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Chapter Text

Sweat. What is sweat? 

Is it the anointing of toil, the glistening mark of labor baptized beneath an unyielding sun? Or a vile, humorsome secretion—proof of mortality, of the body’s lowly nature? Sweat, they say, clings to the skin as a lover might, heralding both triumph and despair. An ally, aye, to comrades in arms and adversaries alike, shared in the heat of battle and the burden of survival.  

But to me, it is an enigma. A distant phenomenon, as foreign as the warmth of flame to frost-bound skin. My hands tremble—not with fatigue, but with a yearning as profound as it is unfamiliar. For I cannot feel. Not sweat, nor shiver, nor even the gentle kiss of wind upon my brow. My senses are starved, yet how can one hunger for that which they have never known? How curious, how cruel.  

I turn inward, as if by will alone I might rouse my lifeless pores to weep. Feel. Feel. Feel. The chant echoes in the hollow corridors of my mind, frantic and unrelenting, as though the answer lay buried deep within. What lies there, I wonder? A void? Or something I dare not face?  

Perhaps sweat is more than mere substance. Perhaps it is the soul's lament made flesh, proof of life itself—its strain, its struggle, its fight to endure. To not feel it is to stand apart, untethered to the mortal coil. A spectator in a realm of suffering and glory.  

And yet I ache. Not in sinew, nor bone, but somewhere deeper still. For to feel is to be, and in my absence of sensation, I am naught but a shadow. Ever thirsting, yet never quenched. Ever alive, yet never whole. Curious, so very curious indeed.

Ah, the light—how it burns across the vast canvas of my mind, a nebula blazing in the heavens, its embers alight with the souls of a trillion stars. They gather as one, a chorus of radiance, yet distant—like birds soaring through an unbroken sky. I stretch forth my hand, yearning to seize one, to grasp its flame and see it burn beneath my gaze. For in all the realms I have traversed, no thing, no lord or queen, eclipses the majesty of a star. Not even Lord Godfrey, nor Lord Radagon, nor the great Queen Marika herself.

And then, as if in response, the winds of the ethereal realm caress my form, whispering across the cold steel of my armor, stirring the spectral grass beneath my feet. In that fleeting moment, a hunger stirs within me—a longing to feel, to truly feel once more. To taste the rawness of pain, to know the warmth of love, to carry the weight of sorrow, to rise with determination. Perhaps, too, to find some shred of purpose, some thread to bind me to this forsaken world. 

I am young—at least I believe so. Yet time slips from me, like sand through grasping fingers. The loss of sensation is the cruelest affliction, a hollow curse none should bear. It is a shadow cast upon the soul, one I would not wish upon even my worst foe.

And yet, as I reach out to touch the stars, I sense something darker—an unseen weight, pressing down upon my chest. Chains. Invisible, they coil around my heart and mind, pulling tight with each passing moment. These chains, born of the curse that has stripped me of all feeling, bind me ever closer to my own emptiness. I can feel them—their cold, unyielding grip, like iron forged in the deepest forges of despair. They choke my breath, suppress my every thought, each link another restraint upon my will. The very essence of my being is locked within this prison, a soul locked away behind an iron gate I cannot breach. It is not mere numbness I suffer, but the silent scream of a spirit shackled, unable to break free. The curse has not only stolen my sense of self but has twisted it, forcing me to wear the chains of my own emptiness.

In that fleeting moment, I longed only for peace—an escape from the relentless torment that bound me. I knelt upon the spectral grass, my spirit bowed in silent prayer. To the Queen, yes, but perhaps to something greater still. To touch a shard of feeling once more, to glimpse what it meant to truly be. The stars above, relentless in their celestial march, surged past me with such speed that my eyes could not help but open. From the wake of their passing, glintstone dust shimmered in the void, swirling into shape, first a hand, then an arm, and finally an entire form—an ethereal being clothed in regal adornment. 

Though her presence was unspoken, her nature was unmistakable. Before I could even raise my gaze to meet her eyes, she extended her hand to me, her fingers brushing lightly across my face. In that touch, my world began to tremble. The once verdant grass, soft beneath me, withered and decayed as though its very essence were being unraveled. The sky, once vibrant and alive, dimmed and twisted as stars plummeted to the earth, their light extinguishing with each fall. My legs, once strong and grounded, began to betray me. The sensation of paralysis crept upward, slow and relentless, until my strength faltered completely. I could not move, could not speak, as the weight of the curse grew heavier still.

Her touch was not of comfort, but of command, as though she wielded the power to sever my very essence. The light in her eyes was not of mercy, but of judgment—an understanding of my suffering, a reflection of my emptiness mirrored in her gaze. Her presence was not a blessing, but a reminder that no prayer could alter the course of this forsaken world, no matter how much one yearned for peace. 

I tried to scream, to cry out, but no sound escaped my lips. The paralysis spread, but it was not just of body—it seeped into my soul, a deeper, more insidious affliction. The very air around me thickened, as though the atmosphere itself sought to smother me. A weight I had never known pressed against my chest, and for a fleeting moment, I understood: peace was not a gift to be granted, but a state I could never hope to reach. The stars—those brilliant, beautiful stars—were no more than cruel, distant fires, untouchable and indifferent to the struggles of those like me. 

And then, before I could make sense of the unfolding chaos, I awoke. The world, once again, seemed to pull itself together, as though nothing had ever changed. But the taste of that fleeting moment lingered—bitter, empty, a reminder that peace, like everything else, was forever beyond my grasp.

Chapter Text

Aurelis awoke upon the cold, weathered stone of an ancient church, its walls crumbling and draped in the choking embrace of time. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of mildew and the faint, metallic tang of rusted iron. Shafts of pale, ghostly light pierced the cracks in the roof, illuminating a space once hallowed but now long abandoned. A sense of unease clawed at his chest as he pushed himself to his knees, his fingers brushing against the floor—smooth, but marred by scars of forgotten battles. 

Where was he? This was no place of sanctuary; it was a grave for faith and memory, its silence as oppressive as the weight of a storm yet to break. Slowly, Aurelis rose, his eyes tracing the shattered remnants of stained glass scattered like broken dreams across the ground. The shattered figures depicted gods and saints whose names he could no longer recall. Perhaps they had been forgotten, just as this place had been, swallowed by a world that had moved on.

But Aurelis had not the luxury of reflection. His purpose pulled at him, sharp and relentless, like the edge of a blade at his back. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword—a weapon stained by the burdens of his past—and exhaled, steadying himself. Whatever force had brought him to this decaying sanctuary, it was no accident. He would not linger here, a relic among ruins. No, he would find the path forward. And if there was none to be found, he would carve it himself. 

The air shifted, a whisper in the stillness, and Aurelis knew. His journey was not to mourn what had been lost, but to confront what lay ahead.

The ghastly light that seeped through the crumbling roof was queer indeed, its hue an unnatural blue, as though the heavens above mourned in secret. The shadows it cast were restless, shifting like whispers across the ruined floor. Before Aurelis stood a set of double doors, their wood splintered and rotted, nearly collapsing from hinges corroded by time’s cruel hand. For a moment, he considered breaking them down, testing his strength against their fragility. Yet, something in him faltered—a quiet reverence for this place, not one of Marika, but still imbued with a sanctity long forgotten. To shatter the doors felt wrong, profane, and so he turned his gaze elsewhere, seeking another way.

It was then that his eyes fell upon a corpse, crumpled against the far wall, its age trivial—bones brittle, flesh blackened and clinging to its form. In its withered hand lay a severed finger, shriveled and pale, a cruel artifact of some unknown end. The stench that rose from the body was overwhelming, a rancid chorus of death and decay that seemed to pull at his nose, clawing for his senses. Aurelis grimaced and looked away, but his thoughts turned inward. He had seen corpses before—too many to count. Fields littered with broken bodies, twisted and defiled. Blood pooling like lakes, the air choked with the acrid scent of burning flesh. Spears thrust through hearts, swords cleaving bone. The dead bore all marks of war’s cruelty, and yet, they lay the same: still, silent, forgotten.

It disgusted him. War, he thought, should not be so hollow. He had always believed there to be more. To slaughter without purpose was to surrender one’s soul to the abyss. Change, he whispered in the silence. There must be change. He reached for the severed finger, its significance unknown, though something deep within him stirred as his hand closed around it.

And then it came—a glow, faint and red, blooming around him like a soft flame. It was warm, impossibly so, a fleeting comfort against the cold emptiness of the church. For a moment, it teased him, as though he might feel something again—something real, something true. But the sensation passed like a mirage, and the void within him returned, unyielding and cold.

With a shake of his head, Aurelis turned back to the doors. Determined now, he braced his hands against the wood and began to push. The timbers groaned in protest, brittle and ancient, yet surprisingly, they yielded. With a final shove, the doors swung open, and Aurelis stumbled forward, eyes widening as the world beyond struck him like a hammer to the chest.

There, before him, stretched a cosmos unfathomable in its beauty. The sky, vast and eternal, blazed with every color his eyes had ever known—crimson, gold, azure, and hues he could not name. It was as though the heavens had torn themselves open, spilling their secrets across creation. Stars drifted like embers, luminous and slow, while rivers of light flowed through the void, shimmering with impossible brilliance. For a moment, Aurelis forgot himself, his burdens, the rot and ruin behind him. Here, in this infinite expanse, he glimpsed something beyond war, beyond death—a promise unspoken, a purpose yet to be found.

And yet, beneath the beauty, there was something else—something waiting.

Aurelis sensed it—a presence lurking just beyond sight, the impatient edge of danger that pricked at his instincts. The air, heavy with the warmth of the strange glow, shifted ever so slightly, carrying with it a subtle warning. The church stood alone on this floating isle, suspended in a place that could only be called an abyss. Beyond its crumbling walls, there was nothing—no horizon, no land, just an endless expanse of light and shadow intertwined. This desolation should have been absolute. Yet, it wasn’t. 

From the dust and ash of the void, something began to take shape. Slowly, as though pulled from the very fabric of emptiness, another isle rose to meet his gaze. Its surface was cracked and jagged, its edges still smoldering faintly as though born from fire. Stretching between the two landmasses was a rope bridge, frayed and swaying gently in the airless void. The bridge connected Aurelis’s isle to the newly-formed one, and beyond that, a third loomed in the distance. There, statues stood in silent vigil, carved figures of gods and warriors long lost to time. Their forms flanked a massive gateway—a monolithic arch of stone that seemed to pulse faintly with a rhythm Aurelis could almost hear, like the beating of some ancient heart.

His breath slowed, deliberate and measured, as he stepped toward the bridge. The wood creaked beneath his boots, each sound echoing in the vast silence. The rope, old and brittle, swayed with each step, yet it held firm. He moved cautiously, his senses sharp and his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his blade. Danger was near; he could feel it, lingering at the edges of this strange and hollow realm. Yet he pressed forward, steady and unwavering, his eyes locked on the statues and the gateway that seemed to call to him. Whatever awaited him on the other side, he would meet it head-on, as he always had.

When Aurelis reached the far side of the bridge, a fleeting sense of relief washed over him. The air was unnaturally still, the statues flanking the massive gateway silent in their solemn watch. For the first time since stepping into this forsaken abyss, his grip on his sword eased. Perhaps he had misplaced his caution, he thought. Perhaps this place held only echoes of danger, shadows without form. But that reprieve was short-lived.

His eyes caught a flicker in the heavens above—a streak of motion cutting through the tapestry of stars. It wasn’t an object. No, it moved with purpose, alive and descending rapidly. His breath caught as he realized the truth. A creature. And not a small one.

He stepped back from the center of the isle, instinct sharpening as the ground beneath him began to tremble. The beast slammed into the stone with a thunderous crash, shattering the slabs and kicking up a storm of dust and ash. Aurelis shielded his face as the swirling debris stung at his eyes and skin. Slowly, the air cleared, the ash settling like the snow of a cursed winter, and what stood before him made his blood freeze.

The grotesque mass of flesh and metal was unmistakable. Four arms twisted unnaturally from its torso—two clutching massive, rune-carved swords, and two gripping an ornate greatshield that looked more like a fortress wall. The body was a patchwork of stolen limbs, fused together in a mockery of form. A Grafted Scion. One of the so-called sons of Godrick.

Aurelis had heard whispers of these creatures, foul abominations birthed from the madness of Godrick’s legacy. Whether they were truly his children or forged monstrosities did not matter. The stories alone were enough to haunt the hearts of soldiers. And now, one stood before him.

The beast wasted no time. It drove one of its colossal swords into the ground, sending a shockwave rippling toward him. The impact knocked him back, but Aurelis recovered swiftly, his weathered blade drawn in an instant. The sword, chipped and scarred from countless battles, gleamed faintly in the eerie light. He trusted it with his life.

The Scion lunged, its massive frame deceptively fast. A sword thrust pierced the air, aimed to impale him where he stood. Aurelis barely avoided it, using his offhand to steady himself as he slid beneath the attack. Rising in one fluid motion, he countered with a sharp slash across the creature’s belly. The blade struck, but the grafted monstrosity showed no signs of damage. Its unnatural flesh seemed impervious, an amalgamation of stolen strength.

With a guttural screech, the Scion retaliated, its twin swords slashing in tandem. Aurelis dodged the first swing, but the second came too fast. He attempted to parry but was flung sideways, the sheer force of the strike sending him sprawling. The beast followed with a ground-shaking slam of its shield, catching Aurelis off-guard. The impact drove him hard into the stone, the breath ripped from his lungs.

Rolling away, coughing and gasping, Aurelis tried to gather himself. Fatigue lanced through his body, but he forced himself upright. The Scion charged again, faster this time, its monstrous form a blur of motion. Expecting the assault, Aurelis leapt high, using the momentum to land atop its broad back. His blade flashed, slicing twice into the creature’s twisted spine. It howled, the sound like iron scraping against stone, and bucked violently, forcing him to retreat.

The Scion recovered faster than he could have imagined, its swords raised high as it leapt into the air. Aurelis locked onto its trajectory, his instincts guiding him to roll at the perfect moment. The beast landed with another deafening crash, but Aurelis was already on the move, his feet steady and his blade poised. I can win this, he thought. I just have to outlast it. Pace myself.

The creature lunged again, but this time its attack was reckless, leaving a gap in its defense. Aurelis saw the opening and shifted his footwork, driving his blade upward toward its head. But as the strike neared, the Scion twisted unnaturally, parrying his blade with precision. The force of the counter knocked the sword from his grip, sending it skittering across the stone. Before he could react, the beast slammed its greatshield into him with unrelenting fury.

The first impact shattered his chest plate.
The second cracked his ribs.
The third brought him to his knees.
The fourth drove him flat against the ground.
The fifth was merciless, each strike reverberating through his battered body.

Blood pooled beneath him, mixing with the Scion’s own ichor. His vision blurred as the grotesque creature raised its ornate sword high, the tip gleaming with cruel purpose. This was it. The end. The perfect time to die. His body was broken, his spirit hanging by a thread. I could let go now, he thought. I could rest.

But he couldn’t. Something deep within him refused to yield. As the sword plunged downward, Aurelis rolled aside at the last moment, snatching his shattered blade from the ground. His voice erupted in a guttural roar, raw and defiant.

“You want to know something, foul son of Godrick?” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the void. “I CAN’T FEEL PAIN!”

With a surge of adrenaline, Aurelis drove his sword into the Scion’s mouth, piercing its grotesque maw. He wrenched the blade free and struck again, and again, the fury of his assault unrelenting. The creature recoiled, its shrieks deafening as black blood poured from its wounds. Its guard faltered, and Aurelis seized the opening.

With a precise slash, he severed one of its sword-wielding arms, the limb falling lifelessly to the stone. The beast staggered, its balance disrupted, and Aurelis leapt onto its back once more. This time, he drove the Scion’s own severed sword into its abdomen, the blade sinking deep into stolen flesh.

The creature thrashed, but Aurelis held firm, sliding down its massive frame as he carved into it. Blood and viscera spilled over him, staining his silver hair and shattering what remained of his armor. His chainmail hung in tatters, his chest heaving with exertion.

At last, the Scion collapsed, its monstrous form crumpling beneath its own weight. Aurelis stood over it, his breath ragged, his blade dripping with the blood of his triumph. Though his body screamed for rest, his spirit burned with unyielding fire. This was not the end—not for him.

The abyss around him grew still, but the battle within him raged on.

Aurelis glanced down at his hands, swollen and mangled, the bones within surely fractured from the relentless assault. Yet, as he turned them over, he couldn’t help but marvel at the sword gripped tightly within his grasp. The blade was stunning—ornate and cruel in its craftsmanship, etched with runes that pulsed faintly, as though the weapon itself still hungered for blood.

Spoils of war, he mused, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite his exhaustion. This blade now rested in the hands of the one who had felled its former master. It was not a clean victory, not one to be celebrated with pride, but the weapon now symbolized survival. He had fought. He had endured. And this sword would carry that memory forward.

His eyes flickered to the other weapon—the second blade wielded by the Scion—now lost to the abyss, hurled from the isle in the throes of the creature’s desperate retreat. A shame, he thought, but there was no retrieving it now. His gaze then drifted to the towering shield, its polished face marred with the scars of battle. It stood propped against the broken stones, a testament to the Scion’s monstrous strength. It wasn’t his style—Aurelis preferred speed, precision, and ferocity over the encumbrance of such heavy defenses. And yet…

After a long moment of contemplation, he rose on unsteady legs, his body screaming in protest. He staggered toward the shield, using the pommel of the sword as a crutch. The pain was unbearable, but pain, he reminded himself, was irrelevant. Gripping the shield with trembling hands, he felt its immense weight. A strange warmth emanated from its surface, as though it carried a faint whisper of the Scion’s stolen power. Perhaps it could serve him yet. Perhaps it would prove useful in ways he could not yet foresee. Reluctantly, he hoisted it onto his back, the added burden almost too much for his weary frame.

With effort, Aurelis steadied himself and made his way toward the gate at the isle’s far edge. Its towering frame was carved with intricate designs, its surface alive with creeping moss and the faint traces of forgotten artistry. As he approached, the air grew still, the quiet pressing against him like the weight of unseen eyes.

He reached the precipice of the isle, pausing at the edge to gaze out into the strange and endless sky. For a fleeting moment, Aurelis felt at peace. The battle was over. His wounds, though severe, would heal. The quiet abyss stretched before him, stars gleaming like fragments of shattered dreams, and he allowed himself to breathe. But peace was not his destiny.

The ground beneath his feet groaned, a low rumble that built into a deafening crack. Before he could react, the stone crumbled, giving way beneath him. He fell, the scream ripped from his throat more out of frustration than fear. “Damn it!” he roared, cursing his carelessness as he plummeted into the void.

The abyss swallowed him whole, the icy air whipping past him as he descended. Yet as he fell, something peculiar began to happen. The blood staining his hands and armor seemed to dissolve, vanishing into the nothingness around him. His battered chainmail shimmered faintly, its broken links mending themselves as if by some unseen hand. His silver hair, once matted with gore, now gleamed clean and bright. Even his skin, marred with bruises and cuts, seemed to heal.

Aurelis stretched out his hands, turning them over as the transformation unfolded before his eyes. He felt no fear. Only a strange, inexplicable sense of clarity, as though the void was cleansing him of more than just his wounds. He closed his eyes, exhaustion overtaking him, his body finally surrendering to the pull of sleep.

As his consciousness faded, his body began to disintegrate into motes of shimmering dust, the pieces of him scattering like stars in the dark. His final thought lingered, soft and unspoken: What comes next?

And then, silence. The void claimed him, carrying him toward whatever lay beyond.

Chapter Text

Is it over? The question lingered in the silence of his mind, a fleeting doubt amidst the haze. Aurelis felt calm, yet he was certain—he had turned to dust, had he not? No, there was no mistaking it now. His senses stirred faintly, pulling him back from the edge of oblivion. He lived. Somehow, against all reason, he endured.  

His eyes fluttered open, though the world around him remained a blur, its edges smothered in darkness. Only a faint, ghostly glow pierced the void, drifting closer until it resolved into the shape of a hand. It was delicate, slender, and hued in a soft, cerulean light. The hand gripped the hem of a cloak, rich and fur-lined, the figure’s form veiled by the dim radiance.  

A voice soon followed—gentle yet commanding, woven with an accent that carried both wisdom and sorrow.  
“Ah, a Tarnished? Yet, what dost thou see in this one, Torrent?” the voice murmured, as though in quiet conversation. Her tone, soft as moonlight, carried both curiosity and dismissal.  

“Hm, he draweth breath still. A flickering ember, refusing the dark,” she mused. “Come then, Torrent. Let us tarry no longer.”  

That was all Aurelis heard before the world faded once more, his body succumbing to the siren call of sleep.

Aurelis jolted awake, gasping for air as his chest heaved, his heart pounding like a war drum in his ribs. His mind raced, the faint echoes of the voice and the spectral hand lingering like fragments of a dream. Or was it? He rubbed his face, trying to steady his breath, and glanced around. Everything was still as he had left it—the Scion’s ornate sword and shield now his own by right.

He rose slowly, taking in his surroundings. The cave was cold and dark, the air thick with dampness. But then his gaze fell upon something extraordinary. A single tree stood within the cavern, its branches shimmering with the golden light of the Erdtree. Marika’s light. Beneath its radiant glow rested two flasks, one crimson and the other a deep sapphire blue. Without hesitation, he knelt to collect them, strapping the bottles securely to his belt. They would be useful in the trials to come.

But before pressing onward, he paused to study the cave more closely. The walls told a grim story. Bodies, lifeless and desecrated, were strewn about in brutal displays, their twisted forms illuminated by faint shafts of light breaking through the cavern ceiling. A sickly, sweet stench filled the air, and Aurelis’s stomach turned as he recognized the source. Scarlet Rot. The divine plague, cursed and virulent, clung to the corpses like a vile miasma.

It wasn’t the rot of the natural world but something far more sinister. Aurelis thought of Malenia, the Blade of Miquella, the one whose fury had razed Caelid to ruin. As a child, he had heard tales of her unrelenting wrath and the cursed rot that followed in her wake. Elders spoke of it with hushed voices, as if invoking her name might summon her specter. Even now, standing in this blighted place, Aurelis felt the chill of that fear clawing at the back of his mind.

Still, fear was a luxury he could not afford. Gripping the hilt of his blade, Aurelis cast a final glance at the fallen and turned his gaze forward. Whatever awaited him beyond the cave, he would meet it as he always had—head-on, blade in hand.

The doors groaned beneath his strength, their immense weight resisting every push. They were crafted with an ominous purpose, as though their creators intended not to keep intruders out but to seal something terrible within. When at last they yielded, Aurelis stepped into a corridor swallowed by shadow, the air heavy with dampness and the faint metallic tang of ancient decay.  

The passage stretched forward, its walls hewn from rough stone, their surfaces scarred by time and carved with faded sigils of long-forgotten meaning. The ceiling arched overhead, low enough to feel oppressive, its jagged edges dripping with stalactites. Sparse, guttering torches lined the walkway, their flickering flames casting faint, uneven light. Every step he took echoed ominously, the sound swallowed by the suffocating stillness of the place.  

This tomb—or perhaps a dungeon, or a prison—was labyrinthine in design, each turn and fork blurring into the next. The walkways twisted like veins through the earth, narrowing and widening without pattern. The air grew colder as he delved deeper, and faint whispers seemed to trail him, though he saw no one. Each chamber he entered bore signs of abandonment: stone altars cracked and crumbled, broken urns spilling dust, and skeletal remains discarded like forgotten memories.  

Aurelis pressed onward, frustration gnawing at his mind. The emptiness of the place mocked him, its silence stretching thin his already waning patience. But then, he stumbled upon a room unlike the others.  

The chamber was modestly sized, its walls lined with weathered graves that bore no inscriptions. A hallway extended from the far end, tempting him further. Yet, what truly seized his attention was the glow—a royal blue light that seemed to spill across the ground like liquid starlight. It pulsed faintly, pooling in the room’s center as if poured from the heavens themselves.  

At its heart floated a single strand of light, thin and fragile, drifting lazily in the still air. The glow illuminated the chamber with a gentle brilliance, casting shadows that danced along the walls in a hypnotic rhythm. The stone beneath his boots seemed to hum faintly, resonating with the energy radiating from the light.  

Aurelis felt its pull immediately, a quiet beckoning that resonated deep within his chest. He stepped closer, unable to resist its allure. It felt aware of him, as though it had been waiting for this moment. Before his fingers could reach it, the strand dispersed in a sudden burst of brilliance, washing the room in its ethereal light.  

He staggered back, momentarily blinded, yet he recognized the sensation it left behind. It reminded him of Grace—the golden light of Marika, said to guide and comfort the Tarnished in their endless struggle. But this was not Marika’s light. Its essence was different, untainted by divine will. It felt purer, older, untouched by mortal hands.  

He knelt near the "flame" of blue Grace, letting its strange warmth seep into his battered body. Though it did not burn, it radiated a soothing energy that eased his exhaustion. The room around him faded into a peaceful haze, the glowing strand’s faint hum a lullaby in the quiet. For the first time in what felt like ages, Aurelis closed his eyes, surrendering to rest amidst the ethereal glow of this strange and unearthly sanctuary.

The second sight that lay before him in the tomb was shrouded in mystery: a section of the corridor veiled in dense, swirling mist. It clung to the air like an impenetrable curtain, muffling sound and swallowing light. He squinted, trying to peer through the haze, but it was fruitless. The path ahead was obscured entirely. Hesitation gnawed at him; walking blindly into such a cloud was not a risk he was willing to take.  

His gaze shifted to the room's corner, where a weathered gargoyle statue loomed, its stone visage locked in eternal menace. At its base, he spotted the unmistakable slot for a Stonesword Key—a device he knew from lore but did not possess. With no way to pierce the fog, he sighed, resigning himself to continue along the path he had seen earlier.  

The corridor stretched before him, its length deceptive in its simplicity. It felt endless, but he soon realized it was a trick of the mind. At its end, a familiar sight greeted him: a lift, suspended by unseen forces. A magical contraption of old. He had heard tales of such mechanisms—platforms enchanted to rise and fall with the press of a central plate—but their origins were lost to time.  

Stepping cautiously onto the platform, Aurelis pressed the pressure plate beneath his boot. With a faint hum and a soft glow, the lift began its ascent. The sensation was smooth, almost serene, as though he floated on air. He glanced upward, but the end of the shaft remained shrouded in darkness until the platform slowed.  

Before him stood one final door. Massive, ornate, and foreboding, it was the threshold to freedom—or to whatever lay beyond. He wasted no time, pushing it open with steady force.  

Blinding light seared his vision as he stepped through, his eyes unprepared for the sudden brilliance. He staggered slightly, shielding his face with his hand. Slowly, his vision adjusted, and the world before him came into focus.  

And there it stood—the Erdtree, towering in radiant majesty. Its golden boughs stretched high into the heavens, an endless cascade of light flowing from its branches. This was the queen’s birthplace, the sacred source of life itself. He felt its energy suffuse the air, humming gently through the ground beneath his feet. It was both overwhelming and beautiful, a sight that stirred even his hardened heart.  

As his gaze swept the landscape, he caught sight of something familiar: another Grace, glowing with the same ethereal blue light as the one he had rested by earlier. It was nestled near the edge of the pathway, its aura unmistakable.  

But this time, he wasn’t alone. A man stood nearby, his figure outlined by the Erdtree’s golden radiance. The stranger's posture was calm, yet there was something deliberate about his presence.  

Aurelis approached the Grace first, kneeling to touch its light. Its energy coursed through him, offering a moment of solace. He then rose to his feet, his eyes shifting toward the enigmatic figure standing a few paces away. With curiosity tempered by caution, he stepped forward, preparing to speak.

However, before Aurelis could utter a word, the man spoke first, his voice dripping with a peculiar blend of familiarity and mockery.  

“Oh yes... Tarnished, are we? Come to the Lands Between in search of the Elden Ring, hmm? Of course you have. No shame in it. *Unfortunately for you, however,* you are maidenless.”  

The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. Maidenless? The term struck Aurelis like a stray arrow, foreign and unsettling. What could it mean? He scoured his memories, reaching for some inkling of its significance, but came up empty.  

Gritting his teeth, he steadied his voice and responded with a measured calm, “May I have thy name?” His tone carried a faint softness, a vestige of civility, though a hint of wariness lay beneath.  

The man smirked, dipping his head slightly in a mockery of politeness. “Ah, forgive me. How rude of me not to introduce myself. My name is White Mask Varré,” he said, stressing his name with theatrical flair, “though you may simply call me Varré.”  

“Maidenless...” Aurelis repeated, the curiosity in his voice betraying his unease. “What do you mean by that?”  

Varré tilted his head, his smirk growing wider, more patronizing. “Oh? How strange that a Tarnished should not know such a thing. But fret not, little one. You shall learn in due time.”  

The tone of his words was insufferably condescending, and Aurelis clenched his fists in quiet irritation. Before he could challenge Varré’s cryptic response, his eyes caught movement beyond them. A massive knight astride a warhorse patrolled the road ahead. Its golden armor glimmered faintly in the light of the Erdtree, the weight of its presence almost suffocating.  

“That,” Varré said, noticing Aurelis’s gaze, “is one of the Tree Sentinels. I’d advise against challenging such a foe... at least for now. Patience, Tarnished. All in due time.”  

Aurelis nodded, swallowing his pride for the moment. He could sense the raw power radiating from the knight, and a fight against such a foe in his current state would almost certainly mean death. “Do you know of a place where I might rest?” he asked, his voice steady.  

“Me?” Varré chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “Oh, definitely not. I’m no keeper of inns. However, there is a dilapidated church atop the hill just yonder.” He gestured vaguely toward the horizon. “Within it, you’ll find a most accommodating merchant. A peculiar fellow, but quite helpful nonetheless.”  

Aurelis studied the man, his words slippery but without malice. With little else to guide him, he decided to heed the advice. Turning toward the path Varré indicated, he began his journey toward the hill, keeping his guard raised and his thoughts sharp. 

The church wasn’t far. Not at all. Aurelis felt a rare twinge of relief as he approached its crumbling stone walls, the faint glow of grace nearby offering an odd sense of comfort. Nestled by the fire in the center of the ruins sat the merchant, as described—a man draped in weathered red garb, tending to a bubbling pot. His mule rested nearby, lazily chewing the sparse grass.  

Aurelis approached, passing the grace's ethereal glow, which flickered and coiled like a living flame. The merchant noticed him, rising with a deliberate air. His voice, rich and calm, carried a cadence that echoed in the quiet.  

“Ah, a new face, tarnished no less. Pray, are you lost, or is this hallowed ruin your intended destination?”  

“I was told of you,” Aurelis replied, his voice steady, though tinged with weariness. “Are you Kalé, the merchant?”  

“Indeed,” Kalé said with a slight bow, his tone polite but knowing. “A humble purveyor of wares, at your service. This sanctuary serves as my resting place, though I wander the roads of Limgrave to trade and barter. This,” he gestured to the mule, “is my sole companion, my loyal beast of burden. But enough, Tarnished. What path leads you to this place?”  

“I awoke in a tomb not far from here,” Aurelis explained. “I seek rest...and direction.”  

“Ah, a tale as old as time,” Kalé said, his expression softening. “Rest, you shall find here. But direction? That lies beyond. If it is a road you seek, Tarnished, journey eastward over the hill. There, soldiers of no small number lie encamped. But take heed—safety, you will not find among them.”  

“Soldiers?” Aurelis asked, his brow furrowing. “And you would send me into such peril?”  

Kalé chuckled low, the sound like the crackle of a dying ember. “Peril, yes. But you Tarnished are of sterner stuff, are you not? The grace has not chosen thee without reason. Surely, thou canst manage a paltry band of soldiers.”  

Aurelis inclined his head, thoughtful. “You’ve my thanks, Kalé. You’ve been of great help. If ever you have need of me, do not hesitate to ask.”  

The merchant’s expression softened, a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes. “A rare kindness in a land so cruel. Should fate see fit, I shall remember thy words. Now go, Tarnished, and tread carefully. The lands ahead are rife with danger.”  

“I shall,” Aurelis replied. With a final nod, he turned toward the path Kalé had indicated, the weight of both gratitude and uncertainty settling upon his shoulders as he began the climb toward the unknown.

The wind carried a faint, sour scent of sweat and steel as Aurelis crested the hill, his keen eyes catching movement among the trees and tall grass. Soldiers. Clad in the colors of Godrick, their stained surcoats bore the gilded heraldry of their liege. Aurelis scowled at the sight, his grip tightening around the hilt of his ornate blade. To him, they were filth—servants of a monstrous lineage he despised.

The first soldier meandered alone, his head turning lazily as if bored with his patrol. Aurelis crouched low, every movement deliberate as he stalked his prey. Without hesitation, he surged forward. His blade arced through the air, piercing the soldier’s skull with a sickening crunch. The man crumpled instantly, his body folding like a discarded puppet.

Aurelis wiped the blood from his weapon and moved toward the forest edge. Shadows danced under the canopy of leaves, the flicker of firelight drawing his attention. There, kneeling by the flames, was another soldier, oblivious to his approach. Silent as a wraith, Aurelis slipped from the cover of the trees, his blade whispering through the air as it found the soldier’s throat. Blood sprayed across the dirt, steam rising faintly as it met the cool morning air. The man’s body slumped forward, his lifeless hand still gripping the hilt of his sword.

Beyond the fire, Aurelis noticed a pair of soldiers lingering off the path, their laughter muffled by the rustling leaves. He spared them a glance but saw no value in wasting his energy. He had greater concerns than killing every fool wearing Godrick’s colors.

The path ahead wound steeply upward, flanked by jagged outcroppings of rock and sparse trees clinging to the hillside. He spotted two more soldiers patrolling in tandem, their movements sluggish, their conversation idle. Aurelis didn’t wait for an opening. He charged from the undergrowth, his blade carving a deadly arc. The first soldier managed a weak parry, but Aurelis countered swiftly, slamming his pommel into the man’s jaw before driving his sword through his chest. The second soldier barely had time to react before Aurelis closed the gap, slicing across his neck in a brutal, efficient motion.

The bodies hit the dirt with heavy thuds. Aurelis stepped over them, his breath steady despite the exertion.

The summit of the hill revealed a sprawling encampment nestled in the ruins of an ancient structure. Weathered stone walls jutted from the earth, their surfaces scarred by time and warfare. Tents of tattered canvas clustered around a central bonfire, where soldiers milled about, their armor glinting dully in the light. At the heart of the camp stood a captain, a towering figure clad in heavier plate, his weapon slung confidently across his back.

Aurelis crouched low, his gaze sweeping the area. Rushing in blind would be folly. He could handle two, perhaps three at once, but an entire encampment was a different challenge altogether. He would need to think, to plan.

To the northwest, beyond the ruined walls, he caught a faint shimmer—a grace, its pale blue glow unmistakable. He knew that light and the solace it offered. Moving cautiously through the tall grass, Aurelis made his way toward it, every step deliberate to avoid detection.

Reaching the grace, he knelt, the familiar warmth washing over him like a balm. It was relief and addiction all at once, an anchor in a world that sought to crush him. The soldiers would wait. For now, he would gather his strength, his thoughts sharpening like the edge of his blade.

The hours of the night weighed heavy, but Aurelis did not sleep. His mind churned with thoughts of vengeance and resolve. He would see the grafted one—the so-called Lord Godrick—fall. His anger simmered, a quiet storm within him, until the crackle of a sound broke his focus. The shimmer of light and the faint hum of runes gathering filled the air.  

He turned sharply, hand instinctively reaching for his blade, only to pause. She emerged from the ether, stepping lightly into the world as though she had always been part of it. Dressed in flowing white robes, a wide-brimmed hat obscured her face, casting her in an ethereal glow. But Aurelis knew her. The moment she lifted her head, he recognized her.  

"You…" His voice was barely a whisper. She was the one from the cave—the blue glow, the calm presence amidst the shadows.  

“Greetings, Tarnished,” she began, her voice soft and measured, carrying the weight of timeless knowledge. “I am Renna, and I’ve come to offer my aid.”  

Aurelis stared, captivated. Her face, unveiled, was extraordinary—a luminous shade of blue, her hair darker and braided with precision and grace. She was otherworldly, a being carved from starlight. But her beauty wasn’t what held him. It was the mystery, the familiarity.  

“What do you mean, aid?” he asked cautiously.  

“I mean to guide you, to turn your gathered runes into strength,” she replied, her tone calm but resolute.  

His thoughts swirled as he pieced together her presence. “I’ve seen you before,” he said, narrowing his eyes beneath his helmet. “In the cave. You were there… with something else.”  

Renna tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Ah, so you remember. Tarnished, you’ve been watched longer than you might think.”  

“Aurelis,” he interrupted her, his voice firm. “My name is Aurelis.”  

Her eyes widened momentarily, her expression softening into something genuine. “Aurelis, then,” she said with a nod, her voice quieter now. “Do you accept my help?”  

He hesitated only briefly. He didn’t need to think much further—any path that brought him closer to Godrick’s downfall was a path worth taking. He gave a single nod.  

“Then let my hand rest upon yours but for a moment,” she said, extending her hand toward him.  

He reached out, his gauntlet-clad fingers brushing hers. It was then he noticed something peculiar: her hands, four in total, each graceful and delicate. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, this brought a rare smile to his lips, hidden beneath his helmet. She was unlike anything he had ever seen, yet, in her difference, he felt a kinship.  

Renna clasped his hand gently and slid a ring onto his finger. It was a simple thing, yet it pulsed faintly with power. “With this, call upon the spectral steed, Torrent,” she said. “He will carry you far and aid you in your journey. Take care of him, Aurelis, as he will take care of you.”  

Aurelis glanced up at her, though she couldn’t see his face behind the helm. Still, he studied her closely. There was something in her eyes, something ancient and sorrowful. He couldn’t name it, but it felt familiar.  

Renna lingered for only a moment more, her form shimmering faintly. “May fortune favor you, Aurelis,” she said before stepping back into the void from which she came, leaving him alone under the silent stars.

Chapter Text

After Renna had vanished into the ether, Aurelis sat in the dim glow of the grace, its flickering light reflecting faintly off the worn steel of his armor. The air around him felt thick, almost suffocating, carrying the acrid stench of ash and smoldering wood from the nearby encampment. The trees surrounding the site loomed like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches twisted as though recoiling from the filth of the soldiers camped below. The night stretched on endlessly, cloaked in shadows, broken only by the faint glimmers of starlight.

Aurelis sat hunched, the azure light of the grace playing on his face through the slits in his helmet. His hands rested heavily on his knees, trembling—not with fear, but with the strain of suppressing the inferno rising within. His fury burned hotter with each passing moment. The sight of the soldiers, bearing the wretched insignia of Godrick, fanned his rage like a bellows. Each flicker of the campfire, each distant clink of their armor, was a maddening reminder of the Grafted Tyrant and his abominations. Aurelis felt his chest tighten, his breath grow heavy. He wanted to hurt them. No, he wanted to break them.

His gaze locked onto a lone soldier patrolling near the edge of the encampment, just beyond the reach of the grace’s light. The man strolled with an air of boredom, completely unaware of the wrathful eyes fixed on him. Aurelis stood abruptly, his armored boots crunching softly against the dirt as he crossed the boundary of the grace’s protection. The soldier turned, his eyes widening as he caught sight of the Tarnished emerging from the shadows.

Before the soldier could raise an alarm, Aurelis was upon him. The glint of his ornate blade sliced through the night as he swung with precise, brutal efficiency. The soldier’s cry died in his throat, replaced by a wet, gurgling gasp as his arm was severed at the shoulder, falling to the ground in a useless heap. Blood sprayed across the dirt, dark and viscous, pooling around his boots.

Aurelis seized the man by the throat, his gauntleted hand closing like a vice. The soldier thrashed weakly, his remaining hand clawing at the air, his eyes wide with terror. Aurelis tightened his grip, feeling the fragile bones of the man’s neck strain and crack under the pressure. He leaned in close, his voice a low growl.

“You follow him,” he hissed, his words dripping with contempt. “You serve the Grafted filth.”

The soldier’s eyes began to glaze, his struggles faltering as Aurelis crushed the life from him. With a final, sickening snap, the soldier’s head lolled to the side, his body falling limp in Aurelis’ grasp. The Tarnished let the corpse drop to the ground like discarded refuse, his gaze cold and unfeeling as he stepped over it.

The camp ahead lay shrouded in darkness, its tents and makeshift structures scattered haphazardly. Soldiers slept around dwindling campfires, their weapons stacked carelessly nearby. Aurelis’ eyes narrowed as he studied the scene, his mind torn between the desire to slaughter them all and the pragmatism of restraint. He clenched his fists, still sticky with blood, and forced himself to retreat into the shadows.

The night air bit at his exposed skin, carrying the scent of blood and earth. He paused at the edge of the encampment, his anger simmering, his resolve sharpening. The grace flickered faintly in the distance, a quiet reminder of the path forward. His vengeance would come, but not yet. Not here. He turned away, disappearing into the night, his fury burning brighter than any flame.

Aurelis perched himself atop the jagged stone wall, his shadow a specter under the pale moonlight. Below him, the encampment lay sprawling, like carrion waiting for the knife. Soldiers lay scattered in drunken slumber, their weapons abandoned by flickering firelight. A few sentinels patrolled the outskirts, their torches casting faint halos of light onto the blood-stained dirt. The night was heavy with tension, and Aurelis’ anger boiled beneath his skin, an inferno held in check by sheer will.

With a calculated leap, he descended, his blade gleaming as he tore through the central tent. The sound of canvas ripping was swallowed by the silence of death that followed. Aurelis moved like a shadow of wrath, his strikes precise and unyielding. One soldier gurgled as his throat was split; another gasped in his last moments, his chest pierced clean through. Blood seeped into the ground, pooling like the earth itself drank of his vengeance.

Outside, the first alarm was raised—a panicked cry that shattered the stillness. Soldiers rushed toward the tent, but froze when the entrance flew open.

From the tent emerged Aurelis, drenched in blood. His leather armor, once humble, now gleamed wet with gore, and the feathers of his cloak clung to him, matted with flesh. His blade dripped crimson, and his shadow stretched long in the lantern light. Behind him, the tent stood as a grotesque monument of carnage, entrails strung like garlands, bodies splayed as if in offering to a vengeful god.

The soldiers recoiled, their courage wavering. Some staggered back, their eyes wide with terror. Others gripped their swords tightly, trembling but resolute.

“What foul thing hath come upon us?” one muttered.

A booming voice silenced them. “Hah! What spectacle is this?” it roared. The soldiers parted, revealing a figure of towering menace. A knight of Godrick, clad in tarnished golden plate, his crest shining dimly in the night. His frame was monstrous, his shield broad as a door, and his helm bore a face twisted into a cruel mockery of man. Aurelis’ lips curled in disdain.

“So, thou art the rabble that dares disturb these lands?” the knight sneered. His voice was deep, rumbling like thunder.

Aurelis said nothing, his silence speaking volumes as he lunged, his blade aimed for the knight’s chest. The knight raised his massive shield with effortless grace, the strike ringing out like a tolling bell.

“Hah! A bold one, are we?” the knight bellowed, shoving Aurelis back with a shield bash that sent him skidding. “But boldness without purpose is but folly.”

The knight gestured to his soldiers with contempt. “What doth thou stand idle for? Surround him! Clip the wings of this wretched thing!”

The soldiers hesitated but obeyed, their movements stiff as they tightened the circle around Aurelis.

“Look upon thee, oh Tarnished,” the knight continued, his voice dripping with disdain. “A stray dog without a leash, yipping and snapping where it hath no place. Thou art nothing but a fleeting ember. Come, let me snuff thee out.”

Aurelis gripped his blade tighter, his breath steady despite the odds. His gaze locked with the knight’s, cold and unyielding. “Stray dog, am I?” he muttered. “Then let this stray show thee how sharp its bite can be.”

The knight grinned wickedly, his yellowed teeth flashing in the pale moonlight. “Ah, thou hast some spine, Tarnished!” he bellowed, planting his colossal partisan into the ground with a thunderous clang. “But guts alone shan’t save thee! Back up thy bluster with STRENGTH!”

With that, the knight surged forward, his hulking frame betraying an unsettling speed. The partisan thrust like a viper, its tip gleaming in the light of the distant fires. Aurelis sidestepped deftly, the wind of the weapon’s passage whispering past his helm. The knight’s strikes were relentless, each blow aimed to annihilate, yet Aurelis danced away with the grace of a shadow.

The two circled one another like wolves, the clang of steel reverberating through the air. Aurelis struck out when he saw an opening, his blade aiming for the seams in the knight’s armor, but every strike glanced off the gilded plate with a deafening ring. The knight’s armor was like a fortress, impenetrable and unyielding.

“Thou art quick, Tarnished!” the knight growled, his voice tinged with begrudging respect. “But thy swiftness shall not avail thee long. A flea may dodge the hand, yet it cannot avoid the fire.”

Aurelis leapt back as the knight swung the massive weapon in a wide arc, its blade carving through the air. He rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding a second thrust aimed at his ribs. His mind raced as he sought a weakness in his foe’s impenetrable defenses.

The knight took a step back, planting his partisan into the dirt as if to survey his opponent anew. “Thou art better than I first reckoned,” he admitted, his voice booming like a war drum. “For that, I shall grant thee the honor of my name! I am Vinlin, knight of Godrick, breaker of wolves, and thy executioner!”

Aurelis did not respond, his silence a sharper barb than any words could muster. Instead, he lunged forward, his blade singing as it aimed for the knight’s helm. Vinlin deflected the strike with a contemptuous flick of his shield, countering with a brutal downward slash. Aurelis darted to the side, the blow shattering the ground where he had stood mere moments before.

They clashed again, Aurelis evading with nimble precision while Vinlin pressed forward, unrelenting in his assault. The knight’s strikes grew heavier, slower, his stamina waning as the Tarnished refused to falter. Aurelis knew his moment would come, but patience was a bitter companion in the heat of battle.

Then, the opening presented itself. A wide swing left Vinlin overextended, his shield lowered for but a heartbeat. Aurelis feigned an attack, lunging toward the knight’s exposed side. Vinlin reacted instantly, raising his shield to intercept—but too late. Aurelis had already shifted his stance, driving his blade upward into the knight’s chest.

The steel pierced through armor, flesh, and bone, striking the heart with ruthless precision. Vinlin staggered, a deep, guttural gasp escaping his lips as blood spilled from the wound. Aurelis twisted the blade, then wrenched it free, stepping back as the towering knight fell to his knees. “Thy name… is Aurelis, Knight Vinlin.”

The knight’s voice, once booming and defiant, now trembled with faint humility. “A-Aurelis…” he rasped, blood bubbling from his lips. “I… I thought thee a coward… yet thou art no such thing. Nay, thou art a true warrior.”

Memories flooded Vinlin’s dying mind—his years of bloodshed, his loyalty to Godrick, and the countless innocents he had butchered in his name. He could no longer recall why he had pledged himself to the Grafted King. In his final moments, he wondered what might have been, had he chosen a different path.

“Had I but another chance… I would stand… at thy side,” Vinlin whispered. His gaze, once filled with malice, softened as life slipped from his broken form. “Aurelis… thank thee…” With those words, the knight collapsed, his blood pooling beneath him, his breath stilled forever.

The battlefield fell silent. The remaining soldiers stood frozen, their faces pale with fear and disbelief. But Aurelis did not offer them mercy. To him, they were obstacles, not men. He fell upon them with swift brutality, cutting them down like chaff before the scythe. There was no glory in their deaths, no satisfaction in the slaughter.

When the last soldier fell, Aurelis stood amidst the carnage, his blade dripping with blood. Yet his heart felt heavier than ever. Vinlin’s words echoed in his mind, unsettling and unbidden. Something had changed within him—a fragment of doubt, or perhaps understanding, that had not been there before. For the first time, Aurelis questioned whether vengeance alone would sustain him on this bloodied path.

Renna’s voice drifted from the silence, ethereal and melodic, as if carried on the wind. “Dost thou not see it?” she inquired, her form materializing like mist coalescing under the moonlight. “Dost thou not feel it?”  

Aurelis, seated near the smoldering remnants of his battlefield, turned his gaze to the enigmatic witch. “See what? Feel what?” he asked, his tone laced with confusion and curiosity.  

“His soul, Aurelis,” Renna replied, her voice calm yet touched with wonder. “Thou hast freed it. His spirit lingered, burdened by guilt for the deeds he committed. Yet, in thee, he found redemption. In death, he aligns himself with the one he ought to have stood beside in life.”  

Aurelis furrowed his brow. “For me? He would fight for me?”  

“Indeed, Tarnished,” Renna affirmed, her gloved hands weaving a strange object from the very air, its form shimmering like starlight condensed into matter. She extended the object—a delicate, otherworldly bell. “Take this. It shall grant thee the means to call upon his spirit when thou art in need.”  

Aurelis reached out, his hand steady despite the weight of the revelation. As his fingers closed around the bell, a rush of energy coursed through him, unmistakable in its essence. Vinlin’s spirit resided within.  

“Thank you,” Aurelis began, his gratitude sincere, but Renna interrupted softly.  

“Ranni,” she corrected, her voice carrying an unfamiliar vulnerability. “My true name is Ranni.”  

“Ranni?” Aurelis echoed, his voice tinged with surprise. The witch of legend stood before him, and he felt a pang of foolishness for not realizing sooner.  

“I meant not to deceive thee,” Ranni said, her tone almost apologetic. Her hands—two clutching her chest, the other two gracefully lifting her gown in a curtsy—conveyed her unease. “I sought merely to observe thee, to understand the nature of thy spirit. I pray thou canst forgive my ruse.”  

For a moment, Aurelis regarded her with silence. Then, to her astonishment, he broke into hearty laughter. “No harm done, Ranni! Had I been in thy place, I might not have trusted me either!”  

Ranni’s lips quirked into a soft smile, and soon a delicate giggle escaped her. “I suppose thou art right,” she said, her cheeks dusted with an uncharacteristic blush.  

They walked together toward a nearby grace, the golden light of its flame casting a warm glow over the blood-streaked battlefield. As Aurelis knelt by the grace, its soothing power mended his wounds and cleansed his armor, leaving him renewed.  

Ranni tilted her head, her luminous blue hair cascading over her shoulder as she peered curiously at him. “Aurelis,” she began, her voice hesitant but earnest, “may I pose a question?”  

“Of course,” Aurelis replied, meeting her gaze. “What is it, Ranni?”  

“May I see thy face, beneath the helm?” she asked, her tone as innocent as it was intent.  

Aurelis paused, his fingers instinctively brushing the edge of his helm. “Ah… I see,” he murmured, a hint of nervous humor in his voice. Yet, with a deep breath, he gripped the helm and removed it in one deliberate motion.  

Ranni’s eyes widened, her focus unwavering as his face was unveiled. His silver hair gleamed like woven moonlight, twin braids framing his features, with a long braid cascading down his back. His eyes shimmered, a luminous amethyst hue that seemed to pierce into the soul.  

But it was his skin that captivated her most—a flawless, unmarred complexion, untouched by the countless battles he had endured. There were no scars, no marks of hardship, and his hands, though strong, bore the softness of one unbroken by labor.  

Ranni found herself momentarily at a loss. “M-My… thy form rivals even Miquella…” she murmured, her voice betraying her awe.  

Aurelis chuckled softly. “Truly? Then I thank thee, Ranni. But know this—thou art as radiant as the moon itself.”  

Ranni’s blush deepened, yet her lips curved into a small, genuine smile. “I see,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, her heart warmed by his words. 

Aurelis knelt amid the wreckage of the encampment, the distant crackling of dying embers his only companion. Bloodstained armor, torn banners, and the broken remnants of Godrick's soldiers littered the ground. The scent of iron hung heavy in the air, though he could not perceive it—a dull reminder of what was lost to him. His helmet, polished yet marked by combat, rested loosely in his hand as his gaze wandered over the desolation he had wrought.  

Behind him, Ranni stood in silence, her ethereal form glowing faintly beneath the canopy of stars. The light from the distant Erdtree reflected off her pale visage, her azure gaze fixed on him. Finally, she broke the quiet, her voice soft and deliberate.  

“Aurelis?”  

He turned his head slightly, still crouched amidst the spoils of battle. “Yes, Ranni?”  

She hesitated for a moment, her hands clasped before her. “Thou hast spoken… of being unable to feel. I wonder… if thou wouldst elaborate? If it is not too painful.”  

Aurelis’s brow furrowed beneath his silver hair, his expression unreadable. “It’s strange,” he began, his voice low and contemplative. “Ever since my… awakening, I have been this way. I remember nothing of who I was. It feels as though my life was forged, not born, constructed by hands unknown to me.” He paused, his words hanging heavy in the air. “I cannot feel… not in the way others can. No taste, no smell, no touch… and no love.”  

Ranni’s luminous eyes widened, the ethereal blue glow around her form dimming slightly as though reflecting her own unease. “Nothing?” she whispered, her voice tinged with sorrow and disbelief.  

“Nothing,” Aurelis repeated, his tone calm yet hollow, like the ring of a blade too long dulled. “Each day passes in quiet numbness, and yet I endure. I do not lament it—I do not know what it means to lament. It simply is.”  

Ranni lowered her gaze, her fingers tightening around the folds of her dress. “A cruel fate,” she said softly, her words filled with a genuine sadness. “To be denied even the simplest joys of existence… I am sorry, Aurelis.”  

He stood then, brushing ash and dried blood from his gloves with a precision that bordered on mechanical. “No need for pity, Ranni. It is the only life I’ve known, and dwelling on it will not restore what I’ve never had. Now,” he continued, shifting the subject, “this encampment has been dealt with. I will return to Kalé and trade what I have scavenged. No doubt there is some value in their wares.”  

“I see,” Ranni replied, her expression unreadable yet contemplative. “Then I shall meet thee there.”  

Aurelis nodded, his focus shifting back to the ruined camp. He moved with purpose, his footsteps muffled against the soft earth. The detritus of the soldiers’ lives lay scattered before him—shattered shields, splintered spears, and tattered cloaks bearing Godrick’s sigil. He crouched, inspecting a blade dulled by use and caked with rust. It held no worth. Tossing it aside, he moved deeper into the wreckage, his gaze sharp and unrelenting.  

Among the discarded arms and armor, his hand brushed against a folded parchment. He lifted it carefully, its edges singed by fire but still intact. Unfolding it revealed a map, its ink faded but legible, detailing the rolling hills, dense forests, and treacherous cliffs of Limgrave. He traced the contours with his gloved fingers, memorizing its paths and landmarks. This would serve him well, far beyond its monetary value.  

The silence of the battlefield was oppressive, broken only by the soft rustle of the wind through the trees and the distant cries of nocturnal creatures. Aurelis straightened, his scavenged goods secured, and began his journey back to Kalé.  

The road stretched before him, a ribbon of dirt and stone illuminated faintly by the light of the Erdtree. The stars above seemed impossibly distant, their light cold and indifferent. Yet his mind churned, heavy with thoughts that had no resolution. He marched on in silence, a lone figure in the vast expanse of Limgrave, his shadow stretching long behind him.  

What was he, truly? Was he born of this world, or crafted by it? Did the blood he spilled bring him closer to understanding, or push him further from it? Questions piled upon questions, each heavier than the last, but answers eluded him as the night stretched on.

Chapter Text

The golden horizon spilled its light over Limgrave as Kalé glanced up to greet Aurelis. “How fare thee, Tarnished?” Kalé asked, his voice carrying the solace of a merchant long acquainted with solitude. Aurelis strode forward, a massive sack slung over his back. “I fare well, Kalé,” he replied, setting the sack down with a thud. Most of its contents—spoils of the encampment's ruin—were soon traded to Kalé, save for one item: Vinlin's partisan. Aurelis studied the weapon for a moment, an idea forming.

“Kalé,” Aurelis began, his tone thoughtful. “Hast thou ever wielded a blade?”  
Kalé burst into laughter. “Me? A fighter? Tarnished, dost jest!” He gestured to his wiry frame. “I am but a merchant, my battles fought with swift feet and silvered tongue.”  

“And yet,” Aurelis interjected, “even a merchant may benefit from form, precision, and practice. Weapons are tools, Kalé. They require not might but grace.” He held the partisan aloft, its gleaming shaft catching the morning light. “This weapon, though simple, carries elegance. Wouldst thou learn its secrets?”  

Kalé hesitated, staring at the partisan. His thoughts raced. “Thou wouldst… teach me?”  

“I would,” Aurelis affirmed. “Consider it a gift. And perhaps, when thou art ready, my maiden, Ranni, may impart to thee the arcane arts.”  

At the mention of her name, ethereal dust swirled beside Aurelis, coalescing into the figure of the moonlit witch. “I shall observe,” Ranni intoned, her voice as soft as the stars. Kalé gawked, utterly enraptured by her radiant presence.  

Aurelis snapped Kalé back to focus. “Now, take up the partisan. Show me thy resolve.”  

The merchant grasped the weapon hesitantly, its weight foreign in his hands. Aurelis moved into a combat stance—fluid, disciplined, and unwavering. Kalé mimicked him poorly, his footing unsure. With a determined cry, he lunged forward, only to find himself effortlessly sidestepped and struck to the ground.  

“One to Aurelis,” Ranni observed, etching a glowing tally into the air with an elegant gesture.  

Again and again, Kalé charged, and each time Aurelis countered with precision. Dodges, parries, sweeps—Aurelis moved like a predator toying with its prey. Ranni tallied each match, her magical scoreboard filling with Aurelis’s victories until it neared sixty marks.  

At last, Aurelis stepped back, lowering his blade. “Enough,” he declared, his voice calm, his breathing unlabored. Kalé collapsed to his knees, battered and bruised but alive. “Thou didst well for thy first attempt,” Aurelis offered, though his tone betrayed no strain.  

“Teacher… thou art… merciless,” Kalé wheezed, offering a weak grin.  

Night fell as Aurelis prepared a meal over the fire, a pot of rich soup bubbling warmly. Kalé sipped it, its flavors a comfort reminiscent of home. He glanced at Aurelis and Ranni, the two seated close, their laughter mingling with the crackle of the fire. For the first time, Kalé saw Aurelis’s face—its beauty akin to a god’s, unmarred by the scars of battle.  

Kalé smiled faintly, murmuring to himself, “Truly, a warrior fit for a maiden of the stars.”

The embers of the campfire flickered low as Kalé reclined beside it, savoring the remnants of Aurelis’s soup. Aurelis sat across from him, polishing his blade with focused precision, while Ranni watched the pair in serene silence. Kalé broke the quiet with a sly smile. “What was that, Kalé?” Aurelis questioned, his tone curious, though his eyes remained fixed on his work.  

“Ah, nothing, Master,” Kalé replied, feigning innocence, though his grin betrayed mischief. “I was simply reflecting… it seems to me that thou and thy maiden are most fitting together.”  

Aurelis froze, the rag in his hand pausing mid-motion. “What dost thou mean, Kalé?” His voice was low, his tone cautious.  

Kalé leaned forward, his smile widening. “’Tis plain to see! You are consorts to each other, are you not? A bond such as yours can only come from love!”  

The effect was immediate. Aurelis’s face flushed red, his composure shattered. “KALÉ!” he shouted, his voice booming across the camp. “SHE IS NOT MY CONSORT!” He covered his face with his hands, his embarrassment palpable.  

Ranni, sitting close beside him, was no better. Her ethereal poise cracked, her porcelain cheeks blooming with a deep blush. She looked stunned, her usual measured grace replaced with flustered stillness. “Oh dear…” she squeaked softly, her voice barely audible.  

Kalé, oblivious to their reactions, raised an eyebrow. “Not thy consort?” He tilted his head in confusion. “Then what art thou to each other? Surely thou must feel something—”  

“That is ENOUGH!” Aurelis interrupted, his voice sharper now, though still tinged with embarrassment. He glanced at Ranni, her face still a vivid shade of crimson, before quickly averting his gaze. His own heart raced, and the heat in his cheeks refused to subside. He thought of her closeness, her quiet elegance, the way she looked at him now—so disarmed. “We… we must take our leave, Kalé,” he muttered hastily, standing to his feet and dusting off his armor.  

Reaching into his pack, Aurelis pulled out a worn leather tome and handed it to the merchant. The title gleamed faintly in the firelight: *The Basics of Combat.* “Take this,” Aurelis said, his tone now calm and composed. “Study it well. It will serve thee better than endless talismans.”  

Kalé accepted the gift with wide eyes, clutching it close to his chest. “Master, I—thank thee,” he stammered. “I shall honor thy teachings.”  

Without another word, Aurelis turned, summoning Torrent with a sharp whistle. The spectral steed appeared in a flash of light, snorting softly as Aurelis mounted him. He extended a hand to Ranni, who hesitated briefly before taking it and settling behind him on the saddle. Her proximity made his heart thrum anew, but he steeled himself, determined not to let Kalé’s words linger in his thoughts.  

“Farewell, Kalé,” Aurelis said, his voice tight. “May the stars guide thee.”  

With that, he spurred Torrent forward, eager to leave the camp and its lingering embarrassment behind. The plains stretched out before them, bathed in the golden hues of dawn. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew-kissed grass. Ranni, seated close behind him, began to hum softly—a hauntingly beautiful tune that seemed to meld with the morning breeze.  

The melody stirred something in Aurelis. It was soothing, yet it unsettled him, for his thoughts kept returning to Kalé’s words. Could Ranni truly be his consort? Was such a bond even possible for one like him? He glanced back briefly, catching her serene profile illuminated by the rising sun. His chest tightened, and he quickly turned away, focusing on the road ahead.  

The tranquility of the ride was broken by a piercing scream. It echoed from the dense forest ahead, a sound of sheer terror that sent a chill down Aurelis’s spine. Ranni’s humming ceased abruptly. “Aurelis…” she murmured, her voice low and cautious.  

“I heard it,” Aurelis replied, his tone sharp as his senses heightened. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his blade. Torrent slowed, his hooves striking the earth with deliberate care as they approached the forest’s edge. The towering trees loomed before them, their shadows stretching long and dark across the ground.  

“What dost thou think it is?” Ranni asked, her voice steady but curious.  

“I know not,” Aurelis admitted, his gaze fixed on the shadowed path ahead. “But we shall find out.”  

The pair dismounted, leaving Torrent to graze nearby as they ventured cautiously into the forest. The air grew cooler beneath the canopy, the sunlight filtering through the leaves in dappled patterns. Every rustle and creak seemed amplified, each sound a potential threat. Aurelis moved with precision, his blade drawn and ready. Ranni followed close behind, her form shimmering faintly in the dim light.  

The scream came again, closer now, more desperate. Aurelis quickened his pace, his heart pounding as he prepared for what lay ahead.

Torrent surged forward, his spectral hooves striking the ground with otherworldly speed. The trees whipped past in a blur, their low-hanging branches narrowly avoided as Aurelis expertly guided his steed through the dense forest. Beside him, Ranni clung tightly to his waist, her presence a comforting weight amidst the growing unease. Ahead, a faint glow flickered through the trees, its light unnatural in the shadowed grove.

They emerged into a clearing, greeted by the sight of a small cabin consumed by flames. The fire crackled viciously, the heat searing even from a distance. The structure was crumbling, its wooden beams snapping and collapsing into embers. Ash floated in the air like dark snow, settling on the scorched earth. Yet amidst the destruction, one thing remained: a lone child, no older than seven, crouched near the wreckage.

The boy’s cries tore through the clearing, raw and heart-wrenching. “MOMMA!” he screamed, his small hands clutching his knees as he rocked back and forth.

Ranni was the first to speak, her voice soft and soothing. “Child, art thou unhurt?” She floated gently from Torrent’s back, her ethereal form radiating a calming presence. She knelt before the boy, her many hands clasped as if in prayer. “Come now, do not fear. Tell us what hath transpired.”

The boy looked up, his tear-streaked face trembling. “They took her,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “They took my mama! Those mean men!”

Aurelis dismounted swiftly, his armored boots crunching against the ashen ground. He approached, his presence imposing but his voice measured. “Who are these men, child? Speak clearly.”

The boy’s small fists clenched tightly as he sniffled. “The mean metal men,” he said, his voice trembling. “They wore yellow… and called themselves soldiers!”

Aurelis’s jaw tightened, his suspicion confirmed. He exchanged a grave look with Ranni. Godrick’s men. The tarnished lord’s cruelty knew no bounds.

Ranni extended her hand toward the boy, her touch gentle. “Now, now, child,” she murmured, her voice melodic. “We shall aid thee, I vow it. Come to me, sweet one.” She began to sing softly, a hymn of the stars and moon, her voice weaving through the air like a lullaby. The child’s sobs subsided, his breathing evening out as he looked at her with wide, awestruck eyes.

“Do you know where they went?” Aurelis asked, his voice low but commanding.

The boy shook his head. “Nuh-uh,” he muttered, then raised a trembling finger to point toward the darkened forest. “They went that way. Took Mama with them.”

Aurelis followed the boy’s gesture, his gaze narrowing as it traced the path that led deeper into the woods. He knew where it led. A familiar dread settled in his gut.

“Aurelis,” Ranni said softly, her voice tinged with concern. “That path leads to Caelid.”

He nodded grimly. “I know.”

The child clung to Ranni’s robes as she floated back onto Torrent. Her many arms wrapped protectively around him as she whispered reassurances. Aurelis mounted his steed once more, the air around him bristling with determination.

“Stay here with the child,” Aurelis said firmly, his voice brooking no argument. “I will find these soldiers.”

“Aurelis,” Ranni began, her tone worried, “be cautious. The road to Caelid is perilous. This foe is cruel beyond measure.”

He glanced back at her, his purple eyes glowing faintly beneath his helm. “They have crossed a line,” he growled. “This ends here.”

With a swift command, Torrent surged forward, carrying Aurelis toward the foreboding path. The air grew heavier as he pressed onward, the trees thinning into a barren expanse. The road ahead was cracked and broken, lined with dead vegetation and crimson-tinted soil.

The journey to Caelid began with Torrent’s thundering gallop, his hooves barely grazing the earth as Aurelis urged him onward. The wind whipped past his helm, howling through the narrow forest paths like a mournful dirge. Ranni sat behind him, her ethereal presence a silent comfort, though he could feel her concern radiating like the faint glow of her moonlit magic.  

The forest, vibrant and alive moments earlier, began to transform as they neared Caelid's border. The trees grew sparse and twisted, their branches gnarled like grasping claws. The air grew thick, heavy with an oppressive heat that stung his lungs with every breath. Even Torrent, steadfast and loyal, seemed to falter for a moment as the first signs of Caelid's corruption came into view.  

“Ill winds carry us to darkened lands,” Ranni murmured, her voice quiet yet resolute. “Thy purpose here is noble, Aurelis, yet the road ahead is fraught with peril.”  

Aurelis didn’t respond immediately, his focus locked on the path ahead. “Ranni… is thy with the child?” Aurelis seemed worried more than confused. "Indeed, though mine ethereal servant dost accompany them, I desired to lend mine aid in this matter personally." The dirt beneath Torrent’s hooves was no longer the rich brown of Limgrave’s soil but a sickly red, tinged with the lifeblood of the land itself. His grip on Torrent's reins tightened. Every moment spent on this journey felt too long, every second wasted meant the soldiers could move further away with their captive.  

“I will find her,” he said finally, his voice low but unwavering. “They will not escape my blade.”  

The forest gave way to the open plains, yet the landscape did not offer relief. The crimson sky loomed overhead, oppressive and unyielding. The sun, now barely a pale orb, struggled to shine through the noxious haze. The air was rancid, the scent of decay mingling with the acrid tang of burning fields.  

They reached a narrow pass, the jagged rocks on either side rising like the teeth of a great beast. Aurelis slowed Torrent for a moment, his gaze scanning the area. It was too quiet, the usual sounds of nature replaced by an eerie stillness.  

“Beware, Aurelis,” Ranni warned softly, her many hands clutching his armor as her eyes darted about. “The lands of Caelid are no stranger to ambushes. Thy foes may lie in wait.”  

“I’ll be ready,” he replied. His voice carried a grim determination, the weight of his past victories and losses settling on his shoulders.  

He pressed Torrent onward, pushing through the narrowing path. The rocks eventually opened into the lifeless expanse of Caelid proper. The plains stretched before them, barren and desolate, their once-fertile soil now a wasteland. The red rot that plagued the land was evident here, creeping along the ground like a living entity, spreading its corruption.  

In the distance, Aurelis spotted a faint plume of smoke curling into the crimson sky. His heart quickened. An encampment. Soldiers. The captors.  

“We’re close,” he said, his voice sharp with resolve. He turned his head slightly toward Ranni. “Stay back when we reach them. This is my fight.”  

“I shall not hinder thee, but I shall not abandon thee either,” Ranni replied, her tone calm yet firm. “I will watch and guide from the shadows. Be thou swift, Aurelis.”  

He urged Torrent into a full gallop, his mind racing as fast as the steed beneath him. Every second counted. Every breath the child’s mother took might be her last. He would not fail. The soldiers had taken something precious, something they had no right to touch, and he would deliver judgment upon them with the edge of his blade.  

As they closed in on the camp, Aurelis felt the familiar, chilling calm that preceded battle. His hand moved to the hilt of his blade, his grip steady. He slowed Torrent as the encampment came into full view, nestled amidst the corruption of the Caelid plain.  

The time for thought was over. The time for vengeance had arrived. 

Caelid’s oppressive atmosphere loomed before him. The sky above was a sickly red, marred by dark clouds that churned like a brewing storm. In the distance, the faint outline of a military encampment came into view, its banners bearing the symbol of Godrick.

Aurelis slowed Torrent, his gaze scanning the area. Soldiers in yellow-gold armor patrolled the perimeter, their movements rigid and methodical. Among them, a cage cart rested near the center of the camp, its occupant obscured by shadow.

He dismounted silently, his movements precise and deliberate. His hand rested on his blade’s hilt, the weight of it a comforting presence. He crouched low, using the sparse cover of rocks and debris to edge closer.

The soldiers were laughing, their voices harsh and cruel. “The woman begged us not to take her,” one jeered, slamming a fist against the cage. “As if that would stop us.”

Aurelis’s grip tightened on his weapon. His pulse quickened, but his movements remained measured. He would make them pay for their arrogance.

He waited for the perfect moment, his mind racing through the possibilities. And then, like a shadow in the night, he struck.

The frigid air seemed to coil around Aurelis as he charged ahead, Torrent thundering through the battlefield like a vengeful storm. The carts loomed into view, lumbering behemoths laden with cages of despair. Without hesitation, Aurelis leapt from Torrent’s back, his frost-bound blade gleaming in the dim, crimson light. His landing was precise, his sword carving through the air with deadly intent. A single, fluid motion was all it took—the drivers’ lives extinguished in an instant. Blood sprayed across the splintered wood as the carts skidded to a halt, chaos unfurling like a dark tide.

From the rear, Ranni floated gracefully, her ethereal form a vision of lethal elegance. She extended one delicate hand, an arcane sigil blazing in the air before her. With a whisper of power, shimmering blades of Carian magic manifested around her, slicing through two unsuspecting soldiers. Their bodies collapsed, severed cleanly, lifeless amidst the dust and ash. Her eyes burned with cold fire, a goddess dispensing judgment.

Aurelis, meanwhile, sidestepped a flurry of projectiles, blades hurled at him from the chaos. He barely spared them a glance, his focus unwavering. “Hold forth thy left hand!” Ranni’s voice cut through the clamor, commanding yet serene. He obeyed instinctively, his arm outstretched. A brilliant Carian sword shimmered into existence, its light reflecting off his armor. Its weight was unfamiliar but welcome, a new extension of his fury.

With this blade, he became a tempest, carving through the ranks with precision and brutality. Soldiers fell before him like wheat before the scythe, their cries drowned in the symphony of battle. Blood soaked the earth, a grim testament to his wrath. Yet, even as the tide turned, a handful of foes remained, their fear palpable.

Ranni, sensing the pivotal moment, ascended gracefully into the sky. Her form was silhouetted against the roiling red clouds as she summoned her most devastating spell. Her hands traced a sigil of staggering complexity, the air around her crackling with raw power. A blazing azure comet erupted from her fingertips, a celestial lance of pure destruction. It tore through the giants pulling the carts, their monstrous forms collapsing as gaping holes were bored through their torsos. The sheer force of the spell shattered chains and shattered wood, freeing the unconscious mother trapped within.

Aurelis paused amidst the carnage, his gaze locked on Ranni. Her brilliance was awe-inspiring, her mastery of the arcane an art he longed to understand. A faint smile graced his bloodied face as he murmured to himself, “I must learn that.”

But the moment of admiration was brief. One soldier remained, trembling, his weapon quivering in his grasp. Aurelis turned toward him, his expression darkening like a storm cloud. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, grabbing the soldier by the collar and slamming him against the cart.

“Speak! Where wert thou bound with the woman?” Aurelis’s voice was a thunderclap, each word laced with venom.

The soldier coughed, struggling against the Tarnished’s iron grip. “I-I know not—”

“Lies!” Aurelis roared, slamming his fist into the man’s gut with enough force to make him double over. The soldier’s protest turned to a pained wheeze as Aurelis unsheathed a smaller blade, driving it into his shoulder. “Tell me, wretch, or I shall carve the truth from thy flesh!”

The soldier cried out in agony but still refused. “I w-will tell thee naught!” he spat, his defiance fleeting.

“Wrong answer,” Aurelis growled, his voice as cold as the steel in his hand. Without hesitation, he stabbed the man again and again, his strikes precise yet merciless. Blood splattered across his armor, the crimson stains almost ceremonial. Each thrust was an outlet for his rage, his grief, his torment.

“Stop! Please stop!” the soldier finally begged, his defiance broken, but it didn’t stop when his life drained from his eyes. Aurelis’s fury was unrelenting. His blade faltered only when two ethereal hands gripped his shoulders.

“Aurelis, thou must cease this madness!” Ranni’s voice wavered, a mixture of concern and urgency.

He turned to her, his eyes ablaze with anger and sorrow. “Thou dost not understand! They are filth, vermin! I see only red, only flames! I want to watch them burn!” His voice cracked, the weight of his emotions unraveling him.

Ranni saw it then—his tears. Beneath the blood and the fury, he was breaking. She floated closer, her delicate hand reaching for his face. Her touch was cool and comforting, guiding his gaze to hers. “Aurelis,” she whispered, her voice like a balm, “calm thyself. Please, for my sake.”

Her words were a tether, pulling him back from the abyss. His breathing steadied, his grip on the soldier loosening. “I… I…” he stammered, his rage giving way to a deep, aching sorrow.

And then it happened—a surge, a jolt deep within him. He recoiled, clutching his chest as his vision blurred. “Gah!” he gasped, falling to his knees.

“Aurelis!” Ranni knelt beside him, her worry evident.

“I… I can feel…” His voice was a whisper, trembling with disbelief. “I CAN FEEL!”

He looked at her, tears streaming down his face. “Ranni… I can feel!”

She was stunned, her ethereal form radiating relief and joy. He clutched her tightly, pulling her into an embrace that shocked them both. For a moment, they stayed like that, their shared warmth a testament to the moment’s gravity.

Aurelis wept openly, the floodgates of his emotions finally unleashed. For the first time since his awakening, he felt alive—truly, painfully alive.

To be continued…

Chapter Text

Aurelis and Ranni sat by the campfire, its embers casting a dim, flickering glow across the battlefield strewn with lifeless bodies. The mother still lay unconscious nearby, and Aurelis found himself marveling at the subtle sensations returning to his being—the coolness of the night air, the gentle caress of the wind. How long had it been since he had felt the world’s embrace? Yet, unease gnawed at him.

With quiet resolve, he drew his blade, examining its edge in the firelight. “Could it be?” he murmured to himself before pricking his finger with the point. A bead of blood welled up, dark and glistening, but his face fell as the sensation failed to come.

“Aurelis!” Ranni’s voice cut through the silence like a silver thread. She reached out, her ethereal hand cool against his wrist, gently pulling the blade from him. “Thou shalt not harm thyself in despair.” Her expression softened as she saw the flicker of sorrow in his eyes.

“I still can’t feel it,” Aurelis admitted, his voice heavy.

“Do not lose hope, my brave tarnished,” she said, her celestial gaze steady. “If thou hast regained the sense of the world’s breath upon thy skin, then perhaps other lost blessings may return in time.”

Her words, soft as moonlight, kindled something within him. “Ranni,” he said, turning to meet her gaze, “you are the key. I believe this… this is your doing.”

She offered him a faint smile, her hand brushing against his cheek. “Then I shall help thee seek what thou hast lost. But first, perhaps wear thy helm less often. Thou art far from unpleasant to look upon.” The faintest blush graced her cheeks, and Aurelis, unprepared for such words, found himself flushing as well.

Before either could say more, a soft groan emerged from Ranni’s side. The mother stirred, her eyes fluttering open. Her face twisted in confusion and fear as her gaze fell upon the two figures before her. “Where… where am I?” she stammered. Memories flooded back, and she recoiled. “You! Soldiers of Godrick! Why have you taken me? I hath committed no sin!”

“Peace, madam,” Aurelis said, raising his hands in a gesture of calm. “Thou art no longer their prisoner. Thy captors lie dead.” He gestured to the lifeless bodies scattered across the camp. “We found thy child in the forest. It was his plea that led us to thee.”

Her eyes darted to the corpses, then to Aurelis. Seeing the sincerity in his eyes, her fear melted into gratitude. Without warning, she threw herself upon him, arms wrapping tightly around his armored form. “Thank you! Thank you both!”

Aurelis stiffened, his hands awkwardly catching her to keep her steady. “W-wait, be careful!” he stammered.

Ranni’s expression shifted, her lips pursing as jealousy flickered in her eyes. With a wave of her hand, an unseen force gently pushed the mother back. “Let us maintain decorum, good madam,” Ranni said coolly, though the faintest pout lingered on her celestial face.

The woman looked between them, finally composing herself. “Who watches over my child now?”

Ranni spoke with the authority of one born under the eternal moon. “An ethereal double of mine guards him. Fear not; he is safe.”

The mother’s eyes filled with awe, her lips trembling as she whispered, “Thank you… thank you both.” She moved as though to embrace Ranni, but a barrier of magic held her at bay.

Aurelis cleared his throat. “What is thy name, madam?”

“Caelithra,” she said with a low bow.

“Caelithra,” Aurelis repeated, the name rolling off his tongue with weight. “Dost thou know where thy captors were bound, and why they sought to take thee?”

“They spoke of a tunnel north of here,” she said, her voice tinged with fear. “They claimed my fate was death for crimes I did not commit.”

“Canst thou recall the tunnel’s name?” Ranni inquired, her voice steady.

“Nay,” Caelithra said, shaking her head. “But one of them carried a letter. Perhaps it holds the answer.”

Aurelis nodded. “We shall search their remains for this letter. But first, thou and thy son must find safety.” He retrieved a soldier’s horse, guiding it to her side.

Ranni raised her hand, summoning a spectral raven that landed upon the horse’s head. Its beady eyes gleamed with an unnatural light. “This creature shall guide thee. Travel northwest to a ruined church beyond thy cabin. There, thou shalt find Kalé, a merchant of kind heart. He shall shelter thee until we return.”

Aurelis helped Caelithra onto the saddle, his strength steadying her trembling form. Tears streamed down her face, her voice breaking as she said, “Thank you again! You two… you are unlike any I have met. Truly, may the gods bless thee.”

The horse, guided by the spectral raven, carried her into the night. As her figure faded into the distance, Aurelis turned to Ranni. “We move north. This mystery must be unraveled.”

Ranni inclined her head, her gaze lingering upon him. “Aye, my tarnished. Together, we shall unearth the truth.”

The search for the letter did not take long. Among the lifeless remains of Godrick’s soldiers, they found a crumpled parchment stuffed into the tunic of a fallen knight. Aurelis knelt, pulling it free. As he unfolded the letter, the firelight revealed scrawled writing that made his jaw tighten with each word he read aloud.

 “Soldiers, take the foul woman to Gael Tunnel. Radahn’s troops grow restless and bored. Let us aid their amusement—”

Aurelis halted, his voice trembling with fury. The paper crumpled in his iron grip, and he crushed it as though seeking to wring the life from the very words. “These vile creatures,” he growled, his voice low yet brimming with wrath. “We must cleanse Gael Tunnel. Such filth cannot be left to fester.”

Ranni’s hand touched his shoulder, a gentle contrast to his seething anger. “Aurelis,” she began, her voice laced with concern, “Gael Tunnel is not lightly tread. Radahn’s forces hold it firmly, and horrors dwell there—land octopi and worse. This is no task to be undertaken lightly.”

“It does not matter,” Aurelis said, rising to his feet and turning toward Torrent. His voice was steady, cold with resolve. “There is a reason for this woman’s torment, and I shall see it undone. Will you ride with me, Ranni?” He extended a gauntleted hand toward her.

Ranni gazed at him, a flicker of pride mingled with worry in her starlit eyes. “Aye, my tarnished. I shall follow thee.” Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles as she took his hand and mounted Torrent behind him.

They rode swiftly, the landscape blurring as Torrent galloped with relentless speed toward the lift leading into the bowels of Gael Tunnel. The descent was swift yet haunting, the lift creaking and groaning as it bore them into darkness. The stench of sweat, blood, and damp earth assaulted their senses before they even stepped foot into the cavern.

Gael Tunnel was a wretched sight. Miners, their faces gaunt and hollow, swung pickaxes against the stone with the weight of despair in their movements. Iron and gold glittered faintly in the dim torchlight, but it was the glintstone veins that gleamed brightest—a treasure harvested at a terrible cost. Elders hacked feebly at the walls, coughing blood with every motion, while children, scarcely old enough to lift a tool, labored beside them.

In the heart of their suffering stood a soldier of Radahn, whip in hand. He lashed mercilessly at a group of miners who had fallen behind in their work, their cries of agony echoing through the cavern.

Aurelis’s fury boiled over. Without hesitation, he surged forward, drawing his blade in one fluid motion. The soldier barely had time to turn before Aurelis’s blade cleaved through his neck, sending his head toppling to the ground.

The miners froze, their pickaxes still. Blood pooled around the fallen soldier, and Aurelis turned to address them, his voice thundering through the tunnel. “Miners! Ye are not slaves this day. I bid thee, rise! Gather the children and flee. Thy suffering ends here!”

A murmur rippled through the miners, but it was an elder who stepped forward, his voice shaking yet resolute. “Men! We have been given a chance—a savior has come among us! They have taken our families, our dignity, and now our very lives, but no longer! Fight! For yourselves, for your children, for freedom!”

He raised his pickaxe high, his cry igniting a flame in the hearts of the others. A ragged cheer rose, and the miners surged forward, wielding their tools as weapons.

Aurelis turned back to the cavern, his blade gleaming. “Follow me, men! Today, ye are slaves no more!”

The battle within the tunnels was a whirlwind of chaos. Aurelis led the charge, slicing through soldiers with precision and ferocity. The first fell with his throat slashed, gurgling as he collapsed. Ranni, floating above the fray, conjured shards of frost that skewered another soldier, his blood freezing before it touched the ground.

Behind Aurelis, a miner hurled his pickaxe with surprising strength, embedding it deep into the skull of an unsuspecting soldier. The man crumpled, and the miners pressed forward with newfound vigor.

They freed others as they advanced, unshackling prisoners and rallying them to their cause. The crusade swelled in numbers, the tunnels ringing with the clash of steel and the roar of rebellion.

At last, they burst into a vast chamber, its walls lined with glintstone and its floor teeming with Radahn’s soldiers. Tents and supplies indicated this was a critical encampment.

Aurelis did not hesitate. With a battle cry, he led the miners into the fray. The soldiers scrambled to defend themselves, but they were no match for the sheer fury of their attackers. Aurelis’s blade danced, severing limbs and spilling blood. Ranni unleashed torrents of magical energy, her comets obliterating entire groups of enemies.

When the dust settled, the room was silent save for the ragged breaths of the victorious. Among the spoils of war, they found a locked chamber. Inside, they discovered women, their clothing tattered and their faces etched with fear and despair. Their tears flowed freely as they were reunited with their families, the cavern filled with cries of joy and heartbreak.

As the families embraced, Ranni appeared beside Aurelis, her expression grave. “There is more,” she said, her hand outstretched to reveal a hidden passage veiled by magic.

Aurelis nodded. Turning to the elder miner who had rallied the others, he said, “What is thy name, brave one?”

“Kynval,” the man replied, standing tall despite his age.

“Kynval,” Aurelis said, clasping his shoulder, “lead thy people to safety. There is a soldier’s encampment to the east, beyond the lift. It is clear of foes and shall serve as thy sanctuary.”

Kynval’s weathered face broke into a smile. “Thank thee. Thou hast given us a chance to live.”

“You did more than I,” Aurelis replied, his voice warm. “You gave them hope.”

As the miners departed, laden with weapons and supplies scavenged from their captors, Aurelis turned back to the passage. His grip tightened on his blade, his eyes burning with determination. “Ranni, we go deeper. Whatever evil lies ahead shall face its reckoning.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kalé, deep in his nightly routine, swung his partisan in a rhythmic cadence, his muscles burning with exertion. The cool night air carried the faint scent of damp earth and pine, but his focus remained unbroken. With each strike, he counted silently to himself, his mind sharpened by the discipline Aurelis had instilled in him.

“Nine hundred and eight,” Kalé murmured, the words barely audible over the whisper of the wind. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, glancing at the makeshift camp he had claimed as his own—a haven amid the chaos of the lands. Nearby, a tome rested upon a rock, its pages dog-eared from frequent study. Aurelis’s guidance had led him to improve not just his body but his mind, and he felt a quiet gratitude toward the tarnished.

The stillness of the night was broken by the distant sound of hooves thundering across the eastern path. Kalé straightened, his senses heightened. He set the partisan against a rock and reached for his shirt, pulling it over his head as he climbed to a vantage point. He squinted through the dim light, catching sight of a lone horse bearing two riders—a woman clutching a child close to her chest.

Descending swiftly, Kalé approached the pair as they slowed near the camp. The woman’s disheveled appearance and the bruises marking her skin spoke volumes of her ordeal. Sliding from the saddle, she clutched the child tightly, her legs trembling beneath her. Kalé was quick to assist, steadying her with one arm while gently lifting the child down with the other.

“Ma’am, art thou well?” Kalé’s voice was firm but gentle, his concern evident as he took in her battered state.

The woman gasped for air, clutching at her chest as though the weight of her journey had finally caught up to her. “Art thou Kalé?” she asked, her voice faint but filled with hope.

“I am he,” Kalé confirmed, his eyes narrowing slightly with curiosity.

“Oh, thank the gods!” she cried, her knees buckling as she collapsed before him. “A tarnished and his maiden hath saved me and mine child! They told me to find thee!”

“Aurelis and Ranni?” Kalé’s lips curled into a faint smile. “They sent thee to me? Thy saviors, indeed.” Without hesitation, he reached into his pack, withdrawing a thick blanket that he draped over her shoulders and another for the child. “Come now, thou must be utterly spent. Let me aid thee.”

Guiding the woman and her child to the warmth of his campfire, Kalé settled them near the flames. He ladled a portion of soup from the pot simmering over the coals, handing the bowl to the woman. “Here, eat. It shall restore some of thy strength,” he said softly, his tone steady and reassuring.

The woman accepted the bowl with shaking hands, her eyes welling with tears. “Bless thee, Kalé,” she whispered. “Thy friend and his maiden are truly sent by grace. They hath given me and mine child a chance to live again.”

Kalé settled beside her, his eyes glancing toward the eastern horizon, where he imagined Aurelis and Ranni still pressed forward in their unrelenting pursuit of justice. “Aurelis inspires such hope,” Kalé said to himself, a flicker of admiration lighting his face. Then, turning back to the woman, he added, “Rest now. Thou art safe here. Whatever wrongs were done to thee, Aurelis and Ranni shall see them righted.”

The woman, cradling her child close, nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek as she whispered a prayer of thanks. The fire crackled softly, and in its warm glow, Kalé kept watch, his partisan within reach and his heart resolute in his vigil.

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“On thy right!” Ranni’s ethereal voice called out, clear and sharp, as her gaze tracked the incoming threat. Aurelis, swift as a hawk in descent, pivoted fluidly, reversing his blade in hand before plunging it into the advancing foe. The screech of ruptured flesh was drowned by the tarnished’s relentless movement, his sword carving a bloody arc through two more of the writhing, grotesque octopi.

Above, Ranni’s magic rained down with unerring precision, each cast leaving craters of destruction in the enemy’s ranks. Bright, pulsating beams pierced through the air, each burst reducing the malformed creatures to ash and gore. Yet even as the tide waned, a new obstacle emerged—a thick veil of acrid, yellow smoke coiled like a serpent around a passage ahead.

“That room may not be passed until thy enemy is vanquished,” Ranni observed, her voice calm, yet her blade flashed with deadly efficiency as she severed two more creatures, their flailing limbs scattering across the cavern.

“I shall go ahead,” Aurelis declared, casting a glance over his shoulder. “Canst thou hold thyself?”

The question drew a bemused smile from the witch, her azure eyes narrowing in playful reproach. “A bold jest, tarnished. Thou forgets thy place,” she replied, her tone laced with quiet humor. Floating effortlessly above the carnage, she raised a hand, her fingers tracing delicate patterns in the air. “Go, and do what must be done. I shall manage this rabble with ease.”

Aurelis laughed heartily, his voice echoing through the cavern. “Farewell then, Ranni. May the gods speed thee.” Without further hesitation, he plunged into the misty veil, his figure swallowed by its golden shroud.

Left behind, Ranni turned her focus fully upon the ever-growing horde. Her delicate hand shot upward, conjuring an explosive volley of starfire that cascaded down like a meteor shower. The octopi writhed and screeched, their monstrous forms collapsing in a heap of sundered flesh and ichor. One was caught mid-wriggle, its body torn asunder, its insides grotesquely displayed before the remnants disintegrated into dust.

Her fury was palpable, though her expression betrayed little more than a simmering calm. These creatures deserve no mercy, she mused. For Ranni, the slaughter was not mere vengeance—it was penance. A chance to hone her craft and atone for past sins that still weighed heavily upon her soul.

But as her onslaught reached its crescendo, the cavern trembled. A shadow loomed, massive and grotesque, emerging from the depths of darkness—a colossal, aberrant octopus with glistening, venomous skin, pulsating like a corrupted heart. Its many eyes gleamed with unnatural malice, and its maw dripped with viscous poison.

“Ah…” Ranni’s lips curled into a smirk as she floated gracefully downward, settling upon an invisible perch. “Thou art… unusual.” Her voice carried a note of amusement, though her eyes glimmered with cold resolve. “Come, let us dance.”

The beast roared, surging forward with unbridled ferocity, its tentacles thrashing wildly. Yet Ranni was already moving, her form spinning like a falling star. With each revolution, she summoned a deep, blue radiance—a shimmering sphere that expanded outward, dark as the void.

“Behold the majesty of the dark moon,” she intoned, her voice lilting with quiet power. The moon-like construct drifted toward the beast, slow yet inevitable, its eerie glow casting long shadows across the cavern. The octopus screeched, thrashing against its advance, but its struggles were futile. The spell enveloped it entirely, freezing its hideous form in place before detonating in a blinding explosion of ice and light.

The creature’s remains splintered like glass, its frozen innards scattering across the cavern floor. The faint hum of dissipating magic filled the air as Ranni settled herself once more, reclining languidly in the air.

“Though art no match for the stars,” she murmured, resting her chin upon her palm, her gaze wandering to the passage Aurelis had entered. Her lips curved into a faint smile as she began to hum a soft, melodic tune.

“I wonder,” she mused aloud, “what mischief my tarnished stirs within the shroud of the golden mist.”

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Aurelis passed through the shimmering barrier, his senses alert, only to be greeted by an eerie stillness. The cavern was silent, save for the distant echoes of dripping magma. Around him, the ground was littered with charred corpses, their forms twisted in death. At the center of the chamber stood a colossal pillar, its jagged surface stretching upward to merge with the cavern’s ceiling. Disappointment flickered across Aurelis’s face as he stepped forward cautiously, his blade drawn.

Suddenly, the air trembled. A guttural roar erupted, reverberating through the chamber and striking Aurelis like a physical blow. His grip tightened on his sword as the ground beneath him shuddered. From behind the massive pillar, something stirred—a hulking form began to unravel, its massive body illuminated by the glow of molten lava that seeped from its scales. A Magma Wyrm.

The creature coiled its serpentine body around the pillar, its massive jaw opening to emit a guttural hiss. Rivers of magma dripped from its form, pooling and spreading across the floor like a fiery tide. Aurelis wasted no time, rushing forward with a war cry as his blade met the wyrm’s armored flesh. His strike pierced its hide, eliciting a screech that shook the cavern. Yet the beast retaliated with devastating force, flinging him backward as a jet of magma erupted in his direction.

Aurelis twisted in midair, dodging the initial blast, but a secondary torrent blindsided him, splattering molten rock onto his helmet. The searing heat melted the steel in seconds, forcing him to discard it before the molten metal could cook his flesh. The raw intensity of the wyrm’s heat was unlike anything he had faced before—it was suffocating, oppressive, relentless.

The cavern floor became a molten lake, forcing Aurelis to leap to higher ground. His muscles burned with exertion as he surveyed the creature, seeking an opening. His chance came when the wyrm overextended its lunge. Seizing the moment, Aurelis darted forward, his blade carving upward in a vicious arc that split the beast’s maw, spilling magma like blood.

But the wyrm’s hide was as unyielding as stone. When Aurelis attempted a follow-up strike to its chest, his sword lodged between its unyielding scales. The wyrm snarled, its massive claw swiping him with enough force to send him crashing to the ground. The impact drove the air from his lungs, and blood spilled from his lips as he struggled to rise. Above him, the wyrm gathered its power, preparing to unleash an all-consuming blast of molten fury.

Aurelis acted on instinct, drawing his ornate shield—a relic from battles long past—and bracing against the infernal onslaught. The blast struck like a tidal wave, the heat searing his flesh even through the barrier. His shield splintered and shattered, but it bought him precious moments to roll out of harm’s way. He gasped, glancing at his arm, now scorched and blistered from the encounter.

Desperation set in as he scanned his surroundings for a solution. There must be a way. His hand brushed against the Spirit Calling Bell, and a glimmer of hope ignited within him. He raised the bell, its ethereal chime cutting through the chaos. From the dust of the spirit realm, a familiar figure materialized—a ghostly blue warrior clad in spectral armor.

“About time, Aurelis!” Vinlin’s ethereal form grinned as he hefted his partisan. “Let me open the path for you!” With a laugh, the spirit charged at the wyrm, his movements fluid and precise. Dodging the creature’s strikes with practiced ease, Vinlin closed the distance, his weapon plunging deep into the wyrm’s belly. The beast howled in agony, its thrashing creating an opening.

“Now, Aurelis!” Vinlin bellowed.

Aurelis surged forward, his legs burning with exertion. Leaping onto the wyrm’s coiled neck, he drove his blade downward with all his might, piercing its skull. The wyrm roared, its body convulsing as it tried to throw him off.

“Aurelis!” Vinlin called, tossing him a spectral shield. Catching it mid-air, Aurelis drove the shield into the hilt of his blade, using the added force to drive the weapon deeper into the beast’s skull. The wyrm let out a final, shuddering scream before collapsing in a lifeless heap.

The cavern fell silent. Aurelis rolled off the beast, landing with a groan as he avoided the pooling magma. Vinlin approached, laughing heartily as he clapped Aurelis on the back. “Well done, lad. Get stronger. I’ll be watching,” he said before fading back into the ether.

Aurelis sank to his knees, exhaustion weighing heavily upon him. Blood dripped from his lips, and his arm throbbed with searing pain, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. “That wasn’t so easy,” he muttered, leaning back against the cavern wall. His thoughts drifted to the one who awaited him beyond the barrier.

“I wonder… how Ranni fares.”

Chapter Text

The air was heavy with the stench of molten earth and the acrid tang of scorched stone. Aurelis sat slumped at the edge of the magma wyrm’s lifeless corpse, its once-massive form now crumbling to ash and dust before his eyes. The battle had been grueling, a true test of his skill and resolve. Even after summoning Vinlin to tip the scales in his favor, the beast had nearly consumed him in its searing wrath. His helm lay melted beyond recognition, and his arm—though unfeeling—dangled uselessly at his side, unresponsive after the ordeal.

He let out a slow breath, his chest rising and falling with fatigue. The wyrm’s death was worth every ounce of the struggle, yet it left him contemplating the fragility of his own strength. His gaze drifted across the chamber, now eerily silent, broken only by the faint hiss of magma cooling along the floor. He reached for his waterskin to pour a few drops over his parched lips, but his useless arm betrayed him, spilling more than he drank. He chuckled to himself. “A fair trade for victory, I suppose.”

“Aurelis!” A familiar voice echoed, startling him from his reflection. He turned sharply to see Ranni, her figure ethereal and commanding as she hovered just within the chamber.

“Ranni! Didst thou lay waste to the octopi?” Aurelis called, a wide grin spreading across his face despite his exhaustion.

“I did,” she replied, her laughter lilting like a soft melody. “I wish thou could have borne witness.” She descended gracefully, her crystalline eyes scanning the scene. Her gaze landed on his limp arm and the pile of dust where the wyrm once lay. “What didst thou encounter?” she asked, her tone shifting from amusement to concern.

“A magma wyrm,” Aurelis answered plainly, his voice carrying both pride and weariness.

Her expression turned to one of alarm. “What?” she exclaimed, rushing to his side. “Art thou well? Speak to me!” Without hesitation, she began to weave her magic, casting a shimmering incantation of healing over his injured arm. The luminous threads of her sorcery wound themselves into his flesh, knitting muscle and sinew anew with painstaking precision. Yet Aurelis saw the toll it took on her; her breath grew labored, and the glow around her form dimmed ever so slightly.

“Ranni! Ranni!” he called, reaching for her with his good arm. “Enough! I am fine!” His voice, tinged with both gratitude and worry, fell on deaf ears as she continued to pour her reserves into him. Finally, with a firm yet gentle motion, he pulled her close, her small frame enveloped in his embrace. “I’m alright, Ranni,” he whispered, his tone soft and reassuring. “Thy efforts are not wasted, but thou needest rest.”

She sighed, allowing herself a rare moment of reprieve against his chest, though her eyes remained alert. As if on cue, a sudden shift in the air drew both their attentions. The remains of the magma wyrm began to swirl, its ashes and essence spiraling together in a vortex of power. Aurelis stiffened, his grip on Ranni tightening. “What is this?” he asked, his voice low and guarded.

Ranni, equally intrigued and concerned, observed the phenomenon with wide eyes. “It seems… thou hast absorbed its dragon heart,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. The revelation hung heavy in the air, the gravity of her words sinking into Aurelis as he watched the swirling dust begin to condense into a beam of radiant, cerulean light.

The light was alluring, almost hypnotic. It called to Aurelis, tugging at some primal part of his being. He stepped forward, compelled by an instinct he could neither name nor resist. “Ranni,” he muttered, his voice trembling with both awe and caution, “I must know what lies within.”

Ranni nodded but said nothing, her ethereal presence hovering protectively nearby. The beam of light coalesced as Aurelis reached out, his calloused hand trembling as it broke through the barrier of light. To his surprise, his fingers met something solid—a smooth, polished surface. Slowly, he pulled the object free, and the light began to fade, revealing an exquisite white sheath adorned with intricate glintstone inlays. The craftsmanship was otherworldly, its surface etched with patterns reminiscent of the night sky. Near the hilt, a white knot tied in the style of the Land of Reeds added a touch of elegance to its mystique.

Aurelis held the sheath with reverence, marveling at its beauty. “What is this?” he muttered, his voice barely audible. With deliberate care, he drew the blade from its resting place. The katana emerged, its slender form shimmering with a brilliant blue glintstone edge. The blade itself was forged from a dark, almost obsidian-like metal, its balance and weight feeling like an extension of his own arm.

Ranni, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. “What a beautiful weapon,” she remarked, her voice soft yet laden with wonder. “Aurelis, that blade… it is no mere steel. I sense it is bound to thee, as I am to the moon.”

Aurelis turned the blade in his hand, letting its glimmer catch the faint light of the chamber. A name—no, an essence—seemed to form in his mind, as though the sword whispered it to him. “Moonveil,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue with an almost sacred weight. He looked to Ranni, her soft smile mirroring the serenity in his own heart.

“How ironic,” she mused quietly, her gaze fixed on the blade. Both of them understood without saying more: this was no ordinary weapon, and its destiny was now entwined with Aurelis’s own.

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Kalé stirred before the dawn, as was his custom. The chill of the early morn clung to him like a solemn shroud, invigorating his spirit. He had resolved himself to unyielding discipline, for the next time he crossed blades with Aurelis, he would not fall so easily. Even a glancing blow, a graze upon the tarnished’s cheek, would suffice to restore some measure of his pride. With his partisan in hand, he began his drills, each swing measured and purposeful, as though the spear was an extension of his very will.

Nearby, Caelithra sat upon a weathered log, a fragile peace softening her weary features. Her son, Aeren, darted through the camp like a restless sprite, his laughter a salve for her frayed nerves. Though her heart still bore the weight of her harrowing escape, the warmth of Kalé’s presence and his steadfast protection brought her a measure of solace.

“Mother, look!” Aeren exclaimed, his hand reaching for a bush laden with plump red berries.

“Aeren! Stop thy folly!” Caelithra called, leaping to her feet in alarm. But her worry was met with a soft chuckle from Kalé, who paused mid-swing to glance her way.

“Fear not,” he said, his voice calm and assured. “Those berries pose no threat. I would not abide poison to linger near my hearth.” His smile was brief, yet it carried an unspoken kindness.

Caelithra relaxed, though her gaze lingered upon Kalé as he resumed his rigorous training. There was something in the way he moved—disciplined, relentless—that drew her notice, though she could not say why. But her musings were abruptly shattered by a cacophony of voices rising from beyond the eastern hill.

Both Kalé and Caelithra tensed, their instincts honed by past trials. Kalé wasted no time, slipping into his jacket and grasping his partisan. He knelt by Aeren, his voice low but firm. “Thou shalt remain hidden, little one. Venture not from this place.”

Turning to Caelithra, he inclined his head. “Wilt thou follow me, lady?”

“I shall,” she replied without hesitation, her resolve tempered by necessity.

Together, they crept to the hill’s crest, their forms low against the earth. Kalé gestured for her to halt as they reached the summit, peering down at the encampment below. Once, this place had housed Radahn’s soldiers, their banners flapping defiantly in the wind. But now, it swarmed with miners—men, women, and children—an army of toil.

Kalé’s brows knit in confusion. “This was a soldier’s camp,” he murmured. “Aurelis laid it low when he faced Radahn’s men. Yet now it teems with miners. What is their purpose here?”

Caelithra’s breath quickened as her gaze fell upon the heaps of armor and weapons being unloaded from the caravans. “That armor,” she whispered. “Radahn’s soldiers bore it.”

Kalé’s eyes narrowed, his thoughts racing. “Aye, and I spy tools of war amidst their goods. This is no simple mining party.”

“Aurelis mentioned Gael Tunnel,” Caelithra said, her voice trembling. “He said it was a stronghold for Radahn’s men. Perhaps… perhaps they fled here?”

Kalé looked to the sky, as if seeking guidance from the stars. His voice, when it came, was laced with frustration. “Aurelis… what art thou weaving in thy absence?”

Caelithra laid a hand upon his arm, her touch light yet grounding. “What course shall we take, Kalé?”

He exhaled slowly, his gaze returning to the bustling encampment. “We wait and watch,” he said at last. “This mystery unravels itself, yet we must not act rashly. Patience shall serve us well.”

And so, the two settled into their vantage point, the weight of uncertainty pressing upon them. Below, the miners toiled on, unaware of the watchful eyes upon them. For now, Kalé could only observe and prepare, his mind sharpening like the blade of his partisan for whatever trials lay ahead.

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Relief coursed through Kynval’s weary frame as he laid eyes upon the encampment. It had taken the better part of a day to arrive, the journey long and arduous, but the sight before him was a balm to his soul. The miners, their faces marked by equal measures of exhaustion and hope, trailed closely behind him. He did not know why they followed so fervently; perhaps it was desperation, or perhaps they saw in him a spark of leadership he himself had yet to recognize. Regardless, he bore their trust as a solemn burden.

As he approached the wooden walls, remnants of a battle lay bare—dark stains upon the soil and battered banners fluttering limply in the breeze. This was no doubt the work of the Tarnished, whose trail of defiance against tyrants was becoming legend. Kynval felt a flicker of gratitude toward the unknown warrior, though he knew not the man’s face.

He climbed the palisade steps, peering into the heart of what would become their sanctuary. Memories of his past life rose unbidden—his bustling inn filled with laughter, the camaraderie of adventurers gathered at his tables. It seemed like another world now, one stolen from him by Godrick’s soldiers. They had turned his livelihood to ash, sold him into chains, and shattered his pride. Yet here he stood, free once more. The thought filled him with both sorrow and resolve.

“Freedom,” he muttered under his breath, tasting the word as though for the first time in years.

The miners began unloading their supplies, their movements deliberate yet tinged with hesitation. Rorick, a broad-shouldered man with calloused hands and a keen eye for craftsmanship, took charge, directing others with surprising efficiency.

“This place,” Rorick said, surveying the surroundings, “is more than a camp. It could be a haven. The forest’ll give us timber aplenty, and the soil looks rich—might even yield a proper harvest. Groundwater’s likely close, and we’ve ores enough to forge tools and arms alike.”

Kynval nodded, his mind already racing. “Aye. But a haven must have order. We shall form a council—men and women both—to guard against folly and danger. Safety and governance must be our first stones, laid before the foundation of walls.”

Rorick grunted in agreement. “Wise words, Kynval. But we’ll need more than talk. The people look to you now. Best show them strength as well as vision.”

And so, they set to work. The miners, though weary, moved with a sense of purpose. Trees were felled and stripped, ground cleared for planting, and crude forges erected to shape the ore they had carried from their chains. The air hummed with the sound of industry, mingling with the songs of birds that heralded the forest’s untouched beauty.

Kynval stood amidst it all, a man reborn. He had no illusions of ease; this would be a long and grueling endeavor. But for the first time in years, the path before him was his own to tread. As the sun began its descent, casting golden light over their burgeoning settlement, he felt the stirrings of something long buried—hope.

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The embers of a distant campfire flickered against the dark, starlit sky as Aurelis and Ranni walked in measured silence. The katana newly sheathed at Aurelis’ side swayed with his steps, its pristine craftsmanship a stark contrast to his weathered armor. Though the blade was foreign to his hand, he felt an odd affinity with it, as though it whispered secrets he had yet to uncover.

Ranni’s voice broke the silence. “So, what is thy goal, Aurelis?” Her tone carried genuine curiosity, her otherworldly glow casting faint light upon the Tarnished’s face.

Aurelis paused, his hand instinctively rising to his chin as he pondered the question. “My goal…” He hesitated, his brow furrowing in contemplation. “I…I don’t know.” He admitted at last, the weight of his words surprising even himself. “I want to see Godrick’s head separated from his wretched body, but after that? I’ve no idea what path lies ahead.”

“Dost thou not aspire to claim the title of Elden Lord?” Ranni’s voice was calm, though her gaze betrayed keen interest.

Aurelis shook his head, his expression hardening. “No. In truth, I would loathe such a fate.”

The response caught Ranni off guard, her calm mask slipping momentarily. “And why is that, Tarnished? What drives such disdain for the throne?”

“I hate what has become of Queen Marika,” Aurelis declared, his voice low but resolute. “This shattered land, these broken souls—it was not meant to be this way. The throne holds no appeal for me; it is but a gilded cage.”

Ranni studied him closely, her curiosity deepening. His words carried an unflinching honesty that struck her, yet she could see the weariness etched into his features. Before he could continue, she reached out and placed a cool hand upon his head, silencing him.

“Now, now, Tarnished,” she said softly, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Thou hast spoken enough for one eve. Take thy rest. Thy body needs it as much as thy soul.”

With gentle insistence, she guided Aurelis to the azure light of a nearby Site of Grace, its serene glow enveloping him as he sank to the ground. He looked up at her, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but filled with gratitude.

As sleep claimed him, Ranni chuckled softly, though her expression grew pensive. Perhaps… just perhaps… she mused, her thoughts wandering to possibilities she dared not entertain. Her face flushed a delicate shade of blue, and she quickly dismissed the notion, scolding herself silently.

She lingered beside the Grace, watching over the Tarnished as he slumbered. Though embarrassed by her fleeting thoughts, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this man, in all his simplicity and defiance, was different. And perhaps, that difference could shape the tides of fate.

Chapter Text

Aurelis and Ranni had been away for three days, traversing the southern expanse in search of purpose and secrets untold. Their path had led them to a minor Erdtree, a towering sentinel of golden grace. Yet, upon reaching its sacred boughs, they were met with silence and emptiness, as if the land itself withheld its secrets. Disappointed but undeterred, their journey turned eastward toward the hallowed grounds of the Third Church of Marika.

It was within this weathered shrine that fate revealed its hand. Aurelis discovered a chalice of crimson hue, an ancient physick said to bind the fragments of the minor Erdtree Avatars. “Thy hands hath uncovered a relic of boundless potential,” Ranni remarked, her voice layered with reverence and intrigue. “With it, thou might wield the gifts of the Erdtree’s mightiest guardians.” Though uncertain of its full power, Aurelis knew its importance and secured it among his possessions.

Now, as they tread back north toward Kalé’s encampment, their hearts weighed with the knowledge gained and the truths still obscured, the bond between them grew stronger. The path was fraught with dangers, yet the tarnished and the witch pressed on, their resolve as steadfast as the stars.

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The gentle light of dawn stretched across the lands, and Torrent’s hooves clattered softly against the beaten path as Aurelis and Ranni rode northward toward Kalé’s encampment. The two companions, so often stoic and burdened by destiny, had succumbed to fits of laughter during their journey. The air between them felt lighter, unshackled from the heavy chains of their quests and ambitions.

“Dost thou truly think thy jest would catch me unawares?” Ranni scoffed, her voice lilting with amusement. She perched regally upon Torrent’s back, her ethereal form poised yet brimming with mirth. “Thou art transparent, Tarnished. Thy wits are as predictable as the setting sun.”

Aurelis grinned mischievously, leaning back to glance at her. “Predictable, thou sayest? Then I challenge thee to decipher this riddle, O clever moon. What creature walks on four legs at dawn, two at midday, and three at dusk?”

Ranni’s eyes narrowed, her confidence unshaken. “Thy riddle is ancient, a tale from the annals of men. ‘Tis the answer of man himself—crawling as an infant, walking upright in his prime, and leaning upon a staff in his twilight.”

Aurelis threw his head back in exaggerated defeat, laughter booming from his chest. “Curses, thou art too learned for thy own good! Very well, I’ll conjure a jest thou canst not untangle.” The playful banter continued as they crossed rolling hills and sunlit fields, their laughter carrying on the breeze. For a moment, they were not bound by the threads of fate but were simply companions, free from the burdens of the Shattering.

It was mid-morning when they arrived at the familiar bridge near Kalé’s camp. Yet, as they crossed, the sight before them brought both companions to a halt. The well-worn path had transformed—cleared and groomed, lanterns lining the trail like sentinels. Beyond the rise, a settlement emerged where once there had been naught but wilderness. Aurelis blinked in astonishment, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of Moonveil. “By the Erdtree… What sorcery is this?” he murmured.

Ranni leaned forward, her arms crossed as she surveyed the scene. “Nay, Tarnished. This is no spell but the work of men’s labor and will. Look thee closer—thy miners hath wrought a miracle.”

Aurelis’s eyes widened in recognition. “The miners! Could it be they heeded my words? To rebuild and claim this land as their own? Yet such progress in mere days… it beggars belief.” Urging Torrent onward, they entered the settlement, greeted by the jubilant cries of its people. Children ran alongside the steed, waving and laughing, while elders nodded in gratitude. Aurelis and Ranni dismounted as a familiar face approached them.

Kynval, the once-weary miner, now strode forward with a newfound vigor. His frame seemed stronger, his eyes alight with purpose. He bowed deeply. “Well met, Tarnished, and thy celestial witch,” he greeted. “Behold what thy guidance hath wrought. From ashes and despair, we rise anew!”

Aurelis clasped Kynval’s shoulder, his expression one of pride. “Thou and thy people have done well, Kynval. To see this place transformed so swiftly is no small feat. Thou art to be commended.”

Kynval chuckled, scratching his head. “Aye, but ‘tis not my work alone. Come, I shall show thee.” He led them through the growing settlement. The skeletal frames of homes and buildings dotted the landscape, their wooden beams reaching skyward like prayerful hands. Some structures were already complete, their craftsmanship exquisite. “Rorick!” Kynval called, beckoning to a man overseeing a group of workers. “This is our build master, the mind behind these walls.”

Rorick approached, wiping sweat from his brow. His face reddened as he bowed before the Tarnished and the sorceress. “M-my lords,” he stammered, clearly overwhelmed. “I am but a humble craftsman, yet thy deeds have given us the chance to create anew.”

Aurelis smiled warmly. “Rise, Rorick. Thy work speaks for itself. These walls shall stand the test of time, and thy name shall be remembered.” Ranni nodded in agreement, her gaze appraising the settlement. “Indeed, thy skill is rare. Perhaps even the gods shall look favorably upon thy craft.”

Their tour concluded at a newly built shop. The wooden sign above the door read, Kalé’s Konvenience, its letters painted with care. Kynval laughed as he opened the door, revealing shelves stocked with goods—armor, weapons, food, and books. “A marvel, is it not?” he exclaimed. “Our good merchant hath spared no effort.”

From the upper floor, Kalé descended, his partisan slung across his back. His face lit up upon seeing Aurelis and Ranni. “Ah, my master! Thou returneth at last! What mischief hast thou found in the south, eh?” He grasped Aurelis’s arm in greeting, his strength catching the Tarnished off guard. “And Ranni, ever the moonlight in his shadow—thou art safe as well!”

A shout from upstairs interrupted their reunion. “Aeren! Cease thy trouble! Thy mother needs her rest!” Kalé sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced at Aurelis. “A long tale for another time,” he muttered. He retrieved his partisan, his eyes gleaming with determination. “But enough of chatter, my master. Wilt thou grant me the honor of a spar? I’ve trained since last we met, and I aim to best thee yet!”

Aurelis grinned, unsheathing Moonveil. “Thy confidence is admirable, Kalé. Let us see if thy skills match thy boast.” The air grew charged with anticipation as the two men stepped outside, the town gathering to witness their friendly duel. The bond between them was unshaken, their camaraderie a testament to the trials they had endured together.

The sun hung low, casting golden hues over the fields as Aurelis and Kalé stepped forward, the gathered townsfolk watching with bated breath. Whispers of anticipation rippled through the crowd as the combatants stood face-to-face, their weapons gleaming in the morning light. Ranni floated above them, her gaze serene but laced with excitement. Her voice rang clear, like the toll of a bell.

“The rules are plain: first to land a blow, victorious. No blood need be shed. Fight with honor and heart. On my mark… Begin!”

The instant her command echoed across the fields, both warriors sprang into action. Aurelis moved with a measured grace, his every step calculated and deliberate. His hand rested lightly on Moonveil’s hilt, his eyes tracking Kalé like a hawk watching its prey. By contrast, Kalé dashed forward with unbridled energy, his partisan gleaming as it cut through the air. The crowd roared as the clash began.

Kalé struck first, his speed remarkable, a testament to his weeks of rigorous training. He lunged with the tip of his partisan, aiming for Aurelis’s chest. But the Tarnished twisted his body, letting the weapon whistle past him. Kalé grinned, his attack a feint. With a sharp pivot, he reversed his grip and swept the haft of the partisan backward, nearly catching Aurelis in the ribs.

Aurelis slid beneath the strike, his movements as fluid as water, and darted to Kalé’s exposed side. The townsfolk gasped as Aurelis closed the distance with a burst of speed, his blade still sheathed. Kalé, undeterred, planted his feet firmly and braced for impact. Yet he did not anticipate what came next.

Aurelis leapt high into the air, somersaulting over Kalé’s head in a dazzling display of agility. The maneuver threw Kalé off balance, his boots skidding in the dirt as he struggled to regain footing. Aurelis landed behind him, his hand already poised to draw Moonveil. Sensing danger, Kalé rolled to the side, narrowly evading a downward slash that left a clean groove in the earth.

For several moments, the two circled one another, exchanging strikes and parries. Kalé’s newfound strength and speed were apparent, his partisan whirling with precision. Yet Aurelis remained a step ahead, his every dodge and counter executed with effortless finesse. The air crackled with energy as their weapons sang in the growing tension.

And then, Aurelis stopped. He sheathed Moonveil with a deliberate click, standing motionless as Kalé advanced. The townsfolk murmured in confusion. Was the Tarnished surrendering? Kalé hesitated, his grip on the partisan tightening as he edged closer. “What art thou plotting, my master?” he muttered under his breath.

It became clear in the next instant. With a sudden burst of motion, Aurelis drew Moonveil in a single, blinding arc. The katana’s glintstone core ignited, unleashing a crescent wave of energy that hurtled toward Kalé. The light was dazzling, a shimmering blue arc that split the air. Kalé raised his partisan instinctively, catching the projectile with the haft of his weapon. The impact sent him staggering backward, his boots digging furrows into the earth.

But the strike had been a diversion. Before Kalé could recover, Aurelis had already closed the distance, his katana flashing in the sunlight. In a swift, fluid motion, he disarmed Kalé, sending the partisan spinning from his grasp. Moonveil’s edge rested lightly against Kalé’s neck, the duel decided.

“I win,” Aurelis said with a calm smile, his voice steady and triumphant. The townsfolk erupted into cheers, their voices carrying across the fields like a wave. Kalé laughed breathlessly, raising his hands in surrender. “Thou art a master, indeed,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve much yet to learn.”

Ranni descended gracefully, her lips curved in a faint smile. “A fine display from both of thee. ‘Tis heartening to see such camaraderie amidst the trials of this broken land.” She glanced at Aurelis, her gaze lingering. “Perhaps thy heart is not so cold as thou wouldst have me believe.”

Aurelis sheathed Moonveil once more, offering Kalé a hand. “Thy progress is undeniable, my friend. Another bout, and thou may well best me.” Kalé grasped his hand firmly, rising to his feet. “I shall hold thee to that, my master.” The two clasped shoulders in mutual respect as the townsfolk continued to cheer, their spirits lifted by the spectacle.

As the sun climbed higher into the sky, the three companions returned to the encampment, their bond strengthened by the trial. And though their paths were fraught with peril, for this moment, at least, they had found solace in the shared joy of battle and fellowship.

It was late afternoon when Kalé approached Aurelis and Ranni, freshly cleaned from his earlier spar and carrying a confident air that only slightly masked his lingering embarrassment. By his side was Caelithra, her gentle smile radiating warmth as she clutched Kalé’s arm tightly. Her presence was one of quiet strength, a stark contrast to the shy but excitable figure of Aeren, who darted ahead of them, giggling uncontrollably.

Aeren, in his boundless energy, weaved through the gathered crowd and, with a burst of laughter, ran directly between Aurelis’s legs. The Tarnished stiffened in surprise before allowing a rare chuckle to escape. “Aeren!” Caelithra called, her tone one of playful exasperation. “He shan’t change, not for all the world,” she added, laughing softly.

Kalé, watching the boy with a fond expression, leaned closer to Caelithra and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “And why should he? The lad’s as happy as the sun is bright, love.”

“Love?” Aurelis repeated, his brow lifting in curiosity as he glanced between the two. Before he could press further, Ranni’s reaction stole his attention. Her eyes sparkled like twin moons, and her hands clasped together in childlike delight. “Oh, how precious! A tale of romance amongst such sorrowful times!” She practically floated forward, her voice rising with enthusiasm. “When did this happen?!” she demanded, her excitement unrestrained. “So very cute!”

Kalé turned a deep crimson, his usual calm demeanor shaken under Ranni’s unexpected outburst. “I-uh…” he stammered, scratching the back of his head. Caelithra, however, took the teasing in stride, her smile widening as she glanced at her partner. Kalé finally managed to regain his composure, clearing his throat. “A-anyway,” he began, deliberately avoiding Ranni’s expectant gaze. “Since thou art here, I suppose I owe thee the tale, eh?”

Kalé launched into his story, detailing the days that followed Aurelis and Ranni’s initial liberation of the miners. “When we stumbled upon the miners, I found myself drawn to this one here,” he said, his voice softening as he glanced at Caelithra. “Caelithra and I began working closely, conducting stakeouts and ensuring the miners’ safety. ‘Twas no grand romance at first, but in time…” He paused, his voice growing quieter as his gaze met hers. “In time, I could not help but fall for her kindness, her strength.”

Caelithra blushed faintly but said nothing, her grip on his arm tightening. Aeren, now playing with Ranni’s ethereal robes, giggled as if oblivious to the moment’s sentimentality. Kalé’s expression softened further as he continued. “One thing led to another, and now I look after them both. Aeren, too, as if he were mine own. They are my purpose now—my reason to fight and to build.” His words carried a conviction that left no room for doubt.

Ranni’s joy was palpable as she twirled in place, her voice dreamy. “Ah, love found amidst the ruins of war. How poetic, how sublime.” She glanced at Aurelis with a pointed smirk. “Would that others could learn to express such tenderness.”

Aurelis shook his head, though a small smile tugged at his lips. “Aye, ‘tis a heartening sight. Though I must admit, Kalé, I did not expect such developments from thee.”

Kalé chuckled, his confidence returning in full. “Life is full of surprises, master. Thou shouldst know that better than most.” He gestured toward the newly constructed shop behind him, its sign proudly bearing the name Kalé’s Konvenience. “And with the help of Kynval and the others, I’ve a proper place to provide for them, and for the town. We’ve built something strong here, thanks to thee and thy guidance.”

Aurelis clapped a hand on Kalé’s shoulder, his respect evident. “Thou hast done well, Kalé. Better than most would dare dream.” He glanced toward the bustling town, the lanterns glowing faintly in the dimming light. “This place… it hath potential. Mayhap a true refuge amidst this broken land.”

As the conversation ebbed, the group found themselves standing quietly for a moment, taking in the sight of the bustling village. It was a rare moment of peace and hope, a reminder of what they fought for. Ranni’s gaze lingered on Aurelis, her expression thoughtful. “Indeed,” she murmured, “a refuge… if only for a time.”

Kynval approached, his boots crunching against the gravel as he joined the gathering. He carried himself with a quiet confidence, though the faint lines of wear upon his face told of the burdens he still carried. His voice, gruff but steady, broke through the murmuring crowd. “Aurelis, Ranni.” He inclined his head respectfully, then glanced between the two. “The town owes thee much. Truly, we would not be standing here, were it not for thy deeds.”

Aurelis nodded solemnly, though his lips curved into a faint smile. “The credit is thine as well, Kynval. Thou hast led these people with a strength that many would envy.”

Kynval huffed, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “Aye, but a strength given purpose by thee.” His gaze lingered on the Tarnished, then shifted to Ranni, whose ethereal presence seemed to cast an otherworldly glow over the gathering. “But tell me, what lies ahead for thee both? Surely thou dost not intend to linger here long.”

Ranni and Aurelis exchanged a glance, a silent understanding passing between them. It was Ranni who broke the quiet, her voice soft but laced with unshakable resolve. “Kynval, thy question is just. Aurelis and I have spent many a night pondering our path. And now, we hath come to a decision.” She closed her eyes briefly, as though steeling herself, before reopening them to meet Kynval’s gaze. “We have resolved to slay Godrick the Grafted.”

Kynval’s brow furrowed, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Godrick, eh? The wretched usurper who cowers within his stolen castle. A lofty goal, but not without great peril.” He paused, his tone softening. “Hast thou prepared thyself for what lies ahead? His might is said to rival even the dragons of old.”

Aurelis rested his hand on the hilt of Moonveil, its glintstone blade catching the fading sunlight. “I am no stranger to peril, Kynval. I have faced beasts and men alike who sought to break me. And yet, here I stand.” His gaze turned toward the distant horizon, where the golden haze of Stormveil Castle loomed. “Godrick shall fall, not for glory nor for power, but because his corruption poisons these lands. He hath ruled long enough.”

Ranni stepped closer, her presence commanding despite her diminutive stature. “Aurelis speaks true. The grafted lord is a blight upon this realm, his ambition twisting flesh and spirit alike. If we are to see these lands restored, his tyranny must end.” She glanced back toward the crowd that had gathered, their faces filled with a mix of awe and apprehension. “But fear not, for we do not tread this path lightly. We shall face him with wisdom and strength.”

Kynval stroked his beard thoughtfully, nodding slowly. “Then it seems thy purpose is clear.” He gestured toward the bustling village behind him. “Know that we shall keep this place safe in thy absence. And should thou require aid or refuge, thou hast but to return.”

Aurelis extended a hand, which Kynval clasped firmly. “Thy loyalty is noted, Kynval. I shall not forget it.” He glanced once more at the growing settlement, the lanterns casting warm light over the wooden frames of new homes. “Take care of these people. They deserve a chance to rebuild, free from tyranny.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Aurelis and Ranni mounted Torrent, their gazes fixed on the path ahead. The villagers watched in reverent silence as the pair rode toward their next trial, their figures fading into the twilight. Behind them, Kynval stood with arms crossed, a faint smile on his lips. “Godspeed, Tarnished. May thy blade find its mark.”

Chapter Text

The night was alive with whispers, yet silent as the grave. The air carried a biting chill, sharp and crisp as though distilled from the heavens above. Beneath the argent glow of the moon, the village rested in a fragile peace, its quietude a balm to weary hearts. Aurelis stood alone on the outskirts, his silhouette outlined against the flicker of distant torches. The world seemed to pause, heavy with the weight of memories he could not fully grasp, as though they were distant echoes caught in the recesses of his mind.

The tarnished warrior’s breath curled into the frigid air, a ghost of life exhaled into the ether. His eyes traced the horizon, yet his thoughts delved deeper than sight. He pondered the peculiar state of his existence—an eternity of strife that neither aged him nor spared him its toll. His comrades, once stalwart brothers-in-arms, had succumbed to the inevitable march of time or the relentless bite of steel. Yet here he stood, unyielding, unbroken, and untethered by the laws of mortality.

There were days, fleeting though they were, when he longed for release—for death to claim him as it had claimed so many before. Yet, paradoxically, there was a burning within him, an unwillingness to relinquish the sword and shield, a refusal to fade into the void. The battlefield had carved into his soul an unquenchable thirst for vengeance, even as its bitter aftertaste lingered, leaving him hollow.

Aurelis’ hands trembled faintly at his sides. He stared at them, these instruments of violence that had become the architects of his survival. He could feel the chill of the night against his skin, as real as the scars that lined his body. But deeper sensations eluded him, as though his very essence had been cauterized by the flames of war. The anger within him was a constant companion, a fire that burned but offered no warmth.

He thought back to Tammi’s question—a question that lingered like a thorn in his mind: What dost thou seek, should thy blade bring Godrick low? It was an inquiry he had no answer for, though it haunted him all the same. To sit upon the Elden Throne, to claim the title of Elden Lord, was a hollow prize to his eyes. Such a path seemed tainted, a burden that chained one to a broken realm.

And yet, he knew one thing with absolute certainty: Godrick the Grafted must die. The image of the grotesque lord was seared into his thoughts—a monster of twisted ambition, the embodiment of desecration. Aurelis envisioned the severing of the abomination’s head, the finality of justice wrought through steel. He clung to that purpose, even as the questions of what lay beyond it gnawed at his resolve.

He sighed, a sound heavy with the weight of uncertainty. The stars above offered no guidance, their cold light indifferent to the plight of mortals. “Only time will tell,” he murmured to the silent night, his voice low and somber. The village slept, but Aurelis remained awake, a sentinel caught between the past and an unwritten future.

The silence of the night was broken by a familiar presence, gentle and spectral. Ranni emerged behind him, her voice light and teasing, “Art thou lost in thought, or hath thou taken to brooding as is thy wont?” She let out a soft, lilting giggle that danced through the stillness like the chiming of delicate bells.

Aurelis turned, his gaze meeting hers. She was as she always appeared—ethereal, otherworldly, her blue hair cascading like a river of starlight, her alabaster skin untouched by the wear of time. But it was her eyes that held him captive. They shimmered like the heavens themselves, a constellation of stars suspended in the infinite void of space.

He had always loved the stars. No matter the chaos of the lands, no matter the blood spilled or the kingdoms toppled, the stars remained constant. Perfect creations, untainted by the folly of mortals. Beneath their vast expanse, one could find solace, a reminder of a world untouched by the corruption of ambition.

“Ranni,” he began, his voice steady yet tinged with a rare vulnerability. She tilted her head ever so slightly, drawing her full attention to him.

“Thou callest my name with such weight. What dost thou ponder, tarnished one?” she asked, her fingers brushing her lips in a thoughtful gesture.

He hesitated, as though the act of speaking would make his resolve irrevocable. Then, with a deep breath, he met her gaze, unflinching. “I have decided upon a goal.”

Ranni’s brow arched, curiosity lighting her features. “Oh? A rare event, indeed. And what, pray tell, hath thou resolved?”

Aurelis stepped closer, the words spilling forth from his heart with a sincerity that startled even himself. “I wish to be by thy side in thy time of need. To aid thee in thy quest and to serve thee, unwavering and true.”

Ranni’s eyes widened, the stars within them seeming to burn brighter for a fleeting moment. Her usual composure faltered, a faint blush gracing her pale cheeks. She looked away briefly, her hand rising to adjust her hat in a rare display of self-consciousness.

“Thou dost speak such weighty words, Aurelis,” she murmured, her voice softer now, tinged with something unspoken. “Art thou certain of this path? To bind thy fate to mine is no trivial matter.”

“I am certain,” Aurelis said, his tone resolute. “Thou hast given me purpose where there was none. Thy vision, thy strength—it is a light in a world of shadow. I would see it through to its end, whatever that end may be.”

Ranni turned back to him, her gaze searching his as though seeking to uncover the depths of his conviction. Finally, a small, genuine smile graced her lips, rare and radiant. “Then so be it. If thou art steadfast, I welcome thy loyalty, Aurelis. Together, we shall weave a path through the stars themselves.”

The night around them seemed to shimmer, the stars bearing silent witness to their pact. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Aurelis felt the faint stirrings of something beyond anger and sorrow—hope.

Ranni shifted slightly, the faint glow of the moonlight tracing the contours of her ethereal form. Her voice, steady yet laced with a quiet determination, broke the stillness. “Aurelis, allow me to inform thee of my goal,” she said, her words deliberate, each syllable carrying the weight of her intent.

Aurelis straightened, his attention fully captured by her tone. Her enigmatic presence was as compelling as ever, a force that demanded reverence. “Speak, Ranni. I am thy servant, bound by thy will,” he replied, his voice low yet resolute, as though he stood before a sovereign.

Ranni’s gaze lifted toward the heavens, her star-filled eyes reflecting the vast tapestry of the night sky. “Long hath I walked this path, Aurelis, and yet, my purpose hath never faltered. I seek to sever the ties that bind us to the Greater Will,” she began, her voice firm but mournful, a hint of sorrow weaving through her words.

“The stars, Aurelis… they are my kin, my home. Yet they are shackled, their fates dictated by a force that sees us all as mere pieces upon its board. I shall not abide such a fate.” She turned her gaze to him, her expression unwavering. “I seek a new order, free from the tyranny of the Greater Will. To carve a path where we may guide our own destinies, untethered and true.”

Aurelis felt a cold wind brush against his skin as her words settled upon him, heavy and profound. He had heard whispers of rebellion against the Greater Will before, but never had it been uttered with such conviction, such clarity of purpose.

“It is a bold goal,” Aurelis replied, his voice steady, though his thoughts swirled like a tempest. “To defy the Greater Will is to defy the very foundation of the Lands Between. Many would call it folly.”

Ranni’s lips curved into the faintest smile, a trace of defiance glimmering in her expression. “Folly, perhaps, to those who dare not dream beyond their chains. But I am no mere pawn, Aurelis. I am Ranni the Witch, and I shall not be bound by the decrees of an unseen hand.”

Her gaze softened, and she stepped closer to him, her voice lowering to a near whisper. “Thou hast offered thy blade to my cause. Know this, Aurelis: the path I tread is fraught with peril and uncertainty. Yet, it is a path I must walk. Wilt thou remain steadfast by my side, even should the stars themselves turn against us?”

Aurelis did not hesitate. He met her gaze, his own resolve as firm as the blade at his side. “I am with thee, Ranni. Thy cause is mine. No force, mortal or divine, shall break my loyalty.”

For a moment, there was silence between them, the weight of their pact unspoken yet deeply felt. Then Ranni turned her gaze back to the stars, her expression one of quiet determination.

“Then together, Aurelis, we shall shape a new destiny. For the stars, and for ourselves.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dawn painted the horizon with hues of gold and crimson as Aurelis and Ranni prepared to depart the bustling village. The once desolate encampment had transformed in just a handful of days, a testament to the miners’ resolve and the unyielding fire kindled within their hearts.

At the village’s edge, nearly every inhabitant had gathered to bid farewell to the tarnished and the lunar witch. Men, women, and even the children who had once known only the suffocating darkness of the mines stood in solemn gratitude. Their faces bore a mix of admiration and sorrow, for while their benefactors departed, the memory of their deeds would forever linger in the very stones of the village.

Kynval stepped forward, his posture proud yet reverent. “Thou hast given us a life anew, Aurelis. Words cannot suffice, yet know this: thy deeds shall not be forgotten. If ever thou art in need, this village stands ready to aid thee.”

The crowd murmured their agreement, a wave of heartfelt gratitude rippling through their ranks. Rorick, the master builder, clasped his calloused hands together. “Thanks to thee, the foundation of our lives hath been laid. With these hands, I shall build a legacy worthy of thy kindness.”

Kalé emerged from the crowd, his partisan resting over his shoulder, the gleam in his eyes betraying his pride. “The guardsmen are green, aye, but they’ve the spark of warriors. Should trouble find this place, it will not go unanswered.” He gave Aurelis a knowing grin. “Thou shouldst be proud, master. Thy name shall echo here for generations.”

Aurelis glanced back at the village, his expression contemplative. The structures, though incomplete, stood resilient against the morning light. It was a testament to human determination, a beacon of hope amidst the desolation of the Lands Between. Pride swelled in his chest, though he suppressed the urge to linger in sentimentality.

“Thy words are kind, Kynval, Rorick, Kalé,” Aurelis replied, his voice steady yet soft. “But the true strength lies within thee all. It is not by my hand alone that this place thrives. Guard it well, and may it flourish.”

Ranni, her ethereal presence glowing faintly in the dawn, stepped forward. Her voice, melodic and commanding, carried over the gathered crowd. “Ye hath proven thy mettle, mortals, in the face of adversity. Remember this triumph, for it is but the beginning. Should fate entwine our paths once more, I would see what further greatness ye might achieve.”

The miners erupted in cheers, their voices a harmonious roar of gratitude and determination. Aurelis and Ranni exchanged a glance, unspoken understanding passing between them. With a final nod to the villagers, Aurelis climbed atop Torrent, his steadfast steed, while Ranni floated gracefully beside him.

As they passed through the village gates, Aurelis allowed himself a fleeting smile. “Four days, and yet they’ve built a haven. Truly remarkable.”

“Indeed,” Ranni replied, her gaze lingering on the receding village. “Thy guidance hath sparked a fire within them, Aurelis. A rare gift, to inspire such hope in these darkened lands.”

Aurelis nodded, his expression firm. “They’ve given me hope as well. Perhaps this world is not so lost as it seems.”

And with that, they turned their focus forward, the looming silhouette of the castle growing ever larger on the horizon. The path ahead was fraught with danger, yet the embers of resolve burned brightly within them both. 

Through the pale morning mist, Aurelis and Ranni rode with purpose, the rhythmic clatter of Torrent’s hooves echoing against the ancient stone of a massive archway that loomed before them. Its grandeur, carved by hands long forgotten, was both awe-inspiring and foreboding—a gateway to the dominion of the grafted tyrant. Beyond its shadow lay the first obstacle: a force of Godrick’s soldiers, their polished armor catching the faint light of the rising sun.

Aurelis dismounted, his movements deliberate and calm. He stepped forward, unsheathing Moonveil, the katana’s edge shimmering with faint moonlight. The soldiers, emboldened by the troll that towered over them, rallied and charged as one. Yet their efforts were in vain.

Aurelis moved like a specter, his strikes swift and merciless. Moonveil sang through the air, leaving trails of shimmering light that cleaved through steel and flesh alike. The troll, wielding a great club, roared and swung with terrifying might, but Aurelis sidestepped with ease, countering with a precise upward slash that toppled the beast in a single, radiant stroke.

The battlefield was silent in moments, the soldiers’ cries extinguished as quickly as they had risen. Aurelis flicked the blood from his blade and sheathed it with practiced precision, turning to Ranni, who observed with serene detachment. “They grow bold,” she mused, her voice lilting. “Yet it matters not. Thy resolve, Aurelis, is steadfast.”

He nodded, mounting Torrent once more. “Let us continue. Godrick’s reach cannot extend much further.”

The path to Stormveil Castle was a gauntlet of scattered resistance. Small detachments of soldiers, accompanied by snarling wolves, emerged from the underbrush and rocky outcrops. Yet, none posed a true threat. Aurelis cut through them with precision, his movements a dance of lethality, while Ranni’s watchful gaze ensured no ambush would catch them unawares.

The ascent was steep, the trail winding ever upward. Hours passed, the sun climbing higher into the sky. Finally, they reached the crest of the hill, the massive gates of Godrick’s castle looming before them like the maw of a great beast. Reinforcements lined the trail leading to the entrance, but their numbers were sparse—mere remnants of a once-mighty force.

Aurelis dismounted and approached the gates with the same unyielding determination as before. He made short work of the defenders, their weapons and shields splintering beneath the unrelenting power of Moonveil’s magic. The gates creaked open, revealing the darkened tunnel that marked the entrance to Stormveil.

The path to Stormveil Castle was a gauntlet of scattered resistance. Small detachments of soldiers, accompanied by snarling wolves, emerged from the underbrush and rocky outcrops. Yet, none posed a true threat. Aurelis cut through them with precision, his movements a dance of lethality, while Ranni’s watchful gaze ensured no ambush would catch them unawares.

The ascent was steep, the trail winding ever upward. Hours passed, the sun climbing higher into the sky. Finally, they reached the crest of the hill, the massive gates of Godrick’s castle looming before them like the maw of a great beast. Reinforcements lined the trail leading to the entrance, but their numbers were sparse—mere remnants of a once-mighty force.

Aurelis dismounted and approached the gates with the same unyielding determination as before. He made short work of the defenders, their weapons and shields splintering beneath the unrelenting power of Moonveil’s magic. The gates creaked open, revealing the darkened tunnel that marked the entrance to Stormveil.

The tunnel’s dark embrace ended as Aurelis stepped into the open air, the cool breeze brushing against his skin. It felt… strange. The usual din of soldiers, the growls of beasts, even the faint sounds of distant reinforcements—none were present. Before him lay a wide, crumbling bridge, its stones weathered by the passage of time. Weapons and armor lay scattered along its edges, forming a crude barricade that hinted at an impending threat.

Aurelis moved cautiously, his boots echoing against the ancient stone. His grip tightened on Moonveil’s hilt as he scanned the horizon. The path ahead led to Stormveil’s towering gates, yet an oppressive silence hung over the scene.

Then, it came—a voice, deep and resonant, cutting through the stillness.

“Foul Tarnished, in search of the Elden Ring. Emboldened by the flame of ambition.”

Aurelis froze, his eyes darting toward a towering spire near the bridge’s edge. A shadowed figure stood atop it, cloaked in ragged garb that clung to a body marked by grotesque horns.

“Someone must extinguish thy flame. Let it be Margit the Fell!”

The figure leaped from the tower with a sudden, terrifying grace. The air seemed to shudder as he landed, his staff slamming into the stone bridge with enough force to send a tremor through Aurelis’s feet. The figure rose, his twisted features illuminated by the faint morning light. Horns jutted from his forehead, curling like a crown of malice, and his cloak billowed as if caught in an unseen storm.

Aurelis readied himself, lowering into a defensive stance. Beside him, Ranni began to speak, but Margit moved faster than the words could form, lunging with a speed that belied his size.

Aurelis dodged to the side as Margit’s staff struck the ground, shattering stone and sending fragments flying. Ranni dissolved into mist, avoiding the debris as Margit spun with relentless fury, his staff whistling through the air. Aurelis parried the blow with Moonveil, but the sheer force of the strike sent him sliding back, his heels scraping against the bridge’s edge.

Margit pressed the attack, summoning twin spectral daggers that gleamed with golden light. He hurled them in quick succession, their speed forcing Aurelis into a desperate roll to avoid being skewered. Rising to his feet, Aurelis found himself on the defensive, barely keeping pace with Margit’s unrelenting assault.

The Fell Omen fought with a ferocity unlike anything Aurelis had faced before. His movements were wild yet calculated, each swing of his staff carrying a brutal weight. Memories of past battles—against the grafted monstrosity, against the fiery wyrm—flooded Aurelis’s mind, but none compared to the raw aggression of Margit.

Yet, amidst the chaos, an idea sparked. The bell.

Aurelis reached for it, fumbling at his side, but Margit’s sharp instincts read his intentions. With a guttural snarl, he lunged forward, forcing Aurelis to abandon his plan and focus on survival. Margit’s staff came crashing down, missing Aurelis by inches as he sidestepped and retaliated with a swift slash from Moonveil.

The katana sang with power, its arc leaving streaks of radiant light in the air. Margit recoiled slightly, the strikes carving shallow wounds into his flesh. Seizing the moment, Aurelis unleashed a flurry of blows, each strike pushing Margit further back. The blade’s magic drained him, his strength ebbing with each swing, but he refused to falter.

Margit, however, was far from beaten. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned another spectral dagger and hurled it with precision. The blade found its mark, embedding itself into Aurelis’s arm. Blood seeped from the wound, but Aurelis gritted his teeth and pressed on.

Drawing upon the magic Ranni and Kalé had taught him, Aurelis infused Moonveil with even greater power. The katana’s glow intensified, its strikes now trailing with bursts of energy that seared Margit’s flesh. The Fell Omen staggered, his movements slowing as Aurelis pushed him to his limits.

But then, Margit straightened, his form radiating an aura of malevolence.

“Well, thou art of passing skill. Warrior blood must truly run in thy veins, Tarnished.”

His voice dripped with mockery as he leaped into the air, summoning a massive hammer of golden light. The weapon’s weight bore down upon Aurelis, its impact sending him crashing to the ground. His bones fractured beneath the force.

Aurelis struggled to rise, but Margit gave him no reprieve. The hammer came down again, slamming into his chest and forcing a spray of blood from his lips. His vision blurred, the edges darkening as Margit loomed over him.

“I shall remember thee, Tarnished. Smouldering with thy meagre flame.”

The world seemed to slow, the weight of defeat pressing down on Aurelis. Yet, even as the edges of consciousness began to fray, a fire burned within him. This could not be the end.

No, he would not lose.

Not here. Not now.

The flame of his ambition surged, defying the darkness that threatened to consume him. This battle was not over.

Chapter Text

Aurelis lay broken upon the stone, his body crushed beneath the weight of Margit’s wrath. The jagged winds of the precipice swept across his battered form, chilling his wounds as though the very air sought to claim him. Pain roared in his veins, a symphony of anguish that sought to drown his will that he himself was deaf to. Yet, he refused to succumb. What was he to do? Cry for mercy? Beg for deliverance? Nay, such weakness was anathema to his spirit. He was no craven wretch, to grovel before fate. But what then? His thoughts churned like a tempest, seeking an answer amidst the storm of despair.

A flicker of hope emerged—a memory of salvation clasped at his side. His flask. The blessed vessel of crimson life. He had not called upon its succor in this harrowing encounter, for his pride had deemed it unnecessary. Now, pride was a folly he could ill afford. His battered arm trembled as he willed it to move, the shattered bones within grinding like millstones. He gritted his teeth, stifling a cry that clawed at his throat. Slowly, agonizingly, his fingers brushed the flask’s surface, the cool metal an anchor amidst the chaos.

The effort to lift it was Herculean, each motion a defiance of his broken state. Margit stood nearby, the specter of death looming over him, yet seemingly content to watch the Tarnished’s struggle. A cruel smirk twisted Margit’s horned visage, as if savoring Aurelis’s futile defiance. Let him mock, Aurelis thought. So long as I endure, I remain unbroken.

With a final surge of strength, Aurelis brought the flask to his lips. The stopper was pulled free, releasing a faint glow from within, like the first rays of dawn piercing a stormy sky. The viscous liquid within shimmered as it poured forth, spilling onto his parched lips and battered face. Some of the restorative ichor missed its mark, trickling down his chin and onto the blood-stained stone. Yet even this meager draught was a balm against the storm raging in his flesh.

The warmth of the crimson essence seeped into him, knitting torn sinews and mending fractured bone. A shiver coursed through his body as the vitality of the Elden Ring’s grace surged within him, driving back the shadow of death that had loomed so near. The agony that had once screamed in his mind dulled to a manageable ache, though the wounds remained fresh reminders of Margit’s might.

He did not rise immediately, for the battle had exacted a heavy toll. Instead, he closed his eyes for but a moment, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as it began to regain its strength. His breath came ragged and slow, each exhalation misting in the cold morning air. He could feel Ranni’s presence lingering somewhere beyond the mist, a spectral observer in his trial. Though she remained hidden, he knew her gaze was fixed upon him. To falter now would invite not only his doom but hers as well.

Aurelis opened his eyes, their gleam now sharper, a pale azure fire that burned with renewed purpose. His hand clenched the hilt of Moonveil as he pushed himself upright, the sword’s faint glow a testament to his unyielding spirit. Margit tilted his head, his amusement shifting to curiosity—or perhaps disdain.

“Thou clingest to life like a worm to the earth,” Margit growled, his voice a rumble of disdain that echoed across the stone bridge. “But thy struggle is futile. Thy flame is but a guttering spark.”

Aurelis met the fell omen’s gaze, his voice steady despite the lingering pain. “A spark may yet ignite a wildfire, Margit. You shall see.”

He stood now, battered yet unbowed, the flask’s grace coursing through his veins. The winds of the bridge howled as if heralding the continuation of their clash. Margit hefted his spectral hammer, his massive form a looming shadow against the rising sun. Aurelis raised Moonveil, its edge gleaming like the blade of a crescent moon. The battle was not over. The Tarnished yet endured, and with him, the hope of victory.

Aurelis surged forward, his form a blur of speed, Moonveil gleaming in the dawning light like the crescent edge of a hunter’s moon. The air seemed to hum with its motion, each swing of the blade ricocheting through the mist-shrouded battlefield. He moved with a relentless cadence, each step deliberate yet fluid, dancing into Margit’s space with precision and intent. His upward slash carved through the space between them, and for the first time, Margit faltered. The blade kissed his horned visage, leaving a faint line of etheric mist where the blow landed.

Margit staggered, his monstrous form retreating a step before the fell omen regained his footing. With a guttural roar, he raised his massive holy sword high, the blade shimmering with celestial light as it cleaved downward. The strike exploded against the ground with a thunderous shockwave, the force of it sending stone fragments hurtling through the air. Aurelis moved with an almost preternatural grace, vaulting upward as if the winds themselves lifted him. Moonveil arced in his hands, a crescent slash rending through the mist as it struck Margit’s shoulder, forcing another grimace from the beast.

“Thou foul Tarnished!” Margit roared, his voice reverberating with fury. His staff lashed out with deceptive speed, sweeping toward Aurelis. The Tarnished anticipated the strike and sidestepped with ease. Yet Margit’s cunning was revealed in the feint, as his holy hammer materialized in an instant. The weapon struck with a deafening crash, catching Aurelis mid-step and hurling him toward the precipice. His form tumbled through the air, but instinct prevailed. His hand latched onto one of the many weathered poles lining the bridge, halting his descent with a bone-jarring jolt.

With a mighty pull, Aurelis propelled himself skyward, channeling his dwindling reserves of magic into Moonveil’s blade. It shone with an ethereal brilliance as a crescent slash of pure energy hurtled toward Margit. The fell omen’s eyes narrowed, and with a practiced motion, he conjured two holy knives in his hands, casting them forth with unerring precision. The knives intercepted the arcane projectile, their radiant collision illuminating the battlefield in a brief flash.

The two warriors charged forward once more, headlong into the fray. Their weapons clashed with a resounding cacophony, Moonveil’s azure light colliding against Margit’s spectral armaments in a relentless storm of sparks and flame. Each strike was parried, each thrust countered, their duel a brutal ballet of skill and endurance. Time seemed to stretch, the minutes flowing like rivers of molten lead as the combatants remained locked in an unyielding stalemate.

Aurelis’s breath came ragged and labored, his form battered and bruised, each movement a testament to his willpower. The wounds he bore seeped crimson into his garments, his strength waning with each passing moment. Yet his eyes blazed with determination, refusing to bow to the inevitability of defeat.

Margit, too, began to falter. His monstrous frame betrayed signs of weariness, his strikes losing their once-overwhelming ferocity. His breaths came in guttural gasps, the weight of their prolonged battle evident in his movements.

Both warriors stood on the knife’s edge of exhaustion, yet neither yielded. The air between them crackled with unspoken defiance, their mutual resolve a force as tangible as the weapons they wielded. The bridge, once silent and foreboding, now bore witness to a clash of titans, each determined to outlast the other in this grueling dance of death.

Both warriors stood poised, their breaths heavy with the weight of exhaustion, yet neither willing to yield. Each knew the brutal truth: only one would leave this bridge alive. And Aurelis? He would ensure it was himself. No matter the cost.

With unrelenting resolve, Aurelis surged forward, Moonveil blazing in his grasp. His movements were calculated, precise. Margit rushed to meet him, their weapons colliding in a deafening clash. This time, Aurelis stepped in closer, disrupting Margit’s balance. The fell omen snarled, summoning a spectral dagger in a desperate attempt to counter. Yet Aurelis, with unmatched reflexes, parried the strike at the last moment. The force of the deflection sent Margit’s arm flailing upward, leaving his chest exposed.

Without hesitation, Aurelis seized the opening, driving Moonveil deep into Margit’s torso. The blade shimmered with an azure brilliance as it pierced through flesh and bone, delivering a devastating blow. Margit roared in agony, blood spewing from his mouth and chest as the ethereal energy coursed through his form. Yet the fell omen’s resolve did not waver. Even in such dire straits, he persisted.

Margit grasped Aurelis with his monstrous hands and hurled him to the ground with earth-shattering force. The impact jarred Aurelis, his vision momentarily blurred. Margit raised his staff high, its spectral glow pulsing with lethal intent, and thrust it downward. Aurelis, summoning every ounce of strength, rolled to the side just in time, the weapon narrowly missing his prone form and embedding itself into the stone.

Springing to his feet, Aurelis retaliated with a swift slash to Margit’s leg. The blade cut deep, staggering the fell omen. But Margit, ever resourceful, launched himself into the air with his massive hammer poised for a crushing blow. The weapon gleamed with holy light as he descended, his strike aimed to obliterate.

Aurelis, however, had a plan. Channeling a trick Ranni had taught him, he whispered an incantation under his breath. Margit’s hammer collided with the ground, the impact so immense that it sent shockwaves through the bridge, shattering nearby stone and kicking up a dense cloud of dust. Margit growled, his vision obscured by the haze. He snarled at the sudden flash of movement—a glintstone missile darting through the air. He dodged the first projectile, then the second, his instincts sharp despite the chaos.

But it was the third strike he failed to anticipate. A glintstone slash, fast as a falling star, materialized through the dust. Margit saw the glow but could not react in time. The slash severed his right hand cleanly, the spectral limb falling to the ground with a sickening thud. Margit howled in pain, his massive frame buckling under the weight of his injuries. He dropped to one knee, his breaths ragged, blood pooling beneath him.

“Tarnished,” Margit rasped, his voice strained yet defiant. “I am impressed. But thou hast not succeeded yet. Any last wishes before thy demise?” He raised his staff to his brow in a final act of defiance.

Aurelis, steadying himself, fixed his gaze upon the fallen omen. His voice was calm, resolute. “Yes, I do.” He raised a hand to the sky. Margit’s eyes followed, narrowing in suspicion as he saw her—Ranni, the witch, floating above the battlefield. Her arms outstretched, she summoned a dark moon, its ominous glow cascading over the bridge.

The massive celestial body hurtled toward Margit, its force unstoppable. Margit’s expression shifted from defiance to shock as the moon collided with him, a devastating explosion engulfing his form. The fell omen roared in pain, his body battered by the witch’s overwhelming sorcery. He staggered, disoriented and vulnerable.

Aurelis saw his chance. With a battle cry that echoed through the air, he leaped high into the sky, Moonveil raised above his head. The blade glimmered with an ethereal light as he descended, delivering the final, decisive blow. The strike cleaved through Margit’s form, bisecting him cleanly.

The battlefield fell silent. Margit’s body began to disintegrate into golden motes, his essence fading into the air. As he knelt in defeat, he uttered his final words, his voice tinged with both bitterness and admiration. “I shall remember thee, Tarnished. Smouldering with thy meagre flame.” And with that, Margit the Fell was no more.

Aurelis stood amidst the remnants of the battle, his chest heaving as he steadied Moonveil. The bridge, now eerily quiet, bore witness to his triumph, the morning light breaking through the dissipating dust and smoke.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aurelis’s body swayed, his knees buckling beneath him. The battle had pushed him beyond his limits, his stamina depleted, and his mind clouded by fatigue. He staggered, each breath a laborious effort, before finally collapsing onto the cold, battered stone of the bridge. The aftermath of Margit’s relentless onslaught left him drained, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to feel.

And then, from the void between moments, a luminous azure glow began to manifest nearby. The comforting radiance of a Grace shimmered into existence, its ethereal tendrils reaching out like a mother’s embrace. Aurelis exhaled a breath of profound relief. In all his years, endless and burdensome, he had never been more grateful for the sight of a Grace. Slowly, he dragged himself toward it, collapsing at its base as its restorative energy began to seep into his weary form.

Moments later, a sudden weight bore down upon him as a familiar voice cried out, trembling with worry. “Aurelis! Art thou well?” Ranni had materialized beside him, her delicate arms encircling him tightly as though to anchor him to the realm of the living. Her voice, usually cool and measured, carried an unmistakable quiver of fear. “Thou hadst me stricken with dread! What manner of reckless folly dost thou call bravery?” She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, as though to convince herself he was truly there.

Her hands fluttered over his frame, searching for wounds with the precision of a healer. Yet, her ministrations paused when she noticed the Grace’s work upon his body. The deep lacerations and broken bones were knitting themselves together, golden light threading through flesh and bone alike.

“I am fine, Ranni,” Aurelis murmured, though his voice was hoarse and weary. He managed a faint smile, his eyes heavy-lidded but sincere.

But Ranni pulled back abruptly, her starry gaze fixed upon his face, her expression sharp with reproach. “Nay, thou art not! Thy recklessness could well have brought thy doom! Didst thou think thy life a trifle to be wagered so carelessly? Foolish Tarnished…” Her voice broke slightly, and she looked away, biting her lip in frustration.

Despite her scolding, Aurelis’s smile only deepened. “Thank you,” he said softly, “for worrying over me.”

She blinked, her indignant expression softening, though she still looked away. “Tis only natural,” she murmured. “Thou art important to mine endeavors… and perhaps to me, as well.”

After a brief silence, Aurelis’s brow furrowed as a memory surfaced, something that had nagged at him since the battle’s outset. “Ranni,” he began, his tone curious yet serious, “when Margit first appeared, thou seemed startled—caught unawares. Thou wert about to tell me something ere the battle began. What was it?”

The witch stiffened, her ethereal form flickering faintly as though with unease. She hesitated, the pause heavy with the weight of her thoughts. Finally, she met his gaze, her sapphire eyes somber.

“Thou hast a sharp mind, Aurelis,” she admitted with a sigh. “Very well. Hearken closely. The foe thou didst face—Margit the Fell—was not what he seemed. That being was no mere servant of Godrick, no lowly guard set to bar thy path. Nay, Margit was but an echo, a projection conjured from afar. His true essence lies elsewhere, tethered to a far greater force.”

Aurelis’s eyes widened, though he said nothing, allowing her to continue.

“Margit is the astral projection of Morgott, the Veiled Monarch—the twin son of the first Elden Lord, Godfrey, and Queen Marika. He is a being of immense strength, a demigod bound by duty to the Erdtree. This form thou hast bested was but a fragment of his will, sent forth to test thee and to thwart thy ambitions.”

Aurelis clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. “So then… I did not truly slay him? He lives still?”

Ranni inclined her head, her expression unreadable. “Indeed. Morgott yet endures, his will unbroken. And shouldst thou continue upon this path, thou shalt meet him again, in his full and unbridled might.”

Aurelis exhaled sharply, his grip on Moonveil tightening. “Then I must prepare,” he said resolutely. “If this battle was but a prelude, I shall hone my blade and my strength alike for what lies ahead. Next time, I shall finish what I began.”

Ranni’s gaze softened as she reached out, her slender fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “Take heed, Aurelis. Morgott is no ordinary foe. He fights not for glory nor ambition, but for a cause he deems righteous. To him, thou art a blasphemer, unworthy of the Lands Between. His resolve is born of faith unyielding.”

Aurelis looked up at her, his ice-blue eyes glinting with determination. “Faith unyielding? Then I shall meet his faith with my own. I have endured too much, fought too long, to be stopped now. If Morgott seeks to challenge me again, I shall face him with no hesitation.”

Ranni studied him for a moment before nodding, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Very well. Thou art stubborn as the stars are eternal. Rest now, Aurelis. Gather thy strength. The trials ahead will demand more of thee than ever before.”

As the warmth of the Grace continued to mend his wounds, Aurelis closed his eyes, letting the tension drain from his body. The runes he had gained from Margit’s defeat surged within him, strengthening his resolve as much as his body. The road ahead would be perilous, but Aurelis would be ready. For no matter what trials awaited, he would carve his destiny into the annals of the Lands Between.

Chapter Text

Aurelis stood before the towering gates of Stormveil Castle, their immense form looming over him like an iron sentinel of forgotten wars. The gate was an imposing structure, nearly thirty feet in height, its darkened metal marred with the scars of countless sieges. Time and battle had not been kind to it, yet it remained steadfast—a final, unyielding barrier between him and the abomination that ruled within. His keen eyes traced the intricate filigree of rust and decay, seeking a means of ingress.

He moved with careful deliberation, his gloved hand running along the cold iron, searching for the telltale mechanism that might grant him passage. And then—

A hushed whisper slithered through the stagnant air. “Psst…”

Aurelis’s body tensed, his instincts flaring to life. In an instant, Moonveil was unsheathed, its edge gleaming with an ethereal glow as he turned toward the source of the sound. Cautiously, he advanced, his footsteps silent as he approached the small opening nestled within the left wall of the gate. The darkness within beckoned ominously, and with a measured breath, Aurelis peered inside.

His gaze settled upon a hunched figure lurking in the farthest corner of the dimly lit chamber. The man—if he could even be called such—was lanky, his frail form draped in tattered garments that barely clung to his bony frame. His features were gaunt, almost skeletal, with sunken eyes that gleamed with an unsettling glint. He stood there, half-shrouded in shadow, his fingers twitching anxiously at his sides.

“I wish you no harm…” the figure croaked, his voice rasping like dry parchment.

Aurelis, ever wary, stepped further into the room, his blade held steady at his side. He offered no words at first, merely a silent gesture urging the man to speak further.

“You’re Tarnished, aren’t you?” the stranger continued, his lips curling into a sly grin. “I would advise against taking the main gate into the castle. It’s… well-guarded. Hardened old hands, eager to spill fresh blood. But…” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his bony finger pointing toward a narrow passage carved into the wall. “Try the opening right here. The guards—they don’t know about it. You’ll breach the castle undetected.”

Aurelis’s eyes flicked to the indicated opening, scrutinizing it with a calculating gaze. A possible route, perhaps, but a suggestion too freely given. Slowly, he turned his attention back to the man. His stance remained firm, and with a steady hand, he slid Moonveil back into its sheath with a deliberate motion.

“Who art thou?” Aurelis’s voice was low, his tone carrying the weight of suspicion. His hand, though eased, never strayed far from the hilt.

The man gave a lopsided bow, his skeletal fingers writhing in excitement. “I am the gatekeeper of Stormveil—Gostoc, at your service.” His grin widened, but there was a hollowness to it, a whisper of deceit lurking beneath the surface.

Aurelis narrowed his gaze. “And why dost thou offer me such counsel? What motive drives a gatekeeper to betray his master?”

Gostoc’s grin faltered for the briefest of moments, his expression twisting into something darker. “I wish to see Godrick… decapitated.” His voice dripped with venom, hatred radiating from every syllable. “The Grafted Lord has had his day… and it’s time he met his end.”

Aurelis studied him intently, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across his face. “Is that so?” His voice was even, but his eyes burned with a quiet fury. “Then I shall grant thy wish.”

With that, Aurelis turned, his resolve unwavering. The fire within him burned brighter still—a flame that yearned to consume the wretched demigod who defiled life itself. He stepped through the narrow passage, his every movement purposeful, and soon found himself perched upon a ledge overlooking a pathway deeper into the castle’s underbelly.

He seated himself briefly, his eyes scanning the distant walls, and spoke in a hushed whisper. “Ranni,” he murmured, “dost thou trust him?”

A shimmer of azure dust swirled beside him, and from its midst emerged the spectral form of Ranni, her ethereal gaze contemplative. “Hmm… ’tis difficult to say,” she mused, her delicate fingers tapping thoughtfully against her arm.

Aurelis furrowed his brow. “What dost thou mean?”

Ranni’s lips curved in the faintest of smirks, though her eyes held a glint of concern. “Gostoc spoke truth when he claimed to desire Godrick’s fall. Hatred festers within him, that much is clear. But his desires are not so simple… nay, there is more he covets, hidden behind that craven guise of his.”

Aurelis exhaled sharply, his suspicion confirmed. “Then he bears watching.”

Ranni nodded, her form beginning to dissolve into mist once more. “Indeed. Proceed with caution, Aurelis. I shall keep watch from the shadows.”

With a final, knowing smile, she vanished into the wind, leaving Aurelis alone with his thoughts.

He cast a final glance toward the distant castle walls, determination steeling his heart. “Godrick,” he whispered to himself, “thy days are numbered.”

With that, he rose to his feet and pressed forward into the depths of Stormveil, the fire within him stoked to an infernal blaze.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aurelis pressed onward, a heavy weariness settling in his chest. The prospect of betrayal gnawed at his soul, an affliction more grievous than any wound. He could not fathom it—why men, bound by the same mortal coil, would conspire to undo one another. Such treachery soured his mood, and so he cast the thoughts aside, focusing instead on the path before him.

The castle loomed in silent defiance, its weathered stone walls whispering of countless sieges and deaths long past. Before him stretched a treacherous descent, where the path fell away into the gloom below. There, within the murk, Aurelis beheld twisted creatures—foul birdlike abominations with talons like sharpened spears, their malformed wings twitching with predatory anticipation.

Their kind was swift, ravenous. But they were no match for him. As they lunged, screeching through the mist, Aurelis moved with fluid precision. Moonveil sang in the darkness, cutting swift and clean through their sinew and bone. The creatures fell one by one, their bodies writhing in death upon the cold stone. Five of them, dispatched in the blink of an eye, and still he pressed on, unrelenting.

Soon, he came upon a narrow stairway winding along the castle’s outer wall. The air here was thick with fog, rolling in waves from the abyss below. Perched upon the upper ledge, guards stood watch—vigilant sentinels of the grafted lord’s domain. One of them, Aurelis noted, bore a horn at his hip. A commander, no doubt.

Silence was paramount. Drawing a throwing knife from his belt, Aurelis weighed it carefully in his palm. With a flick of his wrist, the blade whispered through the air, burying itself deep in the commander’s throat. A strangled gurgle escaped his lips before his lifeless body toppled into the mist, swallowed by the abyss.

Aurelis wasted no time. With swift, decisive strokes, he dispatched the remaining sentries. Their bodies crumpled upon the wooden lookout, lifeblood seeping into the weathered planks.

Peering ahead, Aurelis saw more guards beyond the ledge—two soldiers in standard armor, flanking a group of men who bore an unsettling resemblance to Gostoc. The soldiers spotted him almost instantly, drawing their swords with a metallic hiss. One charged forward in reckless abandon, while the other sought to flank him.

Fools.

A single strike from Moonveil cleaved them both asunder, their bodies falling in pieces to the stone below. The wretched scavengers beyond screamed in terror, scrambling for the stairway in a desperate bid to escape. Aurelis gave them no such mercy. With a leap, he vaulted onto the elevated platform, his blade a whirlwind of death. One fell without a sound, his throat opened in a crimson arc.

The others barely had time to react before Aurelis extended his hand, conjuring a spectral blade of pure glintstone. With a flick of his wrist, he launched the shimmering construct, the arcane weapon piercing the remaining two through their hearts. They slumped to the ground, lifeless, as the blade dissipated into azure motes.

His path now clear, Aurelis turned his attention to the chamber before him. A set of stairs ascended to another level, but to his right lay a prison cell, its rusted bars barely holding firm against the weight of time. Within, he spied a ladder leading into the depths of the castle. A way forward, perhaps, but the cell was locked, and no key presented itself.

With a weary sigh, he pressed on.

The corridor beyond was dark, suffocatingly so, its air thick with the stench of damp stone and decay. Aurelis moved cautiously, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. It was then that he saw him—a lone soldier standing at the far end of the passage.

Aurelis advanced, but his stride was halted by an unsettling crunch beneath his boot. He glanced down, his expression hardening. Gunpowder.

A sudden spark ignited within the shadows. The soldier hurled a firebomb with grim intent, its deadly arc descending toward the explosive-laden floor. But Aurelis reacted with supernatural speed, his form vanishing from the blast’s range in an instant, as if the air itself carried him to safety.

“Bastards,” he muttered under his breath.

Before the soldier could hurl another, Aurelis surged forward, his blade finding purchase in the man’s neck. The body collapsed in a heap, and with it, the threat was extinguished.

Ascending the next flight of stairs, Aurelis found himself before a large door, its wooden surface worn yet sturdy. He reached for the handle and found it unbarred. With a careful push, he entered…

Only for the door to slam shut behind him with a resounding clang.

Aurelis had no time to curse his carelessness. A shadow moved in the darkness—swift and merciless. A Banished Knight emerged, blade in hand, swinging with a ferocity that would have sundered Aurelis in two had he been a lesser warrior. The blow glanced off his hurried parry, driving him back as the knight pressed his attack.

Desperation took hold. Aurelis’s hand darted to his belt, seizing his wand in a flash. Before the knight could strike again, a glintstone bullet erupted from its tip, crashing into the armored foe’s chest. The force of the impact staggered him, buying Aurelis the precious moment he needed.

With a final, decisive strike, Moonveil found its mark, slipping effortlessly through the narrow gaps in the knight’s tarnished armor. A sickening spray of blood and viscera splattered against the cold stone walls, and the once-formidable warrior crumpled to the ground with a lifeless thud. Silence fell upon the chamber, save for the ragged rhythm of Aurelis’s breath, the weight of battle settling heavy upon his shoulders. He had not expected such resistance within these walls, and yet the castle held its secrets jealously, ready to punish the unwary at every turn.

He took a moment to steady himself, eyes scanning the dimly lit room. The air was thick with the scent of rust and decay, the walls bearing the scars of countless struggles past. In the far corner, shrouded in a faint, flickering glow, stood an aged wooden chest, its iron fittings corroded with time. With cautious steps, Aurelis approached and lifted the lid, the hinges creaking in protest.

Within lay two objects of note—a rusted iron key, its surface marred by centuries of neglect, and an enigmatic talisman, its surface etched with arcane sigils. Aurelis furrowed his brow, lifting the talisman carefully. “Ranni,” he murmured, summoning his spectral companion.

A wisp of azure mist coalesced beside him, and from its depths, Ranni emerged, her ethereal form as graceful as ever. One of her delicate hands rested thoughtfully upon her chin, while the other three drifted idly at her sides. Her azure gaze lingered on the talisman before her lips curled into the faintest of smiles.

“Ah, an enchanted relic, fashioned with no small measure of skill,” she mused, her voice a gentle whisper against the stillness. “This talisman, Aurelis, strengthens thy counters against thine enemies, turning their ferocity to thy advantage.”

Aurelis turned the talisman over in his hands, tracing the intricate patterns. “A boon most welcome,” he remarked, fastening it securely to his belt. “Perchance it shall serve me well in the trials to come.”

As Ranni’s form began to dissolve back into mist, she cast him one final glance, her tone laced with soft admonition. “But do take greater care, my dear Tarnished. Thy recklessness may yet cost thee dearly.”

Aurelis offered a nod of understanding before turning his attention back to the chamber. He retraced his steps to the door that had once entrapped him, pushing it open with newfound resolve. Emerging onto the scaffolding, he gazed down upon the lower platform where the prison cell lay waiting. He descended swiftly, landing with practiced grace before inserting the rusted key into the ancient lock.

With a resounding click, the heavy bars creaked open, granting him passage to the ladder within. A silent prayer escaped his lips as he ascended, each rung groaning beneath his weight. The climb was brief, but it delivered him into an unfamiliar section of the castle—an area choked with thick, gnarled roots that twisted through the very stone itself.

Before him, several figures knelt in solemn reverence, their ragged breaths echoing faintly through the chamber. Clad in tattered robes, they bowed low before the encroaching roots, their murmured prayers lost to the void. Aurelis observed them in silence, the flickering torchlight casting eerie shadows across their hollowed faces.

Finding no reason to disturb their worship, he pressed onward, slipping past them with careful, measured steps. His path led him to a grand stone staircase, its surface worn smooth by countless feet. The stairway spiraled upward into the looming tower of Stormveil, its heights shrouded in an oppressive darkness.

Aurelis exhaled slowly, steeling himself for what lay ahead. The path to Godrick was long and fraught with peril, but his resolve burned ever brighter. With Ranni’s whispered caution lingering in his thoughts, he took the first step, ready to carve his fate from the stone of this accursed keep.

The spiraling stone staircase led Aurelis into a vast chamber where the remnants of a once-proud mechanism stood broken in the tower’s heart. A shattered elevator, its chains rusted and severed, loomed over the chamber like a fallen monument. Encircling its ruin was a lone Banished Knight, his armor tarnished yet still bearing the regalia of his fallen lord. Aurelis narrowed his eyes, weighing his options. The thought of engaging the knight crossed his mind—ending him swiftly with Moonveil’s edge—but time was not his ally. With silent precision, he slipped past the armored sentry, ascending the wooden staircase that creaked beneath his measured steps.

At the summit, he found himself within the castle’s inner sanctum—a room of unassuming appearance yet steeped in a familiar azure glow emanating from a chamber to his left. To his right stood another elevator, its mechanisms inert, the lever reduced to jagged fragments of metal and splintered wood. A resigned sigh escaped Aurelis’s lips as he turned toward the inviting luminescence of the Grace.

Collapsing by its ethereal warmth, he allowed himself a rare moment of respite, unpacking a meager portion of rations. The act felt hollow, a habit more than a necessity, for the accursed curse still robbed him of taste. The food was but sustenance, devoid of the comfort it once brought. As he mused over his predicament, a swirl of azure mist signaled Ranni’s arrival. She materialized gracefully beside him, reaching for a portion of the rations with an air of thoughtfulness.

“I have been pondering thy affliction, Aurelis,” she spoke, her ethereal form flickering in the dim glow of the Grace.

Aurelis raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Please, enlighten me.”

Ranni nodded, her many hands folding delicately across her form. “I believe that if thou dost experience one profound emotion—one great enough to shatter the dam within thy soul—then the rest may follow in turn.”

Aurelis considered her words, the weight of them settling in his mind like stones sinking into a pond. “A sound theory, Ranni. But how does one force an emotion long buried?”

“That, my dear Tarnished, is what I shall endeavor to uncover,” she replied, a knowing glint in her sapphire gaze.

He offered her a grateful nod. “Thank you, Ranni. For everything.”

With a faint smile, she began to dissipate into mist once more. “Fear not, Aurelis. The answers thou seek are not beyond our reach.”

Aurelis sat in silence for a moment, letting her words linger in the air before rising to his feet. With renewed determination, he strode to the chamber’s door and pushed it open, only to be met by a blinding surge of daylight. His eyes burned against the sudden exposure, forcing him to squint as he stepped onto the eastern wall of Stormveil Castle.

The wall stretched far into the distance, a formidable barrier against the ravages of time and war. Soldiers patrolled its length, but most took no notice of him. Those who did were swiftly and efficiently dispatched, their armor clattering lifelessly against the ancient stones.

However, it was not the foot soldiers that concerned Aurelis—it was the so-called ‘gargoyles,’ monstrous avian abominations he had encountered before. Creatures of sinew and steel, their talons honed to razor precision. A creeping unease settled over him as his instincts flared, warning him of unseen eyes lurking above.

Before he could fully react, a deafening screech split the air. Five of the winged horrors burst forth from the castle’s rafters, their bladed claws flashing in the sun’s glare. Aurelis barely ducked the first strike, a wicked talon grazing his cheek and drawing a thin line of crimson. Gritting his teeth, he retaliated in a fluid motion, hurling a dagger that found purchase in the beast’s gullet. With practiced ease, Moonveil sang through the air, severing the wings of another creature that lunged from his left.

But they were relentless. He rolled to the edge of the wall, slicing the third cleanly through the midsection. Before he could fully regain his footing, the remaining two creatures flanked him in unison, their sheer force sending him hurtling over the castle’s edge.

Wind howled past his ears as he plummeted, the world a blur of stone and sky. In a desperate bid for survival, Aurelis sheathed his blade and curled his body tightly, bracing for the inevitable impact. The stained glass of the church below rushed to meet him, shattering in a cascade of jagged fragments as he crashed through its roof.

Pain blossomed through his limbs, but he rolled instinctively, dispersing the force of the fall as best he could. Dust and debris clouded his vision, and for a moment, all was still. Slowly, Aurelis pushed himself to his feet, surveying the ruined interior of the church. Light poured in from the gaping hole above, illuminating the twisted pews and shattered icons within.

Coughing, he wiped the blood from his lip and muttered under his breath, “By the stars, that could have been worse…”

“Art thou well?!”

The voice rang through the dim chamber, tinged with urgency and concern. Aurelis, still reeling from his fall, shot to his feet in an instant, Moonveil drawn and glinting in the sparse candlelight. His blade was pressed to the throat of the figure before him—a man draped in a heavy brown robe, his wide-brimmed hat concealing much of his face. Hands raised in a placating gesture, the sorcerer stammered, his voice steady yet wary.

“I… I am Rogier,” he spoke, his tone gentle but firm. “I bear thee no ill intent, traveler. Lower thy blade, if thou wilt.”

Aurelis studied him with narrowed eyes, his breath ragged, his limbs aching from the unforgiving impact of his descent. A mortal man, by all accounts—soft of feature, lacking the predatory malice that lurked in every darkened corner of this accursed keep. With a weary sigh, Aurelis withdrew his blade, sheathing it with a swift motion. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him, and he sank onto one of the ancient pews, the wood groaning beneath his weight.

“Forgive me,” Aurelis muttered, rubbing his temples, “I did not expect to find one such as thee within these walls. This place offers naught but death.”

Rogier inclined his head, stepping forward cautiously. “Aye, death lingers here like a vulture, circling above carrion. But thou art wounded, and I may yet offer succor.”

Aurelis waved him off with a tired gesture. “There is no need—”

Before he could finish, Rogier raised his staff, murmuring a soft incantation beneath his breath. A golden light enveloped Aurelis, warmth flooding through his battered form, mending torn flesh and soothing bruised bones. He gasped, feeling strength return to his limbs, the dull ache of exhaustion fading to a distant throb.

Aurelis looked to Rogier, inclining his head in gratitude. “Thou hast my thanks, sorcerer.”

Rogier offered a modest smile, his eyes crinkling beneath the brim of his hat. “Think nothing of it. Pray, tell me thy name, traveler.”

“Aurelis,” he replied, resting his forearms upon his knees, his gaze distant. “And I seek the head of the so-called ‘Lord of Gold.’”

Rogier stiffened, his expression darkening. “Thou dost seek to challenge the Lord of this forsaken keep? A bold pursuit, one fraught with peril.”

Aurelis merely shrugged. “I have no choice.”

Rogier studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Then I shall wager that blade of thine will carry thee far. May fortune favor thy endeavor.”

Aurelis cast him a sidelong glance. “And thou, Rogier? What purpose hast thou in this place of ruin?”

The sorcerer hesitated, his gaze flickering to the grand altar at the head of the church. “I seek… answers. Something that lies buried beneath these stones, hidden from prying eyes.”

Aurelis nodded in understanding, rising to his feet with a grunt. “Then mayhap both our paths shall find their end within these walls.”

Rogier smiled faintly. “Let us hope they do not end in ruin.”

With a final nod, Aurelis strode from the church, the heavy door creaking shut behind him. The air outside was thick with the stench of decay and damp earth, the cries of carrion birds echoing in the distance. He moved forward, his gaze sweeping the ruined courtyard before him.

Slumped against the crumbling walls, figures reminiscent of Gostoc crouched in the filth, their gaunt faces streaked with tears. They whimpered and muttered to themselves, lost in their own misery. Aurelis regarded them with cold indifference, stepping past without so much as a glance. Their suffering was of their own making.

His focus shifted to the looming form of a Banished Knight patrolling the lower wall. Clad in tarnished armor, the knight moved with grim purpose, his eyes scanning the mist-choked ruins for signs of intrusion. Aurelis drew a deep breath, slipping into the shadows. The steel of his blade whispered free, and with a single, precise thrust, he pierced the chinks in the knight’s armor. The body crumpled soundlessly to the ground.

But the guard nearby had seen.

“Intruder!”

The cry rang out, and before the guard could react further, Aurelis was upon him. A single swift motion, and the man collapsed, his lifeblood staining the stones.

Moving onward, Aurelis navigated through the labyrinthine halls of the castle. He passed through vast dining chambers, the tables still laden with rotting remnants of past feasts. The flickering torchlight revealed remnants of life long forgotten—shattered goblets, torn banners, and discarded weapons, relics of an era now steeped in ruin. He moved with the grace of a shadow, dispatching lurking guards with silent efficiency.

At last, he descended into a grand kitchen, where two guards huddled by a pot, the scent of charred meat filling the air. Before they could react, Aurelis descended upon them like a specter, his blade flashing in the dim light. Blood splattered the stone floor as their bodies crumpled, their meal left unfinished.

Yet his journey did not end here. The dining hall beyond stretched vast and open, grand chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling, their candles sputtering weakly. And there, prowling amidst the wreckage, was a sight that made Aurelis’s breath hitch.

A Grafted Scion.

The grotesque abomination, a writhing mass of limbs and steel, patrolled the hall with dreadful purpose. Its many eyes twitched and scanned the area, its bladed appendages scraping against the stone with a shrill screech. Aurelis remained still, his heart hammering in his chest. He could not afford to engage it—not now. Moving with painstaking care, he slipped past the monstrosity, his breath held until he was clear.

Then, stepping beyond into the courtyard, his blood ran cold.

A sea of soldiers, arrayed in formation, shields raised and weapons drawn. Ballistae perched atop ramparts, their operators poised with deadly intent. Rain had left the earth slick beneath his feet, the scent of damp iron filling his lungs. A single guard spotted him, and in an instant, the alarm was raised.

“Intruder!”

A thunderous roar erupted from the soldiers, their ranks surging forward. Almost fifty men, their armor clattering like a chorus of war drums, converged upon Aurelis with lethal intent.

Aurelis tightened his grip on Moonveil, his eyes narrowing. This would be no mere skirmish.

This would be war.

Chapter Text

Aurelis’s breath came slow and steady, his grip tightening upon Moonveil’s hilt as the tide of steel and flesh closed in from all sides. The soldiers, clad in rusted mail and battered plate, moved with rigid discipline, their formation tightening like a noose around his lone figure. Yet they knew not the folly of their ambition.

From the left, a swordsman lunged, his blade arcing through the damp air. Aurelis twisted, stepping beyond the clumsy thrust, his katana whispering free. A single slash, elegant and precise, carved through flesh and bone alike. The soldier’s head separated from his shoulders, his lifeless body crumpling before the others had even registered their impending doom.

From the right, another sought vengeance, raising his axe in a desperate overhead strike. Too slow. Aurelis flowed like water, sidestepping with a dancer’s grace before carving his blade through the man’s midsection. The soldier gave a strangled gurgle as his torso split open, entrails spilling onto the rain-slicked stone. His brethren hesitated for but a moment—just long enough for Aurelis to dance through them, severing tendons, piercing hearts, turning men into corpses before they could even scream.

Yet his assault was brought to a sudden halt.

A shrill whistle tore through the air—a harbinger of death. Ballistae, perched upon the ramparts, loosed their monstrous bolts with unerring precision. The first sailed past his cheek, a whisper of death upon the wind. The second, however, he barely deflected, Moonveil’s steel ringing as it diverted the projectile’s course. But he was not fast enough to deflect them all.

blood flared in his shoulder as a bolt found purchase, punching through flesh and embedding itself deep. Aurelis ripped the iron shaft free, blood welling from the wound in thick rivulets. He had no time to tend to it—more were coming. Another volley shrieked through the air, and he was forced to abandon his offensive, twisting and rolling to evade the relentless storm of steel.

He sprinted to the left, his body moving before his mind could register the pain. Three torchbearers blocked his path, their trembling hands gripping rusted iron torches, flames casting flickering light upon their fear-stricken faces. They were weak, ill-trained. Easy prey.

Aurelis struck before they could even cry out.

The first fell with his throat carved open, choking on his own blood. The second collapsed as Moonveil’s edge found his ribs, the strike so clean that his upper torso slid from his lower half with a sickening squelch. The third tried to flee, but Aurelis ran him through from behind, the katana’s tip emerging from his chest, glistening crimson in the moonlight.

More came. Always more.

A battalion of foot soldiers, emboldened by sheer numbers, surged forth with a battle cry, their weapons raised. Fools. They misjudged their own worth, unaware that their souls had already been marked for death. Aurelis met them with the cold precision of a seasoned killer.

Steel clashed. Flesh parted.

A spear came for his heart—he parried, severing the wielder’s wrist before cleaving through his neck in one fluid motion. A halberd sought to split his skull, but he slipped beneath its arc, severing the attacker’s hamstrings before delivering a final, merciful thrust through the chest. Shields were no salvation—Moonveil sliced through wood and iron alike, turning armor into mere decoration upon the bodies of the fallen.

Yet in the thick of battle, in the rush of blood and steel, a silent menace had been watching.

Above, nestled within the crumbling heights of the courtyard, archers lurked in shadow, nocking arrows fletched with oil-drenched cloth. Fire danced upon their tips, eager to taste flesh. Aurelis, too focused on the immediate slaughter, failed to see them in time.

By the time he realized his folly, the first arrows were already in flight.

He twisted, dodging where he could, but they were many, and they were fast. The heat of the flames kissed his skin as shafts rained upon him like vengeful specters. He gritted his teeth—no more. He would not allow these insects to dictate his fate.

Summoning his strength, he exhaled sharply, focusing his energy into Moonveil’s edge. A single, precise slash carved through the air, and from its path, a crescent of glintstone light surged forth. The spectral blade met the incoming arrows mid-flight, obliterating them in an explosion of shimmering sparks.

The soldiers around him never even saw their own deaths approaching.

The glintstone wave tore through their ranks, cleaving men asunder, severing limbs, parting bodies with cruel efficiency. The battlefield was awash in crimson as torsos collapsed, heads rolled, and screams were silenced in an instant.

Aurelis did not stop. Another slash—another wave of devastation. The archers above had no time to react before the glintstone crescent reached them. The stone parapets were bathed in blue light before being swallowed in a mist of gore and shattered bodies. The last of them, perched upon the ruined towers, plummeted to their deaths, their corpses breaking upon the courtyard stone like discarded dolls.

Only thirteen remained.

The surviving soldiers, seeing the massacre unfold before them, hesitated. Their hands trembled upon their weapons, their feet shifting as if the instinct to flee warred with their orders to fight. It did not matter. Their fates had already been sealed.

One by one, they charged. And one by one, they fell.

Aurelis moved through them like death incarnate, his blade dancing between rib cages and throats, limbs and skulls. The courtyard became a graveyard, the air thick with the scent of blood and charred flesh.

Yet even as the last soldier fell, a new threat lingered still.

The ballistae upon the ramparts remained, their crews desperately reloading, their hands frantic as they scrambled to take aim once more. Aurelis narrowed his gaze, preparing to advance—but before he could move, a voice, cold and commanding, cut through the din of battle.

A whisper upon the wind. A herald of midnight.

Then, fire.

From the shadows, a great sphere of searing, sapphire flame erupted forth, streaking toward the ballista crews with the wrath of an unfeeling god. The air warped with heat, the ground quivering beneath its might. It struck without mercy, and in an instant, the ramparts were consumed in an inferno of blue fire.

The soldiers never even screamed. They simply ceased to be.

Aurelis exhaled, the weight of the battle settling upon his shoulders. And then, as the last embers faded into the night, a familiar figure stepped forth from the void.

A woman of ethereal beauty, adorned in flowing azure robes, her four arms moving with an elegance beyond mortal comprehension. Starlit mist wreathed her form, her presence both serene and absolute.

Ranni the Witch.

She regarded him with eyes colder than the deepest abyss, her lips curving into the faintest hint of amusement.

“Thou dost court death most brazenly, warrior. A reckless dance, yet a graceful one.”

Aurelis sheathed Moonveil, exhaling through his nose. “Had I known thou wouldst intervene, I might have been less inclined to stain mine hands so thoroughly this eve.”

A soft chuckle, the sound like wind through the willows. “And yet, thou dost stain them still.”

Her gaze swept across the ruined battlefield, the broken bodies, the smoldering ramparts.

“Come, O wandering blade. Let us see where fate shall take thee nex-”

The air had scarcely settled before the ground trembled once more, a deep, guttural growl rolling through the ruins like distant thunder. The scent of blood, steel, and scorched flesh was soon drowned beneath an acrid stench—sweat, rot, the musk of something ancient and wrathful. A shadow stretched across the battlefield, vast and hunched, its presence suffocating.

Then, from the ruined gatehouse, something stirred.

A hulking, gnarled being wrenched itself free from the debris, its grotesque form illuminated by the ghostly blue of the graces. An Omen.

Towering, its flesh marred with curses and protrusions of twisted horn, the beast’s breath came in ragged snarls, thick strands of saliva spilling from its misshapen maw. Its yellowed eyes, burning with primal hatred, fixed upon Aurelis and Ranni with murderous intent.

Without hesitation, it acted.

With the force of a catapult, the Omen tore a boulder from the ruined courtyard and hurled it forward, the massive stone carving a path of destruction as it sailed toward them.

Aurelis reacted on instinct.

In an instant, he reached for Ranni, pulling her against him as he twisted his body, shielding her from the impending strike. The impact came like a hammer of the gods, the boulder slamming into his frame with bone-shattering force. The air was driven from his lungs as he was sent hurtling backward, skidding across the bloodied stones.

Pain lanced through his ribs, the sheer force of the blow threatening to break him. Yet his arms, though bruised and trembling, held Ranni firm. She had not suffered a single scratch.

“Aurelis!”

Her voice, usually a whisper of midnight winds, now trembled with rare concern.

He groaned, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, yet his grip did not falter. His gaze, sharp as moonlit steel, locked onto the Omen. His expression hardened, his resolve unshaken.

“Stay behind me,” he murmured, voice unwavering. “Nothing shall lay its hands upon thee.”

Ranni stiffened.

A warmth spread across her face, a feeling she did not recognize—not fear, not worry, but something deeper, something unfamiliar. She was grateful the shadows of her veil hid the blush creeping across her porcelain features.

Aurelis released her only for a moment, just long enough to return to battle.

The Omen roared, raising its colossal weapon—a rusted greatclub, thick as a tree trunk, scarred by ages of slaughter. It charged, its steps like falling boulders, cracking the earth beneath its weight.

Aurelis was faster.

Moonveil’s edge flashed as he lunged, a blur of motion that defied mortal sight. He met the Omen head-on, slipping beneath its wild swing, the sheer wind force of its strike enough to shatter stone. Yet it struck nothing but empty air.

Aurelis was already behind it.

With a single stroke, he severed the beast’s right arm at the shoulder.

The Omen howled, a wretched, guttural sound that shook the heavens. Blood, thick and black as tar, gushed from the wound as the severed limb fell with a sickening thud. The beast stumbled, collapsing onto its knees, its face contorted in agony.

Yet it was not mercy Aurelis carried in his blade.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, his movements precise, measured. The Omen barely had time to lift its head before Moonveil’s edge found its throat.

A clean, perfect cut.

The creature’s grotesque head rolled from its shoulders, its body swaying before crumpling, twitching as lifeblood pooled beneath it. Its massive corpse lay still, another forgotten wretch in the ruins of war.

Aurelis exhaled, his gaze lingering on the fallen foe for but a moment before he turned back.

His first instinct was to return to Ranni.

He moved to her with purpose, gripping her shoulders as his eyes searched her for injury. “Art thou harmed?”

His touch, though battle-worn, was gentle—so unlike the brutality he had just unleashed.

Ranni froze.

Aurelis had never embraced her before. Never held her with such concern, such raw, unguarded protectiveness. The weight of his hands, his warmth, sent her mind spiraling. Her body, which knew no sensation beyond the ethereal chill of her kind, now burned with something unfamiliar.

“I-I am f-fine,” she stammered, her voice uncharacteristically shaken.

She struggled, willed herself to remain composed. With great effort, she stepped back, folding her arms in an attempt to regain her usual mystique. A small, knowing smile graced her lips. “Thy devotion is most… admirable, warrior. But time is fleeting. We must away.”

Aurelis, ever the warrior, nodded in acknowledgment.

Yet as he turned to ascend the stairway to the next battle, Ranni remained still, unmoving.

She did not follow.

She stood frozen, lost in thought.

This feeling… it was unknown to her, foreign, perplexing. She had long discarded the burdens of mortal affection, of earthly ties. And yet, Aurelis… Aurelis had become something she did not understand.

Aurelis.

The name now lingered in her mind, circling, whispering, taking root in the depths of her being.

Her crush.

She did not know what it meant. She did not understand what it entailed.

But she would.

Aurelis pressed forward, his every step resounding through the corridors of the forsaken castle. The sharpness of his breath matched the steely resolve etched into his face. The woman, Naphili Loux, lagged just behind, the blush on her cheeks burning brightly despite the chaos.

“Art thou coming along?” Aurelis called over his shoulder, his voice low but steady.

“Oh—! Y-yes,” came her reply, her words nearly lost to the wind as she disappeared into dust, her form nothing more than a fleeting image against the backdrop of the castle’s decaying walls. Aurelis paid it no mind, his focus set solely on the path ahead.

They reached a bend, the corridor wrapping around the inner sanctum of the castle. Aurelis hesitated. He did not wish to engage in yet more bloodshed—at least not yet. But then, his eyes fell upon a golden tree, its radiance unmistakable, much like the one he’d encountered outside the castle gates. The seed it bore gleamed like an offering, dropped from its boughs with careless grace. Aurelis stepped forward, intent on claiming it for his flask. Little did he know, the seed held untold power, its true potential waiting to be unlocked.

Before he could grasp the seed, Aurelis’s sharp eyes flicked to the left, where he spotted a staircase. The path was guarded—a giant, flanked by two soldiers. He could sense the danger, the looming threat of the gargantuan beast. Its size alone threatened to crush him under its weight, and its armor was as formidable as its strength.

Aurelis paused, calculating the best course of action. With a practiced eye, he circled to the left, moving cautiously to flank them. Yet, their vigilance was sharper than he anticipated. The two soldiers charged at him in unison, their blades raised high.

He met them with ruthless efficiency, his own weapon flashing through the air in a swift arc, cleaving through their ranks. They fell before him like leaves before the storm, their blood staining the stone beneath his boots.

But then, the giant moved. Its massive form was like a shadow, towering over him. It swung its arm with the might of a collapsing mountain, sending a boulder hurtling toward Aurelis.

Time seemed to slow as Aurelis’s instincts took over. He barely managed to sidestep the deadly projectile, but the impact grazed his side, sending him crashing into the stone wall. His skull rattled against the hard surface, and for a moment, he saw stars.

The gods be damned, he thought with a grimace, thanking them for his resilience—he did not feel the pain. Yet, he felt the force of the blow in the tightening of his chest, his breath ragged as he scrambled for his flask, only to find it empty. Panic set in, a rare sensation for the resolute warrior.

“Stay composed,” he muttered to himself. The giant was upon him again, its steps shaking the very ground as it advanced with bloodlust in its eyes. He had to act swiftly, or he would become just another broken body beneath its heel.

Just as the beast raised its fist for another deadly strike, a woman’s voice pierced the chaos.

“THE GOLDEN SEEDS!” she shouted, her tone commanding. “PUT THEM IN THE FLASK!”

The words struck Aurelis like a revelation. He fumbled with the two golden seeds, quickly shoving them into the flask’s mouth. To his amazement, the flask grew in size, its surface glowing with an ethereal light. He raised it to his lips, taking a deep swig of the crimson liquid.

Strength surged through him. His body hummed with vitality, the fatigue vanishing like fog before the dawn.

In that instant, he became a blur of motion, a deadly force. He charged at the giant, his weapon poised to strike. His blade cleaved through the air with newfound speed, cutting through the creature’s thick hide. With a roar, the giant stumbled, but it was far from defeated. Its massive arm swung at Aurelis with terrifying force, but the strike never found its mark.

The woman appeared again, as if summoned by fate itself. She was a vision of fury, dual axes in hand, and she struck with precision and grace. Her blades found the giant’s limbs, severing its right and left arms in a series of brutal cuts.

The giant howled in pain, stumbling back as it tried to maintain its balance, but Aurelis was relentless. He surged forward, driving his blade into the creature’s throat. With one final, forceful strike, the beast crumpled to the ground, its life extinguished in a single stroke.

Aurelis stood over the fallen giant, his chest heaving with exertion, blood dripping from his blade. He turned to the woman, who stood a few paces behind him, her axes raised high, ready for another fight.

“Thy assistance is most appreciated,” Aurelis said, his voice low but filled with gratitude. “But who art thou?”

The woman’s gaze softened as she lowered her axes. “I am Nepheli Loux. A humble warrior, much like thee. Though it seems we share the same goals.”
Aurelis turned to the woman beside him, his gaze steady, measuring. “Art thou Tarnished?” he inquired.

The warrior—Nepheli Loux—tilted her head slightly, studying him in turn before answering. “Aye. I am indeed.”

A pause. Then, with a nod, she spoke again. “And thou? What name dost thou bear?”

“Aurelis.”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “Well met, Aurelis.”

Without hesitation, he pressed forward. “Dost thou know where I might find Godrick?”

At this, Nepheli stiffened. Her expression darkened, a flicker of concern crossing her features. “What?” she muttered, her voice edged with disbelief. “Why, in Queen Marika’s name, wouldst thou seek that wretch?”

“I mean to kill him.”

A tense silence hung between them. Then, with a bark of laughter—half incredulity, half amusement—she shook her head.

“Art thou a fool? Aye, perhaps so. But then again, who am I to rebuke thee? Mayhap thou shalt even succeed.” She exhaled, then lifted her hand, pointing toward the path ahead, where the giant and its sentries had stood guard.

“He lies yonder, past the courtyard.”

Aurelis inclined his head in gratitude. “I thank thee, Nepheli.”

“Nay, do not.”

Her hand shot up, halting him mid-step. Her gaze, though steady, was not unkind—merely resigned, as if she had seen too many march toward their own demise.

“Thank me not for leading thee to slaughter. This is thy death wish, not mine.”

Aurelis merely laughed—a low, knowing chuckle—as he strode forward.

The path was short, the stairway of cold stone leading him into yet another corridor, its air thick with the weight of what lay ahead. He knew he could press onward now, stride forth into the Grafted Lord’s den and face his fate.

But something else stirred at the edge of his senses.

A faint azure glow.

Turning to the right, he spotted it—a blue grace, pulsing like the remnants of starlight, beckoning him with its quiet hum.

Aurelis sighed. He would rest before the storm.

And, more than that, he wished to speak with her.

As he knelt before the grace, he closed his eyes, summoning her presence.

Ranni.

Of late, he had found himself drawn to her more than he cared to admit. A bond, strange yet undeniable, had begun to form between them. And though he was a warrior first, tempered in battle and bound to the path of conquest, there was something in her presence that unsettled him.

A weight in his chest. A flicker of warmth where there should have been only cold resolve.

And when he beheld her face, his stomach turned with an unfamiliar flutter.

What was this?

He had no answer.

And perhaps, in some quiet corner of his mind, he feared the day he would find one.

Chapter Text

The air lay thick with portent, the weight of destiny pressing upon Aurelis’s shoulders as he stood before the great gate. The looming threshold was wrought of iron and ruin, its surface marred by time and the ceaseless grasp of bloodied hands that once sought passage. Beyond it lay his quarry—the wretched lord of grafted flesh, the pretender-king who defiled life itself in his desperate pursuit of power. Godrick. A name that festered like rot upon the lips of those who dared to utter it. How many had perished by his decree? How many lives had he stolen, how many dreams had been sundered, how many souls left to weep in the wake of his cruelty? It mattered not. He would not be long for this world.

A touch, cold and delicate as moonlight upon still waters, stirred Aurelis from his thoughts. A hand, slender and pale as untouched snow, rested upon his shoulder. Then another. And another still. Ranni, ever his quiet shadow, stood close, her four hands tracing gentle patterns upon him, her sapphire gaze brimming with something unspoken. Worry, perhaps. Or something deeper, buried beneath the poise of the Lunar Princess.

“Art thou certain of this path?” Her voice was velvet, yet laced with an unease rare for one such as she. “Thou stand’st upon the precipice of fate, and beyond this gate awaits a cruel and desperate wretch, drunk upon his own grotesque mockery of might. Even one such as thee may yet falter.”

Aurelis exhaled slowly, his breath a whisper lost to the wind. His fingers flexed at his sides, brushing against the hilt of Moonveil. He thought of all he had endured. The paths he had walked, stained with the blood of the wicked. The innocents he had freed. The chains he had broken. All roads had led here, to this moment. And yet… was it hubris that bid him press forward? Godrick was no mere foe. Even his wretched, diluted blood carried the might of a demigod. He had never fought one before. Not truly. Morgott’s phantom was but an echo of a greater nightmare. But this? This would be the first of many battles against the children of Marika. He could not afford to fail.

“I am certain,” Aurelis murmured at last, his voice steady as the blade at his hip. He turned to Ranni, allowing himself a brief moment to drink in her presence. The way the starlight kissed her form, the way her hair cascaded like silk spun from the cosmos itself. “I must see this through, Ranni. For all those he hath wronged. For all that he hath stolen. And for thee.”

A pause. A flicker of something within those eternal, celestial eyes. Then, ever so softly, she smiled. Not one of amusement, nor of jest, but something rare—something real.

“I see. Then go forth, valiant Aurelis.” Her fingers ghosted along his jawline, lingering there for but a moment before she withdrew. “And may the will of Queen Marika guide thee true.”

Aurelis did not answer. He did not need to. With one final glance, he turned, striding toward the gate. His heartbeat was steady, his resolve like steel. This was his purpose. His reason.

The air was thick with decay, the scent of old blood and rotting bark clinging to the mist-laden earth. Each step Aurelis took felt as though it disturbed the very slumber of the dead, the tombstones—crooked and shattered—bearing silent witness to his arrival. Gnarled trees loomed like wretched sentinels, their skeletal branches clawing toward the sky, reaching for a sun that dared not break the dense canopy of mournful clouds. The world here had been stripped of warmth, of light, of grace. It was a place abandoned, forsaken, left to rot beneath the weight of its own history. And in the midst of this graveyard of ruin, there knelt a wretched thing, a king in name alone.

Godrick the Grafted.

Aurelis stilled, his breath steady, his gaze unflinching as he beheld the abomination before him. A grotesque colossus of stolen flesh, a walking blasphemy of limb and sinew. Arms—too many arms—protruded from his hunched form, each one a relic of another life, another soul consumed and repurposed for his own profane mockery of strength. But despite the horror of his form, there was something almost… pitiful about the way he hunched over the great carcass before him.

The dragon’s head lay severed upon a broken pillar, its once-mighty form reduced to a weathered relic of ages past. And Godrick—wretched Godrick—was fawning over it, his misshapen hands caressing the cold scales, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths. His voice, when it came, was hoarse and desperate, like the final pleas of a dying man who refused to accept his own weakness.

“Mighty dragon, thou’rt a trueborn heir… Lend me thy strength, O kindred… Deliver me unto greater heights…”

Aurelis watched as the false lord raised a trembling hand, dirt and dried blood caked beneath his gnarled, yellowed nails—nails that had been scratched down to near stubs, the remnants jagged and uneven. It was the hand of a man who had grasped too hard, too desperately, for something that was never his to hold. And now, even in his stolen power, he still begged for more.

Then, as though sensing Aurelis’s presence at last, Godrick turned.

Slowly, his sunken eyes found the Tarnished who had dared to stand before him. There was no fear in Aurelis’s expression, no reverence, no acknowledgment of the so-called lord’s dominion. Only quiet resolve, only a blade waiting to be drawn.

A long silence stretched between them.

And then, with a huff of disgust, Godrick cast aside the heavy cloak that had shrouded him, revealing the grotesque latticework of limbs that pulsed and twitched across his form. Like a walking mass grave, the stolen appendages writhed as though seeking purchase upon his own misshapen frame. The grafted arms flexed, some gripping weapons, others curled into useless, withered husks of fingers and nails. His very being was a parody of strength, a monument to his own failures.

“…Well. A lowly Tarnished, playing as a lord”

A heavy battle axe, adorned with rust and filth, was raised into the air. The ground beneath them trembled as the massive weapon was brought crashing down, splitting the earth with the force of the impact. The air quivered with the weight of his proclamation, each word dripping with venomous arrogance.

“I COMMAND THEE, KNEEL! I AM THE LORD OF ALL THAT IS GOLDEN!”

The words echoed through the graveyard, reverberating across stone and bone alike. A demand, an ultimatum, an expectation.

Aurelis did not move.

His gaze was unwavering, his hand tightening upon the hilt of Moonveil. And then, in the face of Godrick’s delusions, he spoke a single word.

“No.”

The battle erupted in a violent clash of steel and storm, the air itself howling in protest as the two warriors met in a dance of death. Aurelis’s blade was a flicker of moonlight, its glintstone edge tracing arcs of azure light through the air. Each strike came with precision, with deadly intent, but Godrick was no feeble foe. His massive battle-axe, a crude yet mighty instrument of war, met every stroke with resounding force, sparks shrieking between the weapons as they ground against one another.

“Hah! Hast thou any notion of whom thou dost face, wretch?!” Godrick bellowed, his voice a guttural snarl as he twisted his massive frame, forcing Aurelis backward. “I am the Lord of all that is golden! And thou—thou art naught but filth beneath mine heel!”

Aurelis said nothing. There was no need to answer a man who had convinced himself of his own divinity. Instead, he pressed forward, stepping inside the reach of the massive axe and driving a glintstone-empowered slash towards the exposed flesh of Godrick’s midsection.

The grafted tyrant twisted at the last moment, the stolen limbs across his body writhing like the tendrils of some eldritch horror. One severed hand—protruding grotesquely from his shoulder—gripped the haft of his axe and swung it in an upward arc, intercepting the strike with inhuman speed.

“Pathetic!” Godrick roared as he spun the axe in his grasp, the motion stirring a violent gust of wind that sent dust and debris cascading through the graveyard.

Aurelis felt his footing falter, the sudden gale knocking him slightly off balance. It was all the opening Godrick needed. The tyrant lunged forward, his battle-axe cleaving through the space where Aurelis had stood only a heartbeat prior. The impact carved deep into the earth, tombstones shattering like brittle bones, sending chunks of stone and soil flying through the air.

Aurelis barely had time to react before Godrick wrenched the axe free and spun it overhead, its massive weight creating a vortex of howling wind. Then, with monstrous strength, he slammed it down once more, this time sending twin crescents of cutting force screaming through the air.

Aurelis ducked low, rolling beneath the first blast, but the second came too swiftly. It caught him in mid-motion, the impact sending him skidding backward, his boots carving deep grooves in the dirt. His body lurched from the force, his ribs rattling from the shock, though he was grateful—once again—that pain was beyond his reach.

No time to dwell. No time to falter.

Aurelis forced himself forward, his body coiled like a spring before he burst into action. Moonveil’s blade glowed with ethereal power as he launched a flurry of rapid slashes, each strike aimed at the gaps in Godrick’s flesh. The tyrant snarled as he was forced on the defensive, his axe whirling to parry each deadly stroke.

But then, as Aurelis moved to deliver another cut to the chest, Godrick smirked.

“Too slow, Tarnished!”

Godrick abruptly twisted his weapon, shifting his stance, and with a mighty heave, he smashed the flat of the axe against the ground. The sheer force of it broke the field itself.

Aurelis’s instincts screamed at him to move, but he was already in motion—mid-strike, committed. The impact sent out a second shockwave, unseen, unexpected. The earth beneath him buckled as if struck by the hammer of a god.

It was too late.

The force launched him skyward, his body weightless for the briefest of moments before—

CRACK.

Godrick’s battle-axe found him midair.

Aurelis barely registered the impact before he was hurled like a broken doll across the graveyard. His vision blurred as his body crashed against a shattered tombstone, his limbs refusing to obey him for a fleeting moment.

He had barely enough time to regain himself before Godrick was upon him again.

The tyrant was relentless. He moved with a speed unnatural for something of his grotesque size. His axe came crashing down once more, and though Aurelis twisted to avoid the brunt of the strike, the sheer force of the wind alone sent him staggering.

He needed space. He needed time.

He retreated, dashing between the graves, using the mist and the uneven terrain to his advantage. But Godrick was not a mindless brute.

The demigod snarled as he raised his axe above his head once more.

And then—he did not swing it.

Instead, he rolled.

A monstrous lunge, unnatural in its speed. The ground shook beneath his massive form as he launched himself at Aurelis, closing the distance in an instant.

Aurelis barely twisted out of the way before—

A second leap.

Godrick turned mid-air, his stolen limbs clawing at the dirt, his momentum unchecked. He slammed down upon Aurelis, the sheer weight of his impact causing the very ground beneath them to crack apart.

Too fast—too heavy—

Aurelis barely managed to twist away, his body screaming for reprieve as he struggled to find footing. But Godrick was faster still.

The tyrant’s many hands lunged forward, grasping, clawing—

And then they caught him.

Steel-crushing fingers closed around Aurelis’s throat.

His body jerked, his feet leaving the ground as Godrick hoisted him into the air with effortless strength.

Aurelis clawed at the iron grip, his vision darkening at the edges as he felt the sheer force of it constricting his breath. His limbs tensed, his muscles straining, but the grafted lord was unyielding.

Godrick laughed.

“Look upon thee now, wretched filth.” His voice was a guttural growl, thick with amusement. “Didst thou truly believe thyself worthy? Nay, thou art naught but a nameless mongrel. A mewling cur, masquerading as a warrior.”

He tightened his grip, his fingers pressing against Aurelis’s throat like a vice.

“Thy strength is borrowed. Thy power, fleeting. And now, like all the rest—thou shalt kneel before the majesty of gold.”

Aurelis struggled, his mind racing. His vision blurred as his lungs screamed for air.

And then—

Godrick raised his axe.

The blade gleamed in the dim light, poised for a single, final strike.

The battlefield stood still for but a breath—silent save for the ragged, wheezing gasps of the grotesque tyrant before them. Aurelis remained motionless, his body taut, his mind still reeling from the brush with death that had nearly claimed him. He could still feel the phantom ache of Godrick’s crushing grip upon his throat, the weight of his mortality bearing down upon him like a specter unseen.

Yet it was not over.

Before him, Godrick staggered, his grotesque form hunched over, his fingers twitching where they once held Aurelis’s throat. A jagged stump now marked the place where his arm had been, the flesh mangled, tendons dangling like severed roots. And yet… the wretch laughed. A sickly, wheezing chuckle that festered in the air like rot.

Godrick’s gaze flickered downward, first to his ruined limb, then to the dragon’s severed head that lay cold and lifeless atop the stone. A glint of something manic—something wholly deranged—lit his sickly yellow eyes. His breath came in frantic, huffing gasps, sweat and filth matting his grafted flesh, yet his resolve did not waver.

“Ahh… truest of dragons…” Godrick rasped, his voice a reverent plea to something beyond comprehension. “Lend me thy strength… Nnngh!”

Then, with a sickening squelch, his severed limb was thrust into the dragon’s gaping throat.

Aurelis felt his own breath catch. His pulse thundered in his ears as he watched in helpless horror, unable to move, unable to speak. Beside him, Ranni materialized in a flash of glimmering azure mist, her ethereal form trembling at the grotesque display before them.

“What… is he doing?” Aurelis muttered, his voice hoarse, yet still, he received no answer.

He turned his head, expecting Ranni’s calculated insight, but found her utterly paralyzed. Her many hands—so often poised with delicate control—were now rigid at her sides. Her lips parted, yet no words escaped. Her azure eyes, wide and unblinking, reflected only the abomination unfolding before them.

Aurelis swallowed thickly, his throat still raw, his mind screaming at him to run—but his legs refused.

Godrick let out a guttural, inhuman howl as his body convulsed, his shoulders writhing as though something inside him was tearing itself free. Blood sprayed in violent torrents as the dragon’s flesh twisted and curled, sinew binding to sinew, veins threading through his grotesque form like serpents made of fire.

Then the dragon’s head… moved.

A twitch at first. Then a spasm.

Then, with a final, sickening lurch, the beast’s eyes snapped open.

Flames ignited within its throat.

Aurelis staggered back, instinctively raising Moonveil in a defensive stance, his fingers trembling against the hilt. His mind reeled, desperately searching for reason, for some understanding of the heretical sorcery he was witnessing.

Godrick, hunched over and shuddering, slowly… began to rise.

His body, ruined and grotesque, straightened with newfound purpose. The dragon’s head, now fused to the stump of his lost arm, curled toward his chest, like a slumbering beast awakening to blood. A slow, creeping smile stretched across Godrick’s sickly lips, his fractured teeth bared in unholy exultation.

He raised his new appendage toward the heavens—toward the forefathers he so desperately sought approval from.

“Forefathers, one and all…”

A cruel pause. The air felt wrong.

“Bear witness!”

The dragon’s maw snapped open.

A pillar of fire erupted skyward, searing the very air as it carved a path into the storm-laden heavens. The heat was unbearable, even from a distance—Aurelis could feel the flames licking at his skin, a wave of pure, unrelenting destruction roaring into existence. The sky itself seemed to weep, the clouds parting from the infernal force now housed within the grafted lord.

Godrick’s laugh echoed, wild and unhinged, carrying with it the madness of a man who had finally grasped the power he had so long sought.

Aurelis exhaled sharply, sweat beading at his temple. His heart pounded against his ribs, the weight of the moment pressing down upon him like an iron shackle.

“Dear Lord…”

The words were not his own.

They were Ranni’s.

And for the first time since he had met her… her voice shook.

The battlefield roared with flame and fury, a storm of ash and embers swirling through the ruined courtyard. The grotesque form of Godrick the Grafted loomed over Aurelis, his stolen strength stitched together from the limbs of countless warriors. Now, with the dragon’s head fused to his arm, he had become something even more monstrous.

The guttural roar of the dragon-arm split the heavens as a torrent of fire erupted from its maw, sweeping across the stone like a tidal wave of scorching ruin. Aurelis reacted in an instant. He dropped low, sliding beneath the blaze, the heat licking at his skin, threatening to consume him. Above, Ranni took to the skies, her spectral form phasing through the inferno.

She raised a single hand, and a flurry of glintstone missiles materialized in the air, glowing like stars before they were loosed in a relentless barrage. They rained down upon Godrick, striking his grotesque form with shimmering explosions of arcane force. But the wretch endured. He did not stagger, nor did he slow—he revelled in it, his stolen flesh seething with stolen power.

Aurelis capitalized on the distraction, rushing forward with Moonveil in hand, his blade singing through the air. A single, flawless cut found its mark, carving into Godrick’s gut. But even as the blade bit into his flesh, the Grafted did not yield.

With a twisted grin, Godrick swung his colossal axe in a horizontal arc, the very wind howling with the force of the strike. Aurelis barely ducked beneath the swing, feeling the sheer pressure carve deep gouges into the ground where he once stood.

Godrick pressed forward, relentless.

Again. Again. Again. Aurelis struck, each blow guided by Moonveil’s ghostly light, but it was as if Godrick’s flesh had become a thing of iron and stone. His stolen limbs absorbed the strikes, his unnatural body enduring what should have torn any man asunder.

“Ha! Is that all, Tarnished?!” Godrick bellowed, his rancid breath thick with arrogance. “Thou scratchest at a mountain, a flea gnawing at the hide of a lion!”

Aurelis did not falter. He rolled back and, in a single motion, unleashed a crescent arc of glintstone energy from Moonveil. The spectral slash ripped through the air—but Godrick had been waiting for it.

The dragon-head shrieked, its maw surging with embers, and with a grotesque gargle, it unleashed a storm of fireballs into the sky.

Aurelis’ blood ran cold.

The flames hung above him for a heartbeat—before crashing down like divine punishment.

Aurelis moved, weaving between the inferno, his form a blur of speed and precision. But there were too many.

A single fireball detonated near his feet, the force sending him sprawling backwards. Another exploded behind him, the heat searing his back as he forced himself to roll to the side.

And then came the third.

Aurelis saw the searing mass of flame hurtling toward him. He had no time to dodge.

Until—

A blinding comet of blue light ripped across the battlefield, colliding with the fireball mid-air.

The resulting explosion bathed the courtyard in a violent burst of azure and gold, sending heat and arcane energy rippling outward.

Aurelis turned his head sharply—Ranni.

She hovered above the battlefield, her four hands outstretched, weaving a spell beyond mortal comprehension.

The air itself seemed to hum with power.

A luminous magic circle formed at her fingertips, and from its center, a spiraling ray of deathly light began to manifest. Aurelis recognized the incantation instantly.

Comet Azur.

Godrick snarled, sensing the sheer magnitude of power being gathered. He needed to stop her.

With a grunt of exertion, he raised his dragon-arm, the head recoiling as fire built within its throat once more.

Aurelis’ heart pounded. He knew what was about to happen.

He had to stop it.

He had to stop it NOW.

With every last ounce of strength, Aurelis surged forward, Moonveil blazing with ethereal radiance. His body burned, his lungs ached, but none of it mattered.

Godrick saw him coming—too late.

Aurelis’ blade sliced clean through the tendons of Godrick’s ankle.

The lord staggered.

And that was all Ranni needed.

The spell completed.

A devastating beam of celestial energy erupted from her hands, striking Godrick’s form with divine fury.

The very air shattered.

The ground beneath him split apart.

Godrick roared, a sound that shook the very foundations of Stormveil.

And yet…

It was not enough.

Through the haze of destruction, through the billowing smoke and the charred remains of the battlefield, a shadow emerged.

Godrick still stood.

Scarred. Burned. Furious.

Aurelis barely had time to react before Godrick twisted his body, lurching toward him with unexpected speed.

The Tarnished lifted his sword—

But it was too late.

The dragon’s maw clamped down—

Not on him.

On her.

Ranni’s cry of pain pierced through Aurelis’ very soul.

His heart stopped.

The world froze.

“NO!”

His voice tore from his throat, raw, desperate—

Godrick raised her into the air, the dragon’s teeth sinking into her form. Her magic flickered, her body convulsing.

Then, with a vicious snarl, the dragon’s throat ignited.

And it bathed her in flame.

Aurelis screamed.

The sheer agony in his voice shook the very heavens.

He rushed forward— but Godrick’s axe caught him mid-motion, hurling him back across the battlefield.

Ranni’s form plummeted.

Aurelis dove.

His hands caught her.

Her body was limp.

Blood dripped from her lips.

Her eyes, once shining like the cosmos itself, were dim.

Aurelis’ hands shook.

His vision blurred.

His heart—

It broke.

His fingers curled around hers, his breaths shallow, choked.

He pressed his forehead against hers.

For the first time in Ages, Aurelis felt true fear.

Not for himself.

For her.

Tears fell freely down his face.

“No… no, no, no…” Aurelis rasped, his voice raw, trembling as he reached out. He pressed his fingers to her throat, searching—praying—for a pulse.

It was faint. Weak. Fading.

His vision blurred. His breath hitched. He was losing her.

His hands clenched around hers, as if by sheer force of will, he could keep her here. As if he could demand that she stay, that she not slip from his grasp like all the others before her.

And in that moment, as the weight of it all crashed upon him like a tide—he knew.

The feeling that burned in his chest, that ached in his very soul, was not mere companionship. It was not loyalty, nor admiration, nor reverence.

It was love.

He loved her.

The realization crushed him, and yet it was the only thing keeping him together. His entire body trembled, not from fear, not from exhaustion, but from the raw helplessness that seized his heart. He had known pain. He had known rage. He had known the bitter emptiness of war.

Then, slowly, he bent down, pressing the faintest, softest kiss against her brow.

If this was to be the end, then let her know…

Let her know that she was loved.

But there was still one thing left to do.

He would not allow this wretch’s name to stain the lands any longer.

Aurelis rose. His blood boiled. His breath steadied. His hands ceased their trembling.

The dying embers of his magic flared once more—only now, they burned blue.

Aurelis extended his palm, and a tongue of cerulean fire sparked into existence. Its glow licked at his skin, illuminating the silent battlefield, casting its ethereal radiance upon the bloodied corpse of the beast who had done this.

The rage within him coalesced into something pure, something unyielding.

“Flame, grant me strength!”

A roar unlike any before it tore through the heavens as Aurelis surged forward, his body a blur of fury and steel.

The flames of vengeance burned within Aurelis’ chest, a raging inferno that would not be quelled until Godrick lay dead at his feet. Every fiber of his being screamed for annihilation, every nerve burned with unrelenting wrath.

Godrick’s stolen limbs twitched, his grotesque form lurching back as Aurelis closed the distance once more. The dragon’s head upon his arm snarled, smoke billowing from its nostrils, but Aurelis was already upon him.

A feint. A flicker of movement.

Godrick, desperate, rolled away, attempting to put space between them—but he had miscalculated.

Aurelis was already at his back.

Moonveil sang through the air, the blade biting deep, carving through the patchwork of flesh and sinew that bound Godrick’s stolen form together.

A roar of pain tore from Godrick’s throat, his body buckling forward.

But Aurelis was not finished.

The grafted lord swung his axe in retaliation, a devastating arc meant to cleave the Tarnished in two—but Aurelis had already leapt skyward.

A single, fluid motion.

He twisted in the air, his blade poised like a spear.

Then—

A downward thrust.

Moonveil pierced Godrick’s chest, the sheer force of the impact driving the lord onto his knees. The blade sank deep, splitting flesh, cracking ribs, grinding against bone.

And yet—he did not fall.

Godrick’s fingers twitched, curling around the haft of his axe.

He would not accept this fate.

With one final act of defiance, he raised his axe overhead, his entire body shuddering with exertion.

Aurelis saw it coming.

He knew.

And so he ripped Moonveil free, spinning away from the strike as the axe came crashing down.

The impact sent shockwaves through the ground, shattering the very earth beneath them. A storm of dust and debris billowed outward, masking both warriors in a haze of ruin.

And in the chaos, Godrick made his final mistake.

The grafted lord twisted, expecting to find his foe before him.

Instead, he found nothing.

Aurelis was already behind him.

A second blade plunged into his back.

Godrick lurched forward, his breath hitching in his throat.

Another.

And another.

And another.

Each strike came faster than the last, each thrust tearing through his wretched patchwork of stolen limbs, until the great and mighty lord of Stormveil was left gasping, his body barely holding together.

And yet…

He still would not fall.

Aurelis gritted his teeth.

The foul wretch still clung to life.

Godrick turned, desperate, furious, afraid.

“T-thou… foul… Tarn—”

Aurelis did not let him finish.

With a snarl, he reached forward—and seized the lord by his tongue.

Godrick’s eyes went wide.

Aurelis pulled.

Hard.

The sound that followed was indescribable. A grotesque rip, a wet, sickening tear as flesh separated from flesh.

Godrick howled.

Aurelis did not stop.

With one final, savage yank, the tongue came free.

Blood poured from Godrick’s gaping maw, his scream reduced to a choked gurgle.

But Aurelis was not done.

Moonveil’s blade flashed once more, driving straight into the dragon’s skull.

The beast’s head convulsed, its body twitching as the glow of its eyes faded into nothingness.

Still—Godrick persisted.

Aurelis’ gaze darkened.

He would end this.

For the Miners.

For Stormveil.

For Ranni.

He sliced off the remaining arm, Godrick’s foul form collapsing onto his knees, trembling, his body no longer his own.

Aurelis wasted no time.

Moonveil’s final thrust plunged deep into his stomach, the weight of his own body forcing the blade even further.

But even as his lifeblood spilled across the ruined ground, Godrick still clung to life.

Aurelis would grant him none.

He climbed up the impaled lord, until they were face to face.

He grasped Godrick’s skull in both hands.

And he squeezed.

The grafted lord twitched. His body shuddered.

Aurelis tightened his grip.

The begging began.

He pleaded. He whimpered. He cried.

Aurelis did not care.

He did not hear.

He did not listen.

Only one word echoed in his mind—

Hate.

It filled him, it consumed him, it drove his hands to press harder, harder—

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Crack.

Godrick’s skull collapsed beneath his thumbs, bone splintering, flesh bursting, grey matter splattering across the ground.

And at last—

The lord of Stormveil fell silent.

Aurelis staggered back.

His chest heaved. His arms shook. His body ached.

He barely even noticed the warmth of blood, sweat, and tears running down his skin.

It was over.

Godrick the Grafted was dead.

But so was Ranini.

The world had gone silent.

Only the whisper of the wind remained, weaving through the ruins of battle, carrying the stench of death and the faint, lingering embers of Godrick’s fire. Aurelis knelt upon the bloodstained tiles, his hands trembling, his breath unsteady.

His heart had been hollowed.

His body did not ache from battle, nor from wounds.

It ached from loss.

His fists clenched against the shattered stone. Then—he struck the ground. Once.

Then again.

And again.

And again.

The impact sent blood spilling from his knuckles, the flesh splitting open, but he did not stop.

Pain meant nothing.

Not anymore.

His voice tore through the still air, a wretched cry of grief, rage, and agony.

“WHY?!”

It was not directed at anyone. Not to the gods, not to fate.

To himself.

Why had he not been fast enough? Strong enough?

Why had she died for him?

His breath shuddered as he staggered to his feet, his eyes cast downward, his soul weighed with despair. His hands were stained red—his own blood, her blood.

It was unbearable.

A shaking hand reached into his satchel, retrieving a cloth. He wiped at his face, cleaning the gore from his skin. He did not know why he did it—perhaps because Ranni would not have wanted to see him this way.

But she would never see him again.

He limped toward her body.

Her still, lifeless body.

Kneeling beside her, he wept. The tears came harder, deeper than before, spilling onto the cold earth beside her.

He could not accept this.

He would never accept this.

His head hung low, his mind fractured, spiraling into a void of despair.

Until—

A sound.

A soft, radiant hum.

A spell.

Aurelis’ eyes shot open.

The air shifted.

A glow—golden and ethereal—began to weave around her form.

Her body shimmered, the wounds knitting together, her breath stirring once more. Her skin, once pale as death, warmed with life.

The light grew, surrounding her in a radiant embrace.

And then—it dispersed.

Her eyes fluttered open.

Aurelis could not move.

Could not breathe.

He was frozen, stunned, broken anew.

Then—tears, but not of grief.

Tears of pure, unshackled joy.

She stirred, her body weak but whole. Her sapphire eyes, still filled with the remnants of exhaustion, fell upon him.

And she smiled.

A small, soft thing. But to Aurelis, it was everything.

“Aurelis… I am back…”

A sob escaped him, his body moving before his mind could register—he was already upon her.

In a single instant, he closed the distance, his arms wrapping around her with the force of a man who had lost everything—only to find it once more.

She gasped softly at the contact, but her arms rose to meet his.

“Aurelis, I—”

But she did not finish.

Because this time, it was he who silenced her.

His lips met hers, a kiss filled with desperation, longing, and love unspoken for too long.

He poured his soul into her, and she matched him in full.

Time lost meaning.

There was only her.

Only him.

Only this moment.

Their passion was all-consuming, their love unbreakable.

When they finally parted, they fell into each other’s embrace, collapsing upon the battlefield, caring nothing for the blood and ruin surrounding them.

Aurelis brushed the strands of hair from her face, cradling her as though she were the most precious thing in the world.

Because she was.

And he whispered the words that had been buried within him for far too long.

“Ranni, I love thee.”

His voice trembled, raw and filled with emotion.

She gazed into him—into his soul.

And smiled once more.

“I love thee too, Aurelis. From this day forth, thou art mine, and I am thine.”

Chapter Text

Love. A word so simple, yet so ruinously vast.

Aurelis had never known its shape until now—never felt its chill and warmth interlace in his chest like entwined frost and flame. It was a feeling so raw it tore the chains from his soul, exposing a heart that beat not for power, nor vengeance, nor survival… but for her. Ranni.

He sat slumped against a broken pillar of ancient stone, its marble cracked by age and battle. His body was bloodied, bones aching beneath torn cloth and scorched mail, but such pain no longer held dominion over him. For cradled in his lap, as though the stars themselves had fallen to rest in his arms, lay the one for whom he would burn all kingdoms, for whom he would tear down gods.

In the beginning, Aurelis fought for no one but himself. Survival was his only creed. Then came Ranni, and together they liberated the oppressed miners, defying cruelty with steel and sorcery. That was the next chapter—he fought for justice. But now… now that Stormveil’s vile master lay slain in a ruin of gore, now that the air no longer trembled with fire and the howls of the damned had faded, Aurelis understood.

He was no longer fighting for the realm, nor for vengeance, nor for some sacred law.

He fought for her.

His love.

The one whose presence turned ruin into reverence, whose silence was more eloquent than any poem. Ranni lay there, serene, her breath light as snowfall. The moonlight kissed her pallid cheeks, and in that pale glow, she seemed as though born of the very firmament—a daughter of stars resting upon the breast of a mortal knight.

And so he sang to her, softly, as a father might to a slumbering child, or a lover to his heart’s moon. A lullaby—ancient in spirit, woven from sorrow and silver.

“Her Light Will Keep the Stars”

A Moonborn Lullaby, for Tenor 2

Verse I

Sleep, O sleep, ye flame-born kin,

Moonlight calls through ashen skin.

Fret not the dark where rot may grow,

Her light shall shine where thou dost go.

Verse II

Demigods rise, and demigods fall,

Crowned in ruin, shackled by thrall.

But one walks ‘neath the silver bough,

She guards thy path—be still, rest now.

Chorus

Her light will keep the stars from falling,

Her voice will hush the ancient flame.

Though shadowed knights and grief come calling,

Thy soul shall sleep in starlit name.

Verse III

The Erdtree burns, its roots run red,

With kings long dead and gods unsaid.

But she who walks ‘twixt time and tide,

Shall hold thee fast, her arms thy guide.

Chorus

Her light will keep the stars from falling,

Her love shall mend the broken dawn.

Though thrones may rot and fate be calling,

In her embrace, thou art reborn.

Final Verse (whispered)

So hush thee now, O gentle heir,

The night is long, but she is there.

A moon of blue, a hand so kind—

Her light shall keep the stars aligned.

His singing lingered in the still air, threading itself through the ruins and over the graves of the countless dead. It was not merely a lullaby—it was an offering. A balm upon a land steeped in sorrow. Aurelis wished, perhaps foolishly, that those souls—consumed, butchered, and forgotten beneath Godrick’s reign—might find solace in the melody. That in death, if only briefly, they could feel something soft.

He turned his gaze downward once more. In his lap, Ranni lay as though embraced by starlight. Then, her eyelids fluttered—subtle as the petals of a flower roused by moonlight. Her eyes opened, that crystalline glintstone blue, and Aurelis—who had faced horrors and torn tyrants asunder—was struck still. Never before had he seen such beauty in another’s gaze. They were twin stars glimmering in the black sea of his life, a light in his abyss.

“Hello, Aurelis,” she whispered, voice hoarse yet sweet, as one of her four hands rose to rest gently against his cheek.

Aurelis leaned into her touch, his hand rising to interlace with hers. Fingers intertwined—softly, reverently. “Hello, Ranni,” he answered, voice low and trembling with the remnants of battle and the surge of love. He leaned down, and with all the care he could muster, pressed a kiss to her brow. Her skin was warm, the pulse beneath it steady, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, peace held him.

She sighed quietly, shifting slightly to rest more comfortably in his lap. Her other arms coiled around him gently, not to pull him closer—but to remain near, as if anchoring herself to the man who brought her back from death’s edge.

“Your singing was beautiful,” she murmured, eyes half-lidded, dreamy. “A strange comfort… in such a ruined place.”

Aurelis smiled faintly, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. “I sang for them,” he said. “The lost. The broken. The ones who had no voice.”

“And for me?” she asked, a glint of mischief returning to her eyes.

“For you most of all,” he replied, leaning down to kiss her lips softly. It was not a kiss of lust or desperation—it was calm. Tender. Like the gentle falling of snow after a long and bloodied war.

Their foreheads rested against one another for a moment in silence. Nothing else needed to be spoken. The air, for once, did not demand screams or steel.

“Ranni?” Aurelis asked after a moment, his tone careful, as if afraid the spell of peace might shatter.

“Yes, love?” she answered, her voice so sweet it could have quelled storms.

“What shall we do next?”

She paused, her expression softening. A small breath escaped her. Her shoulders slumped slightly. For the first time since he met her, she looked… tired. Not physically, perhaps, but spiritually—drained by the long path they had walked.

“Maybe we should… take a break,” she said finally, a little laugh tucked behind her breath.

Aurelis studied her face, and in it he saw the exhaustion beneath her grace. Her journey had been long and cruel, her burdens heavy. And here, now, she could finally breathe.

“Then let us return to camp,” Aurelis said, his voice gentle. “Let us rest.”

“We shall!” she declared, her expression brightening. And there it was: her true smile. Not the regal smirk of a witch-princess, nor the guarded look of a tactician. But a smile born of joy, raw and untainted.

They stood, slowly and with effort—both weary, both wounded. But before they could begin the trek back to the campfire’s dwindling glow, Ranni paused.

“Oh! Before we go,” she said, excitement dancing across her features, “we mustn’t forget—Godrick’s Great Rune.”

Aurelis blinked, brow arching slightly. “Great Rune?”

“Yes,” Ranni explained, turning slightly and pointing toward the broken throne room. “It is a fragment of power, inherited from the Elden Lord. Each of the demi-gods bears one. Godrick’s is among the least… but still dangerous. Still important.”

“So… what does it do?”

Ranni smirked. “That, my dear, is for me to decipher. But it may grant us strength—or open new doors sealed by old laws.”

Aurelis let out a quiet chuckle, exhausted but content. “Very well. Let’s claim it.”

He reached out his hand, and she took it. Their fingers entwined again, unspoken vows exchanged with every step they took. The night stretched onward, the stars gleaming overhead—witness to love found not in peace, but forged in ruin.

And so the witch and her knight turned toward the legacy of kings and ruin, hearts beating in time, walking forward together into whatever fate awaited them.

________________________________________

Ranni and Aurelis moved silently through the path from whence they came, the ruined stones echoing their slow steps. The storm of violence had long passed, but its memory clung to the air like smoke. It felt like hours—perhaps days—since they had battled the hulking abomination in the chapel, met Nephili amidst the slaughtered, and carved a crimson path through the cursed legions of Godrick. Time, it seemed, was as distorted as the kingdom they walked through.

The castle now stood eerily quiet.

Ranni led the way, though her bearings were guided more by intuition than certainty. “I remember… a tower east of the central courtyard. That is where the Great Rune should lie,” she said, her voice floating like moonlight on a still lake.

They crossed into the courtyard again. Here, silence reigned—but not peace. The stench of blood lingered in the air, and corpses littered the paving stones like broken puppets. These were not their kills. No, someone—or something—else had carved a path here. Whoever it was, they moved with brutality and swiftness.

As they reached the courtyard’s edge, the road forked—one path leading toward a broken gate, and the other across a cracked stone bridge, which in turn led to the looming tower Ranni had spoken of.

She took one step forward.

In the same breath, Aurelis’s arm shot out, gently pulling her back. “Wait.”

A thunderous roar split the silence.

From above, as if cast by the very gods in wrath, a massive creature crashed to the earth—right where Ranni had stood.

Its form was grotesque and regal all at once: the beast was a lion, yet not wholly so. Its body was unnaturally elongated, muscled beyond any natural measure. Golden fur, now matted with old blood and ash, hung in tufts from its limbs. Its forelegs were wrapped in rusted manacles, remnants of a life once caged, and its face bore a jagged iron helm fused to its skull—grafted, just like the cursed soldiers that once served Godrick.

Its eyes, blazing with a mad intelligence, locked on Aurelis.

The lion guardian lunged.

Aurelis rolled aside, drawing Moonveil in one swift, fluid motion. The katana gleamed under the pale sky, its blade humming with residual lunar energy.

The lion twisted and spun mid-leap, claws raking across the stone where Aurelis had just stood. Its movements were unnaturally quick for its size. It came again, this time roaring with maddened fury, jaw snapping for Aurelis’s throat.

But the knight was no longer the man who first entered Stormveil.

He ducked low and surged forward, slipping beneath the beast’s neck. Moonveil crackled to life. A flash of blue—like moonlight reflecting on still water—swept through the air.

The beast halted mid-roar.

For a heartbeat, nothing moved.

Then, its head slid from its shoulders in a clean, radiant cut, blood spraying like a silver fountain as the body collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs.

Aurelis stood behind it, the blade at his side, its glow fading slowly into silence.

Ranni blinked, processing what had just occurred. She turned to Aurelis, eyes wide. “You decapitated a lion guardian. With a single stroke.”

Aurelis sheathed Moonveil with a quiet flourish, sighing. “It leapt at you. I reacted.”

Ranni smirked, one of her hands resting on her hip while another brushed back her silvery hair. “Well. Look at me, a poor damsel in distress,” she said with mock melancholy. “Snatched from the jaws of death by her noble moonlit knight.”

Aurelis turned, arching an eyebrow. “Damsel in distress? You’ve threatened stars into submission.”

“Yes, well, not when massive lion abominations are falling from the sky.” She stepped forward, rising on her toes to kiss his cheek, a gesture both tender and playful. “Still. You saved me. That counts for something.”

“I’d do it again,” he said, resting his forehead gently against hers. “A thousand times.”

Her expression softened. “You know, there are many who’d kill to see me in their arms.”

“And yet,” Aurelis whispered, brushing her cheek with his fingers, “here you are.”

She leaned into him, smiling. “Here I am.”

________________________________________

The bridge stretched out before them like a blade laid across the land, its spine fractured and its surface littered with the remains of forgotten battles. Time and rot had claimed much of its stonework; whole slabs had crumbled into the abyss below. Wind whispered through its gaps like the breath of long-dead kings.

Aurelis and Ranni stepped forward together.

The tower stood beyond the bridge—blackened stone rising like a jagged fang against the pale and starless sky. It had no banners, no sigils, no flame to mark it a place of triumph. And yet it pulsed faintly with power, as though something within still remembered its purpose.

As they walked, the air grew colder, tinged with a strange pressure that settled upon their shoulders like unseen hands. Ranni’s footsteps faltered for only a moment. “I feel it,” she murmured. “The Rune. It sleeps within.”

Aurelis nodded, gripping the hilt of Moonveil more tightly. “Then we’ll wake it.”

They reached the base of the tower, finding the heavy bronze doors slightly ajar, rusted at their hinges. Aurelis pushed them open with a grunt, the metal groaning like a dying beast. Inside was darkness. True darkness—not merely the absence of light, but a void that swallowed sound and sense alike. The air was thick with the scent of dust, death, and power long untamed.

The first floor had been a sanctum once—perhaps a place of reverence to the Golden Order—but now it was only a hollowed ruin. The walls bore old carvings, some defaced, some simply weathered to illegibility. Aurelis stepped lightly through the debris, his bootfalls echoing up the spiraling staircase that wound its way to the heavens.

Their climb began.

Each step carried weight—not merely of stone, but of memory. They passed old bloodstains dried into the steps, and the husks of once-living soldiers slumped against the walls, their armor now fused with their corpses. One bore a spear still in hand, pointed toward the upper levels, as if in defiance of something unseen.

“The Rune is resisting,” Ranni said quietly, her voice near a whisper.

“Then let it resist,” Aurelis muttered, his jaw set.

They reached the uppermost level—an open chamber, high above the castle’s cursed grounds. The ceiling had long since collapsed, revealing the sky: a blanket of grey clouds shot through with golden streaks of lingering magic. In the center of the chamber, atop a pedestal of roots and twisted iron, hovered the object of their quest.

The Great Rune.

It was a fractured circle—golden, radiant, yet marred with jagged cracks. Ethereal tendrils drifted from it like strands of woven light. It pulsed faintly with the rhythm of a slumbering heart. As they stepped closer, Aurelis could feel its presence pressing into his mind. It whispered in forgotten tongues—of dominion, of blood, of a lineage both revered and damned.

Ranni raised her hand, but paused. “It does not belong to us,” she said, “yet it calls all the same.”

Aurelis approached. The Rune pulsed brighter as he did. He extended his hand, and for a moment, it resisted—as though it recognized the blood on his fingers, the will behind his eyes. But he had slain its bearer. He had conquered the Grafted. And with that victory, the Rune no longer had the strength to deny him.

It settled into his palm like a falling star.

The moment he grasped it, a surge of heat tore through his body—then a rush of icy calm. He saw visions: of Godrick’s ascent, his desperation, his envy, his unspeakable grafting. Then he saw the Rune’s true form—one piece of a shattered whole. Power, stolen and hoarded, now resting in the hands of one who had earned it not through bloodline, but through will.

Aurelis staggered slightly, gripping the pedestal for balance.

Ranni was beside him in an instant, her hands steadying his. “Are you whole?” she asked.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Just… heavy.”

She looked at the Rune, then back at him. “It will grow heavier. The more you wield, the more it will test you.”

“I’ll carry it,” he replied. “I must.”

They stood a while longer, gazing out across the realm. From this height, the entirety of Limgrave seemed spread before them like a shattered map. Fires smoldered in distant villages. The sky hung low with cloud and omen. Yet beside him stood Ranni—whole, breathing, watching it all with eyes ancient and alive.

She laced her fingers through his. “One Rune. Many more remain.”

“And we will claim them,” Aurelis said, his voice steady.

“But not today,” she added, gently tugging his hand. “Today, we return. To rest. To breathe. To simply… be.”

He nodded, and together they descended from the tower, the Rune pulsing faintly in his hand.

Chapter Text

The rune, it felt… strange. Not in the way an errant breeze might startle a flame, but in the marrow-deep way that blood feels when it remembers the touch of fire.

For Aurelis, the rune was no mere tool. Not a bauble to be hoarded or a trophy to be clutched as Godrick had done — like a dog snarling over meat. No… it was something far older, something sacred. It was life incarnate, though tattered and partial. The power of the Erdtree flowed through it, fragmentary yet formidable, and Aurelis did not question its might. He questioned only the hands that once wielded it.

Stormveil, now emptied of its tyrant, lay quiet behind them. He and Ranni rode side by side, and for the first time since their descent into that cursed keep, the wind carried no blood on its breath. There were, strangely, moments of peace. Moments between the two of them that clung like morning dew to skin.

Enemies lay behind them. But so did something else. Something brighter.

Ranni.

His everything.

He had known her scarcely a month — and yet time bowed before the weight of their bond. Some connections were written in fate, others in the stars. Theirs, perhaps, in both.

They rode together, as before. Yet there was a change, quiet and sudden. They clutched one another now — not in desperation, not in fear. Something gentler. An ache for closeness that neither of them fully understood. Aurelis said nothing, nor did she. But when she leaned slightly against him, her many hands resting light and protective along his side, he did not pull away.

Their journey brought them to a familiar arch of crumbling stone — the very place where he had first met her, at the grace’s light beneath the old trees. But now, something new barred the way.

A wooden gate had been raised across the downward slope that led to the camp below — where once Aurelis had crossed blades with Vinlin.

Two soldiers stood guard at the base, their armor strange, the insignia upon their chests unfamiliar. Aurelis slowed Torrent’s gait, his hand drifting instinctively toward the hilt at his side.

“Ranni…” he murmured, narrowing his eyes. “Who are these soldiers?”

Ranni tilted her head, crystalline strands of her hair catching the light. “Hmm. I am not aware of them, love.” One of her hands pointed gracefully. “Their armor — it’s modeled after the Red Lion’s men. Radahn’s…”

Aurelis’s eyes widened. “You mean…?”

Her gaze sharpened. “These are Kynval’s men.”

A hush fell between them. They leaned forward as one, examining the crest the soldiers bore: a white field with a crescent moon of moonveil blue, pierced by a katana shaded in deep midnight. A blade through the moon.

It struck Aurelis in the gut. Familiar. Too familiar.

He drew in a breath. “The moon… that’s you.” He glanced back at her, then nodded toward the blade. “And the sword — Moonveil. It’s me.”

Ranni blinked, sapphire eyes widening just slightly before the corners of her lips turned upward. A soft blue flush colored her cheeks.

“They fashioned their banner… after us,” she whispered.

Aurelis let out a soft laugh, surprised by the warmth blooming in his chest.

“They seem to like us,” Ranni said, and this time her voice was touched with amused pride.

They drew closer. As their shadows lengthened over the gate, the two guards stirred. One — a young man with a helm slightly too large for his head — looked up from a tin of stew, saw them, and sprang to his feet so quickly he nearly stumbled.

“G-Greetings! I am Lukin!” he barked, voice cracking with formality. “Welcome to—!”

His eyes locked with Aurelis. The words faltered in his throat. His mouth hung open.

“It’s you.”

A pause. Then pure, unvarnished awe spread across his face like sunrise over still water.

“Is he dead? Is… Godrick dead?”

Aurelis didn’t speak. He and Ranni merely nodded. And in that quiet gesture, the boy understood.

Lukin tore off his helmet with shaking hands. His hair was black, shorn close to the skull, and a long scar trailed like a pale serpent from his temple to the edge of his chin. His eyes brimmed with emotion, wide and bright.

“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse. “Thank you, from the bottom of everyone’s hearts.”

Then he turned. With the fire of a child too proud to contain joy, he shouted toward the watchtower above the arch.

“OPEN THE GATES! AND RING THE BELL! GODRICK IS DEAD!”

A moment of stillness — then movement. Wood groaned. Metal clanged. A bell pealed through the hills, not in mourning, but triumph. The wooden gate groaned open before them, sunlight spilling through the gap like grace reborn.

And Aurelis, hand still entwined with Ranni’s, realized:

They were being welcomed home.

…And home had changed.

Not just rearranged, not simply reshaped — but transformed in a way that defied all natural sense of time. From the other side of the gate, nothing had seemed unusual. The wooden wall had hidden much. But once it had creaked open on rustless hinges and the light spilled through, they saw it.

And what they saw made Aurelis halt mid-step, his breath catching in quiet disbelief.

What had once been a ragged camp cobbled together from scavenged stone and burnt timber — a battleground where ruins whispered of the old wars — now stood a village.

An honest, living, breathing village.

Where the shattered remains of collapsed walls had once marked the path, now stood homes built of smooth-cut lumber and riverstone. Roofs of thatch and slate peaked neatly, windows glimmered in the sun, and clean smoke rose from chimneys like offerings of peace to the sky. There were fences now — real fences, enclosing gardens and pens. Stalls lined the wider parts of the road, and lanterns had been strung between posts like guiding stars.

Aurelis blinked. “How…?”

“We have been gone scarcely a week,” Ranni whispered beside him. “And yet…”

“Kynval,” Aurelis murmured. “He’s turned a camp into a kingdom.”

The bells rang still above them, and the people responded like roots to rain. Men shouted in triumph, mugs of frothing ale held aloft as they toasted the death of a tyrant. Women laughed in the shade, passing bread and gossip in equal measure. Children darted through the streets, their laughter rising like songbirds, tossing pale flower petals into the air — a parade for the returning heroes.

When the duo rode slowly into town, the crowd parted with reverence and glee. Their smiles were not the empty masks worn by courtiers but the true expressions of folk who had seen monsters die and dawns rise in their place. They cheered not for gods or titles, but for the man and the moon-witch who had bled to make it happen.

Torrent gave a snort and, without command, waddled away toward a stone trough filled with fresh water and sweet hay. Free to wander, Aurelis and Ranni strolled hand in hand beneath wooden signs and woven banners. Before long, one particular sign caught Aurelis’s eye — a crooked plank with painted letters, now freshly retouched:

“Kalè’s Konvenience.”

He chuckled. “Still charmingly misspelled.”

“It has grown,” Ranni observed, tilting her head. “Larger than before.”

The pair stepped inside. A tiny bell above the door gave a cheerful ring, and the scent of wood polish, dried herbs, and something sweet drifted into their noses. The interior was neatly stocked — bags of grain, dried meats, flasks of water, simple toys carved from wood, even a small rack of blades and gear hung beneath a sign that read: ‘Sharp Enough To Matter.’

Behind the counter, Kalè sat at a stool, one leg lazily swinging, nose buried in what appeared to be a training manual.

“I’ll be right with you,” he muttered, not glancing up.

Aurelis leaned on the counter. “Sticking to your training?”

The shopkeeper froze. His eyes flicked up. And in that instant, all decorum shattered.

“MASTER! MISTRESS!”

Kalè stood so suddenly that the stool skidded backwards. He dropped the book to the floor.

“I heard the bells! But I didn’t know you were back!”

“It is alright, Kalè,” Ranni said warmly, one of her hands brushing a strand of silvery hair from her face.

Footsteps pounded overhead.

“Kalè? What’s happening?” came a familiar voice, light and warm.

Caelithra descended the stairs in a blur of motion. Her breath caught when her eyes fell upon them. She froze for a heartbeat, stunned — then smiled like a mother seeing long-lost kin.

“Oh stars!” she gasped. “Ranni! Aurelis!”

She dashed forward, embracing Ranni tightly before turning to Aurelis and pulling him into a hug as well.

“You’re safe,” she said softly. “Thank the moon.”

They had scarcely begun speaking before the door banged open again.

A little tornado of energy spun into the shop.

“Dad! Mom! LOOK what I found—!”

Aeren’s voice rang like a bell as he charged in, clutching something round and possibly alive in both hands. But he stopped short when he saw Ranni and Aurelis standing there.

He blinked.

“Mister Aurelis! Miss Ranni!!”

Then the grin returned, twice as wide. He began bouncing in place, eyes bright with delight. Before anyone could stop him, he was running laps around the shop.

“Aeren—!” Caelithra called, but too late.

Kalè snatched the boy out of mid-run like a hawk catching a rabbit.

“Enough, you little storm,” Kalè said with exaggerated gruffness, lifting Aeren into the air as the boy flailed. “Calm yourself.”

The boy gave one last token kick before going limp with a dramatic sigh.

“Would you settle for a drink, Aurelis?” Kalè asked with a knowing smile.

Caelithra’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Good. You men can talk and brood while me and Ranni have a proper gossip session upstairs.”

She took Ranni’s hand gently. “Come, love. You’ll tell me everything.”

Kalè set Aeren down, and the boy immediately brightened again.

“It’s fine! I want to go play with my friends!” he chirped, waving as he darted toward the door.

“Be home before dark,” Kalè said, already turning to grab mugs.

Caelithra gave her husband a quick kiss on the cheek before tugging Ranni upstairs. Ranni turned, brushing Aurelis’s cheek with her lips — a silent promise — and followed her friend without protest.

Aurelis and Kalè shared a long look as the stairs creaked under departing feet.

“She’s changed you,” Kalè said, pouring amber ale into two wooden cups. “Softened your storm.”

Aurelis accepted the drink. His eyes drifted to the foam.

“I realized,” he said softly, “how much I love her.”

Kalè chuckled. “You sound like me. Just wait till you’ve got a child running around calling your sword ‘shiny stick.’”

Aurelis smirked at that — but something in his expression faltered, thinking on the words.

Could that be… their future?

________________________________________

Upstairs, the floorboards creaked gently beneath their feet. The second level of Kalè’s Konvenience was no mere attic — it had been lovingly converted into a proper sitting room, complete with thick cushions around a low table, a small hearth with fresh kindling, and a windowsill garden overflowing with sprigs of lavender and creeping thyme. The light filtering in was gold-warm, gentle through gauzy linen curtains. A single moth fluttered lazily in the quiet air.

Caelithra led Ranni by the hand like one guiding a childhood friend, and once they were within the room, she gently shut the door behind them and leaned against it with a grin like a woman who’d been waiting days to spill secrets.

“Sit,” she ordered with playful authority. “And speak. I must know everything.”

Ranni gave a soft smile and did as she was told, her many hands settling her gown as she sat gracefully on one of the cushions. “And what, pray, dost thou expect me to speak of?” she replied, her tone calm but coy. “For I have no knowledge of particular worth beyond a storm felled and a tyrant slain.”

“Oh please,” Caelithra said, already pulling out a tray of sweetroot tea and two little honeycakes wrapped in soft parchment. “Do not try that distant moon-princess act on me, Ranni. I saw the kiss. On the cheek. The look in your eyes. The way you lean toward him now.”

Ranni blinked, then turned her gaze to the tea, trying to hide a small smile with the raise of her porcelain cup. “A moment of affection. Nothing more.”

“Mmhm,” Caelithra said, pouring her own tea. “And I suppose the way he watches you like you hung the stars is also nothing?”

There was a pause.

“I suppose,” Ranni murmured at last, “…I have grown fond of him.”

Caelithra nearly choked on her tea.

“Fond?” she sputtered. “Oh, Ranni. That man would walk through the fire of the Erdtree again if you so much as frowned. And you sit here and say fond like you’re speaking of a songbird.”

Ranni gave a rare laugh — low, crystalline, and real. It settled into the wood of the room like incense smoke, lingering.

“I… feared,” Ranni confessed at last, her voice softer now. “Not for myself. Not for him. But for what it means. I have been alone, Caelithra. Truly alone, for far longer than these bones deserve. I did not believe I would… open again. To someone.”

She looked down at her hands, folding one over the other. All four rested gently now, as if in quiet prayer.

“And now,” she added, almost wistfully, “I find that I cannot look away from him.”

Caelithra reached across the table and placed her hand on Ranni’s. “That’s love, my dear. And it’s never what we expect. Never comes when we plan it. It just… sneaks in. Like a draft through a door you thought you shut.”

Ranni gave a faint smile. “He treats me not as a goddess. Nor as a weapon. Simply… as I am.”

“Aye,” Caelithra said. “That’s what good men do. I should know. I married one.”

She gave a little grin and leaned in conspiratorially.

“You know,” she added, “Kalè wept before he heard the bells today. He hides it well, but he truly feared you both lost.”

Ranni looked surprised. “He seemed so composed.”

“Only because he practiced all morning.”

They both laughed at that, and for a moment, the air in the room turned golden again.

Ranni took a sip of her tea, then glanced around. “This place has changed. All of it. How long were we gone?”

“Eight days,” Caelithra said. “But Kynval set the town afire — in a good way, I mean. Organized workers, got lumber from the forest, even sent for proper stone from the mountains. The people believe now. You gave them that.”

Ranni nodded slowly, digesting the words.

“And what of thee?” she asked. “Art thou content here? With child and husband and hearth?”

Caelithra smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“I am,” she said. “More than I ever thought I’d be. It’s strange, after all the blood and ruin we’ve lived through, to find peace in… flour and teacups.”

Ranni nodded. “Perhaps it is strange only because we were never taught to value such things.”

Another pause.

Then, Caelithra leaned back with a mischievous gleam in her eye.

“So. Have you—?”

Ranni arched a brow. “Have I…?”

“You know what I mean.”

Ranni blinked, then laughed again. “No, not yet. I… am taking it slowly. And he is patient.”

“Well,” Caelithra said, sipping her tea with mock sophistication, “when that changes, you’ll tell me. I expect at least a hint.”

“I shall consider it.”

They both laughed again — the kind of laughter that feels like healing, like spring returning to a frost-withered garden.

Outside, the sun shifted, casting long gold shadows across the floor. For a while, the two women simply sat in silence, sipping their tea and basking in a rare peace.

Ranni, for her part, allowed herself to wonder — truly wonder — what a future beside Aurelis might look like. And for once… she did not fear it.

________________________________________

The laughter was heard before they descended the stairs.

Ranni and Caelithra returned with smiles brighter than the sun-licked windows, descending like a pair of noble ghosts from their retreat above. Ranni’s cheeks still bore a trace of delighted warmth, a rare softness blooming in her usual calm. Caelithra was grinning wide, practically glowing.

Below, Kalé had poured one cup too many, and Aurelis had just found the bottom of another. He turned at the sound of footsteps, eyes wide, voice far too bright.

“Hey, love!” he called, his words a little too buoyant.

Then he looked down at the bottle in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. “Wait, wha—”

He swayed slightly, misjudged his balance, and nearly toppled backward into the low table. Ranni moved without thought, catching him at his side with her lower arms while her upper ones steadied his shoulders.

He blinked at her, eyes momentarily unfocused, then cleared his throat with the air of a knight realizing he’s drooled on his armor.

“I… um…”

Then, with a flick of his wrist and an embarrassed flush across his cheeks, he muttered, “Flame… cleanse me.”

Azure fire flickered at his palm, then ignited across his body in a low whoosh, trailing over his limbs and shoulders like a silken wave. The warmth of it was not painful, not wrathful — it shimmered, more like light than heat, and then it was gone. The haze behind his eyes cleared in an instant. He straightened, blinked, then gave a sheepish smile.

Ranni’s eyes widened. So did Caelithra’s.

“I didn’t know you could use that incantation like that,” Caelithra muttered, astonished.

Ranni turned to him, her brow furrowed just slightly in curiosity. “Wait—”

But the door burst open before she could finish.

“The two of you!” came the familiar rasp of Kynval’s voice, half-breathless but bright with joy. “You’re back!”

Aurelis turned, his face softening at the sight. “It is good to be back.”

Another body stumbled into the shop behind Kynval, panting like a dog who’d chased his master through three towns.

“In Queen Marika’s name…” the man wheezed, “…how are you still so godsdamned energetic?”

Aurelis blinked, then laughed aloud. “Rorick?”

Ranni stifled a giggle behind her hand. Rorick’s hair was wind-whipped and full of twigs, his coat flapping open like a forgotten banner. He looked like he’d been chasing Kynval — and failing.

Rorick staggered toward the bench and collapsed onto it. “Kynval’s damned legs don’t stop. I blinked and the bastard was halfway down the ridge.”

Kalé laughed heartily, pouring him a drink with one hand while catching a falling bottle with the other. “You picked the wrong man to follow if you wanted a leisurely stroll.”

“Well,” Kynval said, brushing dirt off his coat and beaming, “you should’ve kept up. We’ve work to do and news to share.”

“Oh?” Aurelis said, brow raised. “What kind of news?”

“A town no longer,” Kynval said, stepping forward proudly. “We’re a village now. Built proper. The forge has a roof, the well’s been lined with true stone, and we’ve mapped out the east path for the farmers.”

“A village?” Ranni murmured. “That is… swift work.”

“You gave them hope,” Caelithra added softly. “They just needed something to believe in.”

Kynval continued, his tone turning a touch theatrical. “And there may just be a little something… waiting for you two. A small reward, from all of us.”

Aurelis narrowed his eyes. “Kynval.”

“What?” the old soldier said, feigning innocence.

Ranni crossed her arms. “Just tell us what it is, Kynval.”

Kynval grinned like a man holding cards behind his back. “It’s a surprise.”

He turned and gestured toward the door. “Come. You’ll see.”

Before either could argue, Rorick stood — surprisingly fast — and handed each of them a cloth. “Blindfolds,” he said simply.

Ranni looked at hers suspiciously. “What is this?”

“I don’t know, love,” Aurelis muttered, examining his. “All I know is this seems a little strange.”

“Maybe they’re going to feed us to a beast,” Ranni offered wryly.

Aurelis laughed. “I doubt that. Kynval’s not that subtle.”

They followed, blindfolds tied, up the incline — each step guided carefully. The air grew cooler as they climbed, and even muffled by cloth, Aurelis recognized the crunch of gravel beneath their boots and the scent of night-thickened grass. The hill was familiar. He remembered Kalé and Caelithra spying down upon the miners from here — an age ago now.

Kynval stopped suddenly.

“Here,” he said. “Remove them.”

They did.

Their eyes adjusted slowly — the world now wrapped in a shawl of dusk, where stars peeked out like shy companions above. And there, sitting noble and calm at the crest of the hill, was a house.

No — not a house.

A home.

A cottage framed by trees, kissed by moonlight, its birch-wood walls pale and dappled like frost-stained bark. Grey stones lined the base and chimney. And the roof — Gods above, the roof — was dyed in tiles of shimmering azure blue, as if a slice of Ranni’s moon had been lain across its crown.

Ranni’s breath caught. Aurelis stared, stunned.

“I—”

Kynval was already retreating, waving without looking back. “Enjoy it. You can thank us later.”

Rorick gave a cheeky bow, then chased after him, leaving them alone beneath the stars.

Ranni turned to Aurelis. She looked radiant. No words passed, only the clasp of hands, fingers interwoven as they approached the door.

The handle was cool iron. Aurelis reached for it — and Ranni’s hand fell over his.

They opened it together.

The interior was warm with color — a hearth of grey stone greeted them, its fire a flickering red in the shadows. Rugs of deep blue, silver thread catching the light. Furniture of fine wood, carved lovingly. Potted plants flourished in corners and along sills. Beyond the living room stood a small but elegant kitchen, and between the two — a dining table already set with plates, utensils, and hand-stitched napkins.

Glass doors opened to a patio with a view of the village below — lights flickering like fireflies.

Upstairs, the rooms were many. A storage room, tucked with folded linens and carefully labeled crates. An armory, modest but neat. A guest bedroom, complete with quilted bedding. And then…

The master room.

Walls lined with books. A bed nestled into a cubby beneath a wide window, stars blinking through the glass above. Blankets of night-blue and soft white, pillows like clouds.

Ranni stepped in slowly.

“It’s… perfect,” she whispered.

Aurelis smiled, watching her. “I agree. Almost as perfect as you.”

She turned, blushing faintly. “T-thank you…”

She moved to the bed, trailing her fingers along the frame, then glanced back.

“Aurelis… do you even need to sleep?”

He chuckled, unbuckling his armor piece by piece. “Not really, no. But aren’t you the same way?”

“I am,” she murmured. “I don’t need to.”

She hesitated, eyes flicking toward the bed, then back at him.

Aurelis stepped closer. “Ranni… are you asking me… to sleep with you?”

Her cheeks darkened. “N-no, that’s ridiculous—”

He kissed her before she could finish.

“Ranni,” he whispered as he pulled away, “we are far past the bounds of custom. We are husband and wife.”

She kissed him this time, hands folding over his chest, her body melting into his.

“You’re right,” she murmured.

She stepped back, waved a hand, and her dress shimmered into a nightgown of soft silken weave. Aurelis removed the rest of his gear, setting Moonveil gently beside the bed. For a moment, both stood in stillness. He felt exposed without his armor. She, perhaps, felt the same without her hat and robes.

But then she leapt into his arms, and nothing else mattered.

He carried her to the bed, laid her upon the sheets, and curled beside her in the quiet of their new home.

They would have talked — about everything, about nothing — but the fatigue of battle, the strain of endless movement, and the calm of being at last safe overtook them.

And so they slept, together, arms entangled beneath moonlight, as lovers and warriors and partners in all things.

Their journey would continue. The flame would not fade. But they would no longer walk it alone.

They were no longer two.

They were one.

Chapter Text

Rested, both of them were.

The chamber glimmered in silvered hues, touched by a blue morning sun that filtered through stained glass above the bed. A soft azure glow danced across the stone walls, casting long, gentle shadows across the timber floor. Within the warmth of that serene room, Aurelis stirred—not from necessity, but from a peace he had long thought lost. He did not need sleep, not truly. Yet he had grown to cherish the rare moments it afforded him: a balm for thought, a sanctuary from pain, and above all, a place to dream.

He lay still for a time, his gaze fixed on the patterned ceiling of their new home. A month ago, the notion of such comfort would have seemed fanciful. In truth, he had believed himself to possess nothing—no lineage, no past, no future. Merely a blade, a flame, and the burden of wandering.

He recalled the place where his journey had begun. That desolate church, sunken into ruin beneath an impossible sky of cascading stars—where moonlight bled into eternity, and silence sang louder than battle cries. He had awakened there alone, and the fury of that moment still lingered in memory, like cinders beneath the ash.

Most Tarnished were remnants of a forgotten age—warriors and generals, once graced and then cast aside when they had served their purpose. So it was with Godfrey, and so it was said of many. But Aurelis… Aurelis remembered nothing. No homeland, no station, no family. A blank parchment of soul, his origin scrawled in question marks and smoke.

He had once feared that void. Feared what he was, or was not. Feared that he was naught but a hollow blade in human form.

But that was before.

Before the miners, before the town, before the stars above turned their favor to him. Before her.

And now?

Now he held something greater than memory or purpose.

He had Ranni.

She lay upon his chest, her breath slow and rhythmic, like the tide brushing gently against some forgotten shore. Her weight against him was slight—barely there, and yet it grounded him more than the gravity of the Erdtree. He curled his arm gently around her, careful not to wake her. She had earned this rest.

The covers that cloaked them were of such softness that Aurelis scarcely believed them woven by mortal hands. Like a breath of cloud wrapped in warmth, the fabric cradled them in a cocoon of quiet bliss. The window’s blue-stained light danced across her skin, catching the faint shimmer in her silver locks. Though her appearance was far removed from the fabled depictions—the Ranni of the legends, tall as a cathedral’s door and distant as the moon—this form felt more real to him than any tale.

She was no towering deity here, no mystery cloaked in riddles. She was Ranni—five feet and four inches of mischief, sharp wit, and boundless heart. His beloved.

Aurelis smiled faintly. No throne, no title, no glory could compare to the feel of her beside him. Not even Moonveil, radiant and swift as it was, held a candle to her presence.

She was beautiful. Hair like starlit silk, skin as pale and soft as snowdrift, and eyes that could silence even the storm. But more than that, she was… his.

His, and he hers.

And in that quiet morning, beneath that azure-streaked roof, wrapped in linens finer than gold, Aurelis felt something he never had before.

Someone to love him.

That was all Aurelis had ever truly needed—though for a time, he had not known it. Not truly. Not until now, lying beneath a roof crafted of azure stone and birch, with the soft warmth of her breath rising and falling against his chest.

She was his beloved. His equal. His only known kin in this fragmented realm. Not bound by blood, but by soul. She was his wife—though no ring had been exchanged, nor ceremony held before altar or tree. What need had they of such rites, when the stars themselves bore witness to their union?

In the scattered camps of the Tarnished, love was a forgotten luxury. Life was survival. Kinship came not by blood, but through shared scars and desperate flame. Aurelis had been the youngest of them—though not in years, necessarily. No, his age was ever a matter of confusion. His face bore the look of youth, but even from the start, he was something different. Misremembered. Misplaced.

They had called him “the thirteen-year-old newborn,” for when first he was found, he had seemed barely more than a child—blank-eyed, hollow, bereft of thought. A soul trapped behind glass. The elders had thought him doomed. A babe in the shell of a man.

And they had not been wrong.

For a time, Aurelis had known nothing. No sorrow. No joy. No fear. The winds of the Badlands howled around him, and he simply stood. Breathing, but not living. Enduring, but not growing. His mind was locked in ice, and the flame of his spirit guttered.

But still, he learned.

The tribes raised him in silence. He was taught to wield a blade before he could understand why one needed killing. He learned to hunt, to endure, to obey. And slowly—so painfully slow—he began to feel.

It began with the smallest things: the tremble of fear beneath the roar of beasts. The faint spark of laughter beside the campfire. The first warmth of camaraderie. Something had shifted then, as though unseen chains began to loosen.

And yet, nothing was promised.

No miracles came. No revelation. Merely the slow thawing of a frozen soul.

Then the deaths began.

The Tarnished—many from their own camp, and from others afar—began to fall, one by one, as if some unseen scythe passed through their numbers. Not by battle, but by something stranger. Elders whispered of omens. Even mighty Godfrey, once proud and unyielding, convened with the tribal elders in solemn dread.

It was during their absence that the true horror struck.

The dead returned.

Not as ghosts or wretches, but as resurrected vessels—Tarnished who had fallen long ago, now drawn back to the Lands Between as if some forgotten string had been plucked. All of them heard it: the Call of Grace. The voice of Marika echoing in the marrow of their bones.

Aurelis did not.

He had not died, yet the call passed him by, as if he were… other. He felt it not. Heard it not. And still, something stirred in him.

He chose, of his own will, to return.

The elders did not forbid him. They merely watched, silent and mournful. One whispered that if calamity should befall the Lands Between again, even Godfrey might one day rise. Aurelis could not know whether that was hope, or warning.

And then—nothing.

The memory ended.

All he recalled next was the thunder of waves, the cold kiss of rain, and the wooden creak of a ship tossed in a storm. Then the church. That damned ethereal church beneath the silver sky.

Was it dream or truth?

Perhaps he should—

A soft yawn.

It broke the silence gently, like a ripple across a glass-smooth lake.

Ranni stirred beside him, her fingers flexing lightly across his chest, one of her four hands reaching to brush the hair from her face. Her breathing shifted—less the rhythm of sleep, more the awakening of thought.

Aurelis turned his gaze from the window to her face, and the storm of memory faded away like smoke on wind. She was here. Real. Present.

That was all he could ever ask for.

“Good morning, love~,” came her voice, lilting and slow like moonlight upon still waters. She stretched with a gentle arch of her back, the light of dawn dancing through the blue-tinted stained glass to crown her in soft hues. Her sapphire eyes met his, bright despite sleep’s haze.

“Morning, Ranni,” Aurelis replied, voice low and warm. He leaned down, brushing a kiss to her pale cheek, the touch so soft it might have been spun from air. She blushed, a delicate shade of twilight blue, and smiled.

“I’ve not slept like that in an age,” she murmured.

“Then I count the night well spent,” Aurelis said with a quiet grin.

But he rose, and Ranni’s joy faltered. Her hands clutched the blankets around her frame like a child denied a dream.

“Stay,” she whispered, voice drowsy and imploring. “Do not rise so soon…”

The once-dreaded Lunar Princess, feared in tales and half-remembered legends, now pouted in her sheets like a lovestruck maid. Aurelis could scarce contain his smile.

“Love,” he asked with mock solemnity, “dost thou wish to eat?”

She gave a soft sigh and flipped onto her back, kicking her feet in the air like a restless fawn. “Hmm… aye, I do.”

Aurelis felt his heart seize in bliss. If ever he was to perish, let it be now—from joy.

“Then rise,” he said at last, gesturing toward the wardrobe. “And clothe thyself. Modesty, after all, is still expected… in some corners of this world.”

“Mm. Very well…” she hummed, rolling from the bed.

Inside the closet lay two new sets of garments, clearly left with care. For Aurelis, a tunic of clean white linen and a pair of simple brown trousers, belted at the waist. Humble, yet noble in its own way. Ranni’s attire was a flowing grey house-dress, modest yet soft, lacking the formal grandeur of her usual astral garb.

With a flick of her wrist and a shimmer of blue light, Ranni’s new dress snapped into place—graceful and effortless. Meanwhile, Aurelis wrestled with his tunic like a knight wrangling a wyvern.

Ranni giggled, arms folded. “Must thou wrestle with thy shirt, brave warrior?”

He grunted. “In battle, I’ve faced dragons and madmen with blade and fury. But no foe tests my patience like a fresh tunic.”

She leaned against the doorframe, watching him with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Wouldst thou prefer I dress thee, love? Or shall I summon a squire?”

“I’ve no need of squires,” he said with mock pride, tugging the belt snug around his waist. “But I’ll admit: you wear yours better.”

“Well,” she teased, twirling once, “I’ve had centuries to master the art.”

They descended the stairs hand-in-hand, moonveil hanging at Aurelis’ side like a silent oath. The home below welcomed them with light and peace, and for a moment, it almost felt like they had always belonged there.

Aurelis strode into the kitchen… and promptly stopped.

His gaze scanned the countertops, the unfamiliar stove, the jars of herbs and hanging ladles—all utterly foreign. A soldier’s knowledge of sustenance did not lend itself to domestic comfort.

He frowned. “I have just realized… I only ever cooked what I needed to survive. Roots, meat, whatever could be cooked with fire and salt. Not… meals.”

Ranni appeared behind him like moonlight on water, smiling as she leaned into the doorway.

“Love, dost thou know how to prepare a proper dish?”

Aurelis turned. “Do you?”

She bit her tongue, sheepish. “No. I… never learned. In my household, the servants tended to such things. I had no need.”

“Well, then,” Aurelis said, hands on his hips, “it seems we are noble incompetents. Let us stumble through it together.”

She laughed—bright, musical, free. “Then may the Erdtree have mercy on our stomachs.”

Aurelis chuckled, rolling up his sleeves as he moved toward the pantry with newfound determination. “We’ll burn the first few dishes. Perhaps the first ten. But what is marriage without calamity?”

“Spoken like a man already plotting to poison me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aurelis smirked. “At worst, you’ll simply be mildly inconvenienced.”

“Then I’ll prepare the healing draughts in advance,” Ranni said, grinning.

The kitchen, once foreign, began to warm beneath their laughter. They stood side by side, glancing at old tomes of recipes, rummaging through strange ingredients with curious fingers and brave hearts. A knight and a sorceress, clumsy in the art of eggs and flour—but radiant in joy

________________________________________

Let it be known throughout the Lands Between: neither blade nor spell could rescue a meal from Aurelis and Ranni’s hands.

Their foray into cookery had begun with noble intent. Eggs were chosen, a stew attempted—ingredients gathered with reverence, recipes half-remembered or wholly improvised. Yet from the first crack of shell to the final bubbling churn, it was as if a curse clung to the kitchen itself. The eggs erupted in a manner most unholy, one detonating with such force it painted the ceiling in molten yolk. As for the stew… it bore resemblance not to any known meal, but to the innards of some ancient wyrm, freshly slain.

When all was said and scorched, they stood in silence before the horror they had wrought.

“…Never again,” Aurelis muttered.

“Aye,” Ranni agreed, eyes narrowed at the bubbling cauldron of shame. “Let this kitchen be sealed and forbidden.”

They refused to touch a single morsel of the ruined fare. It was not merely distasteful—it was dangerous. Thus, hunger and humility drove them from the threshold of their hearth, into the waking morn in search of sustenance made by hands more competent than theirs.

But before venturing into the town, Ranni had another desire.

“I would… like to sit in the garden,” she said softly.

Aurelis nodded at once. “Of course.”

Kynval, it seemed, had poured great care into their home—not only in timber and stone, but in serenity. The garden behind the cottage was small, yet exquisite. A curved path of smooth-cut stones led to a bench carved from pale wood, worn soft by use and warmth. All around, the earth was thick with flowers in bloom—white and cerulean, faces turned toward the rising sun, petals shimmering as though lit from within. They swayed gently in the morning breeze, as if bowing in homage to their sovereigns.

Ranni and Aurelis took their seats together. The garden seemed untouched by time. No crows called. No beasts stirred. Only the distant sigh of wind through the village rooftops broke the silence.

Aurelis leaned back, eyes half-lidded, basking in the gentle light that spilled through the leaves.

Then her voice came, soft as silk:

“Love… may I touch your hair?”

He turned to her with a curious smile. “Why ask? Have I ever denied you anything?”

Her cheeks tinged a pale shade of blue. “I would… like to braid it.”

He blinked once—then chuckled, brushing a stray lock from his brow. “Then by all means, my lady. Tame the wild mane.”

Ranni scooted closer, her long, spectral fingers brushing through the soft silver strands. Aurelis’ hair had grown long over the months of their travels—once tied carelessly into a rough knot atop his head. Now she undid it gently, letting it fall to his shoulders like a cascade of starlight.

She worked with focus and grace, fingers weaving each braid with loving intent. First the left, then the right. Twin plaits took form, each resting neatly upon his shoulders, the braids smooth and even. His pale locks framed his face in a way neither of them had seen before. The braids softened him—not in weakness, but in warmth. His azure eyes gleamed like still water beneath moonlight, and in the quiet of the garden, he looked less a warrior and more a prince of ancient line.

Ranni’s hands stilled, and she gazed at him in wonder.

“…How in Marika’s name are you so handsome?”

Aurelis turned his head, his smirk slow and sure. He reached out and caught her hand in his own.

“How in the Lands Between,” he whispered, “can you be so beautiful?”

She tried to respond, but her breath caught. Her fingers curled into his. For a long while, they said nothing else. No words were needed.

They lingered in the garden a while longer—not in sleep, but in that sacred stillness which lovers rarely find and dare not disturb. Ranni’s head rested gently against his shoulder, her hand slipping into his without ceremony. The warmth of her presence dispelled all lingering echoes of war and ash, and for a moment, Aurelis believed he might never move again.

Yet fate—mundane and mortal—had other plans.

A low, gurgling croak burst from his stomach, startling them both.

Aurelis blinked. “…Was that me?”

Ranni broke into laughter, her voice light and silvered. “It seems your belly has declared war, my love.”

He flushed faintly, pressing a hand to his abdomen. “Strange… I’ve not felt hunger like this in ages.”

“Then let us not deny it. Come, let us find a meal worthy of your appetite,” she said with an impish grin.

“Indeed. We shall!” he declared, rising with theatrical gallantry.

Hand in hand, they departed from the serenity of the garden, descending the familiar path down the hill—no longer a mere trail, but a road of memory. Once, Aurelis had walked this way alone, guided only by the stars and a blade that thirsted. But now… he walked beside the moon herself.

The town—no, the village, the home—had awakened fully. It pulsed with the breath of life. Children darted between merchant stalls with peals of laughter, their arms full of flowers and wooden swords. Laborers hoisted baskets of fruit, women chatted across laundry lines, and even the old sat beneath shaded awnings to trade stories and smile at passing souls.

Aurelis took it all in with quiet reverence. This is what we fight for, he thought. Not runes… not glory… but this.

As they made their way through the crowd, their fingers entwined, they arrived at Kalé’s shop. The familiar ring of a bell and the smell of crushed herbs greeted them. Outside, the merchant himself was crouched beside a bundle of flowering stalks, stringing them neatly to dry.

“Kalé!” Ranni called across the lane, her voice warm and melodic.

The man stood, brushing his hands off on his apron. “Ah! The stars themselves have descended once more!”

Aurelis chuckled as he joined her side. “Good morning, old friend.”

“Better now that I see the both of you,” Kalé said. “You’ve brought peace, yes, but you also bring brightness. The villagers adore you both.”

“You flatter us,” Ranni replied, bowing her head politely.

“Only as much as you deserve.”

Aurelis leaned against the post and cleared his throat. “Kalé… would you happen to know of any taverns in town? We’ve… decided to relinquish our hold on the culinary arts.”

Kalé’s brows lifted. “Ah, a wise decision. I feared the skies themselves would darken when I heard of your breakfast.”

Ranni pouted. “Was it that bad?”

Kalé laughed. “I heard the explosion from here.”

Just then, a blur of youthful motion burst from the shop door. Aeren, full of morning glee, sprinted past with two other children in tow, waving wooden swords and shrieking battle cries. He spotted Ranni and Aurelis mid-charge and waved ferociously. “Hi Miss Ranni! Mister Aurelis! I’m a dragon today!”

“You’ve grown fearsome overnight,” Aurelis called back, smiling.

Aeren stuck his tongue out playfully before darting off, his friends trailing behind like leaves on the wind.

Kalé sighed fondly. “The town’s been noisier, but it’s a blessed kind of noise.”

“You were saying, about a tavern?” Ranni prompted, still smiling at the whirlwind child.

“Ah, yes! There’s a small tavern at the southern bend of the main road. It’s called The Lily’s Embrace. A dear friend of Caelithra’s—Lily—runs it. She’s a fine cook and gentler than most saints.”

He pulled out a folded map and pointed with a thin finger. “Here. Not far. Take the south road and follow the spice-sellers until you smell grilled leeks.”

“Grilled leeks…” Aurelis echoed. “Already I hunger more.”

Kalé handed the map off, but paused just before they turned to leave.

“Oh, and one more thing—Kynval sent word. He wishes to see the two of you at the capitol building.”

Ranni blinked. “The… capitol building? What do you mean?”

Kalé nodded. “It’s new, you see. Only just completed. Stonework carved by the best hands this village has… and it sits atop the hill, near the watchpoint. Remember where I set up camp? Kynval wants to speak with you about the town’s future. Says it’s important.”

Aurelis’s expression grew thoughtful. “I see. Then we shall go.”

Kalé smiled. “After your meal, of course. The flame of a hero runs cold on an empty stomach.”

“Thank you, Kalé,” Ranni said, her voice laced with warmth.

“No,” Kalé replied with a bow, “thank you.”

And so, with stomachs empty and hearts full, Aurelis and Ranni departed into the noise and joy of the day—stars among mortals, walking a road they had made safe with steel and soul. The scent of bread and spice beckoned. The town lived.

The tavern stood at the bend of the main road, alive with mirth and the scent of seasoned meats. The Lily’s Embrace, its sign read in bold strokes, carved into dark wood and hung from rusted chains that swayed with the breeze. It exhaled warmth and smoke, laughter and spice, music and footfalls. The air itself seemed to pulse.

Aurelis and Ranni stood briefly at the threshold, awash in the din of revelry.

Within, a jubilant chaos reigned. Tankards clashed and froth spilled; boots stomped in rhythmic cadence upon wooden floors. Men and women danced arm-in-arm in a circle of madness and joy, their steps wild and uncoordinated. A bard plucked frantically at a lute in the corner, singing a bawdy ballad about a knight and a particularly feisty goat. Roars of laughter followed every refrain.

It was foreign to Aurelis.

And it was good.

He glanced to Ranni, who stared wide-eyed at the swirl of color and song. Her hand instinctively found his, and her grip tightened—but not in fear. It was as though she, too, was overwhelmed by the sensation of belonging to something far greater than oneself.

The crowd paid them little heed. Some raised their mugs and cheered with no real recognition—simply because it was a day worth cheering. Others did recognize them, and their toasts rang clearer.

“To the ones who slew the tyrant!”

“To the moon and the blade!”

“Aurelis! Ranni!”

Aurelis blinked, his name shouted with such unceremonious glee that it startled him. He was a figure of war. But here… he was simply welcome.

They made their way to the bar, weaving through the festival of spirits. Behind the counter stood a woman with fire in her hair and charm in her eyes. Her apron was worn, her sleeves rolled, and her face bore the sun-kissed resilience of one who had long since tamed chaos.

“Hello! Welcome to my establishment!” she beamed, arms akimbo. Her long crimson hair tumbled over her shoulders like a banner in battle.

Aurelis straightened himself unconsciously. “A pleasure. I am Aurelis, and this—” He turned to the moon at his side. “This is my wife. Ranni.”

The word still felt strange in his mouth. Sacred. Real.

Ranni blinked, and her cheeks went blue again.

Lily clapped her hands and gave a squeal of delight, hands pressed against her flushed cheeks. “So cute! Look at you two! Moon and steel, walking hand in hand. Stars above, I might weep.”

She ushered them swiftly—decisively—past the fray and to a quieter corner beside the hearth, where a round table of dark oak stood waiting for two. The candle at its center flickered gently, as if acknowledging their arrival.

“Here. For you two. A bit of peace amid the madness.”

She dropped two menus before them with theatrical flair, then winked and departed into the fray, yelling something about “bread not baking itself.”

Aurelis picked up the leather-bound menu and opened it with cautious reverence. “There are… so many things.”

“I know not what half of these are,” Ranni admitted, her voice low with amusement.

“‘Honey-glazed heron thighs with blood-marrow jus,’” Aurelis read aloud, uncertainly. “What in the Erdtree…”

Ranni leaned close, reading over his shoulder. “That sounds… rather morbid.”

“‘Sun-egg porridge with candied radish and autumn grapes.’” He blinked. “That sounds suspiciously edible.”

“I see… ‘Moonroot stew with goat’s milk and pale sage.’ That feels like something made in my honor,” Ranni murmured with a smirk.

Aurelis chuckled. “We could order one of each and survive on pride alone.”

“No, love. We nearly died last time. Let’s not tempt fate.”

After a brief but noble struggle, they agreed upon their selections: Aurelis chose the sun-egg porridge with a side of wild-boar sausage, while Ranni, ever true to her celestial theme, ordered the moonroot stew with oatbread and honeyed apples.

Lily returned shortly after, having taken their order with grace and jotted it down in a book filled with comically messy scrawl. “Good choices, both of you. I’ll make sure it comes quick—and hot.”

They passed the time idly, Ranni playing gently with Aurelis’s hand beneath the table as his eyes wandered the lively tavern. He had never known a place so free. So simple. So alive.

“I love this,” he murmured softly.

“What?”

“This. Us. All of it.”

Ranni tilted her head, her silvery hair shifting like silk. “I do as well.”

Soon, the food arrived—hot, fragrant, and plated with rustic elegance. Aurelis stared in awe. The porridge was golden, thick, and dappled with soft egg yolk and tangy fruit. The sausage glistened beside it, charred and savory. Ranni’s stew shimmered with pale green light, steaming with a scent of thyme and cream. The oatbread was thick and warm, wrapped in cloth. And the apples—oh, the apples—were carved into roses and drizzled with glowing amber honey.

They began to eat.

At first, slow bites. Then laughter. Then more bites. Aurelis was halfway through his second helping of sausage before he even noticed.

“This is divine,” Ranni sighed between spoonfuls.

“I’m not sure if I should eat more or propose again,” Aurelis said.

“You’ve already wed me, love.”

“I could do it again. I’d do it every day if I could eat like this afterward.”

They laughed, their hands brushing across the table. Ranni fed him a bite of apple from her spoon. He responded by sneaking a sausage piece to her mouth when she wasn’t looking.

The bard across the room shifted from goats to a slow, dancing melody. The candle on their table flickered in rhythm, and outside the window, the sun had begun to rise higher, casting silver and blue light across the cobbled street.

For once, the world did not ask them to draw blades.

…At least until trouble strode brazenly through the door—uninvited and unwelcome, a crack like thunder heralding his presence.

The great oaken doors of the tavern swung wide and banged against the stone wall with a guttural slam. The revelry halted. The bard’s chords withered mid-pluck. Conversation fell into breathless hush. All eyes turned to the threshold.

He stood there like a wrought-iron stormcloud: a man tall, broad, and steeped in disdain. The flickering torchlight clung uneasily to the scarred angles of his jaw. Muscles swelled beneath a threadbare tunic that had long since surrendered its color. His steps were heavy, iron-shod boots biting the floor with each stride.

Aurelis’s eyes narrowed.

The brute moved without heed, weaving through the tables like a storm amongst sheep. With not a word, he reached a nearby table, plucked the tankard from a stunned patron’s hand, and drank deep—stealing not only ale, but dignity.

Aurelis shifted in his seat.

He did not rise. Not yet. But his knuckles curled against the edge of the table, and the glint in his eyes spoke of blood that ran hotter than it had mere moments ago.

The music had died. Conversation followed. The breath of the tavern held itself hostage. And then, slowly, as one must when waking from a nightmare, murmurs returned. But not with mirth. With tension. With caution. Like villagers whispering of wolves at their gates.

Ranni leaned close to Lily, who had emerged from the back room with worry etched upon her brow. Gone was the vibrant tavernkeeper; in her place stood a woman weary of what the tide might drag in.

“Psst,” Ranni whispered, her voice soft as moonlight. “Lily… who is that man?”

Lily glanced over, and her lips thinned. “That is Ludleth,” she replied, bitterness hanging off the name like rot.

Aurelis’s brow furrowed. He listened in silence.

“He once tried to claim leadership over the town,” Lily continued, her voice low and hurried. “But Kynval was chosen instead. He’s never forgiven that. Now he roams these streets like a dog without leash or master. Barks. Bites. Drinks. Threatens.”

Aurelis followed her gaze to where Ludleth downed another stolen cup, then slammed it on the table hard enough to splinter the wood. His breath was loud. Unapologetic.

“Why has he not been removed?” Ranni asked, keeping her tone even.

“Because the guards—bless them—are stretched thin,” Lily answered. “Godrick’s remnants linger in the woods. Beasts prowl near the southern fields. They keep the worst at bay, but here, inside these walls… he rots.”

A sudden crash tore through the air—shattered mugs hitting the floor. Gasps followed.

Aurelis turned swiftly. One of the serving women stood drenched in ale, her apron soaked, her hair dripping. She had been the target of his tantrum. Ludleth towered over her, eyes wild and cruel.

“WHAT IN THE HELLS ARE YE DOIN’!?” he bellowed, spit flying from his mouth.

Aurelis’s jaw clenched. He did not rise.

Not yet.

The woman stammered something. Ludleth didn’t hear. Or didn’t care.

Then came the crack—sharp, vile.

SMACK.

Aurelis froze.

Ludleth’s hand had lashed across the woman’s cheek, and the tavern erupted—not with violence, but protest. Voices raised in shock and fury. “Enough of this!” “Stop hitting her!” “Calm down, man!”

But no one dared draw steel. None stepped forward.

Ranni’s fingers twitched. Her sapphire eyes narrowed to slits of storm. Aurelis saw it. He knew the look.

He made no move to stop her.

With a flick of her wrist and a whisper of arcane syllables, a lance of glintstone shot forward like a comet.

It seared through the air and grazed Ludleth’s cheek—clean, precise, a perfect cut. Blood bloomed along his face, a crimson crescent against his ruddy skin.

The brute howled, staggered back, and turned his fury on her.

“YOU BITCH—”

He never finished.

In a blur of motion, Aurelis stood—his face expressionless, but his soul ablaze. He caught Ludleth by the throat before the man could take a step. His fingers curled with quiet precision, wrapping around the thick trunk of Ludleth’s neck.

“You will not,” Aurelis said, his voice low, each word an execution, “touch. My. Wife.”

Ludleth struggled, gasping, but the hand that gripped him was unmovable. Aurelis’s strength was not forged in taverns or bar fights—it was born of war, tempered against demi-gods, and honed in the fires of madness. His grip tightened. Ludleth’s legs flailed.

The tavern watched in stunned silence as Aurelis, calm as the eye of a hurricane, dragged the man across the floor and out through the swinging doors.

He passed the threshold.

He stepped into the street.

And with a roar of movement, he slammed Ludleth down into the mud of the horse’s stables—flat on his back, wheezing, broken pride buried beneath filth and humiliation.

Aurelis stood over him.

“Fuck you,” he said, flatly.

And with that, he turned.

He strode back inside, unshaken, brushing flecks of dust from his sleeve. The tavern was still silent—watchful, wide-eyed.

Ranni met his gaze.

He returned to her, calmly, and sat back down.

Only then did the music return. The bard, fingers trembling slightly, resumed his tune. The laughter returned slowly, hesitant, like a deer returning to water.

Lily’s voice trembled with earnest gratitude, her gaze flicking from the overturned cups to Ranni’s delicate form. “Thank you,” she said, placing a hand upon her heart. “He… he could have truly hurt Lady Ranni—”

A sudden, unexpected laugh broke the air.

It came not from merriment nor scorn, but from Aurelis—deep, warm, and unrestrained, as though she had uttered the funniest jest he’d heard all week. Ranni, seated beside him, nearly choked on her meal, her shoulders shaking with laughter, a hand over her mouth as her sapphire eyes sparkled in amusement.

Lily blinked in confusion. She tilted her head slightly, red locks falling to one side. “What… did I say?”

Aurelis wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still chuckling. “Oh… by the Erdtree, that was good…”

Ranni let out a soft giggle, stifled only by a bite of bread.

Lily stared between them, now visibly perplexed. “I—I meant it. Ludleth could’ve really hurt her.”

Aurelis glanced toward Ranni. She gave him the look that lovers share when a joke needs no explaining. Aurelis leaned forward, elbows on the wooden table, and looked Lily in the eye.

“You’ve misunderstood,” he said, voice low but light. “I didn’t save Ranni from Ludleth.”

He paused. A beat.

“I saved Ludleth from Ranni.”

Lily’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came. “Wh-what?”

Ranni composed herself, though mischief danced behind her expression. “Had he finished the word ’bitch,’” she said calmly, “his corpse would be dust on the wind.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Lily’s eyes widened, and her face paled just enough to betray the depth of her realization.

There, seated in a modest tavern amid the echoes of song and spilled ale, she saw—not the charming moonlit couple who had made the town their home—but who they truly were: The sorceress of lunar cold, whose glintstone bolts could cut a man’s thoughts from his tongue, and the blade-dancer who tore Godrick limb from limb with a lover’s rage.

And they were laughing over eggs.

Ranni smiled sweetly and added, “But I’m very glad Aurelis stepped in. I might’ve broken a chair.”

“I’m all finished,” Aurelis said, rising with a satisfied exhale.

“As am I,” said Ranni, brushing her hands gently.

Aurelis turned back to Lily. “How much do we owe you?”

Lily, now regaining her composure, waved a hand quickly, her smile nervous and genuine all at once. “Nothing. Truly. Call it… a humble gift of thanks—for removing Ludleth from my threshold.”

Aurelis offered her a nod of respect. “We’ll remember your kindness.”

The door swung open again, and the lovers departed—hand in hand, moonlight and firelight in harmony. The tavern, still warm with cheer, resumed its rhythm behind them, but whispers followed their passing.

And somewhere in the stables, Ludleth lay in mud, nursing not just his bruises—but his pride.

________________________________________

“So then… shall we go to Kynval?” Aurelis asked, his voice gentle, the weight of the day still soft upon his shoulders.

“I would think it urgent,” Ranni replied, her tone cool yet affectionate, ever a measured wind beneath the fevered sky. “If he calls for us now, then best we not tarry.”

Their boots met the earth with steady cadence as they departed Lily’s warm-lit haven, turning down the cobbled path and back toward the hill where the newly raised capital stood like a crown atop the glade.

Yet Aurelis’s mind wandered.

His thoughts trailed not on summons or stone, but on the one beside him—the woman he now held claim to, and who held all of him in return.

He turned, a curious light behind his eyes. “Ranni… what did you look like—before this?” he asked, a smile brushing the corners of his mouth.

She tilted her head with a smirk, the kind that knew how to play with silence. “What, do you not think me fair now?” Her voice carried a sly jest, but her expression dared him to answer wrongly.

In reply, Aurelis leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You are,” he said softly, “the fairest thing to ever grace this cursed earth.”

He entwined his fingers with hers.

“It’s just… you’re a demigod. Daughter of Rennala. Sister to Radahn. I suppose… I’ve always wondered.”

At that, her smugness faded into a long, slow breath—one shaped by sorrow but borne with dignity.

“Our family…” she began, voice distant, but not cold, “was once whole. I loved them all dearly. Radahn, with his reckless courage. Rykard, with that peculiar, dark wisdom. And my mother… gentle as moonlight.”

She faltered.

“Radagon—our father—he was once a good man. Then he was taken. Not by blade nor fate, but by purpose. He abandoned us. Forsook my mother to chase divinity beside Marika.” Her voice lowered, as though to speak his name aloud risked breaking the moment.

Aurelis nodded solemnly. He had heard fragments of such tales from the old fireside legends passed through his tarnished kin. Of Marika, the eternal queen who wielded men as tools, gods as pawns. Of Radagon, half-lord, half-wound, and wholly unknowable. And of Godfrey—the first Elden Lord—who bore the flame of kinship until it was wrested from him.

But he said nothing. He only listened.

Ranni, now steadied by memory, continued. “I was once… different. My hair was red like flame, my skin pale as milk. I favored Radahn in form, though not in spirit. Then came my pact with the stars, and the night remade me.”

There was a quiet smile on her lips, but it was tempered with grief. Before she could retreat further into that buried life, Aurelis stopped her with a touch.

They had come to the forest’s edge, not far from the house they now called home. And there, before the great hill where the capital building rose from where once the chapel had stood, Aurelis turned and knelt.

The wind pulled at his pale cloak as he bowed his head and cupped Ranni’s slender hands in his own.

“Beloved,” he began, his voice breaking the hush of dawn like a vow etched in flame, “I care not for what you were. Nor for the crown you once bore, nor the sins of those who named you kin. You are you. The Ranni of this age. My moonlight. My end and my beginning.”

His throat caught, but he pressed on.

“You say I am your consort, and I accept that title not as a duty, but as truth. For you gave me something I never thought I could possess.”

His voice trembled now. “You gave me belonging.”

Tears welled in his eyes, azure and pure, the sorrow of a thousand rootless days breaking like waves on soft shores. “When I thought you lost to me—when your spirit vanished from the lands—I felt it. That hollowing. A part of me torn away. And I never… never want to feel that again.”

He looked up.

And there she was.

Ranni’s eyes brimmed with starlight, her sapphire tears tracing down her cheeks like falling fragments of the firmament.

“Aurelis…” she whispered.

She fell to her knees and threw her arms around him, holding him as though the world itself had shattered, and he alone was the final star still glowing in the sky.

“You changed everything,” she whispered into his ear. “I lived lifetimes numb. Cold. Void of meaning. Power meant nothing. Eternity meant less. But then I saw you. And somehow, in your mortal soul, I found a cosmos more vast than any I had known.”

She kissed him then—long and trembling, tears upon tears, her hands in his white hair. And he kissed her in return, fiercely, gently, wholly.

They sat there, beneath the edge of the canopy, bathed in the pale morning light. Their pasts behind them. Their tomorrows unwritten.

Two souls cleaved together not by duty, nor destiny, but by a love forged in battle, in silence, in the quiet promise of being seen.

They were no longer god and consort.

They were one.

Chapter Text

The great oaken doors moaned as they opened before the approaching couple, ushering Aurelis and Ranni into the shadowed hall of what was once a chapel, now repurposed into the town’s fledgling capitol. The ceiling still bore faint traces of Erdtree iconography, dulled by time and ash, while banners of moon-silver and azure hung in place of the old sigils, newly sewn by hands loyal to this rising star of a town.

Within, the air was thick with tension.

Rorick’s voice echoed from the stone walls, sharp as a blade drawn in haste. “We must act now, Kynval! If we tarry, there may be naught left to save!”

The older knight’s armor rattled as he paced, face reddened by worry. Kynval, ever the steadier flame, stood his ground, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade, the other raised in tempered rebuke.

“We must give them time, Rorick,” Kynval replied, voice firm but laced with fatigue. “They have felled Godrick the Grafted, endured what most could scarce imagine. Shall we grant them not a breath’s worth of peace?”

“But I fear—” Rorick began, and halted.

A hush swept the chamber.

All eyes turned toward the open doorway.

There, like figures from prophecy, stood Aurelis and Ranni. Moonlight through stained glass crowned Ranni in pale cerulean hues, while Aurelis’ countenance bore that calm, lethal clarity known only to those who had slain a Demigod.

Kynval stepped forward at once, a weary but genuine smile breaking through his hardened expression. “Ahh—speak of the stars, and they descend,” he said, clasping forearms with Aurelis in the fashion of warriors. “You arrive at a most fateful hour.”

“Ranni, Aurelis,” he said gravely, glancing back at Rorick and then the weather-worn parchment he held, “we are in need of something… rare.”

Aurelis tilted his head, his silver hair catching the firelight.

“What is it, Kynval?” he asked, already tensing for battle.

“We will do anything we can to help,” Ranni added, her sapphire eyes narrowing with resolve.

Kynval gave a respectful nod and exhaled. The fire crackled beside him, throwing shadows across his face.

“Your kindness… it speaks volumes. But I will not dress this in honeyed words.”

He laid the scroll across the table, smoothing its creases.

“There is a grave matter unfolding. We’ve sent word far and wide to nearby villages, offering sanctuary here. Most replies have been sparse… scattered. But one message returned. From the Weeping Peninsula.”

He tapped the parchment.

Rorick crossed his arms, his scowl deepening.

“The village of Fennwatch. A humble place, nestled near the edge of the cliffs. Known for its quietness. For its peace.”

Ranni looked to Aurelis, her expression darkening, as if a cloud had passed over her thoughts.

“And what has befallen them?” she asked softly.

Kynval hesitated. For a moment, the fire seemed to dim.

“They say it is not beasts, nor soldiers, nor knights of the fallen Demigods.”

He looked directly into Aurelis’ eyes.

“They speak of… madness.”

Aurelis blinked. A silence fell once more.

Kynval pressed on.

“Not rage. Not wrath. Madness. Of the kind that devours reason, and sunders the mind into screaming shards. The golden kind—the frenzied flame.”

He said it like a curse. Rorick muttered a prayer under his breath.

“Reports speak of entire households lost to it. Eyes burning like dying stars. People tearing their own flesh from bone, laughing as they weep.”

Ranni’s face was unreadable. But her grip on Aurelis’ arm had tightened.

“We do not know the source. Only that it spreads… like fire through dry grass. And I cannot risk the lives of our folk. You both… you have faced things beyond mortal ken. And the Rune you carry, Aurelis… it may offer protection. Perhaps enough.”

Kynval’s voice was calm now. Almost pleading.

“I would not ask this lightly. But I ask all the same. Will you go to Fennwatch? Will you seek the truth behind the madness?”

The room waited.

Ranni looked to Aurelis.

Aurelis turned, casting a sidelong glance at the woman whose soul he now shared. “If we agree,” he said, his voice low, measured, “will we be made to depart at once, Kynval?”

The older man glanced toward Rorick, then back again. His face bore lines drawn by both wind and war, but his tone held only grace. “No. Not today. Tomorrow, at the sun’s zenith, you shall take your leave. Until then, rest. Be with each other.”

Ranni leaned closer, the hem of her moonlight-blue gown whispering against the stone floor as she stood on tiptoe. Her lips brushed Aurelis’s ear, soft as a breath, saying words only for him.

He nodded, faintly smiling.

“Then we accept,” he declared aloud.

A great exhalation passed through the room like the wind from a long-held breath. The gathered townsfolk, soldiers, and scribes alike murmured blessings, relief writ plain upon their faces. Rorick, whose gruffness had been his shield, looked as if he might collapse from gratitude.

“Thank you. Thank you, Master Aurelis!” the old soldier said, near to kneeling in reverence.

“There is no need for thanks,” Aurelis replied gently, lifting his hand to forestall the gesture. “We serve, because it is right.”

Kynval stepped forward again, folding his arms. “One last matter. This shall not be a mere jaunt across green fields. The journey is long—at least two weeks, should the weather remain fair and beasts lie low.”

Aurelis considered that. A fortnight’s time. A path fraught with peril, and perhaps no return. But he had faced worse. He had faced himself. He gave a quiet nod. “We understand. We are prepared.”

His hand sought Ranni’s, and her slender fingers slipped into his without hesitation, as natural as night falling over dusk.

“Good,” said Kynval, smiling, though the burden of his role never quite left his eyes. “We shall prepare what provisions we can—rations, maps, charms of warding, and flame incantations, should madness show its golden eye. You must be at the South Gate by noon tomorrow.”

He bowed, and turned away, his cloak catching the light as he rejoined the gathered councilmen and officers. Already, they were speaking of matters mundane and sacred alike.

“Now that they have agreed,” Kynval could be heard saying as the couple took their leave, “we must turn our attention to establishing the schoolhouse. If children are to grow here, they must grow with knowledge.”

The doors behind Aurelis and Ranni closed, heavy and solemn as tombstones, sealing the chamber behind them.

Outside, the day had worn into late afternoon. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows through the slats of town walls and rooftops. It burned gold, not with frenzy, but with warmth—a reminder that not all flame is cruel.

Hand in hand, the couple walked the familiar path back toward the silver-birch cottage that now bore their names, carved into the lintel in moon-silver etchings. The townsfolk they passed bowed low or smiled, not out of fear, but out of kinship, of reverence for those who bore the burden no one else could.

They said nothing as they ascended the slope. The silence between them was not hollow, but full. Full of thought. Of love. Of the subtle ache that came with knowing one’s peace was brief.

And as they reached the crest and beheld once more their shared home, the soft glow of lantern-light already spilling from its windows like starlight upon snow, Aurelis exhaled through his nose and whispered, “One more night.”

Ranni’s hand tightened in his.

“Yes,” she said. “One more night.”

“Well then,” Aurelis said with a quiet smile, brushing a stray wisp of azure hair from her cheek. “Let us make the most of it.”

Without warning, he swept her into his arms, lifting her effortlessly as though she weighed no more than starlight. She laughed, startled, her voice like chimes stirred by a gentle wind. He carried her across the room, where a low piece of furniture awaited—soft, cushioned, humble. A “sofa,” Kynval had called it. Strange word. Stranger object.

He had never sat upon one before, but Ranni, ever the moonlit scholar, had. She nestled against him now, one arm looping around his neck, the other draped across his chest. Aurelis sank into the cushions and into her embrace, as if both were a sanctuary.

He turned his head, and their eyes met.

Her gaze held multitudes.

Not stars, no—entire constellations. Celestial rivers of thought and sorrow and tenderness, all flowing into him. She smiled faintly, a bloom in moonlight, and his heart ached at the sight.

He leaned close and pressed his lips to hers—a gentle kiss, deep and reverent.

“You,” he whispered as they parted, his breath warming her cool skin, “are the most beautiful thing in this world, Ranni.”

Her cheeks tinged a deep sapphire hue, subtle and glowing, as if moonlight itself had flushed with emotion. She looked down, then up again with a solemn sort of mischief, her fingers rising to trace the curve of his jaw.

“Would you wish,” she said softly, “to know the tale of how I came to bear this form?”

“I would,” he said, voice steady with the weight of his care. “With all my soul, I would.”

Ranni nodded once, her fingers still on his chin. She turned slightly, tucking herself closer to him, her head resting against his shoulder. One of her smaller hands clutched his tunic. Her voice, when it came, was quiet—wind over snow.

“This body was not always mine,” she began. “It once belonged to my master. The Snow Witch. She was… beyond words. Beautiful, yes. Powerful, immensely so. I was but a girl of stardust and ambition when she found me—lonely and full of questions. She took me in. Taught me sorcery when I had only known silence. She… loved me, I think. As a daughter, or a star she wished to raise.”

Aurelis gently stroked her shoulder, urging her to continue. His other hand found her lower right, and held it without hesitation.

“She had four arms, as I do now,” Ranni murmured. “But hers were stronger. Taller than me. Her hair fell to her knees, white as untouched snow. Her voice was… haunting. And kind.”

Her voice began to tremble.

“When she died, I was left hollow,” she said. “I saw the truth of Marika’s order—its rot, its theft. I rejected her. Not quietly. I…” Ranni stopped, a slow breath escaping her.

“I did something unforgivable.”

Aurelis said nothing, holding her tighter.

“I sent the Black Knives,” she whispered. “To Godwyn.”

His breath caught.

“There was no need,” she said. “None. The ritual to sever myself from the Greater Will required a sacrifice, but… it didn’t have to be him. I could have chosen another. A lesser noble. A knight. Even myself. But I chose Godwyn. My kin.”

Her voice fractured, and tears slid down her cheeks like cold rain.

“I destroyed him, Aurelis. Not his body—his soul. The golden prince, the darling of the realm… extinguished. And for what? To make a statement? To wound Marika?”

He looked upon her then—not as a monster, but as a woman burdened by consequence.

“I died soon after,” she continued, her voice faint. “Used a sliver of Destined Death, stolen from Maliketh’s binding, and killed myself. That I might sever my fate from the Erdtree. I planned to be reborn, but…”

She blinked hard.

“My master… she gave her soul for mine. I awoke in her body, reshaped by my spirit. It changed to suit me. The blue skin, the moonlight hair, the form you see now—it is mine, and yet… not.”

Ranni laughed bitterly, wiping her face. “Two extra arms, blue instead of white, a little shorter than she—but I carry her still. In every movement. In every spell.”

A long silence followed, sacred and unbroken.

“I regret it,” she said finally, “but only halfway. This world cannot survive beneath the yoke of a god like Marika. She tore our family apart. She used Father, and discarded him. Used Godfrey. Used Maliketh. All for what? For power she could never hold.”

She turned to him fully now, her forehead resting against his.

“I bear sin. But I walk forward.”

Aurelis lifted her chin with one finger, his voice a sacred murmur. “And I walk beside you.”

He kissed her, deeply, fully, not as lover to lover alone—but as one soul to another. She melted into it, and for a time, no words passed between them. Only the quiet flutter of curtains. The distant murmur of villagers in their homes.

When they parted again, he whispered:

“Your past is a crown of pain—but I see only light upon your brow.”

And she smiled, the smile of one forgiven, and laid her head upon his chest.

Aurelis held her close, his arms strong but gentle around her waist. Her earlier confession still echoed in the quiet of their cottage, like the last note of a mournful harp. She rested against him, and for a while, neither spoke. The hearth cracked softly. Shadows danced on the walls.

Then he spoke.

“Ranni,” he said at last, voice low, “I do not know what led you to sever yourself from the Greater Will. The path that brought you there… must have been one of great pain. I do not pretend to understand it fully.”

He paused, and she stirred slightly, her hands curling near his chest.

“But,” he continued, “after meeting you… after taking you as my maiden… and then as my consort…”

He leaned in, lips grazing her temple.

“…I trust you.”

She blinked, looking up at him with eyes shimmering like moon-kissed frost.

“When I was young,” Aurelis said, “barely more than a wandering ash-blown soul, I had a rare moment. I met him. The first Elden Lord. Godfrey.”

Ranni’s gaze widened, intrigued.

“He was old then. Weathered. Like a tree that had seen all seasons. But strong. Eyes like steel tempered by sorrow. He said something I never forgot.”

Aurelis gently adjusted the blanket draped over her shoulders, then met her gaze.

“His words were these:

‘I was married to the queen. To Queen Marika. She is powerful—so powerful, it can seem cruel. But when we had Godwyn, Mohg, and Morgott… we both adored them. Despite their forms. Despite how Mohg and Morgott were born, we loved them. Our golden child, our twins of shadow… they were our everything. But something changed her, lad. Something foreign to her own body. I know, because I watched it happen. After Godwyn’s death, she shattered the Elden Ring. A mother does not undo an age unless grief splits her soul. She loved him, you see. Her son of gold. And could not bear to carry on in a world without him.’”

Ranni stared, lips parted, caught between breath and thought.

Aurelis’s fingers brushed a lock of her hair aside, his eyes distant.

“He did not blame her, Ranni. Not truly. Even though all this death, all this madness and ruin… it may have begun with her.”

He held her hand now.

“The Order is flawed. That much is certain. I believe it must be changed, broken and reforged. But I no longer believe Marika was the source. Not entirely. Something else was there. Some force that crept in unseen. Because none of this makes sense. Why shatter the Ring… and then call the Tarnished back to rebuild it?”

He exhaled, slow and heavy.

“It has to be something else. A power deeper still. Something that even gods could not resist.”

When his voice fell silent, the room grew still. Even the fire dared not crackle.

Ranni looked up at him, moonlight bathing her in soft silver. And in her eyes—hope.

“Maybe you are right, Aurelis,” she whispered, her voice fragile and warm as dew. “Maybe… you see clearer than any of us ever could.”

And without another word, she reached up and pulled him into a deep, breath-stealing kiss. One hand on his cheek, the other wrapped around his shoulder. He kissed her back with reverence, his thumb brushing her jaw.

When they finally parted, she leaned her head against his chest, her voice barely a thread:

“Aurelis… you will not leave me. Correct?”

His answer came instantly, like a vow already etched into the marrow of his being.

“Never.”

A soft sob escaped her lips. “Good,” she murmured, trembling. “Because if another person were to leave me… I do not know what I would do.”

Tears spilled, quiet and unannounced, and he caught them with gentle fingers, wiping them away with all the care of a priest tending sacred flame.

He pressed his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling. “Then I shall never stray. Never falter. Not while breath still moves in me.”

“Let us go to bed, then,” he said softly. “The night is long, and you are safe.”

She nodded, weary, tearful, and yet wrapped in peace.

Without another word, Aurelis rose and gathered her in his arms. She curled into him like starlight drawn to its sky.

He carried her up the stairs in silence, footsteps soft as drifting ash.

And behind them, the fire crackled once more, warm and alive.

Chapter Text

In time, Aurelis and Ranni came to move in quiet harmony. Like two constellations in gentle orbit, they had learned each other’s rhythms—some misaligned, others perfectly entwined.

Neither could cook to save their life, and both would admit it only under the pressure of an empty stomach. The kitchen in their modest dwelling had become a kind of battlefield—iron pans blackened by noble attempts and forgotten eggs left to hiss like dying spirits on the fire. Once, Ranni had nearly set a cloth alight trying to “boil” a loaf of bread. Aurelis, in turn, had confidently salted a stew with sugar. The two had stood side by side, glaring at the pot with crossed arms, then bursting into laughter so hard Ranni’s shoulders shook and her spectral hands twitched with mirth.

They were a pair—imperfect, but content in their imperfection.

Ranni, despite her powerful will and celestial bearing, cherished her mornings beneath the sheets. She slept late, nestled in silence and soft layers, often cocooned in the twilight of dreams, as if her body still lingered half in the stars. Aurelis, meanwhile, found himself rising with the sun more out of habit than need—trained by the old cadence of Tarnished before him. He remembered how they’d rise in grim silence at dawn, battered and resolute, training against hopeless odds with mud beneath their boots and the weight of fate on their backs.

Sometimes he would wake and simply watch her—this strange, beautiful woman cloaked in moonlight, one arm draped across his chest and her breathing soft and slow. In those moments, the urge to get up faded. Some mornings, he let himself stay.

Despite their differences, they were happy. Not in a grand, fated way—but in small things. In the way she would reach for his hand without looking. In the way he would lean slightly when she passed, as if drawn by her gravity. In the quiet conversations by candlelight, or the soft hum of her voice as she floated beside him on long walks through misted ruins.

Yet even now, there were things unspoken. Each carried secrets beneath the surface. Small pieces of themselves tucked away. Aurelis, ever the watchful soul, still pondered what Ranni saw in him beyond loyalty and love. What did she hope he would become? A consort? A co-equal god? Or something else entirely?

And Ranni… what did she still hide behind her composed, moonlit gaze? He knew her mother yet lived, and that reunion loomed like a page yet unturned in their story.

But such answers belonged to the winds of time. For now, there were simpler matters to tend.

Their next journey would take them to the Weeping Peninsula—a land forgotten by most, but not untouched by tragedy. They had heard whispers of unrest, of ghosts that wandered salt-soaked cliffs, and may run into a young girl waiting endlessly by a castle gate.

Aurelis was already preparing their things, though he doubted they’d get out the door before noon. He looked back over his shoulder, where Ranni was still curled beneath the quilt, her silver hair fanned out like starlight across the pillow.

He smiled softly and began to pack quietly, careful not to wake her.

After some twenty minutes of foraging through their modest stores and a few dusty chests in the armory, Aurelis had managed to scavenge a reasonable breakfast—decent, if plain. Dried fruits, a heel of bread that still bore the scent of warmth, and a wedge of cheese hard enough to survive a siege. He also took the liberty of collecting a few supplies that, if not essential, were at least useful: a pair of Stone Sword Keys that glimmered faintly in the low light, several flasks of weapon grease—fire and rot among them—and a handful of throwing knives whose edges still whispered of the forge.

He clipped Moonveil to his side, and the blade let out a gentle thrum—a clear, resonant hum like the pluck of a distant harp string. As though it hungered for the open road.

“You’re restless too, eh?” Aurelis muttered, a low chuckle threading from his lips.

The sword vibrated once more in answer.

He stepped softly through the doorway, past the crackling hearth and towards the bed where Ranni still lay, cloaked in sleep’s serene veil. The first pale shafts of morning light had begun to creep through the slats in the window, painting her skin in cool blue. Her silver hair shimmered across the pillow like the edge of a quiet pond under moonlight, one hand loosely curled near her chin.

Aurelis sat beside her, slow and careful. With the gentleness of a knight tending a sacred relic, he raised a gloved hand to her cheek, brushing aside a wisp of hair, and leaned down to place a kiss upon her lips.

Her breath caught—just barely—and then her eyes stirred open, heavy with sleep but warm with recognition.

“Good morning, Aura…” she murmured, her voice still steeped in dreams. Her lips curled into a tired smile as her arms rose to lazily wrap around him. The name—Aura—had begun to slip from her lips more often as their closeness deepened, a soft, private nickname that lingered between them like the glow of starlight. It belonged to no history, no god, no throne—only to her, and him.

Aurelis smiled faintly. In his own way, he had a name for her too. Sapphire. He used it rarely, and only when the moment struck true. To him, it was sacred—a gem whose brilliance would dull if spoken too freely.

Still half-lost in waking, Ranni sat up with a quiet groan and stretched her arms—two of them yawning skyward, the other two cradling the quilt still wrapped around her like a cocoon. With a flick of her fingers, the air shimmered briefly around her, and her nightgown dissolved into smoke, replaced by the flowing elegance of her moonlit robes. Her famed witch’s hat drifted down from the rack and settled atop her head with a whisper.

“What is it today again…?” she asked, rubbing her left eye like a child who had stayed up reading tomes too late into the night.

Aurelis leaned back on his hands, one brow raised. “We ride for the Weeping Peninsula. Unless you’d rather remain here and burn another pot of tea?”

Ranni blinked. “…Did you pack the pan?”

He sighed through a chuckle. “No. It’s still buried behind whatever creature you summoned in it last time.”

“Then we eat on the road,” she said, standing fully now and adjusting her sleeves with all the noble poise of a princess risen to greet the dawn. But her lips curled in a soft smirk, and her eyes flickered toward him with quiet affection.

The week had been… interesting, to say the least.

Though Aurelis and Ranni had spoken often of their imminent departure, their plans had been thwarted more than once—most notably by Kynval, whose stern warnings had grown more urgent with each passing day. News had reached them from a rider bearing the crest of a broken lion: Castle Morne, long neglected at the southern fringe of the peninsula, had suffered an outbreak of violence. The demihumans, once penned and pacified in the lower crypts and caverns of the region, had broken through the ramparts. Now the castle was overrun.

Kynval, no longer a mere miner but something far more dependable, had stood at the gates of their half-built town and crossed his arms like a father forbidding his children from wandering into the woods at dusk.

“You’re not going out there—not now,” he had said, voice heavy with concern. “Whatever stirs in that place isn’t natural. Not anymore.”

And so, they waited.

Two days. Two slow, stifling, utterly unadventurous days.

Though neither of them voiced their restlessness outright, it was plain to see in the way Ranni paced the same path around the town square, muttering to herself about ley lines and stellar configurations. Aurelis, meanwhile, had sharpened and polished every weapon he owned at least twice. Even Moonveil had grown silent, as if sulking.

When at last the sun rose over the seventh day, clear and high in the sky, the winds turned favorable, and Kynval—after much grumbling and a final warning—relented.

They stood now at the southern gate, shoulder to shoulder, cloaked and armed, their hearts hot with anticipation.

The land stretched out before them like a canvas waiting to be bloodied. Warm winds carried the scent of wildflowers and distant brine, yet there was tension beneath it—a thrumming in the bones, the sense that something beneath the earth itself was… wrong. The madness had not yet touched them, but its scent hung in the air, faint as rust.

“Well,” Aurelis muttered, casting a glance toward the southern horizon. “Hot and ready for adventure.”

Ranni smirked, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. “A pity we must deal with that wretched affliction first,” she said, her voice dry. “Still. I am eager. It has been too long since the world dared to challenge us.”

He grinned. “Then let it try.”

Before they passed through the gate, they turned to offer their farewells. Kynval stood by the wall, arms folded, his expression unreadable—but his nod was one of trust. Kalé, as always, lingered at the edge of the central plaza, offering them a calm wave and a quiet smile. Caelithra was less composed—she clasped Ranni’s hand tightly, her brows drawn in worry.

“Don’t get eaten,” she muttered.

“No promises,” Ranni said, half-laughing.

Then they turned, side by side, and crossed the threshold of the town they had helped raise from ash and ruin. The gate creaked shut behind them with a finality that stirred something strange in Aurelis’s chest.

They did not look back.

Beyond the gate, the world awaited—madness, monsters, and all.

Oh, and what monsters there were…

Aurelis and Ranni found themselves traveling across the long bridge near Mistwood Forest, the early morning light casting long shadows through the trees. It was on this very road, in what now felt like another lifetime, that they had first encountered Caelithra—broken, half-conscious, and being transported to Gael Tunnel. The memory clung to the air like mist.

This morning, however, brought no such somber silence. Instead, Kaiden soldiers on horseback patrolled the area, their crude armor glinting dully in the sun. Aurelis barely acknowledged them. They were so far beneath him now—he didn’t even slow Torrent’s pace.

That is, until one of them had the misfortune to raise his blade at Ranni.

In the next instant, the soldier’s head rolled across the stones, a fountain of blood marking the wake of his collapsing body.

Ranni raised one of her four hands to her face in mock surprise, feigning a gasp. “Oh dear me, you’ve made quite the mess, Aura…”

Aurelis only chuckled. “Oh well.”

They rode on without pause, heading away from the path toward Mistwood Forest, steering instead toward the south—toward the Weeping Peninsula.

On the road, they passed a massive carriage being dragged by two chained giants. Soldiers flanked it, but Aurelis and Ranni simply rode by. Peacefully, even. Until two of the Kaiden guards decided to test their luck.

They, too, lasted all of two seconds.

Aurelis had grown stronger—exponentially so—since claiming Godrick’s Great Rune. Even if minor by the standards of gods, the power it offered had surged through him. And with Ranni’s guidance, he’d been able to tap into far more than raw strength. It was elegance. Precision. Controlled destruction.

They decided to make camp not far from Agheel Lake, finding a small rise where Torrent could rest. The wind was cool there, the scent of pine blending with the distant rot of battlefields long past. Aurelis unpacked their gear and paused when he noticed something.

Two tents.

He blinked, then chuckled softly.

The last time Ranni had joined him at a camp, they had still been uncertain—dancing around their feelings, unsure of what they meant to one another. Now… everything had changed. She was no longer a mystery. She was his.

As he finished setting up the tent, Ranni strolled toward him, robes shimmering softly under the daylight. She tilted her head, catching his little smile.

“What’s so amusing?” she asked, folding two of her arms beneath her cloak.

Aurelis just shook his head, still grinning. “Just remembering how far we’ve come.”

“Cute…” Ranni murmured with a languid, amused smile, tugging him gently by the arm toward their shared tent. Her four hands wrapped around his wrist, pulling him close with affectionate authority. “But come, my brave knight. I require sleep, and I would have you beside me.”

He followed, ever willing, ever hers.

They slipped beneath the folds of canvas and into the hush of night’s embrace. Outside, the embers of the campfire dimmed, casting long shadows like ghosts of the day’s trials, while within, only soft breaths and warmth remained. The night passed in a blur of silence and half-held dreams, the kind one forgets upon waking but feels nonetheless in the weight of limbs entangled and a heart at peace.

Dawn found them already stirring, as the sky blushed faintly with the touch of morning. They set off again, riding with purpose—yet unhurried, content in each other’s company.

Their horses’ hooves beat a steady rhythm along the winding road southward, the air growing salt-tinged as the sea drew nearer. A light breeze caught Ranni’s silvery hair, sending it drifting like moonlight caught in a current. Aurelis cast a glance her way, smirking softly.

“You ride as though you were born to it, moonlight,” he said.

“I was not,” she replied with a hint of pride, adjusting her grip on the reins, “but I ride well because you have ever kept me from falling.”

“I’d catch you, always,” he said, meaning it.

She gave a quiet laugh. “Then I shall continue to ride poorly, that I might fall more often.”

He grinned, raising a brow. “That’s hardly fair play.”

“Oh? Shall I then challenge you to a duel in compensation?”

He feigned a grimace. “I think you’d win. You’ve got four arms, remember?”

“All the better to pin you with, my love,” she purred.

They shared a breath of laughter, easy and soft, the kind that came only when danger was far and hearts were light.

But soon, the tone of the land shifted.

As they crested a rise near the fork that led to the Bridge of Sacrifice, the wind turned quieter, as though the world were holding its breath. Aurelis’s eyes narrowed as he caught a glint of unnatural motion on a distant hill. Nestled atop a slope to their right, not far from the cliff’s edge, stood a great stone disc—an ancient platform of runic make—surrounded by strange, serpentine things.

He slowed his steed, squinting. “Hey, love?” he murmured, pointing with a gloved hand. “What… is that?”

Ranni followed his gesture with her gaze. Her eyes flickered, cold stars behind her lashes. “That is an Evergaol,” she said at last, her voice tinged with reverence and caution. “A prison… or a proving ground. The disc is a seal to a hidden arena. Within, you may challenge those long dead or lost to time—warriors of fame or ancient infamy.”

Aurelis’s expression sharpened with curiosity, and then resolve. He kicked his horse into motion.

“Aurelis,” Ranni called out, frowning, “if you step inside that ring, I cannot follow. The Evergaol seals itself. You must face whatever lies within alone.”

“I know,” he said over his shoulder, his voice calm but firm. “But I’ll be fine, love. Wait for me.”

He reached the hill swiftly. The serpentine creatures—rock-like and pulsing with a faint purple sheen—recoiled and slithered aside as he stepped onto the wide circular platform. The air thickened, humming with unseen power.

From atop her mount, Ranni watched him with worry and wonder, her gloved hands curled tightly around the reins.

Aurelis stood at the center of the disc.

The sigils beneath his feet ignited in a ring of violet flame, and in the blink of an eye, his form was engulfed in a sudden, soundless flash of purple light—

And then he was gone.

Ranni sat motionless, eyes fixed on the now-empty platform, lips parted in a breath that did not come.

“…Come back to me,” she whispered.

________________________________________

For Aurelis, it was as though his mind had been cast into a crucible of searing light—his thoughts burned away in an instant. No sound. No sense. Just a blinding flash that consumed all.

Then, silence.

He stood alone in a place that echoed the surrounding terrain of the disc—a barren stretch of earth scarred by time and ancient battle. But this was no mere plain. The world ended abruptly in a vast dome of blackness, a wall of void that hummed with sorcerous restraint. A barrier. No escape.

He felt it before he saw it—the presence.

Turning slowly, Aurelis beheld a figure slumped across the soil like a corpse cast aside. But it was no dead thing. A low, mechanical hiss issued from the helm, followed by the clatter of metal dragging across the dust. The thing rose.

Towering, canine, wrath incarnate.

The armor was unmistakable—crimson-streaked and hunched like a predator. A jagged, curved greatsword dragged behind it, scoring the stone beneath. The Bloodhound Knight.

No mere illusion. A conjured memory, perhaps—a trial. One designed to kill.

It surged forward without warning, blade swinging in a mad arc—an animal’s rage cloaked in a knight’s discipline. Aurelis met the blow, Moonveil flashing from its sheath in a burst of violet light. Their blades clashed, the song of steel shrieking through the sealed arena. Though Aurelis parried the strike, the sheer force of it staggered him, boots digging trenches in the earth as he slid backward.

The knight dropped to all fours, its curved blade resting upon its back like the tail of some grotesque beast. It paced, circling, limbs twitching with barely contained violence.

Aurelis slowly returned Moonveil to its sheath, the soft click echoing between them like a declaration of intent. The world stilled. Three heartbeats passed.

Then chaos.

The knight lunged with unnatural speed, spinning into a diagonal slash that tore toward Aurelis like a whirlwind of serrated death. But Aurelis had already moved. He pivoted on his heel, feinting the engagement, and leapt back—his robes trailing as he landed in a crouch.

In a blink, he released two glintstone slashes, crackling blades of magic cleaving through the air. The first went wide—but it was never meant to strike.

The second found its mark.

It buried into the knight’s left arm, cutting through the metal with a burst of azure force. The creature screamed—not in pain, but in recognition.

It knew now.

Its speed, its savagery—neither would be enough.

The pale sorcerer before it was no lamb lost in a dream. He was a slayer of lords. And his magic carved through the veil of reality like a blade honed on the edge of the moon.

The knight needed to end this quickly. That much was clear in the feverish tempo of his swings—wild, frantic, driven by something deeper than desperation. But even now, Aurelis stood unshaken. These strikes, reckless and unrefined, were nothing compared to the measured cruelty of Margit, or the violent bombast of Godrick—though the latter remained a blustering fool in Aurelis’s mind.

Once, perhaps, this warrior would have posed a threat. Once, he might have been a challenge. But now? He was little more than a ripple lost in an endless sea.

Aurelis almost pitied him.

Almost.

Each clash of steel, each parry and advance, stripped away what little humanity the knight still clung to. His movements grew more feral, more beast than man, and the shine of madness flickered behind the visor. It was no longer a duel—it was a mercy.

The knight lunged. Careless. Wide open.

Aurelis twisted his heel against the broken stone and dipped low, feinting a trip. The knight took the bait. In a single fluid motion, Aurelis surged upward, his blade driving through the bloodhound knight’s chestplate as though it were parchment. A sickening crunch echoed through the corridor as the steel slid deep. He twisted the sword, not out of cruelty, but precision—and from within the man’s body, a burst of glintstone energy ignited.

Light tore through flesh and armor alike.

In a single breath, the knight’s upper torso was severed from his lower half, collapsing in opposite directions with a hollow clang of steel and bone.

It had been a decent fight.

But only a warm-up.

Chapter Text

Ranni sat astride Torrent, cloaked in quiet. The steed’s patient breath misted in the cool air, while the night stretched endless above her. It had been long—so long—since she had found herself without Aurelis at her side. The stillness gnawed at her, unfamiliar as a blade turned in the hand. She had grown so used to his presence that his absence felt like a hollow wound.

Her heart whispered of him even now. She had spoken her love openly, and it had been returned—such fortune was rare, rarer still among her kind. How strange that she, a daughter of Caria’s lineage, bound by fate and duty, had stumbled into a love unshackled by arrangement. For most of royalty were little more than pawns in a grand game, married off without voice or choice. Even the demigods had known such shackles—though some, like Mohg, were denied the luxury of children and marriage alike, their blood cursed and their lineages doomed.

Her thoughts wandered. Godwyn, she remembered, had taken a lover. Whether by choice or by decree mattered little now. It was but another weight upon her conscience, another guilt among the many she bore. For was it not she who had loosed the knife that carved his fate? A single different choice might have spared him—why not strike down Godrick, that misshapen tyrant, instead? It might have spared the lands much torment. But what use was such wondering? The past lay as ash, unchangeable, unyielding.

So she lingered, waiting. Torrent shifted beneath her, yet remained steady as though sensing his mistress’s unease. She waited for her knight—for her Aurelis.

The circle carved in earth ahead of her began to stir. At first, a faint shimmer, then a crackle of violet light, jagged and fierce. Arcs of power leapt from its edges, splitting the dark like whips of lightning. Ranni raised her gaze as the fissure widened, belching forth a surge of ghostly flame. From its heart emerged a figure—battered, yet unbowed. A man she knew well.

Aurelis stepped through the rift, his hand wrapped firm about the hilt of a strange, curved blade. Its edge gleamed wet with alien light, cruel and predatory in design.

Relief softened Ranni’s face, though she kept her composure. “Aura… what didst thou battle?”

He lifted the weapon, its wicked curve catching the moon’s pale glow. His voice was measured, calm despite the trial behind him. “A foe most peculiar. One of blood and fang—a Bloodhound Knight.”

Ranni tilted her head, placing a slender finger upon her chin. Her many hands folded with thought, a faint smile ghosting her lips. “How curious indeed… a rare hunt thou hast made. Didst thou mean to claim that blade as thine own?”

Aurelis glanced at the weapon once more, as though weighing its worth in his palm. Then he shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping him. “This? Nay… it is not of my style. Its edge bites well, but my hand finds it foreign. Mayhap… a gift for Kalé. His trove grows thin of late.”

Ranni inclined her head in subtle agreement, her moonlit hair shifting in the night breeze. There was something in her gaze—a pride unspoken, a love hidden beneath her calm mask.

He drew near, sliding the curved blade to rest with the other relics at his side. With practiced ease he mounted Torrent, seating himself behind her. The steed shifted, recognizing the weight of both its riders once more, and let out a low, steady whicker.

Side by side again, knight and witch, they turned toward the horizon. The night was theirs, and with Aurelis once more at her back, the silence no longer felt strange.

They set once more upon the path, their course southward and unbroken. Naught of true menace barred their way, only meager bands of hollow-eyed men—soldiers of fortune, deserters, or Godrick’s scraps—who mistook Aurelis and his betrothed for prey ripe for slaughter. Their folly was brief. Aurelis, in a rare show of mercy, offered them the chance to flee, though such grace was wasted upon those so eager to die. It was Ranni who granted them swifter ends. Where Aurelis carved with steel, her sorcery swept wide, and foes who bristled with crude steel and trembling shields were undone in motes of azure light.

Full Moon sorcery was no paltry craft. Though Aurelis’ blade-work was honed, and his battle-skill near peerless, he did not deceive himself—the Lady of the Full Moon wielded a potency of power that eclipsed his own. Her magic might sunder a battalion in moments. His edge lay only in his craft as a warrior, his instincts sharpened upon countless battlefields. Perhaps—he mused with a faint smirk—he might yet impart some lesson of the blade to her, though he wondered if she would allow it.

The journey was mercifully brief, and in time the bridge to the Weeping Peninsula loomed before them. Its arch was held beneath the crooked banner of Godrick, soldiers manning palisades erected as makeshift walls, their shields locked in trembling unity. A single ballista crowned a wooden scaffold at the bridge’s heart, its iron shaft poised as though to split the very sky. Aurelis marked it at once—the lone true threat.

“Aurelis,” Ranni’s voice rang, cold and measured, yet with a softness reserved only for him. “I shall silence the gunner. ‘Twill be no trial.”

He inclined his head in answer, for he had long since ceased doubting her words. The witch’s form dissolved into a glittering haze of starlight, her body unraveling into glintstone motes that rode the air like phantom fireflies. Whether she turned invisible, or simply folded herself into the unseen folds of moonlight, Aurelis could not say. She was gone, leaving only the faint chill of her presence behind.

He spurred Torrent no further, but alighted from the steed with measured grace. His hand found Moonveil, its weight still new in his grasp, and with a single fluid stroke he drew the blade across the neck of the nearest guard. The cut was clean, his foe’s head near severed before he realized death had come for him. A fountain of blood arced, catching torchlight as it scattered in crimson rain.

The second soldier fared no better, Aurelis pivoting with ruthless precision, his blade shearing through iron gorget and flesh alike. By the time the body slumped, four more had closed upon him, blades raised in clumsy unison. Above, the ballista screeched, its wooden frame groaning as the operator loosed the mechanism. Aurelis raised his blade—yet need not move.

For before the quarrel could fly, the man’s head was unmade. A ray of argent-blue carved clean through helm and skull, vaporizing all above the shoulders. The corpse collapsed limply beside the still-smoking weapon, its ruin a silent proclamation that Ranni had returned.

The skirmish lasted scarcely a minute. Steel met flesh, magic met mortal frame, and all was silence once more. When the last echo of steel upon steel faded, Aurelis and his betrothed stood alone upon the blood-slick bridge. The palisades smoldered, the ballista ruined, the corpses of Godrick’s men strewn like driftwood in a crimson tide.

Thus was the way cleared, not only for Aurelis and Ranni to tread into the sorrowful lands of the Weeping Peninsula, but for those trapped within it to find escape—if they possessed the courage to seize it.

They rid the bridge of obstacles quickly, ensuring no stragglers of Godrick’s brood would attempt to retake it. The skirmish was swift, almost perfunctory, but it granted Aurelis and Ranni quiet moments of conversation as they pressed southward into the unknown land.

“The map ends here,” Aurelis murmured, eyes scanning the worn parchment before tucking it away.

“Yes…” Ranni replied, her tone thoughtful. “We will have to update it soon. The peninsula lies beyond recorded lines—uncharted, though not unmarked by sorrow.”

As the two advanced, Aurelis caught sight of something unusual: a young woman seated upon a rock, her posture slumped in weariness. Bruises marred her arms, sweat streaked her dirt-caked skin, and over her eyes was bound a strip of black cloth—blindness made plain. She startled at the sound of his boots upon the gravel.

Aurelis slowed, but approached with care. “Miss?” His voice was low, cautious.

The girl’s breath hitched, her head lifting sharply. “Hello? Is… is somebody there?” Her words trembled, each syllable quick with fright.

Ranni stepped forward, her own hands gentle as she reached for the girl’s. “Yes, child. We are here. My name is Ranni…” She guided the girl’s palm toward Aurelis. “…and this is my consort, Aurelis.”

The contact calmed her. Her brow softened, though her voice still wavered. “You… your presence. It feels… familiar somehow. And yet…” She shook her head quickly. “Forgive me. That is not what matters. May I bend your ear, just for a moment?”

Ranni and Aurelis exchanged a glance, then nodded as one.

“My name is Irina. I have fled from Castle Morne, to the south. The servants there… they have rebelled.” Her voice cracked, horror heavy in every word.

Aurelis crouched closer. “And your eyes—were you harmed? Did they strike you?”

Irina shook her head. “No… my sight has always been weak since birth. Yet even so, I could hear it—frightful howling, echoing through the halls. My good father smuggled me out… but chose to remain himself.”

Ranni pressed her fingers to her lips. “But why? To what end?”

Irina’s face tilted upward, and though her eyes were blind, she seemed to smile faintly. “He said it was his duty—as commander. He would not forsake his men.”

The lovers shared another long glance, silent understanding between them.

Irina continued, voice breaking, “I fear for his life. The servants are wrathful, filled with hatred for every one of us. They butchered those I escaped with. Not a soul was spared. I fear Castle Morne has already drowned in slaughter. Please… I beg you. Would you carry a letter to my father? Beg him to leave, even if it costs him his honor. My only wish is his safety.”

Her plea hung in the air like prayer. Aurelis folded first. “…We will see it done.”

Relief spread across Irina’s features. “Thank you… thank you.”

Ranni, however, was not yet done. “And what of you? What will you do whilst we go?”

Irina turned her face toward her, blind eyes solemn. “I… will remain here.”

“No.” The word left Ranni sharply, startling the girl. “You will not. Alone, you would be slain before the sun falls.”

Aurelis placed a steadying hand on Irina’s shoulder. “We can send you to a village. Safer there, with people who will not leave you to the wilds.”

Irina hesitated, but nodded faintly. “If you think it best… I trust you.”

Aurelis whistled for Torrent, who trotted near, lowering his proud head as if already understanding. Aurelis lifted Irina gently, placing her upon the steed’s back. He packed rations and camping gear into Torrent’s saddlebag. “This spirit will carry you swiftly. Supplies are here—do you know their use?”

Irina’s hands brushed over the gear, her expression wistful. “My father often took me camping. I know how to make do, even… like this.” She touched the cloth over her eyes.

Ranni’s voice softened, almost maternal. “Then be safe, Irina. We shall see to your father.”

With that, Aurelis gave Torrent a final pat, and the steed sped off toward safety, carrying the blind girl into the horizon.

Ranni lingered in silence, watching the dust trail fade. A strange heaviness filled her chest—protective, almost yearning. In that moment, she realized a new desire stirring deep within her soul… one she had never spoken aloud.

Aurelis and Ranni strode forth from Irina’s quiet resting place, the mourning air clinging still to their hearts, and entered into the desolate breadth of the Weeping Peninsula. The road wound before them in silence, until their steps were halted by the ruin of a carriage—a shattered twin to the kind once dragged in bondage by enslaved giants upon the bridge to the Mistwood.

The field about the wreck bore only corpses. The wretched guard-dogs, their hides mangy and eyes gleaming with hollow hunger, broke into a final mad charge at the lovers. Yet steel sang swifter—Aurelis cut them down in a single stroke, their bodies strewn upon the dust like refuse.

Among the ruin lingered two remnants of life. One, a lone Godrick soldier slumped against the overturned carriage, helm discarded, his countenance hollow with exhaustion. He scarcely stirred at the sight of them, only leaning his weary head upon the broken wood as though welcoming the quiet. The other—a giant. No chains bound it now, though the scars of the iron still burned across its vast wrists. It crouched apart, heavy breath shuddering, its massive frame trembling with the vestiges of struggle.

When the giant moved, Aurelis’s hand tightened upon his blade—but the creature did not rise to wrath. Instead, it exhaled and sank upon its knees before them, lowering its gaze. A strange and silent truce.

Ranni’s eyes flicked toward Aurelis, and a faint smile tugged at her lips. Their hearts eased, if only for a moment. For they knew—had these two souls chosen folly, steel and sorcery alike would have silenced them without mercy. Yet fortune, rare and fickle, had given them this reprieve.

Both soldier and giant lived, if but for now.

The morn stretched into afternoon before Aurelis and Ranni finally emerged from the valley where the broken carriage lay. The road climbed steeply, and at its peak the hills narrowed into sheer stone cliffs that hemmed them in like walls. Yet ahead, the cliffs gave way to stonework—a weathered arch of brick, wrought long ago, forming a gateway out of the high pass. Beyond it, Aurelis guessed, lay the path to Castle Morne.

Set just beside the arch was a merchant’s camp. The figure wore garb much like Kalé’s, though of another hue—faded cloth and patched leather, well-traveled and weary. A mule was tethered close by, chewing idly at scrub grass, while over the fire crackled the scent of roasting fish.

“Ahh! New faces!” the merchant called, snatching the fish from the spit and biting into it without care. Aurelis and Ranni approached at a measured pace, Aurelis touching the familiar azure glow of grace as they passed.

Ranni offered the first word, her voice calm and even. “Greetings. I am Ranni. This is Aurelis.”

Aurelis bowed low in respect, while the merchant gave a nod. “Well met. I am but a nomadic seller, drifting where fate allows. Care to see my wares?”

Again Aurelis bowed. “Not at present. But we would seek information, if you will spare it.”

The merchant arched a brow. “Information, eh? Very well. What knowledge do you seek?”

Ranni stepped forward, her pale hand brushing aside her veil. “We require the road to Castle Morne, and to the village that was attacked.”

The merchant’s face darkened. “You are set on danger from both fronts, are you? Certain of this?”

They nodded, silent and firm.

“Fools,” the merchant muttered, though not without a note of pity. He jabbed a finger toward the arch. “Castle Morne lies beyond that gate. Over the next hill, though take heed—its stones drink blood now.”

His hand shifted, pointing next toward the vast cliff face that loomed across the land. “As for the village, only one remains in this cursed peninsula. It was once joined to the land by a bridge, but the span crumbled. Now the plateau is stranded, haunted by vermin and worse—pests, disease, foul corruption. Madness festers there. I have seen its smoke by night.”

Aurelis looked to Ranni, reading her silent thought, then turned back. “You have our thanks. Should you need refuge, seek the village south of Stormveil. You may find safety there.”

The merchant hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Perhaps I will. The road is long yet.” He chewed another bite of fish before continuing. “If you mean to reach that village, do not return to the valley below. Instead, follow the grass path that clings to the cliffside behind you. Circle the plateau, and it will lead you to what you seek.”

Aurelis inclined his head once more, and Ranni mirrored the gesture. Together, they turned from the fire’s warmth, and toward their next trial.

They chose to rid the world of madness first—if only a fragment of it. A small farewell was given to the merchant, and soon Aurelis and Ranni pressed on, seeking the path to the afflicted village.

It was not long before they found it. A vast rope bridge stretched across a deep chasm, its wooden planks swaying faintly in the wind. The far end led to a plateau wholly sundered from the land around it, rising like an island of stone amidst a sea of mist.

The chasm itself was alive with strange growth. Pale flora and sickly fungi sprouted from every ledge and crack, while a thick yellow haze drifted lazily upward. The air shimmered with motes of spore, too heavy to be pollen, too thick to be dust. Aurelis narrowed his eyes at it, his instincts whispering that to breathe deep of that haze would be unwise.

Ranni’s hand tugged lightly at his arm. “Aurelis—look.”

She pointed to the stone columns that thrust skyward along the plateau’s face. Their tops jutted outward as though they had once borne bridges, and faint scars on the stone spoke of paths long since collapsed. One more glance downward confirmed it—the shattered bones of a stone causeway lay scattered in the chasm, leading from the base of the minor Erdtree in the valley below to the village above.

For a moment they stood uncertain, neither path forward nor backward clear. But then Aurelis spied a broken silhouette across the bridge. Another Church of Marika, weathered and crumbling, sat half sunken in shadow on the far side. It bore the same sorrowful air as the ruin in Mistwood, where Aurelis had first claimed that curious flask.

Both of them knew it would be the place to start.

Yet before stepping onward, Ranni’s gaze lingered on something strange at the chasm’s floor. “Do you see it?” she asked softly.

Aurelis followed her gesture. At the very bottom, the earth itself seemed to breathe. A vent in the ground spewed forth a constant gale, a column of air so strong it bent the drifting spores aside as it rushed upward. It looked less like nature, more like the work of some forgotten rite, as if a banished knight endlessly summoned a storm with no end.

It was a curiosity, but not their concern—not now. The village yet endured, and with it the madness festering within.

The church lay a small ways off, and though the ruin bore little of note, Aurelis unearthed a relic at the foot of Marika’s statue—a small golden chalice, its luster dimmed by dust yet unmistakably sacred. Ranni’s keen eye recognized it at once.

“A sacred tear,” she murmured. “Every church that bears Her likeness keeps one, though most are lost or stolen.”

Aurelis frowned, recalling the crumbled church by Mistwood. He had found only that strange flask there, nothing more. Perhaps the relic had long since been taken… or hidden. Yet such musings were for another time. The chasm still yawned wide before them, its shrouded depths choking with yellow spores, and no bridge stretched across.

With little recourse, Ranni urged that they descend southward, toward the foot of the Minor Erdtree, where the bridge had once begun. Aurelis agreed, and soon the lovers rode Torrent to the roots of the great golden bough. Their journey was swifter than expected—indeed, in an eyeblink they stood across from the plateau, the village rising before them like a promise of salvation. Smoke curled faintly from a bonfire among the houses, proof that life yet lingered there.

Aurelis exhaled through his teeth. “If only the bridge endured. The Greater Will has no end of jest at my expense.”

He guided Torrent closer to the cliff’s edge, weighing the hopeless drop. Yet before he could think further, the steed shuddered beneath them, stamping as though seized by some unseen instinct.

“Torrent? What is it, boy?” Aurelis soothed, patting his flank.

The spirit steed gave no heed. His muscles coiled, and before either rider could protest, he bolted headlong toward the precipice.

“Wait! Torrent!” Ranni cried, clutching Aurelis by the chest, her small hands digging into him for dear life.

The earth fell away beneath them. Aurelis braced for stone, for broken bones, for the merciless chasm to swallow them whole—yet instead a thunderous gale struck from below. Wind surged like a living tide, lifting horse and rider alike.

His eyes snapped open. Torrent soared as though wings carried him, borne aloft by that strange vent Aurelis had spied earlier. With a great bound, the steed alighted on the far side of the chasm, hooves thudding against solid earth.

For a long heartbeat neither spoke. Ranni’s arms remained locked about him, her chest pressed against his back, her breath quick against his neck.

“I… did not know you could do that,” Aurelis muttered, voice caught between disbelief and awe.

Ranni slowly released him, her gaze still fixed on Torrent. “Nor I.”

For a long moment they only stared at one another, the silence broken by the steady huff of Torrent’s breath. Then Aurelis let out a laugh—ragged, half-shocked, yet rich with genuine joy. He slid from the saddle, landing unsteadily on the grass, and turned back to throw both arms about the steed’s neck.

“You damned marvel,” Aurelis whispered into his mane. “You saved us. You carried us through the very sky itself.” He patted the spirit horse with both hands, as though words alone could not suffice.

Torrent tossed his head and snorted, the faint blue motes around his body shimmering brighter, as if he understood the praise.

Ranni dismounted with more grace, though her steps were unsteady. She came to Aurelis’s side, her small hands smoothing along Torrent’s withers, her other pair joining as well until all four arms were laid upon the steed. “Truly, thou art wondrous. A beast of spirit and yet more steadfast than flesh. I had not thought thee capable of such might.”

Torrent whinnied softly, leaning into their touch. Aurelis looked up at her, a grin spreading unbidden across his face. “He’s full of secrets, this one. Just like his riders.”

Her lips curved faintly, and for once the cold, moonlit poise she held seemed to melt. “Then mayhap we three are well-matched.” She rested her head lightly upon Aurelis’s shoulder, gazing at the spectral steed. “We place our lives upon thee, Torrent. And thou hast not faltered.”

For a heartbeat, Aurelis felt as though they were no longer fugitives, nor cursed lovers, but simply a knight, his lady, and their trusted mount, bound together by trust in a world that offered them little else.

Yet the warmth could not last. Aurelis straightened, his mirth fading as his eyes turned once more to the village. Smoke still curled faintly in the distance. Time was slipping through their fingers.

He stroked Torrent one last time, his hand lingering on the steed’s neck. “You’ve done more than I could have asked, boy. But we’ve no luxury to linger. Come—there are lives waiting.”

The walk into the village was slow, deliberate—each step weighed with unease. Aurelis’s grip never faltered from his blade, nor did Ranni’s watchful gaze stray from the shadows that clung to the ruined homes. Yet even their caution was not enough to brace them for the truth.

The bonfire Aurelis had glimpsed from afar was no beacon of warmth, nor hearth of welcome, but a pyre of corpses—charred and twisted, their faces unrecognizable, their humanity long since stolen. Houses sagged into blackened husks, roofs caved, doors blasted from hinges by a fire no natural flame could birth.

Then came the sound—the shuffle of dragging feet. What remained of the villagers staggered forth, not men, nor women, nor children, but cadavers animated by that same hellish spark, their eye-sockets glowing faintly with sickly embers. With hollow moans they lurched toward Aurelis and Ranni.

Aurelis did not hesitate. He cut them down, his blade flashing with merciless finality. Heads rolled, torsos fell, limbs crumpled, yet the curse that bound them promised their return. Still, for now, silence reclaimed the street.

“Look,” Ranni whispered, one slender hand pointing. Her voice trembled with both dread and resolve. “That place… the source lies yonder.”

It was another church, crumbling, desecrated, yet radiant with a miasma of malign sorcery. The foul magic all but bled from its stones.

Together, they advanced. But no sooner had they crossed the threshold than the floor writhed. Rats—dozens, then hundreds—spilled from cracks and holes, their eyes burning with the same orange-yellow fire. They rushed in a frenzy, gnashing teeth and tearing claws.

Aurelis waded into them with blade and spell, his strikes cleaving through vermin as easily as grass. Ranni’s sorcery cut arcs of pale moonlight, searing and freezing at once. The lesser beasts fell in heaps, their fiery eyes guttering out.

Then the ground itself split. From below emerged a grotesque giant rat, its body bloated with disease, its fangs glistening, its very hide crawling with the cursed flame. It roared and charged, the air thick with its stench.

Aurelis did not falter. A single glintstone blade shimmered into being, whistling through the air before embedding itself cleanly through the beast’s neck. Its howl ended in a wet gurgle, its massive head thudding to the broken tiles. The giant fell still.

At last, silence returned. The curse was broken—if only in part. Yet as Aurelis stood over the slain beast, he realized with grim finality: there were no survivors. The village was gone.

Within the church, at the base of a battered statue of Marika, he found another chalice, golden and glowing faintly with divine warmth—a Sacred Tear. He took it carefully, knowing such relics might prove vital.

But it was another discovery that stilled his breath. Against one of the cracked pillars slumped a body—human in shape, but wrong. Its flesh was pale, its veins dark, its eyes sealed shut as if burned away from within.

Something about it beckoned him. Perhaps curiosity, perhaps compulsion. He reached out, brushing his fingers against the withered flesh—

—and the world went black.

A violent shudder tore through his mind, a thousand whispers bursting all at once. Heat like fire, yet cold as void, sank into his very veins. For an instant he felt as though his skull would split, his reason torn apart by unseen hands. His last sight before oblivion was Ranni’s startled cry, her four arms rushing to seize him—

Then nothing.