"Farewell, Ashen One. May the flames guide thee," said the Fire Keeper to the Ashen One. The Fire Keeper's voice was gentler than the shrine's stone warranted. Perhaps she knew this might be the last time he visited her, or perhaps her tone had always been like that — heavy with such patience — and the circle of death was finally getting to her as well as to the Ashen One. Or maybe she was simply waiting for her end. Even without suffering, remaining and not receiving the mercy of death is a madness of its own. Perhaps she dreamed of a world without this cursed flame — a world without the First Flame. A blindfold covered her eyes; she wore the Fire Keeper attire — a simple black robe.
The Ashen One, as silent as ever, nodded and walked away from the Fire Keeper. Many of his companions thought he had no voice. But those who had been with him the longest knew, in fact, he was not mute. He was like most of the warriors in this hell: he had made the decision not to waste energy on talking. Every word he spoke might be a word an enemy could use against him.
"Ah — well met, Ashen One. How may I be of service?" said the Shrine Handmaid, settling on her chair as she always did. She was yet another undead who had forgotten her origin; the shrine's curse was unforgiving as ever, uncaring of her or anyone's suffering under its weight. He had never seen her face — it was always covered by her robe, a dirty purple one — and he always assumed she had been aged by time or by the curse.
"…Embers. I need them. As many as you have," he said. His voice was rough as gravel. The Shrine Handmaid was one of the few he spoke more than a word to. Not out of love or affection — the Flame curse left no room for such concepts — but out of necessity for her wares. She was the only one who sold embers in the shrine, perhaps in the whole world.
"Ah yes — always after the embers, are you not, Ashen One? Very well. The remnants of the fire shall be thine. But not without a price: souls," said the Shrine Handmaid, always eager to get her hands on more souls.
As she gave the Ashen One the embers, and took the souls as promised, she noticed his gear. He wore a battered Fallen Knight set — grimy and practical, heavy as the burdens of those who had worn it before. Not polished, not shiny; stained with old blood, yet strangely unbroken. A hood shadowed his helm, cloth draped across his chest. A lamp hung at his right hip, two daggers at his left. Dirty strips of white cloth were wrapped around his arms and legs like bandages.
"Ah, Ashen, thou look'st ready for war. Perhaps today the Flame shall be extinguished at last, or perhaps thou shalt serve as fuel, as so many before thee did. Only time can tell."
The Ashen One, without acknowledging the Shrine Handmaid's words, left and headed toward the shrine blacksmith, Andre. He was a short man, with white hair tied back in a long ponytail — his beard white as well — yet the Ashen One never saw him idle. Andre was always working at his craft, even with scars and burn marks marring his arms and chest.
"Ah, you have returned. Which weapon needs further perfection?" he asked, hammer never pausing — the tool singing its metallic heartbeat. The Ashen One handed him a frayed blade — a weapon without a sheath. Rotten metal crawled along the blade from hilt to tip. This was the sword he had chosen for his last fight.
Andre the hard-working blacksmith took the blade with the shard and began working on it. The Ashen One decided to take one last walk in the shrine and see his companions.
He saw what remained of the only lord who had sat upon his throne willingly — Ludleth of Courland. He wished he had asked why Ludleth had done it, knowing he would be killed and perhaps used as fuel. But he had never been given the chance.
"Ah, Ashen One — come to make one last purchase before leaving? Go on. Buy what you will. But never ask me how I got it, as usual," Greirat the thief said, walking past with his cynical grin. The Ashen One still remembered meeting Greirat in a cell. At first he had been wary — who would not be of someone whose work was to lie, deceive, and steal? He did not remember when he came to like the thief, but at some point he had. Of course the Ashen One did not need more weapons or armor; what he carried was enough.
"Oh, hey, my friend — I heard you can't spend coin in the Kiln of the First Flame, so why not empty those tight pockets of yours?" said the Unbreakable Patches. How the Ashen One hated this backstabbing parasite. Sometimes he wished he had killed him sooner, but he had promised not to. One of his greatest regrets.
"Champion of Ash, welcome back. This pilgrim is your servant," Yoel of Londor said, still ready to serve the Ashen One ever since Yoel had been saved by him. Yoel had been one of the many sacrifices for the Flame; the sorcerer from Londor did not die, and so was taken into debt — forever loyal, for such a debt could not be repaid with a life.
"Ah, there you are, Unkindled One. Are you here to learn more of the ways of pyromancy? Which teacher would refuse his pupil's request?" Cornyx of the Great Swamp said. He had been strange at first; when the Ashen One met him, his teacher had been nothing but a bird in a cage. But since taking his vow to be Cornyx's student, the Ashen One had grown to respect his teacher's knowledge. Perhaps there was no flame Cornyx would not seek to understand.
"Back again, I see. Sadly there is nothing more to teach," Orbeck of Vinheim said. If he were not the greatest sorcerer, he was at least one of the most learned.
Passing where the blind miracle reader had stood, the Ashen One felt guilty — guilty for giving her the dark tome to read. It had been the last one she read. Perhaps in another world she would not have been dead and might have become the Fire Keeper she could never be here; here she was only a corpse, like most of this cursed world.
"Here you are again, wicked one. But I have no right to call you that, do I?" Karla murmured from shadow. She had been the most mysterious teacher the Ashen One had ever met. She was a child of the Abyss; she taught him its ways, yet she remained ashamed of her knowledge.
These were some of his greatest companions and enemies. But too many of them were not here. Much of him had died, and many of them had lost themselves. Some he had killed. Another deed to add to his regrets.
Taking one last look at what remained of the Lords of Cinder, a rough voice called to him. "Your sword is ready, Ashen One. Go on, and fulfill your destiny."
He turned and walked toward the blacksmith. Strangely, he still remembered, faintly and vividly, that he had not always been of this world. He had forgotten his origin long ago. He remembered nothing of it. Yet when he killed his foes he heard a voice — not loud, not quiet, only ever there — saying the rank and power of those he had slain. Perhaps that voice was the reason he had not given up; no creature could survive what he had endured alone.
But this was no time for wondering. He took the finished blade and went toward the flameless shrine. He wondered how the flame had gone out. Perhaps the one before him had failed. Or perhaps that one had succeeded and sacrificed everything to keep the flame alive. No one would know.
As the Ashen One climbed the mountain, what had once been white, pristine rocks turned to ash under his boots. Many armors, swords, and even the corpses of his late brothers-in-arms lay scattered — perhaps they had not met, but they had walked the same path. He could not help but feel sorrow for their deaths.
How many generations before had been burned? How many after would be burned? Would there ever be an end to this madness? Would one day the Fire be put to rest and with it the end of hollows' suffering? Why did the gods burn themselves to keep this cursed flame burning? Did Gwyn love humanity, or did he fear it? He had not thought so deeply in ages. Perhaps this is truly the end, he told himself. When had his mind last been afforded the luxury of such questions without the fear of a sword gutting him?
But there was no time for wondering. The Ashen One finally stood before the wall of fog that separated him from the Kiln of the First Flame. He breathed deep — though he had not needed to in many years — and stepped inside.
..
.
The Kiln of the First Flame was a barren wasteland of ash and shattered steel. Everywhere the Champion of Ash looked there was only ash, broken swords, and armor — relics of the past that belonged to those who had come before him. It would have broken anyone with less will, but this was something he had grown used to. He had walked among corpses in the Catacombs of Carthus, endured the harrowing heat of the Smouldering Lake, and faced helplessness in the Painted World, but the Kiln of the First Flame was different. It had an oppressive weight, like standing before gods who had burned themselves as fuel for the flame, terrified of the end of their era.
Standing in the middle of this barren land was a kneeling knight. Flames did not simply fall from him — they consumed him. They burned his soul, his life, his memory; perhaps even his humanity was being burned away. There was no reason for him not to give up, save for the will to protect the flame. It was a truly harrowing sight.
The Unkindled walked to the knight while crushing an ember in his hand. Feeling the power surge through him, he felt invincible — and yet he remembered how many times that feeling had failed him; even the divine had perished in this cursed world.
When the Ashen One was close enough, the knight rose from his knees. They charged at each other.
The air screamed as their swords met, roaring with disbelief. Their clash was brutal, something no mortal should have been able to do — but both had forsaken their mortality long ago.
At last the Ashen One faltered. He was never known for matching strength; he had always been the weaker one in his fights. Yet he was always the last to stand, his mind clearer than the corruption and madness that took his foes.
He rolled to dodge a devastating attack — flames seemed to leak from the knight's hand — and used the tool his teacher had taught him. Pyromancy was a mockery before the First Flame, but with what he had learned, he believed it could burn even hell.
He activated his flame. A great orb of destructive fire shot from his hand, scorching the knight's steel armor.
The knight, showing no sign of pain, changed weapons. Having lived and killed while serving the flame for centuries, he had a vast arsenal. Equipping a spear, he ran after the Ashen One and thrust the trusted weapon toward the champion's heart. Barely able to dodge, the Ashen One tried to counterattack, but the knight made no mistakes and left no openings. He followed with a series of swinging attacks that cut the air itself.
The champion tried to dodge again, but this time he was too early. The veteran knight baited him into a trap, bringing down his spear in a strike meant to cleave him in two. Thankfully the blow failed to finish him, but blood rose in the champion's mouth and he fled to buy himself time. He reached for the Estus Flask — the Fire Keeper having sacrificed herself again and again so he might refill it at each rest. He hated being hurt when she paid the price, but the Fire Keeper lived to serve the flame and died for it.
The knight, not caring that his opponent had regained some strength, switched to a short sword. It looked ordinary compared to his greatsword or spear, but to a trained eye it was no less deadly. He attacked rapidly, again and again, trying to end the champion quickly. The Ashen One dodged and blocked repeatedly, waiting for a sliver of relief to counterattack.
That second came — fleeting, nearly invisible. Any less seasoned fighter would miss it, but he was no champion in name only. Using his trusted frayed blade, he drew blood along the knight's back. Many would call such a strike dishonorable, but in a fight there was no honor.
'Remember *** the essence of combat is murder. Anything else is distraction. The one who is last standing decides whether he was honorable or not.'
A vivid memory of the voice that had taught him flared with that line. For a moment he felt joy at the recollection, but on the battlefield such thought was dangerous: the knight noticed his distraction and tried to slice off the champion's head.
As the battle continued, the knight did something the Ashen One had not expected: he adapted. The only reason the champion had survived so many impossible fights was his capacity to learn from each fall; his enemies rarely had that luxury.
The Ashen One rolled through another attack and took another Estus Flask — his fifth. If he did not finish this soon, he would be the one to die. For the first time in his life he ceased caring for his own body. He rolled between strikes, plunged his sword into the knight where he could, and took hits where he could not dodge — a hit for a hit. The knight had learned too much.
Finally, after forcing his enemy to his knees, he drove his sword into the knight's chest. For a moment he sensed the enemy's energy falter, but he did not relax — he listened for that strange comforting voice he heard when he slew foes. He took a step back and waited.
That hesitation saved him. The enemy rose again, as if power of flame and will propelled him. He ignited his greatsword and thrust it into the ground, drawing power from the very fire it served. An explosion followed — something the Ashen One could never have survived at peak, let alone in his battered state.
The knight leapt, aiming to finish him with a final thrust. The Ashen One, cunning even now, dashed behind the expected landing point and stabbed the knight in the back.
The champion thought he had done it. But he had not accounted for what the knight had become. The one before him had once sacrificed himself to serve the flame; this one seemed to sacrifice the flame — the flame had taken hold of the knight. Fearing it would be extinguished at the fight's end, fearing the end of the First Flame's age, the knight fought like fire itself.
Now the knight's flaming sword dealt terrible blows across the Ashen One's armor. The champion did not counter. He ran — who could blame him? This was power no one should wield. He fled and took another Estus Flask, his last remaining hope. This is my only chance, he thought. He readied his pyromancy and a talisman — a Canvas Talisman he had obtained from the treacherous Patches. It was ironic, praying with a tool from a godless man, but he would use any means to kill the knight.
When he was set, the knight leapt again. Fearing a mortal blow, the champion dodged and ran. After guaranteeing his survival, he cast chaos flame with his left hand and used the Canvas Talisman in his right to call on divine lightning.
The spell struck the knight; his flame flared in response, as if insulted by the Ashen One's use of both flame and divine power against him. The knight answered with his own divine lightning, as if mocking the champion's need for tools. Rain of light poured down.
The Ashen One tried to dodge, but it became impossible to avoid every strike. He braced for the unavoidable — and then felt a pain worse than anything before. A pain so terrible it would make even gods regret serving the flame. It was a taboo feeling, a wound of the soul as much as of flesh.
He neared the edge of death. Even the thought of feeling that pain again would break him. So he took out his most powerful tool: the Archdeacon's Greatstaff, one able to use souls and faith when his essence was empty. With his frayed blade in hand he prepared a final, desperate gambit.
He began by sacrificing his faith in the gods, then his remaining souls, and the power he had built. The knight watched, amusement flickering across the face of the flame-servant — perhaps the only emotion he had left after years of servitude. That amusement ignited something in the Ashen One. He decided there was nothing left to survive for — no more reservations.
He sacrificed something worse than all the rest. He did not understand it fully, only that after killing enough enemies he had felt a terrible pain; seven times he had felt it. And after every time his power grew more, he offered his powers too. Seven crashing sounds reverberated, like glass orbs shattering in a distant hall.
With a roar he unleashed his strongest spell: the Great Soul Arrow.
The knight finally tasted fear and tried to flee. But the champion of ash would not let him. With his battered body, he blocked the knight's escape and launched himself in a final self-sacrifice.
The arrow struck them both. The agony was immense, yet the thought that his enemy suffered too made the pain numb. Muscles tensed and, with one last, terrible effort, he drove his sword through the knight's chest.
[You have killed a corrupted tyrant.]
He heard the proclamation. He drew his sword free, broken and barely alive. This was not his time to die; there were still things he must do. He limped toward the last bonfire, thinking of his journey — the first time Iudex Gundyr felled him, the first entrance to the shrine, the first lessons from teachers, the Painted World, the Ringed City, the friends he had lost and found.
A tear slipped from his eye. I can finally rest in death's embrace, he thought. When it was over there would be no curse.
He reached the bonfire and summoned the most important person to him — the one willing to go against her duties and commit the greatest sin for him: the Fire Keeper.
They had spoken of this before. This world no longer needed the flames. With the gods dead, their age would end this day.
"Noble Lords of Cinder. The fire fades... and the lords go without thrones. Surrender your fires to the true heir. Let him grant death... to the old gods of Lordran, deliverers of the First Flame," said the Fire Keeper as she appeared. Her voice was gentler than the last time in the shrine.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Alina. I hope one day you will forgive my selfish request to end this Age of Fire," he said. He did not regret his choice, though he regretted placing such a burden on her.
"Thou needst not worry, Ashen One. I serve thee, and will do as thou bidd'st," she replied.
[Trial is over — prepare for appraisal] The last thing he heard as the world went dark.