina would make her sacrifice, and he would be left to contend with the consequences, which he anticipated with increasing trepidation. The grief of losing someone beloved was not something he would wish and most anyone, especially someone like Rowa. But now that he knew the truth of her heart, the thought of attempting to remain alongside her did not seem so unappealing or disingenuous. Perhaps he did not care for her as much as she did him, and he was not well-versed in providing comfort either in word or action, but his heart would not let him sit idle in good conscience.

He would be the shield he had vowed to be, to her heart as much as his body.

He plunged his head into the water wholly, and broke the surface refreshed.

Even with thorough cleaning, it still took a while for Morgott to be satisfied. He finally waded ashore as the Full Moon crept into the sky, shaking the water from himself and sending a shower of silver droplets into the night air. Melina had remained by the Grace the whole time, as much a silent sentinel as the Nightrider, and she watched impassively as he refastened his cloak, returning to the small circle of light. He sat down in the grass, a bone-deep weariness settling over him now that he allowed himself to rest. His Nightrider would have to keep watch, for he was certain he could not force himself to remain awake until Rowa regained consciousness. But before he slept, he did not want to lose the opportunity to speak with Melina.

“Maiden.” Morgott spoke to the night air, lifting his head towards the stars. “I adjure thee to speak with me.”

A faint whisper of wind touched his face as Melina approached, kneeling in the grass next to him. He did not look at her, nor she him, both preferring to watch the night sky.

“What is your mind?” she asked quietly.

Morgott let a gentle breeze pass between them before answering. “Thou didst see all that transpired in the Volcano Manor?”

“I did.”

“And thou dost understand what hath befallen thy Tarnished, and what hath grieved her so?”

“I do.”

“I now understand the breadth of her heart, as thou hast warned me before.”

“Yes,” Melina said somberly. “There is strength and weakness in it, and it is something that a fell god would not hesitate to twist for its own designs, like the previous contender.”

“I see that all the clearer.” Morgott still did not look at her, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper. “But I must ask thee…when the time cometh, thou must die?”

“Yes.” The weight of her fate suddenly seemed all the heavier, pressing down on her shoulders. The calm resignation had become embittered by compassion. She had to burn, she even desired to, but she was burdened with the feelings cultivated by Rowa’s kindness. “Yes, I must die.”

Morgott had expected her answer, but he asked, “Is there no other way?”

“The Flame requires a sacrifice, to open the path of Death. It will burn all who are sacrificed, for such is the nature of fire, unless…”

“Unless there is a greater power to sustain the body through it,” Morgott finished. “Such as the power Vyke took unto himself.”

“As long as the Frenzied Flame remains in this world, it will never stop seeking a lord to uphold it, but I will not allow such a thing. I will burn, and I do not fear it.” Melina turned her one eye upon him. “But you fear what will come after.”

“After what we both witnessed, wouldst thou not?”

“If she were to be left without anyone, then I would, but she will not.”

“I am not sure how great my aid will be, when the time is nigh.”

“You have drawn closer to her, and have been a comfort already, so I would not discount yourself so swiftly. If all else fails, remember the reason you undertook this bond with her, for the sake of the world itself.”

Morgott watched leaves drift from the massive branches of the Erdtree.  “Aye, I suppose that is so.”

“All blame shall lie upon me for her grief, and the anger she shall surely feel. I have always known, long before we crossed paths, or my arrival at the Erdtree, that I was destined for sacrifice. I have withheld this from many, and she is not the first, but I think it a necessary measure to withhold the propagation of chaos. You have done so as well on my behalf, for you know the danger of the Frenzied Flame even more than I, but I could have told her long ago.”

“A Tarnished in the Manor did speak of his Maiden’s death. At that time, I was tempted to speak of thy intent, but I withheld it.”

“I cannot fault you. There have been times when I have been similarly compelled.”

“Aye, but I am not so blameless as thy claims would make me.”

“Perhaps not, but my hope is that time will grant Rowa understanding, and she will not begrudge you for what you have done on my behalf.”

Morgott gave a noncommittal growl in response. The dread of Melina’s coming departure had not lessened, but he was now fully resigned to it. He would shield Rowa to the best of his ability, even if he had to bear her sorrow, even her anger.

“I said all I desired to say,” he said at length. “I must rest now. Wilt thou keep vigil with my Nightrider?”

“I will.”

As Morgott began to situate himself for sleep, their eyes met, and he thought he glimpsed a trace of sadness in Melina’s face. She took no more joy in her fate than he did, and that was a small comfort.

Rowa came back to the waking world slowly, peacefully, unlike the last time. She drifted upwards on the currents of wakefulness, opening her eyes to the night sky and the Erdtree’s glow shining through a murky veil of shadow.

The first thing that struck her mind was her grief, piercing and intense, before she even understood where she was. Her throat tightened, her eyes stinging as she relived the past day in her mind. Truth had not brought the relief of understanding to Rya as she had intended. Only anguish, and the desire to escape from the body she had deemed accursed. Morgott had been right, and she had been terribly wrong.

Blinking back the threatening tears, she tried to get her wits about her. Grass tickled her hands, and she was leaning against Torrent’s strong, familiar warmth. To her relief, she spotted Morgott curled on the ground only a few feet from her, his back turned to her and his shoulders moving with the even breaths of slumber. He had been there, so close to her, reaching out to her, holding her as she wept.

Her hand rose to the talisman, toying idly with the warmed metal as she pieced her memories together. When he had been so near to her, in mind and body, she had not noticed at the time that the talisman had felt like it was burning, but not in a way that singed flesh and bone. It was deep and exhilarating in an odd way, as though the bond between them had responded to his closeness. But now the feeling was gone, leaving behind only a faint remnant inside her mind.

She finally tried to get her bearings, tearing her thoughts away from Morgott temporarily. Gelmir rose high nearby, but it jarred her to see how far away she was compared to when she had last been conscious. They were now in Altus again, the grass golden and the air smelling of earth and flowers.

She tried moving a little, and found she had the strength, her body not nearly as fatigued as she expected from what it had undergone. A shiver crawled up her spine as she recalled chaotic flashes of the souls in Rykard’s Rune, pulling her mind in an endless whirlwind of torment.

“It is good to see you awake.”

Rowa was pulled back to the present by Melina’s voice, relief flooding her at the sight of her and the sliver of Grace she knelt by. “Oh, Melina.” Her words were choked on restrained tears. “It is so good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Melina said, the faintest furrow appearing on her brow. “You still grieve.”

“Yes.” Rowa tried unsuccessfully to clear the tightness in her throat. “I assume you saw…?”

“I did. You are not wrong in your feelings.”

Rowa shook her head, struggling to speak. “I thought I could help her. I thought she would finally be able to understand and start new, but…”

“Rya’s sorrow, and her actions because of it, are not your doing. You meant well, and you should not take the burden on yourself. The fault lies with Lady Tanith, in my opinion.”

Rowa let out a quivering sigh. Melina’s attempt at comfort was not wholly in vain, but Rya’s unrestrained horror would not soon leave her mind. “Morgott told me once that mercy would be my undoing. Now I can’t help but wonder if he was right.”

“That is something you will have to take up with him,” Melina said. “Though you have not been able to grant mercy to everyone, it has won you a way forward that has not been afforded to many Tarnished. Do not let this fill your heart with emptiness, for the world is broken, and all care is mingled now with grief. But it is in such times that kindness and mercy become the most valuable, for many seek it, but few are able to give it.”

“You speak truly, but…” Rowa trailed off, unable to give voice to the amount of guilt she felt. Rya would have been better off remaining unaware of her heritage.

“It will take time for the burden to lessen, but it will. I do not think less of you for what has come to pass, nor does Morgott.”

Rowa glanced at the sleeping Omen. “Are…are you certain? I disregarded him, and what he warned me of came to pass.”

“He has thought of nothing else but your wellbeing. Any contention towards you has not been voiced aloud.”

Rowa was certain he would have had some sort of obvious disapproval, but she could not justify that assumption with her own memories. He had been alongside her as a comfort and nothing else, which she was deeply grateful for. She looked at herself, and for the first time noticed the faint but pungent odor hanging around her. Her hands were completely cleaned of dirt and mud, even in the grooves of her skin, and the smell clung to them. Startled, she brought a hand to her face, knowing that was just as filthy if not more so, and her fingers came away spotless.

“Was this your doing?” she asked, gesturing to herself.

“No,” Melina said. “He saw fit to cleanse you and himself of Gelmir’s ash, after purging the blasphemy from Rykard’s Rune.”

“I see.” Heat spread through Rowa’s face as she imagined it, though she found the gesture thoughtful, at least. “He was able to cleanse the Rune completely?”

“It seems so, though that is likely by your determination.”

Hoping she would not regret it, she cupped her hands, summoning the Great Runes she possessed. There were three as she had expected, but Rykard’s Rune was almost unrecognizable. It was no longer wreathed in incarnadine flame, shimmering calm and bright next to the other Runes.

“It seems he succeeded,” Melina observed.

“Yes, he did.” Rowa tested the Rune carefully, and when no flare of fire rose to meet her, she sank a little deeper, curious as to what echoes lay within. She was met with memories of the Great Serpent, ravenous for flesh. Countless faces flashed before her minds eye, moments before they were devoured. Unlike the other Runes, even Godrick’s, there was no sense of thought or reason. Only an endless, burning hunger that was never sated. There was only one echo she could understand with clarity, and it was not even Rykard who brought it about.

“My Lord, there could be no greater distress than to forget you.”

Rowa pulled away from the Rune, eager to distance herself from the vileness of its former bearer, but Morgott had accomplished what he meant to. There were no more souls trapped inside it. She looked towards the Erdtree, wondering if they had flown there, or somewhere farther still.

“What did you see?” Melina asked.

“Nothing of any importance, only memories of hunger,” Rowa replied. “The Rune’s power remains, and that is we have need of.”

“Indeed. We have upheld the main contingent of our end of the accord. I can imagine that Radahn shall soon meet a similar fate as his brother, allowing for Ranni to take god-slaying blade.”

Rowa had almost forgotten about the greater purpose behind their infiltration of Volcano Manor. The accord almost seemed insignificant to her in the face of her guilt over Rya, but she tried to recollect her thoughts. There was nothing that could be done for Rya now. What mattered now was the journey into the mountains, to the waiting Forge.

“I suppose I shall endeavor to familiarize myself with this Rune as I have the others while Morgott rests,” she said. “And I will try to have a meal ready for him when he wakes, to show my gratitude.”

“As long as you have the strength for it,” Melina replied.

Rowa gathered her feet under her, standing up slowly. Her legs trembled a little, sending her grasping at Torrent’s saddlebags in case she fell, but the unsteadiness was short lived. She stood straight, relieved that her affliction did not linger heavily. She wanted to do something, to take her mind off the grief. “It seems I have strength aplenty.”

Rowa passed the hours meditating on her Runes, trying to put Morgott’s previous instructions to practice. The introduction of a third Rune was overwhelming at first, but after some struggle she acclimated to its presence. She practiced releasing small portions of power, breaking arcs in her hands. Such small pieces did not last long, she found, coursing through her in a sudden surge like she had been caught unawares, fading away quickly. Exercising control over how much power was released began to seem more taxing than the power itself, but she continued doggedly.

The presence of the Nightrider was a slight distraction, his cold aura hanging in the back of Rowa’s mind. She did her best to ignore the feeling, and was surprised to learn through Melina that she had ridden with a host through Gelmir. She did not know if she felt disappointed at her unconsciousness at the time; it was likely a strange experience, but also perhaps an interesting one.

Dawn came, sending a host of hues between rose red and burning orange scattering across the sky in the east. Rowa then broke away from her meditations to begin preparing a meal for him, cobbled together from their meager provisions of meat and berries. He slept longer than she anticipated, however, and once the preparations were finished she was left waiting again. She had spent enough energy on meditation, so she was unwillingly pulled back into her painful thoughts.

It was close to midmorning when Morgott finally stirred. His sleep had been deep and unbothered, sustained by exhaustion. He awoke to daylight shining directly in his face, and it took him a moment to make sense of the golden grass beneath him. He rolled over with a small grunt, surprised but deeply relieved to see Rowa sitting up with Melina. When he moved, she looked at him, and though her expression was neutral he could see the red-rimmed puffiness around her eyes.

“Tarnished,” he said, pushing himself into a sitting position, “I was unsure if thou wouldst be awake before I.”

“Yes.” Rowa’s voice was even, but he could hear the faint, constricted undertone brought about by recent tears. “I have been for some time now.”

“And how dost thou fare?”

“Well enough. Bodily, I almost feel like new.”

“But…thy mind is still troubled.” Morgott spoke carefully, unsure of how she would react.

Rowa’s lips quirked in a mirthless smile. “I suppose it is truly that easy to see.”

Morgott refrained from speaking further, studying her momentarily. It was almost unnerving how different she looked. The congenial and determined face she typically presented was gone, washed away by something raw, something bitter. He hoped she would not remain so.

“Do you feel no sorrow?” Rowa asked lowly, studying his impassive features.

“I do feel sadness for the hatred of oneself the girl didst turn to, but I do not feel it half so keenly as thee, for I hath seen much of that measure in my time,” he said. “Why dost thou mourn so for the girl thou didst know only a little? Unless I am gravely mistaken, thou didst encounter her only once before this.”

Rowa’s gaze became distant. “She was wholly innocent despite the world she lived in. It is true that I did not know her long, but I have not encountered another like her in my travels. She was good, and I…” Her voice caught, and it took her a moment to find her words again. “All she wanted was to understand herself, and I granted her that understanding without thinking of the consequences. You warned me, but I thought it could not end in such a way as this.”

“I did not know, in utter certainty,” Morgott replied somberly. “‘Twas merely my way of thinking, given the dreadful nature of Rykard’s blasphemy.”

“Nevertheless, you were right. I was a fool, as you said.”

“Thou wert mistaken, ‘tis true, but I see thy intent was good. Thou’rt not a fool for holding goodwill towards another.”

Rowa hesitated to answer. She had not been expecting such a mild response from him, and she could see no frustration, no anger. He only seemed pensive, perhaps even outright sympathetic towards her plight, and that was a surprise.

“When we first met, you told me mercy would be my undoing,” she went on. “I now think that you may have been right.”

“My thoughts are changed from that time,” Morgott confessed carefully. “For if thou wert not inclined towards mercy, then we would not be speaking ‘ere. One of us would be fallen by the sword.”

“But it is still a dangerous thing. It has hurt me, and left me weak. If you had not been there, I would surely be dead.”

Her strained tone pricked Morgott’s heart with unreasonable viciousness. “There is weakness in it, but I begin to see the strength as well. Many hath died needlessly in the course of the Shattering at the least. This, I know better than most. The world is stained with blood, for few know when to extend mercy. Even I do not know it well. But thou shouldst not wholly abandon that which thou hast clung to, for there is strength in it.”

“Even after this?” Rowa whispered.

“Aye.” Before his mind quite knew what his body was doing, Morgott stood and approached her, kneeling in the grass in front of her. “I now understand thy heart better. Thou didst mean well for the girl, but the world is broken. All good can be sullied, turned upon its head. That is how the world hath been, even before the breaking of the Ring. Even before I lived. I hath done many things I hoped would be good, only for brokenness to come of it. I sank into such thoughts as thee, in my zealotry to protect the remnants of my mother’s designs. But I hath begun to see the folly in such ways of thinking, and I do not wish to see thee lost to the same darkness. Do not let this infraction sully thy mind and heart forever, for the fault does not truly lay with thee. Lady Tanith’s lies and Rykard’s blasphemy are to blame, for if the girl did not learn through thy agency, she would some other way, and the outcome would likely be the same.”

Rowa said nothing as Morgott finally ended his outpouring. She sucked in a fortifying breath blinked hard, but could not stop fresh tears from spilling over onto her cheeks.

“Did I speak indecently?” Morgott asked, alarmed.

“No, not at all.” Rowa wiped at her face with trembling hands. “You merely spoke the truth. I feel so much guilt, but I cannot let it prevent me from moving onwards.”

“I do not consider thee at fault. Thou shouldst strive to do the same for thyself.”

Rowa smiled a little through her tears, the previous bitterness on her face beginning to recede. “Thank you, for what you said. It may take time, but I will strive to relinquish my guilt.”

“It will lessen with the course of time.”

Rowa nodded, trying to compose herself, and as she did, Morgott caught Melina’s eye. After speaking so openly with her, he did not know if he feared the lighting of the Forge more or less.

“By the way,” Rowa said, recapturing his attention, “I prepared this for you.”

Morgott watched, mystified, as she brought forth a concoction of food lain across a spare piece of cloth. It was a portion of their provisions, garnished with some nuts and roots foraged from the plateau itself. The sight made his stomach pinch with hunger that he had forgotten until that moment.

“What is this?” he asked.

“I wanted to have a meal ready for you when you awoke,” Rowa said, suddenly finding it difficult to maintain eye contact. “Melina told me about how you strove to help me, so I thought I would do something in return. From what I remember, you seemed exhausted.”

Morgott glanced at Melina, who said, “I only imparted the truth.”

He looked back at Rowa, at the small offering. All words seemed to have fled from his mind, leaving his tongue numb. He had not received such a gesture in so long that he hardly knew if he should accept it.

“I…my thanks.” The words stumbled from his lips, and he almost marveled at how quickly his assured eloquence from moments ago had abandoned him.

Rowa smiled as he accepted the meal, the weight of sorrow lifting further from her countenance. She had prepared her own portion as well and took it, readying herself to turn her back to him as he ate.

“Tarnished.”

Rowa paused, looking back at him. “Yes?”

Once more, Morgott’s speech did not come easily. “There is no more need to avert thine eyes. That which I sought to hide hath now been revealed.”

“Oh…I suppose so,” Rowa agreed.

“But, if thou dost take offense to my countenance, then thou’rt free to turn away.”

“I take no offense at all.”

“Then thou canst do as thou wish.”

“I wish to eat together,” Rowa said, fighting to restrain another smile. “Is that acceptable to you?”

Morgott kept his gaze on his meal, trying to ignore the sudden heat rising in his face. “I suppose it is.”

Rowa faced him again, and they began to eat their first meal together as the midmorning sun warmed the land.

Chapter Text

When Morgott and Rowa finished their meal, they set off once more, their backs to Gelmir and their eyes set on the Erdtree. As they went, Morgott shared his encounter with the Crucible Knight in the Manor, and Rowa listened with great interest to his explanation astride Torrent.

“Why did you not tell me that you suspected him to be one of your father’s knights?” she asked. “He could have been of help to us.”

“I was unsure of his authenticity,” Morgott said. “He could have been a charlatan, who took the armor for his own, but now I am assured he is a true knight.”

Rowa hummed thoughtfully. “And so, he and the others of his order believe that the power of the Crucible remains somewhere in the world?”

“It seemeth so. I had never given great thought to the power, for in my mind it was an age long since passed, the only remnants seen in Omens, Misbegotten, and other such peoples. This is the first time I hath heard of such a consideration.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I do. He spake to me of many things about the Crucible, and when he saw the amber medallion, he…”

Rowa glanced at him as he trailed off. “He what?”

“He bowed to me.” The full weight of what had occurred with the Crucible Knight had not struck Morgott until that very moment, for at the time he had been too preoccupied with catching up to Rowa quickly. But now he was almost in disbelief of what had happened, how the knight had so readily offered his honor in a manner of deep reverence. To him, an Omen.

Rowa could see the disbelief in the wideness of his visible eye. “Is that not to be expected of one of his order? You are the son of his lord.”

“He…he was not wrong to do so. I merely did not expect it of him.”

Rowa was surprised by his answer, anticipating a more depreciating response. “I am glad you were able to cross paths with him on friendly terms.”

“As am I.”

“Now I wonder how we will discover the remaining power of the Crucible. If the knights could not find it, how shall we?”

“The knight said Marika will likely know what became of the Crucible, and I must agree. Though there were many lords before Marika, the Crucible was not utterly sundered until her reign, as I doth understand it.”

“Yes, that does seem so,” Rowa mused, thinking back to the literature they had read on the subject. “So, we stay the course to Leyndell, and then the mountains beyond?”

“Aye.” Leyndell had done well despite Morgott’s physical absence. His soldiers continued in the same duties they always had, and no new threats had arisen. In his watches at night, he had sent his illusory self there, to learn of anything new or pressing. Fortunately, despite the major shifts in his personal life, the city remained in its stagnation for the time being.

“Ah, another thing,” he said, remembering the odd artifact he had taken from Rykard’s stores. He took the pouch from his belt and handed it to Rowa. “I found this resting alongside the Mirrorhelm.”

Rowa opened the pouch, studying the jagged stone within. She turned it in her hands, feeling the deep coolness put off by the red staining the sharp edge. “What is it?”

“I know not in certainty. It may be of great import, or nothing at all.”

“I suppose time will tell.” Rowa scrutinized the stone a little longer before stashing it away in her pack.

Being moderately rested and well-fed, their travel was easy, though they kept to the sparse woodland of the plateau. They exchanged little talk once Morgott finished relaying information of his exploits in the Manor, but the silence was a more comfortable one than they had experienced before in their travels. Both were content to bask in the golden serenity of Altus after such discord and upheaval in Gelmir, and something deeper still had altered the quiet stretches. Neither could put it into words, nor did they attempt to, but it felt as though some invisible distance between them had narrowed.

They traveled further well into the evening to make up for their late start, stopping when the sunset’s fire had all but diminished in the westward sky. They had made considerable progress, the valley overlook of the blighted Erdtree sprout visible in the distance through the woodland when they chose to stop. There was no Grace nearby, but it was just as well to avoid any potential hostile encounters.

Rowa offered Morgott some food, and he accepted it without complaint or demands that she turn away, beginning to eat as she did. He could not help but be self-conscious, but she made no comments on his teeth. She tried not to stare, though she glanced a couple of times, quietly fascinated with the sharp fangs that he had kept hidden.

The stillness of night began to fall across Altus, the stars appearing as dusk faded. Neither of them spoke as they ate, absorbed in their thoughts. Morgott heard a rustle in the distance, but initially dismissed it as wildlife until it persisted, beginning to grow closer and more pronounced. He stopped eating, going still as he listened closely to the distant noise. At his pause, Rowa took notice of the disturbance as well, stilling herself similarly.

The noise was footsteps without a doubt, at least two sets, the distinct crunching of grass underfoot coming at irregular intervals that betrayed more than one perpetrator. Morgott was certain his soldiers were not the cause. They patrolled the roadways, and rarely deviated to the woodland unless they had due cause. His next thoughts were those of assassins or Omenkillers, but they knew better than to approach in such an abrasive manner.

Rowa’s mind turned to recusants. It would not be improbable for a group to have followed them all the way from Gelmir, if they were as zealous as they seemed. As the footsteps drew steadily closer, she reached for her swords, but stopped herself when voices drifted above the disturbance. One was a man’s voice and the other a woman’s, but she could not make out what they were saying.

Morgott had the benefit of better hearing, and his stomach dropped in disbelief as he too heard the voices. He thought his mind was still addled from his earlier exhaustion, but as they grew louder, he knew that was not so.

“Tarnished,” he murmured, “dost thou hear…?”

“Yes, but I don’t…” Rowa stopped abruptly as she caught a strain of the conversation.

“Oh, dear me. I’m afraid my form was always unsuited for this kind of travel.”

“Do not hurry thyself so, child. Such obstacles will only become harder to navigate in the coming dark.”

“But I do so want to catch up to them! It’s been over a full day now…”

Rowa stared at the darkened underbrush in disbelief. The man’s voice she did not know, but the woman’s sounded like… “Rya?”

Morgott smelled the breeze, for he too did not fully believe his ears, but the whiff of man-serpent assured him that it was no falsehood. “Aye, it is she.”

Even with his confirmation, Rowa could not stir herself to action until she finally spotted the hunched, pale-haired figure picking her way through the trees. The vice grip of grief on her heart loosened with a surge of disbelieving relief, and something between a laugh and a sob fell from her lips as she called out, “Rya!”

Rya peered at them, the beaming smile on her face visible even from a distance. “Oh, we found them! Brave Tarnished, brave Omen, we followed you from the Manor!”

Rowa was running before Rya finished speaking, heedless of the noise she made crashing through the underbrush. She tripped and stumbled, but carried on heedlessly. Rya saw her coming and broke into her own hobbling, awkward trot, giving it her all despite her body being ill-suited for such movement. They met within moments, Rowa catching her in a fierce embrace that nearly unbalanced the both of them. Neither spoke for a stretch, too overwhelmed with emotion to speak as their respective companions caught up to them.

“Brave Tarnished.” Rya was the first to speak, her words underscored by a tremor of regret as she pulled back from the embrace. “I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me for what I said and did, back then. It was terribly foolish of me, and I did not mean to cause you such pain.”

It took Rowa several moments to reply, the breadth of her feelings temporarily robbing her of speech. She swallowed back the sob building in her chest, but she could not help the tears that streamed openly down her face. “Seeing you here, alive, is forgiveness enough. I…I thought…”

Rya bowed her head in shame. “Once I came to my senses, I realized you were only ever trying to help me. I thank you, for not despising me despite my origins.”

“I could never despise you,” Rowa said, smiling despite her tears.

Morgott was surprised at the amount of emotion he felt upon seeing Rya, both for her own sake and for Rowa’s. He had incorrectly assumed Rya’s intentions, and it seemed she was merely a kind girl, untouched by most of the divisiveness that pervaded the Lands Between. He was also pleasantly surprised to see the Crucible Knight once more so soon.

“I did not expect to see thee so soon,” he said with a nod to the knight.

The knight returned the gesture. “Nor I, but I was given orders to protect Tanith’s child, and she wished to catch up to thee, to speak things unsaid. To where dost thou travel?”

“We shall return to Leyndell from whence we came, then onward to the Forbidden Lands. Those are the next steps of the road we travel.”

“As much as we desire to accompany thee, it cannot be so, for the path of lordship is not ours to walk.”

Rowa heard this, and turned a concerned gaze on Rya. “I suppose I understand if you cannot accompany us, but where shall you go?”

“The advantage of doing my mother’s work has given me access to knowing much of the happenings in the world,” Rya said. “I know that the former lord of Stormveil Castle and his dark practices are now vanquished, and a new lord has come to take his place.”

“Who is this new lord?”

“I know not her name, but I understand that she is a Tarnished, who treats all manner of creatures fairly beneath her rule. If there is a place for me in the world as it is now, it seems I will find it there.”

There was no way for Rowa to be certain who the new lord was, but she had an idea. Her heart became even lighter as she said, “If you arrive there, and find this Tarnished is named Nepheli, then please tell her that I send her my regards, and I remain on the path to being Elden Lord.”

“Gladly,” Rya said. “We cannot stay for long, as now that I am away from my mother, my human form’s span is limited, and we must take advantage of the time we have. But my knight shared with me a little about your purpose in coming to the Manor, and the world you envision. I wish to know more about that, for I now understand the brokenness of the world more deeply than before.”

“I will tell you everything I can,” Rowa promised.

Morgott gave the Crucible Knight a questioning look, and he gave a little shrug. “I too would like to know more of this world, if thou dost not object.”

Morgott watched Rowa wipe away her tears with a smile. “I do not.”

The next hours were ones of explanation. Rowa did most of the speaking, imparting to her attentive listeners the repairing of the broken world that she and Morgott had agreed upon. Morgott felt a twinge of shame when Rya inevitably learned of his true nature as a demigod, but she looked at him with nothing more than admiration and awe.

“Though I know I am not from the Crucible, I hope there will be a place for me, and perhaps my brethren in this world,” Rya murmured as she contemplated what she had been told. “I was not born by natural means.”

“There will be a place for you and the others if they cast aside the violence they were brought up in,” Rowa said. “I do not wish to deny anyone for what they are. Only actions and intent should bring about acceptance or denial.”

Rya smiled. “I do not know much about lordship, but that seems like a good way of thinking.”

“Such thoughts were once in the mind of my lord Godfrey,” the Crucible Knight said, speaking for the first time since hearing Rowa’s explanation.

Morgott looked at him with interest. “Indeed?”

“Godfrey and his warrior peoples were simple, unconcerned with the wiles of the gods. They sought to bring justice to the oppressed, and their order did not despise any manner of creature.”

Rowa could not help but voice the question that came to her mind. “Then how is it that he became a part of the Golden Order?”

Morgott found himself wishing to know the answer as well. He knew little of his father’s thoughts or intent as Elden Lord, relying upon the few memories he had and what Godwyn had told him, which was not considerable.

“Marika’s vision was once simple,” the knight said. “She saw a world of order, and Godfrey was enamored, first with her vision and then with herself. The Greater Will, however, demanded a world that was different than what he had expected. But he loved her then, and could not bring himself to turn away from her even when the Golden Order became something he surely would fight against otherwise.”

Suddenly, Morgott had his answer to question he had asked himself, or at least one part of it. He had no reason to doubt the knight’s words. Godfrey had loved Marika once, but…

“But did Marika return his feelings?” Rowa asked, giving voice to his next question.

The knight shook his helm. “That I cannot tell thee. Never did I pledge any allegiance to Marika, and rare it was that I ever did see her. But indeed there was something she desired, if not his mere strength and prowess as a warrior, for she chose him as consort.”

Morgott was unsurprised that the knight had little to offer. Few knew the mind of Marika. Perhaps no one but herself ever truly did.

“Thank you for your thoughts, nonetheless,” Rowa said.

“Do not let such considerations of brokenness and strife worry thee, for thou dost not seek communion with any outer god,” the knight said.

“But it is good to know that I am not the first to consider these matters. The Golden Order does not have as many devoted followers as I first supposed.”

“Many seek to uphold it because that is all they hath ever known,” Morgott said, “and I was among that number. True zealots and the utterly devoted hath waned in the wake of the Shattering, but the vision they uphold is that of the Greater Will. Marika’s vision…’twas not a world like this, I would think.”

“The world you wish to bring about sounds truly wonderful to someone like me,” Rya said. “I know nothing of gods and consorts, but if I may live unashamed and unafraid, then that is a world I would like to see. I hope you stay the path, no matter what awaits you.”

“We will,” Rowa promised. “I have met too many who have suffered to let the world remain.”

Morgott said nothing, but he could see the hope shining in Rya’s eyes. A feeling of resolve settled in his heart then. The vision of the coming world shifted from an inward desire to break the current world’s stagnation to something outward, something that went beyond himself and Rowa. For the first time, he saw what the changing of the world meant to someone who had suffered much like him, and who would continue to struggle if nothing was done.

They talked amongst themselves until the Full Moon was past its zenith. As the silver light moved beyond the Erdtree’s cover towards the horizon, the knight’s attention was drawn to the time that had passed.

“Child,” he said at last, addressing Rya, “we must continue our journey.”

Rya nodded reluctantly, glancing towards the Full Moon. “I suppose you are right.”

Rowa did not wish to part so soon either, but Stormveil seemed like the safest course of action. “So you will go into the south, to Stormveil.”

“That is the hope.”

“I hath received no more reports of grafting,” Morgott said. “Godrick’s rule is fully extinguished. I know nothing of this Tarnished who stepped into lordship in his wake, but at least the most vile of practices are not upheld.”

“I am glad to hear it,” the knight said, “for I heard many rumors, and none were of any good thing.”

The pair gathered their meager belongings, and Rowa tried not to worry for them. She had met Rya alone in the middle of Liurnia after all, where many dangers abounded. She was no longer alone, and there was no doubt that the knight would protect her.

“I am glad we were able to find you, so that we could both be assured of each other’s wellbeing,” Rya said to Rowa. “Once more I thank you, for trying to uphold me in my despair, for not heeding my foolish requests.”

“And I thank you for traveling all this way just to speak with us,” Rowa said. “It has done my heart well.”

“Mine, also.” Rya clasped Rowa’s hands in her own. “From the moment we met, I knew how kind and uncompromising you were, and that has truly saved me. I hope that kindness never dims.”

Rowa fought the prick of tears behind her eyes. “I pray you never have to feel such despair again.”

As they spoke, the knight approached Morgott. “I wish thee good fortune in thy travels once more. Thy Tarnished is of honorable bearing, and it is my hope that thy union remaineth steadfast.”

“My thanks,” Morgott said, studying the knight. “Before thou dost depart, wilt thou at least bestow me the honor of knowing thy name?”

The knight paused, considering the request. “I hath had no name for many years, forgotten ‘neath the weight of servitude. But once, when I was in thy lord father’s service, I was known by the name of Demetan.”

“I shall remember it, if for nothing else then my father’s sake. When all is put right, I would gladly welcome thee, and those of thy brethren that remain, into my court.”

“I would be most honored. I hope the power of the Crucible dost not hide itself from thee long, and thy court is established in strength.”

With final farewells, Rya and Demetan traveled into the night, going into the south where the promise of sanctuary awaited them. Rowa watched them depart, the overwhelming weight of grief gone, though the guilt remained as a small thorn in her heart.

Morgott heard Rowa exhale shakily as the pair vanished from view, drawing his gaze to her. He caught the gleam of wetness on her face, and he murmured, “Art thou aggrieved that they depart so soon?”

“Yes,” Rowa admitted, trying to dry her eyes, “but that is not why I weep.”

“Then why?”

She turned her face up to him, smiling through the tears. “Because I am happy that Rya lived and understands her worth.”

Morgott could find no words to say, somewhat awestruck. To be so joyous to the point of tears; he had thought such deep feeling, such great joys, had long ago vanished from the world. Only once had he felt so moved, when the light of Grace had struck his unworthy eyes, but even that had been a bitter joy. He had no one to share in it, and soon did his happiness dim as Grace drove him to war. Yet now he beheld such pure elation, for one saved life. His heart lifted, and for a fleeting moment, he almost smiled back.

Ranni looked up at the stars frozen in the sky. Soon, they would be released from their bonds, and her fate would begin anew. Even before they had been halted, she had memorized their patterns and ruminated on the meanings of their currents, and their stillness now was fitting for the long stasis the Lands Between had fallen into.

But things had finally begun to change.

Ranni had felt it when Rykard died. She knew somewhere, deep inside her, that his life had come to an end. She had mourned the loss of her brother long ago, for what Rykard had become was a far cry from the man she once knew. Yet the pain she felt at his death still pierced as deep as the Black Knife that had branded her flesh and severed her soul from her body, but her false body had no tears to weep.

It had to be done, and the Omen King had upheld at least a portion of the accord. She did not doubt that he had taken the Mirrorhelm as promised, for he seemed a noble sort. His Tarnished as well.

Soon, Radahn would meet the same fate as Rykard at the hands of many warriors, and with the stars unleashed, the course of fate would begin anew. Blaidd would take the Mirrorhelm and descend into the Eternal Cities to claim the god-slaying blade for her. And, if the stars willed it, the stalwart Tarnished would stand before the Elden Ring.

Melancholy seeped into Ranni’s soul, even as her plans finally saw fruition. Much had been sacrificed to come this far, and it had begun with her own flesh, but that was not the most sorrowful thing. She wished things had been different, for herself, for her family, for all who had suffered, even Godwyn. When she stood at the end of her dark path, her brothers would not join her there. Only her mother, Blaidd, Iji, and…

Ranni turned her gaze from the stars to the darkened room around her. A silver phial gleamed at her from a far corner, forgotten or relegated there on purpose. Porcelain tapped against stone as her false body approached the phial, the silver liquid within shivering as she cradled it in her hands. The time approached when she might have use for it.

“How thou dost continue to vex me, Radagon,” she murmured, her voice filling the quiet tower. “And yet, were we even an afterthought in thy mind?”

No answer came, nor did she expect one. Radagon had been missing since the breaking of the Ring, and she had long ago surmised that he had shared in Marika’s fate if he had not perished, vanishing with her into imprisonment. Why he did so was something she was less sure of, and it was just as vexing as why he had ever left her family in the first place. One day, he had been her father, and the next he was gone away to marry the Eternal Queen, leaving sorrow and pain in his wake. It was then he had ceased to be her father, and had become only Radagon. She had wished to pit all her anger, all her pain against him, but she could not hate him in totality.

There remained a chance, a choice she could present to him, if they met again at the end of the long path. Once, a red-haired knight had been offered such a choice by a Carian Queen, and he had accepted it for the sake of love. It was for that reason she would give him the choice once more, to absolve himself of sin, for her mother had done so first.

She did not know if he would accept it, and she wanted to believe that it did not matter what the outcome was. But as she faced the loss of her brothers, the depths of her soul cleaved to the false body wished that her father would one day amend his wrongs and return to what was left of his first family.

Chapter Text

Rowa went to sleep that night with a lighter heart. Regret no longer hounded her thoughts, and with the promise that Rya would be well protected in her travels, her mind was put at ease. The hour was late by the time she finally settled down to rest, and she sank easily against the grass, ready to drift off for a few hours. With the reassurance of Morgott’s nearby presence, she quickly descended into the realm of sleep.

Her dreams, however, did not share her waking calmness.

The enchantments Morgott had woven over her sleep the day before had faded, leaving her slumbering mind free to be assaulted by the remnant horrors of the tormented souls she had borne. Though they no longer infested her in truth, her mind had yet to overcome the deluge of suffering that had flooded it.

Memories of the shriveled souls, all vestiges of personhood stripped away by the threshing of the Great Serpent, came crawling into the corridors of Rowa’s mind. They reached out shivering, grasping fingers, their faces contorted in the pain of an endless half-life. They pulled at her, trying to drag her down into some deeper void.

Just was they grabbed her, she came awake with a gasp, her heart pounding as her fingers sought purchase in the grass beneath her. Moments later, her view of the night sky was blotted out by a large shadow.

“Tarnished, what ails thee?” Morgott asked, her sudden awakening alarming him. His nighttime vigil had proceeded as normal up until that very moment.

Rowa tried to regain her breath, relieved to see his frowning visage and not the twisted, howling faces. “I…I had a dream, that was all.”

Morgott knew the glazed, frightened look he now saw in her eyes: the knowledge that rest had become anything but, and what had been witnessed was not just a formation of the wandering mind. “What didst thou see?”

Rowa sat up, her body slowly coming down from the peak of fright. She was grateful for his closeness, the warmth of her talisman helping to ground her firmly in the waking world, though it was not enough to keep her voice from quavering a little when she answered him. “I saw the tormented souls in Rykard’s Rune, all around me.”

“I suppose ‘tis to be expected, after such an ordeal as thou didst endure,” Morgott said, unsurprised by the revelation.

“I know it is foolish to feel such apprehension over something that is no longer a threat,” Rowa replied, taking a deep breath and filling her lungs with the cool night air.

“I do not think so, for ‘twas only recently that such things were assailing thee. I know the torment of dreams. As thou dost know, troubling things both real and imagined are oft in my mind.”

“Ah, you are correct.” Rowa’s face heated a little as she realized her lapse in consideration. “You are far more familiar with these matters than I am.”

“As such, I know no true determination to be assured that such dreams will not assail thee, other than the enchantments I cast upon myself,” Morgott said. “If thou wouldst wish it, I could cast them upon thee as a ward.”

Rowa saw then that the deep frown he wore was not one of chagrin, but of sympathy, though his voice betrayed it little. “I would be grateful, if you would.”

Morgott leaned closer to her. His forehead prickled with the memory of her skin against his, but he brushed such thoughts aside. “Remain still.”

Rowa tried to obey as his form encompassed her vision, but she couldn’t help a small twitch when large, calloused fingertips brushed against her forehead. She flushed inadvertently as she was reminded of his closeness from a couple of days before, but he did not seem to notice as he murmured an incantation under his breath. In an instant, her eyes felt heavy, her thoughts slowing with drowsiness.

Morgott drew his hand away, watching her eyelids flutter with the wave of sleepiness that the incantation induced. “Dost thou feel weary?”

Rowa nodded, making a pronounced effort to not ignore him and curl on the ground then and there. “Yes. That is…quite a powerful spell.”

“‘Twas made with my stature in mind,” Morgott answered. He had tried to withhold most of the power unlike his prior usage, since she did not need healing rest as much as mere dreamlessness.

“Morgott…” she murmured, swaying a little, “may I rest…near to you? Just to be sure…” She trailed off, giving him a careful look. His face, only dimly visible by the Erdtree’s pale light, betrayed nothing.

“If that is what thou dost desire, then thou may do so,” he replied.

Rowa woke up a little, startled by his easy acceptance, but it only lasted for a few moments. Relieved, she pushed herself closer to him, leaving enough room between them to be respectable but near enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him.

Morgott watched from the corner of his eye as she settled in the grass, her back to him. With any fortune, her sleep would be undisturbed, and he had not the determination to deny her the closeness she had asked for. After witnessing disturbing apparitions in his dreams, he had only ever found true solace in the comfort of another, whether it was Mohg or Godwyn, or more recently, her. So he would attempt to give back what she had given to him, and he kept watch as her breathing began to slow again.

Rowa sank into the realm of sleep quickly, and the next thing she was aware of, someone was pushing gently at her back.

“Tarnished.” Morgott spoke somewhere above her. “Rowa. It is time for thy watch.”

Rowa let out an unattractive snort as she was prodded into wakefulness, sitting up slowly as the haze of sleep began to clear. It took her several moments too long to notice that, in the deepness of her sleep, she had begun to drool. She quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand, hoping Morgott did not notice.

“Was thy sleep undisturbed?” Morgott asked, noting her exceptionally frowzy state.

Rowa squinted, shaking herself a little to try and clear the fog on her mind. “Er, yes. I don’t remember anymore dreams…”

“Then thou wert likely spared.” If Morgott were of any disposition to be amused, he would have been at the drowsiness she fought against. However, he ceased such thoughts when he noticed her looking at him oddly. “What is thy mind?”

“You called me by name,” she said, the realization having been slow to take root in her thoughts. “Like you did before.”

The uncomfortable heat of shame prickled beneath Morgott’s skin, having not noticed the slip of his tongue until that moment. The weight of her gaze became too much, and he dropped his eyes to the grass. “’Twas only done to wake thee.”

“I did not mind it,” Rowa amended quickly, her clarity returning as she saw him beginning to retreat into himself. “I was…glad to hear it from you.”

Morgott’s shame morphed into something more flustered, though it was just as uncomfortable. “I did not think it would be of such import to thee.”

“It was not, until this moment. I merely think that it would not be inappropriate to refer to me by name, given our bond.”

That did little to alleviate Morgott’s ruffled turn of thought. They were bound in a superficial sense, but it seemed to him that Rowa implied something deeper, though he could not deny they had moved beyond merely circumstantial allies. “I suppose there is merit in that.”

Rowa smiled reassuringly. “I’m glad you think so.”

“If there is nothing else of pressing importance, I shall take my rest.”

“Very well.” Rowa relinquished the issue, not wanting to further his discomfort after he had done his best to alleviate hers. “You have my thanks for ridding me of dreams. May your sleep prove the same.”

“And thy watch remain undisturbed.” As Morgott turned away, Rowa thought she heard him murmur her name under his breath at the end of his statement, but it was too fleeting for her to be sure. She likened it to something close to wishful thinking.

The remainder of the night was quiet. When Rowa was not meditating on her Runes, her thoughts drifted over Gelmir and the aftermath. Still, the barb of Rya’s pain pricked at her in a way that she could not give a cause to. Her guilt should have been all but gone away, yet it still clung to her like a dogged vine on a tree, as though her heart knew something her mind did not. But, alongside that irksome twinge, there lay the balm of joy that Rya had not succumbed to the end she had wished for in her most desperate moment.

Another quieter, more secretive contentment lay beneath that. Morgott was beginning to unfurl, and there was no mistaking it. His severity had begun to soften, revealing a side of him that had perhaps been forced into dormancy under the weight of loneliness and strife. She hoped to encourage the gentleness that she saw, though it would likely be a matter of patience. There were years of pain to account for, and she was glad that there was any sort of change at all. He had come to her when she needed him most, and she had never expected such devotion when they met at the Throne.

Morgott’s sleep seemed undisturbed from Rowa’s outside view, and he rose with the dawn and the first birdsong. They ate together, though they exchanged few words. There was not much that needed to be said for the moment, and it was a peaceful quiet.

They struck out northeast, approaching the ridge that crested the blighted valley. However, they kept a respectable distance between them and the ridge this time. Neither of them had a great desire to gaze long at the afflicted Minor Erdtree again. Once had been more than enough.

Around midday, Morgott was suddenly struck with an odd feeling as he walked, like something long frozen had begun to shift, pulling on a familiarity he had not felt in a long time. He could not make sense of it initially, staring hard at the trees around them as he tried to recall where such a feeling stemmed from.

“Morgott, look!”

Rowa’s cry startled him, and he wheeled around, anticipating some sort of attack. Instead, he found Rowa pointing towards the sky, her eyes wide. He too looked skyward, and saw what had caused his odd turn of feeling.

The stars, long frozen into place in the sky above the Lands Between, had at last begun to move. They streaked like lightning across the expanse, leaving trails of white fire in their wake. The light of the sun and the Erdtree could not dim the glow their movement made, even when most stars were invisible during the day. They moved faster and faster, till all the sky seemed aglow in a rush that had been long restrained.

And then, as though the stars had moved enough to their own accord, they began to slow. The streaks of light diminished, receding into the little points of light that they had come from. Their passage seemed to halt once more, but that was not so, for their positions had at last shifted from where they had once stood unmoving. The tapestry of the sky was now altered as the stars were free to continue in their passage, and so was the fate of those whose destinies were governed by the stars.

“What happened?” Rowa asked, her eyes still trained on the sky.

“Radahn hath met his end, as was decreed by Ranni,” Morgott said. Though they had fought against one another, he felt nothing but regret at Radahn’s death. He had been honorable, and was undeserving of the long and wretched wasting that was his fate in the wake of war. Morgott knew his strength well, and even as a rotted husk, he had likely been a worthy opponent on the battlefield. He had all but idolized Godfrey’s prowess in combat, something Morgott could not fault him for, and if things had been different, perhaps they could have been something like friends.

Rowa was unaware of his musing as she tried to take in all the differences in the sky. She knew little of the stars, but she had slept beneath the night sky enough times to become familiar with their patterns. “I wonder what shall come of this.”

“Ranni’s fate shall start anew, for the fate of all Carians were governed by the stars,” Morgott said, forcing his attention back to their earthly surroundings. “Radahn’s Rune shall become thine, and I suspect Ranni shall soon arrive to take the Mirrorhelm for herself. The god-slaying blade doth await her.”

Rowa was about to look away from the sky when she noticed another object moving across the expanse when all others were still. It was traveling at a great speed, and the longer she looked at it, the more it appeared to be headed towards the ground. It was not of pale light like the stars; it seemed to be wrapped in flame.

“Morgott,” she said, pointing. “What is that?”

Morgott looked, watching the object carve a path through the sky. It became clear that it was falling, growing larger in size relative to the other stars. The blaze surrounding it got brighter and brighter the closer it came to earth, eventually shining so bright that it seemed like a second sun. It disappeared out of sight somewhere far away in the direction of Gelmir, and after a few moments of silence, they picked up the faint rumble of some distant impact, a faint tremble in the ground beneath their feet.

Neither of them spoke, jointly confused and curious at what they had just witnessed. Their curiosity did not remain unsatisfied for long when a black plume of smoke began to trickle into the sky from the direction of the impact, but that was not the only thing that arose. Something living wheeled upwards, its form long and distended. Against the dark smoke, the creature seemed to be many shades of blue and purple, not unlike the night sky. Four spindly appendages stretched forth from it, alongside four more close together that looked like wings. A long, crooked tail ringed with strange growths swirled behind it as it climbed into the sky.

Morgott watched carefully. It was hard to tell at such a distance, but he was almost certain he had seen a skull-like face, framed by monstrous pincers. The creature wheeled around a couple of times, then vanished out of view in Gelmir’s fog, and did not reemerge.

“That is another consequence of the stars.” Morgott finally spoke into the silence. “I read of creatures who didst live in the stars and perhaps beyond. To let the stars be freed means to let the creatures therein fall to earth.”

“I have never seen anything like that,” Rowa said, unsure if she should be afraid or awed.

“Nor have I.” It had often been proclaimed that the stars were beautiful and terrible all at once, and now Morgott knew he had seen what that meant.

Like with Rykard, Ranni knew exactly when Radahn was slain, but this time it went beyond mere intuition. She felt the celestial shackles fall away, and moved to the window of her tower to watch as the stars blazed fiery trails in the sky, the imprisonment that was never meant to last this long brought to an end.

Radahn’s intentions had been noble. The stars had descended upon Sellia, disturbed by the scholars’ studies into the sorceries that could be wrought from their patterns, and Radahn had witnessed firsthand the horrors that could come forth from the deepest voids. He had stopped the stars for a time, to give the scholars reprieve and time to mount their defenses, to study without fear of repercussions. But in that span, the Elden Ring was shattered, and war came. The stars were forgotten as more pressing conflicts arose, and so they remained frozen.

Ranni had considered, in those days, reaching out to Radahn. They had not spoken since before she brought Death to her flesh, and he did not know if she had truly lived or died. Rykard had fallen to the Serpent, Rennala to the hauntings of her own mind, but Radahn had remained true to himself. Her intent was not merely to set the course of her fate in motion, but to reach out to the last family that was not stricken.

She had hesitated, and she regretted it.

The battle between Malenia and Radahn ended in bloodshed and rot, turning Sellia and all of Caelid into a wasteland far more desolate than any dread the stars could bring. Radahn was not slain, but neither did he fully survive. Ranni heard what had become of him through Iji, and she knew there was no chance for salvation.

Her blame had shifted over time. First, it lay on Malenia, then Marika, then herself. It changed just as much as the whims of the gods, and that was where she arrived at her final conclusion. The fault lay, in essence, with the Greater Will and its broken attempt to keep Order.

She could imagine the vile Fingers beneath the cathedral on Liurnia’s southern cliffs reaching out, still trying to grasp at her as they had before she slayed her flesh, wanting to bend her to their will. They had appeared there when she was born, a sign that many of the Golden Order had seen as a sign of blessing. Through the Finger Maidens they had foretold that she was chosen, and one day she would ascend to godhood. She did not know why and how they had chosen her, for she was not a trueborn demigod, but she had become one through Marika’s decree regardless.

Rennala and even Radagon had seen the truth of the Fingers. They were a scourge on her life, ever whispering in her ear, ever trying to dictate her in word and deed. Her parents had done their best to try and protect her, but there was no contending with the vassals of a god. They had driven her to the Black Knife, and were she still in possession of it, she would have tried to put an end to the Fingers long ago. But now Blaidd would be free to pursue the road to Nokron without consequence, and the Fingers would meet their fate soon enough.

She had withheld reaching out to her Tarnished ally, on the chance the warriors in Caelid were not enough to bring Radahn the mercy of death. As the stars slowed to a more sedate pace, she made ready to go and meet them to assure the accord held true.

Rowa sighed as cool water swirled around her feet and calves, soothing the aches of travel. The sun was just dipping beyond the western horizon, setting the sky ablaze with colors that reflected in the water of the little spring. The reflection shivered and broke with ripples as Rowa moved her feet in the water, enjoying the softness of the silt at the bottom.

Behind her, Morgott sat quietly, his mind far-flung as he attended audience with his men in Leyndell. According to him, the falling stars had likely distressed many of them, and she could not blame them for it.

When her feet were sufficiently soothed, she laced her boots and retreated to the grass, carefully skirting Morgott’s still form. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved though no sound came forth. His audiences with Leyndell had been sparing, but no one seemed to suspect his absence, which was perhaps a testament to how well hidden he was. When things were made right, that too could be remedied.

Rowa began to lay out some food for them to eat, and as she did, she glanced at the darkening sky. The stars were becoming more visible as the sunset’s fire receded into the west, allowing a greater picture of just how altered the scape of the sky had become. The Full Moon remained in its place, but the stars were as though she had stepped into another country, wildly different in their patterns. So too was the course of fate altered and set in motion for some, if not all.

Morgott came back to the quiet rustle of wind across the darkened treetops, the phantom banners of Altus swaying high in his periphery. He let out a sigh as he readjusted to his own body, prompting Rowa to give him a curious glance.

“Was everything still in order?” she asked.

“Of a sort,” Morgott grunted, the agitated reports of his generals still ringing in his ears. “Nothing as the falling star we didst see struck within the city, though there were reports of a small disturbance nearby the city walls.”

“I suppose that is better than anything in the city proper.”

“Indeed.” Panic would have been well warranted if that were the case. It took a great deal of firm insistence to convince his men that they were not under attack or in immediate danger, but he supposed he would rather have loyal men ready to defend the city rather than ones who would flee. However, they made him appreciate the quiet of Altus and only having one person to contend with, who was not nearly as harried as they were.

Rowa gestured to the waiting food. “Are you ready to eat?”

“I am,” Morgott said, taking his portion as he put thoughts of Leyndell aside. “My thanks.”

Both of them ate eagerly, driven by the hunger of a long day’s travel. As they did, the sun set, letting night take over in full. Not long after they finished, when Morgott was preparing to fortify his incantations before he slept, a particularly stiff breeze rattled the trees, bringing with it a fog that rolled across the ground and submerged the grass in misty tendrils. A moonbeam seemed to strike the fog, turning it to silver, and there in the midst of it stood Ranni’s spectral form.

“My sincerest greetings to thee, Tarnished.” Ranni steepled both sets of fingers, gazing at the travelers placidly. “And to thee as well, Omen King.”

“Ranni,” Morgott returned brusquely. “I was beginning to wonder when thou wouldst come forth.”

“Thou must forgive my tardiness. I did not wish to claim the Mirrorhelm before the stars were assuredly free from their chains, though I am well aware that thou didst succeed in felling Rykard. I am pleased to see that both of ye hath come away unscathed, it seemeth.”

“We were fortunate,” Rowa said, not wishing to delve into the particulars.

“Thou hast my utmost gratitude for making the journey and giving Rykard rest.” Ranni’s gaze slid to the Mirrorhelm, which lay among their other possessions. “And thou didst not fail to obtain the other contingent of our accord.”

“Now it is thy turn, to uphold thy end of the accord.” Morgott spared her no congeniality. He knew the shrewd, scheming gleam in her eyes, for he had seen the very same in Mohg once.

Ranni seemed amused. “Both our fates hang upon the edge of the god-slaying blade. To betray thee would be to betray myself, which I am of no proclivity to do.”

“And what of Radahn’s Rune?”

“’Tis safe in the hands of my confidants, who shall hold it until such time it can be delivered to thee safely. On a similar note, a band of allies shall arrive forthwith, to claim the Mirrorhelm.”

“Allies?” No sooner had the word left Rowa’s mouth than the foliage around Ranni shivered. Three large wolves materialized around her, their pelts gleaming a silver almost as vibrant as the Mirrorhelm itself.

“Fear them not,” Ranni said. “They shan’t harm ye.”

Nevertheless, Rowa and Morgott watched carefully as one of the wolves stepped forward, its eyes a piercing amber. Rowa took the Mirrorhelm, and held it out hesitantly in front of her. The wolf approached, opening its mouth and taking hold of the helm with a care that belied the mouthful of fangs it sported. Rowa let go and the wolf drew away without issue.

“Tarnished,” Morgott said, relaxing as the wolf returned to its fellows, “the other item.”

“Ah, yes.” Rowa hurried to dig out the odd shard of stone Morgott had brought from the Manor as she explained. “This object was found with the Mirrorhelm. Might you know what it is?”

Ranni studied the stone when Rowa presented it, but her porcelain visage betrayed little. “That is an intriguing thing thou hast come across. I am not familiar with it, but it dost seem to bear traces of Death upon it.”

“Death?” Rowa echoed, regarding the stone in her hand with new hesitance.

“How canst thou be sure?” Morgott demanded. “Death is yet sealed.”

“The witch who taught me in the way of the moon and stars, who made me into the witch I am, knew much of Death,” Ranni said. “She came from the time before Death was sealed away, and was deeply familiar with its ways. She didst share some of her knowledge before we parted. If there is yet Death upon that stone, then I need it not, even if it came from Rykard’s stores. For it is thou who will take the Rune of Death in full, and so it may be of some use to thee.”

“Perhaps,” Rowa murmured, turning the stone carefully in her hands.

Morgott could not disagree with Ranni’s observation. He had lived most of his life in a world without Death, but he had seen it firsthand upon Godwyn’s flesh. Back then, he had only gotten close enough to feel the coldness it left behind, but it was not a terrible, bitter cold. It was soft and soothing, like a taste of water after the day’s heat, and it occurred to him that he had felt a shade of that coolness upon the stone.

“Before we part ways, I must make one more inquiry of ye,” Ranni said.

“Speak it, then,” Morgott said as he was drawn from his thoughts.

The surety of Ranni’s tone faded into something quieter. “I must know, if Rykard’s existence was one of suffering.”

Both were quiet as they sought an answer, and Rowa was the first to speak. “I think not. He seemed as much a part of the Serpent, as the Serpent was a part of him.”

“I see.” Ranni gave a single nod, and Rowa was not sure if that was the answer she had wanted to hear.

Morgott could guess the course of her thoughts well enough, and said, “From what I didst see, I am sure that the man thou once knew was all but gone. Thy brother was not honorable in mine eyes, but any honor that once remained in him was burned away in the fire of the mountain. There was no other course for him, just as Radahn.”

“I understand.” Ranni’s assured air returned as quickly as it had gone away. “And so, where shalt thou now set thy sights?”

“The Forge,” Rowa answered, “to burn the thorns and open the path to Death.”

“Ah, I supposed as much, though I thought there would be more hesitance on thy part, Omen King.” Ranni gave Morgott a contemplative look. “Such a thing is a sin.”

“To the Greater Will, perhaps, but not to Marika, whose will I carry out,” Morgott said. “Surely ‘tis not a sin in thine eyes.”

“Not at all. I would gladly see the Erdtree burn to rid the world of the brokenness it has borne for the Greater Will’s sake. I hope ye reach the Forge yarely, for ye seem a capable pair. Rest assured that when the way to the Ring is open, so shall I be there with the blade of promise.”

Rowa caught a glimpse of some deeper feeling, a burning fire in Ranni’s mismatched eyes. Her promise was perhaps more assured than they knew.

Chapter Text

The Nightrider traveled along Altus’ northern highway. The pale monolith of Leyndell’s outermost wall rose high in front of him, but it was ever dwarfed by the Erdtree’s mighty presence. Soon, his king would pass this way to return to the city, if only for a short time before moving to the frigid lands beyond. He watched the road as commanded, the hours of the night seeming nothing to him as he rode his steed across the expanse, searching for any potential dangers to forewarn his king of.

Up on the small ridge just outside the gate, the soldiers’ encampment lay quiet. Those of Leyndell’s forces never contended with the Nightriders, and the Nightriders left them to their own devices. As the Nightrider passed along the road beneath the ridge, he saw the shadow of movement above. The posted sentries were watching carefully, but they did not call out or approach, bearing a healthy fear of the specter bringing a passing darkness like a cloud enshrouding the moon before the wind blew it away.

The Nightrider rode into the outskirts, navigating the land torn and pitted by the ballista bolts. Night’s shadows had little effect on his perception, and few things evaded his gaze as he began to follow the road north towards Leyndell’s only open gate. Some beetles trundled past in the grass and an owl glared at him from its position in a nearby tree. Everything seemed as it should be as he began ascending the hill.

To his left was an old graveyard established for denizens of Leyndell, likely made and filled before the Age of the Erdtree was ever brought to full fruition. In more recent memory, the spreading weeds of Death had seized this graveyard like many others in the Lands Between, and it was not uncommon to see living dead wandering around, especially at night when there were fewer soldiers to herd them back among the headstones. However, this night the graveyard was quiet, and it even seemed to be completely empty.

The Nightrider brought his steed to a stop, turning a more concentrated eye to the graves on the hill. He waited, searching for movement beneath the Erdtree’s light, but found none. The sickly gray aura of Death still hung about the graves like a noxious fog, but there were no risen dead to be seen. He rode a little closer, searching thoroughly, and found there was something new, something different beneath the encroaching Death. It was the presence of blood and fire, boiling and raw, yet rendered faint by the overpowering presence of Death. It had not been there before, the Nightrider was sure of it, but he could not ascertain what had brought it about.

He searched the headstones once more among the uneven scape of the land, but still could not ascertain the source of the disturbance. There was no clear trail, only traces here and there beneath the blanket of the graveyard’s already overpowering aura. He stayed there a little longer, waiting, for time was of little consequence to a spirit such as he, but nothing became of his efforts. When the first light of dawn began to glow in the east, he abandoned his imposed watch to inform his king.

Rowa slept peacefully after Ranni left, accepting Morgott’s murmured offer to cast the same incantations he had the night before. With a touch of his fingers on her forehead, she drifted into calm oblivion, and awoke refreshed. She went to the little spring to wash herself, and when she returned she found that Morgott had already distributed their food. He barely acknowledged her gratitude as she expected, but she offered it anyway, and they took their meal in the grass. From their position, Leyndell’s walls were now fully visible, and by Morgott’s estimation they would make it to the outskirts not long after the next nightfall.

My lord.

Rowa jumped when the Nightrider appeared, his darkness blotting out the sunrise. Morgott was not surprised, however, looking away from his food to welcome the rider with a nod.

“What news dost thou bring?” he asked.

The path to Leyndell remaineth clear, except for the old graveyard nearby the north outer gate.

Morgott frowned. “What is amiss there?”

I know not. I sensed something foreign there, but I could not place it, nor did I see the cause in my watch.

Morgott deliberated on the matter for a moment. “I will send a contingent of men there to investigate. Their perception is simpler than thine, and that dost grant them clarity on occasion.”

As thou dost wish it, my lord.

“Continue thy watch of the roads. We shall need thy shrouding later.”

Rowa blinked when the Nightrider departed, the shadows vanishing as quickly as they had descended. “Do you think what he sensed will amount to anything?”

“I know not. There are many things that have recently transpired that are new to me, and this is one of them. Perhaps ‘tis something from the falling stars, or perhaps naught at all. The Nightriders are seldom wrong in what they see, but I shall not let it prevent me from entering mine own city.”

Rowa squinted as a strong breeze blew some lose strands of hair into her face. “I will enjoy having a roof over my head again, if only for a night or two.”

The same gust blew some leaves onto Morgott’s tail, and he tried to flick them away. “I am inclined to agree with thee.”

Morgott commissioned a patrol to the area as promised, then they continued on their way to Leyndell. The day was clear and pleasant until mid afternoon when rain blew up, turning the golden sky to a muddied grey, but they traveled on doggedly. When they stopped for a hasty meal, Morgott checked on the patrol, but no reports had been made yet. He withheld any admonishment for the slowness of the soldiers, knowing they were still busy assessing any possible damage from falling stars.

The closer they got to the city, the more they were forced nearer to the open roads where they could be spotted by soldiers. The Nightrider stayed close but unseen, waiting to bear them safely through the gates. Eventually, they came to the point where there was no further options than to take the road. The day was nearly gone by then, and they did not have long to wait before night came creeping in, allowing the cover of both natural darkness and the Nightrider’s aura. When the sun was nothing but a faint glow in the west, they began the final stretch of their return.

The familiarity of Leyndell brought Morgott great relief. All his incantations and seals, every little threading he had set in place came trickling back into his awareness, and they remained just as he had left them. But now that he was faced with the city, he found he did not regret leaving it as much as he had anticipated it would. The quest to Gelmir had been chaotic, but in the end it would further the coming of the new age, and that was not the only good thing that had come of it. He glanced furtively at Rowa beside him, and what he felt was certainly not the begrudging resignation he had grappled with when they had passed the opposite way. He could not put a name to what it was now, but she had deemed herself worthy of some trust. She could have easily revealed his identity in the heart of enemy territory if she had seen fit to do so, but she had instead remained true to her vows, and she remained steadfast in her kindness. He preferred this, and all that had happened, to simply remaining at the Elden Throne in his endless vigil.

Rowa too was happy to see the walls of the city. They were not so familiar to her, but they represented the fact that they had succeeded in the first part of their journey, and that gave her hope for the coming days. They had faced one of the most monstrous creatures in the Lands Between and made it out alive, along with a better understanding of one another.

They passed on the road between the ridges where the Leyndell encampments lay, their presence obscured by the shadow of the Nightrider. The weight of his presence no longer affected Rowa as much as it had in the beginning, and she welcomed the sense of safety it brought.

A weight lifted from Morgott’s shoulders when they passed over the threshold of the gate and he was greeted with the familiarity of Leyndell in mind and body. His relief was short-lived, however, when a scent came to him on the cool night air. Blood and something fouler, mingled in a putrid miasma that almost made him physically recoil.

Rowa nearly walked into Morgott when he stopped suddenly. “What is it?”

Morgott searched the pitted roadway that stretched towards Leyndell’s inner walls. “There is blood on the wind.”

Now on alert, Rowa inhaled, but no scent of Tarnished malice or recusant cessblood came to her. “I do not smell it.”

“‘Tis not Tarnished blood. ‘Tis…” Morgott stopped as he realized, turning to the Nightrider. “The graveyard! Go ahead of us!”

The Nightrider obeyed at once, vanishing in an instant. Though Morgott now lacked the shadowy protection, he hurried forward without pause, and Rowa practically had to run to keep up with his long strides.

“What do you sense?” she asked. “Whose blood?”

“The blood of mere men, not Tarnished. My soldiers,” Morgott growled. “Something was in the graveyard, and hath risen against them.”

“But surely they will know your voice and see your form! Would it not be better for me to go in your stead?”

The consideration had barely crossed his mind. With the weight of the scent, he was certain that many of the soldiers, if not all, were done for. “It matters not if they are already dead.”

The Nightrider appeared in the graveyard, his shadow falling across it like a thick curtain, and he saw his feelings of wrongness had been correct, to a horrifying degree. Now the cause of the unsettlement stood out in the open amidst the gravestones. He was clad in a strange, bulbous armor that seemed formed of some chitinous mass colored a bloody bronze. Misshapen, bulbous stumps stuck out on every piece, from the pot-shaped helm to the sabatons as though the armor itself had become infected with some infection that left such growths in its wake. The sword the man held was no less malformed, made of a single blade that was riddled with spines protruding outward from the edges like the stinger of some horrendous insect, and freshly dried blood covered whatever metal it was formed from.

The living dead of the graveyard were still fled away, perhaps for the newly slain bodies that now littered the old burial ground. At least half a score of soldiers, all clad in the golden Erdtree tabards of Leyndell, lay dead around the strange man, but that was not the worst thing the Nightrider perceived. In his spiritual perception, he could see some defilement, some fell curse, had been laid upon the bodies. Something like Omen horns sprouted from a repugnant, festering amalgam that now lived on every soldier’s body, taking root there. The ugliness they exuded was small in comparison to the aura of utter depravity that surrounded the man like the stench of the corpses.

“I see you were spurned by that vile tree.” The voice that came from the pustule-ridden helm was just as ugly as the rest of him. “A shame that you have no body now, for the curse would surely take well within one as powerful as you.”

Both Rowa and Morgott felt the fetid aura before they ever saw the man, a heavy sickening that polluted the very air. Morgott’s Omen blood roiled inside him, reacting to something he could not yet place. It was surely not the Crucible, for he knew that presence well, and this was not the same. This was something defiled, corrupt in a way that made his skin crawl.

Rowa kept up with his fast pace, though it required some effort. She felt the poison, the creeping wrongness that settled into the back of her mind, but she did not yet know it. As they got closer, she thought it was not unlike the feeling of Tarnished malice, but somehow worse. If there was a Tarnished waiting for them, there was something more to it, something worse than any Tarnished she had met before.

They came upon the Nightrider first, waiting at the slope that led to the graveyard. At first, they could not see beyond the rider’s shadow, but a voice came out of the darkness, rasping like stone across stone.

“Ah…I’ve been waiting for you. Both of you.”

Morgott’s hackles rose. He came alongside the Nightrider and saw what he had predicted was true: all the soldiers in the patrol had been slain, and the one that exuded such a foul aura stood in the midst of them. A Tarnished, but not any simple wanderer.

“What hast thou done?” he demanded. “Why hast thou slain these men?”

“They disturbed me.” The defiler spoke calmly, like he was stating a simple fact of life. “And I knew you would come soon.”

Rowa took in his armor, and it slowly dawned on her that the pockmarked motif resembled the shorn horns on Morgott’s left brow, and with its rusty red hue, perhaps the armor was not an imitation. A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach.

Now that Morgott stood close, he could better smell the blight beneath the blood. He glanced over the corpses, and saw something had taken root within them, a recondite thing. But when he looked closer, he saw the imitation of Omen horns sprouting there.

“What hast thou done to them in death?” he asked, knowing the answer would bring nothing but dread.

“I gave them the curse, so that when they are reborn, they will bear it accordingly,” the defiler said.

“What curse?” Rowa asked quietly. Now she too began to see the growing defilement.

“The curse which you,” the macabre sword rose, its bloodstained tip pointed directly at Morgott, “wholly embody.”

“I embody no such thing!” Morgott hissed, his voice dropping low in horrified outrage.

“No? I see it in you, for I know the curse. I have seen it among Omenkind, and therefore I have longed to meet the scourge of the Tarnished, who so richly embodies it. You, Margit the Fell, who has risen to acclaim when many around you are laid low.” Never once did the defiler’s voice change, remaining a constant, steady rasp, but there seemed to be an undertone of some manic glee.

Rowa felt a slight pang of relief beneath her trepidation. Morgott’s identity was safe, for the moment. “You have been searching for him?”

“Yes.” The pot-shaped helm turned towards her, and she was met with a sense of dark malice. “And now you as well, fortunate Tarnished.”

“To what end?”

“Grace yet guides you, who have taken many Runes, and you walk alongside the embodiment of the curse. Surely, you seek a way to make the reviled a blessing.”

Anger flared within Morgott. A small part of his mind reasoned that this Tarnished, like any other, was perceived as an enemy by many, and sometimes bloodshed was the only way forward. But here he stood among the corpses of his men, who were now defiled in some way that he dared not let his thoughts entertain for too long. “What dost thou know of blessings?”

“More than that wretched Golden Order.” The defiler’s voice trembled with some great rage. “One day I would see all that they consider blessedness turned into curses.”

“I hath heard tell of someone like thee,” Morgott said, the angry proclamation stirring his memories. “A Tarnished seeking to curse all in his path. I supposed it a falsehood.”

“I am very real, and I have been waiting to meet someone like you, who so richly embodies the curse I wish to bring upon all.”

Morgott looked at the corpses again. What he saw there was not the truth of the Crucible, but rather the attempt at an imitation made by someone who did not possess the true means to create, a warped reflection doused in death. “I…I do not embody this.”

“You do, but in your ignorance you have not seen how to cultivate the fruits that will be borne from the labor I have begun.”

“He knows more than you ever will,” Rowa said, becoming more unnerved by the moment. “This is not what Omens are. You are mistaken.”

The defiler looked at her once more, and she almost regretted speaking, though she could not even see his face. “You know even less than he, for you are but a lamb, a stranger to any defilement. But I will change that soon enough.”

Morgott turned himself so his stave hand was angled towards the defiler. “Thou wilt do nothing of the sort.”

“I will take no part in whatever scheme this is,” Rowa said. “Especially not with such bloodshed.”

“Do not think yourself better than I,” the defiler growled. “You are a Tarnished just as much as I. We were born in blood and live by blood. You have killed. I see it on you.”

“I have done what was necessary, but this…” Rowa surveyed the bodies, and whatever foul seed that had begun to take root inside them. “This is not right.”

“You walk so closely with the curse, and yet you spurn it!” The defiler clenched his fists. “You would not see its propagation? You are mad!”

“To be an Omen is no defilement.” The words rushed from Morgott’s mouth before he could stop them, surprising even himself. “What thou hast done here is a paltry and vile imitation of the truth, one I shall not abide with. Thou’rt the one afflicted with madness, for thou cannot hope to become what thou wert not born into. To be an Omen is to live, however different it is from regular men. There is no death in it, no defiling horror as I see now before mine eyes. I will have naught to do with thee, foul trespasser.”

Rowa too was startled by his proclamation, but she did not have time to dwell on it then. The gnarled sword swung in a silver arc as the defiler hefted it. “Then I will defile you, and take what I wish from your corpse.”

Morgott glanced quickly at his Nightrider, and that was enough. In a single moment, they were in the old times once more, where he and all his riders had hunted Tarnished. With Rowa alongside him, he almost felt regretful, but not for the madman he was pitted against. He was unquestionably vile, afflicted with such a madness that it was a wonder he did not sense the Flame of Frenzy.

At his silent command, the Nightrider plunged forward, shrouding the area in his shadow and swallowing the defiler. Rowa saw Morgott step forward and moved to join him, but he held out a staying hand. “Keep thyself away.”

He did not wait to see her response, darting into the veil. The shadow swirled around him like smoke, and he followed the putrid presence despite it, readying a blade of gold in his free hand.

The defiler came rushing from the darkness, his sword upraised. Morgott barely had time to push himself backwards, the blade embedding itself but a hairsbreadth from his foot.

“I have waited for this meeting!” the defiler cried, something of a laugh in his voice and he wrenched the sword free. “I waited to meet you, most powerful of the Omens, and I have learned everything that will stop you!”

Morgott saw one of his hands moving to grasp something. His heart dropped as he glimpsed it. Surely it could not be—

Golden light wrapped around his legs, his arms, his torso, surrounding him like an unbreakable alloy in an instant. He barely had time to register the pain of the shackles before he hit the ground with a force that shook the earth, his body held there in rigid stasis. A gasp of pain left him, the bonds burning like a brand against his flesh, and the stench of defilement filled his senses.

Rowa saw the flash of gold through the shadow, and her feet were moving before Morgott had finished falling. She did not know what device the defiler had drawn forth, but it was a terrible one indeed. She went flying into the darkness, heedless of how it obscured her vision, following the warmth of the talisman that lay over her hammering heart. The strength of the Great Runes sang in her veins as she drew her blades, and the ugly shape of the defiler’s armor came looming into her field of view.

A hand shot out with unnatural speed and held her there, stopping the strength of Runes. The defiler turned his blood-clouded gaze towards her, and a rasping laugh wrenched itself from his throat.

“Do you see?” he cried. “You are no different than I! You kill where you wish when you wish it, but you do not know the true power that can be gained.”

Rowa blocked out his voice, for she knew it would distract her if she listened, trying to pull herself free. His sword flashed as he raised it with his free hand, and she instinctively tried to shield herself. Before he could swing, the Nightrider bore down on him, black polearm poised to run him through. He dodged out of the way, dragging Rowa with him and using his momentum to slam her against the ground with a force that knocked all the air from her lungs.

She lay stunned for only a moment, but that was enough for the defiler to fall on her, crushing her against the ground with his weight. More power from the Runes surged through her, and she began fighting wildly as she felt his rancid breath on her face.

“You shall give me the Runes for my seedbed,” he snarled, “and I will defile your corpse with utmost care.”

The sight of the defiler atop Rowa ignited a mad fury inside Morgott. With a growling roar, he forced himself up, heedless of the bonds, and a tremendous crack split the night air as the golden shackles began to break beneath sheer brute force. The defiler heard it and darted upright, reaching for the dreadful item once more. Rowa quickly followed him, grabbing at his hand and pulling, bending his arm back with no remorse until he howled and the item fell to the ground.

She only caught a glimpse of the item: a dark, mottled seal emblazoned with a faint image of the Elden Ring. However, she did not pause to consider this long, knowing well enough what purpose it served. Not waiting to see where the defiler had moved to, she thrust her heel against the shackle with Rune-born might, and it shattered in a flash of gold.

The chains holding Morgott snapped and dissipated, and he came fully upright with his fangs bared in a snarl. The defiler was not yet out of tricks; dodging a returning sweep of the Nightrider’s polearm, he pulled out another object and thrust it high. Golden light of a deeper hue than that of the Erdtree came forth, coalescing into bright spheres that began to fly straight for Morgott and the Nightrider.

Morgott raised his stave, slashing at the globes, and his Nightrider did likewise. They were wraiths, echoes of spirits long gone with only the barest pieces left behind. Their voices crowded at the edge of his mind, but they were too weak to distract him completely.

Rowa turned on the defiler again, flying at him with her swords raised. The defiler raised his own blade in response, catching one of hers amid the spines of the uneven construct, but she managed to sink the other into the material of his armor where his ribcage should have been. The defiler let out a gargled hiss, jerking his sword arm upward and taking her caught blade with it. She stumbled back as he brought the sword swinging back towards her, yanking her knife free. However, she was not quite quick enough, one of the spines striking her right leg. The blow was not direct, but it was forceful enough to tear through her pants and rend the skin below.

Morgott heard her cry out and sent his stave slicing through the last of the wraiths. He threw himself into the shadow, sailing forward with her presence as a guide. At the same time, Rowa pushed through the pain, redoubling her efforts to keep him from using any other trickery. She leapt at him, driving her sword upwards, and Morgott came bearing down from behind.

The defiler stopped as though he had been frozen, and he looked down in dismay at the two blades puncturing him, one from the front and the other behind. Blood bubbled from his lips behind the ugly helm, and the sword dropped from his hand. He tried to speak, but only a gurgle came out.

Rowa ripped her sword from his armor, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible. Only when Morgott sensed the stench fading did he do the same, and the body fell, rolling lifelessly against the earth.

Rowa tamped back the strength of Runes, the rush receding, and with it came the full force of pain from her wound. She went down on one knee with a gasp, catching a glimpse of red staining the right leg of her pants.

The torrent of anger receded from Morgott in an instant, concern overriding it as he came to her side. “Thou art wounded?”

“Yes, but it’s not deep,” Rowa said, breathing deeply through the pain. “Just give me a moment, and I’ll be on my feet…”

Morgott did not hear whatever she said next as distant voices touched his ears. He bade the Nightrider’s shadow dispel, and up the road towards the northernmost gate, he saw the bobbing globes of torchlight moving in the darkness.

The men of the city, the Nightrider warned. They come.

Morgott cast another look at the slain soldiers, and realized he had overlooked something. Ten men had been sent out, but only nine lay on the ground. One had escaped back to the city to warn his fellows, which would not be such a problem if they were not blocking their entrance. He turned towards the curving wall in front of them, and he knew were it rose out of the shallow groundwater that served as a small moat. The gate was not the only way in.

Rowa began to hear the soldiers calling, and she tried to stand urgently. “We should go—” Her sentence ended in a yelp as Morgott scooped her up carefully, trying not to jostle her leg.

“There is no time to reach the gate,” he said, his breath warm against her head. “I know another way.”

He was already moving before Rowa could think to protest, so she clung doggedly to his cloak as they reentered the Nightrider’s shadow and left the defiler’s body behind. They returned to the road but did not follow it this time, instead quickly crossing over into the grass beyond.

Morgott carried her across the grass, using the natural ridges in the land to put cover between them and the soldiers, who were rapidly closing in on the site of the battle. Eventually, they came to the edge of a steep ridge, at the bottom of which lay the groundwater he had known to expect, reflecting both the gold of the Erdtree and the silver of the Full Moon.

“Do not cry out,” Morgott warned Rowa, tightening his grasp on her. “Hold tightly.”

Rowa almost asked what he meant, but the world turned weightless as he leapt from the ridge. The water came up quickly, and he landed with a splash, sending silver droplets scattering through the air as he caught himself with his stave. He moved quickly towards the wall, the Nightrider following along behind as he began to search the ancient stone for any small inconsistency in the sprawling patterns.

Rowa was left to wonder what he was looking for as he paced alongside the wall. She could not discern anything, almost too awed by the massive scope of the structure to consider what he was searching for.

It took several tense minutes for Morgott to find it, the dark of the night giving things a different look, but eventually he was successful. Rowa watched curiously, the pain in her leg partially forgotten as he stopped before an intricate piece of masonry. He stretched out his stave, pressing it against a mason’s depiction of an erdleaf.

Dust fell from hairline cracks that had not moved in years. Some mechanism inside the wall rumbled to life, and a sizeable section of the wall swung open slowly, revealing a dark tunnel that smelled of mildew and old wood.

Rowa stared into the darkness, and she could not see anything within. “What is this?”

“Tunnels that run below the city, both to the sewers and unto the houses of great import,” Morgott murmured, his words echoing oddly into the space before them. “They are meant to be escape routes, but ‘twill take us where we need to go. Fear thee not.”

Rowa blinked and nodded. In her current position, high in Morgott’s grasp, she did not think it was possible for her to feel afraid.

Morgott silently ordered his Nightrider away, and ducked into the tunnel. The door rumbled closed as they entered Leyndell once more.

Sometime later, Gideon received word of the defiler’s death. He had not expected the defiler to succeed in anything. He was too blood-hungry, too maddened, to amount to anything. Gideon had merely set him free and sent him out, wishing to free the Hold from his malicious presence. He hungered for blood, that much was clear, and if he had not received it, he may have turned his attentions towards denizens of the Hold. It was clear that he did not discriminate who he defiled, Tarnished or not.

But now Gideon knew what he wanted to discover. The fortunate Tarnished and Margit the Fell had come away from Gelmir alive. The stars had fallen, and they had made it as far as Leyndell again. Now, they would surely set their sights on the Forbidden Lands, the Forge, and whatever lay beyond.

So would he.

Chapter Text

The hall was dark and quiet, seeming almost too calm after the mayhem they had just escaped. Rowa could see nothing but inky blackness before her eyes, hearing her pounding heart and labored breathing in her ears. She clung tightly to Morgott’s garment, the warmth and solidity of him acting as an anchor point when her sight had been stripped away.

Morgott moved through the hall with little hesitance, his eyes adjusting to the dimness easily. It was formed of stone that constructed the whole of the wall, with wooden beams that supported the ceiling and the sides. It was just wide enough that three men of regular size could walk side by side with little contact, though Morgott dominated most of this space, and the ceiling rose several feet above his head. Cobwebs hung like forgotten swaths of silk along the beams, and layers of dust long undisturbed coated the floor in drifts like snow.

The corridor stretched on for some time, following the construction of the wall. Rowa’s eyes adjusted eventually, and at one point she glanced down to see that Melina had joined them silently, walking along in her true body now that they had reentered the city. They exchanged a glance, and Rowa smiled in a wordless greeting that Melina accepted with a nod.

At last, a couple of different hallways appeared, breaking off to the from the main corridor into their own wells of darkness. Morgott, however, passed them by, continuing straight onwards. Occasionally, low, distant sounds echoed up from some unknown interstice, drifting through the old shafts eerily.

“Sounds from the sewers below,” Morgott murmured when Rowa twitched at the noises. His voice reverberated tightly in the enclosure. “There are many creatures there besides Omens.”

Rowa nodded, content with not knowing what kinds of creatures there were for the moment.

The main hallway finally came to a temporary end as it morphed into a stairway leading upwards. It stretched far, but not so far that the end was invisible. Morgott ascended with measured ease, Melina trailing after him, and once they reached the top the hall continued onward, but this time with several more offshoots splitting off.

It took Morgott several moments to remember which direction was correct, for it had been a long time since he last walked these hidden passageways, but he settled on one quickly, veering off to the left. This hall was equally unused, with the same signs of age, and it went on for quite some time up several tiers of staircases. Rowa began to wonder if they would bypass Leyndell entirely through the hidden network when they finally came to a halt at what appeared to be a dead end, the hall ending in a stone wall. Morgott was not perturbed by this, and stretched out his stave, tapping it thrice against the bricks. Similar to the first door, old mechanisms groaned to life, and the section of wall swung open like a door, allowing them passage into the rooms beyond.

They entered a cellar of some sort, the only light granted by a few small windows fixed high on the walls and a wooden staircase leading upwards opposite the secret doorway. The room was large, full of barrels and crates and a covering of dust almost as thick as the tunnel.

Morgott’s heart ached as he moved through the cellar. Almost everything was exactly as it was when he last stepped into this room so many years ago. He moved quickly towards the stairs, though he knew that the rest of the house would only bring worse pains.

The room above was a storeroom as well, lit by a dusty window. However, the halls beyond were far more grand, carved of the same pale stone that pervaded all of Leyndell and set with reliefs of erdleaf, sunflowers, and the Erdtree. There were many doors, but all of them were closed, and Morgott passed them by.

Rowa thought that they had returned to the Royal House at first with the grandeur, but she realized that could not be so. They had not covered nearly enough ground to have traveled all the way across Leyndell, but Morgott walked with sure steps as though he knew every room. As they passed through an intersection of hallways, a gleam of light drew her eye. One of the halls opened into what seemed to be a large atrium, illuminated by a skylight somewhere out of sight. The floor of the atrium was marred with some dark mark, but they passed by too quickly for her to get a good look at its true nature.

Morgott stopped in front of a door near the end of a hall. It looked no different from any of the others, but he knew what lay beyond it without a doubt. The hinges screeched loudly when he pushed it open, the noise echoing eerily in the silence. The room beyond was simple in terms of the lavish trappings that decked the house, bearing a desk, a wardrobe, a bed, and some tapestries on the walls. Murky light filtered through two latticed windows covered in residue, illuminating the dust mites that swirled lazily into the air with their arrival.

Morgott set his stave aside and used his free hand to strip away the top bedsheet that had remained there for far too long, revealing the significantly less dusty layer below. He carefully deposited Rowa there, and she almost lost her balance with how far she sank into plush mattress.

“We shall stay here for the remainder of the night,” Morgott said. “Now I shall tend to thy wound.”

“What is this place?” Rowa asked, looking around at the forgotten luxuries.

Morgott busied himself with inspecting the severity of her wound, only answering after a long pause. “This was once the abode of my favored brother, Godwyn.”

Rowa gave him a startled look that he ignored, and he knelt to get a better look at her leg. The cut was shallow but long, starting at the middle of her calf and ending right above her knee. Blood had saturated the material around it, but he could not smell any traces of the defiling curse within it, to his relief.

“I will heal thy wound,” he said. “‘Twill not close it at once, but by the next night, it shall be healed.”

Rowa’s surprise at being in Godwyn’s house was momentarily forgotten as Morgott touched her leg gingerly. A protest rose in her throat, but it died away as the throbbing pain began to ebb, turning to a pleasant warmth. Golden motes swirled from Morgott’s hand like their dusty counterparts, settling over her lower leg. In a matter of seconds, the pain was all but gone, though the wound remained open.

“‘Twould be wise to bandage it until the incantation hath worked to completion,” Morgott said, the light fading as he drew his hand away.

“There are bandages in my pack.” Rowa slid the bag from her shoulder, being careful not to jostle her leg. Morgott took it, rummaging through as delicately as he could to find the strips of cloth. However, he soon realized he was out of his element as he compared the size of his hands to the cloth and her legs in general. He dithered for a moment, not wanting to make her attempt bandaging at such an awkward angle, and Melina came to save him.

“Shall I?” the Maiden queried, coming to stand beside Morgott. “I am fully in body once more, and perhaps I would be more suited for this task.”

“Aye.” Morgott deposited the bandages into her waiting hands, stepping back. He had no physical wounds, but he could still feel the searing weight of the chains on his body, piercing down almost unto his very soul.

Rowa sat patiently as Melina knelt before her, glad to have her physically present once more. “Did you see what happened in the outskirts? The Tarnished who attacked us?

“I did.” Melina began bandaging the area, her movements careful and deliberate. “I have seen that Tarnished before in my time, wandering the Lands Between in his attempts to sow the curse he wished to propagate. As I understand it, he was once of great renown, though not for any great deed. Rather, he was known for the same vileness you witnessed this night.”

Rowa shuddered involuntarily at the memory of the defiler’s aura, so twisted unlike anything else, even Rykard.

“He has been gone from my sight for a long while, and I had assumed him long since perished,” Melina continued. “I was disappointed to learn that was not so.”

“Or perhaps Grace brought him back once more,” Rowa said.

“That is likely. Grace does not discriminate between good or evil intent.”

“He is dead now, surely, and will not return once the Rune of Death is unbound. A foul man with fouler tricks.” Rowa noticed Morgott rubbing at his wrists where the spectral chains had bound him. “Were you hurt?”

“Nay, not truly. ‘Tis only a passing pain,” Morgott replied quietly.

“I must say that I did not expect him to have an Omen shackle in his possession,” Melina observed, “much less one meant for you.”

“‘Twas not meant for me. ‘Twas for Margit the Fell, which owed to the insufficiency in its power.”

“Was that the object I broke?” Rowa asked. “Was it a mistake?”

“Thou wert correct in shattering it, for Omen shackles are vile devices meant to bind us in body and soul. Such a thing was once impressed upon me in the distant past, but was swiftly undone by my father, and my favored brother.” Morgott could not keep the note of disgust from his tone. “Where that Tarnished came by such a thing is unknown to me, but ‘twas not made with the knowledge of my true self. Therefore, the power it had was fleeting.”

“And if it had been made with the knowledge of your true self?”

“Then the binding would be far greater, far more terrible than what thou didst witness. But fear it not, for the true shackle was destroyed long ago.”

“I do not understand why he would go to such lengths in the hope of replicating Omenhood. What merit is there in such an obsession?”

“I have heard him referred to as a man with the soul of an Omen, but without the proper body,” Melina said. “Though I am not certain as to the truth of that observation.”

“A paltry excuse for foul deeds,” Morgott muttered. “Omens are not born wicked, nor are they naturally inclined to such debauchery as he. They hath merely been given no other choice save violence, for it hath so often been shewn to them. Whatever his desire, whatever his intent, doth not possess any consequence now, and I shall not let it sully my kind.”

The determined passion was almost startling to Rowa, though she was glad to hear it in relation to his species. After a few moments, Melina finished tying the bandage, standing and stepping back.

“Does that feel comfortable enough?” she asked.

Rowa slid off the edge of the bed, slowly applying her weight to the leg to test it. The movement brought a little pain, but it was mostly lost behind the warmth of the incantation. “Yes, it is perfect. Thank you.” Her greatest concern now was the shakiness from her exertion during the fight, though it was far less pronounced than previous skirmishes. Something to eat and a little rest would be sufficient.

“Is thy pain lessened sufficiently?” Morgott asked, watching her movements closely.

“Yes. The only thing I desire now is food.” Rowa grabbed her pack. “And I assume you do as well?”

“Perchance.”

Rowa smiled to herself, doling out portions for the both of them. Morgott came to her, accepting his food, and she was reminded of the defiler’s grisly armor as she saw the cut horns above his left eye. “Morgott?”

“Aye?”

“That Tarnished…his armor. It looked like it was made with broken Omen horns. Do you think it was really…?”

“I dare not think on it long,” Morgott said, his stomach turning, “but for mine own peace of mind, I dogged choose to believe it a replication.”

Rowa nodded, happy to believe that as well. “Well, after seeing it, I can’t help but wonder about your horns.”

“Mine?” Morgott gave her a surprised look. “What of them?”

Rowa frowned thoughtfully at him. “Were they cut by someone meaning harm to you?”

Morgott relaxed. That was easy enough to speak of. “I know why thou wouldst think so, but nay. ‘Twas done purposefully with my blessing.”

“Why? Did it not hurt?”

“It did, but not greatly. ‘Twas done in an effort to prevent mine other eye from being covered.”

“I’m glad it was not against your will.” Rowa spotted some dirt among the misshapen nubs, likely leftover from being pulled to the ground. Without much thought, she reached towards him, intending to be rid of the debris.

Morgott saw her hand approaching, and felt rooted to the spot. The part of him that longed for a gentle touch wanted him to remain there, but his heart leapt like a frightened deer. This was not a necessity; there was no wound to clean, no reason for her to reach out except by her own desires, and the idea startled him. Her fingertips were inches away from his shorn horns when he stepped back abruptly, veering away from her touch.

Rowa jumped, startled not only by him but by herself. She retracted her hand swiftly, balling into a fist at her side as her face heated.

“My men shall surely be reporting the Tarnished attacker soon, if not already,” Morgott said brusquely, turning from her. “I must attend them forthwith.”

“Of course,” Rowa murmured, abashed.

“Eat, then rest. I shan’t go far.”

Rowa watched him approach the door, and asked, “Will you tell me more about this place sometime? About Godwyn? It doesn’t have to be today, or anytime soon, but I would like to know…”

Morgott paused in the doorway, listening as her request trailed into silence. He would not start now, but she would surely see what awaited further inside the house once she was rested. “I will,” he answered, and left the room.

Rowa stood in silence for a few moments before glancing at Melina. “I did not mean to startle him.”

“I believe he knows that,” Melina said. “It was merely unexpected for him.”

Rowa sighed, making her way back to the bed. “Well, I’m glad to be back in the city so you can be present, though it won’t last long.”

“As am I.” Melina forced a smile. They would spend far too short a time in Leyndell for the permanence of what was to come.

Morgott went across the hall to what had once been Mohg’s room. Like his own, there remained little evidence of Mohg’s presence, all personal effects having been removed long ago. Nonetheless, the sight of the room, covered in the dust of disuse, stirred melancholy inside him. He and Mohg had spent many nights curled together in one of their beds, depending on who woke up from nightmares first. If they were especially troubled, Godwyn would come and stay with them, even after he took his wife, and in those times with the three of them, all seemed right with the world.

Now he stood in a room long abandoned, the memories therein tainted with the sorrow and bitterness of what came after. But a small voice reminded him that he was not alone, not anymore. It was a reality that had yet to fully take hold of his thoughts, that Rowa was steadfast in her vows and remained with him. His hand drifted up to his horns, where she had almost touched, and some part of him was frustrated that he had turned away.

Regardless of that, he would tell her of some of the things that transpired in this house as she asked, though surely much would become evident without words. He would tell her of the good things, of the brother who saved him from the sewer horrors, who he aspired to emulate. For a long time, he had not thought it possible to come anywhere close to Godwyn’s benevolence and gentility, for as much as Godwyn had always insisted that being an Omen was not a curse, he had not been able to shake that notion. Such thoughts took deeper root after the Shattering, when he became a faceless king, but now as he moved with new knowledge and purpose, he had begun to believe it was possible. The hope he saw in Rya and in his father’s cherished knight had inspired him so.

Yet, for all the good things, he felt Godwyn’s death and absence keenly, especially here in his house.

Morgott laid such memories aside for a while, going to take audience with his men in his illusory form. True to his suspicions, they had been trying to call for him, and he excused his lateness as being asleep. To his relief, they had not gotten a good look at them fleeing the graveyard, the soldiers in the lead only having glimpsed something moving in the dark. He ordered the slain soldiers’ bodies to be taken up and cleansed by perfumer in the hope that they would be able to stop the curse from spreading deep, and increased patrols on the outskirt roadways. The defiler’s body was to be thrown into the sea, in a bid to remove his perversions entirely.

As Morgott spoke with his men, he began to consider courses of action to take when the Erdtree was set ablaze. He did not know what would happen when it was finally done, but he figured it would not be good for those that remained in the city. When the time drew close, he would have his Nightriders evacuate everyone, and though there would always be some who did not listen, many would. He did not want to condemn loyal people to an undeserved fate.

When he finished his audience, he arose to peruse the house more thoroughly. Doing so would be painful, but he could not resist the desire to do so. The house could end up being burned, destroyed, or both when the Erdtree blazed, and so this was perhaps his only chance to look back upon the halls that, for all their austerity, to him had once been home.

Some rooms he glanced in, some he did not. The rooms for Godwyn’s children still held many of their belongings, for they had been slain on that dire night, and few had remained to take any sort of remembrances. All of them had been as fair as their father, and never did they look upon their Omen relatives—their uncles—with any sort of hatred. Likewise, Godwyn’s wife was as fair within as she was without and treated them with kindness. In their kindness, the slayings were all the more terrible, and only after did the remnants of Godwyn’s line turn to the vile practices of grafting to bolster their power.

Inevitably, he was drawn towards the atrium of the house, which had once been one of the grandest rooms. The aureate hues of the Erdtree’s light were muted through the skylight that had been covered by fallen leaves and other natural debris, but several rays still shone bright, illuminating a large portion of the circular room in soft light and accenting the pale stone in gentle hues.

However, the tranquility was deeply marred. At the far end of the corridor, Morgott could see it, for so great was the scar that had been etched into the house itself. It would look the same as the last time he saw it, but that consideration did not make the pain feel any less raw.

As he walked towards the atrium and the waiting corruption, Melina appeared beside him.

"The Tarnished?" he asked, keeping eyes forward.

"Asleep," she replied.

He said nothing more, and neither did she, but they both gravely approached the remnant of where it had begun, as though they were entering Godwyn’s tomb itself.

There, on the floor of the atrium once carved to perfection, lay the dark scar, the gaping half-wheel. It was as though some fissure had opened below and torn upwards through the floor, giving forth a spidering blackness that crept from the jagged seam like infection in a wound that spread almost throughout the entire room. It was there that the first blow had been struck, where the fairest of the demigods had tasted Death. So great was the rite imbued into the Black Blades that Death had left a mark not only on Godwyn, but into the floor he had stood upon. Morgott had watched the blackness spread across the stones with his own eyes, only to be stopped and contained by the spells of the Golden Order, but only when the entire house was destroyed would the scar be removed. But he had not the willpower to see that through himself.

King and Maiden stood in the gilded archway beyond the curse’s reach, gazing at the mark in silence, each caught in their memories both true and envisioned. Only after a small eternity did Morgott speak, and when he did it was so quiet that not even the high, arching ceiling could amplify it. “Dost thou know what thou gazeth upon?”

“I do,” Melina said. Her eye burned with a fierceness beyond anything else she had glimpsed before, and in it she saw the echoes of the tragedy. A golden body held down and stabbed with a blade that cut flesh and spirit alike. A woman of equal fairness screaming, running to the body, only to met with the same blade.

“I did not intend to return ‘ere,” Morgott murmured. “But ‘twas necessary to avoid discovery.”

“I…am glad you came here. I begin to understand more.”

He glanced at her. “What dost thou understand?”

“I know Death.”

“As do many who walk the Lands Between.”

“You misunderstand. I know Death.” Melina raised her fingers to her closed eye, running them over the seal. “I have seen its traces over the Lands Between, and each time I have been met with a familiarity, flashes of things I cannot make sense of. But as I gaze at this place, where Death began to return, I am assured that the Rune of Death was once…mine.”

Morgott’s quiet grief was momentarily forgotten, and he looked at her fully. “How can that be so? The Black Blade holds the Rune.”

“But is he the only one who has ever held it?”

Morgott could not answer that. He had never done much study into that particular subject, for the pain it dredged up. “Is this something Marika imparted to thee?”

“No. She said nothing of it to me. Her charge was to go forth and remain with the chosen Tarnished, until her end or mine, and that was all.”

“Then what dost thou make of this supposed possession? When the way is open to the Rune of Death, thou shalt be…”

“I do not know what it means, not yet. There are many things that are still hidden from me, and I am only allowed small pieces of memory from the past, and this…” Melina drew forth the curved blade she kept at her side, the blade gleaming faintly.

“’Tis the style of blade worn by many Maidens,” Morgott said. “What more is there to it?”

“It is more than that, for it was given to me by Marika herself. I am not yet sure of its purpose, but I am to give it to Rowa, at the time of the end.” Melina considered the blade a moment longer before putting it away. “But I am certain that I was marked by an outer god of Death, and so was the Rune of Death once in my possession.”

Morgott studied her for a moment. “Thou art not a vessel any longer. I hath seen the enthrallment thereof, and I see it not in thee.”

“I do not truly remember a time when I was. I only know the mark it has left on me, and the power I once held.”

“And so I must ask thee again, wouldst thou truly die?”

“My answer is the same. I do not know, but I shall do what I must out of necessity nonetheless, for the world will never be put right otherwise.”

Morgott looked back at the mark, then at the rest of the room, which seemed so grand even in the face of Death. He could not prevent himself from seeing the portraits hanging on the wall, every one of them depicting the shining resplendence of faces now committed to mausoleums. Two of the pictures broke the pattern, for were not irradiant, yet they hung alongside the portrait of Godwyn’s golden likeness in the place of honor. Morgott’s own face, younger but no less heart-weary, stared at him from the frame, and so did Mohg’s. He remembered Godwyn would not let them be veiled when they were painted.

That sight, of all of them in the house, hurt the most.

“You are weary,” Melina said, seeing the shadow of grief begin to deepen on Morgott’s face. “The shackles tried to take your strength. You should rest.”

Morgott gazed at the paintings a moment longer, hanging above the scabrous remnant. “Wilt thou keep vigil?”

“I will.”

He turned his back on the atrium, and so did she, knowing the burning in her eye was not half so much as the bittersweet remembrance in his heart.

Chapter Text

When the travelers had both fallen asleep, Melina returned to the scarred floor, seeking more visions from the mark of Death left there. She knelt on the floor just outside the atrium, the scar seeming like a yawning chasm leading down to some unseen depths in the dimness. The same images from before rose up, filling the black pit behind her sealed eye. The slain demigod crowned as the Death Prince, the woman running to him to share in the same fate, demigod heirs running and falling beneath the unforgiving blades.

She let these visions pass, bearing them with silent pity for the broken and slain demigods, for they were her family though she did not know them. The recollection of that fateful night came to an end, and she waited, studying the scar before her like she might find some hidden record in the spidering crevices. New sights bloomed in the darkness behind her eye, that she did not recall but she knew just the same, like the echoes she had encountered before.

In her eye, she saw a woman holding a twisted sword aloft, the same one she had glimpsed before. She realized that the woman looked like her, but it did not seem to be wholly herself. This woman was strong and terrible, like she held the power of life and death in her hands, and she possessed two eyes. One was milky, and the other gleamed a startling azure. She lifted the twisted sword, but it flew from her hands. Then she lay upon the ground, a golden figure towering above.

“Only fire shall free thee of the curse.” Marika’s voice rang strong, as though she truly stood in the deserted atrium. “I declare it so, for Death cannot kill Death.”

The woman who may have been Melina did not protest. More images followed, just as confused as the previous echoes, though they were greater in number. A dark city beneath a false night sky, a host of the skin-wrapped apostles, each bearing their own ember of the ghostly fire. Similar sights came after, but they came faster and faster, blending together in a deluge of muddled imagery until Melina was forced to turn away.

She breathed deeply of the stale air as the images began to fade, the torrent fading. She had seen enough. Her sacrifice would serve a twofold purpose: to open the path to Destined Death, and to rid herself of the curse. But what was the curse? The seal placed upon her eye? Her bodiless state? That seemed the most likely answer, but there was still something missing, something she had yet to place after all the echoes and remnants revealed to her.

Mine other self.

Was it she who once held Death and commanded the skin-clad apostles, or was it some Other? She did not know in certainty, for her memories offered nothing beyond the few things she had already glimpsed. She remained at the mark for some time, hoping that more would be revealed to her, but all she received was much the same. Eventually, she stood and retreated to the bedchamber, understanding more but always left with more questions, though she resigned herself to perhaps never receiving the answers. Soon, they would ascend to the mountains, and she felt the shortening of time with each step she took.

Rowa went to sleep almost instantly after laying down upon the bed. The mattress smelled old, and there was still much dust that she could not remove with her bare hands, but the softness of it had not diminished with time. It felt heavenly by comparison to the ground, and it was so large that spreading her arms out on either side of her only covered about a third of the total space. So she slept, and though she did not dream, she knew somewhere in the back of her mind that the distant light below the city still watched and waited. It did not come into her mind, but it was still there, patient enough to wait a thousand years for the right heart to come along and take the fire.

She awoke to soft daylight filtering through the dusty panes of the large, latticed windows. It was weak, indicating that dawn was still underway and the sun had not yet risen in full. She stretched herself, enjoying the softness of the surface beneath her before turning her attention to the rest of the room. She thought she was alone for a moment, until she spotted Melina seated on the faded rug. She made to greet Melina, but the Maiden raised a silencing finger to her lips, tilting her head towards the other side of the bed.

Morgott sat against the wall in the corner of the room, the hard lines of his face slackened with sleep. Rowa realized with a sharp twinge of guilt just how much space was leftover on the vast bed, more than she would ever have need of, but he had not taken it likely for her sake. She almost considered waking him to give him the opportunity to rest on the plush surface, but once he was awake he would likely not sleep any further.

Rowa sat up, remembering the injury to her leg only by the sight of the bandage. She gently probed the area, and no pain came from the action. Morgott’s incantations had held strong throughout the course of the night.

She arose quietly, moving to her bags to seek out food and drink. As she began to dig through her belongings, she came upon the Death-touched stone taken from Gelmir. She only intended to move it aside, but when she touched it, she found that the coolness there had become almost frigid, making her recoil in surprise. She looked her hand over, searching for any injury, but her skin was unhurt. Her food forgotten, she touched the stone once more, this time prepared for the coldness as she lifted it from the bag.

The cold did not radiate, but stayed contained in the palm of Rowa’s hand. As she looked at it, the markings etched into the red edge of the stone seemed to shift across the surface, forming patterns and words she could not comprehend.

A hand, warm with life, touched her shoulder. Melina now stood next to her, her eye upon the stone. She spoke quietly, so quietly that Rowa was not sure if the words had not formed in her mind. “There is Death in this house. The stone reacts to it.”

Rowa nodded silently, the pieces falling into place. This was Godwyn’s house, the place of his life, and his Death. It was here that the war, the Shattering, had begun.

Curiosity overtook Rowa. She stood, the stone in hand, casting another look at Morgott. He slumbered still, and so she would not disturb him. She quietly left the room, and Melina trailed after her into the silent halls.

The stillness now seemed heavier for the weight of knowledge, and though Rowa had found the Royal House of Leyndell lonely, this house was lonelier still. Her boots stirred dust across the floor, and she knew she was the first one to disturb it in ages. Who had last walked these halls, and had they made it out alive? Did they run, only to fall?

The marked stone led her steps unconsciously, its coolness growing in her hands as she progressed towards something, and when she turned the corner and faced the atrium, she knew what drew the stone. The half-wheel lay there on the floor ahead of her, the black mark she had glimpsed the night before, and the air shivered.

Rowa approached the mark, and the stone grew colder still. Light and shadow began to shift around her, forming images of things she knew were not truly there, flickering in and out of existence like sunlight glancing across water.

“What do you see?” Melina asked at her side.

“Memories,” Rowa breathed.

Figures—for that was all they could be called—glided down the hall towards the atrium. They were clad in something formless, something that rendered them little more than a breath of wind, but they chanted as they went, a low droning that followed and gave shape to the incorporeal. The words, burning with some deep-seated fire that could only be kindled by anger, touched Rowa’s mind.

O Death, strike down the Golden Blight!

Grant us now the Lord of Night!

Let them run, crumble, weep, and fall!

The depths of Death take them all!

For a moment, the black stain in the atrium was gone, replaced by a golden figure of great beauty. His hair flowed long down his shoulders and back like the Grace of gold, brushing the bared, immaculate skin of his torso. His eyes were even greater, shining with the light of the Erdtree itself…and yet he sagged, as though something bore down on his very spirit.

Rowa’s breath caught, for she knew that she looked upon Godwyn.

It was over in moments, though it could not be said if the memory was fully true. The shrouded figures leapt upon Godwyn, and though he fought, he had already been greatly taxed by some prior battle. They overpowered him, forcing him to his knees, and one of them raised a dark, misshapen blade. A Black Knife.

Rowa almost cried out, forgetting that what she saw was not truly there, but nothing could be done in either silence or loud protest. The Black Knife fell, piercing through flesh and spirit in a single blow. The cruel blade dug deep into Godwyn’s flesh, and the dark mark spidered out from the wound like cracks in fragile porcelain, reaching down his back and into the floor. He made no sound as Death was branded into his flesh. The light of Grace in his eyes dimmed and went out, and so too did the very essence of life flee from him.

Rowa saw the horrible truth of the life-in-death. The assassins let go of Godwyn’s body, and it fell to the floor, but his chest rose and fell with breaths still drawn. His eyes gazed unseeingly at the assassins as they backed away. His body lived, but there was no life.

A cry reached through the memory, so piercing that Rowa almost thought it had come from where she stood in the empty atrium. But it was not so, for the phantom of a woman she did not know came rushing by her, headed for the vision of Godwyn’s body. Her pale hair streamed behind her in braided ribbons, revealing her beautiful, unblemished face twisted with deep agony as though it were her who Death had struck. Though her form was slight, she possessed the power of a demigod, pushing through the assassins without effort to reach Godwyn’s body. She fell beside him, and though Rowa could no longer see her face, her grief was visible as she curled in on herself.

“What have you done?” Her wail rang loud in Rowa’s ears, raw and painful. “What have you done to him?”

The assassins closed in on her as well. Rowa averted her eyes, no longer able to bear the sight, squeezing the Death-marked stone in her hand. The jagged edges bit slightly into her flesh, and the pinch brought her back to the present.

Or so she thought.

A new memory played out before her eyes now, one that most certainly had not taken place in that lonely hall of Godwyn’s house, for she gazed upon the face of a woman she knew. Her own face.

It was deeply strange, for she did not remember what she now saw. Herself, kneeling in her old blue garments, her arms restrained behind her as blood stained her face and clothes. But even stranger was the anger twisting her features, her eyes alight with fury as she gazed at something or someone that did not appear in the vision. Her expression was almost downright hateful, and her lips moved, forming the echoes of old words.

“You call me a cursed one, but I think it is you who bring the curse!” her illusory self said to the invisible host. “You have killed many, and for what? The land is not cleansed because of it. You have only stained it more with blood.”

Rowa strained to remember something, anything about what she saw before her eyes, but her mind remained frustratingly blank.

“If you would kill me, then do it now, and be done with it.” Her memory raised her head, staring defiantly at her enemies. “I will grow strong in the face of death.”

An unseen blade came down, striking the memory through the heart. Blood bloomed red, spreading in a deep stain across blue fabric. The memory dropped to the ground without a sound.

Rowa stumbled back, clutching her own heart. Though she felt no pain there now, the sudden knowledge of her death was overwhelming.

A hand touched her shoulder, dragging her out of the memory. Melina stood next to her, regarding her with something like concern.

“What did you see?” Melina asked softly.

Rowa looked back at the atrium, finding it empty save for the scar of Death. Had only a moment passed, or had it been minutes since the visions began? The marked stone in her hand still radiated its coolness, but it had receded somewhat. She drew in a deep breath as she struggled to collect her thoughts. “I saw…I saw myself.”

“Yourself?” Melina echoed, regarding the stone carefully. “What do you mean?”

“I saw my death, before. It showed me.”

“Do you remember it?”

“No.” Rowa touched her heart again, to make sure there was no wound there. “I remember nothing of that time.”

“Perhaps it was merely the Rune of Death reacting to the presence of a Tarnished,” Melina mused. “Death has been the lot of the Tarnished since the beginning.”

“Perhaps.” Rowa cradled the stone in her palm, half expecting to see more memories come leaping out at her, but it seemed the visions had passed. They stood there in silence for a while, both of them mulling over what had just occurred.

Finally, Rowa noticed the array of paintings on the wall, and the host of familiar faces therein. Two of the portraits held faces she had seen only moments before in the vision, hanging side by side. One was certainly Godwyn, though she would have known even without the prior vision. The ethereal look of his face, the tresses of gold flowing down around it, set him apart even in a mere picture. Right beside him was a portrait of the woman she had seen, Godwyn’s wife. Unlike the vision, her disposition in the picture was calm and pleasant, the painter having captured a warmth in her eyes. There was no mistaking that she was happy at the time of the painting’s creation, which had swiftly come to ruin in the course of a terrible night. Was it the loss of such happiness that drove her to accept the cruel bite of the Black Knife, or was her love for Godwyn such that she could not bear to be separated? Both things seemed equally terrible.

Rowa turned her attention to the other paintings, hanging nearby the lord and lady. Another pair hung together, and though she only recognized one face, she knew who she looked upon without a doubt. One was Morgott, at a time when age and strife had not sat upon him so heavily. His horns were shorter, his face less weathered, and though his expression was very grave, there was a certain light in the one visible eye that no longer shone there. Perhaps that light had been slain by the Black Knives, too. The other painting was of an unfamiliar Omen, his entire head a crown of horns, bearing no hair at all. Fangs escaped the confines of his lips, his eyes shining like twin embers against the coal black of his skin. It was Mohg, Rowa was certain of it.

The other paintings she did not readily recognize, but she could see the relations clear enough. All of them were of pale or golden hair, sons and daughters alike, and some bore a striking resemblance to Godrick. Indeed, his portrait may well have been among them, but she could not tell which one for how changed his likeness was by the time they crossed paths.

Rowa’s quiet observance was eventually broken by a call. “Tarnished?” Morgott’s voice echoed oddly in the corridors. “Where art thou?”

“I’m here!” Rowa’s reply was amplified by the large space in front of her. “Near the atrium.”

Morgott appeared at the end of the hall, blinking the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. He was unsurprised to find her at the mark, for there was no hiding it. She gave him a sympathetic look as he approached, and he knew she already understood what was in front of her.

“Why dost thou hold that stone?” he asked, noticing the object in her hands.

“It was reacting to the presence of Death,” Rowa said, studying the red stains. “I brought it here to better understand the connection.”

“And what didst thou find?”

“I saw my own death, in a vision.”

The quiet admission struck Morgott like a shard of ice piercing his chest. He could not help his dismay when he asked, “A former death, or one yet to come?”

“Former, I believe, though I still remember nothing of it. It seems as though I accepted my fate gladly, in the knowledge that I would yet live.”

Several questions rose in Morgott’s mind at once, but he hesitated to speak them. To know the manner of her death, to know how her blood was violently spilled, made his stomach feel leaden with a sickening weight. When he spoke, he said, “I was not aware this house would grant thee such visions.”

“Nor was I,” Rowa said, “but it has granted me better understanding of who I was, who I am.”

“Dost thou then know anymore of thy time beyond the fog?”

“Nothing, save for what I saw here.” Rowa pondered the stone, the scar on the floor, before saying, “I also saw something else. I saw…what happened here, that night.”

The shard of ice sank deeper, the coldness blooming into the more familiar ache of grief. “I see.”

“You do not have to tell me more. I have seen enough. I think I only desire to know the good things about them, which is what should rightfully be remembered.” Rowa gave him a careful look. “Do you think so?”

“Aye,” Morgott said quietly, the ache easing.

“Then if you are willing, would you tell me as we eat?”

Morgott considered the host of memories that had come to him since arriving in the old house.  Rowa was right; there was much good to be remembered, which he had not dwelt on for any great length in a long time. “I shall.”

Over a meal of berries and dried meat, Morgott gave voice to that which had been consigned to the silence of grief, and never brought forth again. “When my lord father was sent away, Godwyn took us, I and my brother both, away from the Shunning Grounds and to his house.”

“Your brother does not look like your twin,” Rowa admitted. “If I did not know, I would not even think you were related.”

“We hath been so distinguished since birth. Never did we look alike in form or appearance, for the curse struck us differently.”

Rowa nodded. “And so you lived here after he took you in?”

“Until the Shattering. ‘Twas a far better existence than the sewers.”

“Even in the city of the Golden Order?”

“Aye. Godwyn and his wife treated us fairly and with dignity, and they never allowed undue scrutiny come down upon us, even from the highest ranks of nobility.”

Rowa’s mind returned to the portrait of the pale-haired woman. “Who was she, Godwyn’s wife?”

“Before my father’s exile, Godwyn didst take a bride from the paragons of a faraway land, offered up when my mother’s conquest threatened to drive them from the Lands Between. Her name was Hynna, and she was as fair within as she was without.”

Here, Rowa asked, “She bore you no ill will for your heritage?”

“Nay. Never.” Morgott’s eyes were distant as he plucked berries from his palm, eating them slowly as he considered his next words. “She was not brought up in the ways of the Golden Order, and she followed Godwyn in her ideals. She treated us kindly…as though we were her own children, I would think.”

He gave no indication of any pain, but Rowa knew it was churning just below the surface as he trailed into silence. She let him sit quietly for a few moments, then asked, “Their union was one of royal and political interest, was it not?”

“Aye, it was.”

“Then, did Godwyn and Hynna ever discover any sort of affection for one another?”

“They did.” Morgott answered without hesitation. “Truthfully, I do not remember witnessing a time when they were not wholly enraptured, for ‘twas a well established union before I was lifted from my banishment.”

Rowa nodded, the sight of Hynna crying over Godwyn’s body burned into her mind. But then her thoughts turned to themselves, and their union. The knowledge that Godwyn’s marriage had prevailed despite the barriers of necessity gave her an odd sense of hope. A warm feeling bloomed in her heart, spreading through her veins, and the intensity almost startled her. She was not quite sure where the feeling had come from, but she had the strangest desire to see their union strengthen rather than deteriorate. She had learned so much about him between many pains and few joys, that it seemed unfair to let such time and knowledge be abandoned.

“Rowa.”

She came out of her thoughts to see Morgott regarding her seriously. “Yes?”

“If it shan’t trouble thee, may I ask thee how thou didst die?” After considering what she told him, Morgott could no longer restrain the question. Though the thought of knowing left him uneasy, he was truly curious, for he knew little else of her past.

“From my understanding, I was captured by enemies, or so it seemed.” Rowa felt the phantom prick of a knife on the skin above her heart. “I do not know who it was, for the vision did not show me, but I told them to kill me.”

“Why?” Morgott asked, surprised.

“It seems I knew what awaited me when I died. I knew I would grow strong in the face of death, so they put a knife in my heart.”

The image left Morgott unsettled, and he tried to banish it quickly. He didn’t realize he was staring hard at her until she met his eyes with a small smile.

“It is a troubling consideration, I know, but I am glad I saw what I did. I’m not yet sure about the reasons behind my actions, but I came into this life willingly, and that knowledge only furthers my desire to see the world made right.”

Morgott dropped his eyes to his food, nodding. “I suppose thou hast always known thou wert born from a former death.”

“Yes, but now it has become more…real. It is strange, and I would not wish it upon anyone, but as of now I am at peace with it. I have lived and died, like all Tarnished.”

Melina listened from her position off to one side. She wondered if she was much the same, having undergone a former death for the hope of the world put to rights. With the Rune of Death, it seemed possible, but she was only certain of the death to come.

Morgott finished his meal, studying the pale light shafting through the window. “’Tis tempting to tarry ‘ere, for it hath been a long time since I could bring myself to walk these halls, but I think now I am better for it. There is the stain of Death, but there is also much good as thou hast said. To dwell upon them both after all this time hath been…made easier.”

“How so?” Rowa asked.

Morgott thought back to what she had told him in Altus, overlooking the blighted valley. It had not been that long ago, but it felt like an age. “I no longer bear the grief alone.”

Rowa’s smile grew with understanding, that warm hope returning even greater than before. “And I am glad of it.”

Chapter Text

“Is this your bed?” Rowa asked, looking down at the pile of scrap cloth in front of her.

“‘Tis thine to use as thou dost please,” Morgott grunted.

“And where will you sleep if I take this?”

Morgott hesitated a moment too long. “I shall find suitable arrangements.”

Mortified that it had only occurred to her then that she had been formerly using his bed, Rowa said, “I will find another place to sleep. This is yours, and I used it far longer than I should have.”

Morgott’s responding huff was almost amused. “If that is what thou dost desire. ‘Tis but one night ‘ere before we travel onwards.”

“Yes, but it might be good to sleep in your own place. When we return, much will be changed.”

“Perhaps,” Morgott said, his awareness of Melina’s nearby presence increased tenfold. “Thou shouldst ensure thou’rt properly prepared for the coldness of the mountains afore we depart. I must make similar preparations. Thou’rt free to search among the clothings again.”

“Very well. Shall I eat with you later, then?”

“Aye. Perhaps in the garden.”

“I would like that,” Rowa said, giving him a departing smile. She stepped out of Morgott’s chambers, Melina trailing behind as she began to peruse the Royal House.

They had arrived at the Royal House around midday, having used the tunnel network again in lieu of trying to navigate their way through the city streets in the daylight or summoning a Nightrider. The tunnels took them into a lower section of the house, the entrance hidden behind an innocuous portion of the stone wall.

Though they had not been gone long at all in comparison to the length of the past ages, Rowa felt like a great amount of time had passed since they had previously departed. Much had happened, for better or worse. So as she walked the halls, she felt an odd sense of nostalgia. She could hardly consider it any sort of home, but it had been a safe place once Morgott extended his clemency, and as she considered those days it was startling to her just how much closer they had come to each other over the course of their union. It was certainly more than she had ever expected when she gained his reluctant alliance at the Elden Throne.

With her previous wanderings through the gilded halls serving her, she quickly found an abandoned bedchamber, just as dusty and unkempt as the room in Godwyn’s house, but it would serve its purpose well enough. She pulled back the drapes over the window, letting the full light of the Erdtree seep into the room.

“Are you glad to be here again?” Rowa asked Melina as she deposited her few belongings in a corner.

“It is a mark of a successful journey thus far,” Melina said. “And I am glad to have my physical form again, however brief it may be.”

Rowa hummed, returning to the window to gaze at the Erdtree through the dusty panes. “What must be done to reclaim your true body?”

“I am not certain. There is much I am still unsure about, with who I am and how I came to be this way.”

“Then when the Ring is mended, that shall be my next endeavor. You have already endured much for the sake of the world.”

Melina looked away from Rowa towards the Erdtree. “So have all Tarnished and their Maidens.”

“But you deserve full understanding. You deserve a body untethered to the Erdtree.”

Melina wondered if that was truly so, for the unspoken things yet to come and the mysteries she had not yet solved. But she said, “You have my thanks for your considerations.”

They stood for a few moments longer, taking in the majesty of the Erdtree, for neither knew what awaited it beyond the Forge and the Rune of Death. How the fire would consume it and what would be left was a mystery.

Eventually, Rowa moved to the task awaiting her. Her clothes were warm, but additional wrappings would keep her hands warm and do well to keep the cold and snow from getting into her boots. There was much to choose from among the forgotten belongings left behind long ago, and it did not take long for to come up with pieces of thickly woven cloth for her hands and feet, as well as a longer wrapping that could shield her face from the wind.

When she was satisfied with her findings, she went searching for a water source, seeking to clean herself of the dust and dirt from traveling. She found a small fountain in the middle of an intersectional courtyard, and though the water was littered with fallen leaves, she made use of it. She untied her hair and rolled back her sleeves, beginning the work of removing the grime from her hair. As she did so, she was reminded of the cleansing she had received at Morgott’s hands, unbeknownst to her at the time. She did not know if it was better that she had been unconscious during that, for she did not know if she could have borne such ministrations without making a fool of herself in some way. It seemed startlingly intimate for one such as him, who still shied away from her touch. Maybe her unconscious state was the reason he had done it, for she found herself hard pressed to imagine such a thing occurring while she sat awake.

It took some time and effort, but idle conversation with Melina occupied Rowa, and she managed to get the worst of the tangles and debris free from her hair. By the time she was finished, the sun had begun to dip towards the horizon, filling the sky with fire. Both of them made their way through the house, and though Rowa took some wrong turns, they eventually found their way to the garden that Morgott tended. The terrace was streaked with stark patterns of light and shadow, meted out by the setting sun and the Erdtree’s alternating glows interrupted by the surrounding buildings. The plant life stood tall and proud, the closeness to the Erdtree giving them vigor even when their caretaker had been absent.

 Morgott was already there when the pair arrived, using a knife of golden light to prune the overgrown branches of a wily erdleaf bush. He straightened upon hearing their approach, and was startled by the sight of Rowa with her hair down, flowing over her shoulders and down her back freely. He had never considered such a thing until now when it was before his eyes. It was different, but he did not find that he disliked it.

“I hope you were not waiting long,” Rowa said, stepping in between the rows of flowers.

“Nay.” Morgott extinguished the knife in his hand. “There was much to be tended to, here and elsewhere.” With a beckoning curl of his hand, he led them towards the Erdtree sprout at the end of the terrace. There awaited a pitcher and goblets, as well as a platter of meat and berries that looked deliciously fresh in comparison to the drying rations they had subsisted on during the trip to Gelmir.

Brushing the fallen leaves from the stone, Rowa seated herself on one end of the bench, and Morgott on the other, though his wide frame took up a considerable portion of the entirety. They began eating, and Melina drifted to the edge of the terrace, consigning herself to the silent vigil she often kept, letting her thoughts drift towards the Erdtree and the impending flames.

“What do you make of this?” Rowa asked, showing him the cloth she had procured. “It seems to me that it will keep the cold at bay.”

“‘Tis of good make,” Morgott agreed after studying it briefly. “It shall serve its purpose well. I found these to aid thee as well.”

He brought forth a handful of stone shards that looked to be no more than pebbles in his palm, and they glowed with a gentle golden light. Rowa extended her hands, startled by the intense warmth that met her skin when she took the stones.

“Warming stones,” Morgott offered. “They shall ward off the worst of the cold.”

“Thank you.” Once Rowa adjusted to the warmth, it became pleasant, and would undoubtedly become more so in the chill of the mountains. “You ascended to the mountains once before, yes?”

“I did,” Morgott said, his congeniality shifting towards grim remembrance.

Rowa saw the shadow pass over his face. “You never spoke of why.”

Morgott considered the matter for a moment. There was no reason to withhold the information, for he had already mentioned Vyke’s downfall in passing before. He paid careful attention to Melina’s presence behind him, but felt no shift or indication he should not speak of it.  “I didst speak to thee once of the previous Tarnished who sought lordship, who came to the Elden Throne.”

“Yes,” Rowa said, recalling. “Briefly.”

“He was a knight of renown among the Roundtable, a chosen follower of the Two Fingers. When he infiltrated the city, he did so without my knowledge, and he made it to the Elden Throne where many thought lordship awaited.”

“But the Erdtree did not let him enter,” Rowa murmured, her finger twitching with the phantom fire of the thorns’ touch.

“Nay, and in that rejection, he descended below the city into the depths I dare not tread.”

Rowa unconsciously glanced at the cobblestone patterns beneath her feet, understanding bringing dread with it. “I see.”

“And then he arose to seek out the Rune of Death, traveling into the mountains. I didst fear what he would bring about, and so I followed him there.”

Though she already knew the answer, Rowa asked, “Did you find him?”

“Aye.” The tranquility of the garden was suddenly far from Morgott. He stood once more on the snowy hills, faced with what had once been a man, his eyes weeping yellow fire. “I hath not seen aught like him before or since that day.”

An odd chill ran down Rowa’s spine. “You said you did not kill him.”

“I could not, for the Frenzied Flame had taken hold of his flesh as a host. He had become almost as an Empyrean, as undying as the Two Fingers themselves.”

“What did you do, then?”

“I sealed him in a gaol, there on the mountain.” Vyke’s almost inhuman cries rang loud in Morgott’s memories. “And there he remaineth to this day.”

“But nothing can be done for him,” Rowa concluded.

“Not until the Rune of Death is unbound.” A breeze rustled the carefully kept rows of the garden, and Morgott turned his face into it, hoping the gentle tinge of flowers would alleviate his troubled thoughts. “We must pass by the gaol during the ascent, but I am of no intent to linger there.”

“Nor am I.” Rowa rolled the berries in her palm thoughtfully. “I suppose I understand what he felt, when the Erdtree rejected him. The Two Fingers misled many, even me who did not serve them.”

“At the time, I disdained him for what he attempted, the ruin he almost wrought. But now, I pity him.”

Melina’s thoughts remained with Vyke even as the conversation ended in favor of the meal at hand. She pitied Vyke indeed, for like Rowa, he possessed much good in a world otherwise broken. Though he had left her for a true Maiden that heeded the words of the Fingers, she had long since put aside any feelings of frustration and resentment. He had not cast her aside with harsh words, but strove to make her understand his reasonings. And even as a dedicated follower of the Golden Order, he had not approached the outcast kinds of the Lands Between with the same vitriol of his fellows. He had been willing to lend them kindness, to the point where he earned the favor of one of the most powerful dragons that remained in the world. Among the many zealots of the Golden Order, he had been one of the few predisposed to a truly kind heart, and that took him far.

But that kindness had led to ruin, in the end.

It was best that he had never ascended as Elden Lord, for he would have likely brought about the resurgence of the old ways, which was not Marika’s intent. Despite that, he had not deserved the fate that befell him, a good man burned by the flames of chaos and condemned to an undying existence for the sake of a Maiden who was long dead herself.

Hearing Morgott speak of Vyke hardened Melina’s resolve. She knew the world that she would have, even at the cost of herself, even if Rowa had to bear the grief of her loss.

The night passed in peace. After eating, Rowa parted ways with Morgott for the evening, though it felt peculiar to be at such a distance from him. Nevertheless, she took the bed she had previously come upon without complaint, for the next day would be full of preparation and the next night of travel once more. The bed had surely lost its softness with the onset of time, but it provided her an untroubled and dreamless sleep, and when she awoke to daylight streaming through the windows she felt even more refreshed than the day before.

Melina stood at the window when Rowa stirred, watching the sunrise slowly set fire to Leyndell’s golden rooftops. She had wandered in the night, searching for more remnants, more pieces of memory to be gained, but found none beyond what she already knew. Eventually, she had put the search aside, returning to Rowa’s room resigned to the possibility that there was no more to be gleaned before the end came. She turned her head slightly as Rowa arose, nodding in acknowledgement.

“How was your sleep?” she asked.

“Undisturbed,” Rowa replied, her voice still a little thick as she came to the window. “And how was the passing of the night?”

“As quiet as most others.”

Rowa leaned on the sill, watching the golden motes of the Erdtree’s leaves drift from the massive network of branches far above.  “I wish there was more time for you to be manifested in body. Two days does not seem enough.”

“Do not take it to heart. I am untroubled by it. My desires have become my own, and as of now a true body is of little consequence to me.”

“What of Marika’s desires for you?” Rowa queried, surprised by her turn of thought.

“My purpose was given to me by my mother,” Melina agreed, “but now, I act of my own volition. I have set my heart upon the world that I would have, regardless of my mother's designs. I won't allow anyone to speak ill of that. Not even you.”

“I would never do such a thing.” Rowa studied her face, but found it as largely impassive as ever. “What world have you set your heart upon?”

A leaf of gleaming gold drifted by the window, and Melina traced its path with her eye as it fluttered in the wind. “I would have a world without such brokenness as it possessed now, a world where no flame of chaos waits to take the unsuspecting heart. Of all the threats in the world, I find that fire to be the worst. It would devour life and thought unending. Even in this brokenness, life persists, but should that fire ever take hold…”

“Yes,” Rowa agreed quietly. “I would not wish to see such a world.”

“Then will you promise me that?”

Rowa faced her fully, surprised by the request. “Promise you what?”

“That no matter what comes to pass, you will see the world renewed, and that one day the madness of the Frenzy will be driven into nothing but a distant legend.”

“Of course I will promise that. How could I not?”

Melina gave the slightest shrug of her shoulders, watching the glimmering leaf vanish behind a parapet of pale stone among the rooftops below the window. “It has merely weighed on my mind since the discussion of the unfortunate Tarnished who was taken.”

“I am fortunate to not be as he was, for I could easily have been that very first night here. But now I would never let that happen.” Rowa gave Melina a reassuring squeeze on her shoulder. “You do not have to worry about that. I promise.”

“You have my thanks.” Melina could only hope the promise held true as she spent her last day in her physical form.

The Elden Throne possessed a tranquility second to none, especially in the quiet hours of the dawn. With that in mind, Morgott went there immediately after awakening for the opportunity to bask in the peace one more time before the journey continued into its most altering stage. As was his habit, he paced the circular patterns of the masonry, drawing his stave through the piles of leaves that gleamed dully in the morning light. Like the overall city, the Elden Throne remained unchanged, unblemished in his absence. So to did the wall of thorns at the Erdtree’s entrance remain, impassable and almost mocking, but now he felt no inadequacy in beholding them. All were turned away, whether it be him, Vyke, or Rowa, and it was not by Marika’s choosing.

Soon, they would burn away, but he tried to keep the more troubling thoughts out of his mind, not wishing to disrupt his peace. He had found that Rowa had been correct; it had felt comforting to spend the night in his old bed, if only once. The feel, the smell, the softness of the old scraps he had compiled long ago had an unmatched familiarity to them, and he had slept deeply and dreamlessly upon them. When he awoke, it was with something close to serenity, despite the hard remembrance of the past days and the trials yet to come.

Eventually, the echo of footsteps across the vast terrace alerted Morgott to Rowa’s approach, recognizing the cadence of her steps as much as the stirring of his Rune. They had not agreed to meet here, but it seemed fitting. The last time they had stood together at the Throne, it was for a binding vow that held no true breadth of feeling beyond the necessity of ensuring the world to come. But now that vow had become something more, deeper and no longer merely a begrudging necessity.

“Did you rest well?” Rowa greeted as she spied Morgott’s imposing figure, her words echoing across the quiet stones.

“Aye.” Morgott glanced back, seeing her crest the stairs to the terrace with Melina in her wake. “And thou?”

“I rested very well.” Rowa came to stand beside him, and for a little while, neither spoke, soaking in the quiet majesty of the Erdtree and the Throne. As the first rays of fiery sunlight stretched across the pale patterns of stone, Rowa asked, “What do you think we will find when we return?”

“I know not,” Morgott answered softly. “Much will be changed, but it has already been before. This is but a shade of the previous glory of the Throne. If it must dim further before the mending of the Ring, then I shall not take umbrage.”

“Then perhaps it might be restored, or become something even greater.”

“Aye, perhaps.” A cool morning breeze passed over the terrace, sending fallen leaves scattering in excited whorls. Morgott relished in the feeling as it tugged at fur and cloak alike. Soon, such peaceful zephyrs would be replaced with the bitter gusts of the mountains, cold enough to penetrate the almost stifling heat of his body. “Come,” he said to Rowa at last, turning his back on the empty throne and the sealed door beyond. “We must continue our preparations.”

Rowa followed him, casting one last look at the terrace to commit it to memory.

The day was spent finishing their preparations for the next stage of the journey, refreshing food and medical supplies. Reaching the Forge would take a few days based on Morgott’s previous ascension, but there was no telling where lighting the fire would lead them next. With that in mind, they took the time to pack extra supplies.

Neither of them spoke much while packing, the focus of preparations leaving little room for idle conversation. However, Morgott found a sense of enjoyment in the mundaneness of it, Rowa coming and going with ease like she had lived in the house for as long as he. It was not the act of restocking supplies as much as it was the simple knowledge of companionship, of another nearby though little words were exchanged.

Soon enough, the evening had come again. Provisions were packed, medicines restocked, blades sharpened to fine edges. At Melina’s prompting, Rowa dug out the medallion she had been given, presenting it to Morgott.

“‘Twas given to thee by Marika?” he asked Melina.

“Yes, long ago,” she replied.

Morgott nodded silently, studying the medallion briefly. It was of the same design as the one he was in possession of, though worn with age and travel. Yet another facet of Marika’s plan to light the Forge.

Melina quietly affixed herself to Rowa once more, though she did so with deep melancholy in her heart. It would be the last time she would place her trust in Rowa’s abilities, the last time she would travel as a bodiless but constant observer.

Rowa, however, remained unaware of these things as they finished the last necessities before beginning the trek into the mountains. This journey was not as the one to Gelmir, for Morgott’s knowledge, both through reading and experience, only extended to the Forge itself. What would occur beyond that, when the path to the Rune of Death was opened, was left unknown to them all. It filled her with a careful anticipation, not unlike her previous travels before coming across Morgott, but she also felt more assured. With Morgott at her side, it did not seem quite so daunting.

When they were ready, and the last rays of evening’s light were dimming beyond Leyndell’s walls, they descended through the Royal House to the streets, where a Nightrider waited for them like before.

Greetings, my lord, my lady. The chilling voice of the Nightrider rolled across the quiet air.

“Take us to the Forbidden Lands,” Morgott said.

As thou dost wish it.

And so they walked through the darkening streets of Leyndell once more, though Rowa did so with more confidence than the first time. Now used to the Nightriders’ manner and aura, she stayed in stride with ease. They walked along the twisting roads in a route similar to the one they had used on their previous departure, but this time they passed by the route that would take them up into the ramparts and the gatehouse. Instead, they went towards a large gate set in the eastern wall. The huge wooden doors were shut, but Morgott approached them with no hesitance. Bracing a hand against each door, he pushed, and Rowa could hardly see any sign of strain. With a grating creak, the gates opened, and Morgott pushed them open just wide enough for them to pass through.

Beyond the gate lay an emptier portion of land, though it was in a similar state of disarray as the rest of the city. A large sandy copse littered with broken carts and debris stood alongside the roadside led to an old staircase set in the side of a grassy hill. They ascended the uneven steps carefully, the roadside becoming flush with the walls, and they only had to walk a little further before arriving at an old, ornate lift. They stepped onto the wooden platform, and Rowa craned her neck to take in the vast shaft towering high around them, disappearing into the darkness above them. Morgott placed a foot on the lift’s pressure plate, and with a lurch and a creak, the lift began ascending.

They traveled upwards for about a minute, long enough for Rowa to wonder if it would ever end, but the lift finally reached the top. A large bridge stretched ahead of them, lined on both sides with pillars, braziers, and statues. Golden grass sprouted between old stones, interspersed with piles of fallen leaves. Everything dropped away into dark mist beyond the railings of the bridge, no light or object penetrating it beyond the light of the Erdtree at their backs. The only sign of life and movement was a stiff breeze, much stronger than the gusts below in the city that blew hard against the travelers.

On the other end of the bridge, a small tower composed of the same architecture as the rest of Leyndell rose like a monolith amid the mists. As they approached it, Rowa saw that it was another lift, but it would take them down instead of up. Instead of wood, this lift was composed of stone, carved with winding patterns and a circular pressure plate in the middle. When they arrived, the Nightrider stopped just short of the lift.

I wish thee good fortune, the Nightrider said.

“And the same to you,” Rowa replied.

“My thanks to thee, as always.” Morgott dipped his head to the rider before stepping on the pressure plate. The lift rumbled to life with more smoothness than the previous one, taking them downwards.

Repetitive patterns of carved arches and the intricate columns between them drifted by in endless succession as the lift descended. It took longer than the first, and as it went, the temperature began to drop significantly, shifting from cool to biting in a matter of moments.

Rowa shivered slightly, and when she breathed out, it fogged in front of her. She glanced at Morgott, and though he seemed unbothered by the cold, clouds of steam puffed in front of his face as well.

Finally, the lift slowed, then halted. The land that stretched beyond the entrance was unlike anything Rowa had ever seen before. All was covered in a blanket of stark white, only tree trunks and a couple of outcrops spared from the covering. The air was full of fog almost as pale as the snow, the land stretching into blank oblivion in all directions. Only the shining rays of Grace remained to pierce the veil, stretching onwards into the mist, towards something yet unseen.

“Art thou prepared?” Morgott asked, staring into the wintry scape. Even now, he felt the same stirrings of trepidation as he had when he came before. He did not know what lay at the end of the journey.

Rowa too looked at what lay before them, and felt her own uncertainty at the newness of it. But she said, “I am.”

Together, they stepped into the Forbidden Lands.

Chapter Text

The pale fog encompassed everything. When they were no more than fifty paces beyond the lift, Rowa looked back and saw the structure had already been obscured from view. Were it not for the skeletal trees and rocky hills, they would be completely submerged in a world of white and shadow, frighteningly directionless. Even the Erdtree’s light was muted to nothing but a distant glow behind them, giving the haze a golden tinge but no more.

Snow was something foreign to Rowa, and she had not considered it until the moment she sank up to her ankles in the frigid whiteness. It took her several steps to adjust to the awkward hindrance, but even then each step required more thought and strength than what she was used to giving. She found herself growing steadily envious of Morgott, whose feet were so great that the snow did not even reach the tops of them.

“Thou shouldst use thy steed,” Morgott suggested when he noticed her almost stumble. “There is little to hide from here.”

“Gladly,” Rowa said, shaking the snow from her boots as she pulled forth Torrent’s whistle.

Atop Torrent, movement through the snow became much easier. He seemed much more accustomed to the snow, traversing it easily alongside Morgott. Rowa was glad to accept the steed’s warmth, which abated the stark chill that bit at every piece of uncovered skin.

The quiet that permeated the frigid land was akin to the quiet over Gelmir, but without the eeriness that the mountain offered. There were no hanging corpses, no remnants of bygone battles scattered about like haunted relics. Only rocks and trees all around, all sound muted by the heavy blanket of snow save for their breathing. It was peaceful.

The Forbidden Lands was an isthmus that connected Leyndell and Altus to the mountains. At times, the edges of the land on both sides were visible, dropping away into a misty void. Similarly, the isthmus itself was split into several sections, divided by thin but deep chasms that dropped into the same empty space. Crossing these gaps sent an anxious tremble through Rowa’s nerves, though Torrent’s jumping abilities rivaled Morgott’s. However, most of the isthmus was easy to navigate, merely a matter of winding through the trees and rocks that jutted from the flatter land.

As they advanced, the shadows began to deepen in a familiar fashion, and both travelers felt the aura beginning to settle over them, as cold as the snow around them.

“Another?” Rowa asked, her breath rolling in a puff of mist.

“Aye,” Morgott said, searching the mist ahead for the shadow that was soon to appear. “He hath guarded the mountains since I last traveled ‘ere, and none hath surpassed him in might.”

Of all the Cavalry, this Nightrider was the greatest among them. Undoubtedly once a king or lord among men, the strength and power he exuded outweighed all his fellows. And so Morgott had set him at the pass into the mountains, to ensure none seeking the propagation of chaos ever made it as far as Vyke had.

When he at last appeared ahead, materializing from the mist like he was made of it, Rowa’s breath was stolen from her lungs as she was met with the crushing weight of his presence. He looked no different from the other Nightriders, clad in the same armor upon the same cloaked steed, but his presence spoke to some greater power residing within.

“Canst thou withstand him?” Morgott asked, hearing Rowa draw in a sharp breath.

“Yes.” Rowa exhaled, adjusting to the new intensity. “It will be good to have him nearby as we go into the mountains.”

The Nightrider came to a soundless stop before the pair, his shadow deepening the already dim world of fog around them. When he spoke, his voice was the same as the other cavalrymen, a chill breeze wafting over the minds of those meant to hear it.

‘Tis been long, my lord, he said. But rest assured that none hath passed this way since thy last return.

“Thou hast done well,” Morgott replied. “I ask thee now to accompany us into the mountains.”

Certainly, my lord.

They went forth with the Nightrider into the mists. Were it not for the landscape’s varying features, one may have thought they were not even moving, suspended in a ghostly otherworld where all but snow and fog had fled away.

The lift came looming out of the void suddenly, a huge dark monolith that made the previous lifts seem tiny in comparison. It was fashioned in the same grand architectural style of Leyndell, though the stone appeared to lack luster standing beneath the snow and without the Erdtree’s light upon it. A long stone incline led up to the entrance, the grand columns and arches so tall they almost disappeared into the fog. Through the entryway there stood four identical statues of a grim-faced scholar separated into pairs, holding a bauble in one hand and a halberd in the other. The halberds almost touched each other, forming two makeshift archways that did not yet lead anywhere but the back wall of the structure.

The traveling party ascended the incline, passing through the entryway. Like a much larger version of the previous lift, a  stone circle waited in front of the paired statues, though there was no pressure plate to start the mechanisms this time.

“Lift the medallion hither,” Morgott said as the party stopped on the circle, gesturing to the empty space in front of them.

Rowa took the medallion and lifted it as he instructed. As she did, the small fiery jewel embedded in the medallion seemed to glow with its own light. In response, the eyes of the statues lit up with the same light, burning like embers, and with a grating of stone upon stone, they began to turn on their pedestals. The statues closest to the travelers turned outwards towards them, and farther pair turned towards the far wall. Then, with a slight lurch, the lift activated and began to ascend.

They went up for several minutes, the shaft dark save for the occasional narrow gap that allowed some meager light through. No one spoke, both Omen and Tarnished filled with their respective thoughts of dread and wonder at what they might see. At last, dim light appeared from above, pouring in from all sides into the shaft and signaling the top of the lift. The ascension slowed as the lift prepared to stop, and the fog from below was burned away, granting a gradual view of the landscape to the travelers.

The lift was set upon a precipice, the entryway joining a snow covered ridge that meandered off around the edge of a sheer cliff face. The ridge was wide enough to accommodate a large group traveling side by side, but that provided little comfort for the waiting void that the far side dropped away into. Behind the lift, the Erdtree was fully visible once more, except now the branches stretching across the sky seemed terribly close, almost within arm’s reach.

Rowa took it all in with wonder, too enraptured with the new land to notice the dramatic increase in the biting cold until a solid gust of wind blew through the open pavilion that housed the lift, whistling around the rimed columns. The intensity took her breath away, and she coughed as the dryness burned against her throat. She scrabbled for her cloth bindings, quickly wrapping them around her hands and a larger one around her face and neck. Morgott stood by silently as she girded herself, the tattered edges of his cloak swaying in the wind, but he gave no indication of discomfort despite the majority of his body being bared to the wind.

“Are you certain the cold does not bring you discomfort?” Rowa asked, her voice muffled behind the wrapping.

Morgott shook his head. “Omen blood doth possess a fire of its own. Ever am I filled with it, and so such conditions do not hinder me.”

“I would consider that an advantage.”

“Perhaps, though I possess not the experience of unblemished men to know otherwise.” Morgott tapped his stave decisively on the lift as it came to halt, the statues turning back to their original positions and the fire dimming from their eyes. “Let us make haste before the night cometh to an end.”

They struck out along the ridge. Rowa guided Torrent to walk as close as possible to the sheer mountainside, and when Morgott made note of this, she admitted with some embarrassment, “I am not particularly fond of high places.”

Morgott regarded this admission with some vague amusement. She had faced many frightful things both before and after their union with little pause, but it was a mere mountaintop that she feared. However, he could find no fault in it; beyond the edge, other peaks were visible jutting through the fog far below, giving some hint as to how dizzyingly high they were.

The night was as quiet as it had been below, except for the occasional blast of wind that came whipping across the expanse. The ridge stretched on for quite a distance, following the contour of the mountainside with a slight incline, but the entire way was clear of obstacles, living or otherwise. Eventually, the ridge came to an end, opening up to a larger section of land between two large crags. The land split into two routes, one winding up onto a smaller ridgeway and one declining into a lower section. Rowa considered the crossroads with hesitance, but Morgott’s prior experience extinguished her doubt.

“We will take the high road,” he said, “for the lower doth pass a ruin where its denizens still roam.”

As they went deeper into the mountains, they began to see more than just stone and snow. Trees dotted the landscape, but they were not the skeletal wood as seen below. These seemed to be crafted of a pale mist, their phantom trunks tapering into nothingness before they reached the ground, swaying in a nonexistent breeze.

True to Morgott’s word, the lower land opened up even more the farther they went. The spires of the ruins almost blended into the stone in the night’s veil, but the constructed sharpness set it apart. Amidst the crumbling parapets, tall figures roamed in a patrol, as pale and ghostly as the forsaken spirits of the Lands Between but seeming more corporeal. They were clad in silver armor, long strands of icy hair spilling down their overlong bodies, and the air around them shimmered with fractals akin to ice, as though they exuded a coldness that surpassed even the mountain’s chill.

“What are they?” Rowa whispered from their high vantage point, finding a strange beauty in the figures below.

“Knights of Zamor,” Morgott replied, watching them with a more careful eye. “That ruin was once Zamor itself, a bastion against the Forge’s fire, but it fell long before my time. Those of Zamor, like many who doth dwell ‘ere, were not favored by the Greater Will.”

They passed the ruins by. If the knights noticed their presence, or the passing shadow of the Nightrider, they did not act upon it.

The ridge they traveled on now was not a well-worn pathway like the previous one. There were many jutting rocks and jagged height shifts that had to be contended with, making the going slower than before. They slowly wound their way along the mountainside, but the land below the ridge was a more respectable distance away, the phantom treetops poking just a little bit above the ridge’s crest. A couple of times, a flock of deer as ghostly as the trees around them bounded through the groves, their semitransparent coats gleaming like they were made of moonlight.

Finally, the view in front of them began to open up as they moved past the nearby cliffs. Everything seemed to drop away with jarring suddenness, leaving them staring into the wide, pale expanse of a huge valley that separated two clusters of peaks. Somewhere below where they stood, obscured by the cliffside, a long isthmus began, spidering out into the distance in front of them as the only means of moving forward in the steep void. It seemed terribly thin, not wide enough for two people to walk side by side, and it stretched all the way across the void until it came to a stop at the other set of mountaintops.

“That is where we must go,” Morgott said, indicating the distant cluster of crags. That feeling of dread ignited afresh inside of him as he spotted the weak orange glow atop the highest peak, but he said, “Dost thou see it, the glow of the Forge?”

Rowa looked hard. It was faint, barely visible against the greater shine of the Erdtree behind them, but something flickered against the night sky beyond one of the highest crags, like dying embers. “I do see it.”

They began to make their way down the ridge to where the land bridge began, but the snow and uneven terrain made progress slow. By the time they arrived at the lowland where they could travel to the beginning of the bridge, the night was well advanced.

“We should make camp before daybreak,” Morgott said. From his current position, he could see the mountains beyond the valley and a portion of the bridge. It almost appeared as a white river, snaking its way through a shadowed land. “The fire-worshippers use the bridge as a means to travel in the day, and we should not try to skirmish with them in such confines.”

“Agreed,” Rowa said, disliking the idea of fighting in such a high place even more than the act of crossing.

It did not take too long to find a place to stop. They discovered a large overhang alongside the cliffs, hidden completely from the view of the land bridge and obscured further by some outcrops. The overhang had prevented snow from accumulating beneath it, allowing a fair amount of dry space for them to be seated, though the ground was as cold as everything else.

Morgott ordered his Nightrider away, and Rowa did likewise with Torrent. The steed seemed unbothered by the cold, but Rowa made him go anyway, unwilling to let him stay in such harsh conditions. They ate quietly, the cold and difficult terrain seeming to have sucked away any energy for conversation. Only when Rowa finished her meal and gave him an expectant look did Morgott feel compelled to speak.

“Take thy rest first,” he said. “Thou hast more need of it than I.”

For once, Rowa did not feel like arguing the matter, a yawn punctuating her reply. “Thank you.”

Morgott drifted into idle contemplation as Rowa laid down beside him, making a pillow from her haversack. He waited for Rowa’s breathing to slow with sleep, but after some time, he realized it had not. He glanced over at her curled form, and noticed that she had placed warming stones about herself, but that did not seem to be enough. She was visibly shivering against the ground, and he could see her muscles tensing in an effort to suppress it.

“Rowa,” he said.

“Yes?” she replied quietly, the answer quivering as much as her body.

“Doth the cold prevent thee from sleeping?”

“…Yes.” The chill of the stone beneath her was almost worse than the air, achingly cold to the point of burning. It felt like ice, and the aura of the warming stones was not enough to overpower it. “I expect I’ll become accustomed to it eventually, but as it is now…”

Morgott looked at her, then at himself, his breath steaming in a heavy exhale. He hardly felt the cold; it was merely a slight discomfort pricking at the edges of his toes and fingertips. The heat of his blood chased it into an afterthought, but he had underestimated the frailty of those not possessed of it.

Rowa sat up, and he heard her teeth chatter together, though she kept her jaw clenched closed. This would not do.

He considered giving his cloak over, but he quickly dismissed that idea. He wore it only for some semblance of decency, not for any sort of warmth. The coarse material was thin and worn from years of use, not that it was ever terribly warm to begin with.

Another option crept into his thoughts, one that made his skin writhe with discomfort by the mere power of envisioning it. However, there also arose the desire, the wish that had hounded him since she had first laid a hand upon him at the agreement of their union, the want for gentle touch bled out from a wound that had never been healed. The feelings were contrarian, but he knew which one would win out. She had not shied away from taking hold of him as he had her, and so he did not think the option would be a vain effort. Perhaps it was selfish of him, to offer it in an attempt to fill that gaping wound, but she needed warmth before it amounted to something truly dangerous.

“There is, perhaps, a way to stave off the chill,” Morgott said at last, curling a beckoning hand. “Come hither.”

Eager to be warm, Rowa began pushing herself towards him as best she could on numbing limbs. “Do you know an incantation?”

“No. I am not a fire-worshipper from whence most incantations hail. Rather, it is merely I who shall attempt to warm thee.”

Rowa stopped, startled by the offer as much as the implication. “You mean you intend for us to…sit together?”

Morgott was suddenly inclined to cast his gaze anywhere but her wide eyes, focusing on the little drifts of snow that had coalesced at the edge of the overhang. “It doth seem the most prudent course of action. Building a fire would be difficult and attract attention.”

Rowa did not answer for a few moments as she processed the offer. “It would not bother you?”

“If that were so, then it would be foolish to speak of it at all.”

The frigidity taking over Rowa’s body suddenly seemed insignificant to the heat spreading through her face. She tried to think of something more to say, but the words would not come, her mind oddly blank. Her need for warmth outweighed her inward feelings, and she was glad he was not looking at her as she closed the distance between them, settling next to his left arm. She discovered his offer was certainly not in vain; though it had been less noticeable in the milder conditions, he radiated warmth like a small fire, and she resisted the urge to lean into him immediately.

“You are warm,” she confessed. “Thank you.”

Morgott’s body want to recoil at the proximity, but his mind overpowered that instinct. Her own warmth, small and barely there, was deeply comforting as though it was he who suffered in the cold. It melted away the residual annoyance of the cold, setting a pleasant feeling throughout him. He could not quite grasp what it was, but it acted as a balm for his wounded heart.

Moving slowly so as not to disrupt the tentative peace, he lifted his left arm, further opening the barrier between them. Rowa looked at him, her brow scrunched. When she made no move, he finally met her gaze. “Wouldst thou not desire to be closer?”

The heat in Rowa’s face was kindled into a roaring blaze as she realized his gesture. “Oh! Well, I suppose I would.” She pushed herself even closer, settling in the place where his arm had been previously, her head drawing level with his ribcage.

Morgott felt as though every ounce of his focus had been pulled towards her. He could feel the fabric of her clothing, the touch of her knee against his leg, the shivers still running through her. He let his arm drop as slowly as he had raised it, resting his hand on the stone floor behind her.

Rowa sucked in a shuddering breath, giving into the need for heat. She leaned sideways, carefully resting her head and shoulder on the vast expanse of his torso. The warmth was so wonderful that she put the situation aside for a moment, merely basking in the feeling of her limbs coming back to life.

Her hair was soft against Morgott’s side, so different from the coarse fabric of his cloak. His fingers twitched with an impulsive desire to feel the softness properly, but he restrained himself. Instead, he shifted his tail, bringing it around in a curve to act as an additional source of heat for her, almost corralling her entirely.

Rowa raised her head slightly as the extra appendage came in close. She had not considered its qualities in great length before, but it was just as warm as the rest of him and of equally powerful musculature.

“Morgott,” she began, “may I touch your tail?”

Morgott thought she spoke in jest, caught off guard by the request, but when he looked at her he understood she had spoken seriously. Though it was a foreign idea to him, he could not find it in himself to refuse. “If thou dost feel so compelled, then thou may do as thou dost wish.”

Rowa suppressed a smile, glad to have the chance to act on the frivolous desire. With great care, she ghosted her fingertips over the stone-colored fur. She had not been sure what to expect, but its texture hung somewhere between soft and coarse, each individual strand seeming bristly, but altogether soft.

Morgott placed a great deal of effort into keeping still. He had never encouraged anyone to touch his tail, even his brothers. It had been a source of shame, so much so that he had entertained the idea of attempted removal, so Rowa’s gentle strokes were even stranger than her leaning so easily against him. Despite the newness, he did not find the ministrations unpleasant, but for his own dignity he kept the appendage still as stone.

“Thank you for indulging me,” Rowa said, keeping her fingers away from the little horns interspersed across the tail’s length. “I know it’s silly, but I always wondered…”

Morgott kept his gaze forward. “For how long didst thou hold on to this desire?”

“A good while,” Rowa admitted. “I didn’t think you would consent.”

“‘Tis a meaningless desire in mine eyes, but harmless.” Morgott tilted his head, studying her lessening tremors. “Wilt thou be sufficiently warmed?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Then thou shouldst endeavor to rest. Dawn is nigh.”

Rowa drew her hands and feet close to herself, curling tightly against Morgott’s side. She could hear the growling rasp of each breath, the steady cadence of his heart, and the sounds gave her comfort. The sky outside was beginning to lighten with the oncoming day, and she was reminded that she had not slept in nearly a full day. With the cold kept at bay, the tiredness crept in, and it did not take long for it to pull her down into its embrace. Contentedly warm against Morgott and lulled by his heartbeat, she drifted into sleep.

Morgott watched the dawn. The mountainside they were on did not allow him to view the rising sun itself, but he could see the brilliant orange rays beginning to stretch across the far peaks visible to him, turning the snow so brilliantly white that it almost hurt to look at. The sky took on a series of rosy hues, ranging from deep purple to soft pink, which lessened in intensity as the sun climbed higher.

The Forge’s glow died with the daylight, lost from view until night. Morgott’s eyes were continually drawn to the spot place it had been, as he considered the woman slumbering soundly against him. The contentment and ease by which she slept, so trusting in him, bade him to consider imparting the truth of what waited once more.

He wondered, when all was said and done, if she would resent him for his hand in concealing Melina’s intent. That possibility set something cold in his heart, as he dared to envision her peaceful visage twisted in the throes of a grief even greater than what he saw in Gelmir. The closer they got to the Forge, the more the dread increased, but the revelation would surely jeopardize the entire purpose of their journey.

My lord.

Morgott lifted his head as the Nightrider’s voice whispered in his mind. His lips barely moved as he formed a response, the words little more than a breath, “Speak freely.”

Something doth approach.

Morgott’s spine prickled with unease. There was a note of hesitance in the Nightrider’s voice, something that did not belong there, especially not in the mightiest of them. “What is it?”

I cannot discern it wholly.

The unease increased. Morgott glanced at Rowa, momentarily debating with himself over whether or not to wake her.

Shall I take action, my lord? the Nightrider asked.

“Wait.” The disquiet started to transform into something deeper, a dread sinking into Morgott’s chest like a bevy of needles. He was not sure yet what elicited such a feeling, for he could perceive nothing that he could classify with certainty, but it was enough to stir him into action.

With careful movements, he lowered his head close to Rowa’s, and murmured a sleeping incantation. It settled over her at once, her sleep deepening, and he disengaged himself from her hold, gently guiding her to rest upon the stone. He pulled forth his extra warming stones, placing them against her torso, and arose from his place, stepping out beyond the overhang.

He followed where his Nightrider’s presence, walking along the sloping ridge that the overhang opened onto. His back was to the mountaintops, the path leading him back in the direction of the Erdtree, though he could not see it in completion. As he walked, the ridge’s slope lessened to a mere hill, allowing him a better look at the land below. Amidst the ghostly trees, he spotted his Nightrider, and beyond he saw what the Nightrider had spoken of.

Morgott’s first inclination was frustration. He recognized the peculiar garb of the figure walking unhurriedly across the snowy expanse, the strange latticed bell of a helm. He remembered it from the Tarnished they had found dead near Gelmir, and he supposed that said Tarnished had been resurrected by Grace already, and had endeavored to follow them.

The man walked closer, his pace steady and unhurried, never wavering from its cadence. That was the first thing that rekindled the dread in Morgott, followed swiftly by a realization greater still. There was no Grace about this man; he could neither see nor sense it, though it so greatly guided the chosen ones. Something was not right.

From places unseen, bound to Rowa’s body, Melina looked across the expanse and saw that which approached. Fear clenched a tight vice around her heart. The yellow embers burned.

Morgott stepped to the crest of the hill. The man had his hands over his eyes, but he walked without stumbling, without pause. The waiting Nightrider did not seem to concern him, if he saw it at all.

“I bid thee halt,” he called down to the stranger. “Who art thou? What is thy business?”

The man stopped. He neither removed his hands from his eyes, nor did he raise his head in Morgott’s direction, but he spoke all the same. “Oh, you are not the one I was hoping to meet. I rather desired to speak with the Tarnished who would be Lord.”

The words rolled over Morgott, and he heard it, the crackling of the chaotic flame beneath. He would never forget the sound, and it chilled him deeper than the coldest peak on the mountain ever could. “Thou shalt speak to me, and none else. Why hast thou come, wayward Tarnished?”

“The previous one to inhabit this vessel was Tarnished, but I am not,” the man said unhurriedly. “He is dead, and he gave his flesh to me, Shabriri.”

Morgott felt as though the world itself had been swept from beneath his feet. He knew that name only from the history books, that spoke of the progenitor of the Frenzied Flame. When he found his voice, the words came out in a snarl. “Thou tellest lies!”

“I do not.” Shabriri still made no move. “You see it, you who are among the most favored of your people.”

He was right. Morgott could feel it now, as much as the Nightrider’s aura. The being before him was old and terrible, older than him, perhaps older than his mother’s conquest. He gripped his stave tightly, his gaze never leaving Shabriri as he spoke to his Nightrider. “Go, stay with the Tarnished.”

For the first time in the spirit’s long service, the Nightrider dared to dissent. But my lord—

“Do it, I command thee.”

The Nightrider bowed his helm and disappeared silently. The darkness lifted, allowing the full light of morning to fall across the slopes, but everything seemed swathed in a shadow deeper still, brought by the presence of madness reborn.

It took great effort for Morgott to step forward, beginning down the hill towards Shabriri. “Thy dread god dost understand what is soon to take place.”

Shabriri was as stone, his hands locked before his eyes. “You are about to sacrifice something precious. The life of a fair maiden, that you would toss into the fiery forge, only so that the Tarnished may be Lord. What a horrible thing to ponder. The ascendency requires her sacrifice, whether she wishes it or not. But how would the Lord, crowned so, be looked upon?”

Morgott forced one foot in front of the other, though it felt like he was walking straight towards a blazing inferno. “The path of destruction and death thou dost offer is a fate more terrible still.”

“But does your Tarnished even know the cost, the sacrifice?”

Morgott almost stopped, but didn’t. “That is none of thy concern.”

“You would prevent your Tarnished from walking the path of true rigor, to singe her own flesh and spare the poor girl?”

One step after another, Morgott advanced, the fingers of his free hand curling into a claw. He knew what the true mark of the Three Fingers looked like, having seen it seared into Vyke’s skin, but he did not see it on this man. “I would, for this journey is by the Maiden’s choosing, to prevent the very path thou dost walk.”

“To be worthy of Lord, one must show resolve through righteous hardship.” Shabriri carried on, his words rising in intensity and pitch as something akin to the very frenzy he spoke of seized him. “If your Tarnished inherit the Flame of Frenzy, her flesh will serve as kindling and the girl can be spared, setting her on the righteous path of lordship. The path of the Lord of Chaos. Burn the Erdtree to the ground, and incinerate all that divides and distinguishes!”

“Never.” Though disgust and something edging on terror curdled in his stomach, Morgott was only steps away.

Shabriri finally reacted, slowly drawing his hands down. Yellow fire danced between the metal latticework, ever-burning and all-consuming. He smiled a smile too wide for his face as he spoke once more. “May chaos take the world.”

Morgott leapt forward, closing the distance between them. With equal swiftness, Shabriri drew forth the long, thin sword on his person, ready to strike back, but his chance never came. Crimson bloodflame exploded from Morgott’s empty hand, cutting a bloody slash across Shabriri’s body. The sword, and the arm connected to it, dropped into the snow. Shabriri showed no sign of pain, the embers of his eyes flaring even brighter, and Morgott lifted his stave, the gnarled material becoming heated beneath his grasp. He rammed the stave straight through Shabriri’s chest. Only then did the madman waver, blood flecking at the corners of his stolen mouth.

“You…truly are a demigod,” he rasped, the words choked with blood. “But Shabriri is chaos incarnate. I cannot die. Ah, may chaos take the world!”

Morgott wrenched his stave free, conjuring a golden polearm in his free hand and ending Shabriri’s final proclamation with a vicious thrust. Shabriri tumbled limply into the snow, dead, for he had been unable to receive the mark of the Three Fingers in this body, but Morgott stood waiting for a resurgence with his weapons poised.

Only when Morgott felt the blaze of chaos dimming did he begin to relax, though his blood still roared with the combination and fear and rage. It had been terribly close, too close. If Shabriri had reached Rowa…

That consideration stirred him into action. Once he was certain the haze of madness had dissipated, he grabbed the body like a broken doll, dragging it toward the precipice on the far side of the lowland. With no hesitation, he threw it from the mountaintop, watching it fall until it disappeared into the snowy haze below. Even then, he waited until the sun began to shine across the eastern peaks before walking away, assured that the madman would not be swiftly returning.

All thoughts of sharing the truth were set aside. Rowa could not know, for the Flame pursued her still.

Chapter Text

When Rowa woke up, her face was cold. Everywhere else felt pleasantly warm and comfortable, but a biting chill had settled over the exposed skin in a numbing burn. She turned her head towards the warmth, hoping to relieve herself of the last bits of coldness and become fully comfortable. Her cheek brushed against something firm, but edged with softness.

“The sun is nearly at its zenith.”

Rowa jolted into true wakefulness at the closeness of Morgott’s voice, reverberating through her right ear and directly into her skull. She opened her eyes, squinting at the brilliant light of the sun on snow. Temporarily blinded, it took her thoughts several moments to catch up with her surroundings, but she remembered the previous arrangement. She was curled tightly against Morgott, her upper body against his side and her legs wedged beneath his tail for warmth, and she had been moments away from nuzzling her face into his ribcage.

Her face was suddenly no longer cold. She straightened, rubbing at her bleary eyes in an attempt to hide her embarrassment. “Is it truly midday already?”

“Aye.” If Morgott had noticed what she had almost done, he did not show it, his face betraying no more than his usual stoniness. “Was thy sleep untroubled?”

“It was, and you have my gratitude for that.”

Morgott nodded, inwardly relieved his activities had not disturbed her. “There was little to be seen while thou didst rest. I anticipate likewise for thy watch. At eventide, we shall continue.”

“Will you sleep, then?”

Since returning from the harrowing encounter with Shabriri, Morgott had spent a great deal of that time debating over whether he should try to sleep, if at all. A return was highly unlikely, but he would not put it past someone so irreparably corrupt as Shabriri to have some foul machinations in place to circumvent even being thrown from a mountain. Nevertheless, he would have to rest, for the coming trials would be no easier than the ones they had already faced, and it would be beyond foolish to think he could get them to the Forge without rest. His Nightrider would keep adequate watch while he slept.

“I will sleep,” he said.

Rowa glanced at herself, and how closely they were seated. “Then I will move, if you wish it.”

Morgott hesitated. He did not wish it in all honesty, for her presence jointly stirred up and assuaged the half-forgotten longings in his heart, the inexorable need for closeness that almost every living thing was bound to. He had never been able to raze that from himself, no matter how hard he tried, and now that he had been granted a chance to sate that need, he was loathe to let it go.

“If thou’rt of no great desire to move, then I shan’t force it upon thee,” he said at last. “Thou wilt be consigned to much idleness while I rest, which shall allow the cold to afflict thee with ease.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Rowa too was inwardly glad to remain where she was. As it seemed to her now, day afforded little in the way of freedom from the deep cold. It was perhaps a little more bearable, but every gust of wind was just as bitter as they had been in the night.

Morgott hunkered down as best he could. The overhang they were under did not provide him with enough room to lay down fully, so he settled for pushing himself outward slightly so he could recline against the stone at his back. He sought to banish all thoughts of Shabriri from his mind so that he could settle himself. His Nightrider was close at hand, but he could not do away with the lingering dread that the encounter had left in his mind, like burning embers of the Frenzied Flame waiting to be ignited. It had been a long time since he had felt so disquieted, and it was in this same place, for the very same reason as he hounded Vyke through the peaks. The mountains were not bound fully to the Erdtree below, leaving them open for all manner of spirits and wraiths otherwise neglected to manifest. The Frenzied Flame was unfortunately no exception to this. It was a plague upon him and all the world, one that he would one day efface from all existence.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth of Rowa at his side, a soothing constant and a reminder that the Frenzy had not taken her. That was all that mattered in this moment, and he needed rest. His lips moved in the silent invocation of a sleeping spell, the drowsy feeling rolling across him in a sluggish wave that bore him towards sleep. The world fell away, save for the presence of Rowa and the slight weight of the medallion at his neck.

Rowa sat still for some time, not wanting to move and risk disturbing Morgott. His breathing slowed quicker than she anticipated, and a couple of furtive glanced towards his face confirmed that he was, indeed, asleep. Then she stretched out her stiff legs, daring to study his face openly, for she was so rarely given the opportunity to do so.

She was still processing that he had allowed, even proposed, that they sit so close together. Even now, after sleeping and waking hours later, it still filled her with a flustered confusion that seemed to manifest at the point right where the talisman hung beneath her outermost layer of clothing. She could not say she disliked the situation, not at all, which was even more troublesome. The gruff kindness she was growing accustomed to had begun to set some deeper feeling blossoming inside her, something beyond the stipulations of their union and the necessities of concern it dictated. There was a true heart beneath the harsh wall, greatly imperfect but with much good to offer. She felt as though she stood just beyond that wall, and she wanted to pass through it, to see the truth of all that lay there, good and bad.

The thought of doing so filled her with a tremulous feeling, almost like weakness or affliction, expanding in her lungs and spreading outwards as heat in her veins. They were bound in a union that could, one day, yield such openness as she desired. But with that hopeful thought came dread in equal measure; they were merely striving towards the same goal, the same vision of a world made new. Once that was brought to completion, then perhaps he would see fit to break the bindings, and she found that possibility startlingly bleak. Separation from him was not something she could easily envision, not after all they had undergone together. And yet, if she were to make known her feelings on the matter, she did not know what would await her in answer. Her courage waned at the thought of presenting such a possibility, and it was vexing that she had come to like his company enough to avoid the rejection of it.

As she looked at his face, she found her thoughts wandering back to the painting of his human likeness, and their discussions of veils. His appearance was certainly different, but not to the point of revulsion. His bearing was noble, and his horns seemed as a crown denoting his lordship. She wondered what he would look like when he smiled, for he had not given her that yet, and she tried to imagine the softness that the expression would bring to chip away at the stony exterior.

At some point, Rowa realized she had been staring for an embarrassingly long amount of time. Quietly abashed, she turned her attention to the emptiness beginning to gnaw at her stomach, carefully removing herself from Morgott’s immediate vicinity. The absence of his heat left her feeling cold, even bereft, but she tried to do away with such things, using the warming stones to fill the void as she ate.

After she had eaten, she meditated upon the Runes in her possession. Their power had become less of a burden, turning into the strength they had originally been intended for. The act of meditating did well to chase away the cloying frigidity of the mountain, but as the sun began to sink, the cold grew sharper, and she found herself returning to that spot at Morgott’s side.

As evening’s fire began to burn in the sky, Morgott awoke. He was surprised to find Rowa relatively unmoved, though he did not comment on it. He ate his meal, and as he did, the Nightrider returned to continue the journey. No words passed between lord and knight, but that was enough for Morgott to know that no more malefactors of Shabriri’s like had appeared in the Nightrider’s vigil, which brought him relief.

Once Morgott finished eating, they went on their way as night’s blanket began to fall over the world. Getting down the mountain crags to the spidering ridge that would take them to the other side of the valley proved to be tedious, but they managed with little incident. When they arrived at last at the beginning of the thin ridge, there was no one to be seen, but an aromatic, smoky scent hung faintly in the air, and dark ashes littered the ground around the ridge’s beginning. The fire-worshippers had retreated with the night, but their traces abounded still.

Crossing the landbridge was a daunting experience. It may have been a manmade construction, but all semblance of grandeur had been worn away with time, turning it into something that resembled a natural part of the landscape. That naturality afforded no attempts at safety that architecture often possessed. The traversable surface was only wide enough to perhaps accommodate two men walking shoulder to shoulder, and both edges dropped away into the dizzying, hazy black.

Morgott went first, having crossed previously, and Rowa followed next astride Torrent, with the Nightrider at the rear. Rowa kept her eyes fixed on Morgott’s imposing silhouette, her knuckles white against the saddle as she placed her trust in Torrent’s steps.

Slowly but surely, the dark crags on the other side grew bigger as they approached. The flickering glow of the Forge’s embers was soon lost to their eyes as they passed into the mountain’s shadow. Fortunately for their perilous position, night’s bone-deep chill had driven away any potential opposition. The lifeless cliffs boasted of a few pillar-like structures, perhaps remnants of bygone fortresses, with a smattering of ghostly conifers that gleamed glassy in the moonlight.

It took some time, but they made it across onto the second landmass without incident. Behind them, the Erdtree’s branches loomed beyond the mountains they had left behind, coursing through the night sky like a thousand golden rivers, shedding light upon what awaited them as they ventured deeper still. The ridges were fewer, the land they walked upon consisting of wider spaces lined by towering cliffs on both sides, with the occasional natural arch stretching above. There was no set path to follow, but Morgott knew to continue with the land’s natural shape, as it would eventually lead them higher into the mountains to a frozen river they could follow.

As they went, the signs of past struggles became more evident. What Rowa first supposed were overgrown boulders littered the valley, but in actuality they were the frozen corpses of trolls, covered in ice and hunched over as though the weight of lifelessness was some great burden. Rowa studied them on careful awe as they passed, but Morgott was unsurprised. He had seen them before, and regarded them with a sense of pride. It was his father who had completed this conquest, and regardless of the outcomes, Godfrey had proven himself a mighty warrior through and through.

Occasionally, there came an odd undulating sound, echoing continuously over the rock walls around them. It was too rhythmic, too melodic to be some sort of natural phenomena, and finally Rowa asked, “That sound, what is it?”

“‘Tis the chanting of the fire-worshippers, I believe,” Morgott replied, carefully watching the crags and crevices in the natural walls towering around them. “Though they diminish in the night, never do they cease to call upon the Forge’s fire to grant them their sorceries, their guidance. If thou dost listen closely, thou shalt hear their words.”

Rowa listened, and eventually she was able to make out the meanings, the echoes occasionally granting clarity.

Burn, O Flame! Cleanse me, protect me! Surge, whirl, O Flame! Fall upon thy enemies!

“They seem to think it a fearsome power,” she said.

“‘Twas fearsome enough for my mother to make war against it,” Morgott said. Now he knew even more than that. It was fearsome enough as to incur sacrifice.

The chanting faded into the distance as they passed beyond whatever fortress was nestled in the mountains. The natural path they followed eventually brought them to an intersection of sorts, where the way forward ended at a cliff face, splitting to the left and right instead.

Rowa, who had ridden ahead of Morgott slightly, was about to ask him what direction they would be taking when Torrent suddenly jerked, struggling to maintain his footing. She grabbed the saddle as she almost slipped off, and Torrent stumbled back a few paces, tossing his head with a disconcerted huff.

Alarmed, Morgott cleared the distance between them in a few long strides. “What is it?”

Rowa stared at the snowy ground in front of them, which seemed void of anything amiss. “I’m not sure. Perhaps Torrent merely imagined something.” She dismounted from Torrent, taking a couple of steps forward, and immediately the ground beneath the snow became wildly slippery. She lost her balance as one foot slid forward, and would have crashed to the ground if Morgott had not caught her and pulled her back.

Any questions Morgott could have posed vanished from his mind as a new sound rang out, slightly raucous but possessing a musical, quality. He was so unfamiliar with such a noise that it took him several moments to understand what he heard. It was laughter. Rowa was laughing.

Torrent gave Rowa an offended look, and she tried to restrain her amusement. “Forgive me, Torrent, but it is not you I laugh at. I’m laughing at myself, for of all the things I have faced, it seems none are half so dangerous as icy ground.”

Torrent whinnied something like a laugh in response as Rowa steadied herself on Morgott’s arm, getting a hold on her amusement for the sake of their subterfuge.

“I believe we have found the river you spoke of,” she said, looking up at him with a mirthful expression.

Morgott found his tongue clumsy and slow, his mind still coming to terms with the sound of laughter after so many years without it. “Aye, this place is familiar to me.”

“I suppose it is good to laugh at oneself sometimes.” Rowa let go of Morgott, feeling a little embarrassed. “I hope you can forgive my foolishness.”

Morgott’s words languished, the bright peal still ringing in his ears. “…There is naught to forgive. Thou shouldst merely exercise caution as we go forth.”

“Perhaps it would be better to proceed on foot, so I may spare Torrent of similar wounds to his dignity.”

Morgott was surprised by his own amusement at her jest, almost feeling compelled to smile. “If thou dost wish it so.”

They proceeded onto the river’s frozen expanse on foot, Torrent making no complaints about being excused from the endeavor. With the advantages of his stave and extra appendage, Morgott did not struggle hardly at all on the icy surface. Rowa, however, was forced to cling tightly to him several times as her balance threatened to fail her, the coating of snow proving to be almost as slippery as the ice beneath. Their progress remained steady regardless, as they followed the winding path the river had cut through the surrounding cliffs, heading upstream.

As morning’s light began to fill the sky, they found a small recess for shelter in an outlet that had formed next to the river. Morgott, wary for any potential unwanted guests, insisted Rowa take her rest first. She eventually relented, giving him a hesitant look that he guessed the intention of.

“If thou dost wish to glean warmth as thou didst before, I shan’t deny thee,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” Rowa said sincerely, relieved at having been spared from asking the question outright. She quickly moved into the same spot at his side, drawing her limbs in close to herself to keep them warm. She leaned close, staring out at the glittering expanse of the frozen river as the light of day grew. “Was this place always so…empty?” she wondered aloud, more to herself than anything.

“I hath never known otherwise,” Morgott replied, “but I hath heard tales from my father on the battles fought here, and what once was.”

“Your father seems a formidable man, though I speak with utmost respect for him.”

“Indeed he was. Through him and those close to him, I heard many tales of his exploits, before and after his banishment. However, for all his bloodlust, he was not without care and consideration.”

“He almost seems legendary to me, as one of the first Tarnished.”

“He was the first, of that I am greatly certain. I hath heard his name spoken in veneration from many Tarnished of good and ill repute alike. To them, he was almost as godlike as Marika to the Golden Order.”

“Was he?” Rowa asked. “Was he a god?”

Morgott pondered the question. “I know not, for he certainly was no vessel, no Empyrean. But he was of great might, so much that some didst try to emulate it.”

“Were they ever successful?”

“Never,” Morgott said. “Were Godfrey or one of his might still in these lands during the Shattering, the war would have a true victor.”

“Then will you tell me about his exploits?”

“I suppose, if it is thy wish to hear of them.”

“It is.”

“Very well.” Morgott paused, letting his mind drift back to the many tales learned through books, through Godwyn, or the few hazy renditions imparted by Godfrey himself. “The conquest of the Lands Between did not begin here. It began at the Erdtree itself, before the Greater Will’s advent…”

Rowa listened with interest as he spoke of the flight of the Dragonlord, and the subsequent conquests that came after. As unwise as it was, she wanted to stay awake, to hear the information about his lineage that he had offered up freely. However, the rumble of his voice through her head as she leaned against his side was soothing in a way, and her eyelids gradually grew heavier.

Morgott suspected she was nodding off, but kept talking until he felt the whole of her weight relax against him. Only then did he quiet, but he did not find himself eager to do so. The tales of his father’s feats were something that he took pride in even to this day, and he had never had an attentive audience to share them with.

With Rowa’s warmth spreading through his side, he wondered if Godfrey and Marika ever had such quiet interludes amidst the many turmoils that came with conquest. His memories of Godfrey were few, and fewer still did any of them hold a mention of Marika. Had they sat beside each other, finding peculiar contentment in merely being together? Such a feeling plagued him now, like a balm upon the wounds in his heart, but he was not at ease with it in totality. He could not be sure of Rowa’s thoughts, if she felt such contentment as he. It seemed the act of a craven to balk at such a simple thing, but he feared the potential of her discontent. The wounds were mending, and to know she did not feel likewise would tear them open again, or so he dreaded.

He stared at the icy river beyond their small shelter, beginning to glitter brightly with the day’s light. He wondered when he had he come to put such weight upon her feelings.

The day passed in peace. Rowa slept undisturbed, and when Morgott’s turn came, he experienced the same. They were alone in the mountains, save for the distant chants of the fire-worshippers.

When night came again, they continued upstream, following the river’s winding path. They came to a frozen lake from whence the stream issued, at which point they turned from east to southeast, keeping close to the cliffs that bordered their side of the lake. The open expanse of the lake would leave them too vulnerable, and though Morgott had never seen proof, he had heard tell of a dragon that favored dwelling on the ice. They skirted the main body, traveling along the small strip of shoreline between the cliff faces and the ice, which made walking easier. Even so, it took them most of the night to clear the lake’s far edge. As the Full Moon’s light began to dwindle in favor of the coming dawn, they passed beyond the shoreline into the snowfield beyond. A curious structure awaited them there, formed of ornamental stone that had begun to crumble long ago, leaving the remaining stones rimed and snow-weathered.

“Though the day is not yet come, we shouldst rest here, for there is much more unfavorable land ahead,” Morgott said, gesturing to the structure.

“So be it,” Rowa agreed, catching sight of a sliver of Grace within the walls as they approached.

“I took shelter here during my last journey. ‘Twas once a church, commissioned and christened by Marika herself, as I understand it.”

“Then it is no wonder that Grace is found here.”

As they stepped into the church’s ramshackle bounds, Melina appeared alongside the point of Grace. Rowa greeted her gladly, and Morgott caught her gaze but for an instant. In that moment, he knew she had seen the accursed visitor that first day on the mountain. Her face betrayed nothing, but her eye said enough in a single glance. They would surely speak later, once Rowa was asleep.

A likeness of Marika greeted them as they stepped through the crumbling doorway, the statue fixed at the far end of the room. Unlike the many renderings in Leyndell, this one was simpler, any embellishments long worn away by time. Even the splendor of the Golden City could not hide the world’s decay, but this aged icon displayed it clearly.

Rowa struck up a conversation with Melina about the mountain travels thus far while they ate, unaware of the invisible weight that hung over her companions. Morgott’s thoughts were elsewhere, however, as his gaze was pulled to the dark, tiered wall of cliffs that awaited their ascent. There was no avoiding the gaol. They would have to pass it by, as much as he desired otherwise.

Vyke was not like Shabriri. Morgott had seen the regret and despair in him when they finally clashed on the snowy cliffside, his eyes aflame and weeping ember tears. But even so, Morgott feared to pass by after the encounter with Shabriri. The Three Fingers knew lordship was nigh, and he could not guess the lengths it would go to in an attempt to turn the coming age in its favor.

Dawn came, and at Rowa’s suggestion, Morgott was the first to rest. He found a place against the church wall that had been sheltered by the remnants of the ceiling, and though there was no immediate need for it, Rowa came and sat close against him wordlessly. He made no comment either, but he was quietly glad of her presence beside him. If something were to occur, she would at least be close at hand. Before he closed his eyes, he gazed for a moment at Marika’s image. In being largely absent from Leyndell, it had been a while since he had seen her likeness, graven or otherwise, but he no longer felt the worshipful awe he once had. A god she may have been, but as broken and imperfect as all the Lands Between.

He finally closed his eyes as the warmth of dawn’s rays touched his face. He silently invoked his incantations, and with the assurance of Rowa’s closeness, he drifted off.

Morgott stood upon a high peak, the Erdtree in the distance. The dreams had become dormant in his travels, but he did not have to consider long why they had now come again. Melina appeared alongside him, and he turned.

“A dream,” he said, and when she nodded, he continued. “What then does this portend?”

“Spoken echoes of Marika linger here as well,” Melina said. “Shall I share them with you?”

“Aye.” Morgott replied without hesitation.

“Then let my hand rest upon you, but for a moment.” Her fingers touched his, and the dream shifted, whisking him away from her.

Once more, he stood in the church, or the echo of what it once was. The destruction and decay had not yet come upon it. The masonry was immaculate, the windows’ intricate glasswork allowing light to pour warmly across the smooth stone floor in sharp patterns.

At the front of the church, before the statue, stood Marika herself. The stonecutter’s hand had been true, for the graven likeness was as close as stone could ever come to depicting her. She stood tall and unwavering, her golden hair falling over her shoulders in braids and bringing light to the darkness of her garb.

Morgott was struck by the intensity of her eyes, and though he knew it was but a dream, he feared she looked directly at him. However, he could see what she truly looked at now, for the echo afforded him the others standing present in the church. His heart dropped as he spotted the massive figure standing at the head of a multitude, crowned with snow-white hair and bearing a great beast upon his shoulders.

“Father…” The word slipped from Morgott’s mouth before he could stop it. This was an echo, he knew, but he could not help but vocalize the deep longing the image of Godfrey incited.

His gaze was then drawn to the assembled warriors alongside Godfrey, and his heart ached deeper still. Godwyn stood at Godfrey’s right hand. He was younger than Morgott had ever known him to be, but even in his youth he exuded strength. Though Godwyn favored Marika in his appearance, there was no doubt that he was Godfrey’s son as well, for his face mirrored Godfrey’s stern visage. 

There were many more warriors, varied in form and appearance, filling the church until they spilled out into the courtyard. Among them, Morgott sighted the crimson gold of the Crucible Knights’ armor, but what faces were visible he did not recognize, save for one. Amidst the gathered host, in no place of great concern, stood Radagon, except it was not the Radagon Morgott had known. His face and his body looked much the same, but his hair was different. Instead of the fiery red Morgott knew, his hair was as Marika’s, spun gold tumbling down from a helm of similarly shaded alloy.

Morgott did not have time to dwell on this strange difference, for Marika began to speak. Whether past or present, all who heard her voice were compelled to listen.

“Hark, brave warriors. Hark, my lord Godfrey. We commend your deeds.” Marika lifted her chin, something close to a smile dancing across her face. “Guidance has delivered ye through ordeal to the place ye stand. Put the giants to the sword and confine the flame atop the mount.”

With a great roar, the assembled warriors hefted their weapons in a responsive battlecry, but Morgott kept his eyes fixed on Marika, studying her. The shadow that he had glimpsed in the previous echoes had not yet fallen over her countenance. Her eyes shone bright, and when she spoke next, he understood what it was he saw.

Let a new epoch begin, an epoch glistening with life,” Marika declared. “Brandish the Elden Ring, for the Age of the Erdtree!”

It was hope Morgott saw. Marika had once been hopeful of the world to come, where all wrongs would be righted and life would be unending. She had not always been the cold and distant god, worshipped by many but known to only a few. What had set her on the path of disfavor? What had begun to plant the seeds of doubt that had sprouted into calamity?

The warriors raised their weapons in a thunderous response, and Marika gazed upon them with benevolence as the cacophony filled Morgott’s ears.

“Morgott?”

He came awake suddenly, his ears ringing with the memory of the warriors’ shouts. For a few breaths, he was disoriented, until a familiar hand touched his arm.

“Morgott.” Rowa spoke again. “Are you well?”

Morgott blinked the blear of sleep from his eyes, meeting her concerned gaze as everything came back to him. “I…I am fine.”

“You were dreaming, speaking in your sleep.”

Morgott squinted against the white glare of the sunlit snow around them, the memories of the dream running through his mind in quick succession. Even now in the ruins of the once-beautiful church, he thought he could hear the remnants of Marika’s voice, of the assembled warriors. “I suppose ‘tis true.”

“Was it a distressing dream?” Rowa pressed. “I was unsure if I should wake you.”

“‘Twas not distressing, merely…strange.” Morgott shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “‘Tis nothing to dwell upon. I did rest long enough, so thou’rt free to take thine.”

Rowa studied him a moment longer before relenting. “Very well.”

Morgott tried to relax, leaning back against the church wall as Rowa shifted herself into a more comfortable position, drawing her limbs close to him. Melina knelt in the snow close by, though the cold seemed to have little effect on her. They both waited in silence as sleep gradually descended over Rowa, and Morgott felt her head drop more heavily against him. He waited until he heard a small snore before speaking into the cold, still air.

“I saw it,” he said. “The echo of what once was.”

“As did I,” Melina replied.

“And didst thou see the coming of the dread god’s envoy?”

Melina exhaled softly. Her breath did not cloud, nor did she feel the unforgiving bite of the cold, but she could almost feel the weight of the future, the weight of the unknown to come after her sacrifice. “I did. I see where the path will lead, too. To the gaol.”

“What is thy mind, then?”

“I have much desired to speak with him since my memories returned.”

“Thou dost not consider him a danger?”

“No. Do you?”

“I felt less so before Shabriri’s appearance.” Morgott’s gaze drifted towards the cliffs once more. “Now, I know not what threat he shall pose.”

“I think he shall pose none,” Melina said. “I knew him once, and now I see the remnants of his passage across the mountains, after the Frenzy claimed him. Even then, I do not know if he would have brought the machinations of the Three Fingers to completion.”

Morgott tried to put the images of Vyke’s seared flesh, his hollowed sockets, out of his mind. “I was not sure, but I could not allow…”

“I understand, but now as he wallows in the gaol, I do not think he will try to finish what he began. I believe that he hated what he had become, even before you sealed him. He is not as Shabriri. He is…was…of noble character.” Melina looked towards Rowa, who slumbered on, oblivious to their discussion. “But Shabriri’s coming makes me fear for her all the more after I am gone. The Three Fingers knows its bid for lordship is short, and it will prey upon the kindness of her heart mercilessly, just as it did to Vyke.”

Morgott was struck with the image of Rowa becoming like Vyke, a crazed vessel stumbling towards the destruction of all, her pledge of a new world forgotten. It filled him with a fear that even Shabriri did not incite, the strength of it surprising him. His hand drifted unconsciously towards the sloped ridge of Rowa’s shoulders, as though to hold her close, but he stopped himself before he touched her. “Such a thing shall not come to pass. I swear it.”

“You must do everything in your power,” Melina said somberly. “Because if the Frenzy calls to her, you must not let her be branded by the Three Fingers with the strength of Runes she carries. Even if you must break your oath.”

The medallion at Morgott’s neck felt uncomfortably warm, pushing against a new wave of cold dread crawling through his veins. “Thou wouldst have me turn a blade against her.”

“That is not a possibility that I desire at all. But it may come to that.”

Morgott could not begin to picture that possibility, for each time his mind offered it, his body filled with a sick feeling in rebellion. He had not dared to think of anything close to that end, fearing what it would stir up in his heart, but now that Melina had presented it to him there was no escaping the revulsion at the idea. How could he snuff her out when she had been loyal to him, kind, with no disdain?

He wanted to keep her close, perhaps even when the journey was over. The dread of the Frenzy would not allow him to deny that any longer.

“You must do everything in your power,” Melina repeated. “Though I know you do not desire that.”

Morgott made no attempt to oppose that statement. His hand fell, featherlight, onto Rowa’s shoulder, as though that would somehow shield her from that potential path. He knew in that moment that he would do everything to avoid arriving at that dark end.

Chapter Text

The church of Marika was now a distant blemish on the smooth, ethereal scape of moonlit snow. The travelers had almost doubled back on their previous route, but instead of meeting the frozen lake, they arrived at a series of cliffs that would take them even higher into the mountaintops. The Forge’s embers glowed ever brighter beyond the jagged peaks, and as they ascended higher, the construction itself would likely become visible soon.

Rowa craned her neck in an attempt to absorb the scale of the cliffside looming tall and dark in front of her. “Are you certain this is the only way forward?”

“The only way I didst discover,” Morgott replied, a little distance away as he perused the length of the cliff for the easiest series of crevices to take them upwards. “This is the greatest of the cliffs. The ones beyond are lesser in height.”

Rowa eyed the waiting wall of stone dubiously. “I am not terribly optimistic about climbing any of them.”

“‘Tis not thee who shall climb.”

Rowa felt a certain relief in knowing she would not be subjected to the harrowing ordeal of scaling the cliff’s expanse herself, but the idea of ascending still filled her with apprehension. The various ridges they had already crossed had been bad enough.

“I made this ascent once before,” Morgott continued, her anxious silence heavy behind him. “Thy presence shan’t be any hindrance to me.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“I am.” Morgott found a promising series of crevices and outcrops, studying it before turning to face her. “But I suppose thou hast little means to trust me on the matter.”

“I do trust you,” Rowa said without hesitation. “I am merely…cautious.”

Morgott suddenly found it hard to look her in the eye as his most recent conversation with Melina filled his mind. He focused again on the waiting cliffs, beckoning to her. “Come hither.”

Rowa obeyed. As she closed the distance, Morgott worked on tucking the hanging folds of his cloak into his rope belt, making something of a makeshift sling on his back.

“Thou shalt be safe, so long as thy grip remaineth true.”

“It certainly shall.”

Morgott finished securing his cloak, ensuring the fabric was tightly fastened by his belt. The resulting appearance was rather peculiar, leaving his lower half far more exposed than he normally inclined to, but it was a necessity. When he was satisfied, he knelt in the snow with his back to her, saying, “This should be sufficient to bear thee upwards. Take hold as thou dost see fit.”

Rowa stepped inelegantly into the sling, fumbling for a good position. After a moment of hesitation, she reached up, wrapping her arms around Morgott’s neck carefully. She anticipated some form of resistance, but none came, and she was brought back to that day at the Elden Throne, when she had tied the medallion around his neck. She almost wished her hands were uncovered as they locked together below his throat, just above the binding ornament. Gingerly, she rested her chin against his now uncovered shoulder, soaking in more of his abundant warmth.

“Art thou ready?” Morgott asked.

“As much as I can be.”

Morgott stood, reaching behind himself to place his stave securely in the wrappings alongside Rowa. She was surprised when the stave brushed against her, finding the knobby material almost as warm as its owner. Any questions she could form about that were swiftly forgotten as Morgott grabbed at the nearest outcrops on the cliffside. As he hoisted himself clear of the ground, all her thoughts became focused on clinging to him, screwing her eyes shut to avoid glimpsing the heights they would reach.

Morgott was keenly aware of the arms about his neck, the inhale and steaming exhale near his left ear. Were it not for that and the tightness of her grip, he could almost forget that she was there for how little she weighed to him. However, as he began the ascent in earnest, his thoughts turned from the Tarnished clinging to him to what would await upon cresting the cliff. The gaol was sealed as tightly as the day it had been formed; his Nightrider had kept faithful watch over it, and nothing without or within had ever tried to break through. At the time he had sealed Vyke, he had been glad to lock him away, but now he found no satisfaction in it. In knowing the whole truth of the matter and the intent behind Vyke’s actions, all he saw was a sorrowful existence, one that could not be changed until the Rune of Death was set free.

A stiff wind blew, whistling against the sharp edges of the cliffside, and in it Morgott thought he could hear the remnants of Vyke’s howls. He had before only supposed them to be cries of utter madness, but they had likely been more than that. Pain, sorrow, perhaps both together in an insurmountable weight. Only Melina would learn the truth.

Morgott scaled the cliff with carefully placed steps, and though Rowa dreaded the stomach-drop of a slip, none came. It only took a matter of minutes for him to reach the top, but to her it still felt like a small eternity. By the time she felt him climb onto flat ground, her arms ached for how tense she had become.

“Thou’rt safe,” Morgott said.

Rowa opened her eyes, craning her neck to see that they were now standing a fair distance beyond the edge of the cliff. They were now on a sizeable plateau, which was little more than a snowfield largely devoid of ghostly flora up until the next set of cliffs ahead of them in the distance. There was only one interruption in the moonlit white, a dark mark close to the middle of the plateau.

“Thank you for bearing me safely,” she said, descending from her perch.

Morgott gave a noncommittal growl in reply. His gaze was forward, fixed on the blemish in the snowscape, his face grim. The daunting mountainsides were rendered insignificant as she realized what they looked upon, almost hesitant to even voice the question.

“…Vyke’s prison?”

A length of silence passed before Morgott replied. “His tomb.”

They began the journey across the plateau. Neither of them spoke, both of them watching the structure as it steadily approached. It was a circle of etched stone with a seal in the middle, and around it stood odd serpentine constructs formed of stone spheres, purple light glowing from orifices on the topmost sphere, falling onto the circle. Not a single flake of snow lay upon the constructs or the circle, the wards upon it strong enough to fend off even the natural elements.

The stillness seemed to deepen. Rowa could see the tension in Morgott’s shoulders, as though he held his breath, his gaze never leaving the strange prison. She watched as well, only able to imagine what had transpired the last time Morgott had stood in this place, not knowing what to expect.

Nothing stirred. They passed by the gaol without event, and only after they were sufficiently distant from it did Rowa feel comfortable enough to speak. “I…I hope he has not suffered greatly.”

Morgott knew that hope was in vain, but perhaps Melina’s presence would be a balm. “Soon, his suffering will be at an end.”

In the unseen places, Melina approached the gaol. Having no physical body to account for, she passed beyond the watchers and the etched stone without hindrance, stepping into the gaol’s enchanted confines. She felt the Frenzy’s presence as she entered, like the heat from a roaring blaze blasting against her very being. Apprehension churned in her mind, for even Shabriri’s coming had not elicited so strong a presence, but she pressed onwards through the doubt. Her desire to speak with him was too great to be ignored, no matter his state. He was what she dreaded for Rowa, what she pitied for the squandered goodness of his heart. She had to take this opportunity, to see the man who had treated her kindly despite her failures as a true Finger Maiden, before she lost it forever. She would burn, and Death would take him away, both ends dauntingly close at hand.

She passed into the gaol’s inward chamber, a transposed reflection of the land the gaol occupied outside, a snowy field. Everything wavered with enchantments tightly woven, so as to ensure that nothing short of an outer god itself could ever hope to escape. The magic was so thickly laid that it almost restrained the intensity of the Frenzy, and thus did she have to search for the singed figure of the once-hopeful Tarnished.

Vyke knelt amidst the snow’s reflection, unmoving even as Melina approached. Were it not for the yellow fire burning so brightly within him, she may have thought him already dead. But the flame burned, and it could not find kindling in a wasting, soulless corpse. So even in his stillness, she knew he lived, and it almost seemed worse than if he had immediately risen at her coming. He, who had once been so vibrant and assured, was now reduced to a husk harrowed by fire and suffering. He even wore the same armor she had known him to wear, the same spear at his side, but that familiarity had been marred and twisted. Below the armor, she saw the burns, the long rifts where the Three Fingers had grasped him tightly, never to let go. Even amidst the reflection of the frigid mountainside, the marks smoldered with a painful fervor, a mere representation of the greater suffering he had undergone, not just in body but in soul.

Though Melina had seen much in her pilgrimage for a worthy Tarnished, this elicited a horror like nothing else. Much of what Vyke had been she saw in Rowa, and the only thing that kept her from true despair was the knowledge of the intercessor found in Morgott. Though neither he nor Rowa had attested to whatever feelings were blossoming between them, that was what would prove to be key in preventing the Frenzy from taking the Lands Between. It preyed upon the despair of deep loneliness, and few knew that better than Morgott, though he had never been susceptible to the fiery calling.

Vyke did not stir at all when Melina stopped close to him. Finally, she spoke, her voice seeming loud in the enchanted silence of the gaol. “Vyke.”

The Tarnished stirred, slowly lifting his head like it was a tremendous effort to do so. The visor of his helmet was up, revealing his face. Burn scars mottled the skin on one side, arching from his temple to his cheek, but even that seemed inconsequential in comparison to his eyes, or what had used to be them. They burned unforgivingly like yellow stars, sparks leaping down onto the snow, and the intensity of the Frenzy’s presence increased upon Melina tenfold when she met his gaze.

“I…I remember you.” Vyke’s voice was a pitiful remnant of the strong, commanding tone it had once been, but it was made terrible by the crackling undertone of yellow fire. “Melina.”

“I am glad that you remember,” Melina said softly. “You have not completely lost yourself.”

“I have wished to forget, a thousand times over.” The lack of emotion in his words was almost more disturbing to Melina than if he had been distraught, but when he spoke again, they were edged with something desperate. “Maiden, will you kill me?”

Melina almost wished she could fulfill that request. “I cannot.”

“Do you not hate me for leaving you behind?” Vyke’s fingers curled over his battered chestplate. A great number of holes and punctures littered the alloy, where someone—perhaps himself—had attempted to drive a weapon through his midriff. “Is your anger not great enough to turn a blade against me?”

“I could never hate you,” Melina said. “And even if I wished to kill you, I could not. Only the Rune of Death will free you.”

Vyke sagged, looking like the many other lost spirits that wandered the Lands Between. “Why have you come here then, if not to kill me?”

“My chosen Tarnished ascends to the Forge. I wanted to see you once more, before the end.”

The yellow flame roiled, overflowing from his eyes onto his face. “Your Tarnished…will let you burn.”

“She does not know the truth of the kindling, because I have withheld it from her,” Melina said. “But I must burn.”

 Vyke clenched his fists, as though her words angered him. “And you will go willingly?”

“Yes. Not only is it my lot as a Maiden, it is the only way I will leave this bodiless existence behind. Of all the Maidens, I alone was truly destined to become kindling. I am accursed, afflicted by an outer god not unlike the Empyreans, and the fire will burn it away. The only thing I fear is the propagation of chaos in the heart of my Tarnished, once I am gone.”

“The fire cannot…should not find another. I…I…” More molten tears spilled from the pits of Vyke’s eyes, sizzling against his armor as his voice was temporarily swallowed by fire.

“Though I fear it, I have taken many steps to ensure that will not happen. She has bound herself in a deep vow to one who the Frenzy cannot touch. After my departure, he will fight ardently to keep her on the right path. Of that, I am certain.”

Vyke was silent a few breaths more, and Melina could practically see him wrestling against the consuming fire. “I desired to walk the right path, more than anything. You must know that.”

“I do.”

“But I grew to love her, more than my own life. I couldn’t let her light the Forge, when I could offer myself up instead.” Vyke shook his head from side to side, trying to close his eyes, to abate the burning, but he could not. “She did not tell me of her fate, but a man came to me and told me the truth. He told me there was another way, and I listened.”

“Who was he?” Melina asked, though she already knew the answer.

“He called himself Shabriri.” The scorched recesses of Vyke’s eyes flared, perhaps in response to the name of the fire’s detestable progenitor, or perhaps from Vyke’s own abhorrence of him. “I should have never listened, but in my desperation I descended below the Golden City. I saw the many horrors that were birthed from chaotic atrocities, but even then I did not turn away. I loved her too much, and so I let it brand me.”

Melina listened in sober silence. She had seen the echoes of his path already in disjointed pieces, but hearing the tale put into words made it all the more terrible.

“When she saw what I had done, she ran from me. I chased her, and the Frenzy took hold. Even now, I don’t remember anything, but…” Vyke stared at his hands, his voice quivering. “When I came back to myself, she was in front of me. I…I had...”

Melina looked away for a moment. She had not been completely sure how his Maiden had met her end, but this was what she had feared. His anguish seemed to act as kindling for the chaotic blaze inside him, the dreadful heat rolling from him increasing as he relived his charred and broken memories.

“I tried to follow her that very moment, but the Frenzy kept me alive. So I hunted down that demon of a man and slew him, but even that did not free me.” Vyke lifted his head to gaze at the shimmering confines of his prison as he began to return to downtrodden resignation. “In turn, the Fell Omen and his dark riders came for me, and rightfully so. He imprisoned me here, and so I have remained.”

“Soon, you will be freed,” Melina said, “though I wish it was not by death.”

“I ceased to wish for anything else. I am now neither living nor dead. The Frenzy upholds my body, but my heart died long ago, by my own hand. This flesh deserves to follow it into death.”

“The Frenzy deserves death, but I cannot speak the same of you, Vyke the Dragonspear.”

For the first time, Vyke looked at her directly, as though hearing his old title had brought clarity to his burning thoughts. “Do you not despise me even now, knowing the sins I have committed?”

Though it was daunting, Melina returned his gaze, meeting the embers unflinchingly. “No, nor would I despise my chosen Tarnished if she were to take the Frenzy. You are much the same, both possessing a heart too pressed with care to accomplish the difficult tasks asked of you without trouble. I will not allow the advent of chaos through that care, for such a manipulation seems more twisted than anything the Frenzy’s most loyal envoy could divine. But in a world so loveless and broken, I cannot despise a heart so compelled in care, no matter the sorrows that have come from it.”

Something like relief flickered over Vyke’s marred countenance. “You have treated me with more kindness than I ever thought I would encounter again. I can only hope my Maiden would be as forgiving as you, though I am undeserving of it.”

As Melina looked him in the eyes, she began to see the echoes of his existence with greater clarity. They were blackened and burnt by the Frenzy, but not destroyed entirely. There she saw the Maiden and Tarnished together through many trials, and she recognized what lingered in their eyes when they looked at each other. She had seen the same in Rowa and Morgott, though their feelings had yet to blossom into something bold enough to be proclaimed. But she saw the remnants of Vyke’s life and his zeal for the Maiden, which seemed to be returned with equal strength by the Maiden herself.

“If she were to know the truth,” Melina said, “then I believe your Maiden would certainly forgive you.”

Vyke let out a shuddering sigh. The tormenting heat seemed to lessen, his loathing no longer kindling the blaze so violently.

Melina lifted her head, sensing Rowa’s pull as the travelers began to move beyond the gaol. “My time grows short, for my Tarnished is unaware of this meeting.”

“Then go,” Vyke murmured. “You have my gratitude for the time you gave me. It has done what remains of me well.”

Melina stepped closer to him. “I would be willing to embrace you, if you wish it. The Frenzy cannot harm me.”

Vyke stared, his silence stretching for so long she thought she would receive no answer, but he finally spoke a single, broken word: “Please.”

And so Melina closed the remaining distance between them, kneeling on the ground in front of Vyke. He bowed his head, perhaps because of shame, perhaps because the Frenzy itself knew it had no hold on her. She did not falter, though the inward furnace of his remaining flesh burned at her fingertips with something close to physical pain, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He trembled, drawing his hands up to cling at her in response. He continued to tremble, but made no sound, and she said nothing more. The warped metal of his armor bit into her, made all the more fierce by the Frenzy’s heat, but she disregarded it. She was sure that if Vyke still had the capacity to weep, he surely would have, but that ability had been lost to the Frenzy’s fire. But she knew by the way he clutched her that he bore grief unmatched by few things in the world, and she was glad to give him some comfort.

No more words passed between them. There was no need, for the embrace spoke volumes enough. They remained together until Melina was borne away, leaving the once-hopeful Tarnished behind.

Gideon did not lift his eyes from the papers before him even as heavy, armored footsteps approached the door of his study. He knew who it was, catching a whiff of ash and grime before the visitor even crossed the threshold. “I was beginning to wonder if you would accept my invitation.”

“I have accepted nothing yet.”

“But you have come.”

“Because of all the Tarnished and champions in your employ, you bothered to inquire of me.” Something heavy and metallic thudded against the floorboards. “I see your loyal dog Ensha is absent. If you wish me to work in his stead, do not waste your breath.”

“No. That is not what I intended.” Gideon looked up, meeting Bernahl’s glare. “What I ask of you will benefit both of us.”

“I seek no ‘benefit’ anymore,” Bernahl replied, leaning against his greatsword and digging the point into the floor. “Nor do I seek lordship at all.”

“I know what it is you seek.”

“Do you?”

“You seek that which would grant you true Death and freedom from Grace.” Gideon saw Bernahl’s glare waver fractionally, for only an instant, and knew he had the upper hand.

“What do you know of that?” Bernahl growled.

“Your apostasy took you to Gelmir, where your Maiden died. Since then, especially after Gelmir’s downfall, you have been searching for a way to follow her without the interference of Grace.” Gideon tilted his head slightly. “She told you, didn’t she? About the true purpose of the Maidens? That is why you turned your back on the Roundtable.”

Bernahl’s gaze sharpened, his fingers tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Make your point, Ofnir.”

“The way into the mountains has been unsealed. A Tarnished now ascends to the Forge, to light it and open the gate to Death.”

Bernahl tried to restrain his surprise. “How? Has the Veiled Monarch been slain at last?”

“No. That is the part that remains a mystery to me, for Leyndell is clouded from my view. Nevertheless, I can grant you passage into the mountains to put your recusant skills to use.”

“What is this one life to you?”

“The Tarnished is in possession of at least two Great Runes, and is accompanied by Margit the Fell. She has the potential to reach the Rune of Death. I would have you reach it instead.”

“But why have you chosen me?” Bernahl pressed. “Why not one of your many loyalists?”

“You have no aspirations for lordship, no desire to stand before the Elden Ring. I will take the Great Runes of this Tarnished, and you…you will have the Death you desire. You will be free to follow your Maiden.”

Bernahl was silent. The candles flickered in their sconces, casting long shadows across his face, but in his eyes Gideon saw the longing, the pain.

“I can give you what you want,” Gideon said. “Your suffering will be at an end.”

From her alcove, Enia felt the recusant come, then go. Her eyes had failed long ago, but she knew the taint of recusant cessblood nonetheless. She did not know his business at the Hold, but she could guess well enough. Beside her, the Two Fingers were still, silent. They had been since the way into the mountains was opened, seeking communion with the Greater Will in fear of the coming fire. They had been blind to the purpose of the Finger Maidens, but she had not been. She had known for a long time that it would end in the cardinal sin. So did Gideon, and she knew he now worked for his own purposes, all thoughts of sin thrust aside in favor of understanding and lordship.

Enia lifted her wizened head. The Fingers did not stir. Who was to say that the cardinal sin must be cardinal forever?

Chapter Text

As they left Vyke’s gaol behind them, Morgott supposed he should have felt relieved to have passed by such a dreaded landmark without event. However, as they continued into the unknown expanse of the mountaintops, his disquieting thoughts only pervaded his mind all the more. The scape that lay before them was largely unknown to him, save for what the maps provided. Though he had briefly felt compelled to venture further upon his previous visit, he had ultimately turned away.

Back then, to even look upon the Forge had seemed too great a sin to add to the iniquity of his existence. Now, he knew that Marika herself was living in cardinal sin, having turned against her god, and had ordained such an unthinkable act as burning the Erdtree. To see the great golden boughs wreathed in fire would certainly be a terrible sight, but he was willing to see it through now if that was what Marika desired. And yet each step he took towards the peak added to the weight growing upon his shoulders, taking the shape of the woman traveling alongside him and the phantom she carried with her. Rowa walked only with with ambition and the desire to complete the next step in mending the Elden Ring, and the weight he felt would be little in comparison to that which she would experience upon reaching the Forge.

He found his trite thoughts beginning to move beyond Rowa’s expected grief to the loss of Melina herself. Compared to Rowa, he had spent little time with Melina beyond their frank discussions of what was to come. And yet, the prospect of her departure, even willingly, had become more unpleasant the closer the time loomed. Though he had ambivalent feelings towards those beyond his father and trueborn brothers, she was the first inkling of family he had come upon after Mohg’s apostasy, and he had been gratified to see she possessed little of the vaingloriousness his other siblings, full, half, or ordained, seemed to be predisposed to. He was still uncertain as to the truth of her parentage, but he knew she was not of Godfrey’s pedigree. There was a sense of instinctual familiarity between him and his trueborn brothers, regardless of the Omen curse, that he did not feel in her.

But he also saw, perplexingly, aught to do with Radagon in her. Rennala’s ilk had never mentioned another sister, and though she seemed to bear a curse, she did not bear the golden vibrance of Malenia and Miquella. The possibility of a third suitor seemed outlandish, but he could not be sure. Much of Marika’s life before the conquest of the Lands Between was shrouded in mystery, even to those who knew her well.

Nevertheless, Melina was family of a sort, and after a long abstinence from such things, his heart was loathe to let her go. However, he would not attempt to prevent her sacrifice. Melina went willingly, and it was Marika’s ordination for her. Furthermore, her existence as a spirit, relying on others to journey for her, was a half-life. She knew Destined Death like it was her own, and perhaps the fire would lead her towards the full life she lacked, even if her departure grieved him.

They continued their ascent, scaling the cliffs one by one, tiered as though they were the steps of a giant’s staircase. Morgott climbed each face, and Rowa clung to him each time, the tightening of her grip serving as a reminder to take more care than he would have if he were alone. The group of cliffs ended at a jagged tableland where things became smoother, a few hills and smaller outcrops dotted across a large snowfield. In the near distance, more crags rose higher still, the Forge’s flickering beginning to strengthen though it remained hidden behind the peaks.

The shape of the land bade them turn southward, facing the brilliance of the Erdtree once more. A look at Morgott’s maps confirmed that they were following a roundabout, winding path that would have doubled back on itself several times had it not been for seemingly infinite mountaintops that wound up and up into the sky. However, it would eventually lead them to the Forge, taking them south before ascending the final stretch to the waiting Forge.

It had taken over half the night to reach the tableland. They traveled as far as they could before the sunrise prompted them to find a place to wait until they could be shrouded by nightfall again. Finding no wayward shards of Grace, they settled in a divot where a small cliff curved. After she had taken her meal, Rowa huddled close to Morgott, and they gazed in silence at the snowfield and the distant peaks slowly becoming suffused with dawn’s aura.

“Was power the only reason Vyke turned to the Frenzied Flame?” The question slipped from Rowa almost unbidden. Ever since they had passed by the gaol, the imprisoned Tarnished had weighed heavily on her mind. “What did it offer him?”

“When thou wert in its thrall, what did it offer thee?” Morgott returned.

Rowa craned her neck to look at him, finding his expression curious and not accusatory. It took a moment for her mind to dig up the memories made hazy by the trancelike state she had been in. “It…it spoke of ending the pains of the world, of melting it all away. A lie, no doubt.”

“A half truth, I believe. It would end the world’s pain, and joy. Glory and sorrow, evil and good. All would razed in the fire of chaos.”

A shiver ran through Rowa, but it was not from the frigid air. “To think I listened to it.”

“Outer gods and the power they bring can enthrall the mind easily, especially in those who know nothing of the consequences. My brother, perhaps even my mother, is proof of this. Thou must remain watchful, for thou’rt now closer to lordship than even Vyke.”

Rowa paused. It was almost daunting to think she had made it farther than any of the many Tarnished that had come before her. “I hope you will continue to aid me in such matters.”

“I will,” he said quietly, “for Vyke hath already done what I now deem unacceptable. I will not allow the advent of chaos to approach the Erdtree but one step more.”

Rowa smiled softly, but she was unsurprised when he made no effort to return it. “I am glad of it. Without you, I dread to think of what might have happened that first day.”

“As do I.” Morgott looked away from her, towards the pale expanse of the snowfield brightening with dawn’s advancement. “Rest, and let not such thoughts trouble thee.”

Rowa pressed in close, and though she did so carefully for his benefit, he did not startle. Like her, he seemed to have acclimated to the situation, any embarrassment or misgivings fading with each rest. She could not guess his feelings, but each time she curled against him, she was struck with a sense of rightness. She did not know if such a sense came from the talisman resting warmly about her neck, or if it was her own mind that offered it up. It was only amplified as they sat together, talking of things, both good and bad. Pure curiosity almost pushed her to ask if he had experienced likewise, but she refrained. She did not wish to ruin the goodness of what it currently was.

She closed her eyes, trying to put thoughts of Vyke and the Frenzy from her mind. Letting out a small, contented sigh, she let her herself rest fully against Morgott, and it was not long before sleep claimed her.

Morgott felt the slackening of her muscles, the unrestrained press of Rowa’s weight as the natural tenseness of wakefulness left her. He kept his eyes on the field before them, watching especially the way from which they had come. He knew that the possibility of Vyke escaping his confines was impossible, or so infinitesimal that it did not bear consideration, but Shabriri’s appearance had shaken him enough to be irrationally wary. Despite his fear, everything remained calm as the sunrise sent fiery rays stretching across the snow. The Nightrider kept up a patrol on his orders, but gaol remained silent, leaving him to wonder if Melina had conversed with Vyke as she desired. He could not imagine what words would pass between them, but he found himself hoping that it was worthwhile for Melina as her days grew short.

The day passed. Rowa awoke from a dreamless sleep and Morgott took his turn to rest. It seemed like they were the only living things with ten leagues, though they both knew that was not true. The thick blanket of ice and snow muted life, but did not drive it out completely.

When evening came, they arose and continued their southward journey. At first, they could only see the jagged shadows of the higher mountaintops looming before them, outlined by the orange blaze of the Forge’s embers. As they continued, another fire appeared, lower and closer to the field they walked upon, tiny in comparison to the mountains surrounding it. Eventually, they drew close enough for the sharp angles of a manmade construction to separate from the wall of blackness that were the peaks. Atop it, the smaller fire blazed like a beacon, and more flickering embers were scattered around outside the building’s base. They did not have to walk much longer for the wind to bring them the sounds of the strange, undulating chants of the fire-worshippers. Eventually, the Nightrider appeared alongside them, telling of a way around the fort and into the hills beyond.

Following the Nightrider’s directions, they skirted close to the steep edges of the plateau where the moonlit white met the deep black of nothingness, the land dropping away into open air. Morgott led the way, and Rowa followed, keeping her eyes fixed on the swaying of his cloak and tail rather than the dizzying drop waiting to her left. The fort was a simple construction, likely assembled for shelter as opposed to any sort of grandeur. Red-cloaked figures patrolled the area outside the simple gate in between slipshod barricades, occasionally tending to crackling bonfires that burned almost as crimson as their garb. Morgott and Rowa stayed well away from the flickering gleam, but they could still smell the pungent and vaguely sweet aroma of some sort of incense likely burning in the fires.

With great care, they crept along the edge of the field, approaching the leftmost side of the fortress.  Firelight bobbed occasionally between the blocky embrasures, but the wall watch seemed no more attended than the one at the gates. Morgott kept his attention on the guards, coiled to fight or run if they were noticed even with their subterfuge, but they made it to the far corner of the fort without event. Caught in the worship of their god, the monks did not notice as two living shadows slid into the narrow strip of land between the fort’s wall and the plateau edge.

They followed the thin, spidering stretch of land, the fort’s stone bastion looming on one side and the void beyond the plateau on the other. The Nightrider’s guidance proved true; the strip ran the length of the fort’s wall before opening up into a similar scene of guards and chanters beyond the back gate. However, any attention for the monks was immediately diverted. Before them, high above, stood the Forge of the Giants. It was of massive proportions, a basin likely constructed by creatures of even more unfathomable scale. Much of it was still hidden by the mountains, but a fair portion of the rim was visible, emblazoned with carvings and speech whose creators were likely long gone. The dark sky above the rim was suffused with the orange light they had been following since their arrival in the mountains, weak for such a massive construction but constant, a beacon beckoning to them.

The two travelers gazed at the Forge with equal awe, but Morgott did with a grim numbness as well. They were close, so close to seizing the Rune of Death, but as the smoke of the monks’ fires spiraled into the sky in black plumes, he could envision such a smoke rising from the body of the waiting Maiden and the grief that would rise with it.

They put distance between themselves and the fort quickly, the plateau narrowing as they went. Eventually, they came to another great rift in the mountains’ masses, not unlike the one they had encountered upon first entering the land. This time, their means of crossing came in the form of a great chain linking the two sides together, likely another construction of giants. The great, twisting links were covered in rime and snow, but it did not make the crossing more difficult. Even Morgott could walk comfortably on the massive metalwork, and their collective weight did not shift the frozen alloy an inch.

On the other side of the rift, they were greeted with gentle slopes winding upwards long and wide. They traveled until dawn, then camped in the shadows of frozen giants when no shard of Grace presented itself. Morgott slept first, then Rowa, and she awoke to the deepening shadows of dusk and the rumble of his voice.

“Thy fellows shall begin the clearing of the city,” Morgott said. “When we reach the Forge, thou shalt join them in their efforts.”

If the Nightrider replied, Rowa did not hear it as she sat up, trying to process his words as she blinked sleep from her eyes. “Clear the city?”

Morgott looked down at her. “When the Erdtree is set ablaze, I know not what shall become of Leyndell. As such, I would have all occupants depart.”

Rowa thought back to the seemingly fiercely loyal retinue of Leyndell’s guards. “Will they leave willingly?”

“Most will, but I know some are zealots for the Erdtree and would never leave it, even unto their end. But so do they choose their fate, and I shan’t stop them.” Morgott paused, and when he did, a shadow flickered across his countenance. It was so sudden and brief that Rowa thought the blear of sleep had tricked her eyes, but before she could think to ask, Morgott was already addressing his Nightrider again. “Ride ahead, and gauge the distance we must travel. ‘Twill likely be no more than two nights according to the maps, but I wish to know for certain.”

The Nightrider departed silently, and they followed soon after, continuing their climb. Upwards they went, led by the constant glow of the Forge. They drew ever closer, but neither smelled smoke nor saw any ash falling along the ground. The embers burned beyond the normal constraints of fire, it seemed, and that was perhaps what made it worshipful to the monks with their constant prayers.

More crumbling structures were scattered across the landscape. They passed by another church in the distance, along with some sort of ornate catacomb, but there were no more fortifications for the fire-worshippers. Their order did not seem to advance beyond the chain-linked rift they had crossed.

In the latter half of the night, Morgott sighted the gleam of Grace on the hillside. Turning to Rowa, he said, “There is a shard of Grace close by. Perhaps it would be prudent to make camp there.”

Rowa looked up at the sky, frowning when she saw no indication of dawn’s advent. “The night is not yet over. Shouldn’t we continue onwards?”

“We shall come to the Forge in the next night regardless. Wouldst thou not wish to take this opportunity to speak with thy Maiden?”

“I suppose so,” Rowa admitted haltingly. He had never made such a consideration in their stops before.

Morgott avoided her questioning gaze. “Then let us turn aside and rest.”

As expected, Melina appeared beside the shard of Grace as they approached, serene even in the snow. “You have my gratitude for your consideration of me.”

“I thought it worthwhile,” Morgott grunted, beginning to clear the snow from the area around the Grace.

Rowa dismounted Torrent, allowing him to approach Melina. “We have made much progress. In less than another night of travel, we will arrive at the Forge.”

“Indeed.” Melina rose to greet Torrent, running a hand across his mane before turning to look at the Forge. Much of the basin was visible now, and they were close enough that the embers suffused the hill they stood upon with its orange glow. All was quiet, but she said, “I do not think Marika would have left the fire unguarded for the threat it poses.”

“‘Twas a threat to the Golden Order in the days of blind belief,” Morgott said, “but I believe thou speaketh truly. Mine eyes hath not seen it, but I heard the tales, the stories.”

“What stories?” Rowa asked.

“In the last days of the war, all but one giant had fled or been slain. ‘Tis been said that Marika did not put the last giant to the sword, but instead bound him to guard the Forge. I do not doubt the truth of it, but I do not know what shall await us after so much time. As the day passes, I shall send my Nightrider ahead to see what awaits.”

Rowa looked back at the way they had come, to the lifeless frozen bodies scattered across the cliffs. It was hard to envision them, little more than stone, as something living.

“The Rune of Death itself will be guarded in equal or greater measure,” Morgott continued.

“Melina told me a Shadow guards it,” Rowa said

“Marika’s Shadow, granted to her by the Greater Will. Again, I never beheld him, but ‘tis just as well. He was feared greatly among the demigods, for he alone could bring death upon them, or so it was thought. Marika bequeathed to him the Rune of Death, and none hath seen him since the Shattering.”

“The Forge will light the way,” Melina said, “but where it will take you is likely unknown to all but Marika herself.”

Rowa sat down on the cleared ground, beginning to dole out their respective portions of food. “All the provisions Marika has made for the Rune of Death, it makes me wonder about the power of the Crucible all the more.”

With his foremost concern being reaching the Forge and what would come after, Morgott had not spared that issue much thought, and he frowned at its mention. “Undoubtedly sealed away by the Greater Will’s governance, but I wonder much the same. ‘Tis not been done away with in its entirety, but is now vanished from all thought and record save for but a few loyal followers and those born into its lineage.”

“A secret known only to Marika, no doubt,” Melina said. “In all my long wanderings, I never heard tell of any location, any guardian. But Marika is the one who drew the Crucible out of the Ring, and she must know its fate.”

As Rowa and Morgott ate, they stewed over such questions, though there was no answer to be found. Rowa spoke with Melina for a while, until the sky began to lighten. It was her turn to rest first, and so she took her place at Morgott’s side, gazing at the Forge’s glow as she tried to imagine what awaited until she fell asleep.

Melina was the first one to break the heavy silence that hung between Omen and Maiden, anticipating the question at the forefront of Morgott’s mind. “When you passed the gaol, I did see Vyke as I had hoped to.”

Morgott studied her face, but her expression offered nothing to grant him insight. “And what became of such a meeting? Did any part of him remain undefiled?”

“His true self yet lurked beneath the fire. He remembered me, and what he used to be, despite the long passage of time.”

“Does the Frenzy prevail? Does it yet drive him to become Lord?”

“No. Any aspirations of lordship have been lost. He understands what it is that has hold of him, and he does not seek its propagation.”

A sense of relief washed over Morgott as he put the images of a madman clambering to escape the gaol out of his mind. “What then fills his thoughts?”

“All he wishes for is death, to rejoin his Maiden.”

The bleak pronunciation immediately did away with Morgott’s relief. He did not respond, but Melina could guess the course of his thoughts well enough.

“I do not fear the same for Rowa,” she said. “When Vyke’s Maiden died, he was in the Frenzy’s thrall already, and when she was gone he was left alone in despair. Rowa will not be alone.”

Morgott glanced at the sleeping woman beside him. There was no cliffside to lean against this time, so she had put her back to his side, her head tilted back against his ribcage. The slow onset of day had begun to highlight the contours of her face, slightly dirtied but completely slackened in sleep. The sight of her so unaware, so unknowing by his own deception, sent a wave of guilt through him so powerful that it almost choked him.

“She cares for thee.” He looked away from Rowa, unable to bear the sight. “Her heart is so ardent that I fear even so…”

“She does care for me,” Melina agreed, “and I cannot deny it, but her heart is not fixed on me alone. There is much care for you as well, a different and deepening sort.”

A prickle of apprehension pushed through the guilt into Morgott’s mind. “I do not understand of what thou speaketh.”

“You will in time, for such things are revealed in the face of sorrow.”

Morgott fell silent. The care Rowa expressed towards him was as sutures to his wounded heart, but he was not quite sure of what Melina implied. Even so, his mind offered up absurd possibilities that made him too aware of Rowa’s weight against him. Surely she would be wounded at the very least by his deception, if not angry, but what was the breadth of her feelings towards him? How deep would the blade cut, and what would the wound bring forth? They were allies beyond the distant, tentative partnership they had begun with, but he could not define what they had or would become. He could not name the feelings stirring inside him at the possibility of knowing Rowa’s heart, but it was equally hopeful and fearful, and yet he could not turn away. Not for her, not for Melina, not for the Lands Between.

“I am certain your presence will be of aid to her in her grief,” Melina continued, “and it is my hope that she will find consolation in your steadfastness.”

“She shall not be alone in it,” Morgott murmured. “I…I do not wish to see thee depart, though I know it must be so.”

Melina regarded him with an expression of vague surprise. “I did not know you were of such feeling.”

“Nor did I, until the approach of the end. Thou hast contended well with me, and with thy Tarnished. But I will not endeavor to stop what is yet to come. It must be so.”

“I will not depart without my own share of remorse, for I have become fond of your company, even when I am unseen. But I must do this, for I know no other purpose, no other way, that would begin to heal the fractures of the world.” Melina lifted her head to the sky, where the nascent sunlight mixed with dusky hues of purple and gray. “Nevertheless, I will cherish this last day.”

In silence, she and Morgott watched the sunrise beyond the mountainside that heralded the beginning of the end.

Rowa awoke to something cold on her face. She opened her eyes, greeted by the mottled gray of the sky and the snowflakes drifting from it. Blinking away the flakes that threatened to fall into her eyes, she sat up, running a sleeve across her face to try and rid it of the cold wetness.

“The clouds came not long ago,” Melina said from nearby. “I was unsure if it would be worthwhile to wake you so close to the end of your rest.”

“I’ve survived worse.” Rowa flattened her gloved hands against her tingling cheeks to warm them. The snowfall was light, a pleasant flurry of white specks drifting lazily through the air, but it was still enough to coalesce in a cold layer over time. Morgott sat beside her, covered in his own dusting but unbothered, and across the Grace Melina remained untouched altogether.

“If thou wouldst wish to have more rest, thou art free to do so,” Morgott rumbled. “Thou shouldst be well prepared for what may come.”

“I slept well. I will be fine,” Rowa said sincerely. “You may take yours.”

“Very well.”

Rowa moved aside slightly as he rose into a crouch, clearing away the new, thin layer of snow on the cleared ground to make a space to sleep. As he worked, she noticed his face was darkened by the same shadow she had glimpsed the day before, except this time it was not so fleeting. It remained, perhaps in his unawareness that she was observing him, and she realized she had seen a similar darkness before, when they had overlooked the blighted valley above Godwyn’s.

“Morgott,” she began carefully, “is something troubling you?”

Morgott paused his work, and the shadow vanished in totality behind the wall she was accustomed to. He glanced at her before beginning again. “Nay.”

Unconvinced, Rowa pushed herself closer, resting a hand on his arm to still him. “Are you certain?”

He looked at her fully, his visible eye widening a fraction, but his face betrayed nothing. “I am certain.”

Snowflakes landed in his hair, on his horns, some losing themselves completely in the unkempt white and others clinging stubbornly. Rowa noticed a small clump stuck to the feathery hair hanging down on the right side of his face. With careful, intentional movement, she reached towards his head. His shoulders tensed, but he did not pull away like he had in Godwyn’s house. Her wrapped fingers touched his hair, gently tugging the stubborn snowflakes out. Her heart rose in her throat, but she could not stop herself from bringing her palm down, the whole of her hand ghosting his cheek and lingering there, light but undeniable.

They were both silent, but Rowa was sure he could hear the roar of her heart through her skin. When he did not flinch away after a few, fateful seconds, she breathed out in a puff of fog and said, “Are you sure it is nothing?”

Morgott stared at her, his golden eye wide, but he still made no move. His silence stretched so long that Rowa feared she had gravely erred, but when he at last spoke, there was something softer therein like the whispers of the snowfall around them. “There is nothing, I assure thee.”

Then he turned away, removing his face from her hand simply with that movement. She dropped her hand, letting him continue his work, and when he finally laid himself on the ground, she said quietly, “I hope your rest is undisturbed.”

“As do I,” came the hushed reply.

Soon, his breathing slowed, his massive form impervious to the ice and snow around it. Rowa listened, her attention continuously drawn back to her hand. Though her skin had not touched him, her palm held a phantom warmth that did not readily depart. She was startled at herself for her action, and even more startled at Morgott for not swiftly recoiling as he usually did. Across the Grace, Melina regarded her silently, ever unshaken no matter what transpired between them.

“I truly thought he was aggrieved by something,” Rowa whispered once she was sure he was sleeping. “I suppose I was wrong.”

“You acted from a place of true concern,” Melina said. “There is no fault in that.”

“Perhaps I am merely a poor judge of feelings, then.”

“I think not.” Melina’s lips curved upwards in the slightest of smiles. “I’m very glad it was you I traveled with.”

Rowa returned the smile. “Thank you, but what makes you say so?”

“Nothing.” Melina watched the snow fall upon the waiting Forge. “I merely wished for you to know.”

Chapter Text

‘Tis as thou suspected, the Nightrider said, his aura lengthening the evening’s shadows. The last of the giants stands atop the mount, guarding the way to the Forge.

Morgott chewed on his dried meat, mulling over the report. “What of his strength, his disposition?”

He is surely not in the height of his strength. He doth seem broken, ailing, held there only by the curse. He is lingering because he must. Strong he may be, but not as what once was. ‘Twill be a mercy to free him from this long servitude.

“That is what I expected to hear,” Rowa said as she nibbled at her own food.

Morgott turned an inquisitive eye on her. “What of thy Runes and thy fortitude? The giant bears no Rune, but ‘twill be a rigorous battle, methinks.”

“I have meditated upon them much while you have rested.” Rowa flexed her hand experimentally, briefly allowing a golden arc to manifest in her palm before extinguishing it with a satisfied smile. “Though the encounter with the defiled Tarnished is likely not comparable, I feel I have bettered my control greatly, especially in that conflict.”

Morgott studied the brief appearance of the arc. It was not quite as innate and thoughtless as his own uses, but it was a great improvement over her initial struggles, and it banished any nagging concerns about her abilities against the Fire Giant. However, he wondered if he would ever see that smile again once the night was over. “Thou hast improved thyself in vast measure.”

The compliment made Rowa feel warm despite the night’s intensifying cold around her. “I merely followed what you taught me to do.”

Morgott returned his attention to the Nightrider. “I expect I will no longer have need of thee here. Go and join thy fellows in the efforts to clear Leyndell, and know that thou hast done me great and honorable service.”

To serve thee is honor enough. The Nightrider bowed his head to Morgott, then did the same to Rowa, and vanished like a passing breeze.

As they made their preparations for the final ascent, Morgott kept his gaze pointedly away from Melina. His mind was still reeling from the brief conversation between him and Rowa, and his cheek retained the phantom warmth of her touch. He had thought his inward struggles hidden well enough, but somehow she had seen some hint of them. When she looked at him with true concern, her hand upon his face, the desire he had wrestled with, the desire to speak the truth, had almost overwhelmed him. That in of itself was startling enough, since he was sure nothing could bring him closer to that possibility after Shabriri’s ill-fated appearance. The sincerity written upon Rowa’s countenance, the ghosting touch of her palm on his face, had destroyed that determination in a matter of moments. Even now, his chest ached as he listened to the occasional exchange between her and Melina. The Maiden spoke with the same evenness she always did, as though she was not mere hours from her end. He resolved to do the same, lest Rowa become concerned again. To think a mere touch could incite such weakness.

When at last they were ready to continue on, Melina said, “Farewell to both of you, and I wish you good fortune against the Fire Giant.”

Morgott could hardly summon the willpower to turn and look at her. Rowa was unfazed as she said, “I am confident we will persevere, but I am grateful for your care nonetheless.”

Morgott said nothing, unable to find words. Melina seemed to understand this, and raised her hand in a silent farewell that he returned briefly before putting his back to her. Nevertheless, he felt her gaze on them as they began the last climb, until she faded away with their departure.

The snowfall had dissipated during Rowa’s watch, but the sky remained overcast, the moons and stars hidden behind the dark veil of clouds. That did not hinder their ascent, the way lit by the Erdtree and the Forge’s constant glow. Rowa kept her eyes fixed ahead, watching the cliffs that remained above them for signs of their approaching foe. Her body thrummed, both with strength and anticipation. The Forge was close, and though she did not know where the path would take them in pursuit of the Rune of Death, she greeted that unknown with confidence. Having Morgott alongside her was an assurance that even a Fire Giant would not stand in their way, the ruthless efficiency with which he dispatched Rykard speaking for itself.

She had not yet concluded what it was that had troubled him so, but she could guess well enough as the glow of the Erdtree cast their shadows in distorted slants across the snow. The Erdtree shone across all the Lands Between, and to see it burn would surely be disconcerting for her. She could not imagine what other denizens would think far below, from Omens to Golden Order zealots. It was likely that Morgott felt something of that nature already, having devoted himself in long service to the Erdtree for his mother’s sake.

She stole a glance at his face. Though he was steeped in shadow, there was no sign of that profound feeling anymore, his countenance stony and focused on the route ahead. Despite his denial, she was sure that her eyes had not been deceived. So rare did any sort of sentiment surface that it was undeniable when it did, and she wished he had spoken more openly. She was partially to blame for his dismissal of any troubles; she had not meant to touch him so unexpectedly, but the desire and the actions that followed had come upon her almost unconsciously. And yet, he had not pulled away with such haste as he exhibited in the past. It was as though she had briefly breached the wall of his outward self, reaching towards that heart that she knew held such good, and that glimpse only heightened her desire to do so in completion. But the desire came with that inkling of worry, that striving for openness would be futile in the end if he did not reciprocate or severed the bond between them.

She let out a small sigh, refocusing on the Forge ahead and the hopeful anticipation therein. Such matters of the heart could wait.

When they were close to cresting the final hill, the first signs of their adversary appeared. A low groan drifted through the frozen air, a haunting sound that echoed off the mountainside. Another sound drifted in beneath it, the rhythmic thud, thud of footsteps, though they were so great that it sounded akin to pillars of stone being dropped along the ground. A crumbling wall of stone, likely a purposeful construction once, obscured their view of the land directly below the Forge, but they knew they were close when the ground began to tremble with each step.

After crossing another rift bridged by massive chains, they arrived at the wall. They did not have to look far to find a gap in the stone large enough to pass through. Morgott went first, turning himself to fit his shoulders through, and Rowa followed easily in his wake, drawing her swords.

They were greeted by a large, sloping expanse, equally as desolate as the rest of the region if not more so. Trees littered the scape as misshapen monoliths, all greenery burned away into nothing and leaving only hollowed husks of wood behind. It had once been a battleground, and the scars remained clear to see. The hill went up and up until it met the great basin of the Forge, which seemed to be affixed to the very mountain by chains of the same magnitude that they had utilized. It was there at the Forge that the mountains stopped, ascending no further. They had reached the highest peak, where things would never be the same again, and high on the hill, nearer to the Forge, stood the Fire Giant.

When Rowa saw him, she felt pity instead of fear. His skin was ashen and mottled like the dead trees around him, great chunks of it missing or swathed in scars. Ropes of red hair bound in tassels dangled from the immense, brutish head, though the contrasting lights of the Erdtree and the Forge could not bring it any luster, like whatever fire he had once possessed had been snuffed out. His torso, long and large, boasted of a strange amorphous mass partially covered by the tresses of hair. Cuffs of metal encircled his hands and feet, and though there were no chains to be seen, they had undoubtedly been used to restrain him once.

The toll of the binding placed upon him was great. He was the last in the Lands Between, cursed into that isolation for the sake of guarding the way to lordship. Rowa wished that there was some path that would spare him, but as she looked upon the ravaged body, she thought that perhaps the greater mercy would be to free him. He did not even have the company of others like the Albinaurics did. He was utterly alone, all his kin slain or fled.

As Morgott sighted the massive form, he was filled an odd sense of conviction. This was the final remnant of Godfrey’s last war for the Lands Between, and he was to finish what his father had started. He envisioned Godfrey, standing strong at the head of the multitude in the vision Melina had shown him, and dared to think that he might have felt pride if he knew where his son now stood.

“How should we proceed?” Rowa breathed, just loud enough for him to hear. They were some distance away, still unnoticed, but it would not remain that way.

Morgott watched the giant trudge across the hill aimlessly. “Let us approach with caution.”

The giant felt someone approaching. Such a sense was birthed from the knowledge that no one but himself stood upon the desolate peak, and the curse the Eternal Queen had placed upon him. Even now, after so long, her final words hung in his mind, in his very being, binding him tighter than the shackles on his body ever could.

“O trifling giant, mayest thou tend thy flame for eternity.”

And so he had, no matter how greatly he wished to be loosed from his bonds. In the vast stretch of time he had been trapped there on the peak, some had dared to approach him and the sacred fire. He had slain them all, regardless of intent, as he spiraled deeper into maddened rage the longer he remained there. Now, as he turned and saw the two figures ascending the long hill, that same ire arose tenfold from what he saw.

He barely noticed the smaller of the two, for the larger was possessed of an inward, golden light. The same light that had shone in the man that had singlehandedly cut down many of his kin, who had overpowered him and bound him to the mountain under the Eternal Queen’s curse. That sight tore away any inhibition, and he turned on his foe with a roar that shook the mountainside.

No sooner had the Fire Giant turned in their direction did he advance on them with frightening speed and a loud bellow, his face twisting into something enraged. Before Rowa could move, Morgott had already pushed her away with a yell of, “Separate!”

Rowa took off to the left as he went right, letting the strength of Runes empower her legs. The Fire Giant’s footsteps made the mountainside tremble, but she miraculously kept her balance as she ran to get clear of the approaching foe. She chanced a look over her shoulder, and was surprised to find that the Fire Giant was not even looking in her direction. Rather, he was going after Morgott with wild abandon, smashing through the lifeless trees like they were mere twigs as roar after roar tore from his throat.

Morgott had not completely anticipated the immediate savagery the Fire Giant displayed upon seeing them, but he was not surprised by it. Marika seemed zealous in guarding the Rune of Death, and the Fire Giant would certainly ensure that only the strongest, most persevering of the Tarnished would be able to walk the path. A glance over his shoulder confirmed that the Fire Giant had chosen to chase him, his marred face twisted into something of a snarl. Beyond the Fire Giant’s form, he glimpsed Rowa’s pitifully small figure, safely out of the way for the moment. The giant was too close; he needed to create distance before he could properly form an attack.

Rowa pivoted in her path, pushing off in a mad sprint towards the Fire Giant, snow flying in her wake. Morgott was running away, keeping well ahead of the Fire Giant with his smaller form and innate speed, but it could not stay that way forever. As she attempted to close the distance, the tremors in the ground only grew more violent with the Fire Giant’s, slowing her down as she fought to keep her momentum and footing. She let more strength filter into her body, letting the golden ichor fill her muscles, her lungs, her very blood. Everything became sharper, more in focus, her senses becoming twice what they normally were. She began to feel each tremor down to the shifting of the very earth, her body responding with the correct movements to keep her upright as she moved.

As she got closer to the Fire Giant, she began to realize the true immensity of his form. Closing in on the legs eating up the ground proved to be difficult, and as she got within reasonable range, she found her head barely cleared the chained ankles, each leg like the trunk of an immense tree, and despite Morgott’s size he would likely not fare much better. Combat would be meaningless if they could not even strike vital points. With that in mind, she put on an extra burst of speed, striking at one of the Fire Giant’s feet.

A pained bellow shook Morgott down to his bones. He turned just in time to see the Fire Giant stagger as Rowa ripped her blades from his left foot, narrowly avoiding being struck by a massive, flailing hand seeking to strike her. Recognizing the opening she had created, Morgott pounced forward, a golden blade materializing in his free hand. As he sprinted for the Fire Giant’s legs, the blade swept in an arc of deadly gold, and it sank deeper into the moldering skin than he had anticipated. Not wanting to be caught beneath the giant’s feet, he put additional strength into the blade, forcing it to rip through the limb it was caught in. With the grotesque sound of rending flesh, the sword passed through the giant’s leg, severing his foot completely.

Rowa’s ears rang as the Fire Giant roared out in agony. The mountaintop shook as he fell to the ground, his huge form rolling towards her like an oncoming tidal wave. She started backing up, but Morgott was faster, springing away from the giant’s felled body, scooping her up without missing a step and bearing out of the Fire Giant’s range.

For several long moments, the wintery peak rang with the Fire Giant’s roars. Rowa clung to Morgott with one hand, pressing one ear against his shoulder as she shielded the other with her remaining hand. They had brought the giant to the ground, but now she wanted to end things quickly, to not prolong his suffering. As the pained shouts began to faded, she slid from Morgott’s grasp into the snow, readying herself as she faced the downed giant.

A hand fell on her shoulder, stopping her before she had taken a step. “Wait,” Morgott hissed.

They watched as the Fire Giant pushed himself partially upright with his arms, huge clumps of snow dangling from his skin and hair. With a snarl, he reached out, taking hold of his severed foot. At first it seemed to be a mournful gesture, until a bright flame appeared, igniting along the severed flesh. In the blink of an eye, the limb had become nothing but ash, burned away as the giant hoisted it heavenward.

Morgott’s heart dropped. He knew the appearance of reverence that he now saw in the giant. “A sacrifice.”

Rowa did not look away from the macabre sight. “To what?”

The Fire Giant provided the answer before Morgott could. As the last cinders of flesh drifted into the sky, something shifted on his body. The undefined mass of his torso suddenly became quite clear as a great lid peeled back, revealing a single, flaming eye. It blazed like burning tinder, and its gaze was ninefold, one middle eye of deepest black surrounded by eight others. Beneath that, the rest of the mass took shape as a nose and a mouth, gaping wide and full of teeth.

“The fell god of fire,” Morgott hissed.

Flames burst in the Fire Giant’s palm, and he grabbed at Morgott, his reach far more dangerous now that he was confined to the ground. Morgott darted out of reach as Rowa moved in the opposite direction. A blast of heat hit her as the hand sailed past, but she pulled on the vigor of Rykard’s Rune and the fire it had withstood, hardening her flesh and senses against the burning.

Morgott continued his retreat as the Fire Giant kept lashing out, focused completely on him like Rowa was not even there. The fire of the fell god was a force to be reckoned with, but even in the midst of the fight he could see the power was not as it could have been. There was but one thrall and a few scattered worshippers, the fire’s fiercest power long usurped by the Greater Will. Even if they could not kill the god in totality, they could certainly slay the giant.

“Rowa!” he barked as he dodged another swipe. “Thy shard of Death!”

She understood, using the Fire Giant’s singleminded focus on Morgott to let her grab the Death-imbued stone from her pouch. The coolness of it seeped through her hand wrappings at once, almost calming against the blazing heat she faced. Gripping it with the point down, she charged at the Fire Giant from the side.

The Fire Giant had enough presence of mind to sense her coming, rearing up on his knees with a bellow. Rowa skittered backwards as the roving eye in his torso fixed on her. Fire burst from the oversized mouth, spilling onto the snow in molten rivers.

Taking advantage of his distance, Morgott summoned a fan of golden daggers, flinging them outwards in a deadly arc. Only a couple of the blades missed their target, the rest sinking deep into the Fire Giant’s flesh. That succeeded in redirecting the giant’s attention towards him again, the Erdtree sorcery a painfully familiar brand on the creature’s flesh.

With another roar, the Fire Giant threw himself towards Morgott with renewed strength, passing over the pooling fire he had created with no indication that he even felt it. Morgott continued his backwards path, a golden sword appearing in his free hand to slash at the giant’s grasping fingers.

Rowa stayed still, waiting until she was out of the giant’s line of sight before making her next move. Watching for an opening, she rushed forward, hardly feeling the heat against her skin. She ducked into the cleft between the Fire Giant’s arm and torso, putting herself almost directly aligned with the glaring eye of the fell god. She raised the shard to stab at it, but the second maw gaped wide, a fire lighting behind the jagged teeth. She braced herself, attempting to fortify her body against the furnace blast she was about to meet head on, until something passed over her head.

Morgott struck the giant in midair, sinking his sword deep into the sinew of the giant’s shoulder. The massive creature snarled, the fell god’s eye turning upwards to focused on the greater threat. He rose again, trying to grab at Morgott, but the Omen struck doggedly at the hands, clinging to the hilt of his sword.

Only further incensed, the Fire Giant straightened higher and higher, and Rowa’s heart dropped when she saw him beginning to tilt, his shoulder aimed towards the ground in an attempt to crush Morgott. She yelled his name, sprinting as unrestricted strength poured into her body, released in a panic as the talisman around her neck whispered with a feeling of danger. However, the giant was already falling like some great tree, and the force of his impact upon the earth almost knocked Rowa off her feet regardless of any Rune-born strength. Everything turned white in a spray of snow, and for a breathless moment she thought the warmth of the talisman’s bond would be snuffed out.

She charged through the flying bits of ice, blood roaring in her head as the Fire Giant’s supine form rose in front of her. Gripping the shard tight, she pushed off from the ground with all her might and everything went weightless for a moment before she tumbled over the Fire Giant’s arm and onto his torso. She came within inches of the huge mouth, which opened wider as though to swallow her. She lurched away, focused on nothing else but the fell god’s leering eye. Heedless of the heat and the giant’s movement, she clawed her way up the giant’s torso, coming face to face with the ninefold gaze. The pool of fire within the eye flared, but she did not balk.

Raising the Death-filled shard high, Rowa brought it down with a burst of golden strength, plunging the jagged tip deep into the void of the centermost eye. For an instant, all the chaos stilled. She stared into the eye, and it stared at her. Then, like the blighted scar upon the floor of Godwyn’s house, dark tendrils began to spider from the shard, running across the fiery membrane like cracking glass.

The Fire Giant lurched with a roar, and the fell god’s mouth screamed. The twofold cacophony assault Rowa’s ears with such force that she reflexively wrenched the shard free, trying to shield her ears. The scream went on, but Death could not be stopped. It passed beyond the confines of the eye onto the Fire Giant’s skin, and fire erupted from the fell god’s mouth in a last show of defiance. Rowa turned, the light and heat searing at her skin, momentarily blinding her as she braced for the fire.

Something struck Rowa from the side, driving the breath from her lungs. Her stomach dropped with a weightless feeling, the heat suddenly falling away in the face of the burning cold wind, but her momentary rush of panic subsided when familiar arms encased her, pressing her close to a strong form. Another impact, softened by her savior and the cold cushion of snow, and after several tumbling rolls they came to a stop.

The screaming began to fade into a distant echo, rendering the remote mountainside almost eerily quiet. The numbing cold of the snow was beginning to seep through Rowa’s clothes, pricking uncomfortably at her back. She peeled open her eyes, blinking away the searing afterimages to find Morgott’s face hovering above her. She turned her head slightly, searching for any remaining threats, but it seemed there were none. Nearby, the Fire Giant lay completely still, his form dull like some great inward furnace had been snuffed out.

“Hast thou been injured?” Morgott asked, his words interspersed with labored breaths as he studied her carefully.

“Not greatly, I believe.” Rowa pushed herself up, and Morgott’s grip receded. Her body trembled with the recession of the panicked strength she had let loose, but she hardly noticed as she tried to look him over. “Were you hurt? I thought you would be crushed!”

The sincere worry in her voice gave Morgott a better understanding of the bloodthirsty blaze he had glimpsed on her face as she drove the shard into the fell god’s eye. He had seen it before with Ensha and the defiler Tarnished, and he wondered if such a fearsome personage had stemmed from fear for him every time. “I distanced myself from the giant before he fell.”

Rowa felt a little abashed that she had been afraid for nothing, but she was relieved nonetheless.

“My thanks for thy consideration.” Morgott straightened, standing to his feet and extending a hand to her. She took it gratefully, letting him pull her upright with ease. “Thou didst well. Thy strength has increased.”

“I am glad you think so.” Rowa looked down at herself; several holes had been singed into her clothing, and much of the intact fabric was streaked with dark ash, but her skin was untouched. “I do not think I could have acted alone.”

Morgott looked over the fallen giant’s body. Though struck with Death much the same as Godwyn, there was no remaining life to be seen, and when the Rune of Death was unbound the body would surely become ash. However, he felt no pride as Godfrey’s son. Any sense of victory was lost in the depths of the path that now lay open to them.

Rowa’s hand touched his arm. “The Forge is waiting.”

He looked at her, and saw the light of ambition he had seen that first day, brightened with the fresh kindling of hope at another obstacle overcome. His heart ached to know that hopeful ember would swiftly be doused in stifling grief. He merely nodded at her, and turned towards the Forge, letting her lead the way as each step became heavier for him.

They climbed the rest of the way up the hill, arriving at the huge chains that bound the Forge’s basin to the mountainside. From there, they scaled the chains, which led all the way to the Forge’s rim. Despite the approach of the fire within, Morgott felt number and number with each footfall upon the rim. Rowa’s ash-strewn braid swung back and forth in front of him, the swiftness of her steps reflecting the unknowing eagerness with which she went forward. Unconsciously, his mind brought forth the interaction from the previous night, the soft touch of her hand most of all, and he became even number with the knowledge that she would likely never regard him with such gentleness again.

Rowa pulled herself onto the rim of the Forge, almost large enough to rival the roads throughout the Lands Between. Beyond the rim, everything dropped away into the basin, at the bottom of which smoldered the embers whose light they had gazed upon as they had traveled towards the Forge. Heat radiated from the rim and the basin itself, but it was hardly as intense as the Fire Giant’s power. The embers in the basin flickered fitfully, awaiting the arrival of suitable kindling.

Then, Rowa’s eye was drawn by a familiar light, the golden rays of Grace that may well have shone from the arcing branches of the Erdtree that seemed so close by. Upon the rim rested a shard of that Grace, untouched until now. As Rowa approached it, Melina appeared, and she could not withhold her eagerness.

“We are here at last,” she said with a sigh.

Strangely, Melina smiled at her, a true one. “You have my unending gratitude for braving so many dangers, for the sake of a new world.” She then looked at Morgott with the same smile. “And I extend the same gratitude to you, for standing with us who were first deemed your enemies.”

“Aye,” Morgott said, his voice subdued.

Melina turned to look at the yawning basin before her and the embers within. “I have long observed the Lands Between. This world is in dire need of repair...and Death...indiscriminate.” She gave Rowa a searching look. “Are you prepared to commit a cardinal sin?”

Morgott steeled himself for the answer he knew Rowa would readily give.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m ready.”

Melina dipped her head, facing Rowa fully. She reached into her cloak, drawing forth the curved dagger she had carried with her. “Then I bestow this to you, in the hope that it will grant you understanding.”

Rowa stared at the offered gift, mystified. “Grant me understanding of what?”

“Many things, that even I myself have yet to know. Do you remember the promise you made, the morning you departed for these mountains?”

“I do.”

“I ask that you remember it with this blade.” Melina held the dagger forward.

Rowa reached out, taking the blade, and as her fingers brushed Melina’s, she felt the warmth of living flesh. Before she could say anything, Melina was already speaking again.

“To you, Morgott, I can only bestow the hope of a better world to come, for your kind and others. I ask you to hold fast to your conviction as a shield, and I hope such things bear fruit, for the both of you.”

Morgott found his ability to speak had been stolen away, so he merely nodded.

Rowa glanced at him, and saw a look on his face such as she had never seen before. Slightly alarmed, she turned to question him, only for Melina’s lifelike hand to brush against her arm.

“It has been an honor to travel with the both of you,” she said.

Rowa felt a heaviness beginning to descend over her, not unlike Morgott’s sleeping spells, as her alarm increased. Her limbs became leaden, her tongue slowing down as she asked, “What do you mean?”

An arm wrapped around her shoulders, helping her to stay upright as her legs began to fail. Morgott stood above her, his face stricken as Melina put her back to them, stepping towards the edge of the Forge.

“What does she mean, Morgott?” Every word was an effort. The world was beginning to fade away even as an unnamable dread tried to spur her body into action. She tried to step forward, but Morgott’s grip tightened, and she began to sink to the ground. “What…what does she mean?”

“Thou must let her go,” Morgott whispered, crouching over her as the same spell began to dampen his strength. His voice quivered, and he could not steady it. “She must do this.”

Melina stretched out her hands over the Forge’s basin. The embers therein flared like a new piece of kindling had been thrown in, the flames leaping upwards and finding their way into her palms and then along her arms.

“Melina…!” Rowa’s vision tunneled, the world capsizing as the realization struck her. She tried to move, to crawl, to do anything, but the veil descending over her was sapping any strength she had left. Morgott’s hold shifted, wrapping around her middle and holding her tight, like a true embrace, but she could barely feel it. “Melina…stop!”

“She must go,” Morgott murmured, wrapping himself around her like his body could shield her from what was about to happen.

Rowa’s voice failed. The fingers clawing at the Forge’s rim slackened and her eyes fell shut, but she heard every word Melina spoke. The Maiden’s intangible presence in her perception, so familiar now that she had almost forgotten what it was like without it, was slipping away like ash in the wind, but she was powerless to stop it.

“O Erdtree, you shall burn…” Melina let the flames climb across her body. There was no pain, only heat, a good, cleansing heat. “…for the sake of the new Lord.”

Above the Forge, a new color bloomed in the great Erdtree that had shone in unchanging gold for an epoch. Fire crept among the brilliance, growing as the Forge’s flame did. It could not truly burn yet, but it was kindled, waiting. Melina watched the fire roil before her and wash over her body, and she could feel a weight lifting, a weight she had never known for she had never been without it. Though her heart was heavy for those she was leaving behind, she did not doubt that this was right.

As the fire took hold of her fully, she turned back to Rowa and Morgott, curled together and still on the Forge’s rim. She gazed at them, content to let them be her final sight. The fire surged, seeking direction, and she stretched a hand towards the pair. “Thank you for guiding me here.”

Fully kindled, the flames roared upwards into the night sky. Melina lifted her hand towards it, shaping it into a massive pillar of light that would open the path. She was slipping away, her awareness dimming as the weight left her.

“The one who walks alongside flame, shall one day meet the road of Destined Death.” She submitted herself fully to the flame’s embrace. Her sealed eye opened, seeing the fire, the Erdtree, the night sky, and last of all, her friends. “Goodbye.”

The flame split the sky, opening the doors. They yawned wide, and Rowa and Morgott were taken in.

Chapter Text

All was calm in Leyndell. Recusant attempts at incursion and raiding traveling patrols had ceased suddenly, and no one was quite sure why. Some of the captains feared it was a sign of a bigger, more coordinated attack, but it had never come. The Veiled Monarch had not chastised their suspicions, but neither had he accepted them. He ordered them to continue their normal routines, and the soldiers had come to discover for themselves over time that the recusants had diminished almost entirely, and the swiftness with which things had changed was startling. It was almost as if the recusants had been disbanded over night.

And so the city was quiet. Page Wilfred was grateful for this; for several nights after the Tarnished woman had come upon him, he had hardly slept, fearing that she might reappear again somehow. His fellows had been on equal alert, despite the Veiled Monarch’s insistence that he would see to the Tarnished himself. However, the Veiled Monarch had proven himself, for no one had seen the Tarnished woman since she had released Wilfred. She was gone, it seemed, likely dead. As Wilfred was questioned on his experiences, he found she had not reflected the brutality of the recusants. She had merely done what she deemed necessary, and he had somehow walked away unscathed. He hoped the Veiled Monarch had granted her a swift death.

Wilfred reflected upon these things as he patrolled the streets of Leyndell. It was night, though the Erdtree’s mighty light hardly made it seem so. His position as a page meant he got the less desirable patrols, but now that the danger of the infiltrating Tarnished had passed, he found he enjoyed the night’s quieter atmosphere. However, he found himself changing his mind as, in the latter half of his patrol, shadows came creeping into the streets.

He barely noticed at first, likening the fading light to a cloud obscuring the Full Moon, but he realized something was amiss as the Erdtree’s glow diminished as well. Moments after that, a coldness seeped into the air, clinging to him like a damp fog. He shivered, not from the chill, but from the fear of what came with it.

Early on in his tenure at Leyndell, Wilfred had learned that the wraithlike horsemen were not to be trifled with. They rode on the wind, a Cavalry of the Night, and darkness went with them. All of Leyndell’s denizens, soldiers or otherwise, were instructed by the Veiled Monarch that if ever the riders were to appear, they were to remain quiet and out of the way. There was no hiding from them, for their gazes surely saw more than the eyes of men, but they did not attack unprovoked. They would pass by, and the stifling shadow they brought with them would go with them. Where they went and what they did was known only to them, but the Veiled Monarch had never expressed concern over their dealings.

The cold deepened, though Wilfred was no longer sure if it touched his skin or his mind. He fled from the road at once, pressing himself into the shadow of a nearby terrace’s cornice. He had never encountered any of the riders before; he had only seen a passing darkness in the distance through the slats in shutters, like the shadow of a cloud moving unimpeded in its path. And so, despite the fear climbing through his chest, curiosity bade him keep his eyes on the road, searching for any sign of the legendary figures.

A deep quiet settled, as though the road had become a tomb. Even the wind ceased its noise. The only things Wilfred could perceive were his uneven breaths and the quickening cadence of his heart, and he wished he could silence those lest listening ears were drawn. He scanned the length of the street, which was severely diminished in the overarching darkness, but nothing stirred on the old cobblestones, not even a rat.

Then the Nightrider appeared. There was no warning or sign of his entrance, he was merely there as though the crepuscule had brought him from its depths. The Erdtree’s glow was all but gone, casting the street into a gloom that was altogether unnatural. Wilfred ceased to breathe, and he could not tear his eyes away from horse and rider, who seemed to blend together as one being in the absence of defining light. The shrouded steed went forth on soundless hooves, passing across the cobblestones with such grace that it did not seem to touch them at all, like it existed in some space beyond the world of dirt and stone.

The stone of the wall dug into Wilfred’s back as he pressed himself harder and harder against it, as though the unyielding surface would somehow offer up a hiding place. He tried to still the shaking that had come over his limbs, hoping that he would go unnoticed by the rider and he would pass by on his business.

The Nightrider drifted down the street, but just as it seemed he would pass by, he stopped, and Wilfred’s heart did also. The midnight helm under which lay no semblance of a face turned towards him, pinning him with an invisible gaze.

A voice unfurled into Wilfred’s mind like a plume of smoke, as cold as winter but surprisingly gentle. Be not afeared of me, O child. I come not to see thee harmed.

It took Wilfred several moments to realize he was being addressed, and several moments more for his mind to overcome the paralysis of terror and respond. “Th-then to what do I owe the honor of drawing your eye, my lord?”

If thou dost value thy life, thou shouldst leave this city at once.

That chilled Wilfred even more than the Nightrider’s presence. “Why?”

The world hath languished long, fractured with the Elden Ring. For a new epoch to come forth, the old one must be burned away.

“I…I do not understand.”

Thine eyes are young, and thou hast not seen the Shattering and the brokenness after it. The Nightrider’s helm turned upwards towards the Erdtree, barely visible beyond the veil. A hand mailed in obsidian rose, pointing. Sithee, child.

Wilfred lifted his eyes, seeking the Erdtree’s radiance, and the world took an uneven turn beneath his feet. The brilliant gold was now tarnished with sparks of fire dancing across the great crown of branches and licking up the trunk hungrily. “Marika save us! The end has come!”

The Nightrider extended a hand to him. Nay. ‘Tis only the beginning.

Emptiness.

That was the first thing Rowa came into as her senses slowly returned. A gap had formed, the space where Melina had once resided now empty, a deep void in her heart. Her chest heaved, her mouth opened, but she could do no more than that. She could hardly breathe, everything save for the beating of her heart stunned at the sudden chasm.

Melina was gone.

Rowa had seen no more after her eyes closed, but she had heard everything, every word. There had been no fear, no dissonance in Melina’s words. Only calm acceptance.

“Think not of the kindling. I shall see to that.”

Rowa saw it now, the horrible understanding piercing the veil of ignorance. Melina knew what she was doing. She had planned for this.

A choked gasp rattled in Rowa’s throat as her body forced air into her lungs. When it came out, a sound came with it also, a sound that no voice could form except in greatest grief, a sound that no one could understand lest they knew so deep a pain. Then it faded into silence, and she lay there, her body unable to move with her heart cleaved so deeply.

Emptiness stretched around her, dark but not imperceptible. Perhaps it was a reflection of the emptiness within herself, or perhaps this was the road to Destined Death. She could not form the thoughts to consider it, her mind afflicted as much as her body.

Then the emptiness became less so, the talisman at Rowa’s throat warming with the approach of its other half. She had not the strength nor the presence of mind to perceive Morgott’s approach, but suddenly he was there, his massive frame the only solid thing amidst the emptiness.

“Rowa.” His voice was strained like she had never heard before. “Rowa, dost thou hear my words?”

Not even the thread of their bond solidifying at his closeness could stir Rowa from her stupor. She lay in the formless scape, unable to see anything beyond the emptiness of Melina’s absence and the memory of fire crawling up outstretched arms.

Something warm and real, Morgott’s hand, touched her back. It was every bit as real as Melina had felt in that final moment. He spoke again. “Rowa, I am here.”

His touch awakened her soul from its shock. That raw sound lurched from her again, her body beginning to tremble, and she grasped at him like she had gone blind, for she very nearly had. He took hold of her, his strength saving her from her weakness, hands wrapping around her arms and lifting her gently. There was a pause, as though he hesitated, before her forehead was pressed against the firm warmth of his torso that she had become so familiar with.

“I am deeply aggrieved that this has come upon thee so.” The words rumbled through her head, though they lacked his usual firmness, almost quavering. “Though I am sorrowful, I know my grief is not half so much as thine.”

The tears came, sudden and violent, lacking any restraint. Rowa’s body filled with an agonizing numbness as she wept, and the release of tears only seemed to make it worse.

Morgott held her. There was nothing else he could think to do. He knew the pain he heard in the wrenching sobs, a pain that was so great and shocking that it was inconsolable when first felt. No words of comfort, no consoling gestures, could ease the agony. All that could be done was to wait, to hold her, and be the shield. But as she wailed against him, he felt like no shield at all. His wounded heart burned, but now it was not for himself and his own grief. It burned for her sorrow.

They stood in that lightless, formless place, perhaps for hours or perhaps only moments. They were beyond time here, on the road to Destined Death, and so Morgott feared Rowa’s outpouring might never end. However, the tears finally slowed, her body slumping with exhaustion in pitiful contrast to the strength she had exuded against the Fire Giant. But still Morgott held her, hoping to be of some use if she came into coherence.

Rowa’s thoughts began to solidify, though they could hardly be considered rational, mutilated by grief. She wondered first what could have been done differently, what could have prevented the horrible reality that had just unfolded before her eyes. She felt unbearably naïve, but Melina had hid the truth from her unquestionably. She had trusted Melina after their long journey together, and something such as this had never crossed her mind. But Morgott did not seem surprised, grieved though he was. He had not struggled to save Melina, but instead held her back so that the horror could unfold.

“You knew.”

Morgott felt like he had been frozen over as the strangled whisper reached him. Now, they came at last to the consequences, and yet in all the forethought he had given this moment, he found himself rendered voiceless.

“You knew.” Rowa repeated herself in the vain hope that he would speak out and deny what she claimed. Silence greeted her, and it took all her strength to push away from him, to look up at his form through burning eyes. “You knew what she was going to do.”

The lines of pain on Morgott’s face only deepened, but he held her gaze. “Aye.”

Rowa’s breath froze again, her lungs constricting as something in her chest cleaved with utter dismay. Slowly, for all semblance of swiftness had left her, she pulled back from him, and he let her. She could not wrap her mind around it. How could he have stood by and let such a thing happen? She tried to speak, but no sound came forth, her lips forming the silent question.

Why?

Morgott had never imagined he could feel so deep an agonizing regret again after a life overabundant with it. And yet the dawning awareness of his foreknowledge that rolled across Rowa’s face pierced him like the curse of the defiler Tarnished, taking root in his heart and soul. He looked away from her, unable to bear the pain as he forced the words from himself. “It had to be done. There was no other way.”

Rowa shook her head, her ears denying his words as much as her heart tried to deny the emptiness of absence. “…No, that’s impossible. That can’t be true. Why would Marika…?”

“The Forge could only be kindled by a sacrifice. She was destined for this, and so were all Maidens who walked alongside a Tarnished warrior. I know not if this was Marika’s design, or if it was a construct set in place by the fell god of old, but there is no other truth to be found.”

Rowa stumbled on unsteady legs. Morgott reached for her, but she jerked away as though his closeness was now agony. “But Vyke had no Maiden. He…”

“He did, once,” Morgott said, wanting desperately to ignore how his heart dismayed at her retreat. “And ‘twas for that very reason that neither I, nor Melina, could reveal what awaited. He did not take on the Frenzied Flame because of the rejection he faced at the Erdtree. He took it to save his Maiden, and if thou didst know what was to come, thou wouldst be tempted to do the same.”

Rowa’s stomach twisted with sickness, filling her throat with bile. “Surely there was something else, some other way.”

“I searched for one, and found nothing. This was Marika’s purpose for her, even so.”

“Marika was wrong!” The shout wrenched from Rowa’s lungs, ringing across the formless expanse as anger began to filter through the cracks in her shocked shell. “Her purpose was wrong! It should have been me!”

“The only way thou wouldst survive is to become a thrall of an outer god,” Morgott replied, a new blade sliding into his heart as he watched the disbelief morph into rage. “Thou wouldst not wish that.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Rowa hissed, more bitter tears spilling onto her face. “I would gladly accept that if it would mean letting her live.”

“Thou dost not know of what thou speaketh. Look upon Vyke, Marika, mine own brother, and see what is wrought! Such thinking is to give the Frenzy a hold in thy mind. ‘Tis what both Melina and I feared. Thy heart doth blind thee.”

“You call me blind when it is you who have blinded me?” Rowa’s voice rose in fury. “You knew, and let me stay blind as she walked into death!”

Morgott struggled to find words, but she went on before he could form a response.

“When did you learn of this?” she demanded. “How long did you know?”

Morgott felt filthy, almost more so than in the years he had spent hating his blood, worshiping the radiance of the Golden Order. Even Mohg had not looked upon him with such hurt when they parted.

“Tell me!”

Rowa’s harsh demand made him flinch. Though he towered over her, he felt small, and his response came out equally so. “I…I knew since the first day, since thy arrival at the Erdtree.”

She heaved another sob, her tears becoming as angry as they were sorrowful. “All this time?”

Morgott nodded slowly. “Aye.”

Something ignited in Rowa’s chest, forging her pain into something harder. “You lied.”

“Aye.” He could not defend himself, his sin too great. “I do not deny it.”

“Then what else have you lied about?”

“Nothing,” he said, though he knew it was a futile assurance.

“Was your kindness towards me a falsehood?” Rowa growled. “Was it merely to dull my senses and distract me from what was to come, an attempt to lessen the blow?”

“Nay.” Morgott surprised himself with how forcefully he spoke. Though his kindness had been begrudging and a mere formality in the beginning, it had become truthful. He could not pretend otherwise now. “I…I have come to care for thee, most deeply.”

“Then how could you let this happen? Why would you not tell me, if you care so much?”

“I cared enough to withhold it from thee!” Morgott returned with ardor. “Dost thou not see that an attempt to avoid this grief drove Vyke into the waiting grasp of the Frenzy? I could not allow that to happen to thee!”

“I was just beginning to think that we might…that you might truly…” Rowa shook her head, each word an effort. “I’m a fool.”

“Thou’rt no fool.”

“Am I not? I thought this bond between us could become something true, but it has led us here! Melina is gone! She was my friend, and you let her die!” Rowa’s vision tunneled, the pain scalding. “Mercy has undone me. It stayed my hand, when I should have fought you to the death!” With an enraged cry, she grabbed the talisman hanging around her neck and gave a single, vicious pull. The cord snapped, and the bond between them shivered with such intensity that they were rendered breathless. That which bound their souls teetered on the brink of some great precipice, threatening to fall away into nothingness, but it did not. It remained there, hanging between them, quivering fitfully with new weakness.

Morgott staggered like he had been dealt a devastating blow, her action tearing at his heart as much as the bond. He stood in the sewers of Leyndell once more, cast off, despised. He saw in her eyes the same burning with which she regarded her enemies. The bond quaked but did not collapse. He had not renounced his end.

“I cannot fault thee for thy anger,” he gasped out. “Nor can I fault thee for this sundering.”

Rowa could no longer find her voice. Through blurred vision, she stared at the talisman quivering in her fist. What had once been comforting was now bitter with betrayal.

“But I cannot renounce the bond, even if thou wilt hate me for the rest of thy days,” Morgott continued. “I vowed to see the world new. Things will never be the same again, and I will remain steadfast in that vow until all is changed or I draw my last breath, even if thou dost wish to slay me.”

Rowa wanted to scream and crush the talisman to dust, but her hand was stayed by the profound misery written on his face. She now had the openness from him that she desired, but at a terrible cost, and she could not so easily cast away the burgeoning feelings she had long ruminated upon. She itched with a desire to fly at him in a rage, and yet her feet would not move. Her heart was torn in two, stuck between anger and something confounding that she did not have the fortitude to name. Tears tracing molten paths on her cheeks, she said nothing, turning her back on him.

Morgott arose though heartsick. “What dost thou now seek?”

She looked back at him, her eyes piercing him through and leaving coldness in their wake. “Death.” She took one step, then another, seeking a way out of the formless plane.

“Rowa, wait!”

Morgott’s entreaty fell upon ears that Rowa wished were deaf. She kept walking. A road stretched before her, one she could not perceive with her eyes, but her mind sensed. Maybe they had stood upon it since arriving in the obscure expanse, but now that she wanted to depart, she came to it, or perhaps it came to her.

Morgott felt rooted to the spot, watching helplessly as Rowa walked away from him. He wanted to chase after her, but his body would not obey, his mind reeling and overwhelmed. He almost wished she would continue to rage at him, for that seemed a lesser pain than her dismissal and departure. His hand came up, grasping at his medallion, as though that would somehow restore the weakened, decaying bond between them.

“Rowa,” he whispered. The bond shivered.

Her steps faltered, but only for a single instant, then she continued down the road of Destined Death. Visions of a better world now seemed bleak and vain, but she had promised Melina, and now that promise was sealed in loss and sacrifice. She had to see it to completion despite her grief. Morgott’s presence faded behind her; he did not pursue, and she was glad of it, for she did not think she could bear to look at him a moment longer.

There was no light or shadow, but she walked the path. Her senses sharpened, as though she had been held underwater before. Something rushed, and she felt like she was being lifted. Fire glinted in the void.

Rowa opened her eyes to the crumbling city of Farum Azula.

Bernahl saw the pillar of fire pierce the sky, and melancholy stirred in the ashes of his heart. He knew the price that had been paid to ignite it, a price that had proved too great for him, not that it mattered now. His Maiden had glimpsed the horror of Rykard’s blasphemy and threw herself to her death rather than contend with it. The recusant apostasy had been a futile effort in the end; she had died nevertheless, and his heart had died with her. He thought back to the face of the fortunate Tarnished, regarding him carefully in the halls of the Volcano Manor. He had not seen a Maiden with her, nor did he think her capable of making such a sacrifice, but neither had he known the power she was in possession of.

He ascended the snowy slopes. Above him, the Erdtree flickered with fire not yet given free rein. The Rune of Death would allow it to burn to completion, but even the sight of the beginning made his heart rejoice. He did not know if gods could feel pain, but he hoped the burning tree made the Greater Will’s heart tremble with even a fraction of the agony he had felt. The Finger Maidens served the Greater Will with such devotion that his Maiden could not bear the weight of apostasy. He would not be the one to overturn the Golden Order, but he had cast aside such ambitions long ago. All he desired now was Destined Death.

He passed the corpse of the Fire Giant, the Forge looming before him. The fire blazed as he arrived at the rim, but the heat was not painful. He stretched a hand towards the shining pillar, and wisps of flame stretched out to meet him, running down the length of his arm and across his body. He closed his eyes and let himself be taken down the road of Destined Death.

Chapter Text

The woman stood in a field of blue flowers, their small, delicate petals a shade of deepest sapphire. The flowers stretched out as far as she could see in every direction. Above her, the vault of the sky stretched uninterrupted by cloud or construct, huge and awesome. Hundreds of thousands of stars gleamed like diamonds woven into a tapestry of rich black, accented by veils of cosmic silk falling in vast array with shades of vermillion, crimson, and everything in between.

The woman gazed long at the sky, wondering at its beauty and her purpose beneath it in turn. She knew nothing; not who she was nor how she had come to be in this place, but it was very beautiful. It was still, ethereal, for not a hint of a breeze disturbed the flowers beneath her. She felt cold, but it was not an unpleasant feeling, like it was a part of this place as much as the flowers and the stars above.

Something shifted nearby. A horselike creature approached the woman, an intelligent gleam in its eyes, and somehow she knew that she had known it, a nameless affection stirring inside her.

“You know me, do you not?” she said. “I believe I know you.”

The creature dipped its head, coming nearer. She put out a hand, and the creature nudged its downy nose against her palm.

“Long have I awaited this moment.”

The woman turned as a voice rolled across the expanse, seeming close and far all at once. Another woman now stood among the flowers, draped in robes of white, her head crowned with a pointed hat of the same color. The eyes that peered from beneath the wide brim were mismatched, one pale and the other a deep, luminescent blue, framed by long hair almost as white as her robes. Traces of a strange seal crested her right eye, faded but still visible.

The creature reacted first, trotting towards the newcomer without hesitation. The white-clad woman’s austere countenance lifted in a gentle smile, softly stroking the creature’s mane. “It is good to see thee again, Torrent. I didst think of thee often.”

Torrent chuffed happily, nudging her robed shoulder before looking back at the other woman.

“What dost thou remember?” the white-clad woman asked, lifting her gaze to the other once more.

“Nothing,” the other said, though she found the white-clad woman oddly familiar. “I remember nothing at all. I was merely…here.”

“‘Tis as I thought. Thou hast forgotten, but for a time.” The white-clad woman smiled knowingly. “First, know that I am Renna.”

“Renna…” The woman repeated the name. She felt like she was supposed to know it, somewhere deep inside herself, but her mind offered no true memories. “Do you know what I have forgotten?”

“Some things, but surely not all, for I did not remain half so long as thee.” Renna lifted her chin, her beautiful, delicate features awash in the hues of the sky above. With one hand, she drew forth a blade from her robes, a dagger with a curved blade.

The woman’s hand moved on instinct, going to her side to grasp where such a blade was supposed to be, but she found nothing there. “That blade…I know it.”

“Indeed. Two such blades were forged. I was possessed of one, and thou the other. Thou hast set thine aside, it seemeth.” Renna tilted her head. “Perhaps ‘twas thy intent to do so, but ‘tis no matter. What was forged in thy blade was forged in mine.”

“What was forged into them?”

“Purpose and calling. Memories, and many secrets that would be lost, for there are but a few who remember them.” Renna held the blade out, an offering. “Will you hear these things now, Melina, who art mine other self?”

“Yes,” Melina said, both eyes fixed upon the alloy’s gleam. “I will hear them.”

“Then listen well. It happened an age ago, but when I recall, I see it true…”

Farum Azula crumbled, but did not shatter apart. Suspended in the air, the decaying structures were broken, but remained near each other as though the action had been halted in the midst of the destruction. The city hung upon nothing, supported by nothing, and yet it did not fall. Whirlwinds swirled all around it, even in the midst of the structures, but the churning winds did not tear it apart. Pale stone formed everything from mausoleums to decaying temples, illuminated in the sallow light of the sun hidden somewhere beyond the encompassing clouds. Above the highest rooftops and suspended fragments, dragons wheeled amidst the vortexes, the patterns of their flight known only to them.

All of this was lost upon Rowa as she found herself on a walkway. She wanted desperately to believe that the Forge and everything thereafter had been some nightmare, perhaps brought about by one of the Runes she carried. But when she opened her palm, the talisman she had disavowed was there. It had not been a dream.

And so she wept bitterly upon the stones of a strange city suspended in time, heedless of her surroundings as her tears darkened pale stone. She cried until she could cry no more, the vast loneliness of absence swallowing her grief. In desperation, she clawed the little whistle from her pack, blowing on it in the hope that she was not completely abandoned. The shrill noise was whisked away by the wind, and Torrent did not appear. She blew again and again, though she knew after the first time that it was all in vain. She was alone.

For a moment, despair choked her so powerfully that her vision clouded. Then her anger began to boil anew, and she staggered to her feet, finding new strength in the raw fury. Though she could not feel him close by, she looked for Morgott among the darkened archways and crumbling reliefs beyond the walkway she stood on. When she did not find him, she turned her ire on the closest thing at hand: the talisman. She was struck with the desire to dash it against the ground, to strike it with the heel of her boot and sever what remained of the bond between them. Or perhaps she could simply fling it into the void of milky clouds and debris that hung unmoving beyond the far edge of the walkway.

She did none of these things, though she resented the symbol so much that it seemed to burn in her palm. He had lied, multiplying the shock and grief tenfold by sinking a blade into the already bleeding wound, but she could not bring herself to destroy the talisman. The anguish written so clearly on his face as he admitted to the omissions was too great for her to cast aside. Her heart would not allow it, and she seethed with the vain wish of having no heart at all. She had suffered time after time, with this being the greatest of all, and yet her affections would not let her hate him.

Her mind turned traitorously towards the day they had left Gelmir, when she had grappled with guilt and brokenness. He had beseeched her to remain steadfast in her ideals then, uplifting her downtrodden spirit when he himself had been stained through with sorrow. And yet, it was for those ideals he had hidden the truth. She could not hate him, but she would walk the path before her alone. Destined Death waited; she could feel a cold pull within her, her Great Runes reacting to the presence of another somewhere within the city. She would take it for her own, and then…

A whisper worked its way into her mind. Perhaps it was truly there, or perhaps it was merely a cloying memory, but it pulled at her nonetheless.

Melt it all away.

Rowa’s breath hitched as she physically recoiled from the memory. She had promised Melina, and though the Maiden had withheld her sacrifice as much as Morgott, she was gone. She had burned for the sake of the world, and she was owed the renewal she had longed for even if she could not see it. The promise could not be forgotten, and yet she felt so powerless to carry it out.

A gleam caught her eye and she looked down, finding the blade Melina had given her safely at her side where she had left it. The sight almost brought on a fresh wave of tears, but she forced them back, drawing the weapon. The blade reflected bright in the sickly pale light, perfect and unblemished like it had been forged yesterday.

“Grant me understanding,” Rowa said, the plea almost inaudible as she recalled Melina’s words. “Please.”

The wind blew, pulling at her clothes and hair, and with it came a distant voice.

“It happened an age ago, but when I recall, I see it true…”

Two girls, not quite ascended into the fullness of womanhood, stood before a pool of water in a field of long, golden grass. One was possessed of golden hair, the other with a hair so pale it was almost white. Above them, the sky glimmered with stars, but the pool did not reflect this. Within the glassy water lay a single star, golden and burning, and both girls looked at it expectantly.

“O Greater Will!” the golden-haired girl cried towards the water. “Whom dost thou choose to become thy vessel?”

A response came, thrumming beyond the physical senses, vibrating in the air, the earth, the water. Both girls sat still as stone, listening to the voiceless words. The golden star stirred within the pool.

The golden-haired girl finally stepped forward, raising her hands as though to receive something. Her companion remained still as stone as she cried out, “My gratitude to thee shall be unending! I, Marika, offer myself to thee as thy willing vessel!”

The sea of grass became dark water. Marika stood on a rainswept shore, older, mightier, her form aglow with godhood and her eyes full of gold. Behind her, a multitude disembarked from boats onto the shore, and before her in the distance, beyond a cloying fog, stood a great tree as big as the sky itself, the crimson-gold threading of its branches seeming to uphold the clouds.

“Renna, what dost thou see when thou lookest upon these Lands Between?” she asked.

Beside her, the pale-haired girl, equally grown but possessing none of the radiance of godhood, gazed long at the moors and cliffs rolling out into the mist. Then she smiled. “I see a new beginning for us, sister. An epoch glistening with life.”

The shores became desert plains. Marika stood before a fearsome warlord filled with bloodlust, so mighty that not even her godhood could diminish him.

“Thy strength is most extraordinary,” Marika said, extending a hand to him. “Wilt thou grant me the honor of lending it to me?”

The warrior, white-haired and wild-eyed, took her hand in wordless acceptance.

The plains became a city beneath the crimson-gold tree. War was waged in the streets between men and dragons, red lightning flickering in the sky and casting blood hues over broken rooftops. A huge dragon, almost as big as the city itself and grasping a twisted spear of gold alloy, came crashing down upon the rooftops. A roar shook earth and sky as another dragon possessing four heads arose, his body wreathed in the same lightning that danced in the clouds. A spear of lightning appeared amidst his mighty talons, and he brought it down upon the city with the destructive force of a god.

Rowa came back to herself suddenly, like she had just broken the surface of deep water. She was still in the airborne, crumbling city, unmoved and unchanged with the blade in her hands. The metal gleamed, and in it she could see images that were not reflected her surroundings. They pulled at her mind, but she resisted the urge to be swept into it again, trying to make sense of what she had already seen. The visions were of the past, of what once had been. What stood foremost in her mind was the Erdtree, suffused with crimson gold, revealing the power of the Crucible, and the question she had pondered before returned to her mind.

Where did the power of the Crucible go?

The consideration sent a fresh wave of bitterness through Rowa as she recalled the many conversations with Morgott on the matter. So great was her pain that she almost wished to cast aside the restoration of the Crucible, but as soon as such a thought came to her, it was swiftly followed by the remembrance of the Albinaurics, the suffering Omens, Rya. Regardless of the pain Morgott had caused, it was the world that Melina had wished to see remade. She could not turn aside, not now, not for anything.

A harsh gust of wind buffeted Rowa from the side, bringing with it a scent that had likely surfaced her from the flood of memories within the blade. She stood, stowing Melina’s dagger away as the stench surrounded her, heavy and unmistakable: recusant cessblood.

Bernahl knew he had been sensed, and stepped forth, making no further attempt to conceal himself. He was not sure when he had awoken in the broken city, for time seemed to have little influence here. He had walked through a formless place, lightless but not dark, a path of sacrifice and desire opening before him. Then he had found himself here and walked some more, through abandoned halls and fractured promenades, past beastly creatures and the dragons they served. He had once championed such creatures, but that too had been lost with his Maiden.

The presence of another Tarnished had finally come to him, and he followed it like a hound hunting prey. He recognized her at once, kneeling on the half-broken walkway alone, seemingly oblivious to the world around her. She remained that way for quite some time, even as he crept closer, and though the opportunity to take her Great Runes lay open before him, her demeanor had given him pause. She had been hunched over, cradling a knife in her hands, her face twisted with agony and stained with tears. He had known then that her pain was not of the body, but of the heart, for he was well-acquainted with the shock and anguish of sudden, insurmountable loss. And so his hand had been stayed as he waited for her to stir.

When she finally arose, her eyes were red-rimmed, her face a violent reflection of grief and anger. Her gaze fell upon Bernahl, and it was far from the one he remembered. In Gelmir she had appeared careful but not hardened and bitter like he, wholly unfit for the recusants he thought she had come to join. But the woman he saw now was a far cry from that, twisted with a misery that he knew too well.

Rowa stared at the beast-crested armor, her voice coming out rough and broken when she recognized it. “You…”

Bernahl shifted, searching for words. “I never thought our paths would cross again, much less like this.”

“Why have you come?” The question was as biting as the wind.

Now that she was facing him fully, the entire measure of her grief was presented to him, the devastation undeniable. “There is only one reason I am here, same as you.”

Rowa took a step towards him, and Bernahl’s breath froze in his lungs. In what his mind had perceived to be a single step, she had moved the entire length of the walkway and drawn one of her swords, the point of which were now digging into the groove just below his helmet. She had moved faster than his eyes could follow, and he saw how as he stared into the eyes suddenly so close to his own. They reflected a great inward light, a might few had ever claimed.

Rowa’s body pounded with the strength of Runes running through her veins, all inhibitions forgotten. In a moment of pure indignant rage, she had put the recusant at the end of her blade, and it dawned on her that she was not as powerless as she had felt. She had the Great Runes within her, and she had slain a giant with their strength. There was no need for the yawning pit of helplessness. All who stood between her and Destined Death could be trampled like grass.

“Who sent you?” she hissed, though she could easily guess.

“Ofnir.” Bernahl offered the name without hesitation.

A blinding rage pulsed through Rowa. Even after all this time, after everything she had been through, Ofnir was still chasing her, though he had yet to face her himself. “Why do you do a coward’s work? Do you seek the strength of Runes?”

“No. I only want what he has offered me in return for giving them to him.”

“What could be worth that?”

“Death, unfettered by Grace.”

The unexpected answer cut through Rowa’s red haze. Bernahl’s face was obscured by his helmet, but his tone seemed heart-weary and sincere. “Why do you desire that?”

“I once suffered the loss of my Maiden, and I have never found atonement for it.” Bernahl regarded her pensively. “I see you are aggrieved. You have suffered the same to light the Forge, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Rowa’s voice wavered just a fraction.

“Then what will you do now with the great power that you possess? Surely you would not waste it on death like me.”

“I wouldn’t. I will walk the path to completion. I will make the world new, for that is what she desired greatly.”

“What new world did she envision?”

Rowa kept her blade at his throat despite the nauseating grief that rolled over her. “A world without the Golden Order. A world where there is a chance of peace for all kinds, especially those who have suffered because of the Greater Will.”

“I cannot dissent, for I have much desired to see the Greater Will’s tyranny and brokenness ended,” Bernahl said. “And you would become Lord to accomplish this?”

“Yes,” Rowa agreed. She would never feel powerless again.

Bernahl was silent for a long moment. “Then I cannot bring myself to interfere with such a mission, for you are seeking to accomplish what I once desired. If you wish it, I would lend my aid—”

“No.” Rowa’s refusal rang hard with finality. “I will complete this alone. I accept no aid.”

“So be it.” Bernahl recognized the bitterness, still raw and new. “Then I am now without purpose.”

She studied him. “Truly?”

“I came to find Destined Death for the sake of my own end, but you seek it for a better purpose, to fulfill your Maiden’s wish for the world to come. There is no other path for me. I want nothing to do with Golden Order, and the recusants I was once aligned with are now disbanded.”

“In your own words, you came here to take my Runes for Ofnir,” Rowa said. “Regardless of what you claim, nothing will stand in my way. I cannot merely let you go.”

“I thought not.” Beneath his helm, Bernahl’s lips curled into a knowing, resigned smile. “Then would you bestow me, who is drenched in recusant rite, one final battle?”

Rowa did not waver. “I will show no mercy, no quarter.”

“I do not desire it.” Despite the blade at his throat, Bernahl’s voice turned wistful. “All I wish is to see my Maiden once more. Even if Grace shines favorably upon me and grants me life with haste, I have no doubt that Destined Death shall soon be unbound by you. So, brook me no quarter.”

“So be it.” Rowa lifted her chin. “Despite Ofnir’s designs, you have acted more honorably than most.”

“Make no mistake. I cast aside honor long ago to see the Greater Will fall.”

“The Greater Will shall fall,” Rowa said, hard as steel. “Upon my life.”

“Then it honors me greatly that you would be my last foe. I hope you will find the peace that ever eluded me.”

“As do I.”

The fight was short lived as they both knew it would be, quick and without prolonged suffering. Minutes later, only one Tarnished stood on the walkway. Rowa looked upon Bernahl’s still body, his blood staining her blade, but she felt little sorrow. There could be no mercy, no remorse. She would not let it undo her again. She would not allow anything more to be ripped away from her, not when she had such strength.

As the cessblood scent began to fade, she continued into the crumbling city, guided by the cold pull on the Great Runes within her. She walked onwards towards Destined Death, towards the Elden Ring that would become hers alone.

Chapter Text

Renna knelt before Marika in a plane of shimmering gold. “My sister,” she said, “my queen, why hast thou beckoned me hence?”

“I hold thee most dear, my sister,” Marika replied, her form even more resplendent than their surroundings. “And I know thy loyalty is above all others, even my lord husband. In that, I would ask something of thee, though I do not ask it lightly.”

Renna met her gaze, seeming small in the face of such strength. “Whatever thou dost ask of me, I shall do it for thy honor.”

Marika studied her pensively before speaking again. “The Greater Will would see these lands changed. Some things must be wrought, and others sundered to shape this epoch anew, but what is sundered cannot be destroyed. Only sealed.” She extended her hands. Flames of crimson tinged with deepest black ignited in front of her, forming a jagged, blade-like shape crowned with an arc. It was but an ember to the surrounding gold, but the brilliance seemed to diminish before it.

“What is this?” Renna stood, her eyes never leaving the apparition. “What hast thou presented me with?”

“The power of life and death,” Marika said, the Grace in her eyes dimmed with solemn observance. “In the world envisioned by the Greater Will, there shall be no true death. The body may die but the soul will live on to be reborn.”

“And thou wouldst give this power to me so freely?”

“This, the Rune of Death, cannot be destroyed, only sealed. Thou wert once an Empyrean alongside me, and thou’rt possessed of the strength, the fortitude, to take on this power. There is none other that I trust so.”

Renna looked long into the dark flame, then spoke. “If that is what thou dost wish, then I shall take it. Thou hast honored me greatly.”

The golden surroundings became shadow. Marika and Renna stood before a set of Two Fingers, but they were not alone. Something prowled in the darkness, a massive beastly form, pacing like it was restless and awaiting some invisible door to be thrown open and set it free.

“Sister,” Renna said, her eyes never leaving the beast, “what manner of creature is this?”

The Two Fingers shivered, the crackling of the bizarre flesh forming a response that carved itself into the minds of those meant to hear it. Marika listened, then when the Fingers ceased, spoke what she had perceived.

“‘Tis a Shadow, given to me as a gift from the Greater Will, to serve me as I doth see fit.”

Her voice stirred the Shadow, and it slunk forward, emerging from behind the Two Fingers. It was a great beast of doglike origin, walking upon four legs yet possessing long, taloned fingers that could surely crush stone and steel. Cords of muscle rippled beneath silver-black fur, a majestic white mane falling from its head and neck, tapering into a pale line of fur that stretched all the way to its tail tip. Long fangs peeked from beneath a large maw, above which yellow eyes glowed like embers, searing all that they saw.

Renna recoiled as the beast approached, but Marika remained unmoved as it paced up to her, before lowering itself to the ground in a position of humility, bowing its huge head though it could undoubtedly tear both women apart. Then it spoke, its voice like the deepest rumblings of thunder rolling across the sky. “I am thy Shadow, O queen, and I am thine to command.”

Marika studied the creature. “Hast thou a name?”

“Only the name that thou wouldst bestow to me.”

“Very well.” Marika pressed a hand to the beast’s mane, almost tenderly. “Thou shalt be called Gurranq, the snarling abyss.”

The shadows became a cliff jutting out beneath a night sky threaded with the jewels of a thousand stars. There Renna stood, gazing long at the two moons hanging amidst the lesser lights, and after some time Marika appeared beside her.

“Thou must forsake the old ways,” Marika said. “The night sky is no longer worthy of worship and devotion. The Greater Will doth seek whole adoration, undivided by the thralls of other gods.”

“I understand that wholeheartedly,” Renna replied, “but not all our people are so willing. They have come from a land afar for a new life, but should they abandon everything of the old?”

“Those who followed me across the fog should not cling stubbornly to the elder days, for did they not forsake the land upon which those days were lived?”

“‘Tis true, but many came not out of worship, but merely for the desire to live. Nothing doth remain there amidst the disease and razing of war. To remain would be to die.”

“And yet here I didst create a deathless world.” Marika looked at her sister. “Is that not worthy of worship?”

The cliff became a city, the Erdtree looming as a distant light in the night sky. But then, the darkness was banished as the light of a thousand suns burst above the spires. Cosmos unseen before or since poured out into the sky in all manner of colors, like some star-forged floodgate had been opened. Something arrived with the cosmic torrent, possessed of a form no earthly words could easily describe, fashioned from the malformed pits of faraway space. With a rush of nebulous color and vapor, the nameless creature fell upon the city, power of the stars raining down with unforgiving might.

When the chaos of light and sound bled away, the city was gone. All that remained was the roiling gray of the sea.

The memories trickled through Rowa’s mind like a small wellspring, drifting past her mind’s eye slower than the earlier onslaught she faced. She let them come without resistance, the tale beginning to unfold through Melina’s blade, though there was little she understood. Yet as she proceeded through airborne halls, it seemed to her that this broken city was older than what the blade recounted. The glyphs and symbols rendered upon the decaying reliefs were unlike anything she had gazed upon otherwise in her travels. Even the stone itself seemed older, weathered with a roughness that the other constructs she had walked through did not possess, worn by time or perhaps a lack thereof.

As she went, the daylight never shifted. The ever-swirling vortexes beyond destroyed rooftops never dissipated or grew bigger. Slabs of stone that stretched hundreds of feet hung crooked in the air. Save for the living things that roamed the derelict, it was as though time had ceased its course.

Rowa found herself envious of the frozen objects. She wished she could hang suspended, unaware of the agony of betrayal and loss. She felt like the decaying structures, shattered into a thousand fragments that were just barely held together. The only thing that prevented her from fracturing completely was the Rune of Death beckoning to its counterparts, so that she was not left to wander without purpose amidst the broken halls.

The memories from the blade revealed to her the Rune, and the Shadow who held it. A fearsome creature he seemed in those echoes, but Rowa did not feel any dismay. She only knew anger now, bolstered by the power of the three Great Runes within her, and she would overcome the Shadow or be slain in the attempt. There were few in the Lands Between who could match her strength, and she would take what she desired.

The sorrow, the helpless rage, the guilt, struck her with a burgeoning sense of familiarity, her thoughts slowly unraveling into coherent strings the longer she walked. She had felt thusly over Rya, though not with such a betrayal as this, and yet even then there was a viscid awareness in the back of her mind, the notion that she had felt such pains before.

But before what?

She knew the answer, though she did not remember. It lay in a land afar, beyond her memory, beyond the fog. A blade had pierced her heart in that distant dream, and now as she walked towards true Death, she knew the pain of that physical wound was far less than what rent at her soul. She envisioned her own face, twisted in rage as she stared defiantly at the ones who would kill her, and she understood what had incited such violent feeling with clarity. In that time before, she had faced pain like what she now walked in, and so the sorrow, the helpless rage, the guilt, were not foreign to her. Her heart remembered what her mind did not.

And yet, with those pains bringing her to the death that let her cross the fog, why had she arisen with mercy in her heart? She could not yet understand why she had been compelled so, save for the removal of the dark memories that would diminish such inclinations. There was some small part of her that was glad she had not torn through the denizens of the Lands Between with indiscriminate bloodthirst, for she had found goodness among them. But that mercy had opened her heart to Morgott and Melina both, who had hidden the truth for a length of time she didn’t dare consider for the pain it would bring. Melina went willingly into the fire, and Morgott had let her. She did not know which was the worse deception. Her first companion who had accompanied her through the hostile lands, and the man she had married for the sake of the world’s betterment.

Only one remained for her pain to crash against. Anger towards Melina was useless with her gone, and she would not let the sacrifice be in vain. And yet for her fury, the near-complete absence of Morgott’s presence in her discernment was almost as painful as Melina’s lack. She wished her heart would be rid of its pining and be wholeheartedly consigned to anger, but beneath the red-tinged drive there was a yearning for his closeness and comfort of his familiarity as she battled within and without herself. She did not know where he was or what he would do, only knowing he was not dead, for the thread of the binding vow remained in its tremulous state, though she willed herself to cast aside any considerations for it.

And so she walked onwards, following the cold pull of Death. She passed through broken atriums, pieces of the vaulted ceilings hanging high and separate from the original construction, suspended mid-flight. Hunched shadows skulked in the darkened recesses of high balconies and behind broken palisades, appearing as the strange hybrids of man and beast that she saw depicted on the walls. Pale, watchful eyes glared at her, but no creature made any attempt to confront her. Perhaps they were wholly unused to a stranger walking in their midst, or perhaps they placed their confidence in the one guarding the Rune of Death, but she did not dwell on it. They were not the one she sought, and she would not waste effort on dispatching them needlessly.

She may have wandered the ruins for hours, or days. It was impossible to tell, but she did not tire nor hunger nor thirst. Whatever timeless spell hung over the ruins seemed to affect her as well, but she carried onwards nonetheless, following the chilling trail before her.

Death’s algor gradually intensified, until Rowa became aware of a similar frigidity on her person. She pulled forth the stone shard, and found the darkened stains had come faintly alight, stirring at the presence of the greater whole that waited. She gripped it tight, letting the cold seep into her palms and renew her resolve.

She came at last to a long, fractured road, approaching it from spidering stairs arching from broken halls beneath. The road went up to a grand coliseum of sorts, not unlike the rest of the city, but as soon as her eyes fell upon it, she knew the Rune of Death lay within. The kinship of the Runes increased tenfold as they called to each other, and Rowa heeded that call, approaching the building.

The coliseum was just as shattered as the rest of the city. A good quarter of the circular wall had been ripped away, the debris floating beyond and letting the milky light spill into the room. The remaining walls were filled with many recesses in which candles burned without melting. Similarly, several half-pillars were positioned across the curving of the circular floor, each bearing their own plethora of candles. What remained of the rotunda was undoubtedly grand, the intricate patterns in the masonry radiating outwards from the circle’s center, the roof following a similar design.

What lay upon the wall directly across from the entryway caught Rowa’s eye. There shone an image of the Elden Ring, but not the one she was familiar with. Rather, it was the depiction she had seen once before in the Carian history book, where light and life poured out from the Runes unrestrained like a great river. The sight made her throat tighten, and she approached it, wondering if she had found the Crucible which had eluded her. But as she got closer, she understood that it was only an image. There was no power, no wellspring behind it, and what little hope she had sank back into the pit of her heart.

Despite the disappointment, the presence of Death remained strong. She turned in a circle, searching the rotunda for any sign of a Rune and finding none.

Then the cold feeling stirred, making her skin prickle with gooseflesh. A shadow broke the wan shafts of light seeping through the broken wall.

Rowa threw herself behind one of the pillars, hit with a gust of displaced air as she narrowly avoided being struck. Something hit the floor with a muted thump, not ringing with the hardness of stone or wood, a living thing. Rowa rolled with her momentum, springing upright to face the threat, and she knew by the Runes’ quivering that she looked upon the bearer of Destined Death.

He was a great beast of some sort, large but hunched like an old tree bent by the wind. He was shrouded in a cloak of coarse, ragged cloth. The only visible portions of his body were the massive hands and feet tipped with equally massive claws, and a long snout boasting of a fearsome maw. His likeness seemed familiar to Rowa, but she did not know it fully until the beast spoke with a voice of rolling thunder that echoed in the coliseum’s expanse.

“Thou who approacheth Destined Death…” The beastman raised his hooded head, briefly revealing a flash of burning amber eyes beneath. “…Tarnished.”

Rowa knew then that she faced the creature from the blade’s memories, the one named Gurranq. A distant howl reached her, though she could not say if it was a memory from the blade or a cry that touched her ears.

“Marika! Is this what it is to sin? Will things…never be the same again?”

“Death, it doth tremble at thy presence.” Gurranq bared his teeth, pawing at the floor restlessly. “Why?”

“I have come for it.” Rowa’s voice rang through the vaulting arches like the chime of a steel bell. She saw his strength, but she did not fear it. “I have followed Marika’s designs. I have played her games, and I have come for what belongs to me.”

“‘Tis mine alone to hold!” A growl rumbled deep in Gurranq’s throat.

“If you will not give it freely, I shall take it from you.”

“No!” Gurranq bristled at her cold proclamation, and he lifted his head, scenting the air like a hunting dog. “Death…I smell it upon thee…”

Rowa carefully drew forth her swords in anticipation of the attack that was surely soon to come.

“Thou dost possess it, that which was taken from me.” Cords of muscle rippled beneath the tattered robe as the beastman’s voice rose. “I will not have it stolen from me again!”

Rowa barely had time to react as Gurranq pounced with frightening speed, a dagger of ornamented metal appearing in one set of claws. She ducked away, bracing as she raised her swords to deflect a strike, metal shrieking against metal as the blade glanced off hers. Even so, the impact bowled her over backwards and she tumbled to the ground, groping for purchase as Gurranq whirled for another attack.

Claws possessed of frightening strength tore at the stone flooring like it was made of soft earth, ripping up chunks of shrapnel and flinging them at Rowa with devastating accuracy. She tried to dodge and deflect, but the projectiles battered her like piercing rain, slicing at her skin through her clothing. In the small window of hesitation to recover, Gurranq lunged once more, his knife upraised and a snarl on his lips.

Rowa dodged but only just, the floor quivering with the impact of Gurranq’s impact where she had stood moments before. Gold ignited in her veins, washing away the sting of fresh cuts and aiding a speedy retaliation. She aimed a piercing thrust at Gurranq’s head, but he possessed a similar swiftness, the blade grazing the frayed hem of his hood as he reared, the serrated edge of his weapon catching against hers. With a powerful twist and a back step, Rowa brought her sword back to herself as grabbing claws sliced towards her.

Across the mausoleum they went, locked in a dangerous dance of swift attacks and dodges. Gurranq continued to dig up stones from the floor, forcing Rowa to take a defensive stance as he flung them with ferocious strength. The siphoned power of her Runes granted her swiftness, but not enough to account for every shard of stone. Every time she moved in close, dagger and claws converged in a quick and deadly snare, ready to trap her. She got a couple of nicks on him, enough to elicit a growl, but he did not relent as though possessed by the same fury and conviction she was.

As the fight dragged on, Rowa searched for a way to break the back-and-forth stalemate. Blood roared in her ears, and she caught herself looking for Morgott’s bulky figure a couple of times as a means of distraction, but every time she was met with his lack. She would have to turn the tide alone, and she watched for an opening in Gurranq’s jagged, lumbering movements, turning one of her swords to face downwards in her hand.

As Gurranq reached for another handful of stone, she closed the distance between them in a forceful leap, planting one foot forward and throwing the sword with all her might. So great was the power behind the throw that the blade did not have a chance to begin spinning, streaking through the air like a metallic bolt of lightning. Gurranq reared up and over to avoid the projectile but was a moment too slow. The sword struck him in the shoulder, piercing through fabric and flesh alike. With a howl, he crashed to the ground, but there was deliberate movement even in that instinctive reaction to injury. With the force of his fall, he buried his knife deep within the stone, activating some hidden sorcery that lay within. Bursts of energy streaked outwards through the floor, forcing Rowa to retreat, barely avoiding being cut by them as they sliced through stone like gossamer, finally fizzling out once they reached the walls.

An uneasy stillness fell over the mausoleum. Above her own breathing, Rowa heard Gurranq’s guttural, rasping breaths, and she dared to think the battle might have been over as she refocused on the crumpled form.

But then, Gurranq spoke into the quiet, a murmured prayer. “O, Death. Become my blade, once more.”

He raised his knife, bringing it down upon his own hand. Something metallic broke apart, the sharp sound ringing through the room.

Rowa stepped towards him, but stopped as a chilling wave washed over her, every hair on her body standing up straight. A fire of crimson-black billowed upwards from Gurranq like blood in water. It slowly cascaded over him, eating away at the tattered robes and revealing the true form beneath. A wild mane of white burst forth from its previous constraints, falling across plated armor of obsidian affixed to a lithe and powerful form, but that was not all that the fire revealed. From the hand he had struck, he pulled forth a blade as long as she was tall, a huge and jagged thing composed of crimson-black, formed from Death itself.

There came another memory of Marika’s voice, a decree: “Henceforth thou shalt be known as Maliketh, my Black Blade, for thou shalt be the death of demigods.”

Maliketh held the great weapon aloft and roared. Cold pulsed through Rowa’s clothes into her skin, and she took hold of the stone shard once more. Now the red stains on it were fully alight with a flame of their own, kindled by the closeness of the greater whole. As Maliketh came down on all fours again, he saw the shard in her hand and bared his teeth.

“Thief!” he bellowed, his voice no longer the rumbling of thunder but the outright fury of a storm. “Wretch! Traitor to the Golden Order, to Marika!”

Rowa had no time to dwell on the realization that he was as equally misled as many others, for he sprang forth with vicious intent, his armored maw twisted in a snarl. It was as though the dark fire had burned away all traces of his previous form in strength as much as appearance. He moved with fluid grace where he had been brutish before, moving across the room with terrifying agility. Rowa could barely track him, her heart leaping into her throat as his shadow fell across her. She pushed off the ground, leaping backwards, and that gave her just enough distance to avoid the deadly arc of his blade.

Maliketh pursued her without pause, possessed of a greater fervor. In a single bound, he leapt up on one of the stone monoliths, his claws sinking into the stone, and in the same motion he launched himself outwards in a deadly pounce, his sword upraised. Rowa stood her ground, raising her remaining sword in a sharp deflection. At the same moment Maliketh’s weapon, she pivoted, redirecting the momentum away from her. He went flying by her, but the sudden change did little to deter him. He dug his sword into the floor and twisted himself, whirling around to face her fully. He leapt again and swung his sword in midair, a red arc shooting from the blade in a deadly flash.

Rowa narrowly dodged, for that was all she could do as she tried to gauge his new form. Maliketh sliced again and again, the force of the swings twisting him in midair. More arcs of pure Death streaked towards her, each bringing a blast of cold, and it took all her concentration to avoid being struck. Maliketh landed lightly and redoubled his attacks, crimson-black trailing from his blade. He did not stop for a moment, increasing in fury as the flames of Death glowed all the brighter. She let the strength of Runes flow stronger, her chest feeling like it might burst from the power boiling inside it as she fought to keep her distance from the chilling fire, but it was only just enough.

Maliketh moved like he was doused in the same power that affected the hanging ruins, seeming to float through the air despite his massive form, whirling in a powerful dance that grew into a frenzy. The room became a blur of Death steadily closing in on Rowa as she fought desperately to keep away from the cleaving arcs and Maliketh himself, the coldness closing settling ever thicker like the snow in the mountains. Even with her strength, but one cut from the many slivers could mean the end. She had seen well enough the marks of Destined Death, by her own hand. With avoidance as a priority, she could not spare any thought to retaliation as Maliketh’s speed and fury increased. She understood that he was worthy of the fear Morgott had spoken of, and as desperation and despair set in, she found herself wishing she had not come alone.

Maliketh pounced again, his sword held in a downwards strike. Rowa rolled, the floor shaking beneath her with the force of his impact as he landed where she was standing a heartbeat before. She sprang upright and tensed, waiting for more Death to be thrown at her, but Maliketh paused for the blink of an eye, his sword buried deep in the broken floor. Rowa saw the stones igniting crimson-black beneath her feet a moment too late, leaving no time to move. She threw up her hands instinctively, sword in one and shard in the other, her mind only having a single moment to register that everything was at an end.

The end did not come.

The broken shard in Rowa’s fist let out a dull vibration. Death danced before her eyes, all around her, but it did not touch her. Any bolt that would have struck her dissipated into nothing, but the ones that hit the shard head on bounced back, deflected. Maliketh seemed as surprised as she when his own attacks went flying back towards him, forcing him to retreat and evade.

“What is this foul sorcery thou hast designed?” he snarled, claws raking against the ground.

Rowa did not answer, for it dawned upon her in that moment what the shard’s purpose was. It was as much a shield against Death as it was a weapon of it. She was not fighting a losing battle.

Another roar tore from Maliketh’s throat at her silence, and he leapt forward, swinging his sword in a devastating arc. This time, Rowa did not evade, stepping into the path with a new fire in her veins. As the sword came down, she raised the shard, bracing her feet. For all its force, the blow glanced off the shard like it was a stick against a boulder, and she hardly felt the impact.

Maliketh wavered, knocked off balance momentarily by the unexpected parry, and Rowa took the opening. She darted towards him, her sword flashing upwards in a piercing thrust bolstered by Rune vigor. Maliketh’s state of unbalance aided her, and he could not recoil fast enough to avoid the strike, the blade plunging into the flesh just below his right shoulder, straight through the mail of his armor. She twisted her sword and he bellowed, wrenching himself free as he swiped at her. She sprang back but only for a moment, redoubling her attacks with determination driving her.

They battled across the decaying mausoleum once more, but now Rowa had no inhibitions. Death flowed all around her, but it did not touch her with the shard in her hand. Maliketh tried to break through, but she parried again and again, waiting for the right opportunity. Her chance came when a downward strike caught against her sword just right, allowing her to twist Maliketh’s sword hand against the floor. He wrenched free as she predicted, almost standing upright on two legs in his zealotry to free himself. In that fateful moment, she rushed at him with every bit of speed she could muster, the shard gripped so tight that it almost cut into her palm. She struck at his chestplate, her strength holding true, and the shard of Death-bound stone sank through the alloy into the beastman’s flesh.

All went still. Maliketh hung in the air for a few breaths, as though frozen, but Rowa did not stop. She leapt, striking him near his heart with her sword and pushing the stone even deeper. The force sent him toppling backwards, hitting the floor in a cacophony of metal. She crouched upon his chest, watching as the flames dimmed from the jagged black blade, the clawed hand slowly releasing it. He made no attempt to free himself, deep and rasping breaths rattling in his massive chest.

“Witless Tarnished…”

Rowa looked him in the face when he spoke. His features were largely obscured by the crown of his helm, but she could see the gleam of amber behind the gilded black, no longer angry but questioning.

“Why covet Destined Death?” he asked. “To kill what?”

Rowa gave no answer as he began to crumble into ash, immediately received by the Greater Will as a creation of it. In the back of her mind, she felt a pang of pity. He possessed a personhood unlike the Two Fingers, yet he seemed just as much a tool created to carry out the Greater Will’s purpose. However, she quickly dismissed the pity, taking tight hold of her weapons as they were released by the decaying body, her hands trembling as Maliketh disappeared before her eyes. She had killed that which was closest to a god, the slayer of demigods, and now that strength was hers.

Crimson-black fire crawled across the floor, freed from Maliketh’s ashes. Rowa watched as it coalesced in front of her, taking a shape like Maliketh’s blade, the burning point facing towards the floor and hanging upon an arc.

The Rune of Death.

Rowa stowed her weapons and stepped forward, the chill washing over her, calmer and more soothing than it had been in Maliketh’s hands. Even so, her hand rose to her neck to find the warmth that hung there as a reassurance, but found nothing. So she reached out with that same hand towards the long forgotten Rune. The dark-light inside it flared at her presence, making her hesitate, but only for a moment. It was hers to take, hard won through tribulations and her friend’s sacrifice. The way to the Elden Ring would be opened, and she would take that too. She would be powerful, and though that would not heal her heart, it would ensure nothing stood in her way.

Her fingers brushed the Rune, and coldness rippled down her arm, spreading through her body. The fire arose, and she let it consume her, lifting her head to gaze one final time at the old Elden Ring upon the wall. Then the fire filled her vision, and she saw that which she had forgotten. She saw her life and death in a land afar.

Wilfred looked up in awe as everything became awash in orange light, caught between wonder and horror. The others around him in the Altus encampment did likewise, some whispering prayers and others rendered mute in disbelief. He only looked away when a shadow flickered in the corner of his eye, catching sight of several Nightriders standing near the encampment, though they seemed unbothered by it all.

“My lord!” His call wavered with the horror of what lay above. “Is…is this what you spoke of?”

One Nightrider, the one who had brought him out of Leyndell, looked at him. ‘Tis true.

Wilfred’s ears rang with the frantic prayers around him. “Must it be this way? Will things truly become better?”

I know not of what is yet to come, good or ill, but ‘tis the beginning of a new epoch. Thy days are destined now, as are those of all who yet live. Thou shouldst seek to live them well, regardless of the changing of the world.

Wilfred stared upwards, almost missing the Nightriders seemingly moving to depart, steering their horses away from the camp towards the city. “Wait! Where are you going?”

The one Nightrider paused even as his fellows rode on. Death is freed, and so are we.

“The Rune of Death is unbound…”

The Erdtree’s golden light that had shone across the Lands Between for an age and more was consumed by the hungry fire of the Forge, becoming as a great ember from the trunk to the longest branches. All the Lands Between was bathed in the hellish glow, cinders falling where there had once been leaves of gold.

From the parapets of Stormveil, a warrior Tarnished and her allies gazed in wonder. On the Altus Plateau, those who had fled Leyndell stood transfixed. In a broken cathedral under the light of the Full Moon, a witch brandished a god-slaying blade, smiling at the fire. Even Rennala, cradled in the sanctuary of the library, felt a stirring in her soul and lifted her head from her treasure.

“…and the Lands Between are shrouded by Death's dark fate.”

Gideon felt the heat intensify, the embers on the ceiling glowing brighter. He knew then what had happened, and Enia’s croaking words cast away any doubt. Bernahl had failed, and the Tarnished woman had taken the Rune of Death for herself.

“But the flames will also burn the impenetrable thorns.”

Gideon followed the crone’s voice across the Roundtable Hold. When the Forge had been ignited, all except him and Enia had fled, fearing the coming fire. So it was that he passed through empty halls towards the one voice. He found her seated faithfully next to the Two Fingers, her decrepit body suddenly even more shriveled than before. The Two Fingers were similarly afflicted, curled and unmoving like a dead insect, but this did not seem to bother their interpreter. She sat with her sightless eyes uplifted, her form decaying under the deathless years that extended far beyond her lifespan.

“Farewell it is, then.”

Gideon entered the room. The hollows of Enia’s eye sockets rested upon him. He did not speak, but she made one final pronouncement before she withered away, though Gideon knew it was not for him.

“You’ll be Elden Lord, yet.”

As the fire ate at the thorns, one final shard of Grace, predestined for that moment, flew out from Marika’s imprisonment. It traveled across the fog, over land and sea and all things between, coming to rest upon the heart of a fallen warrior and bringing with it a proclamation.

“Arise, thou whom my soul dost yearn for. Arise, beloved of my heart, and return.”

Chapter Text

I stood among the charred remnants of my home, smoke and destruction clouding my senses. My body was leaden, my soul shattered, the dawning light of day on the horizon mocking me as it shed more light upon the carnage. I had gone out to hunt down a bear, my absence lasting several days, and I had departed from a whole, unburnt village. I do not want to step forward into the smoldering embers, not for fear of finding those who had meted out such horror, but in the desire to somehow escape the reality that has unfolded before me. However, after standing transfixed for too short and too long, my legs moved, though my mind was hardly aware of it.

The houses were simmering piles of charcoal and blackened stone, the meager gardens burned into nothing but scorched earth. The village was not what many had considered beautiful, for it was a village of outcasts raised by their imperfect and often weak hands. But I had found it beautiful, for the buildings did not comprise the soul of the village, where those who were scorned by the Land of Reeds found a small measure of peace and happiness. Many lived here, from merely humans born or afflicted with deformity, to the bestial kinds that had been chased from their former homes. Their differences were many, yet they found companionship among each other with the name of outcast.

That was how I, a Tarnished, came into their midst. The Land of Reeds was a place of bloodshed and strife, yet for all the warmongering, the Reedlanders hated the ones who brought more conflict to their shores. They hated the Tarnished, regardless of origin, considering them impure warriors by nature of the exile they had been born from, and they were to be hunted down and eradicated. I was no exception. Born to Tarnished parents, somewhere in the past my ancestors’ blood had become intermingled with the Land of Reeds, but that dilution was not enough to ward off the bloodthirsty hunting dogs that were the trueborn Reedlander warriors.

Even now, I cannot recall anything of substance about my family. Only small flashes and faint whispers, before my memories descend into a cycle of isolation and desperate survival in a land that despised me. Yet one thing held true, given to me as a promise. One day, I would take back the Grace that had been claimed, whose absence made me Tarnished. I would grow strong in the face of death.

And so often it was in the volatile course of my life that I sought death, to find a way to bring about that promise and put an end to the tumultuous existence of being hunted and hated. Yet death evaded me just as much, unwilling to lay its chilling hand upon me even when it lay so near. It was in one such moment, as I lay bleeding in what I thought to be a mutual killing with a Reedlander that had come to destroy me, that the outcasts of that village found me. They took me to their home and nursed me back to health, causing death to overlook me once more.

I never meant to stay. When I awoke and understood I had been cheated of the death I desired, I was angry with them. But they, the reviled ones, looked upon me with compassion in a life devoid of it. The ones who had every reason to hate gave me that which my heart had sorely lacked.

I stayed in that village and called it home, though as I walked among the remnants, hollowed with grief, I wish I never had. I stopped briefly in front of the ruin that used to be my own dwelling, little more than a hut, and understanding began to form its crushing weight on my mind. The ruin I walked through was meted out on my account. I had seen the uncompromising, ruthless work of Reedlanders before, killing and burning for wrongdoings real or perceived. This village had existed for generations before, left isolated by the warrior clans that had higher aspirations than wiping out the already downtrodden, but the villagers had at last committed a grave sin. They had welcomed me.

The smoke and ash burned my eyes, but the tears that fell from them were from nothing but the wellspring of anguish in my heart. I searched the ruins for survivors, but I knew it was a fruitless effort. Against the Reedlander warriors, the villagers were like chaff before a scythe. I found corpse after corpse, blackened into hideous shadows, some clinging to one another for solace at the end. All semblances of personhood were burned away, but my own mind offered up images more horrifying than the carnage in front of me as I put faces to the broken remains. The ones who had loved me, suffering and dying.

It took me ten days and nights to bury them all.

Those ten dawns were both a moment and an eternity. In the vain hope bolstered by denial, I thought that someone had survived and would eventually return, but no one ever came. So I worked in that dreadful silence, trying to give those I thought of as family a proper burial. Though they were outcasts, they did not deserve to be entombed amidst the ashen wreckage.

My mind slowly accepted the shock and grief somewhere in the haze of retrieving and burying bodies. As that acceptance took hold, I began to wonder, my thoughts turning inevitably towards the alternatives, the things that could have led to another outcome without such devastation. In ponderous grief, I found questions that haunted me, for I knew no answer and could never receive one.

The villagers were not so far removed from the rest of the land to lack understanding. They surely knew what accepting a Tarnished might bring upon them, whereas I had been so starved for companionship that I was blinded from such considerations until I stood in the aftermath, my clarity too belated. One question circled my mind, like an endless echo.

Why?

Why had they not acknowledged the danger of my presence? Why had they cared for me and welcomed me in a world that did not welcome them? Why had they not told me of the destruction that might come to pass because of me?

On the tenth and final day, the question rang louder than ever in the harrowed, ashen silence. As I filled in the final grave, there was no denying that I was truly alone in the world again, and my question would remain unanswered. With my task of honor completed, I looked into a bleak and formless future. I considered turning my blade on myself, but I had always thought such a thing was too easy, unbefitting of a warrior Tarnished. I swiftly turned my mind away from that end as I looked upon the fresh graves.

I knew where I was to go next. The Tarnished hunters had made no attempt to hide their trail, likely knowing that they had failed to cut down the true target of their pillaging. They were waiting for me to come after them, likely at the ready. I knew this, and went anyway.

I pursued them in a crimson fog of vengeance and fury, hardly stopping to rest or eat. After three days, I found them camped for the night. Ragged from my frenzied travel, I approached them slowly, until I saw trinkets and treasures passed among them that had once belonged to my friends. Then all my weariness fell away with any restraint.

Even if they were prepared for my coming, I tore through them, blood-crazed and howling like a mad beast. My swords cleaved grisly arcs through flesh and bone, the ground becoming blood-soaked as though with heavy rain, but even that did not sate the ravenous desire that overtaken me. Every body that fell beneath the whirlwind made the hunger worse, driving the bloodlust inside me to new heights as I envisioned the charred bodies of my people.

In the course of one night, I slew more men than I had in all my life before. I was maddened by the loss and the desire to mete out justice. I would not have stopped until I stood atop a heap of their corpses, not one left living.

But I was one woman, possessed of no fortitude or sorcery, up against scores of them. It was only through sheer force of will and madness that I persevered as long as I did, and I was eventually brought low. Arrows and blades pierced my body, and the number of wounds alongside the number of enemies became too much. I was forced to kneel in the dirt, churned and bloody by my own actions, my strength spent as I awaited the coming death sentence.

“Mongrel,” they called me, kicking at my already broken body. They thought me especially egregious, for Tarnished and Reedlander blood mingled in my body, but I had stopped caring about that when I found a place among other outcasts. Outcasts who had been slain by the men who would kill me for bringing retribution upon them.

I hardly felt the blows, my heart filled with a black fire that consumed all thought and feeling. I tried to move, to lash out and take more before my end, but my body would no longer respond, my lifeblood flowing out and mingling with that which I had spilled. They tired of torturing me eventually, forcing me on my knees, forcing me to look at them. I do not remember the faces, only the hatred that they incited.

“See what you have done, accursed halfbreed!” one cried. “Your kind have been a blight to the land since you first arrived!”

I replied, bitter and defiant. “You call me a cursed one, but I think it is you who bring the curse! You have killed many, and for what? The land is not cleansed because of it. You have only stained it more with blood.”

“They were hardly lives at all,” said another, his face an icy mask. “They were merely the blood by which a parasite like you kept itself alive, and for that, they had to die. So will you, another wretched blemish wiped from this land.”

I raised my head, unwilling to die with my eyes towards the ground as I recalled the old promise and made a new one to myself. I would become that which I could not be in this life. I would never let such death be dealt on my account again. “If you would kill me, then do it now, and be done with it. I will grow strong in the face of death.”

They did not prolong my torture. Fire exploded through me for the briefest instant as a blade came down, piercing my heart through, and so I fell. I dare not think of what was done to my body, and it is just as well, for I perceived nothing in that aftermath. In my death, all became oblivion, but it was akin to the swift passage of sleep. In what I felt was the blink of an eye, I was anointed by the Grace of gold and stirred from that deathly slumber.

I awoke in a gray fog as the gold touched my skin, one point of light in the formless expanse all around me. With my awakening, there came a distant command, stretching out across time and distance alike.

“Arise now, ye Tarnished, ye dead who yet live!”

I obeyed and arose, the fog surrounding me on all sides. I knew, perhaps by the Grace’s anointing, what I was to do. Cross the fog to the Lands Between, and stand before the Elden Ring.

I hesitated. I remembered everything of my life before, the struggle of surviving in a hostile land, the outcasts who had befriended me and showed me mercy when no one else would. I remembered the loss, the horror, my inability to bring retribution, and it was too much. I was going to break beneath the weight.

 I said into the fog, “Let me begin anew. Let me forget.”

I awaited an answer in the unchanging scape, perhaps minutes, perhaps years. I received none, but I could not remain there, suspended between life and death, being crushed by my failures. Eventually, I stepped forward, and the fog opened.

My wish was granted to me, though I did not know it. I awoke in a crypt in a new land, a land I had never set foot in yet knew all the same, a nameless woman with no memory. I gave myself a name to fill the lack of recall, setting my eyes on the future instead of the missing past. The world that opened up before me was broken, just as much as the one I had come from, seeming to demand a bloody path to carve the way to the Elden Ring. But my heart stirred with mercy, echoing the clemency I had once been shown. I saw the downtrodden Omen, the Albinaurics, the needless suffering, and my heart remembered, driving me towards the destruction of the Golden Order.

So it was that I found myself with other outcasts, for I was once one, and still was to many who did not welcome the presence of the Tarnished. The first, a Maiden who was not truly a Maiden, bodiless and unable to provide the guidance that many sought. The second, a demigod, a Shardbearer, a king who was spurned by the very order he upheld.

My heart could not help but open to them, though now it is broken for that very reason. I will keep my promise to Melina, so her sacrifice will not be wasted. Both deceptions pierced me through, but it is Morgott’s complacency that pains me the most. When we were first joined together in that sacred vow, I admired him as much as I pitied him, and I understood our union was merely a precaution for both our sakes. But then as we traveled together and I learned more about him, the hard layers around his heart falling away, something feeling inside me began to deepen. He was so much more than the hard, harsh exterior that he showed the world. He was compassionate in his own ways, and that compelled affection inside me.

I did not want to name what I felt before, for my heart quaked with such strong feeling and the fear of voicing it, but now in the severance between us and the pain of betrayal, I see it now with bitter recollection. I had begun to feel for Morgott as a woman should feel for her husband, a deeper sense of devotion. I had begun to desire his endearment in return, though I did not know if he would be willing to give it. That desire of mine was of a jealous bent; I wanted his devotion not merely as an ally, but as a husband, a care that he could give to no one else. I wanted him to see my affections were true, that he was much more than the curse he believed himself to be. As time went on, I could see the path of the truer bond opening before us in hope.

But then he betrayed me.

With the fullness of memory restored to me now, I could laugh at the twisted irony of it all. What befell me beyond the fog came upon me again like some inescapable fate, brought about by my own wish to ease the pain. The ones I loved, dying because of me, the question remaining unanswered.

Why?

Why did the beloved villagers allow me to stay? Why did Melina willingly walk into death? Why did Morgott withhold the truth, even as he swore to protect me? Only Morgott can answer me now, and he will not follow me. Not after I rejected him so.

So now I am left with a heart twice broken, recalling my journey across the Lands Between with scorn towards my own naivety. I was merciful in unknowing remembrance of those outcast Reedlanders, and just as Morgott had said at Stormveil, it had undone me. I had loved, and it has shattered me, but no more will I let myself be broken so. The power to shape the world is in my hands, and I was a fool to not see the truth of my own might. Death itself is mine to hold now, and I will no longer watch in helpless horror.

I will do what I could not in the Land of Reeds. I will not have Melina’s life spent in vain, and I will make the world new, but there will be no mercy. Not for the Golden Order, not for the Greater Will, not for even Marika herself. I will destroy the parasitic god that has oppressed and leeched this land into a husk. The path of a Tarnished is forged by death, and so I will walk it as I should. This land has demanded death from me over and over again, and now I will unleash it in full.

So will I kill all who oppose me.

Chapter Text

Morgott found himself in a dilapidated courtyard, buffeted by an incessant wind. As soon as he saw the masonry, the old walls and gables stretching towards a milky void of clouds, he knew at once that he was in Farum Azula, the legendary city lost to the sky. He had never seen the city before, but the fallen ruins scattered across the Lands Between boasted of the same construction and craftsmanship that now stretched before him, suspended on nothing but frozen time.

Any awe he could have felt at arriving in such a place was forgotten with the realization that he was alone in it. He turned in a full circle, but Rowa was nowhere to be seen. Her rejection of him on the path to Death had not only distanced them in soul but in body as well. Worse yet, he could not feel her through the half-broken bond, the only assurance he had of her safety being the fact that the bond was not wholly severed. All that remained was a nascent lack, a chasmal emptiness that he had never imagined would come of their vow, and he felt as though his heart had been run clean through. The old wounds that Rowa’s presence had begun to heal were now ripped open, his very soul bleeding from them, and he waited for his heart to cease its rhythm. But it beat on unhindered, for the torment was not of his body but his spirit.

Melina had absolved him of any blame, but the guilt crushed him nonetheless, even if there truly had been no other way. As he had feared, he had watched the soft light die from Rowa’s eyes, becoming replaced with something angry, something even hateful. After the Night of the Black Knives, he had thought nothing could ever match the agony of that loss, and yet as he stood in that broken courtyard, he felt torn apart.

His voice rose in his throat. It was unwise to call out in a strange place, especially something as unknown and untraveled as this, but he cast all caution aside in the desperate hope that she would somehow hear him. “Rowa! Art thou near? Canst thou hear me speak?”

The echoes were swiftly lost the the swirling wind, and no response was forthcoming. He called out several times, each one being spirited away with the gusts that brought no reply with them no matter how loud and desperate they became.

He ceased when his voice began to break for the pain inside him, silence settling over the ancient structures as he turned his focus fully inward. All he could feel in Rowa’s absence was the faint tugging of something cold on his Great Rune, something he had not sensed before but knew. Death was here as was promised, but that gave him no triumph. Rowa’s angry shouts rang in his ears, her tearstained face filling his vision, as haunting as the spirit-filled dreams he often struggled with. The achievement of reaching the Rune was worthy of no celebration when it came at such a price. He almost lost his resolve then and there, the drive to continue on crushed by Melina’s loss and Rowa’s scorn.

But as he considered the remaining steps of the journey, he could not sit idly by and let Rowa go on without him. Eventually, she would return to Leyndell, and so too would she return to where the wretched embers burned, waiting for a new host. There was no doubt that the Flame of Frenzy would extend its cloying grasp towards her, if it had not already. She was perfectly vulnerable, lanced through with pain that the Frenzy would promise to heal. If she listened, if she took it before he could reach her, he would be faced with a reality more horrible than what faced him now, a potential outcome that made his heart constrict with anguish at the very thought.

To be forced to kill her to destroy the Flame would kill him as well, regardless of the integrity of their binding vow, if not in body then in soul. Now that he was faced with the possibility of her loss, he understood something with more clarity than he had ever afforded himself before: he cared, deeply, and she was all he had. His father, mother, brothers were all sundered from him in death or dark paths, but she had ended the gnawing isolation of existence, and he would not let her go without seeking to uphold his vows before the Erdtree. He would rather have her alive to despise him than see her burned as kindling for the maddening Frenzy. He had lost too much to lose again, not without fighting tooth and nail to keep her close. It was what he owed her after committing such sins against her, and he would not add disloyalty to his transgressions.

The vow between them had not been broken in full, not so long as he kept his grasp on it, and he would see that it remained that way. He would seek to uphold it, for Rowa’s sake and Melina’s memory. Loss had been his lot in life many times over, and he had accepted it then, caught in the hatred of his blood and his foolhardy attempts to prove himself worthy of the Grace he had been bestowed. This time, he could not merely accept it. He was not a powerless bystander to circumstances far greater than him; he could still reach out to her, he could still act and prevent her from walking a dark path. He would be the shield, even if she hated him for it.

His renewed resolve gave him the strength to move despite the agonizing heartbreak. He straightened himself, stepping forward to follow the call that beckoned the Great Rune inside him, urgency making him swift.

As he passed through the fractured halls and mausoleums, he could not help but notice the old design of the architecture and the even older symbols inscribed into the walls and reliefs throughout. Though he had considered Farum Azula before, it dawned upon him only then just how much the city was a testament to a bygone age he had never seen. He had been born into the world of the Golden Order, knowing only the tales of what was before, and even then he had tried to set thoughts of those things aside, considering them shameful in his misplaced zealotry. Now, however, he looked upon the designs of old and felt kinship. Farum Azula was a remnant of the age he sought to renew, though said renewal was now lesser to his foremost goal of finding Rowa.

It became gradually apparent to Morgott that it was not only the skies that were populated. He took notice of slinking shadows, always at a distance as he navigated the broken ruins. When he tried to get a true look at the creatures, they seemed to stay just beyond his view, but he could gather what they were through his knowledge of the city. They were the beastmen, the secondary denizens of Farum Azula beneath the dragons, almost as forgotten as the city itself. They were scions of the Crucible just as much as Omens and Misbegotten, though most of them had retreated as the Golden Order took hold. The closest he had ever come to seeing one was Serosh, but these creatures did not seem half so mighty as his father’s regent. The forms he saw skulking in the balconies and ledges were bent and bedraggled, seeming almost as decrepit as Albinaurics. It struck him that Omens and Misbegotten in fared no better, beat down and misshapen by a life and a land that hated them.

The more beastmen he saw, the more he readied himself for the possibility of attack, but as he continued on they made no attempts, not even the suggestion of one. They merely followed him at a distance, and he hoped Rowa was receiving the same treatment. Try as he might to reach out across the wavering bond, he could perceive nothing save for the assurance that she had not destroyed the talisman. With every step he took, he anticipated the complete shattering and the agony of complete emptiness. He did not wish for it to happen, but neither would he hold the action against her. His sins were grave, and he could scarcely imagine being in her place, much less how he would act in the face of such pain.

His dread was temporarily set aside when he entered a large hall, comparable to the Erdtree Sanctuary in its size, and likely was once equal or greater in grandeur. The ceiling rose high, supported by arched, hollowed groups of colonnettes with cold sconces inside. Much of what had once been magnificent was now faded with fracture and age, but much of it was lost on him as his eye was drawn to the far end of the room. A depiction of the Elden Ring was inscribed on the wall, its unbound form before the coming of the Golden Order, a tree sprouting from it. Words were written below the strands of light pouring from the opened Runes, in a tongue he had never learned to read. Yet as he looked at them, the glyphs shifted in his perception, morphing into comprehensible words.

Lo and behold the undying majesty,
The shining magnificence of the Great Tree,
Sprouting forth with the life-giving Elden Ring.
With hearts full of gladness, lift thy voices and sing,
In Farum Azula, in the Lands Between,
Forever bathed in the Crucible’s gleam.

Morgott could not help stopping to gaze upon it, for he had never seen such an image graven anywhere before. The closest he had come was the inscription in the old Carian literature, but even that account had been far removed from pieces of the bygone age like this. He was not certain what sorcery or aptitude allowed him to read the unfamiliar script, but it was likely to do with his Omen blood.

Memories of his dreams rose unbidden in his mind, the Erdtree shining with a different radiance, all the creatures around it rejoicing. His own blood sang at the mere recollection, heat running through his veins like a cleansing fire. The stave in his hand warmed, creaking beneath his tightening grip as he pondered the fate of the Crucible. It was a true facet of the Elden Ring, unable to be destroyed just as much as the Rune of Death, but it had vanished from all memory. The Black Blade was known and feared as the bearer of Death, and yet the Crucible had no such notoriety. It was as forgotten as the scions of it, and if it were not for the decaying state of the city and its inhabitants, he would have entertained the idea that it may have lain hidden somewhere within the suspended halls.

Morgott came back to himself, inwardly upbraiding himself for such considerations as he hurried through the remainder of the hall. Were he to fail, there could very well be no world for the Crucible to return to.

As he traveled farther, he realized he had awoken on some far edge of the city, and he was gradually working his way inwards. There was no telling where Rowa had found herself, but in navigating precarious ledges and floating debris, he discovered a new dread in imagining her attempting to traverse such things. Once more, the only comfort he could find was in the wavering bond.

He was not sure how much time was passing as he delved deeper into the city. The milky light of the obscured sun did not move, remaining at an unchanging zenith. As evidenced by the unwavering debris supported in their fragments by nothing but air, the city was suspended in time. It could have been an age in the Lands Between that he wandered the broken halls, or merely a moment.

He was beginning to wonder if Rowa was even close by, or if she was outside this timelessness, when the cold beckoning of Death surged. It crashed over him like the waves of the sea, leaving him breathless with the suddenness, stopping him in his tracks. It rushed by, quickly ebbing into the quiet equilibrium he was familiar with, except now something had changed. There was nothing he could perceive with his physical senses; rather, he felt a shift in his very soul, the knowledge that the order of the world was changed greatly.

The Black Blade had been defeated. The Rune of Death was unbound.

Morgott could not help but feel dismay. It had to be Rowa’s triumph. There was no mistaking the ambitious fury in her eyes when they had parted, but she had prevailed without him. He had never envisioned such a confrontation taking place in his absence, and he shuddered to think of what could have befallen her if she were not victorious.

My lord.

The call swept over Morgott’s mind, but he hesitated to reply. He had anticipated this, but it was made all the more painful in his current estrangement. Grief was his lot no matter where he turned.

He finally spoke out, hoping the strain in his voice would be spirited away with the wind. “I hear thy call.”

In a rush of night’s coolness and shadow that dampened Farum Azula’s eternal day, his cavalrymen appeared, all of them. Their presence wavered, the aura they carried waning quickly as Death pulled at them.

My lord, said the mightiest of them, the time is nigh. Death doth beckon us at last.

“I know it right well,” Morgott replied.

We do not depart from thee gladly. Thou wert and art a true lord.

“Do not deny thyself gladness. All of ye hath sought the release of death long before ye chose me as lord. Thy long sojourn is at an end.”

As thou dost wish it.

Morgott inclined his head to the clouds beyond the darkening veil. “Before ye depart, tell me…are the people of the city safe?”

All who would be saved were taken away into the plateau beyond.

“Thou hast done me good service.” Morgott forced himself to look at them, straightening into a taller, stronger stature. He would not have their final moments tainted by his grief, and they were visibly fading, ashes rising from their bodies.

Where is thy lady wife? the rider who had accompanied them across Altus asked. What has become of her?

“We were separated on the road to Destined Death,” Morgott said, concealing the greatest pain. “I search for her, for I feel the Rune’s beckoning even now. It is she who has released it.”

‘Tis ill fortune that she is not here in the end, but to her we owe our release. When thou’rt reunited, wouldst thou do us the honor of letting our gratitude be known?

“I will.”

The shadow began to lift, the darkness that shrouded the riders falling away to reveal hints of the men they once were, formed from wisps of white light. They were almost skeletal, their very spirits worn by the weight of their pilgrimage long after their bodies were slain, but their hollowed faces reflected something Morgott had never seen in them before: joy. His downtrodden heart rose from the depths of despair with the assurance that he was not incapable of bringing peace to those in his influence.

The riders spoke together, their voices blending as one as they drew their weapons in a final homage. May the world be made new as thou dost see fit, and may it prosper ‘neath thy hand, O Morgott, king of kings.

The milky rays of light broke through the veil, casting it into nothing, and the Nightriders went with it. Like the final wisps of morning mist, they faded from existence, vanishing as their praise rang its last echoes across their liege’s mind.

Morgott stood until the voices were gone, lost to the wind. He raised his head to the sky again, imagining the Nightriders ascending beyond the clouds, beyond the world they had been bound to overlong. So too did he envision Godwyn likewise, his slain soul rising from its life-in-death to be reunited with the other demigods.

When he continued on his way, he was still aggrieved, but less so. It was bittersweet to see his loyal men depart, but their freedom was well earned. It brought him a small measure of hope that he was not doomed in his pursuit of Rowa; even if she never ceased to despise him, there was still good he could do by way of atonement.

He hastened where the Rune of Death beckoned, and though he moved with all speed, it still seemed to take far too long. As he ascended a broken roadway to an ornate coliseum of unparalleled grandeur, he hoped that Rowa would be within, though when the bond did not strengthen he knew it was a vain wish. When he stepped through the coliseum’s entrance, he was instead greeted with the remnants of a battle. The solid stone of the floor was gouged in long rifts by massive claws now unseen, fresh debris and pockmarks littering almost the entirety of coliseum’s width. At the far end of the room, in front of another image of the unfettered Elden Ring, a dark rift stood waiting. It was as if the same claws that had scored the floor had torn open the very air, leaving a slash of crimson-black flame behind.

Morgott approached the rift, searching for signs of Rowa as he did so, but he did not perceive her closeness through his physical senses nor through their bond. He stopped just short of the flickering tear, lifting a hand to his medallion and closing his eyes as he poured all his focus into the binding that remained. The only glimmer he could find was in front of him, through the rift. Rowa had slain the Black Blade and taken the Rune of Death, without a doubt. Imagining her with such strength coupled with the fury he had seen at their parting was almost frightening, and if she were to turn against him in full, they would be evenly matched in power at the least. He hoped whatever affections she had possessed for him were not entirely burned away in her anger, but that slight apprehension would not prevent his pursuit.

The rift flared at his coming, the coolness washing over him, and he almost recoiled at the intensity. But he had already walked the road of Death, and he could walk it again to follow Rowa.

Taking one final look at the image of the Elden Ring on the wall, he stepped forward, touching the rift. The dark flames ignited around him, taking hold of his body just as the Forge had consumed Melina. The umbral red filled his vision, and when it cleared, the coliseum in Farum Azula was gone. He stood once more on the formless road, and he clung to the thread of the bond, letting it guide him as he walked the path again.

Visions unfolded before his eyes, visions of death. He saw Godwyn and Hynna, he in living death and she completely slain, lying together among the bodies of their children. He saw himself at the gates of Stormveil, a sentinel guarding the way to the Shardbearer deemed the easiest target for ambitious Tarnished, slaying countless contenders in what seemed to be an endless task. He saw Ensha, Rykard, the defiler, Shabriri, among a thousand other faces falling before him in a whirl of blood.

He strove to move beyond the visions, averting his eyes and placing the whole of his focus on the medallion around his neck. The images fell away, replaced by a solitary one, distant on the path but one he would recognize regardless.

“Rowa.” The name fell from his mouth as a breath.

She stood still, her eyes closed as though in sleep, not herself as much as an apparition, much like when he had delved into her mind to expel the souls from Rykard’s Rune. The power of her Great Runes shone about her like the sun, but in the midst of them there was an eclipsing shadow, the flame of Destined Death.

“Rowa.” Morgott spoke again, louder, unable to soften a desperate edge. She did not react, and he was not sure if he was even heard. Even so, he approached her, trying to close the formless distance between them. As he did, more visions arose, but this time they did not concern him. Instead, he saw Rowa as he had never seen her before, full of the wild ferocity he had glimpsed in the heat of combat. She was a raging beast, tearing into the half-formed apparitions with no hesitation, no trace of reluctance.

Morgott feared the carnage playing out before his eyes was a present or future vision, but he realized it was not so when he saw her on her knees, enraged even in defeat. He had just enough time to understand what he was about to witness before a blade came down, plunging through Rowa’s heart. It was the memory she had spoken of before, but that did not dilute the horror of the light dimming from Rowa’s eyes, her face slackening as she fell lifeless to the ground. He lurched forward on instinct, but the memory vanished before he could reach it. Then the chaos fell away, and all that was left was Rowa’s original image, standing with her Runes.

Morgott tried to push past the sick weight that had settled over him, forcing himself to keep moving forward. It seemed like an eternity, but he drifted closer, the bond trembling and the medallion beginning to warm. When he was almost within arm’s reach of her, her eyes opened, and the unexpected weight of her gaze froze him in place. Neither joy nor anger was reflected on her face, her countenance void of the emotions that had once been so easy to read.

Morgott intended to speak, unsure of what to say but knowing he could not stay silent. Before he could, Rowa’s voice came to him, a simple question filled with pain.

“Why?”

Faced with the question once more, Morgott knew the answer was more than what he had given to her in the throes of her grief. It was not merely why Melina had sacrificed herself, but why he had allowed the knowledge to be withheld for so long, and though it had begun for the sake of denying the Frenzy a foothold, it had become something more. He knew the agony of grief more than happiness, and he had come to desire to spare her from it as long as possible, to protect her heart from what sullied his. He opened his mouth to say as much, but Rowa’s form had begun to fade. He leapt to catch her, but she was like vapor, slipping through his fingers and vanishing.

He stood alone in the formless scape, but only for a moment. There was a rush like wind, and physical sensation came crashing back into his awareness. The first thing he felt was heat, arid and dry. The second was hands, large and unfamiliar, pulling at him.

He surged into full wakefulness, lashing out at the threat before he even saw it. His hands connected with something warm and alive, and he grasped at it with all his might. A strangled cry rang in his ears, prompting his eyes to catch up with his hands. Two brutish, horned figures stood over him, almost equal to his stature, and he had one by the throat.

“My king!” cried the free one in the odd, guttural tongue of Omens, “Please harm us not! We were trying to help you!”

The plea prompted recognition, and Morgott let go at once.

“Forgive us,” the other rasped, raising a thick, misshapen hand to rub at his neck.

Morgott did not reply, his voice stolen as he took in his surroundings. It took him several moments to realize he lay upon what would be the walkway to the Forbidden Lands’ lift, and what was before him was Leyndell, or what once was. Cast in the hellish light of the Erdtree set aflame, the grand golden city was no more, buried under a sea of ash with the grand walls acting as an immense dam to the outside world. Only the highest buildings and spires remained above the ash, and even Gransax’s massive corpse was partially. Almost everything was engulfed, leaving a pale scape broken with golden ruins. Above it all, the Erdtree’s splendor was gone too, the aureate wood consumed with the orange-and-dark glow of fire seeming to eat it from the inside out. The tree’s shape and the wide crown of branches remained, casting off a light rain of embers and ash where once had been leaves.

From where Morgott stood, he could see the Elden Throne remained above the ash, along with sections of the Royal House and the Erdtree Sanctuary. However much of the city, including Godwyn’s abode, were completely buried. Leyndell would never be as it was before, and yet after overcoming the initial shock, Morgott did not find himself devastated by the sight. Once, the desecration of the city would have rent him to pieces as a failure to uphold Marika’s kingdom, but no more. He had saved those he could, and now his heart contended with a far greater burden than the mere destruction of a city already hollowed by war. What good was a city if it would be burned in the fires of chaos? What good was preserving it if he failed to protect the one he had pledged to shield?

“My king.” One of the Omens spoke again. “Are you hurt?”

The question brought Morgott back to his immediate surroundings. He stirred himself, grasping his stave and pushing himself to his feet, finding no pain in the motion. He then addressed the two Omens before him, a pair of twins he had borne from the underground at the beginning of his lordship, who had faithfully remained in his service. “Nay. I am unharmed. Please, forgive me for my conduct to ye. I did not expect thy coming.”

The twins nodded together in acceptance of the apology. “We are glad you are here once more.”

Morgott squinted at the burning branches through the hazy air. “My cavalrymen didst inform ye of what was to take place?”

“Yes, my king.”

“Then…how much time has passed since the Erdtree was set alight?”

A brief silence passed as the pair of Omens considered the question. “Nearly a fortnight has passed. The ash slowed its fall in the past few sunrises.”

Morgott grabbed at his medallion, the length of time alarming him. The bond pulsed fitfully beneath his fingers, and he willed it out to search for its other half. “Tell me both of ye, didst thou see a Tarnished woman here, dark of hair and eye? It is she that I wed, and we were separated in the search for the Rune of Death.”

The Omen twins traded a look. “We believe so, briefly.”

“Where?”

“She was unconscious, or so it appeared from afar. She was with a man, who was moving her.”

Despite the heat of the Erdtree’s burning, Morgott’s heart froze. “Who?”

“We know not,” one of them confessed. “But we know what sins he committed.”

The other spoke. “When the ash was slowed, we returned to the city to search for anyone who may have lived, as you would wish it. So too did we search for a way into the sewers, to see what had been wrought on the kin who remained there.” He faltered, his rough tones quieting with something fearful. “We found a way, and the tunnels were much untouched by the ash, but the Omens…they were all dead.”

The chill in Morgott’s chest was doused with the heat of anger.

“Amidst them was this man, and may you forgive us, but we fled.” The Omen twin bowed his misshapen head. “We watched from afar in the hope you would return. This man, he departed the sewers for a time, and we followed him. He found the Tarnished woman and brought her back to the sewers. She did not seem aware of this.”

Morgott squeezed the medallion in his hand. Now he could feel it, the far-off point, the faintest star on the horizon. Rowa was here in the city. “How long ago was this?”

“No more than a day.”

Though that was not long in the whole course of their absence, a day seemed like an eternity for Morgott to be separated from her. A horrid image was forming in his mind, further kindling the fear-fueled rage inside him. His only solace was that the seal in the depths held. “Take me there.”

The Omen twins did not dissent, obeying at once. They led him deeper into the city, where the ash began to slope sharply atop the many terraces and staircases, forming an alien landscape of high hills and steep valleys with jutting crags of golden spires. Though the city had been quiet in the long days of stagnation, it had become eerie. A hot wind whistled against the towering walls and through innumerable crevices, seeming as a wail of lament for the Golden Order and its city that stood poised on the brink of downfall.

Morgott hardly spared a glance towards the terrace of the Elden Throne looming in the near distance above the ash. He wished to enter, but only once he had made his atonement, and ensured that the Frenzy would be given no foothold.

They went down into one of the pits, the ash soft as sand beneath their feet and almost as slippery. At the bottom of the pit lay a section of street that had not been engulfed, and in the middle of it was a large sewer main, its grate torn open and tossed aside. As they approached, the twins slowed their pace, and Morgott gradually understood why. He could feel the creeping malevolence of chaos seeping up from below, like smoke from the Flame that fostered it. Unlike the twins, he pressed onwards, fear for Rowa superseding all fear of the Frenzy.

Then, he stood at the edge of the hole, staring down into the formless black. No sound arose to meet him, no snarling and wailing of Omens too broken to live above. Only silence, and the faint pulse of the medallion reaching out to its other half. She was below, close to the grasping hand of chaos, and he was not the only one who knew it.

“Will you truly go down?” one of the twins asked behind him.

“Aye.” His response echoed oddly into the enclosed space below.

“But the dark fire, it waits, even now.”

“I know this, but it stands between me and the one to whom my heart is bound. I shan’t let it hinder me, nor this slayer of Omens thou hast spoken of.”

“Would you have us accompany you?”

“Nay. There is naught thou couldst do to aid me.”

“Then do what you will, my king, and may you be victorious.”

Morgott descended from the ashen capital into the realm of the Three Fingers.

Chapter Text

“How could this have happened?”

Marika stood upon a balcony, framed by the Erdtree’s radiance, her face somber as she gazed at the cliffs and the roiling sea beyond Leyndell’s bounds. Behind her, within the queen’s chambers, Renna’s countenance was twisted with anger.

“How didst thou come to allow this?” Renna’s demand rang sharply through the room once more, but still Marika did not stir. “All our people, gone! The cities are vanished, destroyed by a falling star of ill omen! But even the stars are held in thy hands, thou who art a god! So how has this travesty been birthed? What sin was so grievous that thine own stock would be wiped away?”

Marika remained unmoving, but she spoke, the knell of her words subdued. “I did not desire this.”

“Then tell me how this is so!” Renna cried, her anger breaking with the greater weight of grief. “Surely thou wert not blind to this happening!”

Marika finally faced her sister’s onslaught, and though her face was somber and serene, her eyes betrayed the affliction of sorrow. “They would not forsake the old ways.”

“Such things were discussed deeply long before now.” A new wave of horror passed over Renna’s countenance. “Didst thou know this calamity and speak naught of it? Didst thou let the worshipers continue to their doom?”

“Nay!” Marika flared, suddenly seeming immense and terrible though no change had come upon her. But she diminished with equal suddenness, returning to her subdued state when she continued. “A trespass that may have been, but ‘tis not what brought this about. Thou hast contended with their resistance of Death’s sealing, but thou dost not know the whole of it. In secret, a blade was fashioned, forged from a corpse. ‘Twas then used to slay the Two Fingers of Nokron and Nokstella. The Greater Will could not let such an affront stand.”

Renna listened in silence, and her response was long in coming. “And thou? Wouldst thou let it stand?”

“The Erdtree governs all,” Marika said. “Even I.”

Renna’s fury slowly dissolved into pained resignation. “So thou wouldst forsake thy own people in thy godhood.”

To this, Marika said nothing.

“They shall become naught but a distant dream to Godwyn, and thy future children shall never know their heritage.” Renna shook her head. “Canst thou make peace with that? I find myself hard-pressed to do so.”

Marika turned her back on Renna, at first seeming to be a gesture of cold indifference. But then she said, “Thou dost know the nature of Death far more than I. Yet I know they are not all consigned to the doom they endured. Where they may be found, I cannot say, nor can I say whither thou goest, if thou art to seek them.”

Renna gazed long at her, but no more words passed between them. Then she departed, leaving the Eternal Queen alone in her splendor.

The gilded halls of Leyndell became a night sky, but it was no true sky at all. It was a falsehood, an imitation, white points of light floating in an expanse of dusky purple that ended far above in a ceiling of stone. Below the charlatan sky stretched cities of silver stone, carved into dark rock above rivers shining threaded in quicksilver and darkness. In a far recess, beyond the purview of the cities, Renna knelt on a knoll of grass, muted by growth in a sunless land. Before her stood a monstrous likeness, a two-headed bird, lacking all flesh save for milky pale eyes bulging from distended skulls. Skeletal, featherless wings dragged in the grass alongside four clawed appendages, stirring up a ghostly fire where the bones touched. The body was equally grotesque, sprouting into two necks from the spine and ending in beaked heads of dark bone, seeming too large for the body that they were connected to. But Renna was not troubled by the image, gazing upon the creature without fear.

“I offer myself as a vessel for thy power,” Renna said. “For I hold what was once thine.”

A response came like the rattling of dry bones, the twin heads clacking their beaks, though no breath issued forth from them.

“I seek this not for myself, but for my people. They are cut off, imprisoned ‘neath this false sky, and I wish their betterment. I do not wish to make war with the Golden Order, but neither do I wish for Numen-kind to remain ever trapped by their queen and god who once offered them a new life.”

More rattling followed, the beaks clashing like metal upon metal.

Renna extended her arms in a posture of acceptance. “I ask that thou dost grant me thy strength.”

The bony talons stretched forth, igniting with pale flame. Renna remained still as they closed in on her face. The flaming claws touched her skin, just above her eyes, and dug in with what was surely be agonizing pain. But Renna did not make a sound as her flesh was rent, the flame seeming to take hold of her eyes.

Then it was done. The creature drew away, taking its flame with it, but Renna was changed. Upon her eyes were now strange seals, a mark of three claws stretching from her eyelids. After a moment, she stood, and when she opened her eyes they were changed to a deep, luminous blue.

Rowa came awake with a vision of Morgott in her thoughts. Somewhere in the cascade of memory, he had appeared, his likeness seeming more than just a recollection as he called her name. Momentarily caught between dreams and reality, she searched for him, but all she could see was a stone brick ceiling arching high into darkness above her. He was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, you are awake at last.”

The voice that spoke nearby echoed oddly in the expanse. Recognition was slow in arriving as her mind sifted through things past and present, but arrive it did, sharp and unpleasant. It had been a long time since she had heard that voice, but she would never forget it. She lifted her head, hoping her ears were mistaken, but sight solidified the truth. A name rose to her lips, bitter as she spat it out. “Ofnir.”

Gideon stood a few feet away from her, dressed in the same silver armor she had known him to wear. A single torch illuminated him and the space around them, casting his face in deep shadow, but she could see the gleam of his eyes, as shrewd and cunning as ever. Beside him lay her swords, removed from her person.

“It’s been a long while, hasn’t it?” he said, seeming unconcerned by her immediate vitriol.

Rowa sat up slowly, but even then Gideon’s posture did not shift an inch. She was not bound in any way, her hands and feet free, and was no pain or reprimand in moving herself. Her body felt normal, strong even, pulsing with the strength of Great Runes. When she looked herself over she saw no trace of wounding save for what she had sustained against Maliketh.

“I can see you have changed much in your journey,” Gideon went on. “There is great power in you.”

Rowa fixed him with an icy stare. Now that she remembered her life beyond the fog, her animosity towards him had increased tenfold. She saw the Reedlander warriors all over again, murderers of the defenseless looking down at her, and she clenched her fists. Lacking her swords would not stop her.

“You have done what many tried and failed to do. For that, you have my utmost respect. You surpassed the obstacle that stood in the way of many, maybe even me once upon a time. You sacrificed a Maiden. You lit the Forge.”

A snarl tore from Rowa’s mouth as she flew upright, springing forward with her hands outstretched towards Gideon’s neck, having every intention of crushing the air and any remaining words from it. She moved with all the speed and power she could muster, and in the blink of an eye he was almost within reach.

That was as far as she got. Gideon’s hand moved at his side, and she grabbed at it to stop him, but her limbs suddenly ceased to respond. Gold ignited on the floor beneath her, and something tight, something burning, wrapped around her arms and legs. She crashed against the floor, the impact and the pain driving the air from her lungs. The gold burned, searing against her flesh, coalescing like shackles of agony against her wrists and ankles.

“I anticipated your anger alongside your great power.” Gideon leaned down, observing her gasping in pain like she was an interesting specimen. “But I did not anticipate that fire. I expected you to waste your breath parleying with me before such an outburst.”

Rowa braced against the ground, letting the strength of Runes flood her body in a great rush as she strained against the bonds. Her attempt only resulted in further pain, so searing that a scream burst from her despite all attempts to restrain any show of distress. Even against all the power she held, the shackles held fast, and the pain became too much to bear. She slumped to the ground, panting, and the hurt dulled to a tolerable burn.

“A valiant effort,” Gideon droned, “but once fettered, such bindings cannot be broken except by an outside party, or perhaps by a god. Unfortunately for you, you have not attained godhood yet.”

Rowa kept her face to the floor, her cheek pressing into the rough cobblestones harshly as she fought to regain her breath. It dawned on her that she did not know where she was; stone tunnels stretched into the darkness beyond their little ring of light on all sides, and the air was heavy with the odor of mildew and wet rot. She worked furiously to recall such a place, but her memories offered no clarity. When her body finally recovered from the pain, she spoke, a low hiss that reverberated through the tunnels. “What have you done to me?”

“Far less than I could have.” Gideon moved into her field of view, bringing forth an ugly object of blackened alloy, bathed in a golden light. “You have seen something like this before, haven’t you?”

Rowa’s recognition came quicker than before, her heart lurching at the talisman and the memory of the one who had held such a thing previously, the defiler who had tried to bind Morgott.

“It seems it was a fool’s errand for that repugnant Tarnished to try and bind Margit the Fell. I know he met his end at your hands. He was nothing but a zealot to some vile doctrine of his own invention, and in that zealotry he did not see fit to try and strengthen the shackles before using them.”

Remembering Morgott’s ability to break the chains, Rowa surged once more. She lunged at Gideon, but the golden bindings returned just as strong and agonizing as before, slamming her against the stones and tearing the air from her lungs.

Gideon had not moved an inch. “You do not have the same fortune as Margit. Finding you like I did allowed me to complete the bindings for you, and only you. Even if you can withstand the pain, I think you’ll find breaking the chains quite impossible.”

Rowa was tempted to try again in the wild hope that he would be wrong, but she restrained herself. She knew the extent of her strength, and if the shackles could withstand that, then they were truly fearsome bindings. She had already ended her life once in that senseless, bloody maelstrom across the fog, and now with Death there would be no more chances. She would wait, and bide her time to slay him.

“What do you want?” she murmured, her throat raw.

“First, I want to know what has become of your traveling companion. It did not escape me that you allied yourself with Margit for quite some time, and I wish to understand how the famed Tarnished hunter decided to abandon his pursuits.”

Rowa raised her head, studying him as best she could in the flickering torchlight, but she could not be sure if he knew the truth of Margit’s identity. “I was afforded an opportunity to speak with him, and we realized it would be better to ally ourselves instead of clashing.”

“To what end?”

“Restoration of the Lands Between.” The once hopeful words were now bitter on her tongue. “The creation of a better world.”

Gideon huffed quietly like the idea amused him. “And so what has become of him?”

“We parted ways.”

“Does he yet live?”

An ache solidified in Rowa’s chest, a pain beyond that of the burning shackles. “I do not know.”

Gideon paused, studying her with the same unnerving intensity that she remembered. Then he said, “Very well. What of Morgott, then?”

Rowa drew in a breath. “The Veiled Monarch?”

“Indeed. You passed through the city into the mountains without the aid of the Roundtable Hold. Surely you must have some inkling as to the demigod’s identity, if you did not defeat him outright.”

Once more, Rowa was unsure as to his knowledge, but she feigned ignorance. “I never encountered him.”

Gideon tilted his head. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Then what of this?” Gideon drew forth something else, holding it up for her to see. The Erdtree’s Favor talisman, dangling by its broken cord, its glint muted in the dimness.

Though the item had become embittered to Rowa, seeing it hanging in Gideon’s hand sent a wave of rage surging through her so powerful that she nearly choked. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing the truth. Morgott had done wrong, but she remembered what true cruelty was now, and she knew why her heart had shied away from Gideon in the beginning.

“I know nothing of the Veiled Monarch,” she insisted. “That was given to me by Margit.”

“Indeed?” Gideon’s voice pitched upwards, betraying a hint of surprise. “I see the remnants of a binding vow on this object, one meant for husband and wife.”

“He and I were wed to prevent betrayal.” The hurt inside Rowa sharpened.

“You wed yourself to an Omen willingly? You’re more foolishly compelled than I thought you were. This is an interesting trinket your Omen found, a prized symbol of favor.” Gideon hummed thoughtfully, studying the talisman. “I did not take those creatures for thieves, but perhaps such sin is innate.”

Rowa could not tell if he was toying with her, or if he truly drew no connection between the two figures. She did not consider herself a good liar, but perhaps his devotion to the Golden Order rendered him blind to Morgott’s heretical existence. “What more do you want from me? Have you not come to try and take my Great Runes?”

“Ah, yes.” Gideon tossed the talisman her way, and it landed on the floor in front of her. “That was my original intent in seeking you out.”

Rowa picked up the talisman with quivering hands, cradling it close. It was still cool, lacking the warmth of its other half. “Then if you would kill me, why not do so now? Why do you hesitate? I know you are no stranger to slaying the defenseless.”

Gideon did not seem angered by her scathing words. He looked at her for a moment, then said, “It wants you alive.”

Morgott dropped into the depths, heedless of the fall’s long distance. He landed first on a rafter, one of many great wooden beams stretching across the tunnels’ uppermost ceilings for support. From there, he dropped the remaining distance to the floor, landing with intentional lightness so as not to betray his presence. However, as soon as he straightened himself, he knew stealth was largely pointless. The malevolence he had sensed above was now increased, bearing down on him like the aura of his Nightriders, though there was no familiarity or knowledge of loyalty to dilute the feeling.

It knew he was working against it, and it hated him.

A growl rumbled in the depths of his throat as he grasped at his medallion. Rowa was somewhere down here, just as the twins had said, but she was still far away, deeper. Perhaps she was almost as deep as the wretched cathedral where he had erected the final ward. The seal still held, but he knew not for how long. If she saw fit, she could break it with ease.

That thought prompted him to move beyond the chaotic enmity weighing at him. He stood in a familiar hall, the entry point between the Leyndell catacombs and the sewers themselves. The last time he had walked through this hall was to seek out the Omens that remained below and ensure their wellbeing as best he could. Now nothing but silence rang in his ears, and as he stepped into the far corridor that descended towards the sewers, he saw the first corpse. An Omen, misshapen and brutish, cut down by a cruel blow to the neck, blood of burnished crimson-gold leaking onto the stones.

Though the sight angered him, it was not as despairing a sight as it would have been. Death was unbound, and so Omen souls were not condemned to wander the Lands Between as outcast spirits. He could not stop to perform any rite or honor, but he spoke as he passed.

“May thy soul be now blessed and not cursed. Mayest thou find the peace thou wert denied for so long in this life.”

More bodies waited, hewn by similar wounds as the first. The remnants of sorcery lingered about them, granting Morgott a growing assurance of who he would find at the end of the path. He stepped into tunnels he had all but forgotten about, and as he passed over rusted piping and waterlogged intersections, they were rendered only vaguely familiar by time and willful attempts to forget. But as he went, following the pull of his medallion, the way solidified in his mind. He was descending to the cathedral.

Soon, the whispers began. Morgott anticipated their coming, for he had faced them before both in living in the Shunning-Grounds and the journeys he had made below the city afterwards, but even his foreknowledge could never dull the horror. The whispers were far beyond even the most anguished of spirits above, filled with the burning agony of a soul rent by profane, fathomless depths. They were as the tortured souls affixed to Rykard’s Rune, but legions more, flayed by an imperishable fire.

There was wailing, screaming, echoes of a mass grave he had glimpsed but once before fleeing and sealing the carnage away, but there were also voices. Morgott could not discern whether they were from those who were dead or yet lived, but every one was wreathed in the embers of chaos.

“Ah, Lord Vyke, it seems that you were no lord, after all. Then where is he? Our true Lord, our Lord of Frenzied Flame...”

Morgott pressed on, trying to shut his ears and mind to the voices. Despite his attempts, they persisted, driving into his understanding.

“We beg of you, incinerate all that divides and distinguishes. Ah, may chaos take the world!"

Morgott bared his teeth in a wordless snarl, pushing himself forward physically all the quicker as though that would somehow put distance between him and the cloying whispers. Things long repressed began to stir beneath his skin the deeper he went into the prison of his reviled people, awakened by the memories of his own time there and the need to retaliate against the dread god that sought to expel him. He did not try to repress it any longer, and it slowly began to surface after long years of restraint. The sheer vaingloriousness of the Three Fingers was enough to push him beyond the constraints self-inflicted for the sake of the Golden Order. The Shunning-Grounds and Rowa both were his to protect, and he could not allow the Three Fingers to reach beyond that wretched pit.

He plunged onwards, his blood and soul alight.

A sickening dread grasped Rowa, numbing the lingering pain of her shackles. Staring at Gideon’s face, just barely visible to her beneath the crest of his helm, she could not be sure of what he spoke of, but something in his words chilled her. “What wants me alive?”

Gideon leaned closer, studying her. “Do you not hear it?”

Rowa hesitated, listening, but beyond the echo of their voices she could hear nothing. Even so, the dread did not fade. “I hear nothing.”

“The call from below, the endless fire that waits to incinerate all that divides and distinguishes.”

Rowa’s mouth went dry as she understood. She had been brought to the place Morgott had kept her from entering. She was below Leyndell, and whatever was above was surely not half so terrible as what waited below. There was no trace of that yellow spark in Gideon that she could see, but that did not mean it was not there, waiting to be struck into a full blaze.

“I do not hear it,” she said, “but I know you contend with something that must be left alone.”

“Left alone?” Gideon echoed. “Perhaps because it has been left alone that we have reached this sad state of affairs.”

“What state is that?”

“When the Erdtree burned, I came to see it, and I glimpsed what lies within. What I saw…” Gideon faltered, and though it may have been the dancing shadows of the torch, Rowa thought she glimpsed fear in his eyes. “Marika has been imprisoned within, all this time, and she is not whole. She is shattered. There were voices, she and Radagon both, and they are at war. She vies for the destruction of the Order she created, while he seeks to uphold it. It seemed they were one, yet separate. Her will is not as I understood it.”

“I learned much the same that Marika’s intentions were not as the Two Fingers decreed,” Rowa said, “but that does not mean you must heed this call you hear.”

“The truth was hidden from me for so long, I who sought the path to become Elden Lord with unmatchable rigor. Now I believe none shall take the throne. Queen Marika has high hopes for us, that we continue to struggle unto eternity. As she battles within herself, so shall we battle until all the world is swept away.”

Rowa began to see it, what had driven Gideon to this brink: aspirations long sought after, shattered with new understanding and foiled attempts at taking the power she had gained. “What Marika desires is of no consequence to me. I know what I desire, and I will take the throne or die trying.”

“Such aspirations are pointless. I know in my bones a Tarnished cannot become a Lord. A man cannot kill a god.”

“A man,” Rowa said, “or you?”

“Even for all your power, it would be pointless. Marika is as broken as this world.”

“You cannot know what would be pointless. You have hardly stepped beyond the safety of your Roundtable Hold.” Rowa tried to move, and was reminded of the bindings keeping her in place. “You are nothing but a coward, always sending others to bring you what you desired, and now that you face something unknown you despair. You cannot kill a god, but I will.”

Gideon lapsed into pensive silence. “Where is the idealism of mercy that you once possessed?”

“Gone in the knowledge that it shall only hinder me, but even so, I do not wish to destroy all the world.”

He leaned so close she could almost feel his breath. “Ah, I see it now, the seal that wards away the call. Who placed such a seal upon you?”

Rowa stared at him unflinchingly. “I wove it myself.”

He narrowed his eyes, but did not press the issue. “A well-attempted effort, then, for someone who was certainly no scholar. However, I do not think it will be strong enough to withstand me.”

Before Rowa could question him, he was reaching towards her face with one armored hand. She leaned away, but could only move so far, held fast by her chains. Despite her struggles, his hand came to rest on her forehead, the rigid plates of metal cold and biting against her skin. She braced for pain, but none came. Just as when Morgott had placed the seal upon her before they were even wed, there was only the faintest sense of something changing, something leaving her. The ache in her heart increased, but that was swiftly forgotten when the whispers came trickling into the absence where the seal had once rested.

You have seen the pain and fracture that stain the world. It was the same voice, quiet, soft like a warm breeze on a cold day, returning to her mind as though it had never left.

“No.” She barely felt as Gideon’s hand left her, shaking her head to try and rid it of the voice. “Leave me.”

You have seen the pain, and its futility. You could have saved her, and now you are alone. The voice pressed on her mind, an ember waiting to be kindled. She is gone. Why do you persist?

Rowa could feel it beginning, the pull, equally revolting and tantalizing. The pull to descend and accept the call, to melt away all the pain and overturn everything in fire. She struggled to set her mind on Melina and the promises they had made, but even those were embittered by the voice. When everything was made new, what good could she bring, stricken as she was with loss and betrayal?

Gideon spoke, though it seemed far away as she battled inside herself. “Now, you hear it. Now, you will begin to understand. It seeks you and your power, and I am interested to see what it shall make of you.”

Rowa reply was strained. “Are you coward enough that you will not approach it yourself?”

“I still seek knowledge, even here at the end.” Gideon straightened, beckoning her. “Come. It waits below.”

Rowa did not move, defying him outwardly as she tried to defy the voices within.

Gideon held out the shackle. “Rise.”

A hoarse cry left Rowa as the chains binding her forced her unwilling limbs into motion, making her stand to her feet with a biting reprimand. Caught as she was between the voices invading her mind and her bodily peril, she fixed him with a hateful stare. He turned away, the shackle pulling her into step behind him. She had no choice but to follow, clinging to the broken talisman as they descended towards the waiting fire.

Morgott felt the breaking of the seal upon Rowa. It was small, insignificant against the greater physical seal erected in the depths, but it was just as dreadful if not more. Without it, her mind was left bared beneath the flame, open to the call that would surely reach her, and he dared not consider that it had been herself that removed it.

The murmuring he had tried to surpass swelled, as though the haunted echoes knew of Rowa’s plight as well. They crashed over him, seeming to echo through the abandoned, rot-riddled tunnels as he charged through them. There was no way for him to be sure if they were in his mind or if they truly rang in his ears, rebounding off the broken walls in waves.

“All that there is came from the One Great. Then came fractures, and births, and souls. But the Greater Will made a mistake. Torment, despair, affliction...every sin, every curse. Every one, born of the mistake. And so, what was borrowed must be returned.”

“Silence,” Morgott demanded, leaping over another fallen Omen. The words washed over him, unable to be shut out, and they did not relent at his command.

He came to a long shaft that dropped down into blackness, and he jumped without pause, entering a brief fall. The level below, another large hall of stone filled with refuse and stagnant water, came up fast. He struck the ground, ready to push off and throw himself into a lunge that would send him flying down the hall, but faltered. Glowing embers littered the darkened corridor in front of him, shining like yellow stars in the oily black. The fur along his spine stood up.

They were not embers, but eyes.

Gideon led Rowa through a series of corridors, and though she tried to remember the route they took, she quickly lost her sense of direction as she waged war for her mind.

Pain will not cease when you become Lord, the voice entreated. There will still be death and war and sorrow. You will still be broken.

The greatest horror Rowa felt was not from the whispers pulling at her, but that she was compelled to listen. When she mended the Ring, rediscovered the Crucible, and set the world right, there would still be pain. There would always be pain, and hers seemed insurmountable, an agony more powerful than any physical harm that she had experienced. She would become Lord for the world, for her promise to Melina, but she would face it alone. She could not envision trusting anyone else so deeply as she had trusted Morgott and Melina; the fear of being broken again was too strong.

He prevented you from hearing the truth, from hearing what could have saved her. But you may still walk the path of true rigor. Burn your sins away.

Rowa was jolted from her mind when the floor moved beneath her feet, sending her stumbling. She had not noticed they had come to a lift, which was now ferrying them even deeper into a huge, unused cistern. Gideon did nothing to help her regain her balance, staring straight ahead at the walls moving by. It made her shudder to think of what was being whispered to him. Her bonds kept her arms tightly in place at her sides, but she flexed against them continuously, seeking any sort of weakness.

The lift slowed and came to a stop at the bottom of the old cistern, at the opposite end of which lay a large archway, barely visible in the torchlight. Gideon stepped from the lift, and Rowa was compelled to follow against her will. As they approached the archway and whatever lay beyond it, some undefinable pressure began to increase, bearing down on Rowa’s body and soul with burning intensity. So too did the voice grow more insistent, tugging at her heart, beckoning her forward. She feared that when they passed through the arch that something terrible would occur, and steeled herself, but nothing did.

Everything was eerily calm as they descended a short staircase into a large, open room. It seemed to have once been a place of worship, old wooden benches lined in haphazard rows across uneven masonry. At the far end of the room stood an altar of sorts, above which a huge conglomeration of the Erdtree’s roots had broken through the stone walls, spidering across the ceiling and down the pillars that lined the room like grasping hands, a haunting reflection of the clutches that lurked below.

“To think that they worshipped down here.” Gideon’s disdainful comment rang loud in the high arches, approaching the altar. Some hidden mechanism had been used to move the main portion of the altar aside, revealing a passage beyond. As Rowa looked upon it, she saw the golden gleam of a seal, waiting to be removed. She stopped walking, defying the pull of the shackle.

“You do not know what you are listening to,” she hissed. “Whatever it offers, it is not worth what will happen in the end!”

But in the end, your pain will melt away.

“I do not truly know,” Gideon agreed, “which is why I seek the knowledge. You broke the seal on Leyndell to enter the city, so you surely possess the power to break this one.”

“I will not do it!” Rowa’s body quaked beneath the pressure.

Gideon pulled viciously at the shackle. “You will, even if I have to break every one of your limbs.”

Morgott stared at the glaring eyes, roiling with fire and hatred. The enmity they brought weighed upon him like the heaviest of chains, and despite the fire he was frozen. All the terror he had battled against at Shabriri’s coming was now returned tenfold, a paralyzing poison seeping into his veins. Every animalistic instinct inside him bade him flee, but his heart would not give in. It was trying to ward him away.

“Melt it all away, with the yellow chaos flame. Until all is One again.”

Rowa’s scream was cut off as the pain sapped her ability to vocalize. Something gave in her right leg with a horrifying crack that seemed to echo through the room, and she staggered, using her Runes to keep herself upright. Bands of searing gold encircled her arms and legs, pulling with an unforgiving strength that threatened to bend her limbs beyond their breaking point. Despite her agony, the soft voice crooned at her, telling her to give up her resistance and melt all suffering away. Sweat trickled down her neck as she lurched another step towards the hidden passageway. So great was her pain that she almost wanted to listen.

“I’m so…sorry…” Her words were little more than a sob. “Melina.”

Gideon’s cruel hand dragged her forward with no regard for her foot that now hung at an unnatural angle. She stumbled, another cry catching in her throat as a white-hot brand flashed through her body. With every step, the voice grew louder, more hypnotic. Fighting to ground herself, she gripped the talisman in her hands, the metal cutting into her palms.

It was warm.

Her breath hitched, but no longer from the pain. She dared not hope, trying to convince herself that it was merely a falsehood created by her overwhelmed mind and body, but the warmth persisted in a fashion she knew down to her soul. Even if he was coming as an enemy, he would not unseal the Flame of Frenzy. Her lips moved in a nearly silent plea, and not to her tormentor.

“Please…”

The bond solidified like a thread drawn tight, striking Morgott’s awareness. His medallion warmed to nearly its full strength, and he heard the cry traveling from soul to soul.

“Please…help me.”

As if to counter it, there came another fire-filled voice, this one maddened and full of rage. “O Three Fingers, throw wide the door. Please, bestow unto me the yellow flame of chaos. A frenzied flame to melt away the curses, suffering, and despair. And the Order, entire. May chaos take the world!”

But Morgott was strengthened, Rowa’s call acting as a cleansing balm that washed away all fear. She was close, and she had not yet given herself over. He faced the terrible eyes with new courage, standing straight in defiance as he stepped forward.

“Behold me, fell god,” he snarled. “Behold me, the Omen King. I, who am chaos, who am hated by all this world doth call Order. But where thy chaos would burn all into one horror, I am the chaos of many forms, of many kinds, of many lives sprouting forth in difference. I am that which thou dost hate, but I have lived beneath hate all my life, and thou shalt hinder me not. Thou hast set thy foul grasp upon that which I am sworn to defend, and I decree thou shalt not take her.”

The eyes around Morgott flared, a bellow of inconceivable words rattling through him, but his mind was now beyond fear. It had no flesh with which to harm him; the eyes were an illusion brought to him by his Omen blood, which now boiled just below the threshold of the final restraints, waiting to be released. He had told Melina he would do everything in his power to save Rowa from the Frenzy, and so he would, even this. His stave became molten hot in his grasp, but it was a good heat, and he thundered onward past the illusions.

“I will do as you ask,” Rowa said, strangled with pain as she gave Gideon a pleading look. “Just please…torment me no more.”

Gideon regarded her contemptuously. “Then resist me no more.”

Rowa nodded, struggling to put one foot in front of the other, but Gideon no longer pulled at her. The light of the seal grew brighter, and the whispers grew louder, but so too did the talisman in her hands grow warmer. She had been heard, and she could feel no bitterness for her peril.

She was almost to the passage behind the altar when a loud, deep boom rang from the old cistern beyond the cathedral. The floor shook, followed by the rhythmic pounding of footsteps rapidly advancing. Both she and Gideon turned, but they heard before they saw.

“Ofnir!” The shout split the quiet of the Shunning-Grounds like thunder, and Rowa hardly recognized the voice for the rage that was in it, but her heart rose in relief.

Gideon dropped the torch to grab his staff, summoning a bevy of luminescent blue blades. Something moved in the darkness beyond the cathedral’s entrance, and he let the blades fly, streaking towards the entryway with deadly speed. A golden blade rose to meet them in a devastating arc, slicing through every single projectile and shattering them into nothing.

“Do not think thou shalt be rid of me so easily.” The voice rumbled across the room, low with barely-constrained rage.

Gideon seemed to realize he was no longer contending with the easy foe of unsuspecting Omens, lowering his staff slightly. “Then come forward. Step into the light.”

Morgott’s hulking figure moved through the darkness with ease, stopping just within the fitful ring of light cast by the fallen torch. His uncovered eye gleamed luminescent, and Rowa saw nothing but anger therein, though she could not say if it was directed at her. His gaze rested on her for only a moment before remaining fixed on Gideon.

“It seems your pet Omen came after all,” Gideon mused, gripping the shackle tight. “Loyal, like a dog to its master. Did you know he would come?”

Rowa gave no reply, her gaze shifting between the two.

Gideon pulled at the shackle, sending another bolt of pain through her. “Did you?”

“Stop this.” Morgott’s icy demand pulled Gideon’s attention back to him.

“How strange that it is under these circumstances we finally meet, Margit the Fell. You, hunter of the Tarnished, have bound yourself to one,” he said.

“I have desired to meet thee, if only to put an end to thy foul deeds,” Morgott hissed, his teeth flashing. “And this is among the foulest.”

“Your loyalty to this Tarnished is commendable, though you can hardly speak to what is foul.” Gideon raised his chin. “However, I anticipated such loyalty in seeking out the Tarnished who would be Lord.”

Rowa’s shackle suddenly clattered to the floor as Gideon drew forth something else. She spotted another hunk of misshapen alloy, another shackle, and a warning shout rose in her throat too late. Gideon lashed out, sending golden bindings spiraling across the room. They wrapped around Morgott’s body, cutting into his skin, but he made no move to fight or avoid it. The shackle tightened…then broke, shattering into motes that died in the air.

Gideon flung the shackle at him again, but again it broke into nothingness. “What is this?”

Morgott took a threatening step forward. “Thy shackle is constructed for Margit. He is but a veil, concealing the truth that I have long hidden.”

Rowa remained as still as she could, watching Gideon’s posture begin to tighten.

“I am not a mere Omen, but a lord.” Another step forward, Morgott’s eye a golden star. “And thou hast laid thy wretched hand upon my avowed consort.”

“By what right do you rule?” Gideon’s question was made harsh with incredulous dismay, as though the idea of an Omen lord was more inconceivable than the Frenzy’s horror.

“Birthright!” Morgott thundered. “Thou dost look upon a demigod, son of Marika and Godfrey, Lord of Leyndell.”

Gideon raised his staff again. “You cannot be a demigod, foul creature!”

“Then let thine eyes be opened with thy dying breaths!” Morgott took hold of his stave at the hooked end with great strength, raising it high. The gnarled material it was composed of fell away, shattered beneath his hand. A sword was revealed beneath, almost as long as Morgott was tall. The curved blade was nacreous and iridescent, shimmering like fire and water fused together, forged from the blood he had tried to seal away long ago.

Morgott brandished the blade, his wrathful gaze upon Gideon. “Have it writ upon thy meagre grave: ‘Felled by King Morgott, last of all kings’!”

Gideon charged at Morgott with a roar, blue light igniting along his staff. Morgott raised his newfound blade, and there was a horrible shriek as the two weapons met, clashing against each other. Gideon was sent stumbling away by Morgott’s retaliatory push, but quickly rebounded, summoning more sorcerous swords to follow him.

Rowa moved instinctively to join the fight, and found her movements were no longer hindered. The shackle Gideon had constructed lay on the floor, forgotten in the indignant confrontation against the heretical demigod. A blood haze fell across her mind, pushing out all traces of the Frenzy’s calling. The pain in her foot was forgotten as her strength surged, and a wild howl tore from her mouth as she flew towards her enemy. She had no weapons, but she did not need them.

Gideon did not see her coming in time, Morgott’s wrath bearing down on him. She slammed into him, knocking him to the floor. Before he could even understand what had happened, her foot came down, crushing his armor and his spine beneath it like leaves.

He never rose again.

Chapter Text

A man stepped into Marika’s chambers, almost as radiant as she. He was tall and strong of form, his face youthful and ageless. His hair was as a cascade of liquid gold, flowing down his shoulders and back, made more vibrant still by the dark sash and robes he wore.

On the other side of the room, Marika turned, greeting him with a warm smile. “Godwyn.”

“Mother.” Godwyn dipped in a small bow, though he returned her smile. “I received thy summons through Gurranq. Forgive me for thy wait. I hastened as quickly as I could, for Gurranq spoke of a matter of great importance.”

“He spoke truly, though an afternoon shall make little difference in this matter.”

“Is that so?” Godwyn queried. “‘Twas in my mind that Father would be in need of help in the south.”

“Nay. I did not summon thee to speak of conquest this day.”

Godwyn spread his hands. “Then what hast thou to say to me?”

Marika approached Godwyn, and her smile did not fade. Then they stood face to face, seeming of equal might and splendor, a mother and son. She took his hands in her own, clasping them tenderly. “Since thy father is away, I wished it to be known to thee first. I am with child.”

Shock rippled across Godwyn’s face, followed swiftly by pure joy. “Truly, Mother?”

“Yes, beloved, truly.” Marika’s smile was as bright as the Grace she embodied. “I had my suspicions, and the apothecaries confirmed it this very morning.”

“This is wonderful! I am sure Father will be overjoyed.”

“I await his return all the more eagerly now.” Marika touched her midriff, yet unchanged by the life growing within. “And I am glad of thy anticipation.”

Godwyn laughed. “What else could I feel? To be a brother is a wondrous thing.”

“This child shall be fortunate to have a brother such as thou,” Marika said. “I hope, son or daughter, that they shall have thy father’s strength, and thy gentleness.”

“But what of thee? Surely thou dost wish something of thyself to pass from mother to child.”

Marika’s smile faltered for a moment. “Truly, I haven’t given that much thought.”

Godwyn swept on. “Should we send word to Father?”

“Nay. ‘Twould be ill-advised to bring him such news in the midst of his battles. I shall bear this with patience.”

“What of Renna? Hast thou heard aught at all from her since her departure?”

“Nay.” Marika’s smile faded entirely. “I’ve received no word. Though I wish for her to know of this, it cannot be done.”

Godwyn’s brow furrowed pensively. “If thou dost grant me thy blessing, I would seek her out. Her parting was bitter, but would that bitterness come upon me?”

“There would be no bitterness for thou, of that I am certain,” Marika said. “Do as thou wishest, but know we are sundered from sisterhood, and I fear there is no hope of reconciliation.”

The aureate chambers became the silvery roads of an Eternal City, lit by pale torches and false starlight. A procession marched along one such road, their figures tall and strong. Some were dressed in white robes and headdresses, others in shimmering armor of silver, but they were Numens all. In their midst was Renna, her eyes like blue stars that had been plucked from the imitators above.

The group stopped before a massive structure, a throne of silver stone so tremendous that the base was constructed into a chamber. Two women wearing creamy robes and divided hennins with veils that covered their faces detached from the group. They approached a set of doors in the throne’s base and opened them, turning to face the assembly.

“It is here,” one said. “Enter now, and see that which brought us doom.”

Renna stepped forward alone, entering the peculiar hall. Many fine urns and treasures lay within, but the most prominent was the stone coffer in the middle of the floor. Renna stopped before the coffer, and pushed the lid aside with careful hands, gazing long at the contents.

A knife lay there, reverent in its isolation. Its blade was curved, but so jagged that it seemed broken, fashioned from some unknown dark material that seemed infused with the rusty red of blood, mottled crimson-black.

“How was such a blade forged?” Renna asked, not looking away from the item.

“‘Twas fashioned from a corpse,” one of the women outside said. “Death cannot be gained without death.”

Renna was silent, then turned away from the weapon. “I will forge my own blade.”

The snapping of Gideon’s bones was lost as a loud ringing overtook Rowa’s hearing. Gideon was still upon the floor, and she did not stop battering him, the feeling of metal crumpling beneath her feet only encouraging the wild rage that had overtaken her. He was a hideous echo of those murderous Reedlanders, and she unleashed the vengeances old and new on him. All the dismay and disgust from their parting at the Roundtable Hold was now multiplied in her understanding of herself, and the abject horror of what had almost happened to her. She would rend him into nothing but ash before she was satisfied.

“Rowa, stop this!” A large hand seized her by the arm, dragging her away from Gideon’s body. “Thou hast scourged him well enough!”

Rowa struggled, but another hand came, seizing her face in a firm grip and forcing her to look away from the fallen man to a visage she knew well. Morgott stared down at her, his gaze piercing gold even in the gloom. His face was dour, but no longer filled with rage, the burning intensity diminished by something more troubled.

“Thou hast belayed him greatly,” he said, “and there is no need for further punishment.”

The bloodlust began to clear from Rowa’s head as she stared back at him, his presence seeming to restore rational thought to her. His palm, calloused and warm, rested at her cheek, the expanse of his hand nearly swallowing her entire head. As she began to calm, his hand fell away, allowing her to look once more upon her fallen foe.

Gideon’s armor looked as though it had been beaten beneath the hammer of a forge, the plating warped and pitted enough to promise that the body beneath it was equally afflicted if not more so. He lay silent and still, his limbs flung out like a discarded puppet.

The residual power began to filter from Rowa’s body at the sight, leaving weakness in its wake. Though the shackle was now without its master, it still weighed heavily upon her, and as her strength left her body could no longer withstand the bindings. Pain shot up her leg from her wounded foot, and her knees buckled.

Morgott caught her before she could fall completely, lowering her to a sitting position on the floor, and immediately turned on the physical form of the shackle. Taking up his now revealed blade from where he had dropped it, he approached the vile object. He raised the sword high, red flame igniting along the length of it, and brought it down upon the shackle in a deft but brutal stroke. The sharp sound of metal being cleaved apart rang through the room, accompanied by Rowa’s gasp as the great weight was lifted from her body. She sagged as though the shackle had been the only thing keeping her upright, threatening to fall back against the floor, but Morgott swiftly returned to her aid, supporting her back with one hand.

Rowa let her weight fall against him, her limbs feeling like little more than dry twigs threatening to snap, trembling with overexertion. The shackle and her resistance of it had sapped all her strength, leaving her exhausted in a fashion she had not felt for some time. However, she kept a ferocious grip on the talisman, its warmth a steady reassurance in the whirling chaos in her mind and body.

“Rowa.” Morgott leaned over her ailing form. “Art thou wounded?”

Rowa opened her mouth, trying to piece together a response, until fire flashed in her mind. Something stirred, the voice seeping up from below and plunging into her mind with urgency, though now it hardly seemed comprehensible at all. It was a whisper and a shout, speaking words that no human tongue could form. She shook her head, wanting to rid it of the invading presence, but it would not relent.

“Hear me, Rowa.” Morgott’s sharp call came from beyond the tempest in her mind. “Thou must set thy mind against it. Reject it wholly, entirely!”

The clamoring in her mind grew louder still, and somewhere in the chaos she understood it did not want her to listen. Behind her eyelids flared a yellow fire, and in the midst of it were three fingers, a more terrible echo of the Two Fingers she had seen before.

“Do not avail thyself to ruin. Do not let Melina’s sacrifice be in vain.” A hand gripped her fiercely. “Even if thou hast no care for me anymore, then think of her…please.”

The desperation in his voice awakened new resolve in Rowa that she had not expected to find. He sounded more stricken than he had on the path to Destined Death, his thunderous demands to Gideon diminished into something almost tremulous. For how much he hid his grief during their time together, the emotion she now heard was of a startling potency.

The horrid fingers bent and stretched, calling to her, but she was certain she no longer wanted to listen. Morgott spoke truly; she could not allow Melina’s sacrifice to be squandered, no matter how deep the knife of grief cut at her. The Frenzy could destroy suffering, but so would it also destroy all joys and the world Melina had given herself up for.

“Enough.” Rowa was not sure if she spoke aloud or only in her mind, but the Flame would hear regardless. “I know the destruction you will bring, and I…I do not desire it.”

The fire-filled chanting swelled into a cacophony that shook Rowa to the core, striking her with a wave of anger so powerful she feared she would not be able to withstand it. Gold light flared through her eyelids, and she opened them in time to see the seal of the Erdtree in Morgott’s hand, though it was not the same as she had known it to be. Before, it had been the pure gold of the Erdtree, but now it was of some deeper hue, the gold tinged with crimson. She was vaguely aware of the change, but she did not have time to consider it as he reached down, the seal drifting from his palm to directly above her heart. It past through her skin, sending a warm pulse through her body, and the storm of chaos subsided, plunging her into a jarring quiet. A heaving gasp left her as she returned completely to herself, and she scrambled for purchase, finding it in the solid warmth of Morgott’s grasp.

“The seal is renewed,” he said, crouching over her. “The fell god is retreated.”

Through the dimness, Rowa could not be sure what she saw written upon his face, whether it was fear or relief, or even both. Such expressions were so unnatural with his austere disposition that it was almost unsettling. There was something else as well, a change that had come upon him. Though no physical change had taken place, he seemed different, somehow truer to himself and no longer restrained, like an invisible veil had been lifted from him.

Somewhere inside herself, she wanted to be angry that he was here, that he had followed her despite their broken parting. But her heart remained traitorous despite all fury, for she shuddered to think of what would have happened if he had acquiesced to her wrathful rejection. So her attempts at remaining embittered towards him were diluted by the one question that haunted her from across the fog.

“Why?” she croaked, the mere act of speaking almost seeming too great for her body to manage.

Morgott’s visible eye widened fractionally, his brow furrowing. “Why what?”

“Why…did you follow me?”

Morgott paused, and when his reply came, it was low and hesitant. “I made a vow at the foot of the Erdtree to shield thee from peril, and I do not intend to break that vow. I promised Melina I would not forsake thee when she was departed. Even if we deemed it necessary to hide her intent from thee, it has pained thee greatly, and in doing so I have broken my vow. I will atone for it now, by not letting thee walk alone through the trials that remaineth.”

Again, Rowa was torn. In her anger she had desired to walk the path alone, but that isolation had brought her to the brink of something unthinkable. There was also a certain sense of relief, knowing that he had not come as an enemy, for her heart refused to deem him as such in return.

“Thou’rt weakened and injured,” Morgott continued quietly when she offered nothing in return. “Am I to assume thou wert granted no reprieve after thou didst lay the Black Blade low?”

Rowa nodded, swallowing in a vain attempt to wet her dry mouth.

“Then if thou wouldst allow me, I shall bear thee safely from here. Thy mind and body are in need of rest.”

Rowa hesitated, but nodded her agreement again. Her heart still burned with the ill-born blaze of grief and anger, but even that could not push her forward now. An ugly feeling curdled inside her, that for all her power she was still rendered feeble in this moment, but there was no other course. Her body could not enact the will of her mind, and if she had to relinquish herself to another’s care, she was glad it was him. She clutched the talisman to her chest, letting the warmth rest where it had before.

“Very well.” She thought she heard a note of relief in Morgott’s voice, but it was gone as he murmured an incantation. His hand touched her forehead, and the wave of drowsiness was instant. She leaned against him, and he held her fast as she slipped away into slumber.

Morgott cradled Rowa close to him, rising to his full height. Now all was quiet once more, but the peace was only a thin veil. The Three Fingers had receded, but he could still feel the animus beyond the seal, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. He spoke into the silence, lifting his sword in his free hand.

“Begone, if thou’rt truly deathless,” he said, staring towards the glow of the seal beyond the altar. “Thou shalt not deign to take her in thy foul grasp again, for if thou’rt a living thing or even dark undead, I shall smite thee, if thou dost come again.”

His words faded into silence, and no mockery of a voice or maddened cries came in reply, the strength of his blood now drowning out all fell influence. Only the knowledge of enmity remained, waiting below but finding no escape.

Satisfied that the threat was largely kept at bay, Morgott turned to Gideon’s crumpled form. The viciousness with which Rowa had attacked him left him unsettled. The few glimpses he had caught of her ferocity in battle had never amounted to such wrath, and though Gideon had earned such treatment that he would batter him similarly, the fire in her eyes had not yielded once he made her stop. Her gentle disposition that he had once disdained seemed nowhere to be found, replaced by something colder, harder. A dread filled him as he looked upon her slumbering face, almost as great as the dread that she would enter the thrall of the Three Fingers. He feared the hurt was so deep that it had destroyed the kindness of her heart, but he could not be certain until they spoke further. For now, he had to be content that she had come away from the harrowing ordeal unscathed, and she had not rejected his help. He had not overlooked the talisman clasped almost painfully tight in her hands.

Gathering Rowa more securely against himself, Morgott left the forsaken cathedral behind, beginning the long ascent back to the ashen surface. However, the distance was of little concern to him, as he was driven by the desire to free Rowa from the wretched halls. Neither did he wish to dither, for even beyond the maleficence of Three Fingers, dark memories of his time spent amid the tunnels arose in his mind as he passed places of unfortunate familiarity.

The journey was long, for he maneuvered now with careful attention given to the woman in his grasp, but eventually he reached the highest levels of the Shunning-Grounds once more. Ash had formed in piles beneath the grates and entryways, illuminated by the fire they had come from, and for a moment he paused, looking up the ladder entrance he was about to ascend. There was fire above in the Erdtree’s being and below in the Three Fingers’ horror. One was a fire of hope and sacrifice, the other a razing flame of despair. Though perhaps she was forever changed, Rowa had chosen the better flame to tend.

He arose into the ash-ruined city, greeted with the same eerie stillness that now inhabited the Shunning-Grounds. Leyndell had been a shadow of its former glory when he had presided over it, but now it was truly gone, the realization sinking in deeper now that his thoughts were no longer fixed on the urgency of reaching Rowa. A sliver of melancholy worked its way into his heart, but he did not wholly despair. Rowa had remained true despite the Three Fingers’ temptation, and there was yet hope for the world. The fire that burned the Erdtree seemed as a wildfire that burned away the old to let the new sprout forth.

Morgott began climbing the hills of ash, seeking a place largely untouched by the ash to hide away in. As he crested the first incline that sloped down to where he had emerged, the large, brutish figures of the Omen twins appeared. Upon noticing him, they approached as fast as their lumbering gaits would allow, calling out.

“My king, we are glad to see you! Were you successful?”

Morgott shifted himself to reveal Rowa cradled against him. “Aye.”

Their relieved greetings faded as they drew nearer to him, their relief turning to something like awe. Morgott supposed they were strangely overcome by Rowa’s appearance, until one of them said. “What has become of you, my king? Our blood…it sings in your presence!”

The proclamation left Morgott somewhat mystified as he looked down at himself and the sword, glittering like the cosmic patterns that often occupied the night sky. He felt stronger, like he had been bound with the shackles they had left below, though these had been of his own invention. His blood flowed powerfully in his veins, filling him with a vigor beyond that of his Great Rune. “‘Tis true that I divested myself of the seals placed upon mine own blood, so that my strength was no longer hindered by them…but I know not why ye feel thusly.”

“Do not be troubled. It seems a wondrous thing, as though there is now hope for us Omens.”

Morgott was startled by the praise, unsure of what about himself warranted it, but the slightly uneven breaths Rowa in his arms drove him to put it aside. “I cannot dwell on such things now. I must find a place of shelter to tend to my…my consort’s wounds.”

The pair bade him follow them, so he did, bearing Rowa across the wasteland. They led him to the outskirts of the city’s innermost wall, the higher portions of which had been spared from being engulfed in the sea of ash. They brought him to the gatehouse, and he found the sliver of Grace they had passed by all that time ago on their departure to Gelmir persisted even amidst the burning and destruction as an oddly heartening sight.

Morgott set Rowa on the gatehouse floor with great care, though she did not stir from her slumber as he addressed the twins softly. “Wilt thou stand guard?”

The twins did not hesitate, hastened for opposite ends of the gatehouse. “Yes, my king.”

With murmured thanks, he quickly set about assessing her wounds, knowing her resistance to the shackle had not been painless. The most obvious was her foot twisted at an unnatural angle, but as he ran a careful hand along each arm and leg, he was relieved to find no other breaks. He lifted her slightly, feeling along her spine and ribs, though they were as they should be. Aside from that, the filth of the sewers that littered her body and clothing. Almost nothing had been spared from the grime, and the smell was just as offensive as its appearance.

Morgott focused on her foot first, grateful for her sleep as he set it back into a semblance of its proper position. When he conjured his healing incantations, he found himself faced with the same aberration he had witnessed earlier: his spells were no longer pure, filled with crimson-gold. Though it was startling, he likened the change to a facet of his unsealed blood, or the burning of the Erdtree, or even both. He watched closely as Rowa absorbed the motes from the incantation, the light fading as the spell took hold. Placing a hand upon her injured foot, he could feel the magic within, beginning the process of mending the inward parts and confirming what he had surmised earlier. Though changed by some means, the incantations were still as he had constructed them to be, their power steadfast.

He moved on to her other, lesser wounds next. Drawing forth his powders and ointments, he began to cleanse her as he had on the return from Gelmir, but this time he had no clean rag to use, instead settling for his own hand. With great care, he wiped away grime from her face. In sleep, her likeness was made gentle again, and he wished he could wash away the hardness he had seen that would surely return in her waking hours.

As he shifted to her hands, he found the talisman there. He carefully pried her fingers apart, and found she had gripped it with such strength that the alloy had cut into her palms. That gave him some small measure of hope as he set it aside, washing the creases in her skin and each stained, dirtied finger. Once the dirt was removed, he gathered her hands into one of his own, casting the same healing incantations over them.

Watching the bruises and cuts begin to fade, he considered the breadth of power contained inside those hands, so diminutive compared to his own. They had defeated the Black Blade, and now held Death within them alongside three Great Runes. It struck him that, if she wished it, she could lay him low for the anchor Rune he possessed. But she had called for him in her peril, and that granted him a hope that she would accept his atonement. She had not responded when he bared his intentions to her in the Shunning-Grounds, but he could not fault her for that. Such things were better discussed when they were both of sounder mind.

When Rowa was cleansed as much as she could be without impropriety, Morgott took the Erdtree’s Favor, pausing to study it. The talisman’s body remained whole and unchanged; only the cord was rent where she had snapped it. For an instant, he considered mending the cord, but decided to wait. He was not yet sure of where Rowa’s inclinations truly lay, and he did not want to impose anything more undesirable upon her than he already had. Instead, he set the talisman in her hands again, so that it would be there when she awoke.

It was only then that he stilled, finally turning a semblance of attention towards his own constitution. Though his Omen blood now filled him freely, it could not chase away the exhaustion that dragged at him, in body and in mind. He was not sure in what state he had walked the road of Death, whether it was waking, sleeping, or something hanging in between, but he felt like he had not rested since that final night at the foot of the Forge. Now that there was no immediate danger, the need to rest was becoming steadily harder to ignore, as much as he wished to. If he was to join Rowa in the last legs of her journey, he would need his strength for whatever remained before them. The Greater Will would not relinquish its hold of the Elden Ring without a battle.

Finally, he arose from Rowa’s side, calling out to the twins in the language of Omens. They came at once, standing before him. “Tell me,” he said, “are there any other dangers that await within the city or without that thou hast witnessed?”

“No, save for wild creatures,” one replied.

“And what of the people, the soldiers who left the city?”

“They remain outside the walls on the plateau,” the other said. “As your Nightriders commanded them, they await you. Will you go to them?”

Morgott shook his head. “Nay, not yet, for the world is not put right. My presence, hidden or true, shall do them no good while the Erdtree burns. However, I am greatly wearied from my struggles, and I would ask of both of ye that ye keep watch, while we rest.”

“Certainly, my king.”

“Awaken me if thou dost see anything that troubles thee.” Morgott glanced at Rowa. “If she awakens before me, stir me likewise without hesitation.”

With words of affirmation, the twins returned to their previous posts. Morgott began seeking out a space for himself on the stone floor of the gatehouse, and he found himself greatly desiring the previous constant of Rowa’s weight at his side, for the light warmth as much as the remembrance of a time before her easy affections were burned up in the Forge with Melina. He had not realized the comfort he drew from her closeness, as dismaying as it had been at first, until now when he was severed from it, sitting upon the stone floor with a shard of Grace separating them. They had been reunited, but not truly, for there remained a greater distance of the heart.

He lay down, setting his sword at his side, his fingers finding the smooth, hard texture. Years ago, when he had first poured his blood into a blade and sealed it, he never thought he would ever find himself pressed to unseal it. Even in the midst of the Shattering, he had persevered without the strength stored inside, and once the greatest throes of war had ceased he was sure there would never be a conflict greater than that.

How wrong he had been.

His gaze found its way to Rowa, illuminated vaguely by the Grace’s glow, and knew then that he did not regret unsealing it. It had granted him the strength to save her from the wretched grasp of Gideon and the Three Fingers, and if the world was to be restored with the Crucible’s power, there would be no need to seal that part of himself away. He imagined that, were they not so sundered, that she would have met his unsealing with joy.

That thought pained him in no small amount, so he shut his eyes, but the image of Rowa’s face would not be cast from his mind. It was her he thought of as exhaustion took him, but he did not dream, for all the languishing spirits of the Lands Between had been taken away into the Death that had long been denied them.

Chapter Text

Godwyn stood beneath the false sky, a gleaming light against the darker hues of silver that composed the Eternal Cities. Behind him was another man, long hair the color of bracken framing yellow, draconian eyes, his large form wrapped in robes of earthen hues.  A mist bound grove stretched around them, grass the color of the twilight sky spreading beneath their feet.

Godwyn’s companion lifted his head to the fragments of imitation night visible through the foliage. His lips drew back, revealing long, needlepoint teeth that contradicted his regal bearing. When he spoke, the words reverberated like they belonged to a form far larger than the one he possessed. “This place…’tis deeply strange in mine eyes.”

“Thou’rt not alone in that feeling,” Godwyn replied, watching the trees around them.

The troubled lines on the man’s face deepened. “My brother, I do not wish to linger here. I feel there is much amiss. I feel there is…Death.”

“Keep thy peace, please. The bearer of Destined Death is close at hand.”

As if in response to Godwyn’s declaration, a figure appeared in grove, seeming a pale moon to counter his shining sun. Renna looked upon them both, but there was no joy in her face. In one hand she held a great sword, the blade dark and composed of two intertwining sections.

“Flee from here, both thou and Fortissax, anon!” Renna said, her glowing gaze sharp upon her kin. “‘Tis not safe for thee here!”

Godwyn responded only with concern. “Is it not dangerous for thee as well?”

“Nay. I have made my choice, but thou…” Renna’s countenance became sorrowful. “Thou dost mean well in seeking out thy kinsmen, but they shan’t respond in kind.”

“What has become of thee?” Godwyn asked. “What are these strange marks upon thy flesh?”

Renna raised a free hand to her eyes, as though she had forgotten the presence of the marks. “‘Tis not for thee to contend with, sweet princeling. Thou dost belong above in the brilliance of the sun, where dark things do not linger.”

Godwyn shook his head. “Why dost thou not speak openly with me? Do I not have thy love?”

“Thou dost have my love, and thou shalt always have it, for if I were a mother I would surely count thee as one of my own.” Renna extended her hand toward him, but stopped herself, like an invisible barrier lay between them. “In that love, I beg thee to flee this place and do not return. There is much disdain for the demigods here, and I fear that some will seek to snuff out thy light, no matter how pure it may be.”

Still, Godwyn displayed no anger, lifting his head to gaze upon the glittering imitation above. “Very well. If that is what thou dost wish, then I shall obey, but know that I feel thy absence keenly, as does Mother.”

Renna spoke in little more than a whisper. “And I feel thy absence in kind.”

Godwyn lingered for a moment before departing. Fortissax followed him, but his gaze rested on Renna for a searching span, the reptilian gleam silently discerning much. But he said nothing to the former Empyrean, and followed his companion from the dusky grove.

Renna watched them until they vanished from her sight, her face drawn as though she battled a great strain. Her hand trembled around the blade at her side, which remained unmoved from its position at her arrival. She stood long after the pair had gone, then finally left the grove, hefting the blade as though its weight was nearly unbearable to contend with.

The grove became a massive, flooded cavern lined with waterfalls and, and in the midst of it was a huge throne upon which a corpse of equal size sat, decked in rich robes. In a far, darkened recess of the cavern, behind the crumbling pillars of some ruin, Renna knelt on a small portion of dry land with her twisted sword beside her. Before her lay a body, though it hardly resembled one, blackened and broken almost beyond recognition. A portion of the body had been carved away, leaving a cavernous opening in the torso.

Despite the grotesque appearance, Renna did not turn away, regarding the body. Then she lifted her head and spoke. “Hear me, Twinbird vassal, and waning god of death. What thou wouldst ask of me, I cannot do. I took thy power to better my people, but not to slay mine own kin. I tarried with thee, until thou didst demand that I kill my sister’s trueborn son, who hath committed no transgression against any Numen. That is something I cannot abide, and so I depart from thee.”

Renna drew forth a knife from her robes, a curved blade of black with three spurs branching from it.

“This body was defiled and destroyed for the sake of vengeance at thy behest. So now I give it back to thee, with a blade of mine own.”

Renna raised the knife, positioning it before her right eye, and plunged it in. The air trembled, the water rippling as though something stirred in protest, but no sound came forth from her. She drew the knife out of a bloodless wound, and it clattered to the ground as she reached up, grasping her eye with her hand. Her palm ignited with flame of crimson-black, and she pulled it out, leaving a sealed eyelid behind. She then reached for the broken body, and pressed her hand over the place where the left eye would have once been.

She swayed, diminished and weak, then fell to the ground.

The dark cavern became the gilded halls of Leyndell. Marika lay abed, her regal image shattered. Her hair ran free from any braids, sweat glistening on her skin, her loose clothing tousled and crooked. The room was dark save for a few candles around her bed, the Erdtree’s light only a distant glow through one of the latticed windows.

Small cries broke the stillness. Across the room, a giant of a man with a phantom beast upon his shoulders held two squirming bundles. His hands swallowed them, but he cradled them to himself with careful tenderness.

It was silent save for the pitiful crying. Marika gazed straight forward, never turning aside even as the cries grew louder. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for a pronouncement.

“I know what thy god shall ask of thee,” Godfrey said, his low rumble breaking the stillness. “And I shall not have it. These are my sons.”

Still, Marika did not look at him, nor the newborns in his arms. When she spoke at last, it was done with the strength of a queen, but her face betrayed what her words did not. “Take them from my sight, and never bring them before me again.”

Rowa opened her eyes to a stone ceiling illuminated in gold. Her awakening was prolonged by whatever incantation Morgott had placed upon her, her thoughts slow in solidifying beyond the swirling memories that had come to her by Melina’s blade. She turned her head carefully, squinting as the light of a nearby shard of Grace struck her eyes. Once her vision had adjusted, recognition of the gatehouse swiftly followed, but it took a few moments more to realize things were not entirely the same. From her position on the floor, she could not see through either doorway, but the orange glow of fire was plainly visible shining into the room. Likewise, the air smelled of smoke not unlike Gelmir, though there was a lack of any foul undertones.

She pushed herself up slowly, finding the worst aches and pains were gone or faded, which was surely Morgott’s doing. However, she realized that he was absent, and she was alone in the room, but the talisman was still in her hands and faintly warm. She opened her mouth to call out, but her voice caught in a dry throat, sending her into a small coughing fit. A shadow moved beyond the doorway as the noise alerted someone, but instead of Morgott, she was greeted with the face of another Omen she had never seen before.

Startled by the stranger’s appearance, she reached for her swords, only to find they were not at her side. When she looked around and did not see them, she tried to get up, only for her limbs to fail her. She crumpled with a gasp, and the Omen barked something. He shuffled forward, and she dipped into the strength of her Runes, readying herself for a fight.

“Who are you?” she rasped.

The Omen stopped like he recognized her hostility. He said something, a series of growls and grunts she did not know, his glittering eyes wide upon her.

“Who are you?” she demanded again. “Where is Morgott?”

The Omen perked at the demigod’s name, and he spoke again, this time in halting, slow words she knew. “I…go…Morgott.”

Rowa stared, too addled to understand what he meant, but this did not seem to matter to the Omen. He lumbered off with surprising speed for his bulk, disappearing beyond the doorway. In the brief stillness, she looked around more methodically, and finally spotted her swords sitting neatly near the far wall, appearing to be cleaned of any refuse from the sewers. A shudder ran through her at the remembrance of the dark tunnels, and as she debated trying to reach her weapons, her gaze found her foot. Were it not for her memories of being shackled, it was almost as if it had not happened. Her foot sat at a correct angle, and when she touched it, no pain sprang beneath her fingers. The only trace of her experience that remained was the lingering weakness.

Before she could summon her strength to move, footsteps sounded outside again, this time accompanied by a voice that made her heart seize with a renewed knot of conflict.

“Rowa!” Morgott stepped into the gatehouse, sword in hand. “Forgive my absence. I was surveying the land.”

Her emotions twisted and churned, but her body demanded one thing: “Water.”

Morgott moved hastily to fetch the canteen, and as he did, the Omen from before reappeared in the doorway with another standing just behind. Rowa’s attention was diverted when Morgott arrived with the water. Setting his sword aside, he supported her with one hand, the canteen held gingerly between his fingers in the other. She did not resist his help as he lifted the canteen to her lips, and she drank deeply, the liquid refreshing her dry mouth and throat.

“Dost thou desire more?” Morgott asked when she paused to breathe.

“In a moment,” she replied, trying to gather her thoughts together. The talisman was fully warm now, and his still dangled about his neck close by her face, a testament to his unwillingness to complete the severance she had begun. His declarations on the road to Death had not been hollow, even if in her fury she had deemed them as such.

One of the Omen pair grunted something akin to a question. Morgott glanced their way, replying in the same language, startling Rowa for how strange it sounded to hear his voice speaking in such a manner.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“They are Omens I lifted from the Shunning-Grounds some time ago. I set them to guard the Divine Tower at Leyndell’s edge so none would seek any power lingering there, but now that time is passed. Never were they given names in the common language, but I would call them Marcus and Leonius.”

Rowa looked upon the pair, their forms more brutish and misshapen than Morgott, riddled with horns across their bodies. They looked akin to the ones who had loved her in that faraway land, monstrous things that possessed more heart than many others. “Tell them I apologize for speaking harshly before. I was confused.”

Morgott did so, speaking once more to the pair. They responded, bowing their heads deeply. Morgott said something else, and they grunted affirmations, lumbering from the room.

“They accept thy apologies,” Morgott said. “But I do not wish to leave us unguarded for long.”

“What threat remains?” Rowa asked.

“None, directly, but the scape of Leyndell is now vastly changed.”

It occurred to Rowa then that she had not seen the city, nor the Erdtree itself, since they had last departed for the mountains. “I want to see it.”

Morgott hesitated. “Perhaps ‘twould be unwise for thee to—”

“I want to see it,” Rowa insisted, beginning the process of getting to her feet, and Morgott made no more objections. The weakness remained profound in her formerly injured foot, causing her to stumble. Morgott put a steadying hand on her arm, and she did not recoil at the touch with the knowledge that she could not yet uphold herself. He helped her to the gatehouse door, where her breath was stolen away by the sight of Leyndell in ruin.

She had not known what to expect by the burning of the Erdtree, but never had she envisioned anything like the sea of ash beneath the burning tree that lay before her now. Only once her lungs began to burn did she remember to breathe, though the air caught in her throat as she wondered if such destruction was worth the world to come. She then wondered if Melina had known this would be the outcome, and she finally tore her gaze away to look upon Morgott.

“Did you know this would happen?” she asked.

Morgott twitched visibly, something like a flinch rippling across his face. “Nay. I knew nothing of this. I could only imagine the change that would be wrought, but this…”

Rowa looked back at the city as he trailed off, her heart continuing its silent war. She wanted to distrust him, and yet could not, for her life had been wholly in his hands. He had saved her, healed her, and now stood alongside her in fulfillment of the vows she had tried to scorn. It filled her with shame as much as anger, that he would remain so loyal.

“I’ve seen enough,” she decided softly.

Without a word, Morgott helped her back inside, aiding her in sitting against the wall. She stretched her legs out, and he knelt beside her, a question in his gaze. She nodded her consent, and he took hold of her formerly wounded ankle with much care, touching it to discern its state. She watched him work in silence, until the words inside her would no longer be left unsaid.

“You promised Melina that you would follow me,” she said, not as much a question as a reiteration.

Morgott’s ministrations hesitated for the briefest moment, but he did not look away from his work. “Aye. I did.”

“To prevent the Frenzied Flame from finding me?”

“Aye.” His fingers ran from her shin to her ankle, featherlight and careful. “But ‘twas more than that.”

“How so?”

“She…she did not wish for thee to go forth alone, for she knew thou wouldst be much aggrieved by her parting.”

“You knew it too.”

Though her tone was dull, lacking any barb, Morgott’s shoulders tightened slightly. “I merely took her at her word, until I saw thy grief over the serpent girl. ‘Twas then I knew that she was right to ask it of me…and I eventually came to desire it beyond necessity.”

Rowa ached as the last words almost trailed into a whisper, as though he feared to admit it. “Why?”

Morgott paused his work, raising his eyes to hers. “Because I know what it is to bear grief alone, and thou didst lessen that burden. I would do the same for thee, so that thou wouldst go on in the face of it, as thou hast done.”

Rowa wished his expression of feeling was not mingled with such pain on her part. “I cannot go forward as I have before.”

“In what way?”

“There can be no more mercy. If death is what is asked of me, then death is what I will give. To have mercy on those who oppose me, especially upon those like Gideon, will grant me nothing in the end.”

Morgott looked at her long, his gaze searching. “I felt that a change such as this had come upon thee, but why is this so?”

“In taking the Rune of Death, I was granted remembrance of my life beyond the fog.” The ache within her intensified as she recalled more clearly the memories she hadn’t the time to think on before. “I know now why I was, and why I am.”

“Then wilt thou tell me of these things?” Morgott’s question was soft, almost beseeching.

Rowa did not deny his request. She told him everything she remembered from that distant land, the good and bad, the joy and sorrow, the life and death. He listened, and did not speak a word, his countenance still as stone. She ended the tale at her awakening in the Lands Between, having recounted it all with great effort toward withholding the pain from manifesting in her words, though she was not sure how successful she had been. Morgott’s countenance seemed softened in sympathy when she finished, and she found it difficult to look upon him.

“I have lived through too much brokenness,” she declared. “I will destroy the Golden Order down to its very roots.”

Morgott’s reply was long in coming, but just as soft as before. “Even Marika?”

“If that is what is required, and if she seeks to stop me.” Rowa forced herself to look him in the face. “I know that is not what you desire, but Melina’s life is too great a sacrifice for me to waste.”

“I do not desire it, but neither shall I oppose it,” Morgott said. “Long have I considered Marika’s state, and I understand that she may not live through whatever rigors are yet to come.”

Rowa let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “You will not oppose me, even after all I have said?”

“Nay, for the vision remaineth true. Thou hast stayed the path and rejected the Frenzy. Melina saw much promise in thee, and I believe that promise is steadfast even now, even if thou hast been hardened by pains old and new.”

Rowa faltered, surprised by his willingness to continue without greater argument. In her silence, Morgott knelt on both knees, extending his hands to her.

“Thou cannot mend the Ring fully without my Great Rune, the anchor. In that knowledge, I would offer it to thee.” He cupped his palms, and the Great Rune materialized there, bright and underscored with a red tinge.

Rowa was speechless, looking long at the shard of power presented to her. Her hand twitched as the Runes inside her trembled, desiring to be reunited with another part of the greater whole, but she restrained the urge, tearing away to look upon Morgott himself. “You would give it to me now, freely?”

“I would,” Morgott said, with no doubt to be seen. “As I have said, I wronged thee greatly, and I offer this now as recompense if thou wouldst seek to depart from me. I see the promise Melina didst see in thee, and I…I trust it.”

Rowa’s mouth felt dry again as she looked between him and the strength he offered. The Runes cried out for their missing shard, and her mind for the power that would be bestowed to her, but the talisman was warm in her hand. With great effort, she said, “Keep it, for now.”

Morgott looked as startled as she had felt at his initial offer. “Truly?”

“Yes.” Rowa squeezed the talisman a little as the Rune slowly dissipated from view.

Morgott dropped his hands, his visible eye wide and disbelieving. “I did not think thou wouldst…”

“You withheld the truth, even lied.” Rowa took a fortifying breath as Morgott seemed to shrink beneath her words. “But you also refused to break the binding, pursued me, and saved me from a fate worse than death. Then you offer me the one thing our entire union was built upon without hesitation, so I cannot doubt the intent behind your actions.”

“I only wish to remain alongside thee and fulfill the vows, despite any shortcomings.”

“Then keep your strength for what is to come. When the Ring is mended and the Crucible discovered, then…” She glanced at the talisman in her hand, then at the medallion still hanging from his neck. “…then we will decide how to proceed.”

Morgott nodded slowly, finally averting his gaze from her. “I wished to tell thee, many times across the course of our journey, and Melina also was not without such a desire. I did not withhold anything from thee gladly.”

“Not gladly, but even so…” Rowa trailed off as vestiges of pain flickered across Morgott’s face, guilt tugging at her heart and further dividing it. She feared opening her affections to him as freely as before, the wounds too fresh and raw, though now she better understood why they had been made. “I have not reconciled everything yet.”

Morgott only dipped his head in acknowledgment, returning to his work. Air whispered from his mouth as his lips formed an incantation, crimson-gold light pooling in his palms. He tilted them, the light pouring like water onto Rowa’s leg. She let out a sigh as warmth suffused her skin, reminded of the change that had come over him as the tinted glow faded.

“You are…different,” she murmured, studying him. Her previous observations of an unseen, intangible veil seemed true, for he possessed a new vibrance, the light in his eye all the brighter.

“Aye,” Morgott agreed, appraising the rest of her carefully. “All that was once sealed is now unsealed. Mine Omen blood is now fully untethered.”

Rowa’s gaze drifted to the nacreous sword on the floor beside him. “And that blade…is it forged with that blood.”

“It is.” Morgott touched the weapon briefly. “Once, I sought to rid my body of Omen blood entire, and so I bled it into this construct. ‘Twas not originally intended as a weapon, but it became so in time.”

“You seem stronger.” Rowa wished for the happiness she surely would have felt for him before they reached the Forge, but she could not fully muster it. “Are you pleased with this?”

“I may be.” Morgott stood, and she nearly gave voice to her troublesome desire for him to remain close by. “Thou wilt be in need of food, is that not so?”

Rowa considered it. She had not stopped to eat or drink since that last day on the mountain, the strength of Runes bolstering her without the need to sate physical needs. Even now, hunger did not gnaw at her, though it could have been grief rather than transcendent strength. “I do not feel hungry, but I suppose I will need food at some point.”

Morgott went to the packs he had set aside, retrieving a sizable portion of dried berries and meat and bringing it to her. She took them, finding his hands warmer than they once had been.

“Thank you.” She hesitated, trying to find something more to say, but Morgott spoke before she could.

“If thou wouldst eat, then do so, and rest. Thy strength is not yet returned from the shackle’s foul clutches, and we must be fully prepared for whatever shall greet us.”

Rowa yearned to take the final steps, but she restrained her impatience. To go forth weakened would invite failure, and she would not allow that. “Very well.”

Morgott retreated to the other side of gatehouse and settled there, the Grace shining between them. Though they were now reunited, Rowa had never felt more distant.

Rowa ate a little and tried to sleep, wanting to be away from her thoughts and Morgott’s heavy presence. She did not ask him for his sleeping incantations, managing to drift off on her own once she laid down again. Her sleep was dreamless, and when she woke it was to a strange, leathery sound somewhere in the distance. She had only just opened her eyes when Marcus and Leonius charged into the gatehouse, their eyes wide as they called out in alarm. Morgott, who was still seated exactly where he had been before, grasped his sword and rose, giving the pair a sharp reply.

“What is it?” Rowa sat up, reaching for her blades and searching for the oncoming threat.

“I do not know. Remain there,” Morgott said, holding out a staying hand as Marcus and Leonius spoke again, their guttural words overlapping.

Somewhere beyond the gatehouse walls, there came a distinct thud of something heavy striking the ground, a vibration traveling through the masonry. The twins were further alarmed, and Rowa started trying to get her feet underneath her, but stopped as the Runes stirred inside her. Morgott caught her eye, revealing he felt the same; a new Rune was close at hand.

“Wait,” Morgott murmured, brandishing his blade. He prowled from the gatehouse, slowly stepping beyond Rowa’s view. She stood using the wall for support, her mended foot still weak, but the Runes simmered as they awaited her command. She would not be powerless.

The twins shifted, watching the door along with her. An uneasy stillness settled, and just when she was considering pursuing Morgott, he reappeared, his face grave but no longer alarmed.

“Stay thy blade,” he said, “for Ranni is come to uphold the accord.”

A dragon of dark azure waited on the ashen wasteland outside the gatehouse, standing nearly as tall as it, an antithesis of the fire and burning all around. Its narrow head was crowned with horns and spikes that went down the length of its back, the large wings, feet, and mighty tail stirring the ash with every small movement. A white-robed figure sat upon its back, but no more was it wreathed in the spectral mist of illusion. Ranni had come in body, though a falsehood her flesh was, the blue porcelain reflecting the fiery hues dully.

As Morgott and Rowa approached, the dragon stirred, a growl rumbling in the recesses of its throat. However, the sound died when Ranni spoke.

“Keep thy peace, Adula,” she said, one of the four porcelain hands touching the dragon’s back. “Thou dost look upon the Lord contender that would do away with this destruction.”

Rowa stopped a respectable distance from the creature, and Morgott did as well. She struggled to keep herself upright by her own strength, her healing leg quavering beneath the weight, and Morgott hovered near, but she did not lean upon him.

“Thou hast my utmost respect and congratulations for succeeding in thy ventures,” Ranni said. “Thou hast done what many have tried and failed to do.”

“The work is not yet done,” Rowa replied, feeling far less congenial than she had at their previous meetings. There remained a certain degree of sympathy for the losses Ranni had suffered, but now she wanted to move beyond the facets of an accord and be done with it. “To that end, I can only assume you are here to uphold your end of the agreement.”

“Indeed.” At a signal from Ranni, Adula lowered herself closer to the ground, allowing the witch to slip from her perch onto the ash. “Thou hast done all I asked of thee, and my gratitude shall remain unending.”

“The god-slaying blade,” Morgott said. “Thou wert able to retrieve it?”

“Yes. With the protection afforded by the Mirrorhelm, I secured the blade and my revenge against the Two Fingers that were long mine enemy. Now the only Two Fingers that remain hide within the Roundtable Hold, but I imagine that they shan’t be spared from the changing of the world.” Ranni lifted her head to the burning branches. “The Greater Will’s epoch doth hang by a thread. ‘Tis my hope that thou wilt sever it for good.”

“I will see it done,” Rowa promised, “or I will die trying.”

Ranni turned her mirrored visage on Rowa, her gaze shrewd. “Ye art changed from our previous meetings, both of ye. What has happened since last we met?”

“Much I do not wish to speak of. I have lost many things, and so I intend to purge this land of the brokenness that plagues it.”

Ranni regarded her a moment longer. “Very well. Such things are not mine to know, if thou dost wish it. Thou hast remained steadfast, both to Rykard and the Mirrorhelm, and so I shall grant thee what was promised.” She extended one pair of hands, and above them appeared a Rune, a burning ring struck through on its left side. Rowa’s Runes bade her reach out, but Morgott stepped forward first.

“This Rune, it hath festered long ‘neath the Rot,” he said. “Is it safe?”

“Rest assured, what little Rot there was is now purged. Radahn fought it until his end, and ‘tis a foul curse I do not seek to propagate.”

Morgott studied the Rune, then said, “Very well.”

Rowa caught his eye. He gave a tiny nod before looking away, and that was assurance enough. She limped toward the offered Rune, giving in to the outreach of the ones already within her. Radahn’s Rune flared at her coming, and she reached out without hesitation, closing her fingers over the arc. Immense strength flooded her body in a rush of heat, seeming as burning as the Erdtree above. Images flickered in her mind’s eye, of battle and bloodshed and falling stars. Radahn’s immense power was almost as overwhelming as Rykard’s had been, but there were no lost souls to contend with. She let it flow until it almost became too much, then she grasped it tight, forcing it back to its new place with the other Runes.

Her eyes snapped open as a hand touched her shoulder, finding Morgott standing beside her once more. “The power, does it overwhelm thee?” he asked.

Rowa trembled slightly from the surge, but she fought to stifle it. “No. I am beyond that now.”

“Thy resilience is most impressive,” Ranni said. “Radahn was not lacking in strength even when overtaken by the Rot. The one who bore his Rune to me struggled ‘neath the weight of it, and I was only spared by this other flesh.”

Rowa pushed away the encroaching echoes of Radahn’s Rune. A desire for blood, to bring death to the Greater Will and the Golden Order, rose afresh within her, though she knew not how much her thoughts were influenced by the Rune’s presence. “The blade, then.”

“Very well.” Ranni dipped a hand into her robes, drawing forth the blade of legend. It was a repugnant thing, mottled and blackened by some perverse rite, its jagged length infused with something that looked much like a spine.

Morgott rumbled with discontent. “A dark thing, that blade is.”

“‘Twas forged in opposition to the Golden Order.” Ranni lifted the weapon, and it reflected no light despite the Erdtree’s brightness above them. “Such a thing could not be accomplished without walking a darker path.”

Rowa extended her hand, unwilling to let the blade’s appearance daunt her. She had seen it before, in the memory of a fallen city. When her fingers closed around it, she was struck with a coldness not unlike Destined Death, but it was not a soothing coolness. It was a burning frigidity that reached down to her very bones, washing over her body. The blade was not forged from the natural existence of Destined Death, but something else, something darker. Remnants of blood glinted within the dark alloy.

It was wrought from a corpse, steeped in hatred, and fortified with the desire for revenge. The blade hummed, and in the humming was a murmured chant that had perhaps been etched into it at the time of its creation.

Let them run, crumble, weep, and fall!
The depths of Death take them all!

The chant echoed in Rowa’s mind. She had heard it before, at the place of Godwyn’s murder, and now she understood it.

“’Tis a thing of destiny, but shrouded in darkness nonetheless.” Ranni spoke, drawing her out of the blade’s presence. “Thou wouldst do well to be done with it quickly.”

The blade seemed to cry out in protest, but Rowa forced herself to answer. “Very well.”

Ranni stepped back. “In mine eyes, the accord between us is now fulfilled. Are we in agreement?”

Rowa glanced at Morgott, who dipped his head. “Yes, we are.”

“I have hope for ye and the world yet to come. The strength between ye is remarkable, as is thy alliance.”

Rowa stowed the god-slaying blade in her belt, pointedly avoiding looking at Morgott.

“I shall leave ye now, so that ye may go forth unhindered. With the hope of freedom close at hand, I shall go now to my mother, as I should have long ago.” Ranni returned to Adula’s side, then hesitated. “I suppose there is one last thing I would ask, if thou wert willing.”

“Speak it,” Rowa said.

Ranni did not face them again, her countenance hidden. “If thou dost meet Radagon at the end of the path…I ask that thou wouldst grant him a swift death, if it can be done.”

It was not a request for outright mercy, and Rowa could abide that. “If it is possible, it will be done.”

“My thanks.” Ranni spoke softly, almost sorrowfully, but when she mounted Adula, she seemed as assured as ever. “Soon, these flames shall be snuffed out by a new age, a new Lord. Mayest thou sunder the Greater Will from this land, and sit upon the throne.”

With a single leap and a downward stroke of mighty wings, Adula took to the air in a blast of arid wind. The long, reptilian figure spiraled toward the Erdtree’s burning branches, then soared westward, disappearing beyond the walls of Leyndell, leaving the pair behind with a blade that could slay a god.

Time seemed to slow beneath the burning Erdtree. Day and night were indistinguishable, the sky blotted out by bright flame and smoke. Morgott was only able to glimpse the sun or one of the moons at certain times, so he was left with guesses as to how long they remained in the gatehouse after Ranni’s departure. Two days at least, over the course of which Rowa’s strength returned, her wounded leg mending. Though she did not admit to any further weakness, Radahn’s Rune had likely prolonged the process, another strain on an already recovering body. She did not protest when he bade her rest, allowing him to work his incantations over her wounds, but they spoke little otherwise.

The quiet was no longer comfortable in the way Morgott had come to find it. It hung heavy over them both, and Rowa no longer broke it with her idle questions, a once irksome trait he now wished she would exhibit for the sake of knowing she was not completely changed. However, she only broke the silence when necessary, spending few her waking hours gazing at the burning Erdtree or flicking idly through the pages of the Carian history book that had remained largely unscathed through her careful treatment. That was almost the most hurtful thing, for she did not ask him to read as she once had, staring unseeingly at the words on the page. He almost offered, but bit his tongue for fear of further breaking what already seemed to be beyond repair.

One time, as he lay upon the gatehouse floor, waiting for a fitful sleep to take him, he thought he heard her weeping. He had lain paralyzed with indecision, his heart agonizing with the desire to rise and be of some comfort to her. When he finally stirred just a fraction, she had fallen silent, and that was answer enough to him. He did not hear her again, but sleep did not come quickly.

Of everything, what disturbed him the most was the god-slaying blade. Upon seeing it in Ranni’s hands, an uncomfortable chill had taken hold of him, which had only increased upon Rowa’s possession of it. It was a sinister object, perhaps containing no agency like the Frenzied Flame, but still possessed of dark echoes. He could smell the taint of bloodshed, not unlike the scent of Tarnished who had undertaken rites to slay their own. There was murderous intent woven into the blade, and he feared it would only give further life to the blood-hungry flame in her eyes.

Now that she remembered her past, he better understood the origin of that flame, but he could not bring himself to believe that her merciful inclinations had been born from a mere lack of knowledge. She had been too kind, too sincere for her actions to be lacking an innate quality. Even now, she had treated Marcus and Leonius with respect, and she trusted him enough to let him keep his Rune and remain alongside her despite the fractures. Still, her hesitance over what was to become of their alliance incited a deep and aching hurt he could not rid himself of.

As the second day crept into the third, it became clear that they would not tarry much longer. Rowa’s sleeping periods were shortening, and when she was awake she stirred restlessly, often wandering to the gatehouse entrance to study the Erdtree in the near distance. When she fell asleep again, he resolved to gauge her strength when she awoke so they could proceed. To that end, he sent out the twins to investigate the way to the Elden Throne, expecting them to find little more than ash and ruin standing in the way.

Such a simple hope was not to be so. Morgott knew this when the pair returned wide-eyed and panting, as though they had run the entire distance of the city, and he stood at their sudden arrival. “What has happened? Were ye assailed?”

“No, my king,” Marcus said. “We made it to the Throne without trouble, but someone waits there.”

Morgott scowled in frustration as he considered possible contenders, perhaps someone in Gideon’s employ. “Describe him to me.”

Marcus obliged. “He was a man of great stature, clad in armor of cloth and leather, carrying a battle axe. His hair was long and white, and on his back there was a phantom of a great beast.”

Morgott’s troubles with Rowa suddenly seemed far away. He seized Marcus by the shoulders. “A beast upon his back? Thou’rt certain?”

Marcus nodded hesitantly. “Yes. It was a fearsome creature with a great mane and claws.”

“And thou.” Morgott addressed Leonius. “Thou didst see the same?”

“Yes, my king,” he said. “The very same.”

Morgott had given up on ever seeing his father again after the long, fruitless vigil. Thousands upon thousands of Tarnished had crossed his path, but he had watched for his father to no avail, and now…

“Wake up!” He hurried to Rowa’s side, bending to shake her shoulder. “We must hurry!”

Rowa jumped into wakefulness, her eyes flaring with the power of Runes. “What is it?”

“My father…” The words felt dreamlike even as they left Morgott’s mouth. “Lord Godfrey…he is returned.”

Rowa looked as disbelieving as he felt. “Truly?”

He gestured to the twins. “They spoke of him, and I must see for myself.”

Rowa hastened to ready herself, grabbing her weapons and pack. Fortunately she was swift, for even in that small window Morgott became rife with impatience. There was only the smallest hitch in her step as they set out from the gatehouse, and she kept an even pace with him on the ash.

They traversed the wasteland, cresting dunes and traversing valleys interspersed with golden spires and pale walls. The Erdtree Sanctuary was above the ash’s reach, and so they entered by a balcony, finding the opulent interior largely untouched by the destruction. They crossed the hall where once a golden shade of the former Elden Lord had been woven to halt a Tarnished in her tracks and failed.

As they drew closer to the pinnacle, Morgott steeled himself for an empty dais. The twins were trustworthy, but he could not reconcile Godfrey’s appearance. The smoke and ash, the dismay of such destruction, could have proved too much for them. Perhaps it was merely a vision formed by the heat, a trick of the eyes.

And yet, as they passed through the ceremonial chambers to the ash-strewn walkway and the final stairway, Morgott knew in his heart what awaited. A shuddering breath burst from him, and he felt Rowa’s questioning gaze, but he did not stop or look away as he ascended the stairs. He had to know, he had to see.

The Elden Throne was not empty, even amidst the loneliness of the city. One man stood there, and Morgott knew the sight of him like he had never left.

“It has been a long while, Morgott.”

Chapter Text

Within the ruins of a nameless city, Renna awoke from her slumber as dark bindings upon her were shattered by the power of a demigod.

“Fortissax, come hither!” Godwyn cried, kneeling beside Renna. “I found her! It is she!”

Renna opened one eye, the other remaining sealed. She was slow to speak, and when she did, every word was an effort. “Godwyn…where are we? Why hast thou come to me?”

Godwyn took hold of her trembling hand. “There has appeared one who wears thy likeness, a woman wielding the power of Death who dost seek the destruction of my mother’s kingdom, but I knew it could not be thou. In that dark reflection I did not see thy true self, and I have searched for thee among the forsaken cities.”

Fortissax appeared, searching Renna’s form carefully. “In her, there is no Death. It is gone away.”

“Renna, what has happened?” Godwyn urged. “Was the power of Death stolen from thee?”

“Nay,” Renna whispered. “I gave it away.”

The depths of the forgotten city became the bright halls of the Royal House. Renna stood on a balcony overlooking the golden spires, dressed in plain white robes, her pale hair tumbling freely about her shoulders with no raiment. Marika stood nearby, and despite the resplendence of their surroundings, they were both grim.

“She is called by many names,” Marika said, “but foremost among them is the Gloam-Eyed Queen, who hath made disciples of many. In her, I see thyself, thy likeness, and so I have not yet put her to the sword.”

“Thou wert right to do so,” Renna murmured. Her single eye, now lacking the deep dusky hue, was distant. “From myself I severed the mark of the death god and the Rune of Death entire, but in doing so, I see now I was shattered.”

“Shattered how?” Marika asked, her voice low.

Renna raised a hand to her closed eye. “I know not. There is a brokenness in me, and mayhaps this Gloam-Eyed Queen doth share it. She hath been shaped and molded by Numen hands stained with anger. They seek their Lord of Night, and they forged her with their silver tears as I lay in slumber. I freed myself of the servitude I disdained, yet I have set a great scourge upon the world.”

“‘Twill be I who contend with her, for ‘tis by my actions she was created,” Marika declared.

Renna looked calmly at her. “Will thou seek to have her slain?”

Marika’s eyes gleamed bright with gold. “Nay. Thou hast only to reveal to me the rite that didst shatter thyself so.”

The Royal House became the Elden Throne. A man possessed of fiery red hair knelt before Marika, and though he was of great strength, he was diminished before the Erdtree and its ruler.

“Thou hast done me good service continually, Radagon,” Marika said. “And so I entrust the conquest of Liurnia to thee.”

“Thy will shall be done.” Radagon’s voice was as the toll of a deep bell. “My faith in the Golden Order remaineth true.”

“Never did I doubt that. Now arise, for there is yet one more task I must ask of thee.”

Radagon stood to his full height, the robe at his waist rippling like dark water. “As thou dost wish it, my queen.”

Marika stepped forward, and as quick as a striking snake, she grabbed Radagon’s head. His body went limp like a puppet with severed strings, and he crumpled to the floorstones. A spurred knife appeared in Marika’s hand, and she raised it, plunging it into her own midriff. A ripple passed through her, and she faltered, but she drew the knife out. The wound leaked gold, and within was a glimpse of the Elden Ring in its entirety. She reached into the gash and pulled forth a Rune that was made of sharp, crisscrossing lines, an antithesis to the arcs and spheres that made up the Ring.

Marika trembled, and with great effort she knelt beside Radagon’s fallen body, pressing the jagged Rune to his flesh. “I see it now, the curse of shattering.” Her voice wavered, no longer ringing with the strength of a god. “My soul is…”

Radagon’s eyes flashed open, and in a mirror of Marika’s actions, leaned up and pressed a hand to her flesh in return. They stared at each other in a long silence, though Radagon’s face was slack, devoid of all feeling.

Marika spoke once more, her strength fading. “Thou wilt go into the west, to Liurnia, and remain the champion Radagon. When thou dost awaken, thou wilt possess no memory of this.”

Then they both fell upon the stones in a perfect mirror of one another, their arms outstretched, one woman and one man, one of gold hair and one of red.

“Father…”

Morgott’s disbelieving whisper was nearly lost on Rowa in her own shock. The golden shade she had once fought was a fading echo of the man before her. She felt no Runes within him, and yet he exuded a great strength through mere existence, comparable to a demigod if not more.

“My son.” Godfrey’s greeting rolled across the quiet expanse of the Elden Throne, a rumble of thunder softened by a hint of affection. “How changed thou art from that time long ago, and yet thou dost seem selfsame in mine eyes.”

“Father.” Morgott repeated the utterance, and it hung in silence as he struggled to form more words. “I…I had long ago given up hope of ever seeing thee again.”

“In seeing thee, I understand much time has passed, far more than I had imagined.” Godfrey raised his eyes to the fire-wreathed branches above. “Nor did I envision returning to a land so changed as this.”

Morgott lurched forward on unsteady feet, slowly traversing the distance between him and Godfrey. Rowa remained where she was, stunned into inaction as son approached father. Though Morgott still towered over Godfrey, he fell upon his knees as he came near to the warrior, his sword clattering to the stones. He extended a trembling hand, but did not touch Godfrey, another broken whisper drifting across the Elden Throne’s expanse.

“I fear this to be some cruel fantasy of the mind,” he said, the words quivering like the heatwaves in the air.

Godfrey’s weathered face revealed little, but he took hold of Morgott’s hand firmly. “Fear not, my son. I am no illusion.”

A choked, shuddering noise escaped Morgott, and he bowed his head. “…Why didst thou tarry in that distant land? Why didst thou not return before? Was there nothing to compel thee thusly?”

“‘Twas not by my choice,” Godfrey said. “I was not meant to arise, until the time of the end.”

“For what purpose?” Morgott breathed. “Long did I keep vigil over the Throne as a Shardbearer, awaiting thy return. I slew many Tarnished, thinking them pillagers compared to thee.”

“There is no doubt in my mind that there would be many of ill repute, but I never desired such strife and bloodshed to come upon thee. Even long ago, I knew there would be much war, and I warned Godwyn thusly so he could be prepared.”

“Godwyn…” Morgott whispered the name, his face drawn with pain. “Father, he…”

“I know.” Godfrey interceded to spare him the pain of speaking. Once more, his countenance betrayed little emotion, but the beast upon his back stirred as though goaded by pain. “When I arose, I saw what hath become of Marika, and what drove her actions until her imprisonment. ‘Twas always her intent to shatter the Elden Ring in her time, but her hand was forced by grief. I see the consequences of Godwyn’s death and her actions thereafter.”

“And so thou wert always intended to rise at the end, to seek the Elden Throne?”

“Aye, but I come not for any reclamation. I came to stand as the final bastion between Marika and the one who would become Lord, to determine if they would be worthy. And so I am returned to find thee here, but is it thou who seeketh the crown, my son?” For the first time Godfrey looked toward Rowa, his gaze pinning her down.

“Nay, Father,” Morgott replied, seeming to remember the task at hand. “Not I, but her.”

Godfrey accepted this with a nod, continuing to study Rowa, and she did not quail beneath his scrutiny. “Then declare thyself, Tarnished warrior. The fire of ambition burns brightly in thine eyes. Who art thou?”

Rowa stepped forward. “I am Rowa, a Tarnished of no renown.”

“Renown is of no consequence to me when there are warriors among king and commoner alike. What dost drive thee into battle? What hath kindled ambition within thee to bring thee to this end?”

“The pain and sacrifice made for the world to come.”

“What world is to come?”

“A world of the Crucible remade, so that all who have been scorned beneath the Golden Order will be trampled no longer.”

Godfrey’s weathered countenance flickered with something, maybe surprise. “Then surely thou wouldst divest the Ring from Marika’s possession.”

“I would, to reshape what once was.”

“But the true power of the Crucible is yet unknown to us,” Morgott said. “We encountered one of thy Crucible Knights in our travels, and even they are unsuccessful after much time searching for it, so I must ask what thou dost know of it.”

Any hope of answers was dashed when Godfrey shook his head. “That is a mystery known only to Marika. Never did she speak of what became it, once the sundering was complete, but I like my loyal knights know ‘tis not gone from the world. Thou’rt proof of this, Morgott, and ‘tis a noble thing for thou and this Tarnished to pursue."

Morgott’s form sagged slightly, as though Godfrey’s approval had lifted a weight from him. “Father, thou must know, Rowa is not merely an ally. She is my consort.” The final word was little more than a whisper, laced with uncertainty.

Rowa had refrained from speaking that detail, unsure of what reaction the revelation might elicit. Now that she stood before Godfrey, his strength was undeniable, and she recalled the vision of him standing by the birthing bed with the two sons he would ensure lived on despite their place in the world, an antithesis to everything their own mother represented.

“It was a union made so that there would be trust between us.” Rowa steeled herself against the hurt that trickled in, averting her gaze from Morgott. “And made in the knowledge that ruling the Lands Between is a vast undertaking for one person alone.”

Godfrey studied her, his gaze shrewd in a manner that reminded her of Gideon, attempting to see beneath the surface. However, he lacked the indifferent detachment Gideon possessed, his eyes instead filled with a flame of his own. “And so thou dost hold no ill intent towards the Crucible-born of this world.”

“No,” Rowa said. “I have met many different kinds, both here and across the fog. Almost all were kind to me, and so I have never had any reason to hold ill intent toward them unless provoked to battle.”

Godfrey finally gave a single nod, as though she had passed a silent judgement. “I did not anticipate this upon my return, but with the bond thou hast undertaken with my son, I believe thou speaketh truly.”

“You said you came as a bastion between you and Marika,” Rowa said. “Now that you know our intentions and our bond, do you intend to remain so?”

“‘Tis not merely a question of thy intent, but a question of thy strength. By the ways of my people, a crown is warranted to the one who standeth undefeated.”

“Father,” Morgott began, sharp with disbelief, “didst thou not forsake such ways when thou becamest Lord?”

“‘Tis true, but I am Lord no longer. I am only a warrior, who has lived and died to see Marika freed from the bonds that have long plagued her.”

The god-slaying blade at Rowa’s side deepened its coldness, as though it anticipated a coming battle. Her skin prickled with the renewed desire to raze everything that stood in her path. “You will not forego with confrontation?”

“Never,” Godfrey said without hesitation. “Though I may yet grant thee quarter in the end, if thou’rt cherished in Morgott’s sight.”

“Canst thou not grant clemency?” Morgott asked, looking between the two of them, his face drawn in dismay. “Surely Rowa would not wish to—”

“If he will not withdraw his challenge, then I will accept it.” Rowa’s heart thrummed with the anticipation of battle. “It is his right as Elden Lord, and as the first of the Tarnished, to demand such a confrontation.”

“Thou dost honor me with thy consideration.” Godfrey seemed to take notice of Morgott’s distress, an inkling of affection loosening the harsh creases of his countenance. “I understand thy worries, my son, but know ‘twas never in my mind that I would encounter thee and thy wedded consort, of all the many Tarnished warriors. Nevertheless, I must uphold my oath as a warrior, but ‘twould be fitting if thou wert to fight alongside her.”

Morgott slowly shook his head. “I…I could never…”

“I will fight this battle alone.” Pity stirred beneath the mounting desire for battle suffusing Rowa’s mind. “I would not ask such a thing from you.”

Morgott opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking, as though he had resigned himself to what was about to unfold. With a bow of his head, he took up his sword and retreated to the ash-strewn edge of the Elden Throne. The despondent look upon his face left Rowa wishing that it was anyone else who had come to present the challenge, but no one would stand in her way, not even Godfrey.

“Be not dismayed, Morgott, for I shall not slay someone endeared to thee.” Godfrey hefted his battle axe, and the beast at his shoulders let out a rumbling growl. He stepped to the middle of the courtyard, and Rowa moved to stand similarly. “But be assured, the Elden Ring resteth close at hand, and only one shall go forth to find it!”

There was no idle posturing or careful analysis of the foe. Godfrey made the first move with frightening speed, bringing his axe haft down upon the stones with enough strength to shake the entire courtyard. Rowa braced herself but only just, the power of her Runes keeping her firmly in place as Godfrey leapt towards her with a mighty underhanded sweep of his axe. Her strength was fortified by the addition of Radahn’s Rune, and everything but Godfrey fell away. The warlord was almost upon her when she moved, dodging to his left to avoid the weapon swinging from the right. However, Godfrey was possessed of more agility than his appearance implied, for as she moved, he did as well, using his momentum to swing around in a cleaving arc. Rowa felt the blast of displaced air as the blade swept by perilously close, darting back a few steps.

Godfrey closed the distance without hesitation, the stones shaking beneath his powerful footfalls as he raised his axe for another swing. Rowa dodged back instead of to the side, and as the axe went sailing by she leapt at him, her blades flashing in a powerful forward thrust. Godfrey countered, lifting his axe haft horizontally and intercepting her swords before they could connect, the sheer strength of the retaliation momentarily unbalancing her. He brought his foot down on the stones, the action sending out rippling shockwaves like he had struck water instead. The tremors traveled through Rowa’s body, upending her focus, and she narrowly avoided another devastating swing of the axe as she retreated to regroup.

As she watched his movements, she remembered seeing some of them before, in an imitation woven from gold. The shade Morgott had woven was not a complete recreation, likely spun from old memory and hearsay alone, but it had been correct. His axe swings were devastating and powerful, but slow just as the shade had been. Moreover, the beast upon his shoulders was not a participant in the fight, remaining incorporeal as a phantom, though the heat of battle seemed to burn as brightly in his eyes as Godfrey’s.

She closed the distance between them again, hoping to goad him into attacking in such a way that she could unbalance him and gain an advantage over his massive form. She managed to land several blows, her swords piercing through his armor at his arms and torso, but he continued battling without hesitation. She struck quick and careful, wary of putting too much force behind her strikes lest she be caught by any returning blows. The quaking ground beneath them was proof enough of his strength, and she had to make it through unscathed enough to meet whatever lay waiting within the Erdtree.

Godfrey was the one to change the harried pattern of strikes, dodges, and counters. As Rowa came in from his left, aiming a punishing downward slice at his left arm, he thrust his axe out like a spear instead of swinging it. The terrific blow caught her in the shoulder, the razor sharp edge of the axehead grazing her arm. Her Runes prevented her from being knocked off her feet, but the force of the impact traveled through her body, upending her poise. She jumped backward to avoid the overhead swing that followed, lengthening the distance between them to recover.

The axe came hurtling at her like a bolt of dragon lightning, spinning through the air from the force of Godfrey’s throw. She rolled aside as it whizzed past her, but that was not the end of it. Godfrey followed his weapon, lunging toward her in a mighty leap, his hands outstretched to grab her. She sprang upright just in time to see him coming, and she lashed out with a burst of Rune strength fueled by alarm. She dropped her blades, catching him by the wrists with her hands. Everything came to a halt as they were locked in a battle of sheer strength.

Godfrey pushed forward, trying to unbalance Rowa with his superior size. She feared falling beneath him, and pushed back with as much force as she could, siphoning her power into a massive outlash. She was stunned for a brief moment as she fell to her knees, her body alight with the sudden increase in power, and she tried to gather herself quickly lest she be attacked again. However, Godfrey had been similarly affected, having fallen to one knee, and a stillness settled over the courtyard.

“That will be all.”

Rowa raised her head sharply at Godfrey’s low proclamation. What seemed to be an admission of defeat was no such thing at all. Serosh began to materialize at Godfrey’s shoulders, his incorporeal flesh turning real as he prowled forward, and she scrambled to her feet as she sought out her swords, which now lay strewn at a distance. However, no attack was forthcoming as Godfrey took hold of Serosh’s head.

“Thou didst me good service, Serosh.”

With one mighty pull, Godfrey broke Serosh’s jaw. The beast roared in pain, blood as half-real as himself cascading upon Godfrey’s form. Huge claws tore at Godfrey’s armor, slicing it into pieces, but the warlord did not relent even so. Serosh’s roar trailed into silence, and only then did Godfrey relinquish his hold. The broken form slumped across Godfrey’s shoulders, then slowly dissipated into mist, perhaps in completion of a death begun long ago.

“I’ve given thee courtesy enough.” Godfrey stood to his feet, the phantom blood mingling with his own from his wounds, and threw his head back in a roar that echoed across the ruins of Leyndell.

Rowa looked to Morgott for some sort of insight, but found he was just as stunned as she, his mouth hanging open as he stared at his father. As she looked back at Godfrey, he let out a sigh, as though a great weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders. Their eyes met, and the light of battlelust she had seen before was now an all-consuming blaze, somehow making her feel small despite all the power she held.

They moved at the same time. Godfrey came thundering across the courtyard, his axe discarded, his hands outstretched as his only weapons. Rowa dove for her nearest sword, the ground shaking with the swift approach of his footsteps. She whirled as the shadow fell across her, swinging the sword in a wide, horizontal slash and bracing for impact as she caught a flash of bloodied skin in front of her. She was wrenched sideways as her sword caught something, and she had just enough time to realize she should let go before the sharp sound of metal snapping split the air.

The sword fell from Godfrey’s hand, broken completely in two. Blood welled from the fresh cuts in his palm, but he did not seem to notice the pain. He grabbed at Rowa, his tremendous hand wrapping around her arm in a crushing grip. She responded with a wild burst of unconscious strength born of instinct, kicking at him. Her foot slammed into his abdomen, the impact rattling her, but it was enough to make him to let go as the air was punched from his lungs in a wheezing cough.

In the brief moment he was staggered, Rowa went for her remaining sword, and as she scooped it up her empty hand instinctively searched for another weapon. Her fingers fell upon the god-slaying blade stowed in her belt, drawing it forth. A wave of coldness ran through her body as she brandished the malformed weapon, giving her an anchor in the chaos and refreshing her focus. The chill settled on her mind, bringing with it a thought, a desire.

Death.

Godfrey lunged again, and Rowa sidestepped quickly, making sure she was out of his reach before attacking. She dealt him a stinging slash across his back, cutting a red stripe in the exposed flesh. He whirled with a kick, and she aimed another slice at his leg, managing to land a glancing blow on leg. Still unused, the god-slaying blade seemed to pulse against her palm.

Death.

Godfrey roared with an animalistic fury, all semblance of reason gone from him as he pursued Rowa across the courtyard. He bled profusely from multiple wounds, but that was not enough to slow him down. Even Maliketh had not been so ferociously driven, and fear formed a knot in Rowa’s chest alongside the thundering strength of Runes. She could not lose now, not after she had come so far.

She dodged a wild swing of his fists. She should not kill him, for Morgott’s sake, but his steadily increasing frenzy was beginning to seem impossible to stop otherwise.

Death!

Godfrey slammed his hands against the ground, the shockwaves even greater than before. Rowa reacted a moment too late and staggered as the tremors washed over her. Another bellow rang behind her, and she turned in time to see Godfrey almost upon her. She dropped her remaining sword, intending to block his grasp as she had before, but she could not bring herself to relinquish her hold on the god-slaying blade. She caught one wrist and tried to block the other, but Godfrey’s speed had increased as much as his fury. He circumvented the blade’s edge and grabbed her arm with a tremendous strength she had not prepared for. She was forced to let go of his wrist, contorting her body to prevent her arm from breaking beneath the pressure. Then both hands were upon her, and she sent Rune-filled vigor rushing through her body reflexively as she was lifted bodily into the air.

A rush of wind was the only warning she received. Her back met the stones of the Elden Throne with shattering intensity, driving the air from her lungs as everything blurred. The pain followed quickly, a sharp ache radiating through her entire body. Had she not been fortified by the Runes, such a blow would have slain her without question.

Godfrey’s hulking form loomed over her, framed in the hellish glare of the Erdtree. His eyes blazed with as much fire as the tree above him.

“Father, thou must not forget to deal mercifully with her.” Morgott’s voice floated into Rowa’s awareness from what seemed like leagues away, the words strained.

Godfrey leaned closer, and Rowa braced for another attack. Instead, he spoke haltingly, as if every word was an effort. “Dost thou yield, warrior Tarnished?”

Rowa had not lost her grip on the god-slaying blade, and she held it tight, the chill almost burning. The low hum in the blade reverberated through her head, words etched by thousands of displaced souls in hatred of the Golden Order.

The depths of Death take them all!

She understood the hatred. It was the Golden Order that had broken the world, and what had taken Melina away. She would destroy it, even if she had to destroy the man in front of her first.

“Tarnished.” Godfrey spoke again. “Dost thou yield?”

In answer, Rowa sprang up with a roar, her strength bursting forth from all restraint. Godfrey dove at her, but she dodged sideways then forward, striking him with all her might. They fell to the ground, but she barely felt it this time, her skin feeling as hard as sword steel as all pain was washed away. She drove her fist into Godfrey’s abdomen once, twice, thrice, and bones cracked beneath her knuckles.

Death!

Godfrey made to grab her neck, but she sank her fingers into the flesh of his arm until she felt the warm wetness of blood. Then she went for his face, striking again and again, heedless of his attempts to fight back. She would not stop until he did.

Devouring, hungry Death!

Rowa raised the god-slaying blade, ready to quench her bloodlust.

“Stop!”

Rowa’s arm was wrenched backward, and her body followed. Her back hit the ground hard, and her maddened strength faltered as Morgott appeared above her.

“Stop this!” Morgott snarled, his visible eye wide with horror.

“Let me go!” Rowa hissed as the blade continued its cold demands.

“No!” Morgott tightened his grip on her to an almost punishing degree. “I cannot allow thee to slay my father!”

“He propagated the Golden Order—”

“And I prolonged it!” Morgott’s thunderous shout echoed through the courtyard. “So wouldst thou slay me as well?”

Rowa let out a yell of sheer frustration, pounding a fist against the ground. “You deny me everything! First the knowledge of Melina’s fate, and now my vengeance.”

“I do not do any of this in gladness.” Morgott’s voice dropped low, though it was as sharp as the iridescent blade in his hand. “I presumed him long dead, forever lost to me, and in the very hour of his return thou wouldst steal him away from me? I cannot reconcile that thy inclinations are from a sound mind. This is not the truth of thyself.”

Rowa shook her head, trying not to hear as the knife burned against her. “Let me go.”

“Thou’rt aggrieved, but I cannot allow thee to slay him, nor Marika. I realize now I cannot sit idly by.” Morgott leaned closer, his weathered face appearing even more so with desperation written across it. “Canst thou withhold thyself from such deeds?”

Caught between his desires and her own suffocating anger, Rowa’s frustration boiled over. She wrenched herself free of his hold and struck upwards. Only when her fist hit his abdomen did she remember the bond, half-broken but not yet gone. The impact was enough to make Morgott let go as he staggered back a step, but she was met with an equal retaliation if not greater. Pain flooded her torso, dispersing the maddened fog that had settled over her mind. She let go of the god-slaying blade as she curled in on herself, clutching her chest as the pain seemed not only to tear at her body, but her soul, unhindered by the strength of Runes. All rage was forgotten in the clarity of dismay that she had treated Morgott so violently.

“Morgott…” She gasped his name, searching for him, horrified that she could have injured him greatly. “I…I didn’t…” Large hands she knew so painfully well took hold of her, and upon seeing his face she knew he was not injured in body half so much as he was in heart.

“I only deny thee that which my soul cannot bear to allow,” Morgott murmured, drawing her close to himself. “Thou hast won this battle, and there is no need to stain the Elden Throne with more blood. Let me tend to both thou and my father.”

Rowa could not protest as the resonating pain seeped through her, mingling with the flesh wounds inflicted by battle. The Elden Ring was close at hand, but Godfrey had proved himself a formidable final obstacle, a challenge that she would need to recover from in body and soul.

“I wish it had not come to this,” she whispered.

Morgott lifted her from the ground. “As do I.”

Morgott knew as soon as he touched the god-slaying blade that it was partly to blame for Rowa’s savage attack on Godfrey. A chill went through him as echoes of fervent chants from the Eternal Cities entered his mind, composed in the desire for blood and vengeance as he was left with bleak understanding. The hatred of the Eternal Cities was far greater than he had ever considered it to be, great enough to begin the Night of the Black Knives, and that consideration left him cold and hollow. He could only imagine what it had done to Rowa’s darkened thoughts, and had they not needed the blade, he would have gladly shattered it, but he took it even so.

He retreated to what was left of the Erdtree Sanctuary, enlisting Marcus and Leonius to move Godfrey, who was badly beaten but still alive. The place where Rowa had struck him retained little more than a dull ache as he moved, but his heart was wrought with agony fresh with horror at the battle he had witnessed.

Rowa said nothing more to him, hanging loosely in his hold though she remained conscious. Her gaze was distant, but as soon as he set her down, she began cleaning to her wounds slowly without waiting for his help. He let her, for Godfrey needed more urgent tending.

He felt no joy as he looked upon Godfrey’s bloodied face, for all his disbelieving elation had been snuffed by the battle. His father fighting his consort was something that seemed like the nightmares that plagued Omen-kind, and yet it had unfolded before his eyes. As soon as Godfrey had brought the challenge, he knew there was no turning him away from it. The tales related to him by Godwyn of the warrior peoples had taught him enough about the honor they took from battle, something he had sought to imitate, and yet in watching them fight he had only felt a mounting horror as Godfrey killed Serosh and Rowa lapsed into a bloodthirsty, merciless rage.

It troubled him deeply that Godfrey, even in the height of his bloodlust, had extended the chance to yield where Rowa had not. He knew the rage on her face like his own, for he had contended with the Tarnished in anger for so long, but he also knew the regret that had come after in the knowledge that he had acted as an obstacle to Marika instead of an aid. He did not wish for Rowa to feel the same, for it seemed her heart could not bear more pain than it already sustained.

As Godfrey’s wounds began to mend, Morgott turned to Rowa, who sat quietly where he had left her. She stared off at the waiting Erdtree through the arching door, and did not even seem aware of his approach until he was almost upon her. When she looked at him, her face was a slate, but her eyes were full of tumult.

“How dost thou fare?” he murmured.

“Do not worry for me,” she replied, all vehemence gone from her. “Your father…”

Morgott’s heart twisted. “He will recover.”

“So shall I.”

“But we know not what will await us in the Erdtree. Please, allow me to strengthen thee as I have done before, even if thou’rt not afflicted greatly.”

Rowa nodded her assent after a moment of thought. Morgott began weaving his incantations at once, relieved that she agreed after their conflict. She sat still as he worked, focusing once more on the Erdtree, and when he finished she looked at him again as the crimson-gold light died away. Her gaze felt like a great weight bearing down on him, and anything he might say lodged in his chest.

“Thank you.” Rowa broke the silence, and once she did the words rushed forth from Morgott before he could stop them.

“Heed not the dark whispers forged within that blade.” Morgott sought the weapon, sitting on the stones nearby. “I heard them as I took hold of it, and I know ‘tis hard to set thy mind against such things, but thou must do it as thou didst defy the Frenzied Flame. ‘Tis not the same, but it remaineth a foul and potent thing that I fear will make thee…”

Morgott trailed into silence as a hand touched his own. Rowa’s palm rested atop his knuckles, rough with callouses but still so soft compared to his. He turned a startled look on her, but only her eyes betrayed the heaviness within.

“Do not worry for me.” She spoke in little more than a whisper.

Morgott waited for her to say more, but she did not though her hand lingered, inciting warmth in the medallion at his neck. Only when she finally drew away did he find his voice again. “‘Tis a hard thing thou dost ask, but I shall endeavor to do it.”

Rowa looked beyond him to Godfrey’s prone form, and he imagined he saw regret on her face. “Tend to him. Let him live.”

Something lodged in Morgott’s throat, his hand cold in her absence. “Of course.”

Rowa nodded again, then began arranging herself to rest, and Morgott took his leave, returning to Godfrey’s side. Even if he had needed to rest, he would have been unable to. He did not want to take his eyes off Godfrey, and he fervently wished Mohg were with him.

Even after touching Godfrey’s warm flesh and feeling the beat of his heart, part of him feared that it was all some dream or illusion. He remained awake, his mind caught between Rowa, Godfrey, and Marika. Now that he had almost lost his father again, he did not desire to lose his mother, a distant figure though she was, if she truly remained somewhere within the Greater Will’s grasp. He wondered if she had imparted the truth of Godfrey’s eventual return to Godwyn, and if she had originally intended for Godwyn to preside over the Erdtree in her absence to await the Tarnished lord. How very different things would be.

He may have sat for hours, but time slipped away with his discordant thoughts. Rowa had drifted into slumber, her breathing a reassuring cadence in the back of his mind. He did not arise from his thoughts until Godfrey finally stirred.

“Morgott…” Godfrey’s eyes flickered open, the heat of battle gone from them, and he coughed hoarsely.

Morgott grabbed his canteen, bringing it to Godfrey’s mouth. “Here, Father. Drink.”

Godfrey drank deeply, and when he finished his words came easier. “Morgott…hast thou healed me?”

“Aye. I could not leave thee as thou wert.”

Godfrey lifted a hand as though to test his strength, flexing his fist, his eyes widening. “Truly, thou hast become strong in my absence. Such mending power I only ever saw in Godwyn.” The praise left Morgott struggling to reply as Godfrey let his hand fall against the stones. “What is become of Mohg? Has he…”

“I know not.” The words leapt readily, though bitterly, to Morgott’s lips. “We parted long ago in breaking I wish had not come to pass. There is little proof of his existence since then, but neither is their proof of his death.”

“There is hope, then.” Godfrey shifted, and winced as pain overtook him.

Morgott laid a careful hand on his shoulder. “Father…I am sorry it came to this. I did not think Rowa would attack thee so…”

“She arose to the challenge I presented, if death had found me, I would greet it again as a warrior. She is a warrior undoubtedly, and her strength befits a crown.”

There was no question of Rowa’s strength in Morgott’s mind, only the question of her heart. “I could not let thee perish when I didst only just regain thee.”

“And I do not fault thee, for I did not wish to be departed from thee so soon.”

Morgott thought over the fight. “But thou wert willing to slay Serosh?”

Godfrey’s countenance became somber, a sigh leaving him. “Let it not be said that Serosh came into my service by choice. ‘Twas plain to see that he was a spirit, and ‘twas I who slew him in a battle long ago, and claimed his soul. In his long servitude, I decreed that if we were ever to be released from the absence of Death entire, I would release him. I have kept my vow, though I admit ‘tis a bitter parting.”

“I see,” Morgott murmured. Even an unexpected reunion was tainted with sorrow.

Godfrey took another drink, this time unaided as his strength returned. “In thy eyes there is much grief as well. ‘Tis not hidden from me, and I know thou hast been burdened with much, but I also see thou dost cherish the Tarnished woman greatly. Tell me, does she return such feeling?”

Morgott looked down at the floor, the question bringing a fresh wave of pain upon his heart. “…She may have, once, but I fear she does not anymore. I did wrong toward her, for I knew her Maiden…her friend…would take the Forge’s fire unto herself for the sake of the world, and I withheld the truth. She did not know until the deed was done. But if I had told her, there may have been a far worse outcome. I know not what I should have done, and she has become hardened, embittered.”

“Such is the way of grief.”

Morgott started as Godfrey’s calloused hand took hold of his face with a tenderness that could have made him weep, lifting his head so their eyes met, and Godfrey’s reflected a grief of his own.

“My son,” he said, “thou shouldst remain steadfast in thy path with her and the world that thou wouldst have despite it. Does she know of thy feeling?”

“I…” Morgott’s heart thundered in his chest, and in the fear that Rowa might be listening across the Sanctuary, he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Not in its fullness.”

“Then make it known, for I know the look of hate, and that was not what I saw in her.” Morgott floundered for an answer, and Godfrey seemed to understand. “There is much grief upon thee, but in this hesitation, thou might avail thyself to more.”

Morgott merely nodded, for there were no words he could form to give voice to the terror that had been incited in him, the very same that had prevented him from speaking his true feelings. He did not want Rowa to be lost in her bitterness forever, nor did he want their alliance to end. He wanted to mend what was broken in her, in himself, and had already tried in offering up his Great Rune, which she had rejected despite the eventual necessity. He feared she would truly hate him after their conflict over Godfrey, but the warmth of her touch said otherwise.

Do not worry for me.

But he did, deeply, terribly, though he had not revealed how much. He had withheld the truth from her enough already.

“Thou art presented with a chance to do what I could not.” Godfrey went on after a short silence. “Remain alongside her. I wished I could with Marika, but ‘twas necessary she wed Radagon.”

Morgott was startled out of his deeper contemplations. He had not wished to speak of that, fearing it would bring nothing but bitterness. “Necessary?”

“Aye.” Godfrey was somber, but there was no trace of ill feeling. “There was a secret she imparted to but a few, and ‘tis little surprise that she never spoke of it to thee.”

“What secret, Father?”

"As she began to sever herself from the Greater Will, she split her soul, so that the god’s influence would be taken from her. She gave over that portion to Radagon, who became as another self.”

Morgott had long ceased to give Radagon much consideration, thinking him perished or gone into the Erdtree after Marika, but not like this. His breath faltered in his lungs. “Art thou certain?”

There was no trace of hesitation in Godfrey’s answer. “I am.”

“Then he has gone into the Erdtree with Marika…and as her?”

“If thou hast never seen otherwise, then I believe it so.”

Morgott stood to his feet, his head whirling with the new implications. There was much that was suddenly made clear: why Radagon left his former family, why Marika chose a mere champion for the seat of Elden Lord…

“I did not know this,” he breathed.

“I am sorry that thou hast learned it thusly,” Godfrey said.

“I must tell Rowa. We do not know what awaits in the Erdtree, but this…” Morgott turned to rouse Rowa, and found the place where she had lain empty. She was gone.

Chapter Text

Marika approached a body on the ground, a figure seeming small before her majesty. Two eyes beheld the Eternal Queen, one of a dark hue, and one of brilliant blue. Her face was like Renna’s, except not quite the same, bearing the remnants of another person, another life behind what was now shown to the world. She beheld Marika with defiance, and said nothing as the golden light fell across the ashen pallor of her skin.

“Strong Empyrean, thou hast fought long and hard with the power I bestowed to thee.” Marika stood tall, and her Shadow prowled behind her, dark and terrible. “Thou becamest Death and hath spread thy roots deep, but I cannot let it remain so.”

Still, the woman, the Gloam-Eyed Queen, was silent.

“I see the curse abides in thee as well.” Marika looked upon her felled adversary with something pitying. “Thine other self vies for power within thee. I shall not slay thee, dear child, for ‘twas I who bore thee, but the power of Death can live in thee no longer. Thou shalt be shattered.”

She raised her hammer and brought it down with a flash of gold.

The gold became a tower set atop a hill, the conical roof jutting above the surrounding treetops in a small but grand construction. A girl with hair of deep red, arrayed in robes of azure and crimson, stood upon a grassy knoll not far from the tower. A boy stood beside the girl, wearing vestments only slightly less grand. He dwarfed the girl with his size, and though his body was shaped like a man’s, his head was that of a wolf's.

A woman clad in white, wearing the garb of a witch, shimmered into view in front of the tower, her form ethereal like it was composed of moonbeams. She regarded the pair with one eye, the other sealed.

“Art thou the witch Renna?” the red-haired girl called from her place.

“Perhaps,” said the witch. “Who dost ask after that name?”

“I do,” the girl replied. “Lunar Princess Ranni.”

The witch’s lips curled up slightly. “Ah. Why wouldst the chosen Empyrean of Caria and her Shadow grace me with their presence?”

Ranni lifted her chin. “There is tell that thou knowest well the rites of the night sky, better than even mine own mother. Is that so?”

“The Queen of Caria hath much knowledge of her own, and I do not seek to usurp her. I merely look upon the sky with a different gaze.”

“Then I would have thou teachest me to gaze differently.”

“Thy ambition is of a promising sort.” Any trace of amusement vanished from Renna’s face. “But be not mistaken. Denying thine Empyrean self will incur consequences. The Greater Will is not lightly scorned.”

Ranni did not falter, her voice strong as she said, “I will not be controlled by that…thing.”

“I see.” Renna extended a hand. “Then wilt thou walk the dark path?”

The tower in the glade became Leyndell’s splendorous halls. Radagon stood before Marika, dressed in azure and crimson, a stark contrast from the looser garments he had once favored.

“I didst come in as much haste as I could, my queen,” he said.

Marika regarded him long before speaking, betraying only the barest hints of congeniality. “As thou hast heard, I have banished and stripped my Lord Godfrey and his clansmen of their Grace, and sent them from the Lands Between.”

“I heard such reports,” Radagon murmured, his noble brow furrowing. “In mine long absence from these courts, ‘tis sudden to me that such a thing would happen.”

“He was no longer worthy of the Grace bestowed to him,” Marika said, “so I sent him and his people away. To that end, I didst summon thee here. The Elden Throne is empty, and I wouldst have thou take it.”

The stillness that followed her declaration was full of the the deafening silence of complete shock. Radagon stared at Marika, almost gaping, and she herself did not look content with the matter.

“My queen…” Radagon spoke at last, each word slow and carefully chosen. “Thou dost bestow upon me a great honor that I am wholly unworthy of, but I cannot accept such a station. I am greatly committed to my wife and children.”

Marika’s ethereal features wrinkled in the smallest of frowns. “And that is a path I did not foresee thee following, for thy commitment to the Golden Order was near unmatched.”

“But ‘tis the path I followed besides, and I have devoted myself to Caria. I cannot accept this offer, as generous as it is.”

Marika only shook her head. “There is no refusing it.”

Frustration began to overtake the shock on Radagon’s face. “Thou hast my utmost apologies, my queen, but I must—”

“Thou cannot.” Marika’s expression hardened, her voice ringing with an undercurrent of power that seemed to make the very air tremble, as though one word could bring about unmeasurable ruin. “Thou’rt bound to me. ‘Twas not my intent or desire to sever thee from thy family, but it must be done.”

Radagon went deathly still, then slowly raised one hand to his head. “What hast thou done?”

“Something I now wish I could undo.” Marika took a step toward him, an action he mirrored perfectly. She took another, then another, and he imitated it, until they stood face to face. “I did not think thy zeal would be broken. I did not think thou wouldst ever pledge thyself to anything but mine order.”

Radagon’s face was slack with horror. “Ever wert thou in my mind, even in my love for mine family. Why is this so? Why hast thou enthralled me? Why dost thou now occupy my thoughts so deeply?”

“For my freedom, and for thine, and for all.” Marika took his face in her hands. “I thought thee the best vessel, but I was mistaken. There are many mistakes I have made, and I am sorry, but thou wilt become the second Elden Lord.”

Radagon opened his mouth, but no words came forth, as though stymied by something inside him. Then his expression went blank, emotionless like a statue.

Marika looked into his eyes, and the world seemed to quake at its foundations. “Unless, thou wouldst relinquish thy grasp on him, O Greater Will.”

The air shivered, time itself coming to a halt for a moment as a reply was formed from the language of an outer god. Marika stood unbowed in the face of such might, stepping back from Radagon as the world settled back into place.

“So shall it be.”

The halls became Marika’s bedchambers where she lay, tousled and weary on her bed, her form lit by a single lantern. Radagon entered the room, dressed in the garments of Leyndell’s royalty, a circlet of pale alloy gleaming against his hair. He hurried to her side, his gaze fixed on the two bundles she cradled in her arms.

“They…” He paused, trying to find words. “Twins?”

“Aye.” Marika regarded the babes in her arms stonily. “I can see the curses sown into their flesh, their souls. Further punishment.”

Radagon let out a heart-weary sigh. “I do not wish for these children to be unloved, though they were born of the Greater Will’s malice.”

Marika looked at him for the first time, her face revealing for a moment something stricken to the core with sorrow. “Thou wilt love them?”

“Of course.” Radagon brushed a hand over both tiny heads. “Though I did not wish for them, they are mine, and in love they shall make me a little more complete.”

The visions drifted through Rowa’s mind as she marched toward the Elden Throne. They proved Gideon’s maddened rambling had not been entirely false. Marika and Radagon were conjoined as he had claimed. One but separate, at war with each other.

She kept her eyes on the golden light of the Erdtree’s entrance, dreading the potential sounds of pursuit. She had slipped out while Morgott was preoccupied with Godfrey, but he would notice her absence eventually. This was more daunting to her than what lay before her in the Erdtree, for she wished to avoid another confrontation with Morgott. She had already come too close to doing something terrible, and conflict over Marika, with Radagon as a new consideration, seemed inevitable. The pain of binding-inflicted rebound had faded, but she felt the ache nestled somewhere deep within, like a wound in her soul. She had hurt him likewise, and she feared doing so again if they were to go to the Erdtree together.

She craved Marika’s death, and she could not deny it. It was she who had begun everything, who had brought the world to such brokenness, who had made Melina into a sacrifice. But the ache in her soul provided an infuriating counterbalance, a reminder of Morgott’s stark horror as she nearly destroyed his father. The god-slaying blade at her side was biting, but the chill was diminished by a greater coldness that now pervaded her awareness, another absence alongside the place where Melina had once been.

The golden glint on the Sanctuary’s floor suffused Morgott with dread as he approached it, the only thing that remained of Rowa’s presence there. Godfrey spoke, but his words were lost to the dismay settling across Morgott’s mind. He stooped, cradling the Erdtree’s Favor in his palm, the alloy cold and lifeless. Likewise, his own medallion lacked its warmth, suddenly seeming a frore weight around his neck.

His thoughts dropped to the sealed horror below the city in the fear Rowa had been compelled beyond his knowledge, perhaps in part by the umbral blade she carried. He ran to the door of the Sanctuary, looking across the ash, and found the trail of her footsteps there, leading back toward the Elden Throne. She had gone onward without him, and she did not want him to follow.

He closed his fingers around the talisman, Rowa’s previous supplications becoming clear. She had already decided to go alone when they had last spoken, and he wanted to believe that it was not an action of disdain and anger. Surely she would not suffer a display of false affections in laying her hand upon his, speaking so mildly to him. He knew her anger now, fierce and sudden like a flash of lightning across the sky, and he had not seen it in that small moment. But no matter the reason behind her departure, he feared for her and Marika both. The true nature of Radagon’s connection to Marika would have to be contended with, and it was likely not something to be resolved with ease.

“Where has she gone?” Godfrey’s call finally pierced Morgott’s harried thoughts.

“I fear she has gone to face Marika and Radagon alone.” Morgott turned to him, revealing the Erdtree’s Favor. “Our union was sealed with this, and she did not abandon it even in the depths of her anger toward me, but now…”

“‘Tis not only her who carries the bond,” Godfrey said. “Hast thou relinquished thy portion?”

“Nay,” Morgott said firmly, “nor has she asked it of me.”

Godfrey inclined his head, his eyes hard as though he were issuing a challenge on the battlefield. “Then wilt thou uphold thy vows?”

As Rowa arrived at the Elden Throne, her hand closed around nothing in the empty space where the broken Erdtree’s Favor had once rested. Even in her rejection of the bond, she had become so accustomed to its presence that the absence was jarring, almost uncomfortable. But she deemed it necessary, for she had already hurt Morgott enough. She could see no outcome that would not result in pain for him, but it could perhaps be lessened if he did not have to bear witness to whatever awaited within. She hoped he would remain with his father, for she had made the vows before the Erdtree as well, and so she would protect him, even from herself.

And yet, he had remained steadfast despite all her scorn. She almost wished he would return to those early days where he had looked upon her with nothing but contempt, for then she would be assured that he would not try and follow her. But he had met her hurt with care, even as Godfrey lay bleeding by her hand, and it made her wonder how great the breadth of his feelings was.

She ascended the steps that remained to the Elden Throne, the courtyard more vast and empty than ever before. Across the expanse, the Erdtree waited, the entrance shining like a golden scar amidst the flame-infused trunk. Her broken sword still lay where it had fallen, the stones stained red from the previous fight. It was here she had thrown down that same weapon to prove herself to Morgott, and it was here she had wed him for the sake of the world, and yet those things were a distant dream. Gone was the idealism and naivety, crushed beneath remembrance and loss. She would mend the world, but she could not imagine there would be any mending for herself.

She hastened for the entrance despite the eerie emptiness and haunting memories it elicited, in the knowledge that Morgott’s attention would return to her eventually. She stepped over the broken blade and the stains, climbing the staircase that led up to the Erdtree’s entrance. As she did so, a pressure increased in the back of her mind, trickling into her awareness and settling like frost, sharp and biting. It was reminiscent of the Frenzied Flame, but there was no maelstrom seeking to melt all into one chaotic mass. There was only the mounting pressure of something actively trying to reject her, to keep her away from the golden door. The Greater Will was watching.

Rowa pressed forward, unwilling to let it daunt her as another feeling rose above the pressure. The Runes within her trembled with a ferocity greater than anything she had ever felt before, reaching out to something greater than merely another Rune, something tenfold with enough strength to break and reshape everything. The root of the very world was at hand.

Then she stood before the aureate mist, and the absence in her heart was stronger still as she recalled when she had last been here, before a wall of thorns. Reaching such a moment alone suffused her heart with bitterness, but she would go forth without Morgott to spare him from the pain, and from herself. When it was done, she would return for his Great Rune, and she did not doubt he would grant it to her no matter his ire at her actions. He had been steadfast and loyal, more than she had ever anticipated him to be, and she had already hurt him deeply. She would stand before the Elden Ring and its vessel alone, to give his loyalty a more worthy bearer, to ease the pains she had and would cause.

She stretched out a hand to the mist, and it reached back, wispy coils tangling around her fingers painlessly. She pressed in, submerging her hand, and the Runes inside her beckoned to the wholeness they had been sundered from. The gold filled her vision, but her mind was filled only with thoughts of Melina and Morgott as she was taken in.

Everything turned from gold to gray. All color and light vanished like the presence of Death, save for one twinkling vestige of gold. When Rowa’s vision cleared, she stood within the Erdtree upon a high platform, massive walls of colorless wood stretching up into darkness all around her. An anvil of sorts stood before her at the platform’s pinnacle, surrounded by scattered golden leaves, and atop it lay a hammer she had glimpsed in the visions of old. All seemed ancient and broken, a reflection of the outside world, and none of it more so than Marika herself.

The Eternal Queen hung above the discarded hammer, suspended by her wrists on the arc of a Rune. Her body was gray and crumbling like it was formed from stone, a far cry from the beautiful and terrible queen of olden days. Her hair tumbled down a fractured torso, fragments of skin flaking away into deep shadow, and what remained of her midriff was lanced through with a shard of crimson-black, a shard of Death itself. She reflected her world, rent and destroyed.

Pity tempered the flames of anger that smoldered in Rowa’s chest. Now that she saw Marika as she was, it was a wretched picture framed by the visions that had followed her in Melina’s blade, the image of an imprisoned woman upheld by a god seeking to keep its fickle power. Hoping that Marika had already perished, she let the Runes draw her toward their waiting anchor.

The Rune arc Marika hung from cracked, splitting the silence. Her body dropped like a stone in a shower of motes, striking the platform beyond the anvil. Rowa stopped her advancement as the air itself seemed to shift, the pressure of the Greater Will weighing heavier still upon her.

Something moved behind the anvil, but Rowa stayed still as a new whisper worked its way into her mind, the shadow of an old declaration spoken in pity and resignation.

“O Radagon…”

A broken hand grasped the hammer, igniting links of gold along its length.

“…leal hound of the Golden Order…”

A head rose above the anvil as golden hair became crimson.

“…thou’rt yet to become me…”

All femininity collapsed into the image of a man as the shard of Death dissolved.

“…thou’rt yet to become a god.”

The hammer was ripped from its resting place with a tremendous knell that resonated through the Erdtree’s innermost reaches.

“Let us be shattered, both…”

Light ignited within the shadows of once-complete flesh, revealing at last the great Elden Ring and what remained of it.

“…mine other self.”

Radagon lifted the hammer high, and Rowa beheld the complete truth of Gideon’s words. Radagon and Marika were separate but one, joined in soul and now in body, one an apostate of the Greater Will and the other an unwilling puppet, locked in war. He stepped forth, but his movements were stiff as if his body were truly made of stone like it appeared, broken and crumbling.

The god-slaying blade whispered and tugged, begging to be used in the presence of one of its greatest enemies, but Rowa refused the urge for fear of losing herself to the dark whispers. Radagon’s hammer came down, smashing against the ground with the same force that shattered the Elden Ring. Fissures of golden light spidered outward, heading straight for Rowa, and she backtracked, brandishing her remaining sword. No sooner had she moved then Radagon moved with stunning speed, appearing in front of her with his hammer raised to strike again. She dodged, but the speed had caught her off guard, and the hammer hit her with a glancing blow. The strength behind it was tremendous, and even though the pain was dulled by her Runes, her body flew across the gray expanse.

Rune power suffused her veins on instinct as the ground came rushing toward her, rolling as she struck it. Her body rattled with the impact, and she clawed at the ground to stop the momentum. As soon as she stopped herself, a javelin of pure gold came streaking toward her, and she threw herself to the side. The javelin missed her, but it exploded in a burst of gold as it struck the ground, the sparks bit into her flesh like hungry parasites.

More javelins hurtled across the expanse in a wide arc, and Rowa pushed the pain aside, her focus narrowing to the projectiles. She sprang into a leap-run, gold flashing almost blindingly bright in her vision as she avoided them, but not without catching another smattering of sparks. She could feel them leeching at her power, trying to draw away the strength of Runes, and she sent a wave to overrun and destroy them, refusing the touch of a parasitic god.

Once more, Radagon closed the distance between them in the space of a breath, bringing his hammer down with world-breaking force. Rowa dodged around to his left and he followed her with another swing. She parried his strike with her sword, but he swiftly redoubled his attacks, barely unbalanced by the deflection. Her blade clashed against the hammer in purely defensive maneuvers, the ancient construct of a faraway land unbowed by mere swordsteel.

Radagon’s shattered hand materialized from the shadows that comprised half his form, another javelin of gold appearing with it. Rowa was forced to relinquish her two-handed grip on her sword, blocking another blow of the hammer awkwardly as she grabbed at his immaterial arm, the javelin’s needlepoint tip halting a hairsbreadth from her skin.

There was a moment of stillness, and in that interval, Rowa saw the Elden Ring burning so close to her, exuding raw power despite its shattered state. Above that was Radagon’s broken countenance, dimmed and gray in a far cry from the visions of his past self. His eyes were nothing but deep pits, half hidden by locks of crimson, but in their depths shone a golden star, a baleful eye that bored into Rowa’s spirit. If Radagon’s true self still existed, he was far removed, pushed into dormancy by the Greater Will’s influence.

The stillness ended as Rowa pushed up with all her might, breaking the stalemate. Radagon wavered for an instant at the sudden upsurge, allowing her to draw the god-slaying blade. The coldness in the umbral weapon shot up her arm, the old chants digging into her mind once more.

Death!

Rowa pushed the screaming proclamations down, clinging tight to her rationality. Even though she desired the same thing the blade hungered for, she would not accomplish it in the thrall of such a weapon, forged from twisted rites.

Radagon lifted his arm as though to hurl the javelin, but hesitated, spying the weapon in her hand. The air seemed to come alive, crackling with energy like they were in the middle of a storm, and Radagon’s lifeless expression became one of rage.

A wave of enmity rolled across Rowa’s awareness, almost every bit as powerful as the influence of the god-slaying blade itself. The Greater Will saw it and hated it, a weapon it had failed to destroy despite great effort to do so.

Radagon leapt, his movements reaching a frenetic speed as compelled by the outer god’s anger. The hammer swung in a deadly blur, nearly sweeping Rowa off her feet had it not clashed with her weapons. She braced her feet against the floor, the pressure of overwhelming power thundering against her skin like the Runes could hardly be contained in her flesh. Gold burst from the hammer, imbued by Radagon’s hand, giving it an almost musical quality as it swept through the air and rang against Rowa’s blades over and over again.

The world became suffused with gray and gold as they battled across the Erdtree’s interior. The ground lit up with brilliant light beneath Rowa’s feet as the hammer struck it, and she could feel the creeping grasp of the Golden Order’s remaining power, but there was no escaping it. Radagon was relentless in his pursuit, allowing her no chance to move beyond the draining light. As it sank deeper into herself, the god-slaying blade became louder, urging her to make a move, The murmurs dredged up the hungry desires, and she grappled for control over her thoughts.

She scored several deep marks upon Radagon’s stony flesh, and he retaliated with punishing blows of the hammer and blades of light, slicing into her despite her fortitude. The deeper the draining power burrowed, the harder it would become to match him, and with that in mind she aimed straight for the shattered plane of Radagon’s chest with the god-slaying blade. The jagged point may have touched Radagon’s flesh, but she had no time to confirm this as the hammer came down inches from her feet, shattering the gold on the floor in a massive wave that no amount of fortitude could withstand.

She went tumbling backward, and both her weapons were knocked from her hands. Her fingers burned as she dug them into the floor to stop herself, blood staining her fingernails as she darted back to her feet. The god-slaying blade lay on the floor some distance in front of her, a distance that Radagon was rapidly closing with his weapon upraised. With a force that cracked the floor beneath her feet, she dove for the weapon, hoping to close her hands around it before the hammer came down and shattered them both. Her fingers touched the blade’s cold hilt, gripping tightly, and she wrenched backward in anticipation of the hammer’s fall, an explosion of gold, or both.

Nothing came.

When Rowa came upright, she found Radagon standing still not far from where the blade had been, his hammer still upraised. But it was as though he had forgotten her, for now he was looking down at himself, and the nacreous blade that had suddenly sprouted from his midriff. She watched in dismay as Radagon’s body was lifted into the air, sinking down further upon the point that had impaled him, before being flung aside like a ragdoll by none other than the Omen King.

Rowa regarded Morgott first in dismay, then in anger as he stepped closer to her. His stony coloration blended with the Erdtree’s interior, though his eye burned bright, crimson-gold fire licking around the edges of his sword. His face loosened a little when he saw her, but she spoke before he could.

“You should not have come here,” she hissed, the words echoing in the vastness of the Erdtree. “Did you not understand that I wished for you to stay behind?”

“I understood.” Morgott swept his gaze over Radagon’s form, limp upon the ground. “But I could not allow myself to sit idle.”

“Do you know what you have done?” Rowa’s stomach churned as she regarded Radagon, the realization of what had taken place settling over her. “Do you know who you have just…?”

“I know,” Morgott said grimly, laden with regret. “I know now that Marika and Radagon are joined, and I knew as soon as I saw him that neither of them were in control. I could not let the Greater Will harm thee.”

“Why?” Rowa’s anger diminished as her eye caught the gleam at his throat where his medallion hung. Alongside it now was the discarded Erdtree’s Favor, its bindings intertwined with the medallion, and the space of its absence seemed all the colder. “You could have stayed with your father.”

“Thou wilt need my Rune in the end, is that not so?” Morgott took another step toward her. “More than that, I will keep mine vows. What if thou didst perish?”

Rowa hesitated. “Then I would fail the world Melina would have me create…but you would be free.”

“The world hath need of thee indeed.” Morgott loomed over her, strong and powerful, but not fearsome in her eyes. “And I wouldst not be free nevertheless, for thou art…”

He trailed off into a heavy silence, a silence where the words that followed it could break or mend, hurt or heal, forge or destroy. Before either could speak, the pressure came rolling across Rowa’s awareness again, and she turned with haste, raising the god-slaying blade to face Radagon again.

But Radagon had not risen. Instead, water bloomed around him, spilling onto the gray floor. Rowa ran forward, splashing into the water, the wetness seeping into her clothes. It was dark water, darker than the gray around them, darker than the shadows that composed Radagon’s broken half, but the Runes inside her sang still, reaching for the completeness of the Elden Ring.

As she waded for Radagon’s body, a light gleamed in the water. A single golden star shimmered there, reflected from a sky that did not exist.

“Rowa.” Morgott’s hand settled on her shoulder, a comforting reassurance. “There is something…”

The golden star brightened, and the god-slaying blade burned a deep cold in her hand as it screamed out, Death!

The water exploded as the golden star arose.

Chapter Text

“The day comes, soon now.”

Marika and Renna stood beneath the night sky, the Erdtree outshining the moons.

“Then I shall take my leave of this world, before the chance is lost,” Renna said, the moonbeams seeming drawn to her person.

“Then if this be the last time we speak afore then, I bestow this to thee.” Marika held forth weapon in her hands, a curved dagger of silver alloy.

Renna took it, turning it in her hands. “The memories are many. This is good.”

“And I have made another like it.” Marika produced another blade, a mirror of the one Renna held. “It shall go into the hands of thine other self.”

Renna frowned, lifting her face to the Full Moon above. “How wrong it seemeth, that she be as nameless as she was within the cradle of the Eternal Cities.”

“Then know her by the name I gave to her.” For a moment, the moonlight caught Marika’s face as well. “Melina.”

The night became a dimly lit room full of tables, wherein Marika stood alone. Bodies lay atop each surface, some shrouded and some not, all of them beautiful and ethereal. Their beauty was marred by a pale stillness about their features that did not belong, a ghastly mark of Destined Death that had been visited upon the deathless. Even Marika was still, like she had been struck down, rendered into an immobile husk. Only Godwyn moved, his chest rising and falling where he lay on the foremost table, his skin covered in rifts of creeping black. He breathed, but that was all, for the light was gone from his eyes that stared unseeing at the ceiling. He lived in Death.

Marika looked down at the ghastly body of her son, now dirtied and dull compared to her shining godhood, and her face was calm. She stood unmoving for a great length of time, until at last someone entered the room behind her.

Radagon approached, surveying the many waiting bodies with visible bereavement. He stopped a respectful distance from Marika, and it was some time before he spoke.

“There are no words to describe this desecration,” he murmured, the deep resonance of his voice muted. “Nor any that would lessen the grief.”

Marika turned on him, her face twisting with a flash of rage, and the candles in the room flickered low as if they feared her. “What knowest thou of grief?” she asked, low and calm. “None of thy children or kinsmen lie awaiting burial here.”

“Three of my children are perhaps forever embittered toward me,” Radagon replied, equally calm as though in respect to the dead. “And the remaining two are afflicted with curses and severed from the Order I serve. Even now, Ranni and her closest compatriots have vanished, and they cannot be found. So it is that I am left to wonder if she too suffered beneath the Black Knives.”

Neither of them looked upon Godwyn’s living death.

Marika spoke again after a long and heavy silence. “Have the assassins been found?”

“Some were killed fleeing the city,” Radagon said.

“From whence did they come?”

“The fallen cities ‘neath the earth. They were Numen-born.”

Another silence followed Radagon’s proclamation, a quiet descending across the room that could rival the lifelessness of the waiting bodies. It was a stifling stillness, like the calm before the violent tempest of a storm as the Lands Between waited with bated breath for the next action of its god.

Radagon shifted his weight, betraying at last a small measure of apprehension. “I know ‘tis most terrible. Thou hast only to give the word, and we will seek the way into the cities to wipe them from all memory.”

“Nay.” The single word, the refusal, rang like a death knell tolling for the bodies that surrounded them. Marika stepped forward, passing Radagon without looking back. “I shall contend with this myself.”

The Death-marked crypt became the gray innermost of the Erdtree. Marika appeared in its midst, a hammer hanging in her grasp. She walked forward, and as she did, words fell from her lips, a weak strain of song that belied the mightiness of her form.

“Alas, this land, once blessed, now has diminished.”

A pedestal appeared from the floor, sprouting up at Marika’s approach.

“I, destined to be a mother, now become tarnished.”

Marika stopped before the pedestal, holding out her empty hand. A searing light ignited in the air, threads of gold streaming from Marika’s body weaving together the manifestation of the Elden Ring in front of her.

“I have lamented and I have shed tears.”

Marika radiated power, but her gaze was baleful upon the Ring. The Erdtree shuddered as she raised the hammer to begin the end.

“But no one consoles me.”

The hammer fell in a devastating strike, stopping a mere hairsbreadth from the looping spheres of the Ring. Radagon had appeared, catching Marika’s arm in a powerful grip, and a golden star swam in the depths of his eyes. She raised her head, her face full of cold fury.

“Wouldst thou condemn thy vessel, O Greater Will?” she asked, eerily calm. “Thy chosen Empyreans are scattered on different paths. This is all that remaineth for thee.”

A quiet followed, filled with a response that superseded physical senses.

“‘Tis as I thought,” Marika said, regarding the thing inside Radagon with disdain. “Thou wouldst cling to thine Order, even in brokenness.”

Radagon twisted his hand in an attempt to make her release the hammer, but she responded with equal savagery. Her empty hand closed around the air in front of Radagon, pulling the interwoven pattern of his Rune into form. She took hold of it, and it seemed to strain beneath her punishing grasp. Radagon’s grip loosened as he convulsed, and for a moment his countenance became full of life again.

“Marika,” he said, sounding downtrodden and weary, “wouldst thou truly destroy the Order entire?”

“An Order that brought Godwyn and his family to Death, an Order that declared mine sons as accursed creatures!” Marika’s beautiful face twisted with hidden wrath now revealed. “For all power and godhood, I am laden with grief unmatched! It has made me cruel!”

Before Radagon or the god within him could respond, a darkness fell over them, and the obsidian-armored beast appeared.

“Why…” A shudder ran through Maliketh’s form like he was seized with agony, his claws scraping at the ground. “Marika…why wouldst thou…why shatter…?”

For a single instant, the anger vanished from Marika, replaced by pity. “Mayest thou find the strength to forgive me, my Shadow.”

Radagon said nothing, but something passed between him and Marika, a silent exchange. She raised the hammer though Radagon sought to stop her, and brought it down upon the Elden Ring.

The star rose like an alien dawn, sending its light across the Erdtree and bathing all in gold. As the gray innermost shifted, a form began to coalesce around the star, a strange and nebulous shape. Tendrils sprouted from it like the roots of a tree, and the violet hues of a twilit sky gathered around them, morphing into a tremendous figure. Long fingers and longer arms stretched from a golden skeleton, and pronged wings composed of the cosmos unfurled upon a massive back. The huge hand dipped into the water, submerging the remnants of Radagon’s body, and drew forth a sword in its place, a massive ornate weapon fit for such a creature.

The golden star remained as a head surrounded by the cosmic flesh, forming a single burning eye whose light ignited across the water. A veil of starry, twilit fog spilled forth from what could have been called the head, washing away the gray innermost and revealing a host of Erdtrees rising across a distant plane.

Morgott stared as the celestial beast, strange and terrible but not without beauty, an outer god given form, a form that could be killed. The long, mist-formed neck bowed, the great eye sweeping across him and Rowa, who remained tight in his grasp after pulling her back from Radagon’s body. He supposed he should have felt awe and wonder, looking upon the embodiment of the age that he had been born into, but all that arose in him was anger as he beheld the manifestation of Marika’s captor. Outer gods had been nothing but a scourge upon his family, to Marika most of all. She had been a prisoner long before she had shattered the Ring, and even if the bonds were of her own making, she had been turned into a puppet to uphold a dying age.

He better understood then the depths of Rowa’s fury, the unyielding severity she exhibited since they stood together on the road to Death, for he felt the same for her and the rest of his family. The Greater Will had caused much pain for the sake of a supposedly perfect Order, and all thoughts of the breadth of feeling he had followed Rowa to express were thrust aside temporarily by fierce determination. This age, marred by war, division, and stagnation would end.

No words came forth from the beast, spoken or whispered in the mind, but Morgott felt the pressure. He knew enmity and hate, and it filled the golden space like the stench of recusant cessblood. It was not unlike the malevolence of the Frenzied Flame; both wanted to do away with all dissension, one to utter chaos and one to a perceived perfect order. as his Rune trembled inside him, reaching for a wholeness in the beast, and it dawned on him that it was not merely an embodiment of the Greater Will, but the Elden Ring itself.

The beast hefted its weapon, and suddenly Morgott no longer held Rowa. She was gone, her footsteps sending up splashing ripples as she ran toward the beast with breathtaking speed, regardless of any wounds gained from fighting Radagon, her face twisted with a ferocity that could rival Godfrey himself as she charged at her greatest enemy.

Morgott’s surprise at her instantaneous attack was brief, her wild determination igniting a similar fire in his Rune and in his unsealed blood. Flames burst along the length of his blood-forged sword as he let his restraints fall, the hilt heating beneath his fingers. He let his Rune flow through him with a ferocity he had not allowed it in countless years, filling him to the brim as he bounded forward to match Rowa’s speed.

The beast’s sword cut through the air in a wide arc, aimed at Rowa, who had moved in perilously close in a matter of moments. Rowa dove forward, the attack missing as she rolled, her momentum carrying her beyond the weapon and even closer to the beast. The beast’s empty hand came in with a swift swipe, and Morgott saw an opportunity, a javelin of crimson-gold materializing in his grasp. He threw it with all his might, and it hit home, piercing the starry hide of the appendage.

The beast did not flinch, as though it did not feel any pain at all, but it hesitated a moment as the manifested weapon sank in. Rowa leapt forward, the god-slaying blade held high, and plunged it into the beast’s overlong arm in a flurry of strikes. That drew forth a reaction. The beast reared, stretching itself to tremendous heights. The afflicted limb warped and shriveled like a stalk inflicted with blight, but the rest of the beast did not follow. Instead, the golden star flared with fire of the same color, the air thrumming as immense power became concentrated in one area.

Morgott almost called out to Rowa to warn her, but she was already ahead of him. She leapt away from the beast, catching his gaze briefly as she practically flew across the rippling mirror of the water, keeping her distance from both him and the creature. Moments later, an engulfing plume of golden flame spewed forth from some hidden furnace within the beast’s star-woven body.

Morgott hastily retreated as the blaze spread across the water, a glance confirming Rowa was also at a safe distance. Summoning a bevy of swords now tinged crimson-gold, he sent them toward the beast in a punishing rain. Some of them were eaten up in the flame, but many struck the target, piercing the celestial hide.

The fire ended abruptly as the beast flinched, and when it cleared, Morgott saw with dismay that the previously afflicted hand had regenerated as it swam toward Rowa, brandishing its weapon. He turned his own sword in his hands sprinted forward, taking a flying leap at the beast’s back. He was in midair when the beast’s tail, a rooted appendage fletched with gold, rose from the water, aimed at him in a harsh strike.

It was too late to move, so Morgott met the strike head on. The impact shook him to the core, shocking the air from his lungs and proving that though the beast composed of gold and starlight, it lacked nothing in physical strength. Even so, he drove his sword downward, the flaming blade driving deep into the creature’s body. The beast thrashed and contorted, but he hung on doggedly in the hope that Rowa would be able to gain some sort of advantage until the air around him shimmered with gold, crackling with an immense amount of power about to be unleashed.

In a single movement, Morgott tore his sword free and threw himself away as golden light exploded where he had been moments before. Shards of light streaked outward, some striking him despite his attempted evasion as he landed in the water, skidding to a stop. They cut deep into his arms, legs, and torso, the sting quickly morphing into a leeching sensation, drawing at the power of his Great Rune. He wiped out the feeling with another pulse of strength, barely taking notice of the bleeding cuts that the shards had left behind.

Rowa moved in a flash across the water, diverting the beast’s attention once more. It raised its sword to strike, but she was too fast, her diminutive figure acting as an advantage as she passed unharmed beneath a slicing arc of magic. With a wild leap, she struck the beast’s chest, scoring a long mark in the twilit matter that left behind a scar of gold singed with the blackening influence of the god-slaying blade.

The beast twisted wildly in response to the attack, contorting with enough strength to send Rowa into the air. Morgott leapt after her, catching her in midair before she could fall, landing in the water a fair distance away from the beast.

“Rowa,” he breathed, finding her startlingly warm to the touch, even through her garments. “Art thou afflicted?”

“No,” Rowa said, her voice carrying a powerful undertone that reverberated across the water.

She dropped from Morgott’s hold to the ground, and it was then that he understood the heat radiating from her. Her eyes had become pure gold, like she had won the Grace divested from the Tarnished, except it was more than that. The gleam was manifested by the sheer amount of power flowing within her, and her body was likewise heated by it.

“The star,” she said, her eyes almost rivaling the beast’s glow. “That is what will end it. That is what the blade desires.”

Morgott glanced at the knife clutched in her fist, a black tear in the otherwise aureate scape surrounding them. It was formed from sinister things, but its desire and theirs had temporarily aligned. “Then it shall be so.”

Rowa’s eyes slid to his face for the briefest moment, and the frustration at his presence from before was gone. Perhaps something like affection lay there instead, but the light in her eyes prevented discernment of deeper feeling. And yet he knew as their gazes met that even if the truth of his heart was left unspoken, even if their paths diverged when the world was put right, he did not regret the decision to join her in this battle despite her wishes.

Cosmic clouds of starry purple appeared in the air as the beast advanced on them with its sword held high, the pressure of its enmity growing all the heavier, and as Rowa leapt toward it, Morgott followed. They fell into combat once more, seeking to bring the alien vessel low enough to strike the fatal blow. All previous discord between them seemed far away in the harmony of shared purpose.

Golden stars burst in the air as they rained across the water, interspersed by sweeping strikes of the beast’s sword. Morgott wove between the hail, flinging sorcerous weaponry that clashed with the onslaught and struck the beast when unhindered, his bloody sword occasionally finding purchase in its body as he took any blows doggedly. Rowa became a whirlwind, dodging or tearing through anything retaliation that came her way. She was thrown across the water several times as she tried to strike at the star that the beast had appeared from, and each time she arose to rejoin the battle with a wild cry, the water around her feet churning at her mere presence.

Scars began to appear prominently on the beast’s form, rent with blade and sorcery alike, and its attacks slowed in turn. The Greater Will’s power was not as it had once been, weakened by the shattered Ring, clinging to its foothold through Marika’s presence. This became obvious to Morgott the longer the fight went on, for though the beast was strong, it was being worn down by the attacks of two Shardbearers.

The battle came to an abrupt halt when the beast reared back, then dove, its form vanishing beneath the shallow water with startling speed like it had opened a breach to some greater depth. Suddenly, Rowa and Morgott stood alone on a glassy lake reflecting the light of innumerable Erdtrees.

“Where is it?” Rowa growled, wading toward the spot where the beast had vanished. “Where did it go?”

Morgott took a deep breath, grateful for the interlude, though he kept his gaze on the place of submersion. He was bleeding from several places, the wounds stinging as crimson-gold dripped into the water, and he began weaving a healing incantation as he followed Rowa. She was not without wounds, her clothing torn and skin gashed, but there was no indication of pain or hesitation as she searched for their foe.

“’Tis not gone,” Morgott murmured, his gaze roving over the water. The pull of the Elden Ring had not vanished or faded, nor had the weight of the Greater Will’s enmity, but the beast had hidden itself well. For all his senses that stretched far beyond the limits of common men, he felt nothing.

Rowa stepped into the area where the beast had disappeared, and she did not fall or sink, the ground remaining level beneath her feet. She turned in slow circles, searching just as fervently as he was.

The water swirled around Morgott’s feet, like an invisible wave had passed through it. Rowa tensed, but before he could discern where the disturbance came from, the water around her exploded. She threw herself to the side as the beast’s empty hand rose from the water like it was some creature in its own right. Dodging the grasping fingers, she whirled, ramming both weapons deep into the beast’s palm.

Understanding came to Morgott a moment too late as the beast’s hand began to submerge again, dragging Rowa with it. He leapt forward, but his fingers closed around empty space, and she vanished beneath the surface with a dismayed cry.

“Rowa!” He dove after her, churning the water a foamy white as he groped for her or the beast, though he came up empty handed in the shallows. Fear clawed at his mind, wiping away rational thought. Not even Gideon’s clutches had elicited such a strong reaction, for he was only a man. This was a god, who would gladly slay the Tarnished trying to usurp its hold.

In desperation, Morgott raised his sword and plunged it downward into the water. Flames exploded along the length of it, brighter than they had ever been before, and the blood left inside him ignited in response. The crimson-tinged gold of his sword spread across the water like it was instead a flammable grease, and he felt a shift as something invisible gave way. He sought submersion again, passing through the fire of his blood without harm. This time, the ground beneath fell away, and he dove without a second thought as the cool water closed over his head.

The water was almost intangible, pure and crystalline in a way that did not hinder the eyes, stretching out in every direction to unknown depths and lit in fractal patterns of gold from the scape above. Morgott immediately found the astral beast below him, locked in a struggle with Rowa. The beast had caught her in its fist in a ring of gold that she fought to escape, her hair swirling wildly around her head like a splash of spilled ink. The gold threatened to coalesce around her hands and incapacitate her, the beast’s grasp growing tighter as it kept her caught in its domain, and there was no telling how much the Runes could sustain her in place of the lack of air.

For all the fire, Morgott’s blood ran cold as the light surrounding her began to solidify into javelins, their needlepoint tips aimed straight for her body, and his heart cried out. Not her. The Greater Will had taken much from him. It would not take her.

He swam quicker, a fearful burst of strength sending him slicing downward through the water. He did not know if either of them were aware of his approach, but he did not care, his heart thundering faster and faster as the bolt of gold fully manifested to run her through.

Faster, faster, his free hand outstretched to grab her. Her eyes were wide and blazing, fixed upon the creature looming over her as she stared her demise in the face, the god-slaying blade embedded as a dark brand in the purple twilight.

A shockwave rippled through the water as Morgott struck the beast, pushing Rowa out of her confines through pure physical strength. Then he was amidst the golden spears, Rowa’s garbled shout struggling through the water as she was suddenly freed. He stayed beneath the lidless eye, and though his intrusion made the beast waver, it did not diminish its might.

Pain lanced through Morgott like a binding shackle magnified as his flesh was pierced by the spears, but the haze of fear-born fury overpowered all else. Blood filled his mouth, and he opened it in a snarl as he pushed himself closer to the beast, heedless of his own wellbeing. Burnished fire burst all around as he bled out from his wounds, and he let it blaze wild and unfettered.

The beast writhed when the flames touched it. Morgott redoubled his attack though he burned from exertion and wounding. He thrust forward, driving the flaming tip of his sword into the division point of the golden root where body became neck.

Still, the beast did not cry out with an audible voice, though the water vibrated like it had. It thrashed, but Morgott did not let go, letting his once accursed blood flow out and burn like the holy cleansing the Golden Order had once tried to bring.

In a flash of light, Rowa reappeared above the mayhem, her weapons aimed for the golden star. Water rushed around Morgott as he was suddenly wrenched upward, and they broke the surface with a tremendous roar. The beast tried to regain its former strength, but its body was still alight with Omen blood. Morgott shuddered with pain as the weaponry impaling him dissipated, but he did not withdraw his sword from the beast, his heart close to bursting from his chest as he relinquished all hold on the power of his Great Rune.

Filling his lungs with air, he let out a great yell as he drove forward, sinking his sword even deeper into the beast. It began to topple beneath his strength as the sword fell from its grasp, the starry eye bowing toward the water like it sought sanctuary there.

“Rowa!” Morgott roared. “Now! Strike now!”

There was no hesitation. Rowa crossed the expanse faster than dragon lightning, seeming to fly through the air without wings. A wild cry that reflected all her pain tore from her mouth, the god-slaying blade a black ember in her hand, and Morgott heard the outcry of souls that had forged the weapon long ago.

At last!

Rowa struck without mercy, the blade ramming deep into the beast’s head and spearing the star through.

The world trembled as the link between god and land was severed. Time seemed to halt as the beast convulsed once, then stilled.

Then the monstrous corpse fell to the graying ground where water had already ceased to exist. Its body was already beginning to dissipate, like ash in the morning breeze.

Morgott freed his weapon from the fading remains, watching the scene before him in awe. Rowa tore the blade free, dropping her remaining sword as she reached out, taking the dying star into her hand. The power in herself now outshone the power of an outer god, her eyes pits of light reflecting that which shaped the very world, her form shining like it was caught in beams of starlight. She was every bit as fearsome as Marika had once been and perhaps even more, as she took the dying star and closed her fist, crushing it into nothing. The world distorted for a moment at the sudden displacement of power, but Rowa stood unbowed as the cosmic dust drifted from her fingers.

She was fearsome, but also beautiful. Morgott knew this to be so as he struggled to take in her utter immensity. The lowly Tarnished woman from their first encounters had become close to a god, and he wished the pain that had brought her to this ascension had been so much less.

Rowa stepped into the gray, for the multitude of Erdtrees had ceased to be along with the beast. All that remained was Marika’s body, shattered amidst fallen leaves. The only indication of life was the Elden Ring, pulsing bright in the gloom.

Morgott intended to advocate for Marika's life once more, to make a final appeal to Rowa, for he could not be sure of where her heart lay. As he tried to draw breath, he found his lungs would not receive air, like he was still beneath the water. Likewise, he tried to move, but his body would not enact the will of his mind. It was then he finally looked at himself, and saw the length of his wounds. He had been speared through many times, leaving gaping holes in his abdomen, and as the rush of battle and the strength of his Great Rune receded, what remained of his blood began to spill forth onto the ground.

There was no pain. A numbness settled over him, his thoughts slowing. He lifted his eyes to Rowa again, and she stood now before the Ring, her hands stretched forth to receive it. She made no move to enact cruelty upon Marika, and he was contented with that as darkness gathered at the corners of his vision. He had kept his vows, to her and to Melina. He had been her shield and protected her with all his strength, if not against the pain of loss, then against the possibility of death. She would find the Crucible with her newfound power, and she would make the world new. She did not need him anymore, but as he felt his body beginning to fail, he wished to give her his Rune in the fulfillment of the last promise, and to give voice to what had gone unspoken.

He tried to step forward, but found he could no longer see her. There was only the remnant of the bond that now faded with him. But he was glad he had been allowed one last glimpse of her and Marika both. He opened his mouth, trying to speak though there was no air in his lungs, and he fell, collapsing into the pool of his own blood.

Chapter Text

Rowa crushed the star in her hand, every bit of her anger and grief pouring into the action as she relished the feeling of it breaking. The Greater Will raged even as the star shattered, and she let it, for its power was vanishing like morning mist in the sun. She felt the change, the shift in the very foundations of the world as the stardust drifted from her fingers and the outer god was severed completely from its former dominion.

As the last motes dissipated, a stillness settled over her, the Erdtree, and perhaps the entire Lands Between. The world waited on the threshold of change. The long age of the Greater Will had finally come to an end, and a new one was finally about to begin.

Marika’s body lay broken, but Rowa hardly saw it for what lay within. The Elden Ring waited, appearing like it had been pictured in a thousand different renderings and reliefs across the Lands Between. No more obstacles stood between her and what she had long fought toward, and it seemed like a dream. But she knew it was no dream, for she had never felt more alive, the Great Runes inside her singing. All else fell away as she stepped toward the Ring, nestled within the shattered remains.

Kill her. Kill the root of the golden blight.

Rowa strove to ignore the whispers. All she wanted was the Ring, and the closer she got the greater her desire became. The Runes inside her pulled harder and harder, and so did her heart. She would never be powerless again.

Then she was before Marika’s body. The shadows of her eyes held no light, nor was there any trace of Radagon. What remained of the former god’s life was uncertain.

Rowa reached out with caution in anticipation of attack, but nothing more arose to stand in the way. The arcs of the Ring flared with her closeness, and every fiber of her being trembled as she touched it. Marika seemed to cleave apart as the Elden Ring left her, dividing in a flash of red and gold, but Rowa did not see as she took the anchor of the world into herself.

The Great Runes had been but a foretaste, for as the Elden Ring came into Rowa’s being, her mind was flung farther and wider than it had ever been before, almost to something boundless. She was met with a cascade, not merely of memories, but the facets of all existence.

Form and void, tangible and intangible. The stars crossing the sky in their courses, uncountable and unknowable. The sun, the moons, rising and setting, the warmth of day and the chill of night. Growth and rot. Time and timelessness. Order and chaos. Life and death.

Everything lay before Rowa, her mind pushed to its limits as she tried to reconcile concept given form. The Great Runes sought their own reconciliation within her, and she focused on that, bringing the immensity of everything under the beginnings of control.

She stepped into the confines of herself, where she had once been trapped with Rykard’s Rune, but this time she was in control. One by one, she took each Rune, letting them return to their former wholeness. They fell into place upon the Elden Ring, at last beginning the mending that had been nearly forsaken. Through the knowledge granted to her, she knew the rightful place of each, and she wove the arcs together like the threads of a great tapestry that depicted all the world. As it was restored, she began to see more than the facets, history opening before her.

A seedling sprouted from barren ground, urged by some unseen hand. It grew into an immense tree, and as it did all manner of life came from it. Male and female, human and inhuman, those that walked on land and those that flew in the sky. Within the tree lay the Elden Ring, and it was seized by rulers across many ages and dynasties. Men and giants and dragons and creatures that defied naming, some serving a god and some who themselves were gods. Yet for all the differences, the Ring was not sundered until Marika’s day, when natural order was usurped for the sake of an imposed one. The arcs were closed, the Crucible forgotten, and the Rune of Death removed entirely.

Rowa faced the Rune of the Golden Order, the latticework formed by the Greater Will to conform the world to its vision, and in a single motion she shattered it, removing the last vestiges. In that action, it struck her just how much power lay in her hands, how mighty she had become. She would never be powerless again.

Then the Elden Ring stood near completion, awaiting one more Rune that lay close at hand, one that Rowa had been promised. She opened her eyes to the gray stillness of the Erdtree and turned to Morgott.

All thoughts of power fled her mind.

Morgott lay crumpled on the ground amidst the fallen leaves, which were rapidly becoming saturated in crimson-gold. His cloak had fallen back, no longer able to hide the wounds Rowa had failed to notice in the mayhem of battle and rush of victory. His abdomen was torn open, speared through in several places, and though the faint threading of sorcery glimmered around the wounds, it was not enough to stop the outpouring.

Rowa ran to him, all heat and strength washed away in the cold contortion of panic that arrested her being. She fell at his side, and only then did she see the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath the intertwined treasures that had sealed their bond, the breaths rattling painfully in the cavern of his chest. Through the Elden Ring, she could see the shimmer of his life like a shard of Grace, and it was fading.

“Morgott…” She finally forced his name out, her heart jumping as his visible eye fluttered. The bright gleam was still there, though it was fading too. “I’m here.”

Morgott opened his mouth, but instead of words he gave forth a wet heave, blood flecking on his teeth and lips. A horrid dread arose in Rowa, and she placed a hand upon his chest.

“Don’t speak, just rest.” Her assurance was brittle and strained. “I’m going to help you.”

Morgott did not try to speak again, his breathing settling back into the painful rhythm, though his dulled gaze remained upon her. Rowa began siphoning strength into him, letting the wellspring she had taken into herself spill over in an attempt to sustain him as she had done for herself so many times. Gold shimmered beneath her palms, but he stirred only a little, lifting his arm. The once mighty hand quivered like a leaf in the wind as he reached for her, the arc of his Great Rune appearing in his palm.

“No, keep it.” Rowa tried to sound firm as she poured more strength into him. “It will keep you strong until you heal.”

If Morgott heard, he did not listen. He relinquished the Rune, his body shuddering beneath the removal of that which had long been inside him. Rowa took it with the intent of immediately returning it to him, but she hesitated.

As the Omen-touched Rune entered her, many things entered her mind’s eye. The bloodshed and strife of the Shattering, the stalemate and the long stagnation that came after, and the many hunts and battles against the Tarnished. But at the forefront, above all else, were memories of herself and their journey together.

They clashed at Stormveil, followed by the shock of defeat. Again, at the Elden Throne, where distaste became curiosity. The binding vow was made, and that curiosity became more trusting as he opened himself up. Conversations unfolded between him and Melina about the coming sacrifice and what would follow, and Melina adjured for her each time. Turmoil built as the time grew near, the desire for truth clashing with the growing wish to keep her safe. Then on the road of Death he grappled with grief and despair so deep it was almost agony, but he went forward nonetheless, despite all anger and rejection he faced.

Rowa’s breath caught as the truth of Morgott’s heart was revealed to her, perhaps better than words could ever express. She saw the frustration and pain as he was split between Melina’s fate and the fear of the Frenzied Flame. She saw the care that would not let him abandon her even when she had left him. She saw the deepening of his heart, the apprehension that had become trusting, then…

She did not realize she had begun to weep until a hand touched her face, drawing her back to the present. Morgott’s fingers, weak but purposeful, worked to wipe away the tears that had spilled onto her cheeks. Offering up his Rune had deteriorated him, his huge body seeming to shrivel as his hand fell limp to the ground

“Take it back, Morgott.” Rowa made no effort to hide her tears, her voice pitching up in desperation as a shadow began to fall across him, the oncoming shroud of Death. “Take it!”

She did not allow his Rune to rejoin the others, letting the strength leave her as she attempted to transfer it back to him, but even that did not reinvigorate him, his eye falling closed.

“Morgott!” Rowa shouted his name with increasing fervor, pouring more and more of the Elden Ring’s power into him, but he had expended himself down to his very soul. All remaining bitterness and anger she had harbored toward him became insignificant as the truth she had tried to bury in anger rising in the face of a terrible possibility. She could not bear to lose him.

“Stay. Stay, please…” Her entreaties, falling endlessly between sobbing breaths, received no answer. She could hardly see through her tears, the flame of his life dwindling before her. The power of life and death was in her hands; how much did she need to give up to save him?

Something moved behind her, the fallen leaves rusting. She turned, and was greeted with the sight of Marika, broken and half-formed but still alive, slowly pulling herself across the expanse toward them.

Rowa’s mind went blank. The god-slaying blade found its way into her hand, and in a moment she had crossed the remaining distance between them. She brought her foot down on Marika’s outstretched arm, stopping the former god in her tracks.

“How is it that you yet live while he dies?” she thundered. “I have seen the memories. He was devoted to you all his life when he had every reason to hate you, and now he dies because of the plans you devised, just like Melina.”

Kill her, the blade urged.

“I had pity on you, because that was what he desired, but there will be none if he dies.” Rowa pressed down with punishing force on Marika’s arm. “You do not deserve to go to him, not now.”

Marika inclined her head slowly, the single action seeming a tremendous effort, and looked at her with what remained of the pits of her eyes. In a rasping whisper, she spoke. “Give it up.”

Kill her.

The blade burned in Rowa’s hand. “What?”

“If thou wouldst save him, then give it to him,” Marika gasped. “Relinquish to him the Ring entire.”

Rowa wavered, a hesitation followed by a chilling wave of horror. What had she become, that she would not immediately move to save the man who had done so much for her?

KILL HER.

“And if thou wouldst slay me, then do it swiftly.” Something glittered on the shattered visage of Marika’s face, and teardrops stained the golden leaves.

Rowa looked at the disgraced queen below her, and saw a reflection of herself lying at the feet of the warlords beyond the fog, waiting for death. But it was she who now had become the warlord, extinguishing everything that she opposed in a ravenous desire for power and vengeance, poisoning her to the point of finding the value of Morgott’s life lesser than possession of the Ring. Morgott had followed her in completion of the vows he clung to, the remembrances of his Rune revealing to her just how deep his devotion went.

She had become the very thing that she hated across the fog. She had become merciless.

The god-slaying blade slipped from her hand, falling to the floor in complete silence. She heard no more the voices from the echoes of hatred for the strength of her own conviction.

“It has made me cruel,” she whispered, lifting her foot from Marika. “Even before the Ring was mine.”

So she would give it up, that which had defined her journey as a Tarnished. She would give it to him, so she would be cruel no more.

As she turned back to Morgott, his life barely upheld by what she had already given him, her tears began to fall afresh, but not for grief. She understood now the true answer to the question that had plagued her ever since she had remembered what lay beyond the fog.

Why did the beloved villagers allow her to stay? Why did Melina willingly walk into death? Why did Morgott withhold the truth, then follow her even when she rejected him?

Because they loved.

The villagers chose to allow Rowa to be among them because they loved another outcast like them. Melina had chosen to accept her sacrifice because she loved the world. Morgott had chosen to withhold the truth, so that he would keep his vows, and the Frenzied Flame would not find purchase in another soul because he loved her.

Melina and Morgott had been wrong to lie, but so had she been wrong to become cruel in anger. Morgott had already sought forgiveness in the upholding of his vows, so she would do the same, and in doing so she would endeavor to become merciful again.

“I am sorry.” Rowa knelt at Morgott’s side. His chest rose and fell faintly, and perhaps he did not even hear her, but she spoke anyway. “I am sorry for my rage, for letting it fall on you like it has.”

She placed her hands over his heart, feeling its weak rhythm.

“This is my penance, though you need not forgive me.” Tears fell upon his ashen skin, mingling with the blood. “I will give to you what perhaps should have always been yours, for you are more worthy than I am.”

Rowa pressed her forehead to his heart. “Let this be proof of the love I tried to deny, for I am still thine, until the end of my days.”

And she let the Elden Ring go.

Form and void, tangible and intangible, the stars and sun and moon. Growth and rot, time and timelessness, order and chaos, life and death. All the elements of the world, the Runes joined in their bonds, flowed out from Rowa and into Morgott in a river of light. She felt the vastness in her mind diminishing as the power left her, but she welcomed it as his heart quickened beneath her fingers.

Then something strange happened.

Morgott’s blood, which had lain dull around him, began to gleam as the Elden Ring passed into him, but it was not the light of fire. Rowa looked upon it and saw a different light, not unlike the brightness of the Erdtree. The murky, burnished blood turned to a more brilliant crimson-gold, full of a refined luster she had not seen from any Omen’s blood before. She turned what remained of her insight on it, and glimpsed in the pools a vision of the Erdtree, but not as she had known it. This one held a different light, its likeness recounted by Morgott from his dreams.

A tree of crimson-gold, a remembrance of the Crucible, but this was not merely a distant dream. Rowa saw the growing flame of Morgott’s life as his blood brightened, and found the answer to the yet unanswered question.

Where did the power of the Crucible go?

It had been beside her since the day she arrived at the Elden Throne.

A tearful laugh burst from her lips as the crimson-gold light spread beyond the blood, suffusing the gray with new color. She could see it as the remnants of the Ring’s insight slipped away from her, the pulse of an old, great power that had existed within the Lands Between since the beginning. It had been sealed and hidden, but now it was released from its bonds as it entered the Elden Ring once more.

Rowa reached for the talismans at Morgott’s neck, finding the amber medallion thrumming, resonating with the light around it. She then moved her fingers to the Erdtree’s Favor, which was cooler, lifeless with the bond she had forsaken. As the Elden Ring’s power left her, her strength slipped away with it, and so she could barely wrap her fingers around the talisman that had once been hers. She wanted it back, but it was not hers to take. It would have to be given.

Even so, she smiled as the light of the Crucible grew around her. The last of the Elden Ring passed into Morgott, leaving her without the strength of Runes since she had first laid claim to Godrick’s. Her consciousness faded, but she did not fight it, listening to Morgott’s heart, his breathing growing stronger with each moment. The last thing she felt was the touch of a large, gentle hand upon her, and she was content.

Chapter Text

Marika waited for Morgott to die. There was no other outcome, for no one would willingly divest themselves of the Elden Ring, not with the power it offered. So she waited powerless beneath the Tarnished Lord, hoping her death would come swiftly enough that she would not see another one of her children die.

But what she thought impossible came to pass. The ill-conceived blade dropped from the hand of the Tarnished as the anger fled from her face, replaced by something of deep conviction.

“It has made me cruel,” she said, lifting the crushing weight of her foot and stepping back. “Even before the Ring was mine.”

Marika could not find the strength to reply, but the Tarnished woman’s eyes revealed enough. She had seen the memories forged into the calling blade, and she understood what had taken place to bring them all to this point, the breadth of pain the Elden Ring’s power could bring.

Hope rose in Marika’s freshly-mended soul as the Tarnished turned away, its warmth something that she had forgotten. She would not see another child dead.

Morgott stood in a fog of formless gray that surrounded him on all sides, his body no longer torn apart and broken. Though he had not seen such a fog before, he knew it at once. There was only one fog such as this, that all Tarnished had passed through in death, and it seemed now his time had come.

No sooner had he arrived at that conclusion then the fog was suffused with light like the rising sun breaking the morning mist. A voice came with it, one he had not heard in so long yet knew straightaway, making the light greater in his eyes than the sun, the moons, and all the stars.

“’Tis good to see thee again, Morgott.”

A figure appeared in the fog, one Morgott knew just as well as the voice, and when he opened his mouth to make a reply no sound came forth. He hung suspended in shock, but there was no need to speak as his unexpected companion arrived before him, his form fully realized.

Godwyn smiled at him. “‘Tis been far too long.”

Morgott crumpled, a wretched sound tearing from his throat as he stared at the beautiful face of his brother, no longer stricken and grayed with Death. Words tumbled from his mouth suddenly, lacking all eloquence. “Please…please do not let this be a falsehood. ‘Tis…truly thou?”

Godwyn’s hand settled on his shoulder, every bit as warm and gentle as Morgott recalled. “Be assured, brother. I am no falsehood.”

With a keening cry, Morgott threw himself at Godwyn, his arms wrapping around the man’s body, warm and unwavering in further proof of the reality before him. Godwyn embraced him in return with no hesitation, his hold as strong as it had once been. Though Morgott had long ago dwarfed his brother, he felt like a little child again, clinging to the golden embrace that had been denied him at first. The great floodgate that had held back his pain cracked beneath his brother’s touch, and he made no attempt to prevent it from breaking.

For the first time in an age, Morgott wept. He wept for Godwyn, but also for all that had aggrieved him. The weight of Mohg’s departure on another path, Godfrey’s long absence, Marika’s brokenness, Melina’s sacrifice, and Rowa’s own pain because of him spilled out in his tears.

Godwyn held him, bearing no scorn for his grief, and he only spoke when the strongest throes of his outpouring had passed. “Truly, I am blessed that we should finally meet again,” he said, his words laden with emotion of his own. “But thy coming brings me joy and sorrow in equal measure.”

Morgott found the strength to lift his head, facing Godwyn’s sad smile that he had seen so many times while he lived. “Why?”

Godwyn took his face in his hands, uncaring of horns or protrusions. “Because I see how much thou hast changed in my absence.”

Morgott blinked, trying to rid himself of his tears, though it could not be done as his heart tore and mended at once. “So much has come to pass. Mother…she shattered the Ring after thy death.”

Godwyn met this admission without surprise. “Such did she plan in secret, known to but a few.”

Morgott grasped his brother’s arms. “Thou…thou didst know of her intent?”

“Aye. She wished for me to broker peace among the demigods and wait for a suitable Tarnished to sit on the Elden Throne.”

If Morgott could remember what it was to laugh, he would have at the irony. “’Twas I who became Lord of Leyndell in thy stead.”

“Truly?” Godwyn’s face broke into a joyful smile. “I hardly dared to imagine such a thing for thee, and I am most glad to hear it.”

Morgott was caught between the desire to look away in shame or soaking in every ounce of his brother’s light. “Do not give me undue honor. I hath committed many sins.”

“No one is without fault, but thou hast persevered in a world that scorned thee from birth.” Godwyn held him fast. “I feared greatly for thee, even in life.”

“No more do I heed the words of the Golden Order, for ‘tis as thou hast said. To be deemed accursed by some does not a true curse make.”

Godwyn wiped at dampness clinging to Morgott’s face. “I am most glad thou dost begin to see thy true worth! but so too does it bitter my severance from the world all the more.”

“Thy body,” Morgott gasped, the words tumbling forth as he realized it. “Does thy body yet still live in Death?”

“Nay.” At that, Godwyn looked relieved. “I am whole once more.”

Another sob born of sorrow and relief both wracked Morgott. “That is all I ever desired for thee, that releasing the Rune of Death would free thee. Even after all this time, I know not why thou and thy family were slain so senselessly.”

“Vengeance,” Godwyn answered, “the foul poison that blackens many a heart. The Numen of the Eternal Cities sought retribution against Mother, and perhaps it is she who they intended to strike down, but it matters not now. I hold no ire against them, or Mother. I cannot avenge myself even so, nor would I ask if of thee.”

Rowa’s desire for vengeance rose fresh in Morgott’s mind, deepening the ache in his heart. She would be left to contend with such things alone. “If that is thy wish.”

“I only feel grief for them that hate would lead them thus.” Godwyn shook his head. “So too do I grieve that thou’rt here, for thou hast met thy end.”

“Grieve not for me,” Morgott said despite his own melancholy. “I fell in battle for the sake of mending what was broken. ‘Twas a noble end.”

Godwyn studied him with the same knowing look he remembered, discerning much with little effort. “And yet, there is something that troubles thee.”

Morgott hesitated, but only for a moment. “Mother and Father both yet live, and it pains me to leave them. So too is there another that thou hast never met, a Tarnished woman named Rowa.”

“I know her not,” Godwyn agreed. “Who is she?”

“The woman I wed for the sake of the world.” Morgott wavered with longing and regret as he voiced the unspoken truth. “The woman I love most fiercely.”

Marika watched as the Tarnished returned to Morgott’s side, heedless of his blood, and lay tender hands upon him, speaking the words of love she had never given him.

“I am sorry for my rage, for letting it fall on you like it has…”

Then the Tarnished did what she could not, and gave up the Elden Ring.

Godwyn’s embrace tightened as tears threatened to overtake Morgott once more. “I know such grief well, though I am gladdened that thou didst find love, even if thou’rt now separated.”

Morgott shuddered, leaning into his touch. “’Twas for her I fell in battle, so that she might take the Ring and make the world new.”

“Thou hast done a noble thing, and ‘tis my hope all will understand thy sacrifice.”

Morgott bowed his head, Rowa’s stricken face and desperate demands plaguing him, for her care was undeniable. Only now did he see how the distance between them had hidden her affections that he would now never know in completion.

“If thou hast come to bear me across the fog,” he whispered, “will we now go?”

Godwyn was silent for a moment, then said, “Not yet, it seemeth.”

Crimson-gold flowed around Marika as her greatest secret was revealed. Despite all she had done to be rid of the Crucible, it had found purchase in her twin sons, not merely as Omens but as vessels. The secret remained hers alone, for when she held them for the first and only time, she knew she could not revile them, but neither could she undo her what had already been done in the name of the Golden Order. So she cast them aside as Omens, ready to take the secret to her grave if need be, so that her sons might have a chance to live at all in the world that hated them, the world of her creation.

As the gray innermost began to tinge crimson-gold, Marika wished she had not hated, for all she had loved had suffered in her hateful godhood. But as the Elden Ring was granted to her outcast son and the light of the Crucible spilled forth, she found reason to hope, that not all was destroyed by her path.

“What dost thou mean?” Morgott looked up, dismayed. Would he be denied Death, even after unsealing the Rune? “What will become of me?”

Godwyn smiled, the sight assuaging him. “There is yet life within you, brother. ‘Tis not thy time yet, and it is just as well, for I see now what sprouts within thee. Take heart, for dear Mohg yet liveth.”

“Mohg…” A weight lifted from Morgott’s shoulders, and in that same instant he felt something pull at him, tugging him away from Godwyn and the fog. “But what about thee?”

“My family waits for me, so do not feel sorrow.” Godwyn leaned forward, pressing a kiss against his forehead. “Now return to our home, bathed in rays of gold, and live well for us all.”

“I will.” The tug became stronger, and Morgott knew it could not be fought no matter how fiercely he clung to Godwyn. It was the pull of life. “Will I see thee again?”

“I am sure of it.” Godwyn stepped away, the fog beginning to swallow him. “Now rise, and know thy true strength.”

The fog dissipated in a great rush of gold. Something filled Morgott to the brim, like his Great Rune but so much more as he was met with all things given form, etched into the Runes of a Ring.

Form and void, tangible and intangible. The stars crossing the sky in their courses, uncountable and unknowable. The sun, the moons, rising and setting, the warmth of day and the chill of night. Growth and rot. Time and timelessness. Order and chaos. Life and death…and in the midst of it all, a seed of crimson-gold sprouting not merely within him, but from him.

“This is my penance, though you need not forgive me.”

Morgott’s heart jumped as Rowa’s voice came to him, but he could not reply as he battled to bring the newfound power under his control.

“I will give to you what perhaps should have always been yours, for you are more worthy than I am.”

His blood sang, flowing into the Elden Ring and turning the arcs crimson-gold, and he had never felt a greater sense of rightness, a sense of belonging.

“Let this be proof of the love I tried to deny, for I am still thine, until the end of my days.”

Morgott’s eyes flew open, and he drew breath into a body that was no longer broken, his flesh mended and more. He had never known what it was like to live as an Omen unfettered, but now he felt freed of intangible constraints. Raising a hand to his eyes, his flesh seemed transformed from muddy gray to vibrant silver as crimson-gold shone all around. Rivulets of light streamed upward from himself, from his spilled blood, filling the colorless space, and understanding came upon him as suddenly as the bestowal of the Elden Ring.

The dreams of the reborn Erdtree were not merely his blood crying out in imprisonment. They were visions of a potential future that lay within him, a future that could now be the dream realized. The roots of the Crucible ran deep, and now it was time for it to sprout anew, through him.

As his body was restored and he adjusted to the immensity of the Ring, he became aware of a warmth against him, and he knew at once what he felt. His hand fell upon Rowa’s form, and suddenly all the world’s workings and the burgeoning Crucible seemed like nothing compared to the woman in his arms. He sat up, cradling her limp body close, and the perception granted by the Ring allowed him the reassurance of feeling her life, weakened but steady.

His heart swelled with a volatile mixture of emotion. First, the ache of sorrow, for Rowa was now so small and frail in appearance compared to only moments before when she had ended an outer god’s life with her hands. Something more soothing followed, something he had dared not name before for fear of ripping open the wounds of longing in his heart, but he would gladly name it now: love.

He knew there was nothing else he could feel as he looked upon her, for she had given up everything she had sought so that he would live. Her words had not been a dream, though it seemed like one, for he had deemed her love in return an impossibility.

He stood up fully, bearing Rowa with him, and he perceived the absence within the Erdtree, which now stood without a power to uphold it. He reached into the absence with his mind, and the light of the Crucible flared around him from himself and his spilled blood. It desired to return to its former place, where the tree that had become the Erdtree once sprouted, and he would let it. Grasping the closed arcs of the Elden Ring, he split them open, and the essence of all life spilled into the world once more.

Morgott lifted his head, watching his dreams manifest in rivers of light, coming forth from the blood he had once so hated. His blood-forged sword dissolved, the power returning to him along with what the Greater Will had spilled, and he had forgotten until that moment the feeling of completion taken when he had leeched himself of his blood. He was now whole, and all the oppression of the Golden Order was no more. Just as the world would be renewed, so would he.

There was a silence as the Lands Between faced the long-awaited end of the age. Then Morgott spoke the beginning: “Arise.”

“Arise and hearken to me, all souls who remain in the Lands Between.”

Outside the Erdtree, Godfrey heard his son’s voice and felt the shift in the world as the burning began to subside, a light he had only dreamed of taking its place.

“The age of the Golden Order is at an end, and the outer gods shall no longer make war for this land.”

In Altus, those that remained of Leyndell’s forces watched the renewed tree sprout forth, awed by the voice of the Veiled Monarch.

“No more shall those of the Crucible be deemed accursed, nor shall the Tarnished be outcasts.”

In a broken cathedral beneath the night sky, the Lunar Princess and her loyal companions turned their eyes toward the waiting moons.

“Let the old wars be forgotten, and let mercy be given instead.”

Atop Stormveil, a formerly Tarnished woman and her retinue watched the distant Erdtree in wonder.

“Grace shall be given to all who wish it, and the light shall shine in all places.”

The decrees traveled far, even down into the depths of the earth, where they touched the souls of zealots enraptured by a blood god.

“As it was in the days of yore, so shall it be again, to mend what was broken.”

The shattered queen on the ground lifted her head, and the Grace of crimson-gold filled her eyes, a warm balm so unlike what she expected to receive.

“Let the fractured stagnation end and a new age begin, an age of renewal.”

Morgott fell silent, but the words rang onward, rolling across the Lands Between as the Crucible took hold of the old roots and all the lifeless gray was overtaken in crimson-gold. Once more, he looked at the small figure in his arms, and wondered if Rowa had somehow come to know what was nestled dormant inside him. He let some of his power flow forth into her, fortifying her body, though that did not wake her. Her sleep was from an exhaustion of the soul as much as the body, and he would not exert her more by attempting to wake her prematurely. She would rise in time, and then he would voice all he had almost lost the chance to speak.

Finally, he inclined his gaze to the pitiful form amidst the Erdtree’s new radiance. It aggrieved him more than he had anticipated to see Marika in such a state, so humbled from the few times he had glimpsed her in the past. Though she still lived, she did not raise her head as he approached, her hair falling over her face like coarse straw.

For all the power that was now within him, the world stretching before his mind, Morgott found himself struggling for words. He did not know what he should say, or what he could, to the mother he had never truly known. And so, he merely said, “Mother.”

Still, Marika did not raise her head, a broken whisper drifting to his ears. “Do not deign to call me thus, for I am not worthy of such a title.”

Morgott could not dissent, for she was his mother only in blood and not by action, but he could not leave in such a state. Shifting Rowa carefully to one arm, he reached toward her. His fingers brushed over her hair, and she flinched, but she did not try to flee. He let power flow from himself into her, mending her broken flesh into a state of wholeness. Only then did she look at him, her eyes alight with the Grace of crimson-gold.

“Why?” she murmured. “Why dost thou extend mercy?”

Morgott undid the ties of his cloak, taking it from his shoulders and setting it over her to cover her bared flesh. “’Twas a merciful heart that led me here, and because of that same heart I stand alive, and the power of the Crucible is realized. The world hath been wrought in blood and vengeance to no good end...and Godwyn would not wish it of me.”

Marika shut her eyes tight, like the name caused her pain. “Speak to me not of him.”

“He is at peace, Mother.” Morgott struggled to restrain the tightness threatening to constrict his voice. “He hath no ill will against thee.”

Her eyes flashed open again. “How…?”

“I know what I saw in the fog,” Morgott replied. “I know mine own brother, who stood upon the edge of true Death with me.”

Marika seemed like she might try to protest, but she did not. Her shoulders quivered as she grasped at the tattered fabric of his cloak, holding it close to herself, and she whispered, “Thou must know I never meant for this.”

“Then what didst thou intend?” Morgott asked, the question sounding harsher than he meant it to.

Marika pointed a quivering finger toward Rowa. “The calling blade shall show thee much.”

Morgott glanced at the item, tucked tight within Rowa’s belt. One brush of his hand was enough to send a deluge of memory into his mind, but the vastness of the Elden Ring made them seem insignificant by comparison. He saw all that had been committed to the blade, from Marika and Renna’s beginnings all the way to the Shattering, and though it granted him the understanding he had long searched for, it also made him heavy with grief for all who had become trapped in the prison of godhood.

“‘Twould be well within thy right to hate me,” Marika murmured, pulling him back to the present, “for thou hast been laden with much grief because of me.”

“Thou hast caused grief for many more than I,” Morgott replied, “but so hast thou contended with thy own share. Never have I hated thee, nor will I, for I believe thou dost not hate me.”

Marika looked away from him as though the sight of him was too much. She said nothing more to him, so he moved away from her, finding the god-slaying blade abandoned on the ground. He could see all the better the dark intent roiling within the alloy, the whispers of many souls crying out for death.

“Enough.” He took hold of the blade, scorching cold in his hand, and the voices poured into his mind.

Kill her! Kill the Golden Blight!

“The god who felled the Eternal Cities is no more.” Morgott tightened his hold, and the blade cracked beneath his strength. “Consider thy vengeance complete.”

The foul weapon broke completely, splitting into many shards. The voices faded as the pieces fell into the light of the Crucible and were swept away, the echoes of deep hatred vanishing.

Satisfied, Morgott turned to the other figure sprawled a little distance away, similarly shattered but with hair as red as flame. He enacted the same restoration, and once the body was mended it began to stir.

Radagon sat up slowly, like he had just come out of a long and deep sleep. No more were his eyes haunted by a shimmer of gold, instead full of new Grace, and he looked at his own body before raising a hand to his head.

“‘Tis…’tis so quiet,” he said in wonder. “The voices torment me no more.”

“Aye, for the Greater Will is no more,” Morgott said.

Radagon looked at him, his brow furrowing. “Who art thou? Thy face…I feel I know it, and thy radiance…art thou a god?”

 “I shall not suffer such a title. I am merely a vessel.” Morgott stepped back, finding himself desiring to leave the Erdtree and be out in the world once more. “Arise and do as thou wilt, both of ye, for ye are free from imprisonment.”

He walked across the gleaming expanse, and just before he stepped from the Erdtree’s innermost, he heard Marika whisper: “I am sorry.”

“I know,” he replied, and departed from the Erdtree.

Chapter Text

“Thou hast now seen much of what was,” Renna said. “Dost thou now understand how thou didst come to be?”

“I do.” Melina looked at herself, her perception altered by the complete understanding she had longed for. Once, she had held Death itself, commanding servants she had wrapped in the skin of gods. But she had not been free, for that self was birthed from an old hatred that did not belong to her. The Numen had filled her with silver and fire, and they had declared her purpose for her. Even when Marika severed her from that self, she had not been wholly free, wandering burned and bodiless in the search for the Tarnished who would be lord.

Now she stood with her shackles broken, and she knew nothing of freedom. She lifted her eyes to Renna, who had once been her other self, and said, “I see who I once was, but what shall I now become?”

Renna smiled. “Much change is at hand, and many things shall be renewed.” She offered Melina the calling blade. “The choice is thine.”

The land outside the reborn Erdtree was unchanged, Leyndell swathed in heaps of ash and cinders, but fire no longer rained from the sky. Instead, the Crucible’s light cast its glow across the hills, and Morgott looked across the remnants of the city he had once guarded from the Tarnished with new eyes. He no longer waited for another to ascend and mend the world, for that lay with him now. The city was his, the Erdtree was his, and all that lay beyond it was his. Mending the Ring would not mend hearts and minds, bringing others out of old hatred and steadfast loyalties, but it would be the beginning of such possibilities.

He looked at the ashes and saw not destruction, but rebirth. The old was burned away so new life could sprout forth, and his heart was filled with a new zeal. What he had once felt for Marika’s Order was now for all the Lands Between, that it would be as renewed as he felt, and that ardor extended to Rowa especially. Even asleep, the Crucible’s light granted her a beauty that made him wonder if he stood within a dream, and he had hope there could be reconciliation between them. Even if she did not hold the Elden Ring, she had entrusted him with it, and the renewal would seem so much less without her beside him.

“Rest.” He was not certain if she would be able to hear his assurances, though he murmured them for her sake nonetheless. “Find respite for thy body and soul, and worry not. I shall await thee.”

Morgott crossed the Elden Throne’s dais, and at the edge, he saw Godfrey, Marcus, and Leonius approaching. When they saw him, the twins fell upon the ash, bowing as they cried out, “We are not fit to look upon you! How our blood sings at your coming!”

“Arise,” Morgott ordered them. “Do not worship me as though I am a god. Though much hath changed, I am still the one thou didst know before I entered the Erdtree.”

The pair hastened to obey, standing once more, and he saw that they looked different beneath the Crucible’s light, much like himself. The bulbous proportions of their bodies had retreated slightly, and their skin no longer clung to their bones in grotesque festoons. The weight of their exile from the Greater Will’s world had been lifted from them in body and soul.

Godfrey was unchanged save for the new light in his eyes, but even he looked awestruck. He took a step forward, the action undermined by the instability of healing wounds, and he reached out hesitantly. “Morgott, ‘tis truly thou who standeth before me?”

Even in his new state, Morgott was taken aback by the reverence in Godfrey’s expression. “Aye, Father.”

“Then what hast thou become?”

“I hath only realized what lingered within me all these years.” Morgott shook his head, for he still struggled to believe it. “The lifeblood of the Crucible abideth within me, but ‘twas hidden from me.”

“Never did I think, or even suspect…” Godfrey faltered, seeming stricken. He made as though to kneel, but Morgott put out a hand to stop him.

“Do not bow thyself before me.” His request was not as much a command as a plea. “I will not suffer it, for thou’rt still my lord father.”

“Then I adjure thee to forgive me for my blindness.”

“I do, though I deem thy lack of knowledge was no wrongdoing. Whether for good or ill, Marika hid the truth from all, even thou.”

Godfrey’s gaze flickered to the reborn tree and the entrance beyond them. “Marika, is she…?”

“She was spared.” Morgott moved aside. “She would likely welcome thy presence.”

Relief wrote itself plainly on Godfrey’s face. “If thou wouldst grant me leave.”

“Thou dost need not ask such things, for I would never deny thee.”

With a dip of his head, Godfrey hastened away as quickly as his healing wounds would allow, and in that action Morgott saw the answer to the question he had pondered at this same place in what felt like an eternity ago. Godfrey and Marika had indeed loved each other, and though it was surely imperfect, it was a love strong enough to bear death itself.

“What shall we do now, my king?” Marcus asked.

Morgott turned his eyes toward Altus, the radiance of the plateau undimmed by the ash that covered the city. “We shall go to the displaced people of Leyndell.”

The twins shared a hesitant look, and Leonius said, “Do you not fear their rejection, now that you are revealed?”

“I cannot better the world if I forsake those who loyally served me. If any reject me, then they shall be free to leave my service, unless they turn the sword against me. I will not abide warmongers, but the roots of zealotry are deep.” Morgott stepped forward, putting his words into action. “Even if all my men now abandon me, I will have done my duty to them as their king.”

They departed the Elden Throne, traveling across the hills of ash and descending toward the city’s outskirts. As they walked, Morgott let the world’s murmurings flow through him. Beneath his control, he would have the changing of the world be a gentle thing, like sunlight finally melting a deep frost. The violent upheaval of the Shattering had rent the Lands Between in form and spirit, and mending would not be achieved with the same suddenness. It would be gradual, but already he felt the stirrings of old wellsprings long rendered dormant by an Order that suppressed them, an echo of himself.

Once they passed through the gatehouse to the city’s outskirts, the ash began to recede and the land gradually became visible again. Outposts that had once been heavily manned were now abandoned, the patrolled roads devoid of watchers, making the already lonely city seem that much more desolate. But Morgott went onward without pause, for renewal could extend even there.

Altus was mostly untouched by the fire, save for the occasional spot of singed and blackened earth scattered about. Departing from the northern gate, they traveled down the road, and Morgott was struck by the difference from when he had last come that way. No longer did he travel shrouded by the night, for there was nothing to conceal.

He sensed the encampment before he saw it, a flurry of life and souls brushing against the Elden Ring’s Runes, and he made no attempt to disguise his approach. As the tents came into view within a small grove, it became clear that the displaced citizens were aware of his coming, a group gathering at the camp’s edge. Their faces reflected more fear than scorn, and he stopped a respectful distance away in the hope of reassuring them.

“I come with peaceful intent to thee,” he said.

A visible ripple of surprise passed through the group. They murmured to each other, until someone finally called out, “Are…are you the Veiled Monarch?”

Morgott raised his head. In the many times he had imagined this meeting, he had not anticipated his own calm. “I am he.”

More murmuring as the group grew larger, then, “And it is you who brought new life to the Erdtree?”

“Aye.” Morgott searched the faces before him and saw confusion and hesitance, but little he could consider spite. “My true self was hidden from the eyes of all for the sake of the Golden Order, but now that Order is no more. I bare my true self to ye, for thou’rt my loyal people who art deserving of the truth. If my truth is offensive to ye, then ye need not continue in my employ. I would let ye go to do as ye wilt, save that ye conspire to make war against me.”

Another ripple of talking amongst themselves. “And if we remain, what would you ask of us?”

“Nothing yet, save for a place to lay this woman, so that her rest may be easy.” Morgott shifted his grip so Rowa was more visible to them, though she remained protected within his grasp.

No one offered a clear answer readily, many staring wide-eyed at him as if in fear of both affirmation and denial of his presence. However, after a few moments, a small voice rose from the group. “I know that woman.”

Surprised, Morgott searched for the speaker. “Who dost claim to know her?”

After a small amount of shuffling, one person detached from the crowd, a page that could still be considered a boy. Morgott recognized his likeness after a moment of consideration.

“Tell me thy name,” he said.

“Wilfred, my lord.” The boy bent in a hasty bow, his eyes wide. “I mean no offense. I have merely encountered this Tarnished before, when she first appeared in Leyndell.”

“She is Tarnished no longer.” Morgott held her close. “Dost thou protest her presence?”

“No, my lord. She was merciful to me when she had every opportunity to slay me instead.” Wilfred’s face furrowed with confusion. “Though I admit I do not understand why she is in your care. Did you not vow to be done with her?”

“I did.” Morgott glanced at Rowa’s sleep likeness. That first meeting seemed to have been both an age and a moment ago. “But we fought with words rather than blades, and an agreement was reached. She is my consort.”

More murmuring from the crowd, though Wilfred only nodded. “I…I believe you are the Veiled Monarch. I know your voice, and after encountering your noble Nightriders, I understand that things are not always what they appear to be. To that end, if you seek a place for this woman who spared my life, then I offer you my place in the camp.”

Morgott was taken aback, but before he could answer another stepped from the assembly, set apart in golden armor embellished with draconic likenesses.

“You shall remain my liege lord,” the dragon-imbued sentinel said, his voice steeped with an unnatural growl. “For I have long since given myself over to powers many of the old order considered blasphemous, yet you showed no contempt toward me and my service. The truth of yourself gives me hope that I will be a blasphemer no longer.”

“Thou hast served me well,” Morgott said sincerely. “There is no blasphemy in that.”

“I am grateful, my lord. As for your consort, I have experienced much the same as the boy. To my shame, she overpowered me, but she gave me quarter where I expected none. I cannot speak to the truth of her character beyond that, but I shall not oppose her presence, if you wish it.”

“She is merciful,” Morgott murmured, “and I believe she shall harbor no ill will against any of ye.”

The draconic sentinel turned to face the rest of the people. “Then come, and we will find a place for her.”

The crowd parted for the sentinel. As Morgott moved to follow, Wilfred bowed, and his action stirred many to follow suit. As he passed through their midst, he saw the new Grace of the Crucible shining in every eye, and he understood they had languished in stagnation as much as he. Renewal had finally begun for them, and so he passed gladly into their midst.

Rowa stood in the formless mist. She knew it, for she had passed through it once before as a broken, vengeful woman. But this time, there was no call, no charge to rise as the light of long-lost Grace gave life to her fallen body. There was only the fog, and she knew not if she should seek beyond it. She could not act as she had done before, for the poison of vengeance had nearly consumed everything she had held dear, both in the Lands Between and beyond.

She did not wish to forget again, for that very same love she cast off in despair had brought her to the realization of her wrongdoings. Grief rose to fill the place in her heart where anger had once been, born of regret over her blindness. She hoped her relinquishment of the Elden Ring was enough to prove the length of her sorrow and the breadth of her feelings to Morgott, if nothing more. He would make the world new, and as much as she wanted to be a part of it, she feared it would not be so. She had been the one to break the binding vow, and it would be well within his right to separate from her entirely. That potential outcome set an ache in her chest, for the love she had been too frightened and bitter to give or receive. Now she would gladly reciprocate what she had glimpsed within his Great Rune, regardless of fear and facing rejection.

She stood there in the fog for some time, mulling over her regrets, until movement caught her eye. A figure approached her, and she called out, “Is someone there?”

A man’s voice, calm but almost weary in its timbre, drifted back in reply. “I am sorrowful that you have arrived here so soon.”

Rowa could not bring to mind any recollection of the voice or its owner, leaving her perplexed. “What reason do you have to sorrow over me?”

“Because I once walked your path, as a Tarnished who would be lord.” The stranger finally drew close enough for Rowa to see him. He was a man of pale hair and skin, still in his youth, though his eyes were dark and troubled. The right side of his face scarred, the skin discolored and uneven as if he had been badly burned. He was clad in silver armor that seemed to have suffered the same as its wearer, the metal warped in long rifts that wrapped around the cuirass all the way to his greaves.

“There were many who sought to become lord of course,” the stranger continued, “but you are Rowa, are you not?”

“I am,” Rowa said, startled at his apparent knowledge.

“A Tarnished of no renown, yet you were the one who surpassed us all.” Despite his words, the stranger betrayed no envy or animosity. “You gained the favor of the Kindling Maiden and ascended to the Forge.”

Rowa stared at him as his identity dawned upon her. She had never seen him before, but she had heard well enough, and a name slipped from her mouth. “Vyke?”

He smiled slightly, though it was a joyless expression. “I am, or I once was.”

Rowa regarded him carefully, searching for embers in his eyes. “Does the Flame of Frenzy still reside in you?”

“No.” The shadow in Vyke’s eyes became deeper. “Through the Rune of Death, the end I tried to give myself long ago has come to fruition. I am free from the burning at last.”

Rowa’s apprehension morphed into pity. In the times she had tried to envision Vyke, he had appeared as a wild monster driven by the Frenzy’s power, but he was merely a scarred, broken man. Her regret became all the heavier as she beheld the full truth of what Morgott and Melina had worked to prevent her from becoming.

“I am glad you are freed now,” she said, “but why have you come to me? Our paths never crossed.”

“I lingered here in the desire to see what would become of the Lands Between, to see if you would overcome what remained between you and the Elden Ring,” Vyke said. “I wished to see if Melina’s desires would be realized.”

 The heartache Rowa felt at Melina’s mention was overshadowed by surprise. “You knew her?”

“I can hardly say I knew her.” Vyke lowered his head, looking at his empty hand as though it were missing something. “She approached me early in my Tarnished pilgrimage, when I had not yet found a Maiden to guide me, but I longed to follow the teachings of the Golden Order. When a true Finger Maiden availed herself to me, I abandoned Melina, and I did not know what a grave mistake that would be. I was blind to the folly of the Golden Order.”

“Many were,” Rowa agreed, “and I was fortunate enough to not experience the same.”

“Even so, that blindness cost me more than I ever imagined. I took the Flame to spare my Maiden, but instead I was the one…” Vyke faltered, something terrible hanging unspoken, and Rowa did not need him to speak it to know. “Despite that, when you passed by my gaol in your journey, she visited me.”

“She withheld much of her doings from me,” Rowa said, though without her previous resentments. “I did not know she came to you.”

“She did, with compassion that I neither expected nor deserved. She spoke to me of her journey, and though I thought she went to the Forge only out of obedience, she told me she desired to become kindling.”

Rowa’s throat tightened, threatening the strength of her reply. “That has been hard for me to reconcile with.”

Vyke nodded. “And I as well, but she had hope it would free her from her cursed existence, and that you would persevere in her absence. But who is to say she has died entirely? Hers was a cursed existence, and perhaps that was what kindled the flame.”

Rowa thought back over the memories forged within Melina’s blade and found she could not refute his words, a small spring of hope bubbling up within her. “Perhaps, though I have tried not to avail myself to wishful thinking.”

“No matter the truth of her fate, life or death, she went into it of her own will. There was no fear in her, only…”

“…love,” Rowa finished, and the turmoil of Melina’s sacrifice waned, the pain settling under the balm of acceptance. “I carried on so that her sacrifice would not be in vain, but I did not do it well. I was angry, and I made many mistakes.”

“Is that why you have come to be here?” Vyke asked. “Did you fall so far along the path?”

“No,” Rowa said. “I took the Elden Ring…but I gave it up.”

Vyke’s face slackened with dismay. “After all you endured to claim it?”

“I did it to save the life of the man I love, the one Melina entrusted to protect me from the Frenzied Flame. I did not love him as I should have, but he was still willing to give his life for me so I could take the Elden Ring. To atone for my own wrongs, I gave it up, and I trust his vision for the world to come.” As she spoke of the Elden Ring, Rowa became aware of the distinct lack, the yawning absence where her Runes had once been, but she resisted the discontent the emptiness threatened to stir up. “I would rather be powerless and have love.”

Vyke regarded her silently, then smiled, though his eyes still reflected grief. “Melina spoke of your care, and I now see it in full. How I wish I had been wise enough to do the same, to forsake the Elden Ring altogether for the sake of my Maiden’s life.”

“I am not without fault. I have done many wrongs, some out of ignorance and others out of anger and hatred. It is my hope that I will have the chance to amend them.”

“If you return to the land of the living, do not waste the chance given to you.” Vyke’s calm countenance momentarily waned, seared with a brand of rage. “And if it be within your power, you would do well to smite the Three Fingers from all existence.”

“I will,” Rowa promised, the mere thought of the Frenzy sending a shiver down her spine. “There shall be no place for chaos in the world to come.”

Vyke’s fury faded as quickly as it had come. “What is the world that you would have?”

“It has already begun.” Rowa could not contain her wonder as she recalled the Crucible sprouting from Morgott. “A world of the Crucible reborn, where no living soul is deemed cursed. It will not be perfect, but none shall be hated for the sake of a fickle god. Melina was willing to sacrifice herself for such a world, and so it will be.”

“That is better than anything I envisioned, bound in the tenets of the Golden Order. In my imprisonment, I came to understand that the Greater Will and the Frenzied Flame were mirrors of each other, destroying to their own ends.” Vyke sighed, and the shadow lifted from him. “Now that I know the world will begin anew without them, I can depart in peace.”

Tears prickled behind Rowa’s eyes as she watched the grief and suffering fade, giving her hope for the ones she had lost. “I am glad of it. I know many wait for me within true Death, but I cannot depart with you. It is not my time yet.”

“I thought not.” This time, Vyke’s smile was true. “It is fitting you should live in the world you fought to create, even if you are not its Lord.”

Rowa returned his smile. “I suppose it is.”

“Should you cross paths one day with Melina, or a dragon woman by the name of Lansseax, please tell them I am at peace now.”

“Gladly,” Rowa said.

Vyke offered a hand to her. “Then I wish you well, Rowa of no renown. May the world be renewed because of you.”

Rowa clasped his hand firmly. “And may your peace never know end, Vyke.”

Vyke relinquished his hold, and the fog rose to engulf him as he turned away, but as he did another figure appeared, a woman in the garb of a Finger Maiden. She took his hand, and they walked into the fog together.

Rowa watched until they disappeared from view and departed the mortal coil once and for all. Then she was alone again, but it did not last long. Her soul quivered at the approach of another, one she knew at once, for she had been bound to it.

“Morgott…” she whispered, feeling the pull and offering no resistance.

“Rest.” Morgott’s murmur drifted across a great distance, finding purchase in her heart. “Find respite for thy body and soul, and worry not. I shall await thee.”

Rowa welcomed the embrace of his words, letting them pull her toward him. They surrounded her in warmth, and the fog faded as she sank into true rest.

Chapter Text

Morgott tended to Rowa as best he could. He sought out the few perfumers and apothecaries that remained among his host, utilizing their talents as well as his own power to imbue Rowa with the fortitude her body lacked. Her rest seemed a gentle one, a means by which to regain her strength, for each day her skin regained some of its pallor.

In the hours he spent watching over her, his mind was captured by the affections from his heart, and he put much thought into how he would voice them when she awakened, her own words returning again and again to his mind: “Let this be proof of the love I tried to deny.”

His initial instinct was disbelief. The way she had looked at him after Melina’s sacrifice, first in anger and later in grief, had contained so much pain that he had thought it insurmountable. But the immensity of the Elden Ring washed away his doubts; she had relinquished unmatched power for his sake, something that could have only been done out of deep love. It seemed unfathomable to him, but likewise he knew his own devotion would have him do the same. He longed for her to wake, so that he could give her the declaration of his own affections in return.

As much as he wished to remain at Rowa’s side indefinitely, he could not spend every moment there. Though some had undoubtedly departed upon learning his true nature, most of the displaced host of Leyndell remained, seeking guidance and purpose from him as the progenitor of the crimson-gold Erdtree that now illuminated the land. Some asked questions about the changing of the world, while others were more concerned with the present situation, but seeking to provide answers to their concerns was far less challenging than the simple act of standing face to face with his subjects. The weight of many gazes on his Omen form was a heavy one, and many regarded him with clear apprehension if not outright fear, but he forced himself to face them nonetheless. He was not the cursed wretch that he had once thought himself to be, and he would not act like it.

Godfrey arrived at the camp on the first night, but he did not bring Marika. She did not accompany him, keeping to herself somewhere beyond the camp, and Godfrey divided his time between the two. Morgott wavered on making an effort to seek her out, having no words ready for her, but eventually he decided it would be foolish to waste an opportunity he had never been given, and may not receive again.

On the second day of the renewal, Morgott departed from the Leyndell encampment, leaving Rowa beneath the watchful eyes of Marcus and Leonius. He traveled through groves of golden trees beginning to tinge crimson, decked in a new cloak hastily constructed from repurposed tent canvas. Following Godfrey’s direction, it did not take him long to find Marika standing at the edge of the trees. Her hair was drawn back in a slipshod braid, likely formed by Godfrey’s hand. Dressed in simple commoner’s garb and no longer filled with the might of a god, she appeared as a different woman altogether.

Morgott made no attempt to mask his approach, but if she noticed his coming, she did not immediately react. Her gaze remained fixed on a distant, indiscernible point, facing southward where the plains of Altus dropped into Liurnia below. He stopped a respectful distance from her, waiting a few moments before speaking.

“Dost thou seek something yonder?”

Marika blinked, shifting slightly as though she had been disturbed from a daydream. She glanced at him, seeming surprised at his presence as she answered, “I seek my Shadow.”

Though her form was diminished, the depth of godhood had not gone from her eyes, and Morgott found he could not hold her gaze for long. “Thy Shadow…he was slain for the Rune of Death.”

“This I know,” Marika said. “But as I was shattered, so was he. One half a slave to the Greater Will, hidden where time itself ceases, but the other…he hath awaited my return.”

Morgott thought he heard a smile in her voice, but her face betrayed nothing. “I am glad not all things were sundered from thee.”

“Godfrey spake of Mohg, that his fate is unknown.”

“He yet liveth, of that I am sure,” Morgott said, recalling Godwyn’s encouragement. “Though I know not where he hath gone nor what he hath done since we parted.”

Something bordering on relief briefly softened Marika’s countenance. “What of the others?”

“Radahn and Rykard are fallen, as are the remnants of Godwyn’s kin. To my knowledge, Ranni is gone, severed from her Empyrean fate and perhaps now the Lands Between altogether. As for Malenia and Miquella…I hath heard no tell of either since the last days of the war. I know not of their fates, save that their Runes are missing with them. I wish the tidings were gladder.”

“‘Tis better than what I anticipated, that all would be slain.”

“What is become of Radagon?” Morgott queried. “I hath neither seen nor heard him since both of ye were set free.”

“No more is he mine other self, so ‘tis not for me to know, nor do I desire to hinder him,” Marika said, heavy with regret. “‘Tis well within his right to depart from me, for I have done no good to him. Even if he doth not seek to distance himself, I shall.”

Morgott let a silence stretch between them, mulling over his next words. The traces of emotion he had seen within the Erdtree were gone from her, but the fact they had existed at all was more than he had expected to find. It almost hurt more to have glimpsed a semblance of love from her as opposed to the scorn he had long anticipated.

“Thou dost need not distance thyself from all things,” he said at last. “I would grant thee a place within the camp, if thou wouldst wish it.”

“I hold no doubt of that, but I do not wish for a place.”

“If thou dost hold apprehensions toward the people, they shan’t deal harshly with thee. They need not even see thee.”

“’Tis not the people I fear.” Marika’s eyes flickered to him, and this time he could clearly see the regret in them. “Nor thou.”

Morgott stood in contemplation for a moment. “What of my Tarnished?”

Marika did not answer readily, and Morgott recalled the glimpse of Rowa standing over her, world-ending strength in her grasp. “She did what I deemed an impossibility,” the former god murmured. “She gave up the power of all the world freely. Such a strength is fearsome beyond compare.”

“Her love is more fearsome still, for it hath brought both good and ill upon her, driving her steps on the path to lordship. ‘Tis that love that hath brought me hence, and thou as well.”

“Thou’rt well and truly blessed to find such love. Never did I envision this.”

“What didst thou envision?”

“Many things, all of which bring shame upon me.” Marika lifted her head, studying the branches stretching across the sky. “I envisioned that thou wouldst live with Godwyn, safe from mine Order.”

The pain that struck Morgott’s heart was not for Godwyn’s loss as much as knowing Marika had thought of them, even from such a distance.

“But in my grief, I saw nothing beyond grief and the desire to destroy it all.” Marika’s hands clenched and unclenched like the Runes still lay within them. “And then in imprisonment, as all fell to war, I saw only death for thou, for thy brother, for all the demigods.”

Morgott was taken by surprise. “Thou didst see what transpired during thy imprisonment?”

“‘Twas as though I drifted in a long dream. I saw from afar all the strife, and when thou didst take Leyndell, I heard thy entreaties to me like a far, distant cry.”

Every prayer Morgott had made to her in desperation and pain and self-loathing all suddenly resurrected themselves in his mind as he whispered, “Thou didst hear me?”

“I did, though I could not fully understand, nor answer.”

“But surely though didst grasp my conquest against the Tarnished.”

“Aye, and I feared ‘twould be thy end, so I find this outcome all the more fortunate.” A small crease appeared in her noble brow. “The Greater Will bound me tight. Even to Melina, I could not reveal all things.”

Though Morgott now understood Melina not been a trueborn demigod, her absence weighed on him like she was his sister. “What fate was Melina consigned to?”

“I cannot say. I saw her existence as a means by which to open the path I sealed long ago, but there remained in me a faint hope that the flames would burn away the curse, and she would be freed, so not all my works would foster death and despair.”

Morgott frowned. He had already searched the depths of the Elden Ring, seeking the Rune of Death and its remembrances. He found her, the queen Melina had once been with an eye the color of dusk, a scourge seeking out old gods with the ultimate goal of overturning the Golden Order. Once the Rune of Death was taken from her, she passed from all remembrance, every bit as ghostly as her body had been. He had hoped Marika would provide insight, and though he was disappointed at her lack, he could not bring himself to fully believe Melina was gone.

“But surely Melina carried much anger against me.” Marika’s soft words cut across Morgott’s thoughts. “Though she was not of my womb, I bore her, first as an Empyrean and then as a Maiden.”

“I perceived none while I knew her,” Morgott said. “She had long observed the world in its brokenness, and though I wish there was another way, she went willingly to mend the world with her sacrifice. There was no anger.”

A breeze blew across the plain, and Marika’s next words were almost lost in it. “What of thee?”

“Just as I bear no hate for thee, I cling not to any anger.”

For the first time, Marika looked at him fully, and the last vestiges of her godhood were stripped away. She stood before him as only a woman, broken and remade, her eyes reflecting the fullness of grief that remained within.

“I do not see thee blameless, for thou hast done much wrong,” he continued, “but so too do I see how thou wert imprisoned. I cannot bear great anger, but I am only one. I cannot speak for others, such as Mohg. His pain and rage against thee was ever greater than mine.”

Marika held his gaze, and he perceived what seemed like an eternity of turmoil before she focused on the horizon. “Such pain is why I would take my leave of this land.”

Morgott was not surprised, now that he fully understood the length of her suffering. She had been trapped long before she ever shattered the Elden Ring, and the scars of her pain were still written plainly across all the Lands Between. “Where wilt thou go?”

“I know not where yet, but there are some places gone from living memory, places that I believed I would never be granted a chance to see again. I would go to them, if I am able.”

“I shan’t hinder thee.”

“Godfrey shall depart with me, for he was never intended for lordship, but thou…”

“I never held the ambition of lordship within my heart, but now that it lieth before me truly, I will not shy away from it.”

“There is merit in not desiring such power, for desire often warps good intent.” Marika passed another lingering glance over him. “Thou dost remind me very much of Godwyn, in that regard.”

Morgott was startled by the comparison, but Marika continued on.

“Do not seek godhood,” she said, “for it hath cost me much. To become a god is to cast away all of thy former self, all humanity, all love.”

“I will not,” Morgott said, “for I know well the allure of such things, but also the price they incur. I would be a fool to cast away love when I hath only just found it.”

Marika may have smiled, but it was so fleeting Morgott wasn’t sure if he had seen it. A quiet fell over them, and in that span Morgott’s eye was drawn to the distant branches of the small Erdtree that had taken root in Altus’ valley. Tender, small buds of crimson-gold had begun to sprout on the branches that were formerly blighted and dead. True death had finally come, and new life could grow in its place.

“Mother, dost thou see the boughs yonder?” Morgott asked.

“Aye,” Marika said, following where he indicated.

“Many of the Erdtree’s seeds fell across the Lands Between. One such seed fell above Godwyn’s tomb, and hath sprouted there. ‘Twas blighted by Death, until the Rune was restored, and now it flourishes with new life. If thou’rt to leave these lands, wouldst thou wish to take a seed to bear?”

Silence greeted his question, followed by a tremulous whisper. “I would.”

“Then come.” Morgott extended his hand to her. “Let us go and see.”

“Schools of thought varied among the intellectuals of the Academy…”

Rowa drifted up toward consciousness, buoyed by a voice drifting into her awareness. It was familiar, and she followed its pull readily.

“Some were deemed more acceptable than others.”

Her senses returned in a trickle. She felt no pain, but her body felt weak with an almost infantile frailty. She lay upon something soft and cushioned, blanketed by warm fabric, and she entertained the desire to sink into the gentle embrace of sleep again, but the voice continued speaking.

“It was ultimately decided that certain studies of the night sky would be prohibited. There are many currents amongst the stars, some too great for terrestrial minds to fathom.”

Rowa opened her eyes as she broke the surface of wakefulness, squinting against the light. The framed canvas of a tent arched to a peak above her, adding a thread of confusion to her already sluggish thoughts. Seeking the source of the voice, she summoned the strength to turn her head and found Morgott. He sat on the ground beside her, the Carian history book cradled in one hand, waiting for her as he had promised.

“Morgott!” The cry ripped from Rowa’s throat, the sight of him drawing her out of her muddled thoughts.

Morgott’s quiet reading halted abruptly as he looked up, and they locked eyes. Some breadth of emotion rippled across his face as he breathed, “Rowa?”

Rowa barely noticed the softness with which he spoke as she pushed herself upright, ignoring the weakness of her body. He was alive, in front of her, no longer fading within the Erdtree, and her head spun from relief.

“You’re alive!” Her exclamation was little more than a sob as her composure crumbled. Tears distorted her sight, the desire to be near to him consuming all rational thought as she reached for him. The book slid from Morgott’s hand, falling into the grass beneath him as he took hold of her trembling form. His arms enveloped her, warm and strong and full of life. He gently brought her into his embrace, and as she pressed her head against his chest where his heartbeat thundered, she cried in earnest, clinging to him with all her might.

Morgott held her as she wept, just as he had done for her before, but this time there was no hesitation or misgivings. He embraced her as fiercely as she clung to him, one hand cradling her head and the other encompassing the width of her shoulders. He murmured to her, but she did not hear his words as she gasped his name again and again, overwhelmed by the weight of what had nearly transpired and the tremendous relief that it was not so as all her regrets returning tenfold.