The fire was dying, fighting against the Caelid wind.
Nicolas sat cross-legged before it, his armor creaking softly as he shifted. His cuirass was plain steel, dulled with age, the kind given to footsoldiers centuries ago. A few plates were missing, replaced by scavenged scraps hammered crudely into place.
Enough to keep him alive, but not enough to make him look like anything more than what he was — a survivor.
His weapon lay across his knees: a broad cleaver, its edge nicked and scarred from years of work.
He reached into his pack and pulled free a small leather-bound notebook. The cover was stained with ash and dirt, the edges frayed, but it had endured with him. He opened to a fresh page, dipped a quill into a vial of half-dried ink, and began to write.
Entry, Year Unknown.
The air in Caelid rots the lungs. I can feel it when I breathe too deep.
Still, it is quieter here than in the capital.
No lords, no soldiers, no endless war. Only beasts and corpses. Easier to live with.
Sometimes I think back to the world I was born in. A different place. A smaller place. I died there — a soldier in a war that seems laughable compared to this one. I remember the pain, the blood soaking my chest. Then darkness. And when I woke, I was here. Wearing another man's face, holding another man's sword. A recruit in Leyndell's army.
That wascenturies ago. I shouldbe deadahundredtimesover. But i endure. Why?
Nicolas paused, staring into the embers. His golden left eye reflected the firelight, sharp and unyielding. His right eye, half-closed, gleamed faintly with its strange brightness — a black too deep, as if ink had been poured into the iris. Most would have looked away from it. He had grown used to the weight of it, though even after so many years, he did not fully understand what it meant.
He dipped the quill again.
I cannot see the Grace. I never have. No golden trails to follow. No destiny to guide me. Perhaps that is why I linger, why death never holds me.
I am no chosen one. No savior. Just Tarnished.
But one will come. One with the Grace. One who can mend this world. If such a soul appears, I will know it. And when they do, I will give them what little I have left. My knowledge. My strength. My scars. Then, perhaps, I can rest.
He set the notebook aside, letting the ink dry. The fire sputtered low, but he had no wood left to feed it. With a grunt, he rose, his armor clinking softly, and slung the cleaver across his back.
"Enough words," he muttered. "Time to see what rots in the tower."
The ruined silhouette stood against the crimson sky — a broken watchtower jutting like a jagged tooth. Rumor had whispered of a talisman buried within, a relic of a forgotten soldier. Whether it was true or not hardly mattered. Searching gave him purpose.
He tightened the straps on his armor, adjusted the weight of the cleaver, and set out across the cracked road. The earth of Caelid crunched beneath his boots, each step carrying him deeper into the wasteland.
As he walked, the wind carried faint voices echoes of laughter, cries, the half-remembered sounds of life long gone. Nicolas ignored them. He had heard too many ghosts.
What mattered was the silence between. The silence he had endured for centuries, and would endure until the one destined for the Elden Throne appeared.
The road to the tower wound through fields of cracked stone and ash. Nicolas moved with careful steps, his cleaver resting against his shoulder. His golden eye scanned the horizon, wary for movement. Caelid was never still for long.
Sure enough, a low growl stirred the silence. Ahead, hunched forms prowled among the rubble — dogs, if they could still be called such. Their skin sloughed in ribbons, bones thrusting through the rot. They snapped and snarled at one another, fighting over the corpse of some beast half-swallowed by the ground.
Nicolas stopped and set his hand on the cleaver's grip.
"Three of you," he murmured. "Not too bad."
He swung the weapon down from his shoulder and advanced.
The first hound lunged, jaws unhinging wider than nature intended. Nicolas pivoted aside, cleaver arcing in a brutal chop. The beast's head split with a wet crunch, body collapsing mid-leap. The second darted in, faster, claws scraping metal as it raked his armor. Nicolas grunted and slammed his knee into its chest, knocking it back. The third circled wide, waiting for the opening.
The second dog lunged again. This time, he met it head-on, burying the cleaver through its skull. Before he could wrench it free, the third came from the flank. Nicolas let go of the weapon, seizing the beast's throat with his gauntleted hand. It thrashed, teeth snapping inches from his face. His right eye the strange black one narrowed, glinting oddly in the crimson light. For a heartbeat, it was as if the hound faltered, caught by some unseen weight.
Nicolas snarled and twisted, snapping its neck with a wet crack. He let the corpse drop, then retrieved his cleaver with a grunt. The air stank of rot and blood, but the silence returned.
The tower loomed closer, its stones warped and melted by some ancient fire. At its base, a set of stairs half-buried in ash led down into the earth. Nicolas descended cautiously, the air growing colder, thicker.
The chamber below was filled with bones. Human skeletons slumped against the walls, weapons rusted in their hands. Their armor bore the crest of Leyndell his crest. Nicolas knelt, fingers brushing the faded sigil.
Then he saw it. Among the bones lay a small object, half-buried in dust. He picked it up — a talisman, worn and cracked. A simple charm of bronze, etched with the faint outline of a tree.
Not the Erdtree, but a crude imitation.
Nicolas turned it in his hands, then smiled faintly.
"You carried this all the way here, didn't you? To die in this hole."
He pocketed the talisman, then retrieved his notebook once more.
Found it. A soldier's charm. Worthless, perhaps. But it mattered to him. And for that, it matters to me. Every relic, every scrap, is proof that we lived. Proof that we tried.
I will keep it. Not for power, not for use, but as reminder. One day, when the true Tarnished comes, I will show them these things. I will show them the cost of our failure.
Closing the book, Nicolas rose. His cleaver hung heavy in his hand, but his stride was steady as he left the chamber and returned to the crimson light of Caelid.