Just before reaching Caria Manor, at a crucial junction on the path, stood the Four Belfries—four soaring stone spires topped with great bells. Except for the central tower at the crest, the other three featured dormant waygates at their bases, each guarded by an imp statue. Unlike common grey stone, these statues were a translucent blue, humming with the faint resonance of glintstone.
"Standard Stonesword Keys won't work here," the Tarnished noted, touching the cold surface. However, Aenophe had already found a chest near the highest tower and presented its contents: a key carved from stone but saturated with deep blue magic—an Imbued Stonesword Key.
"There are three gates, but only one key for now..." The Tarnished wandered between the belfries, reading the inscriptions at each gate. They led to three distinct, distant locales: the Crumbling Farum Azula, the Eternal City of Nokron, and the Chapel of Anticipation—the very precipice where he had first arrived in the Lands Between.
He looked at the key, then at the destinations. Returning to the Chapel was unnecessary. Nokron, according to Aenophe, was teeming with Silver Tears and was far too dangerous to enter lightly. That left the sky-temple of Farum Azula.
"My Lord, shall we go?" Aenophe asked.
The Tarnished pondered for a moment. "I have a question... you don't have to answer if it's a secret, but did you steal the Rune of Death from Farum Azula?"
Aenophe looked momentarily conflicted. "No... My Lord, I truly do not know. We Black Knives were merely the daggers. We did not orchestrate the theft. But it is said the Rune was held by a beast-cleric in a place beyond time."
The Tarnished fell silent. Farum Azula was a place where time was notoriously fractured. In the age of the Crucible, the mighty Dragonlord Placidusax had ruled there, wielding the power of storms and time. Since the Dragonlord's disappearance, the city had begun to crumble, suspended in a temporal vortex. If he went there now, he might be stepping into the past rather than the present.
"Not today," he decided. He wasn't strong enough yet to face the ancient dragons that likely still patrolled those ruins. Caria Manor remained the priority.
Near the base of the hill, the Tarnished found a new Site of Grace. Since his original armor had been scorched into scrap metal by Adan's fire, he pulled out the Carian Knight Set he had looted back at the Academy.
"Fits well enough," he remarked, adjusting the silver-blue plate. It was far more ornate than his previous gear, decorated with blue silk and glintstone gems—the mark of the Royal Family's elite guards.
Melina appeared, tilting her head as she examined his new look. "Where is your previous armor?"
"Burnt. Very burnt," he grunted. He looked at the two women. "Well? Any thoughts?"
"It suits you perfectly, My Lord," Aenophe said, her loyalty ensuring a positive review regardless of the outfit.
Melina's response, however, made the Tarnished freeze. "It is... better than the glintstone mask."
"Right. Why do I even ask?"
He turned his attention to the Ritual Pot he'd found and the materials gathered from the Black Knife Catacombs: human bone shards and Grave Violets. Following the notes he'd discovered, he began to craft.
As the violets and bone met within the pot, a reaction occurred. A cold, ghostly flame—Ghostflame—erupted within the jar. It didn't roar like normal fire; instead, it emitted the faint, haunting wail of spirits.
"The Ghostflame of the old death birds," the Tarnished whispered. "Softer than the Rune of Death, but still potent."
As the fire subsided, a cursed residue remained, clinging to the inside of the pot. He had created a Rancor Pot. Thanks to the regenerative properties of the ritual vessel, the curse would persist even after the pot was thrown and shattered.
Further down the road, they came across a set of ruins filled with wandering, mindless nobles. Some, completely lost to madness, attacked on sight. Aenophe efficiently dispatched them.
"This place was sacked by the Cuckoos recently," she noted.
"Even in madness, they try to guard their homes. Brave, but foolish," the Tarnished said. As he stepped into the courtyard, the remaining nobles cowered. But when they saw his Carian Knight armor, their terror turned to reverence.
"A Knight! A Knight of Caria has returned!" they cried, dropping their weapons and kneeling. They parted like a red sea, revealing a dead-end wall.
Knowing the tricks of sorcerers, the Tarnished struck the wall. The illusion dissolved, revealing the broad road leading directly to the gates of Caria Manor.
In the middle of that road sat a massive figure. A Troll, wearing a mirrored mask, sat hunched over a giant anvil, holding a book that looked tiny in his hands.
"You must be Iji, the counselor Bols mentioned," the Tarnished called out.
"Ah... a visitor. Rare indeed." Iji looked up, his voice deep and scholarly. "You appear to be a Tarnished. Is there something you require? Forgive my prying; it is a habit of my station."
"It's fine. Bols said you were the one to talk to."
"Bols? You've seen him? We feared he was lost in the siege." Iji's tone softened with relief.
"He was trapped in a gaol. He's free now and heading to the Academy to find Moongrum."
"I see... I am grateful. I cannot leave this post; I have my duties." Iji sighed, a sound like a shifting mountain. "I was a counselor once. Now, I am merely a blacksmith."
"Retired, then?"
"Ho ho, precisely. Caria no longer needs a counselor. The stars are frozen, the Queen is secluded, and the Manor is under siege. Providing weapons and a bit of advice to travelers is how I serve now."
Iji offered to reinforce the Tarnished's weapons as a thank-you for Bols. But when the Tarnished drew the Crescent Blade, Iji's massive fingers froze. He stared at the weapon as if it were a forbidden artifact.
"This... this is a strange blade indeed," Iji murmured, touching the edge where three distinct powers harmonized. "It is a catalyst for magic, yet sharp enough to cleave the heavens. My current skill... I fear I cannot improve upon such craftsmanship."
Iji looked up at the moon, then toward the inner sanctum of the Manor.
(Lady Ranni treads a lonely path of darkness...) he thought. (But if a Moon exists—a Crescent Moon, incomplete but capable of embracing any other—perhaps this is the hand of destiny.)