Rogier was still very much alive.
Not long ago, he had fought side by side with Lucian, battling the Fell Omen, Margit, until they entered Stormveil and went their separate ways.
Within the castle, Rogier sought only one thing—clues tied to Death.
On the castle walls, dark thorn and black rot spread like a blight. The same signs marked places where the Those Who Live in Death were found. That was why Rogier had come to Stormveil: to investigate.
In the game, Rogier's fate was tragic. Contact with the face of the Prince of Death cursed him, black thorns of Deathroot piercing through his body. Perhaps out of luck, or simply because his contact was too brief, he clung to life. But the price was steep: his legs paralyzed, his body slowly rotting away, consumed by Death.
But here, in this world, things had unfolded differently. Lucian had slain Godrick, and destroyed Godwyn's corpse, far too swiftly. Rogier had never touched the Prince of Death's visage—thus the black thorns had never claimed him. He was alive, whole, and well.
Even so, though he found no corpse of Godwyn, he did not leave empty-handed. At the site where the Prince of Death once lingered, Rogier collected a small, festering pustule. Believing it tied to Death itself, he kept it safe for study.
Now, he sought out D—hoping his old companion would set aside their rift and aid him once more. The next place Rogier intended to explore was far too dangerous to face alone.
When D saw Rogier, he frowned beneath his helm. Before Rogier could speak, D tried to slam the door shut.
Rogier quickly wedged himself into the frame. "Hey, hey, wait a moment—don't be so hasty. At least hear me out!"
But D's voice was cold, rejecting him outright. "No. There's nothing left for us to say."
Once, the two had been close companions. Together they had journeyed, seeking the origin of Death. But everything changed when Rogier fell to the temptations of a woman named Fia.
Since then, Rogier had shown sympathy toward the Those Who Live in Death—even tried to save them. To D, this was unthinkable.
Those Who Live in Death were born outside the Golden Order's law, twisted from true death. They were blasphemies, staining the grace of guidance simply by existing. To leave them alive was to taint the very legitimacy of the Order. They had to be eradicated, every last one.
To feel pity for them, to waver in conviction—that was unacceptable.
Their conflict of ideals had destined them to part ways.
D shoved Rogier forcefully out of the doorway and slammed the door shut.
Rogier let out a bitter laugh, helpless. Yet he could not give up. In the journeys to come, D's strength was indispensable.
And Rogier knew him well enough to be certain: D still lingered just beyond the door.
So, despite the curious stares of other Tarnished in the Roundtable Hold, Rogier called out:
"D, come with me. I've found clues that point to the source."
"The sigil exists—it holds the truth of the ritual!"
Behind the door, D listened in silence.
Rogier spoke in veiled words, careful not to let the others in the Hold overhear. What they pursued was dangerous knowledge, something no one else must learn—the truth of the Night of the Black Knives.
Long ago, a shard of the Rune of Death had been stolen from Maliketh, the Black Blade. Using that fragment, the demigod Godwyn the Golden was slain—the first recorded death of a demigod. That single night set in motion the shattering of the Elden Ring, and the wars that followed.
The assassins responsible were said to be descendants of the Eternal Cities. All were women, clad in silver armor, shrouded in garments that cloaked them in invisibility. Their blades were blackened by ritual, infused with the Rune of Death itself. Thus, they were called the Black Knife Assassins.
To bind the Rune's power to their knives required a ritual of considerable scale. That ritual would have left its imprint—a sigil, a trace of the one who commanded it.
Which meant that if they could find those knives, they might yet uncover who orchestrated the slaughter.
Both D and Rogier had long pursued this truth, their journeys fueled by that night's mystery. But their quest had led nowhere.
Now Rogier had brought new knowledge. "I've found something," he said. "I've found a place where a Black Knife Assassin may still be hiding."
The words, though cryptic to the others nearby, were enough. D would understand the half he left unspoken.
"So please," Rogier urged, "help me. In helping me, you help yourself…"
With a heavy creak, the door swung open.
Rogier should have felt relief—but instead he smiled wryly. He knew D. The man could not interpret the ritual, nor parse its symbols. The burden of proof would rest entirely on Rogier's words.
A smooth tongue was his only weapon—and he despised himself for it.
He drew a deep breath and stepped inside.
Elsewhere in the Hold, a door cracked open just slightly. Fia peered out, quietly watching the scene. Only when Rogier vanished into D's chamber did she shut the door once more.
—
When Lucian returned to the Church of Vows, he sought out Miriel.
The old tortoise pastor was standing with eyes closed, head swaying faintly. Whether deep in thought or on the verge of sleep, Lucian could not tell.
The Godskin Prayerbook that had once rested at his feet was gone. Lucian did not mind. He had entrusted it to Miriel—it was his now.
Hearing footsteps, Miriel opened his eyes and smiled warmly.
"Ah, Lord Lucian, you've returned. And I see the taint of Death clinging to you has already been purged. Good, very good.
"Well then, if you are ready, let us begin your lessons."
Lucian sat cross-legged upon the grass before him, awaiting instruction.
"This prayerbook," Miriel said, patting its cover with reverence, "holds incantations most extraordinary. Even this old shell of mine quivers with excitement. Ah… there is no end to knowledge. To learn is the sweetest joy."
With that, he exhaled—and from his mouth formed a strange fire, black and white interwoven, flickering with an unholy beauty.
Lucian's eyes widened. It was the Black Flame, just as the prayerbook described. To think Miriel had already deciphered it, and in such short time!
A prayerbook was more than a spell scroll. To comprehend and reproduce its doctrine was a task leagues harder than simple rote learning. Yet Miriel had mastered it.
"How…?" Lucian wondered aloud. He had relied on runes, his faith bolstered by his stat investments. But Miriel had no such means. Nor did he truly worship the Godskin.
"Master Miriel," Lucian asked, "have you encountered this faith before?"
Miriel chuckled and explained:
"Incantations, though rooted in faith, are in truth born of imagination."
"If you can imagine yourself believing, wholly and without doubt, you may call forth their power."
"Some incantations manifest divine might, yes—but they are not granted by the gods themselves. Thus, true faith is not required to wield them."
"This, child, is the secret I have gleaned in my many long years."
Lucian nodded in respect. No wonder Miriel, ancient and wise, had insights others lacked.
Indeed, incantations in the Lands Between differed greatly from those of traditional fantasy. Elsewhere, gods demanded true devotion in exchange for power. But here, prayer was a mere echo—a reproduction of divine strength, like the miracles of Lordran. Will alone made them real.
One need only believe they could be invoked. Yet belief so feigned risked becoming true devotion; self-deception could turn to zealotry. Few could balance it as Miriel did.
Lucian, of course, had no such problem. Runes did the work of faith for him. His learning knew no limits.
And so, under Miriel's guidance, Lucian began to study the prayers of the Black Flame.
The Godskin Prayerbook contained little in the way of practical spells. Most of its pages detailed the dogma of the Godskin Apostles. Yet two prayers stood out: Black Flame and Black Flame Blade.
The first, the ignition of black fire itself, was the foundation of the faith. The second imbued one's blade with black flame, searing wounds even after the strike.
With his faith bolstered by runes, Lucian mastered them quickly.
In addition, he learned from Miriel the prayer of Blessing's Boon, an ancient benediction of the primordial Erdtree.
It granted slow, steady healing to all allies within its range. A powerful tool, and one Lucian saw no reason to refuse.
Miriel had offered to teach him sorcery as well—but when Lucian demonstrated Comet Azur, the pastor only laughed in admiration, declaring his magic already superb and his teacher beyond reproach.
"Lord Lucian," Miriel said, voice tinged with awe, "your gift for learning astonishes me. Rarely have I met one who could walk both paths—sorcery and incantation alike."
"Most devout spurn magic, and most mages hold no faith. Yet you embrace both. In battle, such balance is priceless."
Lucian smiled, inclining his head. He knew the truth: incantations and sorcery both were powerful, but their wielders often frail. Yet his body, whether in his ordinary form or his greater frame, was resilient beyond compare. He had no need for fear.
"Thank you for your teaching, Master Miriel," he said. "I must depart for now, but I will return to visit you."
Miriel bowed his head. "Go well, child. May your path be guided."
Leaving the church, Lucian glanced across the land, checking his map. Fixing his gaze on the Minor Erdtree, he set it as his beacon.
His next destination was the Black Knife Catacombs.
There, he would claim the sigil left by the assassins.
With that sigil, he could draw closer to Ranni. It would show her that he knew the truth of her past, yet chose to walk beside her still.
He would not wield it as threat—Ranni would not bend to such things. No, he would present it as proof of his sincerity, his willingness to be accomplice.
And he held something else she would covet: the Sword of Night and Flame, entwined in mystery with the Fingerslayer Blade.
Together, these two things would forge their bond. Not merely allies—co-conspirators.
The time to move on Ranni had come.
Leaving the Church of Vows, Lucian trekked through a land of towering stone spires and broken ruins. Massive statues of ancient kings loomed overhead.
This was the land of the Uld Dynasty, long fallen.
Here dwelled the Ancestral Followers—tall, dark-skinned, antlered men and women who shunned civilization, living in reverence of nature.
Unlike the hostile tribes of the game, these merely watched in silence. The men gripped axes and hammers, the women held their children close. Their eyes followed Lucian, wary yet restrained, until he passed from sight. Then they returned to their lives.
Through forests and ravines he traveled, felling a mighty Rune Bear with a swipe of his Dragonclaw, crushing it like a child's sweet.
At last, he reached the tomb's entrance. A headless knight barred the way, but Lucian struck him down and descended.
Inside the Black Knife Catacombs, he lit the site of grace. Drawing his staff, he whispered a spell—Starlight. A blue orb hovered above, casting pale glow through the oppressive dark.
Thus armed with light, Lucian stepped forward—ready to plunder the secrets within.