Having located his destination, Lucian pressed forward until he reached the blackened barricade of the Smoldering Wall.
From a distance, he could already see her—Elder Dragon Greyoll, the Mother of Dragons.
This was, without question, the most colossal living being Lucian had ever laid eyes on since arriving in this world.
Her body stretched like a mountain range, vast beyond comprehension. He could hardly imagine a lifeform of such scale existing at all.
Yet without a true reference, he could not be sure whether even Greyoll matched the titanic skulls he had seen jutting from the Caelid cliffs.
Around her loitered countless lesser dragons, guarding her flank. Each of these wyverns was enormous in its own right—formidable beasts capable of dominating a battlefield. And yet, compared to Greyoll, they looked like hatchlings.
One dragon was barely the size of Greyoll's claw.
Even Flying Dragon Agheel, whom Lucian had slain earlier and who had been considered mighty among wyverns, would have seemed no more than a runt beside her.
Greyoll lay sprawled upon the rotting fungal ground, her mountain-like body rising and falling with each ponderous breath.
In the game, Lucian had slain her countless times, turning her death into a trove of runes—a starter fortune for many Tarnished.
But here, in reality, he felt no urge to harm her.
If given the chance, Lucian hoped to forge an alliance with the dragons.
The Ancient Dragons had all but vanished. Most, he knew, dwelled far away in the crumbling sky-city of Farum Azula. Beyond the solitary figure of Lansseax in Altus Plateau, Lucian had no way to reach them.
Wyverns, however, were different. As descendants of the ancient race, they bred far more prolifically. Their kind roamed every corner of the Lands Between.
And Greyoll had remained here, unmoving, for ages. She was no phantom, no fleeting encounter. She could be found whenever one sought her.
Times had changed—there was no swift path back to renewing the old pacts with the ancient dragons. Whether they would even consent to such an alliance again was uncertain.
But the wyverns were numerous, and an accord with them might prove just as powerful.
Could Greyoll be reasoned with? In theory, yes.
And if not—well, Lucian could always ask Ranni. The Carian royal family had once forged bonds with dragons. If they had found a way, so could he.
After a long, thoughtful glance, Lucian turned away.
He crossed the Smoldering Wall and soon stood before the dark gates of Fort Faroth.
From within came the sound of a song.
It was soft and strangely beautiful, a lilting melody that stirred images of a fair maiden singing in the dark, waiting for listeners to draw near.
But to Lucian, it was nothing but unsettling.
For he knew the truth.
The singers within were no maidens, but Chanting Winged Dame—hideous, wizened creatures with the faces of crones.
Their voices were like those of sirens from legend, luring the unwary into death's embrace. Only here, the "sirens" were not beauties but leathery-winged monstrosities with elderly faces stretched taut by age.
A true siren might have been welcomed. But these things? Horrors best silenced.
Lucian let Torrent roam free and stepped inside alone.
The "welcome" was immediate.
Shrill screeches echoed from the dark as enormous bats swooped down upon him.
Normal bats were common enough across the Lands Between, attacking travelers at night, but they were weak—mere beasts.
The bats of Fort Faroth, however, were changed by the Scarlet Rot. Their bodies had grown grotesquely large, their wings torn and ragged, yet somehow still able to fly.
Even so, they were nothing but overgrown vermin.
Lucian summoned the storm. A whirlwind tore through the swarm, shredding wings and bodies, until the bats lay broken on the stone.
Under the storm's relentless pressure, their corpses withered to bare white bone.
The singing had stopped.
Around the next corner, Lucian found the "songstress."
She had the face of a kindly grandmother, with soft wrinkles and hair white as snow… but her body was a twisted bat's frame, wings leathery and gaunt, claws sharp enough to rend flesh.
With a screech, she filled the chamber with poison mist.
Lucian swept his hand, and the storm carried the fumes away.
But another Chanting Winged Dame had lain in wait behind him. It dove silently, talons aimed for his spine.
So they were capable of coordination. One feigned, the other ambushed. Even when their kin had been slaughtered, this one had not uttered a sound, biding its chance.
Unlike mere beasts, these creatures possessed cunning.
But cunning availed them nothing.
Lucian's left hand snapped backward, catching a claw mid-strike. He gripped tight and flung the bat forward with crushing force.
Its leg dislocated with a snap, then tore away entirely as its frail body slammed the ground. Flattened, broken, the creature screamed in agony, its beautiful voice now reduced to a hideous wail.
He silenced it with a single thrust of his Swordspear, cleaving its skull in two.
The others dared not approach. They remained at a distance, sending out sound-waves as weapons, hoping to batter him from afar.
But such attacks were laughable compared to the sorceries of Sellia's mages. Lucian easily dispersed them with a sweep of his spear.
For practice, he summoned a Ice Storm—Zamor's Blizzard. The blinding snow devoured the chamber. The bats froze, their wings cracking apart as they fell one by one.
When all lay dead, Lucian found a stash of golden runes among their roosts. Five or six Golden Rune [10]—a surprising hoard for such creatures. Perhaps they had scavenged them from fallen travelers.
By rights, the path through the fort required one to ascend its stairs, claim the hidden Dectus Medallion (Right), then circle down through its interior to retrieve Radagon's Soreseal.
But reality was not so bound by "game design."
Lucian smashed through a wooden barrier with his Swordspear and went directly to the talisman's resting place.
He picked up Radagon's Soreseal.
The eye-shaped charm pulsed with power.
Would it work alongside the Scarseal? If so, the combined boost to attributes would be staggering, far outweighing the drawback of increased damage taken.
He tested it.
But no—once the Soreseal bound itself to his talisman pouch, the Scarseal's strength was drained away, falling inert. The two would not coexist.
"Figures," Lucian muttered. "Even the name—'Soreseal'—suggests corruption, something that drives out its lesser counterpart."
The Soreseal's power was greater, but its curse more vicious. He had already felt the Scarseal's invasive toll on his body; this was worse still.
Yet unlike in the game, equipment here did not suffer from armor break. As long as his gear held, the increased damage mattered little. Against common beasts and soldiers, the drawback was negligible.
And in battles against Demigods, greater attributes meant greater control of the fight.
For now, it was worth the trade.
He slotted three talismans: Radagon's Soreseal, Winged Sword Insignia, and Erdtree's Favor. The Scarseal he would return to Elyssa—after all, it had been hers to begin with.
As for the Haligdrake Talisman… useless for now. Its paltry holy resistance was not needed; he had yet to meet another foe of sacred power since Margit. Perhaps its +1 or +2 forms would prove worthwhile later.
Tucking away his spare charms, Lucian climbed to the fort's roof.
But there was no treasure chest waiting where the medallion should have been.
He searched the rooftop carefully, scanning every corner. No trace of the Dectus Medallion lay in plain sight.
So he would have to explore the fort fully after all. Reality did not guarantee convenient placements.
Sure enough, after fighting through phantoms of the Redmane Army—spirit soldiers still bound to defend the fort—he uncovered a hidden chest tucked away in a shadowed corner.
Inside lay the Right Half of the Dectus Medallion.
The left half, he had already dispatched a fellow Tarnished to retrieve from Fort Haight.
Now, united, the two halves would allow him passage upon the Grand Lift of Dectus to the Altus Plateau.
But Lucian had no intention of ascending yet.
Too much remained unfinished in Caelid.
The Festival of Combat was still some time away. Millicent's fate had yet to be resolved. O'Neil's phantom soldiers were still scouring the Swamp of Aeonia for her.
And Lucian had no wish to step into Altus before he was ready. When he did, it would be at the head of an army, striking straight for Leyndell, the Royal Capital.
To become Elden Lord, Leyndell had to fall.
Of course, Morgott would not simply watch and allow him to march. Surely, the lift was already fortified, and Leyndell's gates defended.
Perhaps Lucian would first slip in alone, after claiming two Great Runes. Through the old mines, past the Magma Wyrm. Or perhaps by trap-teleport from the Weeping Peninsula, straight into Leyndell's high towers. With storm-winds to soften his fall, even such a mad descent might be possible.
For now, though, he left Fort Faroth behind.
Pausing at its gate, he cast one last look at Greyoll, vast as a mountain in the distance.
Then he turned away, pondering his next path.
Most graces in Caelid were now unlocked, the Dragonbarrow explored. Millicent's trail remained uncertain, but there was little he could do but wait.
Should he spend the coming days scouring Caelid further? Or prepare for the greater wars ahead?
The choice lay before him.