As the Fire Monk had said, incantations were a tool for the faithful. Faith served as the bridge to communicate with a higher power, and a Sacred Seal was merely the catalyst to manifest that divine will. The "incantations" the Tarnished currently wielded—the Dragon Communion and the Crucible powers—were anomalies.
The dragon fire stemmed from the blood of the heart he had consumed, while the Crucible's primordial strength was a direct gift from Siluria. Perhaps this was why the Aspects of the Crucible: Wings still eluded him—his medium wasn't faith, but a physical resonance.
Now, he faced the flame of the Fell God. How was he to master it? Setting aside the question of whether he could muster faith in a deity whose giant followers he had slaughtered by the thousands, it would be a miracle if the Fell God didn't try to incinerate him on sight.
It was a fresh headache.
As the Tarnished and Aenophe left the Fire Monks' camp, the acolytes who had been playing dead or were merely dazed scrambled to their feet.
"Scary... what kind of man was that? And that blade... it had the chill of the Zamor," one monk whispered, a cold sweat breaking out. "We're lucky to be alive."
"Forget being alive for a moment. How do we explain this to Arghanthy?" the leader muttered. "That man is after the same thing Adan stole. Do you think we can outrun or outfight a monster like that?"
The group shivered. Arghanthy was a harsh leader, and his devotion to the flame had only sharpened his cruelty. Failing the mission usually meant being turned into charcoal.
"Our only hope is that he finds the thief first... that old monster likely fought in the Giant Wars. He even knew the Chief's name." The monk wiped his brow, his robes soaked with cold sweat.
The Church of Vows.
"Congratulations, My Lord. You've acquired their secrets," Aenophe said with a faint, respectful smile. There was a touch of warmth in her cold voice that hadn't been there before.
"The gift you gave me earlier was better," the Tarnished remarked. When she looked confused, he pointed to the corner of his mouth. He was referring to her accidental smile.
"I... apologize, My Lord. I seem to have let my guard down," she said, quickly straightening her posture.
"Don't. I like it that way," he interrupted. "It shows you aren't just a cold piece of steel. I don't need a tool; I need a companion."
Aenophe nodded blankly. "I... I will try to change."
"Anyway, I have these two prayerbooks now, but I have no interest in reading the dogmas of the Erdtree or the Monks," he said, looking at the tomes from Corhyn and the monks.
"Fear not, My Lord. Ahead lies the Church of Vows. It is home to an ancient turtle of immense wisdom. He knows all... he will surely help you reconcile these teachings."
A wise old turtle. In Liurnia, turtles were revered as symbols of wisdom, so a giant one who could speak was bound to be ancient.
They eventually reached the sacred site where the lineages of Gold and Moon had once merged—the Church of Vows. Inside, perched upon a stone dais, was a turtle larger than a carriage.
"What a massive turtle," the Tarnished muttered.
"Ah... a new visitor," a deep, gentle voice echoed. The giant turtle looked up, his movements slow and deliberate. "Are you a Tarnished? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Miriel, steward of this sacred church... though its current state is quite embarrassing, I'm afraid."
The Tarnished sat by the site of grace. Strangely, Melina didn't appear, but he didn't worry; she likely had her own business to attend to. He turned his attention back to Miriel. One look into the turtle's eyes revealed a soul that had witnessed the passage of eons.
"I've heard the beasts of Liurnia are wise, but you exceed the tales, Pastor," the Tarnished said.
"You flatter me. I have simply lived a very long time," Miriel smiled. "What brings you here? A chance wandering, or the history of this place?"
"The history," the Tarnished replied.
"A rare thing these days. Most have forgotten the old stories since the Shattering." Miriel stretched his neck. "This is where Lord Radagon and Queen Rennala were wed, joining the houses of the Erdtree and the Moon."
"Tell me about Radagon," the Tarnished prompted.
"Lord Radagon was a champion of the Golden Order, a hero with flowing red hair. He met Rennala on the battlefield, and in time, his heart was won by her grace and strength. It was a match of legend." Miriel's eyes sparkled with a grandfatherly warmth. "He used the Celestial Dew right here to wash away the sins of war and vow his eternal love. Even if... well, even if it ended in tragedy."
"Radagon abandoned her. A foolish move," the Tarnished grunted.
"Perhaps. But the miracle of the Dew is for those who truly repent. I believe even broken bonds can be mended, given enough time." Miriel looked toward the fountain. "You, however, seem to have no need for repentance. You get along well with those around you."
"Why did he leave? How did a mere 'champion' become an Elden Lord? Godfrey was a beast of a man who conquered the continent. Radagon... was he really on that level? Or did Marika just want a change of pace?"
"That is a mystery. No one knows why Queen Marika chose him. But they say a sculptor in the Capital once glimpsed a secret while carving Radagon's image... a secret hidden within the stone itself. If you seek the truth, you must go to Leyndell."
The Tarnished thanked him for the information, then placed the two prayerbooks before the giant turtle.
"A Golden Prayerbook... and one from the Fire Monks." Miriel hummed. "You wish to learn the teachings within?"
"Does it bother you? The Monks' fire is an enemy of the Erdtree."
"Not at all. Heresy is but a contrivance. All things can be conjoined. There is no hierarchy between incantations and sorcery; they are all ripples in the same pond."
"I like your style, old turtle," the Tarnished laughed.
Miriel began to explain the doctrines—the eternity of the Erdtree and the primacy of the Flame. He was an excellent teacher, making the complex simple. Yet, even as the Tarnished understood the logic, he could feel no power. He couldn't manifest the fire.
"You do not believe in them," Miriel observed, tilting his head. "That is the difficulty. Incantations require an anchor in the soul—a submission to the source. But you... your spirit is free. Unbound."
Miriel stared at the Tarnished's hands, specifically the distinct arc-shaped scratches on his gauntlets—marks left by a very specific, circular sword technique. He looked at the long, curved blade on the man's back.
The old turtle's eyes widened. He recalled a legend from the Giant Wars—a warrior who knelt to no god yet was protected by Marika, a man who walked beside the First Lord as a brother in all but blood.
"You..." Miriel whispered, his voice trembling with a realization that spanned centuries.
•
And, that's for today! I have translated around 80chs of this series, and among it was few extras and interlude. However I won't post those additional chapter here, at least until the main story end. But if you can't wait to read it, you can found more on my Patreon here—↓
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