How long had she been imprisoned, tormented, left to rot?
Sellen could no longer recall.
Those wretched sorcerers—traitors who had abandoned the pursuit of primeval truth—were nothing more than worms clinging to the safety of stagnation. She had once thought their decaying lives could still be put to some use—turned into seeds of stars for the sake of exploration.
Yet, even in their ruin, they remained the so-called elite of their classrooms. And it was by their hands that she had been seized, locked away, subjected to endless days of cruelty. Not even the release of suicide could spare her, for they had bound her mind as well as her flesh.
But today was different. Someone—an outsider—had opened the door to her subterranean cell. If she could convince him to kill her, the last safeguard she had prepared long ago would be set in motion, and she would be free.
"You there… would you do me a favor?"Sellen's voice trembled under the weight of pain as she called out to Lucian.
"Mm. Speak," he replied.
"Is it my aid you want in breaking these crystal bindings?" He was already willing—he had come here for her.
"No… only the sorcerer who bound me could shatter these. What I need from you is… ah—kill me."
Lucian hesitated. This was not how he remembered her story. In the game, she would have him remove the Primal Glintstone from her body and install it into a puppet vessel, allowing her to change bodies. But now… she simply asked for death.
Could it be she had already prepared another escape—one that would restore her elsewhere upon death? Likely so. Perhaps she did not trust a stranger to hold her Primal Glintstone, and thus had devised an alternative. Surely she did not truly seek oblivion.
Seeing his silence, Sellen spoke again. "Oh, are you worried about payment? I may be an exiled sorceress—declared heretical by the Academy—but I always repay my debts. Whatever you wish, I will try to grant. Kill me, and I will be reborn at a place I have prepared. Seek me at the Waypoint Ruins, and my phantom shall grant you your reward."
Her breath came ragged. Speaking so much through pain was no small feat.
Lucian nodded, drawing his greatsword. The blade drove clean through her heart. "Then I wish to become your student. Teach me sorcery."
A faint laugh escaped her lips. "Heh… a strange one, you are. Told I am a heretic, and yet you wish to call me master. I hope you won't regret it…"
Her body fell still.
Lucian sheathed his sword. He believed her promise. He would find her again.
When he emerged, only Elyssa waited. She saw he was alone but asked nothing. "So—do we go straight for the demigod you're hunting?" She was eager, almost impatient.
"Not yet. I need to prepare. My armor needs mending, and there are supplies to gather."
"Very well. Lead the way."
With Melina's aid, they returned to the Roundtable Hold. Lucian had first taken Elyssa back to Castle Morne, where the servants gave her a chamber and a change of clothes. He himself carried both her broken armor and his own to be restored.
Wearing a set of Godrick Soldier's armor scavenged from the castle storerooms, his face hidden beneath the hood of an Exile Soldier, he drew little attention. Clearly, other Tarnished had donned similar trophies before.
Reaching Hewg's chamber, he found the blacksmith resting. At Lucian's arrival, Hewg rose, hammer in hand. "More new faces in the Hold lately… but the work remains the same. Weapons or armor?"
Lucian set down the heavy bundle. "These—can you repair them? And how long will it take? What about materials and cost?"
Hewg examined the pieces, surprise flashing across his face. "Armor of the Hero of Zamor… and that of a Banished Knight. Been a long time since I've seen these."
He thought for a moment. "Plenty of damage, and wide across the plates. Two days' work. Don't worry about materials—we've what we need here. Pay when you return."
"Good," Lucian said. "That suits me." Two days was perfect; enough time to learn from Elyssa the Ice Storm.
Leaving the armor, he went to the traders' alcove to browse supplies. But before long, a figure in blackened mail and a hood approached.
A messenger.
Lucian's brow furrowed. The last time he had met such agents, it had led to blood. The Roundtable was the domain of the Two Fingers, and their messengers served them—if this one sought vengeance, Lucian might be trapped among hostile Tarnished.
Yet, the messenger only bowed with deference. "Fellow Tarnished, the Two Fingers grant you audience. Please, follow me."
Lucian was puzzled but saw no reason to refuse. He needed to see the Finger ReaderEnia regardless, to obtain a talisman pouch.
The messenger led him through a hidden passage into a dimly lit chamber. Candles burned low, their light barely revealing the strange form ahead: two immense, severed fingers, their flesh marred with wounds, their joints sprouting hair like pale roots.
The Two Fingers—voice of the Greater Will.
Beside them stood a withered crone, clutching a massive wooden staff. Enia, the Finger Reader.
The messenger knelt, saluted, and withdrew.
"Are you the new Tarnished?" Enia rasped. "I interpret the words of the Fingers, envoys to the Greater Will. They have words for you."
"Look there. The Fingers tremble. To welcome you. Let their wisdom wash over you."
The Fingers twitched in slow, deliberate movements—language incomprehensible to most. Enia listened in stillness before turning back to Lucian.
"They say: I see upon you the mark of King Radagon. I deem you worthy—not only to be a hero… but perhaps, to be king."