The trio had returned to Limgrave, skirting paths through ruins to avoid the heavily guarded direct route patrolled by Godrick the Golden's soldiers. Better to avoid attention, though they'd eventually face the soldiers and knights at the castle's gates.
As they traversed a dense forest along a western path leading to the ascent toward the demigod's stronghold, they came upon a small cabin. Its most striking feature was the Site of Grace glowing at its entrance.
Naturally, Hestia approached the cabin to touch the Site of Grace, restoring her strength and empowering herself with runes earned from defeating wild creatures and demi-humans.
As she did so, a figure emerged from the cabin—a robust warrior in silver armor adorned with intricate patterns, suggesting importance or great strength. His face, unhelmed, was martial yet serene, with long hair tied in a ponytail and a neatly trimmed beard. His gaze swept over the group, a smile forming as it lingered on Hestia and Mitranis.
"Well, now!" he exclaimed, approaching. "It's not often I have the pleasure of visitors."
Mitranis sighed, striving to maintain composure. This man was a familiar figure—a significant one. But for now, it was best to play ignorant.
"Good afternoon, sir," Hestia said kindly. "I'm Hestia, joined by this young man, Mitranis, and this sorcerer, Rogier. A pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure's mine, miss… a Tarnished, yes?" the man replied.
"Your guess is correct," Hestia said. "You must've noticed the glint in my eyes. Were you once a Tarnished too?"
"Indeed, Hestia. Long ago, I was. Now I honor the warriors who came to the Lands Between and fell pursuing the same goal as you. I've witnessed their strength and skill, each with admirable prowess. I pass on their techniques."
"That's a noble purpose, I must say," Hestia replied, smiling. "May I know your name, if I might?"
"Oh, my apologies," the man said, smiling. "I'm Bernahl. A pleasure to meet you all."
Mitranis fought to keep his expression neutral. Hestia remained cheerful, while Rogier eyed Bernahl warily—too warily. He seemed to recall rumors about this man: a warrior who nearly claimed the title of Lord, stopped only by the ultimate sin—burning the Erdtree.
"Well, Bernahl," Hestia said, eager, "if it's not too much to ask, could you show us some of those techniques?"
Mitranis' gaze bore into her. She noticed but couldn't fathom why. Rogier, observing their silent exchange, spoke up.
"I'll pass on witnessing this warrior's techniques," Rogier said. "Heavy weapons like your Zweihänder aren't my style."
"I know techniques for various weapons, even shields," Bernahl said, his smile faintly forced. "But I understand if you're not interested. I imagine this young man would like to learn alongside Hestia."
"I suppose so, sir," Mitranis replied curtly.
"That's the spirit, though it seems you're agreeing to please the lady. That's kind of you," Bernahl said. "Let's begin, then."
Bernahl led the group into the cabin and out through its back door to a rustic training area. Practice dummies stood ready, with an array of weapons—daggers, short and long swords, greatswords, axes, spears, and more—resting on a wooden rack.
"What weapon do you favor, Hestia?" Bernahl asked, gesturing to the options.
"I specialize in the long sword, like the one I carry," she replied.
"I can see you wield a knight's sword from Raya Lucaria," Bernahl said. "Don't tell me you're from the Academy."
"No," Hestia said. "This sword's been passed down through generations until someone was called by Grace. As you see, that's me."
Bernahl smiled. Basic steps—handling Hestia's weapon, testing her form on the dummies—seemed unnecessary. He'd go straight to combat. This became clear as he took a long sword from the rack.
"Let's skip dull demonstrations," Bernahl said, eyeing his blade. "You'll learn these techniques best in combat. I'll be instructive, I swear."
Instructive meant gentle, if Bernahl could temper his strength. To Mitranis' surprise, he did. The sparring was slow, Bernahl narrating his actions and emphasizing how his stance drove each move.
Hestia faced the challenge of observing, mimicking, and enduring attacks that seemed slow but carried restrained, overwhelming force. Her muscles strained to match them.
"You're quite skilled, Hestia," Bernahl said suddenly. "I admire your agility. Your strength needs work, but your reflexes are perfect for these techniques."
"Strength?" Hestia panted. "Maybe you're just too strong."
Mitranis stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Bernahl.
"He's right, Hestia," Mitranis said gravely. "We'll face a creature with multiple limbs. If need be, Godrick will wield immense strength. We can't afford to be overconfident."
Mitranis' bluntness grated on Hestia. Her glare was sharp, cheeks flushing with anger—and something else.
"You think you know everything and have all the strength," she snapped. "I hate your arrogance."
"Ha!" Bernahl laughed, amused. "What a fine pair you make."
"Don't say more, please," Mitranis replied.
His voice held seriousness but also a hint of familiarity with Bernahl. Hestia sensed it instinctively but couldn't grasp its meaning. Perhaps it was her imagination.
"Now, Hestia, let's learn a key technique for foes far larger and stronger than you," Bernahl said, returning his long sword and taking a greatsword—not as massive as a Zweihänder but still heavy. He wielded it with absurd ease, smiling as he approached Hestia, who drew her Carian Knight's Sword.
"Hmm… your sword should withstand this technique," Bernahl said, grinning. "Try blocking my attack, alright?"
Mitranis stepped beside Hestia, turning his back to her, his expression one of clear irritation, almost a challenge.
"Let Hestia observe your technique first, if it's what I think," Mitranis said. "I doubt she can withstand that attack."
Bernahl laughed. He laughed because Mitranis was showing a protectiveness he'd never expected from his secret pupil. And he laughed because Hestia likely felt belittled, which Mitranis ignored in his urge to shield her. The master's words to his student surfaced, slowly.
"Why think she can't handle my attack?" Bernahl asked, handing the greatsword to Mitranis and taking another. "You'll sort it out with her later. But she'll block this attack too, mark my words."
Bernahl stepped back, gaining enough distance to charge Mitranis. He didn't walk—he lunged, covering three meters in a single stride. Planting his right knee in a firm stance, a dense aura of energy surged. Then, a powerful, merciless vertical slash aimed straight at Mitranis.
The Recusant's block was swift but strained, barely containing the strike. He dissipated Bernahl's force by retreating with a small leap backward. It was clear: Mitranis was right. This Ash of War was monstrous.
"This Ash of War is called 'Stamp and Upward Cut,'" Bernahl explained, resting his greatsword's blade on the ground, hands on its hilt. "Not the most creative name, but its power speaks for itself. Think you can handle it, Hestia?"
Hestia paused. She couldn't boast immediate confidence. The attack's concentrated force was immense. The stamp required precision, belying its brute appearance. The vertical cut demanded grace cloaked in ferocity. Mitranis mimicked Bernahl, resting his greatsword similarly—a subtle clue unnoticed.
"Better if Hestia learns a technique focused on dexterity over brute strength," Mitranis said, his tone serious but less irritated. "Know the Piercing Thrust? That might suit her better."
"You're right, lad," Bernahl replied cheerfully. "What say you, Hestia?"
"I'll learn both," Hestia said, her voice laced with defiance. "I won't let others decide for me. I'll try the thrust first, to warm up for the vertical cut."
"So be it."
The Piercing Thrust demanded focus on posture, lower limbs, sword stance, and leg strength. It leveraged the body's momentum, distributing force to reduce reliance on raw power. The Carian sword's tip could withstand the thrust. Blocking it, however, required Hestia's shield.
The same was true for the vertical cut. While Mitranis blocked Bernahl's strike with the greatsword, Hestia could only parry it with her Cuckoo Knight's Shield. Yet Mitranis' deft dissipation of Bernahl's attack—shifting backward just enough—proved invaluable to her.
The afternoon wore on as Hestia practiced. Her vertical cut retained the technique but lacked the strength for now. The Piercing Thrust, however, she mastered in a single afternoon.
"You've got talent, Hestia," Bernahl said, returning his long sword. "The vertical cut needs more practice, but the thrust came easily. Don't let this lad overprotect you, though."
"It wasn't overprotection," Mitranis said, irritation flaring. "It's fair to say Hestia wouldn't withstand your full demonstration."
"She has potions and such to recover," Bernahl retorted, his tone hardening, almost menacing.
Mitranis gestured with defiance and frustration, then stormed off. Hestia watched, increasingly puzzled. It truly seemed they knew each other.
Night fell, and Bernahl convinced the group to stay. Inside the cabin, Hestia curled up against a wall, wrapped in blankets, and fell asleep almost instantly, exhausted from training.
Rogier studied his rapier, visibly uneasy, as Mitranis noticed. Whether it was a thought or physical discomfort wasn't clear—perhaps both. Mitranis gazed at his dagger, chosen to distance himself from what his master had taught him.
Bernahl was outside, Mitranis knew. Minutes later, the lad found the warrior at the forest's edge, a hundred meters from the cabin.
"Here I am, Bernahl," Mitranis said dryly.
"So, you've found her."
"What are you on about?" Mitranis snapped, irritated. "Don't start with your tales."
"Don't be a fool," Bernahl said, his tone stern and threatening. "You're the one playing the prodigal son. I'm not your father, Mitranis. We're meant to fight together."
"I don't want you as a father either," Mitranis retorted, his voice conflicted. "I don't know if Hestia is—or will be—the one you spoke of, Bernahl. It's too soon."
"It's not about time," Bernahl said, lifting a colossal weapon from the ground, as if awaiting the lad. "Nor reason. It's conviction that speaks for you. You didn't kill her and instead joined her for a reason."
Mitranis knew what followed when Bernahl spoke thus. The warrior hefted his true weapon: a massive, strange hammer. A metal serpent coiled around it, a symbol—strangling the hammer's body up to its head, where it formed a depiction of the world. A serpent devouring the world.
Only Mitranis knew, but that was Bernahl's sign. He lived for it.