Hestia couldn't help but be astonished—whether for better or worse—by Mitranis' presence. Mysterious, confident yet hesitant, strong, and capable of fighting for others. Now, it was revealed that his past was that of an assassin, a protégé of the infamous Black Knives, and a remarkably talented Recusant despite his youth.
Her emotions were hard to untangle. She sensed fear in her racing heartbeat, her slightly labored breath, and the tension in her muscles. Should she fear the enigma of Mitranis further? Yet, another feeling stirred—something new, perhaps once felt but never with this intensity. But more pressing matters demanded her attention.
"That title stems only from my fighting style," Mitranis defended earnestly. "I've no connection to those assassins. I've never met the Black Knives and know only what common folk do."
"I don't doubt that, lad," Gideon replied without emphasis. "There's no record of the Black Knives aiding Recusants. But your combat recalls theirs."
"Hmm… I suppose so."
Mitranis fell silent, still uneasy. The tension in the room had eased slightly, but he saw no basis for Gideon's accusations. He'd never encountered the Black Knives, nor did he recall anything suggesting otherwise. His dagger, Tenebrae, bore no resemblance to the famed blades the Numen wielded.
"Well, old man," Rogier interjected, steering the conversation elsewhere, "these two helped us fend off a wave of Those Who Live in Death. It was unlike anything D and I had seen: they emerged from a small graveyard, far from any Tibia Mariner. And, most strikingly… after we cleared the threat, we saw the Deathroot there was coated in a viscous, dark blue sludge, like mud."
Gideon said nothing. Silence blanketed the hall. To most present, this was utterly unknown. But the All-Knowing surely knew something—and it was terrifying, something thought long eradicated from the Lands Between.
"This is hard to fathom," Gideon said gravely. "A clear anomaly, like all things tied to Death. Thank you, Rogier."
With that, Gideon retreated down one of the hall's corridors.
"And so, Gideon Ofnir, the gossiping know-it-all, leaves us in suspense again," Rogier said, approaching Hestia and Mitranis. "Don't worry, you two. That's Gideon's way—when we bring him something new, he comments briefly, then locks himself in his study. He'll tell us what it's about later."
"I see," Hestia replied. "But from Gideon's reaction, this seems serious… What do you think, Rogier?"
"It's too intriguing, and thus marvelous," the sorcerer said with a forced smile. "And, as D said, dreadful. We're likely facing the root of all evil."
Gideon glanced around, his sharp, distrustful gaze scanning the room. He'd anticipated the arrival of Hestia, the new Tarnished, and knew of her strange companion, Mitranis. But he hadn't expected to learn of this looming anomaly while probing her path. Better not to reveal too much yet—the pair would encounter it in time. He cleared his throat, striving for a composure he hadn't expected to falter.
"Hestia, Tarnished still graced by the Guidance," Gideon began, his tone unusually solemn. "You must journey to Stormveil Castle with your companion. There, you'll claim the first shard of the Elden Ring, held by Godrick the Grafted, who boasts descent from Godfrey's Golden Lineage, First Consort to Queen Marika. Only then will you earn your place at the Roundtable Hold."
"I understand, sir," Hestia replied, standing tall. "It shall be done."
Nerves and duty surged within her. She was resolute—she'd fight to claim the Elden Ring's shards and fulfill her purpose. Glancing at Mitranis, she knew she'd need guidance. Both he and Melina could aid her in this, her first great mission.
"I'll join you, if you'll have me," Rogier said, smiling. "That place is labyrinthine. You might need my help."
Hestia and Mitranis agreed. Rogier was an odd character, but his experience in these lands and in battle made his aid invaluable.
"So be it, Rogier," Mitranis said, stepping toward him. "This should be fun, don't you think?"
"Count on it, lad," the sorcerer replied.
"Do not grow overconfident," Gideon warned. "A wielder of an Elden Ring shard is always a threat. Earn your place here first, then celebrate. Now, if you'll excuse me…"
Gideon withdrew.
"What a guy," Mitranis sighed. "Guess it's time to return to Limgrave. Probably for the best."
"Hmm… you should see someone first," Rogier said, pointing to a corridor off the hall. "There's a fellow who can help with your weapons. And a woman… peculiar, but possibly useful."
"That… harlot," D spat, his voice thick with anger. "Do as you wish, but she brings only misery."
"Thanks for the warning," Mitranis said as D stormed down another corridor.
"Bah… it happens," Rogier said, leading the way.
They entered a hallway. First, they saw an open room where a peculiar creature worked—a bipedal beast with tough skin, a reptilian tail, and strange, partially severed spines. Its stern face was striking. It hammered a sword on a massive anvil. Hestia noted the shackles binding it—was it enslaved?
Rogier approached to introduce them.
"Hey, Hewg," Rogier said cheerfully. "Good to see you, as always."
"What now?" Hewg replied gruffly. "Tell those kids to hand over their weapons. I'll fix them. Now get out of my sight."
"Love your charming personality, friend," Rogier said, glancing at the others. "You heard him."
Hestia offered her weapon. Mitranis followed, hesitantly. Hewg took both, examining them. The Carian sword, preserved across generations, needed tempering—its magic was flawless, but its edge lacked sharpness.
Mitranis' dagger, however, was unnerving. It required no enhancement, only restraint—a task Hewg refused. He thrust it back to Mitranis.
"I'll work on the girl's sword," Hewg declared. "Your weapon, boy—keep it away. Its stench, its essence, disgusts me. It's Death itself."
Silence fell. Mitranis knew this. His dagger needed no improvement—it was perfect, forged for killing. It embodied Death. Hestia glanced from Hewg to Mitranis, wanting to speak, but Mitranis cut in.
"That's fair, sir," he said respectfully.
Without another word, he walked off, giving Hestia a reassuring glance. No issue, it conveyed.
Curiosity drew Mitranis to peer into the next room. A bed stood at its far end, where a woman sat, draped in mournful veils that fell to her ankles, shrouding her head, neck, and shoulders. Golden hair peeked out, striking, but her pale, almost translucent skin on her hands and face was more so.
Mitranis couldn't resist. Curiosity and a familiar pull urged him closer. He stopped before her, gazing intently. She was beautiful—a doll-like figure with pale skin and near-green eyes.
"Hello, lady… Your name?" Mitranis asked boldly, unafraid.
"Fia," she replied simply. "I sense you're no champion, nor one typically welcome at the Roundtable Hold. You're… like me, in a way. What brings one wreathed in Death here?"
Mitranis gave a wry smile. She had no right to speak thus, and he easily discerned her nature.
"Says the woman who siphons vitality from strong warriors for dying old men," he retorted. "I don't judge. But… I sense you were called here by Marika's Grace. I'm Mitranis, by the way."
"I suppose so, young one," Fia said, smiling. "If you know what I do… would you grant me an embrace? I know you're a killer, perhaps of Tarnished. Yet a strange warmth emanates from you. A marvelous warmth I've never felt."
Mitranis let out a short laugh, finding her ploy convincing. She likely had no noble to aid now. No harm in playing along.
"Alright," he said, stepping closer. "Don't drain too much of my vitality. I'm only doing this because you're beautiful."
Fia's smile mirrored his, indulging his flirtation. His charm was disarming. As he approached, their embrace was warm, strong—like that of a man accustomed to holding women. But that was secondary. Feeling his warmth, Fia froze, stunned.
Still, she caressed Mitranis' head, drawing him closer to her warm, ample chest. The sensation shifted from warmth to something primal—not merely physical, but tied to his essence, his soul, captivating her.
That fascination grew into a tingling in her chest, spreading downward. She felt vulnerable, more than with any man before.
"Isn't this embrace lasting a bit long?" Mitranis' voice broke through. "You'll drain all my warmth."
Fia started, reluctantly loosening her hold, though not fully. She kept him close, half-released.
"I don't understand my reasons… Forgive me," she said, finally letting go.
Mitranis met her gaze. Her expression held expectation, but also something deeper—admiration, perhaps adoration. Her cheeks flushed pink with shame and primal desire, her body tense, nervous, a sliver of her delicate, pale neck visible.
"Hey… I liked your embrace, I'll admit," Mitranis said, facing her. "But I hope I don't give hugs for free."
"It's not what you think," Fia said slowly, hesitantly. "I don't prolong embraces like this. I couldn't help it. If you refuse another in the future, I'll understand. Just… don't shut me out."
"Well, I won't deny you another hug next time we're here."
Fia smiled, a rare warmth in her expression. She hadn't expected this. What was this warmth? It stirred a strange nostalgia, as if for something unlived yet yearned for, perhaps tied to her purpose, to the being she now served.
Yet Mitranis was her opposite—not mere darkness, but something filling the void. A hidden light. A puzzle piece Fia was slowly assembling, using others to complete it. A piece offered freely, yet resistant to manipulation or seduction. The seductive Death wouldn't sway Mitranis—he carried it within. And that light…
"Hey!" Mitranis' voice snapped her back. "You seemed lost in thought."
"Sorry…" Fia's voice was barely audible. "I'd like another embrace."
"One per day," Mitranis teased, his flirtation brimming.
"Alright… But will you keep that promise?" Fia replied, nervous.
Why nervous? Fia was likely far older than Mitranis, with vast experience between the living and the dead. Yet his silly jest sent her heart racing, a tingling flush lingering despite her rubbing her thighs together.
"Well," Mitranis said, scratching his hair, "that depends on how long this Stormveil business takes."
Fia fell silent, a wave of sadness hitting her. She felt foolish. Never had she felt this, especially not so swiftly for a stranger. Something in Mitranis sparked this—a feeling like a lovesick youth, brimming with excitement and anticipation.
Suddenly, Hestia and Rogier entered. The sorcerer took in the scene—something intimate had passed. The Deathbed Companion had never looked at him as she now gazed at Mitranis.
"Hey, lad," Rogier said, keeping his composure. "We need to move soon. Hewg's a genius—he's already enhanced Hestia's sword."
"He's a master," Hestia added, pleased.
"Alright, let's go," Mitranis replied curtly.
"Take care, all of you," Fia said, her voice wavering. "Godrick will fall to your strength. I see it in your resolve."
Mitranis nodded toward Fia, signaling Hestia to approach.
"Fia would appreciate a hug," he said. "It helps her gain the vitality she needs."
"Fine," Hestia replied, unquestioning.
She quickly embraced the golden-haired woman in black veils. The hug was brief, as if neither desired it, though Hestia's strength and warmth marked her as a true Tarnished.
Hestia, Mitranis, and Rogier waved farewell to Fia. Rogier lingered, his gaze wary—not just of Fia's clear interest in Mitranis, but for the lad's safety. Fia brought only misfortune, without exception. Rogier knew this, yet his morbid curiosity about secrets beyond the Golden Order outweighed his caution. Curiosity could kill the cat, and Rogier was willing to risk it.