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Chapter Text

Lunar Princess Ranni

The Erdtree loomed over the Altus Plateau, its golden brilliance illuminating the sunglow-coloured fields.

Lunar Princess Ranni and along with her brother, Praetor Rykard, both sat within horse-drawn carriage, trotting along the path leading to Leyndell, the royal capital.

Ranni had found no solace in the open, copper-esque landscape, so different it was from the war-torn ruins of Luirnia where survival was a daily murky struggle – she wondered, is that why he left? Life in Luirnia was never easy, but he was never one to shy away from hardship. So, what happened... it puzzled her still.

Regardless Were it not for the glintstone sorcerers and their intellect, their mastery of the stone that is the amber of the cosmos, would the people of Luirnia endure at all?

The carriage rocked gently, prompting Ranni to glance at her absorbed brother, engrossed in his letters and notes.

"If I had known you'd sulk the entire journey, I might have asked you to whisk us away to the Elden Throne," Rykard teased, a small smile playing on his lips as he perused his correspondence.

"They don't look favorably upon glintstone sorceries in the royal capital, as you well know," Ranni replied. "I'd prefer you summon me there instead."

"That would elicit a reaction from the queen mother," Rykard chuckled, "or perhaps she wouldn't bat an eye at all."

The latter comment he muttered under his breath, too soft for Ranni to hear.

"How fares the academy these days?" Rykard asked. "It has been quite a while since I paid a visit."

"I'm sure they manage well enough on their own," Ranni replied. "Debating and arguing over glintstone and its conspectus. I never understood how Mother endured it. I could never bear the rantings and ravings of old men."

"You've distanced yourself from the academy?" Rykard inquired.

"I spend more days atop the Moonlight Altar," Ranni explained. "That old crone and the Two Fingers are a constant thorn at my side... Mother is safe, though. I've been fine-tuning a powerful spell for her protection."

"You are an empyrean, Ranni. The greatest honour. Many would give anything to be in your position," Rykard said.

"What use is there in being a god if I am merely a puppet for those things?" Ranni retorted. "Besides, Miquella and Malenia are also empyreans. More likely than not, the Two Fingers will choose them instead."

"But only you received a shadow given by the two fingers, like Queen Marika."

"It makes no difference. Miquella the Kind will always have his way," Ranni replied.

Rykard fell silent, his eyes narrowing as he considered her words. "Careful now, the Erdtree doesn't like challenge, your words might be mistaken for treason."

"Perhaps." She simply replied -

The carriage halted briefly, prompting Rykard to peek outside. "A minor delay, Milord," one of the soldiers informed him. "We'll be underway shortly. It's a bustling day in the royal capital."

"As it always seems to be whenever we arrive," Ranni remarked.

"They hunger for a glimpse of the demigods," Rykard added knowingly. "Spies and thieves abound, and tales spread swiftly when it concerns those wielding great power."

"Fear and ambition... are we not symbols of both?" Ranni whispered. "How goes the Volcano Manor?"

"Well enough," Rykard began, setting his notes aside momentarily. "Punishments and imprisonments, endless court sessions—more than I care for. Many question the Erdtree, and the Golden Order demands punishment.

Spies may lurk among my ranks, and the people grow restless. I've had to organize public games and colosseum matches to pacify them. The Senate controls the treasury, and there's little I can do to secure proper funds."

"For what purpose?" Ranni inquired.

"Research, mostly," Rykard replied. "The Manor may harbor an ancient secret, but more on that later. Greedy patricians pose a problem. Radahn's armies can't fight to fill Marika's coffers if the Senate won't allocate funds to feed them."

"We live in times of peace?" Ranni mocked.

"Nonsense," Rykard replied. "There's always a storm brewing, if not outside, then within." He squeezed his temples in frustration. "Ugh, and the lords and nobles of Limgrave."

"Kenneth Haight," Ranni said, drawing a groan from Rykard, which elicited a small laugh from her.

The carriage jolted and began to ascend.

"They have a demi-human problem. I'll have to deal with that one later," he said, returning to his letters. "Thank Marika Radahn holds the south, Caelid and Seillia's co-operation is of great help."

Ranni replied with a gentle smile before turning her gaze outward once more. The gates swang open and the tree sentinels stood beside them tall and firm. Their ancient forms guarding the entrance. Beyond that sprawled a bustling community of people, their lives woven amidst the shadow of the erdtree.

A minor Erdtree church in the distance and the dragon cultists not far off – the golden order was no stranger to hypocrisies and it would take into itself what it could not destroy.

"How fares Tanith?" Ranni asked as the carriage rolled through the grand gates of Leyndell.

"She is... well," Rykard replied, his tone carefully neutral.

"You should wed her," Ranni said. "She suits you."

A fleeting smile touched Rykard's lips. "No," he said, shaking his head. "To be associated with me, with us... she would become a target. I would not drag her into this mire. Lady Tanith is strong, but mortal strength alone is not enough in our world."

The carriage came to a halt, and Leyndell sprawled before them, a labyrinth of gold and stone. Plebians mingled amongst one another with long-robed nobles, Yet, within the city's depths, shadows whispered secrets of intrigue and danger, a reminder that not all is glittered with gold.

Among the reminders of Leyndell past glory stood the petrified form of Gransax, the great dragon. Frozen in time, it bore witness to the ravages of war and the triumphs of Godwyn the Golden.

WAR

Her brother certainly loves a good fight, and an even better war – but war brings with it death and destruction, death and destruction which this city feeds and lives off –

Now at the avenue balcony they stepped down, Ranni's thoughts lingered on their exchange. She glanced at her brother, his face a mask of stoicism.

"The world of gods," she repeated to herself, the weight of her words settling heavily upon her.

"It seems we'll have to continue on foot," Rykard remarked, "We'll enter the Erdtree Sanctuary through the fortified gates."

"Mayhaps we'll see the champions of the Roundtable Hold," Ranni jested.

"And the Two Fingers," Rykard added.

The denizens watched in awe as the demi-god stepchildren of Radagon and Rennala made their way through the city. In their height and power, they seemed more alien than divine, or so Ranni believed the people thought.

Once inside the sanctuary, they were greeted by Godwyn the Golden, who awaited them with a serene smile.

"Welcome," Godwyn greeted them warmly, but he noticed someone was missing. "Where is General Radahn?"

"He will arrive soon," Rykard replied. "Godwyn The Golden."

"Praetor Rykard," Godwyn acknowledged, inclining his head. "And Lunar Princess Ranni."

"Cheerful, are we?" Ranni remarked, masking her irritation. Godwyn stood above them, not that she cared much for Marika's opinion – rather she was vexed at the influence she exerted over her and her family.

"Yes," Godwyn replied. "It's been a while since we've gathered like this in the flesh."

"It's also been a while since you attended court," Rykard said. "Put the fear of Marika in the senate, will you? They're getting greedy with those coffers."

"Ah yes, the patricians," Godwyn said with a wry smile. "Lately their ambitions have been outstripping their strengths. But they run the city well enough, as I'm sure you understand."

"But at what cost?" Ranni said, "These denizens of Leyndell do not know what it means to suffer."

"If fortune favors us, then I pray they never do," Godwyn responded kindly.

"But the rest of them outside must?" Ranni retorted.

"No," he replied. "The Erdtree governs all, Ranni. They need only accept, and they will be graced in gold."

Godwyn's words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of divine authority. Ranni's gaze hardened, her thoughts veiled beneath her serene exterior.

Rykard shifted, breaking the tension. "Enough of this. We did not come here to debate theology. We have more pressing matters to attend to."

"Indeed," Godwyn agreed. "Come, let us not delay any further. The Elden throne awaits."

General Radahn

It sounded like thunder, but the earth trembled, energy erupting as the ground bared its teeth. Blade-like clumps of rock were torn from the ground as colossal swords met with sword-lance in a clash of gravitational magnitude.

Wit and intelligence, strength and dexterity—Radahn reveled in the competition. Each clash, each evaded attack met with a swift, steady reply.

"A good gambit," Gaius said, reigning in his wild boar. "But..."

They charged at each other, Radahn's meteors flying at Gaius, who evaded high into the sky. Radahn smiled, ready to meet him as an equal. Gaius prepared to clash with his swords once more but was pulled in with a gravitational roar.

"Those two are going to kill each other," Freyja said.

"Maybe," Jerren replied.

He lunged forward with a fluid grace, aiming for Radahn's heart. Radahn, ever so quick, crossed his swords with a resounding clang, parrying Gaius's lance.

Shock waves erupted from the clash, reverberating twelve times before—

"Game… set!" Jerren yelled from a distance.

The two rivals separated with a gravitational shift, each lunging far from the other on the training grounds.

"I almost had you there," Gaius chuckled, reigning in his boar and gathering his composure.

"Really?" Radahn replied, calming his steed as well. "Because to me, it felt like you were losing control."

"Why can't you be humble," Gaius retorted, his smile wry. "It was a fine bout. Next time, I'll claim victory."

"Next time, we'll see..." Radahn jested. "But today, the battle is mine."

"It was a draw, you bastard," Gaius retorted, to Radahn's amusement.

"You're both fools," a stalwart middle-aged man interjected, shaking his head. "If not for your prowess, you'd be dead ten times over."

"Fools we may be," Radahn replied, "but better a fool with honour than a wise man without."

"Honour won't shield you from a blade," the man replied.

"No," Radahn admitted. "But it will give me the strength to face it."

"You're one to talk, grand maester," Jerren said, knocking the old man down a few pegs. "You, with your corrupt studies, have no right to call others fools."

"Leave him be," Radahn said. "He's of no threat to us."

"Yet," Jerren replied. "The sooner he finds Sellen, the better."

"He's exiled here under our watch," Freyja spoke up. "There's not much he can do even if he wanted to. Surely, you're intelligent enough to understand that, Lusat."

"Indeed, I am no foo,," Lusat replied evenly. "Unlike the two of them."

"On the matter of fools," Freyja said, changing the topic "A letter came from Leyndell. There is to be a meeting of the demigods by Queen Marika's demand."

"I'll get to the tower then," Radahn said.

"Physically. You are to ride to Leyndell and meet with your brothers and sisters before the Queen Mother."

"Ah, so it's another one of those," Radahn said, dismounting his steed. "Well, I've had my exercise for the day. We'll ride for Leyndell in a day or two. For now, I intend to look into an urgent matter of unrest and rebellion."

"The townsfolk by the balcony view you mean."

"Yes," Radahn replied. "I'll take my most loyal and distinguished knights. After Leonard has had his rest, we will ride."

"Yes, my lord," Freyja replied.

As Radahn handed his reins to a one of his squires, he cast a glance back at Gaius. "Something on your mind old friend."

A small grin found its way across, Gaius face. "I've been thinking of following Messmer's footsteps. I might head for where he is."

Radahn regarded him with a sigh. "You know very well that would go against Marika's wishes."

"Marika doesn't care what we think," Gaius replied. "Nowadays, she's more concerned with giving sermons and sleeping in her bedchambers or whatever…"

"That's my mother you're insulting," Radahn said.

"Step-mother," Gaius corrected. "Don't let being a god go to your head. You'll end up like that Godefroy or Godrick or whatever they call him."

"He betrayed the Golden Order," Radahn said.

"He fled from his home," Gaius corrected again. "He was chased away, banished. You know that as well as I do."

Radahn groaned, tired of this argument. "Regardless, there's no bringing him back."

"You used to look up to him," Gaius said. "As much as you look up to Godfrey or your father Radagon."

"I still do," Radahn replied. "He was a fine warrior and a magnificent leader, excellent on the battlefields. But this order, it's all we have, it's all we have to live with. It has given me blessings and truths that many would dream of and never get to live. So please..."

"I understand," Gaius said. "And so I also expect you to understand my decisions as well, without trying to stop me."

The two held a steady staring contest before Radahn broke the silence. "Fine, do as you must. But remember, there are consequences to every path chosen."

Gaius nodded, his expression solemn. "Oh I know, and I am prepared to face them."

Radahn made his way back to the keep, to get his own fair share of rest.

the weight of his responsibilities pressed heavily on his shoulders. The looming meeting in Leyndell, the unrest among his townsfolk of Caelid, the ever-present threat of rebellion. It would normally be almost too much to bear.

But he was a general, a demigod, and he would face whatever came his way with the strength and honour that had been instilled in him since birth.

Later In the dim light of the keep, Freyja entered. "The knights are prepared, my lord," she said. "And Leonard is ready for the journey."

"Good," Radahn replied, rising from his rest.

They trotted out of Sellia, making their way to the town by the balcony view. When they arrived, it was unnervingly quiet.

"Some uprising this is," Radahn remarked, scanning the area. "It's too quiet."

"A bit too quiet if you ask me," Gaius replied, his eyes narrowing.

"Indeed," Radahn agreed.

"They've been complaining about food rations and provisions," Freyja spoke up. "With our war efforts draining the Capitals coffers, there's barely anything left for them."

"Rykard was supposed to ensure we and they had the appropriate funds," Radahn muttered.

"He's trying, my lord," Freyja said. "But there are issues within the senate in Leyndell. Perhaps that's why the queen has summoned you."

Radahn sighed. "Alright, let's solve this issue first, then the rest will follow."

"Yes, my lord," Freyja acknowledged.

As they searched the town, they began to notice a disturbing pattern. Almost everyone was asleep or nearing a sort death in sleep, the air tinged with a strange, purple hue. Lillies grew in clusters, their petals shimmering ominously.

"It seems we have trouble," Radahn said, his gaze hardening. "She was always mischievous type."

"She?" Gaius asked, puzzled.

"You'll see soon enough," Radahn replied. "Isn't that right... Trina?"

The wind whispered through the silent town, carrying with it the faintest hint of a melody, as if the very air was enchanted by her presence.

"Trina?" Freyja asked.

"Yes," Radahn replied, urging them onward.

As they arrived at the centre of town, the scene was almost serene, enigmatic. The strange ghost of a tall, Mitteleuropäische girl floated above the fountain as gently as a nascent butterfly.

"Enough games, Trina," Radahn called out, but there was no response from the ethereal figure. With a sigh, he dismounted Leonard and headed for the fountain in the middle of the town square.

"Watch over me," he instructed his companions before kneeling by the fountain.

He looked at the waters, recognizing the taint of her nectar. Gently and precisely, he cupped the water into his hand, drinking just enough to drift into sleep but not to approach death.

His vision blurred momentarily. "Why have you lulled half this town to sleep?" he asked

The enigmatic St. Trina spoke, her voice a whisper only Radahn could hear. "You seemed to be struggling, Lord Brother."

"I did not ask for your help in this matter," he replied, his tone somewhat sleepy but firm. "Forcing them to sleep is not the answer, you are in fact aiding them to their even quicker deaths."

"Their lives were already fraught with troubles," Trina said. "I am merely relieving them, a death by Erdtree burial is their only salvation."

To onlookers, it seemed as if Radahn had been silently staring into the waters, despite the fact that he was having an active conversation in his mind.

The air around them grew tense, the silent exchange weighted with unspoken words and unresolved tensions.

One of the squires ran up to Gaius and Freyja, breathless and clutching a ceremonial sword. "My lords, we found this," the boy stammered.

Gaius took the weapon, examining it closely. "A ceremonial sword," he mused.

"Mayhaps the townsfolk invoked a spell upon themselves?" Freyja wondered aloud, her eyes narrowing in thought.

"Yes, or a small group of fools did," Gaius replied, a trace of disdain in his voice. "I didn't think she was real."

"Who?" Freyja asked, her curiosity piqued.

"St. Trina," Gaius answered, his tone somber. "A strange figure, who appears as suddenly as she disappears. She's garnered some worship in these trying times of ours. Whether it's those in much-needed of rest or those who wish to gently drift away, St. Trina will be there."

Freyja took the sword from him, noting the sweet scent it emitted and the faint mist surrounding it. "The sword of Saint Trina," she murmured. "Where did you find this?" she asked the squire.

"Underground," the squire replied. "It seems there was some form of worship surrounding the figure on the sword."

"I see," Freyja said, her mind racing with possibilities. "That means..."

"He's talking to her," Gaius said, cutting her off. "But that brute is too big to be killed by sleep. He'd never accept it."

The wind carried the faint scent of Trina's lilies, a reminder of the delicate balance between life and death that she dwelled within.

Radahn's eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing through the ethereal presence of his demigod sister. "Relieving them?" he echoed, voice cold. "You call this mercy? Leaving them in a state of endless sleep, hovering on the edge of death?"

"Would you prefer they starve, suffer, and die slowly?" Trina countered, her tone deceptively gentle.

"No." He replied, "but I'd rather prefer they die fighting, struggling against adversity, not like this."

Trina sighed, her form becoming less defined, as if the effort of the conversation was draining her. "Lord Brother, the world is not as simple as you wish it to be. You cannot deny the truth of their suffering. Even you, with all your strength, cannot protect everyone."

"Wake them, Trina," Radahn now demanded. "This is not your place. If you have no better solution, then leave it to those who do."

A silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of their shared history and divergent paths. Trina's silent eyes opened but for a moment - filled with an otherworldly calm – they met with Radahn's with a hint of sorrow.

"You always were the pragmatic one, Lord Brother." she said softly. "But there are battles that cannot be fought with swords."

"And there are lives that should not be played with," he retorted. "Wake them. Now."

Another sigh escaped her lips, almost inaudible. "As you wish, Lord Brother."

With that she vanished and the enchantment began to lift. The townsfolk stirred, their faces etched with confusion and fatigue as they slowly returned to consciousness.

Freyja and Gaius watched the scene unfold, their expressions a mixture of awe and wariness.

Radahn woke from the fountain and returned to face his companions.

"What now?" Gaius asked, his voice breaking the uneasy silence.

"Now we tend to their needs," Radahn replied. "Food, provisions, whatever they require. We'll take some resources from Redmane castle, and maybe try and sell some of the glintstone in our tunnels to foreign lands. Get our sorceries to clean the aqueducts and waters in Caelid…And we send a message to Rykard about the funds. This cannot continue."

Freyja nodded. "And Trina?"

Radahn glanced back at the spot where his demigod sister had resided now empty. "She's gone… For now."

Gaius shook his head. "She'll be back... she has worshippers here."

Radahn's jaw tightened. "We'll suppress it, replace it with golden order totality."

The people looked in shock to Radahn and his Redmanes in shock, With a commanding presence, Radahn stepped forward and addressed the gathered townsfolk.

"I know you have all suffered." Radahn began, his voice carrying across the square. "But your struggles are not in vain. We will bring you food and clean water, we will build upon the grounds of Caelid until this town matches the likes of Leyndell - We will restore what has been lost to you. This I swear…upon my demigod status and the golden order"

The murmurs of the crowd grew louder, a mixture of hope and skepticism. Radahn's words were a promise, but they knew promises were often broken.

Freyja and Gaius stood by his side, their presence a silent testament to his resolve. Radahn looked over the faces before him, seeing the weariness, the hunger, and the faint glimmer of hope. He knew the path ahead would be difficult, but he was determined to lead them through it.

"We will not abandon you," he continued. "The Redmanes are here to protect and serve...starting now, I will halt the war effort and tend to you."

With that, Radahn turned to his knights. "Begin distributing the provisions. Let's get to work."

As the Redmanes moved to fulfill his orders, Radahn glanced at the horizon leading to Leyndell, past Limgrave. The shadows were lengthening, and a sense of urgency gnawed at him.

"Change of plans," Radahn said abruptly. "I'll ride at first light."

"But sir, most of our forces are tending to the town," one of his Redmanes objected. "Do you intend to ride alone?"

"If I must," Radahn replied.

"I'd suggest you leave Leonard here, then," Gaius spoke up. "That scrawny steed won't make it past Limgrave."

"Ye of little faith," Radahn said with a wry smile. "I trust you to guard Caelid while I'm gone."

"Yes, ma'am," Gaius replied with a mock salute.

"Fuck you," Radahn laughed, preparing himself for the journey. His laughter was a fleeting sound in the gathering twilight, a brief moment of levity before the weight of responsibility settled back on his shoulders.

Radahn turned to Freyja, his expression hardening. "Keep the peace here. Ensure the townsfolk have what they need. And keep an eye out for any signs of Trina."

Freyja nodded, her eyes steady. "I will, my lord."

With a final glance at the horizon, Radahn mounted Leonard. The night was falling, and the stars began to shimmer in the sky. He could feel the weight of destiny pressing down on him, but he welcomed it.

"You know, my family's fate is guided by the stars... or so my mother used to tell me," Radahn mused, gazing at the night sky. "She would enchant me with stories of great sorceries and her travels through the mountaintops as a young child, how she found the moon..." His eyes reflected the distant celestial bodies. "I still remember those tales fondly, but I'd like to take my fate into my own hands."

"What do you mean, sir?" Freyja asked, curiosity lighting her eyes.

"The greatest battle a man can fight is within himself... but I am no man, I am a demigod. And what greater battle to fight than with my very fate?"

"You intend to fight the stars?" Freyja's voice was filled with a mix of awe and disbelief. "That's ridiculous."

Radahn turned to her, a rare smile spreading across his face. "Imagine that... the primeval current, the lightless dark, and all the gods above would shatter at my strength as I command the falling star beasts and all that lies up there. They'd have no choice but to recognize my strength."

"You may truly be a fool," she said, somewhat amazed.

"Indeed," Radahn agreed, mounting Leonard. "But to reach the heights of Godfrey and my father Radagon... it must be done... and most of all, for the Golden Order."

His last words were tinged with sad lament, a fleeting thought of his young sister, Ranni. As Leonard began to move, Radahn cast one final glance at the stars, a silent promise of the battles yet to come.

"Ride swiftly," Freyja called after him.

"I will," Radahn replied, spurring Leonard forward. The steed galloped into the encroaching darkness, carrying its master towards the capital and whatever awaited him there.

Chapter Text

“We could fly you away Godwyn.” Lansseax said, “get away from all this, live your life free of this madness.”

“I thank you.” Godwyn said, “but the golden order is my life, it is my lineage…it is all I am.”

Godwyn The Golden

The Oracle Envoys song echoed throughout the kingdom, as the golden rooftops of Leyndell gleamed under the light of the erdtree.

By the Elden Throne, stood one graced by the utmost - Godwyn The Golden, his gaze in heavy contemplation as the faint sounds of Courtiers and nobles buzzed below.

“Something troubles you?” Queen Marika the Eternal spoke, her voice echoing softly as she emerged from the Erdtree.

“You’ve called to the demigods for an audience... why?” Godwyn asked, his gaze fixed on his distant mother. She always seemed so far away, her mind wandering to places unknown. Godwyn wondered where she travelled in those silent moments.

“There is an important matter to discuss,” she answered, her tone as enigmatic as ever.

“What matter?” he pressed, his patience waning.

“You will see when the day comes,” she replied, her voice holding a note of finality.

“The Oracle Envoys have been playing their horns,” Godwyn said, seeking some hint, some clue. “Could that be it? Will you choose your heir among the Empyreans?”

“The Fingers have already chosen,” she responded, her words carrying the weight of inevitability.

“But who do you choose?” Godwyn emphasized, desperate to elicit a personal opinion from his elusive mother. At times, it felt as if her face was shrouded, her gaze never meeting his directly, always looking just below.

Marika turned then, her golden eyes locking with his as she caressed the side of his face gently. “I choose...” she paused, the moment stretching into eternity. “No one.” With that, she turned away, her ethereal presence drifting back toward her bedchamber.

Godwyn stood there, lingering in the shadow of the Erdtree stunned, confusion swirling in his mind. What did she mean? He knew she would never give him the answer, and with that realization, a cold emptiness settled in his chest as he watched her retreating form.

“Do check on your dear Miquella, will you?” Marika's voice was distant as she began to retreat.

“And Malenia?” Godwyn asked, his voice edged with frustration. But she did not respond, her golden form continuing its path away from him.

“Would you abandon her like you did Messmer?” he called after her, his words heavy with accusation. For a moment, it seemed she might pause, but she carried on, moving further out of reach, as ethereal and unyielding as ever.

Godwyn stood there, watching her go, the weight of her silence pressing down on him. He sighed and turned to fulfil her request, making his way through the corridors to Miquella's chambers.

He found his ever-young brother engrossed in his writings and machinations, surrounded by books and scrolls. Miquella looked up as Godwyn entered, his eyes sharp with intelligence and brightened by faith.

“Brother,” Miquella greeted, setting aside a tome. “What brings you here?”

“Mother,” Godwyn replied, taking a seat. “She asked for me to see you.”

Miquella’s lips quirked in a small smile. “Concerned for my well-being, is she?”

“She is..,” Godwyn said carefully.

“And Malenia?” Miquella asked, his tone growing sombre.

Godwyn shook his head. “She did not mention her.”

Miquella nodded, his expression thoughtful.

“What amazing things are you working on now?” Godwyn asked

“Plans,” Miquella corrected, gesturing to the piles of scattered parchment, tomes and stacks of stone tablets. “Dreams for a better future. But it seems those dreams will have to wait. There is much to be done in the present.”

Godwyn leaned in, looking over the diagrams and notes. “Tell me more.”

“You would think me a heretic,” Miquella said, his voice tinged with a quiet intensity.

“Nonsense,” Godwyn replied, dismissing the notion entirely. “Even if you speak heresy, it is merely a contrivance. All things can be reconciled.”

“No,” Miquella said, shaking his head. “Not this…”

“Speak,” Godwyn urged him, stepping closer.

“It pains me to say this, but I came to a frightening realization long ago,” Miquella began, his voice heavy with the weight of his words. “The Golden Order is limited, it is a cage, binding us to a fate at the hands of the two fingers.”

“You doubt the fingers?” Godwyn asked

“I’ve long suspected them of harbouring a…Ill-will. but I digress, I came to realize these limits when I came to look upon our sister. For now matter how hard I had tried, gold could do nothing for Malenia, for gold is tainted.”

“Miquella.” Godwyn stiffened.

“To treat her, I’ve had to quell the callings, the very powers of an outer god.”

“And you could not achieve this through the greater will.” Godwyn said, concern etched across his face.

“I could not commune with it.” Miquella admitted. “But neither would the Two Fingers.” Miquella scoffed “They can keep their secrets.”

He pulled out an intricately crafted needle.

“But with this, gold unalloyed, pure, divested of lies and hypocrisy – with this needle, I could sate Malenia’s sickness, I could even put a stopper to the influence of the frenzied flame, in those afflicted.”

“It is impressive, but it is still gold.” Godwyn replied, “it’s roots mired in our family’s history, Marika’s history…so it is not complete heresy.”

“That I know, ” Miquella replied, with a sigh  “And that is why it is still not enough...Malenia often breaks the needles when she trains with the blade?”

“She’s training?” Godwyn asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Yes,” Miquella replied. “And she’s become quite the warrior. She might even match the likes of you or Radahn.”

“I’d like to see this myself,” Godwyn said, a hint of pride in his voice. “After all, I protected the both of you for the longest time.”

“You need not worry about us anymore,” Miquella said, his tone resolute. “Malenia and I—we’ll look after ourselves. You must do the same for your own sake.”

“Me?” Godwyn’s brow furrowed.

“You’re no fool Godwyn.” Miquella said, “you’ve seen Marika’s shadows.”

“Malekith, I’ve no reason to fear him.” Godwyn said.

“Not him, her other shadows, the ones who veil themselves in the dark.” Miquella said

“Ah, Alecto and her bunch.” Godwyn replied.

“What secrets they conspire amongst each other I do not know.” Miquella said, “I fear mother Marika is no fool either, she sees all, and I suppose that’s the very reason she sent you here.” Miquella said

“You think me a spy?” Godwyn said, almost hurt by Miquella distrust.

“Not you, but your loyalties.” Miquella said, his gaze steady “You are the golden child, it makes no sense to me, how you are not an empyrean.”

“I’ve never thought to question it.” Godwyn replied.

“Is that so?” Miquella wondered,  “The two fingers chose I, Malenia and Ranni but…You’ve fought for Leyndell and subjugated the dragons and yet you were not shunned nor cast away like Godfrey or Messmer, nor were you married off like my Lord father, Radagon.”

“What is it that you are trying to say?” Godwyn’s voice was tight with tension.

“Do you feel safe?” Miquella asked, leaning in closer “the city has eyes and they are watching you.”

Before he could reply, Malenia entered the room. What Godwyn saw was a far cry from the silk-draped, one-armed girl he used to protect.

She stood tall, her red hair cascading down her body like a torrent. A golden prosthetic arm gleamed in the light, and even though her features were slowly fading, there was still some semblance of a golden light in her eyes.

“Malenia.” Godwyn stood to embrace her, never afraid of her scarlet rot, and held her tightly.

“Are you alright?” he asked, gently caressing her fiery red hair. And she did not respond, Godwyn noticed a shadow of dejection in her eyes. “What is the matter?” he asked.

“The scarlet bloom…” she began, “ I can feel it like a looming bud awaiting to flower, and yet you still do not fear me.”

“I could never fear you.” Godwyn said lovingly, “You’re amazing for having fought so long, and still be here-“

Malenia gently broke free of his embrace.

Godwyn need only look at her somewhat defeated expression to understand.

 “I suppose I couldn’t protect the two of you forever.” he said, though his tone held a hint of lament.

“Your protection has carried us thus far,” Malenia said. “And your faith will sustain us. I will be Miquella’s blade.”

Godwyn couldn’t help but smile at her conviction. Though her golden flesh had been gently corroding, her will remained ever strong.

“I’m going to inject the needle,” Miquella said, preparing the delicate instrument. “Could you give us a moment?”

“No need to worry, I’ll be leaving,” Godwyn replied.

“Where to?” Miquella asked.

“Underground,” he said. “I’m going to pay some old friends a visit.”

“I see,” Miquella said. “Fare thee well, and we will see you by the Elden Throne.”

Godwyn nodded as he left Miquella’s chambers. “Stay safe, brother,” Miquella whispered.

Godwyn made his way through the winding paths of Leyndell, descending into the depths until he reached the Subterranean Shunning-Grounds. He passed dejected omen-child after dejected omen-child, their eyes reflecting the harsh realities of their existence. A cold, painful abandonment.

Eventually, he arrived at the Cathedral of the Forsaken, where his brothers awaited him in the shadows. The air was thick with a sense of foreboding, but Godwyn’s resolve was unwavering as he stepped into the dimly lit cathedral,

“It’s been a long while, Morgott,” Godwyn said, facing his omen brother. And not far from him stood his other brother, Mohg.

“Godwyn the Golden,” Morgott greeted him in kind, while Mohg remained silent.

“I see you’ve divested yourself of gold,” Godwyn said to Mohg.

“The Golden Order has never shown love for my kind.” Mohg simply retorted, he had nothing else to say in his fearful raspy voice, only that and that alone would make Godwyn nod In understanding.

“And you, Morgott?” Godwyn asked, turning his gaze to the brother who had always been the most steadfast. “Why haven’t you turned your back on us, like sickly Mohg.”

Morgott’s eyes, hard as flint, met his own. “The Golden Order shuns us, the cursed, the outcast. They cast us aside, and we live in their shit and spit while they hunt us down and murder our kind—ever since we were children.”

“I was there,” Godwyn said, his voice heavy with remorse. “I never wanted this for the both of you.”

“And yet you stood by and watched as we were discarded,” Morgott retorted, his words laced with venom. “shackled and imprisoned.”

“It was my mistake,” Godwyn spoke passionately. “I was a child, I was weak…I couldn’t bear to see my siblings being subject to such torture again. That’s why I protected Miquella and Malenia, cursed as they were.”

“But not us,” Morgott said, bitterness evident. “Even now, Our mother dares not look at us –“

“We are all children of Godfrey, You, me, and Mohg,” Godwyn said, his voice firm. “You are my brothers, If I could I—”

“The Golden Order, in its hypocrisies, lies, and deceit, is final,” Morgott interrupted. “Yet it is my duty…my burden as its child, upon my father’s name Godfrey… I remain loyal…for what else is there?”

For the first time in a long while, Godwyn could breathe a sigh of relief. Like Radahn, Morgott understood.

Godwyn stepped closer, placing a hand on Morgott’s shoulder. “Then we are of one mind, brother. We must find a way to endure, together. The Order may scorn you, but we are still blood.”

Morgott's face remained stern,  and he brushed Godwyn’s hand aside “Blood means little to those above…and much less to our mother.”

“It means everything to me,” Godwyn said earnestly. “I intend to find a way to bridge the gap between us and the Golden Order, the same way I did for the dragons,  for us and then for the future. For Miquella and Malenia, and for all who those who come after.”

Mohg scoffed, his eyes narrowing. “You speak of impossible dreams, Godwyn. The Order will never accept us. And They will never accept you if you align yourself with us.”

“He is right,” Morgott said, his voice heavy with resignation. “They’ve hated us for years. It would be foolish to believe they’d accept us now. It was an honour for you to visit us, but you must go. Tell Marika we’re of no threat to her. Isn’t that why you’re here after all?”

Godwyn was taken aback, the suspicion in Morgott’s eyes cutting deeper than any blade.

Morgott’s expression softened slightly, but the distrust remained. “You carry her message, do you not? You are her golden child, her favoured son.”

“I came of my own accord.” Godwyn Protested “To see my brothers, to seek a path forward for all of us.”

“A path forward? In the shadows cast by the light of the Erdtree?” Mohg retorted.

“Leave now, Godwyn,” Morgott said, his voice tinged with a warning. “Before you upset the omen.”

Godwyn nodded, feeling the weight of his failure, and turned to leave. As he walked away, he heard Mohg’s voice, cold and resolute.

“Tell Marika what you will,” Mohg said, his back to Godwyn. “But I will no longer be a pawn in her game. Guarding the entrance to the flame of frenzy will be my last act… but I will not die for her.”

Godwyn’s heart sank further as he made his way out of the Subterranean Shunning Grounds. He had hoped to find some common ground. Instead, he had only found more division, more distrust. The path ahead was darker than he had feared.

Emerging from the depths, he felt the cool air of Leyndell against his skin. He needed to return to the Erdtree, to Marika, to deliver his brothers’ message. But more than that, he needed to find a way to mend the fractures within his family, within the Golden Order itself.

As he rode back, the golden rays of the erdtree upon the night sky cast long shadows, Godwyn couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom. He knew one thing thought - that the road to reconciliation would be long and treacherous, but he was determined to walk it. For the sake of his family, for the sake of the Golden Order, and for the hope of a future where they could all stand united.

Returning to the Elden throne, Godwyn steeled himself for the conversation with Marika and The city loomed before him, a reminder of the power and the peril that awaited within its walls.

Upon entering her bedchambers, Godwyn found Queen Marika seated, her head resting wearily upon her fist.

“You’ve returned,” Marika said, her voice echoing with an otherworldly resonance.

“Yes,” he replied, kneeling before her.

“And what news do you bring?” she inquired, her eyes opening to meet his form.

"Miquella..." Godwyn began, his voice steady. "He has grown rather doubtful as of late. When I read some of the manuscripts in his chambers, I saw plans... a budding seed he intends to flower, only he knows not how. His discovery of unalloyed gold, or maybe his creation of it, has shaken his faith."

"I see," Marika murmured, her expression unreadable. "And what of your brothers?"

"Mohg..." Godwyn hesitated, fearing for his brother. "Mohg has divested himself of the Golden Order. He serves an outer god now, it might be the so-called Mother of Truth, whose word has begun to spread slowly."

Marika's eyes narrowed slightly, but she gave no immediate response. Instead, she shifted her gaze to the golden glow of the Erdtree beyond the window. "And Morgott?"

"He remains ever loyal," Godwyn said, with no hesitation.

"And what of you?" Marika's question hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Godwyn looked up, confusion etched on his face. His gaze met Marika’s, whose stoic stare served to irk him, if only by a little.

"What do you mean?" he asked, bewildered.

"What will ye make of thineself?" Marika clarified, "Wouldst thou rise and make thine own order? Or wouldst thou depart from these lands and search for another home beyond the fog? What are thine wishes, my golden child… Godwy—"

"Mother!" Godwyn rose, shocked, almost taking Marika aback. "These words you speak… have you begun to doubt those around you?"

Godwyn’s weary and shocked expression met with Marika’s stoicism. There was slight pause before he spoke

“I would never falter.” He said,

Marika's eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. "It is not doubt that plagues me, but foresight. I’ve seen this all before… the lands between are on the brink… and those who wield power must be certain of their purpose."

Godwyn's fists clenched at his sides. "My purpose has always been clear. I serve the Erdtree and the Golden Order with utmost faith. I have protected our family, fought for Leyndell, and upheld our traditions."

Marika's gaze softened, but there was an edge to her words. "Faith alone is not enough. The Ides of change are upon us. You have seen it, the dissent amongst the demigods - your siblings. Miquella's doubts, Mohg's defiance, Radahn's restlessness, Ranni’s schemeing, Rykard’s ill curiosity, Malenia’s scarlet bloom and the blind loyalty you and Morgott house—all are signs of the shifting tides."

"Then what would you have me do?" Godwyn asked, his voice tinged with frustration. "Betray my own blood? Abandon the Golden Order?"

"I would have you think, Godwyn." Marika said, her tone showing for once what felt to Godwyn to be a hint of emotion. "Consider the path you tread now and the one you wish to carve. Loyalty to the Golden Order is commendable, but blind loyalty is dangerous. “

“And yet you ask it of your subjects.” Godwyn countered, “ those who deny the Erdtree are doomed to be powerless upstarts wallowing at the fringes, remember those words, they are your own.”

“I know what I said.” She retorted, silencing him. her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and frustration. "The Erdtree's roots are deep, but they do not see all. There are threats that lurk in the shadows, whispers of discord and dissent. I ask for your loyalty not out of blindness, but because I need your strength to guide us through what is to come."

Godwyn's jaw tightened. "You speak of threats, but you do not name them. You sow seeds of doubt and expect me to follow without question."

Marika's expression softened, the fire in her eyes dimming to a flicker. "I speak of our family, Godwyn. Of Miquella, of Mohg, of Ranni. Each of them walks a path that diverges from the Golden Order, and their choices will shape the future of the Lands Between. I need you to be my eyes and ears, to understand their hearts and minds. Only then can we find a way forward that does not end in ruin."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken fears and hopes. Godwyn felt the weight of her words, the gravity of the responsibility she placed upon him. But

“But what of you, Mother…” he said quietly, his voice trembling with the weight of unspoken accusations. “You have tortured, condemned to horrible things the demi-human smith Hewg, all to create a weapon…a weapon which can slay A GOD…why?”

Now Godwyn had done it; he had elicited the emotion he so desired from her. Her god-like stoicism seemed to be waning, though she did not show it. She was truly shocked. How did he know? And Godwyn could tell he had gotten under her skin.

“Answer me,” he demanded, his voice steady and firm. “And I will do as you say…”

“And if not…” Marika retorted, her tone sharp and testing. “Would you finally abandon the family you fight so hard to protect? Would you go beyond the fog, as I suspect?”

“Answer me!” His roar was that of a dragon, fuelled by passion and love, by wanton hatred and the search for truth to understand his distant mother.

Marika's retort was simple; she met his fiery gaze with her cold one. “It does not concern you.” She spoke the words softly but firmly, a challenge, one Godwyn knew from the beginning that he could not win.

The silence that followed was deafening, the air thick with unspoken words and simmering tension. Godwyn's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts. He wanted to shout, to scream, to force the truth from her, but he knew it would be futile. Marika had closed herself off, her walls impenetrable.

“Very well,” he said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I will do as you ask, but know this—I WILL find the truth, I WILL uncover the secrets you hide, and I WILL protect this family, no matter the cost… I will not betray my siblings. I will seek to understand them, to guide them if I must, but I will not be a pawn in a game that pits us against each other…not even if it’s your will."

With that, he turned on his heel and left her chambers, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. The path ahead was dark and uncertain, but he would walk it with determination, for the fate of the Lands Between and his family's future hung in the balance

The trials ahead would test his faith, his loyalty, and his very identity as the Golden Son of the Erdtree.

Chapter Text

Miquella, The Unalloyed

The grand hall was filled with a soft, golden light, filtering through intricate stained glass windows.

Miquella stood at the centre, his serene presence a beacon for all those who had gathered. He moved with a grace that belied his youth, every step deliberate and measured.

Around him, the air seemed to hum with a quiet power, an unseen force that held the attention of every soul in the room. As he spoke, his voice was calm and melodic, each word imbued with a wisdom that seemed beyond his years.

"My comrades, we stand at the precipice" he began, his gaze sweeping over the peasants, the assembled knights and nobles, even the afflicted.  

"I am to become a god…” He continued. “And thus a new era will begin…and era where kindness and strength walk hand in hand, where the weak are protected, and the strong are guided by wisdom and compassion. This I promise you."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, eyes shining with admiration and hope.

But there were others, those who had seen the darker side of his so called benevolence, those who felt a shiver of fear.

They knew the stories, whispers in the shadows—of how Miquella could strip a man of his hatred with a single touch, leaving behind only a hollow shell of obedience.

Malenia The Severed, stood beside her brother, glancing at him with a mixture of pride and trepidation. She remembered their promise, the bond that held them together. Her voice, though quiet, carried the weight of her conviction. "My brother will keep his promise. He possesses the wisdom, the allure, of a god."

But an old knight who had seen too much of the world's cruelty, watched Miquella with wary eyes. "Miquella the Kind is a monster!" he yelled in front of the crowd. Almost taking everyone aback.

 "He who would tear us apart and rip our souls, he who wields love like a weapon, a tool in order to gain affection. Miquella is no more kind than he is alloyed with gold.”

Malenia prepared to move but Miquella stopped her, the whole hall looked to him and he knew this was a moment to gain their trust.

Miquella turned his gaze upon The old man, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "You have served faithfully, good sir. But your heart is burdened with the weight of the past.”

Miquella approached the old man, his gaze unwavering. "I do not deny your words. I wield love as a weapon, but not to tear apart or gain affection. I use it to heal, to bring unity where there is division, to offer hope where there is despair."

He reached out and the old man felt a chill as Miquella's words washed over him, he

trembled under Miquella’s touch, the conflict within him evident. The crowd held its breath, watching the interaction with a mix of awe and apprehension. Miquella's words were like a balm, soothing yet powerful, challenging the very core of the knight's resentment.

"You see a monster," Miquella continued, "because you have known only monsters… I seek to build, to create a realm where all can find a peace, where the lost and the broken can be made whole again."

The knight's eyes filled with tears, the weight of his anguish and fear melting away under Miquella's compassionate gaze. He fell to his knees, not in submission, but in a profound sense of release and relief.

"Forgive me," He  whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I was blind."

Miquella smiled, a gentle, radiant smile that seemed to brighten the very air around him. "There is nothing to forgive. Rise, Good Sir, and stand with me as we forge a new path together."

The hall erupted in applause, a sound that echoed with hope and renewed faith. Miquella turned to Malenia, who nodded, understanding the depth of her brother's strength and the purity of his intent.

As they walked away from the scene, they met with their lord father, Radagon, whose towering presence commanded attention. He stood like a statue carved from the finest marble, his eyes, however, held the golden warmth of a hearth fire.

“That was quite the show you put on there,” Radagon said, his gaze fixed on his afflicted children.

“Father…” Malenia greeted, though her voice carried the weight of remorse and hesitation. Radagon offered her no response, his focus remained unwavering on Miquella.

“It wasn’t a show,” Miquella replied calmly, his demeanour steady and unyielding.

Radagon’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing his son with the intensity of a man who had seen much and expected more. “You wield words like a smith wields a hammer, shaping hearts and minds. But be wary, Miquella. The blade you forge may cut both ways.”

Miquella met his father’s gaze, unflinching. “I understand the power I wield, Father. And I accept the burden it carries. My intent is to unite, to bring forth a new era where kindness reigns supreme.”

Radagon’s stern expression softened, just for a moment. “Kindness can be the greatest strength, yet it can also be a dangerous weapon. Your vision is noble, but the path you tread is fraught with peril.”

Miquella nodded, acknowledging his father’s wisdom. “I know. But I believe in what I can achieve. Look what I have done under the golden order, how much more can I do as a god. The world does not need a tyrant; it needs a healer.”

“Marika was a healer once.” Radagon said, striking at Miquella’s composure “A shaman, but now look at her…If you intend to follow in her footsteps-”

“I intent to make my own path.” Miquella interrupted,

Radagon’s gaze now shifted to Malenia, his afflicted daughter who bore her own burdens with silent strength. “And you, Malenia? Do you share your brother’s vision? You too are empyrean, why not seek the Elden Throne for yourself?”

“It would not please thee nor the Golden Order that my age would be one of Rot,” Malenia answered, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. “Not by my choice, of course, but by my affliction.” She raised her gaze, her golden eyes locking with Radagon’s. “I believe in Miquella’s dream, for he intends to make the world a gentler place for all. And I will fight for that dream with all that I am.”

“Even if it meant fighting against me?” he asked, his words a deliberate strike at her composure.

Malenia was taken aback, her resolve momentarily shaken. But she understood this was a test, a challenge to her commitment. She straightened, meeting his gaze with renewed determination.

“Yes,” she replied, though her voice carried a hint of remorse. The weight of her choice settled heavily upon her, yet she knew it was the right path. For Miquella’s dream, she would face any foe, even if it meant standing against her own father.

But a small smile formed upon Radagon’s face. “The Golden Order governs all. You both do well not to divest yourself of it… even your unalloyed gold is still gold, Miquella. Worse yet, purer gold.”

“Soft and malleable,” Miquella said

“Exactly,” Radagon enthusiastically replied. “Not as hard as people think it ought to be. Perhaps this is why the Golden Order can embrace things it cannot destroy. Such things beat the gold into sheet coverings—only to wrap themselves around it.”

“There are exceptions, though,” Miquella said, preparing his retort. “Caria.”

He had hoped to strike back at his father, but Radagon remained unphased. “Yes, I lost that war, didn’t I?”

Radagon's acknowledgment hung heavy in the air, a rare admission of defeat. Miquella pressed on, sensing an opening.

“And what of that defeat?” Miquella asked, his voice steady. “Does it not show that the Golden Order is not infallible? That it can be challenged and even bested?”

Radagon’s eyes narrowed. “The Golden Order is not a mere doctrine, Miquella. It is the foundation of our world. Challenges to it are challenges to the very fabric of reality.”

“And if that fabric is flawed?” Miquella countered. “if it is in need to be rewoven?”

Radagon stepped closer, his presence looming. “And you believe you are the one to reweave it? With your unalloyed gold and your dreams of a new order?”

“I do.” Miquella did not flinch. “I believe in a world where all are accepted, where love is not a weapon but a balm. A world where even the cursed and the afflicted can find solace.”

Radagon sighed, a hint of weariness in his voice. “Dreams and visions cannot change the world. It takes power, and power…requires sacrifice.”

“I am willing to sacrifice,” Miquella said, his resolve unwavering.

Radagon studied his son for a long moment, then turned to Malenia, her gaze unwavering.

Radagon nodded slowly. “Very well. But know this: The Golden Order will not yield easily, and those who oppose it will find themselves crushed under its weight.”

“I am prepared for that,” Miquella said.

“Then may Marika have mercy upon you,” Radagon replied, turning away. “For you will find none from Me.”

As Radagon left, Miquella and Malenia stood together, the weight of his words hanging over them like a storm cloud.

“Come…” Miquella said to Malenia, “we still have much to do.”

Since then, Miquella had drafted and discarded countless plans. He recalled the day the three of them were chosen to succeed Queen Marika, Ranni’s words echoing in his mind as she caressed Torrent’s gentle mane.

“What use is there in being a god - if you are only a puppet for the Two Fingers?” she had said.

And in turn, a puppet to Queen Marika. His new epoch seemed forever shadowed by the Erdtree, its roots entwining with every ambition he dared to dream.

“Dreams…Perhaps I should consult you, Trina," Miquella murmured to himself, invoking the name of his other half. But she would know nothing that he didn’t. Some infallible truth evaded him, slipping through his grasp like smoke.

He decided to dismiss it for now. Malenia’s rot and his own cursed childhood were his main priorities.

And speaking of curses, his thoughts drifted to two of his oldest unknown siblings: Messmer and the rare secret, Melina.

“Messmer and Melina…” Miquella mused aloud.

 “My lord,” a voice broke through his reverie. One of his most loyal needle knights stood at attention, her armor glinting softly in the dim light of his chambers.

“Sir Leda,” Miquella acknowledged, turning away from his tomes to face her. “What is it?”

"A letter from Castle Sol," Leda answered, handing him the parchment. "You've been granted passage."

"Yes," Miquella said, his voice tinged with relief. Finally, some good news. "And is that all?"

Leda nodded. "That is all, my lord."

"Ready your brothers and sisters in arms.”  He said  "I intend for us to scout out the area nearby, Leyndell is compromised. It has been so since I left the fundamentalists."

"Do you wish for us to ward them off?" Leda asked, a hint of bloodlust in her voice.

"No," Miquella replied firmly. "Bloodshed is not necessary. If I am to forge my own path and cure my sister of her rot - and myself of this cursed childhood, it must be done in a place where the wrath of the Golden Order isn’t at my every turn."

"Is it time?" Leda asked, a gleam of anticipation in her eyes.

"Yes," Miquella confirmed. "When the meeting is done, we prepare to move. The Cleanrot Knights will follow their goddess wherever she goes, with that army and spread word of our soon to be new domain – I intend to build.”

"And the politics?" Leda pressed. "The funds for the expeditions, the stone and bricks needed to build?"

"I’ll speak to Princess Ranni and Praetor Rykard, hopefully I’ll strike a deal," Miquella replied. "There is some money to be spared between the two of them, and we’re of closer relation than you might think?”

“Yes, my lord.” Leda simply replied, Miquella dismissed her and she left the room.

In the dim light of his chambers, Miquella stood undeterred. The struggle for autonomy, for a world free from the Golden Order's oppressive grasp, weighed heavily upon him.

But the flames of ambitions burned ever brighter, He would find a way to break free, to forge a new path. Even if it meant challenging the gods themselves, Miquella the Kind would not be swayed.

Malenia The Severed

In the training grounds of The Shaded Castle, Malenia The Severed practiced her blade with the utmost precision.

“Remember…stagnation leads to decay.” Her mentor would say, “ Warriors must remain ever drifting.”

And her movements reflected this, the very flow of water – a symphony of grace and power, each strike a fearsome note in an elegant but deadly dance.

The training grounds echoed with the sound of unalloyed gold slashing through the air, whipping and warping wind. Malenia moved with a fluidity that belied the strength within her, her red crimson hair flowing like a river of blood as she spun and struck.

Each step deliberate, each motion calculated, beautiful and terrifying.

The lord of the Shaded Castle Maleigh Marais watched his goddess in silent awe, his eyes fixed on her as she executed her forms with a mastery that seemed almost otherworldly.

The golden hand-crafted prosthesis, gleamed in the light, an extension of her will, moving as if guided by an unseen force.

From a dancers perspective they may be unpassionate, but these movements where a technique she had honed through years of discipline and pain. A dance of death, a testament to her unyielding spirit and the curse she bore.

Her body also a testament - to resilience. The rot that plagued her did not diminish her; it fuelled her, driving her to push beyond the limits of her own endurance. Each swing a defiance against the Scarlet Rot, a refusal to succumb to its relentless advance.

Her golden eyes, fierce and unyielding, focused on an unseen enemy, a phantom opponent that she fought with every ounce of her being.

Finlay, her most trusted lieutenant, stood nearby, her eyes filled with admiration and concern. "You push yourself too hard, my lady," she said, her voice soft but firm. "The rot may take its toll."

Malenia paused, her breath coming in steady but heavy. She lowered her blade, her gaze turning to Finlay. "I must," she replied, her voice resolute. "For every moment of weakness, the rot gains ground. I will not allow it to consume me."

“Indeed.” Maleigh Marais clapped as he approached, his presence as unwelcome as the rot that plagued Malenia. “Indeed...”

“Marais.” Finlay greeted him curtly, her tone cold. But Marais paid no heed to her. His eyes were fixed on Malenia, a mixture of admiration and something darker in his gaze.

“What a beautiful dance, Your Grace,” Marais said, his voice dripping with reverence. Malenia turned a blind eye to him, her expression as unreadable as the golden mask she sometimes wore in battle.

“What is it that you want, O Lord of the Shaded Castle?” Finlay's words carried a hint of mockery, her disdain for the man evident.

“I’ve sent word to the capital and prepared your horses for you,” Marais answered, his awe-struck eyes never leaving Malenia. “Leyndell is not far off.”

Malenia's silence was a blade of its own, cutting through the false pleasantries. She wasn’t blind to hatred the denizens of the castle bore for her – but without this sickly man’s assistance she would have no place for her knights, an army of strong willed fellows - who despite the inevitable and gradual putrefaction of their flesh, vowed to fight alongside her.

“I appreciate all that you’ve done for me, and my knights,” she finally said, her voice colder than the northern winds. “But you neglect your duties to your people, if you truly hold for me the love you claim, then care for those ones and the ones you’ve imprisoned…even those you are yet to execute.”

she was done, she had nothing more to say to him. “We will leave at once.”

Marais bowed low, a gesture that reeked of insincerity. “It is an honour to serve, Your Grace.”

As Marais took his leave, Finlay stepped closer to Malenia, her concern evident. “He’s a snake, that one. We should be wary of his intentions.”

Malenia nodded, her eyes distant. “I know. But he has also been of grate use, politically and otherwise domestically.”

“True but his noose hangs above our necks.” Finlay said, “I’d rather die in battle staving off the rot then at his executioners blade.”

A small smile formed on Malenia’s lips, a rare but fleeting expression. “Let us focus on the path ahead, for a moment… Miquella awaits in the capital, and with him lies our salvation.”

“Aye my lady.” Finlay said,

And thus not soon after the Cleanrot Knights formed around Malenia with practiced precision, their armour gleaming under the dim light. They moved as one, a unity and discipline that Malenia inspired in her followers.

They could not ride horses for fear of inflicting them, so they began their march on foot – walking across the shifting landscape, from the from the oppressive gloom of the Shaded Castle to the vibrant roads leading to the capital.

As they did so - Malenia's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts.

Finlay marched beside her - her concern palpable. “Is there something of the matter my lady?”

“I find that all of you—like my brother—are a kind lot,” Malenia said, with remorse. “I, as a demigod, could not bear the effects of the Scarlet Rot. It still pains me to this day, and yet you all walk beside me, you fight for and with me. I can only imagine the pain you feel—”

“And of your pain, my lady,” Finlay interjected, compassion in her voice. “The gold woven in your skin, the needles you take. We all fight this sickness together, we by choice, a choice you did not have.”

Malenia paused, the weight of Finlay's words settling over her like a shroud. “Your loyalty humbles me, but there is a danger that is beyond your own in that choice.”

“My lady?” Finlay's asked, her devotion unwavering.

“I am not the first bud to be touched by the scarlet rot,” Malenia murmured, her gaze distant, lost in the fog of painful memories. “Nor, I suspect, will I be the last.”

“You ask if we follow you or the rot?” Finlay inquired, her eyes searching Malenia's face for answers.

“Maybe,” Malenia replied, her voice heavy with uncertainty. “When I was a child, I could barely get any rest. Sleep was the sister to death, and she was always at my door. Every day was a battle against the pain. My mother tried to soothe me, but at some point, she stopped, she gave up. Expected me to die and I too very much wished for the same… but It never came to me.”

Finlay's brow furrowed in sympathy. “Is that when you heard it?”

“Yes,” Malenia whispered, her voice almost lost to the wind. “I could feel it calling unto me, urging me to flower, to embrace the rot,  to become its vessel.”

"And you resisted," Finlay said, but Malenia remained silent. She had no answer for her, and this silence weighed heavily on Finlay’s heart.

“The rot is a part of me, and it will never be fully vanquished lest I perish,” Malenia finally said. “I fight it every day, as I fight for Miquella’s dream.”

Malenia paused, a leak of sincerity slipping through her steely facade. “But I do not hate it.”

Finlay's eyes widened in surprise. “What do you mean, my lady?”

“To rot is to die, to bud and be reborn,” Malenia continued. “It is a cycle of rebirth, not merely decay. It has order, a purpose... it is an outer god. My mentor taught me this, he who sealed away the ancient god of rot before I…” Her voice trailed off, her gaze distant and filled with a sad acceptance. “Perhaps that is why the fingers chose me to be an Empyrean as well.”

Finlay was silent, absorbing Malenia’s words. The revelation was profound, and it altered her understanding of the scarlet rot and the burden Malenia bore.

“My lady, you carry a weight unlike any other,” Finlay said softly. “Yet you do so with grace and strength. We follow you not just out of loyalty, but out of love and respect.”

Malenia nodded, a small, melancholic smile forming on her lips. “Leyndell is nearby – If Marais was true to his word, they’ll have opened a path for us so has to not inflict the people.”

“Aye – My lady.”

Malenia nodded, a small, melancholic smile forming on her lips. “Leyndell is nearby. If Marais was true to his word, they’ll have opened a path for us, so as not to inflict suffering on the people.”

“Aye, my lady,” Finlay replied.

The winds carried whispers of their approach, the Cleanrot Knights marching with silent resolve. As they neared the capital, the sight of the grand walls and golden spires of Leyndell came into view, a beacon of power and order.

As they approached the gates, the guards, adorned in their polished armour, stepped aside, allowing passage.

The city was cleared out to make way for their procession and yet an undercurrent of tension lingered in the air.

“Stay close,” Malenia instructed her knights, her voice firm but calm. “We tread on delicate ground.”

The procession moved through the streets, drawing the gaze of onlookers from within. Whispers of awe and fear followed them, the legends of the scarlet rot and its power preceding their arrival. They made their way towards the fortified manor, where Malenia halted her knights.

“It should be safe for even you here,” Malenia said, her voice carrying both authority and reassurance. The Cleanrot Knights, loyal and steadfast, nodded in acknowledgment. “I will go to Miquella.”

Finlay, ever vigilant, stepped forward. “My lady, shall we not accompany you?”

Malenia shook her head. “No. Thine place is here, with your sisters. Ensure their safety and readiness. I will return shortly.”

With that, she turned and made her way through the manor’s entrance, her steps echoing in the grand hallways. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of valor and conquest, reminders of the storied past of Leyndell. Yet, for Malenia, that weight of history was less important than the future her brother sought to forge.

She navigated the labyrinthine of corridors with ease, her mind focused on the task at hand. Each step brought her closer to Miquella, the brother she held dear, whose dream of a gentler world she had sworn to protect. The scent of polished wood and ancient stone filled the air, mingling with the faintest trace of incense.

But as she looked up, she crossed paths with the figure of her mother—Queen Marika—who stood slightly taller than her. The queen's presence commanded the corridor, an aura of authority and power that seemed to make the very air around her hum with tension.

“Mother?” Malenia said, her voice a mix of surprise and caution.

Marika’s golden eyes, cold and distant, met her daughter’s with an unexpected warmth that softened the sharp edges of her features. For a moment, the mask of the Queen-Mother slipped, revealing a trace of the woman she once was.

“My rose flower,” Marika said, her voice tinged with a sweetness that was rare. “how you’ve grown,” Her smile was small but genuine, a fleeting glimpse of the motherly affection that had always been in short supply.

Malenia felt a pang in her heart, a mix of longing and resentment. The Scarlet Rot had been her constant companion, a curse she bore alone. And yet, here stood Marika, distant yet undeniably tied to her fate.

“It has been long, Mother,” she replied, her tone respectful but guarded.

Marika's smile slowly faded, replaced by a look of inscrutable godhood. “You’ve become a formidable warrior, my daughter. The tales of your prowess reach even my ears.”

“For the sake of Miquella’s dream, I would overcome any obstacle.” Malenia said, a hint of defiance in her voice. “My own curse is nothing.”

A shadow passed over Marika’s face. “Miquella’s dream is noble, but it is fraught with peril. The Golden Order, the very foundation of our world, is not easily swayed.”

“Nor should it be an unyielding cage,” Malenia countered. “We must strive for something better.”

Marika’s eyes softened, just for a moment. “Your strength and resolve are commendable, Malenia. But the world is not kind to those who defy my order. Tread carefully.”

“I will,” Malenia said, her voice firm. “But I will not forsake my path. For Miquella, for myself, and for the future we wish to build.”

Marika reached out, her hand hovering just above Malenia’s cheek before pulling back, the gesture aborted. “You have your father’s stubbornness,” she said with a faint, rueful smile. “And my determination.”

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Malenia standing alone in the corridor, her heart heavy with conflicting emotions. The burden of her scarlet rot and her mother's shadow loomed large, but so did her resolve to carve out a different destiny—a destiny shaped by her own will and the dreams of her beloved brother.

Finally, she reached Miquella’s chambers. The door, ornately carved with symbols of the Golden Order, stood ajar. She pushed it open and entered.

“Brother?” she said surprised

"Malenia," Godwyn stood up, equally surprised, and moved to embrace her. His touch was gentle as he caressed her fiery red hair, a gesture filled with affection and concern. "Are you alright?"

Malenia did not respond, she noticed there was a weariness in his eyes.

“What is the matter?” he asked her, and what indeed. Here was her brother, and yet she could not shake the feeling of abandonment that clung to her like the rot itself.

“The scarlet bloom…” she began, “ I can feel it like a looming bud awaiting to flower, and yet you still do not fear me.”

“I could never fear you.” Godwyn said, “You’re amazing for having fought so long, and to still be here-“

Malenia gently broke free of his embrace. stepping back.  Though her composure was calm, but there was an edge to it, a simmering frustration that had built up over the years.

Godwyn’s expression faltered, confusion and hurt mingling in his eyes. “I suppose I couldn’t protect the two of you forever.” he said.

“Your protection has carried us thus far,” Malenia said, her gaze softened slightly, seeing his pain, but she knew she needed to speak her truth. “And your faith will sustain us… I will be Miquella’s blade.”

Godwyn gave her a weak smile, a mix of pride and sorrow. She looked back at him, her own eyes reflecting the weight of their shared burden.

“I’m going to inject the needle,” Miquella interrupted, preparing the delicate instrument. “Could you give us a moment?”

“No need to worry,” Godwyn said, gathering his composure “I’ll be leaving soon.”

“Where to?” Miquella asked, his eyes not leaving the needle.

“Underground,” Godwyn replied. “I’m going to pay some old friends a visit.”

“I see,” Miquella said, his voice steady. “Fare thee well, and we will see you by the Elden Throne.”

Godwyn nodded, a solemn expression on his face as he turned to leave Miquella’s chambers. “Stay safe, brother,” he said, pausing at the door to look back at them one last time.

Miquella and Malenia watched him go, the silence in the room heavy with unspoken words. Once the door closed, Miquella turned his full attention to Malenia.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his voice gentle yet firm.

Malenia nodded, steeling herself. “I am…but what of Godwyn? What did he seek?”

“Probably gathering information for mother,” Miquella answered, though there was a jesting tone in his voice that did little to mask his true thoughts.

“I met her in the hallway,” Malenia said, her voice tinged with a hint of bitterness.

“Not even leaving it to chance...” Miquella sighed, shaking his head. “In any case, this one should be stronger than the others.”

Malenia's eyes hardened. “I hope so. The rot grows fiercer with each passing day.”

Miquella prepared the needle with meticulous care, his hands steady as he carefully injected it.

All the while Malenia’s thoughts drifted. The Scarlet Rot was a constant companion, a relentless force that threatened to consume her. But in this moment, surrounded by her brother’s the unwavering love. She felt a flicker of hope.

“I will find a way to rid you of this curse,” Miquella said softly, as if reading her thoughts. “I promise you, I will make the world… a gentler place.”

Malenia met his gaze, a small, determined smile forming on her lips. “I believe in you.” she replied.

The needle finished its work, and Miquella stepped back, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and resolve. “Rest now, sister. We have a long road ahead of us.”

Malenia lay back, feeling the effects of the needle take hold. As she drifted into a restless sleep, her mind clung to dreams and visions.

Once more, she had been that silk-draped, one-armed girl, adrift in the ebb and flow of her restless dreams.

But before her stood a twisted baleful figure, an entity bearing the same rot that marked her own existence. In her grasp, the bud of her glaive gleamed with an unsettling light. The woman who mirrored her suffering—a reflection of her own cursed existence—offered a faint, knowing smile.

No words were spoken between the two, and yet their silent exchange was laden with unspoken understanding. The large grotesque woman, formidable yet tinged with a quiet melancholy, extended a hand. In it, she bore a scarlet bud, its deep crimson hue echoing the bloodshed and sorrow of ages past.

As the vision began to fade, the dream’s spectral tendrils loosening their grip, the woman’s smile lingered—a fleeting solace amidst the encroaching darkness of Malenia’s troubled repose.

Eventually Malenia woke, and the needle had seemed to be work. The rot was quelled yet again.

"It is time, sister," Miquella said, his voice cutting through the quiet room.

She rose from the bed, her movements deliberate as she donned her golden arm prosthesis, the intricate metal gleaming with an almost ethereal light.

"Yes," she replied, though a hint of weariness lingered in her voice.

"When the meeting is done, I Intend for us to scout out an area up north.” Miquella declared, “Will you follow me?”

Malenia paused, her gaze softening as she met her brother’s eyes.

"Always.”

Miquella nodded, though the worry did not entirely leave his face. “Thank you sister.”

Malenia managed a small, determined smile. "Lead the way."

Together, they left the chambers, moving with purpose through the halls leading to the Elden throne.

Chapter Text

Godrick The Golden

Folk music filled the air, as the lively strumming of tavern guitars blended with the laughter and chatter of patrons. Beer wenches moved about, their arms laden with foaming mugs, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. City watchmen and off-duty guards laughed together in drunken stupor, their faces flushed with drink and merriment.

It was a good time indeed.

In the midst of this revelry, Godrick the Golden lounged in the smoky, bustling tavern, a mug of ale clutched loosely in his hand. His golden hair, slightly dishevelled, glinted in the dim light.

His companion for the day, Godefroy, sat across from him, a grin plastered on his face as he regaled the crowd with yet another exaggerated tale of their exploits.

"Did I ever tell you about the time Godrick here tried to joust with a Tree Sentinel?" Godefroy said, slapping the table for emphasis, eliciting a roar of laughter from the assembled patrons.

Godrick laughed along, how could he with his small frame challenge such a huge titan, the thought was ridiculous.

He was a demigod, true, but his divine blood was thin, diluted through generations. Here, among the common folk, he felt more human than divine, more like them and less like his lofty kin.

“The poor bastard almost broke like a twig.” Godefroy laughed.

“Well, I’ll tell you about this bastard.” Godrick stood up, ale in hand, swaying slightly. “This one here tried to pick a fight with a Dragon Knight.”

“He had it coming…” Godefroy replied, exasperation dripping from his words.

“Neither of you can barely pick up a sword, and yet you choose to pick fights with elite guardsmen?” one of the off-duty guardsmen asked, bewildered by their madness.

“I’ll have you know I am… no, we are the lords of all that is golden,” Godefroy declared, puffing out his chest with drunken pride.

“Ugh, Godrick.” One of the wenches sighed, shaking her head.

“What?” they both said in unison.

“Marika’s tits, we’re doomed.” A mercenary grumbled, shaking his head in disbelief.

Godrick’s face flushed with indignation. “Doomed, you say? Have you forgotten who I am?” He slammed his ale on the table, spilling it. “I am of the golden lineage, a demigod!”

The mercenary snorted. “Aye, a demigod who can’t hold his drink or temper. You’re a mockery of what your blood should be.”

Godefroy laughed, slapping Godrick on the back. “Well at least I’m not a mockery of good conversation, If you’d spent less time snorting and did more listening. You’d realize my cousins temper, is only as short as my patience for your bad jokes."

“That’s right.” Godrick said, “You’re all just jealous – jealous of our divine heritage.”

“Divine heritage?” A wench scoffed, refilling her mugs. “You’re no better than the rest of us. Drinking away your days while the realm falls apart.”

“But I am better,” Godrick said, a hard edge to his voice. “Here I am, gracing you with an audience, buying you drinks—when I could be in the castle…”

“Doing nothing,” a group of city watchmen said, bursting into laughter.

“How many other demigods do you think would spare the time of day for ye?” he asked, trying to maintain his composure.

“None, cause they’re off doing something that matters,” another group of knights said, their laughter echoing through the tavern.

Godrick’s eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and wounded pride. “You think that I—”

“That you what?” a burly knight interrupted, stepping closer. “That you’re doing us a favour by sitting here? We see through you, Godrick. You talk of heritage and power, but where is it? Where is your grand destiny?”

The tavern fell silent, all eyes on the brewing confrontation. Godrick’s grip tightened around his goblet, his knuckles turning white. He took a slow breath, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You forget your place,” Godrick said quietly, the threat clear in his tone. “I am a descendant of Godfrey, a lord of gold. You should be honoured to drink in my presence.”

The knight sneered. “Honour? From a lord who hides in taverns while others fight for the realm?”

The tension in the room was palpable, but Godefroy interrupted putting a heavy hand on Godrick’s shoulder and another on the knights chest.

“Easy… We’re here to forget, remember?”

The tavern door swung open, and a cold gust of wind swept through the room. Godrick glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a figure cloaked in shadow. The man approached, his steps deliberate and measured.

"Godefroy," the man said, his voice low and urgent. "We need to speak. Now."

Godefroy’s jovial expression faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked it with a forced smile. "Can't it wait, old friend? We're in the middle of a fine evening."

"It cannot," the man insisted, his gaze flicking to Godrick.

Godrick, sensing the tension, leaned back in his chair. "Go on... I’ll be fine here."

Godefroy nodded. “Drinks are on me!” he proclaimed, sending the house back into a merry mood.

As Godefroy and the cloaked figure moved towards a quieter corner, Godrick turned his attention back to the room. The common folk, momentarily distracted by the promise of free drinks, resumed their laughter and conversation. Yet, an air of unease lingered, subtle but present.

He took another swig of his ale, his thoughts drifting.

“Curse that wench, and wretched knight.” He mumbled to himself, their words though painful wrang true.

He was the runt of the litter, the divine blood in his veins more of a burden than a blessing.

His distant cousins, the true demigods, wielded power and commanded respect. But he... he was left to skulk in the shadows, seeking solace in the company of commoners, losing himself in drink and merriment to forget the weight of his inadequacy.

"Oi! Oi Godrick!" A voice called out, snapping him back to reality. It was a burly blacksmith, his face flushed from drink. "Tell us about the time you wrestled that wyvern!"

Godrick managed a weak smile. "Ah, the wyvern... a fearsome beast, it was nothing I couldn’t handle."

As he launched into his tale, his mind wandered. He knew he was lying, and they knew it too. He was failing, squandering his potential.

The people here saw him as one of their own, and that gnawed away at him. He wasn’t; he shouldn’t be here.  But in what way could he claim the power that had eluded him for so long? He did not know.

"Godrick?" Godefroy had returned, leaning over Godrick’s shoulder.

"What is it now?" Godrick asked, irritation creeping into his voice. "And what did that cloaked figure want?"

"It doesn’t matter," Godefroy said, waving a hand dismissively. "Let’s forget the pompous politics and pedantry, eh? Drink the night away, for old times' sake."

Godrick sighed, the weight of his frustrations momentarily lifting. "For old times' sake," he echoed, though his heart wasn't fully in it.

Godefroy called for more drinks, and the tavern quickly returned to its raucous state. The clink of mugs and the hum of conversation filled the air, a stark contrast to the turmoil within Godrick's mind. He raised his goblet, forcing a smile as he joined the toast.

“To nights like these,” Godefroy declared, “where worries drown in ale and laughter.”

The patrons cheered, their faces a blur of fleeting joy. Godrick drank deeply, hoping the alcohol would dull the gnawing sense of inadequacy.

For a moment, it worked. The fire of the drink burned away his doubts, leaving only a hollow bravado.

As the night wore on, Godrick found himself slipping into a familiar pattern of jest and arrogance, a mask to hide the gnawing void inside. He bantered with the common folk, his laughter loud and hollow. Yet, every jest, every forced smile, only deepened the chasm between who he was and who he wished to be.

“All right, that’s it,” the innkeeper growled, dragging Godefroy and Godrick aside with the aid of his guards. “You made a right bloody mess of my place, and you’re loud. Curfew is up; everybody needs to go.” He crossed his arms, glaring at them. “And how do you intend to pay your tab?”

Godefroy and Godrick laughed as they tried to stand up from the ground, their movements unsteady.

“Send my tab…to the senate,” Godefroy laughed, his words slurred.

The innkeeper's frown deepened, but he didn’t press the issue, he knew better than to mess with nobles especially ones as frivolous and privileged as these.

Instead, he motioned for his guards to escort them out. Godrick, still chuckling, clapped a hand on the innkeeper's shoulder as he passed.

“You’ll be remembered for your hospitality,” he said, though his eyes held a glint of malice.

Outside, the cold night air hit them like a slap, sobering them slightly. Godefroy stumbled but caught himself, leaning heavily on Godrick.

“Well, that was a fine evening,” Godrick said, his voice still thick with drink. “But we best be on our way.”

“Drink this,” Godefroy said, handing Godrick a small vial of dark liquid. “It should get rid of the stupor.”

“Many thanks,” Godrick replied, taking a sip. The concoction was bitter, but he felt its effects almost immediately, clearing the fog from his mind and steadying his steps.

We should get back to the manor,” Godrick said, his voice thick with a mix of resignation and ale.

“You should,” Godefroy replied, swaying slightly. “I’m not fit for a royal return.”

Godrick frowned, concern cutting through his drunken haze. “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere…easy,” Godefroy answered with a lazy grin. “Somewhere I don’t have to think about bloodlines and golden expectations.”

Godrick sighed, feeling the weight of his cousin’s words. “Don’t get yourself into trouble.”

Godefroy chuckled, clapping Godrick on the shoulder. “Trouble finds us, cousin. But tonight, let it wait. Go back to your golden halls. I’ll find my way.”

With that, Godefroy turned and stumbled down the street, disappearing into the shadows. Godrick watched him go, feeling a pang of envy for his cousin’s carefree abandon. He took a deep breath, pulling his cloak tighter around him, and started the long, lonely walk back to the manor.

When he finally reached, the grand doors loomed before him, a reminder of his heritage and his responsibilities. He hesitated for a moment, then pushed them open, stepping into the dimly lit hall. The manor was silent, the servants long retired for the night. Godrick made his way to his chambers, the familiar surroundings offering little comfort.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the ornate carvings on the walls. He thought of Godfrey, his mighty ancestor, and the burden of living up to his legacy. He thought of Godwyn, another of noble bloodline, who carried the weight of their lineage with grace and strength.

Godrick felt a pang of longing for something he couldn’t quite define. He wanted to be worthy of his bloodline, to prove himself as more than just a diluted demigod. But he also craved the freedom that Godefroy sought, the ability to live without the constant pressure of expectations.

As he lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, he made a silent vow to himself. He would find a way to prove his worth, to carve out a place for himself in this world of gods and men. But for now, he would rest, and let the night take him into its embrace.

“Get up.” Godwyn’s voice cut through the haze of Godrick’s dreams, sharp and unyielding. He stood over him like a leering crow, his expression a mixture of disdain and disappointment.

Godrick groaned, trying to blink away the fog of sleep and the lingering effects of last night’s ale. His head pounded, and his mouth tasted of stale beer and regret. “What time is it?” he muttered, pulling the covers tighter around him.

“Time for you to start playing your part,” Godwyn snapped. He wrinkled his nose, stepping back as if the very air around Godrick was offensive. “You smell of alcohol and rat faeces. Is this what you’ve reduced yourself to?”

Godrick forced himself to sit up, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through his skull. “I was out…with Godefroy. It was a harmless night.”

“Harmless?” Godwyn echoed, his voice incredulous. “You think it harmless to squander our name in taverns, drinking yourself into oblivion? You are a disgrace, Godrick. Is this what remains of my father’s bloodline? Will this drunken disaster be my, no, our legacy?”

The words stung, more than Godrick cared to admit. He looked down at his hands, still trembling slightly from the night before. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “All of you… have your paths, and your purposes. I’m just here... trying to find mine.”

Godwyn’s expression softened for a brief moment, a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the stern resolve that defined him. “You have a purpose, Godrick. You are of golden blood. But you must rise above this… this squalor. Our people need us to be strong now more than ever, not wallowing in self-pity and drink.”

Godrick nodded, feeling the weight of Godwyn’s words. “I’ll do better,” he promised, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them.

“You must,” Godwyn said, turning to leave. “For all our sakes. Now, get cleaned up. There are matters to attend to, and you will join me.”

“And you only tell me now?” Godrick grumbled, rubbing his temples as if that could soothe the pounding headache.

“You would not have listened otherwise,” Godwyn retorted, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. “Queen Marika has called for us, now hurry.”

As the door closed behind him, Godrick lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The weight of his lineage pressed down on him like a shroud, suffocating and relentless. He could hear the faint echoes of laughter and music from the tavern, a stark contrast to the silence that now enveloped him. He felt a pang of longing for the carefree moments, fleeting as they were, before the burdens of his bloodline came crashing down on him once more.

With a heavy sigh, he rose from the bed and made his way to the copper tub in the corner of the room. The water was cold, a sharp bite against his skin, but it was a necessary discomfort. He needed to wash away the remnants of the night before, the stink of ale and sweat that clung to him like a second skin.

As he sank into the tub, the chill of the water jolted him awake, clearing the fog from his mind. He scrubbed his skin vigorously, as if he could erase not only the grime but also the memories of his failures.

Once he was done, he adorned clothes fit for a demigod and made his way to the Elden Throne.

At the Erdtree Sanctuary, he met with the other demigods. Lunar Princess Ranni waited alongside Praetor Rykard and General Radahn, who seemed engrossed in conversation. Not far from them stood Miquella and Malenia, quiet and graceful as ever—they paid no mind to him, it was as if he was barely noticeable among such mighty beings.

But soon Godwyn appeared, and behind him followed two huge shadows. Godrick almost fell in shock, while Radahn and Malenia prepared themselves, hands moving to their weapons. Yet Godwyn, with a wave of his hand, halted them.

“Yield your blades,” Godwyn roared.

“Have you gone mad?” Radahn said, his voice echoing through the sanctuary. “You bring omens to the Elden Throne?”

“These are no mere omen,” Godwyn retorted, his eyes fierce. “These are my brothers, children of Godfrey, demigods like you and I.”

“What?” Radahn said, taken aback. Ranni and Rykard made no comment, and Miquella simply watched alongside Malenia.

“They are accursed,” Radahn insisted.

“They bear no curse,” Miquella said, speaking up with a calm authority. “In truth, they bear vestiges of the Crucible, divine in its own right but nowadays deemed a curse.”

“Correct,” said a strong voice. Above them stood Radagon, looking down at the demigods with a mixture of pride and concern. “The Crucible’s power is ancient and sacred. But it vestiges have no place in the golden order.”

The room fell silent as Radagon's presence commanded attention. The demigods, despite their power and stature, felt the weight of his words. Godrick, standing at the edge of this gathering, felt smaller than ever, but there was a spark of defiance within him.

But before he could speak—

“Enough.” Radagon's gaze swept across the room, his voice resonating with authority. “There shall be no further conflict.”

“We are bound by blood if not by purpose,” Godwyn said, stepping forward, his voice carrying a rare note of command. “Peace, Radahn…for now.”

“Peace.” Radahn grunted, sheathing his massive blades with a reluctant nod. The tension in the air lessened, if only slightly.

Radagon was the first to move, his flowing red locks gleaming as he strode purposefully toward the great staircase that led to the Elden Throne.

Not soon after they were all called for and-

One by one, the demigods followed, their movements synchronized in a reluctant unity. They climbed the stairs, their footsteps echoing on the open stairway, treading upon the fallen leaves that littered their path.

Upon reaching the Elden Throne, they took their seats, each demigod settling into their designated place of power. All save for Godwyn and his omen siblings, who stood apart,

One by one, they settled, their eyes fixed on the grand entrance through which Marika would appear. The silence was heavy, broken only by the occasional rustle of fabric or the soft clink of armor. The fallen leaves, remnants of the Erdtree's grandeur, drifted gently through the air, adding a touch of melancholy to the scene.

The wait was tense, each passing moment stretching their patience thin. Then, finally, the great Erdtree’s light shone and it opened way -

Marika descended from the Erdtree, her golden form unwavering, her presence a beacon of divine authority. She looked upon them all, each seated on their thrones.

“Ahh…Godrick the Golden,” she said, her fiery golden eyes piercing through him. Godrick felt a shudder run through his spine, almost crumbling under her gaze.

“The twin prodigies, Miquella and Malenia.” Miquella met her stone-cold gaze with calm defiance, while Malenia remained composed, a flicker of determination in her eyes.

“General Radahn… Praetor Rykard, and Lunar Princess Ranni…” Marika's gaze lingered on them, but they remained unfazed, their expressions unreadable.

“And how could I forget…” She turned to her two omen children. “It’s been a long while, Mohg…Morgott.” Morgott offered a gentle bow, a show of respect, while Mohg grunted in silence, his head dipping slightly. Yet she gave no recognition to Godwyn.

“Demigods all!, as thy kind are all of a piece,” she said, holding her arms out. But before she could continue, Ranni interrupted, her tone unimpressed.

"Is there a reason you called us here?"

"Indeed, Mother.” Miquella nodded, adding with a touch of curiosity. “What is the purpose of this gathering?"

“Yes…” Marika said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Let us then, begin.”

Chapter Text

Ranni II

The fallen leaves drifted lazily, catching the light of The Erdtree as they fell around the assembled demigods.

Queen Marika had spoken - the whisper of her will – whatever it was that had been revealed, whatever her purpose, it lingered in the air like the scent of ozone after a storm—tantalizing, yet dangerous to grasp.

The demigods remained in their seats, their expressions veiled beneath layers of caution and contemplation.

All except Godrick, who slouched in his seat, dare not to meet the eyes of his kin or the queen mother herself. He felt like a child again, out of place and out of time. Whatever had transpired was beyond him, as so much always was. His thoughts were a muddle, tangled between the desire to prove himself and the gnawing fear that he never would.

Across from him, Ranni rose. Her movements were graceful, almost otherworldly, as she cast her cold gaze upon the Queen mother. The Lunar Princess wore her disdain like a cloak, evident in the slight curl of her lip and the icy blue light that seemed to pulse around her. It was clear to all that whatever Marika had said, Ranni found it lacking.

"This could have been a letter," she spoke, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "If this is the sum of her wisdom, then we are all the poorer for it."

Godwyn bristled, the golden son shifting as if to argue, but Morgott placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, urging him to be still.

Ranni’s words had stung, but now was not the time to question her outright.  Besides Marika herself had seemed unbothered by Ranni’s retort; her eyes closed as if awaiting them to leave.

They all each buried their thoughts, hiding them behind masks of indifference or mild discontent.

Miquella especially who broke the tension with a small, weary smile. “Let us not quarrel,” he said, though his voice held none of its usual warmth. “Mother has spoken. We must each now see to our own.”

“Yes, indeed.” Malenia nodded, her fierce eyes meeting her brothers with a shared understanding.

“I agree.” Rykard spoke up, “If we’re done, I’d like to settle some political and economic matters before my leave.”

He looked to Godwyn and Radahn, who nodded at him in response.

“You may leave.” Marika said.

And thus, one by one, the demigods rose, preparing to depart the Elden Throne. Yet, as Ranni turned to leave, Marika’s voice rang out once more, stopping her in her tracks.

“Not you,” Marika commanded, her tone leaving no room for defiance. The others halted; their eyes drawn back to the Elden Throne. Marika's golden gaze was locked onto Ranni, a silent command that brooked no challenge.

“I would speak with you alone,” she said, her words echoing through the open space.

The other demigods, glanced at Ranni with a mixture of curiosity and concern. To be singled out by Marika was no small thing, and none could say whether it was a blessing or a curse. Ranni, however, did not flinch. She met Marika’s gaze with a cool, unyielding stare, her thoughts unreadable.

“As you wish,” Ranni replied, her voice even, betraying none of the unease she might have felt.

Malenia was the first to leave, her crimson hair trailing behind her like a banner of blood. Radahn followed, his massive form casting a long shadow over the stairway as he went. Rykard was next, his lips turning to an encouraging smile as he exchanged a final glance with his sister. Miquella lingered a moment longer, his eyes flicking between Ranni and Marika, before he too took his leave.

Mohg and Morgott vanished into thin air, leaving only a faint shimmer where they had stood.

And now three remained – leaves blowing in the wind as Godwyn hesitated, his gaze lingering on Ranni and Marika. He was reluctant to leave, his instincts urging him to stay.

But Marika, in her divine form, regarded him with eyes as cold as the Ranni’s. Her gaze locking onto him with an unsettling calmness.

“I said alone,” she repeated, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.

Godwyn, ever the dutiful son, took a step forward, his heart heavy with concern. “Mother, I—”

Before he could come any closer, she raised a hand, halting him in his tracks. “Enough Godwyn...begone.” she said, her tone carrying an edge that silenced him. There was no warmth, only the distant authority of a goddess who had long since detached herself from mortal concerns.

His heart ached at the coldness in his mother’s eyes, but he bowed his head in submission. Without another word, he turned away, approaching Ranni who stood as still as a statue, her face impassive, unreadable.

Godwyn’s gaze searched hers, looking for a flicker of understanding, of sympathy. He found none. The chill in her eyes mirrored the emptiness in Marika’s.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, carried on in the winds that rustled the fallen leaves around them. He did not even know what he was asking for—an ally, a confidante, perhaps a sliver of hope that he could somehow restore his mother’s faith.

Ranni’s gaze remained unyielding, as cold and distant as the moon and stars she revered. Her silence was answer enough, and it stung more than any words she could have spoken. There was nothing she could—or would—offer him.

Defeated, Godwyn turned away, the plea still lingering in the air, unanswered and unacknowledged. his footsteps echoing as he left the Elden Throne.

Finally, only Ranni and Marika remained. The open air, once filled with the presence of gods, now felt cavernous and cold, a feeling Ranni was all but used to.

Marika rose from her throne, her golden hair flowing behind her like a river of light. She moved with a grace that belied her age, her every step echoing with the authority of a god. Ranni stood her ground, her own form wrapped in the cold, ethereal light of the moon.

For a moment, the two women regarded each other in silence, one bathed in the warmth of the Erdtree’s light, the other shrouded in the cold embrace of night.

“What is it you wish to speak of?” Ranni asked, her voice steady, though her eyes held a flicker of suspicion.

Marika did not answer immediately. Instead, she circled Ranni, her eyes scrutinizing every inch of her distant daughter, as if searching for something hidden beneath the surface.

“Little Ranni.” Marika finally said, her voice soft but laced with something darker. "Secrets. Desires. Ambitions. They weigh on you, even now…. what are you plotting?"

Ranni met Marika’s gaze with a cool, unflinching stare. The glow of the Erdtree flickered in her eyes, but its warmth did not reach her heart. “I could ask you the same thing,” she replied, her voice sharp as a blade hidden beneath velvet. “Plotting to kill a God?”

Marika’s lips curled into a smile that did not touch her eyes. The question hung in the air between them, heavy and loaded with unspoken meaning.

“So… are you?” Marika returned the same question, her tone a mirror of Ranni’s, reflecting the ambiguity back at her.

There was a pause as they stared each other down, two forces of nature locked in a silent battle of wills. The world around them seemed to hold its breath, the golden leaves of the Erdtree frozen in their descent. Marika’s amusement was subtle, a flicker in her eyes, as she continued, her tone shifting like the winds before a storm.

“Strange rituals you’ve been practicing,” Marika said, her words a careful probe, “I’m sure that icy cold witch you call mentor, never taught you such foreign subjects.”

Ranni’s expression did not waver, though her mind raced, calculating each word, each implication. “The pursuit of knowledge often leads one to…unexpected places,” she replied, her tone smooth and measured. “I merely followed the path I saw before me.”

“Pray tell, where does that path lead?” Marika inquired, her voice as calm and placid as still water.

“To freedom,” Ranni answered, the single word hanging between them like a drawn sword.

Marika’s smile widened, though it remained as cold as the ice that ran through Ranni’s veins. “Freedom is an elusive thing,” she mused, her eyes narrowing. “And often, the pursuit of it comes at a great cost.”

“Cost is a matter of perspective,” Ranni replied, her voice as steady as her resolve. “What one is willing to sacrifice… that is the true measure of its worth.”

Marika tilted her head slightly, as if considering Ranni’s words, weighing them on some invisible scale. “You speak as one who has already made their decision,” she observed, her tone unreadable.

“And you?” Ranni’s eyes bore into Marika’s, searching for any crack in her façade.

Marika’s gaze hardened, the playful veneer slipping away to reveal something more dangerous. “I have already sacrificed much,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. “And I will do so again, if necessary.”

The air between them crackled with tension, the unspoken threat lingering like a shadow over the Elden Throne. Neither woman moved, neither blinked, as if the first to break would lose this silent battle.

Ranni finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of her resolve. “We all have our roles to play. But do not think for a moment that I will be a pawn in your game.”

Marika’s smile returned, colder than ever. “Nor I in yours, my daughter.”

“I am not your daughter.” Ranni spat, her voice sharp as the moonlit blades she commands. The defiance in her tone was unmistakable, yet beneath it lay a tremor—a subtle quake in the earth that only the most astute could sense.

But Marika was no ordinary mother, and she sensed it well.

The Eternal Queen, with a grace born of eons, knelt down slightly, her breath ghosting against Ranni’s ear as she whispered,

“Yes, you are.” The words slithered like a serpent through the young princess’s resolve, winding tighter with every syllable. A claim that was not merely of blood, but of something deeper, darker—a binding that Ranni had spent lifetimes trying to sever.

And with that, Marika rose, knowing the seed she had planted would take root in her cold daughter’s heart, festering, gnawing at her pride and her plans.

Ranni stood rigid, her eyes burning cold as the moonlight. Powerless for now, but not forever. Never forever. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms as she watched Marika turn towards the entrance of the Erdtree.

“Oh, and do be careful,” Marika said, her tone almost playful, though her words carried the weight of a thousand unsaid threats. “Do not believe everything Alecto says, she is, after all, cut from the same cloth as me.”

The statement hung in the air like a noose, tightening around Ranni’s thoughts. Alecto, an ally, a tool, a danger. Was it a warning? A manipulation? Ranni’s mind raced, but Marika offered no further clues, leaving her to unravel the tangled web on her own.

The queen's figure disappeared into the sacred light of the Erdtree, leaving Ranni alone in the shadows, her teeth clenched in silent fury.

Marika had won this round, but the game was far from over. There were always moves to be made, even when the board seemed hopeless. She would find a way to cut the strings that bound her, and when she did, Marika would learn that even the Eternal had their limits.

Ranni descended to the Erdtree Sanctuary, her footsteps heavy as trampled down the stairs. Once there she met with Rykard, Godwyn and Radahn.

“You don’t look too happy?” Rykard’s voice cut through the silence, his tone light, yet laced with an understanding that only a brother could possess. “I’m guessing it didn’t go over too well.”

“Of course, it didn’t go over well, she was rude,” Godwyn muttered, his voice a mixture of frustration and resignation.

“Come now, Rykard,” Radahn rumbled, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “Little Ranni was never one for punishments.”

“Enough!” Ranni said, her voice was cold as the night sky, silencing them all. “I am not some child you can easily dismiss.”

“Ranni,” Rykard asked, his tone gentler, probing, “what did she say?”

She met his gaze, her eyes void of their usual fire, replaced by a despondence that cut deeper than any blade. She didn’t answer, only gave him a look that spoke of wounds too fresh to be named.

“I assume we’ll be leaving then,” Rykard said, reading the unspoken words in her silence.

“Please…” Ranni’s voice wavered, the strength she had shown before now faltering. “I grow weary of this place.”

Rykard nodded, understanding the depth of her weariness. “Let me finish my business with Godwyn and Radahn, then we’ll leave immediately.”

“Thank you.”

“You coddle her too much,” Radahn grumbled, his voice a thunderous echo in the hallowed space.

“At least someone cares about our family,” Ranni snapped, her words sharp enough to draw blood.

“And I don’t?” Radahn’s eyes narrowed, offence bristling in his tone.

“When was the last time you visited our mother, hmm?” Ranni challenged, her voice rising with the tide of her anger. “Do you even know the state that she’s in? The number of usurpers I’ve had to put down—the Lunar Estate grows emptier by the day, Caria deteriorates and you—"

“I fight every battle for her, and for you, and for everyone else in the Lands Between!” Radahn’s retort was fierce, his fists clenching at his sides. “Do not assume to know my struggles, Ranni.”

“Both of you, stop.” Rykard’s voice was firm, but it barely registered in the midst of their heated exchange.

“Please, you fight for yourself and for your own glory,” Ranni shot back, her voice trembling with the force of her emotion. “You never even flinched when Father left. The only thing you care about is that horse and that vow you made to—”

“Ranni, you do not get to—”

“Enough!” Radagon’s voice boomed as he entered the sanctuary, cutting through their argument like a blade. His presence commanded silence, the weight of his authority settling over them like a shroud. “What is the meaning of this? My own children, fighting in the Erdtree Sanctuary, in the presence of Godwyn the Golden.”

“So we’re your children now? Nice to know.” Ranni’s words dripped with bitterness, her eyes aflame with contempt.

“You’re upset,” Radagon observed, his voice a poor imitation of concern.

“Upset doesn’t begin to describe what I feel right now,” Ranni spat, her gaze never leaving her father’s, daring him to challenge the storm within her.

“Leave us,” Radagon ordered, his tone brooking no argument. Godwyn, with a simple nod, complied, leaving the fractured family to their silence.

As the doors closed behind Godwyn, the tension in the air thickened, a palpable force that threatened to choke the life from the room. But as Radagon looked to each of them:

“My children…” he began

Turning first to Radahn, his eyes filled with pride. “You’ve grown from a small cub to a great lion,” he said, clapping a hand on his son’s broad shoulder. “A fine warrior, you’ve become my son. You might even have given Godfrey a challenge in his day.”

Radahn, despite himself, felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t butter me with your words, Father,” he rumbled, a hint of warmth creeping into his usually stern voice.

Radagon shifted his gaze to Rykard, his expression softening further. “Rykard, you were always a smart boy, sharper than a serpent’s fang. I am not blind to the sacrifices you’ve made for the golden order—the tortures, the imprisonments, the dark places you’ve had to walk. I am truly sorry, my son. But you’ve become all the stronger for it, a force to that I’m afraid might challenge the gods.”

Rykard’s lips twitched in a rare, rueful smile. “I’m not like him y’know , you won’t win me over with compliments.” he murmured, but there was a glint of something softer in his eyes, a fleeting glimpse of the boy he once was.

Finally Radagon turned to Ranni, his voice soft and tender, a tone she hadn’t heard in what felt like an age. “Little Ranni… you’re not so little anymore are you,” he murmured, gently brushing a lock of her red hair aside. “There’s a fierceness in you now, a strength that mirrors the moonlit grace of your mother—Rennala.”

Ranni, though anger still simmered within her, felt a flicker of warmth under his gaze. The sharp edge of her words dulled, replaced by a faint, almost shy smile. “I suppose I am my mother’s daughter,” she replied, the admission slipping out as she looked up at him.

“You’ve all carved your own paths in this world, and for that, I am proud. Demigods, every one of you,” Radagon said, his voice filled with a solemn pride. "My children."

Without warning, Radagon gathered them all into his arms, pulling them close in an embrace that caught them off guard. "Let go!" they protested, struggling against his hold, but their father was strong, his grip unyielding as he held them tight.

Laughter bubbled up, breaking through their surprise. "You didn’t have to do that," Ranni grumbled, her voice tinged with reluctant amusement. “I wasn’t ready,” Radahn added, still wrestling against his father’s grip. “We’re not children anymore, you know.”

“You will always be my children,” Radagon replied, his eyes softening with the memory of simpler times. In his mind’s eye, he saw them as they once were—innocent and carefree, playing by the pond in Caria Manor. Beside him, Rennala had watched them too, her pale skin glowing under the gentle light of the moon, a serene smile on her lips.

For a moment, each of them glimpsed that reflection in Radagon’s eyes, a fleeting image of a time before the weight of power and destiny had pulled them apart. The Erdtree Sanctuary, seemed to warm with the echoes of their shared past, filling the air with a sense of belonging that had long been missing.

(From the shadows, Miquella and Malenia watched their father with his unafflicted children, their hearts heavy with a mixture of envy and resignation. They had long since learned to rely on each other, to find strength in their shared pain and rejection, even from the one who should have loved them most. The two siblings thus turned away, their bond unspoken but unbreakable, forged in the fires of neglect and pain.)

Radagon, seeing the lightness in their eyes, allowed himself a moment of hope. “If only your mother were here…” he began, his voice trailing off as the weight of his own words settled over them like a dark cloud.

The warmth that had filled the sanctuary vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by the cold reality of their situation. Their smiles faded, and the tension returned, heavier now with the unspoken truth that lingered between them. Radagon’s attempt to bridge the chasm between them had worked, if only for a fleeting moment. But the pain of his absence, of his abandonment, could not be so easily erased.

Ranni looked away, her heart hardening once more. Rykard’s hands clenched at his sides, the old anger bubbling up again. Radahn’s gaze grew distant, his thoughts retreating to the battles that lay ahead.

“Solemn duty weighs upon the one beholden; not unlike a gnawing curse from which there is no deliverance.” Radagon’s voice was soft, almost wistful, as if he were speaking more to himself than to his children. “One day you will understand, or maybe you already do.”

He turned his gaze to Radahn, but the towering warrior averted his eyes, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to meet his father’s gaze. The weight of those words, the truth they carried, was too heavy to bear, even for him.

“I am sorry to interrupt,” Miquella said, stepping softly into the room. His voice was a gentle intrusion, his presence a reminder of the innocence that once united them. “My timing is impeccably horrible, I know—but I wish to speak to my General brother— Radahn.”

“You’re timing could not have been better, actually,” Rykard interjected, his tone betraying a desire to end the matter before it delved any deeper into old wounds.

Radahn inclined his head, a shadow of a nod. “I must take my leave,” he said, his voice heavy with unspoken farewells. “It’s been…nice.”

Ranni, who had remained silent in the aftermath of their father’s words, spoke up at last, her voice laced with a sorrow she could not entirely mask. “You’ll find me by the Manor,” she said, turning her gaze to the door. “Perhaps the champions of the Roundtable Hold will entertain me while wait.”

The room seemed to grow colder as they began to disperse, each retreating to their own corners of the fractured world they now inhabited. There was no warmth left in their parting, only the chill of regret and the knowledge that whatever had once bound them as a family was now frayed beyond repair.

Radagon, watching them go, felt the ache of loss settle deep within his chest. It was a pain he had grown accustomed to, yet it never dulled, never eased. As they reached the threshold, he called out, his voice low, almost pleading. “I hope that one day, we could all sit down as a family again.”

The words hung in the air, a fragile hope that seemed to echo in the silence that followed. But even as he spoke them, Radagon knew that such a day might never come. Too much had been lost, too much had been sacrificed, for them to ever return to what they once were.

"In my age, you will." Miquella’s voice was soft, yet firm, as he spoke into the quiet. “Even if Malenia and I aren’t included… you will.”

And so, they parted, the shadows of the past trailing behind them, leaving the sanctuary empty once more—a place of worship now filled only with the ghosts of what might have been.

Chapter Text

Praetor Rykard

If there was one thing that separated Leyndell from the Volcano Manor— it would be that the air was colder, both spirit and temperature.

The tortured screams of the manor seemed almost preferable to the constant whining of politicians and nobles. At least the former had purpose, the latter was... a relentless drone, worse in many ways than the suffering in the depths of his domain.

Rykard, Praetor, Justiciar, and Lord of the Volcano Manor, was even known by some to be ruthless.

"The Golden Order is ruthless," he would respond, should anyone accuse him of such. After all, everything he did was for the sake of his Queen Mother and Lord Father. "Nobles tend to be stupid... Some are clever, but nonetheless stupid."

Such were his thoughts as he observed the magistrates, who bickered and argued even in the presence of three demigods. The court seethed with tension, a pit of serpents snapping at one another’s tails.

"You’d think greed a god itself," Radahn murmured, his voice like distant thunder.

"It very well may be," Rykard replied, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room.

"Enough!" Godwyn's voice boomed, crashing through the chamber like a Warhammer striking an anvil.

And Silence fell.

"I ask you," Godwyn continued, "were each of you not elected by the plebeians and patricians? What use are these coffers if not to defend our realm, to fight our enemies?"

"We live in times of peace, Lord Godwyn," one of the magistrates replied, daring to speak in the demigod’s presence.

"Peace?" Radahn’s voice echoed, carrying the weight of mountains.

"The south shows us signs of a demi-human problem," Rykard interjected, his voice cold and measured. "The general cannot hold the west if he lacks the proper funds for his armies and peoples."

“And furthermore, there are possible threats outside the Lands Between,” Radahn said, his massive form stirring with the tension of a caged lion. “Eochaid, Reeds, the Badlands, Ranah.”

“Eochaid is long gone,” a magistrate countered, his tone dismissive.

“There could be settlements. They could be rebuilding. There could be a different people entirely. We do not know,” Radahn growled, his frustration palpable. “Already there are rumors of a hunter.”

"No offense, my lord," one of the magistrates dared, "but you may be misinformed. The land of Reeds will likely drown in its own bloody mess, and Ranah is a land of dancers. We’ve had no word from the Badlands yes,—and they could be a threat, but it's hard to say if there's anything left of them at all."

"Dare not underestimate the dancers," another magistrate interjected sharply, his voice rising above the murmur. "But I must agree. Is this not merely a way for the general to build his own kingdom in Caelid?"

The chamber stilled. Radahn’s eyes narrowed, his massive frame casting an imposing shadow over the senate. He stood, slow and deliberate, the ground seeming to tremble beneath his weight. "You accuse me of wanting to misappropriate funds?" His voice was low, but it rumbled, an unspoken threat hanging in the air.

The magistrate shrank back in his seat, pale and trembling. "N-no, my lord… I simply meant—"

Radahn took a step forward, each movement sending waves of fear rippling through the chamber. The court held its breath, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade. "Speak carefully," Radahn said, his voice a growl, barely restrained.

“Sit down.” Godwyn said to Radahn and he returned, slowly still eyeing the scared magistrate.

"Has greed consumed your hearts?" Godwyn asked, "Must I threaten the court? The Senate—these sacrosanct pillars of our society—must I break them all down before you listen?"

The magistrates murmured, their voices a discordant hum of discontent. They knew their place before the demigods, but there was something in the air—a shift, a quiet rebellion stirring in their hearts. They had grown tired of the gods’ heavy hands, and certainly of Rykard. His reputation for cruelty had made them cautious, but also resentful. They knew all too well what happened to those sent to Volcano Manor.

Rykard’s eyes gleamed, aware of their thoughts. He preferred it this way. It was far easier to extract the truth when fear loosened their tongues.

"You hold no favor for me, I understand," Rykard began, his voice steady, cold as the mountain air.

The magistrates shifted in their seats, uneasy. "But let us be clear—you exist by our mothers mercy. The mercy of the gods. I suggest you remember that before you next speak of 'peace' when the wolves are already at the door."

A long silence followed, heavy with the weight of unspoken threats. The chamber, grand though it was, suddenly felt small—trapped under the oppressive gazes of the demigods.

One magistrate, braver—or more foolish—than the rest, stood. "My lord Rykard, with all due respect, we cannot commit all our resources to an imaginary war. The people will starve, the city will crumble and—"

"Imaginary war?" Rykard interrupted, his voice a low hiss. He rose slowly from his seat, the movement deliberate, almost serpentine. "My dear magistrate I fear you have been in the capital for too long. This ‘peace’ you hold is but a fleeting illusion. A mere pause between battles."

The magistrate faltered under Rykard’s gaze, but he forced himself to continue. "Surely even the gods must see the need for balance. If we deplete the coffers, there will be nothing left to defend. What is the point of an army if the kingdom it defends lies in ruins?"

Radahn’s laughter filled the room, a rumbling sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Balance? You speak to us of balance? You who sit here in your finery, who dine on the fat of the land while others fight and die on your frontiers?"

"The general is right.” Rykard said, his voice sharp as a blade. "You cower behind your desks, behind your gold, while the realm teeters on the brink. The enemies we face are not content to sit idle. They will plot, they will scheme… they will gather their strength. And If we do not act…they will come for us, and they will not stop at the gates of Leyndell."

"And what then, magistrate?" Radahn’s voice cut through the debate, a cold fury in his eyes. "Will you still speak of balance when the capital burns? When the people you claim to serve are slaughtered by beasts and invaders alike?"

The magistrate paled, his words faltering, but it was Godwyn’s voice that eased the tension in the chamber.

“There is truth in both perspectives,” Godwyn began, his tone calm but commanding. “We, as demigods, demand action—and rightly so…”

One of the magistrates, emboldened by the slight change in the atmosphere, interrupted. "My lords, I insist you also consider the long term. To drain the coffers in haste is as dangerous as ignoring the threat entirely—"

"I hear you," Godwyn cut him off, raising a hand. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the fearful yet resentful faces of the court. The magistrates were caught between awe and dread, their thinly veiled anger simmering beneath the surface. Godwyn sighed, the weight of leadership heavy upon him.

"Leyndell will give to the general what it can afford," he continued, his voice steady but tired. "But the rest must be surmised by speaking with the lords in the south. Even if they have next to nothing, they should be able to assist. In doing so, we circulate the funds—”

“And spread the burden,” Rykard interjected, his voice sharp and pragmatic. “An equitable solution, but not without risks.”

“Yes,” Godwyn agreed. “But it is a risk we must take. We cannot ignore the dangers at our borders, but neither can we bleed the capital dry. The south has grown complacent under our protection; now it must bear its share.”

The magistrates murmured amongst themselves, weighing the decision. There were no perfect answers, only sacrifices to be made.

“Do we have agreement, then?” Godwyn asked, his golden eyes scanning the chamber once more. "Or must we debate further while the wolves circle at our gates?"

The chamber was silent. One by one, the magistrates nodded in reluctant approval, though none dared speak again.

“Good,” Godwyn said, the faintest hint of relief crossing his face. “Then we are adjourned.”

Godwyn turned to Radahn and Rykard, his brow furrowed with lingering frustration from the court.

“I would truly die if I had to do this every day,” Radahn spoke first, “How you two handle it… I’ll never understand.” He shook his head, his massive shoulders sagging slightly.

Rykard let out a small chuckle, finding some amusement in Godwyn’s strained expression. "No, he’s off with the dragon cultists. Every time I come here, I deal with this circus. Thank you for putting the fear of Marika in them today.”

“I did what you wanted,” Godwyn said, his voice steady but weary. “Now you owe me one.”

“Indeed,” Rykard replied, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I still have matters to attend to. I need to meet with the other magistrates, the censor, the curule, and the quaestors. And then there’s a letter that must be sent to Limgrave. Thanks to you of course.”

“All that can wait,” Godwyn said, his tone firm. “I play the role of consul today, not Radagon. So for now, you listen to me.”

Rykard gave a mock bow, the gesture more jest than respect. “As you wish, my lord.”

“Enough of that,” Godwyn muttered, waving off the theatrics. “Walk with me.”

The three demigods made their way to the Divine Bridge, their steps echoing across the ancient stones. The grandeur of the bridge stretched before them, a place of grand beauty and secrecy.

“Why here?” Radahn asked, curiosity piqued.

“It’s bright enough that I can see anyone coming or going,” Godwyn explained. “And should anyone attempt a sorcery or incantation, I’ll see it…and I’ll sense it.”

“No spies,” Rykard said, intrigued by the precaution.

Radahn, however, was less patient. "What is so important that no one else should hear it?"

Godwyn stopped at the edge of the bridge, his eyes scanning the horizon before turning back to his brothers.

“Marika,” he said softly, almost as if the name itself held weight. “I fear she’s begun to doubt who she is. What she’s built. Who she’s fought for.”

“Ridiculous,” Rykard replied, though there was something too casual about his tone. His eyes gleamed with suspicion, as though testing Godwyn’s words for weakness.

“What makes you say that?” Radahn asked, his voice tinged with genuine concern.

“When I look into her eyes," Godwyn continued, his voice heavy, "I no longer see the kindness that once defined her. There is a determination there, something frightful and strong. A desire to do… or achieve something.”

“Like what?” Rykard asked, his voice soft but probing.

“I do not know,” Godwyn admitted, his frustration breaking through. “I do not know.”

These thoughts had haunted him for some time, blasphemous as they might be. Yet, standing there with his brothers, he couldn’t keep them locked away any longer.

“One of my inquisitors," Rykard began, his tone measured, “reported on her sermons some time ago. In her own words:

‘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?”

Godwyn let out a heavy sigh, a weight settling over him like a cold shroud. “It’s worse than I thought… How many attended this sermon?”

“This was at the Church just outside the city walls,” Rykard replied, his voice grim. “The whole realm knows by now, if not all of Leyndell.”

“And no one’s talked about it since?” Radahn asked, a frown creasing his brow. “No whispers in the city? Nothing… not even from those tortured in the Volcano Manor?”

Rykard shook his head, the answer leaving the air colder.

“This is dire news indeed,” Radahn muttered,.

“It is beyond dire,” Godwyn interjected, his golden eyes narrowing as if seeing a threat only he could comprehend. “If the Golden Order were to somehow fall… if she were to dismantle it herself…”

Rykard raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “How would she even do that? Eternal is her moniker, and Radagon is the leal hound of the Order. By all accounts she’s placed herself in a neatly furnished prison.”

“Our Queen Mother is not one to be constricted,” Godwyn continued, his tone darkening. “The last time they tried to put her in a jar—”

“They felt the embrace of Messmer’s flame,” Radahn finished, his voice a touch reverent, recalling the violent consequences of underestimating Marika.

“So,” Rykard leaned forward, eyes gleaming with interest, “what do you want from us? Why bring this to our feet and not consult Miquella?”

“He fears the city is no longer safe,” Godwyn answered, his voice growing heavier with each word. “And I suspect both he and Ranni of harbouring ill intentions. I also know about your excavations into the mountains, Rykard—the ancient hexes you’ve uncovered…and of your vow Radahn…”

Rykard’s expression shifted, half jest, half warning. “Speak carefully now, Golden Child.” His gaze was sharp, like the edge of a dagger. But Radahn calmed him with a curious glance.

“I’m impressed,” Radahn said, his tone low and rumbling. “Is there anything you don’t know?”

Godwyn’s voice grew more urgent. “Never mind what I know or don’t know…can’t you see? If the Golden Order falls, it will lead to war. Infighting among ourselves, battling over scraps of power. It will tear apart the peace and plunge the Lands Between into chaos.”

Radahn crossed his arms, his gaze steady. “Is your faith in us so little?”

“It is not my faith in you that falters,” Godwyn replied, his thoughts spinning in a maelstrom. “It’s my faith in her.” He pointed in the direction of the Elden Throne. “She has emboldened each of you, given you the power to shape your own fates. And I can’t help but think she wants this to happen. That she wants the Golden Order to…to fall.”

Silence followed, thick and oppressive, the weight of Godwyn’s words settling over the three like an omen. The thought that Marika herself might be orchestrating the unravelling of everything they had known left a chill in the air, one that neither Radahn nor Rykard could easily dispel.

“I see why you wanted to talk up here now,” Rykard said, his voice laced with understanding. The Divine Bridge felt much further from the political theatre now.

“Fine, let us entertain the thought,” Radahn added, his brow furrowing. His own thoughts were clearly swirling now. “Say Marika is indeed planning to dismantle her own Order—which I doubt—and somehow she can overcome my lord father Radagon. If, and that is a very big if—if it were true, what do you suggest we do?”

Godwyn met their gaze, his expression serious. “The simplest solution would be to put Miquella on the throne. Hurry the ascension before Marika falls deeper into madness.”

“Miquella’s order is one of kindness without gold,” Rykard countered. “Some things would have to change. Greatly.”

“I’d rather that than total war,” Godwyn replied.

“Change is what creates total war.” Rykard retorted.

“but with Radahn’s vow—” before he could finish Radahn himself interrupted

“You want to know my answer,” his deep voice cutting through the tension. “You should take the throne.”

Rykard turned to his brother, surprised, as Godwyn’s eyes widened.

 “I am not an Empyrean,” he said, almost incredulously.

“No, but you are well-versed, and the people love you. You put an end to that.” Radahn gestured toward the petrified form of Gransax, the ancient dragon that loomed in eternal stillness over Leyndell. “If you stepped up, not even Radagon would question it.”

“It’s a good idea,” Rykard agreed, nodding slowly.

“But the Two Fingers…” Godwyn began, his mind already racing with the consequences.

“Fuck the Two Fingers,” Radahn growled, his voice low but full of defiance.

“Blasphemous.” Rykard let out a quiet chuckle, whispering in mock horror,

“If what you say is true, then Marika’s time is long overdue,” Radahn continued, his eyes narrowing as if he could see the unravelling of the Order in his mind.

 “And what of your vow to Miquella?” Godwyn asked, his tone testing, challenging Radahn as much as himself.

“Circumstances change,” Radahn replied simply, a trace of steel in his voice.

“Vows are unbreakable…” Godwyn began.

“Really?” Radahn cut in, his lips curling into a grim smile. “Not if you’re a god.”

The weight of Radahn’s words, the prospect of breaking vows, of defying the cosmic order, lingered in the air- another dark omen. They stood there, three demigods, staring into a future that felt increasingly uncertain, where the very foundations of their world seemed poised to shatter.

"You want my advice," Rykard said, stomping out the flame before it could fester.

“Fly.” He paused, his eyes steady on Godwyn. "Fly, Godwyn. Fly away. Leave with your dragons, with Lansseax, Fortissax, your knights, and the dragon cultists… a great exodus, for a new people."

“And abandon my home?” Godwyn's voice was laced with disbelief.

"For your own sake... yes," Rykard replied, his tone uncharacteristically genuine. There was no mockery or play in his words, only sincerity. Godwyn could feel the weight of it, a rare glimpse of care from the Lord of the Volcano Manor.

Radahn, standing silent until now, added with a rumbling chuckle, “Aye, you could do that.”

Rykard’s gaze floated between them both, trying to gauge their thoughts. He returned to the familiar topic, a defense he’d offered countless times.

"But I digress, earlier you said that you suspect Ranni of ill-will…I assure she is innocent in all this. She has no desire to be an Empyrean, nor does she care for the Golden Order. She spends her days in the Moonlight Altar’s Lunar Estate or Caria Manor. She harbours no ambition to dismantle the Order."

Godwyn met his brother’s eyes, his expression unreadable. "You would say that," he began, voice slow, deliberate, "Just as I would say Miquella is innocent. But we both know their true natures—scheming, planning, always in shadows, their true purposes obscured, even to us."

Rykard’s lips pressed into a thin line. "there is nothing more I can tell you that you don’t already know." He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling around him. "I hope you take my advice."

Radahn followed, though his immense frame still lingered  for a moment longer. “If you truly wish to save the Golden Order, take the Empyrean throne, Godwyn.” His voice was steady, resolute. "That is my advice."

The two of them disappeared down the grand lift, their heavy footfalls fading into the distance, leaving Godwyn alone with his thoughts.

He stood in silence for a moment, staring out at the horizon, the sprawl of Leyndell below him, the light of the erdtree glinting off the petrified form of Gransax.

A storm brewed within him. Anger as ancient as the dragons he had once fought boiled over, and in a sudden burst, his fist struck the balcony, sending a crack splintering through the stone.

It wasn’t just the fate of the Order that weighed on him. It was everything—Marika, Radagon, Ranni, Miquella…the unravelling tapestry of power that bound them all.

Rykard, having met with the magistrates and settled the matters of governance, made his way to his chariot, where Ranni sat waiting, her red hair cloaked in the light of the erdtree.

“You took your time,” she said, her voice as cool as the night sky, her eyes half-lidded, watching him with a gaze that revealed nothing.

Rykard smirked, though the weight of the day settled heavily on his shoulders as he climbed into the chariot. “Government is never easy.”

Ranni sat cross-legged, her delicate fingers tracing the edges of her staff. “Once we’re outside the gates, I’ll cast a spell and leave this blasted kingdom behind.”

“Spell?” Rykard raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lips curling into a smirk. “You sound like a witch. Don’t you mean sorcery?”

“Maybe I am a witch,” Ranni replied, her voice as cold and distant as the moonlit night that often cloaked her. Yet beneath that icy tone, there was a sharpness, a subtle edge that Rykard couldn’t miss. It made him chuckle, a deep, throaty laugh that echoed in the hollow space of the chariot, bouncing off the iron and wood like a ghost’s whisper.

“Was that a pout I heard?” he teased, his amusement growing. “Is that any way for a princess to act?”

“Hush now!” Ranni snapped, her cold composure faltering just for a moment, her irritation slipping through the cracks.

The sound of Rykard’s laughter deepened, rich and rumbling, while Ranni shot him a sidelong glance, her expression quickly returning to its icy stillness. Yet beneath it all, there was a warmth, a bond between them that no sharp words or cold demeanour could truly break.

Her golden eyes narrowing slightly as she kept her gaze on the looming Erdtree. After a beat, she muttered,  “This was certainly one of the better family gatherings.”

“If you call this a 'better' gathering, we’re in worse shape than I thought.” Rykard replied,

Ranni tilted her head toward him, a faint smirk playing on her lips, though her expression remained carefully guarded. “All the more reason to leave it behind.”

“Maybe.” Rykard leaned back, resting his head against the edge of the chariot. "But not all of us have the luxury of escaping to the moon."

“Only ask, and I will take you there,” Ranni teased, though her voice carried that distant quality, like she was half-serious.

“No, thank you,” he said, smirking. “I prefer the heat to the cold.” With a nod, he signalled for the rider to move, and the chariot lurched forward, its wheels creaking as they left the gates of Leyndell behind.

As the chariot approached the Grand Lift of Dectus, the moonlight bathed everything in a soft, silvery glow. Ranni stepped down gracefully, her red hair catching the light in a way that made it seem almost aflame. Her golden eyes shimmered, reflecting both the moon and something far deeper.

“When shall we three meet again?” she asked, her voice low and calm. Using her royal tongue

“In thunder, lightning, or in rain,” Rykard replied with a playful grin.

“Stop it,” she said, rolling her eyes, though a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

Rykard’s laughter echoed through the cool night air. “Greet Blaidd and Iji for me.”

“You give my regards to Tanith,” Ranni replied, her voice softening. She paused for a moment, then added, almost teasingly, “And wed her, please.”

Rykard shook his head, a bemused smile playing on his lips. “Until next time, dear sister.”

Ranni gave him one last glance, her eyes lingering on him with the weight of shared understanding. Then, with a graceful bow, she stepped away as the chariot doors closed, sealing him within. The carriage creaked into motion, pulling Rykard away from Leyndell, back toward the Volcano Manor, toward the heat and magma he knew so well.

Ranni stood alone in the moonlight’s stillness, watching as the chariot disappeared into the distance. Her gaze then shifted, upward and far off, to the majestic Erdtree, its golden aura lighting the sky, casting the Altus Plateau in its warm, unwavering glow.

But Ranni’s expression hardened. Slowly, she reached into her robes and drew forth a small, black knife, its blade glinting faintly in the moon’s pale light. She stared at it, her face impassive, but her eyes—her eyes told a different story.

Her gaze flickered back to the Erdtree, towering and eternal, as if mocking her very existence. For a moment, she tightened her grip on the blade,

With one last quiet huff, she exhaled, and in a shimmer of pale moonlight, she vanished, leaving nothing but the cold night air in her wake—an omen of darker nights to come.

Rykard finally made it to the grand doors of the Volcano Manor, the journey from Leyndell weighing on his shoulders like a mantle.

As the heavy doors creaked open, he was greeted by the familiar sight of Tanith, her serene beauty framed by the flickering light of the torches, and behind her, the stalwart figures of his loyal Gelmir knights.

“You have returned, my Lord.” Tanith said softly, her voice carrying both relief and affection. A gentle smile touched her lips, as Rykard stepped forward, he caressed her cheek with a tenderness that felt at odds with the ruthless reputation he carried. There was something about her presence that softened the hardness in him.

“That I have, dear Tanith,” he sighed, his hand lingering for a moment before falling away. “It was another long and tedious day in Leyndell.”

Tanith stepped aside, allowing him to enter the grand hall, her eyes never leaving him. “You bear the burdens of the empire well, my lord. But you must not forget to rest.”

Rykard chuckled, the sound low and weary. “Rest is for the dead. I have much to do.”

One of his most trusted knights approached, bowing deeply before speaking. “My lord, we have made progress in the excavations. The tunnels go deeper than we first thought, far into the heart of the mountain.”

Rykard’s eyes brightened at the news, a spark of excitement flickering beneath his exhaustion. “Good. Very good. Once we discover more report back to me again, the secrets of Gelmir are within our grasp.”

“Yes, my lord.” The knight said, before taking his leave.

Tanith watched him closely, her gaze searching his face as he moved to his chambers. “What is it that you hope to find, my lord? More than just ancient hexes and relics, I suspect.”

 “The truth, dear Tanith.” He simply answered. “The truth…of the mountain, of what lies beneath our feet… perhaps even the truth of the world itself.”

“And what of the Golden Order?” Tanith asked, her voice careful.

“All this I do for the Golden Order,” Rykard murmured, his voice low but firm. “To protect it. If what I fear is true, then what lies beneath this mountain is the greatest threat it will ever face.”

Tanith’s eyes flashed with a sudden understanding, her face softening. “I see... then let us pray for your success, my lord.”

“Indeed,” Rykard replied, his tone grave.

After parting with Tanith, he returned to his chambers, the flicker of candlelight casting long shadows across the stone walls. She offered her final goodbye for the evening, disappearing into her own quarters, leaving him to his thoughts. There was a great unrest within Leyndell—rumours, whispers, the first seeds of rebellion seeming to take root deep in the heart of the capital.

Rykard hesitated as he sat at his desk, quill in hand, his writing illuminated by the dim glow. He composed letters, sorted accounts, and pored over ledgers, yet his mind wandered. His focus frayed at the edges.

There it was again—that sound, the whisper. A voice that slipped into the room like a chill from the mountain itself, tugging at his consciousness. It was the same voice that had been haunting his dreams as of late, coming from somewhere deep beneath the earth.

“A vision, perhaps,” he wrote in one of his personal ledgers, his script shaky as his thoughts raced. “I do not know what it means, but I cannot shake the feeling that it is a warning.”

The scratching of his quill on parchment slowed, and Rykard leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. The sound persisted, more insistent now, as if it called out to him.

Tanith would come to him, from time to time, offering quiet comfort, her hand gently resting on his arm. “You are not alone in this,” she’d whisper. “Whatever lies ahead, we will face it together.”

Her words were like a balm to his troubled thoughts, and though he smiled down at her, there was something in his eyes—a flicker of doubt, of uncertainty that even her steady presence couldn’t dispel.

“Together,” Rykard echoed, his voice softer now, though the weight of his fear lingered. “But I fear... the truth we seek may come at a price.”

Tanith looked at him, her gaze searching, but she said nothing, knowing that no reassurance could truly ease what gnawed at him. Rykard returned to his work, yet the mountain loomed large in his mind, its secrets coiled in shadow, waiting.

As the night deepened and the magma of Volcano Manor burned bright, Rykard’s thoughts turned darker, though he kept his composure. The visions… they gnawed at him, whispering of a future he could barely comprehend.

But for now, he was still Praetor Rykard, Lord of the Volcano Manor. And yet, something stirred—an inkling of rebellion, a glimmer of heresy, and the first spark of a flame that would soon burn too brightly to control.

Chapter Text

Miquella II

The biting winds of the mountaintops howled fiercely, cutting through the thick furs that Miquella’s company wore. Snow whipped against the procession like daggers of frost, and it had been like this for days—an unrelenting onslaught of cold and danger.

A full week had passed since Miquella, his needle knights, and his loyal sister Malenia (along with her Cleanrot Knights) had journeyed north in search of a promised land.

The Mountaintops of the Giants, however, offered no welcome. Even with Miquella casting incantations of warmth and light to stave off the chill, the supplies they carried were dwindling.

Their journey had been fraught with peril: crazed Fire Monks whose eyes blazed with a fanatical fury, giant crows and dogs that prowled the icy tundras, even trolls and the occasional Warhawks, screeching as they drove from the frozen skies. It was a hostile land, one that seemed to resent their very presence.

“Would this forsaken land reflect the future of the lands between.” Malenia wondered, staring at the icy cold expense.

“Not if we save it first.” Miquella would usually reply.

She walked beside the chariot, her sharp gaze sweeping across the storm-ravaged landscape. Her crimson hair, tied tightly behind her, danced in the wind.

“I’m not sure the fire guardians are even sane anymore,” she muttered, her voice tinged with doubt. “This cold… it can break even the strongest mind.”

“Maybe…” Miquella would reply, “but we’re better built for it.”

“How much further, my lord?” came the voice of Leda, one of Miquella’s trusted knights, riding just outside the chariot.

“Not far,” Miquella replied, his voice calm despite the storm. “Only a few more kilometers down.”

Leda nodded, and the company resumed its march. Lightning crackled in the distance, illuminating the jagged peaks of the mountains, but Miquella knew his company could weather it. They had faced worse on this cursed journey.

As they descended the slope, the winds began to ease, as if the storm itself had paused in reverence to what lay ahead. Before them, rising from the snow like an ancient relic of a forgotten age, was a castle. Its stone walls, weathered and cracked by time, loomed ominously in the swirling fog. Malenia raised a hand, and both her Cleanrot knights and Miquella’s needle knights came to a halt, falling into formation.

“What is it?” Miquella asked, stepping out of his chariot, his golden hair catching what little light pierced the clouds above.

“A castle,” Malenia replied, her gaze fixed on the ledges. “Old and decrepit, but not empty.” She pointed, and Miquella followed her gesture. Indeed, figures stood along the battlements—watchful, tense.

“I see them,” Miquella said, his voice measured. He was no stranger to negotiations, to the delicate art of diplomacy. “And I also see no reason to fight. Let us talk.”

Malenia gave a curt nod, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade, ever ready. Miquella, however, strode ahead, his steps light and graceful, as if the snow itself dared not impede him. He approached the gates, his company following a short distance behind.

“I come in peace,” Miquella called out, his voice carrying across the frosty air. “Do you know of us, does word from Leyndell reach this far up north?”

The figures on the walls stirred. After a tense moment, one of them—a massive warrior—stepped forward. His armor was scarred and battered; a relic of battles long past. He wielded a halberd, the steel of its blade glinting coldly. A red flag fluttered beside it, bearing no sigil, no allegiance.

The winds howled again as the commander’s voice boomed from the castle’s high walls, his breath fogging in the cold. "We know who you are—Miquella the Unalloyed," he sneered. His gaze bore into Miquella, but king Miquella, standing in the swirling snow, noticed something peculiar. Behind the commander, in the shadows of the battlements, another figure loomed—a similar form, as if a twin or mirror image of the man before him.

Miquella raised his voice to reply, his tone calm yet carrying across the distance between them. "I go by the moniker of Kindness now. Miquella the Kind."

The commander barked a rough laugh. "Kind, you say? Well, it was real kind of you to bring an army to lay siege at my doors."

A faint smile tugged at Miquella's lips. He could tell the man was testing him, but he took the remark in good humor. "Don’t mind the small company," he called back, his voice light. "As I said, we come in peace, not conquest. Look closely at my warriors—they bear no crests or sigils of the Golden Order. We do not wish to fight, and if we did... thousands would die."

The commander scoffed; his tone sharp as the mountain air. "Thousands of yours, and hundreds of mine."

Miquella chuckled softly, nodding in acknowledgment. "Please, let us talk," he said, his golden eyes gleaming with an unsettling combination of gentleness and resolve.

The commander hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he studied the boy’s face—a face that held an eerie contradiction. Childlike in its innocence, yet terrifying in the wisdom and power that seemed to rest behind those eyes. "You expect me to conduct diplomacy with a *boy*?" he spat, disgust lacing his words.

“If it must be done,” came a quiet voice from behind him, one of his peers urging caution.

The commander grunted and after a long pause, relented. "You. And only you step inside my castle."

Miquella gave a nod of agreement, turning back to his company. His warriors watched him with a mix of concern and admiration.

Leda, ever vigilant and fiercely protective, stepped forward, her brow furrowed with concern. "My lord, it is not wise to go in alone. I plead with you—let your sister or I accompany you."

Miquella merely shrugged, a faint smile playing on his lips. "He asked for me and me alone. There’s not much else these old warrior types care about besides honour and their word, and I trust in that, at least."

"But he hasn’t given his word," Leda argued, her voice tense. "How certain are you of your safety? Please, allow me to—"

Malenia, standing beside her brother with the cold confidence of a battle-hardened warrior, raised her hand, silencing Leda’s protest with a single, deliberate motion. "My brother is a demigod," she said, her tone calm but unmistakably firm. "He can handle himself."

Miquella inclined his head towards his sister, the glint of amusement in his eyes. "She’s spoken," he added, his words final.

Leda clenched her jaw but said nothing, her loyalty overriding her worry, though the tension in her stance remained.

Malenia, softened her gaze ever so slightly as she turned back to Miquella. "Should anything go wrong," she continued, her voice steady, "signal us with an incantation. We’ll be at your side in moments."

Miquella nodded. "I know," he said, his voice full of trust,appreciative of her understanding.

He stepped forward alone, the snow crunching beneath his feet as the massive gates of the castle creaked open before him.

“Welcome to Castle Sol,” Commander Niall greeted, his gruff voice echoing through the cold, beside him stood another figure, his twin, equally battle-worn and stern. The Icy cold winds pushed an air that smelled of iron and sweat.

“I thank you for the invitation,” Miquella replied, his voice calm, though he was well aware of the curious gazes that followed him.

The soldiers around him exchanged glances—despite his radiant presence, he still looked to be a child in their eyes.

“A child diplomat, that’s a new one,” one of the soldiers muttered under his breath, drawing a few grim chuckles from the men around him.

Miquella’s golden eyes turned toward them; his expression unchanged. “I am no diplomat,” he said softly, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “Just another soul in search of something.”

Commander Niall’s gaze hardened as he scrutinized the boy before him. “And what is that, exactly?”

“A new home,” Miquella said, his tone unwavering, though the weight of his words hung heavily in the air. “A home that is open to all.”

At this, Niall raised an eyebrow, skeptical. His twin, standing silently beside him, folded his arms across his chest. “Have the demigods ridden all this way to spread fairytales and fallacies?”

Miquella smiled faintly, though there was something sharp in his eyes. “No fairytales. No fallacies. Just the truth of what could be—if you let it.”

The tension in the quad thickened. Niall’s eyes flicked over Miquella, searching for any hint of deception, but all he saw was that same unsettling combination of innocence and wisdom. A child’s face, but a mind far older than the men who stood around him.

“A home,” Niall repeated, his voice dripping with skepticism. “And what makes you think the mountaintops of the giants will become your promised land?”

Miquella stepped closer, his movements deliberate, yet graceful. “Not necessarily the mountaintops, maybe something further beyond.” He looked up at the commander, his gaze piercing. “There we will build something new... before everything southward crumbles.”

Niall’s face was a mask of skepticism, but something in Miquella’s words struck him. He exchanged a glance with his twin, unsure.

“Maybe?” Niall's eyebrow arched, skepticism clear in his voice. “So, you’re not certain.”

“I am still looking,” Miquella replied, his tone steady but firm, offering no more than necessary.

A soldier nearby, standing just outside the circle of conversation, muttered under his breath, “You’ll be looking for a long time…”

Miquella’s sharp ears caught the comment, but he paid it no mind, his gaze fixed forward, unwavering.

“You speak of things far beyond the concerns of old and abandoned warriors,” Niall finally said. “Why should we care? We fight, we survive. That is the way of things here.”

“You are correct, you shouldn’t care,” Miquella replied, his tone measured. “I wouldn’t. So I only ask that you grant us provisions for a night or two, maybe even borrow us a new map. You seem to have made well for yourselves, nationless as you are.”

Niall’s twin, Commander O’Neil, stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. “Your demigod sister bears the rot… you would ask us to endanger our lives?”

“I’ve staved off the scarlet rot,” Miquella replied calmly. “Those who travel with her have my needles. They are safe.”

“You can cure the scarlet rot?” Niall asked, a glimmer of curiosity cutting through his suspicion.

“Not cure,” Miquella clarified. “But I can hold it off long enough that it makes no difference. And I can offer more than that. I can help your warriors here live better. Don’t you wish to stop merely surviving and start living?”

“Well…” O’Neil scoffed and stepped forward, thrusting his halberd with a sudden, violent motion. The blade stopped at Miquella’s throat, the air hissing with tension. Yet Miquella did not flinch. The wind howled around them, but the demigod’s serene smile remained.

“What happens if I strike you down now?” O’Neil sneered. “Your demigod status means nothing to me, I’m sure to have fought worse than you in these cold mountains.”

Miquella’s smile widened, and O’Neil, who had thought himself immune to fear, felt an unsettling chill run down his spine.

“Well…” Miquella said quietly, “You wouldn’t be able to.”

“And what makes you say that?” O’Neil growled, his grip tightening on the halberd.

“Because before this mighty weapon of yours draws my blood,” Miquella’s voice was calm but firm, “You’ll be dead—either by my hand or by my sister’s.”

“She’s outside,” Niall reminded, his voice almost a challenge.

Miquella need only move an inch, and at that moment, a blur of motion cut through the air. Malenia the severed appeared within the courtyard, her blade already at O’Neil’s neck before anyone had time to react.

Her gaze was as cold as the snow drifting around them. "Don't," she whispered, her voice low, like the first breath of a winter storm.

The courtyard erupted into chaos. Soldiers scrambled in panic, hands fumbling for their swords, readying themselves for a fight. Shock rippled through their ranks—none had seen her move, nor heard her approach. She was upon them like the silent fall of snow in the dead of night.

"When did she—?" one of the warriors stammered, wide-eyed, as his hand froze halfway to his hilt.

But Niall, ever the Northman, broke the tension with a hearty, rumbling laugh, the sound almost swallowing the howling wind. “Mighty doesn’t begin to describe your strength,” he admitted, his breath misting in the cold air.

“All of you, yield!” Niall’s voice cut through the rising storm, booming like thunder. The snowy winds whipped around him as if summoned by his command. “Sheath your weapons!”

The soldiers hesitated only for a moment before they obeyed, their movements stiff, reluctant, but certain. The courtyard quieted once more as they slowly lowered their weapons, their postures relaxing, though unease lingered in the air.

She stood there, still as ice, watching them all with that same cold, detached gaze.

“Yield, O’Neil…Yield.” Niall said, his tone softening. “Let us welcome these demigods.”

O’Neil, though hesitant, lowered his halberd, and so too did Malenia lower her blade from his neck, but keeping her stance defensive.

Miquella smiled, bowing slightly in gratitude. “Thank you, Commander.”

Niall stepped forward, extending a hand. “No, I thank you, Miquella the Kind. It’s not often that such… powerful strangers, arrive at our doorstep.”

Miquella took the offered hand. “Power means nothing without purpose. And ours is to find peace, Commander. Perhaps, here in Castle Sol, we can begin to shape something new.”

“Maybe…” Niall said,” You’ve proven your strength that much is true. We shall grant you and your warriors rest, but do not mistake our hospitality for weakness. We will be watching you… closely."

"Understood," Miquella said, bowing his head in respect. "We are grateful."

"Open the gates!" Niall commanded, his voice booming through the snow-choked air. With a groan, the massive doors creaked open. Miquella sent the word and the Cleanrot knights, along with his Needle knights, filed inside.

The air within Castle Sol was only marginally warmer than the bitter chill outside, but to the weary travellers, it was enough. The warriors of the North ushered them into a vast, shadowed hall, lit only by a few flickering torches. The wind howled faintly through the cracks in the old stone walls.

Provisions were brought forth—stale bread, salted meat, and mead. Simple fare, but it would do. Miquella took his seat at the long, rough-hewn table, Malenia standing close by, a silent sentinel. Around them, the Northmen sat, their eyes hard and lifeless as if the cold had drained not only their bodies but their very souls.

As Miquella lifted a cup of mead to his lips, he felt Commander Niall’s gaze upon him, heavy and questioning.

"What is it?" Miquella asked, his voice soft, yet cutting through the low murmur of the hall.

Niall’s eyes narrowed. "Should a child be drinking that?" he asked, his voice rough with years of cold winds and harder battles.

Miquella gave a faint smile, the kind that never reached his eyes. "Ah, so I see your knowledge of us is not all complete... I am cursed, Commander, bound forever to this childhood. Though my body remains unchanging, I am no boy."

Niall grunted, the firelight casting shadows on his battle-worn face. "I see. Still feels wrong, letting you drink it."

"I agree," Malenia said suddenly, her voice low, and Miquella turned his head slightly toward her, squinting. Was that her attempt at humour? Behind her helm, her expression was hidden, as always, unreadable.

O'Neil, leaned forward, his scarred face grim. "You can take that off, Valkyrie," he said to Malenia. "These bastards have worse scars than you could ever show. One of our boys lost half his face, and he’s still walking."

"Magic, of course," Niall added, draining his cup and slamming it down on the table.

Malenia hesitated, her fingers briefly twitching toward her helm. She glanced at Miquella for reassurance. He nodded, a subtle, knowing gesture, and so she removed it, revealing the golden ruin that the scarlet rot had wrought upon her once-glorious face.

Even in her faded beauty, there was something about her that caught the eyes of the Northmen. The silence that followed her unveiling was thick with awe and a strange kind of reverence. Yet some of the older warriors, set in their ways, stared too long, too hungrily.

Niall slammed his fist down on the table, rising to his feet with a scowl. "Peace, you fools!" he roared, his voice like thunder. "These are our guests. Demigods, no less. Has the cold driven you mad along with your senses?"

The hall fell silent again, the tension dissipating like smoke in the wind. Miquella smiled faintly, watching the scene unfold, his sharp mind ever calculating. These men—warriors hardened by the harshness of their land—were not so different from the others he had encountered. Distrustful, wary, and yet, somewhere deep down, they still had the capacity to be swayed.

Malenia sat beside him, her helm resting on the table. Though her face was marred, there was still something golden about her, something beyond mere flesh.

"You’ve survived much in this cold," Miquella said, turning his attention back to Niall. "It must be no small feat, enduring the relentless storms of these mountaintops."

Niall’s eyes darkened, his voice gruff. "Indeed, boy, survival’s all we know. This land takes, and it takes again. The weak die, and the strong get another day. That’s the way of it. Always has been."

“Once again, I am to remind you that I am no boy, but I will chastise you for it.” Miquella took another sip of mead. "You live, in spite of all this...adversity. but now I ask you to consider a future beyond mere survival."

Niall leaned back, eyeing Miquella carefully, suspicion still lurking in the depths of his gaze. "And what would that be? A future under the thumb of a demigod? A future where we bow and scrape before your kind?"

"No," Miquella said, his voice as calm as a winter night. "A future where you are free. Free to choose your own path under the scope of my kindness…I can offer you that."

O'Neill sneered, stepping forward with a warrior's swagger, his halberd gleaming in the torchlight. "And if we refuse? What then? Will you strike all and each of us down right here and now?"

Miquella’s smile widened, “no…I’ll simply leave you be.”

Niall chuckled, not so sure of this eerie figure. “you are a strange one I’ll give you that.”

“These are strange times.” Miquella replied.

"We'll see just how much your promises are worth, Miquella The Kind.” Niall said, “but For tonight, you and your company will rest. Tomorrow... we’ll talk again."

“Thank you.” Miquella replied.

And the night passed uneventfully, the castle’s stone walls swallowing the winds’ howls. But as the dawn approached, Miquella stirred from restless dreams. His eyes opened to an unnatural dimness. The air itself felt thick, as though the world had drawn in a long breath and held it.

Something was wrong.

Rising from his bed, Miquella moved to the window. The first thing he noticed was the Erdtree, its radiant golden branches towering above the landscape, blotting out the sky as it had always done. Yet something else troubled him. There, on the horizon, the faint edge of the sun peeked through, but its light was dim, sickly. It wasn’t the Erdtree’s shadow that veiled it. No, this was different.

The moon lingered, too, unnaturally close to the sun, its pale disc encroaching on the light. A strange halo began formed around it—a ring of fire that would soon set the sky alight with an eerie glow.

Miquella’s brow furrowed as he stared. A solar eclipse, he thought, though he hadn’t seen one (or the coming of one) in what felt like ages, only read faintly about it.

He could almost feel the shift in the very air, a tightening, a stillness that gripped the earth and the heavens alike. The winds at these heights should have been fierce, but the world was unnaturally silent, as if all things waited for something to come.

He dressed quickly and found Niall on the high rooftop, already awake, gazing out to the horizon. The old warrior looked over his shoulder as Miquella approached. His face was as cold and unreadable as ever.

“You felt it too, didn’t you?” Miquella asked.

Niall gave a slow nod. “The signs are clear, even to those who don’t know to look it. The winds have stilled, the sky grows dark. An eclipse will soon be upon us.”

Miquella’s eyes narrowed. “The Erdtree dominates the sky, and I’ve not seen the sun in full for years. How does the moon so suddenly appear beside it?”

Niall simply shrugged, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Perhaps even the Erdtree itself bends to forces greater than we know. Some say the eclipse is a harbinger of something more... in a bygone era, I suppose.”

“Like what?” Miquella asked, his tone cautious, but curious.

Once again, Niall shrugged, nonchalant. “I do not know. Mayhaps you can find something in the old books kept here, in the Church of the Eclipse.”

“There was a following dedicated to the eclipse here?” Miquella’s eyes narrowed, still pondering what exactly the eclipse had meant to these ancient peoples.

“Aye, a long time ago...” Niall said, his voice carrying a hint of something distant, almost forgotten. “But now, all of it is lost—buried beneath the light of the Erdtree.”

Miquella looked upward once more, his thoughts racing. The eclipse, seen from the heights of Castle Sol, seemed more than a mere celestial alignment. There was something in its dark allure that threatened to consume him, to pull him in, preventing him from tearing his gaze away.

But Niall spoke again, his gaze darkening as he focused. “Or, it could be nothing. In this world, though, things rarely are. Not that we’ll see much of this one—the moon will pass below the sun soon enough.”

“A shame,” Miquella murmured, glancing at the fading horizon. “I would have liked to witness it.”

I wonder what Ranni would think of this, he also wondered.

“My lord.” Leda approached, her voice soft but urgent. “You were not in your chambers, so I—”

“It is fine, I am fine” Miquella cut in, turning to her with a gentle smile. “I was inquiring with the general about the eclipse—or, well, the passing moon in this case.”

“Yes, my lord.” Leda bowed her head, her loyalty as steadfast as ever.

“The general tells me of an old church within the castle, A Church of the Eclipse.” Miquella continued, his voice thoughtful. “If there are any books or tomes left there, I’d like to read them. Inform the others of this search.”

“Yes, my lord,” she replied, and without hesitation, she turned to carry out his order.

“Loyal, that one is,” Niall remarked, watching her go with a wary eye.

“I know,” Miquella said, his tone distant.

“But it’s a loyalty that borders on something dreadful,” Niall added, his voice low, almost as if speaking to himself.

Miquella didn’t look at him, but the weight of his response lingered. “I know.”

There was something darker behind his words, something unsaid, as Miquella turned his gaze downward, peering into the vastness below the castle’s towering walls. There was nothing there—only the deep, swirling blue of the void beneath the mountain.

“What lies at the base of this mountain?” he asked suddenly.

Niall didn’t hesitate. “Death.”

Miquella allowed himself a brief, wry smile. The commander could be cheeky when it suited him.

“There could be land down there,” Miquella mused. “A fresh people, untouched by all of this. No travellers have ever gone that far?”

“Hard to say.” Niall’s tone was flat, his eyes distant. “But you are powerful, Miquella. If you wish to see for yourself, why not cast an incantation and descend? No one is stopping you.”

Miquella stared into the abyss once more, his thoughts swirling with the possibilities. “Maybe…”

He felt the pull of it—the unknown, the untouchable. The void called to him, just as the eclipse had.

"Just Maybe," he murmured, letting the word drift away into the cold, empty air.

Later that day, they gathered in the war room, though the name felt a relic of another age. War had not touched these halls in years, and the room’s grand table, once used to plot campaigns and sieges, now stood as a reminder of what had been lost to time. Still, it served its purpose. Niall and O’Neil unfurled an old, worn map of the lands before them.

“There is another place below,” Niall began, his finger tracing a winding path on the map’s faded parchment. “Once, waters flowed down there, carving their way through the earth... it was a great waterfall…that was before everything froze over.”

“The Consecrated Snowfields,” O’Neil added. His voice was low, almost reverent, as though speaking the name summoned the cold, unforgiving expanse.

Malenia, ever watchful, leaned in, her eyes narrowing. “They are indeed well hidden,” she said. “We didn’t see them until we turned downhill. Strange, broken pillars rising from the land afar...”

“Aye, those are the snowfields,” O’Neil confirmed. “But unless you fancy throwing yourself from a cliff, the way down is through an old, hidden passage. By the catacombs.”

"The catacombs beneath the Grand Lift of Rold," Miquella murmured, his voice laced with thought, though his gaze drifted to some far-off place in his mind. "We ascended these mountaintops by the lift, but I doubt it goes down that way anymore. The mechanism must be worn from the years of war, or perhaps the gears have shifted—rusted by neglect."

O'Neil, leaned in slightly, his brow furrowed. "Could you fix it, given enough time?"

Miquella tilted his head, the faintest hint of a sigh escaping him. "Maybe?" he replied, though his tone lacked any real conviction.

In truth, he didn’t feel the need. Fixing the ancient lift was just another task, another hurdle. His mind was on something greater, something beyond mere mechanisms and gears.

“You could take the frozen waterfall,” Niall suggested, ever pragmatic. “It’s treacherous, but with your power, you might survive the descent. Use one of your magics.”

Miquella shook his head, his face stern. “Too risky,” he said firmly. “I’ve no desire to transport myself blindly to places I’ve never set eyes upon. There’s safety in traditional methods.”

Malenia crossed her arms, her expression hard. “Worse still, If we use the lift, we’ll have to ride back up. A tedious journey, which would dimmish morale. We’d have to stop back at Leyndell to rest and take provisions to begin another great trek. Fighting more of what’s left in the snow on the way.”

Miquella glanced down at the map, his mind turning over the options. The snowfields, hidden beneath layers of ice and secrecy, called to him. Yet the way down was fraught with danger, no matter the path they chose.

“Neither of these options are ideal.” Miquella said softly,

“But the quickest would be to cast a great incantation,” Niall offered once more. “From the hill, you could bring your entire army down in one fell swoop. But mark my words—be prepared. The snows are unforgiving, and whatever stirs in those lands... it will not be kind, even if you are.”

Miquella weighed the suggestion. He was no stranger to powerful magics, but transporting an entire company? That would require immense focus, and he hadn’t the means to replenish his strength quickly in these frozen, barren lands.

“If only I had the Elden Ring… or one of its runes,” Miquella muttered, the weight of his words heavy, as though grasping at a forgotten dream.

“If only…” Malenia echoed softly, her voice carrying a note of melancholy.

Miquella paused, his mind working through possibilities. It was like the slow unravelling of a knot, one thread at a time. He had been here before, countless decisions balancing survival, leadership, and something deeper—the endless burden of being more than mortal.

“No,” he said at last, his tone firm, resolute. “Malenia and I will go alone. Leda and Finlay will remain to watch over the men, and you two will assist them.”

“Just the two of you?” Niall’s tone was skeptical, though beneath it lay a grudging respect.

Miquella allowed himself a rare, cocky smirk. “We are more than enough,” he said. “Demigods, remember.”

Niall raised an eyebrow, his eyes searching Miquella’s face. “Then why bring a whole company in the first place?”

Miquella’s expression softened, and for a moment, his usual cool detachment melted away. “I promised them a new home,” he said quietly, his words laden with a deeper sense of duty. “I’ll see it through, no matter what it takes.”

Niall gave a slow nod, his gaze hard but not unkind. “Noble of you,” he said. “Though you’re not the first lord to make such promises.”

Miquella’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “You’re also included in my vision of the new world, Niall. Everyone is. In time, that rough exterior of yours will fade away, like the ice before spring.”

Niall scoffed, uncertain whether Miquella’s words held genuine warmth or something more manipulative. But the young lord had laid out his plan, and there was no turning back now. Whatever Miquella’s true intentions, the path ahead was set.

“I’ll inform the others,” Niall said, rising to his feet.

“Malenia and will ride on torrent once we’re down.” Miquella said, “He’ll move faster in those frozen wastes.”

“I’ll see to your preparations,” O’Neill said, his voice a low rumble.

Once everything had been set in motion, Miquella stood at the heart of the quadrilateral within the castle’s ancient courtyard. The warriors—the Cleanrot Knights and the Needle Knights—watched in reverent silence as the demigods began to fade from sight, consumed by a radiant golden light.

And In an instant, they were gone.

They reappeared in the midst of a howling snowstorm, the world around them shrouded in an endless, blinding white. The snow fell in thick, icy flakes, making it nearly impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. The wind screamed through the frozen air like a living thing, biting and cold.

Miquella lifted the finger whistle to his lips and blew. The spectral steed, Torrent, appeared from the ether, his hooves soundless against the snow. Miquella mounted swiftly, and Malenia followed, both of them riding into the pale, swirling abyss. The storm fought them every step of the way, but their resolve was unwavering.

After what felt like hours of pushing through the biting cold, the storm began to abate. The wind softened, and the world around them slowly took shape. The snowfields stretched out before them, vast and desolate, with only the faintest trace of a frozen river carving its way through the land.

“It would seem there is little next to the nothingness here,” Malenia said, her voice cutting through the cold silence.

“Indeed,” Miquella agreed. His eyes scanned the horizon, searching for something—anything—until, at last, he pointed toward a faint glow in the distance. “I see a light.”

They spurred Torrent onward, guiding the spectral steed northward. The patches of light grew brighter as they passed through the broken, skeletal remains - of what seemed to be - trees that jutted from the ground like the bones of forgotten giants. The air was still, save for the soft crunch of snow beneath Torrent’s hooves.

Eventually, they came upon it—a small, infant town, bathed in an eerie, teal glow. The town itself seemed almost alive, the light radiating from it as though it were breathing. In the midst of the frozen wasteland, it was a strange and unsettling sight.

“Fascinating,” Miquella whispered, dismounting from Torrent as they reached the edge of the town’s narrow, snow-covered streets. He fed the steed a handful of Rowa fruit, stroking his neck gently.

“Good boy,” he said softly. Torrent nickered in response, the sound warm and comforting amidst the cold. With the gentle flick of his hand, Miquella sent Torrent away.

They walked deeper into the town, the eerie teal light reflecting off the frozen surfaces of the buildings. The silence pressed down on them like a weight. Not a sound, not a stir, as though the town were abandoned—or worse, waiting for something.

“This is a strange place,” Miquella muttered, his eyes sweeping over the shadowed windows and empty streets.

“It’s too quiet,” Malenia added, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade.

“I wonder what it was used for?” Miquella said.

“Probably worship.” Malenia replied.

They reached the town’s centre, where the light seemed brightest, and without warning, a streak of light shot toward them—fast as an arrow. Miquella reacted instantly, raising a hand to summon a glowing ring of light that stopped the projectile mid-air, dissipating it into harmless sparks.

Suddenly, figures emerged from the shadows—dozens of them, encircling Miquella and Malenia. Women in gleaming silver-blue mail, their faces housed by mail coifs, their bows drawn and aimed directly at the demigods. Their arrows glowed with the same eerie light that bathed the town, pulsing with unnatural energy.

“Albinaurics,” Malenia said coldly, unsheathing her blade with a steely whisper.

“First Generation, it would seem,” Miquella replied, his voice calm, but his eyes sharp as he scanned the armored figures surrounding them. He stepped forward, the golden glow of his power gathering at his fingertips.

The Albinaurics did not flinch. Their bows remained taut, glowing arrows pointed unwaveringly at the intruders. Miquella and Malenia stood still, the tension between them and the Albinaurics hanging in the frigid air like a blade poised to strike.

“We’re not looking to fight,” Miquella said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of authority. The Albinaurics remained silent, their glowing bows still trained on them, arrows drawn tight. The silence in the frozen town was oppressive, a breath held just before release.

Miquella did not falter. "I know you... you're Albinaurics," Miquella began , his voice calm but firm, like one trying to soothe a wounded animal. "It must’ve been hard, traveling all the way out here."

The women said nothing, their glowing bows still trained on them, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. Their silence was more menacing than any threat could have been. He tried again.

"The humans who made you… did they die here?"

Still, no response. Only the hiss of the wind as it landed on the buildings, the cold biting at his skin. He could feel their wariness, their distrust. It hung between them like a great gulf, impossible to bridge with words alone. But Miquella was nothing if not patient.

“I know the world has not been kind to your people,” he continued, his voice softer now. “It still isn’t, and I doubt it ever will be.”

His arms slowly lowered, breaking his battle-ready posture as he raised his hands further in surrender. Malenia, beside him, stiffened.

“What are you doing?” she asked sharply, her voice edged with disbelief. She didn’t trust them, not for a moment. "You show weakness—"

“I am showing them that I mean no harm,” Miquella interrupted, his tone steady, though a flicker of doubt crossed his mind.

“They will kill you,” Malenia warned, her hand inching toward her blade. “Look into their eyes, dear brother, and search their hearts. They hold no mercy.”

“They won’t...” Miquella’s voice wavered for the briefest moment, but he pressed on, willing his conviction to stay firm—for Malenia, and for himself. "I am not here to fight, or to bring harm to you. I want to help yo—"

An arrow flew.

It embedded itself at his feet, the tip quivering in the snow. Malenia moved, her instincts taking over as she prepared to strike, her warrior's spirit ignited, but Miquella held up a hand to stop her.

“Wait,” he said, his voice still calm, though his heart beat faster in his chest. His eyes, soft and kind, met those of the Albinaurics, daring them to believe in something beyond the violence they'd been raised to expect.

“Help us?” one of the archers hissed, her voice sharp and bitter. The others shifted slightly, their posture hardening with suspicion. “How would the scions of the Golden Order, help us?”

“Are you not among those who persecute us?” another added, her bowstring tightening.

“Drive us from our homes!” shouted a third, her eyes alight with fury.

“Slaughter our kin?” The last archer’s voice cracked, her words laced with anguish.

Their accusations piled one atop the other, a damning chorus, and Miquella stood in the midst of it all, unmoving. He let the storm of their pain wash over him, the weight of their suffering hanging heavy in the cold air. He had expected this. He had seen it in their eyes the moment they appeared.

“What help could you possibly offer?” the final archer demanded, her voice quieter, but no less full of rage.

“A new hope,” Miquella replied, his voice calm but resolute. “In my new world, all are welcome, especially those who have been persecuted. I offer you sanctuary.”

“Sanctuary?” one of the albinauric women sneered, incredulous.

“You think yourself the first to make such promises?” another spat. “We’ve heard the words of so-called saviours before, and all it ever wrought, was more suffering.”

Before Miquella could answer, Malenia’s cold voice cut through the air, sharp as the blade at her side. “We could opt to kill you now,” she said, stepping forward slightly, her presence a tangible force of power, her blade gleaming under the strange teal light of the snow-covered town. “But we choose not to. Is that not mercy?”

The archer closest to them sneered. “Is this the kindness you speak of, Demigod? One with your blade at our throats?”

“Malenia, peace!” Miquella urged her, his voice sharp but pleading.

His sister’s fury simmered just beneath the surface, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade. Her instinct was always to fight, to win, to protect him.

He turned his attention back to the Albinaurics, his eyes soft but unwavering. “You’re right to be angry,” he admitted, his voice a quiet balm in the cold air. “You’ve been betrayed and hunted and tortured for so long… I cannot undo what has been done to your people. But I do not stand here as your enemy. I stand here as one who understands what it means to be abandoned by the world.”

The archers remained silent, but they did not loose another arrow. Miquella pressed on.

“I cannot promise that the world will suddenly change, or that you will never know suffering again. But I can promise you this—if you come with me, if you accept my offer of sanctuary, you will have a place where you can be free, where no one will hunt you or treat you as lesser beings.”

One of the archers lowered her bow slightly, her eyes flickering with something—

“And if we refuse?” another asked, her tone still sharp, but the edge of hostility had dulled.

The air crackled with tension, the Albinaurics’ fingers twitching on their bowstrings.

Miquella’s golden aura flickered faintly in the dim, teal light. Casting a soft glow around him as he stepped forward.

“I am a demigod,” he said, his voice carrying with the weight of his lineage. It was calm yet commanding, filled with the quiet power that only those born of divine blood could wield. “An Empyrean, that goes by the moniker of Kindness. I seek to create a world where those who have suffered—like you—can find peace. A place where the Albinaurics may finally be free from the oppression that has haunted you for generations.”

The women still did not lower their bows, their eyes locked onto him, waiting, watching for the slightest hint of deceit.

“If you refuse my offer…” Miquella continued, his voice soft but unwavering, “then I will simply…”

The Albinaurics tensed, their bows ready to pull, but Miquella held their gaze, unshaken.

“…leave you be,” he finished, his words echoing in the stillness.

The tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to cut through. Not one archer pulled an arrow, but none relaxed either. It was the strongest silence yet, the kind that seemed to hold the entire world in its grip. Only the howling wind and the soft fall of snow broke the stillness as Miquella stood before them, his eyes scanning each face, waiting, hoping for an answer.

“Well?” Malenia whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, her hand still resting on the hilt of her blade.

“I do not know,” Miquella replied, his voice low, as if he too were waiting for something he couldn’t predict.

The silence lingered, an oppressive weight pressing down on them all. Then, at last, the whispers began, passing amongst the women like the wind itself. Slowly, reluctantly, they lowered their bows, and the wolves at their feet stopped growling, their eyes still glowing with caution but no longer hostility.

The archer who had first spoken stepped forward, her gaze cold but no longer filled with the same bitterness. “Words are easy, scion of Marika,” she said, her voice sharp yet measured. “But the silver blood of our people cries, mourns, and weeps in your lands. We have known only betrayal and death at the hands of your kin. I ask you again—why should we trust you?”

Miquella met her gaze, his expression unreadable. He knew the weight of her question, knew the history that lay between their people, the broken promises, the endless suffering. His answer would not be easy, but it had to be true.

“Because,” he said, his voice calm yet unyielding, “you have no choice. I am your last and only saviour.”

The words, cruel as they were, hung heavy in the air. There was no malice in his tone, only cold, hard truth. The world was unforgiving, and there were few who could offer salvation—fewer still who would.

The archer stared at him for a long moment, her eyes narrowing as if she were searching his soul for a hint of falsehood. But there was none. Miquella was resolute, his offer genuine, even if the circumstances were dire.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally spoke, her voice quieter now, but resolute.  

Malenia, standing beside Miquella, watched the exchange with a quiet intensity. Her hand remained on the hilt of her blade, ready for battle, but her eyes betrayed no desire for violence. She, too, was waiting—for what, even she did not know.

“Then prove it, demigod. Prove to us that you are not like the others who came before you.”

Miquella nodded, his golden aura glowing faintly in the night. “I will.”

The Albinaurics murmured amongst themselves, their voices a blend of fear, anger, and something else—something that hadn’t yet taken shape but maybe lingered on the edge of hope.

Miquella nodded slowly, sensing the shift. “And I mean it,” he said. “I will create a new world. One where all who are lost and forsaken can find their place.”

 “We will see,” she said quietly, though there was no surrender in her tone. “We will see if your kindness is real, or just another lie.”

Miquella nodded, his heart steady but his mind alert. The road ahead with the Albinaurics would be long and fraught with doubt. But for now, they had taken the first step.

"This place, we call it Ordina," the Albinauric woman said, her voice soft but worn with years of hiding. "We live and hide out here, nothing more."

"Does it serve no other purpose?" Miquella asked, his golden eyes narrowing as he studied the modest encampment.

"No." She shook her head, her pale face unreadable.

Malenia, standing beside her brother, spoke up, her voice cold but firm. "I know of two other warriors of Albinauric descent: Commander Gaius, and a Carian knight, Loretta."

The woman’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes, Sister Loretta hasn't been with us for some time, and this Commander Gaius, I know not of him."

"A shame," Miquella mused. "There is indeed a surprising lack of Albinaurics in Caelid. I expected to find more."

"There is little we can offer you," the woman admitted, lowering her gaze. "Even we have next to nothing."

"That is of no concern," Miquella replied, his voice kind yet distant, as if already thinking of other matters. "I do not seek riches or soldiers. I only wish to scout the land. If you don't mind me exploring, of course."

The Albinauric woman hesitated, then nodded slowly. "As you wish."

"Thank you," Miquella said softly, his gaze drifting beyond her to the snow-covered landscape that stretched endlessly. There was more to Ordina than met the eye, he felt it in his bones.

Malenia stood quietly, watching the Albinaurics go about their quiet lives. They moved with a stillness that was almost unsettling, their pale forms blending with the snow-covered ground, as if they were part of the landscape itself. Their dire wolves lay lazily beside them, untethered, sharing in the calm. It was a peaceful scene, but peace as Malenia knew it, often came at a high price.

"Is there really nothing more here?" she asked, her voice low as he turned toward her brother. She leaned against a weathered stone wall, her golden arm glinting faintly in the dim light. The Albinaurics had grown comfortable with their presence, showing neither fear nor hate, merely coexisting.

"They are a peaceful people," Miquella replied, his tone contemplative. they had seen much suffering, much violence, and here, in this quiet place, it seemed foreign to them.

Miquella’s gaze drifted over the worn faces of the Albinaurics. "The Golden Order has such strange standards. These people have suffered under its doctrines... merely for their blood."

"Impure silver blood," Malenia mused, her thoughts briefly touching on her own curse, her affliction of the Scarlet Rot. The words were spoken with neither bitterness nor self-pity, but rather a simple acknowledgment of the world's cruelty.

"Leave it be," Miquella said softly, as if sensing the darker path her thoughts could lead her down. "I've found little here, but with some effort, some brick and stone, this town could be made proper. It could serve as a refuge…I made a promise to them after-all."

Malenia's eyes, sharp and keen, flicked to the cliff beyond the edge of the settlement. "And what of the cliff? The void that stretches beyond?"

"Nothing," Miquella replied, his voice hollow as he recalled the vast, empty expanse. "Only the open void. But voids are meant to be filled, are they not?"

Malenia turned her gaze back to her brother, studying him. "Has your search for a promised land come to naught?"

Miquella's lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained distant. "No. I saw the sun at the mountaintops and the Eclipse... a glimpse of something different. I will not give up hope. I will search below, Perhaps, in the darkest depths, there is something waiting for us just yet."

Chapter Text

Messmer, The Impaler

In the shadow keep of blackened stone, beneath a statue of Marika cradling her cursed child, Messmer The Impaler sat on his throne. The dim light from the chamber’s torches cast long shadows, making his gaunt features appear even more severe, like a man half-consumed by darkness. The throne itself, forged from brick and stone, was a relic of another time—one that spoke of conquest, bloodshed, and a twisted sense of justice.

But in the stillness, beneath the weight of his cruel title, Messmer could hear the faint echo of a melody, the ghostly strings of his grandmother’s harp. The notes were soft, barely a whisper, yet they pierced the silence with a sorrow that had never truly left him. His mind wandered back to a time before the world had turned to ruin, before Marika’s heart had hardened into the cold stone that now bore her likeness.

The Shaman Village - forever a Midsommar - was a place of warmth and light, a place where laughter echoed throughout the trees and the scent of wildflowers filled the air.

The windmill village in the Lands Between bore a faint resemblance, but it was a strange reflection—a mere imitation of what had once been.

Those early days had been blissful, when Marika was  a woman of kindness and grace.

But the memories brought pain. He remembered the searing agony as his eye was plucked out, the blood that ran down his face, the cruel fingers that tore at the tendons. Yet, even in that moment of suffering, she had been there—Marika, his mother, his queen, to offer forgiveness, to grant him the healing grace that only she could bestow.

And on that fateful day, when Marika placed her golden braid upon her grandmother’s petrified remains, buried within the village tree, Messmer and his younger sister had watched in silence. The shadow-bound beast, Malekith, given to her by the Two Fingers, stood guard beside them.

Tears glistened in Marika’s eyes, not of weakness, but of a deep, unrelenting sorrow. The village, once filled with life, had been emptied, leaving only the three of them and their bestial uncle to bear witness to the tragedy.

She rose from her grandmother’s side, turning to face Messmer. “Know now what I ask of you,” she said, her voice trembling with the weight of her grief. “I would never wish it upon anyone else… but they must be made to pay!”

Malekith roared, the sound reverberating through the empty village, a howl of rage and despair that echoed Marika’s own suffering. Messmer looked into his mother’s eyes, seeing not just her pain, but the pain of all the children, the womenfolk, the innocents who had been twisted into grotesque forms, their lives stolen in the most brutal of ways. In that moment, he understood her completely.

"Direct thy maledictions, thine ire, and thy grief towards me… and me alone," he vowed, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. He would bear the burden of her rage, her sorrow, her unquenchable thirst for vengeance.

Marika turned to Melina, her voice softening, though the sadness never left her eyes. “Come…” she beckoned, forcing a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Let me teach you one last thing.”

She led the girl to a flower spot at the center of the village, where the children had once gathered to weave crowns from the blooms. But now, only echoes of that innocence remained. Marika placed a minor Erdtree there,

“The kindness of gold without order.” As she spoke, young Melina mimicked her, the words a solemn chant in the stillness of the ruined village.

The wind stirred the leaves, carrying with it the last remnants of what had been—a mother’s love, a son’s devotion, and a grief that would never heal. And so, in that dark chamber, beneath the gaze of a mother who had lost everything, Messmer understood why he had become what he was. For Marika, for the memory of what she once was, he had descended into darkness, embracing the pain, the sorrow, and the fury that had shaped him.

But In the end, there was nothing left but the echoes of a song long forgotten.

The doors to Messmer’s dark chamber creaked open, the shadows within whispering of secrets best left undisturbed.

From the gloom, Messmer unleashed his serpent, a sinuous beast that slithered through the murk, its scales scraping against cold stone…

“Mongrel Intruder,” his voice echoed, harsh and biting, as the serpent coiled near the entrance.

Then, as the figure stepped forward into the dim light, recognition flickered in his eyes. “Oh... it’s you.”

“Yes…” Melina’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. “It’s been a while… dear brother.”

“You look… different.” Suspicion coloured his words as the serpent retreated, melding back into his shadowed form. “Wait... your coming here… Don’t tell me…”

“You have sensed it too, I take it?” she asked, her gaze steady, though the darkness concealed the contours of his face. She somehow felt, and somewhat saw – a heavy sigh escape him, a faint shudder in the air.

“Mother… what have you done now?” Messmer’s tone was laden with resignation, a weary bitterness that had settled deep within him.

“Given your current state…” he continued, his thoughts turning inward. “How did you even find me?”

“I see the tiny golden aura that is the grace of the Erdtree,” Melina answered. “It guides me towards many things, should I choose to follow it.”

“Even me.” Messmer’s voice betrayed surprise, though the threads of the larger picture were beginning to weave themselves together in his mind.

“I feel that I have forgotten something,” Melina murmured, her voice tinged with a sorrow that seemed to seep from her very soul.

"And pray, what might that be?" Messmer inquired.

"My purpose," she replied, though doubt lingered in her voice.

“Is that why you’ve decided to set off into the world” Messmer said, his tone more curious than concerned. “To confront your fate?”

“Yes.” Melina’s reply was simple, yet heavy with the weight of unspoken burdens. “Do you know what my purpose is ?”

“I can dare to take a few guesses… but it is not my place to say,” Messmer responded, his voice trailing off into the darkness, leaving the air thick with unsaid truths.

“I see…” Melina said, the silence between them growing like a shadow, vast and impenetrable.

“In any case, I came to say goodbye to you,” Melina continued, her voice soft but resolute. “It felt… right.”

“And where exactly are you headed?” Messmer asked, his tone laced with a mixture of curiosity and indifference.

“To the foot of the Erdtree… across the fog, the Lands Between,” Melina replied. “There, I will find my purpose.”

“And dear Mother as well, I suppose.”

Melina nodded, but she lingered, her gaze fixed on the shadows where Messmer hid. He had expected her to leave, yet she remained.

“Well?” he prompted.

Melina had done her own digging, sifting through the dust-covered tomes in the specimen storehouse.

“There was a queen long ago,” Melina began, her voice tinged with a hint of something that could have been suspicion or merely curiosity. “She was an Empyrean, chosen to succeed Queen Marika. What became of her and her disciples?”

Messmer remained silent, the darkness concealing his expression. Melina waited, the quiet between them stretching thin as a thread about to snap. At last, Messmer spoke, his words heavy with unspoken truths.

“She met her death… at the hands of Malekith,” he said, his voice cold and detached. “As for her followers or children, perhaps… with the source of their power sealed away, they were scattered, their fates lost to the winds. The death of the gods, no more.”

Melina’s expression shifted, a subtle furrow of her brow. “You said, ‘sealed away’… and yet earlier you said she met her death. Which is it?”

There was another pause, and in the silence, Melina could almost imagine a small, amused smile playing on Messmer’s lips, or perhaps it was a trick of the shadows, a phantom born of her own mind.

“I’ll leave you to figure that one out… sister,” Messmer said, his voice tinged with a cruel jest.

Melina’s stoic mask returned, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I see.”

She turned, her cloak swirling around her as she prepared to depart. “This will be the last time we see one another. I’ve said all I need to say… Do you have any last words for your sister, burned and bodiless as she is?”

Messmer pondered, his gaze fixed on the floor, before finally responding.

“Last words, you say…” Messmer mused, his voice low and thoughtful.

“Yes,” Melina responded, her tone steady.

“I remember what Mother used to say of me,” he began, his voice carrying the weight of old memories. “Those stripped of the grace of gold shall all meet death, in the embrace of Messmer’s flame…”

Melina stood unmoved, her expression stoic. But as Messmer continued, something in his tone made her uneasy.

“But for you, dear sister… remember these words…” Messmer shifted in his seat, the faint light revealing the edges of his face—pale, almost ghostly. He leaned forward, as if to close the distance between them, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The one who walks alongside flame… shall one day meet the road of destined death.”

The words struck a chord within Melina, thus her one good eye widened, betraying her surprise.  Messmer, sensing her unease, leaned back into the darkness, the fleeting moment of vulnerability gone.

“Goodbye,” he said, the word hanging in the air like a final judgment.

Melina hesitated for only a moment before turning away.

“Goodbye.”

The heavy doors groaned as they swung shut behind her, sealing Messmer once more in his shadowed realm.

As she walked away, the echoes of his words lingered in her mind, a reminder of something at the fringes of her soul. And in the darkness, Messmer sat alone, a faint smile still on his lips as he awaited for the inevitable.

Melina

Melina had set forth, roving about the land, resting from grace to grace. She travelled from the shadowed heights of the Scadu Atlus to the desolate Gravesite Plain, crossing the Ellac Greatbridge to the three crossroads.

It was there, where the light of grace had led her, that she encountered a strange figure. Beside him, a golden cross made of light stood tall, its radiant glow piercing the gloom.

Melina appeared before him as he rested at his cross, he looked tired and weary.

“Greetings, traveller.” She said gently, as she appeared before the young man, kneeling besides him.

“Hello.” Miquella replied, eyeing her with a strange curiosity.

“You are not… from here, are you?” Melina’s voice was measured, her expression a mask of stoic calm, unreadable to Miquella, who studied her with a gaze that seemed to pierce through her very being.

“No…” Miquella answered, his tone laden with curiosity. “but perhaps… I could say the same thing about you…you’re no ordinary spirit, are you?” he asked, “In fact… what are you?”

“I am…” Melina hesitated, her thoughts shifting like shadows. “Searching…searching for something, something I’ve lost.”

Miquella noted the deflection, sensing that the spirit before him was either lost to herself or deliberately elusive.

“I assume what you’re searching for isn’t here,” Miquella ventured, his tone more curious than questioning.

“Yes” Melina responded, her words clipped and direct. “It may very well be in the Lands Between.”

“Ahhh… yes,” Miquella murmured, nodding slowly. “But I wouldn’t venture there if I were you.”

“And why not?” Melina asked.

“The great Elden Ring has been shattered. Godwyn fell, and Queen Marika was driven to the brink.”  Miquella explained, “she has since vanished from all sight,”

“But you’ve plucked a Great Rune for yourself, it would seem,” Melina observed, her gaze flicking to the golden cross before settling back on him.

“Indeed,” Miquella admitted without hesitation, for there was no point in denying what was evident. “You’ve already surmised that I am a demigod, yet you stand before me with neither fear nor reverence.”

“There is nothing to fear or revere…for one such as I,” Melina replied, her tone as calm and unyielding as a still pond. “I am simply a traveller, seeking to confront my fate.”

“Interesting,” Miquella mused, studying her more closely, intrigued by her demeanour, her quiet resolve. “What is your name?”

“Melina,” she answered, the name a soft echo of her past, a fragment of something long forgotten.

“I see…” Miquella said, the name lingering on his tongue like a half-remembered dream. “Well, Melina…like you, I too am in search of something.”

“Do you believe the answer to ending your war lies here? Where all manners of death wash up?” Melina asked, her voice devoid of judgment, merely seeking understanding.

“Yes and no,” Miquella answered, his gaze distant, as if looking beyond the confines of their meeting. “In truth, I’m looking beyond that… There is much I must shed.”

Melina raised a brow, her voice tinged with curiosity. “And what is it exactly…that lies beyond?”

“Compassion,” Miquella replied, the word falling from his lips like a solemn vow.

Their eyes met, Melina’s single honeyed eye locking with Miquella’s fiery golden gaze. In that charged silence, an understanding passed between them, deeper than words. For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them, each seeking to peer into the soul of the other.

But it was Melina who broke the gaze first, her eye closing as if to seal away whatever unspoken truth had passed between them.

“I see…Your aims do not align with mine,” she replied simply, her purpose singular and unwavering. “But nonetheless, I must ask—do you know of a way for me, to reach the Lands Between?”

Miquella regarded her with yet another contemplative gaze. "Perhaps," he murmured, a hint of calculation in his eyes. "But if we are to strike a bargain? You would help me, and I in turn you."

Melina’s expression remained impassive. "And what is it that you require of me?" she asked, her tone measured.

Miquella’s lips curled into a faint smile. "That’s the beauty of it," he said softly. "You only need live out your purpose."

With a casual flick of his wrist, Miquella tossed a delicate goldwork ring her way. Melina caught it, examining the intricately crafted piece, which resembled a finger whistle.

“My purpose?” Melina asked, her voice laced with uncertainty.

“Yes,” Miquella replied with a calmness that bordered on the unsettling. The look he gave her—odd, almost serene, yet with a hint of something insidious—was enough to send a slight chill down her spine.

"He should help you travel along faster," Miquella explained. "It summons Torrent, a spectral steed of mine. Please treat him with respect."

Melina’s eyes narrowed slightly. "And why would you entrust this to me?"

Miquella’s smile widened, though it held a trace of something deeper, almost enigmatic. "Because I, unlike some of our kin, do not intend to be a pawn in Marika’s scheme. No, I will use her schemes against her, as Ranni did.”

She eyed him skeptically, but Miquella seemed unfazed by her doubt.

"Soon, the Tarnished will return to brandish the Elden Ring," Miquella continued, his tone taking on a note of quiet determination. "Not all of them can be trusted; they vary from noble knights to the most wretched beings you can imagine. But I want you to ask Torrent here to choose one. Whomever he selects is sure to be worthy of lordship."

"And how can you be so certain?" Melina questioned, her skepticism plain.

"Because Torrent has a good heart," Miquella replied, the confidence in his voice unwavering. "You’ll come to see it too - soon enough."

Melina considered his words, studying him for a moment longer.

Miquella replied with a gentle smile, after-which Melina nodded, slipping the ring into her cloak. "Very well," she said, her voice steady.

“There’s a cave entrance nearby,” Miquella said, his voice low and measured. “The veil between realms is thin at this hour. I’ve only just begun my journey here, but you can the viel to travel to the Lands Between. You are certain to find your own way afterwards.”

With a swift motion, Melina brought the finger whistle to her lips and summoned Torrent, the spectral steed appearing before her as if called from the very ether. She paused, a moment of silence hanging between them.

“I never got your name,” she said, her voice cutting through the quiet.

“Miquella,” he answered simply, his eyes meeting hers.

“Goodbye then, Miquella,” Melina replied, and with that, she turned, mounting Torrent and setting off the path before her, illuminated by the grace that would guide her to her fate.

As s Melina disappeared into the distance, Miquella remained where he stood, his gaze turning away from her receding figure and toward the shadowed tower that loomed in the distance. An ominous silhouette against the dimming sky, its dark spires reaching upward as if clawing at the heavens..

Miquella’s eyes narrowed, his thoughts already shifting from the brief encounter to the grander schemes that occupied his mind. To reach the gate of divinity, he would need to divest himself of everything, shedding the trappings of the golden order

For In the depths of that shadowed tower lay the key to his ascension, the final step in his journey to godhood. It would require more than mere ambition; it would demand everything of him. But he did not flinch. His resolve was as unyielding as the stone beneath his feet.

Miquella would reach the gate of divinity, no matter the cost. And when he did, he would not be beholden to the old order. He would forge a new path, one that would lead to compassion.

In the Lands Between, the Shattering had led to nothing but desolation, a bitter stalemate where neither General Radahn nor Malenia the Severed had claimed victory.

The once mighty demigods, who wielded the fragments of the Elden Ring, had faltered, and it seemed the Greater Will had turned its back on them all.

Where civilization once thrived, only ruins remained, haunted by the ghosts of a forgotten glory. Those who yet lived wandered in madness, their minds fraying with each passing day, driven to the brink by despair.

Melina had journeyed far, though not far enough. The guidance of grace, once a beacon, now flickered weakly, its power waning in these forsaken lands. Even with Torrent, her spectral steed, she found her progress hindered.

The presence of the Roundtable Hold whispered on the edges of her consciousness, a place of refuge perhaps, but its doors were not yet open to her.

"Torrent, is it?" she murmured to the horned spirit steed, her hand brushing gently through his spectral mane.

The creature responded with a soft neigh, a sound that seemed almost sorrowful in the desolation around them. "Would you choose a gentle Tarnished for me?" she asked, her voice carrying a quiet plea.

Torrent nickered, a low, mournful sound that seemed to echo her own uncertainty.

"Good, then," she said, her resolve hardening as she straightened in the saddle. "Let us set forth once more.”

And so they ventured forth, into a world crumbling beneath the weight of its own despair, the ghostly remnants of grace flickering faintly in the ruins of Limgrave and the Weeping Peninsula.

It was on a day like any other—if such days could be called ordinary in a realm so broken—when Melina, riding Torrent through the desolation, heard whispers of a twisted lord, Godrick the Grafted, whose madness had led him to defile the very nature of life.

The tales were grim, speaking of a grotesque being who sought to graft the limbs of his victims onto his own body, an act of desperation in his quest for power.

The rumours led her to the ruins of the Church of Elleh, a place now forgotten by all but the most desperate. There, amid the shattered stone and twisted remnants of the sacred, she encountered a strange blue doll, a figure that seemed as out of place as she was. The doll, cloaked in snowy white robes, sat upon the crumbled wall, its head bowed as if in sleeping. When it finally lifted its head, Melina saw beneath the wide-brimmed hat a porcelain clean face marred by cracks on its lower neck. But what drew her eye was the spirit that clung to the doll’s sealed right eye, a spectral face that seemed to whisper secrets of a forgotten past.

“I had heard word of a rider,” the doll intoned, its voice a hollow echo, “one who commands the spectral steed, Torrent.” The spirit attached to its eye shifted slightly, as if to peer at her more closely.

Melina regarded the strange figure with the same stoic expression she always wore, her gaze steady and unyielding.

“Thou art possessed of the power, yes,” the blue doll continued, its tone contemplative, almost curious. “And yet… thou art not what I had expected.”

“Whom were you expecting, pray tell?” Melina asked, her voice calm, though there was an undercurrent of tension in the air.

“Not a spirit, that much is certain,” the doll replied, its tone carrying a note of surprise, or perhaps disappointment. “this is quite the hindrance indeed.”

“Were you perhaps expecting a Tarnished warrior?” Melina asked, her voice even, yet tinged with curiosity.

“Oh, quite the speculative spirit thou art,” the doll replied, a faint note of amusement colouring its hollow tone.

Melina shook her head slowly. “I had offered my aid to one earlier, a craven soul by the name of Roderika…but she refused. Though Torrent seemed to favour her.”

At the mention of her name, Torrent neighed softly, a sound that echoed through the desolate church, filled with both sadness and understanding.

“A shame,” the doll murmured, the spirit at its eye flickering faintly. “this one hath always been kind of heart, gentle even amidst the cruelty of this world.”

“Perhaps you could aid me?” Melina inquired, her gaze steady on the strange figure.

“No,” the doll replied, its voice carrying a hint of impatience. “I hath waited long, but I shall not stray from my course. Continue upon thy path, spirit. Soon, thou wilt find one worthy of lordship, and then…we may meet again.”

"I am not so certain," Melina murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she watched the doll fade into the ether, its form dissolving into nothingness.

Time passed as she journeyed further into the crumbling world, the ghostly remnants of grace flickering weakly in the shadows of what once was. her search remained relentless, driven by the faint guidance that led her onward.

Melina rested besides a site of grace , the soft glow of its light casting flickering shadows on the nearby rocks. Torrent, ever watchful, grazed nearby, his spectral form glowing faintly in the dim light. After a moment, Melina turned her gaze toward him, a rare smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight,” she mused, watching as Torrent lifted his head, ears flicking in her direction. “No grand adventures to share?”

Torrent snorted softly, almost as if in response, and then took a few careful steps toward her. His large, luminous eyes blinked, giving him a rather endearing, almost puppy-like look.

“Are you pouting?” Melina asked, her smile growing. “Did I forget to praise you for finding that last grace?”

Torrent huffed, a soft, almost indignant sound, and nudged her with his nose, nearly toppling her over. Melina let out a surprised laugh, the sound light and rare in the desolate lands they travelled.

“All right, all right,” she conceded, patting his nose gently. “You did well, Torrent. You always do.”

Torrent responded with a pleased nicker, but not before nudging her again, this time gentler, as if to remind her who was in charge here. Melina shook her head in amusement, her earlier weariness forgotten in their simple, shared moment.

“I suppose I’ll have to be more generous with my praise from now on,” she said, her tone mock-serious. “Or risk being toppled over by an overzealous steed.”

Torrent’s ears flicked, and he gave a final huff before settling down beside her, his large form curling up as if to sleep. Melina reached out to stroke his mane, her touch gentle and affectionate.

“Thank you, Torrent,” she whispered, more to herself than to him, the warmth of the moment lingering like the embers of grace. “For everything.”

One day however -

Beneath the First Step, where the shallow waters whispered secrets of old, she finally found what she sought. There, half-submerged in the mire, lay a Tarnished warrior, battered and broken, yet still clinging to life. They had survived the fall from the precipice of anticipation, a descent that would have claimed the life of any lesser soul. Luck or fate, it mattered not—they were here, and they were alive.

Torrent's hooves echoed in the shallow water, each step splashing softly as the spectral steed approached the fallen warrior. The creature nickered quietly, as if sensing the significance of the moment.

"Don’t worry, Torrent," Melina said, her tone gentle as she dismounted. "Fortune is on their side…. We found them here, after all."

She approached the Tarnished warrior, her gaze assessing the figure before her. There was something in their spirit—something that defied the odds. Melina knelt beside them, her hand brushing against their damp skin. “One of their kind is sure to seek  Thé Elden Ting…”

"Even if it does violate the Golden Order," she murmured, almost to herself, as if the very act of aiding this warrior was a quiet rebellion against the fate ordained by the gods.