Edgar, Warden of Castle Morne, was deep in thought, weighing the fate of the two prisoners before him.
The truth of the matter still eluded him, yet their words carried the weight of sincerity. If they truly had been deceived and used as pawns, then perhaps their guilt was not absolute. The blood debt, in that case, would belong to the true mastermind.
In Edgar's mind, that mastermind could only be tied to the one-armed Tarnished in black armor — the man whose limb he had severed. That warrior had spoken of a "mission," suggesting the shadowy hand of some clandestine order.
As lord of the castle, Edgar swore he would uncover the identity of the true culprit and see their life repaid in blood.
"I do not yet know the whole truth," he told them coldly. "When I have torn it from that man's mouth, I will decide your fate. Even if you were merely pawns, you still took part in this massacre. The punishment will be decided in due time. But if this is merely a ploy to escape justice, then know this — I will execute you myself."
His gaze hardened. "And I will not allow you to 'treat' the townsfolk and use that as an excuse to poison them. I know the tricks of perfumers."
For now, he chose to leave them be. The one-armed Tarnished came first. His weapon was broken, his arm gone — to Edgar, the man was no longer a threat. That was why he had been in no rush earlier, taking the time to hear the perfumer's defense.
Lucian stood quietly, watching events unfold. The sudden intrusion of the perfumer and the Leonine Misbegotten, Singh, had been unexpected, but the envoy's defeat seemed inevitable. Lucian's only desire now was to rest and then seek out Melina for a level-up.
But the "envoy" — the man everyone considered as helpless as a fish on the butcher's block — suddenly drew forth a slender branch glowing with an uncanny light.
Every gaze was irresistibly drawn to it.
The branch shimmered with a delicate pink radiance, its glamour tugging at the mind, drawing one's eyes toward the beloved phantom cradled in its glow.
Such was the terror of relics tied to a demigod. Simply revealing it was enough to ensnare the minds of all present.
Even the envoy was not immune — but his unwavering devotion to the Two Fingers allowed him to recover first.
In the moment when all others stood entranced, he lunged, driving the branch toward Singh.
The movement broke the spell. Singh roared, swinging a massive hand to swat the envoy aside.
But the envoy channeled sorcery into the branch. For an instant, the sigil of the Haligtree flared — and from the branch flowed a swirl of pink, intoxicating vapors that wrapped instantly around Singh.
The Leonine Misbegotten froze, motionless as if a great pause had fallen upon him.
Edgar charged, kicking the envoy away and driving his halberd into the man's remaining arm.
"Singh! Don't breathe in that gas!" Edgar barked.
Evan — the perfumer — rushed to Singh's side, pulling out a vial of perfume, yet hesitated to pour it. He had never seen such a substance before. To use a perfume without knowing its effect was a gamble he dared not take.
Singh's limbs began to stir again, but his eyes now glowed with a strange, seductive pink light.
"Singh, you—"
Evan stepped back. Something was wrong. The creature before him was no longer the Singh he knew.
Singh snarled, one hand reaching for the massive Iron Greatsword buried in the ground — only for his other hand to seize the first by the wrist, as though two wills wrestled for control of one body.
The envoy, sprawled on the ground, saw this and knew his ploy had worked. Now Singh needed only a command to become a mindless beast of slaughter.
"Take the Legendary Armament! Kill them all!" he shouted.
Edgar's boot slammed into the envoy's face, shattering several teeth.
The envoy only laughed. "Hahaha! You're all dead!"
Another brutal kick silenced him at last.
But the command had already taken root. Singh's inner struggle ended abruptly — crimson, bloodthirsty eyes blazed to life. He ignored the Iron Greatsword at his feet and bolted on all fours toward a chamber within the castle. His speed was terrifying; the three of them had no time to stop him.
Evan's face went pale. Edgar's expression was grim.
"The legendary armament… don't tell me you've let them steal the storied sword of Castle Morne. A revenger's weapon?" Edgar demanded.
Evan explained, "There were two envoys of the Two Fingers. The other was skilled in stealth. During the rebellion, he stole the Greatsword and hid it in our refuge. I fear the reason they showed Singh the blade before… was to ensure that, once controlled, he would know exactly where to find it."
Edgar's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "I have never heard of anything that can seize control of another's mind."
Lucian strode forward from the pile of misbegotten corpses, carrying the Lordsworn's Greatsword he had retrieved.
"It's a Bewitching Branch," he said flatly. "A relic tied to the Empyrean Miquella. Whoever it touches will obey without question. I did not expect him to have one."
"What?! To think it's connected to Lord Miquella…" Edgar muttered.
Lucian's own mood was heavy. Singh had given him a pressure unlike any opponent he'd faced since arriving in the Lands Between — save for the Grafted Scion. And if Singh now wielded that Greatsword, his strength would grow even more fearsome.
Lucian ignored their shock. "Do you have healing? Anything to restore stamina? Use it now. We'll have to fight side by side, or we'll all die."
Though his wounds had knit somewhat, he was far from battle-ready.
Edgar's eyes showed his reluctance. He did not want this warrior to fight further — but the situation allowed no choice. Singh was too dangerous; even Edgar might not prevail. With a sigh, he began chanting a recovery incantation.
Evan silently uncorked vials of perfume, sprinkling fragrant powders over Lucian.
"This is Healing Perfume — it will mend your wounds over time. And this is Rousing Perfume — it will sharpen your spirit."
Lucian felt his injuries close and his weariness fade. He scooped up the fallen envoy's Crimson Tear Flask and stowed it in his pouch.
The three of them set themselves in readiness. Soon, they would stand together against the foe.
It was not long before a red-maned shape came hurtling into the courtyard, an immense, twisted greatsword in its grasp. The weapon slammed into the ground, crushing a pile of misbegotten corpses into pulp.
The blade was forged from countless fused swords, black as midnight, radiating rage and lament — the Grafted Blade Greatsword, a cursed relic of vengeance.
"ROAR!"
The beast bellowed, raising the sword high. Magic surged into it, rousing the vengeful spirits bound within.
A miasma of darkness spilled from the blade, flowing into Singh. His muscles swelled, his skin hardened into stone-like plates.
The rest could not be seen with the naked eye, but Lucian remembered well — the Grafted Blade Greatsword granted power to every attribute.
His grip tightened on his own blade. A Singh empowered by the Grafted Blade Greatsword would be a nightmare beyond imagining.