Greywolf - IamSnehan - Elden Ring (Video Game) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Associated items and some information about the main character

Chapter Text

Greywolf Set- Set of black and gold armour once worn by Fireheart, the Grey Wolf. Consecrated to be highly resistant to Scarlet Rot. Boosts Dragon Incantations by 40% if the whole set is worn

Known more for his compassion than his great strength, the Grey Wolf was the sole human to ever learn incantations from the Dragonlord himself. In time, he and his fellow Nightriders' deeds would evoke adulation and scorn in equal measure.

Design- Head- Greywolf Hood- Armoured black hood with light steel plating inside over leather padding and a silk underlayer, mask based on the Night's Cavalry Helm with no forehead piece, hides the face below the nose.

Body- Greywolf Armour- Black and gold armour somewhat similar to the Crucible knights armour, but leaner, engraved with a snarling wolf in the centre of the chest. Cape lined with wolf fur and backed with the stone scales of the Ancient Dragons. A gift from the Dragonlord.

Greywolf Gauntlets- Black steel and leather gauntlets designed after the claws of the ancient dragons. has three retractable extensions at the elbow to improve unarmed strikes.

Greywolf Leggings- Black and gold erdsteel greaves, very similar to Maliketh's.

Weapons-

1.Embered Greatsword- This long and elegant black and gold greatsword, forged in the Fire Giants' forge during a long-past war, was bestowed on Fireheart by the Dragonlord before his slumber. Old it may be, but the weapon is deadly sharp. Deals Physical damage.

Ash of War- Embered Wrath- Raise the ancient greatsword to imbue it with the Dragonlord's golden flames, rise into the air on wings born of the Crucible and thrust the blade into the ground for an explosion dealing massive damage. Follow up with strong attack to go for a heavy spinning slash that extinguishes the flames.

Requirements- Strength 70, Dex 70

Weight- 9.5

A power willingly taught. A master unwillingly lost.

2.Yurusanai- (Unique Curved Greatsword- Fast and unique moveset) Odachi forged by the Greywolf himself, this blade was designed to fight large opponents and induce rapid bleeding. Presumed lost after Fireheart left the Lands Between.

Ash of War- Blade of Mourning- Sheathe the blade to enwreath it in accursed blood, then use strong attack to perform a highly damaging circular sweep with an enormous blood blade that ignores 40% of shield block.

Passive- Bleed Buildup (85)

Weight- 8.5

Requirements- Strength 70, Dex 86

"Havent they suffered enough? Why must they be denied the grace that extends to all of us?!"

3. Old Wolf's Glaive- Fireheart's unique twinblade. Characterized by graceful, rapid attacks that transition from defense to attack (has block and counter frames on the 3rd and 5th hits of its 6-hit combos), requires incredible skill to wield owing to its reach

Ash of War- Dragonbolt Dance- Enwreathe twinblade in the lightning of dragons before leaping to perform a graceful flurry of strikes. Charging increases number of strikes. Follow up with light attack to perform a slash ending with an evasive leap, or strong attack for a thrust ending with a backward dash.

Weight- 7.0

Requirements- Strength 21, Dex 75

"Their favour is nothing unless those who they shun are given voice."

CHARACTER DESCRIPTION

Fireheart is immensely tall for a human, standing at a towering 7' 4.5". He has long blonde hair that falls to mid-back, with naturally amber-gold eyes and a full French beard. Due to his Omen heritage from his mother, hidden by his long hair are two black horns, and his right eye is ringed with bronze scales. While he is pale-skinned, his travels have tanned him to a pale bronze. Build-wise, he is lean, but muscular, with a swimmer/track athlete's physique, with massive shoulders and a lean waist. He has a deep, commanding voice that is later described as reassuring to listen to. He has two scars on his face, one on the left of his forehead above his brow, the other down his left cheek. His torso and arms bear many scars, memories of battles long-fought etched within.

While normally quite level-headed, he goes ballistic if enraged beyond his limit, though his cold, icy glare can shut up the bravest before that point (mostly). He is mostly a kind-hearted man with a protective streak, but his anger is ferocious when roused.

Chapter 2: Awakening

Chapter Text

(POV- Ulcerated Tree Spirit)

Bound.

Devour.

Pain.

Guard.

Protect.

Deep below the fields of Limgrave, at a place where the Erdtree’s roots twined about the graves of two heroes, these were the words flowing through what remained of the mind of a malformed spirit, as it slumbered beneath the earth, ready to devour the first unlucky warrior to step in its path.

Made out of the souls of deceased guardians, an Ulcerated Tree Spirit, despite its malformed and decaying appearance, was still a powerful foe to fight, with a surprising turn of speed for its size and a single-minded determination towards its sole purpose- defending the Erdtree.

The spirit was surprised as it suddenly heard a faint grunt, as though someone was expending their effort in removing something of great weight. With a roar, it burst out of the ground into the burial chamber, expecting a Tarnished or some graverobber having burst in looking for some easy pickings from the buried heroes beneath, only to find the occupant of one of the graves stiffly climbing out of his coffin. At the same time- a deep, somber orchestra started playing somewhere, making the spirit think only one thought “why do I hear boss music?”

The next second, it felt a sharp sting somewhere on its body, looking down to see the new figure holding a greatsword, one of two at the foot of the other grave, now buried in the fleshy growths on its body.

Roaring furiously, the Spirit immediately went on the attack, swiping its claws and trying to use its massive body weight to crush its quarry, who kept dodging away and striking with his greatsword the second he got an opportunity, with strikes that only seemed to hit harder as time passed.

(Switch to Fireheart POV)

With a last pair of strikes, the Tree Spirit finally collapsed to the ground before crumbling into ash, as the man before it leaned against the wall, panting slightly.

“For f*ck’s sake, who the hell buries a man alive and then has an idea of putting some sort of malformed abomination to serve as a guard?” muttered the man, hefting the greatsword in his hand.

Noticing a set of glowing letters form on the ground before him, the man leaned down from his massive height, reading the words they formed-

“Tarnished warrior, spurned by grace, the Greater Will has called upon you. You must gather the Great Runes, brandish the Elden Ring, and Become the Elden Lord!”

“Wait a moment, am I back in the Lands Between? How did I get here?” muttered the man, amber-gold eyes widening as he read through the words. A moment later, an explosion shook the room, followed by a faint scream.

“The hell?” was the only utterance from the man as he rushed out.

Several minutes of running and fighting through castle guard phantoms, not to forget a couple of grafted Scions, later,

“Got to watch my step,” muttered the man, carefully sidling along the steep cliff face, not noticing a deep crack in the narrow path a few steps ahead.

Understandably, unable to bear his weight, the cliffside collapsed.

And Fireheart, once the legendary Grey Wolf of Leyndell, came crashing down to the base of the ravine in a heap of twisted, bloody limbs.

He’s dead, right?

Or is he?

Chapter 3: Old Warrior

Chapter Text

“Urgh….” Came the voice, weakened significantly from the long fall, as Fireheart opened his eyes. He could hear faint noises, as though someone was riding away, but the sounds were too soft for the person to be still in earshot.

A pained groan arose from him as he slowly pushed himself to a sitting position, raising his hand to feel around his back for the greatswords he had picked up on the way out of the graveyard. Both were still there, though one slipped out of its scabbard as he slowly rose to his full, towering height.

The first was the standard greatsword given to all knights upon their banishment, a long, heavy straight blade beautifully balanced to its two-handed hilt, allowing for surprisingly swift strikes- something Fireheart, with his size and strength, could easily one-hand. It was the second that concerned him, a significantly longer, somewhat slimmer black blade, the edges tinged a rich gold. The quillions of its guard were raked slightly forward, similar to a claymore’s, with each ending in a quartet of spikes, a somewhat longer pair pointing towards the tip of the blade and a much shorter pair pointing back. Grasping it in both hands, Fireheart raised it slightly, bringing the guard up to eye level, scanning it for any potential scratches or nicks, giving a satisfied hum when he found none.

“If only I had my old armour,” muttered Fireheart, looking down at his current suit- a scarred and weather-beaten suit of samurai armour from the Land of Reeds, with a visible set of gouges on its chest and a missing left pauldron. It was then that his eyes came to rest on the two flasks beside him- one red, the other blue.

“Tear flasks? At least I have something I can use if things do end up going south against people!” he muttered, slipping them into a pouch. Looking up, he noticed the cave he was in, with a visibility of about thirty feet before everything else seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness.

Striding through the cave, Fireheart noticed a soldier, sitting near a rock outcrop, wearing a familiar heraldry- the Tree and Beast of Stormveil. Considering the man’s back was turned, Fireheart gave up being stealthy, hoping to get some information on where to go.

“Hey!” he bellowed, not bothering to soften his tone. The soldier shifted, bringing his face into view, pale-skinned and bearded, his eyes gazing almost vacantly at Fireheart before he rose to his feet with a grunt, drawing his sword and shifting his shield to his left hand. The man rushed forward with a fierce warcry, slashing at Fireheart twice, both blows finding empty air until a vicious swing of Fireheart’s greatsword- the flat of the blade colliding into his gut with immense force, threw him to the ground. “Look, man, I just want information on how to get out of here!” called Fireheart, his words falling on deaf ears as the soldier let out a scream of “For Lord Godrick!” and charged him again, this time slamming his shield into Fireheart’s chest and knocking him stumbling back. With a growl, Fireheart kicked at the man’s shield, pushing him back before closing the distance in a single short leap, bringing his greatsword down to cleave the man’s helmet in half.

There would be more soldiers as he walked through the length of the cave, all of whom turned a deaf ear to his requests for information and met their ends at his blade. Scavenging a shield from one of the soldiers, Fireheart continued on his way, moving past a group of miners labouring away at cutting out smithing stones from the walls. One of them however, still seemed to have some capacity of speech, and pointed north when Fireheart asked, being rewarded with a nod and a handful of runes.

Running north, Fireheart finally noticed a larger cavern behind a large hole in the rock, a little too short for his height but more than wide enough for someone of his size to walk through at a slight bend. Faint light streamed in from the other side.

As Fireheart squeezed through the hole, a voice came to his ears- “Foul Tarnished. I will not suffer your kind here. Die now and return to whatever hole you crawled out of!” and narrowly missed having half his left arm being taken off by a greatsword swing. The owner of the voice then came into view, revealing a taller soldier in a more heavily armoured surcoat, resplendent in the Tree and Beast heraldry of Stormveil Castle, wielding a massive greatsword with a gold-inlaid hilt. The man thrust his sword at Fireheart, who sidestepped and slashed, cutting a gash across the other man’s vambrace. “Ask your lord who I am, you idiot!” snarled Fireheart, knocking aside the next swing of the greatsword. “Ask Lord Godwyn about the Grey Wolf of Leyndell!” he added. “Lord Godwyn is long dead!” yelled the soldier, “And the Grey Wolf has been dead even longer!”

“How the f*ck am I dead if I am standing before you, you oaf?!” bellowed Fireheart, this time sidestepping the soldier’s thrust and smashing his shield into the other man’s chest. “Cease your lying, Tarnished scum, I grow tired of this!” wheezed the other man, winded.

Fireheart snapped. A second shield bash brought the man to his knees before Fireheart threw aside the shield, two- handing the greatsword and plunging it down through the man’s neck, before pulling it out and kicking the soldier away, leaving him to choke on his own blood.

Leaving the cave behind, Fireheart walked out into a field under the evening sky, the wind taking hold of the worn brown cloak over his armour. Some way ahead a faint glow made itself manifest, illuminating the white-robed man standing near it. Slightly off in the distance, a large golden-armoured knight on an equally massive destrier barded in similar golden armour patrolled around the ruins of a church, massive golden halberd rested over their shoulder.

A Tree Sentinel.

The elite among the elite of the Golden Order Knights, the Tree Sentinels were considered to be the gold standard (“heh, that wasn’t a bad pun”, muttered Fireheart to himself) of the many orders of knights defending the Erdtree alongside the Crucible Knights. The only issue that had plagued the order since its inception under Godwyn the Golden was that their numbers had never been very high, as several potential recruits often dropped out during their gruelling selection and training processes, with their last known count being five knights, counting their commander Sir Kuseng himself.

Fireheart sighed. Kuseng had been a good friend and a better warrior, his rage against the denizens of Fireheart’s home notwithstanding. Even after partaking in the rituals of dragon communion, the old warrior had remained loyal to the Erdtree, even as his detractors slandered him as Leyndell’s Malformed Dragon, something that was sometimes only too common, owing to him being a common sight as he rode through the streets of Leyndell.

A noise shook Fireheart out of his reverie, revealing that the person from beside the strange golden shard had come upto him, clearing his throat. “You there! Tarnished, are you?” came the voice from behind the white mask- a war surgeon.

Varre POV

“So it would seem.” Came the reply to his question, the voice deep and resonant, though soft.

Varre had no illusions that this Tarnished was bound to follow his instructions. The man had a certain aura of stern command to him, one that stemmed from years of experience on the battlefield, and his uncommon height made it a surety that he could have at some point been a knight of the Golden Order at the very least, potentially even a fundamentalist.

Fireheart POV

He could smell it.

The blood.

A war surgeon’s job was grisly work, having to dress battle wounds on the frontlines and mercy kill those who were too badly wounded to be saved. Understandably, the smell of blood clung to those of their ilk like leeches, and yet, there was something different about this particular surgeon.

The smell of blood was heavier, thicker, more alien, almost as if the blood that stained his robes and mask was not human or animal in origin. It was familiar, bringing a sense of dread to Fireheart.

….This was bad. He had to find a way to inform the capital. A vassal of the Formless Mother running free could easily mean that there were hundreds more with her favour roaming the Lands Between.

But first, to deal with this one

“…But you, I’m afraid, are maidenless, fated to die in obscurity, as your kind have always been.” Continued Varre, only to suddenly be interrupted with the ground rushing up to meet him. As he spun around, the last thing he saw clearly was the masked face of the tarnished, fixed in a menacing glare, a red glint in his eyes, as the man’s fist smashed clean through his back and was pulled out again, taking part of his spine with it. As he choked on his own blood, Varre barely mustered up the strength to grab at the foot of the Tarnished, looking up into the amber eyes visible under the hood, before darkness took him and he knew no more.

Now to speak to the Tree Sentinel. Fireheart advanced to the site of grace, curiously extending a hand towards it. A single clear, bell-like note rang out as glow emanating from it dimmed slightly, but a comforting warmth enveloped Fireheart’s being.

Maybe the meeting with the Sentinel would be better done the next day, thought Fireheart to himself, as tiredness started to claim his limbs. His cloak made an excellent blanket as he stretched his tall frame out next to the site of Grace, sleep claiming him within a few minutes.

The Next Day

The distant call of a hunting eagle rang throughout Limgrave as Fireheart inspected his weapons for a final time. Satisfied, he rose to his feet and advanced towards the ruined church where the Sentinel, having stopped their patrol, was quietly standing as their horse grazed.

Coming into view, Fireheart raised a hand, waving it to catch the knight’s attention, “Good Sentinel, may I speak to you for a moment?”

Tree Sentinel POV

The Sentinel raised his head as the Tarnished called out to him, his deep voice ringing clear over the fields. Observing the man, the sentinel tapped his horse’s flanks, pacing over to where the man stood.

There was something strangely familiar about this Tarnished- for one, his towering height. Even standing on his own legs, the man was almost level with his horse’s head, meaning that if both of them were on the ground, the man would be almost as tall as himself. Secondly was the thick grey hooded cloak around his shoulders, rather similar to the one that the old Knight-Commander of the Night’s Cavalry, Fireheart, often wore when off-duty. The cloak was in fact a perfect facsimile, the hood even including the cloth mask that the legendary Grey Wolf once wore.

Wait a minute.

Faint dried bloodstains littered the mid-back area of the cloak, flecks of red-brown stark against the pale grey fabric, and mud caked some of the hem. It was the Grey Wolf’s cloak, not a facsimile!

“Foul Tarnished, darest thou steal the belongings of thine betters?” roared the Sentinel, his horse letting out an angry whinny as she reared onto her hind legs.

An angry huff left the Tarnished’s lips, followed by a furious, “I’m growing tired of this!” as he drew one of the two greatswords on his back, throwing off the hood on his cloak, revealing a bearded face tanned to a pale bronze, with long blonde hair flowing down past his shoulders. A face perfectly identical to the Grey Wolf’s, but the Sentinel was way too enraged to register that.

A furious thrust of the halberd was countered by a stomp that drove its point into the ground, as the Tarnished connected a vicious spinning kick that knocked the Sentinel clean off his horse. Leaping back to his feet the Sentinel readied his halberd for a second attack, preparing to sell his life dearly, only to drop to a knee as a swift slash of the greatsword opened a gash in his side.

This Tarnished’s fighting style was different- graceful and fast dodges, powerful but effortless-looking strikes and literally no wasted movement.

Wait a moment. Did that mean-

“I yield!” called the sentinel, dropping his greatshield, before sinking to a knee, using his halberd for support. The only wound he had successfully inflicted on the Tarnished was a bloody gash on his forehead from a shield strike, while he himself was bleeding from multiple cuts and slashes from his opponent’s elegant swordplay.

The Tarnished lowered his sword, pulling out a cloth from a pouch and wiping the blade off with it. He then proceeded to pull out the second greatsword, causing the sentinel’s eyes to widen. The Embered Greatsword was a sight both loved and dreaded by the people of Leyndell, as was its owner’s menacing black armour.

Fireheart POV

“Please tell me you recognize me now.” grumbled Fireheart. The Sentinel had fought well enough, but unhorsed and wounded, stood no chance against him, and he would prefer to spare the man’s life. The moment the knight had yielded, Fireheart had immediately drawn the Embered Greatsword, hoping that the sight of the blade would stir recognition.

“Lord Greywolf?” muttered the awed Tree Sentinel, finally recognizing his opponent. Fireheart immediately handed the Sentinel a Crimson Tear Flask, “Drink this.”

Some strength returned to the Sentinel as he rose to his feet, mounting back onto his horse.

“I have several questions now. Firstly, how the hell is Godwyn dead?”-

A short while later

“Return to Leyndell. I believe your Veiled Monarch, the others of your Order and the other Nightriders would wish to hear this bit of news.”

The Sentinel smirked. Orders may have been orders, but a bit of news like this was sure to be a cause for excitement among many.

“I shalt see thee at Leyndell then, my lord.” Called the Sentinel, before spurring his horse and riding off to the north, soon being out of sight. Sighing, Fireheart headed off towards Stormveil, though not before obliterating a camp of Godrick’s soldiers along the way.

Repulsive. Utterly repulsive.

To turn one of the finest people and warriors Fireheart had ever seen into a vegetative abomination lost in the limbo between life and death was one thing, but to lust so greatly after power that one would forget the value of any life not guided by grace was unforgivable.

After a while, Fireheart found another grace, this one quite near the Stormgate. Activating it, he sat down, intending to rest for a while before heading onward.

Until a voice startled him.

“Greetings. Traveller from beyond the fog.”

Turning, he found a woman, dressed in the robes of a traveller appear seemingly out of thin air beside him. As she settled herself on to a knee, she lowered her hood, revealing pale auburn hair stretched out over an attractive face, a single golden eye staring at him while the other was closed, a seal in the shape of the Two Fingers marking it.

“I am Melina. I offer you an accord.” Fireheart gestured to her to continue. “Have you heard of the Finger Maidens?” Fireheart nodded, “Yes, they who guided the Tarnished. Servants of the Two Fingers, I believe.” he replied. “Indeed. But you, I’m afraid, are maidenless. I can play the role of maiden, turning runes into strength. All you need to do is take me with you, to the base of the Erdtree.”

“I accept.” came the reply. Reaching out Melina dropped a ring onto Fireheart’s lap, “ Take this ring. It will summon a spectral steed named Torrent. He has chosen you, so treat him with respect.” Fireheart bowed his head in assent, pulling the ring onto his left ring finger, before rising to his feet as Melina faded away in glittering blue motes of light, causing him to raise an eyebrow.

“Huh, weird.” muttered Fireheart, before blowing into the whistle on the top of the ring, noticing a horned grey horse appear right by his side.

The horse nickered, bumping his shoulder with his head, causing Fireheart to crack a grin. It had been a long time since he had last ridden a horse, but after all, as the Knight-Commander of the Night’s Cavalry, one had to be an expert horseman.

“Well then, Torrent, it is an honour.” muttered Fireheart, swinging himself onto Torrent’s back, before the duo rode off through the Stormgate, avoiding the troll that leapt down as they passed.

After all, the Greywolf’s name may have been carved in blood, but none of that was unnecessarily shed.

Chapter 4: A Family's Joy, A Broken Soul

Chapter Text

Leyndell, Royal Capital, about 2 days later, early night

The two Tree Sentinels guarding the gate to the outskirts of the capital stiffened when they saw the rider coming up the stairs, only to relax again when they saw the familiar golden armour of their order on the new arrival.

“Hail, brother!” called Sir Mortred, “We were not expecting thee back in the capital for another week!” he added, raising his torch to reveal the newcomer raising his visor, revealing a dark-skinned, scarred face that was in stark contrast with the man’s brilliant gold eyes, something common to all guided by the Erdtree’s grace.

“So, what news from Limgrave?” called Sir Freomund, the Erdtree Greatshield on his left arm being hefted onto his back to grasp his comrade’s forearm, a greeting common among the knights.

“Thou wouldst never believe me if I told thee, Freomund. Honestly, the best thing to do would be to visit the Old Man and let him know.” said the new Sentinel.

All three knights rode into the gates, asking some of the Leyndell Knights to protect the outskirts in their absence.

Military Quarters, South Leyndell, about 45 minutes later.

“Basim, thou wishest to see me?” came the raspy grumble from behind the heavy curtains of the Erdtree Hall, the room used by both the Tree Sentinels and the Crucible Knights as an unofficial headquarters of sorts. This was followed by the Sentinel in question, now with his golden helmet under his arm, entering to stand before the Order’s commander himself.

For all the mockery he endured, the commander was still a powerful figure, his distinctive golden armour, rather than maintaining the pristine image of his underlings, instead bore a darker sheen, with its heavy plates being melted and recast into the bumps and ridges that marked the scales of the Ancient Dragons. His helm, now resting on the table next to him, except for a broad slit that exposed his eyes and nose, bore a distorted image of a flying ancient dragon at its peak. Currently, he was not alone, with Lady Lansseax occupying another chair at the side of the table, the stack of papers between them clearly being a record of the Dragon Cult knights’ deeds during the past week or two.

The bearded and scaled face of his commander slowly turned towards Basim. “ At ease, good knight. What brings thee here?” Basim relaxed, bringing out the box Fireheart had given him back in Limgrave, “Lord Commander, I bring thee joyful tidings. Lord Fireheart, the Grey Wolf, has returned to the Lands Between.”

Kuseng was not amused. Fireheart had been a close comrade of his for years, and was one of a select group of people he never tolerated jokes about. The same was true of Lady Lansseax, who, not being anywhere as restrained as Kuseng, rose to her full height, towering above the hapless younger man as red lightning crackled down her arm.

“Thine joke was in bad taste, Sentinel,” she snarled, her voice, deep and resonant for a woman’s, carrying clearly across the massive hall, the tip of her tail flicking lightly from side to side. Even in her human form, not a single person would dare trifle with a dragon, much less one of the true race from Farum Azula, and Lansseax, even among them, was legendary, though she now spent her days as the High Priestess of the Ancient Dragon Cult.

And yet, Basim stood his ground. He may have been scared sh*tless, but still, he raised the small box Fireheart had given him, “I assure thee, my lady, Lord Greywolf’s name is the last one I would-”

CRASH

The sound of metal grinding on stone resounded through the hall as Basim slid across the floor, as Lansseax straightened back to her full height, her fist dropping back to her side as Kuseng cleared his throat, “Hold, my lady. I will deal with him mineself.”

“No, none of thou wilt.” Came a new voice, a deep, commanding tone that carried clearly across the hall as two new figures appeared. The first, a towering, cloaked man holding a long, gnarled wooden staff, the crown of Godfrey, the First Elden Lord resting upon a brow covered by a veil, casting the king’s face into shadow. Kuseng and Basim immediately bent the knee, the Veiled Monarch of Leyndell acknowledging both with a curt nod. Lansseax growled, but stepped back, inclining her head to the king.

“Sentinel. Tell us what you told your commander.” came the smooth rumble of Morgott’s companion- a towering knight in old, but pristine red-gold armour, his face hidden behind an intimidating helm adorned with three axe blades. A visage which, while scorned by the people of Leyndell, belonged to one whom the knights of Leyndell often considered a powerful mentor- Commander Ordovis, the leader of the Axe Crucible Knights.

“I was saying that Lord Fireheart, the Grey Wolf of Leyndell, hath returned to the living, and now walketh Limgrave, as Tarnished.” This time, he opened the box, picking out Fireheart’s signet ring- an elegant band of black steel adorned with an image of a three-eyed wolf, the red gem making up the wolf’s third eye faintly glowing with the red and black aura of Destined Death.

The others stared. Fireheart originally had two signet rings. One was only for official correspondence, similar in all ways except for the wolf being two-eyed with blue gems, while this other one, ritualistically imbued with a tiny fragment of Destined Death at a discreet ceremony in Leyndell, was one that was only used in two circ*mstances- if news of Fireheart’s death were to be brought to the capital, or if his identity were to be confirmed, for unless Fireheart himself wore it, or willingly gave it to someone, there was only one outcome- a definitive, final death.

The single faintly gleaming eye under Morgott’s veil widened, Ordovis gasped, Kuseng sat down heavily in his chair, and Lansseax stumbled back a few steps, grasping at a table to steady herself.

“Mine brother doth live still?!”

Only those that truly knew Morgott could understand the reaction he had to Lansseax’s statement. It took him a monumental effort to control his composure, as he turned towards the Erdtree. Only Lansseax heard him whisper-

“I prayed to thee to give me succour for so long. I thank thee, Mother, for returning mine only true friend home.”

None saw the lone tear that traced its way down the Omen King’s veiled cheek.

The news spread among the Cavalry like wildfire. Their old commander, the fearless and kind warrior they had once idolized, returned. The thunder of their hooves as the eight knights not assigned to any missions rode out through the gates of Leyndell was a sound that brought immense dread to the eyes of the All-Knowing.

330 years ago, Altus Plateau, near where the Golden Lineage Evergaol currently is

The Omenkiller, her emotions numbed by her special physick, let out a snarling laugh of satisfaction. The group of Omens she had been chasing throughout the southern Altus Plateau had been brought to bay at last, and she raised her cleavers high as the group huddled together before her, the largest swinging his curved cleaver in a shallow attempt at preventing her from closing further.

Only three remained out of the twelve she and her two partners had pursued. The other Omenkillers had gone back to the Grotto, leaving her to deal with the last three. The smirking mask on her face, modelled after the demon the Omens saw in their nightmares, dipped slightly as she leapt, bringing her cleavers down on the hand holding the sword, eliciting a pained scream as the fingers fell away, leaving the cleaver to clatter to the ground. Following up with a slash from her left cleaver, she removed the unfortunate Omen’s head from its shoulders, leaving the other large Omen screaming as her mate fell. She ran, the little one in her arms letting out a high, childish laugh thinking that its parents were playing a game, the tiny stone doll depicting a dehorned Omen tightly clutched in its fingers.

Unfortunately, the Omenkiller was quicker, her cleavers scoring two deep gashes across the female’s calves, sending her tumbling to the ground and the infant flying out of her grip, squealing as it flopped helplessly into a sitting position against a rock.

The Omenkiller cared not. Avoiding a swipe from the grounded omen, she brought both her cleavers down thrice in rapid succession, right-left-right, onto the female’s head, the gnarled horns on the cleaver crushing it into a bloody mess.

A rush of wind signalled a blade levelled at the back of her head, accompanied by the thunder of hoofbeats and the whinny of a horse, causing her to tuck into a roll to avoid the vicious arc of death, angling herself towards the child. A deep grunt rang out some way away, signalling that her other adversary had leapt off his horse.

It didn’t matter. The child was dead either ways, she thought, bringing her foot down on its head to silence its screams in a single, sickening crunch of bone.

“NO!” boomed a deep voice behind her. She swung around, finally noticing the new arrival- a towering knight, almost a foot taller than her, dressed in dark black and gold armour. A thick black cloth covered his horse’s head and body, marking him as a Nightrider, but he wore not the standard set of his fellow Night’s Cavalry. Instead, his black armour was slimmer by design, the chestpiece bearing a snarling wolf head, paired with a heavy blue-black cape backed with sharp, spiky gravelstone scales, covering the centreline of its expanse in a blade of gleaming black. White wolf fur lined the shoulders, and rather than a helmet, an armoured hood and mask concealed her opponent’s face, revealing only his gleaming golden eyes.

It was Fireheart, Leyndell’s Grey Wolf. A great warrior, but a soft-hearted fool outside of the battlefield, often heard prattling on at royal councils about how the Omen and Misbegotten, graceless scum as they were, should be allowed to live under the holy grace of the Erdtree. For all his heroism during the wars against the Fire Giants and terrifying fury at the end of the war against the Ancient Dragons of Farum Azula, here was a man who, in her eyes, was unworthy of the grace bestowed on him by the Eternal Queen.

“I ask you to stand aside.” She called, intending to leave for the Grotto. Fireheart’s grip tightened on the handle of his glaive, the sheathed greatsword on his back granting him a menacing presence.

“I think not.” Muttered Fireheart, surging forward towards her. She swung, only for her blade to be caught on one of the glaive’s twin blades and knocked aside with contemptuous ease. Suddenly, she was falling, a searing pain replacing her legs’ firm feel of the ground under her feet, before she noticed the blade aiming just below her diaphragm. Pain shot through her twice, adding to the agony produced by the bloody stumps of her legs. As she looked up, the glaive descended viciously on her neck and she knew no more.

A sob wracked the Grey Wolf’s throat. There was nothing he could do. No way existed to save this family.

No one would care for them, he thought, as he got to work, using the Omenkiller’s cleaver as a shovel.

Three hours later, Fireheart straightened back up, looking towards the east at the rising dawn of a new day. Three mounds lay before him, a single Altus Bloom on each.

A stone doll quietly rested in a pouch, the bloodstains on it a reminder of his failure.

No one would remember them. No one would pray for them. No one else would bother to close their eyes one last time.

No one but him.

Chapter 5: Howling Wrath- The Grafted

Chapter Text

Limgrave, Present Day, late Night, Stormhill Shack

Fireheart woke with a start, his hand reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. A scared yelp hit his ears as he rose to a sitting position, the blonde-haired woman in white next to him scrambling backwards.

“I’m sorry.” She murmured. Roderika was, too. This Tarnished, who had arrived earlier in the evening, had been nothing but kind to her, even sharing his food with her, though it seemed he had precious little of it.

Tear tracks stained the Tarnished’s strong features, his amber-gold eyes downcast and despondent. He had been calmly asleep nary a moment prior, before suddenly thrashing in his sleep begging someone to forgive him for failing a solemnly vowed duty. She had been startled initially, but eventually had reached out for his shoulder, with her touch startling him awake.

“It’s not your fault.” replied Fireheart, his composure visibly recovering, as he rose to his feet, towering over Roderika. The cloak he had used as a blanket was soon wrapped around his shoulders, with the top of it covering his head as a hood.

“I thank you for your kindness,” he called to Roderika, summoning Torrent as he prepared to leave.

“Could you do me a favour?” asked Roderika, holding out a box to him. “Can you take this little one along with you? The poor thing deserves someone braver than myself, and the spirits seem to look kindly upon you.”

A spirit ash. Fireheart’s mind went back to happier times, remembering the spectral wolves that occasionally fought by the sides of some of the Carian Knights. The Second War against the Fire Giants proved their worth more than well enough.

“I…..thank you, Roderika,” was all Fireheart could say, as he accepted the box.

“Oh, and one more thing, please. If you see the little chrysalids in Stormveil Castle, tell them I love them, and I’m sure I’ll be joining their club soon enough.”

“That’s enough.” Came the reply. “I’ll deal with the spider first, and if any of your men survive, rest assured I’ll bring them back.”

Leaping onto Torrent’s back, Fireheart, after a final bow to Roderika, rode off.

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“f*cking bastards.” growled Fireheart, kicking the corpse of a Stormveil knight off his greatsword. Seeing the Golden Lineage fall from the courageous heroes and protectors they were under Godwyn to the bandits and oppressors whom he was currently fighting was an experience both sobering and frustrating.

On the plus side, he did gain something out of all the fights he got into. Multiple pieces of the Stormveil soldiers’ armour, something he took advantage of immediately, with his current clothes being a surcoat bearing the Stormveil heraldry, a pair of gauntlets taken from a camp of Kaiden Sellswords, and the greaves of a Stormveil knight, clubbed with Fireheart’s grey cloak. Alongside this, he had also picked up a sizable number of the Stormveil soldiers’ longswords, and a wandering knight who had long renounced his allegiance to Stormveil had pointed him towards the Stormgate, telling him of the treasure coffin he could find a better weapon in.

Climbing on to the coffin, Fireheart muttered a quiet apology to the dead, before lifting out the wrapped up sword from its occupant’s hands. Ripping off the cloth wraps, he examined the greatsword within, a long, straight blade with the Erdwood hilt inlaid with gold, before giving it a few experimental swings and thrusts. The blade felt lighter and swifter than his previous greatsword, bringing a smirk to Fireheart’s face.

*************************************************************************************

Half an hour later, Castleward Tunnel

A sharp hiss left Fireheart’s teeth as he pulled out the piece of steel shrapnel from his shoulder. An exploding ballista bolt was no joke, and it was only due to his sharp ears that he had avoided bolts capable of punching through a lesser dragon’s hide with little more than a few shallow scratches. The dark tunnel before him, however, was suffused with the golden glow of a site of grace a few meters ahead.

Speaking of dragons, Fireheart had spotted one flying over the lake outside the Stormgate. Even if it wasn’t an archdragon of the old blood, it was still an imposing figure, its great grey wings effortlessly carrying the massive beast through the air.

Shaking his head, Fireheart touched the grace, the golden glow flaring before he advanced through the exit onto the bridge of Stormveil.

One of the first things he noticed was the castle’s main gate across the bridge, the second being the towering, cloaked figure that stood on the ramparts above it.

Morgott POV

The Tarnished had stepped out of the tunnel. This particular Tarnished was the second of the day, the first likely having gone after getting crushed three times under Morgott’s cane.

He studied the Tarnished. The man was tall, nearly the height of a Crucible Knight, dressed in a mix of armour that seemed to have been through some tough battles, with the chainmail on its left arm lying open over a white cloth bandage, his head (which Morgott paid the most attention to, considering Basim’s description always mentioned a hood) covered in a thick grey cloak with a cloth mask covering the lower half of his face. A pair of greatswords adorned his back, one the sort of greatsword the elites among the common soldiers of Leyndell and the other regions would carry, the other covered under a wrapping of orange and green cloth that looked to have been taken from a Stormveil soldier’s surcoat.

“Stop right there, Tarnished!” he bellowed, leaping off the ramparts to land before the man, his cane at the ready if he was mistaken. As the dust cleared, he noticed the hands of the Tarnished going towards his hood, pulling it back to reveal his face.

It was him.

The next moment, Morgott was nearly thrown off his feet as Fireheart slammed into him, arms wrapping around his frame in a tight hug.

Fireheart may barely have been half his weight, and several feet shorter, but the younger man was strong, something Morgott had learned from hours of sparring an age ago.

“I heard of what happened.” Fireheart’s deep voice broke him out of his reverie. “And I’m sorry about Godwyn.”

“The fault lieth not with thee, old friend.” replied Morgott, looking down at Fireheart, as the Grey Wolf took a step back, looking over the tattered cloak Morgott wore, before raising his head towards the Omen.

“Pretty shoddy for a king, don’t you think?” came the question, that characteristic smirk splitting the Grey Wolf’s lips. Morgott bristled slightly, but his voice was calm as he replied, “I am but the steward of the throne, until my lady mother returneth. Thou knowest that an accurs’d being like mineself is not worthy of the title “King,” though I doth bear it still.”

Fireheart sighed. Centuries of being shunned and left to fend for himself with none but his brother Mohg by an order too blinded by its supposed divinity had not done Morgott’s psyche any favours, and despite his intelligence and honour, the Omen King remained a figure who kept tearing at himself inside. A man who loved no one in return, for he had lived without the love he deserved, and yet, his love and faith in the order that shunned those like him stood firm.

Morgott saw the flash of anger in Fireheart’s eyes. The man before him was one of the few other than his father or Godwyn who had seen him as anything other than a monster to be shunned, and no less tragic a figure than his elder brother. Ever since that night he had chosen to take over Iwan’s patrol route in the Altus Plateau to cover for the injured Nightrider, something had happened which had utterly shattered the proud Grey Wolf, the effects of which were noticeable even among the Nightriders, an order which, under Fireheart, had done far more than just keeping the peace, but also protecting Omens and Misbegotten, among other shunned beings, who wished to wander the world under the open sky. Morgott had heard the jeers and hoots of the nobles and commoners alike as the Nightriders often entered the city with an Omenkiller in chains, or, more often in the cases of their captain Kane and Fireheart, an Omenkiller’s mask, soaked in blood, hanging from their saddles.

“That is a f*cking lie, and you know it, Morgott.” snarled Fireheart. The Omen said nothing in return, though a twinge of sadness did cross his face. There was an element of truth to Fireheart’s words, loath as he was to admit it.

“You will always be the King of Leyndell to me, Morgott. I don’t think the Tree Sentinels, the Ancient Dragon Knights and the Crucible Knights would continue to serve under you if you weren’t doing at least something right! You could have been similar to f*cking Godrick if you chose to!” here, Morgott paled, shock and anger suffusing his face at being mentioned in the same breath as his nephew, before it was diffused by Fireheart’s next words- “Sir Basim told me all he knew before I sent him on his way to Leyndell. You are possibly the only one that is still worthy of the Elden Throne.” Here Fireheart paused, a pleading tone entering his voice, “So please, old friend, accept how blessed Leyndell is to have someone honourable and fair like you as its King, rather than a tyrant.” he added, fixing Morgott with a pleading gaze.

“Another matter, old friend. Thy sister hath asketh this of me- to give you this.” Said Morgott, bringing out a gravelstone seal. The telltale gleam of infused smithing stones indicated that this was one that had been set aside for the best of the Dragon Knights of Leyndell.

“So, what dost thou intend?” asked Morgott, causing Fireheart to look up.

“Liberate a shard of the Ring from an unworthy bastard.” Came the reply, the amber-gold eyes looking up at him seeming to gain back some of their old fire.

“I shalt see thee in the Altus Plateau then. My Nightriders shalt be there to assist thee, shouldst thou need their aid.” With the following words, Morgott leapt back on the ramparts, his towering frame soon disappearing behind the stone wall.

Turning back to the seal, Fireheart smirked. Red lightning flickered around his body as he raised his head and roared to the heavens, his voice echoing all throughout Stormveil as a storm of red lightning bolts came crashing down around him.

****************************************************************************************

Stormveil Castle, later that day

Nepheli POV

The banished knight collapsed to the floor, lightning still sparking off the charred gashes in his armour. For all his skill and courage, he had not been able to outlast her strength and speed. Still, he had fought well in life, and even in death, a warrior was owed their respect.

Returning her axes to her belt, she bowed her head to the dead knight. “Be proud, you were a fine warrior. Your only mistake was your choice of master. Now let the winds of Stormveil carry you to your rest.”

A commotion outside caught her attention. Hurrying out, she noticed the troll outside the passageway engaging another Tarnished, a tall man in a grey cloak and a mix of armour that had been scrounged off of corpses, considering its rough and worn condition.

The troll let out a deafening roar, swinging a huge fist at the Tarnished, who nimbly sidestepped the fist and answered back with a ferocious battle cry of his own, shifting his greatsword into a two-handed grip. Taking a low stance to brace himself, the Tarnished swung it up in a massive arc at the troll, cutting a deep gash in its thigh, before somersaulting over the troll’s fist again. Landing, the man exploded forward like a whirlwind, landing a powerful horizontal spinning slash that severed one of the troll’s hands, before sliding to a stop behind the troll using his gauntlets as a brake. As the troll let out another agonized roar, the man leapt onto the troll’s back, taking up a position on the guard of the massive greatsword the troll had on its back, which the wounded giant immediately reached for.

Nepheli could not help but be impressed by the Tarnished’s skill and audacity. Not a lot of people would try to engage a troll head-on, let alone be able to land anything, and yet this man was not just taking a troll head-on, but toying with it as though it were a child’s plaything, not having taken a single hit.

However, she was yet to see the brutal display of strength the Tarnished was about to showcase, something that left her open-mouthed as the man stabbed his greatsword through the back of the troll’s neck, before wrenching the blade sideways and up in one fluid movement, decapitating the massive creature with very little visible effort. As he rode the corpse down in its fall, the Tarnished let out a deep victory cry that reverberated off the castle walls and was no doubt audible in the throne room behind her.

The man’s eyes then snapped towards her, and he nodded to her, before pulling out a cloth and wiping the blade of his sword down with it.

“You’re clearly not one of Godrick’s lot.” called Nepheli, the other Tarnished grinning slightly at her words.

“Name’s Fireheart.” he called, his voice deep and resonant, yet reassuring. “You?”

“Nepheli Loux. Tarnished and warrior, like you.” replied Nepheli, raising an eyebrow as the man sheathed his greatsword, next to what seemed like an identical greatsword wrapped under dark cloth on his back, before advancing to the site of grace on the other side of the corridor.

***************************************************************************

Fireheart POV

“The winds reek of decay.” growled Fireheart, wrinkling his nose at the open door. “Indeed.” replied Nepheli. “This grafting of Godrick ill befits a lord. The very winds are now tainted. Should you wish to slay Godrick, feel free to call upon me, for I believe my foster father, in whose stead I have arrived here would permit me to aid in your battle.”

“Sending someone in his stead, instead of going to a fight himself- that’s something Gideon Ofnir would do.” muttered Fireheart, loud enough for Nepheli to hear. “You’ve met him?” she asked. “Yes. I received my summons to the Roundtable just a while ago. I just had to ensure I had a stronger weapon to fight, as Godrick, runt or not, still holds the blood of the mighty lord Godfrey. Oh, and yes, I welcome you to fight by my side, as all I have left here is to deal with one grafted demigod.”

Her eyes wandered down to Fireheart’s clenched fist, the edges of a gold brooch visible for the barest moment, before the telltale gleam of a storage spell flared around it, causing the brooch to vanish.

*****************************************************************************

Stormveil Throne Room Courtyard

“Mighty dragon, thou’rt a trueborn heir.” crooned Godrick, the troll’s arm grafted to the right of his torso caressing under the spiked chin of the impaled corpse of a dragon. “Lend me thy strength, o great kindred, and deliver me unto the heights I deserveth.”

Footsteps broke his reverie, causing him to turn. A pair of Tarnished, worthless scum as they were, had entered the yard. One a tall man clad in an assortment of armour he recognized from the wandering bands of his own soldiers and knights, paired with a grey cloak, the hood of which was lowered, revealing a strong, angular face framed by long gold hair and a full beard. The other, a sturdily built woman clad in the armour of a Badlands barbarian, the axes in her hands humming with the powers of the storm.

“Well, well,” snarled Godrick. “A pair of lowly Tarnished, play-acting as lords? I command thee KNEEL!” he roared, slamming his massive golden greataxe into the ground, the heavy, flat head driving up the rock around it as his green cloak fluttered away in the wind, revealing multiple other arms across his back, causing a look of utter revulsion to sweep across the woman’s face, while the man narrowed his eyes.

Fireheart simply reached behind his back, growling under his breath as he drew his greatsword. The grafted demigod may have been the weakest of his kin, but as a descendant of Godfrey, and a practitioner of grafting, any of his hits would still pack quite the punch, though he knew that both he and Nepheli could take a good few of them.

“I am the lord of all that is golden!” bellowed Godrick, beginning to stride towards them, as Nepheli let out a fierce battle cry and sprinted towards their opponent.

Holding his greatsword to his side, Fireheart followed suit, his longer legs quickly allowing him to overhaul Nepheli, as he let out a vicious roar of his own, before leaping over one of Godrick’s axe strikes. Nepheli was the first one to land a hit in the battle, her axes cleaving off a chunk of one of Godrick’s smaller arms, resulting in the demigod snarling and attempting to backhand her, though she was able to roll out of the way.

The next moment, Godrick felt something slam into his side with immense force, though nothing cut at his skin. Fireheart had slammed into him shoulder first, allowing Nepheli to open the distance between them slightly, before delivering a quick one-handed thrust that bit into one of Godrick’s legs. Godrick stumbled slightly, but used the fomentum to tuck into a roll and swing out with his smaller axe, catching Fireheart with one of its blades. The man staggered back, blood staining his shoulder, but immediately switched his sword to a high guard, before bringing out a heavy brass shield and slamming its rim into Godrick’s chest, with the demigod feeling a rib break from the force of the vicious strike.

Despite Godrick having a good four feet and a few hundred pounds on him, one advantage his did not possess over Fireheart was his balance, his grafted limbs’ weight giving him an odd, lopsided and lumbering gait. Fireheart could see him totter for a couple of moments after his last shoulder bash, though he had to hand it to Godrick for trying to make the most of his loss in balance.

The pain of his shoulder wound was something he was familiar with as a warrior, having to dance with death every moment he wandered the lands. Burying it for the moment, Fireheart leaped into the air, two-handing his greatsword and bringing it scything down across Godrick’s back, slicing off an arm. Godrick snarled and turned towards him, only for Nepheli to let out a yell of her own and imbue her axes with lightning, before spinning and landing three deep gashes across his back. Fireheart yelled again, attempting to close in, but Godrick had one trump card- he screamed and swung his axes around his head, the winds of the Stormlord answering his command and blasting both Fireheart and Nepheli away. Nepheli got back to her feet first, rolling under Godrick’s attack, and landing a massive slam of her left axe onto Godrick’s left arm, while Fireheart took a quick sip from a tear flask, feeling his broken ribs knit back together. With a cough, he got back to his feet, only to be met by a flying Nepheli, whom he caught and steadied. The barbarian Tarnished was far from unscathed, with a bloody gash on her forehead and a discoloured bruise on her stomach, but a fierce smile split her lips, the smile of a hunter stalking their prey. Transferring the shield to his back, Fireheart pulled out his seal, a golden bolt of holy energy forming in his hands. With a furious roar, Fireheart hurled it, the exploding energy driving Godrick down to a knee. Smelling the blood, Fireheart rushed in, cutting deep into Godrick’s chest with his sword, before landing a vicious two-handed strike that threw the much larger demigod back. Roaring, Godrick raised his golden axe, Fireheart swiftly leapt back to avoid the cleaving strike, which never came, the blade of the axe instead biting deep into Godrick’s own left arm.

“What the f*ck?!” yelled Fireheart, as a screaming Godrick lifted his arm, the axe still embedded in it, before slamming it back down with an agonizing howl, the arm flying off in a fountain of blood.

“What a sick way to fight,” mumbled Nepheli, retrieving one of her axes from where it had fallen, as Godrick turned towards the dragon corpse.

“Ah, truest of dragons,” groaned Godrick, staggering over to the dragon corpse, “Lend me thy strength!”

“NO!” bellowed Fireheart, shouldering Nepheli aside as he charged, greatsword at the ready, but he was slightly too late, as Godrick slammed the sharp end of the bone protruding from the stump into the dragon’s neck, a wet squelching noise making Nepheli slow in her headlong rush towards the demigod, as he pulled the head clean off with a grunt, the massive weight of the head toppling onto Fireheart, who was pinned beneath it, cursing as he tried to push it off.

A wet, gurgling, coughing growl issued from the dragon’s head, before it jerked to life, hacking up a thick gob of blood before roaring and shooting a column of flames into the sky, the roar of the flames punctuated by the mad demigod’s psychotic laughter.

“FOREFATHERS ONE AND ALL, BEAR WITNESS!”

Fireheart shot to his feet, and the sheer rage and hate that twisted his strong features made Nepheli’s skin crawl. “No holding back now.” he mouthed to her, before rushing forward with his shield held up, before sliding under the torrent of flames Godrick sent in their direction. Nepheli leapt over it instead, her left axe scoring a bloody trench across Godrick’s chest on the way down.

It was then that Godrick caught his first proper glimpse of Fireheart’s face.

The former Nightrider commander. Leyndell’s fierce Grey Wolf.

Fell Omen Margit’s right hand.

Godrick’s eyes widened, as Fireheart, his teeth bared in a feral snarl, slammed the hilt of his greatsword into Godrick’s head, driving him to a knee, before stabbing him again through the side and kicking him off the blade.

“FEEL THE GREY WOLF’S WRATH!” bellowed Fireheart, his voice rasping, guttural and savage from the effort as he plunged his sword into Godrick’s left arm, right where the dragon head connected to the stump. Through the agonizing pain, Godrick was dimly aware of the other Tarnished landing on his back, from where she swung her axes again and again, each strike cutting an arm away.

Shrugging her off, Godrick punched with his right hand at Fireheart, knocking the man off his feet, as he rose, the greatsword still impaled through his arm. Raising his axe, Godrick bellowed “Impudent fools, I command thee KNEEL before me!” before slamming the flat head down twice, watching with satisfaction as the two were thrown like ragdolls, their blood staining the rock beneath.

Nepheli struggled to her feet, drinking a large draught from her flask to steady herself, the warmth of the healing tears invigorating her tired frame, even as Fireheart did the same. The blood dripping from his mouth and nose told her all she needed to know about the strength of the attack they had weathered.

Pulling out a shorter straight sword, Fireheart leapt back into the fray, closely followed by Nepheli, her axes crackling with lightning as she called upon the storm, seeming to fly over the rock with a current of air bolstering her pace, only to throw the sword aside and leap for the wounded arm of Godrick, his hands closing around the embedded greatsword. “Stay back!” bellowed the demigod, his axe missing Nepheli’s head by inches as he swung wildly, only to regret it as another of his smaller arms was chopped clean off, rendering his second axe useless. Roaring, Fireheart twisted the blade, the sickening sound of tearing flesh clearly audible, before wrenching it outward, the blade flexing as he exerted all his considerable strength, before springing back straight and true as Fireheart tore the dragon’s head off of Godrick’s arm. In the same movement, Fireheart spun, a powerful two-handed slash across Godrick’s chest bringing the demigod down to his knees, defeated.

“I am the lord of all that is golden.” groaned Godrick, his eyes fixed on the great golden Erdtree in the distance, as Fireheart unwrapped the black cloth on his back to reveal the Embered Greatsword, before drawing it, the long black and gold blade seeming to cut a swathe through the air itself, as Fireheart levelled it at the fallen demigod.

“May you never return to the Erdtree, you pathetic bastard.” snarled Nepheli.

“And one day, we will return together, to our home, bathed in rays of gold.” were the last words of Godrick, as the Embered Greatsword found his heart.

Stormgate, Near Agheel lake North, that night

A sorrowful, somber melody echoed through the night, the violin in Fireheart’s hands the source.

“Why would they keep my instrument in Stormveil, of all places?” wondered Fireheart, dexterous fingers deftly manipulating the strings as he played his lament for Godwyn, Melina on the other side of the fire listening quietly.

The sound of hooves interrupted her answer.

A dark figure, its black armour matching the thick black cloth over the horse it rode, slowly paced over to the campfire, the massive halberd in the rider’s hands gleaming dully in the night.

Fireheart smiled slightly. The rider, after a long look, bowed their head, the black feathers cresting their helmet waving in the wind, before stabbing the blade of the halberd into the ground and dismounting, greeting Fireheart with a respectful bow.

“It gladdens me to see you again, Lord Greywolf, or should I say, Commander?”

Fireheart smiled. “And it gladdens my heart to see you well, Iwan,” he replied, before his head lowered again, the somber notes of the violin filling the companionable silence.

A Nightrider had arrived.

One of his boys was home.

Chapter 6: Elphael 01- Rot

Chapter Text

200 years earlier, Elphael, Brace of the Haligtree

The warning horn blared throughout the city, two long, high notes, signifying returning soldiers, sending the Haligtree residents flocking to the town promenade and the passage to Elphael, hoping to see their Lady and her army returning victorious.

“Our men could use some cheer of late,” said a tall woman in golden armour, the red half-capes on her shoulders contrasting greatly with her short black hair, spread in a clean bob over a pale-skinned face with the telltale scars of Scarlet Rot crisscrossing the left side of her face, leaving one of her eyes a milky white against the brilliant gold of the other.

“That they could.” Replied her companion, a slightly shorter man clad in black steel armour, with a white and gold surcoat bearing the Haligtree sigil. A frogmouth helmet, the front slit open to allow for better breathability and visibility topped by a crown of unalloyed gold rested in the crook of his arm, revealing a bronzed face with a thick brown chin beard and a closely shaved head.

Three figures soon came into view, Lady Loretta, her glaive slung over her back, supporting another Cleanrot Knight, who bore on her shoulders a tall figure with an extremely familiar head of long red hair.

The hearty cheers of the crowd stopped in a heartbeat. The Cleanrot was clearly struggling, her steps unsteady and tottering, blood seeping from cracks underneath her breastplate and vambraces, one of which was so badly dented that it was a wonder she was able to even keep a strong grip on Malenia’s katana. On her back, Malenia herself was in terrible shape- deep, half-healed wounds littering her torso and the resultant scarring of her Rot creating calcified, bloody tissue that had grown around her eyes.

Even as the knight staggered on, making her way to the Haligtree roots, in a vain hope of getting her lady to her missing brother’s sanctuary, the two knights could see that the Cleanrot, now identifiable as a commander by the wider capes and the broken scythe Loretta was holding as she supported her, clearly did not have much longer to live, and additionally, their lady did not seem to have her brother’s needle embedded in the stump of her right arm, something only accentuated further by her missing prosthetic.

“That’s not good,” muttered the Cleanrot, as the crowds slowly began closing in, chagrined shouts starting to cut through the silence- humans, Omen, misbegotten, even several Albinaurics of both generations, even the odd troll or three. Before long, even as the Sanctuary of the Empyrean, the chamber at the very base of the Haligtree was opened to the pair, with only the Haligtree Knight, the other Cleanrot commander and Loretta following the embattled pair inside.

Paintings adorned the walls, champions and heroes of the Golden Order captured in the eternal eye of the canvas, enshrining memories of happier times. Pride of place went to a large, life sized piece depicting the twins- Malenia, without her prosthetic arm, bent on a knee next to her brother, her flesh-and-blood arm resting on her brother’s shoulder. On another, Radagon, clad in his warrior regalia, his long red locks resplendent against the brilliant gold of his armour and greatsword.

Off to the side was a painting of Radahn and Malenia as children, sparring in front of the Elden Throne.

In a shadowy alcove stood a painting of a stern warrior, black hood and mask throwing most of his face into shadow, two long greatswords, one a straight blade, the other curved slightly, mounted on his back. Menacing black-and-grey armour covered the rest of him, grey wolf skins adorning his shoulders and the hem of his cape, the rims of the gauntlets on his hands inlaid with gold. His left hand rested on a slender, elegant greatshield, his right hand on the shoulder of a red-haired Misbegotten warrior, who unlike most of his kin in Leyndell, stood tall and proud as any knight, his hands covered in clawed gauntlets and grasping a heavy iron greatsword.

A clatter of armour broke the knights’ reverie. Up ahead, next to the Aeonian bloom left behind from their Lady’s first bloom long ago, the other Cleanrot knight had finally collapsed, the combined pain of their wounds, Scarlet Rot and blood loss finally overcoming their strength. The three others rushed up immediately, Loretta lifting Malenia off the ground while the Cleanrot and the Haligtree knight knelt next to their fallen comrade, pulling her helmet off to reveal her face.

“Finlay?” asked the other Cleanrot, the dying knight blearily raising her head to look her in the eye. “Please…get my Lady to her brother, Liena. Please.” A shudder ran through her frame, as she struggled to speak, before slumping to the ground, a thin stream of blood running from her mouth. After three gentle shakes, the Haligtree Knight turned back to Liena, his face set in a grim, sorrowful expression, before shaking his head.

“What now, Loren?” asked Liena, putting her helmet back on her head. The Haligtree Knight commander, his helm still in the crook of his arm, sighed, his expression grim, “I’d say we got a few minutes before the residents of the Haligtree start discussing about the possible outcomes of the loss of our Lord and his Unalloyed needle. They do have a point in that this renders us vulnerable to the Rot, but Lady Malenia is still very much one of us.”

“So, your plan?” asked Liena, “Nip any possible dissension in the bud. You might see me as being a bit arrogant for saying this but…” Loren’s reply was interrupted by Liena tapping his shoulder, “Yeah, you have the gift of the gab.” laughed the other knight, her worried features softening slightly.

“So let me handle this.” said Loren, putting his helmet on over his head. Liena did the same, shouldering her scythe, the golden gleam of her helmet hiding the trepidation on her face.

After seating the unconscious Malenia on her throne, with Finlay’s helmet in her lap (“To her last she stayed true, solely from the love she bore for you. Let her stay on with you in spirit, as she rests beneath the Erdtree’s holy grace.) Loren nodded to Liena, “I’ll go and take the pulse of the crowd. You’d best get back to your post.”

As the Cleanrot hurried off, Loren, taking a deep breath, strode out into the sunlight, his eyes catching the crowd that had gathered near the entrance to the Sanctuary of the Twins, with an old, grey-haired demi-human chief seemingly leading them. The crowd visibly relaxed at his arrival, the old demi-human now joined by a larger Misbegotten Warrior, his long red mane streaked with grey.

“Sir knight,” said the Misbegotten, “With Lord Miquella gone and Lady Malenia without her needle, there is nothing that can keep her Rot at bay.” The old demi-human now spoke up, her raspy voice adding to the Misbegotten’s, “The Rot can and will consume the entirety of the Haligtree if left unchecked for long enough. It would be a terrible waste of our lord’s purpose if something like this was meant to happen.”

“Speak plainly,” Loren grumbled, already having an inkling of what was to come.

“We believe that Lady Malenia, even though she remains true to us and Lord Miquella, poses too great a danger to herself and to us if she remains in the Haligtree.”

Two long notes of the warning horn shattered the silence again, with the crowd turning to the gates. A short while later, another squad, twenty-five of them this time, of Cleanrots arrived, this group appearing mostly unhurt, except for a few, who appeared to be limping slightly. As they marched towards the perfumers’ tents, the crowd turned back to Loren, the Misbegotten Warrior continuing- “We believe it would be for the best if Lady Malenia’s suffering was to be ended, since that would prevent the Rot from spreading further, having lost its vessel.”

“ No.” was the simple answer from Loren, who cleared his throat as he climbed onto a column.

“People of the Haligtree!” he yelled, his voice carrying clearly through the city streets, “long have we, the outcasts and wretched of the Lands Between, lived beneath grace. Not the grace of the Golden Order that cast us out for whatever it perceived as a slight against its dominance, but the grace of the Empyrean twins who ensured that people like us, cast aside like broken swords from the moment of our birth, had a place in the world where we were seen as people with voices to be heard, not abominations to be reviled!” Loren’s voice dropped lower, “And that is a fact that is truest of the Empyrean twins themselves! Our Lord was the first to rise against such an order. Why? For power?” here, the chastened crowd lowered their eyes. Loren continued, “No! Why lust after that which he already had? It was for love that he broke away, love for the one that swore an undying oath to sit by his side, the blade to his shield! And it is that shield that granted us our lives, it is why you and your children born here face the kindness and love you had been denied, being forced to slave away for those that cared not for you.”

The clack of metal on rock interrupted Loren. An elderly misbegotten warrior, his red mane gone silver, climbed onto the column next to him, before rising to his full height, one hand resting on the greatsword he had embedded into the stone. When he spoke, his voice was deep and gravelly, hoarse from age, and yet strong and proud, “There are few that would accept us anywhere in the Lands Between. To them, we are but graceless abominations fit only to be slaves in their homes, or hunted, not because we provide them anything useful, but for the sport of boys wishing to try their hand at war. My old master back in Leyndell, grace rest his noble soul, was one of the few exceptions to the rule. He taught me how to speak the tongue of men not through the bite of branding irons, but with reassurance and compassion the likes of which I had never seen before. There are portraits of him lying around the Lands Between that never showed the truth, but one lies here that does. In all others, I was blotted out as though I never existed, but here, I stand proud by his side in the armour he forged for a supposedly inferior being with his own hands. You, young ones, would do well to remember why the Haligtree was built, not as an act of Rebellion, but as one of compassion. One of a brother who had everything and yet chose to let it go, all for a sister who still repays his faith in her tenfold to this day. To one who taught my children to protect themselves. To the ones who mourned with us when we lost those we loved. To those who stand here willing to die to protect us,” here the old Misbegotten looked at Loren, who realized with a start that this was the Misbegotten from the painting. “For those we call our battle-brothers and sisters,” he finished, before slowly dropping back onto the street.

“As he said,” called Loren, “It would be hypocritical of us to rise against those that protect us for the same purpose- we consider her Rot a threat. She is just as accursed as we are considered to be, perhaps more so, and yet, she chose to give us a land we can call our home. Besides, to leave her to die in the snowfields would not only be a betrayal of her trust, but that of our Lord Miquella’s as well. Besides that, the only thing holding the Rot back is Lady Malenia’s unbreakable will. There is a very good likelihood that should she die, the Rot would rage across the Haligtree unchecked, which would leave us far worse off than we are, to say nothing of Lord Miquella’s wrath should he return to the sight of his dearest sister’s corpse. As they swore it to be their duty to ensure we lived in safety, so should it be ours to ensure that they feel as safe as we do.”

The roars of the crowd in assent had Loren smiling under the steel of his helm. He jumped off the column, landing next to his sword and shield. Picking them up, he was about to get back to the inner wall guardroom when a hand dropped onto his shoulder. Looking back, he noticed the older Misbegotten.

“Interesting speech,” muttered the old Misbegotten, his yellow eyes seeming to bore right through the knight’s own. “Do you actually believe in what you said on the platform, or was it just for the sake of saying it?”

Loren bristled for a second, but took off one of his gauntlets, revealing three faint scars across his forearm.

“These were from one of the Misbegotten servants of my house. She accidentally scratched my arm when she grabbed onto it while flying me away from a Runebear. Yet, my family had her executed for assaulting her master, despite my pleas to the contrary.”

“So you left.” Came the voice of the Misbegotten.

“I don’t even know your name.” returned Loren.

The old Misbegotten paused, looking back, his old eyes gleaming with old memories, “Royg. Battle-brother and Warrior-Servant to the Grey Wolf of Leyndell.”

With that he vanished.

Loren knew that sometime soon after, he wold probably see him again.

But not even these thoughts could ever drown out the heartrending scream of sorrow and grief that tore its way even through the closed doors to the Sanctuary of the Empyreans.

For they had fought, and almost won.

But was the cost of their near-victory worth the suffering it had, and would continue to cause?

Chapter 7: A Warm Heart

Chapter Text

Limgrave, Agheel Lake North, Present day, Night

A companionable silence stretched across the little camp, the only sounds being the occasional hoofbeats as the funeral steed shifted its position as it grazed, and the merry crackling of the fire and the springhares roasting on it. The fire threw shadows on the grass, the three figures seated around it basking in its warmth.

“This is good,” came the Nightrider’s voice, “glad to see you haven’t lost your touch, Commander.”

“You kids still did not learn how to cook for yourselves?” joked Fireheart, cracking a grin from Iwan, as the Nightrider tossed aside another springhare bone.

“And skip out on your excellent cooking? Thank you, Commander, I’ll pass!” returned Iwan, his golden eyes bright against the scarred skin of his face.

For a few minutes, the three sat in a companionable silence, occasionally broken by cracks as the roasted springhares were steadily devoured. The silence was finally broken as Iwan spoke-

“Ever since the hostilities of the Shattering dropped to minor skirmishes, a strange madness overtook the vast majority of the lands. During my patrols, whenever and wherever I may be assigned, I see soldiers moving around not as the loyal warriors they once used to be, but as husks animated solely by the last remnants of the memories of their duty. It is true here as well, and the few who retain their sanity have turned to banditry and mercenary work.”

“Interesting.” muttered Fireheart, before his eyes caught something, “Iwan, is it just me or has the bonfire on that island in the lake gone out?” Iwan looked over, his eyes widening for a moment, before retrieving his halberd and slashing the ground, resulting in a wave of dirt that put out the campfire.

“All that talk about madness? This is the best example from here!” Iwan hissed, as a guttural screech cut through the night, gusts of wind buffeting the campsite as the dragon Fireheart had seen earlier that morning flew past them, roaring again someway down the road.

“That bonfire is lit by some of the Limgrave nobles, who are worshippers of that dragon. They are tired of their eternal life and thus lit this bonfire in the hope of signalling the dragon to burn them to ash with their fires and put their misery at an end.”

“Of course Fortissax’s advice was ignored.” grumbled Fireheart, amber-gold eyes glaring into the night as the dragon took flight again, its wingbeats soon fading into the distance

Iwan glanced at the east, where the horizon had started lighting up with a faint red glow. He had to leave soon, but it gladdened his heart to once again meet the man who had ensured that he had never, in a way, felt the lack of a caring family, or the lack of a purpose in life. He got to his feet, before going to his horse’s saddlebags.

“Commander, I believe here’s something you would like,” he called, pulling out the items he had stored in there- a full set of the Nightriders’ menacing black armour, complete with the raven-feathered helmet of the order, the sight bringing a tear to the Grey Wolf’s eye.

“You boys really know how to make your old man proud, don’t you?” Fireheart said, his voice nearly choking up with emotion as he took the armour from Iwan, before trying it on. The armour fit him like a glove, the sturdy metal just as tough and flexible as he remembered. After a few practice stretches, Fireheart pulled on his cloak over his armour, the grey cloak over the black metal giving him a subtle, but commanding presence.

“I will make for the capital as soon as I have established contact with Liurnia. Until then, take care of yourself and the others, Iwan. I have no doubt Kane is going to go mad when he finally encounters me on patrol.” Iwan had to laugh at that, considering that he knew first-hand how close Kane and his mentor had always been, with the latter almost being a son to Fireheart (though that was, honestly, true for all ten of them).

“I must leave now, Commander. May your blade stay sharp!” called Iwan. “And may the grace of the order favour yours!” replied Fireheart, his memory recalling the Royal Knights’ motto verbatim. A purple version of the royal sigil of Leyndell materialized as Iwan raised his halberd, with him and his horse both vanishing as though they never existed.

“It is time we moved on,” called Melina, as Fireheart flipped up the hood of his cloak over his head, before whistling to summon Torrent.

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Roundtable Hold, a few nights later

Fireheart was roused from his sleep by a slight noise. The room he shared with Nepheli may have been warm and cozy, but that never meant that one could let their guard down. A quick glance at the other side of the room revealed that Nepheli was also awake, a hand halfway to one of her axes, before she relaxed, Fireheart’s eyes following hers to rest on the door, revealing Roderika, her hair rumpled and dishevelled, the marks of tear tracks visible on her cheeks.

Nepheli was quick to rise, immediately heading over to the younger woman, as Fireheart rose from his bed, his golden eyes worried.

“I’m so sorry,” came the voice of Roderika, her blue eyes downcast as she held on to Nepheli’s shoulders, the taller woman wrapping her arms around her. Fireheart joined the embrace a moment later, holding both women close as Roderika sobbed into Nepheli’s chest.

While Roderika, after being apprenticed to old Master Hewg for spirit tuning, had come quite a ways from the shy and timid, self-pitying woman Fireheart had met at the shack on Stormhill, she was still a gentle soul with no love for battle, instead earning her keep at the Roundtable by strengthening and communing with the spirits that some of the Tarnished warriors of the Roundtable used in battle.

It may not have seemed like a particularly useful ability, but it was something that had saved Fireheart’s life on more than one occasion, with the Jellyfish she had given him (Fireheart would later find out that her name was Aurelia) and the lone wolves he had gotten from the strange witch Renna at the Church of Elleh (Kale, the poor chap, had been visibly unsettled the whole time, later complaining to him of the strange, cold aura she emanated).

“Are you alright?” asked Nepheli, her long black hair tickling the back of Roderika’s neck as she disengaged slightly from the hug, her hands resting gently on the other woman’s shoulders.

“It…it was a nightmare. I…I can’t describe what exactly it was that I could see,” Roderika replied, melting slightly into Nepheli. Fireheart then spoke, his voice a deep, echoing rumble that was, nevertheless, comforting- “You’re not the only one,” with a wry grin crossing his face, a smile that did not quite hit his eyes. “Although, for me, it mainly consists of me reliving my failures from hundreds of years ago,” here his voice tailed off, with Roderika barely catching his last words, “I wish Master were here. He could have taught me how to control this.”

“I think it’s best we get some sleep,” came Nepheli’s voice. “Looks like the both of you could use some reassurance, so, Fireheart, you might need to squeeze a bit.”

**************************************************************************************************

The beds in the Roundtable were fairly large, designed for two people each, but it was still a comfortable fit for the three sleepers, Roderika lying snugly between Fireheart in front of her and Nepheli behind her. Shifting to face Nepheli, she felt two pairs of strong arms drape around her, the blankets covering them adding even more to the warmth. Suddenly, from behind her, she heard a soft, deep humming melody, the notes vibrating through her body as her head rested against Fireheart’s chest. While clearly something that was traditionally sung by a woman, Fireheart’s deep, somber voice lent an otherwise melancholic and sorrowful tune a reassuring quality, something that soon lulled all the three into sleep, the notes stilling as Fireheart’s humming eventually cut off into deep, even breaths that whispered over her hair.

Three Days later, Liurnia, near the Lake-Facing Cliffs Grace

“f*cking….skeleton bastards!” Fireheart roared, smashing the hilt of his greatsword into one, before stomping its skull to shards under his foot and following it up with a slash to dissipate the strange energy that seemed to revive them every time he killed their hordes. Regardless, after a few more minutes of combat, he stood victorious, piles of bones littering the grass around him.

There was another reason behind his bad temper. He had attempted to commune with the lake dragon, whose name he had found to be Agheel. The massive beast had not bothered even attempting to listen to his questions, instead attacking Fireheart viciously the moment they landed, even once ripping him apart in their jaws before Fireheart was able to put the dragon down in combat. As someone who had been instrumental in the founding of the Dragon Cult that eventually created Leyndell’s proud Dragon Knights, it broke him to have to kill the majestic beasts he had once grown up around, even if these were but the lesser kindred of the Ancient Dragons of Farum Azula.

A rushing noise broke him out of his reverie. Looking up, Fireheart noticed a large white blur racing towards him at a serious speed, until it pulled up and slowed, revealing four great golden wings arcing from the sides of an enormous body, which, when it landed , resolved itself into the shape of an immense white dragon, their silhouette being significantly more different, being larger by a good margin than any lesser dragon, but more slender in build, with a smaller, broader head and piercing, intelligent golden eyes that seemed to bore into his soul. Unlike the bumpy gray skin of Agheel, this dragon’s white hide was scaled and spiky, looking as though it could shrug off hits from even the massive ballistas used by Godrick’s men with nary a scratch.

Even as he stared, the great beast reared onto their hind legs and roared, a deep, booming and guttural sound that caused Fireheart to drop to a knee and cover his ears as a veritable multitude of red lightning bolts split the earth between him and the dragon apart. Even after centuries, the awe Fireheart had first felt upon seeing a true archdragon, despite having grown up among them, still remained, bringing tears of awe to the Grey Wolf’s eyes as the dragon, dropping back onto all fours, stalked closer, clearing the pits the lightning had blasted into the ground with no effort. As they closed, their form shimmered and shifted, shrinking into that of a woman, with long white hair, four wings sprouting from her back, a tail and clad in a long white robe, with two slender, but sharp horns extending from her forehead. Even in this form, she was still a good two feet taller than him, her long white mane framing her beautiful features, high, fine cheekbones and piercing, golden, slitted eyes

A face he had once known.

Someone who had been family.

One whom he had once called sister.

“LANSSEAX?!”

Chapter 8: To Liurnia

Chapter Text

“LANSSEAX!”

The dragon-woman stalked closer, her face expressionless, the man she had once called brother rising to his feet before her, shock painting his strong features.

Grief, joy, sorrow and anger roiled in her heart. There he was, the young boy whom she had found hiding behind a burned-out hut in his devastated village. The boy who had grown amongst their kind, into the strong, proud warrior he had become after Leyndell’s war against the dragons, only to be utterly shattered by something, becoming a recluse who would wallow in his own sorrow for weeks, often forgoing food and drink for days on end.

They had all worried for him- Morgott, hidden away behind his veil in his tiny corner of the palace, her dear elder brother, found as often at Fireheart’s door as he was at Godwyn’s side, Godwyn himself, the proud golden prince who was one of the few supporters Fireheart had garnered in his impassioned pleading to free the Omens and Misbegotten, the Nightriders themselves, especially Kane and Iwan, the latter often blaming himself for it.

All this was what she concentrated into a single, rage-fuelled punch straight into Fireheart’s forehead, sending the smaller man tumbling to the ground. He would never know how much it had broken her, the amount of pain it had caused to her, to Fortissax, to Morgott and the others, when Rykard, fresh from a journey to the Land of Reeds, had returned bearing the Grey Wolf’s corpse. Unlike his usual triumphant return processions, this one had been somber, the bier bearing Fireheart’s body carried by eight Albinaurics, something he would definitely have protested had he been still among the living. She had seen Morgott, stoic as he was, hiding his tears behind his veil. Fortissax’s roars of grief, resounding across the golden city, were heartrending, the somber flute notes being played by the pages across Leyndell providing a backdrop to his lamentations. The Night’s Cavalry, faithful to their old commander to a knight, had burned their black cloaks, leaving tattered black rags hanging off the backs of their armour. She still remembered Kane’s words as the coffin lid had slid shut over Fireheart’s face, the young knight reminding his men what their old commander had stood for, and cheering them on to honour his memory.

“Forgive me, sister!” came the old, familiar voice, the faint pained note in it hidden underneath a layer of panic, as Fireheart struggled to a knee and bowed to her.

“Dost thou have any inkling of the pain thine passing caused us?” growled Lansseax, red lightning crackling off her as she grabbed Fireheart’s gorget, her powerful grip already pressing tiny dents into the steel. “Morgott has grown ever more reclusive, Kane spends more time finding excuses to go out on patrol rather than take care of himself, and both the Storm Dragon Commanders have been honourably discharged and were last seen heading north to the Mountaintops!”

Fireheart shuddered. The Storm Dragon brothers, O’Neil and Niall, were proud and formidable warriors in their own right, both being men he had shared command over countless battlefields with. Tough old warriors as they were, and with their ability to command spirits in combat, their loss cost the Leyndell Army a significant amount of teeth, something he would soon have to start working on.

“And our brother…” here Lansseax crumbled, her tail whipping behind her as she finally pulled Fireheart into an embrace, her eyes tearing up as the memories flooded back in.

“After Godwyn’s murder, he went hunting for his killers all across the Altus Plateau and Liurnia, and now, he remaineth in the Deeproots, doing his best to fight the Deathblight that spreadeth from Godwyn’s corpse.”

As she finished, Lansseax looked down, finally meeting Fireheart’s eyes. At her ancient age and her centuries of reading humans, reading Fireheart’s eyes was easy. There was anger in there, directed inward rather than outward, but also a mix of sorrow and grief, even as his arms snaked around her shoulders reassuringly. They were the same amber-gold orbs she had seen that day on her hunt, on a tiny blonde child hidden in a ghostflame-scorched ruin of a hut somewhere in Liurnia. Even now, the eyes were the same, reassuring, kind and yet holding the same unfathomable sadness that boy had held all those centuries ago.

Those eyes were wide in shock, as Fireheart pulled back to look up at her more clearly. “He knows better than to do something like that! Why?!”

Lansseax’s smile was sad as she replied, “Thine departure didst hurt him deeply, and news of thine passing only shattered him further. He and Godwyn wert always close, but after thou passed, Fortissax couldst not bear to lose another that he loved. While he always worked by Godwyn’s side, since thy burial, he started spending almost all his time with him.”

A spear of guilt stabbed through Fireheart’s chest. Strong as the Dragons were, the bonds they formed with those they considered family were stronger, and often, the loss of family could detrimentally affect the mental wellbeing of the dragons. Fortissax, despite his usually calm, sometimes even seemingly cold personality, was, in his own way, very attached to all three of them, and, Fireheart thought bitterly to himself, he had completely forgotten how hard Godwyn’s death would have hit him.

“About Liurnia, though, how is the Queen? Last I remember, she was still leading the Academy.” asked Fireheart.

When he had first been appointed as the liaison to Liurnia, Rennala had been fairly standoffish, coming off as a sad, but fairly stern woman of few words, with several months passing before she warmed up to Fireheart. Her children’s relationships with Fireheart were a mixed bag- Radahn and Fireheart shared great mutual respect as warriors, while Rykard tended to keep more to himself. While he and Ranni had never been very close, they still got on reasonably well owing to Fireheart’s curiosity towards the Lazuli conspectus, as she being the princess of Caria, was an accomplished spellblade.

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Around 350 years earlier, Academy of Raya Lucaria, Liurnia of the Lakes

Rennala had, after a few months, granted Fireheart permission to meet her at any time he needed to speak to her within the Grand Library, which was where she tended to spend most of her time when not teaching her own classes, and it had been one such day, soon after Rennala and Rykard had a serious falling out, resulting in Rykard angrily returning to his fief in Mount Gelmir, that Fireheart had, unintentionally, discovered Rennala’s secret.

It was well known that Rennala still grieved over Radagon’s departure, and that the great red wolf that often roamed the upper floors of the academy, or kept Rennala company in the Library, was one of the last memories the Queen held of her former Lord, but, that afternoon, the wolf’s mournful howl rang clear and loud over the faint sound of the waterfall beneath the Library, as the faithful beast, its golden collar chained to a post outside the Library, lay sadly with his head on his paws. He was not alone, as both General Radahn, freshly returned from Sellia, and Princess Ranni, were seated next to him, the princess’s hand in the wolf’s long red mane.

As Fireheart ascended the steps, the duo looked up, while Sir Moongrum, standing vigil at the base of the lift inclined his head at the Grey Wolf.

“Mother awaits thee upstairs, Ambassador.” called Ranni, still stroking the wolf’s neck, the wolf letting out a semi-contented growl as Radahn joined in, scratching behind the wolf’s ears as he grinned at Fireheart, “Once thou and Mother doth conclude thine discussion, what sayest thou to a spar?”

Fireheart had to smile at that. The General was a proud, boisterious and yet caring figure, whom the Redmanes literally worshipped as their leader. Strangely enough, despite being a proud son of the Carian Line, and one who adored his mother, the Red Lion General was fiercely loyal to the Golden Order, hero-worshipping the departed Lord Godfrey.

Both the Redmane and the Greywolf knew each other from the previous year’s tourney, where Fireheart had nearly brought Radahn’s twelve-year winning streak to an end…

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Present Day, Afternoon, Liurnia of the Lakes, Lake-Facing Cliffs

The sudden closing of a huge, clawed limb around him shook Fireheart out of his reverie, before a massive gust of wind buffeted him as he beheld Lansseax, now back in her true draconic form, spread her massive wings in preparation for flight.

“Sister, no! let me down!” was the only thing Fireheart could yell as, with a few powerful flaps of her wings, the two of them were high above the region.

“I recall a time thou didst this enjoy.” snarked back Lansseax, causing Fireheart to crack a defeated grin. That was true as well, though he’d always preferred Lansseax’s back over her claws. After all, being inches away from claws that could skewer him in less than a second was not something any sane man would enjoy.

“Could we….could we visit the village again?” Lansseax looked back at the words, her gaze softening at the pleading look on Fireheart’s face.

It was at moments like these that Lansseax was reminded of how much younger the Grey Wolf was, compared to her. Despite his steely stoicism at court and intimidating presence on a battlefield, it was his moments of vulnerability that showed that despite how far he had come, there were still hints of the same child she had saved that day, buried deep under the strength of years of experience.

“Of course.” was her quiet reply, as she angled herself into a shallow dive to the north-northwest, making for a location slightly northeast of the Academy, where, with her enhanced eyesight, burned out remains of huts were still visible.

About two minutes later, they alighted on a series of flooded ruins, the stone walls around the ruins of the houses burned and broken down, the clear icy gleam of ghostflame marking the remnants. Fireheart knelt next to a wall, resting a hand on it as he reminisced.

Lansseax would have smiled at that if her form could. However, for some reason, something felt off.

The afternoon calm was shattered by a piercing screech, as a black ghostflame ring materialized in the sky. Out of it came an unsettling visage- a horrifying cross between a bald human skull and a vulture, followed by a slender, almost skeletal body. Great black wings unfurled behind the figure is it glided smoothly down to the ground, the graveyard poker in its hand lighting up in the blue-black of ghostflame.

A Death Rite Bird had arrived.

The Grey Wolf’s worst fear.

Chapter 9: Father and Son

Chapter Text

Lansseax’s roar was the only warning Fireheart got as he dived sideways, tucking into a roll as something huge and heavy slammed into the mud where he had been standing just a few moments ago.

“f*cking hell, what was that?” yelled Fireheart as he turned, only to freeze in shock as the immense shadow of the Death Rite Bird loomed over him, the massive poker in its hand gleaming with ghostflame.

Run

Hide

Save yourself

Abject terror shone in the Grey Wolf's face as the ancient fear made itself known again. Visions flashed before his eyes- spears barraging down from the sky, impaling the baker who lived next door. Flames boiled around the walls of the hut, his mother nowhere to be seen. Bone-warping cold that still somehow burned corpses to ashes. A large horned figure, its back to him, arms spread out, protecting him to her last, even as blue-black flames burned her away, leaving behind naught but charred bones. Two charred finger bones held tight in his hand as he soared away from the ruined village, safe in the massive, yet gentle claws of his saviour.

As he shook himself from his reverie, he noticed the blazing poker arcing towards him, causing him to leap over to dodge it. Lansseax roared again, this time somewhere behind him, the ground beneath him shaking as she stormed toward them.

Scrambling backwards to avoid another sweep, a wall of sound hit Fireheart as the bird screeched, the unsettling wail drowned out by a dragon’s roar as Lansseax slammed the entire weight of her huge frame into the thing, flames billowing from her mouth to wash over the guardian of ghostflame. While visibly singed, the Death Rite Bird returned the attack with a sweep of its poker, catching Lansseax in the side of the neck, causing her to snarl and lash out with her tail as she spun, the force of the powerful blow causing the bird to collapse to the ground.

Rearing onto her hind legs, Lansseax raised an arm, a massive bolt of red lightning meeting her outstretched claws as she channelled her power, transforming it into an enormous red glaive, which she swung down onto her hapless target, causing it to spasm and screech as the lightning burned through its body. The Death Rite Bird was still far from out of the fight, however, stabbing its poker forward to create an orb of Ghostflame, which it then brought the poker down on hard, causing a large blast that sent Lansseax reeling back.

A deep yell rang through the marshes as Fireheart finally attacked, his greatsword cutting a noticeable gash through the bird’s back and causing it to wheel around, its wings outspread, the myriad visages of the spear-bearing death priests within glaring out coldly at the Grey Wolf, who seemed to be transfixed to the spot, his eyes wide in abject horror.

It was so unlike him, Lansseax thought. Fireheart was usually the closest man to a truly fearless person she had ever known, a man both loved and feared for his ferocity.

Yet here he was, his eyes wide in abject horror, scrambling and cringing away from the wide sweeps and slams of the Death Rite Bird’s poker, occasionally staggering when a strike or flames landed on him.

The bird screeched again, its wings spread wide open, as the death priests hurled their spears into the sky. Fireheart, recognizing what was to come, frantically leapt backwards, but it was too late, as a cascade of barbed ritual spears slammed into the ground around him, four catching him through the shoulders, chest and left thigh. Left immobilized by the pain, Fireheart was only saved by the rapid intervention of Lansseax, whose jaws closed around the bird’s left arm, her immense strength allowing her to lift the bird and smash it head first into the ground.

Screeching, the bird loosed a storm of undead spirits, with the few that hit Lansseax building up ice crystals on her scales. Even as she reared back to throw out her glaive once again, the bird raised its poker, the tip igniting in a massive burst of Ghostflame.

“OH f*ck!” was the only thing Fireheart could say as the poker’s tip was slammed into the ground setting off a giant blast of ghostflame at point blank range.

Pain.

Bone-shattering, mind-bending agony.

And he fell to the dark.

***********************************************************************************************************************************

The blast sent Lansseax reeling to the ground, head ringing as the bird slammed its poker on her. Snarling, she rammed her immense weight straight into the bird, sending it reeling before looking around for Fireheart.

It would be a couple of seconds before she noticed him, half-sunk in the water of the swamp, where he lay unmoving, half his face and chest burned away and covered in frost from the ghostflame blast, the water around him cloudy with blood.

Something in her snapped.

Roaring, Lansseax grabbed the bird by its long neck, flames billowing from her jaws to wash over the bird’s head, before hurling it back. Strong as the bird was, Lansseax was stronger still, lightning crackling around her as she roared, multiple massive bolts crashing onto the bird, which, deciding discretion to be the better part of valour, vanished in a final burst of ghostflame.

Picking Fireheart’s body up in her claws, Lansseax took off, aiming for the Academy gate town.

***********************************************************************************************************************************

A few minutes later

“Cold,” muttered Fireheart as he stirred, his eyes opening as he attempted to shake off the wet cloth covering his forehead. Pain shot through his body as he struggled into a sitting position, his face and chest feeling particularly tender.

Looking round Fireheart noticed two things- the first being what looked like an enormous colosseum or arena of sorts enshrined in the middle of a swirling whirlwind, pieces of what looked like a roof still held aloft hundreds of meters above by the force of the winds.

The second was the enormous two-headed dragon that floated like a statue in the center of the area, its immense frame scarred and burned with the wounds of thousands of battles over the untold ages that it had lived. At the moment, both the heads swivelled towards him, two pairs of intense golden eyes boring into his very soul, the same way they had always done throughout the many times that he had seen them over the course of his life.

Scrambling to his feet, Fireheart stepped forward before dropping to a knee with his head bowed, as the great beast unfurled its frame and dropped to the ground, the impact shaking the earth and nearly causing Fireheart to collapse. With a few steps, Fireheart could feel the heat radiating off the dragon’s stony hide as the dragon closed in on him, eyes fixed on Fireheart’s all the while.

“So, thou returneth home at last, little wolf.” Came a male voice. It was impossibly deep, causing the ancient ruins to shake and the ground to resonate beneath Fireheart’s legs. Despite the imposing figure the words emanated from, the voice was reassuring, calming even, reminding Fireheart of happier times that seemed to be from ages ago.

“It is something I had planned on long ago, Master. Unfortunately, death got in the way.” Looking around at the rest of the area, Fireheart could see the round stone hut he had built for himself with the help of several of the Farum Azula beastmen, still in its old place at the edge of the arena’s inner ring. He could not help but smile at the sight.

“Didst thou think I wouldst not keep a remembrance of thee?” there was a faintly amused note in the Dragonlord’s voice, his eyes softening slightly as he gazed back at the boy (“No, thou art no longer a child by thy kind’s reckoning,” thought Placidusax).

“I still do have a question, Master,” replied Fireheart. At Placidusax’s encouragement, he forged ahead, “How is it that I am here? I thought that blasted bird killed me!”

A low, rumbling laugh broke free from Placidusax, his eyes crinkling over with mirth.

“Firstly, child, that “blasted bird” didst indeed kill thee. However, the Tarnished, due to their ability to see grace, doth possess the ability to return to life, as their souls doth to the Erdtree returneth. For one such as mineself, ‘tis but a simple task to arrest the soul in its migrations through the tides of time and bring it to a location of my choosing. However, our time groweth short, and I shouldst send thee back to thine body.”

“Does that mean this is all in my head, Master?” asked Fireheart.

A rumbling chuckle was his reply, as the area and Placidusax started fading into the gloom.

“Indeed ‘tis happening in thine head, little wolf. But doth that mean it canst not be true?”

Even as he fell back into the gloom, the last words, so faint they may have not even been there, reverberated in his head-

“Thou’rt always a son to me, little wolf.”

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Chapter 10: On the way to the Stars

Chapter Text

Academy Gate Town, Liurnia of the Lakes, near the Academy of Raya Lucaria.

The faint scuff of leather against the ground woke Lansseax, who looked over to Fireheart’s corpse, spotting him rising slowly.

While she had expected that to happen, considering the number of Tarnished she had hunted after the failure of Vyke, it didn’t mean that witnessing him die did not hurt.

Raising an arm, she draped it across his chest, pushing him back down to the floor next to the site of grace in the hut.

“Stay down for now,” she muttered, releasing her grip as Fireheart relaxed, his gaze questioning as he accepted the proffered roast guillemot wing from her.

A bite revealed the flesh to be tender, fairly well-spiced with what tasted like local herbs. All in all, far from disagreeable.

“Looks like someone learned how to cook for herself.” snarked Fireheart, voice hoarse. Lansseax shot him a glare. “Let me guess, someone finally decided Godwyn wasn’t as good a cook as he was a warrior, did he?”

Crack

“You didn’t have to hit me so hard!” groaned Fireheart, rubbing his head. Lansseax smirked, putting the empty pan back next to the campfire.

He was right, in a way. Though rather than losing faith in Godwyn’s cooking, it was enjoying Vyke’s cooking that had led to her pestering the young knight into teaching her how to cook.

Sadness suffused her thoughts, her countenance darkening as she remembered her lover- the day he desperately begged her and Morgott to find an alternative way to the Elden Ring. Faithful had he stood to the last, and yet, it was his fall that somehow drove Morgott to prevent any returning Tarnished from ever reaching the Erdtree, using his projection of “Margit” to keep Tarnished from even reaching Godrick, though he made no secret of his hatred towards his great-nephews.

She had closed the Evergaol on him herself, Morgott refusing to spend an instant near the flames that had hounded him for the majority of his childhood. He had been unconscious then, his madness quelled long enough for Lansseax to leave him in the small pocket beyond time that still contained him to this day.

After all, she and her brother, alongside Miquella and Godwyn, had been the ones to build the Evergaols, using elements of her father’s magic to trap occupants for eternity in a pocket of space that existed beyond time itself. A cruel punishment, to be sure, but one that was only meted out to the harshest of offenders.

“Sister?” Fireheart shook her out of her thoughts. She turned, her eyes meeting the Grey Wolf’s, the formerly fearful golden orbs now fixed on hers as he slowly rose to his feet, strapping his greatswords to his back. The sight was, to a degree, reassuring, the Grey Wolf seemingly back to his old self.

She decided not to pursue that train of thought immediately. After all, he was sure to come to Leyndell sometime, where they would get a lot more time to talk.

“I think it is time we paid the Academy a visit. From what Sir Basim told me, Queen Rennala was dealing with the Carian nobles’ rebellion, before the Shattering cut the correspondences between Liurnia and the capital off.” Said Fireheart, his eyes fixing themselves on the spires of the Academy in the distance.

“To the academy it is, then,” said Lansseax, stepping out of the hut to transform back into her true form. Lightning gathered around her as a dark grey mist obscured her form, after which a massive bolt struck the ground, dispelling the mist and revealing her in all her draconic glory.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked Fireheart, who, with a quick leap onto her foreleg, vaulted over one of her back spikes before settling himself into the hollow where her neck joined her shoulders.

The Grey Wolf smirked. “Just like old times then, sister?” Letting out a triumphant roar in reply, Lansseax shot into the sky.

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In front of the Academy Gates, a few minutes later

Growls, roars and the booms of thunder echoed throughout the swamp, Thops cowering inside his makeshift shack as the screams of the Cuckoo soldiers outside were slowly silenced. As the last of the noises faded outside, a final crash of thunder hit his ears, followed by groud-shaking footsteps.

There was no love lost between the Cuckoos and Thops, but no sane man would allow himself to get in the way of a dragon.

Footsteps sounded outside the shack. “Is there anyone in there?” a voice called out. “I promise not to harm you!” the man added from outside.

Chancing his luck, Thops pushed open the door, revealing a towering, black-armoured knight, a bloody greatsword plunged into the ground next to him and a Cuckoo Knight’s greatshield slung over his back. Behind him, standing on all fours, was an immense white four-winged dragon, their golden eyes fixed on his. Despite the dragon’s intimidating presence, Thops could not feel any overt hostility from either of the pair. The knight raised his bare hands in a placating gesture, “Easy, friend. We only seek to find a way into the academy.”

The dragon snorted, smoke curling from their nostrils, before she spoke in a deep feminine voice, “the boy wisheth naught but to meet with thine queen.”

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Fireheart POV

Fireheart glared slightly up at Lansseax, whose eyes crinkled into the draconic version of a smug grin, before turning back to the trembling sorcerer.

“The queen now spends all her time in the library, as the Carian Nobles have effectively taken over the Academy.” Replied the sorcerer, looking somewhat relieved upon not being attacked. “How about you take a seat?” he added, going inside and bringing out a pair of chairs.

*****************************************************************************************************************************

About 5 minutes later

“So, the Academy is now barred to all outsiders?” asked Fireheart, sipping from his cup of tea. “Aye,” was the prompt reply, “I used to be a student there myself, though I was never that good with sorceries. That reminds me, can you spare a few runes? For a small donation, I would be happy to teach you what little I know.”

Fireheart laughed lightly. Bringing out his pouch, he pulled out a few small golden runes and handed them over. “I’ll try and find a way in for both of us. Mind joining me?”

The trio were off in a few minutes.

“I found this on a corpse near the gates.” called Thops, holding up a scrap of paper, which Fireheart and Lansseax, now in her human form, immediately gathered behind him to examine.

“The place marked has got to be near the Crystalline Woods to the northwest, yes?” muttered Fireheart, eyeing the marked spot. “The place should be easy enough to reach on dragonback, but knowing Liurnia, the place probably has something dangerous in there.”

“The note attached to the map does mention a key, but we have a problem.” Thops cut in. “That spot is Smarag’s lair.” he added.

A deep growl rumbled through Lansseax’s throat. “That insolent whelp hath better not interfere with us, shouldst he desireth to keep his fires burning.” Fireheart could only stare in confusion for a moment, before throwing his hands up, “I will figure this story out afterwards!”

Turning back to her true form, Lansseax held out a forelimb to allow the two men to climb on, before spreading her wings and taking flight.

*****************************************************************************************************************************

About 8 minutes later

The roars of two dragons sliced through the air, neither willing to give an inch. The two men on the other hand, were more than happy to use the demonstrating dragons as a distraction, as they sneaked around.

Smarag raised his head skyward, breathing out a torrent of blue glintstone flames, his annoyance at the intruder that had not only invaded his territory, but also shaken him out of his nap evident. Roaring yet again, Smarag opened his jaws wide, focusing the magic within him into a ball of sharp glintstone shards, which he then fired out at the offending dragon.

With a single flap of her wings, Lansseax dodged sideways, folding in one of her wings to shield herself from the spell. With a roar, she raised herself into the air, before crashing down on Smarag and pinning his head down with a claw. Rearing her head back, she roared furiously in Smarag’s face, daring him to try to continue the fight.

“We got the key!” yelled Fireheart, summoning Torrent for Thops before sprinting over to Lansseax and climbing on. With a last roar and a snap of her jaws at Smarag’s face, Lansseax took to the sky.

*****************************************************************************************************************************

Sometime later

The key glowed as Fireheart held it up, the magic barrier parting as the two men walked through.

Chapter 11: Raya Lucaria 01- A Wolf's Fury

Chapter Text

“Thank you kindly, friend. I am in your debt-” began Thops, only to be cut off by Fireheart raising a hand, “Look, considering all the useful information you provided me with, this was the least I could have done for you. So please, consider it me paying my debt back!” which prompted a laugh from both men, with Thops, after another request to Fireheart to visit him later, heading up the stairs as Fireheart headed to the nearby site of grace.

Taking a seat next to the glowing orb, Fireheart relaxed for a moment, Melina appearing beside him as he stretched his legs. Fireheart smiled, a gesture that she reciprocated, and then lay back, allowing his sore muscles to stretch out further.

“You should convert the runes you have into strength. You are undoubtedly skilled, but you need to be stronger in order to face the challenges you will have from here on.”

For a second, Fireheart stared at her, his expression unreadable. For a second she wondered if she had offended him, before he quietly asked, “how do we do that?”

Relaxing slightly, Melina stretched a hand out to Fireheart, “let my hand rest upon you, for but a moment. Share your thoughts, with me, your will, your ambitions, and how you wish to strengthen yourself.”

Taking her hand, Fireheart closed his eyes. When he opened them, he felt slightly different- stronger, faster and somehow, sturdier. With a nod of thanks, Fireheart stood up, securing his greatsword to his back, before making his way out of the room.

“Thops did mention a battle between the nobles and the Royal Knights. But knowing the Library, it should be the most heavily protected section of the Academy.” muttered Fireheart, not noticing the armoured marionette dropping from the ceiling to his right.

The clatter of wood and metal was his only warning as a spear glanced off the armor on his back, while a sword carved a shallow gash under his shoulder, the point not quite turned away by the chainmail underneath the thick plate. With a growl, Fireheart drew his greatsword, spinning around in a sweeping arc that slashed the marionette’s head clean off its shoulders.

The body, however, did not stop, only shuddering for a moment before the multiple spears and swords on its arms lashed out wildly in all directions, Fireheart barely deflecting a wild spear thrust off his blade as he jumped back, keeping a healthy distance until it stopped flailing about and attempted to rise again, at which point he crushed it under three quick slams of his shield.

“What in the world-?” he muttered, watching the sparks and smoke rising out of the core of the wreck, which continued to convulse feebly, its chest crushed in from the force of the blows. “What have the nobles been doing all these years?” growled Fireheart, quickly making his way out of the room, to the next, a large classroom where a pair of marionettes, one with a pair of bows, could be seen hanging from the ceiling, with a sorcerer lounging at the desk on the other side, apparently reading a book.

“Good sir, could you point me to the Grand Library?”

At the words, the sorcerer leapt to his feet, a blue mist roiling around the head of his stave as he slammed the other end into the ground, multiple marionettes similar to the one he’d fought earlier dropping from the ceiling, armed with spears, swords, and in one case, a pair of bows.

“It’s a fight then,” Fireheart growled, switching out his greatshield for the Lordsworn Soldiers’ greatsword, settling into a half-crouch as the marionettes drew their own weapons and nocked arrows.

The fray was initiated by the sorcerer, a glintstone pebble arcing out to get sliced in half by a greatsword, as two marionettes lashed out with their swords, one scoring a narrow cut across Fireheart’s shoulder as the Greywolf aimed a thrust at a marionette’s chest, aiming to skewer its core in a single strike. However, the frame turned the blade aside, though it still punched through plenty of internal mechanisms, throwing the puppet to the ground.

A sharp pain in his side drew Fireheart’s attention to the sorcerer, a second glintstone shard narrowly missing him as he leapt back, knocking aside two thrusts from a marionette before sheathing one of his greatswords to two-hand the other. Avoiding the mad flurry of thrusts from a spear marionette, he stomped down onto it, crushing through its core with a foot. With a ferocious roar, he followed that up with a sweeping circular slash that scythed down the puppets surrounding him. A few continued to convulse weakly, attempting to swing out with arms that had no strength behind them, others clearly destroyed.

Switching out his second greatsword for his greatshield, Fireheart wasted a precious second to catch his breath, a choice he regretted as a spray of crystal shards dug into his chest, the impacts stinging coldly through the tough black plate of his armor.

Shield up, he rushed forward, taking the next two pebbles on his shield before taking a powerful swing at the sorcerer, the blade cutting through robes and skin, sending the man staggering back to a knee.

Fireheart would have immediately rushed the sorcerer, but a sharp stab in the back put paid to that, forcing him to roll away from a final puppet. This one was slightly larger, carrying a mix of spears and rapiers in its arms, with a very familiar, curved crown on its head.

A crown Fireheart had often light-heartedly made fun of.

An unearthly howl of fury shook the chamber as Fireheart charged, his shield taking wild strike after wild strike from the puppet, ignoring the glintstone shards raining around and on him from the sorcerer.

Shove, shield punch, stab, sidestep a thrust, beheading strike, kick to the chest- the movements came as naturally as breathing, Fireheart engaging the puppet in a deadly dance of steel as the sorcerer attempted in vain to support it, the former commander of the Night’s Cavalry finishing the puppet off by leaping into the air and crushing it under a vicious shield slam.

Then he turned to the sorcerer, returning his shield back to the ether as he charged, arm outstretched as he grabbed the face of the sorcerer’s mask, smashing him to the ground and breaking the mask open with a single stomp. The Sorcerer’s cry for mercy was silenced by a single thrown knife to the throat, leaving him to choke on his own blood.

An angry tear rolled down the Grey Wolf’s cheek, as his hand reached down to pick up the crescent crown the Queen once wore. It vanished into the ether, the blue of a storage spell illuminating the room for the briefest second. With a snarl, he spun on his heel and left the classroom behind, choosing to stop at the site of grace in the next room.

A few minutes later

Growls, roars and the clash of steel echoed through the Church of the Cuckoo, as the soldiers found themselves facing the unhindered wrath of the Grey Wolf, Fireheart’s greatsword cleaving through arms, legs and necks as he rampaged through the men barring his way up hill towards the main debate parlor, one of the few places he’d normally have found Rennala in during what felt like a lifetime ago.

Even as he cut down soldier after soldier, his helm hid his tears, his sorrow at the death of the queen evident to those who would have cared to observe. His movements a little stiffer, strikes wilder, defense slightly sloppier, taking slashes to the sides and a spear thrust that nearly took out an eye.

Still, rage is an excellent motivator, and Fireheart soon found himself unhelmed, sitting next to a grace in a classroom, his anger having cooled somewhat, his hand firmly clasped in Melina’s as he strengthened himself further.

“Back then, she was one of the few that knew of my secret.” Fireheart growled, pulling back his hood to reveal the curved black horns almost hidden by his long hair. “Even if it had been only because I’d known how badly being abandoned affected her, she still protected me, made sure no one else found out anything they shouldn’t,” for a moment, his mind’s eye flashed back to a moment in the past, remembering a particular meeting with Rennala and Radahn, barely a few years before his exile. Shaking his head to clear it- there would be enough time to grieve later, he looked up at Melina.

“I need all the strength I can get for this battle. None, not even a single Carian noble, will survive.”

Despite keeping her features schooled into an expression of stoic neutrality, Melina was surprised, even as she converted the runes Fireheart had picked up into greater strength, dexterity and vigour. Not only was the man something of an exception to the rule that most Tarnished remembered little, if any of their past lives in the Lands Between, but none of the myriad other Tarnished to arrive before him seemed to have commanded the same form of respect, or even awe, from those that wouldn’t have hesitated to kill his kind as easily as breathing. Not since the only other Tarnished who had apparently, come close to Lordship.

But that was a tale from before her time.

Finishing, she nodded to Fireheart, who pulled his hood back up and rose to his feet, making his way out to scan the area outside.

The corridor was mostly empty, but the voices of sorcerers discussing something drifted down the corridor, the occasional clank of armor signifying at least a few soldiers or knights being present in the large classroom down the hallway.

The sorcerers raised their heads as they heard the unfamiliar footsteps, the map of the Academy forgotten for a moment as the unknown knight entered. He was clearly not a Cuckoo, the black armour with its tattered cloak and the twin greatswords and greatshield on his back easily signifying him as someone else.

There wasn’t any lack of mercenaries they’d hired to protect the nobles’ and sorcerers’ section of the Academy, so if this one was looking for work, his chances were fairly slim, as the soldier heading his way was surely about to tell him.

“Well, mate, if you’re tryin’ to look for a job-URGHK!”

The seeming mercenary had drawn a sword and impaled their man in less than a second, ripping the blade out and cleaving his target’s head in half in a single savage overhead slash. The poor victim was dead before he hit the floor.

For a second, none moved, the enemy glaring grimly at the assembled Carian nobles and Cuckoos, before, as if a bell had been struck, the classroom exploded into chaos, the Cuckoos charging him as the sorcerers scattered to find the best positions to pelt him with magic.

With a growl, Fireheart ripped his blade free from his hapless victim’s head, pulling his shield off his back as he turned to face the first Cuckoo soldier, a man wielding a longsword and a brass shield encrusted with glintstone. The first wild slash was deflected off his own greatsword, the followup kick catching the man in the groin as Fireheart stabbed upwards, catching him in the chin, the knight’s greatsword in his hands easily penetrating through to the brain.

The sharp, cold sting of a trio of glintstone shards cutting into his back alerted Fireheart to the sorcerers attempting to get behind him, resulting in him shoving back the knight bearing down on him and immediately pulling out a pair of throwing knives, mentally thanking the old merchant he’d bought them off near the shores of the lake as he threw them at the lead sorcerer, the blades sinking into an arm and a leg as he closed in with a rapid sweeping strike to the chest, knocking them down before he finished them off with a quick stab. Rounding on the remaining two, he instinctively ducked a greatsword swing from a Cuckoo before exploding forward and impaling one on his blade, using his own momentum to drive it deeper.

A sword cut through a small gap between the plates at his hip, the impact enough to force him down to a knee, as a shield slam dropped him on his back. Twisting aside, he let the attempted finishing stab glance off the side of his breastplate, before stabbing out at the eye slit of the knight’s sallet, the blade ramming true and causing the man to fall aside with a choked gurgle.

The final sorcerer, a spellblade, was barely able to turn aside Fireheart’s thrust, but the follow-up kick broke through his guard, allowing Fireheart to behead him in a clean sweep of the blade.

This left three soldiers and a pair of knights, who quickly surrounded him, circling as all six warriors looked for an opening to attack. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, before finally snapping as they rushed him. Diving out of the attempt to surround him, Fireheart took a hammer blow on his shield before sweeping out with his sword at the soldier, who barely avoided the vicious arc of death as the other two soldiers immediately rushed forward to cover his retreat, one taking Fireheart’s follow-up uppercut to the shield as the other attempted to stab the Grey Wolf with his greatsword.

A quick sidestep saved Fireheart, though not from the follow up shield bash from the other soldier, sending him staggering to a knee, allowing one of the knights to stab him in the side with a spear.

Growling, Fireheart lashed out viciously with his shield, the strike sending the knight stumbling back as he exploded forward, his sword crushing chainmail before its point as he impaled the man through the throat, knocking him to the ground and leaving him to choke on his own blood.

A rush of wind gave him just enough warning to duck a greatsword that would have beheaded him, causing him to dance back as the last knight ran a hand across his blade, glintstone magic coating the blade in an otherworldly blue glow. The soldier with the greatsword was the first to approach, his blade being knocked aside by the Grey Wolf, who immediately split his head in half with a well-placed uppercut, the follow up sweep beheading the man and glancing off his partner’s shield.

The cold of magical energy accumulating was a warning Fireheart could not ignore, diving into a sideways roll as a cometshard blew past him, blowing a hole through an unwary soldier’s torso.

That left two against him, a soldier and a knight.

It was time to go on the offensive.

Fireheart shifted his shield to his back, two-handing his blade as he surged forward. Sidestepping the soldier’s hammer, he aimed a quick kick at the side of the man’s knee, being rewarded with a crunch of bone and an agonized scream as the man’s knee buckled, the knight’s greatsword being deflected sideways by a quick hanging parry as Fireheart used his momentum to continue his spin, the blade cutting halfway through the soldier’s neck before Fireheart ripped it out, ducking under another sweep from the knight.

The knight seemed to realize that they stood little chance in a straight fight, but that didn’t stop them. A brave fool, but a fool nonetheless.

A stomp of the foot as the knight raised their blade to their shoulder was a signal that they intended to go for a thrust, resulting in Fireheart sidestepping.

The perfect moment.

The greatsword sheared through the chainmail links on the knight’s elbows like a hot knife through butter, eliciting a pained howl as he fell to a knee.

Fireheart’s foot caught him in the chin a second later, knocking him to his back as he pressed the point of the blade into the gap between the knight’s gorget and the lip of his helm.

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“Why?”

“Why what?” growled the knight through gritted teeth, the pain of his wounds threatening to overwhelm his senses. This only seemed to enrage his opponent further, as the man pulled out a throwing knife from his belt and rammed the point through one of his stumps, eliciting agonized howls as he twisted the blade, blood painting the floor beneath.

“Let me rephrase,” growled the Tarnished, his face almost completely hidden in shadows by his hood, only allowing a pair of piercing amber eyes to gleam out of the darkness.

“Who killed Queen Rennala, and why?”

“She’s alive!” screamed the knight amidst cries of pain, even as his opponent twisted the knife again. “Not for lack of trying, but her knight and that accursed boy of hers made sure of that!”

“Are you sure you’re not saying this just to preserve yourself?” was his opponent’s only reply. “I will kill you, either way. The only choice you have is a quick death, or a slow, painful one.”

“She’s locked herself away in the Grand Library. That’s all I know! I swear!” the knight cried out, causing the Tarnished to go silent for a moment before he pulled the blade out of the stump.

“What no-”

The crunch of steel and bone being crushed echoed through the chamber thrice, alongside an enraged growl.

Fireheart removed his foot from the crushed remains of the knight’s head, sheathing his blade as he headed up the stairs, finding a Grace off to the side of a door that led to the main debate parlour, a place he had been in fairly often, considering it was not just for academic debates, but even the chosen room for diplomatic meetings.

It was time to recuperate. For the next day would be the test of a dead man’s worth.

Chapter 12: Note on updates

Chapter Text

Dear Readers and fellow writers,

I am pretty sure most of us have found out about most of the lore and events of the DLC by now. I honestly don't know what you guys may be thinking, but for me, it's a f*cking disappointment.

I can't believe that From would have handled the lore as flippantly as they did, and with all respect to GRRM, he shouldNOT have been involved with the lore. ASOIAF is a great series which I have genuinely enjoyed, but his particular brand of f*cked-up familydid not work in the style From tends to work with.

Yes. This is my warning to everyone who has read so far that this is a chance to turn away, should they not want to read a work that is heavily canon divergent as my personal interpretation of what i think they could have done with the lore. I will be making some alterations to bring SoTE in line with the plot for both Greywolf and its sequel Red Gold, but there will not be any major changes to the original plans I had made for the story, barring one.

For those of you who choose to remain, Fireheart's adventures will continue very soon, with the next chapter already being under way. There's still a long way to go, so strap in and hold on to your teeth!

I genuinely love and appreciate everyone who has read, is reading and will read this story of mine, and will see you all down the road, ASAP.

With love,

Snehan