These were his loyalists. The death of even one would cut deep.
"War demands sacrifice." Owen raised his voice. He waited for Godrick to steady himself before continuing. "Your Highness, we're out of options. Retreat isn't an answer."
Retreat? Godrick knew better. He'd carried the weight of the nobles' expectations too far to crumble under failure now.
Yet the thought of this catastrophe gnawed at him. Time—always time. How long could Leyndell's allies stall Morgott? If Leyndell's forces broke through Stormveil's defenses, he'd be left with nothing—not even a grave to mourn over.
'To leverage our numbers, we need siege equipment. Catapults will take at least five days to assemble.
I can't exactly lead the charge myself.'
It wasn't fear. It was dignity. The Lord of All That Is Golden charging into battle? Unthinkable.
The carriage shuddered to a halt. A knock at the door. "Your Highness, a Banished Knight requests an audience."
A Banished Knight? Godrick's own knights wouldn't phrase it like that. He straightened. "Who?"
"Lord Oleg. The Stormhawk."
Oleg? Godrick's mismatched eyes flicked to Owen, who shrugged, palms raised in innocence. Then it clicked. "Waypoint Ruins. Something happened there. The Tarnished took it—must've triggered an alarm by accident."
"So Oleg's come to me?" Godrick narrowed his eyes. He'd been a bystander in that mess, no interest in its secrets. Already irritated, he had no patience for trivialities.
He was about to dismiss the knight when it hit him. "You said the Tarnished did it?"
"Yes. Led by 'The Dauntless' Vyke. That's what's pinned on you."
Godrick tapped the table. A slow, crooked smile spread across his face.
"No. They didn't trip an alarm. They're part of it."
Ah.
No one was blind. Godrick meant to use this as leverage, to pull the Stormhawk into his orbit. Shady? Absolutely. But it was the only play left.
"It's decided." Godrick's multiple hands gathered the scattered documents. He sat tall, regal. "Bring him in!"
The warrior stepped into the carriage, a machine of death cloaked in steel.
Far off, on a cliff's edge, a werewolf watched. The sea wind tugged at his fur. Blaidd's sharp eyes tracked the army's movement, his clawed fingers absently stroking his chin.
"Damn it. Interrupting my mission again."
He'd been sent to Caelid to track someone down. Instead, he'd wandered here, to Limgrave's coast, letting the sea breeze wash over him. With the army rolling past, his task was impossible.
Finding that missing person wasn't urgent anyway.
He pulled out a clay mask—a grotesque human face, mouth agape. Ever since that incident, Lady Ranni had crafted these tools for emergencies.
"Your Highness, Stormveil's army has moved. They'll clash with the Tarnished soon."
The mask was crude compared to Throne's dolls. Like a lagging connection, it took ten seconds before a response crackled through.
The voice cut through the air like ice, cold and clear, echoing the loneliness of the Dark Moon. "Blaidd, I have no interest in the battle between the two sides. By the way, have you reached Caelid? Have you found any clues?" The werewolf's gaze drifted to the bay where the sea breeze howled. His reply came low and sullen. "Almost there. But, Your Highness, I've been to Caelid several times over the years. I've never found any trace of him."
The silence stretched for a few seconds before the voice returned, firm and unyielding. "He promised me he would return." Blaidd licked his lips. For the hundredth time, he ventured, "The life or death of that man is of no consequence. Your concern for him is truly—"
"Who said I am concerned about him? It's just— This has nothing to do with my thoughts. I cannot be bothered to explain. You just need to find him." Ranni's interruption carried a weight that crushed the werewolf's objections. Blaidd clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. "Yes, I will definitely bring Throne back to you!" And by the way, give him a good beating.
Throne lay sprawled on a recliner, basking in the sunlight. The dappled shadows of the Minor Erdtree danced across his face. His eyes snapped open. Killing intent. He sat up sharply, scanning his surroundings. Nothing but Lelia preparing dinner greeted him. He considered the sensation for a moment, then dismissed it. Too many people wanted him dead; pinpointing the source was impossible.
He settled back into the chair, his gaze drifting over the Tarnished loitering nearby. His thoughts turned to Sellen. 'I need a breakthrough with Godrick. Follow the trail to find my teacher's whereabouts.'
Melina had misunderstood. There were many ways to kill Godrick, but Throne had chosen the most dangerous path—all for Sellen's sake. Only by confronting Godrick face-to-face could he pry out the information he needed. A hero in the spotlight couldn't achieve that. It wasn't favoritism; choosing between Ranni and Sellen was a death trap of a question, one only reason could untangle.
The situation in Liurnia was stable. Pushing that back didn't matter. But Sellen—she'd vanished without a trace. 'Wait, I seem to have someone else on me.'
The thought of Ranni brought another realization: Melina's existence. It was similar to his time in Caelid—one a doll, the other a 'living person.' If he met Ranni, would there be problems? No, the Princess was steeped in righteousness. She'd understand his hidden difficulties. Throne offered a silent reassurance, then acknowledged the truth: Melina was difficult to handle.
He couldn't use the Finger Maiden's power—not due to lack of ability or moral qualms. Using a Finger Maiden as a bridge to obtain Runes was called 'bestowing,' following the Erdtree's system. From the moment he awoke, he'd relied on 'plundering,' filtered through the alienated Dragon Heritage. Two words, an entire world apart.
Beyond her role as a Finger Maiden converting power, Melina had little use. 'No, I must come up with a plan to make the best use of her.'
Throne's mind churned, unwilling to let go. He plotted silently, weaving schemes around a certain piece of wood. Soon, a plan began to take shape.
Just then, Diallos returned, so he did not think too deeply about it, watching the pained-looking noble Tarnished put down a cloth bag. "Lord Isshin, I have brought back the things you wanted." Throne nodded slightly and opened the cloth bag to look. First were five bottles of flask of crimson tears and five bottles of flask of cerulean tears.
The bottles brimmed to the top, each one holding enough for dozens of drinks. "That must've cost you a fortune in Runes," Throne said, eyeing the stash. Diallos nodded, his face twisted in discomfort. The dew from the Minor Erdtree wasn't infinite, and with the strength of the Tarnished evenly matched, no one dared to bully another. They'd settled on a queue system—one chance per month for each Tarnished to claim grace. Want more? Pay up.
Throne inspected the flasks, sliding them into his belt for safekeeping. "Not bad," he muttered. "Should last me a while." He dug into his bundle, pulling out the carefully crafted hidden weapons. The thrusting sword was slender, a foot long, its blade hollowed out for poison. The hilt, short and unassuming, bore a shard of low-grade glintstone. Nearby, the poison waited—large bottles of grease, each labeled: rot, blood loss, lightning. He sorted them methodically, his gaze fixed on the task.
"Why me?" Throne asked, still not looking up. "Sure, I've got the brawl record in Mistwood, but that's hardly worth this kind of price."
Diallos hesitated, his silence stretching long enough to fill the air. "A feeling," he finally said. "I trust your strength."
Throne smirked. "Sharp feeling." He didn't argue. For all his cowardice, Diallos wasn't annoying. Kindness had its charm. Two days here had been enough for Throne to size him up. Diallos wasn't cut out for the throne of Elden Lord. Not even close.
He and Lelia danced around each other, too polite—or too proud—to break the silence between them. It reminded Throne of another pair, though those fools had stumbled into happiness. Here, hesitation only led to death.
"After this," Throne said, clapping Diallos on the shoulder, "take Lelia and disappear. Courage costs too much for someone like you. You don't have to carve your way through blood to survive. Find your own path, wherever that might be."
Diallos stood frozen, his expression a mix of disbelief and resentment. Hoslow's creed was written in blood, but that blood wasn't always the enemy's.
"You think I'm weak," Diallos muttered.
Throne shook his head. "Some people aren't built for storms. Some have too much to lose. The Greater Will's mission isn't yours to carry." He crossed his arms, his tone final. He couldn't protect Diallos forever.
"If I can't protect even one person," Throne said, "what's the point of ideals?"
Diallos and Alexander were worlds apart. The latter thirsted for battle, his blood hot with purpose. Throne could work with that. But Diallos? His courage came from loss, piece by piece. He might become a warrior, but the price was cruel. What good was courage if it only came at death's door?
Throne had taken the payment, so he offered the advice. Diallos said nothing. If he'd had it in him to be ruthless, he wouldn't have fled to the Minor Erdtree for shelter. "Protect one person first," Throne added. "That's where it starts."
"I understand, Lord Isshin," Diallos finally said.
Throne nodded. He'd said his piece out of obligation. Whether Diallos listened wasn't his problem. The tools were ready, the stage set. All that was left was for the players to arrive. But before that—
Another group of Tarnished emerged from the woods.
They wore matching grey-white robes, their faces hidden behind masks of different colors. Every eye turned toward them. Throne's pupils narrowed. His hand drifted down to the hilt of Moonveil, fingers brushing the wrapping. Beneath his headscarf, a faint smile tugged at his lips. Limgrave was chaos now. You didn't need to see it to know.
A group of strange Tarnished entered the so-called refugee camp. Their distinct attire marked them as members of some organization, but by now, no one cared enough to investigate. Over the past two days, countless Tarnished had fled to the Minor Erdtree seeking refuge. Tracking them all was impossible.
Godrick. The Roundtable Hold. The Mohgwyn Dynasty. What other forces hungered for a seat at this bloody feast? Throne tightened his grip on his sword. He recognized the attire. The leader wore a bright bouquet of flowers tucked into their belt. That peculiar weapon confirmed their identity—an elite unit of the Bloody Fingers. He wasn't surprised.
He'd killed a high-ranking Bloody Finger for Vyke just days ago. Of course the Mohgwyn Dynasty would send someone to investigate. He just hadn't expected them to act so boldly amidst the chaos of war. Or perhaps it was precisely because Limgrave was in disarray that they felt free to move recklessly. "Lord Isshin, do you know them?"
Diallos had sensed it too. Something was off. The Tarnished with the white, smiling mask turned their gaze toward them. Diallos felt the weight of it—a venomous snake poised to strike, a scorpion ready to sting. "We have… history." Throne gave a curt nod toward the White Mask and leaned in, his voice low. "Pack your things. Take Lelia and leave before nightfall. Head to Mistwood. Hide there. Protect those around you."
Diallos swallowed hard. He'd noticed Throne's tension the moment those five strange Tarnished arrived. He studied the White Mask—how they chatted casually, handing out Runes as rewards, indifferent to their usefulness. It felt excessive. Pointless. What if they were caught by Godrick's army after leaving the safety of the Minor Erdtree? Diallos opened his mouth to say he'd stay and watch a little longer, but Throne's grave stare silenced him. After a moment's hesitation, he clenched his teeth and turned away.
"Lelia, let's pack. We're leaving."
The girl wiped her hands on her apron, confusion in her eyes. "What's wrong, Young Master? Isn't it dangerous to leave now?" "It's Lord Isshin's advice." "You trust him that much?" Diallos glanced at Throne's silent figure, then nodded firmly. "Yes. I do."
As the master and servant hurried to gather their belongings, the arrival of the White Mask and their group barely caused a ripple. The Tarnished here were convinced of their safety. They lounged in the sun, waiting for the catastrophe to pass. Throne returned to his recliner, slipping back into his lazy facade, until a faint, ethereal voice whispered in his ear. "Aren't you going to rally the Tarnished to deal with these Bloody Fingers?"
"It's useless. Once people have convinced themselves of safety, they won't invite trouble. Besides, the Bloody Fingers' presence works in my favor." Throne's tone was icy. Melina wasn't naive. She understood why he'd waited here, unmoving, for an entire day.