Mist hung over northern Liurnia like a shroud, pale and heavy, rolling down from the peaks of the Moonlight Altar. Beneath it, Caria Manor loomed. Its silhouette stood stark against the gray sky, towers like broken teeth jutting into the air, every stone steeped in cold sorcery. The land itself recoiled from its presence—the grass withered in patches, the trees twisted and leafless, roots blackened by years of witchcraft.
He approached with the weight of his hammer slung across his back, Sunlight Flame dim but steady at his side. Every step forward dragged the fog thicker around him, as if the Manor meant to swallow intruders whole before they ever set foot upon its grounds.
The gardens before Caria Manor were a graveyard of roots and frost. Trees bent like old crones over the path, their branches gnarled and leafless. Bones littered the soil, long since picked clean by crows.
Then the earth moved.
Pale fingers erupted from the dirt, nails black with rot, joints popping as they tore themselves free. Some small, twitching things, dragging themselves forward like spiders. Others vast, their hands large enough to crush him whole, their weight cracking stone as they hauled their bulk onto the path. The air filled with the sound of scraping nails and creaking knuckles.
The first lunged. He met it with fire. Sunlight blazed white from his palm, catching its flesh alight. The Fingercreeper convulsed instantly, its nails clawing the soil as if to dig the flames out of itself. It rolled, screeching without a mouth, thrashing in agony as fire devoured its pallid skin. He ended its misery with the hammer, one swing smashing it flat against the ground.
Others skittered forward, nails striking sparks from stone as they dragged themselves at him. He turned in a brutal arc, the Giant-Crusher splintering digits like brittle wood. Flame licked outward, igniting the smaller ones. They flailed, rolled in the dirt, slamming themselves into trees in blind pain. Their bodies blackened and cracked, their motions desperate, until they stilled.
And with each kill, the runes came. Golden motes rose like fireflies from the ruined flesh, drawn into his body with a faint hum. They streamed to him in steady arcs, sinking into his chest, his blood, his marrow—fuel for the endless path forward.
The greater ones pressed harder. One dropped from a tree, nails spearing into the soil where he had stood. It clawed for him, strength enough to crush his ribs in a single grasp. He planted his feet, white fire bursting from his palm, flames crawling up its arm. The creature spasmed, rolling onto its back, thrashing so violently it uprooted a tree. He surged forward and brought the hammer down upon its palm. Bone shattered. Flesh burst like rotten fruit.
Golden runes streamed upward at once, drawn into him in radiant threads.
When at last the gates loomed before him, the garden was strewn with ruined digits, charred flesh, and smoking earth. The Fingercreepers had fallen back into silence.
He pressed on.
The gates groaned open, and cold sorcery rushed out to meet him.
Caria Manor's halls were lit by the glow of Glintstone, pale and cold, runes crawling across the walls like veins of frost. From the shadows, Carian Knights emerged—spectral figures clad in battered plate, shields braced, blades drawn. Their helms burned with azure fire, eyes locked in unthinking obedience.
He met them without pause.
The Giant-Crusher swung in a wide arc, smashing the first knight into shards of fading light. A second thrust its blade low, but he caught the stroke with the hammer's haft and crushed it into the wall with a follow-through that split stone. Sorcerers above hissed incantations, sending shards of Glintstone shrieking through the corridor. He surged forward through the storm, white fire bursting from his palm to burn them from their balconies in screams that dissolved to ash.
Runes streamed to him in golden arcs with every kill, filling the air in a storm of light before sinking into his chest. He did not slow. Knights pressed from both sides, shields locking in formation, but their defense crumpled beneath raw weight. Every swing of the Giant-Crusher broke the line apart, sending armor and bodies scattering like straw before the wind.
The manor blurred past—chambers, stairs, more halls thick with sorcery and ash. He left them behind as broken ruin, moving always upward, always forward.
At last the stair ended.
He entered a vast chamber open to the night sky.
Moonlight poured down in cold sheets, bathing the stone floor in silver. The ceiling had been torn away, leaving only fractured arches and broken walls, ivy clinging to the ruins in shadows. Beyond the balustrade lay Liurnia, a sea of mist and still water glimmering faintly under the stars. The arena was quiet, the silence vast, broken only by the wind whispering through shattered stone.
And there she waited.
Royal Knight Loretta.
Her form was not of flesh. She shimmered faintly, her body wrought of Glintstone and moonlight, a spectral echo bound to this place. She sat astride a steed of the same sorcery, its mane trailing silver light, its hooves striking soundless against the stone. Her armor was ornate, bearing the crest of Caria in silver tracery, her lance glinting with runes that burned without heat. Across her back rested a greatbow, already gathering pale light into its string.
Her helm tilted slightly, as though regarding him. No words passed her lips. The silence was her oath. She was not here to parley, nor to posture. Only to bar the path.
Runes from the halls below still swirled faintly around him, golden motes clinging before sinking into his chest. He tightened his grip on the Giant-Crusher. The flame at his back flickered white, low but steady, casting him in stark contrast against the pale glow of her sorcery.
Loretta raised her bow. Moonlight coalesced into a spear of Glintstone, its hum resonant and sharp, shaking the silence of the arena.
He set his feet.
The path to Ranni was here, and it was closed until this knight's echo was broken.
The silence broke with a single note of sorcery.
Loretta's bow sang. Pale runes flared across the chamber as she drew back her spectral string, and a great lance of Glintstone erupted into being. With a sound like glass splitting, it hurtled toward him, trailing shards of azure light.
He did not dodge.
The Giant-Crusher swept up, stone meeting sorcery with a thunderous crack. The projectile shattered in an eruption of crystal shards, scattering across the floor in a spray of cold fire. Before the sparks had faded, she loosed another, then another. The bow hummed with power, each draw conjuring spears of moonlight, her form fluid and tireless as she loosed them in rapid succession.
He advanced through the storm. Each hammer swing broke a lance mid-flight, scattering sorcery into sparks that rained around him. Shards bit at his flesh, burning like frost, but his stride never faltered. The Giant-Crusher's weight shook the chamber with every step, a predator's rhythm building toward the strike.
Loretta moved with grace that belonged to royalty. She spurred her spectral steed forward, its hooves striking soundless arcs of light as it leapt high. She turned the bow downward mid-flight, loosing a rain of smaller Glintstone arrows that hissed like a storm of knives.
Flame burst outward from his palm. White arcs of fire swept the air, burning through the volley in a spray of vapor. The great hand closed back around his hammer as he swung it upward, meeting her descent. Stone met shield in a crash that rippled through the ruins, the impact driving her spectral mount skidding across the floor.
She did not break.
Her lance flashed, a blur of sorcery and steel. Thrusts and slashes came sharp and precise, each one imbued with the cold weight of Glintstone power. She fought not like a phantom, but like the knight she had been—trained, disciplined, relentless. Each strike sang with purpose.
He met her with raw power. Every swing of the Giant-Crusher cratered the stone beneath them, shockwaves scattering dust and crystal. His flame flared with each motion, burning bright against the pale glow of her sorcery. She dodged, her spectral mount carrying her in graceful leaps, her bow flashing between strikes to send spears of light screaming across the arena.
But her strength, her speed, her precision—all of it met an immovable wall. His body no longer strained beneath the weight of battle; it welcomed it. Each rune devoured below, each flame burning above, all had sharpened him beyond mortal measure. Where she fought as a knight honed by years of discipline, he fought as something greater: a vessel of runes, a man risen past his limits.
The end came swiftly.
She raised her bow once more, gathering Glintstone into a spear so vast it lit the entire arena in azure glow. It thrummed with power, the culmination of her art—her legacy. She loosed.
He answered in kind.
Flame erupted, wrapping his hammer in white brilliance brighter than the moonlight above. He surged forward and brought it down in a single, crushing arc.
Sorcery and stone collided.
The Glintstone spear shattered against the Giant-Crusher's weight, shards bursting like stars across the sky. The hammer struck Loretta and her mount together, the impact shaking the ruin, breaking stone, sending waves of dust and shattered masonry into the air. Her form splintered beneath the blow, breaking apart into shards of moonlight and spectral ash.
Silence returned.
The fragments of her body lingered for a moment, suspended like silver dust. Then they faded, dissolving into the night wind. The spectral steed dissolved with her, leaving only the ruined floor and the pale moonlight shining cold upon the stones.
He stood amidst the stillness, chest heaving, hammer steady in his grasp. Golden runes streamed from her vanishing form, spiraling into him in a soft, ceaseless flow.
Royal Knight Loretta had fallen.
And the path to Ranni lay open.
The last motes of Loretta's form faded into the night wind, leaving only silence. Beyond the shattered arches, a path revealed itself—a narrow stair spiraling downward through the cliffside, then bending northward.
The land beyond Caria Manor was quiet and strange, cloaked in moonlit fog. Rolling hills stretched beneath the silver glow, their grass wet with dew. Above them loomed three towers, each distant but commanding against the starry sky.
To the east, one rose stark and proud, its windows lit faintly by the blue fire of Glintstone. Seluvis's Rise.
To the west, a second stood sealed, its door bound by wards of spectral frost. No light burned within.
And in the north, higher still, the largest of the three watched the valley with solemn grace. Ranni's Rise.
The Tarnished's steps carried him there.
The door admitted him with no resistance—no runes barring the way, no guardian barring his path. Within, the air was cool, quiet, faintly touched with the scent of parchment and Glintstone dust. Lamps flickered with azure fire, casting the chamber in pale, cold light.
And at its heart, she waited.
A woman seated in a high-backed chair, her body slender, clad in robes of moonlight blue. From her shoulders spread four spectral arms, folded with poise. Her porcelain face was expressionless, her eyes closed, yet her presence pressed upon the chamber like the moon itself—distant, commanding, vast.
When she spoke, her voice was calm, smooth as still water, yet weighted with sharp intelligence.
"I am Ranni the Witch. 'Twas not by my invitation thou comest hither. Yet fate hath guided thy path, and here thou standest before me."
Her head turned slightly, as though regarding him with unseen eyes.
"Once was I an Empyrean, chosen as vessel by the Fingers. Yet I did resist their will, and mine own path I did carve. Now I would bid others to walk it with me… if their will prove worthy."
Ranni's tone remained steady, neither warm nor cold.
"Thou art here not by summons, but by destiny's weave. If thy will be strong, thou mayst join me. If not, thy road remaineth thine own. But whether thou refusest or no, know this—the threads of fate have already entwined our courses."
Silence followed. The moonlight through the high windows washed over them all, pale and cold. Her words hung in the air, heavy with inevitability.
The Tarnished stood still, golden motes of runes still faintly clinging to his frame from Loretta's fall. He felt the weight of her words, the power in her presence, the inevitability of her designs. Yet within, his resolve remained unbroken.
He bowed—not kneeling, not submitting, but a warrior's acknowledgment.
"I walk my own road, Ranni. No oath will I ever swear that binds my will. But for a time, I would walk beside yours, if you would permit it. For our ends may serve each other… though mine is my own."
Ranni's expression did not shift, but there was a faint stir in the air, as though the moon herself had drawn a breath.
"Hah… so thou art unlike Blaidd, then. Thou shall be loyal in thine deeds, though thy words cloak thine independence."
Her tone softened, but carried an edge of amusement.
"Very well. Walk with me, if thou wouldst. Test thy fate against mine. In time, thou shalt see whether thine own road divergeth, or leadeth still beside me."
Her closed eyes tilted toward him once more.
"Then be welcome, Tarnished. For though thou wouldst not name thyself servant, thou art yet within my fold. Together, we shall unravel what the Fingers have wrought, until the moment fate demandeth thy true path be chosen."
Her words lingered like the moonlight itself—pale, cold, inexorable.
And within, the Tarnished resolved: he would play this part, walk this road, until the truth was his. Until she revealed where she had cast aside her Great Rune. Only then would his road diverge, once more his alone.
The chamber remained still, moonlight streaming faintly through high windows. Ranni's voice did not waver as she spoke again, soft as frost over stone.
"There lieth in Nokron a treasure most dire… the Finger-Slayer Blade. The very means by which my fate is severed from the meddling of the Greater Will. Seek it out, Tarnished, and bring it to me. Only with it may I claim the freedom I desire."
The Tarnished inclined his head, though his eyes remained steady upon her pale, porcelain form. He knew well the weight of her request; to wield such a blade, even for a moment, was to spit in the eye of the Fingers themselves. But he also knew this: to hand her the weapon alone would not be enough. She was too guarded, too calculating. No trust of hers would be won so easily.
"I will see it done," he said simply, his voice a steel edge in the silence.
Yet even as he spoke the words, his thoughts turned forward, past Nokron, past the blade. He knew the shape of the road already: the Baleful Shadow that hounded her, the great beast Astel lurking in the void between stars, and the secrets veiled within the Cathedral of Manus Celes.
Only when he had stood against the full measure of her fate and returned her life into her hands, would she deem him worthy of her trust. Only then would she speak the truth he sought: the hiding place of her cast-off Great Rune.
For now, he bowed again—measured, never kneeling—and turned for the tower door. His road wound through Nokron, through shadow and starlight, but his purpose burned clear as ever.
To gather the Rune. To rebuild what was broken.
And no fate, not even Ranni's, would turn him from it.
—
The crater gaped wide, a wound in the Lands Between. From its depths, the shimmer of starlight revealed the ruins of Nokron, Eternal City, long hidden beneath the earth. The Tarnished began his descent, clambering down the jagged slope where whole chunks of land had torn free and now hung suspended midair.
He moved across the fractured cityscape, down broken walls and tilted halls. Collapsed staircases ended in open voids, bridges slanted at impossible angles, and towers jutted sideways into the abyss. He pressed ever downward, through structures abandoned to the stars.
At the plaza below, silver mist stirred. Quicksilver rippled in shallow pools, then rose into grotesque forms. The Silver Tears lurched with distorted limbs. He swung the Giant-Crusher, the hammer's weight turning the first into a splattering pool. Another lunged; he caught it with a backswing that crushed it flat against the stone. With each collapse into liquid, runes streamed into him, absorbed only as their forms broke.
The ground shook. From above, a vast Silver Tear fell, its body forming into a massive sphere that rolled to crush him. He roared and hurled fire upon it. Flames seared liquid flesh; the sphere writhed and spun, shrieking as it thrashed across the stone. When it burst apart in molten spray, only then did its runes pour into him.
Past the plaza, broken steps wound toward the wide bridge spanning a gulf of stars. At its far end, within the rectangular ruins of collapsed stone, a figure awaited.
Himself.
The Mimic Tear rose from the mist, coalescing into his exact likeness. A bare, scarred warrior, gripping the same colossal hammer in hand. The Tarnished advanced, and his double mirrored him step for step.
When they met, the clash shook the ruin. Giant-Crusher hammered against Giant-Crusher, each blow splitting stone and filling the arena with thunder. Every swing mirrored, every dodge anticipated, every rhythm broken only to be answered in kind. The ruin quaked beneath the relentless duel.
It was a stalemate of power. But the Tarnished forced it open by breaking rhythm—swinging too early, staggering himself on purpose, baiting his double into missteps no mirror could predict. He slammed down, shattering the floor, the shockwave knocking the mimic reeling. Blow after blow followed until the false self collapsed, its body losing shape, dissolving back into silver mist. Only then did its runes surge into him.
He lingered a moment in the ruin, steadying his breath. Then he moved on.