Ranni's single eye fluttered open, her initial shy anticipation dissolving into shock. The face before her had shifted—another one-eyed figure, but this one burned with righteous fury.
"You two... weren't you... discussing business?"
Melina bit off each word. The sudden intrusion left Ranni reeling.
A flash of movement at the periphery—Throne dangled one-handed from the railing, battered by wind and waves. Breathe. Compose yourself. Show weakness now and you'll never recover. The scream in her mind rattled her ribs. Thank the stars for blue skin masking flushed cheeks. She stiffened, lips twisting into something resembling a smile.
"You misunderstand."
"Enlighten me."
Melina's voice could freeze magma.
"Ahem. Among Carians, head-butting signifies... victorious encouragement. Throne and I merely—" CRACK. Ranni staggered back, palms slamming against her throbbing forehead.
"Have you lost your—" "Victorious encouragement."
Melina deadpanned.
She pivoted and drove her skull into Throne's face as he hauled himself aboard, seawater streaming from his clothes. The impact sent him reeling.
"There. Saved you the trouble."
Rubbing her own reddening brow—damn the man's thick skull—she turned back to Ranni. The witch's jaw hung slack, torn between labeling this creature a genius or a gibbering moron.
Ranni's finger jabbed the air like a dagger.
"You—you absolute—"
"Did I err in protocol? Demonstrate."
Melina clasped hands behind her back, the picture of earnest inquiry. Fury boiled in Ranni's throat, choking her.
"Brainless! Brute! Buffoon!"
The words exploded forth before she blinked out of existence. Melina tilted her head at the vacant space, then at Throne massaging his forehead.
"Was that... invective?" Throne sighed.
"My fault. Should never have let you near her. You're her kryptonite."
Melina's lips twitched.
"Kryptonite. I like the sound of that."
Glass shattered in the Grand Library. A guttural scream echoed between bookshelves, followed by the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of four fists pummeling upholstery. Ranni's arms blurred as she assaulted the high-backed chair—restrained, always restrained, because replacements were scarce and wars required budgets.
Panting, she glared at nothing. How? How did a walking void of intellect keep outmaneuvering her? That blank stare haunted her, tempting her to summon a Dark Moon and be done with it—but Throne's presence stayed her hand. She wore grooves in the carpet pacing.
Godfrey's resurgence demands focus. This isn't retreat—it's tactical prioritization.
"Blaidd."
"My Lady."
The wolfman's growl vibrated through their psychic link. A beat.
"You're... distressed."
"Marginally."
"Throne again? Say the word and I'll—"
"It's fine, I'll go thrash him right now!"
Blaidd's snarl shook the connection. Ranni could picture his hackles rising, claws unsheathing.
"Stand down. Involving you would only compound my humiliation."
"As you command, O Eternal Majesty."
Majesty. The word curdled in her chest. What throne remained to her now?
If majesty had a numerical value, it would be in the negatives by now—yet she couldn't touch the source. No. At least in Caria, I remain formidable. She shook her head, steeled her spine, forced her voice steady.
"Find the Ancient Dragon."
"Lansseax?"
Blaidd's ears pricked up.
"You want her dead?"
"Did I stutter? No one decides for me."
Ranni's glare could freeze magma. Only when Blaidd dipped his head in apology did her shoulders relax.
"Find her. I have work for her."
The ship carved through black waves. Ranni's departure had been swift—too swift. A retreat in all but name. Melina hadn't noticed, dismissing it as the Lunar Princess's usual half-hearted scolding before moving on.
Throne noticed. He watched the smug tilt of Melina's chin and sighed for the hundredth time.
"Must every meeting end like this? Can't you two coexist?"
"Not my fault. I didn't throw the first punch."
Melina held up a finger, deadpan.
"From you, I've learned strange customs. Pinning someone against a wall is 'covering' them. Head-butting celebrates victory."
She blinked at his expression.
"What?"
Throne's face twisted.
"You're joking."
"I am not. Unless you've been lying to me."
"Never. The Lands Between are… eclectic. Next time, I'll teach you the proper way to apologize."
He forced a laugh. Melina was gullible, but her wrath wasn't worth the risk. Better to dig the hole deeper.
"Why'd you rush over anyway? Weren't you watching the crew?"
"Millicent said your conversation looked… off. Not businesslike. So I observed closely."
Throne whirled toward the foredeck. Millicent leaned on her sword, red ponytail lashing in the wind like a guilty flag. Heroic stance, coward's posture—she wouldn't turn around.
One step. One damn step from shedding that 'provisional' title. My own disciple, sabotaging me again.
Melina followed his gaze.
"Was she right?"
"Of course not."
Throne's smile could warm a crypt.
"This is a mentor's proud gaze. Grateful she watches over me."
"You're lying. What did you discuss?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
Defeated, he regurgitated the speech about Godfrey's influence, the Tarnished, the Crucible's role in resurrection. Melina absorbed it with glacial focus. Finally, she shrugged.
"You and Ranni handle that. We'll meet him eventually."
All that effort explaining Leyndell's politics, the First Elden Lord's legacy—wasted. Throne rolled his eyes, waving a limp hand.
"He'll surface sooner or later, but another matter is more troublesome."
"What matter?"
"Millicent. I haven't decided what to do with her."
The headache returned. Liurnia was supposed to be her stop, yet she'd followed like a stubborn shadow. Elphael meant sending her home—but Millicent was just a shard of Malenia's echo.
The Cleanrot Knights weren't blind enough to confuse her for their king. With the Kindred of Rot nearly exterminated and Throne standing guard, no force could compel her to bloom. Millicent's fate posed a different problem—destined to return to Malenia, this reunion might be necessary for the Valkyrie's awakening. Throne shared no bond with Malenia herself.
Logic demanded the Valkyrie's return. Emotion made him recoil at Millicent's erasure. Malenia was the host, Millicent the fragment, yet they'd become distinct souls. Melina stayed quiet. Their journey from Caelid to these northern shores had forged kinship with the stubborn swordswoman, but she understood Millicent couldn't withstand Malenia's pull.
One was a wandering warrior. The other, a demigod warlord who could become Throne's greatest ally if awakened properly.
"Is there any way to let Millicent live on?"
"Nearly impossible. Even if I agreed, the Cleanrot Knights won't. They'll seize every chance to rouse their Valkyrie."
Throne's voice stayed level.
"From their view, it's justice."
The conflict ran deeper than Melina guessed. His real fear wasn't the Valkyrie—it was the Goddess of Rot emerging instead. That would turn the Haligtree from potential ally to death trap. Wait.
A realization struck. In this altered timeline, his interference had prevented Malenia's full bloom. Only Millicent had split off. The awakening conditions were milder now, the Rot Goddess less likely to manifest.
But even suppressing the Scarlet Rot posed risks. Without Millicent's dignity, wouldn't Malenia degrade completely? The Rot would consume her eventually. Melina's hand brushed his back.
"Think it through. You'll find an answer."
"Easier said than done. Harder than murder."
Throne scoffed, then sobered.
"But since you're begging me—first time for everything—I'll manage something."
"Begging?"
Melina refused the label, though hope shone plain in her eyes.
"Stop looking at me like that. No solution yet."
Miquella might hold the key. Complete Rot suppression could work if Malenia retained her brother fixation, even as a wreck. But Miquella's reaction complicated things—how would he take to an extra sister?
"Keep Millicent in the dark. Block any Haligtree envoys."
"Understood."
Melina's nod carried gravity. She knew Millicent would charge toward her fate if she learned, meeting it head-on like the fool she was.
"We'll adapt. Luck might turn."
Recent events piled weight on Throne's skull. Unlike Morgott, he didn't crave the Haligtree's conquest—neutrality sufficed. The iron cavalry's strength came with too high a price.
Salt-stiffened fabric clung to his skin, but Throne remained on deck. He forced down the restless churn in his chest and scanned the horizon. Before him was the sea, and behind him were ten-thousand-foot cliffs. The jagged coastline carved northward through tide-washed shallows where the mountains rose in layered steps until they dissolved into cloud. Throne marveled at nature's ruthless craftsmanship.
The jagged peaks clawed at the sky, their snow-capped summits glowing like shattered teeth against the twilight. No one remembered how these mountains had formed—only that they swallowed a third of the Lands Between. A barren wasteland to most, but Throne knew better. Here slept the bones of giants, the lost scripts of astrologers, and the forge that could set the Erdtree ablaze.
He wasn't some wide-eyed wanderer anymore. The Mountaintops were just another square on his chessboard. His vision blurred as he recalibrated. One objective crystallized: Godfrey couldn't be allowed to consolidate the Erdtree's forces. Unchecked, he'd become unstoppable.
"You're too late," Throne muttered to the wind. His grin was a blade.
"I'm already ten moves ahead."
Caelid had bled itself dry—nothing left but his personal vendetta against Radahn. Limgrave crawled with Tarnished too busy guarding their stolen scraps to rally behind anyone. Volcano Manor had fallen. Leyndell teetered on the edge of knives. Caria had risen from its grave to claim Liurnia, dragging ancient alliances back from oblivion. Even the dragons had been accounted for.
"A decade of blood," he said, flexing his sword hand. "I carved order from the chaos. The Two Fingers can screech all they want—their deck's running empty."
His pupils sharpened. So what if Godfrey reclaimed the Elden Throne? The Golden Order had been rotting since the Night of the Black Knives. What army would answer his Earthshaker's call? What throne remained to be shattered?
Then he froze.
His fingers locked around his hilt as he wheeled toward the cliffs. A gilded silhouette hovered above the sea, blazing like a second sun. Millicent gasped. Melina staggered to her feet. The sailors collapsed into groveling heaps. Only Throne stood unmoved.
He studied the false sun. No deity—just a familiar shadow cast in gold.
"I won't flinch," he said.
No surprise. The Crucible Knights weren't senile. They'd anticipated his path. The only question was why their lord had come personally instead of sending Siluria or Ordovis.
"Testing me? Or just bored?"
Throne felt an immense pressure, as if he were being watched by some ancient beast, but he straightened his back instead and bravely met it.