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Glory to my bum ass proofreader: Solare.
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The courtyard of Castle Morne looked alive again.
Smoke curled from braziers, torches burned low in their sconces, and the scent of sea salt mingled with the rich, hearty steam of stew and baked bread. The walls, still scarred from battle, gleamed faintly beneath the light of the torches.
Tables had been dragged out from the kitchens and lined the open space. Soldiers sat shoulder to shoulder with servants and townsfolk alike. Bandaged arms lifted mugs, children darted between barrels, and the exhausted smiles of the living warmed the chill air.
And when John and Melina stepped into the light of the fire, hand in hand, the courtyard quieted.
A murmur ran through the gathered crowd like wind through tall grass. The first to move was Edgar, Lord of Castle Morne. His armor had been polished clean, though its dents spoke volumes. He crossed the courtyard with deliberate steps, his one good eye fixed on John.
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Edgar reached forward, grasping John's forearm with both hands. His grip was firm, grounding.
"Sir Johnathan," he began, voice roughened with exhaustion and something heavier. "There are no words to measure what you've done for this place. If I had led that mission myself, half my men would have perished. The rest would have come back as hollow echoes of themselves."
John opened his mouth, but Edgar didn't let him interrupt.
"You bore the weight of that madness alone." He drew a breath that trembled slightly. "For that, I will be forever grateful. You saved Morne. You saved my people."
The surrounding soldiers murmured quietly. Some bowed their heads; others tapped their breastplates or offered nods of respect. The gratitude in the air was tangible, along with a quiet reverence.
Behind Edgar, another figure appeared. Millicent stood with her usual grin, though her eyes shone brighter than usual. And beside her, holding a small basket of bread in trembling hands, stood Irina.
When her blind senses found her father, then John, she smiled weakly. "Father said you would come back."
Edgar turned, his composure faltering for the first time. His hand found her shoulder, and he gave her a small, proud nod. "He did, child. And he kept his word."
The quiet between them felt sacred. John's lips parted, unsure how to respond, but Irina simply bowed her head. "Thank you, Sir Johnathan. For saving us both."
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, smiling. "Ah, it's… not 'Sir,' really. I just did what I had to. You don't need to knight me for that."
A few chuckles rippled through the gathered men. Even Edgar's stern mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile.
But then, the Castellan stepped back slightly. His expression shifted, growing solemn, purposeful. His hand drifted toward the small table behind him, where a long bundle lay wrapped in cloth and tied with red twine.
Melina noticed it too. Her hand tightened around John's.
"Hm? What's that?" John muttered under his breath.
From the corner of his vision, a faint shimmer flickered. Marika's voice brushed against his thoughts as he saw her lean against a nearby wall with arms crossed
"Be ready, mine Champion. The man prepares himself, a vow, or an offering of weight."
John's brow furrowed faintly. 'How can you tell?'
"Centuries of experience being a God-Queen," came her smug reply. "A man's posture always betrays his heart when he steels himself to kneel or pledge. Watch his hands."
John's eyes flicked to Edgar's fingers, trembling, flexing once, twice. She was right. He looked ready to swear something monumental.
"Johnathan…" Edgar began slowly, turning toward him with something like reverence in his gaze. "I would like to make-"
"Wait, wait, wait…" Millicent suddenly blurted. "Hold on."
The entire courtyard paused, all eyes swiveling to her.
She pointed dramatically at John and Melina's clasped hands, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Oh-ho-ho, what do we have here?"
John blinked. "Uh…"
Millicent rested her hand on her hip, feigning scandal. "You two finally confessed, didn't you?"
Melina went still. Her fingers twitched in his grasp, but John felt her try, and fail, to pull away. Her cheeks burned faintly pink, her composure visibly cracking.
John sighed. "Millicent-"
"Oh, don't you Millicent me! She has that adorable look on her face she always gets whenever she's thinking of you!" She interrupted gleefully. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for this? Patches owes me five thousand runes!"
"...Well, atleast I have that to look forward to the next time we visit the roundtable. Anything to get one over that bald cunt…" John muttered with a deadpan stare.
A few soldiers laughed at that, despite not knowing the context. Even Edgar's stern look cracked into amusement before he caught himself.
Melina lowered her head slightly, trying to hide her flushed face.
John smirked, leaning closer to Millicent with mock solemnity. "You're right, though. She's adorable when she's embarrassed."
Millicent grinned. "Finally! Someone else sees it!"
There was a sharp thud.
John doubled over, clutching his side. "Ow!"
Melina's elbow had found its mark with surgical precision.
Instantly, her eyes widened with comical horror. "Oh no! I-I forgot your wounds-!"
John coughed out a pained laugh, waving a hand. "N-No, no, I deserved that one. I'll live."
But she was already muttering a soft incantation, her hands glowing gold as she cast another healing spell over him. The light washed gently across his chest, warm and soothing. Her lips trembled faintly with relief when his breathing steadied.
Marika's amused voice hummed quietly in the back of his mind. "Ah, young affection. Equal parts tenderness and violence. 'Tis truly a family trait."
He ignored her.
Millicent cleared her throat, cheeks slightly pink now herself. "Right. So, before anyone else dies of secondhand embarrassment, food! Yes, food. Come on, Johnny."
She grabbed his hand and tugged gently toward the tables in the center of the courtyard. Melina followed close behind, still fretting, one hand hovering near his shoulder.
The tables were simple but full. Pots of onion stew steamed beside loaves of black bread. Salted fish, roots, and cheese sat beside watered wine and rough ale. It wasn't abundance, but it was life.
The people of Morne made space for him the moment he arrived. A grizzled soldier shuffled over on the bench, thumping the seat beside him with a calloused hand. "Sit, Sir Johnathan. You've earned the spot more than any of us."
Before he could protest the title, a serving woman pressed a steaming bowl of stew into his hands and dropped a hunk of bread on top for good measure.
"I hear you saved my husband," she said, voice bright with pride. "Dropped our honoured blade straight onto a monster from the heavens, they say."
John blinked, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. "That's… one way to describe it," he said, amused.
A man sitting nearby, her husband, judging by the matching grin, raised his cup in salute. "Doesn't matter how you did it. You brought us home alive. That's more than most could've done."
John shook his head lightly, returning the gesture. "Don't worry about it. Just glad you made it back to her."
The man chuckled, slinging an arm around his wife's shoulders. "So am I, Sir. So am I."
John smiled quietly and finally took a bite of the stew, letting the laughter and warmth of the people around him settle like a welcome weight in his chest.
Millicent sat nearby, grinning at the easy camaraderie. Even Melina smiled faintly, though she stayed close, quietly watching him eat as though afraid he might disappear again.
A small hand tugged at his sleeve. John looked down to see a child holding up a small, jagged pebble.
"Miss Millicent said you owed her a rock," the child said solemnly.
John blinked, then burst out laughing. "You know what? You're absolutely right." He took the pebble with mock reverence. "A debt repaid."
The little one giggled and ran off.
Irina sat across from him, sipping quietly from a wooden cup. Her voice was soft but clear when she finally spoke. "Your mercy and your wrath both saved us, Johnathan. Thank you."
John met her eyes and nodded, humbled. "Glad I could help, Irina."
Behind her, Edgar stood again, his gaze steady on John. The weight had returned to his expression, that earlier intent not yet forgotten.
"Eat, Johnathan," he said finally, his voice softer now, but no less resolute. "Tonight, we honor the living."
John nodded, dipping his bread into the broth. "Can't argue with that."
As the night deepened, the laughter swelled, food passed freely, and for the first time in days, warmth filled the bones of Castle Morne.
Marika's voice came softly through his thoughts, quieter now, almost fond.
"Behold what thou hast done, mine Champion. Bread, laughter, life. A simpler victory than slaying dragons… yet far more enduring."
John exhaled, watching Irina smile at her father.
"Yeah," he murmured, setting the pebble down beside his bowl. "Feels like it."
"Good," Marika whispered, her tone carrying the faintest smile.
…
The courtyard was beginning to quiet. The braziers burned low, the scent of spiced stew and roasted meat clinging to the sea breeze.
John leaned back on his bench with a groan of satisfaction, seven empty bowls stacked proudly beside him like trophies of war. The eighth, half-eaten, sat in his hands, steam curling lazily upward.
Millicent stared in disbelief from across the table. "You're going to bankrupt the kitchen, you know that?"
He scooped another mouthful and spoke around it. "Hey, hero metabolism. You burn a god's madness out of your system, you work up an appetite."
Melina shook her head beside him, hiding a faint smile. "At this rate, you'll need a rune arc just to digest."
John smirked. "Worth it."
But the easy humor faded when movement caught his eye.
From the far end of the courtyard, Lord Edgar approached, tall, solemn, his cloak trailing behind him. Two soldiers followed closely at his flanks, both bearing something long and heavy wrapped in crimson cloth.
The crowd's noise dimmed as they passed. Soldiers straightened instinctively; servants paused mid-step, watching.
Edgar stopped before John's table, the torchlight glinting across his cleaned armor. His single eye studied the younger man with quiet gravity.
"Johnathan," he said, his tone deep and measured. "May I ask you something?"
John set down his spoon, already sensing the weight in the man's words. "Shoot."
Edgar's gaze did not waver. "Do you intend to seek the title of Elden Lord? To go after the Demigods who still hold dominion over these lands and claim their Great Runes for your own?"
The question rippled through the courtyard like a drop into still water.
The laughter died. Every soldier, every servant, every survivor turned to look at him. The only sound was the whisper of the wind through the broken banners.
John didn't bother to hide his grin. "Yeah," he said, leaning back casually. "That's the plan."
He pushed his empty bowl aside and folded his arms, his smirk widening. "I'm going to reclaim every last shard of the Elden Ring, piece by piece. And I'm starting with Godrick the Runt. Planning to take his Great Rune off his cooling corpse in a few days."
For a heartbeat, they were all frozen in shock, then came the collective gasp and whispers.
Melina's single visible eye flicked toward him, both impressed and worried. Millicent, meanwhile, was grinning ear to ear.
But Edgar, Edgar only stared for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
"I see," the Lord of Morne said at last, his voice proud and steady. "Then you are truly the one we've waited for. A champion of destiny. One who will heal what was broken and unite the Lands Between, as Lord Godfrey once did in the golden age."
He turned slightly, snapping his fingers.
The two soldiers stepped forward in unison, kneeling before John. Together, they laid the crimson-wrapped object on the ground and drew back the fabric with reverent care.
The torchlight caught on the metal.
There, gleaming and restored, lay the Grafted Blade Greatsword. Its surface was polished to a mirror sheen, the intricate grafted steel shining like silver. The runes carved into its blade pulsed faintly with power.
John's eyes widened as the faint hum of the system thrummed in his vision:
[Grafted Blade Greatsword +6]
He blinked. "You're kidding me."
Edgar smiled faintly, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "This sword has been the sacred treasure of my family for generations. It is a symbol of our oath to protect the Weeping Peninsula. We guarded it for centuries, awaiting the day a true champion would rise again."
He knelt then, lowering his head, one hand pressed firmly over his heart.
"And so, I pledge it, and all that I am, to you, Johnathan. Savior of Morne. Future Elden Lord."
The courtyard stilled as Edgar's voice deepened, each word carrying the weight of an oath that transcended house and title.
"By blood and by banner, by the flame that lights this fortress and the sea that shields it, I, Edgar of House Morne, swear my fealty to you. My clan, my men, and the Weeping Peninsula itself shall stand with you. In war and in peace, in faith and in shadow. You have given us hope when we had none. Now, that hope is yours to command."
The soldiers behind him lowered their heads, armor clattering softly against stone. One by one, others followed, soldiers, knights, retainers, and finally servants.
The wave of reverence spread outward like fire on oil. The kitchen staff dropped to one knee. The stable hands, the healers, even wounded men sitting with bandaged limbs leaned forward and bowed their heads.
Even the civilians, the weary, dirt-covered people who had lost family and home, knelt of their own accord.
The air was thick with awe. For a moment, John couldn't even breathe.
He turned his head slightly and whispered under his breath, "What the hell do I do now?"
Marika's voice came sharp and amused in his mind. "Thou accept it, fool. Do not waste this opportunity like a dumbass."
John winced. 'Language, Your Holiness.'
"Do not test me, mine Champion. Repeat after me before thou makes an even greater fool of thyself."
He stood slowly, every eye on him. The firelight cast gold across his face, and for a heartbeat, he almost looked regal.
Marika's whisper curled like silk behind his thoughts. "Say: 'Rise, people of Morne. Thy courage is my strength, thy loyalty my oath.'"
He took a deep breath. "Rise, people of Morne," he said, his voice steadier than he expected. "Your courage is my strength… and your loyalty, my oath."
The crowd stirred faintly, eyes lifting toward him.
"I don't know if I'm what you think I am," he continued, the words his own now; with pointers from Marika, of course. "But I do know this: No kingdom, no god, and definitely no so-called demigod is going to stop me from fixing what they broke."
His gaze swept across them, soldiers, servants, children, all. "The world's been rotting for too long. If you'll stand with me, then I'll make sure your faith isn't wasted. I'll make sure your children grow up under sunlight again."
A murmur ran through the crowd, one not of disbelief, but something that felt like a fairy tail to most in recent times.
Hope.
Marika's tone softened, nearly proud. "Well spoken, mine Champion. Thou hast done more than claim their blades, thou hast claimed their hearts."
One by one, the people of Morne rose. Not in unison, but together nonetheless, heads lifting toward the stars above.
Edgar's voice carried once more, booming with newfound strength. "Then let it be known throughout the Weeping Peninsula, from this night onward, House Morne stands with the future Elden Lord!"
The courtyard erupted. Cheers rose, armor clashed, and voices lifted his name. The flame of Morne burned bright again.
Millicent whooped, clapping him on the shoulder. "Well look at that, Lord Johnny! Got yourself a fan club now."
John laughed weakly, rubbing his temple. "Please don't call me that."
Melina just smiled, quiet and radiant, watching the scene unfold beside him with a flush she couldn't hide. "You did well."
In the corner of his mind, Marika's chuckle echoed, it sounded low, proud, and full of satisfaction. "Aye… thou did. And so begins the march of a true Lord."
John exhaled slowly, looking around at the people, his people now, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
"…Guess there's no going back now." He murmured.
"There never was." Marika whispered back, almost fondly.
He took a deep breath, raising a hand for quiet. The voices slowly died down, all eyes turning to him again.
"Alright," he said, his voice carrying easily across the courtyard. "That's enough of the bowing and solemn looks. Tonight isn't about gods, or thrones, or even me. It's about all of you still breathing."
"So, go ahead. Party. Eat until you can't move. Drink until you start seeing double. We'll rebuild and worry about the future tomorrow. But tonight?" he lifted one of the mugs from a nearby table, raising it high, "Tonight we celebrate being alive!"
For a moment, the crowd was silent. Then, the courtyard erupted.
Mugs clashed, laughter broke loose, and even the most battle-hardened soldiers grinned like children. Someone struck up a tune on a battered flute, another began clapping to the rhythm. Soon, the whole place came alive.
'There,' John thought, watching the joy spread. 'That's better.'
Marika's voice echoed in his mind, dry yet faintly pleased. "A fine decree. Few rulers begin their reign with merriment instead of mandates."
'Yeah, well, I've had enough seriousness for one lifetime,' he replied silently, taking a long swig. 'Might as well remind everyone that we're not corpses yet.'
He barely got the words out before a soldier approached, carrying something massive and wrapped in crimson cloth. The others parted around him instinctively, reverence following in his wake.
The soldier lowered the bundle before John, bowing once before stepping back. The crimson cloth unfurled, and the steel beneath caught the firelight like liquid silver.
The Grafted Blade Greatsword gleamed, every rune polished, every jagged graft reforged smooth. It looked… whole. Powerful. Hungry.
John stepped closer, running a hand along its length. The sword practically hummed beneath his palm, the raw strength radiating from it making his arm tingle.
He wrapped his hand around the hilt and hefted it without struggling, but grimacing as the weight settled in his grip. He gave it an experimental swing, the air whistling, the ground vibrating faintly from the impact.
Then he sighed. "This thing's a beast, no question."
"And yet thou art dissatisfied." Marika's voice noted, amused.
'Yeah,' he admitted, resting the blade point-down. 'I can use it fine, but it's ugly as sin and handles like a drunk troll. Too unbalanced, too clumsy. The power's good, great even. But it's wasted if it feels this awkward to swing.'
"Hmph. Didn't expect you of all people to act a perfectionist. Mine champion." she mused. "But thy instinct is correct. Such a weapon was not crafted for grace, but intimidation. If thou wouldst rather harness its might without wielding it… I might provide a solution."
John looked up slightly, one eyebrow raised. 'You've got my attention.'
"With proper components," she continued, her tone turning scholarly, "I could guide thee through a rite to bind the weapon's essence into a talisman. Its ability would remain thine, unburdened by its bulk. But I would require a cauldron of tempered steel and rare reagents."
John whistled softly. 'Got a feeling it won't be easy.'
"If it were easy, fool, every corpse in the Lands Between would wield divine artifacts."
'Alright, fair.' He chuckled softly and wiped a bit of soot from the blade before setting it aside. 'We'll keep that one on the to-do list.'
He turned toward Edgar, who stood nearby speaking with a few of his captains. The man noticed immediately and approached, posture straight as a lance.
"Lord Johnathan," he began with a deep bow, "what would you have of us next?"
John cringed slightly. "You don't need to keep calling me that, Edgar."
Edgar smiled, utterly unbothered. "I'm afraid I do, Milord."
John groaned. "Of course you do."
Millicent stifled a laugh. "It suits you, you know."
Melina's lips curved faintly. "Quite fitting, I'd say."
John gave both women an unimpressed glare. "Traitors, the lot of you."
He sighed, turning back to Edgar. "Fine. If you're going to be formal, I might as well make it worth the effort. There's something I need you to start looking for: Golden Seeds and Sacred Tears. You can usually find them around exposed Erdtree roots or Golden Order churches."
Edgar nodded attentively. "I can have my men begin the search. Though I confess, I do not know their purpose."
"They can be used to enhance sacred flasks, Tear Flasks to be more precise." John explained. "They'll make healing faster and stronger, and if you find a perfumer or alchemist who knows what they're doing, you can even use the seeds to brew emergency battlefield tonics. Might save a few lives."
Edgar's eyes widened with awe. "Remarkable. Such wisdom… I see why the Erdtree favors you."
John rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, that's definitely the reason."
"Liar." Marika murmured, amusement dripping from her tone. "Though thy modesty is strangely endearing."
John coughed lightly and pressed on. "There's another thing. You know the southern villages, right? The ones near Mistwood and Agheel Lake? And Fort Haight?"
"I do," Edgar confirmed. "We've traded with them for years. Why do you ask?"
John paused for a moment, conversing silently with the divine voice in his head.
'Marika, what's your read?'
"Those settlements lie within reach of multiple demigod territories." She replied calmly. "If that fraudulent 'Demigod' thou callst Godrick or any other one of my children turns their eyes southward, they will burn first. The Peninsula, by contrast, is fertile and defensible. Draw them here. Consolidate."
'You make it sound easy.'
'It is when one knows the map by heart.'
John nodded slightly and looked back at Edgar. "I want you to contact them. The people at Fort Haight, the villagers around Mistwood and Agheel Lake, tell them to relocate here to the Peninsula. It's safer, there's more farmland, plenty of clean water. It'll give them a real chance."
Edgar's face lit up with something between astonishment and reverence. "You already planned for this…"
"Let's just say I've been thinking ahead." He replied with a wry smile, his eyes trailing towards the breathtakingly beautiful Goddess lounging just behind the knight on a cloud of Grace.
'Mostly because you've been whispering in my ear,' he added mentally.
'And doing so brilliantly,' she replied sweetly.
Edgar turned, snapping his fingers to summon several officers. "At first light, we'll begin preparations. Scouts will send word north and west to Fort Haight. If they move quickly, the first caravans could arrive within a fortnight."
He turned back and bowed deeply once more. "Do you wish anything else, my lord?"
John waved a hand dismissively. "Tomorrow's fine. Everyone deserves a night to breathe. But since you're already organizing things, see if your scouts can check for mineable caves around the Peninsula. Iron, silver, anything. It'll help arm your men."
Edgar nodded so fast it was almost comical. "As expected of you, Lord Johnathan! Your foresight is unmatched!"
John eyebrow twitched, internally deadpan. '…I-is that you, Demiurge?'
Marika paused, then hummed curiously. "Demiurge?"
'Yeah,' he sighed mentally. 'A character from this old world show called Overlord. Genius tactician type, always flattering his boss to terrifying degrees.'
"Ah…" Her voice sharpened with sudden amusement, taking the liberty to scan his surface thoughts to understand the gist of what he was speaking of. "...So thou meanest to say these men treat thee as if thou wert their dark god?"
'Pretty much.'
She laughed then, a sound that warmed the corners of his mind. "How poetic. A mortal reborn as Lord, attended by loyal zealots. I rather like this comparison."
'Yeah, well, I don't. It's weird.'
"And yet they adore thee. Accept it. They will eat from thy hand if thou allow it."
John exhaled slowly. 'Uh-huh… Great. Fanatical devotion. Just what I needed.'
He clapped Edgar lightly on the shoulder. "Alright, that's enough for today. Go. Relax. Drink something before you start building a shrine in my name."
Edgar smiled, saluted, and bowed once again. "As you wish, Milord."
John narrowed his eyes. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"
"Of course, Milord."
Millicent burst out laughing. Melina covered her mouth, trying, and failing, to hide a smile.
John groaned. "I'm never living this down."
Edgar laughed heartily as he turned away, calling orders to his men about preparations for tomorrow. The courtyard filled once more with the sounds of music and celebration, the heavy air of the past few days finally beginning to lift.
John watched them go for a moment, hands resting loosely at his sides. The torches flickered against his face, painting him half in light, half in shadow.
'You know,' he thought quietly, 'for all the insanity… this doesn't feel too bad.'
Marika's voice softened, the faintest pride threading through her tone.
"Enjoy it while it lasts, mine Champion. Tomorrow begins the road to Stormveil, and thy first true trial as would-be Lord."
He smiled faintly, eyes drifting toward the stars above the ruined walls.
'Yeah,' he murmured to himself. 'Guess it is about time I picked a fight with a demigod.'
The music around him began to mellow to low strings and laughter, the earlier chaos fading into contentment. The night air was warm, rich with the smell of roasted meat and sea salt, the hum of celebration wrapping Castle Morne in a rare, gentle peace.
John sat at one of the long tables near the fire, surrounded by the faint glow of lanterns and the sound of clinking mugs. Millicent leaned back against the bench beside him, animatedly recounting to the nearby listeners about some insane story about their journey, while Melina listened with quiet amusement. Every now and then, John added some teasing remark, earning a halfhearted glare and a laugh from the two women.
Far across the courtyard, Irina sat quietly beneath the shadow of a half-crumbling archway, hands folded in her lap. The faint smile on her lips carried something wistful.
'You're a fool, Johnathan,' she thought softly, the sounds of laughter drifting toward her like a memory. 'But an honest one. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised everyone wants to take your side, as do I…'
Her fingers brushed over her unseeing eyes, covered by a pale cloth. 'What kind of man are you, I wonder? What's the color of your hair? The shape of your eyes? What does your smile look like?'
She tilted her head slightly toward the sound of his voice, the easy laugh, the warmth in his tone when he spoke to his companions.
'What a pity,' she thought. 'I wish I could use these eyes one last time to see the face of a man like you. I'm sure it's filled to the brim with kindness.'
She stood, smoothing her simple dress, her fingers trembling just slightly. Then she turned toward him.
John noticed her only when the laughter around the table quieted. Irina approached slowly, guided by sound and memory, her steps steady despite the blindness.
"Johnathan," she said softly. "May I have a word?"
He blinked, surprised, then smiled and rose from his seat. "Of course. Lead the way."
They walked a short distance away, toward the far end of the courtyard where the walls met the open sky. The sea's murmur echoed faintly beyond the ramparts. Melina and Millicent exchanged glances, curiosity flickering between them. Without a word, they each took a glass of wine from the table and wandered just far enough to observe without intruding.
John leaned against the stone, arms crossed loosely. "What's on your mind?"
Irina turned toward him, her expression calm, composed in a way that only came from acceptance.
"...I'm not stupid," she said softly. "I know what kind of man you are, and what kind you'll become. You'll go far beyond anything someone like me could ever reach. And that's fine."
She paused, a faint tremor of emotion running through her tone. "But… if only for this small moment, I want to be selfish. Just once."
He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but she stepped closer, close enough that he could see the soft curve of her smile, the faint pink on her cheeks.
Then she leaned in.
The kiss was brief, feather-light, but full of quiet sincerity. Her lips trembled slightly against his, it felt like a thank you, a confession, and a farewell all in one.
When she pulled away, John stood frozen, eyes wide, brain struggling to catch up. Behind them, both Melina and Millicent gawked in stunned silence, Melina's wine glass hovering midair.
Irina's smile deepened gently. "Thank you," she whispered. "I always wished, as a little girl, that my first kiss would be with a strong, brave knight. You helped me make that childhood dream come true."
She stepped back, bowing her head. "Thank you for saving my life, my father's life, and our people. You've given us hope again."
Before he could speak, she turned gracefully and walked away, her steps measured and sure, the faint glow of torchlight tracing her silhouette until she disappeared into the crowd.
John remained where he stood, blinking. "…What just happened?"
Millicent tilted her head from where she stood, wine in hand. "You okay, Melina? Because if I'm confused, I can't imagine what's going through your head right now."
Melina pursed her lips tightly, her expression somewhere between disbelief and irritation. "Johnathan is a mad, wonderful bastard of a man," she muttered. "I figured other women would try to… you know…"
Millicent raised an eyebrow. "Flirt with him? Steal him from you? Confess undying love for him?"
Melina glared. "…Yes. That." She sighed heavily, staring into her wine. "I accepted that. Made peace with it. I just didn't expect it to happen so soon."
She promptly downed the entire glass in one go.
Millicent blinked, watching her with concern. "So… why do you look so annoyed and jealous then?"
Melina turned her head slowly, her single visible eye blazing with quiet, divine irritation, the kind that made Millicent instinctively brace herself for impact.
Then Melina sighed again, snatched the glass of wine out of Millicent's hand, and muttered under her breath, "Just because I accepted it doesn't mean I have to like it."
She drained that one too, turned sharply, and began walking back toward the main courtyard, her steps fast and deliberate.
Millicent blinked twice, then muttered under her breath, "Okay, note to self: never stand between that woman and her wine."
John finally turned back toward them just in time to see Melina storming away with that unmistakable tsundere gleam in her eye. He groaned softly.
'Well,' he thought, 'this is gonna bite me in the ass later.'
Marika's laughter filled his mind, he could see her double over in laughter upon her spectral cloud in the distance. "Oh, indeed. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and all that. The famed Champion of Grace, breaker of monsters and hearts alike. A womaniser through circumstance, how delightfully predictable."
He sighed aloud, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't even do anything this time."
"And yet the result remains the same. Truly, thou art cursed with charm. It's just as you claimed after all, are you not glad~?"
"Women being into me is almost never a bad thing. The timing in which they make that known however…" he muttered.
He glanced once more toward the direction Melina had gone, her reddish brown hair disappearing into the crowd, and exhaled deeply. 'Guess I'll have to make it up to her somehow.'
"A wise decision," Marika purred. "Mayhap with fewer kisses from blind maidens next time."
John groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "...You're never gonna let me live this down either, are you?"
"Not on thy life."
He sighed at that, running a hand through his hair with a crooked grin.
"At least this time," he muttered to no one in particular, "I got a kiss from a cute girl out of it."
Millicent, still hovering nearby with her empty wine glass, barked out a laugh and clapped him hard on the back. "That's the least of your worries, big guy."
Before he could ask what she meant, she was already gone, darting off into the crowd after Melina, still chuckling under her breath.
'She's right, you know,' Marika's amused voice chimed in his head, golden and lilting. 'If mine daughter is anything like me, and she is, then she's brewing with annoyance and seeking wine to drown it. And if my memory serves, and nothing's changed since last I saw her… she hasn't the highest tolerance for drink.'
John groaned softly. "…Fun."
Marika's laughter echoed warmly in his mind, fading into gentle amusement. "Enjoy it while it lasts, mine Champion. But do take it easy for the day. Thou still hast several hours before thy wounds mend fully, and the debuff upon thee fades."
He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing faintly as his fingers brushed against the faint sting of half-healed burns. "Yeah, well, it's too bad your Grace can't just instantly fix it."
"My Grace stops its spread and hastens its healing," she replied evenly, though there was a wistful lilt in her tone. "Were I free, however… it would be a different story."
John's lips curved into a small smirk. "Yeah? Well, don't you worry. I'll be working on that soon enough."
There was a pause, then a faint, genuine warmth colored her voice. "I'm counting on it, mine Champion."
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Author's Note:
GIVE ME YOUR STONES
Next chapter we finally fight Margit, after…
Oh shit, we passed 207k words?
Uhhh… Congrats everyone! Ws in the chat, I guess!
ANYWAYS!
17 chapters of the new MHA fic have been written so far, I'll upload it sometime next week I think. Fingers crossed, right?
Although, I have to say, the fic won't be uploaded here at the same time as the other sites unfortunately. I don't want to subject myself to the Webnovel algorithm, so I need stack up more chapters before I upload here.
When I do start uploading, I'll let y'all know and start mass updating so this site will catch up to the rest.
Of course, if you don't want to wait, join my Discord and read the new fic on my 3 other sites (FF.net, AO3, and QQ).
…
Next Chapter Title: Margit, The Fell Omen.
…
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