Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Red, within the cavernous depths. Red light upon stone, as if the air itself glows, casting its dim illumination upon massive pillars flanking a structure’s carved facade. And in between, a drop down five stories at least, past a platform on which the light of grace faintly glimmers, far down to where a channel is cut from the floor and scarlet water stagnates and stinks.

But as Pyrrha’s downward gaze drifts away from the architecture and the rot, she comes to look upon her own feet – and the empty air beneath them. She startles, lifting one golden boot, but there is nowhere to place it down again, not even a one inch lip on the stone wall at her back, and so she stands awkwardly upon one foot as worry grows across her face. 

“Be not afraid,” a soft voice comes from behind, and Pyrrha strains to look without moving the rest of her body. A woman stands at her side now, tall and adorned with iridescent butterfly wings, dressed all in white and violet and with a third eye tattooed in matching colors upon her forehead. “This is but a dream, and no harm can come to you here.”

Slowly, carefully, Pyrrha lowers her foot again and stands comfortably upon nothing once more. The winged woman walks out on the air in front of her, just a few steps, then turns back and offers one hand with a smile. “My name is Trina. Take my hand, and walk with me.”

What else can she do? Pyrrha takes the offered hand and lets herself be led forward and down over invisible stairs, as Trina’s soft voice somehow fills the expansive hall around. 

“Have you heard the legends of the scarlet rot?” Before Pyrrha can answer that she is familiar with the disease – it’s all over Caelid – but that she’s never heard of any legends, Trina continues as if she already knows her response. “It is an old affliction, older than even the Erdtree itself, and long ago, great lords worshiped here in service to the rot.”

A pale purple mist sweeps over the ground far below, and in its wake figures appear along the sides of the canal: humanoid, but so densely covered in fungal growths that no flesh beneath can be seen. At the front of the crowd, upon the stairs leading up to the great edifice beyond, three figures stand with towering crowns of fungus atop their heads, leading the rest in a droning chant as all slowly sway in unison. 

“Their Goddess of Rot spread pestilence across all the land, and the worshipers thought it good. They believed in a cycle of decay and rebirth… and how were they to know that the promised rebirth was but a lie to lure them in? Through their sacrifices, the Goddess of Rot grew stronger, and manifested a vassal beast.”

Trina flutters her wings, and in a dizzying rush the perspective changes, zooming forward and down in a fraction of a second until Pyrrha finds herself standing in the temple doorway. The torches to either side cast their flickering light inside to reveal a massive scorpion, its carapace the same mottled beige as the mushrooms outside, with a stinger streaked in scarlet and orange that seems to glow from within.

“Thus Rot reigned over the ancient Lands Between, until another power chose to challenge it: the Primeval Current, known today as the source of glintstone, and the mother of falling stars.”

A haze of lavender obscures Pyrrha’s vision entirely now, and when it clears, she and Trina stand upon the surface world once more, knee deep in a fetid swamp beneath the night sky. The stars above drift lazily through the firmament, forming streams and eddies that visibly turn even in just a minute’s watching. 

“The god of flowing stars sought to expand its domain to flowing waters, and would cleanse this land and claim it. Though it lacked the strength to send a vassal beast, it produced a fairy–” 

With these words, a brilliant mote of indigo light pops into existence ahead of the pair, as Trina paints her tale upon the dreaming realm. Next to it, a man walks out of a violet cloud and kneels in the mud.

“–who bestowed a flowing sword upon a blind swordsman. Blinded first by the rot, and second by thoughts of revenge against that force of nature itself, the swordsman took up his cause as the stars’ champion.”

The fairy-light blinks out, and the swordsman’s clothing is replaced with a set in matching blue. He steps through a series of elegant stances with his curved blade, almost more of a dance than a fighting technique, then stops as a young girl wanders out of the mists – a girl missing an arm, but carrying a blade with the one she has.

Streaks of light cross the sky, one after another, and in the distance a falling star strikes the earth and throws up a glittering spray of water. Trina’s lavender mist swirls once more, and then Pyrrha is at the crater site in daytime, watching as the swordsman whittles a solid chunk of glintstone into a rough but workable prosthetic arm. 

“The Blind Swordsman and his apprentice descended deep beneath the earth, where they cut down the fungal priests and slew the vassal of Rot. There, they enacted a ritual learned from their starry patron, to bind the essence of the Goddess of Rot into a flowing cycle of fate, anathema to the stagnant domination it had enjoyed.”

Scenes of Trina’s latest words play out before Pyrrha’s eyes, showing the two carving through a horde of rotted followers with spinning slashes of metal and conjured glintblades alike. When it comes time for the great scorpion itself, the one-armed girl conjures translucent wings of blue over her own back, and flits around the temple hall baiting out strikes of the beast’s tail so that the swordsman below can freely counter. 

And around the beast’s corpse, the swordsman and maiden chant and pray, circling it as a rapid decay sets in. To outsiders watching from afar, the ritual is incomprehensible, but through a wave of Trina’s hand, the vision skips to the end. The pair walk out of the cloister hall and descend the stairs, coming to rest at the edge of now clear and flowing waters that turn the corner of the canal and disappear in a deep cascade off the nearby cliff. 

“Though I played the role of swordsman,” the blind man announces to the cavernous empty space, “I am become now the fairy, and I gift this sword to the flowing waters for deliverance to my successors, forevermore.” He raises the elegantly curved blade over his head, then casts it away into the water, trusting that when it is needed again, it will find its way to a worthy hand.

“I now relinquish this fate and release it, to be woven again and again through the future of these lands, always alongside the fate of Rot. Wherever the scarlet scourge blooms, my current shall rise beneath it, and wash its filth away.”

And with that, the strength leaves the old swordsman’s bones, and he falls to his knees and pitches forward into the same swift waters to be borne away at last. 

“Though I played the role of maiden,” the prosthetic-wielder proclaims once he is gone, “I am become now the swordsman, and I shall depart to take my own apprentice. When the knowledge of glintstone and its power is passed on, then too will I relinquish this fate that I have walked, that it may be bound alongside the fate of Rot. Wherever the scarlet scourge blooms, my wings shall rise above it, and disperse its noxious air.”

Her own announcement finished, she spreads her gossamer wings of sorcery and flies up and away, back toward the surface so far above, and toward the people now freed from plague at last who she may teach the ways of the stars.

Pyrrha watches her go, then turns to Trina with a question. “Who were those people? How long ago was all this?”

“History will never know their names. But they existed, and the story they set in motion has played out countless times. There is much to be learned from those later cycles as well.”

Trina conjures up a purple mist, but Pyrrha interjects before a new scene is painted before her. “Wait. You said another god started this. The Primeval Current? Why?”

“The Primeval Current got exactly what it had always wanted from this intervention in the Lands Between.” The view all around returns to the surface, overlooking the shallow lakes as the scaffolding for a brand new Academy of Raya Lucaria is built before their eyes. “The worship of a hundred generations of Liurnians, from that very first maiden and her students to the present day.”

The dream shifts back to place Pyrrha and her guide high above the temple of Rot, watching as its flowing waters turn still and scarlet once more. “But even bound,” Trina says, “the Goddess of Rot drew in new followers, who would help it plot both escape and revenge. No more fungal lords… now, the pests.”

Tall, insectoid creatures appear flanking the canal, hunched over with hard carapaces over their backs. “The word was theirs first,” Trina explains to forestall Pyrrha’s immediate question. “Pest is their name as human is yours, and only over the centuries as they transformed from enemies to legends to children’s tales did the meaning slowly shift, until now anyone unwanted can be called a pest.”

“This was still before the Age of the Erdtree, and the people of Liurnia were not yet Carians or Cuckoos. Then, they were called Nox, and their great city was Nokstella. They worshiped the stars and called fallingstar beasts holy creatures… and through that devotion, the Goddess of Rot struck back at last.”

In a swirl of violet, Pyrrha is transported into a vision of deep space, stars above and below, with her only company Trina and a massive four-legged beast made of meteoric stone walking along a flowing ribbon of teal-blue light. Instinctively one hand goes toward where her spear should be across her back, but in the dream it is not there, and the beast’s wide, terrible pincers and its thorned whip of a tail do not turn her way.

“The Goddess of Rot took revenge on the Primeval Current in the place it would hurt the most. It seized a fallingstar beast and corrupted it, twisting its form into that of the Rot’s vassal.”

Before her eyes, the bull-like beast twists and screams as it sprouts new legs on either side, as its body flattens and those appendages are elongated into spindly humanoid arms. The pincers at its front are unchanged but behind them grows a new head, skull-like but with the forehead cracked open, and within the cranial cavity nothing but a single massive eye. And behind, the barbed tail too is stretched outward, bubbling and contorting upward into a curve, until the beast’s shape is recognizable once again… as a scorpion.

“Astel, this malformed star was called, this bastard child of the void, as an insult to all things stellar. It was cast down upon the Lands Between, where it destroyed Nokstella and made its way deep below, to lead the pests as a makeshift, surrogate vassal beast.”

Pyrrha’s eyes narrow. “So… what happened, then? If this started an ongoing feud between two alien gods, I think we’d be seeing the effects. Right?”

“Not a feud,” Trina replies, “but one can see the impact today. The ruins of Nokstella still exist, buried beneath Liurnia’s shores, but the Primeval Current has long since pulled back from direct interference, preferring instead to cut its losses with Astel and focus on the growing tradition of glintstone sorcerers who honor it with their practice.”

Trina shrugs carelessly. “The Primeval Current is sensible, calm, measured. One of the less objectionable as far as outer gods go, provided you can deal with the rampaging star-beasts that fall every so often. The Rot, on the other hand… There are three main roles in its opposition, as written in the story of its binding: the Blue Fairy, the Blind Swordsman, and the One-Armed Maiden. Their identities do not matter, only their roles. The roles that must be played out in full, or else the Goddess of Rot becomes free to write a new future.”

Pyrrha frowns, and paces back and forth across the empty void. “It can’t be just a script though, right? A single massive ritual carried out over months or years?”

“There are variations, of course. The Blind Swordsman is not always blind. They are not always a man. They do not always use a sword… occasionally, not even a weapon at all. But they are always an unparalleled combatant at their chosen art, and use an elegant style, and need not rely on their eyes to win a fight.”

A new scene takes shape before Pyrrha’s eyes: the grand cloister once more, with a crowd of pests bowing down… to a human standing atop the temple stairs. “Once, the Blind Swordsman was an orator, who conquered countless dangers with words alone. In that cycle, he turned the pests against their master, and had them bind the Rot anew. The Maiden he trained was a beastman who used the powers of speech he learned to bring about peace and alliance with the sapling Erdtree.”

“A beastman? Like Maliketh?”

“Indeed.” Trina meets Pyrrha’s questioning gaze and gives her a smirk. “You may be familiar with this particular beastman’s son, Serosh, who became living symbol of the alliance between his people and Queen Marika’s newly established regime.”

Pyrrha takes in a sharp breath in realization. “Godfrey’s lion-man,” she murmurs aloud. “He killed him, right in front of me.”

For the first time, Trina appears in less than total control of the dream, and surprise is evident on her face for just an instant before she wipes it away. “In the present day, the Goddess of Rot is reaching out once again,” she declares without any acknowledgement of the words before. “I assume you know of the former demigod Malenia?”

The temple of rot disappears into lavender mist, and new ground spreads from around Trina’s feet, covered in weeping lilies in silver and gold. Some twenty feet away, a monument rises above the flowered field, depicting two young girls kneeling and clutching each other in a tight embrace. 

“Malenia the blessed, the Empyrean, the undefeated… cursed since birth with scarlet rot. A preemptive strike not at the Primeval Current, but a different outer god: the Greater Will who claims as servants both your predecessor and yourself. A bold move from the bound goddess below, to assault the reigning Order, and one which must be answered in our time.”

“What do you mean, a different outer god?” Pyrrha asks, her eyes narrowing as she looks between Trina and the half-obscured faces on the statue above. “The Greater Will is just… God, singular.”

But Trina neglects to answer, instead carrying on with her own thought without a pause. “There are countless plots the story can take. But the enemy always opens with an outstretched hand bearing pestilence and curse, and the response begins with the Blue Fairy arriving unbidden to bestow a necessary gift. No matter how the middle goes, it always ends with the Swordsman and the Maiden sealing away the Goddess of Rot together… and then generations pass, and the cycle repeats again.”

“And you’re saying Malenia’s sickness is the start of it? That someone will need to become each of these three roles, these fates, and…”

Pyrrha trails off, and her eye contact with Trina fails as her attention moves downward, to a trickle of blood running out of the dream apparition’s sleeve and down the inside of her forearm. “Trina, you’re bleeding.”

Trina glances down just as the stream of blood reaches her fingertips and begins to drip steadily into a pool on the ground by her side. “I need to go now,” she announces abruptly. “And you need to wake up.”

“Um. Okay? But…” Pyrrha stares into the growing puddle of crimson until Trina sharply turns her back, breaking the steady stream of blood to instead scatter droplets across the metallic flower petals around. “Goodbye then. I love you.”

She claps one hand over her mouth for a second in sudden shame. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

As Trina spreads her wings and launches upward into the haze, two words are called back to her just as the mysterious woman disappears. “You will.”

Pyrrha jolts wide awake, sitting up straight in her bed on reflex alone as her mind races with too much information to process. The quilt, masterfully embroidered with an Erdtree crest, falls away, and beside her the sleeping Lansseax senses the movement and pulls the blanket up over her shoulders again.

At first thought, now that she can approach it all with a conscious mind once again, the whole experience seems absurd. Just a dream, no more… yet it felt so real, and Trina’s words and the visions she showed linger in Pyrrha’s mind, unable to be forgotten.

While under the influence, it had never occurred to her sleeping mind to question the reality of the story she was being told, and now that she’s awake… it can’t be real, that makes no sense for more reasons than one, but from what she knows of the history of the Lands Between? There’s nothing she’s read so far that actually contradicts the possibility. She’s heard of Nokstella, at least, and knows it is long since destroyed.

A glance to the curtains shows faint glimmers of light just beginning to leak through around the edges – it’s early morning, and another busy day of managing the competing needs of a small continent lies ahead. Her beloved Elden Lord can rest another hour, perhaps, but Pyrrha cannot stomach the thought of staying in bed herself. 

So she slips out, as quietly as she can, and pads barefoot into another room of the modest house she and Lansseax had commandeered. Not the largest or most ornate, though the trappings of royalty have slowly accumulated – gifts from King Morgott or the knights, mainly, or sent by Radagon as he rebuilds his home in Liurnia – things Pyrrha often has no use for but cannot politely turn away. 

She sits at the dining room’s carved hardwood table, by the half not covered in a folded Carian tapestry she has yet to find a space for, and raises two fingers into the air as she softly calls out. “Melina, are you there?”

Her fingers glow faintly with gold, and beside her indigo sparkles coalesce into the familiar hooded form of the Lord’s advisor. “I am always at your side,” Melina says softly. “Even if I was elsewhere a minute before. It is one of the perks of being bodiless.”

Pyrrha smiles, and gestures for Melina to take a seat beside her. “Have you ever heard of a woman named Trina?”

Melina raises one eyebrow. “That’s a name I have not heard in a long time,” she says. “I take it from the fact you’re awake earlier than usual, that you have just had an encounter?”

Pyrrha’s eyes widen. “You’ve heard the name before? You know her?” She looks away, puzzled. “But that would mean…”

“The name Trina, often called Saint Trina,” Melina begins, “refers to a mythical figure that many have reported dreaming about, with broadly consistent descriptions. A woman, taller than average, with the shining golden eyes that would mark her as close to grace, yet without any other sign of gold.”

“And butterfly wings,” Pyrrha adds. “And a third eye on her forehead – not real, just an outline drawn in purple.”

“I am not familiar with any prior sighting of Trina with wings,” Melina says, “but it is to be expected that each encounter is different. Dreams of her were common during my lifetime, but reports stopped a few years into the Shattering and I have heard no more until now. Although, knowing you have seen her, I must ask… is everything alright?”

“What do you mean?”

“Trina is… not worshiped, exactly, but something approaching it, mainly by the sick or the marginalized. Those who more than anything else need sleep, and rest, and recovery, and peace. She–”

“I’m fine,” Pyrrha interrupts. “But the things she was talking about were not rest and peace. Why would she be so different for me? And how does she get into people’s dreams to begin with?”

Melina raises one cautioning finger. “You misunderstand,” she says. “Saint Trina is not a real person. She is a legend. The way I have always understood it is that the idea of Trina spreads when people dream of her and tell others of their dream. The concept of a protector or guide enters others’ minds, and later their dreams may conjure her image too.”

Pyrrha frowns, her eyes narrowing as she thinks through those words. “But… I’d never heard of her before,” she says finally. “Never knew the name or the look, until she appeared and introduced herself to me.”

“Then that is strange, and I know nothing more to explain it.” Melina tugs the edges of her cloak a little tighter across her shoulders, and a brief flurry of indigo sparkles rise from her and shine in the air. “You are certain the legend of Trina was unknown to you entirely? You did not even overhear a conversation between strangers in passing?”

“I…” Pyrrha lets out a breath. “I can’t be certain, not of every last word I’ve heard in these lands. But consciously, at least, I knew nothing. And I didn’t expect you to know this woman I dreamed about either, I just… It felt so real, and there’s so much magic I don’t know yet, that I had to ask.”

“And as Finger Maiden, questions are what I am here for,” Melina reassures her with a soft smile. “I suppose I cannot rule out the possibility, but let me put it this way: if there were a sorcery that allowed one to step into another’s dreams, I have never heard of it. It would be unique, and new, and outside any school of magic that I know of.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”Pyrrha reaches across the corner of the table to take Melina’s hand. “Your insights have been very valuable, and I cannot thank you enough for staying by the two of us–” She nods her head in the direction of the bedroom. “–for all this time. I should get ready for the day soon, but it was good to talk.”

“Likewise.” Melina stands, but does not yet fade into sparkles and disappear.

“Until later, then. Maybe I’ll stop by the library at some point, if I get a chance, and we can both learn more together.”

“I missed you earlier,” Lansseax says, sitting next to Pyrrha on a low stone wall, in a secluded courtyard in lower Leyndell.

Pyrrha makes a face. “We were apart for what, two hours?” She stands briefly to look for the sun, but does not quite find it over the edge of the rooftops all around. “If that?”

At this, Lansseax only pouts and replies, “About that, yes. And in that time, I missed my wife.”

Pyrrha throws an arm around her as she laughs. “Fair enough,” she admits.

“I mean it! Ancient dragons have many gifts. Fire breath, impenetrable scales, fancy red lightning magic… but emotional stability?” Lansseax scoffs. “Never known any of us to have that.”

She stretches and gazes up at the clear blue sky, then rests back upon her wife's shoulder. “So what have you been up to today?”

Pyrrha shrugs. “Had a weird dream, couldn't get back to sleep. Didn't want to wake you so I just got up and talked to Melina for a little bit. Interesting stuff, and that made me want to check out the library, but of course I couldn't find much on ancient Liurnian history before it was time for my meeting with one of Morgott's people.”

“A meeting?” Lansseax's eyes narrow. “Which meeting was this again? Was I supposed to be there?”

“Don't worry, this one was just me. I've been trying to get people on board with my plan to modernize the Lands Between a little – I mean, there's all this stuff that I know works from back home, but it hasn't been invented here. It's going to be difficult, of course, but I am hoping to raise the general standard of living a bit.”

“How so?”

“Well, we're starting small. Right now I'd be satisfied if we got a steam engine up and running. A simple thing, but it is the foundation of basically all automation, and electricity, and everything that makes Remnant the society it is today. My ideas were either this, gunpowder, or large sailing ships with compasses and navigation by the stars – and I'd rather not invent gunpowder. Restocking my own rifle ammo isn't worth unleashing a new generation of weapons technology on the world.”

Lansseax frowns. “Yeah, best not. But what's wrong with the ships?”

At this seemingly innocent question, Pyrrha leans forward and rests her face in her hands. “It seems so straightforward, doesn't it? Build a big boat and sail out until you find another land. But you need navigation. I don't know if the stars work the same as they do back home. I haven't seen them move, and apparently that's because of General Radahn? I don't even know if this world is round! Does it even have a north and south geomagnetic pole to align your compass to? There's all these little things that you never think of until you try to do something and suddenly you realize you're missing something critical.”

“And I'm afraid I don't know many answers either,” Lansseax says. “Having not really been around humans most of my life. This leadership stuff is hard.”

“Tell me about it.” Pyrrha rolls her eyes. “The job I trained for was to be a hired fighter protecting towns from mindless monsters, not…” She purses her lips and gives a helpless shrug. “Not becoming a religious leader for a new world I still barely know.”

Lansseax opens her mouth to respond, but hesitates as she sees a Leyndell knight hurriedly approaching. She gestures to draw Pyrrha's attention that way as well, and when it becomes clear the knight is indeed coming for the two of them, both stand to receive their visitor.

“Your Lordship, Your Grace,” the knight begins with a small bow, “King Morgott sends word: a visitor has come to Leyndell and your presence is requested at the throne courtyard at your convenience.”

“Understood,” Elden Lord Lansseax tells her loyal subject. “Thank you for the message.” She looks to her wife, and gestures forward. “Shall we go at once?”

Pyrrha lets her feet give the answer, leading the way out of the courtyard. Once on the main road again, it is a short walk to the bottom of the elevator that will take them both to the upper reaches of the city.

“As I was saying,” Lansseax begins abruptly. “Leadership is hard. Before I was Elden Lord, if I had a problem, I would either A, fry the problem with lightning, or B, ignore the problem and take a nap. And then I didn't have a problem anymore! But this latest thing…” She sighs and shakes her head. “Why is politics like this?”

Pyrrha laughs and gives her wife a sympathetic smile. “Oh no, what is it this time?”

“So there's this guy named Kenneth Haight who's got a fort down in Limgrave, and ever since you put Godrick out of his misery, he's been intent on finding a new local Lord for the region. He can't find a candidate, and no amount of lightning or napping is going to solve that problem.”

“Maybe if he wants something done right, he could do it himself? Especially if he's already got a fort. And is respectable enough to come and ask you instead of just becoming a warlord and not caring what anyone else thinks.”

“I tried that,” Lansseax mopes as she steps off the elevator platform at the top. “He says he's not worthy. I almost told him ‘well neither am I but I'm still doing my best as Elden Lord’ but I wasn't sure how well he'd take that.”

“It would be funny to see his face after that,” Pyrrha admits, “but maybe not the best plan. If he's still in Leyndell, maybe we should talk to him together sometime, see if we can convince him to take one for the team and accept the job. Unless there really is someone more worthy?”

“Oh, probably, but I don't know them. I doubt my brother or his boyfriend want to deal with Limgrave either.”

The pair walk together up the final set of stairs, and their former conversation is put on hold as they arrive at the Elden Throne. A truly uncomfortable chair, in the Third Elden Lord's words, but there's nothing in the job description that says she has to actually sit on it. In front of the throne, the open courtyard is empty save for two: the King of Leyndell himself, and a tall warrior in gleaming golden armor, accented by a thick plume of red at the back of the helmet.

Both bow at the Queen and Lord's approach, and then the visitor takes a few steps forward for an introduction. “Greetings, Your Lordship. Greetings, Your Grace. My name is Finlay, captain of the Cleanrot Knights.”

“A diplomatic visit,” Morgott adds, “even if not officially. She has made the long trek from the Haligtree alone and wished to speak with the Queen at once. I thought it wise to oblige.”

“Of course,” Pyrrha says with a nod, silently remaking her initial perceptions of the visitor, as from the knight's voice alone she had not realized Finlay was a woman. “So what brings a Cleanrot Knight all the way to Leyndell, so far from home?”

“I have come on behalf of my lady Malenia,” comes the answer at once. “…Who did not send me, nor likely even knows I am here.”

“Something we can help with?” Lansseax prompts.

“I hope so… or else I will truly appear a fool.” Despite the shining armor and fearsome scythe at her back, Finlay is visibly nervous. “You may think this odd, I know, but bear with me. I am here… because recently I have been having strange dreams.”

Chapter Text

“Strange… dreams?” The Elden Lord is skeptical of her visitor's words, and glances to her wife. Despite the odd look she's given, however, Pyrrha seems only thoughtful – and there is wisdom is not dismissing out of hand the tale of one who has journeyed so far to be here.

“Yes,” Finlay reaffirms. “I know what you must be thinking. Why would I come all this way from the Haligtree, without my lady's blessing, based on so little? Call it divine revelation if you wish; all I know is that I must be here, and so I am.”

Pyrrha nods, still silently considering it all, and then looks up and asks one simple question. “Did you dream of the scarlet rot?”

Finlay is taken aback by the query, unexpectedly specific, but answers in the affirmative. “In a way, yes, I suppose I did. Malenia… the Shattering…”

“Tell me,” Pyrrha asks. “Whatever you think is relevant. Whatever it was that led you to come to us.”

Finlay nods solemnly, and begins. “Every time, they center around the same moment,” she explains. “During the final conflict of the Shattering. And yet, despite all the horrors of that day, my visions fixate on one tiny moment, just minutes before the end. The needle of unalloyed gold that Lady Malenia wore embedded in her flesh–”

She taps her plate armor with one finger, indicating a spot at her left side just beneath her ribcage. “The needle, enchanted to stay the progression of scarlet rot, snapping. Expelling itself from her side in pieces, lost into the swamp. The gift, the favor from the sister she left behind… the restraint she held that kept her from going too far. I see it breaking, over and over. Its spell, failing under too much strain as she fought Radahn the final time…”

“You were there?” Pyrrha asks, eyes wide as she imagines the battle she's heard of only in the most horrifying tales.

“I was at my commander's side,” Finlay answers. “But there is more. Sometimes I dream of that moment just as I saw it, just a speck of gold glittering in the sun as it fell, and then a Redmane swings at me, and I lose sight of either half. But sometimes it happens up close, so slow, and a woman's voice draws my attention to these shining shards of gold. A voice I feel I could almost recognize, but never quite.”

“That is strange,” Lansseax mutters, only halfway to herself. “But I suppose dreams don't have to make any sense.”

“No, they don't.” Pyrrha purses her lips and paces short lines back and forth across the plaza. “And Finger Maidens don't have to be correct, not about everything.” She stops suddenly, and asks her guest, “It was only a voice? You never saw this woman?”

“Never. The voice only showed me the needle, every detail, and then it told me: there is a new Elden Lord of great power, and a new Queen of great resourcefulness, and then I awake. I open my eyes knowing that I must take myself to Leyndell, and I am rested like a child, even if I slept but half a night.”

“No proof, then,” Pyrrha sighs, and turns away once more to think.

Lansseax steps up in her place, more intent on the practical questions than the metaphysical. “Why here? Why find us?”

Finlay looks down, not meeting the Elden Lord's gaze, and pauses – despite her stature and her imposing armor, she almost seems afraid. “There is only one reason I can think of,” she says finally. “That I must ask a favor for the impossible: to find that needle in the heart of Aeonia.”

Both Pyrrha and Lansseax gape at the suggestion. “To find it?” Pyrrha repeats, stunned. “A broken needle, in an entire battlefield? Years after the battle ended?”

“With the entire area overrun with scarlet rot,” Lansseax adds. “It's madness.”

“I know,” is all Finlay can say to that. “It seems an insurmountable task, but if anyone were to produce such a miracle, it would be you, Your Grace. Please, my lady Malenia has sat in a depressive torpor almost unceasingly since her sister was taken, and it breaks my heart to see her so. If her strength, her health, could be returned to her… she might regain the hope she once held of finding and releasing Miquélla, and our home the Haligtree would regain one – if not both – of its revered leaders.”

Pyrrha and Lansseax exchange a look. “It does sound impossible,” they agree. Another glance, a moment of silence, and then the Elden Lord breaks the awkwardness. “But we have to try though, right?”

“Oh, of course.” Pyrrha grins. “If anyone were to pull off a miracle, it would be the two idiots God tricked into becoming leaders. I don't have any urgent meetings or events coming up soon, nothing I can't push back a bit. You?”

“Don't think so.”

“I'll grab our traveling pack, then.” Pyrrha looks up to Finlay again and smiles. “The last battle of the Shattering, right? Meaning Caelid.”

The knight, stunned, can at first only nod. “The heart of the swamp of Aeonia,” she says when her voice returns. “The epicenter of Malenia's scarlet bloom. One of the most inhospitable places in all of the Lands Between.”

“Sounds fun.” Pyrrha looks to her wife. “What do you think? There in time for a late lunch?”

“What?” Finlay chokes. “How? It is a two week journey at the minimum, with a strong horse and no trouble along the way.”

“If you travel by land, the long way around. But you're with the Elden Lord now.” Pyrrha throws an arm around her wife's shoulders with a smile. “And she travels by flight.”

She disengages quickly, and beckons for Finlay to follow her toward the entrance arch. “Stand back, now. Give her room.”

Lansseax looks to the floor's intricate engravings to position herself just on the midway point between the plaza's sides, safely away from anything breakable, and calls upon the innate magic within her. Wind whips up around her, obscuring her form with dust and diffuse light from within – and seconds later, the opaque barrier rushes outward all at once and dissipates, revealing her true, unaltered shape at last.

There is a loud clank as Finlay steps back in shock, and bumps into the arched doorway to the throne courtyard. “The Elden Lord… is a dragon?”

“Yep!” Pyrrha grins at the dumbfounded knight by her side. “I married a dragon, and I could not be happier.” Another thought occurs to her, and she continues, “I'm a Tarnished, by the way. One hundred percent human, just… not from around here.”

“I... see.”

“Don't worry, she doesn't bite.” Pyrrha waves to get Lansseax's attention, and calls up to her, “Let me go grab our supplies and I'll be right back. You can go ahead and get Finlay in a good spot.”

The dragon Lord kneels, and unfurls one massive, stony wing to touch the floor as a ramp. “If you're ready, Knight Finlay… climb aboard.”

"Fun fact," Lansseax calls back to her two riders over the rushing of wind. "Or at least, fun legend that Gransax once told me. Farum Azula used to float over the center of the bay, long ago. We would have passed directly underneath it a little while ago."

"What happened?" Pyrrha yells back, struggling to make herself heard through the whistling of air in everyone's ears.

"According to the story, it started to drift away when the old dragon god vanished from the Lands Between. I don't know if I believe it, much less the claim that the city is trying to follow its god to a new home, but it's as plausible a guess as anything else where Farum Azula is concerned. It's been way out to the east as long as I've been alive, at least."

Finlay, clinging on for dear life to a jagged row of stony scales just in front of where Pyrrha sits, offers her own opinion. "I could believe it," she calls. "I walked the full length of the Lands Between, and there are just as many fallen ruins in Liurnia as there are in Caelid. If they all came from the east, I'd expect that to be different!"

It's a good point, Pyrrha thinks to herself, and one she can almost verify just by looking down at the dusty scarlet landscape ahead. Structures dot the landscape in varying states of disrepair, most clearly human-built in times before the Shattering, but a few do bear the hallmark architecture – and telltale lack of upright orientation – that mark them as fallen from the timeless city in the sky.

She'd found it hard to believe, once, that Farum Azula even existed. A city, floating in the air without support, inhabited by beastly, monstrous men… but then, the city of Atlas in her former world is much the same. Even if her current home runs on magic rather than Dust, the comparison had made it easier to stomach the fantastic tales of the city where her wife had spent her youth.

"Aeonia, here we come!" Lansseax calls out as she passes by the last landmark along the way, the Divine Tower jutting up near the coast. A deep ravine mars the land just below, but beyond is more solid ground, sloping ever so slightly downward to drain into the southern sea.

Pyrrha, however, turns her gaze to the east rather than to the swamp ahead – not least because Finlay sits in front of her, and there is little room to peer around without potentially losing her grip. A flutter of movement catches her eye, and she calls ahead, "Is that a dragon down there?"

"There are many here," Lansseax replies. "Beastmen too. Northern Caelid was always something of a sanctuary for nonhumans who preferred to live in peace with other species. Particularly after the war, when Gransax's widow could no longer bear to stay in Farum Azula, and came here to spend the rest of her days."

"Even through the Shattering?"

"Well, fewer now," Lansseax admits. "I knew some who left for other lands across the sea, but poor Greyoll refused to go. I expect she's still there, attended by great-grandchildren who have never known our home in the sky."

A cliff drops off below them, and the dragon continues on straight over the murky waters far beneath. Great barren trees rise around the center, once thick and green in the swamp's lush environment, but now only dead, rotted wood piercing into the sky. A dilapidated town rests along the cliff base to the trio's left, identified by Finlay as once a place of sorcery, Sellia – but the knight herself gives it no second glance, instead searching directly below.

"Can you land there in the middle?" she asks, instinctively pointing even though Lansseax cannot see.

"The trees are too thick," the dragon responds, already turning away from her straight line path toward the flattest edge of the swamp. "I'll set down over here and transform. What did you see?"

"Fairly certain I saw Commander O'Neil," Finlay replies. "He fought with us in the Shattering. Or more accurately, he fought against Radahn. O'Neil and his men sided with us out of convenience, not conviction, and I would not expect a friendly welcome now...  but if he remains in this blasted land, there will be a reason for it. Perhaps he can guide us to what we seek."

Lansseax glides lower, and comes to rest at last on the western shore of the Aeonian swamp. Pyrrha and Finlay dismount, and immediately the Cleanrot knight drops flat on her back in the dirt.

"Ohh, solid ground," she sighs, spreading her arms out to both sides. "If humans were meant to fly, the Crucible of life would have given us wings."

A short distance away, Lansseax engages her innate magic once again to return to human form, and rejoins her companions – with clothing now included in the transformation, now that months of practice once again have brought back her skill from a time long past.

"The first flight is always the worst. At least you didn't do what Pyrrha did on her first time."

"What was that?" Finlay sits up and looks to Pyrrha herself for the answer.

Pyrrha only grins. "I jumped off."

Finlay gapes at her. "Well," she says. "Good to know the Golden Order's new queen is out of her mind."

"In a more interesting way than the old queen, I hope. Marika was out of her mind on pride, entitlement, and racism." Pyrrha reaches down to help pull Finlay back to her feet. "Can you believe, when I went into the Erdtree and met her, she actually thought I might be on her side? That after seeing the aftermath of the Shattering, I'd actually help her break the Elden Ring further?"

"That sounds like the Queen Marika I always heard about," Finlay says with a nod. "I won't claim to speak for the Haligtree or our founders, but it's possible that some of what prompted the schism might be possible to mend as well. And I suppose we start by working together here today.”

She steps down to the edge of the stagnant, crimson water and points out across the swamp. "O'Neil is in the middle there, where the trees are thickest. If I recall, the swamp is knee-deep in most places, but if there's a hole, you won't see it, so step carefully."

"We're not going to like, both get scarlet rot from this, right?" Pyrrha asks, already standing in the muck up to her ankles.

"Almost certainly not," Finlay answers. "The rot is more akin to a curse than a disease, and spreads not through contact, but through Causality. To put it another way… kissing Malenia would be safe, but letting her become an integral part of your life is not."

She gets a pair of odd looks for this, and more quietly she adds, "I regret neither."

"Well, let's go, then." Lansseax wades in following the others and quickly pulls ahead, now leading the way toward the center of the swamp. "Wish I could have just landed there directly, but my dragon form is just a little too big, I'm afraid."

For a lake of pure pestilence, the journey across it is eerily calm. There are none of the gnats and biting flies that Pyrrha remembers from crossing Liurnia, no surprise by burrowing crab, only blood-red waters and the cloying stink of rot. And while she can't wait to be dry again and clean herself of all the noxious mud caking itself to her shins, she does take comfort in Finlay's words, that without a strong link of meaning through which to act, the power of Rot will not take hold.

At the same time, she does worry for the future, for is becoming traveling companions – if not friends – with a Cleanrot Knight not a link of Causality to one infected? Yet, if her dream is to be believed, if that apparition Trina spoke truth and it is an outside power responsible for this decay, perhaps her own divine connection is sufficient shield.

She does not get to think on it long, as the center of Aeonia looms before them and the group steps out onto slightly firmer ground. Pyrrha and Lansseax each pause to scrape some of the mud off their legs, but Finlay forges ahead, climbing a low mound of earth and rock to view the round depression beyond.

"O'Neil!" she calls, commanding the man's attention from where he stands in the center of the clearing, accompanied by a small cohort of his men. The afternoon sun silhouettes her signature Cleanrot armor against a scarlet sky behind, and upon the ridge she towers over the soldiers before her. "We come in peace, but wish to talk."

"We?" O'Neil asks, just as Pyrrha and Lansseax make it up the hill behind their friend. "I see. And what do a lost Cleanrot Knight and two stragglers want?"

He takes one step to the side and grabs the flag planted in the ground there, yanking it free of the mud – and with it held across his body with both hands, it becomes clear to see that each end of the pole is pointed like a spear.

"Stragglers?" Lansseax yells down at him. "I am the Third Elden Lord!"

As Lansseax descends the embankment into the open space of the clearing, Pyrrha only looks down after her and shakes her head. "I was thinking we'd keep that quiet," she mutters to Finlay. "But I guess the straight through approach works too." Reluctantly, both follow, but stop at the edge of the flat ground as a half dozen swords are pointed their way.

"Very funny," O'Neil deadpans. "There is no Lord in the Lands Between. And if the Queen were to return, she would not choose a woman as consort. Now who are you, and what business have you with my troupe?"

Before either the Elden Lord or the new Queen can speak and reaffirm their story, Finlay steps out in front. "We seek information you may possess," she says. "We have come in search of a golden needle, broken, lost within the swamp. Do you know of such a thing?"

"So what if I do?"

"If you have information that can lead us to that needle," Finlay says with a quick glance back at Lansseax, "then the Third Elden Lord here doesn't kill you all. How is that for a deal?"

O'Neil scoffs, gesturing around at his superior numbers, but Lansseax has heard and understood the wordless message she was sent, and engages her transformative magic. In moments, the clearing is dominated by the full size of an ancient dragon, Finlay and Pyrrha standing between her front legs while O'Neil's squadron cower against the far wall of trees.

"You brought a fucking dragon?!"

"Not that it really matters," Lansseax growls at the man, "but I am the Elden Lord. Now tell us what you know."

"Okay, okay, as you wish!" O'Neil cannot decide whether to look at Lansseax's face or her fearsome claws. "I came back here to look for valuables on the battlefield. It's been long enough, the air doesn't feel like it's rotting your lungs anymore, I thought maybe it would finally be safe to try and loot the place. And yes, I found a golden needle! Both halves of it!"

Finlay steps forward and stares him down. "We're going to need to relieve you of that. Odious as it is to steal from the dead… you can keep the rest. I hope that 'treasure' haunts you the rest of your life, but ensuring that is not my mission right now. I just require the needle."

"Then I have to disappoint you," O'Neil says, cautiously watching both the knight and the dragon – and the silent third woman with them, just as terrifying through being unknown. "You're not the first to come asking for it."

"What do you mean?" Finlay demands.

"A few days ago, this wizard showed up and said the same thing you did. Said his name was Gowry, if I recall. He said he could fix the needle and use it to cure his daughter of the rot… however that works. He paid me a great bounty of runes, and so I gave it to him. It's just a needle!"

O'Neil plants his flag in the ground beside him and holds up two empty hands. "You have to believe me. If there was anything else I could tell you, I would, but I no longer have the needle you want. Gowry arrived from the east. He's a wizard, so I assume you'll find him in Sellia. That's all I know!"

Finlay inspects his face, but his words – and his fear – seem genuine. "Very well," she says, turning back to her companions. "It seems we must track down a wizard to realize this dream."

"Well," Lansseax remarks as the trio hurries together out the south end of the dilapidated town. "I don't think the Sellians like outsiders."

"You think?" Pyrrha says with a single bitter laugh. "Those glintstone shots hurt, even if I am still at…" She pauses to take mental stock of herself. "About two thirds aura?"

One final shot from a sorcerer at the corner of the last house they're leaving behind flies wide beside the group, but even four feet away, Finlay flinches at its passage. "Thank you for taking some of those shots for the two of us," she says softly. "My armor turns away physical strikes, and is enchanted against rot, but it offers minimal protection from other magic.”

"Not a problem," Pyrrha responds. "I protect my team, and right now that's you. My aura is… it's hard to explain, here, but…"

"Weird Tarnished quirk," Lansseax supplies.

"Basically," Pyrrha agrees. "It's not because I'm Queen. It's because I'm a Tarnished, brought here from another world after my death there. Everyone in that world can take attacks without injury like I do, with enough training." She points ahead at a small shack just off the left side of the road. "We haven't checked that one yet."

The others look where she indicates, and Lansseax leads the way up the slope toward the tiny home. "Alright, but if there's another sorcerer in there who encourages us to leave with practically invisible glintstone, I will say I told you so."

Cautiously, the group ascends and approaches the shack, missing an entire wall and barely large enough to even hold them all. Inside, a pale man rests back in a chair, wearing a dingy red hooded cloak and with hands conspicuously devoid of any glintstone staff.

"Hello?" Pyrrha calls, maintaining a respectful distance.

The man startles, and raises his head from where he had been leaning back against the wall. "Ah! Welcome, welcome all. A pleasure to see you. My name is Gowry. A great sage, in my day, anyway. Strapping young Tarnished are always welcome here, and as you already have a guide through the Rot, even better."

"She's the one in charge here, actually." Pyrrha gestures to Finlay. "It's her mission we're helping with."

"You're very kind. It wouldn't be possible without the two of you." Finlay steps forward and addresses the sage directly. "I understand you have recently taken possession of an unalloyed gold needle, retrieved from the Aeonian swamp. We have come from the Haligtree, from Altus, all the way here in search of it."

"I purchased the fragments off their discoverer, yes. What is your interest in them?"

This, Finlay has a harder time answering. "I… I cannot say, but I must find the needle."

"I wish I could help, but I am afraid I no longer possess the item you seek. I repaired it, such that it would forestall the rotting sickness for sure, and I gave it to a girl, Millicent. She rests at the church atop the cliff, tended to by the witless pests who worship her – or rather, her scarlet rot – as a god. A wretched fate indeed, which I acted to save her from. I do hope you do not wish to consign the girl back to such a dreary, agonizing existence."

"Of course not," Pyrrha interjects before Finlay can give any response of her own. "Perhaps it is the will of grace that the outcome of our quest for the needle is to find this Millicent instead. Who is she?"

"My daughter," Gowry says simply. "You understand my desire to heal her, I presume, using any means at my disposal. She has been stricken with the rotting sickness since birth. A curse of her mother, absent as she has been – though is that connection not, in itself, a thing of beauty?"

Beautiful is not exactly the word Pyrrha would use to describe scarlet rot, in any form. Particularly the sickness given to a child, by mere fact of Causality linking her without choice to an absent, ailing mother.

"I hope that one day," Gowry continues, "Millicent might realize her warrior's potential. Like her beautiful mother, Malenia, she might develop into magnificence…"

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" Finlay takes another step forward, now uncomfortably close to the seated man. "That is one lie far too blatant. Surrender the needle, and save your trickery for those more gullible than we three."

Gowry looks up at her, but makes no other move. "I'm afraid I don't follow. What is it that has led you so suddenly into disbelief?"

"Whoever this Millicent is, she is not the daughter of Lady Malenia and you. Of this I am certain."

Finally, some expression crosses the pale man's face: a look of pure insult at Finlay's words. "You question my word on my own daughter? Who do you think you are?"

"I am Malenia's girlfriend! Who the fuck are you?"

Something in Gowry's eyes shifts, and when he speaks again, it is almost a taunt. "Perhaps a Cleanrot would never believe me, but I am the one who found her. A mere babe, in the swamp. A true innocent, as it should be, and such a bud of superior quality. When she flowers, she may very well outshine her sisters. To that moment, to the birth of a new scarlet valkyrie, I have dedicated myself. To the resplendence of the new Order of Rot! There is nothing you nor anyone can do to stop her growth, she or her mother. Such is their fate."

A horrible, wordless sound escapes Finlay's mouth and she grabs for the sickle-bladed polearm across her back. Immediately Pyrrha and Lansseax move to stop her from murdering the man – who still sits almost motionless in his chair, unbothered – but even as one takes hold of her arm and the other seizes her weapon, it is not enough.

Finlay's weapon hand lets go, and with her bare fingers she throws a wide disc of golden light into Gowry's chest, searing a line through his hooded cloak and deep into his flesh. The man lets out a piercing screech and writhes in agony – and then his human shape melts away, revealing instead a hard gray-brown carapace covering countless spindly limbs, topped with a tall and oblong head sporting horribly oversized mandibles.

"I knew it!" Finlay spits, as Pyrrha and Lansseax let go of her arms in shock at the sight before them. "A kindred of rot, spinning lies!"

"Do you detest us, so utterly?" the creature that was once Gowry croaks. "Malenia has disowned us, we children of the scarlet rot… but her child, dearest sapling Millicent, my purest bud…"

His words trail off into nothingness as the insectoid form finally expires. But as Pyrrha steps forward to investigate, a thoughtful, far-off look in her eyes, Gowry's voice comes again from the empty air around, with renewed strength. "We shall meet again, Cleanrot. There are countless pests to choose from. As many times as it takes to bring about our Goddess's rebirth."

The wizard, or whatever he was, departs at last, leaving the three alone in his shack with the burned and mangled body of a pest slumped half out of its chair.

Pyrrha kneels, and gently reaches out to pull the creature completely to the floor for a proper look. "I know these things," she mutters half to herself. "I saw them in a dream, but they are real. Deep below, so long ago in the tale… but they're real."

The whole trip up the cliff – a more difficult task than one would assume, given the hostile Sellians' control of the only gate – was spent in near silence except for the few words needed to coordinate the trio's movement. With Lansseax returned to human form again after a brief stint as a dragon, smoothing out the rocky slope's incline with her own body as a bridge, the three now walk together again up toward the ruined church.

"You know we can't condone the murder of an innocent man, no matter how annoying," Pyrrha says at last.

Finlay doesn't turn to look at her as she answers. "Whatever that entity was, it was neither innocent nor a man. And by all indications, it is also not truly dead. A pity."

"I saw a vision of those insect creatures. A dream, like the one that brought you to us. They are intelligent beings and that means their lives have intrinsic worth… even if they do worship a goddess of death and decay. Even if I cannot fathom doing as they do, as I now speak for the god of life."

"If they're intelligent beings, then they should all see grace now," Lansseax muses. "As you decreed upon taking the throne. It worked for me, and presumably also for every other dragon, and misbegotten, and what have you."

"I see it too," Finlay says," and from the tone Pyrrha can tell she's rolling her eyes. "That doesn't mean they'll follow it. Or – no offense – that the Greater Will's ineffable plan is really the best way forward."

Before Pyrrha can answer her, that in her experience you simply cannot out-plan God because any rebellion has already been taken into account from the start, Finlay continues. "As far as that thing Gowry is concerned, I see no reason to believe a word he said. This whole visit to the church could just be a wild moose chase."

"…You mean goose?"

"I don't, actually. We like to keep it interesting in the snowfields around the Haligtree."

Despite everything, Pyrrha cannot help but laugh at this as she passes beneath the church's entry arch. A statue of Queen Marika dominates the space, as with nearly every church she's seen – practically the only intact structure here, as both side walls are partially open with only their pillars still upright.

Movement stirs from in front of the statue, and from amidst the dusty ground and blood-red flowers a girl lifts her head and stands from her kneeling pose. Her short bob of fiery red hair stands out over her dingy dress, stained brown with dried blood, and her eyes almost glow with the intensity of the gold within.

"Uh, hi," Pyrrha begins, conscious of the accidental intimidation factor she's brought in the form of three armed and dangerous looking adults. "Are you… Millicent?"

"I am," the girl replies. "Greetings. I am… not used to visitors. In truth, had you come a few days prior, I might not have been able to speak to you at all."

"My name is Pyrrha. This is Lansseax, and Knight Finlay of the Haligtree. We just met a man down below the cliff who spoke of you. He said he was your father, though the truth of his claims is…" Pyrrha shoots Finlay a look. "Uncertain, to say the least."

Finlay steps forward, and for the first time she removes her helmet – revealing short, chestnut-brown hair, eyes that glow a faint gold over inner green, and rough, pink-white scarring over the left side of her face up to the temple, the sign of rot managed but not expunged.

"I thought it an utter lie, that the girl he spoke of could be Malenia's child. I still know it must be, and yet, the resemblance is clear." She looks Millicent over in wonder before meeting her eyes again. "I have been at Lady Malenia's side almost since the founding of the Haligtree itself. She has had no biological children. And yet, seeing you, such a perfect reflection of her younger self… even the same missing arm…"

Millicent, suddenly self-conscious, looks down as she turns slightly away. "If I am of Malenia's blood, then in what capacity, I know not. If not a daughter, then perhaps sister, or some offshoot? While I lay there, with the rot writhing within, my memory faded into nothing but pain, and it has only just begun to return. I've started to recall a journey I had meant to undertake, if only dimly…"

"And has the rot abated just now," Lansseax asks, "because a man gave you a golden needle, and asked you to stab it into your flesh?"

Millicent looks up again, confusion evident in her eyes. "Exactly that. Madness, I thought, but I would rather trust a madman than continue to spoil from within. And somehow, the rot is quelled."

"Well, that part of what Gowry said is true, at least," Pyrrha remarks.

"But how could he have repaired it?" Finlay asks quietly, stepping back a short ways to carry on with Pyrrha in private. "The needle was crafted by Miquélla, and was said to repel the influence of any Outer God. I cannot fathom how a pest could have that kind of knowledge."

"And yet, he does. And now that we're here, and we know all this, we need to think about what we do next." Pyrrha glances over just in time to see Lansseax giving the poor girl a clearly much-needed hug. "We came to Caelid because you had dreams about the needle, and we've found it. It's already in use, so clearly we're not meant to take the needle back with us. Now, I haven't seen much in the way of grace throughout all this, but it seems like the kind of thing God would pull if we were actually meant to find Millicent this whole time."

"You're the expert on the Greater Will… but to be completely honest, what God wants is none of my concern." Finlay shrugs. "Right now, I'm most interested in the workings of that needle. If I had to assign some greater meaning to this mission, I might say it was to restore my hope that Malenia's rot might be suppressed once again. But for that, to create a second needle, we would need Miquélla…"

"And she disappeared a while back, right?"

"Not disappeared. Miquélla was kidnapped, during the Shattering when all the Cleanrot Knights were away at war, and the Haligtree was undefended." Finlay glances over as Lansseax and Millicent join them to listen in. "I don't know who took her. No other champion of the Shattering ever claimed credit, but Malenia insists that she would know if her sister were dead."

There is a moment of silence through the church, and then Lansseax speaks up. "I didn't quite catch all of what you two were saying, but… are we going looking for Miquélla now?"

Finlay opens her mouth to respond, but hesitates before finally answering. "In truth, I wouldn't know where to start. I have thought to strike out on my own in pursuit many times over the years, to help ease my lady's mind, and have gone nowhere."

"Have you… asked Malenia?" Millicent proposes tentatively. "Surely she would know most who might have had motive."

She looks down, hands clasped nervously in front of her chest. "Before you arrived, I was already thinking about leaving this place. My mission I cannot fully remember, but I believe I had intended to return something to Malenia. Something she lost, but I cannot recall what. My gut says it is intangible – a will, a sense of dignity or pride – but perhaps returning a lost sister to her would bring that as well?"

Finlay sighs, and shakes her head. "I have not troubled her with the question. I always reasoned, if she knew anything, she would have tried to recover Miquélla by now. She is weary from war, this I know better than most. After the battle that left Caelid in this rotted state, her body gave out for a month. I carried my lady back to the Haligtree. But even still… is she so scared of her own power, of the rot still boiling within, that she would refuse to fight a known enemy?"

"Well, there's only one way to find out," Lansseax declares, and all eyes turn to her. "Can we go to the Haligtree and see what she says?"

"And more importantly," Pyrrha interjects, "would anyone at the Haligtree be concerned if an ancient dragon showed up there?"

Millicent's eyes go wide. "A dragon?"

"Oh, don't worry," Lansseax is quick to reassure her. "She just means me."

If anything, this only makes Millicent even more alarmed, so Lansseax tries again. "I promise I'm not any scarier in that form than I am in this one. But yes, I am a dragon." She steps back and turns to the statue of Marika at the far end of the church, takes a deep breath in, then exhales a crack of red lightning that severs the figure's stone head from the body. "And if you want to come with us to meet Malenia, I'd be happy to carry you."

"God, I wish taking down the real one had been that easy," Pyrrha mutters, gesturing to the stone Marika's head now laying in the dirt.

Neither Finlay nor Millicent comments on this, instead returning their focus to the task ahead. "I wouldn't be concerned about a safe landing," Finlay says. "You would be an unusual sight, but the Haligtree is a haven for all sorts. And once there, I can lead us all to Malenia."

"Well," Pyrrha says, looking around at her companions. "If you guys are ready, then so am I. Let's go meet Malenia and see what she knows about her sister's whereabouts."

Chapter Text

Far below the Haligtree canopy and the plaza turned landing pad for a dragon bearing three passengers, far below even the magnificent city of Elphael circling the great tree’s trunk… so far below that even the surface of the cold northern sea must be high above this place, a hallway ends at an open cavern.

The roots of the tree twist ever downward across the far wall, huge and gnarled just like the branches above, so massive behind such emptiness that there is no immediate sense of scale apparent to Pyrrha’s mind. Before her stretch dozens of meters of open field, covered thick with low white flowers interspersed with taller, pitcher-like lilies in faded, purplish silver–

Wait. This place, these flowers, it is too familiar. Even in the absence of the statue from her dream, so long ago now yet still remembered as vividly as it ever was, the sight before her eyes is known to her, and it is wrong. The jumble of silver and gold, in reality, is but one shade, and even that pale, dusty color looks sickly.

One moment of hesitation, of deja vu, is all she gets before her feet carry her onward to keep pace with her companions. In the front, Finlay raises one hand and conjures an emblem of purest gold atop her palm, as she calls out to her lady.

And finally, then, Pyrrha notices at the far end of the room, a cascade of scarlet hair at the base of the roots. Malenia herself, resting alone in a simple chair, her dull, unpolished armor blending in with the wood behind. Her head rests against the roots and one arm – her only arm – extends upward as if to caress the whole of the Haligtree itself in comforting embrace.

“She really doesn’t look so good,” Pyrrha whispers to Lansseax beside her.

“She doesn’t have that needle anymore,” comes the whispered response.

As Malenia slowly stands from her rest, then kneels to pick up a golden prosthetic arm and fit it to the socket at her shoulder, Millicent whispers to the pair as well. “This needle? ...Should I try to give it back?”

“No, you need it and I could never ask you to give it up,” Pyrrha tells her.

“And besides,” Lansseax adds, “it wouldn’t be enough anyway. Her extreme rot broke it once before and it would probably do it again.”

A gesture from Finlay quiets the group, as Malenia fits a helmet over her face, hiding the scarring from rot save for just a hint when viewed from the side. Finlay kneels, and for a second there is silence through the fields, except for the single quiet sound of Malenia’s toed boots upon the dirt.

“Finlay,” the champion says, coming to a stop some ten feet back. “My most faithful companion. What is it you require?”

Finlay stands, and motions for the others to step up at her side. “Lady Malenia, I present to you the Elden Lord and the Queen of Leyndell.”

Malenia’s prosthetic twitches just slightly, and the blade affixed to her hand clicks several times in succession as it shifts. She pauses, lowers the sword, and then looks directly at Pyrrha’s face through her solid, eyeless helm, and asks, “Is my mother dead?”

Startled, Pyrrha can only answer with the simple truth. “She is.”

“Good. And my father freed, and succeeded by… a dragon. Who is the third?”

Pyrrha and Lansseax exchange a bewildered look as Millicent steps forward to introduce herself. There should be no way to distinguish Lansseax’s current shape from any natural born human, unless… with her hand against the root, did Malenia feel the shudder of a dragon landing in the branches above, echoing down the entire height of the Haligtree? The force of landing without a later liftoff, paired with the time well known to descend to this chamber…

“So,” Malenia says, “what is it the Third Elden Lord requires?”

“We… have a few questions regarding Miquélla.” Lansseax takes position at the head of the group, allowing Finlay to drop back now that introductions are complete.

“Miquélla…” Malenia’s voice softens and the tip of her long blade brushes against the ground. “I dreamt for so long. My flesh was dull gold, and my blood… rotted. Corpse after corpse left in my wake, as I awaited his return…”

“His?” Pyrrha whispers to Finlay. “I thought Miquélla was a woman?”

“She is,” comes the reply. “She is transgender, like myself, but Malenia would not make a mistake like that.”

Overhearing this, Lansseax prompts: “Whose return?”

“He who stole my sister away. He has never come to ask ransom.”

“Do you know his name?”

The blade in Malenia’s hand pivots sharply upward, but she keeps its threat pointed well away from her guests. “I have dreamed of him every night,” she almost spits. “Mohg, he is called. Mohg, the Omen, the ascendant Lord of Blood.”

An exchange of glances all around confirms that the name is not familiar to anyone present. But with a name, they have a place to start the search.

And so Pyrrha looks again to the former demigod and, perhaps foolishly, promises: "Don't worry, Malenia. We'll get your sister back."

“You know,” Pyrrha remarks, sitting on the edge of her borrowed bed in a guest room somewhere in the upper branches of the Haligtree, “when I was a little kid, I had a treehouse and I liked to go out and sleep in it at night.”

Across the room from her, Millicent smiles. “I get the feeling it was a little smaller than this.”

“Just a bit.” Pyrrha leans back on her hands. “My parents were always so worried, every time, even though we lived in a major city and having Grimm get in was practically unheard of. I guess, in theory, if I had a nightmare then the negative emotion could bring a griffon to swoop down and carry me away? But not in the middle of Argus.”

“A what?”

“Creatures of pure destruction, from my former world. The Grimm… I’m very glad there aren’t any in the Lands Between.” As Millicent throws off the covers and gets up, Pyrrha stands as well and hands the group’s last few personal items to Lansseax to finish packing. “In the end, it wasn’t even one of them that killed me. Just some power-hungry bitch who wanted to use them against others.”

Lansseax finishes stuffing spare clothes into their shared pack, and tosses it to Pyrrha. “Suddenly I get why you and Morgott get along so well.”

“Hm?” Pyrrha shoulders the pack, and waves to usher the group outside.

“Oh, you know. Flames of ambition, and all that.”

"Huh, yeah, I guess so." As the group walks out through the cool air, leaves rustling both above and below, Pyrrha pauses to look back at Millicent following just behind. "You sure you want to come back with us to Leyndell? You mentioned a mission here before, to help Malenia?"

Millicent nods. "In my heart, I still know it is my purpose. But the best help I can do for her right now is to help you, to assist in recovering Miquélla from her kidnapper. And I can fight, if need be. Even with one arm."

"If you're sure. I guess Finlay is staying though, I'm sure she and Malenia have a lot to catch up on together."

As if on cue, a shout comes from below, and Pyrrha looks over the edge of the walkway to see that familiar Cleanrot armor on a nearby branch – even with her helm on, surely the same knight inside. Finlay points ahead of her on the branch, and Pyrrha's eyes track along it to find a ladder stretching down, one of many that connect this place into a vertical maze.

Pyrrha and Millicent wait at the top, while Lansseax excuses herself to find an area of more stable ground where she can transform for flight. When Finlay arrives to the same level, she greets the pair, but looks with confusion on Millicent's presence.

"I will come with you on the mission," she says. "With my lady's blessing, this time. But, Millicent, surely you want to stay?"

Once again, the girl declines. "I'd love to, but... it's clear that Malenia is in no state to receive me, or teach me anything of interest. And if I stayed, I would surely come to hate myself for not giving up this needle for her sake, even knowing it may not be enough to protect her. So I will help find Miquélla, in the hope that she can craft another, stronger cure, and save us both."

"A noble goal," Finlay agrees. "I am glad I managed to catch you before you left."

"It was close," Pyrrha says with a laugh, as a ways behind her, the magic of Lansseax's transformation causes even the larger branches to sway.

"I would have been here sooner, were I not so... disturbed, by the dream I had. It came again last night, the same vision of the needle at Aeonia. I thought, surely, having been there and learned the needle's fate would be enough to satisfy my mind, but..." Finlay shakes her head and lightly sighs. "Perhaps it is just an automatic memory, now. Combined with recent experience to give the variant I just saw."

"What happened?"

"In the beginning, the same as always. The battle, the needle breaking and flying from Malenia's side, and yet, then... everything stopped. The Cleanrots and Redmanes both, even Lady Malenia herself, all frozen in time except for me. A pale purple mist spread across the ground, and then a tall woman approached through the crowd. She wore white, but the mist obscured her face and much of her body so I could see nothing more."

Pyrrha's eyes narrow in thought, but she remains silent for now.

"She never spoke, and neither could I in that moment, and then she plucked the needle's halves from the air and recombined them like it was nothing. Repaired, or perhaps wound back in time to before the fault... but this certainly was not Gowry in my dream. Then the purple mist enveloped her fully, and when it cleared away she was gone, and had taken the needle with her. And I awoke."

"Weird..." Pyrrha contemplates as she walks, guiding the others to rejoin Lansseax for the coming flight. "No face, no voice, but still a tall woman in white. If this is the same dream apparition who told me the history of Rot, I'd almost think she was trying not to be recognized. And yet, my Finger Maiden is certain that to enter another's dreams is impossible, or at least would take magic unheard of before."

The conversation comes to a sudden halt as the three humans board their flight. "You know what we really need?" Pyrrha calls out to her dragon wife. "Some kind of harness or seatbelt for when we travel like this! Especially when you're carrying more than just me."

"Probably a good idea," Lansseax agrees. "If you invent something, I'll try it. Just remember, we'll have to carry it when I'm in human form."

"Right... Maybe I'll ask Godwyn for ideas when we get back." Pyrrha twists around in her makeshift seat atop the jagged scales. "You two holding on tight back there?"

Finlay and Millicent both affirm their readiness, and so Pyrrha settles herself again and shouts forward. "Alright then, off we go!"

Lansseax spreads her wings and launches off the branch, circling higher and higher over the Haligtree's crown, until finally the Erdtree comes into view once more over the snowy southern cliffs and she pivots toward a straight flight home.

As she walks across the smooth cobble of Leyndell's main road, Millicent's eyes never leave the sky. The towering buildings all around, ornate with their shingled roofs of gold, are magnificent enough – yet even they are dwarfed by the majesty of the Erdtree itself, so close at last. No longer a monument or simple landmark at the horizon, now infinitely more real and concrete, so immediate upon the capital that its branches stretch out even to the distance of the walls.

A gust of wind high above sets some tiny boughs to sway with their orange-gold leaves, and Millicent watches, mesmerized by the dance of color against the sky. Even those smallest twigs must surely be as wide around as her entire body, and to trace them back toward the trunk is almost inconceivable, even having just spent an evening and night among branches nearly as large atop the Erdtree's twisted twin.

The moment of wonder is broken when she stumbles on a loose stone – the position of her feet being the furthest thing from her mind as she walked. She catches herself, just in time, but her attention is drawn back to earth and to the people around her. The street is nowhere near as busy as Millicent had expected of the capital of the Lands Between, but even in the Shattering's aftermath, there are still citizens who call this city home.

The Leyndell knights all stop their patrols as the group of four passes, and many bow or briefly kneel at the sight of their Lord. Pyrrha flags one down for a question, but only through great effort manages to get them to look up and meet her eyes.

Her request is simple – does this knight know where the King is? – and luckily, the answer is an affirmative. They point upward toward the Erdtree's trunk, at the grander buildings piling ever higher as if to lean against it, and though Millicent cannot quite make out the words ever so slightly muffled through a helmet, she sees Pyrrha nod in recognition.

"I'm going to go talk to Morgott now," she announces upon turning back to the group. "You guys don't have to come with me if you don't want. He might not even know anything."

Lansseax and Finlay peel off toward somewhere lower in the city, but Millicent stays. "I'll come along, if that's okay."

"Of course. Now, there's a good chance he might be busy, given where he was last seen, but I want to see what he knows about Miquélla's kidnapper while it's still fresh on my mind. Malenia says it was an Omen... I know it may seem prejudiced to assume he knows this Mohg, but so far he's the only Omen I've ever met so I have to ask."

It's a not insignificant walk up the ramps and stairs leading higher into the city's bulk, through narrower streets still brightly lit despite the buildings all around by the rays of gold from straight above. Finally Pyrrha stops outside an ornate door – a church, judging by the stained glass window shaped like three interlocking rings above – and with a hopeful shrug she pushes the gateway open to step inside.

It is dim within the church, but not dark. Though no candles or oil lamps burn and the windows are dusty and high on the walls, all through the air golden strands of light drift and twist, illuminating the pews and the table at the fore. At the far wall, a tall figure stands covered in a sheet, from its shape certainly a statue of Marika, no longer presiding over this hall of worship as its dedication has been returned to the Greater Will directly instead of a human usurper.

And near the front, a small crowd gathers. Ten in total, three of them knights with helmets removed, and the king standing out from the rest through height as well as horns. Several pairs of eyes turns their way as Pyrrha and Millicent enter, and Morgott steps out of the loose circle to greet them.

"Welcome, Your Grace," he says with a slight bow. "We were able to find the requisite number already, but another two are always welcome, particularly our honored and holy guide."

Pyrrha smiles, somewhat awkwardly as so many strangers look upon her with reverence. "Blessed be this community, and may you walk in peace," she says, and when she raises a hand to make the sign of two fingers, the threads of grace in the air swirl around her and linger momentarily in a more orderly form.

"King Morgott, if you–" she tries, only to be interrupted before she can express the thought.

"Your Grace," one of the citizens calls, only to shrink back as Pyrrha looks to the source of the voice. "I was... wondering if, maybe, you could... lead us in a prayer?"

Pyrrha hesitates, but she knows she cannot refuse. Not least because it would disappoint this eager congregant, and try as hard as she may, Pyrrha has still never quite managed to shake the people-pleaser instinct that has haunted her since her school days – but also because now, as Queen, it is quite literally her job to act as intermediary between the Lands Between and the Greater Will.

So she joins the circle, waving Millicent alongside, and speaks to the topic already on her mind, in more general terms for the crowd around.

"At times it seems as if all are gone. We look and see fewer faces, thinner faces. And yet we make our hope grow once again, by planting seeds of love, seeds of renewal. Open hearts in community, and we will bloom and grow once again, if we reach out to each other and to the Holy One."

The words fail to come quite as easily after that moment of improvisation, and so she hurriedly searches for a way to close the prayer in a way that will not seem too abrupt. A flash of panic shoots through her, and before she can second-guess herself she blurts out the first such phrase that crosses her mind. "So say we all."

Ah, well. It's not like anyone in this world will ever know she got the words from a TV show she watched back on Remnant.

"So say we all," about half the group echoes, and Pyrrha silently curses her subconscious as she excuses herself, hoping desperately that she has not just inadvertently started a lasting trend.

"Morgott, if I could borrow you for just a moment..." Pyrrha steps away from the group and waves for the king to follow. "Millicent, if it's okay, could you stay and be the much valued tenth for these good people?"

Millicent nods, and lets the pair depart for the other end of the church to speak in private.

"What is it?" Morgott asks.

"Just a question, which... I don't really expect you to know the answer to, but I needed someplace to start. It's about another Omen who was active during the Shattering. Someone named... Mohg?"

An unreadable emotion passes across the old king's face, and then he lets out a long-suffering sigh as he drops his face to one hand. "What has he done now?"

Pyrrha can hardly believe her luck. "You know him?"

"Once, a long time ago, I was happy to know him. Now... I hold out hope for his redemption, though that hope is but a single oft-flickering candle in the deep."

"An old friend fallen that far... I'm sorry."

"Worse than that. Mohg..." The king looks down for a moment as if to steel himself for his next words. "Mohg is my twin brother. He was as much a demigod as myself, born of Marika and Godfrey. As far as I knew, he never took part in the Shattering – a moment of wisdom that I then lacked. You say he did something around that time? What?"

Pyrrha gives a nervous grin as she tells of the act. "Apparently, he kidnapped Miquélla from the Haligtree." She hurriedly continues before Morgott can respond, "According to Malenia, anyway. She claims to have dreamed of him every night since it happened."

Morgott is silent for a long time, enough that Pyrrha begins to worry that she has offended him with the accusation. But then, finally, he sighs once more and speaks. "I believe it," he says simply. "The right act, at the right time... it would serve his ambitions well."

"What does he want with Miquélla?"

"Mohg and I are twins. Both royal Omens, the ultimate shame and disgrace in our mother's eyes. Both cast away together and disavowed, shackled, both raised in secret, alone, deep in the sewer catacombs. Yet from this common beginning we came to diametrically opposite destinies. The wedge that drove our schism was, I believe, a question of responsibility. Of guilt for the injustices visited upon our heads."

Morgott turns away, and stares up into the gently twisting, flowing strands of grace that suffuse the air of the church. "We both, rightly, blamed our mother Marika for the trauma of our childhoods. But where I was able to see the beauty and the goodness in the Golden Order she led, and swore to seek its repair without her and in spite of her... Mohg could not separate the two. He blamed the Order as a whole for our mother's hate and shame, and so went down a very different path. He renounced everything gold and vowed to build a new dynasty in opposition to the Erdtree."

"The Lord of Blood, she called him..." Pyrrha's eyes widen with the realization of just what Malenia had truly meant. "That's the new dynasty. She really did mean Lord."

"Yes," Morgott replies. "I refused to join him in that pursuit. If he has taken Miquélla, it will be as my replacement for the position of consort. As you know, it takes two to rule these lands."

"...You don't think Miquélla could be with him willingly, right?"

Morgott shakes his head solemnly. "Miquélla has no love for the Order either, but she was always merely separatist, not sworn enemy. To my knowledge, she would prefer the Haligtree to prevail through the love of the people, rather than conquest. So no... I cannot imagine she is with Mohg of her own accord."

"Good. I may have promised Malenia I'd get her sister back. You don't mind if Lansseax and I pay your brother a visit, I hope?"

"On the contrary." Morgott meets Pyrrha's eyes, and there is a new ferocity there in the twin golden pools. "I intend to come with you. I think it's long past time for he and I to meet again. Although, I–"

He stops short as the group of ten from the other end of the church all come filing past toward the door. Each one gives a shallow bow as they pass Morgott and Pyrrha, and the king utters a few short words of parting blessing as they go, until only Millicent still lingers before the door.

"Hey," Pyrrha greets her again. "How was it?"

"...Overwhelming," Millicent admits. "Yet despite the chaos in my mind, knowing neither the melodies nor the words, I feel oddly at peace. I do believe, or have always tried to – when I first fell sick with rot, I made my way to the church above Sellia to pray for health – but to experience a service with others, this was new. My first, here in the Erdtree Capital, accompanying the Queen herself... such would have been inconceivable a mere seven days past."

"There's a lot to learn," Pyrrha agrees. "I still feel like a beginner myself, sometimes, but then our studies are meant to be lifelong. Turn it and turn it, for everything is in it, that's our charge as scholars and debaters of the principles of life. You'll find what you seek, in time."

She looks back to Morgott. "I'm sorry, you were saying something before. You wanted to come with us, but...?"

"But," the king begins, "I believe that you, Pyrrha, should stay behind. I have been, once, to the place where Mohg meant to build his castle. A beautiful place overlooking the Siofra river, but the journey there is treacherous on foot. I would greatly prefer dragon flight."

"We... can both fly?" Pyrrha remarks, confused.

"What I mean is, between the three of us – the Elden Lord, the Prophet, and the city's King – we should not all leave Leyndell at once. Not that I believe there is an imminent threat, but in the interest of general preparedness..."

Pyrrha reluctantly nods. "That makes sense. But I promised Malenia... wait a second." Her disappointment vanishes into a smile at her idea. "How likely do you think it is that Mohg wants to put up a fight?"

"Very likely, even absent the question of Miquélla. Overcoming the Golden Order to build his own rule in its place has been his dream for many years now."

"Then Lansseax can stay behind to look after our city, and we ask her brother to be our transport. Then naturally Godwyn will come too, as some extra firepower. Between them, the three of us, and Knight Finlay, with luck Mohg will see he is outgunned and set Miquélla free without any bloodshed."

"I wish I had your optimism," Morgott grumbles, "but I know my brother. Still, it is the best plan we have. I agree."

It has been decades since Ranni the Witch last set foot in Leyndell.

She'd been a teenager then, accompanying her elder brother Rykard to seek out their recently vanished father. Rennala had not come along, too distraught to even move from the manor bedroom; and Radahn, though he too loved his father, stayed with her as carer while his siblings went to give their petition.

That visit had been the catalyst, when her faith in the Golden Order – long dwindling already under the knowledge of such great destiny laid out for her against her will – had finally given out completely. For Rykard, it had been the same, even down to both becoming willing to die for their new cause of opposition. When they had found their father, the Second Elden Lord newly crowned, and he stared straight through them as if in a trance and asked what formal business the Carian House had brought...

On that day, Ranni had seen the light gone from her father's eyes, even as the literal gold within them shone brighter than ever before.

Yet, today, Radagon walks at her side up the steps leading to his former throne, once again full of life. Ranni herself is also more alive than she's been in years – and that is precisely the problem. Someone cured Destined Death, a feat that should have been impossible, a feat that is impossible according to every bit of research she's managed to do in the past few months.

Someone restored Ranni's detested Empyrean flesh to her, and that someone will pay.

Her father knows nothing of the plan, of course. He has not even been told that Ranni survived her supposed murder on the Night of Black Knives, for Godwyn did not, and why would she draw a golden fundamentalist's attention to that fact?

The sound of voices echoes down the stairs, and Ranni slows her pace just slightly so that she comes to walk a step behind her father as they ascend. Though she cannot quite pinpoint the feeling, she finds it uncomfortable in a vague, nebulous way to be seen, particularly by strangers, and in these final moments before reaching the arched entrance to the throne courtyard she is keenly aware of every perceived flaw in her appearance.

This body is so... human, compared to the one she designed herself, the one she had gotten used to. It is too warm compared to her smooth carved wood, too inviting with both its eyes intact – too prone to others looking everywhere except those eyes. Even in the wide, almost shapeless Raya Lucaria master's robe she wears, Ranni can feel the stares every time she is in public.

At the top, as they enter, the plaza appears in chaos. The Elden Throne itself has been dragged into a back corner, and in the middle of the space, eight Leyndell knights divided into two equal groups some ten meters apart throw lightning bolts at each other, under the supervision and encouragement of a silvery-haired woman who Ranni can only assume is the draconic new Elden Lord.

"Your Lordship!" Radagon calls, but his words are lost beneath the rapid cracks of flashing light that cross the courtyard. He tries again a few steps closer, still without success as Lansseax's focus remains on the knights and their incantations.

Finally, he resolves to conjure a small electrical charge himself, and releases it on a straight line path just past the transformed dragon's shoulder.

Lansseax startles at the sound so close and the crackle in the air beside her, and finally turns to see her visitors by the gate. She excuses herself and tells the knights to hold, then makes a light jog across the carved floor to meet her guests.

"Radagon!" she greets him warmly. "What a pleasant surprise. I've been trying to teach some of these humans to fight like a dragon would, and it's going... not too bad, actually." Her gaze falls to Ranni next, still with the same welcoming smile. "And who might you be?"

"Lunar Princess Ranni, Your Lordship," the witch answers. "The business of our visit here is mine. Wert thou the–"

Radagon clears his throat sharply, and with great reluctance Ranni begins again with the proper respect given upon the Elden Lord's name. "Were you the one who worked the miracle of reversing Destined Death?"

Lansseax blinks. "I was not," she replies. "Queen Pyrrha gave that holy decree upon mending the Elden Ring. Although if you wish to speak with her about it, I'm afraid she is currently away from Leyndell. It may be several days before she returns."

Ranni purses her lips with displeasure at the news. "Godwyn, then. I understand he was resurrected alongside me. We both were struck down on the same black night – I have never known the name of the assassin who took my life those years ago, and I wonder if perhaps Godwyn might possess some clue."

She spreads her hands in a subliminal message of innocence and respect. "You must understand, I wish to learn all there is to know, to prevent such fate from befalling further innocents."

Innocents. That last word is the key that absolves her from falsehood, for none are innocent who seek and celebrate the Greater Will's domination of these lands. Even a crime less than the total reversal of her scheme so long in the making, for the Great Rune that once burned within her chest is no more, even this much is intolerable.

"Of course," the Elden Lord tells her. "You are welcome to any of the libraries if they would be of help. Godwyn, however, is accompanying the Queen. Their aim is to find and recover Miquélla, though I am certain that once his mission for one half-sibling is complete, Godwyn would gladly assist another."

"Miquélla?" Radagon notes with interest. "To be quite honest, I had assumed she was dead. Is there anything the two of us can do to help?"

Lansseax shrugs. "Not now that they've already left. But, Ranni, since you desire to learn about Destined Death... if you wish, I could carry you to Farum Azula to seek out Maliketh, the Black Blade? He has borne the Rune of Death itself since the Erdtree was young–"

"No!" Ranni says, perhaps more forcefully than she intended. "No, you are too kind, that is favor far too great. To speak with Godwyn and the Queen should be enlightenment enough."

Not Maliketh. Never will she face that beast again, for he will surely remember her face. Even alongside twelve brave compatriots the fight for a sliver of Death had been perilous indeed, and only ten besides Ranni herself had made it back.

"Well, if you're sure." Lansseax glances back over her shoulder at the small crowd of knights she had left behind, beginning to organize on their own for continued practice with the lightning they had learned. "Since it looks like you have some time to kill before Godwyn and Pyrrha get back... want to join the class?"

Ranni declines with as much politeness as she can still muster through one disappointment after another, but beside her, her father's eyes light up. 

"Gladly," Radagon declares, already stepping forward toward the group. "I studied the fundamentals of the old dragon cult's practices long ago, but have retained little, I fear. I strive to never pass up an opportunity to learn more. Ranni, are you certain you do not wish to stay a while?"

But when he looks back to ask confirmation of his daughter, he finds only an empty arch and silent stairs beyond, for Ranni is already long gone.

Chapter Text

"This... is it?" Pyrrha stares at the interior of the small building from its doorway, perfectly round, with nothing present except a large elevator platform dominating the center of the floor. "This is the entrance to Mohg’s palace underground?"

Beside her, Morgott only smiles. "Spoken like a woman who has never set foot down the Siofra well. You will see, in a moment, why he chose this place. It is not just that the palace may lie so well and truly off the beaten path."

"Though I'm sure that's a concern too," Godwyn comments from the rear, "when one worships a foreign god dedicated to injury and pain."

The group of six file in and step onto the platform together – the Queen and King, Godwyn and his dragon husband, Finlay and Millicent, all taking up equidistant spots around the large circle. A second later it begins to move, downward at an accelerating pace until the carvings to every side go by too fast for any to make out the details.

And then, after a minute, perhaps two, the walls open out into a gargantuan cavern cut through by viaducts and spires of a civilization long since lost. And above it all–

"The stars," Pyrrha breathes, staring out, captivated, at the sight ahead.

"These are no stars," Morgott tells her. "Shining crystals, all. Set into the ceiling of the great caverns beneath the earth, the same here and beneath Liurnia."

"A gift from the Greater Will, as the story goes." Godwyn points downward, drawing Pyrrha's gaze to the ruined yet still magnificent structures below. "To the great cities cast down for their sins. A reminder of the world above, and a promise of infinity should they choose to repent and return."

"What were their sins?" Pyrrha asks.

"This, I believe the ancient dragon legends can answer," comes the reply from Fortissax, at his husband's side. "Long ago, when the Erdtree was but a twig – not long after the dragon god vanished, so they say... while Queen Marika and her men waged war upon the giants, and their attention and might were tied up in the frozen peaks, the city of Nokron sought to overthrow the fledgling order of Gold and establish themselves as the capital of the age of men. They had no Prophet, no divine patron of any sort, and so they resolved to forge an artificial Lord from living metal–"

"From what?"

"A Nokronian invention, requiring terrible sacrifices of life and sanity to create. The tales say that angels visited the city to warn its people against such blasphemy against life itself, and that the scions of Nokron created a twisted blade to slay them before then locking the weapon away."

Pyrrha's eyebrows lower in thought. "By angels, you mean Two Fingers? I didn't think they could be killed."

"Did you not slay a vassal beast, an avatar of God itself?"

"Well, yes," the young Queen admits, "but that was a test. It was meant to die. I always thought..."

"The Two Fingers are built of flesh, like any living thing," Morgott tells her. "It is difficult to injure one, and only a madman would try, but it can be done. But should such an angel be damaged too far, it may of course be recalled and replaced with another. They are, after all, only messengers."

After what seems like an eternity, the elevator platform finally touches down upon solid ground once more, and all step off together as Fortissax speaks up again. "The blasphemous 'lost treasure of Nokron' is thought to be a myth – though the living metal most certainly is not. Thankfully, if I understand King Morgott's directions, we should never pass close enough to the city to encounter it."

The group sets out with Morgott in the lead, and Pyrrha drops back to the opposite end of the pack. "This place is massive," she comments to Finlay. "Have you ever been down here, in your travels? I'd heard of Tarnished going underground, but I didn't think they meant like this."

"I knew of the Eternal Cities, but have never visited them," comes the answer. "Supposedly the caves run the entire breadth of the Lands Between, even under the sea, so it is possible I could have brought Malenia home by a shorter route... but I do not know the way, down here, and I wished to take no chances."

"Under the sea?" Millicent asks, dumbfounded. "How does the ceiling stay up, with that much weight of water over it?"

"How does a three story building's roof stay up, with so much of it supported on the lower walls?" Finlay responds. "Even a thin sheet of stone is stronger than it appears, especially when the weight is spread evenly across. If this place has stayed intact since the Erdtree was young, through all that has happened above, then I imagine it can stand forever."

"Especially when what happens above includes meteor strikes every now and then," Pyrrha comments.

"Exactly. I would not worry." Finlay falls silent as the group crowds onto another elevator, this one thankfully much shorter than the first.

When they emerge at the bottom, Morgott leads the way up a shallow incline – by Pyrrha's reckoning, to the east, unless she has gotten more turned around down here than she thought. The group rounds a slight bend and comes to a better view of the immense cave seen partially from above during the long trip down the well: a great field partially covered in a foot of standing water, with moss and grass and even trees growing in the dim light cast by the star-crystals above, all of it dwarfed by the pillars supporting great viaducts for the long-dead city above.

And in the distance, across a chasm immeasurably wide, the far wall of the cave is lit up in crimson from a structure built high upon the stone, square and framed by pillars all around.

"That will be Mohg's palace," the King says as he points across the gap. "When I last was here, he had yet to lay foundations, but he spoke often of the design of his grand dream. And now you see why I preferred we have a dragon in our group."

It's quiet in the Haligtree today. Sitting there in her usual spot in the roots, her good arm raised to rest against the smooth, faintly warm wood, Malenia feels every vibration, every sudden movement in the branches above. Today, not much is moving, not many journeying about among the twisting paths... perhaps only in Elphael, where the use of stone muffles her senses.

It was not always like this. It should not be like this, here of all places, in the haven for all peoples to come and escape whatever needs escaping, here in the home of Miquélla's dream of a grand new Order to stand taller and stretch wider than Marika's restrictive vision ever would.

But Miquélla is gone. Taken while Malenia was away in battle, in a war she only fought in for Miquélla's plans of ascent. And so, since returning, since being carried back here half-dead, she has hardly left this sheltered grove amidst the roots. For all living beings return to the roots eventually, and without Miquélla by her side, her body's healing means nothing for in spirit she is still the same: half dead.

Miquélla is gone, and she has little hope for these young strangers who have taken over the royal posts of her parents to complete their promised mission of return. Even with the distinguished Knight Captain Finlay at their sides for this dangerous work... Especially with her beloved girlfriend Finlay not at her own side during these painful times.

It's quiet in the Haligtree today, and Malenia is alone with her thoughts, and such circular thoughts she cannot bear. Her palm slips away from the root beside her as the dark of rot-blindness fades into the even deeper blackness of unconsciousness, just for a moment – and then the muscles in her face twitch as if to open long lost eyes, and her ears are keenly aware of light footsteps crossing through the field of dusty lilies all around.

"Malenia," a soft, familiar voice calls out. "It's me. I am home at last."

The weary swordswoman stands, making no move toward the prosthetic arm still laying by the side of her seat. "Miquélla?" she asks, incredulous. But already she knows the answer, for the sound of her sister's voice is unmistakable, and its direction betrays the short stature of its speaker.

"I am here, my sister, my beloved," Miquélla answers as she draws close. The pair embrace, Malenia on her knees so both can reach, and the taller twin sinks eagerly into the gentle touch. And, unseen by her, a pale violet mist swirls lazily all around the two.

At the far end of the field, upon the last stone stairs leading down into the flowered dirt where her movements will not easily transmit their vibrations to Malenia's fingertips or her ears, St. Trina leans on the doorframe and lets a silent tear roll down her cheek. Her left hand waves and gestures in the air, puppeting the dream image where she dares not step herself, while her right arm hangs uselessly at her side, dripping blood upon the white dress she wears.

"I have been too long away," she has her dream image say. "I should never have let myself be taken away from you. Not for so many years, not even for the scant months it took for you to return home from the Shattering fields."

"All that matters is that you are home now," Malenia almost whispers. "The past is over, and in the present you are here."

"You're right, as you always are," the dream Miquélla says.

"But there is more, as you always say," Malenia replies. The twins know each other too well, and the familiar dance of words returns so quickly even after years apart.

"In the present I am returning to you, but in the future... there is much work we both have before us. As painful as these years have been, I have learned a great deal."

"About what?"

"Cursebreaking," the image answers, and in her hidden vantage, Trina looks down at herself and grimaces at the sight. Vile blood stains her clothing, and every artery and vein shows prominently through her skin as if to display that precious lifeblood to all the world – for in her focus to transcend one hostile transformation, she has ignored another to the point of danger.

Trina brings her attention back to controlling the dream and has her proxy add, "There is hope once more, that the Rot might be defeated – truly, not merely suppressed as we had accomplished before. It will be difficult, more harrowing than any cycle's heroes have ever faced, yet for the dream that both of us may yet live free forevermore... that, no cost can ever outweigh."

"You mean to face it head on, at the source?" Malenia asks, her single hand instinctively going to the opposite shoulder as she turns her scarred face down and away. "In times past, I would have welcomed the confrontation. But to flower even once is to allow the Rot a deeper grasp... It will not take as strong a push to be overwhelmed again."

"You are as skilled as any can be in these lands. And you know the legend. You will not fight alone. The blind swordsman, the one-armed maiden... Whichever you are destined to be, I have already found you a comrade in arms, one powerful enough, and willing. And with the two of us reunited at last, you will have the courage you need."

"I..." Malenia reaches out, and her sister takes her hand at once. "I don't know that I do. Can we not merely return to those bright, simple days when the Haligtree grew straight and tall, when your skill at goldcraft was enough to stay the disease? You must know, Miquélla, I am tired. My years have taken their toll, while you are untouched as ever."

Trina guides her image into an embrace, as she has no words for it to say in this moment. To be untouched by the passing years... in the most obvious sense, that is precisely the curse laid upon her waking form that she has poured so much effort into finding a cure, yet at the same time, Malenia is right: the years of imprisonment and hibernation have not dulled her mind nor her ambitions, and perhaps letting her first words to her sister upon escape be these is a mistake.

But it is a dream, and means nothing just yet, for this visit is in truth just practice rather than reunion. Malenia will wake, and find herself alone, and though it will sting for a short while, she will recover as she has so many times before. And soon enough, she will find Miquélla returned in the waking world, and all will be well here once again.

Soon enough, though Trina cannot yet bring herself to leave this warm and peaceful dream, the new, improved Miquélla will alight upon the Haligtree's crown, and all will be well here once again. 

For her proxy's words to Malenia were true: she has learned a lot about cursebreaking.

Fortissax is better at human transformation than Lansseax is. 

As Pyrrha jumps off the dragon's back to the stone tiled floor below, that thought is the first to cross her mind, even as all the others gape at the soaring pillars lit by sourceless crimson light. Architecture is all fine and well, but that twinge of jealousy upon seeing Fortissax's massive shape fade to white and funnel down in seconds into the form of a tall human man, for just a brief moment that feeling cannot be ignored.

It makes sense that his skills would not be dulled by time spent dead, whereas her wife spent those same many years in a single form by choice. And once that first protective thought is past, Pyrrha hopes that his skill in combat is also as impressive, and she hurries to join the rest of the group.

Morgott has taken the lead once again, pointing to either side of this narrow balcony at the back of the great hall the group had seen from far below. Doors lead onward at both ends, and so the infiltrators split into equal parties of three: Pyrrha, Finlay, and Millicent to the right, while Morgott leads his brother and the disguised dragon around the left.

It is Pyrrha's group that rounds the corner first and sees Mohg – it must be him, an Omen in ornate robes striding across the long plaza to investigate the sound of a dragon landing – and as they lock eyes, Mohg plants the back end of his ceremonial trident on the floor and raises his free hand to his lips. He blows a piercing whistle, and then spreads his arms wide as if to invite his challengers in. 

"Welcome, honored guests," the Omen begins. "Ye have arrived just in time. Dearest Míquella, abiding alone for so long... Behold the crack of his return!" Mohg gestures straight ahead, past Pyrrha and her compatriots, and for the first time they all look away to see a great silken egg atop the central altar. "Behold the birth of our dynasty!"

That egg certainly is cracked, straight through down the middle, and from the opening a single long arm reaches up toward the sky. A gray, withered arm streaked with half-dried blood – if that is to be the state of Miquélla's return, then it hardly appears worth celebrating. Though perhaps Mohg's ambitions run higher still than even raising up an Empyrean and acting as her consort, for if the new living god were to die so soon after ascent, her Lord of Blood would need not share power with any other.

On the other side of the altar, Morgott has conquered his apprehension at seeing his estranged twin and steps out into view as well, with Godwyn and Fortissax close at his heels. Mohg's gaze turns to the new arrivals, and at once his expression sours from the proud, confident mask he had worn before. 

"Morgott," he greets his brother with disgust. "Why hast thou come crawling back to the work thou abandoned those years ago? Finally realized, hast thou, that our infallible mother would never take thee back into the fold? That Order is but a restrictive lie told to hinder us, to keep us thinking we are cursed, to deny us all the strength to reach for the dreams that visit us?"

"You have spent too long beneath the earth, old friend," Morgott replies evenly, and though his voice does not falter, the hand gripping his sword is pale with strain. "Mother is dead, and Order repaired. While you labored here toward the glory of yourself alone, I have helped the new Queen restore beauty and life to all the lands above. Have you not seen the call of grace stronger, these past months, than ever before? Have you not felt the shift, that all are now equals, free-born and Omen alike?"

"So thou remainst a wilful traitor to the Dynasty of Blood." Behind Mohg, a small crowd of his followers enter through the main gate and line both walls. Morgott looks like he's been slapped by these latest words, but his twin is not finished yet. "Ye have three seconds to begone from this temple, all of ye! Trēs! Duo! Ūnus!"

Nobody moves, and so Mohg slams the butt of his trident on the floor in contempt. "Ye are all still here. Stay, then, and witness the majesty of Mohgwyn!"

As one, all of Mohg's disciples raise their weapons, and Pyrrha hurries to do the same now that the faint hope of diplomacy has been put squarely to rest. There are fewer than it looked like initially, but still enough to outnumber the group – mostly humans in dingy, blood-stained robes that were once white, with matching white masks, alongside a pair of Omens each wearing black like their lord. 

Mohg raises the trident in both hands, and the crimson glow in the air intensifies until it tints Pyrrha's vision no matter where she looks. "Formless Mother, hear our cry," the ascendant Lord proclaims. "Míquella, awake!"

The light flares even brighter for just an instant, and pain wracks Pyrrha's body from head to toe. In the chest and neck it burns the worst, and in streaks down all her limbs, as if the very blood within her is struggling for release. But it lasts just that short moment, and finds no escape through unbroken skin, and so when the pain has passed she fixes her eyes upon the nearest white mask and charges with spear and shield at the fore.

She clashes with that one first only to pivot as another comes at her from the side, identical in all but the placement of bloody stains across their robes – cultists, surely, fanatics who give up even their individuality in service to the cause of blood. Whatever the cause of blood may be; that Pyrrha can only speculate in horror and hope it is not as bad as her imagination suggests. Devotion to founding Mohg's new dynasty, at first, and then... And then, she dares not think.

Across the room, Finlay has taken the fight to Mohg himself, outpacing even Morgott in her furious charge. She bodyslams the prospective Lord with an armored shoulder, then strikes him with an open palm across his horned face as he stumbles before then stepping back to gain the range for her sickle. Morgott joins her at his brother's opposite side, while the rest of the group focuses their efforts on the crowd of zealots advancing.

Millicent crosses blades with one of the black-robed Omens, only to have the sword almost ripped from her grasp as it catches on the spiral-forged edge. Seeing this, Pyrrha disengages from her own chosen foe with a spinning kick, then throws her shield to distract the apparent noble of Mohgwyn, calling it back to her hand again with a tether of magnetism just in time to block a slash from one of the white masks.

A flash of light draws Pyrrha's attention to the side, and one hit slips through against her aura as she glances over to behold Mohg's attacks: a conjuration of talons two feet long over his hand, formed of brilliant crimson and leaving a trail of light in their wake. Finlay evades their reach by just inches then dashes back inward for a strike of her own – and an explosion of flame in the talons' wake lands her prone on the tiled floor, though she rises quickly. 

"To your left!" a voice calls from Pyrrha's right – Godwyn, she's pretty sure, though the din of battle drowns out most of any voice. She dodges leftward, trusting in her teammate, and Fortissax leaps forward through the spot she had stood just a second before, a bolt of red lightning clasped in hand. 

The nearest white-masked cultist, directly in the dragon's path, scrambles backward to avoid the hit, but it is in vain as lightning bursts outward in four directions from the bolt's impact with the floor. Three of the bloody-robed men fall with spasming muscles; Pyrrha gives one a swift kick into unconsciousness before turning away to let her companions deal with the rest.

Mohg's trident swings her way and she hurriedly raises her shield, bracing herself as it hits, and in the weapon's wake comes Mohg's other hand with a spray of blood from his open palm. Pyrrha twists away and the blood splatters in a line across the floor, glowing with magical flame. 

In response, she throws an incantation of her own: a wide disk of pure golden light at point blank range to pass straight through Mohg's stomach, which strikes the edge of the altar behind him and bounces back for a second searing hit. The Omen flinches in pain, but shoves it down, countering with an upward swing from the butt of his trident.

He raises his free hand to the sky, and a swirl of crimson forms around his fingers. Blood sprays down in a wide cone, spurting out of the portal to his patron's vile realm as if like a wound to the arteries of the world itself, every drop flaming where it lands. Mohg himself is drenched and merely laughs, unhurt, as his assailants back away.

A flash of blades in the corner of her eye draws Pyrrha's gaze: a whirling, elegant vortex with its center Millicent of all people, effortlessly moving as if the fight is merely a dance, gliding across the full width of the hall like a waterfowl landing upon a frozen lake. Even with only a single arm, she appears as formidable as any trained knight, and Pyrrha silently resolves to apologize for doubting her skill when the girl had first said she could fight.

In the end, Millicent's dance is stopped not by running into the pillars at the opposite side, but by a loss of concentration as a blur of red streaks past her face with inches to spare, thrown by one of the Omens with the spiraling swords. She jerks and almost loses her footing, and those handful of Mohg's servants still alive and in fighting shape converge on her position to retaliate.

"Millicent, down!" It's Fortissax who calls out this time, as he half-shifts shimmering wings across his back. He wraps one arm around Godwyn, who mirrors the gesture so that they are locked together face to face, each with one hand clinging to his partner while the other is free and extended to the side, and with a push from dragon wings the pair are thrown forward as a single spinning unit of red lightning on one side and golden radiance on the other.

They cleave through the crowd of white masks, but one of the nobles in their path throws himself flat against the floor just as Millicent had, and lets the whirlwind pass over him. He rises swiftly and, just as the two are disengaging from their embrace, stabs his offhand dagger into Godwyn's lower back.

A minor wound, from any other weapon in that spot, but the enchanted blade seeks blood, calls to it, draws it forth in greater measure than it should – and Godwyn falls to his hands and knees, then collapses on one side on the floor.

Fortissax stands over him as guard, and declares to allies and enemies alike: "These claws cannot heal. But I refuse to see them avenge. A single death is experience enough and we will not see another."

And as all eyes turn upon such a champion felled, none see upon the altar behind as the crack in Miquélla’s holy egg grows wider.

Far away, in the ever-shifting realms of dream, Saint Trina frowns and shakes her head as if to physically dislodge unwelcome thoughts from within. So difficult it has become to concentrate, to maintain the image and the narrative she desires, even in this mind closest to her own – the connection that should be easiest of any in the Lands Between, after long lifetimes spent together in the waking world. 

She looks down at her own hands, turns them back to front and back again, but a disgusted flick fails to remove the stains of red. The sweet blood sings to her, intoxicating in its allure, but she must not heed its call. She must stay here, with Malenia, in safety... she must not look outside. 

She must not touch Mohg's mind, nor view her prison from outside through his eyes. She must ignore the call beyond, suppress it, master it and let this power too, impossible as it would seem, fall beneath her own greatest will. She must maintain the dream.

"Not now, Mother," Trina mutters. Whatever may happen outside, it is just that: outside her egg, while her body slumbers within. 

"Mother?" Malenia asks, confused. "I had heard she was dead. Found within the Erdtree, slain, and replaced..."

That was the wrong mouth to speak those words. Trina curses silently, and neglects to have her proxy clarify. "It is true," the younger Miquélla says. "Yet still, this all is wrong. We heal and sicken in the same breaths."

Not now, Trina thinks forcefully to herself, yet even this denial itself opens the door a small bit further. The thought of blood unwanted is nevertheless a thought of blood, and without consciously meaning to effect such a change, blood fills the ground beneath the two twins' feet in a thick, pungent pool.

All around, the silver lilies wilt as their roots are flooded in the foul red, and even Malenia through her metal feet notices the change. She turns her sightless face downward, swishes one foot through the liquid to sense its viscosity–

"Rotted swamp water," the dream Miquélla lies before her sister can come to a more accurate conclusion. "Rising across the lands as the bound goddess reaches out once more. It is your destiny to bring its end; we have always known."

"I cannot," Malenia breathes, softly shaking her head. "Do not push me to that battle, for neither can I turn away from your guidance. You have always been wise, dear sister, but I am afraid."

Trina blinks and puts one vein-streaked hand to her head as both she and her image drop to their knees under a sudden resurgence of the mental pull. "I am not wise now," she manages, before delirium takes over her words. "I am Mother's blade, and she has need of me. To grant form upon the earth, to flow within, to spread. Our dynasty will conquer the Rot – it comes! It breaks, and in shattering, rises–"

The blood upon the flowered field deepens unto the kneeling Miquélla's chest, and at the far end of the clearing, a crack shoots up the Haligtree roots, opening onto naught but purple mist beyond. "I am returning to you," Miquélla gasps. "To you, Malenia. Stay away! I return at last..."

Mist leaks from the crack and fills the air all around, and the dream fades into the silent black of sleep.

The blood simply does not stop. Despite pressure, and elevation, and Millicent's pleading, improvised prayers of healing, Godwyn's cursed wound still leaks precious blood upon the stone, and his breaths grow lighter and more ragged. Blood drips as well from Fortissax's jaws: the multicolored, iridescent blood of Omens, as despite his current form he neglects all pretense of being human and has savaged the sanguine noble responsible for his partner's injury. 

At the side of the room, Finlay sits against a pillar, throwing an occasional disc of light in Mohg's direction while she struggles with her armor where a hard, piercing hit of the trident had caved the metal inward over one knee. If it came to it, she could stand and fight, but not run nor move any faster than a limp, not without the broken edge stabbing into her leg with every step. And so for now, she is content to help from range while the Queen and King fight together in front of the altar.

"I need to take him," Fortissax growls without taking his eyes off Mohg. "To Leyndell or to Farum Azula, they are equidistant, but we must go before he loses too much blood."

"Will he survive the trip?" Millicent asks. "I have done what I can to bandage him, but it is a long flight. Let one of us with healing incantations come along, to slow the bleeding even if it will not stop. Myself, or Pyrrha, or Morgott–"

"Has it truly slowed?" the dragon interrupts testily. "We have wasted too much time already. This has all happened before – I arrived while Godwyn still lived, and the Queen prevented me from carrying him away to safety. I refuse to let it happen again!"

"This Queen can help," Millicent insists. "Pyrrha! We need you over here!" To Fortissax, she continues more quietly: "Let her try, just for a minute... and if even her prayers cannot help, then go. The rest of us will find our own way out of here, without your transport. There must be a path, somewhere."

Pyrrha breaks away from her sparring with Mohg and jogs to the far end of the hall where Godwyn lies. "He's not getting any better?" she asks with a glance to Millicent as she kneels. She puts one hand gently on Godwyn's shoulder and leans over him as she speaks softly into his ear. "I didn't bring you back from the dead just to see you die again so soon. I promise you, I will do my best."

Pyrrha places both palms over the wound, and closes her eyes as she turns her face upward in what she hopes might be the direction of the Erdtree – it feels strange not to see it, down here beneath the earth. "May the one who blessed our ancestors, the fathers and mothers of our people from generation to generation, now bless and heal Godwyn, son of Godfrey and Marika. O holy one, blessed are you, have compassion and mercy for his health to be restored and his strength revived..."

A golden glow surrounds her hands as she continues to intercede with the divine on Godwyn's behalf, but she dares not lift her fingers to see if there is any progress toward healing. "If only my aura could heal others as well as myself," she mutters quietly, and though she does not know why the thought now comes to her, for a moment her mind drifts to a different golden-haired young man, one lost beyond the fog that divides the worlds.

Across the room, Mohg leans on his trident, out of breath and with both sleeves of his ornate robe sliced to tatters and drenched in multicolored blood. He glares at Morgott as the two trade incantations, flashes of red and gold lighting up the room as the pair circle each other, perfectly matched, still twins despite it all.

"I have never understood," Mohg almost growls, "why thou wouldst turn thy back on thy brother. Why thou wouldst rejoin the very Order that cast us away, and become its champion. There is no salvation to be found in looking down upon thine own people."

"Order itself did not exclude us," Morgott counters. "Blame lies with its corruption at the hands of our mother. I see much of her in you, my brother, and my heart breaks at the comparison. You wish to be oppressed so badly, while also being a Lord. To play the victim while also dictating the ways of the world. To be freed from the shackles that once bound us, and to display their scars as a sign of dignity, while you place new bonds upon those around you. I think you have forgotten what our chains truly meant."

"Thou thinkest I have forgotten? Thou art the one who hast forsaken thy Omen blood!" Mohg swings his trident one-handed, cradling the other arm to his chest where it oozes iridescent blood down the front of his robes. The weapon stops upon Morgott's long, curved blade, and if Mohg has noticed what it is made of, he neglects to acknowledge it out loud.

"I am the one who knows our kind's history – who knows that to be Omen is to be the holiest born of all, for the sign of the Crucible is writ upon us!" Morgott snarls at his brother and takes one step back, then gathers golden power around his empty hand. "If you wish us to be together once more," he warns, "then let it be so!"

Chains formed of golden light explode outward from his hand, ensnaring both brothers around their waists and binding them together with barely a weapon's length of clearance in between. Both see their wrists clamped in manacles, but at this, only Mohg gasps in sudden pain. 

"Yes, it burns," Morgott tells him. "The weight of righteousness is not easy to bear, even for one who has dedicated his life to it. But with effort and true repentance, all may transcend the harshness of the decree. All may see the burden of doing good grow easier to carry."

He extends a hand. "My brother, please, will you–"

Before he can even finish the futile question, Morgott gets a blast of bloodflame to the chest. He stumbles back, his weight upon the chain pulling Mohg off balance as well, and the pair trade blows with sword and trident. Between them, the golden chains shimmer and collapse two links into one, steadily drawing the brothers closer, slow at first but then accelerating along with the frenzy of their strikes.

Until, finally, there is no more room left to swing a weapon, and the twins' bonds pull them inward each with his blade outstretched. Morgott's eyes widen and at the last second he twists the sword away from his brother's heart – and Mohg moves his trident away as well, but just a hand's breadth less.

Just one of the three spears catches Morgott in the gut, but one is enough. The golden chains evaporate as he slumps forward to his knees, leaving a bloody streak down the front of his brother's robes, and the sword extended behind Mohg's side catches in the crevasse between the altar and the great egg atop it.

Morgott's hand slips from the blade as he collapses, and to Mohg's credit, he looks almost genuinely remorseful at the sight of his brother laying at his feet... for a moment. As the King mumbles holy words and clamps a gold-sparkling hand to his wound, Mohg's concern returns to a sneer and he turns his back – and freezes at the sight of Miquélla's withered right hand lowering to clasp around the iridescent blade.

"Míquella," the prospective Lord breathes in shock. "You arise in Mohgwyn's time of need..."

A second hand, this one less gray and shriveled from loss of blood, appears in the egg's crack to push against the shell, and Mohg stands mesmerized – until a disc from Finlay burns against his back and he is forced to turn away and face the knight again as she struggles to her feet.

The eggshell crumbles under pressure from within, and each piece dissolves into a pale purple mist as it falls. The faint shadow of a tall figure sitting up atop the altar can be seen through the haze, and when it clears, all eyes turn in unison to the front of the hall.

Miquélla, reborn at last, with the curse laid upon her since birth finally dispelled and cast away, stands at well over six feet tall, with flowing golden hair almost to her knees and a white dress, far too small, wrapped around her waist. Despite her will in years past to make it known she is not the man she was thought to be, no effect of chemical transition is apparent upon her body – instead, upon her flat, bare chest are drawn crimson veins snaking outward from the heart, finding their way down every limb and up across the sides of her face.

Her right arm still is gaunt, almost skeletal from the regular draining of its essence in years of ritual, but her grip upon the blade of Morgott's sword proves it is just as usable as her left. And across her back, nascent silvery wings spread like a newborn butterfly's, partly translucent to the red glow in the air all around.

Pyrrha, looking up from Godwyn's half-healed wound, gasps at the sight, but for a separate reason from those around her. Her jaw drops in puzzled realization, and she mutters aloud, "Trina?"

Miquélla does not hear her across the wide space, and only steps down from the altar's stairs to rest her good hand upon Mohg's shoulder as he stares on in adoration. The hand drifts up to caress Mohg's face up to the crown of horns, and she leans in close to say, "If you want me to be yours and yours alone, the least you could do is pronounce my name correctly."

She gives Mohg a slight push, just enough to make him step out of the grand hall's central spot so that Miquélla can take the position of importance herself. 

"I am Miquélla," she proclaims to the scattered onlookers around, emphasizing the E. "Chosen of the Formless Mother, living goddess of blood!"

She raises Morgott's blade – itself formed of hardened Omen blood – and takes its handle in her left hand, then yanks the blade free of her right without letting go. Red blood streams from her palm as she raises both hands to a fighting stance, and she glares around to each visitor in turn before delivering her next words.

"And I will never know defeat."

Chapter Text

"Lady Miquélla?" Finlay begins, her voice hesitant as she stares up at the tall woman dominating the front of the hall. "Are you… alright?"

The Empyrean's gaze falls upon her at once, bloodshot and baleful. "Knight Finlay," Miquélla recognizes her, even with the Cleanrot helm still firmly in place. "Thou hast served me and my works well for many a year. Now, as I ascend to ever greater heights, let not that service be in vain."

Miquélla turns and extends her bloody right hand. "Come to my side once more, and let thy hand guide Mohgwyn's sweep across the lands above!"

"My lady, clear your head; you are unwell," Finlay counters. "Your sister, Lady Malenia, sent us to free you – the Haligtree is your domain, and your greatest pride, not…" She gestures around at the blood-stained flagstones. "Not this!"

"Dearest Malenia…" For just a second, the thought seems to give Miquélla pause, but then she shakes her head and stubbornly carries on. "I spoke with my sister just a moment ago," she says, "and she made no mention of such a mission given out. Nay, on the contrary: Malenia of all people would know that I am no damsel in distress, in need of rescue! I told her that I was breaking my curse of youth, and I have, and now the world shall see me unbound!"

Miquélla whirls around with a contemptuous flick of her head, sending a ripple cascading down her inhumanly long hair, and she steps up to Mohg at the side of the altar and leans in close. "Now, dear consort, my brave Lord and guard, shall we perform the rite? The summoning of which you have dreamed these past thousand nights?"

Mohg is almost paralyzed at her gentle touch upon his arm, and his face pales to a medium gray as he struggles to find the words to answer his queen. His eyes flick behind Miquélla, and back to her face, and behind again, and then he settles at last on, "Not all of Mohgwyn's foes are downed. It would be imprudent to…"

"Of course, my Lord." Miquélla turns back to face the group once more, her eyes sliding past Morgott, and over Millicent quietly hurrying to his side, and only just now does she seem to notice the trio still fixed at the far end of the hall – and the golden-haired man now sitting up between his caretakers. "Godwyn? Is that you, lord brother?"

"It is I," Godwyn replies, weakly but audible. "On that night, Miquélla, was it you who told me to please die a true death?"

Miquélla strides forward away from the altar steps. "Yes," she answers. "Did you?"

"I really did not. But all is now well, for I have un-died that untrue death."

"Good." Miquélla fixes him with a red-eyed glare as she raises her stolen sword. "Now you will have another chance to get it right."

She flutters her wings and half runs, half glides down the length of the hall, stopping only upon contact with Fortissax's defense: a shapeshifted draconic arm with its stone-hard scales, which disappears again a moment later as he spits a blast of red lightning from a human throat. Fortissax leaps into the air, calling Y-shaped spears of light to form around each hand, and forces Miquélla away from his beloved as he crashes down again with the crack of thunder.

Godwyn makes it to his feet again, leaning on Pyrrha's arm just long enough to gain his balance, then thanks his helper and slips away to the side to go and lend holy assistance of his own to Millicent and Morgott. Pyrrha covers his movement, taking two quick strikes upon her shield from the cursed-blood sword, and once she can focus fully on her opponent again she takes what may be her only opportunity to do so and voices a question.

"Miquélla," she begins. "You look so much like a woman I saw not long ago, in a dream. The wings… even your face, it is so much the same, except she…"

"Except she appeared to be cisgender?" Miquélla finishes for her. She whirls in a tight circle to throw a spray of bloodflame in all directions from her sickly right arm, forcing Pyrrha and Fortissax both to leap back a step. "When I was a child," she begins, "and I mean truly young, not merely an adult cursed to appear eight years old – I dreamed of my ideal self, and I named that dream identity Trina."

She winces as a discus of gold slices through her midsection from behind, and before it can return to Finlay's hand she snatches the light itself from the air. A surge of power brightens it, and then with a sword slash behind to cover herself, she turns and flings a trio of even wider disks back across the hall.

"I was small then, and so Trina was tall. I was seen by all as a boy, and therefore Trina was unmistakably a woman. I felt hemmed in by both the walls of Leyndell and those of duty, and so I gave Trina wings for freedom. And so, when it came time to build the cocoon that I designed to break my curse, I wove into it the template for my adult appearance, as close as I could achieve to the form I had dreamed of so long ago."

"And the rest is… not achievable?"

"Of course it is possible!" Miquélla crows. "And even more so now, through the crimson grace of our Formless Mother, whose domain is flesh and blood and the manipulation thereof! Why prolong my entombment a further year, when both hormone treatment and bloody sorcery are both fully well available while awake?"

At the far end, Mohg refuses to be forgotten, casting a line of blood down the full length of his hall which smolders where it lands. "Enough talk!" he cries, running to engage Finlay. "Míquella, my holy one, destroy them! Show them all your splendor as befits a consort of blood, a prophet of Mohgwyn!"

Miquélla presses her assault harder again, and Pyrrha cedes ground cautiously – still hoping her mission of returning this madwoman to the Haligtree can be carried out in peace, and still cursing the slight of chance that Miquélla had picked up a nonmagnetic sword. With a dragon at her side, even if not her wife, there is little worry of being overcome by force alone, unless by the mistake of becoming pinned against a column or a wall, and so she guides the lethal dance in a wide arc toward the rest of her allies.

"Do we have to do this?" Pyrrha pleads. "Finlay spoke the truth, your sister did send us – think of her! Are Malenia's wishes not enough to snap you out of this trance?"

It seems not, as another burst of liquid fire splatters across her shield. The Formless Mother's hold is strong, and so that leaves only equal measures in response. 

Pyrrha stows her spear with a frown of determination. "Miquélla, I order you," she declares, thrusting her now free hand to the sky with two fingers outstretched, "to stop this at once!"

Miquélla freezes in place, her stolen blade mid-swing, as a faint golden glow settles around her limbs. Impotent rage burns in her bloodshot eyes, and with great effort, she pushes one hand alone through the divine compulsion's weight to reach for a pocket in the child-sized robe that she wears as a loincloth. It comes out holding a needle of ornate gold, and Pyrrha knows at once it is the same design Finlay had described.

With a twist of her fingers, Miquélla pokes the tip of the needle into the palm of that same hand. She grimaces with the pain, but squeezes it in tighter – and Pyrrha's golden command falls away, purged from her body as if escaping through the needle's tiny wound. But so too goes the bloody tint in her eyes, leaving them gold beneath the fading red, and Miquélla blinks and shakes her head. 

"I am sorry, Malenia," she mutters, almost inaudibly, before her gaze snaps to meet Pyrrha's eyes with an intense stare. She holds the look for uncomfortably long, and finally, quietly hisses a few words. "Remember the dream, and you will understand."

Miquélla backsteps to disengage and makes her way to the midline of the room. She grabs the back of Mohg's robe and yanks him away from his own duel, and then drops Morgott's sword at her feet and raises both hands high. 

A dome of golden light shimmers into existence around her and her consort, turning away both blades and incantations from its translucent surface. "Formless Mother, hear our voice! Your prophet has awoken, and you need be formless no longer! Consume the sacrifices laid out for you in the lake below; drink of the free-given blood of the warriors of Moghwyn, and drink of the force-taken blood of its captives!"

Beside her, Mohg looks rapturously up at the false speckled sky and retrieves an ornamental blade of carved bone from within his robe. "Take of our sacrifices," he repeats after Miquélla. "The lake is yours. The albinaurics are yours. The beasts and the mindless, take them all to smooth your way into the world! And take the blood of a Lord!"

Mohg draws the knife down the length of his inner arm – the cut bleeds profusely, dripping streams of iridescent oil-slick color across his skin and away, yet not a drop of the precious liquid reaches the floor. The air itself ripples in circles of scarlet beneath the flow, taking it all in through a hairline fracture in reality, in a mirror of Mohg's own summoning of flaming sprays before.

"Take the blood of your new Lord, and may it flow in your veins for all time, Mother, as it has in mine."

He looks to Miquélla and offers her the knife, but she only smiles and raises the unalloyed gold needle instead. "Take the blood of a Queen, and may it bring you presence upon this earth for all time, Mother, as it has for me."

Miquélla jabs the needle into her wrist, releasing a sizable flow of blood in human red – yet at the same time, the prominent veins marked across the surface of her skin fade away, shrinking back from her extremities into her heart and then disappearing entirely from sight. Apart from her gray and bloodless right arm, she now displays no outward sign at all of the foreign god's corruption, even as she continues its summoning rite.

"Formless Mother, let your servants grant you shape! Incarnate within your disciple Mohg, into the blood of a true Lord!" Miquélla twirls the needle between her fingers as she looks about at the crowd gathered helplessly outside her barrier, and her gaze lingers on Finlay just a little longer than the others.

Only now does she actually take the bone knife from Mohg's fingers, and uses it to cut his robe down the middle and peel it away from his chest. She makes a light ceremonial incision just over the heart, barely enough to break the skin, then raises the bloody blade skyward.

Red light coalesces around Mohg's body, swirling inward in many streams to surround him like a cloak – and as it brightens and solidifies its shape, the outline of leathery wings can be faintly seen across his back, along with tall pointed ears and a set of fangs almost as unwieldy as his horns.

"Yes," Miquélla breathes. "Manifest your vassal upon him, for he is your Lord, and your fates are one."

Mohg – or the Formless Mother through him – opens his mouth and lets out a primordial screech that echoes around the entire Siofra cavern. Pyrrha claps her hands over her ears and drops to her knees under the sudden pain of it, and when she is able to look around again she sees her companions all bleeding from reopened wounds, even those previously healed by magic. 

And when she casts her eyes downward, she sees as well blood dripping from a perfectly round spot beneath her collarbone, and the outline of a spectral red arrow's tail poking out from her chest. It is the same for Godwyn, ten ghostly knives buried in his back, as the Outer God of blood calls forth even the memory of wounds upon separate bodies now long lost.

Miquélla, too, bleeds from an assortment of minor cuts she had sustained in her earlier fight, but she remains close at Mohg's side. She reaches through the haze of light to run one gentle, caressing palm across his chest, and steps in even closer as she brings up her other hand–

And with a swift, sudden motion, she lands the golden needle into the cut she had marked over Mogh's heart, and buries its full length into his flesh.

The Formless Mother screams again, but this sound is an assault only on the ears alone, and not an arcane call to blood and pain. The batlike form of light around Mohg, both its outline and the wavy streams of darker and lighter red flowing endlessly within, brightens just for a second, and then the entire vassal figure shatters like stained glass. Shards of crimson light fly everywhere, twinkling until they dissolve into wisps of smoke, and along with them every flame of bloody illumination down the sides of the hall goes out in unison.

In the dim light of the crystal stars above as Miquélla's dome too evaporates, Mohg falls to his knees, stunned, clutching at his chest. There is no stub of the needle sticking out for him to grasp, and whatever magic and insight his god's possession had granted is gone, and so helpless as he is, he can do aught else but wail for the death of his dynasty and his dream.

"Thy dream, hmm?" Miquélla muses aloud to him in response, staring down at him with contempt. "Thou shouldst remember, though I am the young girl you kidnapped so long ago, I am also Saint Trina the dreamwalker, and so I know very well: some dreams are not worth having."

Miquélla grabs Mohg by one of his tangled horns and drags him from his place, casting him down at last in front of Finlay's feet. "He is yours to do with as ye wish," she announces. "So long as ye never allow that needle to be removed, lest the dream of his ascension again return." As an aside to the knight alone, she mutters, "Though given where I placed it, I suspect removing the needle may simply kill him anyway."

As the group, one by one, let down their guards and help each other up, each checking over themselves for any wound in need of a quick miracle, Miquélla leaves the Cleanrot Knight's side and moves to pick up the sword she had discarded before. "Whose blade is this?" she wonders, turning it over in her hands. "Or did I create it, while I was under the influence of Mogh's bloody patron?"

"The sword, and the blood that forms it, are mine," Morgott manages before a fit of coughing overtakes him. He leans on Millicent's shoulder until it passes, and when Miquélla presses the weapon's hilt into his hand, he returns instead to his habit of using the blade as a cane.

"Are you… back to normal, now?" Pyrrha asks, hopeful.

"I am indeed," Miquélla answers, though even now there is little more warmth in her voice than there was during the blood god’s control. "And I must thank you for attempting to place the Greater Will's shackles upon me, for it allowed me to cleanse myself of outside influence. My needles of unalloyed gold repel all Outer Gods, benign and bloody alike, and so through the power of my own creation I was freed."

Finlay crosses the room to rejoin the rest, leaving the defeated Mohg to rest harmlessly in his pain and stupor. "Lady Miquélla… welcome back at last. It is so good to see you returned. Let us go at once to the Haligtree, and bring Lady Malenia the news."

"Return thou home, and I will follow," Miquélla counters. "Thou knowest my mission – for her sake, and for us all. The work does not pause merely because I am freshly hatched from metamorphosis." She looks to Pyrrha. "You, too, know it, should you recall my visit as blue fairy that eventful night."

As blue fairy? Pyrrha's mind races to process the implications. If Trina was Miquélla, and she told the legend of the Rot's cyclical defeat with the three players ever fixed in their roles… if she has chosen herself as fairy, the messenger who sets the swordsman and maiden into motion, then that means she has chosen Pyrrha to play one of the champions.  

One of the champions who are bound by fate to battle a god, and who even in the original story are not always destined to survive.

"Now, as I have spent my needle of unalloyed gold to purge the Formless Mother from its prophet in these lands," Miquélla proclaims, turning away from Pyrrha with a dismissive wave of her good hand, "I shall require a replacement. I daren't suppose any of ye have brought another, as I asked… perhaps in my sister’s lookalike, who clearly suffers from rot yet stands and fights nonetheless?”

Millicent startles and looks self-consciously to the blade at her side, left unsheathed on the floor while she tends to Morgott’s wounds. Her eyes flick to her side where the repaired needle is lodged in her flesh, then back upward as Miquélla comes to stand before her. 

“I am truly sorry to inconvenience you,” Miquélla says, with no such apology showing in her eyes, and then, lightning fast, she drops to her knees to pin Millicent with one hand on her neck while the other pulls at the bottom of the dirty shirt over her side. “But I require this needle. I promise you it will be put to better use.”

“Hey!” Pyrrha calls, seemingly the only one not too stunned to react. “Get away from her! That needle is all that’s healing her!”

Millicent herself protests as well, such as she can with the weight of a demigod upon her throat. “You are condemning me to an agonizing rot – to waste away, barely able to speak or move! I don’t care who you are; this is wrong!”

But Miquélla already has the twig of gold between her fingers, and so Pyrrha grabs for her spear once again and moves to intercept her as she stands. A ball of violet flame forms in Miquélla’s palm, but Pyrrha ignores it, trusting the last five percent of her aura to take the hit – but as it splashes upon her chest, her soul’s shielding remains unbroken, and instead her limbs and eyelids are weighted down as if with lead.

“To cure just one of the rot is such a feeble, shortsighted goal,” Miquélla pronounces. “I prefer to be more ambitious. Rest assured, your sacrifice will not be in vain.” A flutter of her wings propels her backward, toward the center of the hall, narrowly evading Fortissax’s attempt to seize her by the arm. 

Millicent calls after her, impotently. “That needle is my life. I did not choose to sacrifice it! You speak of better use, but if not life, then what better use can there be?”

Miquélla ignores her and the group, stowing the stolen artifact in her loincloth as she raises her free hand to the stony sky. Golden light forms in a cascading, swirling cone from her fingertips to her shoulders, and then with a push of legs and wings together she launches herself upward, never turning in her course, until her magic strikes the ceiling and carves a tunnel before her through the rock.

Stones fall upon Mohgwyn’s courtyard, first a mere rain of pebbles, then more, and heavier, an endless hail in Miquélla’s departing wake. There is no way to follow in pursuit, nor any shelter from the debris, and so those who are standing grab for their companions and hurry toward the rear balcony where they had arrived.

“Wait,” Morgott wheezes as the group assembles behind the great egg. “We must bring Mohg. I turned away from my brother once before, and it led us to this. I will not do so again.”

“I’ll go,” Fortissax volunteers, already turning back. Shapeshifted scales form over his neck and back as protection from the hail, and he hurries to seize the former Lord of Blood, almost comatose from the shock and despair, and guide him to the rest. 

Morgott takes over the supervision of his twin as Fortissax pushes his transformation to the full, manifesting his true draconic form once more upon the edge of the cathedral hall. Pyrrha, the artificial sleep now shaken from her eyes, helps the others board and takes up the rear herself, and then the dragon spreads his wings and takes flight toward the Siofra well across the gap.

“So, Finlay,” Pyrrha begins, prompting the woman one seat further to the front to crane her neck back to face her. “Is that… truly normal, for Miquélla? Is that what you remember of her, from before she was taken? It’s just…” She pauses in search of words. “It’s good that she’s free, and Mohg is defeated, and Malenia can see her sister again, but… the rest, you know… What have we unleashed?”

Finlay’s deep sigh is audible even through her helmet. “Lady Miquélla has always been highly driven toward her goals, and willing to sacrifice much. She watered the Haligtree with her own blood to grow it tall, every month without fail until her disappearance. So there is no doubt in my mind that she truly believes her every action to serve the greater good of the Lands Between, and I confess that if Miquélla believes it, then I trust that it is most likely true…”

She heaves another sigh and shakes her head. “But to take the needle from poor Millicent… even if I could see the benefit, there is nothing else to call it. That was cruel.”

Ah, Caria Manor, childhood home of one Ranni the Witch. A place of many memories, mostly good, for after her father had abandoned his family, far less time was spent by any of them within these walls. Her mother had retired to Raya Lucaria, to study, to yearn, to pray for a return that would never be granted to her, while Ranni and her siblings were old enough to go out upon the world to make their marks. And so the manor itself, though not in the best of shape, is still dear to her.

Such a shame that the place’s magical defenses are currently trying to kill her. She really should turn them off someday. 

But to do that would be to remove one of the last, small barriers to her father – impossibly returned after all – reoccupying the manor grounds. That, Ranni cannot allow, not yet. Not until at least her mission today is carried out, and likely not for a while longer. The towers beyond are full to the brim with evidence, and all that must be moved, destroyed, or secreted away before anyone not trusted may approach.

So far, he has dwelled in the Academy – and for all that Ranni loathes gold and its adherents, she must admit one good deed by her father’s hand. The deep scars etched upon her mother’s psyche have lessened these last few months… not to the point of health, but her obsession with rebirth and renewal has faded, and she can, if awkwardly, hold a conversation with her youngest child.

Ranni sidesteps another rain of glintstone from the sky – perhaps she should merely improve their aim, rather than shutting the system down – and slips through the main gate into the courtyard. All she needs to do is cross the plaza past the fountain, go up some stairs, say the password to the programmed glintstone construct that Loretta left behind those years ago, and–

And before she even reaches the central fountain, a giant hand with far too many fingers jumps at her from the overgrown grass, and it is all Ranni can do to narrowly hop out of the way of its grasp. A wave of her staff sends a brilliant blue shard through its center, and the hand lurches back and collapses, its many fingers curling like the legs of a dying spider.

What are the fingercreepers doing, attacking her? They’ve never been any trouble before, on her countless trips to and from her tower…

Oh. That’s right. The heretical magic that animates them also gives them their instructions: to attack only living beings, and not disturb the environment nor any fellow defenses formed of sorcery. And unlike in all her previous visits, Ranni now counts as a fully living being.

And so she hurries more than usual, and keeps her distance from the telltale rings of fleshy fingertips poking up from the dirt for ambush. She ascends through the back corridors, locking each door behind her as has been her habit in case of snooping Tarnished, until she reaches the top floor where the castle’s back, above the cliffs, opens out onto solid ground once more.

Finally, after too long spent away, her tower awaits. 

Blaidd and Iji already know of her predicament, of course – her loyal shadow and assistant, ever constant, who Ranni depends on more than she would ever say. Seluvis, on the other hand – and she has but one other hand, now, instead of three – has not been contacted. He’s likely holed up in his laboratory or his workshop or his dungeon, whatever he calls it, and he can stay there and keep working on the betrayal that he thinks Ranni doesn’t know about. She’s not here today for him.

She is here for some of the things she left behind, or rather, was rudely pulled away from when her body and life were restored to her against her will. Just a quick detour through the towers to pick up a few items and hide a few more, while her father is still occupied in Leyndell and will never know she made the trip. 

After far too long, after being so unceremoniously thrown back into the role of Carian princess rather than snowy doll-witch, after enduring a visit to the new Elden Lord, however brief… Ranni wants her hat back. 

After several painful hours beneath the Siofra cavern’s false, crystalline brilliance, Pyrrha was really hoping that upon the group’s emergence from the well, they would see some sunlight again. 

But alas, more stars. Ever locked in their positions while the world turns beneath, their natural current arrested by the might of the Starscourge even in his weakened, maddened state…

Honestly, Pyrrha has never been quite sure what the deal with the stars is, because staying still is all they ever did back on Remnant too. Her only sight of them doing otherwise was in a dream, as Trina – Miquélla, apparently – guided her through the depths of history and told a tale of feuding gods. 

“It’s good to be above ground again,” Fortissax sighs, staring up between the tall trees of Limgrave. “My kind are not built for such spaces below. The caverns are magnificent, yes, and beautiful… but I cannot be without a real sky overhead.”

“Agreed,” Godwyn adds after him. “Though I suspect my own preferences are due to having returned to the roots and then been pulled away. I am not eager to visit them again.”

“You won’t have to any time soon,” Pyrrha assures him. “We’ll get you healed the rest of the way, and you’ll be just fine. I promise. Once we're back in Leyndell there's actually medicine, more than just healing incantations. That will help."

"I hope it does," Godwyn and Millicent say in unison, then look at each other.

Millicent leans on Morgott's sword like a cane, still walking unaided for now, but visibly exhausted despite her minimal actual injuries from the fight. "Without the needle, my sickness will return, and no amount of prayer will hold it back."

"Being in Leyndell will help," Godwyn says, forcefully. "In the ancient days, the Erdtree glowed warm, and healed all who so much as stood nearby. In later years the blessing faded, and I suspect even more so after the Shattering, but it never lost its power with a direct touch. And now, at the dawn of a new era, when blessed sap already drips once more? I expect the Tree of Life will earn its old name once again."

"We just have to get there quickly," Pyrrha finishes for him. "Whoever that Gowry man was, whatever his intentions, he did a good job repairing the needle. We should get Millicent to safety first, and then try to reclaim it from Miquélla."

Finlay bristles at the mention of the Sellia sage, but she says nothing in protest. Whatever his intentions, no matter how horrible, they were likely foiled the moment Millicent left with her and Pyrrha – or so she can only hope.

The group continues on between the trees, north by the occasional glimpse of the Erdtree in the distance, until suddenly Fortissax at the front throws out an arm to block everyone behind, and whirls around with a finger to his lips. Once all are quiet, with undivided attention, he points ahead.

An enormous bear stands on its hind legs, clawing at an equally massive tree, seemingly oblivious to the group. Fortissax waves everyone to the side, behind a denser copse to get out of view as he leads a wide arc around the beast.

At the back of the group, Morgott watches his brother carefully, and gives a warning as Mohg continues to stare. "Don't even think about it. This group is enough to overcome a runebear, and even should you run, nothing is gained by wandering Limgrave with neither patron nor weapon."

"Nothing is gained by being taken in chains to the capital either," Mohg retorts.

Morgott's eyes narrow. "You are not in chains now, and none await you there. The whole of the Order’s teachings can be summed as a single question and answer. Am I my brother's keeper, the story asks in the beginning. And in every tale that follows, all repeat: Yes, I am. So are we all for each other. I cannot allow you to throw yourself to that beast's claws any more than I could kill you myself, down below."

Mohg falls silent once more, and follows with the group. Only once the bear is safely well past and they have emerged from the woods into stone-dotted plains does he speak up again: "What did you mean, before?"

"When?"

"You said, while we fought, that Omens are the holiest born of all. How? Has the world utterly flipped upon its head?"

A hint of a smile crosses Morgott's face as he answers. "Not flipped, merely restored to a balance that our mother denied. The Crucible writhes within each one of us, and our horns follow its wild path… but this is no curse. Or rather, if you like, our curse is also our redemption."

"But what is holy to the Golden Order about our kind? What room is there in the dogma for the imperfect?"

"Every power from beyond this earth," Morgott begins, "can manifest its essence as a flame. You called upon bloodflame, and there is giantsflame, and ghostflame, and the flame of frenzy. But what is the Omens' heritage, ours alone, that burns within each one of us?"

Without waiting for an answer, Morgott turns away toward the open field and takes in a massive breath. He exhales all at once, and a long cone of black-gold flame jets out and dissipates in the air. "Ours is the flame of gold, the sign of the Greater Will itself! We are blessed by grace within our very breath… and if I do not show it as a matter of habit like some of our cousins, you can blame Mother for the shame I even now struggle at times to overcome."

This stymies Mohg once more, for he remembers all too well those years of the twins’ youth, in the sewers and catacombs alongside the rest of Leyndell’s Omens. Those years of longing which became bitterness which became hate, watching as so many cousins abandoned their ties to the humanity of their parents above and turned almost to beasts hunting in the depths. Those years of hate which became a yearning for resistance, which became a terrible oath upon blood and pain…

Those cousins, the lowborn with their horns excised as futile “cure”, who defended their squalid homes with surges of golden flame. The sight remains burned into his memory long after the burns upon his flesh have faded into grayish scars, and try as he may, now that the connection has been made, he cannot expunge it from his mind.

And so, as Mohg’s captors climb atop their dragon mount, as the brother who abandoned him – the brother who returned to him – stretches out a hand, he finds that he cannot quite turn and run away.

Miquélla had known that her egg was being held captive underground. She had known it was overlooking one of the great subterranean rivers, and was even reasonably certain it was the Siofra. But even knowing that, the caverns are simply so expansive that she could not possibly predict an emergence point from her straight upward egress, and she had resolved herself to an hour or two of wandering to get her bearings. 

It was a surprise, then, to break through the stony ground directly in the middle of Sellia. What fortune, that Mohg had chosen a site for his palace so perfectly beneath a landmark of the surface world.

Of course, the town’s inhabitants start casting on sight. Whether these figures crowned with masks of stone and crystal retain their wits, or if the breaking of the Elden Ring and the ultimate scouring of Caelid had reduced them to madmen, Miquélla cannot tell – and she has no desire to stick around long enough to find out. 

A few flaps of her butterfly wings carry her to the top of one of the city’s towers. Here, she can be relatively undisturbed… but only relatively, only so long as none of the wandering sorcerers below happen to turn their gazes skyward. It should be enough. 

Right now, Miquélla has one goal: to determine which way her actual goal is. Not to find north, even though that direct aerial path across the bay and over the mountaintops is the quickest route to the Haligtree. Even though to take that shortcut that so few aside from dragons are ever capable of would be a feat to brag of in itself. 

No, as much as she would love to return and see her dearest Malenia once more, sadly there is pressing work to be done. And also, simple curiosity, to see what has become of the Lands Between in her absence – for there is only so much that can be gleaned from the backdrops of others’ dreams.

Sellia, for starters, is considerably redder and more ruined than when last she visited, before the Shattering. But most of the buildings are intact, even if its people are not, and up on the cliff the old church still stands as well. 

The roiling swamp with its scarlet mud and lifeless trees, therefore, must be what is left of once beautiful Aeonia. If that is just southeast, opposite the church, then… yes, there are the faint lights of Castle Redmane at the southern horizon, and Miquélla can orient herself from here. 

She spreads her wings once more and takes flight, circling upward into the starry sky before then gliding westward at last. West, not to the Haligtree, for Finlay will surely make her way there to tell the news. West, to Liurnia, toward the epicenter of Rot. 

There she can scout the plague’s progression, and make arrangements for this repaired golden needle her rescuers had so kindly brought.