The road wound endlessly through Caelid's scarred earth, a path of cracked stone and ash that stretched toward horizons burned crimson. Nicolas walked beside the great wooden wagon as its wheels creaked over uneven ground. Lanterns swayed from the frame, their glow dim against the rotting sky.
"You've not changed a note in two hundred years," Nicolas said, his voice calm, almost amused.
The merchant glanced at him, lips curling into a half-smile. "And you've not aged a day in two hundred more. I'll take the song over that curse, friend."
Nicolas smirked faintly, the scars along his face deepening in the dim light. "Fair. But you still can't hold a tune."
The merchant chuckled, then leaned on the reins as the wagon jolted over a stone. "What keeps you in Caelid, Nicolas? This land's as good as dead. Rot takes all. Even us, eventually."
Nicolas rested his cleaver against his shoulder. "Maybe. But ruins remember things. I found something in a tower — a talisman, carried by a soldier before the land burned. Not worth much, but…" He paused. "…worth enough to me."
The merchant gave him a sidelong look. "And where will you drag that scrap of memory?"
Nicolas let the silence linger before answering. "To the Hold."
The merchant raised a brow. "The Roundtable? Hmph. Always thought you half a stranger there. Too solitary for their liking."
"Safe walls are worth enduring company," Nicolas said simply. "And Gideon will want to know what I've found."
The wagon creaked on. Nicolas adjusted his pace, watching the crimson skyline ripple above Caelid's twisted trees. He had walked beside these merchants for centuries, long enough to learn their each of their faces.
The journey to the Hold was not like a road one could follow. It was a crossing. A pilgrimage. When Nicolas reached the half-buried chapel at the edge of the scarlet plain, he bid the merchant farewell and stepped into the ruin.
Inside, the air was still, heavy with incense that lingered despite centuries of emptiness. At the altar, a faint shimmer pulsed — not Grace, not for him, but something older, colder. Nicolas touched the surface of the stone, and the world shifted.
When he opened his eyes again, he stood in the Roundtable Hold.
The hall spread wide around him, torches burning on stone walls, the air warm and safe. He loosened the straps of his armor, letting the weight ease from his shoulders. For all his wandering, for all his solitude, the Hold remained a haven. No beasts prowled here. No rot gnawed at the earth. Only Tarnished and those who served them.
At the far end of the hall lay the library. Nicolas strode toward it, boots echoing on the stone floor.
Inside, shelves towered with tomes and scrolls. Amid the sea of parchment sat a man draped in heavy robes, his head gleaming in the torchlight — Gideon Ofnir, the All-Knowing.
Nicolas paused in the doorway. Ofnir did not look up. "You return from Caelid, I see. Alive, as always."
Nicolas smirked faintly. "You doubt me?"
"I expect nothing less," Ofnir said, turning a page. "Yet even after centuries, your persistence surprises me. Most Tarnished seek their deaths swiftly. You… linger."
"I found something," Nicolas said, stepping forward. He reached into his pouch and placed the talisman on the table. "A soldier's charm. From Leyndell. Buried beneath a tower."
Ofnir finally lifted his gaze, studying the trinket. "Worthless in power," he murmured, "but not in history. And history is my bread, Nicolas. You know this well."
Nicolas nodded. "That's why I brought it."
"Indeed." Gideon leaned back slightly, studying him with that unreadable calm.
"And you've walked through Caelid alone. Few could claim such a feat. Fewer still could repeat it for centuries."
"Endurance, not glory," Nicolas muttered.
"Endurance has its place," Gideon countered. "And I have need of yours."
Nicolas raised a brow. "Speak."
"There is someone I would have you meet," Gideon said, his tone measured. "A young warrior. Strong in spirit, untested in the world. My ward, Nepheli Loux. She trains in Limgrave. I would have you seek her out. Temper her with your experience."
Nicolas frowned, crossing his arms. "You want me to play tutor?"
"I want her to live," Gideon said, his gaze sharp now. "To be ready for the storms yet to come. She has fire, but fire burns out without discipline. You, Nicolas — you endure. Teach her that, and she may endure too."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Nicolas exhaled slowly. "If she listens, I'll give her what I can."
"Good," Gideon said, lowering his gaze to the talisman once more. "Rest tonight. At dawn, go to her."
Nicolas left the library and returned to his quarters in the Hold — a small chamber with little more than a bed, a chest, and a single brazier for warmth. He set his cleaver against the wall and eased himself down onto the bed, his muscles aching from the long road.
His golden eye drifted shut.
His blackened one did not. Even in rest, it gleamed faintly, as though watching a world he could not see.
For the first time in months, Nicolas allowed himself the luxury of sleep. Tomorrow, he would meet Gideon's ward. Tomorrow, he would see what promise this Nepheli Loux carried.