They sank into him like rain falling into a valley. Countless, unending—more than he had ever known could be bound inside a single being. Not energy. Not fire. Just weight. Remnants of souls, fragments of lives, inert as coins.
No sudden strength rushed through him. No clarity. They simply filled him, fragment upon fragment, until he could scarcely grasp how many. Hundreds? Thousands? Each one meant a Tarnished who had come this far, who had stood against Margit, and had been cut down. Their echoes now fell into him, quiet, inert, unresisting.
He shivered. Not from the storm's wind. From the realization that Margit had fed on these fragments for years—centuries perhaps—swelling himself by culling all who came before.
The flood slowed. The runes settled. He was left standing hollow-eyed on the stone, feeling the weight of uncountable failures lodged somewhere inside him.
Ahead, the archway beckoned, dark and jagged. But behind Margit's ashes, the Grace coiled into being.
He turned to it and fell to his knees. The golden light washed over him, steady and calm. Not forgiving. Not welcoming. But a stillness he had been denied for days of unending death.
He closed his eyes. For once, he wasn't clenching teeth or fists. His mind, ragged from endless repetition, eased.
The runes sat inert inside him. His body still trembled. But the fight was done.
The Grace burned soft and steady before him, a quiet hearth in a place previously meant for torment. He let himself breathe. Let himself sit.
The runes inside him weighed heavy—too heavy to ignore.
He closed his eyes and reached inward.
It was like sinking hands into cold water. One by one, the fragments answered his grasp. Not with words, not with visions, but as simple weight. He drew them upward, and with effort, pressed them into the lattice of himself. Bones thickened, muscles tightened, sinew pulled taut. The foundation of his body remade, fortified by countless quiet coins stacked atop one another.
Durability, resilience, raw endurance—these took shape first, as if the runes themselves knew what he needed most. But he went further, threading more of them into the flow of his strength, hardening the cords of his arms, deepening the power in his shoulders.
It was not sudden. It was work. A slow, deliberate act of building, each rune fitted and hammered into place. When he opened his eyes again, his chest rose easier, his limbs no longer shook with strain. The wounds of battle had healed, but more than that—he was not the same man who had stepped through the fog.
The Grace dimmed as though the act were finished. The runes left over sank deeper, waiting for another time.
He lingered there until the stillness settled in his bones. When at last he rose, the runes had finished weaving themselves into the frame of his body. He reached for the Lordsworn's greatsword where it rested, its blade still faintly streaked with Margit's ichor.
His hand closed around the hilt.
Before, every swing had been labor. Not impossible—he had driven the blade through wolves and soldiers, even Margit himself—but that effort strained his shoulder and hip, leaving him burning with fatigue. The weight of it had always pressed down, forcing him to choose each motion carefully.
Now?
He lifted. The sword came up smooth, as if the stone it had bitten into was made of air. He twisted his wrist, brought the blade through an arc, then reversed the cut. The steel sang, sharp and effortless, his grip steady through the motion.
It wasn't that the sword had changed. It was him. His arms no longer trembled at the end of a swing. His stance felt rooted, immovable. The greatsword that once demanded brute effort now felt—if not light—then wholly under his command.
He tested it again, stepping into a cut, driving the blade forward with speed he hadn't possessed before. The rush of air at the tip came quicker, cleaner. Recovery was smoother, as though his body could keep pace with the weapon at last.
A slow smile pulled across his mouth, foreign and tired.
This wasn't the strength of borrowed grace. It wasn't a gift. It was his. Carved into himself with the remnants of all those who had fallen here. A frame that would not falter so easily, a weapon that would not drag him down.
He rolled his shoulders, exhaled, and slid the greatsword back into its sheath across his back.
—
The air shifted.
Not wind, not the cooling touch of Grace, but something quieter—like a shadow unfurling across a candle flame.
He froze.
When he turned, she was there.
A woman cloaked in black, her one visible eye pale as the Grace that still glimmered faintly at his side. The hood concealed most of her face, but the stillness she carried was not unlike the light itself: reserved, waiting, ancient.
"You have endured much, Tarnished." Her voice was calm, even, touched by neither pity nor command.
His hand lingered near the hilt of his blade, though he did not draw it. "Who are you?"
"I am Melina." She stepped closer, unhurried, as though the name itself was explanation enough.
He narrowed his eyes. "Why are you here, now?"
For a heartbeat, she only watched him, unreadable. Then her gaze softened, the faintest tilt of her head betraying a thought unspoken.
Her expression was still, but not cold. "Because I did not see you."
The words lingered, puzzling in their simplicity.
"My sight is not my own—it is bound to Grace. Through it, I behold the Tarnished who are called to a greater path. Until now, you were hidden from me, as though the light had not chosen to reveal you. But now here, after Margit, the veil has lifted. You stand before Grace unshrouded."
Her eye lowered briefly, almost in acknowledgment of the trial endured. "That is why I stand before you."
He said nothing, the tension in his shoulders easing only a fraction.
Melina extended a hand, pale against the dark fabric of her cloak. "If you would accept my offer of assistance, I shall take you to the Roundtable Hold. A refuge for champions and the lost. A place beyond ordinary reach."
The words hung in the air, as steady and patient as the Grace itself.
And he decided to take the offer.
'Might as well see what the Roundtable holds for me...'
—
The Grace-light receded, and stone steadied beneath his feet.
He stood in a great chamber where fire roared in a wide hearth at its heart. The walls curved around him, ancient and fortified, lined with doors and alcoves where figures lingered. The air hummed faintly with sorcery—an unseen pressure that dulled his instincts, binding his hand before it could ever find a hilt.
He tried anyway, brushing fingers against the pommel of his sword. Nothing answered. The ward here was ironclad. No blood could be spilled within these walls.
A sanctuary, yes—but not one that welcomed him.
Across the hall, a scholar in pale robes glanced up from his seat near the hearth. He wore a pointed hat, a rapier laid at his side. His voice came measured, polite, carrying neither scorn nor warmth.
"You're new. Few arrive here unless Grace wills it. That makes you… remarkable, if only for surviving." He dipped his head faintly. "I am Rogier, a sorcerer by trade. Should you wish for discourse, you'll find me willing enough. But—" His gaze flicked briefly toward the far stairwell, where heavier footsteps echoed. "Mind your company."
The footsteps descended.
A tall man strode into view, bald and robed in dark finery, his frame broad despite the scholar's garb. Rings gleamed on his fingers. His eyes were sharp, calculating, and fixed on the Tarnished with immediate precision.
"So, another one," the man said. His tone carried no hint of welcome. "Grace draws yet more strays into our refuge." His lip curled slightly. "I am Gideon Ofnir. They call me the All-Knowing. And I know enough to see when something does not belong."
The Tarnished met his stare but gave no answer.
Gideon stepped closer, voice low. "Remember this: the Roundtable is warded. Here, blades are dulled, claws sheathed. Words and deeds remain—but no violence. If you find yourself at odds with me, know that the Hold itself will stand against you." He held his gaze a moment longer, then turned away, dismissing him without further word.
Not far off, a figure in gilded armor stood at the wall, helm tucked beneath one arm, arms crossed as if he had been listening. His eyes, shadowed by the visor, cut briefly toward the Tarnished.
"Be wary," he said, voice gravelled, almost harsh. "This place is no church of trust. Even among champions, rot seeps through. I am D, Hunter of the Dead. I keep my blade for those who consort with blasphemy. If you do not, then we'll have no quarrel." Without waiting for reply, he turned his gaze away again, as if that settled the matter.
The ward here bound every weapon. Yet the weight of eyes, the judgment that clung to him from Gideon's shadow down to every corner of the Hold, pressed heavier than steel ever could.
The fire roared, steady and bright, but the warmth of it did not touch him.
Every word, every glance had made it clear: he was not welcome here.
Rogier had been polite, but measured, always watching as though waiting for something to reveal itself.
D had turned his back, his faith carrying him elsewhere. And Gideon—cold, silent, the weight of his gaze pressing down even when his eyes were elsewhere.
The Hold was bound by spell and ward. No blood could ever spill here. But still, the air cut at him sharper than any blade. Suspicion had a way of finding the skin.
At the heart of the chamber, just beyond the great fire, a Grace coiled upward—vast and resplendent, its light spilling out like roots from a golden tree. He stood before it, the whispers of the Hold falling away. Here, at least, the Grace burned steady.
He sank to one knee, pressing a hand into the light.
It answered.
A veil of white-gold unfurled, and Melina's voice threaded through it, quiet and clear.
"Do you wish to leave?"
He kept his eyes closed. "This place is not for me."
There was no judgment in her silence, only the faintest stir of acknowledgment.
"You walk a lonely path. Good luck, then" she said at last, gaze piercing, and faded into motes of light.
The light of the Grace swelled, lifting around him in a tide of brilliance. For a moment, he was weightless. The hall, the fire, the eyes of the Roundtable all fell away, drawn back into shadow.
When the radiance broke, stone was gone. Earth and sky returned. He stood again upon the soil of the Lands Between, alone beneath its vast and empty heavens.
Loneliness pressed cold against his ribs—but it was honest.
Better this, he thought, than false welcome. Better this than to stand where every word hid a blade.
He tightened his grip on the greatsword across his back.
Solitude had carried him this far. It would carry him further still.
The wind came down off the cliffs, sharp and cold, cutting through him with the taste of salt and iron. The great archway loomed ahead, black against the sky, its walls rising higher than the reach of sight.
This was no sanctuary. This was truth.
He stood there, alone, the sound of the surf far below and the crows circling high above. The loneliness pressed in—but it was a familiar weight, one he could endure.
The Hold had offered fire, shelter, fellowship. None of it real. Here, at least, the stones did not lie. Here, strength was the only measure.
He touched the hilt across his back, feeling the greatsword's weight settle against him like an oath. Solitude had tempered him, and would temper him still.
He put the thoughts out of his mind, resolute in his decision to forge a path for himself. Stormveil loomed above, vast and jagged, its walls catching the stormlight like the bones of some monstrous carcass. He knew what awaited inside: more trials, more deaths.
He lingered there at the Grace a little longer, flexing his hands open and shut. The change was undeniable. Every joint, every cord of muscle, every inch of sinew felt tighter, stronger, more responsive. He had known his body before—its limits, its trembling weakness after hours of fighting. But now… now it was as though those limits had been rewritten.
The sword had confirmed it, but even without it he could feel the difference. His lungs filled deeper. His balance was surer. He could feel strength thrumming quietly in his chest, ready to answer when called.
He felt good, not merely alive, not simply enduring—but better. Sharper. The weight of the runes wasn't just power. It was proof. Progress.
He sat back, staring into the quiet golden coil of the Grace, and thought about what he had done—and what he could do. Margit had been a wall. A monster that broke him a hundred ways. Yet even against that, he had grown. Survived. Won.
The runes he carried were finite, already fitted into the frame of his body. But there would be more. Always more. And with every fragment pressed into himself, he would climb higher, step by step, until no wall—nothing like Margit—could stand against him.
He considered where best to begin. South, just beyond the Warmaster's Shack, the field rolled wide and broken. He remembered it well, the lumbering shapes that dotted the plain. Giants, chained and staggering, each one towering enough that even soldiers kept their distance. Dangerous, yes—but also heavy with runes. Far heavier than men or wolves.
It was a tempting prospect. A field full of them, stumbling endlessly against the chains that bound their limbs. If he could bring them down—one by one—it would mean a tide of runes flowing into him. Enough to carve himself into something far beyond what he was now.
He found his hand had already drifted to the hilt of his sword.
The smile tugged at him again, smaller this time, but truer. For once, the hunger wasn't despair. It was anticipation.
Strength felt good. And he wanted more.
—--
The road south bent wide, the storm thinning to a low mist. He passed the Warmaster's Shack, its windows dark, the old warrior's absence barely noticed. Beyond, the field spread out, scarred earth and splintered trees under a gray sky.
And there they were.
Giants.
Several of them lumbered across the field, chains biting into raw ankles, dragging spikes through the soil. Each was tall as a watchtower, shoulders hunched, their guttural breaths carrying on the wind. They moved without urgency, like beasts worked until they forgot the shape of freedom.
He dropped into a crouch among the rocks, watching. His hand found the hilt of his sword, tracing the worn leather grip. The air itself seemed to bend around the sheer size of them. A month ago—no, even a week ago—he would have turned away. Now? He only felt the sharp pull of anticipation.
The closest giant dragged its foot, sending up a spray of dirt. He rose, breath steady, and stepped into the open.
The creature's gaze caught him almost lazily, as though surprised something so small would stand its ground. Then the roar came, deep and furious, rattling in his bones. The giant raised its rusted cleaver of iron chain and brought it down with the force of a falling boulder.
He moved.
Not away—but into the swing. The greatsword cleared his back in one fluid arc, lighter than it had ever felt, meeting the giant's shackle-bound leg in a clean, thunderous cut. Steel bit flesh. Blood and dirt sprayed. The giant bellowed, stumbling, dropping to one knee.
The earth shook. He did not.
He moved again, quicker than he could have dreamed before, driving his sword across the tendon, then up in a sweeping arc. The blade sang through the mist, and for the first time he felt not like prey, but predator.
Every strike was faster. Every recovery was smoother. His muscles kept pace, his lungs never faltered. The giant's roars were thunder, but he was lightning—sharp, sudden, and lethal.
When the creature toppled at last, collapsing with a crash that split the field, the flood of runes poured into him. More weight, more fragments, more coins dropped into his well.
He stood over it, chest heaving, but not from exhaustion. From exhilaration.
Stronger still. And there were three more.
The first giant's body had barely stilled before he was already moving toward the next.
The chain-bound colossus bellowed as he approached, but its roar carried no weight now. He slipped past the downswing of its rusted slab of iron, closing the distance in long, sure strides. The greatsword tore into its ankle, and again the creature fell, kneeling before him. One clean stroke at a time, he carved it down until the final collapse shook the field. Another rush of runes sank into him, heavy but inert, stacking higher inside.
The third came, and the fourth. Each no easier in scale, no less massive—but with every clash, he moved with greater certainty. His footing never faltered. His strikes landed faster, cleaner. The giants were towers, yes, but he was no longer a man straining beneath their shadow. He was the storm that toppled them.
When at last the field lay quiet, four giants dead, he stood tall among their broken chains, chest rising steady. No wounds of note. No exhaustion beyond the sheen of sweat on his brow.
He turned north again, back to the Warmaster's Shack. At the Grace there, the runes poured out of the inert weight inside him, pressed into the lattice of his body. Strength. Endurance. His frame hardened another measure, each fragment settling into place like mortar into stone.
And then he rose, shouldered the greatsword, and walked south again.
The giants were back. Chains clinking, trudging, unaware.
So he fought them again. And again. The same dance, the same thunder of their falls, the same river of runes pouring into him. Over and over, until his arms knew the timing of their swings by memory alone, until his feet planted themselves before each fall without conscious thought.
Days blurred. Weeks, perhaps.
It was not unlike the time he had spent hidden at the Gatefront ruins, cutting down soldiers and wolves in an endless cycle of death and return. There he had learned patience, discipline, the shape of repetition. Here, against giants, he refined it into something greater.
Every battle left him stronger. Every death he dealt left him harder to break. The field of giants became his crucible, and he fed on it willingly.
When he finally returned to the Grace again, body thrumming with runes newly forged into himself, the Lordsworn's greatsword felt like an extension of his arm. Light. Swift. Absolute.