After parting ways with Corhyn, the Tarnished sought out Master Hewg to inquire about Somber Smithing Stones. Strengthening his weaponry was a priority, but the old Misbegotten's first words took him by surprise.
"So, you've returned... that girl you brought back is special," Hewg grunted, his hammer never ceasing its rhythmic strike against the anvil. "Her spirit is wounded, and she can no longer swing a blade, but she possesses a rare gift... the constitution of a Spirit Tuner."
"You noticed?"
"Aye. The hue of her eyes... it's the mark of a Tuner." Hewg lowered his voice. "Rare as gold in these dying days."
The Tarnished frowned. He knew of Spirit Tuning—Marika herself had dabbled in it as a hobby, though she always grew strangely silent whenever he asked for details. "You seem well-acquainted with the craft. Tell me more."
Hewg stiffened, then let out a weary, self-deprecating laugh. "I was... looked after by a Spirit Tuner once. Long ago."
The Tarnished caught the flicker of fear in the blacksmith's eyes. Whatever "looking after" meant in that context, it clearly wasn't a fond memory.
"If you don't want to talk about it, forget it. But I have two favors," the Tarnished said.
"I forge weapons. Nothing more," Hewg replied curtly.
"Do you know where to find Somber Smithing Stones?"
"Look at me, Tarnished." Hewg rattled the heavy chains bound to his leg. "Do I look like a man who gets out much?"
"True enough. Second favor then: Since you know about Spirit Tuning, could you look after 'Little Red Riding Hood'—Roderika?"
Hewg stopped his hammer mid-air. "Are you mad? Entrust a delicate girl to an old, ugly Misbegotten? Don't mock me."
"I'm serious. You're the only one here who understands her gift. And for the record, you're at least a bit more handsome than Godrick."
"Get out!" Hewg barked, though there was no real heat in it. "Don't toy with me."
"I'll go ask her. If she's willing, you shouldn't refuse." Before Hewg could argue, the Tarnished vanished toward the main hall.
The Path of the Spirit Tuner
"Hey, Little Red," the Tarnished called out to Roderika, who was huddled near the fireplace.
"Lord Tarnished! You're back." She stood up with a hopeful smile.
"I've found someone who can help you develop your talent. Are you willing to apprentice under Master Hewg?"
"Truly?" Roderika's eyes lit up, then wavered. "But... would the Master Blacksmith want someone like me? And... he is a Misbegotten. People say..."
"He's a good man, Roderika. Race doesn't dictate character. But it's your choice."
"I'll do it!" Roderika said firmly. "I can see the kindness in his eyes. I want to be useful... I want to step forward."
The Tarnished smiled and returned to Hewg. After a heartfelt conversation where Roderika's sincerity finally broke through the old smith's gruff exterior, Hewg gave a reluctant nod.
"Fine, fine... think of it as me repaying a debt to the craft. Tell her to prepare herself. We start with the fundamentals."
As the Tarnished watched them, he felt a sense of peace. The next time he saw Roderika, she wouldn't be a frightened refugee—she would be a master of spirits.
The Shadow over Stormhill
Meanwhile, in the dead of night back in Limgrave, a silver, jelly-like life form—a spirit—was crawling desperately through the grass of Stormhill. Suddenly, a massive, winged creature with a skeletal head—a Deathbird—descended from the sky.
The silver spirit hid in the cracks of a derelict shack, trembling with a very human-like fear. The Deathbird screeched in an ancient tongue, its talons clicking on the stone. Finding nothing, it vanished into a burst of Ghostflame, leaving behind ritualistic bird-eye marks burned into the grass.
A Letter from the Sorcerer
Back at the Roundtable Hold, the Tarnished looked for Fia to discuss the Wraith Calling Bell, but her room was empty. He eventually found her on the balcony where Rogier used to sit.
"Lord White Wolf, forgive my absence," Fia said, her expression troubled. "I felt a disturbing presence... the scent of Those Who Live in Death."
"You found something?"
"This letter," she handed him a parchment. "It was left by the spellblade, Rogier. It is addressed to you."
The Tarnished opened it. Rogier wrote that his strength had returned and he had departed for Liurnia to track the "Black Knives." He invited the Tarnished to meet him south of the Academy.
"He's investigating the Cursemark," the Tarnished explained to Fia.
"I sensed the blight upon him," Fia whispered. "He touched the 'Great Face' beneath Stormveil, didn't he? The pustule of Godwyn..."
"He did. But he's resilient. He wouldn't head to the Academy if he couldn't handle himself."
Fia looked at the Tarnished with deep intensity. "Lord White Wolf... thank you. For turning the gears of our fate."
"Why so formal all of a sudden?"
"I am merely reflecting," she smiled softly, placing her hand over his. "In this fallen world, many of us were destined for a dark end. But because of you, we walk a different path. You are the center of a great many threads of causality. Please... do not forget that you are not alone. When you are weary, look behind you. We are all walking with you."
The Tarnished felt the weight of her words—and the weight of the crown he sought. "I haven't forgotten. I'm going to topple that tree. I promised."
"And I believe in you," Fia whispered, the "Deathbed Companion" now a "King-Maker" in her own right.