Urgent cries pierced through Stormveil, breaking Godrick's train of thought. A stormhawk swooped down and perched upon one of the many small hands sprouting from his body.
"Hm?"
With several hands working in tandem, the message tied to its leg was unfastened in seconds. Godrick read it over, stroking his chin.
"They stormed the gate, broke through the first line of defense… it seems this Tarnished has some measure of strength."
"Still, no doubt the trolls will soon return bearing his mangled corpse."
His eyes narrowed when he noticed another description in the report. "Tall, slender build, white-haired… Zamoran?"
"Heh… another fine grafting sacrifice."
Godrick had little faith in a Tarnished's chances. This wasn't the first time some fool had tried to force his way through Stormveil's defenses, and without exception, they had been cut down. Charred corpses left by flamethrowers were hardly rare, yet Godrick never felt loss. The weak simply weren't worthy as grafting stock.
Besides, anyone reckless enough to attempt a frontal assault was usually a dullard—and dullards rarely had the strength worth coveting. The wiser Tarnished, those who tried sneaking to Stormveil's gates, always met their end at the hands of Morgott's projection waiting there. Godrick had grown used to having corpses collected from that place.
Even now, he was already considering where best to attach this new Tarnished's limbs. He hardly gave the interloper a second thought. Stormveil's walls had never been breached.
Another piercing cry—another hawk alighted upon one of his many hands.
"So soon? Already dealt with?" Godrick mused aloud. "As expected, Tarnished are nothing to rely upon. Once proud heirs of Godfrey, reduced to such disgrace…"
A smug grin crept across his face. He couldn't help but feel superior. Bloodlines diverged, and the Tarnished line was clearly the lesser.
He tore open the missive and skimmed it, only to frown. "No mention of a body retrieved… what is this?"
Reading more closely, his eyes widened. "What… the trolls were routed so quickly!?"
But almost as quickly, he scoffed. "No matter. Trolls were never dependable. Once a few flee, the rest scatter like leaves in the wind."
He reassured himself. "My true strength lies in the garrison beyond the gate. The noble knights of my banner—they will soon present me the Tarnished's limbs, worthy sacrifices for grafting."
Yet his many fingers tapped restlessly upon the throne's armrest, his leg jiggling. He could no longer deny it: this Tarnished had been underestimated.
Suppose, just suppose, he unleashed his true forces—what could the Tarnished possibly do then?
Two more hawks cried in succession, landing upon his grasping hands. Godrick hurriedly untied the first.
The report made his blood run cold. "What!? My knights—all of them!? Cut down like dogs!?"
The trolls and footsoldiers were replaceable. But knights… knights took years to train. And these were his sworn retainers, loyal beyond doubt.
He ripped open the second letter. This one was written on gold-inked paper embossed with the Erdtree's motif—paper reserved for good tidings.
"Victory report! The golem turned hostile, battled our soldiers, and was bravely put down."
Godrick crushed the parchment in his fist, teeth grinding. "Victory? What nonsense! The golems are ours! How could defeating one be a triumph!? Worthless curs! Why was it my knights who perished, and not the lot of you!?"
His voice thundered across the hall.
Another hawk's call answered him. Another letter. By now his hands were nearly filled with them.
The parchment was unlike the rest: red serpents coiled around an Erdtree sigil, the sign of ill tidings.
Godrick inhaled deeply and forced himself to read.
"The Tarnished entered the sealed gaol and freed the Crucible Knight Redd, who now marches with them."
Godrick shut his eyes, steadying himself. The Crucible Knights, once the mightiest retainers of Godfrey—were warriors of legend. After the Shattering, most who remained loyal to the Golden Lineage had chosen Morgott, staying in Leyndell. Only two had come with Godrick to Stormveil.
Redd—"Fire and Steel"—was among them. A stalwart of the Crucible Knights. But when Godrick embraced grafting, Redd defied him. In front of all, he condemned the practice, declaring it a perversion.
Godrick had been humiliated, enraged. How dare even a longtime guardian openly rebuke his lord? He had him imprisoned, sealed away in the gaol.
After all, was it so wrong to seek strength? To long for the might of his forebear, Godfrey? If grafting could give him the power to lead his kin back beneath the Erdtree, was that not righteous?Who would refuse godlike strength, if it were within reach?
And yet… Redd had been freed. And surely, he despised Godrick now more than ever.
That meant rebellion. That meant a true threat.
His fingers brushed something sticky on the back of the letter. Turning it over, he saw a blot of blood.
And scrawled across it, in jagged hand:
"Today, I come for your head."
Godrick was silent. He crushed the paper to pulp in his palm.
Even the messenger had been slain, yet they had taken the time to send such a taunt. They thought him weak. They mocked him.
His hand slammed down upon the throne, shattering stone, sending cracks racing across it. Hawks scattered in fright.
"They dare belittle me! Belittle Godrick the Golden!?"
Yes, among the demigods with Great Runes, he was the weakest. He knew this. But he was still a demigod.
And to be taunted like this by a wretched Tarnished? Unbearable.
Godrick rose from his throne, rage coursing through every limb he had claimed. He turned toward the armory.
"Very well… they will taste my fury. They will learn what it means to mock Godrick the Grafted."