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The cart carrying the prisoner entered the city in complete silence.
Summer had faded, and the first chill of autumn drifted through Leyndell. Along the misty morning streets and behind the curtains of roadside homes, many tense, curious faces craned their necks to glimpse the passing convoy. And that was only natural—despite a strict order forbidding any leaks, scandals like this could never be fully silenced.
Yet the prison cart was tightly sealed, its front marked with the seal of the Erdtree, offering no chance to peer inside. The knights escorting it were in full armor, lances held high with stern authority, and the citizens dared not act rashly. They only watched from afar as the rumble of wheels passed under gate after gate, toward the foot of the Erdtree.
Only when even the hoofbeats had faded did people gather to whisper, stunned and uncertain, their murmurs drifting through the alleys like morning mist:
—“Hey, we saw it with our own eyes! So the rumors must be true?”
—“Really? Was it truly him? Couldn’t it be a mistake?”
—“What a disgrace! A Demigod, a prince of the Erdtree, entangled in a treason charge!”
—“What kind of prince is he? I’ve always said the consort’s kin can’t be trusted—besides, that hair color was cursed from the start—”
—“Shhh! Quiet! Don’t speak recklessly! Do you want to insult the Elden Lord?”
—“Somebody, just tell me, is it true or not? Was it really Lord Radahn?”
—“Could Lord Radahn really have defied the Greater Will over some condemned town, at the edge of the world?”
“Lord Radahn, please recount the events in detail.”
Dust danced slowly in the air. From the high wall of the cell, a small window cast a dim beam of light inside. The sky, barred by iron slats, appeared only as blocks of grey-blue rectangles—no clouds, no birds, no branches of the Erdtree. Nothing.
The red-haired demigod stared at it in a daze, silent. The inquisitor cleared his throat softly. When Radahn gave no reply, he tapped the tabletop with his fingernail.
“Please don’t make this difficult, Lord Radahn. It will do nobody's good.”
The man in the cell came back to himself.
“I’ve said it twice already. Once in Sellia, once on the road here—why don’t you just ask the previous interrogators?”
“We still require your personal account.”
Radahn sighed deeply. His large frame looked ill-fitted to the narrow cell. His once neatly braided crimson hair had come loose during the days of transport, now wild and tangled. He had long been disarmed, weapons and armor confiscated. Faintly glowing shadows of Erdtree shackles circled his wrists.
“It’s simple: the sorcerers in Sellia observed an anomaly in the stars. I joined them in their calculations and determined that a meteor would fall at Sellia. So I left the town alone, went out to the Caelid plains, used gravity magic to redirect it toward me, and shattered it. That’s all.”
“What do you you mean by 'shattered'…?”
“Literally. Smashed it apart with gravity-charged blades.”
The inquisitor fell silent for a moment, evidently trying to picture the scene. After an involuntary shiver, he coughed and asked again:
“Were you aware that the meteor had been sent by the Greater Will?”
“I wasn’t…”
The inquisitor noted the pause.
“Lord Radahn, allow me to remind you that your statements will be presented to Queen Marika, whose judgement is the sole crucial matter to your fate at the point. The Eternal Queen is fair and unwavering—she does not tolerate lies or omissions. Speaking purely in goodwill, I urge you to be completely forthcoming. She will know.”
“All right, all right,” Radahn said. He sighed again and glanced unconsciously at the small window. “I had suspicions. The soldiers from Leyndell surrounded Sellia on a flimsy pretext. Clearly an intentional lockdown, and yet they sent an edict only to me, ordering me to leave at once. I figured then that it was the Erdtree’s will.”
“Even so, you chose to proceed?”
“Yes.”
Outside the cell, torches crackled on the stone wall. The inquisitor waited a moment, then continued:
“You claim you acted alone? No one else was involved?”
“Yes.”
“We have also questioned Gaius, Gaia, Ogha, and your other followers in Sellia. Their statements differ: when you departed for Caelid, they stood by in the tower at Sellia’s gates, prepared to push the meteor away should you fail.”
“That might’ve happened, but not on my order,” Radahn said. Then—surprisingly—the disgraced prisoner gave a light chuckle, closing his eyes briefly in ease. “I didn’t think about backup plans. I just told them not to worry, that I could handle it alone. Huh, no one ever trusts me.”
“They too knew this was the Erdtree’s will—perhaps even the Greater Will’s—and still they acted?”
“You’ll have to ask them. But I believe we all knew what we were doing.”
“Treason is a grave offense. Are you certain of what you’re saying?”
The smile hadn’t fully faded from the red-haired Demigod’s graced eyes. As it receded, his expression didn’t return to sternness, but settled into a vast calm.
“I’m saying: I knew exactly what I was doing. And I’m prepared to take responsibility for it.”
The cell remained silent after the inquisitor left. Only the torches crackled faintly on the walls. The rectangular patch of light shifted gradually, stretching longer. By the time footsteps echoed again on the distant stone stairs, the sliver of sky framed by the barred window had already taken on a faint blush of dawn.
The new arrival was surrounded by knights and attendants. His footsteps were steady and strong, and when he entered the dim prison, it was as though he had brought a beam of blinding sunlight in with him. Before even looking at Radahn, his eyes swept over the surroundings, and he frowned deeply.
“Why is he being kept here? Who arranged this?” His voice was sharp as he turned to the attendants beside him. “Even if he has committed a crime, until Her Majesty delivers a verdict, he still holds the status of a Demigod—and with it, all the privileges due. How could he be locked in such a disgraceful place?”
The attendants apologised in a flurry, but he didn’t bother to listen. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed them all. Then—just for an instant, but Radahn saw it clearly—he lifted his gaze toward him with a strange flicker, as if inspecting him, as if gauging a reaction, as if waiting for a word of thanks.
But Radahn said nothing.
There was a chair outside the cell, yet the Golden Prince didn’t trouble himself to sit. Godwyn stood where he was, tall and regal, his presence commanding the space. Only after the others had left and the door was closed behind them did he finally speak properly.
“Radahn. It’s been some time. I trust you’ve been well?”
Radahn only stared at him. Godwyn raised an eyebrow faintly.
“Even if the circumstances are awkward, I had hoped you would be more courteous.”
“My apologies, Godwyn the Golden,” Radahn replied slowly. “I was just wondering—when you asked that, were you expecting me to say I’m doing well?”
“I was merely offering kindness,” said Godwyn, his tone flat and emotionless.
“I felt the kindness.”
“There’s no need to speak in barbs. Radahn, you know I have always held you in high regard. Back when you still resided in Leyndell, I often told my knights to study your valor. had always believed a man like you would someday achieve greatness. Though I admit—I did not imagine your ‘accomplishment’ would be of this sort. Such a pity. Truly.”
Radahn gave no response. Godwyn didn’t mind. His voice remained steady, cool, devoid of emotion—like the sun on a winter sky: cold, bright, and distant.
“I had planned to recommend you for a title. To speak to my divine mother, Queen Marika, on your behalf.”
The foreign-born demigod stayed silent, his expression unchanged. Godwyn studied his face closely. Not seeing the shame or remorse he expected, his eyes grew cold.
“But if one’s mind strays, nothing else matters.”
He sighed deeply and began to pace. The torchlight gilded his golden hair and crown, while it also cast into harsh relief the dust-stained clothes and weary face of Radahn.
“The Erdtree has never wronged you. On the contrary, it has shown you great favor—treating you, though born of consort blood, as one of its own. You were named prince, named Demigod, given a place equal to us, the golden lineage born of the true divine. The people worshipped you just the same. And how do you repay it? With treason. You have disappointed me. You have shamed your father. You have chilled the heart of Mother Marika.”
“I'm not plotting against the Erdtree. I just want to save the people of Sellia. I live and study there. I care about that place. That’s all.”
He stopped pacing. The golden-haired Demigod stared at the red-haired one, and for a moment, they stood eye to eye in eerie silence. Through the thick prison walls, the faint sound of the cathedral’s bells rang from the direction of the Erdtree.
Godwyn waited until the bell’s final echo faded, and silence returned, before speaking again. His voice remained measured, but now it carried a dark weight.
“You know why Sellia was sentenced, don't you?”
“I don’t care.”
Godwyn acted as if he hadn’t heard.
“Sellia defied the Erdtree. They are conspiring with the Eternal City, who once committed the cardinal offense to harm the Greater Will.” His tone became sharp, like a pronouncement. “There is ample evidence the descendants of the Eternal City were not all eradicated. Nox Nightfolk are still sighted in Sellia. And now, you—a demigod—fight to protect such a place. Radahn, what are you planning?”
“Nothing. I only wanted to protect the people there.”
“The Vulture Legion sent to investigate the Eternal City has vanished without a trace. You have any idea what happened?”
“I don’t know—I’ve never even heard of that name.”
“You still in contact with Caria?”
Radahn frowned.
“Why this question?”
“You and your sister Ranni—do you still speak?”
“I don’t—” Radahn looked away, confused. Godwyn lifted his chin, watching him. His half-brother-in-law’s voice now carried irritation. “…Since I followed Lord Father to leave Caria, she saw it as betrayal of our Queen Mother. She cut ties with me long ago. —Why are you asking?”
“I have heard that Ranni is unmatched in her mastery of lunar magic. And the Nox, as I understand, worship the Black Moon as their symbol.”
Radahn let out a long, helpless sigh.
“What are you plotting? What are you all plotting?” Godwyn pressed on. “You, a demigod of the Erdtree—descended from Caria—and your sister, an Empyrean, working in secret with the Nox? How far has it gone? Far enough for the Greater Will to send a meteor? Far enough that you would rather fall into ruin than let it happen?”
“No—I told you, I had nothing to do with any of that. I just wanted to protect the people of Sellia.”
“You think I am easy to fool?”
Radahn shot to his feet. Frustrated, bewildered, he looked at Godwyn with disbelief.
“What’s wrong with you, Godwyn? Is it really so hard to understand?” he shouted. “Listen, it has nothing to do with any of that! That’s where I lived. I walked those streets every day. They were filled with noise and life. Merchants and travelers bustled about, rare creatures roamed the roads, and sages from distant lands debated openly in the squares. I learned in their halls, sparred with my peers on the lakeside. We honed arrows, experimented with enchantments, and strangers cheered from terraces when our gravity spells churned waves across the lake. At night, the glintstone fireflies glimmered, and we'd climb the hills with scholars from other conspectus to stargaze. They told their tales, and I told mine. Acolytes brought us midnight snacks. We were so absorbed we’d miss the prime moments to observe. I hunted stray wyverns for the townsfolk, and they cheered me, tossing clover and dried fruit into Leonard’s feed. Don’t you get it? That’s all! No Nox, no Black Moon, no Vulture Legion, no Greater Will—nothing to do with any of that! I just wanted to protect Sellia! I even protected the soldiers you sent to lock the place down! They probably didn’t realize that your orders were leading them to their graves, did they?!”
“Their souls will return to the Erdtree with honor. Statues of them will be raised in the cathedral. That is what they yearned for.”
Radahn still frowned, as if trying hard to understand, but failing. Finally, he said:
“I don't get it. Living just to be a statue after death… I don't get it.”
The golden-haired and red-haired Demigods faced each other coldly. Eventually, it was the prince outside the cell who broke eye contact. He resumed pacing in the confined space.
“I am disappointed in you, Radahn. So disappointed.” He said it calmly. Radahn slumped back onto the bed, eyes drifting toward the tiny patch of sky. Godwyn continued:
“If you were plotting rebellion, I would be disappointed in your lack of gratitude. But if your motives are really as simple as you claim, then… it is even more regrettable. Someone in your position, unable to see beyond mortal trivialities, letting sentiment blind him to the greater path. Do you really think the Eternal City will perserve the scenes you described if we look away? You revere my father, Godfrey the First Lord, yet you have inherited none of his vast, kingly vision. It is, indeed, a shame. Such a shame. I see no reason to say more. I will relay your words to Mother, faithfully. And—”
He stopped, turned again, and paused strangely.
“Stay no longer so close to Miquella. Do not let your shortsightedness and deviation from order lead him astray.”
Radahn blinked. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a strange laugh.
“Me? Lead Miquella astray?”
But Godwyn had already decided no reason to say more. The Golden Prince turned and left, his steps still steady, forceful, and self-assured, departing that dim prison and returning to the radiance beneath the Erdtree.
Not long after nightfall, the next visitor arrived—not someone Radahn had expected. Or perhaps, not entirely. The guest wore robes bearing the sigil of the Golden Order, garments permitted only for those who served directly under the Elden Lord himself. He bowed deeply and respectfully before Radahn, then spoke:
“I bring a message from Lord Radagon.”
“I had thought he would deign to visit in person,” Radahn said dryly.
“Lord Radagon is burdened with state affairs, extremely occupied. Furthermore, if I may speak frankly—given the nature of the matter, Lord Radagon, as both Lord of the Erdtree and your father, finds himself in an awkward position. It would not be appropriate for him to come personally.”
Radahn chuckled. The moonlight, faintly cast through the small window, filtered in slanted and soft. Dust still drifted within its reach.
“He would have come, the past one of him,” Radahn murmured, staring into that patch of pale moonlight. “Back when he was more… alive than now. Even when facing enemies, he would praise and admire. He often spoke—fondly and again and again—of the first time of life he ever questioned his ordained path. That moment, when he beheld the vast brilliance of the stars and the moon, and felt moved. We were born of that movement…” He paused. “Ah, never mind. Go ahead.”
The attendant resumed, his tone strictly formal:
“You are in grave danger. Queen Marika has yet to pass judgment, but exile, sealing, even execution—are all appropriate penalties for such a crime. Lord Radagon is deeply concerned. As your father, he believes in your nature. He is convinced that your actions were not treacherous in intent. He believes you were simply following your usual ambition—to achieve greatness. To become a hero.”
“I did want to be a hero,” Radahn said calmly.
“That is reassuring to hear. However, while your father may be willing to forgive, as Elden Lord he must ask more of you. This is still a transgression. Repentance and atonement are necessary. Lord Radagon hopes you will express sincere remorse, and devote yourself wholly to the Golden Order, proving with your actions that your loyalty remains unchanged. That this is all just an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
Radahn furrowed his brow again but did not interrupt.
“Furthermore, this entire affair has become a blemish upon the Erdtree’s name. Lord Radagon will work to quietly smooth things over—but asks that you not speak of it again to anyone in the future.”
The attendant seemed satisfied with this message, leaning back ever so slightly, already anticipating how he might later report the gratitude of the Elden Lord’s misguided son. But Radahn remained puzzled and asked again:
“Cover it up? How? The whole of Caelid already knows. Merchants and travelers pass through daily—how could he possibly silence them all?”
“That is not for you to worry about. Just understand this: whatever happened in Sellia has nothing to do with you. With Radahn, the Demigod of the Erdtree. That is enough.
“I don’t understand. Why cover it?”
“Lord Radagon simply wishes, as a father, to correct your mistake. To save you.”
But the stubborn son still frowned.
“I complished a magnificent deed. I moved the skies with my own hands. I shattered a star. The path of night itself was altered because of me.” He looked up, as though he could see through layers of stone and architecture to the throne of the Elden Lord—toward the one from whom he inherited his proud crimson hair. “Does Lord Father… not feel moved at all?”
The attendant’s face remained properly composed and blank.
“Lord Radahn…”
His voice was almost tender, like soothing a child. Silence once again settled between them. Cold seeped in through the cracks in the stone, slowly thickening the air. The moon shifted. The patch of moonlight that once lit the cell was gone.
At last, Radahn closed his eyes and shook his head.
“…I decline Lord Father’s proposal. I have no interest in studying the Order. And I won’t pretend nothing happened.”
“Do you no longer wish to be a hero?”
“I already am one,” he said, low and steady. “…When I returned to Sellia at dawn, riding from the plains; before the seals of the cart fell and silence enclosed me… I could see. I could hear. The tears of gratitude they shed. The joy in their voices when they called my name. The honor of a hero—I’ve already received it.”
The attendant remained serene.
“A vanishing hero. An reflection like a ripple on water. Just as your great deed existed only in that instant. Mortal lives are brief as meteors, and their memories are even more fleeting than morning mist. Your tale will be erased. Your name forgotten. Your very being lost. If you pour your entire, long Demigod’s life into that one moment, there will be no future for you—no greater achievements, no grander titles. If you choose this, then even the one speaking to me now is but the ash left after the fire has burned out. The strongest of Demigods… and yet, would you truly settle for this?”
“…”
Radahn fell silent once more. The attendant tried again with more persuasion, but the red-haired demigod did not respond. It was impossible to tell whether he was even listening. Eventually, the attendant bowed deeply and departed, urging once more that Radahn reconsider his father’s offer.
Silence crept in like the cold. Radahn lowered his head, tangled hair falling over his shoulders. His mouth set in a downward curve, his shoulders slightly slumped. Not long ago, when Leyndell’s knight-commander had tremblingly requested his disarmament amidst Sellia’s crowds, Radahn had still worn his ostentatious, ornate armor. Upon his back hung those greatswords, nearly impossible for mortals to even lift.
Now, both the armor and the blades were gone. In this prison, he was only a mane in disarray, body smeared with dust, confused and lost—trapped in a cage.
By the latter half of the night, no trace of light remained through the tiny window. The square of night beyond had thickened, darker even than the stone walls faintly lit by flickering flame—like a void devouring all light.
Radahn was drifting in a shallow, uneasy sleep when he caught the first sound.
He awoke instantly.
It was soft—steps descending the stone stairs with careful deliberation, the faint swish of fabric brushing against itself. Barely a whisper against the eardrum. But he had sensed it coming.
He held his breath.
The figure came into view. Though cloaked and hooded, the slim frame revealed everything. Radahn stood at once, unable to suppress a wide smile. He strode toward the bars and, when the visitor removed the hood to reveal a head of pale golden hair and eyes that gleamed like starlight, he exclaimed:
“Miquella! It is good to see you!”
The young Empyrean’s face was flushed with color in the glow of the torchlight.
“Lord Brother—I am very pleased to see you too.” He smiled as brightly, reaching toward the seal on the prison gate. With a shimmer of light, he stepped through as if passing through mist and stood inside the narrow cell. Miquella looked up, quietly taking in Radahn’s disheveled appearance—from his wild hair to his unchanged clothes to the faint glow of the Erdtree’s mark on his wrists. Without a word, he stepped forward and gently took one of Radahn’s wrists in both small, childlike hands.
“…These shackles—let me remove them. That should make you more at ease,” he murmured, casting a small spell. “I’ll have to put them back on later, I am sorry. I came to see you in secret.”
“Thank you. That’s much better,” Radahn said, flexing his stiff wrists. He didn’t bother asking how Miquella had slipped past the guards without permission. Nor did he pretend not to be delighted by the defiant act. Just to spare Miquella the trouble of looking too far up, he sat again, examining the unchanging features of the young Empyrean—frozen forever in childhood, unchanged for the slightest bit since their days living together in Leyndell.
Of course it should be so, and yet Radahn still asked:
“You look… a bit pale. Are you all right? How is Malenia?”
“We’re both fine,” Miquella replied with a cheerful smile. Though normally calm and composed, his voice now carried an unusual excitement, a vibrant energy that seemed to lighten his whole being. He blinked, then without warning, began speaking in a rush:
“Actually, never been better—Lord Brother, you will not believe it, that my research has made tremendous progress. As it turns out, the Rot is not truly a disease. At its root set in the fundamental layer of different orders themselves—a consequence of outer gods’ interference. I have been working on a method to suppress it. Though the technique still needs refining and we are nowhere near a complete cure, it has already made her feel much better. Did you know? With regular treatment, she can now go days without a single relapse! She can run and jump as she pleases! Lately, she has been training in swordsmanship. You really should see her now—you would surely be amazed. I often thought of writing to tell you, but there was always more to improve, and I kept thinking I could wait for even better results. Then I was not sure if words could express it all, and before I knew it—”
He noticed Radahn watching him, eyes bright with an unblinking smile. His own voice slowed, then faltered. Flustered, Miquella began to fidget with one of his braids.
“Sorry, I have just been rambling about myself.”
“It’s all right. I love hearing it. Such wonderful news. It makes me happy, too—you can finally breathe a little easier.”
Miquella shook his head and lowered his gaze, the smile lingering faintly at the corners of his mouth.
“No, there is still a mountain of work to be done… But yes, much better than being stuck in place, not knowing where to go.” He sat beside Radahn and hesitated for a moment. “…Actually, I have been thinking of leaving Leyndell. The Golden Order no longer holds anything for me. Malenia will come with me; and you… well, I suppose you will not be returning here often either. Hence, there is nothing left for me here to remain attached to.”
Radahn blinked.
“…Is that so.”
“This city never changes,” Miquella said softly, idly swinging his legs. “So grand, so radiant… like a magnificent tomb lit by an eternal candle. I imagine you feel the same.”
“I do. Even though I lived here for years, I never thought of it as home… Sellia feels more like a second home to me.”
He paused, then hesitantly voiced the question that had been lingering in his mind.
“You said I wouldn’t be returning often. What do you mean by that? Did Queen Marika say something to you?”
“No. Are you worried she would punish you?”
“I can’t help but worry. A little.”
Miquella smiled again.
“I do not think she will. To be honest, I cannot feel very anxious about this… I do not have solid proof, just a vague premonition. A feeling about you.”
“Then tell me your feeling.”
Miquella didn’t answer immediately. He lowered his head, his silky hair almost brushing the floor. After a long silence, he raised his gaze to meet Radahn’s.
“I see it,” he said softly.
“I see you standing, radiant in kingly light.”
“Among all our siblings, all the Demigods—you will be the one who eventually become a Lord in the end.”
The Empyrean’s words fell with gentle certainty. His golden eyes glowed with quiet joy.
Radahn was stunned. Miquella’s gaze felt like it carried warmth—almost a burn.
“To take up Lord Father’s crown? To become him?” Radahn muttered.
The cell suddenly felt smaller, suffocating. As if he were only just now realizing it—how small, how stifling. He wanted to shout, to smash through the stone walls with his arms, to scatter the flames that fought him for breath, to tear the ceiling away and breathe real night air. He forced down the wild urge, crushed the panic rising in his throat. He shook his head, tried to sit still, to keep his voice steady as he said:
“—To be completely honest with you: I'm no longer sure whether that would be the right path for me to pursue... Nothing feels right anymore. Everything I once took for granted, so natural as the rising of the sun, now seems uncertain. I don’t even know if I’m too simple… or not simple enough. Ending up like this—am I supposed to have given something up, too?”
A coolness touched the back of his hand. He looked down. Miquella had quietly placed his soft hand on Radahn’s trembling one. Gentle to the point of ticklish, his touch soothed him, stroke by stroke. With the rhythm of those strokes, Radahn’s breath slowly returned. The choking weight in his throat dissolved.
Only once he could breathe again did Miquella speak, his voice still gentle as mist.
“So… how did you feel, yourself? In that moment—when you shattered the star—what was on your mind?”
The grass of the Caelid plains rose past Leonard’s hooves. Radahn straightened his knees and easily dismounted, lifting his eyes toward the night-shrouded land of Caelid.
A dark blue curtain stretched across the sky, and deep within it, a silver mist began to glow. All the stars that had died, and those still dying, all the ancient yesterdays and distant dawns—they tore open a gash in the heavens. Countless lives that had once been, or were yet to be, were watching him now.
The night sky was a graveyard.
But I am alive, he thought.
He drew his weapons. He could feel the precision of every muscle in his body, the rhythm of blood surging through every vein. The meteor had appeared on the horizon, dragging a brilliant tail. To his eyes, it moved in slow motion. Far above, shrouded in the fog of the cosmos, were the dead observers of the universe—and no one else would witness this battle between him and the star.
But I can do it, he thought.
The thundering of his heartbeat and the rushing of his blood filled his ears. In that noise—in that silence—the wind rose on the plains as he stepped forward. He felt the pull of the earth. He felt the gravity of the stars. He was one with the world, one with the cosmos.
And in that instant, his life burned.
He came to a halt. The meteor’s white light drowned out the stars, descending on him in a blaze of destructive, terrifying beauty. He struck his twin blades together with a ringing crack and let out a roar of exultation. Light and flame surged around him, wind and howls intertwined, and pride and joy filled his chest—
Even before the final blow landed, he already knew how it would end.
Now, in this stifling, narrow cell built by law and order to cage him, he opened his eyes again. In the prison that bound him with rules and expectations, he looked at the small, pale-gold presence beside him—at the barely perceptible smile on Miquella’s lips.
And in that moment, he understood—Miquella already knew. Before he could speak, Miquella had already known his answer.
Radahn smiled at him.
“That was it,” Miquella spoke softly, like mist drifting through the air.
“When the messenger brought the news, recounting what you’d done… That night, I stood at the foot of the Erdtree and looked out in your direction. Across the vast land, across the joy and sorrow of all living beings, I felt I could still see you,” he whispered, like a dream half-sung. “I saw your figure. You are whole. You stand proud upon the earth—so unlike the rest of our afflicted selves, such a complete being. Neither lacking nor excessive. In that moment, in that instant when I beheld you… I understood.”
“...Understood what?”
Miquella stared at him. Was it a trick of the light? Radahn thought Miquella’s golden eyes, graced and brilliant, had grown slightly wet.
“If I told you the vision I see—of you as Lord—is not the Lord of the Erdtree…?”
“If I told you it will not be the strength like Godfrey’s that earns you the lordship, but something beyond strength?”
“If I told you… I want you to be my King Consort?”
The sound of Radahn’s heartbeat and blood flowed back into clarity. In this hidden corner where the Erdtree’s light could not reach, he stared at the small Empyrean beside him.
“Are you serious?” he asked. The smile vanished from his face.
Miquella nodded. But Radahn’s brow did not relax.
“You’re saying this as an Empyrean? As someone who might ascend to godship and usher in the next age—you’re asking me to be your lord? Your consort?”
“I am saying it as Miquella. And since being an Empyrean is part of who I am—yes, I am. The lord I desire for my age of compassion, the consort I long for, can only be you.”
Radahn stared at him for a long, long time—so long it went beyond what was reasonable, beyond what Miquella had expected. Long enough that unease began to build. The self-assured calm Miquella usually carried began to waver under the thundering of his heart. The torch crackled on the wall. The sound, once subtle, now felt harsh and sharp. Miquella forced himself to hold Radahn’s gaze, resisting the urge to look away, waiting for his reply.
Then—Miquella’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. He saw Radahn, of all people, grow visibly flustered.
The muscle between Radahn’s brows twitched slightly as he quickly looked away, fixating on some imaginary point on the ground. Like ink bleeding through parchment, a helpless smile began to spread across his normally grim face. It seemed to make him anxious—unfamiliar. His gaze darted around, unable to settle—lingering on a lifted tile, a meaningless crack in the wall, the frayed edge of his filthy sleeve. At last, as though overwhelmed, he gave a short sigh and rested his elbow against his brow. When he lowered it again, his eyes beneath the messy red fringe were unmistakably bright, lit with unambiguous joy.
He said, quietly:
“…Honestly, I didn’t expect it’d happen in a place like this. I look like a complete mess…”
“What?” Miquella blinked. It took him a moment to register what Radahn meant—to notice the dirt-stained clothes, the face smeared with ash, the unkempt hair. And then he laughed—freely and at length, as if a weight had lifted.
“I am surprised you would even care about that…”
“Well, it’s an important promise. I used to expect myself to be a little more dignified about it…”
“‘Used to,’ huh…” Miquella echoed. His pupils dilated faintly as realization dawned. The confidence and certainty he’d carefully gathered began to crumble. He, like Radahn, let out a short breath, then hastily looked away, eyes darting around.
For a while, neither spoke. Nor did they look at each other.
Miquella silently withdrew his hand from Radahn’s and clasped both tightly on his lap, staring intently at the tiny square window as though it had become the most fascinating thing in the room. The blackness, once thick as ink, had begun to lift—it was visible again as mere night sky, no longer a miniature black hole.
After a long time, in the quiet, Miquella spoke again. His voice was soft, nearly a whisper.
“So, you knew, didn’t you? That I… have been seeing you that way. That I… hold hopes for you. Even though, in this cursed body, even though I… don’t really possess the right to wish for such a bonding promise…?”
“…”
“You have always known, haven’t you?”
Radahn glanced at the pink flush beneath Miquella’s golden hair and hummed in assent.
In the next instant, Miquella abruptly stood and strode straight toward the door, walking straight through the warded seal again without even a glance back. His voice rang out—loud and formal:
“I will be going now. You are right, this kind of conversation does not suit a place like this. We will talk again another time! I—ah, I will go. Take care, Lord Brother!”
“What?” Radahn called, confused, rising to his feet. He watched as Miquella all but vanished up the stairs like a gust of wind.
Grabbing the bars, he called helplessly:
“Wait, Miquella! Miquella! There’s still something important—”
The hurried footsteps paused on the stairs. After a moment, they returned. Miquella’s face reappeared in the dim orange torchlight.
“…What?”
Radahn looked at him awkwardly, struggling. At last, he lifted his wrist:
“…Uh, the shackle. You have to… put it back on…”
Miquella’s brow twitched. He stomped forward with a huff and reached out—only for Radahn to flip their hands over and gently grasp Miquella’s slender wrist before the spell could be recast.
“…Lord Brother?”
“How do I know?” Radahn said softly. The cold lines of his face had relaxed.
“It’s because, whenever you’re with me—only when you're with me—you show imperfectness. You’re clumsy. You’re alive. Not a Empyrean tortured by his own destiny, by the sorrow of the world. Not an idol perched in some great cathedral. Just Miquella. Just you.”
Miquella lowered his head and didn’t speak. Nor did he pull away.
Through the bars, they held each other’s wrists, as if feeling the other’s blood pulse through their hands.
In the corner, the small square of sky finally began to show the faintest hint of morning. Miquella finally spoke again:
“Our lives are long. Our siblings’ and our parents’ lives too. Perhaps that is exactly why we are so afraid of losing ourselves, of losing the meaning of paths forward. That is why we struggle so hard to find meaning. …But still…”
“But still,” Radahn said, “to feel truly alive—It feels good, isn't it?”
Miquella didn’t reply. He moved quietly, pulling his arm back. Golden light shimmered at his fingertips as he re-applied the seal to the shackle. Then he straightened and raised his gaze again, locking eyes with his red-haired half-brother.
He opened his mouth slightly, and in this hidden, unobserved place, a voice as soft as breath rose into the air:
“—Then… what is your answer?”
When the leaves began to fall across Leyndell, gossip of a Demigod’s treason no longer echoed through the streets.
By the time snow had piled atop the city’s orderly brickwork avenues, the Erdtree had officially declared the “Starscourge” incident a heroic deed to be praised and sung.
And when word spread that “Starscourge” Radahn, newly named General, would soon depart to guard Caelid with his army, the perfumers were already busy in the gardens scattered across the plateau. It was the season when cart after cart of fresh flowers rolled daily into the Golden Capital.
It was on this day that another rumor—nearly—began to spread about the red-haired demigod.
Only this time, the people of Leyndell seemed to have learned to meet such tales with a laugh. And so the rumor passed through ears and lips like a breeze, ephemeral as a dream, and quickly vanished.
They said the red-haired Demigod—the Starscourge General—was seen on the golden hills outside Leyndell, locked in a long embrace with the golden Empyrean who had come to see him off.
And that in the winds of the open wilds, they kissed.
But this, too, faded with the wind.