The air reeked of damp stone and ashes.Veyna woke upon the cold earth, her body stiff, her lungs aching as though dragged from the grave itself. She clawed at the soil with trembling hands, rising slowly, every breath heavy. Around her lay crooked gravestones and the broken husk of a chapel, its windows shattered, its altar blackened by centuries of neglect.
Her sword lay half-buried in dirt beside her. The steel was chipped, dulled, but still hers. She lifted it with care, gripping the hilt as if it were the only anchor keeping her from vanishing into dust once more.
Then came the whisper.
"Rise, Tarnished…"
Her head snapped upward. No lips had spoken, no throat had formed the words—yet the voice coiled through her mind like smoke, deep and hollow, heavy as embers.
"You linger between life and death, yet still you breathe," it murmured. "Tell me, child of ash… will you walk again, or sink into silence?"
Veyna clenched her jaw, scanning the chapel ruins. Shadows stirred, swirling like smoke, until they shaped themselves into the figure of a man. Cloaked in drifting cinders, his body flickered as though half there, half elsewhere. His face was a skull wreathed in ash, sockets glowing faintly with dying fire.
"I am Ashborn," the voice said, though the skull's jaw did not move. "A shade left when fire gave way to ruin. I am bound to you now—shadow to your flame. Where Grace calls, I follow."
Veyna raised her blade, though her hand trembled. "Why me?"
Ashborn tilted his head, ember-eyes glowing brighter. "Because you are weak."
The word struck like steel.
"You are nothing," he continued, circling her slowly, his ashen cloak trailing into smoke. "A forgotten exile, stripped of honor, of power. Yet weakness is where strength is forged. And I… will make you strong."
Her grip tightened. "And why should I trust you?"
Ashborn's laughter rattled like dry wood snapping in fire. "Trust? No. You will obey the path of Grace—or you will die. Those are the only truths that remain."
Before she could answer, golden motes drifted past her, glowing faintly in the gloom. They flowed toward the chapel's broken door, beckoning.
Veyna lowered her sword, lips curling in a grim line. "Then I walk."
Ashborn's skull inclined, almost approving. "So it begins."
Outside, the Lands Between stretched before her in shadow. The pale moon bled into a sickly dawn, revealing skeletal woods and hills scarred by battles long forgotten.
She did not walk far before the first test came.
The growl was low, guttural, echoing through the mist. From between twisted trees padded a wolf, mangy and starved, its eyes glowing faintly red. It snarled, baring teeth yellowed with rot.
Veyna steadied her sword. Her arms shook, untrained, yet her gaze burned steady.
The wolf lunged.
She swung late, blade grazing its flank. Pain seared her arm as claws tore across her flesh. She staggered, breath ragged, forcing her body to move again. Steel whistled through air—this time finding the beast's throat. The wolf collapsed, blood steaming in the cold dawn.
Veyna fell to one knee beside it, clutching her wounded arm, teeth gritted against the pain.
Ashborn appeared behind her, his voice a hiss of embers.
"Pitiful… yet you endure."
The wolf's corpse shuddered. From its chest rose a wisp of black smoke, faint, shivering, drawn into Ashborn's form. He extended a skeletal hand, and a thread of that smoke drifted into Veyna's chest.
Her eyes widened. For a heartbeat, warmth surged through her veins. Her breath steadied, her wounds stung but closed faintly, her body feeling lighter, stronger.
"What… was that?" she demanded.
Ashborn's ember-eyes flared. "The shadow of power. The more you slay, the more you claim. Each victory feeds you. Each corpse is an offering. Rise from weakness… or be consumed by it."
Veyna clenched her fist. For the first time, she felt the spark of something greater than survival.
The woods thinned, leading her to a field scarred by war. Broken wagons, shattered helms, and spears rusted to bone littered the ground. Beyond, a silhouette of a great golden tree loomed in the distance, its light faint but eternal.
She did not have long to marvel.
From behind a toppled cart rose a soldier. His armor was rusted, helm dented, but his eyes glowed faintly red, his movements stiff—puppet-like, driven by something beyond death.
He lurched forward, blade raised.
Veyna met him head-on. Their blades clashed with brutal force, jarring her bones. She ducked his swing, driving her sword into the gap of his armor. Sparks burst as steel met bone. The soldier staggered, but his strike grazed her shoulder, hot blood seeping.
She roared, shoving forward, and with a final thrust her blade pierced his chest. He shuddered, crumpling into the dirt.
Again, the wisp rose—a dark smoke twisting from the corpse. Ashborn appeared, drawing it into himself, then casting a sliver into her.
Heat surged through her veins once more. Her exhaustion lessened, her arms steadied. The ache in her muscles dimmed.
"You see now," Ashborn whispered, circling her like a predator. "This world will feed you. Each foe, each beast, each cursed knight you strike down—they will become your strength. The path of Grace demands it. The throne of Elden Lord requires it."
Veyna wiped blood from her cheek, her chest heaving. "And if I refuse?"
Ashborn leaned close, ember-eyes burning into hers. "Then you will remain weak. And the weak… are devoured."
She stared at him, then at her bloodied blade. The answer came without words.
Ashborn's laughter echoed faintly as he unraveled into smoke.
By the time she reached the cliffside, dawn had broken. The land stretched out before her in ruin—villages smoldering, castles brooding in the mist, fields scarred by war. Above all, the Erdtree loomed, vast and golden, its branches reaching like divine fire into the heavens.
Veyna sank to one knee, her wounds aching, yet her spirit unbroken. The golden motes swirled ahead of her, brighter now, guiding deeper into the unknown.
She whispered into the wind, voice steady.
"I will not break. If this path demands blood, then I will carve it in steel."
Behind her, Ashborn's voice lingered like ash in the air:
"Good. Let us see… how far you will rise."
And with sword in hand, Veyna followed the call of Grace.