Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Her favorites were called dawns. Some called them the glory of the morning. They were small and of a vivid purple that, much later, would become almost a mockery of fate—a laugh echoing across the universe, directed at her. He never cared much for them: too petite, too soft, growing gently amidst the proud colors and prouder fields of beauty. She never realized —until it was too late— what it truly meant that those little beautiful flowers were her favorites, and that he never gave them any thought. It had felt natural, like everything they did. His hands would dig into the rich earth, and through his nose she could smell the scent of dirt and nature surrounding them.

His eyes focused on the medicinal, on the extractions, on the properties. Beauty held very little meaning. It had to be that way. It must be that way. Beautiful things were meant for others to behold, to appreciate, to cherish. For him, things needed a purpose, a use, a mission. They had to be something he could employ, something he could build with, grow with, mend with.

He was not free from the temptation of beauty, of course—not he, who was the most beautiful of them all. (Really? Truly? Or was it something they said because they couldn’t look away from him? Because they couldn’t stop holding him in the most precious light, the light of the golden god, flawless, eternal?) Sometimes, in those moments that belonged to the two of them alone, he would smell the snapdragons. He would shy away quickly, captured by their color and texture, but still ashamed of the waste of time.

“They are a symbol of grace and strength,” she would remind him, in the depths of his heart, where he ought always to be honest and safe.

“Many also say they are a mark of deviousness and duplicity,” he would counter, cynical bitterness in his angelically calm voice. “Perhaps that’s why I like them.”

She didn’t care for them, even if they were pretty. Of course not. His odd fascination with them was perhaps mostly due to their symbolism. He was a symbol, after all. A vessel-to-be. An Empyrean. A being with two sides. A soul in two. Such a kind, merciful child; such an angry, desperate heart. Never to be loved —not truly, not deeply, not freely.

It was alright. He belonged to the world. The one called to fix, to heal, to hold.

She touched his hair, and he flinched away, only to stop himself and sigh. She smiled.

Among the snapdragons of the garden, wild, abundant, and scarcely noticed, there were some dawns, gently placed in the soil and watered each day.

“I thought you didn’t care for them,” she said as he began to walk away toward their room.

“You like them.”

He was born first, perhaps. First of them all, small as a seed, tender and bright, beautiful as the heavens. She was not sure if she was born in that moment or not, but she remembered the golden rays touching his face, a nameless feeling inside his heart. Her heart. Their heart. A shared thread, a spiral embracing each other in the soft morning.

The golden eyes of the Queen looked at her —at him— and frowned. She blinked as Mother caressed his cheek.

"Tender son of mine, blessed art thou in thy golden soul." She did recall the words now, in dreams, in murmurings, in that strange fashion whereby knowledge dwelleth both near and far. "Thy nature I see mirror’d in mine own. Mayst thou ever be joined."

She smiled.

When he awoke, stirred and hallowed, she awoke as well, like a mirror inside their heart. She looked at him and he looked at her, wordless, soundless. But the words found them anyway. She nestled against him and he was warm and gentle. It was impossible they had spoken—but she remembered words all the same. Perhaps it was a dream. Or just a construct of their mind, many years later.

“I am Miquella,” he said. “I know you, right?”

“Yes, I know you as well. I am…”

Trina.

Trina.

Miquella, Miquella, dear Miquella.

Such a lovely name. Such a lovely soul, known and seen as her own. Trina woke up and saw the golden, vast land with the eyes of a boy. Together, they fell asleep again, and only one heart beat inside a chest. Outside, flowers grew shyly from the soil, without purpose. People would later say it was a sign of the new era, a blessing from the Will, a sign that the children were a gift from above.

No one paid attention to the fact that the beautiful flowers were weak and small. Or that butterflies—almost translucent and feeble—caressed them, only to fall, life too short and too vast to become more.

No one realized the wild red of the sprouts growing next to them, the sweetened fragrance of fate.

Malenia, daughter of Marika and Radagon, was red and beautiful, tall and strong. Trina looked upon her with an awe that was joyful laughter, and Miquella ran alongside her through the palace halls. They ignored the glances of the golden guards and sprinted past the gates. The man guarding their door was called Samid, and he hailed from the south—his father had come to Leyndell when he was a boy, as small as the little lords. He pretended not to see them, soft eyes piercing the halls.

The ground was soft beneath Miquella’s feet, and the wind swirled through Malenia’s red hair. As red as a snapdragon, as the sun at sunset, with eyes bright and golden.

The body of a boy was strange. When he insisted she meet Malenia —in truth, for real—the sun stung her eyes. His hair was no longer bright gold but a soft silver, with a violet hue. Still, Malenia smiled. Her hands were soft, like Miquella’s.

Trina did not know how her own hands felt.

Trina. Malenia called her name but did not call her sister. Was she her sister? Was she her brother? The truth stretched wide, like a library too full with books, as vast as the fields around the capital, as infinite as the constellations in the sky. It didn’t matter, truly, because Malenia was her sister, precious twin, dear Malenia. Trina’s heart bruised inside her, but joy bloomed in her body.

She preferred to watch, to simply be. She felt she did not belong to the world in the same way. Her feet were wobbly, her eyes were tender, her hands felt like branches from another tree. When Miquella walked, it felt right. It felt as though they were walking together—their steps one and the same, their thoughts flowing like rivers.

She was not of the world, she thought. The world belonged to Miquella.

It would always be.

Gold and silver they were. Golden as the Order, golden as the Queen, golden as the brother, golden as the Tree. Miquella was the child of the golden god. Trina was his silver—the shadow on his heart.

“Not a shadow,” he would argue. Arguing was something he excelled at, dangerous and sharp as it was. He read and spoke with wonder on his tongue. “My other self. Together, we are one. Just as Malenia is our dear twin—our heart.”

Gold and silver. Gold and red. Malenia would laugh with the certainty of his words, and Miquella would look at her as though her eyes were sun-touched blessings.

But when the Queen and the King called their children, they called the golden and the red one.

The Black Blade watched over her, and Trina felt his gaze—ancient and dangerous. She wondered whether they all saw her, hidden like a button within the youngest boy. Faces blurred around them, but Miquella’s heart beat bright within him, soothing her. Soothing them all.

Almost like the aroma of a field. Soothing and bright he was, alluring and calm. Such a beautiful child, holy and precious.

Miquella took Malenia’s hand when The Fingers revealed their fate. Trina felt how Malenia trembled, but his hand remained firm.

Perhaps it was a lonely path, to be so whole and one. Perhaps, if Miquella bore her within his soul, then Malenia too needed a silver to her red.

Empyrean. Gods to be.

Malenia, red, sacred. So deeply sacred. Born of god, born of power, born a daughter.

Ranni, princess, cold, powerful, as red as Malenia. Her fiery locks gazed upon them with the chill of the stars every time she was called to the capital. She did not smile.

And Miquella, smallest of them all. Young. Boy. Man.  Golden. As golden as his mother, as beautiful as she, blood of her blood, with the same eyes, with the same spiral in her heart. Lord Radagon was Father and Lord, but also the other self. Also Marika. Also a sprout entangled upon itself.

Empyrean. Gods to be.

Somehow, Miquella’s hand found Trina’s.

Fate was golden, heavy and bright.

A servant brought them supper that night —a festive, warm dish to celebrate the occasion. Miquella asked her name. Lytranapra. It was hard to say.

“Folk call me Lytra. Friends, they call me Harp.”

“Harp?” Malenia repeated, her golden eyes dull and tired after all the activity.

“’Cause Lytra sounds like Lyra, an’ that’s close to lyre, so… it’s just a daft old joke, my lord. I—I’m sorry, I know ye… you didn’t ask.”

Miquella laughed. Malenia joined him. Even Harp did, her hands clasped and shaky.

“Do you prefer Harp?”

“Yes! I mean… Your Lordship may call me whatever you please, it’s fine. I weren’t tryin’ to be rude—”

“Thank you for the food, Harp.”

“Did you make it?”

“Yes!”

The girl sat with them, unaware for a few minutes of what she was doing —sitting alongside the children of god. She shared the recipe and turned bright red when she mentioned that her overseer had once scolded her for adding extra moss to the dish (“It brings out the flavor of the meat! I swear, Your Graces!”). When Miquella pointed out that he thought he had seen her before —in the training patio, while Malenia was being instructed— Harp suddenly remembered she had several urgent tasks to do. Unacceptable, that a girl should waste her time chatting with them. So unbecoming, so many apologies, she had to go. Truly.

Trina noticed the flush on her ears. Miquella stopped her with only a touch.

“Thank you so much, Harp. Please take care.”

Trina remembered: Harp smelled of grass and wood.

Hers was the first name in Miquella’s journal when the Rot began to claim their lives.

Harper. Nineteen. Female. Auburn hair…

Gone too soon, as everything else.

Gone, gone —like withered flowers, never to bloom again.

Malenia, Malenia, Malenia. Sweet Malenia. Sweet sister. Dearest twin. Golden eyes, burning hair, precious smile. Love was real, because there was Malenia. Miquella loved her as he loved no one and nothing else —not his parents, not his siblings, not even his other self. Trina did not resent it; love blossomed in her heart in equal measure. Rays and winds framed Malenia’s silhouette.

Love was a curse, a terrible thing, she would learn.

How could a child of god suffer so much, be burdened as a small girl with such a terrible, gigantic fate?

It didn’t happen overnight. Like the plants on their balcony, it grew slowly—it sprouted year by year, moment by moment. It began as a smudge, a wound, an itch, a discomfort —too small to be minded, too insignificant to raise alarm. But the Queen and the Lord knew. They knew because perfumers and brothers and councils were held; because, in a blasphemous moment, they saw tears in the eyes of the golden Queen.

“Something is wrong,” Malenia said afterward, her heart beating too fast in her chest. Trina felt her hand sticky with sweat but squeezed it in return. Miquella squeezed her other hand and tried to still his own trembling.

“Whatever it is, we will find a solution,” he said, resolute as ever.

“Mother… If Mother…”

“It doesn’t matter. If she doesn’t know, I will find out.”

Malenia was silent for a moment.

“I heard it was an illness.”

“Yes, I heard that as well. That is good, it means there must be a cure.”

“Not everything has a cure.”

“I will find it. I promise. You will be alright, Malenia.”

I promise.

I promise.

I promise.

I promise.

I promise.

I promise.

“I believe you.”

Her smile was Miquella’s undoing. What wouldn’t he do to preserve it? What wouldn’t he do to protect it?

What indeed.

Trina felt his unease and fear—but also his drive, his hope, his resolve. Miquella would go on to make many promises, each one clasping like a chain around his wrists, a weight upon his back. He made them gladly, lovingly, ardently. His world became one of promises, of wishes, of work yet to be done, of words to keep, of hope in another solution, another possibility, another corner still unsearched.

But everything began with that first one.

I will find a cure. I promise. You will be okay, Malenia.

Like a seed in rich soil, the promise would take root in the boy’s heart and splinter it, branching through all of his body. Many others would be planted there too—some nesting comfortably against the first one, others stabbing at his mind, thorns and weeds clawing at his skin. But at the center of that first seed bloomed a beautiful red flower, surrounded by butterflies, seeking pollen.

Sweet Malenia. Powerful Malenia. She deserved the world. She deserved godhood. She deserved everything they could give her and much more.

Cursed.

How quaint.

How vulgar.

Cursed from birth.

Like the twins before them, cast out when the Crusade took their eldest brother. Like the dwellers of the shunning grounds. Like the creatures beyond grace, beyond light, beyond salvation.

They will not take her away, Trina whispered to Miquella, and he nodded, alone in the garden, tears staining his cheeks, eyes ablaze with fear and grief. We will not allow it.

Golden light surrounded them. All around, small plants and flowers had been placed with care —perfectly balanced, perfectly chosen for their use: to soothe, to awaken, to aid sleep, to cleanse. The perfumers already knew the sound of his steps and did not question his presence in their quarters, even as a boy. No one could say anything to him, anyway. No one would stop or deny him. And if anyone dared, he would simply look at them. Miquella’s gaze, soft, piercing, unwavering, would fall upon them, and their hearts would bend, if only slightly, mesmerized by his presence.

It worked. That was what mattered.

It allowed him to study, to ask, to experiment, to learn.

Knowledge was his weakness. He was small, young, naïve. He had not yet mastered the principles, and before him loomed mountains —castles— of information still to be absorbed. Knowledge was beyond his capabilities. He didn’t know how to help Malenia… but he would find out. Mother, Father, and the perfumers all had their ideas. Hopefully, they would work...

But each time, Malenia returned to their chambers shaken and silent, her body littered with reddish marks. Plants were forbidden, they would wither near her. Servants were few, and most guards avoided them. Samid still pretended not to see him when he slipped out at night to his garden, and Trina was grateful for his kind eyes.

“It’s pity,” Miquella would argue on a particularly bad evening.

“No. It’s care.”

Around the garden, several workers were scattered, even in the evenings. The oldest among them was called Krud —or at least, that’s what the others called him, and how he introduced himself. Krud had tired, sunken eyes, a misshapen smile, and broken wings on his back. He was always dressed in ragged, simple clothes.

“My people are mostly smithers,” he explained to the boy when asked about the wings. He spoke plainly—not in the cadences of the palace or the court. It was a relief, to speak with someone as he spoke to his sister. “Some of us are warriors, but we’re good workers. We can work long and hard. We don’t tire easily.”

“Do you live alone, Master Krud?”

“I am alone now, aye.”

“Now?”

“My sister’s at Castle Morne.”

“Do you have children?”

“I did. He’s here now.”

The plants were beautiful—bright yellow, perfectly cared for. The soil was dark and rich.

Miquella said nothing else that night.

Master Krud rarely spoke, the other gardeners said, but for some reason, he talked to Miquella. No one could resist the little lord, they said. And if old Krud had a soft spot for the boy, all the better.

The big, rough hands of Master Krud taught the small, soft hands of Miquella about earth, about soil, about seeds, about care. About patience.

“You can’t be a gardener if you haven’t got patience,” he admonished him when one of Miquella’s growths was still too small to be used in a tincture. “The earth got its own time. D’you think the Golden Tree sprang up in a day?”

“For all we know,” Miquella replied, “perhaps it did.”

Master Krud smiled but shook his head.

“I don’t have much time,” Miquella added, and his eyes drifted past Master Krud’s gaze.

That would become another brick upon Miquella’s burdened heart: I’m running out of time. I haven’t time. I cannot waste any more time.

Master Krud did not comment immediately. He simply kept tending the plants in his corner of the garden.

“You grow those golden lilies with patience and care, Lord Miquella. Anything worth the keeping takes time.”

“They are beautiful, and I can sense there’s power in them. They shine with gold, but I’m not sure they’re useful yet.” Miquella did not mention that they had grown with a touch of blood.

“Must everything be useful?” the old gardener asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s a lily, is it not? Why not name it after yourself? Lord Miquella’s lily. You brought it forth. It’s of you, you grew it with your hands. I’ve seen the way you look at them.”

“A little presumptuous, is it not? To name a flower after myself. After all, we don’t know whether I created them or merely discovered them.”

“What is discovery but creation? You gave them life through your own blood. They’re yours.”

Trina’s eyes widened, but Miquella remained calm, a soft smile on his lips.

“Nothing escapes your notice, Master Krud. Yes, they are of my blood. I’m not certain how…”

The old gardener nodded as Miquella trailed off. His own hands were lined with bruises and cuts, long accustomed to thorns and toil.

“You’ll find out, Lord Miquella. Just takes time.”

When the guards approached to fetch the child, Krud remained silent and lowered his gaze.

“I will see you tomorrow.”

“Of course, my lord. I’ll be here, same as always.”

“You don’t need to call me lord. My brothers are lords. My sister is a princess. I’m just me.”

“You’re a prince, my lord.”

“My name is Miquella.”

“I know, my lord. Take care.”

“You too, my friend.”

The marks of chains on his wrists troubled Miquella, but he did not dare ask Master Krud about them. The guards had no answers either. Trina suggested that perhaps Lord Godwyn would know—Prince of Leyndell, Lord of Gold.

She was right.

“His kind is complicated, Miquella. There has been much fighting and many skirmishes with them. They are what remains of the Crucible, of Chaos before Order. But if he is allowed in the gardens of Leyndell —with you— he must have been vetted. Some of them are valuable and loyal servants, and they deserve our gratitude."

“You fought the dragons too, wielders of Crucible-like power, ancient and wild, and now they are welcomed into the Order. Why not them?”

Godwyn smiled. He was tall, and his hands were always soft, even after years of warrior training. His hair was a darker shade of gold than Miquella’s, but his eyes were the same.

“The dragons are old and proud—powerful, ancient. Their existence precedes us, and their power only strengthens the Order. The knowledge and wisdom they offer is without equal. They once ruled the land. They once brandished the Elden Ring.” His voice carried awe and reverence. Miquella could imagine his brother standing before such a creature and bending them to his will. “It is a great thing that we found common ground. They are not Chaos, and in their defeat, they recognized extinction awaited them should they not bend. I am glad it did not come to that. Mother was wise to heed my humble proposal.”

“Would she heed mine, regarding this matter?”

“It is good that you care for your friend, little brother. But do not forget: they are apart from grace. There is a reason the Crucible is not welcome. Those born outside grace, heirs of raw and wild power, deserve your kindness. But do not fool yourself into thinking it is as simple as embracing them. You are not naïve, Miquella —I know you. You understand: it is no virtue to welcome forces that may bring harm to the land.

"You would not welcome a lion among sheep, nor a wolf among bison. The lion and the wolf are not at fault for what they are, but you, as a ruler, must think of all, not only your own good intentions. And do not expect mercy from the Queen. She rules by the Order. Your father would say the same: everything lies under the law of gold. Those who live beyond its borders must be watched, to protect them all.”

“Would your Lord Father say the same? What of our brothers… the twins?”

Godwyn’s smile did not falter.

“Lord Godfrey understood strength. He also understood conquest and power. In war and in rule, there are always victors and always those who are defeated. For something new to flourish, the old must sometimes be uprooted. That is war. There is little kindness in it, if any. In times of peace, your duty is to prevent war. When war comes, your duty is to end it. There is honor and glory in battle —but ruling and conquest are different beasts.

“It is a true blessing that our conflict with the dragons ended differently. But even then, there were those who would not bend—and they were defeated. For a ruler to become what their people need, hesitation is a luxury they cannot afford. I’m glad it isn’t my burden to carry, but I understand. Even the ancient dragons knew that their wilder kin were a danger to all.

“I am no lover of war or destruction. I prefer another path. But sometimes, there is but one road ahead. The burden of duty is a heavy one, Miquella. May you never carry it.”

Lord Godwyn had once allowed Malenia and Miquella to speak with Fortissax, aloof as he was, and introduced them to the Red Lion. Godwyn had even helped little Malenia—hurting and small—onto the general’s horse, whose loud laughter and celebration echoed throughout the capital.

Trina felt Miquella’s heart waver.

“‘Are you speaking of the Crusade, or of our brothers?”

“Both. And many more we may never know. I met Messmer before he departed for the Lands Beyond the Erdtree. He understood his duty, it was a heavy one, and he chose it freely, in the name of our mother. I believe there is honor in accepting such sacrifice. May we be fortunate enough never to walk that path, brother.”

“He was cursed, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. Mother tried to help him. But he was beyond her aid.”

Just like Malenia.

(Just like him. But he did not name it. They did not think on it. It was unspoken. No one talked about it, not even Lord Godwyn. Not their parents. Trina remembered the look on Lord Radagon’s face. Was there recognition in it? An “Ah, there it is”—when it had seemed strange that only one twin should bear a terrible fate? There was no need  to speak of it. It was not important. It was not important.)

No one was going to take Malenia away.

Trina felt something stir within her. Lord Godwyn’s smile was gentle, and his arms had embraced her—embraced them—when Malenia had been too sick to wake, when Miquella was found collapsed in their room. His hands were warm and soft. His eyes were as golden as the Queen’s law.

“You ask many questions, Miquella,” Lord Godwyn said after a while, when the silence had grown thick and dense. But he ruffled his brother’s hair with a soft smile.

Miquella loved his brother. Trina loved her brother.

Love was never the issue, it seemed.

Love was easy and warm.

Love was golden smiles.

Love was not enough.

“Is that forbidden?”

“Not at all. You are a prodigious mind.”

“Lord Brother.”

“Yes?”

“My sister and I are called Empyreans. We are said to be destined to succeed our mother in power. We are meant to inherit the throne one day.”

“You are Empyreans, yes.”

“If I become a god… will I have to wage war?” He did not wait for Godwyn’s answer. "Mother waged war against the enemies of the Erdtree. She won. If one day I ascend, will I have to stand against her, to cast down the old, that something new might grow? And if that day comes… will I have your support?”

Godwyn was silent for a moment. His gaze was calm but as hard as his blade. In his hair was a flower—a gift from someone he did not name. A small sunflower, beginning to droop toward his broad shoulders.

“Mother shall reign eternal, as the Order is all-encompassing. Your sister must be waiting for you, Miquella. Don’t trouble yourself so much with these matters. Sometimes, you speak as if something were chasing you, there is nothing to fear.”

“He didn’t answer,” Miquella would say later.

“But he did.”

Lord Godwyn the Golden. The Golden Prince. The only child born of Marika who was untouched by curse or fate. He was no Empyrean, but he was heir and lord nonetheless. Born of Godfrey, the mighty warrior, once the loyal consort and king, cast aside when his duty was fulfilled.

Golden son. Forger of alliances under the law. Mighty in strength and in heart. He treated Malenia with warmth and a joyful laugh. He treated him, the youngest seed of Marika, with respect and care. The dragons followed him. The knights of the city served under him.

The true golden scion. The golden light to his brother Messmer—lost in the shadows of history.

Mother shall reign eternal. Don’t trouble yourself.

Yes, he had answered.

He said no.

But Godwyn still greeted him in the morning, brought him to the woods, shared their meals. He joined Malenia in the patio, talked to them about the dragons and the battles, explained how to hunt and how to sneak past the sentinel in the northern tower. When the sweetened stench of death stained them both, he stood firm outside their chambers and waited until they could hug him again. He smiled and listened. His eyes were anchors and solace during the days of sun and dusk.

Perhaps there would be time to talk again, to make his case, if the day came.

It did come. Oh, it did. Oh, black thorns, oh, roots putrid and cold. Oh, it did —but those cracked days were so far away, so close at hand. They didn’t know, they didn’t know.

But they never talked about the heavens again.

Never again.

Rot devoured all. It hungered, and it smelled, sweet as death, with a decaying allure.

No one was allowed in Malenia’s room. Not even Miquella. But that had never stopped him.

It had begun so slowly, so innocently. A lifetime ago, it seemed, when the twins would race past the gates toward Altus Plateau, over hills, even beyond the watchful eyes of scouts.

Now, Malenia’s world was small and oppressive. A room full of strange tools, where masked attendants moved with quiet fear. Pitying eyes. Hallowed daughter, taken too soon.

But in a world where Death was not yet free, life reigned, and ravaged her body.

It consumed her flesh, devouring her slowly, relentlessly, in pain and terror. The herbs helped little. They only served to dull Miquella’s fear and Lord Radagon’s resignation. The most powerful incantations were brought and tried upon her.

She heard, amidst her agony, of vials. Messmer’s, if that made any sense.

Only silence followed that mention.

"It helped him not. Nor shall it help her."

The Queen was cold, most of the time. But Malenia saw her eyes, oceans of unsaid words. She brought her personal seals with her. When they failed, she left them behind, as a charm, a gift, an apology. Malenia wasn’t sure.

Miquella raged. He wept. He worked himself to the bone, half-awake, half-asleep at all times. He never complained. Often, he would sit with her and speak of mundane things: the people he met, the conversations he had. He spoke with hope and with joy. He brought her plants that would soon wilt, and replaced them easily, without comment, just because she liked to watch them in bloom. He brought her books and read beside her, teasing her about her pace.

Sometimes, Trina greeted her. And in an instant, Malenia would blink, and the hair of her brother would fade to the silvery hue of mist.

Trina didn’t like being in the world as much, Malenia knew. But she sat with her sometimes—when Miquella’s mind was too frantic, when his thoughts splintered and ricocheted inside him. Trina’s voice and presence calmed them both.
Her laughter was softer. More delicate.

The Rot was not an illness, they discovered.

It was a being.

A thing.

A blasphemous, malevolent will that had chosen Trina’s sister as its vessel.

A parasite that had affixed itself to Malenia’s very soul.

It could not be cleansed. It had become part of her being, bound to her blood, irrevocably, without respite.

A cruel god. Hungry and ruthless. It cared nothing for her pain.

It took her hand.

It took her arm.

It took her foot.

It took, and it took, and it took. And no prayer, no herb, no incantation could stop it.

It took her dreams, too.

Malenia spoke little of them, but she could scarcely sleep. Red dreams—of pestilence and death. Of something calling to her.

She didn’t linger on the details, details of blood and torn flesh. Miquella knew them anyway. He could see it in her eyes, the way she flinched at her own mutilated body.

But she mentioned the voice.

“It’s not a voice, exactly,” she said. “But it calls. It’s a call to surrender.”

“Surrender?”

“It wants me to follow. To become… something else. To become god.”

Empyrean. Child of god. God-to-be.

Not like this.

Not like this!

Not while they breathed. Not while they stood.

It would never take her. Never, never, never.

“I will not give in. I will fight it.”

Malenia’s voice was calm as the morning.

Miquella knew she was afraid. But her voice spoke only of defiance and victory. The voice of a girl daring the very gods. The voice of a warrior raising her sword and her heart within the storm.

She trained. She fought. And with every piece of her that was lost, she never complained. She changed styles. Changed hands. Changed posture. She trained alone when no knights were permitted near her. She fought against shadows and ash.

That did not mean she did not tremble beneath the agony that devoured her, day by day. Her fevers left her shaking, sweating, her breath stifled by pain she refused to voice. Miquella would bring her remedies, never enough, never sufficient to dull the ache or grant true rest. But still, he tried.

That, too, was constant.

Never enough.

Never enough.

Nothing he said, nothing he tried, nothing he did was ever enough.

Never.

One night, he lay curled against her chest, clinging to her, silently praying —to whom? Who would listen? Who would answer?— for her pain to end, for sleep to find her, for just one gentle night.

Please. Please. Please, let her rest.

Malenia was sweating, barely conscious, trying still to persuade the boy to leave her room, lest he fall ill himself. It was an old, foolish argument. He never fell ill. People sickened and died around them —Harp was the first, nineteen, female, auburn hair…—but he remained flawless and healthy. A perfect child, hands stained with blood and soil, eyes heavy as centuries.

But unmarred. Perfect and unchanging.

“Hast thou slept, Lord Miquella?”

“Aye, of course,” he lied, and Trina frowned, pulling at his hand within his soul. Miquella ignored the blooming feeling of exhaustion and worry in his chest. “I finished the lecture thou didst assign me. I had a different question, an it please thee.”

Teacher Brig was patient with him. He was not an old man, but his face was rough and he had light soothing eyes, full of grace and wisdom. Trina loved his voice the most. It was grave yet soft, and the way he recited the principles and theories was the reason Miquella did not succumb to sleep during their lessons. Sometimes, when his mind was too feverish to hold a conversation, she would encourage Miquella to simply listen. To listen and enjoy the teacher’s cadence.

“Of course, my lord. What doth weigh upon thy mind of late?”

“Thou knowest Perfumer Tricia.”

“Yea, she is a remarkable woman. I know thou hast been joining her.”

Miquella did not respond, but the man smiled.

“Samid but feigneth blindness, my lord.”

Ah.

“And I am grateful for his service.” The boy laughed, bells of joy and amusement surrounding him. “Yes, I have spent some time with her, hoping to… learn.”

To learn, yes. To learn everything that might bring him a step closer to a cure, to an answer. To learn how to heal, how to aid, how to mend. To learn about wounds and remedies and shivering. To be of some use, however small and young he may be. “Extra hands are always welcome here”, Tricia said and never addressed him as lord. There, he was just an apprentice, a hooded figure with impossibly golden eyes, smiling and obedient, too eager to end his days back in his room, with stained clothes and matted hair that made Malenia laugh.

(Would it be selfish to confess it felt good? That it felt right? Would it be shameful to admit that, amid the yearning and hopeful soaking of knowledge, it felt wondrous to feel a wound healing, to hear the groans subside, to see skin and flesh rebuild once more? To see pain vanish at last? Would it be sinful to allow himself an instant of being almost good enough?

Perhaps the true sin would be to confess what happened later—when the patients did not recover, when their bodies succumbed, and the little lord silently prayed for forgiveness before tearing them open. Blood thick and cold, organs sick and forgotten. He documented it all. (Brijn, omen, 49 or 61, horns excised, no hair… Hilitha, misbegotten, age unknown but adult in form, male, wings mutilated… Kran, Jena, Pathen… ) Made sure to sew them back again and bury them alongside the rest. Bodies with missing parts, and a golden child soaked in filthy blood, eyes sunken and bright. But he was never punished. Never summoned to stand before his mother.)

“She useth several herbal remedies for her labours. Some of them rare and must be handled with great care. Pain is a ever a foe difficult to quell. And one of the most scarce among them is a herb she calleth the Eyes.”

“The Eyes?” repeated the teacher.

“She calleth them only the Eyes, yet they hail from Yelough, or so she saith. She useth them but seldom —for she deemeth them dangerous. She hath mentioned… that their very existence is heresy, yet a plant may serve many ends, even such as these.”

Teacher Brig nodded. He did not seem troubled, but his expression changed. There was an air of somberness to his smile in that moment. Trina saw how his eyes seemed to sigh, a heaviness settling within them.

“She is wise not to speak further of it to thee, Lord Miquella. ‘Tis true, what she saith. It is heresy.”

Trina felt Miquella’s curiosity spike. His heart quickened.

Heresy.

“Pastor Miriel saith that ‘heresy is not native to the world; it is but a contrivance. All things may be conjoined’ beneath the Golden Order. Is this then different?”

“It is, my lord. Thou dost remember thy teachings well.” The subtle accusation passed gently from the man’s lips. “There is little writ about it, for its very nature doth repudiate the nobility of studies. But I know thou wilt ask still, so I shall instruct thee. There are matters best left untouched, and things that must never be tampered with. Most scholars do press beyond the bounds of wisdom, and our brightest minds are oft first named heretics. I know thou shalt be one of them, my lord. I am but a small stone on thy path to wonders.”

There was such pride and hope laced in Teacher Brig’s voice that, for an instant, Miquella was left speechless, stricken. The boy had rehearsed how he would approach the subject and his attention had been focused on the best way to obtain answers without suffering consequences.

Trina giggled, her heart full of coy delight.

“Thou dost honour me, master.”

“Ah, thou art well accustomed to praise, I reckon. If not, thou soon shalt be. But if aught that I teach thee in this brief time doth serve thee, let it be this: the heresy of which we speak is scorned, forbidden, and monstrous. A wickedness without éer. Yea, even those beneath us, who dwell in shadow, far from grace and light, do fear it and seek to root it out. It consumeth life itself. It is foe of the world. It feasteth upon men and souls with seductive laughter. Those who delight in the affliction of madness must be contained and vanquished.”

Trepidation crept up Miquella’s arm.

Illness.

Evil.

Malenia’s flesh rotting from her bones, her tears and screams in the locked room.

“This malevolence spreadeth like fire through a forest. Thou must ever be watchful and wary, my lord. It began with a man, as all truly terrible things do. A man consumed with evil, who cast the Flame about him.”

“The Flame?”

The man’s tone of voice had changed completely. The soft and serene cadence of the teacher had turned urgent, dreadful —and though he seemed to struggle against it, a true terror could be sensed in every word. The elevated and formal tone concealed horror.

“The Flame of Frenzy. Madness turned to fire. Madness, true madness, which dwelleth in the eyes of men and consumeth the world entire. Where madness taketh root, there is naught but wailing and sorrow. It is foe to the light and hath the power to unmake all beneath the Erdtree. In those accursed lands, the Eyes may sometimes sprout. They are said to be poisonous, yet useful in smallest measure. They are scarce, for it is forbidden to tread such places. 'Tis the highest heresy—to destroy life itself in a howl of madness. Those who have summoned this sickness were smitten by the Order, and rightly so. Most crimes may be explained or forgiven; most sinners may yet find our compassion. But not these. They who would see all things ended are true heretics, and their fate must be annihilation. Forget not, my boy—this heresy may not be forgiven.”

“The man… What was his name?”

“Shabriri.”     

Trina’s power awoke without warning.

Miquella wept at Malenia’s side and fell into slumber, trembling, spent, utterly empty within his small frame.

Trina stood in a lake of red. Sweat dripped from her brow. Her hands were sticky and hot. All around her, there was no ground, no sky, no horizon. The Erdtree was nowhere to be seen.

Malenia knelt at the lake’s center, butterflies fluttering about her, circling. When they sensed an intruder, they stirred, but they were gentle to Trina’s touch. Harmless. Beautiful. She reached out and touched Malenia’s shoulder.

Malenia looked up.

Her eyes were gone.

Around her, mushrooms —beautiful, crimson, growing slowly— bloomed from the water.

“I want to go home,” Malenia said.

“Then let us go home,” Trina answered.

She took her sister’s hand and pulled.

The waters churned, thickening, resisting, as if turning to quicksand.

Trina pulled harder, and with a startled cry, they both tumbled into soft grass.

All around them, the blooms of Altus Plateau swayed gently. The soft rays of the Erdtree filtered down like a benediction. There was no red lake. No mushrooms. Malenia’s eyes were gold.

“Miquella?”

“Yes?”

“Trina… Trina, what is…? Where are we?”

“I think we are in a dream. Your dream.” Trina looked around and saw the blurry outlines of trees and paths, unfocused, distant. “We may rest here. It is safe.”

“You are here with me… in the dream. I could never leave that lake before. Was it you?”

“I think it was you. You called for me.”

“Did it hurt you?”

Trina shook her head and looked at her hands.

She showed them to Malenia—whole and dry.

“No. I am well.”

Malenia came closer and knelt before her. Malenia was taller than Trina, but that didn’t hurt. Not like it hurt Miquella sometimes (only sometimes, and no one knew, not even Malenia. No one. Only Trina, only Trina, only Trina). Malenia’s hands were whole. Soft.

Both hands, of flesh and blood.

“Are you doing this?”

“I do not know,” Trina whispered, her heart tight with awe and love at the sight of Malenia whole. She remembered the warmth of both those hands once held in hers. “Forgive me, Malenia, I know not what is happening.”

“You are helping me. You protected me. Thank you.”

“Rest, sweet sister. If naught else, let this be a respite.”

The next morning, Miquella awoke, exhausted, but light. A faint smile lingered on his lips.

Malenia still slept, her breathing soft, peaceful.

Trina was singing inside his heart.

“How did you do this?” he asked.

“I do not know. It simply happened. She needed rest. She needed sleep. I only wished to help.”

“Can you do it again?”

“I do not know. I shall try. I think… I think I can. I feel something within, something I can almost touch. Do you feel it, dear Miquella?”

“Yes. I do.”

The principles of the Order were simple.

Law of Regression.

Law of Causality.

Everything was linked in a chain of relation. Everything yearned to converge.

Everything existed under the Law.

Most of the Fundamentalist incantations were as much exercises of faith as they were challenges of intellect. There were formulas and scholarship to be found in the heavy tomes adorning the Great Library. Within them lay all the Golden Order had uncovered, including the merging of knowledge from other realms, even that which had once been heretical and forbidden.

Everything could be made one under the Law of Gold.

Therein lay the answer.

Miquella was swift and bold in matters of incantation. He did not wait for tutors’ permission before attempting spells himself, uninterested in his own limitations of size or strength, and focused instead on the precision of casting. It was a matter of intent. Of exact calculation.

His stamina could never match that of great mages or thinkers. His prowess was not that of a warrior like his Lord Father.

But when the incantation —fast and deadly as gold’s judgment— shone in the courtyard, light projectiles rushing from his hands, he smiled.

Trina felt the pull of the spell in her own palm —something beneath the incantation itself. Something that was, undeniably, a current of power and order.

Always under his control.

Rings of light circling back to his arms, burning his fingers, bending to his will.

Things going and returning, only to be used again.

The spell of a warrior.

The spell of a son of the Elden Lord.

The creation of a brilliant mind of the Golden Order.

Such a prodigy. Such a light. Such a pride.

Such a pity.

“This is for thee, Lord Father,” Miquella said, and the rings exploded around him.

Trina felt again the exhilarating current; their body bound irrevocably to the golden essence of their being.

They were rings —destructive, beautiful, deceptively potent.

But they were something more.

They were proof of creation. That what did not yet exist could still be brought forth into the light. That there were still wonders to uncover beneath the gold.

“I thank thee, Miquella. I applaud thy study. Thy pursuit hath borne fruit.”

Lord Radagon had red locks, like Malenia. His face was angular and grave, but there was a glint of awe and pride in his gaze.

There was also a deep somberness about him, a faraway look in his sharp golden eyes.

“I hope to uncover more mysteries ere long.”

“The Golden Order shall shine a path before thee, child. Thank thee for this gift. I shall cherish it.”

Lord Radagon spent time with them —with Miquella— fascinated by the brilliance of his inquiries. He never commented on how easily the boy tired, nor how he had to climb a stair to fetch a spellbook.

When the Lord spoke, he spoke only of discovery. Of the principles Miquella must consider.

Trina remembered those days with a strange melancholy.

Perhaps because they were tinged with voices not belonging to the Elden Lord—voices of urgency and worry.

“We’ll need to take more of the flesh, forgive us, my Lord.”

“She has a fever, my Lord.”

“She is asking for you, my Lord.”

“The guards cannot find her—she shouldn’t be outside of bed!”

Trina knew then what Miquella struggled to accept: a vast hopelessness spreading within them.

Their heart constricted.

And Lord Radagon’s expression hardened when the question came.

The question that ended the lessons.

Never again —not for a long time, and never in the same way— would they be teacher and student.

In that moment, the Elden Lord, like the Queen, seemed as small as Miquella himself.

“There is naught here that shall aid her, is there?”

“There is naught beyond the Order, child. If ease and aid are not found, it is because thou hast not looked well enough. Or… it is meant to be so.”

Miquella said nothing. He nodded, bowed, and left the room.

His father would not see him cry—not like a child.

Not after all this.

Not after the pride in his father’s eyes had sparked light in his own heart, even if only once, even if it was just a meaningless drop in an ocean of grief.

“She is his daughter. She is an Empyrean,” Miquella said between ragged breaths in his chamber, books scattered, objects broken, spirit insignificant inside him. “She is his daughter. She is their daughter. She is my sister. My twin. I will not abandon her.”

“There must be answers elsewhere. There has to be something.” Trina’s despair was the same hue as Miquella’s —a frantic search, scattered thoughts that led nowhere. “We just need to look.”

“Where? How?”

“Out. Outside the gold.”

Miquella dreamt.

He dreamt of the truth, of Malenia’s body decaying and rotting away.

It was not a blurred ethereal dream, but a vivid horror, lived and felt, day after day.

In those dreams, the flesh was warm and the blood was thick. The sounds were shrill.

Skin tore apart —from fingers, from arms, from legs, from her face.

Then the flesh beneath, until there was nothing left but putrid blotches of dead meat where a sister once had been.

Her eyeballs festered and fell in gushes of red fluid.

In those dreams, Malenia never screamed.

She lay there, still, shivering, praying, begging for help in muttered breaths.

In those dreams, he could never reach her. Never touch her. But when the limbs rotted off, they were suddenly in his hands, tainting him with decaying tissue, pieces of his twin crumbling before his very eyes.

Trina wailed and Miquella woke up with a choked gasp, his body trembling so violently he curled on himself. He could not breathe. He could not breathe. He could not—

“Miquella? Brother? What is it?”

Malenia touched him and he clung to her with a despair that had no words, whispering frantic apologies she could not hear.

“Miquella, talk to me.”

He could not. Not for a long time.

He lied, of course. Ashamed, he said his work had played a trick on his mind. (That was true). He spoke of the heretical flame and the fire. (This was not).

“Forgive me, sister. It is a childish thing.”

Trina wept within, vowing never to let go of Malenia. Her hair was like the fluttering of crimson butterflies, a warmth that soothed his soul. She embraced him until he stopped shaking.

Malenia did not press the matter.

“I am here”, was all she said.

And that, truly, was everything.

Trina walked in dreams as Miquella walked in the lands.

Wherever there was a person asleep, she could touch them and enter their dreams.

Not only that —she could walk the lands around them, beyond their dreams, like a shadow bound by slumber. Her feet felt the grass. Her eyes watched the sky, tethered only by the dreamers near her.

While Miquella slept, she would explore.

Bright flowers and plants guided her path, free and light as nothing else. People would glance her way, but her presence blurred in their minds, leaving only a trace of sweetness on their tongues.

One day, she found the lily.

A small, withering bloom, almost transparent, nearly identical to the one Miquella had grown in his personal garden.

But where his shone bright and golden —a kind of gold not yet fully understood— this one was pale and soft.

She touched it. It was damp and tender.

Trina knelt before it, her eyes trembling.

“It’s a Saint Trina lily, m’lady.”

The voice did not startle her. She was wearing her hood and barely stirred as the woman —the dreamer— approached.

“Saint Trina?” she repeated.

“Aye. The Giver of Rest she is. She walks these woods, now and then. There’s some young folk who linger nearby hopin’ to catch a glimpse her. These lilies started bloomin’ not long after, they did. Lovely, aren’t they?”

“They are.”

“Have ye seen her, then? Our Lady Saint Trina?”

“I’ve heard of her,” she lied.

“Some down in the village say she’s a lad, if ye can believe it. A wee boy, small and fair. But what would they know? Wouldn’t know a woman if she slapped ‘em across the face with a lit torch —rough lot, they are. Me, I hope she comes to visit one day. These old bones could user her rest, that’s for certain.”

“Have you seen more of these lilies?”

“Oh, aye! They’re rare, real delicate things, but I’ve seen a fair few up in the hills. Folk say there’s always a golden one not far off —linked to the golden child, they say. The Empyrean. What was his name now…? Started with an M, I know that much… Ah, I need to keep me wits about me or someone’ll call it heresy!”

“Miquella,” Trina said with a smile.

“Yes! Miquella. Lord Miquella! He’s a saint too, isn’t he? Bright and kind, that one. He passed through here not long ago, he did. I wish me own boy had half his sense.” She laughed, and then her cheeks flushed red. “Didn’t mean to say they’re the same, o’ course. He’s Queen Marika’s own, he is. I ought not run me mouth so free, beg pardon, m’lady. Me husband says I’ll get us all hanged one day, the way I chatter on.”

“It is alright. Thank you for sharing so much with me. May I ask your name, my lady?”

"Oh, not a lady—not these fifteen years, I ain’t! But bless ye for sayin’ so!” She laughed again. “Name’s Narva. I make a deer pie worth dying for, I do! It’s getting’ late. Would ye care for a bit? Ye look a touch pale. What’s your name, dear?”

“I am…”

Miquella visited Narva the next morning with a basket of gifts.

Her husband, Tharb, nearly fell to his knees upon seeing the boy. Both offered him food and the finest bread they’d baked the day before.

Narva did not remember her dream, and Trina laughed when the woman chattered endlessly all through the morning.

“Mind thyself out there, Your Highness! And if night falleth, do come back and rest here awhile. Them little monkeys are everywhere these days...”

After excusing himself and assuring them he was full and grateful, Miquella went to the lily.

“You made this?” he whispered to his heart, pride and awe thrumming in his chest.

The petals were impossibly soft beneath his fingers.

“We did.”

Trina had warned him not to, but Miquella gathered a few more lilies and brought them back to his workshop.

The scent was familiar. The power —a whisper of silver lilac— soft, embracing, lulling.

He prepared several tinctures and concoctions, then sent word to Perfumer Tricia, asking her to check on him in two hours unless she had urgent duties.

He drank the first one —steeping the full lily in warm water.

His feet ached. His heart beat fast with anticipation and anxiety. He sat at his desk and began to scribble his thoughts.

“It worked,” Miquella said to Trina in his sleep.

“It made you fall asleep,” she pointed out, as if it weren’t obvious.

“It’s the power. The power you’ve manifested in the form of this plant. Which means the golden lily must hold something too. This will help Malenia. And Tricia. If we can grow more…”

“We can. They grow where we walk.”

“The golden ones grow from my blood. These… these water-lilies bloom where you dreamwalk. It’s—”

Tricia did wake him two hours later. His eyes were heavy, his body exhausted, but his mind was alight with ideas.

As he’d hoped, the lilies helped Malenia sleep without red dreams.

The power of Trina lingered in the petals, gentle and radiant.

Tricia began using them to soothe her patients and ease their distress, dulling the overwired senses of those still trapped in pain.

When Miquella descended to offer some of the lilies to Morgott and Mohg, only the latter accepted them.

The place was cold and damp, and eyes watched them from the darkness.

Trina now knew their dreams, their nightmares, their songs.

The omens writhed in their sleep, and she offered what comfort she could.

But it was fleeting. Fragile.

The wraiths —like vengeful spirits— fought against her power.

She wielded a sword in those dreams, though Miquella himself still struggled to hold one. Hers was light and sharp, and the mist it left behind served as a warning. But the wails she heard were not like the torn flesh or the white mushrooms of the Rot.

They felt like grief. And wrath.

They cried out from somewhere far beyond.

They belonged not to mutilated omenfolk, but to a land of warm soups and burning fields.

Below, below, Trina sang.

She sat in ruins, placing her hand upon the thigh of a merchant whose fevered eyes did not recognize her. His soul screamed so loudly it made her ears ring.

It burned her.

Miquella would awaken every time, hands ablaze, chest aching, dizzy and sick with anguish.

But she returned.

She returned and sang with those who remained below. Many did not respond—still and dead in all but soul, lost to fiery madness. Trina could feel the pestilent power, burning and cleansing at once, a fire so deep and hot it called to her too, whispering of a different rest.

A different sleep.

An agony that simmered in the embers of delusion, of screams and wails barely silenced.

Down there, there were no flowers.

No seeds.

Nothing grew but the heavy lure of oblivion.

Trina sang loudly, tears streaming from her eyes, and, slowly, some of the merchants sang with her.

Their hearts were heavy with a grief that had no name.

It could not be measured.

It could not be understood.

Slander, they cried in their hearts. Lies! Vile lies that condemned us all!

And in the depths, the unforgivable heresy was born once more.

“Those who have summoned this sickness have been punished by the Order and rightly so”, had said Teacher Brig, eyes full of horror and fear. But how could it be? How could it be just to punish innocents to untold suffering.

The man who lied was punished as well, his eyes gouged out. But he smiled nonetheless. Because it didn’t matter that he lied. In the depths, where innocents wailed and begged, where merchants cried out that they there were not heretics, the flame dwelled on them around the stones.

The man with no eyes surely would cackle.

Punish the sinners and create the sin.

Bury innocents and turn them into heretics.

It was marvelous and beautiful, was it not?

Trina sang, knelt in the cold stone. The chords wept with her, and she sang a melody of hope and gentleness, of community and forgiveness, of justice, of travel, of all things lost.

One girl looked at her.

Her name was Kiyiá, and she was barely a teen. Her father, she pointed out, did not sing. His face was immobile, like stone—his eyes distant, weeping.

“Is there still something above?” asked Kiyiá. “Is there still sun, and grass, and… stuff?”

Trina looked at her.

The girl’s face was soft and tired. Her clothes were thin and plain.

And Trina wondered how they were still alive —bodies without food, without water, without rest. Sustained only by the flame.

“There is,” Trina said gently. “I have seen some of your people selling wares beside a fire.”

Kiyiá said nothing. She simply began to hum again, the melody Trina had taught them.

Trina did not join her.

She stroked the girl’s hair once and woke up.

(There were other dreams. Dreams they did not speak of. Dreams they did not even name.

Dreams so fruitless, so hollow, they scarcely deserved thought in the waking world—not with so much untold suffering pressing in from every side, in every shape and form.

Dreams of others.

Of bodies, and skin, and pleasure.

Dreams in which he felt other hands, other touches—where he pulled away in bitter resignation.

Dreams where she did not.

Shame twisted in them both, as those foreign touches wandered along her skin.

“Do not dwell there. We should not pry.”

She stayed a few times. He stayed—because he was her.

They watched. They felt. And they never spoke of it.

When he woke, only a dark emptiness lingered, a quiet, aching turmoil. She learned, in time, never to stay in those dreams again.

“Best not to fall into delusions that will never come to be.”

Some of those dreams were not of strangers. They were his. They were hers. They were theirs. They shivered and sighed, and faces and eyes smiled at them, too blurred, too familiar. Was it love?

She said nothing.

Only placed her hand gently atop his. His skin was soft —like the dreams.

He was warm.

When he flinched away, he did not look back.)

“For the nightmares, brother,” Miquella said softly, extending the lilies toward him.

Morgott looked down at him with a hard, cold gaze. He rarely spoke when Miquella visited, and when he did, his tongue was sharp and unforgiving. The first time, Miquella had come with Godwyn. If the Omen Twins were surprised to see the Golden Prince beside the youngest seedling of Marika, they gave no sign. But Miquella noticed how Morgott watched Godwyn —and how the Lord of Dragons smiled at them both, with a soft, benevolent kindness that felt like welcome.

He did not come with Miquella again. And he advised him quietly not to let the Queen or the Elden Lord know.

Secrets were easy to keep, Miquella realized, when people only regarded you as a child.

"What knowest thou of nightmares, Miquella?"

“I’ve seen them. I’ve felt them. In them, my sister is devoured, body and soul, by the Rot. Shadows wail with unspeakable screams. Children hide. Men pray for deliverance—but nothing comes. These will help. They can offer you—”

"My nightmares are mine own, child."

“I accept them, dear Miquella,” Mohg said. “If my brother is too proud or too stubborn to welcome your gift, I shall gladly take it.”

“Thank you, Mohg.”

“It is I who am grateful, brother. Yours is a kind soul. May you be blessed by the Mother.”

"Speak not that blasphemous name in mine presence, nor defile the child with thy delusion."

Mohg did not take offense. He laughed—a soft, rumbling growl that echoed through the stone.

“Brother Morgott…”

"Mine own word is final. Leave thy weeds, an thou must. I shall have no need of them."

Miquella nodded, satisfied, and left the lilies meant for Morgott on the ground.

The omen’s somber gaze followed him, cane clenched in hand.

“They are fragile and scarce,” Miquella said gently. “I am trying to grow more, but it takes time.”

Time, time, everything takes time.

“If you will not use them, I only ask that you share them with someone who might. Please don’t let them go to waste.”

"Thou shouldst not have brought them hither if they be so precious. Take them with thee. This is no place for such frailty."

“They are valuable, yes—and useful. That’s why I brought them. You deserve—”

"Speak not of what thou thinkest we deserve, Miquella. Of it, thou knowest but little."

“He is touched, dear Miquella. Do not let his arrogance deceive you.”

"Speak not for me! Begone to thy abominations."

Morgott spoke harshly.

But in his dreams, he smiled at his brother.

His tail darted swift and strong through the palace gardens. He read eagerly and with care, avoiding the guards’ eyes, ever ready to defend Mohg, shoving him into the shadows when danger neared.

Mohg preferred to be seen. He spilled accursed blood on unsuspecting servants—who screamed and fled at the sight of him. He laughed at Morgott’s scowl and shy smile.

Children of the Crucible, blessed.

Cursed.

In Morgott’s dreams, the Erdtree was always tall and glorious.

Sunflowers turned toward it, basking in the light.

Mohg’s dreams were red and dark.

Sometimes, Miquella was there —bright as a firefly, smiling toward Trina.

But she felt only unease, only dread.

That Miquella had cold eyes. He knelt before an altar of stone, soaked in blood.

A voice called to her —a voice without form, without sound, and yet it spoke clearly, as if beside her:

Little godling. Divine explorer. Bleeding child of mine.

From the ground grew sanguine-red flowers and bloodroses, soaked and terrible, and beautiful beyond reason.

Blood called.

Blood sang in her —blood of a god, blood of the Mother.

Spilled and shared and given.

Blood was the key.

Blood was everything Miquella could give the world.

“Will you sing for me, dear Trina?”

“Of course. Which song?”

“Whichever you like. I just want to hear you again.”

Miquella did not rest for a long time.

Working, studying, researching by day —dreamwalking by night— it took its toll.

But Trina knew when to stop him.

She knew when to pull him into true rest, the kind she whispered to those they met in the Lands Between. The kind people yearned for.

The kind Miquella denied himself.

Such a waste of time.

Such precious time, lost.

Rationally, he knew he needed a sharp and rested mind. The fog of exhaustion was a silent enemy, creeping at his heels. He taught himself to rest while still awake—brief moments of quiet to sustain him. And when he could go no further, he let himself fall—gently—into Trina’s arms.

She worried. Excessively.

She scowled, insulted, but forgave his insolence and rashness. She knew it came from her own heart.

Even the General noticed.

“You look tired. Is Lord Radagon too harsh with his lessons?”

Miquella had visited the stables only to find a chance to speak with his brother.

The horse welcomed him, nibbling at the food offered from his palm.

The Red Lion was tall as Malenia and clad in full armor. His voice boomed like it could split the earth.

“Not quite, Lord Brother. I simply try to make the most of the day. That is all.”

“Ah yes. Do it while you’re young.” Radahn blinked, realizing his words, and laughed, unashamed but with a flicker in his eyes. “Apologies, Miquella. Sometimes I forget.”

“It is alright.”

It wasn’t.

It never was.

But it wasn’t the Prince’s fault. And Radahn’s laugh was bright and clean.

His hair was red and smooth.

The General spoke of knowledge and of battle, of camaraderie and myth.

Miquella enjoyed listening. Radahn was clear, unburdened, and welcomed questions without hesitation.

He spoke of gravity, and travels.

He spoke of Sellia and its darkness.

He spoke of his siblings—of the Princess, of the Praetor.

Of Caelid’s wilderness, and of rebels and beasts.

He spoke of the north—of the mountaintop.

“Lord Father and Lord Godfrey waged war against mighty foes—their tales are legend. I wish to see the battlegrounds of such victories. Gaius always spoke of the snowy terrain with reverence. It would be an honor to receive the Queen’s leave.”

Gaius, Godwyn once told him, was an Albinauric.

Radahn welcomed all kinds.

His Redmanes were diverse—of many sizes, colors, wings, and fur. He handpicked them himself.

His admiration for his warriors was as vast as theirs for him.

“He travelled with Lord Messmer, did he not?”

“Yes. He went with him. I pray to the Stars and the Erdtree he fares well and wages war with glory. He was fierce. Boisterous.” Radahn laughed, and Leonard huffed beside him. “He always said if the Erdtree gave him legs, he’d have kicked our arses to Farum Azula and back.”

“Does it not trouble you, Lord Brother, that he is Albinauric? That the Erdtree gave him nothing? That he is graceless?”

“Aye. He is. As are half my men and women. I don’t care much for that, truth be told. If you’re brave and strong, it’s enough for me. Lord Godfrey’s best were Crucible Knights—I’m honored to have one among my own. Lord Radagon married the Moon and joined our houses. There’s room for all, so long as they prove their worth. A courageous heart is grace enough for me. Maybe I’m mistaken. But the lords of old welcomed their enemies—honored their might. I find no fault in sharing my bread or my fire with warriors.”

In the Red Lion’s dreams, arteria leaves covered the battlefield—pumping blood and vigor into the soil.

The stars cracked overhead.

A roar echoed.

Steel clashed. Armor shattered.

But there was no hate in his war.

Only life.

Only pride.

He stood tall between pillars of carved stone—faces of ancient lords staring down upon him.

Strength was earned.

Glory was won.

There was no annihilation of foes. No extermination of souls.

Only the breaking of bones —and the laughter of victors in the reddened wind.

At the Red Lion’s table, all were welcome: graceless and blessed alike—as in the time of Lord Godfrey.

At the Red Lion’s table, only the worthy had a seat —as in the time of Lord Radagon.

At the Red Lion’s table, worth was found even in the farthest reaches of the world—just as Queen Rennala had once found in the distant moon.

When Miquella asked him to become his lord, the General smiled.

A vow for another life, perhaps.

A vow for a god not yet born to have a lord by his side.

When Miquella ascended, he would reach into the battlefield and call Radahn’s soul back from glorious death—to raise his blade once more, to be the rock beneath his power.

His soul was red, and strong, and alive.

There was kindness among the horns of war.

Hands that wielded swords and fed beasts with equal grace.

The General did not look upon Miquella with love.

He looked with respect.

With expectation.

With hope.

With care?

It would be enough.

“He doesn’t love you. He welcomes the lord he might become.”

“I know. His is not a bad soul.”

“He is not. But why ask him to become your king, if there is no love between you?”

“I care for him. And he, for me. I cannot ask more. I do not know yet what my path will be —but if that is my fate, he will be a worthy Lord. Strong, and kind among our siblings. I do not know if my curse shall be lifted. I cannot ask him for anything more than his loyalty and his might.”

“Queen Marika had her husbands. Husbands who cared for her. Who loved her.”

“Mother is Mother.”

“Your consort should love you, Miquella.”

“No one can love me, dear Trina. Not truly. Not freely. It is alright."

“That is not true.”

“There are more urgent things. This is the future. A path perhaps never taken. Let us rest now.”

“Malenia loves you. I love you.”

“I know… For that, I am sorry.”

He asked, of course he asked.

Who was The Mother?

Morgott did not approve of Miquella’s question and refused to entertain him any longer, at least for quite some time. Foolish endeavors, he called them, and his disdain could not be hidden. Miquella thought he understood.

The rays of the Erdtree caressed his skin every day, without fail.

He lived in the capital. He was instructed. He was chosen. He was praised.

A failure and a disappointment he may be to his Mother, but he was still of gold.

Never the same.

(Why wasn’t it the same? Why were only omens in the sewers? Why wasn’t Malenia imprisoned and shackled? Why… why… why… why…)

Omenkillers did not visit his chambers.

Shackles imbued with magic did not bind his body to the depths.

“I could study it. Find a way to counter it”.

It was a rebellious thought and Morgott did not allow it. There was anger and grief in his eyes, an accusation clearly shaped in his silence. Trina wanted to touch his hand and sit next to him in a warm place, a place that could be a home.

Mohg, instead, was more enigmatic.

“I have seen the path. She hath shown me. The time hath not yet come, but I shall be ready when it doth.”

She.

She was not Marika.

She had no name, no form, no place.

She ignited the blood of her chosen.

She knew of pain and wounds, and suffered alongside her children.

She was a being.

A power.

A mysterious, beloved will that had marked Miquella’s brother as blessed and important.

A solace that had embraced Mohg’s forsaken soul.

A god.

Trina trembled before the burning gaze of the Omen as he spoke. Miquella listened but his heart was closed and surrounded by thorns. A dense forest veiled his mind.

In the garden of his soul, no gods were welcomed.

They were running out of time —always, incessantly.

Malenia grew worse with each passing day, and even if her nights were calmer and her pain dulled, she continued to lose. And lose. And lose, without pause.

Prosthetics were an acknowledgment of failure, a hallmark of defeat. But they were also tools of hope.

The materials corroded and broke apart easily, but Malenia did not lose heart—not after each blow, not after each strike. Her limbs were made from scratch every time, each prototype more comfortable than the last, but all equally flawed.

Malenia entered his workshop and sighed when she found Miquella feverish and frantic, scribbling furiously on a piece of parcel paper. The room was cluttered with materials, plants, and a medley of scents.

“I am leaving.”

He knew. Trina had seen it in her dreams —and in the dreams of the man. A teacher. A soul bright, light, and clean, who dreamt of swiftness and rivers. Next to the water, glinting moss shone on his face, wrapped in blue garments. He smiled at Trina, bowed, and whispered something she could not hear. That was fine.

“It is already time?” Miquella asked, and inevitably stood to embrace his twin. Malenia was so tall now that his head barely reached her chest. “I have something for you.”

“Have you slept?”

“It’s still a new model, so I’ve asked your squire to pack your old ones, but I think this one will fit you better.”

The arm was delicately crafted, and a sheen of gold coated the metal. Malenia approached the desk, said nothing about his evasive reply, and touched the piece. Her eyes widened immediately.

“It feels... it feels different.”

“Try it, sister.”

“What is it? What am I feeling?”

“It’s gold. New gold. Gold from the lilies.”

“Yours?”

“Yes. I don’t have enough to make an entire piece, but I think it will help. They're the only ones that don’t wilt or rot. I thought the same principle might apply to metal.”

Trina squealed with joy when the arm fit Malenia perfectly, her own eyes bright with hope. Malenia moved the prosthesis with ease and grace, unbothered by its clanking or weight. The sword she carried—a long, sharp piece with golden ornaments—aligned with the arm without resistance.

“It is beautiful, brother. I am grateful.”

“Let me know everything about it. I’ll keep working on the final version, but your thoughts and comments will be essential for the upgrade.”

“Will you visit me while I’m away?”

“If you’ll have me, then yes.” Miquella’s smile was sheepish and teasing, his hands folded in his lap.

Trina hated it when her sister was away, but this time, it was a good thing. The man in blue awaited her.

“Of course, Miquella. I will be looking forward to my dreams.”

Miquella hugged her once more, his eyes wide and trembling, though he refused to weep again. Malenia’s heart beat softly in her chest—the thump-thump a blessing, a gift.

He would never relent.

He would never stop.

His promise burned hot and bright in his chest.

Malenia’s arms enveloped him, and she placed a kiss on his hair before pulling back and kneeling before him. Her eyes were beautiful —divine.

“Dearest Miquella, I go toward a path of rigor and hope. I will return to you a true warrior, and defeat will never know my name. I vow to you this, my lord, my brother: as my name is Malenia, I will return to you a protector. I will be sharp and swift, and I will raise my sword against your enemies, for they will be mine as well. Miquella, I will return to you as your guardian, and upon my right and my blood, I dedicate my life to you and your dreams. May you become what you strive for. I leave as your twin—I will return as your blade.”

“You will always be my sister, Malenia. First and foremost. And it is I who vow to spend my life easing your pain and freeing your soul. My life is already yours.”

And still, it would never be enough.

At night, when Malenia dreamt, Trina embraced her once more.

“You will always be our everything.”

He did not grow.

They didn’t talk about it.

He didn’t talk about it—not even with her.

But people knew. He knew. He felt it: his mind aging, searching, evolving, while his body remained soft, feeble, and small. Eternally a child—a boy, a sprout, a budding thing. Precious, golden, and fragile.

Trina felt it, even if Miquella never spoke of it.

The grief.

The horror gnawing at his bones.

Forever stunted. Forever weak. Forever a child.

How could such a small thing fix anything, heal anything, become anything?

(It was not quite right. His hair grew, beautiful, golden, full.

His nails, though he knew better than to let them grow.

His skin, broken and cut so that blessed golden blood might spill. It grew back, covered the wounds, healed again.

Flawless child, perfect child, worthless child.

From him, other things grew. His blood was sap, nourishing the lilies, concealing secrets.

Things grew of him, but never himself.

Never himself.)

His creations grew. Flowers and plants rose from the ground and greeted him. They followed their natural command—the cycle of all living things. Everything that lived grew tall and strong… until it could grow no more. In a world without true death, things lived for a long time and were welcomed by the Erdtree when the body was ready.

That’s why Malenia, sweet Malenia, hallowed Malenia chose to stand by his side. The blade, the guardian, the one who could fight, the one who could shield him of the darkness that would surround him. The one who could raise an army and drive back off the foes. The one who deserved the praise and the birthright, the throne amongst gods.

A child could not keep his promise. The strength of warriors was beyond him. The power for greater spells lay outside his grasp. His body tired too easily. It ached. The world had not been made for him.

Books, chairs, pathways, people —none of it had been made for him.

And yet people adored him. Oh, they did. They had little choice.

With those cherubic eyes, that soft voice, that gentle smile —how could they not?

There was something deep and unshakable inside him. A bright soul. A light in the night. People bent their knees to him, let him do far more than he was meant to.

It was only that pull, that tendril of golden light within him—unnamed, yet learned—that allowed him to walk among lords and gods and meet their gaze as an equal.

“You ought to watch who you talk to, Child-Lord,” said the militiaman Yaniutra—or Yani, once the venom in his tone dulled, and he allowed Miquella to address him that way. “Wouldn’t want your fine robes tainted by our filth.”

Liurnia was humid and cold. Water and crystal buds glistened in the dark.

“My robes are already tainted, friend,” Miquella replied, without raising his voice. “Care to share my food? I cannot possibly eat it all.”

Their people lived in the fringes, as so many things did in the Lakes of Liurnia. They were rarely seen—not only because of their stature, but because they chose to hide. Shadows within shadows.

Yani did not trust the boy, but accepted his offer nonetheless. Trina smiled when the man set his gauntlets aside and devoured the dried fruits and meats Miquella offered.

Miquella found Yani several times throughout his travels. Always in the shadows. Always in the corners. But Miquella was used to seeing what others ignored—and he sensed him every time.

Yani’s smile was crooked, cruel even—but he spoke softly.

“We serve the Black Blade. The dead don’t care who handles them. Someone’s got to do it. And Lord Maliketh does not flinch when he see us.”

Trina understood, though she still struggled with it.

Yani and his people were small, yes—but fierce watchers and swift scouts.

They had a purpose. They lived scattered across the land, raising no war nor blasphemy against the Erdtree.

Was the sin of being small truly so great that it earned them exile and disdain?

“You know it yourself, don’t you? Forgive my tongue —but if you weren’t born of the Queen, wouldn’t you be down here with us? Elbow-deep in decay and silence? Everyone else is blessed with strength and size. Even the beasts among beasts—filthy, graceless creatures—get treated better than we do. Folk don’t talk about us. They prefer not to see us.”

Yani laughed—a chittering, bitter sound.

“I didn’t ask to be born like this. But this is my lot. I’ve got my kin, I’ve got my work. I don’t need their blessing.”

“You still serve the Order.”

“A man’s got to eat, no matter how small. I keep myself alive with this.” He raised a blood-wet machete in his small hands, sharp, jagged and ugly. “And with the incantations Lord Maliketh gave us. I ain’t turning my back on the Order. As they say, everything’s got its place under the Erdtree. Shame ours had to be in the mud.”

Yani had wounds on his fingers. He allowed Miquella to cast a golden incantation to ease the pain—but he would not accept the plants. He sniffed them, growled, and returned to chewing the moss hidden in his dark satchel. Moss sweetened by dried fruit, Miquella noticed. He did not press further.

“I am heading to Caelid,” Miquella told him. “You mentioned you were going to visit your brother there.”

“Dragonbarrow. And no, he’s not really my brother. We just grew up in the same muck. Long way off. Might take months. Not that I care for the view. They call us disgraceful, and yet the lakes stink of grey filth. Why do you ask?”

“I could give you a ride.”

Yani narrowed his eyes. Trina felt a flicker of unease flare in Miquella’s hand. He struggled to remain calm.

Small men like Yani didn’t hesitate to show their weapons.

In a world of titans, the small could not afford to hesitate.

The Empyrean’s aura thickened around them, but it wasn’t enough to soothe Yani’s suspicion.

“A ride, little lord? I don’t see no damn ride.”

The whistle was precious and light. The beast neighed when Yani jumped back, his whole posture braced and defensive.

Miquella stepped in front of the horse and raised his hands.

“Horned beast!”

“There is nothing to fear here, Yani. He is my horse. His name is Torrent.”

Spirits spoke to them.

Not only in dreams —in that nebulous mist between waking and sleep, where Trina could hear their voices like blurred melodies— but in the world itself. Miquella sensed them, sensed their presence, and waited for them to draw near. Nebulous presences, sometimes grieving, sometimes joyful. Creatures of fog and transparency, who laughed, wailed, and whispered.

Torrent was different.

He didn’t speak, but he communicated. He sensed danger and peace. He shared something deep with the world —both of life and spirit. He visited them in dreams, and later, along the caves of Mistwood… in the Weeping Peninsula, then in Leyndell, huffing softly and vanishing with the light.

Horned beast indeed, creature beyond the veil and beyond the land. There was a power in him, a conduit of being in every movement.

Torrent, Torrent.

Miquella called him friend, humbly —hoping that one day, the beast would trust him.

He did.

He accepted the leash of the whistle, allowing himself to be summoned across realms. Their travels were transformed by his presence, as if he knew the child needed him. Trina felt the roughness of his mane and laughed—light and childlike joy bubbling within her—when the horse accepted bitter raisins from her hand.

When they rode, Trina preferred to walk upon the land in Miquella’s body —his small stature and softness a perfect fit for Torrent’s gait.

She never appeared when Miquella had company, though.

She never liked to be seen.

(Did he? No. But what choice did he have?)

Malenia had to kneel to stroke his nose, but the horse danced around her as if he knew her, as if he recognized her touch from another life. It was as though he knew all of them, in a way deeper than words, deeper than the world.

Wherever Torrent stood, there was always fresh grass and sweetened fruit beneath his feet.

Torrent guided them to the creatures: the snails, the jellyfish, the ashes of souls wandering without purpose, their souls too restless to join the roots.

They welcomed him—shared their essence with the boy. Some of them flailed, attacked, or begged. Others simply watched. There was something deep and real about them, something that connected them to everything, to him.

“Child of light, have you seen the stars?”

Her name was Ayanalia, she said. Barely a shimmer of a being, floating along the road. Knights often slew her kin without reason, so she had learned to remain still and tender, harmless, unharmed.

She was not the first to ask Miquella that question.

Young Woprei had once said that the true masters always followed the stars. The woods where the demi-humans dwelled were no place to watch the heavens—but hills and rocky outcrops lay scattered across the land. In the woods, they were safe. They were the guardians of the forest. The knights of gold and the bird knights knew to leave them alone.

They were not beasts.

They were not damned.

They lived humbly and simply, in their quiet homes.

“Plenty o’ masters have gone past our lands, chasing the stars,” said Young Woprei. His simple sword was carefully maintained with oil and stone. Small strings and trinkets were visible among his things. “They never came back. But still… can’t say their path isn’t a noble one.”

“Will you make the journey, Woprei? To follow your masters?”

“Woprei got no master, and no apprentice neither. I never walked the path. And I ain’t so young anymore. And my people... well, they need more than light in the sky. Knights often forget we were in the woods long before they ever rode in. Forget we’ve got dragon blood in us.”

“You have an accord with Godwyn’s men, do you not?”

“Yes. And with the Bird Knights from the Academy. But men forget. They always do. They forget what they said, what they swore. My kin need me in the forest.”

He paused, then looked at Miquella with gravity in his eyes.

“Will you tell ‘em, Master Miquella? We have our queens and masters. Mages and sorcerers… they come to us for the deep things, the truths the dark knows about the stars. We are keepers. We study. We’re not some monkeys scroungin’ for scraps. We’re not some curse, born from some twisted hand. We’re folk. Just folk. Please… tell ‘em that. The knights say we are brutish animals. Say we’re somethin’ to fear or feel sorry for. Say we’re better off forgotten. Primitive, they say. But we know the truth. We know who laughs when blood hits the floor. We know how the weak get hunted by the noble men in shining armor. Tell me, young master, what’s more primitive than that?”

“Forgive my lack of manners, young companion. I am not oft called to greet dreamwalkers in these times.”

Trina sat beside the Man in Blue and let down her hood. Her silvery locks framed her face, though she knew the man did not need his eyes to see her.

“Forgive my intrusion, my lord. I do not always control where the dreampath takes me. I’m glad it brought me here. May I join you?”

“Of course, my lord. And please, call me Vijay. I am a warrior of the rivers.”

“I know. You taught my sister.”

The man nodded and smiled.

“I know you, my lord. You are her brother, are you not? There is something of Lady Malenia in your voice.”

“I am,” Trina answered.

“Miquella?”

“In a way, yes. My name is Trina. But I am always Miquella—Malenia’s twin.”

If the explanation puzzled the man, he did not show it. He bowed his head and smiled. Next to them, a river flowed gently, its waters caressing the earth. For a while, neither spoke, and Trina simply watched the stream. A stillness settled into her bones.

“She is gifted. Lady Malenia.”

“She is. Extraordinary.”

“Stubborn, too. Fierce in her silences. When first I met her, I saw grief like ash in her gaze. The taint clung to every motion. I had seen such horror once before… I did not think I would live to see its like again. My heart wept for her. But it soared, too, at the steel of her will.”

In an instant, a translucent figure —painfully familiar— walked across the water. Malenia, younger, more whole, danced over the river’s surface with a wooden sword in her hand. She carved shapes through the air with each movement, her feet flowing with the grace of a lake-born warrior. The figure didn’t acknowledge them, but it changed. The wooden blade took on a glint of steel. Another limb became rusty metal. Her face, however, remained the same: calm, driven, relentless. A soul never meant to be conquered.

Trina’s eyes welled as she watched Malenia master the art of the river.

“I could never thank you enough. You taught her to resist. That was more than I could ever give her.”

“Her strength is her own. I did but show her the shape of a dance. Water flows to cleanse. It moves to heal. Where motion dwells, rot takes no root.”

“She said you gave her wings. Wings to soar beyond pain.”

“She always had them. I only helped her see.”

Vijay and Trina continued watching the shadow of Malenia, lifting her sword toward the heavens.

Tears fell down Miquella’s cheeks. There was truly nothing more beautiful.

Erleaf flowers bloomed everywhere in the little village. They resembled their lilies, almost wilting, yet beautiful, delicate, and fragrant. The petals held firm against touch and wind. Mushrooms —ordinary ones, born from dirt and root— sprouted at the trees' bases. Torrent munched on rowa fruits offered by the villagers.

The ground was simple but lovingly tended. The dwellings were modest, and the air echoed with the sounds of paws and crawling limbs. These were the lowest of the low—creatures born of mortal hubris. Abominations, some said, devoid of grace or soul. Men crawled like rabid dogs through filth. Women, mounted on half-beasts, seemed closer to their animal companions than any human station.

“The frogs’re more hassle than threat,” said Ser Lenar of Bellum Highway, a Knight of the Cuckoo. His face stayed calm, even a touch amused. Beardless, soft-handed, with crystal buds glinting on his boots.

“They move in packs. Good sport for the Mirandas and crabs. We leave them be —unless we’re bored. The Crawlers though? They chill me, to be honest. Can’t imagine living like that. I’d rather the Erdtree burn me clean, but they don’t get that mercy either. My father taught me to pity them. I’ve taught my boy the same. Born under Queen Marika’s grace, we were. Ought to be grateful.”

“Pests”, muttered Ser Jagit, chewing on something tough and red while scrubbing muck off his boots. He hadn’t touched the ale like the others. “They scatter like lice, and leave their shit behind. Don’t fool yourself, they’re a bitch to crack, pardon my language. Lenar here should’ve been a confessor, not a blade for the Academy. Me? I keep my prayers short and my sword ready.” He spat the meat with a grimace. “Little devils, one bit me on the head the other day. Had to three-oh it, fortunately, or I’d have forsaken my sword and armor for good.” He rolled his eyes. “Uncle left me his gauntlets, fought the royal frauds back in the day. Trained me to cleave mages and put down puppet-huggers. Not to chase swamp rats.”

“Got five three-oh this season. Four frogs, one crawler.” Another voice piped in, Miquella didn’t catch his name, but his cheeks were flushed with drink. “I like the frogs better. Less screaming. What was it you said the other night, Lenar? ‘Please, Queen Marika, don’t let this be the day a man-frog eats me!’.

“I did not—!”

“Better them than those cursed crayfish! Swear on the stars! Those things know when you’ve just had a good meal. My wife cooked some of it. Bought it from a merchant. I am not sure how the bum managed to get his hands on meat like that, but it tasted like a damn miracle. Like victory feast!”

“Crayfish don’t want trouble.”

“They remember your face! Tell Captain I’m not setting foot near the south for three weeks, minimum. Got more three-ohs than any of you lazy bastards anyway.”

“Jag, drink more and be less of a prick”, laughed Lenar, the softness gone from his eyes.

“Aye, aye! For a good night, boys!”

“Just a quiet service. That’s all I ask. May the Stars piss some luck our way.”

“Pray harder to the Golden Tree!”

“Forgive them, my Lady. They're scoundrels, but good men at heart. You will be safe with us tonight, if the night fate is kind. Care for a drink? What was your name again?”

“They hunt us,” said Jyk. His voice was high and wet, the sound bubbling like a breath caught in the throat. His wide, glassy eyes did not blink. His hands shook where they gripped the dull shaft of his scythe. “They laugh. Take our food. Take our tools. If we fight… they cut us down. The knights… they’re the broken ones. Twisted. Sent to torment.” He lowered his head, his words slipping into a rasp. “We got no other place. North of here, they say…. They keep our old ones in cages. Cut ‘em open. Peel their skin. Lookin’ to see if our blood turns gold. It don’t. They know that. Still… still they do it…”

Jyk staggered upright, his limbs herking, and retched, spilling a foul slurry of water and chewed bone. His companions flinched, fear flashing deep in their eyes—a primal terror that needed no words.

“We hunt crabs. Octopus. That’s all. We don’t hurt no one. Last time… a knight let me go. Didn’t strike me. But the others made him strip. Threw him in the lake. Said he was unclean."

His voice cracked.

“But... but they... they’re the ones touched by grace... aren’t they? How... how can that be?”

“I’ve thought of fighting,” said Libeya, her voice low as she ran her fingers through her wolf’s fur, firelight dancing across Miquella’s face. “But what would it change? Perhaps I might strike down two or three —then the whole Academy would descend upon us. We are not warriors. Many of us can only crawl, their legs fading each day.” She paused, her gaze distant. “I long to flee. But it is the same, wherever we go. Each breath I take is a defiance of the Erdtree’s will. And yet, I breathe. I blink. I feel the wind on my skin. I feel my soul reach towards my other half, my friend. They say we are impure, without souls. But I know they are wrong. My wolf, he is my soul."

“I’d fight”. Fonn had no companion at his side. His legs were as thin as early shoots, barely able to hold him for more than a minute. Even in the small village, where Albinaurics moved like ghosts and watched the twins with reverent fear, Fonn’s clothes were clean. He kept them that way, always, no matter what.

“I’ve dreamt it —pulling a knight down by the throat, dragging him through his own goldblood.” He looked down, hands curled in his lap. “But dreams don’t change these legs. Never did. Still… l dream. Of a place. A land. A corner of the world, no matter how small, where we aren’t a mistake.” He raised his head, meeting Miquella’s gaze. “Tell me, young lord. Do you think soulless things can dream?”

“I know why you won’t give me the word.”

Malenia’s voice was sharp, her golden sword gleaming at her side. They had not yet reached Raya Lucaria, and still they found no rest. Around them, Trina watched the moss dim in the water’s reflection.

Her heart bled—small, powerless.

“Libeya is right. If you kill them, more will come. The village will be destroyed. It would start a war with Liurnia.”

Miquella did not meet her eyes as he spoke.

Malenia remained silent for a long time, her gaze shadowed in the gloom.

“I know.”

Miquella smiled, but it was hollow, distant.

“I wish to cause no more harm. If your sword could bring them peace, forevermore, I would stand beside you and not falter. But as things are...”

“There is nothing more to be done.”

Ashes.

Only ashes remained in their hearts.

“I can give them rest. Those who suffer—I can go to them. They need not fear tonight not until dawn. But…”

“But they wake up,” Miquella said.

And the smile he gave her shattered her heart.

In the deep, where neither Morgott nor Mohg dared walk—where the roots curled like tendrils —Miquella slept.

He did not dream.

He prayed.

He waited.

When he rose, his feet bled from the rough stone.

“There.”

In the dark, a single golden seed.

“This shall be our future.”

Trina smiled. The small, glimmering thing was the most precious in the world.

That night, he told Malenia of his plan. Her gaze, ever darkened by rot, shone with impossible belief and care.

He never deserved her.

Oh, he never would.

I will find a cure. I promise. You will be okay, Malenia.

“Lead the way, brother. I will be with you at every step. I will walk beside you as you build the world of your dreams.”

Miquella dreamt that night —truly dreamt.

He fell into Trina’s arms with laughter on his lips, soft and weightless.

It had been so long since he had laughed like that.

Around them stretched a vast garden, filled with plants and flowers and fluttering butterflies. Not all were beautiful to the naked eye, but each had been grown and placed with patience and love. The scents danced around them, and the chittering of bugs and the rustle of leaves caressed their souls.

His soul.

An infinite garden, with endless possibilities, growing year after year inside his heart.

In the distance stood the looming figure of a holy tree. Not incandescent and eternal, but reaching the heavens nonetheless, his leaves casting shadow and solace upon those who knelt beneath him. Dozens of colors adorned his boughs, and the branches overflowed with divine power: abundant, gentle, welcoming.

The holy tree of the dream neither scorned nor blessed. He embraced and protected, giving life to those who sought it.

A child of wood and leaf. While the Erdtree shone bright for those chosen by the golden light, this humble child-tree would extend his roots to those who had been denied. There would be no need for conflict or clashing. In the future of his making, the tree of the boy would be a haven of the Order.

Miquella smiled. The dream was beautiful and soft, the wind blowing very gently around him. Beside them, golden and light-violet lilies bloomed from the grass. Miquella lay his head on Trina’s chest, and she sighed, a smile dancing on her lips, her heart swelling with impossibly hope and love.

He felt content.

“You should rest more often,” Trina murmured into his hair.

“I don’t have the time,” he replied, his tone light but his eyes wistful. “The world needs—”

“You. Not just your will, your mind, your miracles. It needs you. Rested. Whole.”

Her fingers found his arm, the one littered with cuts and closed wounds. The one that had bled for the lilies. The one who was ready to bleed him dry.

He laughed softly.

“You worry too much. It will be well, dearest Trina. Together, we will see a new era. A new gold. A new tree. Malenia will be free at last. And those who pray for deliverance will be heard.”

Silence stretched again, but it was not heavy. Not this time.

In the garden, there were no snapdragons.

But there were dawns, small, delicate, graceful.

Trina giggled.

“You still like them, right?”, he asked, though he already knew the answer. Trina took his left hand and brought it to her lips, a gentle kiss full of love and gratitude.

He didn’t shy away this time, his heart light and bright.

“Of course. They are my favorite.”