A Tarnished leaned out from a small side door, beckoning to Lucian and the others. They quickly darted inside.
The Tarnished wore the garb of an ordinary townsman, though a broad hat concealed his faded eyes. Soldiers rarely inspected the common folk closely—usually a few careless words were enough to pass unnoticed.
"Come with me," he said. "I'll guide you to Godrick's throne. After that… it will be up to you."
He was, of course, another of Gideon's arrangements.
Stormveil was vast, far beyond the scale known in the game. Godrick's seat was not somewhere one could simply stumble upon. The districts of the castle were clearly divided by station: living quarters, livestock pens, barracks. Patrol platforms rose at every crossing, where soldiers could swiftly move between sectors. Without a guide, one would easily become lost and soon find themselves surrounded, without hope of escape.
Yet after long preparation, the Tarnished had nearly mastered Stormveil's inner workings. Only a few areas remained beyond their reach—those heavily guarded or sealed away entirely. Godrick's chamber of grafting, for instance, was watched day and night, nearly impossible to infiltrate.
And then there was the castle's undercroft. No soldiers stood guard there, yet every Tarnished who had ventured within had vanished, never to return. Over time, the Tarnished marked it as a forbidden place.
"Forgive me, but I must part ways here," the guide said. "Good fortune to you."
Rogier raised a hand in farewell. He had never come for Godrick's head—helping to slay the Grafted Scion had been payment enough for his troubles.
"Good luck," Lucian said after a pause. Then, hesitating, he added, "I sense a strange stench of death within Stormveil. If you come across anything… unnatural, do not touch it lightly."
He could not speak it plainly. One could hardly tell Rogier outright: There's a face of the Prince of Death beneath the castle—touch it and you'll perish.
Rogier gave Lucian a long look, surprised. He had caught the meaning between the words. Surely, Lucian knew something as well.
He nodded solemnly. "Do not worry. I am already somewhat aware. Another time, I would dearly wish to speak with you at length."
Lucian still felt uneasy. Rogier's curiosity was too strong. But now, abandoning Godrick to aid him was unthinkable.
"Take care," Lucian said.
Curiosity and the will to explore—these were no vices. Many sorcerers had long lost them, and thus remained stagnant. Yet curiosity killed the cat, and Rogier's fate was proof of that. Hopefully, the warning would be enough.
Rogier departed, and the party's number dwindled again. Still, all had touched grace before entering the castle, their strength restored. Nepheli had drawn out a fresh pair of twin axes—different in form from her last set, kept as spares. The heavy-armored Tarnished too replaced his chestplate, filling the gaps in his armor.
"Outside is chaos," said their guide. "There are many soldiers, but in this turmoil they will struggle to notice us. Once we run, do not fall behind."
The group nodded. Then they burst forth.
Their garb drew attention quickly. "Enemy attack!" cried a soldier, the first to spot them. Soon, others turned their eyes to the intruders—and to their shock, they were running straight toward Godrick's dwelling.
The soldiers abandoned the crowd and gave chase, blades drawn. The townsfolk, hearing the alarm, fell into greater panic, scattering like startled cattle.
Lucian raised the winds, sweeping aside the mindless residents before them, opening a path without harm. The soldiers were not so fortunate. As the elite left to guard the castle, they retained their wits. They dared not cut down townsfolk in their pursuit, and so fell far behind, reduced to shouting.
"The gate is breached! Tarnished have entered!"
The pursuing soldiers lost, the guide grew excited. "Far faster than I expected—amazing!"
It was partly their swiftness, but more so the sight of Lucian's mastery over the storm. Such control he had never witnessed. Not a soul among the townsfolk was harmed—how merciful. Force alone compels submission, but mercy inspires faith.
Nepheli, too, gave her praise.
"In the battle before, I already wished to say it—your command of the storm is mighty. But now… it shames me. I never thought the winds could be wielded so. To treat the common folk with such care—my respect."
Lucian said nothing. He simply had no wish to harm the innocent. Yet in the Lands Between, where all order had decayed, even this was a rare virtue.
Suddenly, from a corner, two Banished Knights appeared—one bearing a halberd, the other a sword.
They had been pursuing a band of Tarnished troublemakers when they lost their trail. Hearing the gate had fallen, they turned back, hoping at least to aid their fellow exiles. But fate had them cross paths with Lucian's band.
Both sides drew steel.
The Ancient king howled again.
The two Banished Knights understood at once why the gate had fallen—it was by the will of the Ancient King himself.
At once, both knelt on one knee.
The swordsman rose first, stepping aside, heart pounding in awe. To see the Ancient King in his own lifetime—he could hardly believe it.
They were true descendants. Unlike the Exiled soldiers, the Banished Knights had passed down their arms and martial ways to their heirs.
Yet when the swordsman looked to his comrade, he froze.
The halberd-bearer had risen, not to step aside, but to set his weapon crosswise, blocking the road ahead of Lucian and his companions.