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Glory to my bum ass proofreader: Solare.
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Across the whole of the Lands Between, the world flinched.
The pillar of light that speared up from Limgrave's Divine Tower was something that forced itself into lungs and marrow, that crawled down the spine of every thinking thing and whispered:
Wake up.
Knights in crumbling forts fumbled their weapons. Priests beneath Erdtree icons forgot their prayers mid-chant. Sorcerers in Liurnia jerked awake from fever-dream studies, quills snapping in ink-stained fingers. Even the half-feral demi-humans in forgotten ruins whimpered and pressed themselves low to the earth, instincts screaming that some distant predator had just lifted its head.
In Stormveil's conquered halls, bloodied soldiers and newly-captured men looked up from their confusion to see the sky turn briefly, impossibly gold.
In Leyndell's shadowed streets, the Erdtree's vast boughs rustled with no wind to move them. On distant, rot-choked fields in Caelid, scarlet swamps shivered as if something had passed overhead. Deep beneath the capital, where roots and omens and older things brooded, the sap itself quaked.
For the first time in an age, a Great Rune had awakened properly. And when the system of Grace took note, so did everyone bound to it.
The stories followed in the light's wake.
They traveled faster than any rider, slipping between tongues and rumors, getting reshaped with every telling but never losing their core.
Johnathan.
A Tarnished with dragon's eyes and a fool's heart. A nobody, they said at first. He was but some wretch spat out of a shallow grave barely a week ago, if the rumours were to be believed, weak enough that a single Stormveil footman could have run him through without effort.
Then came the rest.
How that same nobody walked into Castle Morne and walked out with its lord kneeling and its banner changed. How he hunted dragons along Limgrave's cliffs, not as distant targets but as prey to be brought down with claw and blade. How he stormed Stormveil itself in a blaze of fire and stolen artillery, cut his way through its inner courtyard, and turned its ruling Demigod into a headless smear in his own graveyard.
Every tavern, every campfire, every shivering cluster of soldiers in a ruined keep gathered the tales and repeated them, each trying to outdo the last.
They spoke of inhuman strength, strength great enough to send a full-grown troll flying like a kicked dog. They described flashing, draconic lightning and frost that turned battlefields to fog. They muttered about his methods: reckless, absurd, somehow always working.
Some called him a monster. Some called him a champion. More than a few called him insane.
They spoke, too, of his eccentricity. The way he joked in the middle of slaughter. The way he flirted with his own maiden on top of a mountain of corpses. The way he smiled like a man on a walk instead of someone rewriting history with every step. None of it fit the old patterns: he wasn't a pious knight, nor a scheming sorcerer, nor a tragic noble.
He was… strange.
Yet compelling, all the same.
And threaded through all of it was the part that made every lord sit up a little straighter:
How quickly it had happened.
How, in the span of a handful of days, a faceless Tarnished had gone from struggling against common soldiers to standing over a Demigod's shredded remains with a Great Rune sinking into his chest. How he had taken a fortress no one had dared besiege in centuries, then rolled that victory straight into another before anyone important had time to properly react.
Speed mattered. In a world ossified by immortal rulers and ancient grudges, nothing was meant to change that fast.
The stories swept through the Lands Between like a grassfire in high wind, feeding on old dry wood: resentment, fear, long-buried hope.
Some laughed them off. Some made plans. Some, quietly, were afraid.
Because even as the details changed with each telling. How tall he was, how many dragons he felled, how loud the thunder; one fact remained the same in every version:
The status quo that had held for centuries, for millennia, had been cracked straight through.
A nobody had taken a Great Rune, and a Demigod had fallen screaming.
And the script the Lands Between had been reciting since the Shattering… was no longer the only story in town.
…
The sky had split open, and for a moment, Varré thought one of the Outer Gods had finally decided to poke straight through the firmament and flick the Lands Between apart.
Golden light speared up from the direction of Limgrave- No, not just light, Grace. A pillar of it, roaring straight into the heavens from the crown of the Divine Tower like a lance hurled by some petulant god.
The shock of it ran through him, skin to marrow, like someone had poured molten sunlight into his veins.
'Ah… there you are.'
Varré stood on the ruined stones by the Rose Church, hand pressed over his heart, watching the distant tower blaze against the horizon. Even with Liurnia's fog and stagnant mist, the pillar was impossible to miss.
The blood in the waters near the church rippled, surface ringing with faint, concentric waves that had nothing to do with wind.
"That… is not the sullen glow of old Godrick's Grace." He murmured, lips curling beneath his white mask.
Godrick had a Great Rune. Had squatted on it, hoarded it, sulked with it in his crumbling little castle, hiding behind borrowed limbs and louder cousins. Yet the fool had never once lit the tower like this.
Which meant only one thing.
"Someone killed you…" Varré muttered quietly, almost fondly. "Someone finally put you out of all our misery."
The pillar of Grace throbbed once, hard enough that his vision dimmed around the edges. It wasn't aimed at him. Oh, no, its song was for every Tarnished, every fragment of Grace, every Shardbearer. A proclamation.
A new Great Rune bearer rises in Limgrave.
He chuckled, thin and sharp. "My, my… and so the game truly begins."
For just a heartbeat or maybe two, he considered staying and basking in the afterglow, watching the last of the golden motes fall like distant rain.
Then the second wave hit.
It rolled under his boots, a deep, subterranean shudder that did not belong to Limgrave alone. The kind of tremor that hinted at roots and caverns far below, at old blood and older things stirring.
Varré's smile thinned.
"Best not to keep His Eminence waiting, then."
He reached into his robes, fingers finding the cold, familiar shape of the Pureblood Knight's Medal. Blood-wet metal, etched with unseen sigils, warm under his touch as if it knew where it longed to return.
He held it to his breast.
"Ahh, Lord of Blood…" He whispered, voice soft and adoring. "Your faithful Varré comes bearing news."
The world folded, and he stepped out onto red.
Blood-slick stone crunched beneath his boots, each surface lacquered with ancient, dried crimson layered over something still wet and fresh-smelling. The air of Mohgwyn Palace was thick and humid, like the inside of a wound that refused to close.
Overhead, the sky was wrong: a swirling mass of black and dark red, as if someone had painted the sky with a palette of coals and clotted veins. Albinaurics shuffled in chains along the terraces, pale backs gleaming in the ruddy light. Far away, the Palace's grand silhouette rose from a sea of crimson. Its columns, arches, and jagged steps were all carved from stone that drank the blood spilled upon it.
And even here, beneath earth and root, the aftershocks of the Divine Tower's activation lingered, though it was slowly withering.
The blood lake at the palace's base trembled with each phantom pulse, concentric waves shimmering outward, catching faint flecks of gold atop their red surfaces. Torches that usually burned a steady, hateful scarlet flickered once with a strange yellow-gold fringe, as if some intrusive light had tried to intrude and then been smothered.
Varré clicked his tongue.
"Impudent thing, Grace…" He said to no one in particular. "Shoves itself into every crevice, uninvited."
A few nearby disciples of blood jolted as another invisible tremor passed through the Palace. One dropped to his knees near a brazier, clutching at his chest, eyes wide.
"L-Lord Varré!" He stammered when he saw him. "Is it… is it the Mother? Has She-?"
"Calm yourself." Varré said, stepping close enough to lay what looked like a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. "If the Mother of Truth wished you dead, little leech, you would not have time to scream about it."
That seemed to… not reassure him, but at least stop him from shaking apart. Varré patted him once, almost kindly, and moved on.
As he climbed the long stairways that fed into the Palace proper, he felt the resonance growing thinner, and slowly fade. Here, deep under the world, the song became distant, muffled by layers of soil and blood and something else that sat between the Lands Between and their roots.
But it was still there.
'Of course it is…' He thought, teeth worrying his lower lip behind the mask. 'The Great Runes are part of the Elden Ring. The Elden Ring's roots run everywhere… and our tender guest's plans tangle around those roots like vines.'
He passed under a carved archway, its reliefs depicting horned figures kneeling before a crowned silhouette. The interior air was cooler, heavy with incense and the metallic tang of practiced ritual.
Ahead, at the start of the main audience hall, a single figure stood perfectly still.
Sir Ansbach.
Tall and broad-shouldered, the old knight wore a dark, heavy robe layered with a long cloak, the garment fastened by a gold brooch at the collarbone.
A sleek black helmet covered most of his head, the face wholly hidden behind metal, save for the long, pale beard spilling from beneath the visor, meticulously combed. Both of his hands were clasped behind his back, posture ramrod straight, as if he'd been carved there along with the columns.
Ansbach looked exactly like what he pretended to be: an old commander past his prime, dressed for ceremony rather than slaughter.
But Varré had seen the man take apart a fully armored knight with two lazy steps and a single strike.
He approached with an easy glide, soft boots whispering against the stone.
"Sir Ansbach." He sang, dipping his head just enough to acknowledge rank without groveling. "Standing guard, as always. Tell me, is His Eminence receiving… or is he still engaged with our honoured guest?"
The title came out slightly sour despite his best efforts. Ansbach's helmeted head tilted down a fraction, enough to show he'd heard the nuance.
"They are… 'discussing'." Ansbach said, his voice low and well-spoken, each word carefully enunciated. There was a faint rasp of age there, but no weakness. "It has been a few minutes now. Our honoured guest is… most insistent when something stirs above."
Varré grimaced behind his mask. "I can imagine. Did you feel it as well?"
"The activation of the tower?" Ansbach inclined his head. "Every drop of blood in this palace did. That is, in fact, why His Eminence and our guest are speaking so urgently."
Of course it was.
Varré stepped closer, lowering his voice, the habitual playfulness curdling into genuine curiosity. "And what is your take on it, Sir Ansbach? Your thoughts are always… enlightening."
The knight gave a soft, self-deprecating huff.
"An old man like myself could not possibly unveil the secrets of this world. Only the Mother of Truth, guiding our path, may bring such mysteries into the light."
Varré actually felt a bead of sweat slide down his temple.
"Y-yes, yes, naturally." He waved a hand. "But if you were to guess, purely for the benefit of a poor, ignorant servant such as myself?"
A gloved hand shifted from behind Ansbach's back, fingers stroking thoughtfully through his beard.
"A guess…" He mused. "Very well."
He turned slightly, as if looking past the stone walls and out through the earth toward Limgrave.
"If we accept that the pillar of Grace marked the activation of a Great Rune, Limgrave's Divine Tower confirms that much, then the simplest explanation is as follows: Godrick the Grafted has been felled. Likely by a Tarnished, though there are… other candidates."
Varré stilled.
"And the tower?" He prompted.
Ansbach nodded.
"The Divine Tower resonates not with any random carrion thief, but with the bearer of the Great Rune it was built to enshrine. As I said before, for it to awaken now, after centuries of slumber, means Godrick's Great Rune has changed hands. The pillar we saw above is the echo of that union: the innate Grace within the victor harmonizing with the stolen might of Godrick's Rune."
He sighed. "In short… someone has slain a Demigod and become a Shardbearer."
Varré swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
He liked Godrick about as much as he liked the Two Fingers. Which was to say, not at all. But the implications of his death…
"A Tarnished, most likely…" He murmured. "Or some other stray monster."
"If pressed," Ansbach agreed. "Though it is not impossible that something older and less definable has decided to… stretch." He added, almost idly.
Before Varré could respond, a sound rolled over them like distant thunder.
A low, deep chuckle. Rich, resonant, amused.
"Ansbach…" the voice purred, dripping with dark delight. "You never fail to impress me."
Varré and Ansbach both moved at once.
They dropped to their knees, heads bowed low, foreheads nearly touching the stone.
"Your Eminence." They intoned together.
The air in the hall thickened, heavy with a copper-sweet scent. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, descended the inner stairway at the back of the chamber.
Lord Mohg, the Omen, the Lord of Blood, came into view.
He was enormous, towering over them even at a relaxed stroll. His horns curled from his skull like twisted, blackened branches. Red sigils and raw, glowing scars marred his gray flesh, veins pulsing faintly with accursed light beneath the skin.
A heavy robe of deep crimson and black hung from his shoulders, layered and tattered, embroidered with symbols that made Varré's eyes ache to follow. The cloth looked perpetually damp, as if freshly washed in blood. In one hand, he carried his trident that was slick with a sheen that was not oil.
His eyes, slit-pupiled and burning a deep, wine-dark red, slid over them with distant approval.
"Arise."
They obeyed immediately.
"Sir Ansbach's assessment is the most likely truth." The Lord of Blood continued. "Godrick has been dethroned, his Great Rune claimed, and Limgrave's tower awakened at last."
Varré forced himself to speak. "Then… should we be concerned, Your Eminence?"
Mohg's lips peeled back in a smile that showed too many teeth.
"Concerned?" He laughed, it was a harsh, echoing sound that shook dust from the upper rafters. "Godrick was a sniveling weakling. A degenerate graft-clown. Any true Demigod could have slaughtered him with ease. If anything, I am surprised the wretch lasted this long."
His gaze tilted upward, toward the unseen surface. "I had thought some ambitious rat would take his head decades ago. In fact, one almost did, once."
Varré nodded, then hesitated for a moment before speaking up carefully.
"My deepest apologies for the question, Your Eminence but… why did you not simply remove him yourself before now? Take his Great Rune for your own?"
Mohg's eyes slid back to him, narrowed but amused.
"Ah, Varré…" He muttered, voice rich with mockery. "So eager. So bloody-minded."
He lifted his free hand, fingers flexing as if feeling the weight of a phantom crown. "How could I, when dear elder brother was playing watchman around that crumbling castle? For all his piety, Morgott has always been quite… protective of our more pathetic kin when it serves Order's balance."
He snorted.
"To force the issue would be to invite a tedious confrontation. Godrick's Great Rune is hardly worth crossing him over. Not when my true prize lies elsewhere."
Varré bowed his head, chastened. "Of course, Your Eminence."
Mohg stepped past them, moving toward the great doors at the far end of the hall, robes whispering across the stone like a dark tide.
"Make no mistake," he raised his voice ever so slightly, without looking back. "I do not fear this new Shardbearer, nor do I particularly care for them. They are a new piece on the board. Nothing more."
He paused at the threshold, the faint, pale light from the outer terraces painting his silhouette in stark contrast.
"But ignorance is unbecoming of those who serve the Mother of Truth."
His trident hit the floor once, a dull, ringing thunk.
"Send some of our blades, assassins, envoys… Sanguine Nobles, and pureblood knights. I would know who this upstart is, where they crawled from, and what they intend next."
Varré felt a shiver run down his spine that had nothing to do with Grace this time.
"Yes, Your Eminence. Upon my blood, I swear it will be done."
"By my oath as well." Ansbach intoned, voice steady. "His Eminence's will shall flow through my knights like a river of red."
Mohg nodded once, satisfied, and then swept out of the hall, disappearing down the outer corridor that curved back toward the deeper heart of the palace.
Only when the echo of his footsteps faded did Varré dare straighten fully.
He turned his head toward Ansbach; the knight met his look with the mild tilt of his helmet that served him for half a dozen subtle expressions.
"I will dispatch a few of my pureblood knights at once. They will hunt for this new Shardbearer's trail, quietly. In the meantime, I would appreciate if you spoke with the Sanguine Nobles. Their… talents… in slipping through cracks will be necessary."
Varré inclined his head. "Gladly. They do so love a party when there's a little mystery involved."
They parted with a shared nod; Ansbach moved in one direction, cloak whispering, while Varré lingered for just a heartbeat, gaze drifting upward.
Up the inner stair, where Mohg had first appeared.
Where he had come from his private audience chambers.
Where the honoured guest waited.
'Just a peek…' Varré told himself. 'A little glance never hurt anyone.'
He angled himself slightly, just enough to see the top of the stairway.
Someone stood there.
At first glance, it looked like a woman.
She was breathtaking in a way that felt almost… unreal. Long, flowing hair like spun gold cascaded down her back in careful braids, catching even the dim, red-palace light and turning it softly radiant. Her features were fine, delicate, luminous with an inner calm that made his breath stutter behind the mask.
Her eyes met his for a single heartbeat.
She smiled.
It was not a mocking, nor a cruel one. It was a gentle, almost kind smile.
She then turned and walked back into the inner halls, vanishing from sight.
Varré stared at the empty top of the stairs, mind curiously blank.
'Beautiful.' He thought, dazed. 'And wrong. Like a dream wearing human skin.'
He shook himself hard, and let out a long, put-upon sigh.
"Too many gods…" He muttered, turning away. "Too many Demigods, too many Runes, too much Grace… and far, far too much blood."
He straightened his collar, rolled his shoulders, and headed toward the Sanguine Nobles' quarters.
If a new Shardbearer had stepped onto the stage, then the Lord of Blood's servants would make sure they learned their name.
And perhaps, if he was very lucky, Varré would get to meet this little upstart himself.
…
Witch-Hunter Jerren drummed his fingers on the war table, the sound a dull thunk-thunk against scarred wood.
The hall behind Redmane Castle's walls was half map-room, half triage ward. A crude, hand-painted Caelid sprawled across the tabletop, red ink smeared deep where the rot had eaten too far, black lines marking where they'd managed to hold the line. Outside, the muted roar of the scarlet winds pushed against the stone like a living thing.
"North perimeter?" Jerren rasped.
"Stable, sir." One of the Redmane knights replied. His armor was dented and scorched, streaked with dried rot pus. "We drove back a mass of those… things… from the Sellia road before dawn. Lost three men, but the scarlet tide hasn't pushed past the stakes."
"And the bogs?" Jerren asked.
A different soldier stepped forward, this one still stained up to the knees in rust-colored sludge. "The swamp boils more than usual, Witch-Hunter. We culled three new rot-bloated trolls and a flock of birds. Whatever's growing out there… it's not slowing."
'Of course it isn't…' Jerren thought. 'Rot doesn't sleep, nor does it wane.'
He grunted and pinched the bridge of his nose beneath the brim of his battered hat.
"And the southern reaches close to the Weeping Peninsula crossing? Any sign of breach there?"
A grizzled veteran at the back snorted. "Only the usual, sir. Wandering dogs and a few maddened Tarnished who think they're immune to the rot if they don't look at it too long."
A low ripple of grim laughter passed through the room.
"We keep Caelid from spilling over." Jerren said, his voice flat. "We cull the herds, burn the nests, and make sure that damned scarlet sickness doesn't crawl into Limgrave and Liurnia. As long as General Radahn still stands on his isle, we hold. That hasn't changed."
He was about to ask after the latest reports from Redmane's forward scouts when the world hit them.
The floor hummed under his boots. Every torch in the hall flared brighter, gold edging the red flames for a heartbeat.
"What in the-?" One of the knights started.
A surge, like something colossal had drawn a breath through the marrow of the earth itself came through the ground they stood upon. A shiver of Grace, unmistakable and invasive, running up every spine.
"What was that?!" A young soldier yelped.
"The tower, it has to be!" Jerren hissed, already moving. "Out. Move!"
They burst out of the hall and onto the battlements, boots hammering stone, the stench of Caelid's rot-heavy air smashing into them like a wall.
Even here, where the sky burned sickly red and brown, the pillar was impossible to miss.
Far off on the horizon, past the hazy line where Caelid bled into Limgrave and Liurnia, a column of pure golden light speared into the sky. It rose from the shape of Limgrave's Divine Tower like a lance thrust into the firmament, so bright it carved a scar of white in their vision.
"By the… by the Erdtree…" Someone whispered.
"Divine punishment?" Another muttered.
Jerren squinted against the glare, scars around his eyes pulling tight. It wasn't just light. He felt it. It was like a pressure behind his eyes, a song in a language he hated but understood. Every Arcane attuned being in the Lands Between would be feeling this.
The only thing that could birth a pillar like that from the tower…
"Divine Tower's awake…" He said, voice rough. "Someone's gone and activated a Great Rune."
The knights shifted, unease prickling along the wall.
"But Godrick never-" One began.
"Godrick was a worthless fool." Another spat. "Hid in that castle of his like a tick."
They watched in silence, breath steaming faintly in the Caelid wind, as the golden lance burned in the sky.
It lasted longer than a simple flare, rippling and pulsing, a beacon that screamed Here I am to every Shardbearer, every cultist, every wretch who could hear it.
After about thirty heartbeats, the pillar began to thin.
The radiant column frayed at the edges, breaking into ragged strands of light before slowly withering, bleeding away into the poisoned sky. Motes of gold drifted, dissolved, and were swallowed by the ever-present red haze.
Jerren ran a hand through his beard, fingers catching on wiry curls gone more grey than black.
"So," he murmured. "The tower sings… and then it stops."
A few of the men glanced at him.
He looked at them over his shoulder. "Do you remember that mad dragon hunter we kept hearing about? The one the scouts claim caused Greyoll's death and disappearance, along with Agheel, Ekzykes, and Greyll? If our reports are worth anything."
Grunts and half-formed curses rolled through the group.
"I still don't believe it…" One young Redmane soldier muttered. "Greyoll? The Mother of Dragons? That thing's older than half the kingdoms we've bled for."
"Aye." Another said. "If I hadn't seen the drake disappearance by the Caelid highway myself, I'd call it tavern talk. But Ekzykes is gone. The others too. Even the lads from the Weeping Peninsula and Limgrave bring the same stories up the supply lines."
"Man climbs on dragons like they're ladders, according to the folk from Mistwood." Someone added darkly, recounting a tale told to him by a stray merchant along the highways of Limgrave on a supply run. "Impales them on towers like a fresh meat stick, they said. Who does that?"
Jerren's mouth twitched.
"The people of Castle Morne have been very… loud… about him. Their new liege this, their dragon-slayer that. Hard to miss even from here."
He let the silence hang a moment, the last ragged traces of Grace fading in the distance.
"His name is Johnathan." Jerren said finally.
A few heads snapped toward him.
"That's him?" the bearded knight who handled the northern perimeter asked. "The same bastard who killed Greyoll?"
"Mmm." Jerren nodded. "Johnathan. Dragonslayer. Supposedly took Morne in a day, rallied the Weeping Peninsula, smashed through half of Stormveil's defenses… and now, it seems, someone has killed Godrick the Grafted and lit Limgrave's tower like a bonfire. Coincidence? I think not."
A low whistle escaped one of the men. Another just shook his head in reluctant admiration.
"Just one Tarnished?" A soldier said softly. "Doing all that?"
"Careful." An older knight muttered. "The last time we underestimated a single warrior, we ended up swearing to a man who stopped the stars."
That drew a rumble of half-proud and half-bitter laughter from the Redmane veterans.
Jerren watched their reactions, then grunted and turned away from the parapet.
"Keep your eyes on the rot, Grace can throw its tantrums all it likes. Our job doesn't change. The scarlet muck doesn't care who's wearing which Rune."
He walked off down the battlements. Only a few of the more seasoned knights noticed the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and fell into step behind him.
They moved through Redmane Castle's guts, checking posts as they went.
A trio of archers at a murder-hole, ensuring their bowstrings hadn't rotted in the constant damp. A stable hand swatting a rot-fly the size of a dog from one of the warhorses. A cook arguing with a surgeon over whether a particular patch of rash was from moldy bread or scarlet blight.
"Nothing out of place." One of the knights murmured. "More rot, more madness. The usual."
Jerren made noncommittal sounds, thoughts elsewhere.
They emerged into an open courtyard at the edge of the castle, where the wind carried less stink of men and more tang of iron and dust. Beyond the low outer wall, the land fell away to the sea. The horizon was broken by a lone isle, black and jagged, rising from crimson waters like a broken tooth.
There, on that blasted island, their general still stood.
Radhan's battlefield, his graveyard-in-waiting.
For a long moment, Jerren said nothing.
The knights waited with him, eyes drawn, as always, to the distant shape of their lord's domain. The faintest shimmer of purple-lightning horizon marked where Radahn's power still wrestled the stars into chains.
"Get the telescope." Jerren ordered at last.
One of the men blinked. "Sir?"
"The big one." Jerren added, pointing to a nearby weapon rack where, incongruously, a long brass tube leaned among spears and javelins. "Point it at the sky. Check the moon. And the stars around it."
The nominated knight hesitated. "A-Aye, Witch-Hunter."
He hurried over, hefted the battered telescope, and wrestled it onto its worn tripod near the wall. The others watched him adjust it with fumbling familiarity.
Another knight leaned toward Jerren, brow furrowed. "What are you expecting to see, sir?"
Jerren didn't answer.
He folded his arms across his chest, hat brim casting his eyes in shadow, and watched the man at the telescope.
'If I'm wrong. Then all we have is another mad Tarnished making noise in Limgrave. If I'm right…'
The astrologer knight, one of the few in Redmane who still bothered with the old star charts Radahn once loved, bent to the eyepiece and peered upward.
Several moments passed while the man investigated, then several more as the man adjusted the focus, shifted the angle, and frowned.
His back stiffened.
He stepped away from the telescope as if it had bitten him, face pale beneath his helm. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he turned to Jerren, eyes wide.
"H-how…?" He stammered. "How did you know, sir?"
A small smile curled at the corner of Jerren's lips.
The others turned on the astrologer immediately.
"What is it?"
"What did you see?"
"Is there some sign?"
The knight swallowed hard.
"The signs are… clear." He said, voice shaking. "Clearer than they've been in years. But they've changed. Dramatically. Since last I checked them yesterday."
He looked between them, almost afraid of his own words.
"It's completely abnormal." He went on. "It should be beyond the realm of possibility, but… the Moon's phase has changed from its usual cycle."
One of the others frowned. "Changed? How? It was at half last night."
The astrologer knight turned back to Jerren, understanding and dread dawning in his eyes.
"From a Half Moon…" He whispered. "It has changed into… a Dark Moon. The signal of the Radahn Festival has appeared…" He swallowed. "Several years early."
Jerren's little smile widened, teeth flashing in his bearded face. It kept stretching, almost boyish in its glee, but there was nothing kind in it. It looked just like an old hunter's hunger, edged with blood.
Somewhere out over the bloody sea, from the direction of the distant isle, a roar split the air.
It was wild and bestial. So deep it seemed to rattle their bones, carrying across wind and waves, up through their chests. More animal than man, but with a familiar timbre that made every Redmane on the walls snap their heads toward it.
General Radahn, howling at the sky.
A few of the younger soldiers paled and the veterans only clenched their fists tighter.
Jerren chuckled, it was low and delighted.
"Isn't it obvious?" He said, eyes bright. "Whoever it is that activated the Divine Tower…"
He stopped himself and snorted.
"Oh, who am I kidding?" He shook his head, grinning. "This Johnathan… this dragonslayer, this Rune thief. He's the one who caused this. All of it."
He spread his arms as if to embrace the rotting horizon, the fading sting of Grace, and the mad bellow from their general's isle.
"It can only ever be described as one thing!" He declared. "FATE!"
The word hung in the air like a verdict.
He turned to the knights, that feral grin still carved across his face. Slowly, like infection spreading, similar smiles crept onto theirs.
Jerren jabbed a finger toward the castle interior.
"Make sure everyone across the Lands Between hears it." He said. "Every lord, every mad Tarnished, and even every rat who looks up at the sky in fear."
They straightened.
"The next Radahn Festival shall be held early, upon the night of the Dark Moon." Jerren proclaimed, voice ringing off stone up into the rotted skies that defined their home.
The Caelid wind howled around them, carrying the echo of Radahn's distant roar.
…
Erik Gladwell was having a rather troublesome day.
The peace and quiet he usually enjoyed in his home had been shattered an hour ago; by a Divine Tower's activation, of all things. Now it was the only thing anyone in Leyndell seemed capable of talking about. From the lowliest page to the most bloated Baron, it was nothing but:
"Did you see the light-"
"Surely it means-"
"Another Shardbearer has arisen-"
Rot.
He had been in the kitchen when it happened, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted in flour, preparing to make bread for his sister. He always did, after her meetings with the nobles. She claimed it was her favorite food, that he made it exactly like their mother used to.
If he was being honest, it was one of the few things they both clung to from before they were adopted by their grandfather, Duke Bernard Gladwell.
The Duke was a kind man, as far as Leyndell's nobility went. Which was to say: he was only slightly parasitic instead of ravenous. Erik had no idea why his sister, Victoria, had volunteered herself as Grandfather's heir.
'Because she's a saint. Or an idiot. Same thing in this city.'
As much as he loved Bernard and would forever be grateful to him, the idea of calling the sycophants of the capital his "peers" made Erik vaguely ill.
"Erik!" Victoria's voice rang from down the hall. "Grandfather says we need to be ready for the meeting in five minutes! Lord Morgott called it personally, so please use your suit this time!"
Erik stared mournfully at the half-shaped dough.
'Of course he did.' He let out a long-suffering sigh. He hated that suit. If he had to rank his reasons for surrendering the role of heir, that thrice-damned thing was easily in the top three.
More than his "incompatibility with noble duties", he despised being forced into clothes that were stuffy, restrictive, and leaving his entire torso open for a stab wound.
He'd tried explaining this, patiently, to Victoria. She had not been impressed with his argument that showing up to every noble meeting in full armor, greatsword and shield in hand, was "vital to her continued survival".
'Someday…' He thought. 'She will understand I was right.'
He wiped his hands and moved into his dressing room.
The suit, a deep midnight-blue matching Victoria's usual colors, hung on a stand near the mirror. The jacket was cut clean and sharp, embroidered subtly in gold along the lapels and cuffs. A crisp white shirt sat beneath, the collar annoyingly stiff, paired with fitted dark trousers and polished black boots. A simple blue cravat completed the ensemble.
It was handsome, elegant. And entirely unsuited for deflecting even a butter knife.
He pulled it on anyway, grumbling under his breath, then walked to the dressing table.
A silvered helm rested there, as out of place amidst cologne bottles and hairbrushes as his greatsword would've been at tea.
Erik lifted it with practiced hands.
The helm was bright silver, its metal catching the soft candlelight. An etched crown motif wrapped around the brow, and a pronounced nasal guard ran down the center. Each side flared outward into a sculpted wing, feathers sharply and expertly carved so their edges cast tiny shadows across the metal.
From beneath the rim, blue and gold-trimmed fabric hung like a half-cowl, ready to drape around his neck and collar, blending helm and suit into something bizarrely formal.
He turned it in his hands once, then slid it over his head.
The world narrowed to the slit of the visor. His face, which most people would consider handsome, vanished. His platinum-blonde hair disappeared under steel.
Erik exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. 'Much better.'
He checked the fit in the mirror, gave himself a curt nod, and left the dressing room.
He walked out and saw Victoria waiting in the hall, standing before a large mirror.
She wore a tailored navy coat with gold embroidery tracing its lapels, cuffs, and waist, the fabric fitted neatly to her frame. A white cravat was tied snugly at her throat, and pale trousers fell in clean, sharp lines into polished boots. It was an outfit that split the difference between noble heir and military officer.
A silver mask covered her eyes, its delicate pattern sweeping outward in filigree across the upper half of her face. Her hair, which was the same platinum blonde as his, was braided tight and gathered into a neat bun at the back of her head.
She turned at the sound of his boots, her face lighting up.
"Erik!" She said, smiling brightly. "Thank you for getting ready so quickly."
He grunted. "I wasn't going to let you go to those meetings alone."
She laughed softly and stepped forward, giving him a quick hug that clinked faintly against his breastplate-less chest.
"Grandfather is waiting for us outside." She said as she pulled back. "We shouldn't keep him or Lord Morgott waiting."
He nodded and fell into step beside her.
As they moved toward the outer door, he paused briefly by a small cabinet, opened it, and palmed a dagger. He slid it into an inner pocket of his suit jacket where the fabric was slightly reinforced.
Ideally, he'd be bringing his greatsword, his shield, and his… other weapon.
But the last time he had tried, several nobles had thrown what could only be described as a collective tantrum.
'It is a security risk.' they said. 'It's an insult to this noble table.' they said.
It wasn't his fault that none of them deserved to be trusted with his sister's safety.
He sighed and followed Victoria as she stepped out into the Gladwell estate's outer courtyard.
Duke Bernard Gladwell was already there, speaking quietly with a waiting carriage driver. He turned as they approached.
Bernard was an old man, but not a frail one. Tall, though his back had begun to stoop with age, he carried himself with the easy balance of someone who had once worn armor for more than ceremony. His hair was mostly silver now, cut short and combed neatly back, with a well-trimmed beard framing his lined face.
He wore layered robes of white and deep green trimmed with gold, a mantle bearing the Gladwell crest of a stylized winged sword draped over his shoulders. A slender cane rested in one hand, more habit than necessity, its head shaped like a lion's.
His eyes, a sharp sky-blue, softened when he saw them.
"Erik." Bernard said warmly. "Thank you for joining us, my boy."
Erik inclined his helm. "Grandfather."
Bernard and Victoria both chuckled quietly at his brevity, as if reassured by it.
"Come." Bernard said. "Lord Morgott does not call every noble house to court lightly. We mustn't dally."
They climbed into the carriage, and soon the wheels were rattling over Leyndell's noble district streets.
The capital was humming.
White-stone buildings gleamed beneath the filtered glow of the Erdtree overhead, their gilded banners fluttering in the wind. Erdtree Sentinels patrolled the main thoroughfares, golden cloaks billowing, their halberds catching the light.
Clusters of nobles stood on balconies or at intersections, gossip spilling like water from cracked cisterns.
"…light as bright as the Erdtree itself-"
"-from Limgrave, they say-"
"-means another Shardbearer, it must-"
Victoria watched them with a faint crease between her brows.
"The activation has rattled them." She murmured.
"Of course it has," Bernard replied. "For centuries, the Great Runes were static pieces on a board no one dared to touch. The last time one changed hands, it did not herald peace."
He tapped his cane lightly against his boot.
"I suspect Lord Morgott will be handing down new orders." The Duke went on. "Clarifying what is expected of the great houses should this new player grow… ambitious."
"Do you think His Grace already knows who it is?" Victoria asked. "The one who killed Godrick? Activated the tower?"
Bernard smiled faintly. "If anyone does, child, it would be the Grace-Given. The Erdtree's whispers are loud for him, if for no one else."
Erik gazed out the window, watching the Erdtree's great roots vanish into the distance over the city walls. 'New Shardbearer, old Shardbearer. None of them sharpen my sword any more than the last.'
He stayed quiet until the carriage drew up before the inner royal courthouse.
The building loomed over the plaza, all marble columns and carved reliefs of lions, roots, and blades. A line of Leyndell Knights stood at its entrance, spears held high, their armor polished to a mirror shine.
As they disembarked and climbed the steps, Erik hummed thoughtfully.
"Johnathan…" He muttered.
Victoria glanced back at him. "Hm?"
"I heard some of the knights talking about a man during training." Erik said, shifting his helm as they walked. "A Tarnished who helped take back Castle Morne in the Weeping Peninsula. His name was Johnathan. Johnathan Pen… something. I forgot."
Both Bernard and Victoria slowed half a step, surprised.
"You never thought to mention this?" Victoria demanded, turning to face him fully. Her silver mask did nothing to blunt the exasperation in her tone.
Erik shrugged. "It never came up."
Victoria stared at him, then sighed, shoulders slumping. "Honestly."
Bernard chuckled. "At the very least, it appears Lord Morgott and Lord Edgar of Morne are paying attention to the same man."
They passed through the tall doors into the courthouse.
The hall was massive, a long rectangular chamber lined with tiered benches. Marble pillars flanked the sides, their surfaces carved with scenes of the Erdtree's growth and the founding of Leyndell. At the far end, a raised dais stood beneath an enormous relief of the Erdtree, its golden inlay catching every ray of light.
That dais belonged to the king.
House banners hung from the upper reaches of the hall: lions, swords, chalices, dragons, and more. The air was thick with perfume and the subdued murmuring of gathered nobility.
The Gladwells took their allotted seats along the right side, beside a smaller banner bearing the crest of Viscount Renval.
Renval himself sat there; he was lean, sharp-nosed, and dressed in muted browns and deep sapphire. At his side was his youngest daughter, Chloe.
Chloe was perhaps a year or two younger than Victoria, with a cascade of honey-blonde hair tied back by a ribbon in Gladwell blue. Her dress was simpler than Victoria's coat, but still fine: pale cream with navy accents, sleeves just puffed enough at the shoulders to mark her station without veering into absurdity.
She brightened immediately upon seeing them.
"Victoria…" Chloe whispered as they sat, leaning close. "You made it. Isn't this exciting? Lord Morgott himself… and after such a light-"
Victoria's lips quirked. "You call this exciting. I call it… concerning."
They bent their heads together, their whispered conversation slipping into a familiar rhythm. Snatches of gossip, speculation, half-stifled laughs.
Chloe's eyes kept flicking past Victoria's shoulder to Erik's still, helmeted form.
He stared straight ahead, giving no sign he noticed. Inside the helm, his expression was somewhere between boredom and vigilance.
'Good,' he thought. 'Let them talk. The more noise they make, the easier it is to hear anything that doesn't belong.'
The hall slowly filled to capacity. Murmurs rose and fell, punctuated by the occasional clang of armor.
And then the great door at the back of the courthouse opened.
The air shifted. It grew heavier, as if someone had draped a thick cloak of pressure over the assembled. It was almost suffocating, and incredibly commanding. A divinity that made spines straighten and conversations die mid-syllable.
Every head turned.
A tall figure strode through the doorway, flanked by two Leyndell Knights who bowed and then immediately fell back.
He was draped in a vast, hooded cloak of deep, shadowed gold that swallowed his form. The fabric hung heavy, concealing the outline of horns, twisted limb, or any other mark that might have betrayed what lay beneath.
Where skin or armor might have shown at the hands or the throat beneath the hood, there was instead only light. Golden luminance seeped from the gaps in the cloak's weave, tracing the faint suggestion of shoulders, the outline of a jaw, the curve of a hand gripping a staff or sword that was likewise obscured.
Every time he stepped, the light flared in a small ring around his boots before fading.
Morgott, the Grace-Given, took the dais with the ease of someone who had walked that path a thousand times. He stood straight-backed, his presence filling the hall as thoroughly as the Erdtree's shadow filled the city.
For a moment, he simply let the nobility look at him.
The courthouse settled into a hush.
When he spoke, his voice carried without effort, resonant and iron-hard.
"Lords and ladies of Leyndell," Morgott said. "I have summoned thee here because the age-long stillness of our realm hath been disturbed."
Erik watched him, arms resting on his knees, helm tilted just slightly to catch the sound.
"Rumours already gnaw at the capital." Morgott went on. "Whispers of a pillar of Grace, of the Divine Tower of Limgrave blazing like a new-forged blade."
A ripple passed through the hall. Bernard's cane tapped once on the floor, thoughtful.
"Know that these rumours are not without merit."
That sent the murmur level spiking. Noblemen leaned toward their neighbors, women whispered behind fans, words like "Godrick" and "Rune" and "Tarnished" flitting through the air.
"I am aware of what transpired in Limgrave." Morgott continued, tone sharpening. "Godrick the Golden hath fallen. His Great Rune hath been torn from his grasp and awakened anew."
The courthouse erupted.
"Who-"
"By whose hand-"
"They say a Tarnished-"
"-half white-haired, with dragons' heads in his shadow-"
"-Castle Morne sings his name-"
"-Greyoll, too, slain-"
Erik heard Johnathan's name thread through the noise more than once, like a spark being passed along dry tinder. Some of the nobles spoke it with a sneer, others with reluctant respect, and a few with something approaching awe.
That last tone seemed to grate on the air itself.
The golden light around Morgott's form brightened a fraction. His grip on the edge of the podium tightened, though his cloak hid the motion. When he spoke again, his voice cut clean through the din like a sword.
A single, sharp cough.
It echoed off the marble, and silence fell in its wake.
Morgott's tone, when he resumed, was perfectly level. Any annoyance was buried beneath a king's measured patience.
"The rumours thou have bandied about are, to the limits of mine own knowledge… true."
Several nobles inhaled sharply.
"But." He continued, voice hardening. "Thou shalt not lose thy wits over tales of a lone Tarnished. Nor shall ye offer him thy awe like star-struck peasants."
The edges of his words crackled with restrained disdain.
"He hath taken a Great Rune, aye." Morgott said. "He hath kindled a tower that long lay dormant. For this, I shall watch him closely. I shall weigh his mettle… personally."
He leaned forward slightly, golden light spilling from his hood in a brighter flare as his unseen gaze swept the room.
"I will see with mine own eyes whether this so-called 'Demigod' is worthy of bearing a Shard of Queen Marika's Elden Ring." Morgott declared. "If he stands strong, if he upholds the Golden Order… then perhaps he shall keep what he hath stolen."
A breathless silence hung for half a heartbeat.
"And if he fails…" Morgott's voice sank, cold and absolute. "…then I shall kill him myself."
The courthouse exploded as shocked gasps rose like a wave.
"N-Never-"
"Since when has His Grace-"
"A Demigod, descending to personally test a Tarnished-"
"-this hasn't happened since-"
"-since the last Great Rune theft, and even then the towers stayed dormant-"
Questions, fear, excitement, outrage, all churned together. Some nobles looked frightened, others thrilled. A few looked nauseous.
Erik sat very still.
Their king, Morgott, the Grace-Given, sovereign of the capital and the Erdtree's chosen blade, was going to personally assess and possibly execute some upstart Tarnished?
He tried to decide if he'd ever heard of something more absurd.
'Hmm… Wylder things have happened.' He conceded inwardly. 'Somewhere. Probably. I assume.'
Victoria sat rigid beside him, fingers clenched together in her lap. Through the slit of his visor, he saw the angle of her jaw.
Chloe's eyes were wide, shining with a mix of terror and fascination.
Erik rolled one shoulder under his suit jacket, feeling the comforting weight of the hidden dagger.
Politics swirled around them like dust in sunlight. Lords and ladies whispered, speculated, schemed. Already he could sense them gaming out how this Johnathan's rise or fall might affect their positions.
He found that he couldn't bring himself to care.
'Demigods, Tarnished, Great Runes… they can dance their dance for all I care. As long as Victoria stays safe, they can kill each other from now until the Erdtree withers. This new Demigod included.'
…
Legends have and always will dictate the flow of history, as does Fate. And Fate is a fickle mistress.
She does not move with the heavy tread of giants or the thunder of marching hosts. She shifts with smaller things: the misstep on a staircase, the wrong word at the wrong moment, the wings of a lone butterfly beating in some forgotten glade.
A single flap, a single choice, and all the careful certainties of the world begin to tilt.
In the Lands Between, the people have prayed for such a tilt, begged for it, for longer than any living mortal can remember. Since the first shards of the Elden Ring were scattered and the Shattering began, they have whispered to every god and ghost that might be listening.
"Send us a saviour."
"Send us a Lord who will end this endless war of Demigods, this millennia of rot and madness and stagnant Grace."
Their prayers went up, but the sky did not answer.
So they learned to do what people always do when the heavens stay silent.
They told stories.
They spoke in hushed tones of the age before, before the Shattering and the long, slow dying of the world. They imagined a figure who might come and bind the Ring anew, who might drag the Lands Between out of its mire by sheer will alone.
The details changed from village to village, from noble hall to roadside fire—but the shape of the thing remained.
A saviour. A perfect hero.
And then, one day, in the span of a single week, the stories began to move.
A dragon falls screaming over Limgrave's lake. Greyoll, Mother of Modern Dragons, is found dead and gone. Agheel, Ekzykes, Greyll; names that had been curses are suddenly corpses. Castle Morne is liberated. Stormveil is invaded. Godrick the Grafted dies with his head in the dirt.
The Divine Tower of Limgrave, long dormant, screams a pillar of Grace into the sky.
All of it traced, again and again, to a single thread. A single name whispered up supply lines and across tavern tables, passed by caravaners and clerics and mercenaries who swear they saw it with their own eyes.
Johnathan.
Perhaps, some say, he is merely Human. Others insist he is Tarnished in truth, a wanderer with a strange gleam in his eye.
And in darker corners, by quieter fires, a more dangerous notion takes root: that he is one of Queen Marika's own forgotten Children, returned at last to reclaim what was stolen from his blood.
The theories differ, but the result is the same in the end.
A legend begins to crystallize around him.
It is a legend of a new Demigod, a new lord unlike any before. One more cunning, one more powerful, one that grows faster than the mortal mind can comfortably comprehend. It speaks of his untold strength and inhuman potential, of draconic might and wild-eyed insanity, of crimson lightning and a heart that refuses to stop.
It speaks of a man who overcame his own Humanity.
This Johnathan, this legend, is not the man himself. He is not a true historical figure, not yet. History detests a vacuum, and where there is a gap between what is known and what is needed, stories rush in to fill it.
What walks in that gap is a phantom. A perfected Johnathan, polished and sharpened by rumour, by hope, by fear.
This legend is desired not only by Queen Marika and by those who travel at his side, but by countless unseen souls who will never meet him.
Farmers in Liurnia, knights in Caelid, and even lost children in the Shadow of the Erdtree.
All of them, knowingly or not, began to shape him with their wanting.
A Saviour. A perfect Hero. A grand man built in the mind of the world to save them all from the millennia-old hardships that have ruled their lives for as long as they have known life at all.
And that Saviour, that ideal Hero, was Johnathan Pendragon.
King of Wyrms.
-----------------------------------------
Author's Note:
Stones, probably.
Believe it or not, I originally planned to have a pov of every Shard Bearer territory, but it just didn't make sense to make multiple povs where mostly the same thing happens. So I focused on the most important parts for the fic.
For those eagle eyed and lore sensitive enough, you'd have already figured out who the people of the last pov in Leyndell are. But for those that didn't, know this. They are NOT OCs, they are canon characters of a Souls game.
In other news, I've got a few more exams left, but I managed this out somehow.
…
Next Chapter Title: He Who Shall Not Be Named.
…
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