Throne strode out, leaving those words hanging in the air. Melina hesitated for a moment, then followed. Her heart, once as still as an ancient well, now churned with unease. It wasn't hatred, not even dislike, but after just two days, the maiden who had lived for centuries felt a frustration she couldn't shake.
Throne didn't look back. They barely knew each other; her frustration wasn't his concern. He had a plan—the Wood Reformation Plan—and he was laying the groundwork.
Truth was, he held no malice toward her. He respected her resolve, her willingness to die for her mission. But he had one condition: Melina would take part in this journey. She would see, hear, and experience it all, then make her own choice. She wouldn't be delivered like a package, stepping off some train to complete a task.
He didn't want to be a slow-moving train. He didn't want her to be kindling.
Glancing back at Melina trailing silently behind him, he pressed on. The market was small, barely larger than the one at Waypoint Ruins, nothing compared to Sellia. It wasn't even a proper square, just a haphazard open space. Still, the goods on display held some intrigue—most tied to the Tarnished.
"That branch glowing with golden light… could it be a Sacrificial Twig?" "Oh? Sorcery scrolls? Fire? They even have this stuff?"
Throne's alarm grew as he scanned the stalls. The Tarnished were into everything, daring to oppose any faction. He spotted a flask of crimson tears, military-grade supplies just sitting there for sale.
Many items bore traces of fresh blood, their origins dubious. Throne didn't care if they were stolen or robbed; as long as they were useful, it didn't matter. His Runes were limited, so he couldn't splurge. He settled on a few essentials, chief among them a golden bottle filled with blue liquid.
The Flask of Cerulean Tears—or the "blue Flask"—restored Focus Points. He'd seen them at Raya Lucaria Academy, reserved for magic professors. "The Two Fingers are really pulling out all the stops," he muttered. "Issuing these to nearly every Tarnished. These Flasks alone can give them an extra life."
He exhaled sharply.
These Flasks were no trifles. Only the Erdtree held the technology to produce them. And unlike the game, the dew inside didn't replenish at a bonfire. Once empty, they had to be refilled at the Erdtree. That's why Tarnished camps always clustered near a Minor Erdtree.
He already carried an empty flask of crimson tears, so there was no need to waste Runes on another. These items seemed common, but they were costly—Tarnished often smashed their Flasks before death to keep them from falling into enemy hands.
Melina looked surprised. She'd been in her "wood" mode, but now she snapped out of it.
"You didn't even have a Flask for the crimson tears?"
"I lost it, alright?"
"You can even lose that?"
"Why not? They're just two glass bottles."
Throne shrugged, shaking the Flask of Cerulean Tears. He was pleased. With this, he wouldn't have to worry about running out of mana. Drinking potions was a sign of civilization.
In several life-and-death battles, he had exhausted his mana, and restoring it was always a hassle. This Flask would greatly improve his endurance. Glancing at the silent Melina, he continued forward and soon spotted something else of interest: a chalice emitting a golden glow, its surface etched with ornate patterns, the liquid inside radiating an unmistakable energy.
"What is that?" he asked.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Melina had retreated into her usual state—wooden, expressionless, hollow. For someone like Throne, whose mind buzzed with constant activity, it was unbearable. Sellen lacked common sense, but Melina? She was a mute, perpetually giving the impression of ignoring him. Throne waited, then turned with a faint smile. "Are you going to break our agreement?"
When Melina had first refused to help, Throne had slipped in a condition: she had to answer related questions. A trap laid specifically for her wooden demeanor. Honest to a fault, Melina hesitated before speaking, her voice tinged with resignation. "Flask of Crimson Tears. When a Finger Maiden strengthens a Flask with it, it increases the restorative power."
Throne already knew. He didn't need her to explain; he just wanted to hear her speak. The flask amplified the effects of the dew. A sip that once healed minor wounds could now mend severe ones. Another valuable find. Throne felt a growing gratitude toward the Tarnished. A decade ago, such items were sacred relics, locked away in churches.
Even a Demigod wouldn't dare risk universal condemnation to steal them. But the Tarnished didn't care. Robbery by divine decree—who could argue with that? Still, Throne didn't approach to buy. The price was astronomical, a clear sign of how precious these flasks were to the Tarnished. His attention shifted back to the seller.
A Tarnished cloaked in crimson, the hood shrouding their face, leaving only a pale beard visible beneath. Two daggers hung at their waist. They didn't call out to customers; they just sat there, silent, distinct from the others. Throne's eyes narrowed. The scent of blood?
On closer inspection, this one was unusual, but Throne didn't dwell on it. Anyone bold enough to strike a Church of Marika wasn't ordinary. Just then, the Tarnished glanced up, as if toward a specific spot. Throne followed the gaze and spotted a familiar face. Vyke stepped out of a church-like building, wearing an unmistakable smug grin.
In that instant, the seller's head dipped again, as if waiting for the next customer. But Throne, blending into the crowd, allowed a knowing smile to slip. The air around the seller had shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough for Throne to catch.
Even though she'd resolved to ignore him again, Melina's lips trembled. She couldn't stop herself. "Did you notice something?"
"Killing intent. A fleeting flash of it."
"Are you sure?" Melina glanced at the Tarnished but sensed nothing.
"I'm sure. I'm very good at spotting my own kind."
Throne turned away from the seller and headed toward a nearby tavern. "Follow me. Things are getting interesting." Daring to kill a hero currently in the spotlight—that wasn't just courage. There was no benefit in it, not for an ordinary Tarnished. Melina watched his back recede.
He strode straight into a small tavern reeking of sweat and cheap alcohol. Her nose wrinkled. Was this just an excuse to slack off? Given Throne's past behavior, she had her doubts.
Who could be unlucky enough to stumble into a major event within a day of arriving in Mistwood? Fine, she thought. I'll trust him this once.
Unable to return her "goods," Melina pursed her lips and steeled herself to follow him inside.
Leyndell, Roundtable Hold.
From the tower's peak, the city sprawled below—low-key yet opulent buildings crammed together, their rooftops stretching toward the horizon. The towering inner walls blocked the view beyond, their battlements lined with soldiers and knights. A closer look revealed that nearly half faced inward, their vigilance directed not at external threats but at the city itself.
Morgott aided the Tarnished but kept them at arm's length. The chaos of Mistwood had no place here. Only the most proven among the Tarnished were granted entry to the Royal Capital, their passage secured by dual authentication from the Roundtable Hold and Morgott himself.
In the uneasy triad of Morgott, the Church, and the Nobility, the Roundtable Hold wielded little influence. They were little more than mercenaries of the Erdtree lineage. The Haligtree Army and Redmane forces remained strong, their strength undiminished. The Tarnished were valued but not indispensable. From a high window, a man observed the capital.
His armor was unsettling, adorned with countless ears and eyes. He leaned on a silver scepter, its surface catching the light. Sir Gideon Ofnir had stood there for hours, his gaze fixed on the view he'd grown weary of over the years—the same solemn, rigid scene.
As one of the Roundtable Hold's founders, Gideon's early contributions to the Tarnished cause were undeniable. He was a hero, his legacy unassailable. Yet the eyes visible through his helmet's visor betrayed unease. The Roundtable Hold was meant to guide, but its role was far more complex than anyone had anticipated.
They existed in the cracks, caught between factions, their survival dependent on navigating the backlash of those who resented their presence. It was a precarious existence, hardly better than wandering the wilderness as a free Tarnished. "It's too soon," Gideon muttered aloud. "The Lands Between still thrive. The Demigods remain untouchable. Making a move now will only mark us as targets for those scheming vipers."
He sighed, watching the spring crowds flow through the capital's streets. Unlike the optimistic lower ranks, Gideon had exhausted himself dealing with the nobles' machinations. The old order was crumbling, but its demise was not yet complete. The knights remained loyal and brave, the nobles sharp and calculating.
Yet the Tarnished chipped away at the old order's foundations, the conflict between them growing more acute. The Greater Will shielded them for now, deterring open opposition. "Sir, you look worn out." The voice was raspy, carrying up the stairs as a man in silver armor ascended. His helm bore a plume of grey, like the neck fur of a white wolf.
Gideon turned. Vargram the Raging Wolf, another founder of the Roundtable Hold, stood before him. Vargram's demands were harsher, his stance more extreme. He advocated for their divine mission and the destruction of all who stood in their way.
"Of course I'm tired," Gideon replied. "Last night, three dukes came to me, asking for our help in their schemes. You know how it goes—only our involvement ensures no backlash from their rivals. Even if suspicions arise, no proof can ever surface."
Vargram paused at the top step, frowning. "You agreed?"
"I had no choice. Their influence here is too great to ignore."
"This isn't honorable."
"Honor cannot guarantee survival, nor can it shift the balance of power," Gideon said, his voice heavy. "Our survival depends on the Two Fingers' support. We're not strong enough to withstand a purge by the old order." Vargram's anger faltered, his rising indignation cooling to silent acknowledgment.
The Tarnished wielded borrowed authority. The silence of the Demigods and nobles wasn't born of fear for the Tarnished's blades but wariness of the Two Fingers, the Church, and the Greater Will lurking behind them. United, an elite legion of ten thousand could erase the Tarnished from existence. No one would be foolish enough to face a coordinated army in open battle.
The Raging Wolf stared out the window and exhaled. "We woke too soon. The madness spreads, but the foundation remains intact. We're divided—some don't move toward the throne. Some hunt their own."
"It's expected," Gideon replied calmly. "The Golden Lineage uses the Tarnished as blades. Hidden monsters lure them astray."
Gideon's tone held no despair, only a stark reminder: "Never forget the two most terrifying forces remain untouched. The Tarnished can't oppose them." The Haligtree Army and the Redmane loomed overhead like twin swords. Vargram fell silent. He could kill ten Redmane Knights, but a full charge from their guard? That was another matter.
After a moment, he spoke, his voice heavy. "Sometimes I wonder if the Two Fingers acted too hastily, waking us before anything was ready. Without the candidate system you devised, our people would've scattered already."
The scarcity of Finger Maidens had bred discontent. Every Tarnished believed themselves chosen. Why the favoritism?
Gideon had turned that frustration into competition. "It's a temporary fix. Don't overthink it. The prophecy says a Tarnished will become Elden Lord. It doesn't say the throne must belong to us."
Sir Gideon Ofnir's voice was cold, ancient, and razor-sharp. "The Two Fingers care only for reforging the Elden Ring. Who's king and who's sacrificed? They don't care."
Reality was cruel. While the lesser Tarnished acted recklessly, believing themselves invincible with Leyndell and the Two Fingers at their backs, the Roundtable Hold's leaders knew better.
In all their years here, Gideon and the others had never met Morgott. Leyndell and the Church sent no troops. Instead, nobles grew bolder, seeking to wield the Tarnished as their own weapons. Gideon and the Roundtable founders weren't disheartened, but solutions were scarce.
The Tarnished hadn't awakened all at once. They lacked hierarchy, discipline. They weren't—and never would be—a united legion. How could Gideon and the others hope to fight Demigods with fortified cities and vast armies? Assassination?
If it were that easy, the battle at Aeonia would never have happened. Their rivals weren't just the Redmane and Haligtree Army. The Carian Royal Family controlled nearly half of Liurnia. Gideon had a plan: stall.
Stall until the madness consumed everything, crumbling nobles, knights, and legions from within. The old order would fall without a single blow. But with the Redmane and Haligtree Army still strong, he couldn't delay forever. The weakest would be the first to fall.
"We must accelerate our integration and unite the Tarnished as quickly as possible."
"How? We've tried." Vargram's smile was bitter. They were heroes, not kings. There could only be one king.
"I don't know. We need a catalyst. And I'll find ways to buy time."
The factions of The Lands Between warred among themselves—each carving their own path to topple the old order. Vargram's face hardened instantly, realizing his old friend's quiet investigations. "Careful," he warned, fingers tightening around his sword hilt. "Anger Morgott, and Leyndell won't even be our graves—just our execution grounds." Gideon's silent nod carried the weight of a man starving for truths.
A shadow detached itself from the corner. No footfall betrayed the assassin's approach—only the sudden presence of an outstretched hand holding parchment. Gideon took the letter without glancing up. "Ensha," he said, still unsealing the wax, "take Crepus. Bring me the Marquis's head."
The assassin vanished like smoke. Vargram's jaw worked, but he stayed silent, watching Gideon slit the envelope with a dagger. "Well?" Vargram finally growled. "What fresh hell now?"
"Bloody Fingers moved again." Gideon's voice was flat. "They hunted Richthofen."
Vargram spat. "Traitorous dogs!"
Chaos spread through the Tarnished ranks like rot—those bastards hunted their own, framed innocents. When churches burned, the Golden Order saw only Tarnished flames. No distinctions. No mercy. "Bernahl's returned to Volcano Manor."
The second report turned Vargram's blood to ice. This name carried weight—a one-man faction, strength enough to shift the balance. "Is he turning against the Order?"
Gideon's bitter laugh held no mirth. "Who knows? He answers to no one. Not even the Roundtable holds his leash."
"But we cannot just watch him become a Recusant! More powerful Tarnished will follow!" Vargram's gauntlets creaked as his fists clenched. Gideon examined his nails. "Send Mad Tongue. The Bloody Knight too. If they fail..." He looked up, eyes dead as a doll's. "Kill him." The parchment crinkled in his grip. Suddenly, he stiffened. "Oh?"