Forest and a long road: that was all Miquella knew for hours. He walked and walked aimlessly, hoping to find his destiny somewhere along the way. His bare feet were covered in blood from the countless times he had stumbled over roots and stones. His tunic, once white and immaculate, was now filthy and torn, proof of the innumerable times he had fallen to the ground. Weakness lingered in his body like an unbreakable shadow, accompanied by nausea and that unbearable sense of vulnerability, which grew more evident with every new wound.
It was an unreal feeling, yet undeniable. Miquella felt completely different from what he once was. He no longer carried the magnificence of an Empyrean, nor even the strength of a simple mortal. In that moment, his state was worse than either.
The road was harsh, far too much for his fragile body. Every step was heavy, every movement a titanic effort. As Miquella, he had never experienced hunger, thirst, or cold in such a raw, inexorable way. If it weren't for the fact that he had once been more than Miquella, this situation would have been even more terrifying.
He was tired. He was lost. Though he had traveled great distances throughout his life, this world was utterly unknown to him. He had no way to orient himself. His power and knowledge, once unshakable, were now useless. He was not on Earth, nor in the Lands Between.
He did not remember clearly how he had arrived, but the feeling of the place said everything. He could not perceive the slightest trace of his old world: not the Erdtree, not the Haligtree, nothing familiar. Even the sun in the sky, moving slowly with the passage of time, was unlike that of his home. It resembled his memories of Earth, but even then, it was not the same. This place… this world… carried a different essence, and yet, strangely familiar. And something more.
It was cursed.
He felt it in the soil, in the water, in the very air. Corruption seeped into every corner of this land, just as it had in his old home.
Wandered for an indefinite time, moving forward with clumsy, slow steps. He had nowhere to go. He didn't know where he was or why he had come here. The only thing he could do was continue on, praying his feet would not carry him in circles, hoping that at some point he might find something… or someone.
"I'm… so alone… please… someone…" he whispered without realizing it.
His mind was that of an adult, but his fragile body, his vulnerability, made despair wrap around him as if he truly were only a lost child. Perhaps he was.
Then, something changed.
He felt a sudden emptiness inside, as if something were draining the little strength he had left. The weakness, once barely bearable, consumed him entirely. He didn't even have the energy to stop his fall. His knees hit the ground. His eyelids, unbearably heavy, began to close.
Before losing consciousness, he felt something else. An ethereal chill, a shiver not born of wind or night, but of the ring upon his finger.
And then, darkness.
...
He didn't know how much time had passed. When he opened his eyes, his body remained in the same pitiful state. Hunger. Thirst. Sleep. Despite having been unconscious for who knew how long, his exhaustion had not abated.
Night was approaching. The sky was darkening, and the cold, once only an annoyance, had become a real danger to his unprotected body.
He had no strength, and the mere attempt to rise made him want to vomit. But with the little willpower he had left, he staggered to his feet and tried to resume his path. Step by step, even if falling to his knees became the new norm, he did not stop. The general sense of malaise seemed to lessen slightly, but he knew he was not well. His frail body had no defense against the weather, nor against anything he might encounter here. Miquella felt his destined death drawing nearer with every step. He was no longer home, no longer in his world. And if he were to die now—would it truly be the end? Would his soul be spared from the fate of nothingness?
Sleep struck him again, an overwhelming weight urging him to give in, to collapse and surrender to his fatal destiny… But then he saw it.
A light, distant yet unmistakable. It stood out boldly against the darkness of night, shining like a beacon. Miquella blinked, clinging to his last shred of willpower, and moved toward it.
With each step he drew closer, and the silhouette of the structure emitting the light became clear. It was a wooden building, tall and long, longer than it was wide. Small stairs led up to a central door, and on either side, square windows let spill the glow of its interior. Or at least, they once had. Now the light inside was dimming, and the torches outside seemed to have been extinguished only recently.
He approached with what little energy remained, watching as the place fell into an eerie silence. If people still remained inside, no sign of activity could be heard.
Miquella hesitated. He didn't know if drawing attention in an unknown world was wise. He had no idea what dangers might lurk here. But in his current state, the risk of the natives was no different from the threat of hunger, cold, or the wilderness itself.
Before the imposing wooden door, he raised his trembling hand and knocked with the little strength he had left. All he could do was hope that his arrival marked the beginning of his recovery, and not another step toward a crueler end.
The silence lingered. No immediate response came. His eyelids grew heavier, and the idea of surrender began to take hold of his mind.
But then, a sound… footsteps. Heavy, forceful, resonating over creaking wood. A voice spoke from the other side of the door. Strange words, incomprehensible to him. He didn't know how to answer. He had no time to try.
The person on the other side seemed to grow impatient and, with a blow, flung the door wide open. Miquella could barely react. The force of the opening struck him, and his fragile body fell backward with a dull impact against the ground.
From the doorway emerged a large man, thick-bodied and covered in hair. His expression was coarse, aggressive, and in his hand he held a dagger that gleamed briefly under the dim light.
His gaze swept the darkness, searching for something. Then it lowered, stopping at Miquella's small, weakened form, barely managing to rise from the ground. The child, trembling and exhausted, lifted his eyes toward him. And the man looked back in silence.
The burly, menacing man shouted some words in his tongue, but Miquella understood not a single one. His body ached, his strength was nearly gone, but even so, with immense effort, he managed to stand slowly. Far too slowly.
The man frowned, displeasure and impatience etched across his face. He spoke again, his tone harsh and commanding, but Miquella could hardly keep his gaze fixed on him. He wanted to try to communicate, but his clouded mind could not focus long enough.
At that moment, a light drizzle began to fall. Tiny drops slid down his pale skin, forcing him to lift his gaze toward the dark, clouded sky. With every drop that descended, his battered yet beautiful face was laid bare, forming a tragic, almost ethereal image. Like a fallen angel, lost to misfortune.
The rain grew heavier. The man, still watching him, muttered something in his own tongue with evident annoyance. Miquella thought he recognized curses in his tone. Then, with a grunt, he spat to the side, turned, and went back into the large building.
But he did not close the door.
Dazed, Miquella could only stare at the open entrance in confusion. The rain soaked his already frozen body, but a loud shout from within caught his attention. He couldn't understand the words, yet from the tone and the half-open door, he guessed they were inviting him inside.
Or at least, he wanted to believe so. He had no other choice.
With staggering steps, he crossed the threshold and, with effort, pushed the heavy door shut with his frail arms.
Inside, the man was already moving about the room, lighting a candle. The dim flickering light revealed what Miquella had not been able to notice before: it wasn't a house. Or not only that.
The great hall was filled with neglected tables, and on the wall opposite the door through which he had entered, a long wooden counter made it clear that this place was a tavern—or some sort of inn.
He stood still, watching in silence. The fireplace cold. Animal skulls hung on the walls. Dust gathered thick upon the tables.
He only came out of his trance when the imposing figure of the man walked past him toward one of the nearest tables. A sharp thud against the wood drew his attention.
The man had set something down on the table and, without saying more, pointed to it while speaking again in that strange tongue.
Miquella didn't understand his words, but his body responded before his mind did. He moved toward the table and, with no strength left to remain standing, collapsed onto the bench.
He blinked several times. His vision was blurred, yet he managed to make out the objects before him: a wooden cup of water, a piece of hardened bread, and a bowl with a liquid so clear it almost looked like the same water in the cup.
He didn't know if this food was meant for him. But hunger was overwhelming. Without another thought, his trembling hands reached out and he began to eat. Tears rolled down his cheeks uncontrollably.
Hunger. Something he had never imagined he would suffer, now consumed him entirely, forcing him to accept a stranger's alms.
The bread was hard and carried an earthy taste. Every bite hurt his teeth, as though he were chewing sand. The bowl held the remnants of what might once have been soup, barely thick enough to be called more than water. Yet it served its purpose—at least softening the stale bread he struggled to swallow. The water in the cup carried a strange aftertaste, hardly drinkable.
And still, Miquella felt grateful to put anything in his mouth.
He ate desperately, nearly choking, leaving nothing behind. He finished the bread, then tipped the bowl and drank every last drop of the watery broth, filling his small stomach as much as he could.
When it was over, he didn't know how to feel.
From prince to rebel. From rebel to something worse than a beggar, desperate for a scrap of stale bread.
For others, this might have been a devastating blow to pride. But pride was something Miquella no longer possessed
And not only him. He had been another as well—a man who in another life had struggled to survive in a modern world. Both memories intertwined within his mind, helping him endure the humiliation. He knew exactly what situation he was in.
The fat man, seated not far away, drank from a large wooden mug. When he saw that the blond boy had finished eating, he rose and pointed toward a door in the wall before walking toward it.
Miquella followed.
Beyond the door lay what seemed to be a neglected storeroom. Stacked crates, sacks of grain, and other objects cluttered in the gloom. The man pointed at the place without another word and then left, snuffing out the lamp as he went.
Everything fell into complete darkness.
Miquella didn't need to understand his language to grasp the message.
He slowly sank to the floor and curled up, hugging himself in an attempt to keep warm on that cold, rainy night. He sought shelter among the grain sacks, hoping they would grant him some warmth. But he found none.
He would have to endure.
…
Exhaustion finally overcame him, and he sank into deep sleep.
And in his dreams, he relived the moment he had begun to strip away parts of himself in his pursuit of divinity. A plan that—now that his mind was no longer only Miquella's—he understood had been doomed from the very beginning.
But the dream did not last long.
A light tap against his leg woke him.
He blinked and looked up. Before him stood the fat, hairy man, watching him. He spoke again, using the same word Miquella had heard the day before.
He rose from the floor and followed. He didn't know what he was being ordered to do, but it was the only choice he had.
Now Miquella found himself at the back of the tavern, washing wooden plates and mugs in an old water barrel. Among them, he recognized those he himself had used the night before. The rag he wiped them with barely held a trace of its original color. He scrubbed and scrubbed until his hands, numb and aching, could do no more.
Despite the meager food and restless sleep, his condition had not improved in the slightest.
When he returned to the tavern's interior, he found the fat man behind the counter. To his surprise, there were now more people inside. At last, he understood what this place was: a roadside inn, a shabby tavern for travelers.
He had no time to study the dirty, strange customers. The man growled a few words in his language and handed him a tray with cups and mugs, pointing to some tables. Then he gave him a rag, motioning for him to clean the empty ones.
And so, the one who had once been Prince Miquella became a tavern boy, serving customers and wiping tables.
…
Elsewhere, in the middle of a desolate field, a humanoid figure appeared out of nowhere, a meter above the ground.
She crashed heavily onto the damp grass, her body staggering with the sudden landing.
Her breath came ragged. She pressed her gauntleted hands to the earth and tried to rise.
She felt weak. Dizzy.
But she could not stop.
"My… lord… needs… me…"
She growled through clenched teeth as she stretched a trembling hand toward her sword, which had fallen not far away.
She forced her exhausted muscles to move.
She stood.
And she began to walk.
Toward where her heart told her she must go.
To fulfill her duty.