Nothing had changed.
Melina was still as she had always been—forced to linger at Lucian's back, watching him fight alone.
All she could do during battle was hold her silence, eyes full of quiet worry. Even encouragement was dangerous; a single word at the wrong time could break his focus and alter the outcome.
Only when she spotted something urgent—an opening, a hidden threat, would she speak. In those rare moments, she felt as though she truly stood beside him, fighting at his side.
But she knew it was only self-deception.
"…Mm."
"Enough of that," she said suddenly. "You'd better go and keep watch on that woman. Careful she doesn't wriggle free and escape."
It was an excuse, a quick way to close the topic.
Lucian chuckled. "No rush. I tied her up like a cocoon, there's no way she's getting out."
The rope he carried wasn't scavenged junk from corpses. It was Stormveil-made, sturdy and reliable. Even with his poor knotwork, the extra layers he'd wrapped ensured her bonds were secure.
Melina blinked and teased him lightly, "Well, whose fault is it your tying skills are so bad?"
"Then why didn't you teach me just now?"
"…Pfft. Because I don't know either."
Lucian flicked her nose, and she flushed, looking away in defeat.
It was a trick he'd discovered worked well on her. Though she was long used to holding his hand, any other form of touch still made her shy. Just the lightest brush of his finger would have her turn her head, feigning indifference.
A perfect tactic for when he needed to break the mood before leaving a Site of Grace.
Yet as he rose to go, something troubled him.
Melina had clearly felt the same familiarity toward the Black Knife Assassin that she had toward the blade itself, and yet she hadn't pursued the matter further. That wasn't like her.
Still, her concern about the prisoner escaping did suit her cautious nature.
And so, Lucian only nodded, bid her farewell, and stepped out of the Grace.
As he departed, he caught the faintest sigh—so soft he might have imagined it. But no, his senses were sharp. He knew what he'd heard.
What was she thinking?
Just now, she had recalled forgotten techniques, even regained the muscle memory of wielding a Black Knife. That should have been a cause for joy.
But no, perhaps it was precisely because of that.
She was tormented by her lack of a body. Without flesh, she could not stand beside him in truth.
She had said as much in Castle Morne, that she was sorry she could do so little without a form of her own.
'Wait for me a little longer, Melina' Lucian vowed silently. 'I will find a way to grant you a body again, so that you can walk this path at my side.'
Lucian stopped before the Black Knife Assassin.
She had awoken.
Still bound from head to toe, she writhed on the ground like a worm. The sight was almost comical—pathetic for one of such deadly reputation.
Sweat and blood soaked her white hair, plastering it against her neck and cheek. Rolling in the dirt had left her a mess.
When she saw Lucian appear from the air and stride toward her, she stilled, shame burning in her chest.
Humiliation. To be bound so, reduced to crawling in the dirt, and to have him witness it.
She raised her head, glaring at him.
Earlier, she had been too focused on escape to notice. Only now did she realize—he was a Tarnished.
Her people, the Black Knives, did not remain in one place forever. They kept watch, they listened. And they knew: after Queen Marika shattered the Elden Ring, she had recalled the exiled Tarnished to the Lands Between.
But what was this one?
He had appeared in this catacomb as if from nowhere.
From the clash earlier, she knew at once—he was no grave-robber. Not with that strength. Grave robbery was no work for one so capable.
So why had he come?
She thought of the Ghostflame that burned here, pale and unnatural. Or perhaps… perhaps she herself was the reason.
Her heart sank. Had her movements been exposed?
He had spared her life. That could only mean one thing: he sought information.
In that case, she would have no choice. If interrogation was certain, then suicide was the only path. She could not risk her secrets spilling.
But how? Before his eyes?
Her gaze hardened. If she could not escape, she would die defiant.
Lucian stood over her, sighing faintly. "I told you, I'm not your enemy."
"I only want to ask a few things."
"You see? I didn't kill you. I even healed your wounds."
He tugged free the gag of cloth from her mouth. Words could not be exchanged through muffled breath.
Then he placed his thumb between her teeth, bracing it against her upper and lower jaw.
It was not some strange act of cruelty. He simply feared she would bite through her tongue the moment she had the chance. It was the sort of thing an assassin would do.
Awkward, yes. Speaking would be unclear. But at least it barred her from that kind of self-destruction.
The assassin's expression shifted, puzzled. Did he truly believe biting one's tongue could kill? If it were so simple… But no. Real suicide required preparation—poison hidden in the mouth, a chance to take it unnoticed. She had not had the chance.
Of course, Lucian could not know. He had never witnessed such things, only heard tales.
And so he erred. In this strange world where bodies could endure wounds that would kill lesser men, blood loss and suffocation were hardly simple ends.
She did not correct him. Better to let him labor under the falsehood.
If he believed she still sought to end herself, he might slip up. That would be her chance.
Instead, she sank her teeth into his thumb—not enough to tear it off, but enough to make her defiance plain. If she could provoke him into rage and death, all the better.
His flesh broke. She tasted blood.
Lucian only twitched at the odd sensation—the itch of teeth, the wet slide of her tongue. He ignored it.
"Tell me your name," he asked.
She stared back, silent, eyes blazing.
"You're Numen, aren't you? The same people as Queen Marika."
Still silence. Only the grinding of teeth against his thumb.
"Why were you hiding in this catacomb?"
She did not answer, biting harder until blood welled.
At last, Lucian leaned closer, voice low. "Shouldn't you be Marika's kin? Then why was it Ranni who branded your knives with the Rune of Death?"
Her pupils shrank.
So soon? He had seen the fracture in the blade and already traced it to Ranni?
Lucian caught the flicker in her gaze. "Don't worry. I know Ranni. I only want to understand what truly happened that night. What role she played."
But after that one slip, she gave him nothing.
Her eyes shut. Her jaw loosened. She went limp as if dead, refusing all further response.
Lucian frowned. Professional, indeed. She would not break.
And torture was out of the question. He had no wish to waste her strength or her life. On the contrary, he had thought to recruit them. The Black Knives were skilled, resourceful. With them under his banner, so many tasks could be made easier.
But not now. For now, the blade alone would suffice.
The scar of Destined Death upon it was all he needed to stand before Ranni.
Later, perhaps he could bring her into the fold.
For now, the question was what to do with her.
He could not set her free. But neither could he parade her bound and bloodied through the open. Her race was too distinct, her garb too recognizable. Even wrapped in ropes, it would look no different from a man parading a kidnapped maiden.
That was not the image he sought.
Nor could he summon aid quickly. Even if he returned to Stormveil, summoned his Crucible Knights, and had them fly, a day at least would be wasted.
No, she had to come with him. And discreetly.
His eyes swept the catacomb.
Stone sarcophagi—too large, too unwieldy.
But the jars… yes, the jars were big enough. Large, round, and common here. Not so suspicious as dragging a coffin behind him.
It would be cramped. She would have to curl within. But with a sealing ward on the outside, she would not break free.
Decision made, Lucian pulled his finger from her mouth. It bore her teeth-marks, still bleeding, slick with spit.
He gagged her again, then lifted her up and carried her toward one of the great jars.
Her eyes flew open as she realized his intent. Panic flickered, her body trembling against the bonds.
She remembered old stories, whispered through her clan.
Long ago, when her people were still called the Maidens, they had been brutalized by another race. Tortures beyond cruelty: whipped until their flesh split and festered, then stuffed into great jars. There, their broken bodies were fused with the flesh of others, wounds reopened, flesh mingled, again and again—until all were one pulsing mass, crammed to bursting.
She had never witnessed it herself. Yet the memory lived on in their lore.
And now, bound and helpless, she felt the same terror.
She did not fear death.
But that fate—that horror—was worse than death itself.