[T/N: Again, I'd like to sincerely thank everyone who has supported this story, and to everyone of you who are enjoying the work—I truly hope you'll continue to enjoy the journey ahead.]
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Within the gates of Stormveil, the air once bristled with the menace of massive ballistae. Their bolts could shatter even a knight's armor, and their presence alone was enough to dissuade any assault.
Now, they lay ruined. Splintered wood and twisted iron littered the ground, the engines of war rendered into useless wreckage.
The task of guarding the great gate thus fell solely to the Exile Soldiers.
At that moment, they busied themselves tending to the wounded strewn across the courtyard. The echoes of fierce battle had carried from outside the gate, and the men had stood ready, weapons raised, eyes fixed forward—only for the danger to come from behind.
A band of Tarnished had struck them from within, swift and merciless. Unprepared, the Exiles suffered dearly. Yet, to their confusion, the Tarnished did not press the slaughter.
When the soldiers drew blades and prepared for battle, the intruders ignored them, focusing instead on smashing the remaining defenses. Ballistae, barricades, emplacements—one by one they fell to ruin, until all was left in shambles. Then, as suddenly as they had come, the Tarnished fled.
Only three or four corpses were left behind as proof the attack had happened at all.
Word soon arrived from deeper within the castle; the Tarnished had scattered through Stormveil, torching supplies and wrecking fortifications. The inner bailey was ablaze with chaos. Banished Knights had already mobilized, hunting the intruders like hounds through the courtyards.
The order given to these Exile Soldiers was simple: remain at their posts, hold the gate.
And so they waited, nerves taut. No foe had ever passed the Omen that guarded the entrance. Never.
But then the impossible happened.
The great gate of Stormveil began to rise, its timbers groaning as it lifted.
Figures strode inside.
The exiles froze, then scrambled to arms. How? Could it be—the Omen was defeated? But the gate… no one had entered the control chamber above!
"Ready yourselves! Sound the horn!" shouted a hulking soldier, one of the few whose mind remained intact enough to give orders.
The rest had long since been stripped of reason, their wills broken until only instinct remained. They did not think, they obeyed. They fought with the reflexes branded deep into their flesh, no more than weapons in human form.
And then the sound came.
A hawk's cry pierced the air.
At once, every exile dropped his weapon and fell to one knee before the Tarnished.
The few who still possessed clarity of thought stared in disbelief. Then tears welled in their hollow eyes.
"The Ancient King… the Ancient King returns!"
These soldiers had been condemned to exile, their faces and names stripped from them, their very existence scorned. Cast out in the ruins of their homeland, even within Stormveil itself, they no longer belonged.
For their home had lost its lord. Its storm had withered. Its honor had been defiled by the crime of grafting.
Now, beneath hoods of crimson and masks of iron, eyes withered dry by years of shame grew wet once more.
The Ancient King himself appeared, and the soldiers rose not in rebellion but in reverence. They longed for home. They longed for purpose.
The Ancient King urged them to rise and join Lucian's campaign, to march and reclaim Stormveil.
But Lucian declined.
"Not yet," he said coldly.
Instead, the Ancient King commanded only this: that his soldiers not raise arms against Lucian and his companions. For now, that was enough. Stormveil's men still served Godrick. When Godrick fell, they would serve their true liege again.
As Lucian crossed Stormveil's threshold, the storm awoke.
The winds that curled about the castle roared with renewed life, whistling around Lucian's figure and embracing him. The Banished Knights' armor shimmered faintly, sheathed in a mantle of storm. Their burdens grew lighter, their blades edged with invisible wind.
Lucian marveled. "What… is this?"
The Ancient King's laughter echoed in his mind.
"Did you think Stormveil's shroud of wind was mere ornament? No, Tarnished. It is our own sorcery, wrought from the vast spell that shields Raya Lucaria. A storm girdles the castle to turn aside all siegecraft—and to bolster our soldiers' strength."
A pause, tinged with sorrow.
"This storm was meant to endure forever, like the winds that crown the Chapel of Anticipation. But it waned, untended. Only my return restores its breath."
So it was.
Lucian asked no more. The truth could wait until Stormveil was his.
The Tarnished and their companions passed through the kneeling soldiers unopposed, crossing what should have been an impenetrable defense.
Ensha stepped from the gatehouse, his hollow eyes drinking in every detail. He must report this. Lucian's ties to Stormveil ran deeper than any had guessed.
Once, Sir Gideon had ordered Ensha to seek within the castle a certain figure—a rumored heir of the Storm King, thought long lost.
'Could it be him…?' Ensha wondered, before silencing his breath with a ritual prayer. Idle thoughts were a luxury; he had a mission to complete.
Lucian and his allies pressed onward, deeper into Stormveil.
Through the outer bailey they strode, the Exiles kneeling in silence.
And then they reached the inner keep.
Chaos reigned.
Fires raged across the courtyards. Screams of battle rang from unseen corners. Livestock ran mad, trampling the cobbled streets. The half-mad remnants of Stormveil's people scattered in blind panic, driven by instinct alone.
Godrick's soldiers herded what few retained their senses, ushering them into safe holds. None noticed the Tarnished stride among them.
For who could imagine intruders had passed the gate? The Omen had ever been unyielding. Beyond it stood the Exile guard, and beyond them, the castle's war machines.
To the soldiers, the idea was absurd.
But they had forgotten.
Even mindless, they could not forget everything. And so, with the storm's breath upon the wind, the Exiles remembered their king.
And knelt.