Edgar's thrown halberd smashed into the envoy, slamming him to the ground. His cloak was torn apart by the raging storm, and the armor on his back was instantly scratched and scored. Unfortunately, the sudden strike hadn't carried the full weight of Edgar's strength—had it done so, the envoy would have been pinned to the earth then and there.
Edgar vaulted from the wall, landing squarely atop the bodies of hybrid corpses. The grisly mound cushioned his fall, allowing him to plant himself firmly between Lucian and their assailant. The envoy scrambled to his feet, retreating several paces to widen the gap between them.
Retrieving his halberd, Edgar spoke without turning his head—his eyes locked on the man before him. He had heard what the envoy said earlier, and now understood the blind girl mentioned could only be Irina.
"Irina… is she well?" he asked.
Lucian understood the question was for him. "She's outside the castle walls for now. She should be safe, at least for a while," he replied. "But the man in front of you, along with his companions, infiltrated Castle Morne and started this rebellion. Irina was one of their targets."
Edgar gave a curt nod. He had already suspected there was more to the uprising—no rabble of misbegotten could organize themselves so neatly without guidance. But he hadn't imagined that Irina would be one of the intended victims. Now that the mastermind stood before him, there was no need for further words.
Clutching the Sacred Seal in his left hand, Edgar called forth golden light. Radiance pooled around him, rippling across the ground in faint waves. The envoy, recognizing the preparation of an incantation, pulled a black crossbow from his belt and fired. But Edgar was ready—one sweep of his halberd sent the bolt spinning harmlessly aside.
The incantation completed, and Lucian felt his bleeding cease as fresh flesh began to knit over his wounds. It was no miracle—only the simplest of healing incantations.
Heal.
The moment the spell was finished, Edgar gripped his halberd with both hands and charged. The envoy spun his Twinblades, catching the halberd's shaft with one blade to deflect part of the force, then reversed the motion, bringing the opposite blade around to catch the axe head. For a heartbeat, he thought the castle commander might not be as fearsome as he seemed.
Then the halberd exploded with a burst of storm, slicing shallow cuts across his face. The envoy recoiled, eyes squeezing shut to protect them. Edgar began to spin his weapon, the storm answering his call. The halberd's sweep fed the wind, building speed until, with a roar, he swung it sideways toward his foe.
The envoy had barely opened his eyes when the steel came within arm's reach. In desperation, he raised his Twinblades to block. The blow struck like a thunderclap, hurling him bodily into the wall. He spat blood, his hands trembling so violently he nearly lost his grip on the weapon. The iron blade was bent nearly in half.
Sweat streamed down the envoy's face. Unlike his fellow—a master of assassination incantations—he was a front-line fighter who used the crossbow for harassment. Yet this unassuming lord was suppressing him utterly.
Edgar's assault did not falter. He leapt high, wind swirling about him, carrying him forward in a storm-propelled rush. His halberd lunged for the envoy. The man rolled desperately aside; the weapon bit deep into the ground, leaving a crater. The instant it struck, the storm burst again, breaking his escape and tossing him away.
Wrenching the halberd free, Edgar spun with the motion, swinging in a great arc from above. Flat on his back, the envoy barely raised his weapon in time to block. The halberd's blade sheared the Twinblades clean in two, biting into his shoulder and severing his left arm at the root.
"Aaagh!" he screamed, blood gushing in torrents. In that moment of agony, his gaze fixed on Edgar's armor. There was no helm, and the dragon horns on the pauldrons were gone—but that cold silver plating… it was unmistakably the armor of a Banished Knight.
No wonder. A Banished Knight was a warrior of the highest order.
Edgar raised his weapon again, this time aiming for the other arm. He didn't intend to kill—yet. There were questions to be answered.
But before the strike could fall, a cloud of fine powder billowed into his face, blinding him instantly.
From the edge of the courtyard, the final companion made his move.
The envoy seized the chance, staggering upright and pulling a single crimson flask from his belt—the only Flask of Crimson Tears given to them by the Two Fingers themselves.
To Lucian's surprise, the newcomer wore not armor but a heavy yellow apron embroidered with the sigil of the Erdtree—mark of a Perfumer, a master of rare herbal craft.
"…A Perfumer," Edgar muttered, lowering the arm that shielded his eyes. The powder seemed meant only to obscure vision, not harm.
The envoy, emboldened by his ally's arrival, barked, "What are you standing there for? Bring him with you!"
But the perfumer only fixed him with a cold glare. "You lured me and Singh here under the guise of freeing the misbegotten—only to commit such senseless slaughter," he said. "We have no further reason to take your orders. Saving you just now was the last mercy I will grant."
Lucian recalled a special Spirit Ash from his journeys—Perfumer Tricia, who devoted herself to healing Misbegotten, Omen, and other accursed. This man, it seemed, was of the same path. Singh… could only be the name of the Leonine Misbegotten.
And indeed, a massive Leonine Misbegotten now dropped down from the wall, an Iron Greatsword in hand. He planted it in the ground beside the Perfumer.
Edgar frowned. The two factions no longer appeared united—but Singh's presence set his instincts on edge. Sword lowered or not, the beast was dangerous.
Then, before Edgar could speak, the perfumer fell to one knee, bowing his head.
"I am Evan, a perfumer who once studied under Master Tricia. I inherited her will—to see misbegotten freed from oppression. In my travels, I met Singh, a like-minded soul."
"He told me that in Castle Morne, misbegotten were tortured and slaughtered in great numbers, awaiting rescue. We came to free them."
"But once unshackled, hundreds refused to listen and began butchering without restraint. We could not stop them—and they nearly killed us. This disaster is our fault. I know my words are meaningless now, but at least allow me to tend to the wounded who remain."
"If you cannot forgive me, then take my head now. I will not resist."
Singh bowed as well, lowering his head before Edgar.
Behind them, the envoy—feigning weakness—quietly pulled a strange branch from his cloak, its surface glowing with an unnatural light.
The Two Fingers' orders must be fulfilled, he thought darkly.