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Chapter Text

The deer lowers its head to the ground, and she winces ever so slightly. The leaves of her cover brush against her cheek, and it feels too kindly, like an embrace. She watches it pace around the clearing– that poor thing– acutely aware that every moment she does not act only further compromises her ambush. And yet, there is something mesmerizing here, in the dappled pattern the sun leaves on the ground and the sea-breeze whisper of the trees.

She hates this part the most. She always doubts herself, and she almost always misses.

She breathes in deeply and notches her bow.

The deer stiffens, raising its beady eyes to stare at the brush.

She fires.

It sails past the deer and into a nearby tree. She breathes a curse through her lips and watches the creature startle, breaking through the trees.

She watches it disappear into the forest and stifles a sigh.

I’ll manage without, she thinks, though her stomach protests at the thought. She’s been without meat for quite some time, and as much as she loves her garden, she’s running out of recipes to make with its fare. She hates the idea of setting up traps for springhares, hates the idea of them bleeding out waiting for her even more. At least her arrows are quick– when they hit their intended target, that is.

A howl echoes through the woods and she gets to her feet, bow and calling bell in hand. It’s a strange, beautiful sound, but something about it still sends a chill down her spine. She has yet to get used to the wolves. Her wolves now, she supposes.

“Hopefully you lot have been luckier than me.”

She shakes the bell, and it rings out into the clearing. Another howl answers her, and she starts back on her path home, boots shuffling through the dirt.

The bell had been a gift of the Tarnished, one she had initially refused and only taken after a frankly absurd amount of insistence. They were an odd bird, certainly, and had only visited her once after claiming lordship. She was touched that they had even thought to see her and was relieved in no small part to discover that they remained much the same as when they first came to this land, nameless and kingdomless. It was a charming little silvery thing carved with care. There was something heavy to it, though. It was not frightening, per se, but it demanded respect. And so, she was dutiful in polishing it, attentive in using it, and reverential when it called for her to be.

The wolves themselves had been a gift from another. A few nights after the bell, a strange woman appeared at her door, small and sharp. Roderika cooked and cleaned for her, as a host ought to do, though the woman had asked for very little. She had a clever smile, the kind that seemed to pick you apart completely and revel in its knowing. She didn’t seem cruel, necessarily, but there was something witchy about her. Her skin was cool to the touch, and the moon, which had taken to shining over Limgrave more often, stayed full and bright each night she stayed. Nevertheless, she had been raised properly and knew well enough not to pry into the affairs of her enchanting guest.

She arrived and departed in the strangest fashion. There was a clockwork kind of sensibility to her– a steady rhythm to every breath of cold sighed out into the night. It was like she had been born knowing the perfect time to rest, the perfect time to come, and the perfect time to go. 

They had stood together in the grove, dappled then with moonlight, and she had taken her hands into hers. Some part of her must have dimly recognized that she was freezing and yet, she did not recall herself cold. Her guest gently withdrew a pouch full of ashes and placed it atop her palms. It was embroidered in a clumsy, childish hand, rendering a girl of fire-red hair chasing after a pack of dogs.

Her eyes watered. The woman smiled at her.

It was a precious, precious gift. 

She enclosed her hands around the ashes.

“Will you… will you be well out there? Wherever you are going?”

Her smile widened and the woman pressed a hand to her cheek.

“My dear aster, I shall be well wherever I am, tonight and forevermore.”

She had left her with the pouch of ashes and an unfamiliar but welcome sort of peace. And since then, perhaps even before then, everything has been alright. Quite alright. The kind of alright where, if she starts to smile, she reckons it’ll be hard to stop. 

Sea breeze rustles through her hair and the forest seems to sing to her on her way to her cottage.

(She had found herself a shack, small and cozy by a beach, roamed by spirits and flocked by woods! And she had cried, real tears that time, the kind one sheds and is born anew.)

She picks up her feet and a smile dances on her lips despite herself. 

Things have been alright lately. Quite alright.

She has her garden which grows hale and hearty– full of herbs, flowers, and crops of the more edible sort. She had always wanted a garden, never had much of a green thumb. She’s learned it feels good to have to work for something.

She has her graveyard too.

It had started quietly, with little fanfare. She had found a body on the beach, with its flesh torn clean from its bones. And she had looked upon it and decided she ought to bury it. Now she buries them all because she reckons someone has to. It’s good work for the mind and the body. She feels stronger each time she picks up her shovel and more at ease when she puts it back down. Sometimes it is overwhelming, when she thinks about all who have died, all who need burying. But she does her part, one shovel full of dirt at a time. Often it weighs heavy on her, but she’d like to think it makes this land just a bit lighter. 

At night, it is filled with spirits, who float from stone to stone. She makes herself a cup of tea and looks on as a welcome guest. She sits on the old chair she had found in the shack, a miracle of its own, and watches them dance with each other and sing.

For the first time in a long time, there’s a dizzying, palpable sense of hope. 

The main roads are safe to travel most days (and less often, a few nights) and she hears word of a new-blooming village each day. A few of the wanderers die now, a real and true death like old, but just as many are born now into this tender hatchling of a new world, fragile and hopeful.

A passing merchant visits her on occasion. She prepares some tea and a warm meal for them both and they listen to her speak with quiet understanding. Sometimes she makes her way to the settlement beneath the Church of Pilgrimage and tends to the dead and trades the spares from her garden for bits of milk or meat.

It’s a bit lonely, but she can’t say that she minds it wholly. The wreck-turned-cottage was perfect for her. Far away from everything, really. The shack she had scrubbed the rot from and grew new life into was to provide for her on her lonesome.

She props her door open and waits just a few moments more. Her wolves run in with prey in their jaws, dropping it onto the wooden floor. It’s a nasty habit– always leaving her a mess to clean up– but she reckons she can’t be too cross with her hunters and their supper on the floor. She reaches down to give the biggest one a hearty scratch between the ears.

She sets the springhares atop her board and starts cutting. They dance and play throughout her kitchen, chasing each other around and splashing into blue sparks, snatching up the scraps of meat she threw at them. 

She was certain they didn’t need to eat. Spirits had no need for that kind of sustenance. And yet, she knows there must be some joy in it regardless.

She gets to making a stew, something simple and hearty above the fire. And then maybe, she’ll fix herself up a cup and sit out by the graveyard.

There had become something conventional about her life. Something out of a storybook– the kinds they wrote now, knowing a quiet life was as much a miracle as slaying a king. It’s tempting to think of all that she’s had to leave behind. But she rifles through jars of dried herbs and keeps an eye on the boiling water. One step at a time, moving forward, and eventually it will be as easy as breathing. 

It is on that quiet night she realizes, arms propped up on her table, hands cradling a warm cup of tea, that she is a fool to even think of her evening as quiet, her life as conventional.

She takes a sip, and there is silence, and the night is waiting with bated breath.

She takes another sip, an owl hoots, and there is a sudden, sharp knock at her door.

Chapter Text

She presses her lips together, sparing only a passing glance at the hearth. It must be obvious that someone is home, yet she had not been expecting a visitor at this hour—and certainly not one so loud.

She waits with the vain hope it might have been a trick of the woods. Stranger things had happened here, after all. Perhaps her ears had failed her.

This time, there are two loud bangs in quick succession.

Goodness. They might just break her door down.

She supposes ignoring her midnight knocker would be rather ill-mannered of her. She gets to her feet, dusting off her skirt and neatly sliding her chair under the table-- the old rickety thing. She’s rather fond of it.

Three knocks, closer to thumps really, resound throughout her cottage, and she scrambles for the door, but not before sliding her bell and pouch into her garments.

When she opens it, she is greeted by a well-dressed man flanked by two soldiers, one old and the other only slightly younger. They are both garbed in clean-enough armor, bearing the emblem of a stormhawk and only a bit of rust. The older one wields a spear and wears the red cloth of an exile draped across his shoulders. There’s something about it that makes her feel nostalgic, almost.

(Three men of presumably sane mind basically constituted a reasonably sized militia in these parts. She’s certain her mouth must be somewhat agape.)

“Ah, er, greetings.” 

“Greetings, fair lady! It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The man in the middle speaks up-- he must be the head of their outfit, dressed in the finery of a lord.

She stands hesitantly in the doorway.

“Ah, my sincerest apologies. We have traveled a long way in search of you. You may have heard of me, the great Kenneth Haight, chief advisor to the reigning monarch of Limgrave.”

She wishes so desperately she had-- for even just a bit of recollection! And yet, undoubtedly, she cannot remember him, for he appears to be the type that is not easily forgotten.

“Ah… er, yes! Of course!”

He nods, seemingly satisfied.

“But naturally. I was told that you were well-informed in matters of nobility, my lady.”

“… I wouldn’t quite say that,” she pauses, searching for words, and he regards her curiously.

“Nevertheless, er, it is a great honor to have you visit. Goodness, where are my manners? Please, all of you, you must be tired. Come inside!”

They oblige, filtering through her doorway to stand in her cottage. The younger soldier courteously closes the door behind him.

Her home seems relatively small with the four of them. Haight (the Great?) observes the surroundings with polite interest before pulling forth a chair.

She has very little to offer the soldiers, gesturing only to her favorite seat.

“Oh, I apologize. It isn’t much, but you are welcome to make yourselves comfortable.”

“We will stand, my lady,” the older one replies simply.

“Unless you would rather us sit on the floor.” the younger one adds, mirth in his voice.

Her cheeks redden, and Haight waves his hand dismissively.

“Ah, nonsense. This is a quaint little house you’ve made for yourself, I see. Please, I oblige you to sit. I have a letter to deliver.”

She takes a seat and offers them all a nervous smile.

Haight removes a fine parchment wrapped tightly with a golden string from his robes. She marvels at the lack of tear—it hardly even seems weathered. He surely notices her awe and returns her smile, looking rather pleased with himself.

“Admiring my handiwork? I took great pains to ensure even the smallest of harms would not befall the message.”

He slides open the string, rolling it onto the table before turning it to face her.

The message contains little, yet it sparks something in her heart, a warmth to match the crackling hearth.

Roderika, 

I have sent my advisor and two of my finest warriors in search of your home. It is my hope that you will join them on their return.

Nepehli 

She feels fondness overtake her. It is short, abrupt even. Without frills and lacking largely in direction. She had not even penned a why. Doubtless, her advisor— Haight— Kenneth Haight— had been the one to stamp it at the bottom with the seal of the stormhawk. It is a beautiful thing, reflected in the armor of her soldiers. Its wings are outstretched, buffeted by a swirling tempest, stylized in long, beautiful strokes of white.

She already knows her response.

“Well, I suppose I can’t decline an official summons from the…. did you say the reigning monarch of Limgrave?”

Haight frowns, considering her words.

“I suppose you could-- I was directed to omit my Lady’s titles from the letter and commanded to inform you that you may, and I quote, ‘do what you will with it.’”

She laughs, loud and bright. Her eyes shine, and she brushes her fingertips against the parchment, tracing the words Nepheli had written to her.

“It would be my pleasure to accompany you three back.”

Haight claps his hands together with a sigh of relief.

“Excellent! I am afraid we have arrived here at far too late of an hour for a swift return. My lady, would you be so kind as to allow us to lay camp in these woods tonight?”

They are not her woods, but it seems a moot point to argue.

“You are welcome to it. Ah-- my mind seems to be elsewhere for the day. I assure you I am not usually so impolite! I have a stew still on the hearth and some tea brewed from herbs of the peninsula. Please help yourselves!”

And so, they gather across her kitchen, and she listens to their stories. She settles onto the floor now, tea in hand, and ignores the noble gasp that slips from Haight’s lips.

The younger knight, she learns, is Cillian, who is quick to compliment her cooking. He is from a village on the mainland, on the outskirts of Stormveil. 

“We have many there now, both locals and travelers. Now that the Craven Lord is dead, we have been able to thrive without fear. They have talks of opening up a tavern now– a tavern! Can you believe that?”

The older knight does not offer his name, and she does not begrudge him for it. He is from one of the penal colonies, garbed in faded red as he is. From what she can gather, Nepheli granted him his freedom upon her ascension to the throne.

Kenneth Haight is also of noble bearing, the same as her, yet she feels like a stranger to him in their commonality. Nepheli had sent him away rather brusquely to find her, a fact he is not entirely happy about, not because he dislikes her (“ Certainly not– I have utmost faith in my Lady.”) but because it had been something of a treacherous trip.

She listens to them, and she feels lonely, hopeful, and alive, reaching for the sun. And when she brings herself over to her bed, she falls asleep dreaming of stars.

Chapter Text

She is up just before sunrise, awakened from a dream she’s certain must have been a good one. The world is right somehow and waiting. She is up before sunrise, as she knows she must be. There is much to be done before she leaves.

And so she tiptoes throughout her cottage, ever aware of the creak of wood and sway of leaves. She has little to gather-- all already stored in a pack by the door. Her bell, garments, gifts from her garden, and bits and baubles from home she can’t bear to depart from. (Her bag is always halfway full-- she has done her best to love this place like a body, but one cannot forget a lifetime of running so easily.)

She knows with her heart she must take her time saying farewell. This cottage of hers, she knows she is not abandoning it to the wilds forevermore, but she aches to leave it, ever fond of routine. It feels significant somehow, to be leaving a home, a true home, for however long or short of a time. It has nurtured her well in its gentle embrace.

She unlatches the hook to her garden and says a silent prayer to whoever might be listening for nature and fate to protect it well. And perhaps, when she returns, the hares will be fattened and the greens picked clean by those who needed them.

The graveyard sits peacefully, and a goodbye here hurts less. The spirits will follow her wherever she goes, for she has shown them a kindness they are always athirst for. She is eager to give it, and so they flock to her like a river bringing life. She has taught them how to tend to themselves, protect their walls, and be tender with their love.

Finally, she nails a letter to her door as quietly as she can. It is an invitation for any who can find it, to rest their weary legs and sleep safe from the creatures that sometimes stalk these woods. (Maybe it is a vain idea, but it is her hope that all who come here think of her with warmth.)

Her new companions begin to stir once light breaks across the horizon-- when she pulls her pack outside and leaves her cottage in perfect order. The older man emerges first and greets her with a nod. She smiles and takes her place by their camp, two small tents arranged neatly around the remains of a fire. The younger knight--- Cillian-- is next to appear. He yawns, and the other man breaks him a piece of bread before offering the rest to her.

She is hesitant to take it from him, yet he insists.

“Eat it. You’ll need your strength for the road.”

She nods wordlessly and bites into it. It’s a bit stale, but she’s learned that in these lands, any meal is a good one.

Haight is last to rise with a theatrical yawn. He joins them by the dry wood and bites into his own meal with only slightly more decorum. When they leave their seats to gather up their little camp, she stays, preparing for the journey ahead in her own way. She closes her eyes and breathes in. The forest air rushes through her, mixed with the heavy scent of the sea. She tries to capture it all– to preserve every last detail in her mind, from the scattered lark song to the cold morning breeze that stings her cheeks. She knows it’s a fruitless endeavor to preserve even a moment, let alone a place, and she cannot help but feel a little ridiculous. And yet she is grateful, for they move around her and speak not a word.

And when they are ready, they wait for her. She turns once more to her cottage and the trodden path leading to it and says a silent goodbye. She thinks she can hear the gentle hum of spirits in the distance.

The journey over is remarkably uneventful, no doubt aided by her escorts, who prove to be a mostly sensible lot. On the eve, they hide themselves away and take rest wherever they can. It is a slower trek than the marches of old. But she had heard of the armies led by lords unknowing or uncaring of this land, leaving masses of dead behind in their wake, picked clean by the night. (She would have been a terrible soldier, and she is thankful to be led by man and not god.)

Regardless, she walks with purpose and strength, and they make good time. She has come a long way from the child she once was. 

They make camp on the inclines by the sea, and it is easy to find good cover amongst the handful of trees. She tries to make herself useful and find a reason to wander the verdant hills. (It is not a homecoming, exactly. Limgrave had been hers only in tragedy and the briefest of hope. But she can tell there is life here and the thought of seeing it, of belonging somewhere once again, brings a giddy smile to her lips.)

Haight recognizes her restlessness and shoos her out to gather food for them.

And so, she and Cillian move through the brush, atop a rise, patient in their steps. She cannot stop her mind from wandering past the hunt towards the beauty of this land.

He has crept far ahead of her, circling the creature that moves closer with each step. It had taken time for a deer to stray from its herd. Here on the mainland, they are more cautious, perhaps now accustomed to being hunted again. 

She sweeps a flowered branch aside, and it rustles ever so slightly, its petals falling upon her hands with a sigh.

The deer stops in its tracks, darting its head back and forth, ears perked and straining for sound.

And, with a flash of panic, she is back on her own, too slow and too unsteady, and the arrow is already flying. 

It breaks towards the rest of its group. She whispers a curse.

Cillian stands to fire a shot that whips past it, embedding itself firmly into the ground.

She rises to her feet and watches the herd scatter, fleeing down the hill. 

He strides over to shake the arrow loose, jerking his head towards her with an exasperated look.

“... You’re a bit of an awful shot.”

She agrees and drops her bow, rummaging through the pouches strewn across her belt. 

“Quite. Never been much of a hunter.”

He exhales, defeated, and watches her draw her bell.

“Suppose there’s no helping that.”

She rings it ever so slightly, and with a whistle and a howl, her wolves leap from it, and their mist shapes itself into a pack.

His eyes widen, and she presses a finger to her wry smile. They dance around her, eager to show off, before breaking out into a sprint after the deer, disappearing into the woods.

(They return later, two with springhares in their jaws and Cillian’s frustration wholly forgotten. There is wonder in his eyes– a kind of childish joy that reminds her of her youth, hands pressed to a window, watching a jellyfish float over the ocean, dancing in the water-moon.)

They arrive upon Stormhill at the expected pace, the castle long since having risen past the horizon. (Each night of their approach, she had marveled at the smoke drifting from the rooftops and light glowing from afar– for there is a town here now, not just a loose company of rotting homes.)

They are met at the base of the hill by a young woman (younger than her!) standing guard over a cobbled path. She is fresh-faced and eager to greet them, throwing their party a friendly salute.

“Welcome, miss!”

She returns her smile and listens to her chatter all the way up in a way that feels warm and familiar. Haight wrings his hands, surely eager for rest, and the knights are only quiet in their general fashion.

Cropfields roll down the hills, full of wheat and rye, and she is reminded of the sanctity of growth. Their presence reveals a blessing—a place to stay, to reap and sow.

She looks past the smattering of houses in search of her shack. She watches a child run past its doors, and a woman lean out to scold him. There is a small bed of flowers to its side by the hut-turned-coop. She feels a sharp pang of fondness and something else ache through her chest. (Joy, perhaps. And grief.)

They climb the road to the castle, twisting through its outer walls.

It is a fine place, full of trees and flowers, grown beautifully and wildly atop the grass.

The castle is mighty and open now, with barricades strewn aside on each level they ascend. The gold that adorns its walls is tarnished, and even the statues have begun to crumble. But she cannot find herself appalled at its disarray. There are people here.

Within, there is a courtyard full of tents and stalls. Those of all sorts scatter across the yard and the walls, patrolling, praying, or rushing to do business of their own. The movement continues its way through another winding path. They carry mail, cloth, flour, and all manner of items, scattering through open doors in a steady stream. Few, besides the knights, hold weapons.

The world stops only to breathe when they enter a graveyard flanked by a grand set of doors at its far end. A few kneel beneath headstones or place flowers by the graves, but only the sound of their footsteps across the singed stone breaks the silence. It is quiet here—a curious choice to have a burial ground before a place of power.

They stand in front of what she gathers must be the throneroom, and even Haight does not have a pronouncement for their lot.

With a giddy breath, she steps forward and pushes those doors aside.

Chapter Text

A stormhawk, half spirit, half flesh, swoops down to regard them– leaving trails of silver in the air. It’s a beautiful thing, shifting and flowing with the wind before letting out a screech and settling next to its lady.

Nepheli has opted to stand, hands folded atop an axe with its blade angled towards them. Its sister lies beside the throne, upright and imposing. She is like thunder underneath her veil, and when she sees them, her lips quirk up only slightly. The stormhawk perches above her, its claws digging into the fine wood of the throne. It surveys them all with sharp, watchful eyes. 

(Her veil— it’s cut from the same cloth as her headscarf, drawn across by a simple band of metal. She has fashioned herself a crown, a proper queen of familiar pieces.

And yet— she is so wonderfully unfamiliar, so far removed from the girl beside her at the hold, grasping a spirit in wanting hands, trying to draw strength from grief.)

She feels embarrassed, perhaps, to think that she would always be the same.

“My lady,” Haight begins, already in a low bow, right as Nepheli opens her mouth.

“Thank you,” she says to him— the knights beside her, kneeling— to all of them, maybe.

She bows her head quickly, a late attempt to follow suit.

“Our journey was uneventful. We encountered little on the way back, though we were careful not to move at night,” the older man reports, rising to his feet.

“And the people?”

Haight pipes in.

“We were able to speak with many on the way to, though not so on our return, my lady,” he pauses, recounting. “The waters run deeper at Agheel now, and a few have settled by the shore.”

“Good place for fishing,” the knight remarks mildly.

“There were a few merchants upon the road, and they have begun to speak of themselves as a people. We spoke to the Order as well— there are a great many churches in the peninsula, and they have begun the process of rebuilding.”

She nods, satisfied, walking down the steps beneath her throne in grand strides. 

“I am glad to see you all well from your travels.”

She stops in front of Roderika, who straightens up out of impulse. She cannot deny that even here, she is rather nervous. Nepheli waves a hand to dismiss them, and with a final bow, they each file out of the room. Haight stands vigilantly by her side, and Nepheli smiles ever so slightly, a brief flash of amusement upon her face.

“I’m certain you are eager to rest. Please, let me show Roderika the grounds.”

He nods, relieved. 

“I will submit my full report to you later, my lady.”

He turns into a hallway leading from the throne room, and they are alone.

“Roderika.”

“... Nepheli.”

She has always been regal, full of a noble kind of strength she had always admired from afar.

“It’s good to see you again.”

A smile warms her features, and the lines beneath her dark eyes crease.

“Likewise.”

Nepheli steps past her and calls for the stormhawk, who shoots through doors with a cry of delight. She watches it for a moment, entranced, before turning and beckoning her towards the sun.

“Come, walk with me. There is plenty to see, and I have much to discuss with you.”

She leads them through the castle, pointing out each place with sparing words. This-- a marketplace, and this, a makeshift infirmary. Old places, all of them, strewn about with new books and new clothes. People tend to gardens upon the green, as if this had not been a place of death just a while ago. She has never quite bought into the idea of holy places-- to remain untouched and unused forever, as if memory is not enough. And there is something beautiful to it, truly. But she cannot shake the dread that bites at her heels with each step she takes. She had wanted to come here long ago-- or maybe she had only told herself that, sick with grief. A place where bodies hung in chrysalis, only to emerge as butterflies, the lost turned exalted. But this time, in bloodstained soil strewn deep with bones, it might actually be true.

Some wave to Nepheli as they pass by from atop the wall-walk. Others bow. She does her best to greet them in kind. She understands then, from the way she moves, from the way ghosts brush past her side, that she too carries that nervous flower of hope within her heart.

Finally, they come to a stop at an observatory in the outer walls, overlooking the sea. A few soldiers pass them by on patrol, but it is quiet here. A lonely chapel sits atop steep cliffs rising from the water, with only a thin bridge connecting it to land. Roderika folds her arm upon the stone and bares her face to the breeze, trying to imagine she can hear the waves from here. A lonely chapel, a lonely sea. She had crossed it once.

Nepheli leans upon the stone next to her, looking out towards the castle spires.

“... Thank you for coming here,” she begins.

A smile flickers across her lips as she turns to look at her, waiting. The wind dances through her veil, her thick hair slipping out from beneath it.

“I had half expected you not to,” she admits quietly.

“Truly?”

She can’t help but laugh.

“That would be rather cruel of me after receiving such a... verbose set of summons. How could I resist?”

She grimaces.

“Haight insisted it would be... best to elaborate on a few points. I admit my first letter was... shorter.”

Roderika nods solemnly.

“Ah. I had suspected that was not your first draft!”

“He was quite adamant I ink you something upon hearing of my troubles. Part of me suspects he--” she stops, a contemplative look on her face. “Don’t mind me. I am glad to hear your journey went well, all things considered.”

“The land is more alive than I ever thought it could be.”

Roderika looks to the sky. The stormhawk circles above them, silent except for the occasional stroke of its wings, guided by its own wind.

“It’s quite a creature.”

“Her name is Deenh.”

“She’s beautiful. And she cares for you greatly.”

She smiles again, wistfully.

“It’s taken me some time to see her.”

She waits for her to say more. 

Gold ripples upon the water, the horizon painted in the brilliant colors of the sun. The tree, too, hangs over the sea, casting out its warmth. It is brighter, she reckons, than it once was before it covered the lands in cinders. (She had been so dazzled by it when they first arrived upon the shore, for they had all watched it with wanting eyes, like a beacon in the sky, a second sun, growing closer and closer with each day.)

“What troubles you, then?” she ventures. 

“I am seeking an advisor,” Nepheli confesses. “Often, I fear my judgment on the matters of this land is... lacking. A fresh pair of eyes would do me well.”

She runs her thumb atop her calloused hands, clasping them close together. 

(They are rough and full of cuts– of battles fought and work done alongside her people. A rare thing in her land.)

The hands of a queen, she thinks somewhat defiantly. 

“And I think that I missed the company.” 

She nods.

It is naive of her to feel a sort of kindred with the Tarnished, for they had slaughtered each other just as much as they had sought to save. But she thinks she understands.

“They are all good people here. But there are so few of us left, and when I heard you had made a home somewhere on the peninsula, I thought that I’d like to have you near. I have always admired your wisdom.”

“I expected as much when I left. I was sure it was… a bit more than reminiscing about the hold.”

“And that is all this will be if you wish it,” she pauses. “Though I fear I have little in the way of fond memories to reminisce on.”

She turns to regard Nepheli, stepping back from the stone. 

Her eyes are nervous, and her heart is open, and that is plenty enough for me, she decides.

“You are not bound here by any means, and I will have my knights escort you home anytime you wish. I had only hoped to entreat you in person.”

She raises a hand to stop her. The stormhawk– Deenh– lets out another joyful cry as if she has already seen what is to come. 

She wonders if she had set out here chasing after some old dream, some old ghost. But what a wonder she is now.

“It would be my pleasure, Nepheli.”

Chapter Text

She awakes with a start, a strangled gasp shot into the air– her body following quickly behind it. Her hands grasp at the sheets for purchase and she squeezes and rolls the fabric between her palms until the panicked haze of sleep has begun to dissipate.

Roderika breathes one heavy breath, followed by another. There is sunlight seeping through a window at the far end of the room and she can hear the bird song from outside, the distant hum of people.

She is not in an unfamiliar place, exactly. This room– her new quarters, she thinks with a fluttering sense of apprehension– is much like the one she grew up in. Stone walls, thick curtains affixed from wooden beams, even the bed hangings, a brilliant red, remind her of that place, hardly even a home, really. (She thinks she might ask to embroider them-- to add little deer and lillies. She had always dreamed of embellishing the drapes of her childhood. It was the only thing she had taken well to in her youth. She hated the callouses the harp left on her fingers and had refused to play long enough for the skin to grow back stronger. There was never any sort of ethereal beauty to her voice either, not like the songs of the spirits outside her chamber window who had almost seemed to taunt her lack of grace. But her room was always covered in half-finished tapestries as she dreamt of the world around her.)

It’s lovely, but she can't quite shake the feeling of unease here. She had grown used to her cottage, snug and small, and before that, the hold. Time passed strangely there, and often she had felt no need to rest at all. But exhaustion had a way of forcing itself into her hands after a while, leaving them shaky and unsure. Hewg would shoo her off then, and she would wander through the corridors until she could find a bed-- sometimes a room of her own, most often a makeshift dormitory, packed full of cots and only occasionally other Tarnished, and sleep off all her troubles. Still she swears that place must have rearranged itself each time they looked away. One could never take the same path twice.

Her feet touch the floor and she lets out a breathy sigh, standing to stretch as her body pops and clicks.

She's had a bad dream then, but when she rifles through her thoughts she can think of nothing at all. All the better for a nightmare to escape her mind, especially now.

And while this place may mirror the one she grew up in, she is far from the noble she once was, and hardly one to be so paralyzed by some long forgotten fancy. And so she dresses herself with quick haste and sets about her day. Already there is much to be done, though Nepheli had insisted on allowing her a day or three to get acclimated. Their time spent together in the hold had been brief and marred by tragedy but moreover, their time out of it had left them each different, somehow. And so, she thinks, she ought to assemble a new picture of this woman in her new sort of kingdom.

She figures her first stop is close enough, though she quickly finds she has drastically underestimated the navigability of the castle, filled to the brim with winding hallways and dead ends. She nearly collides with a one-handed man while taking a corner. He recoils slightly, arching his long body slowly backward, as a cat might. The man towers over her with a peculiar silence, and she does not miss the gold that dances in his sunken eyes. Finally, he introduces himself as a servant of the castle and takes enough pity on her to guide her through the corridors. The halls are like arteries, carrying blood and breath through the body, and the servant moves through them with a kind of organic ease. (And at the very least, she has to admit they are an awfully good line of defense in the case of intrusion.)

“Here you are, miss.”

They come to a stop, and when she turns around, he has vanished– in what she has gathered must be the gift of this land’s blessed people.

She knocks on the door in front of her– one, two, in quick succession.

There is no response.

“Haight!” She calls quietly into the wood.

There is a quick shuffling of paper and the sound of someone shifting in the room.

“Come in, come in!”

She opens the door to see (the great) Kenneth Haight rushing to his feet to greet her with a bow. She curtsies quickly, unfurling her arms to her side.

“Ah, Lady Roderika. A pleasure to see you. Were your quarters to your liking?”

“They’re lovely, thank you.”

He greets her with a polite smile before taking a seat at his desk, covered in all sorts of scrolls and letters. She winces at the mess, some great heap of work to be done.

“Oh, I’m sorry– I’ve come at an awful time, haven’t I? You must be terribly busy.”

He waves one hand dismissively, picking up a muddied letter with the other from atop the pile.

“Nonsense! I am perfectly delighted to tender you my hospitality, for it is my duty to be generous with my time.” He peels the wax seal off and slides it out of its envelope, grimacing only slightly at the smell. “It is only a shame I cannot give my lady my undivided attention.”

“What do you work on now?”

“Reports on this and that for my Lady. The economic affairs of Limgrave, potential alliances to forge, rumors of men still loyal to that wretched Godrick… There is far too much to be done, and I am to return to my fort in just a few days. I had left the demi-humans in charge, but I do worry for them. They can be a capricious lot.”

He holds up the dirtied note for emphasis, giving it a fine shake before placing it on the corner of his desk.

“... demi-humans?”

“They are a people like any other under the Order, old and new, and as I have learned recently, quite talented when it comes to both dance and disguise.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever made the acquaintance of one before.”

He nods sagely.

“Ah, of course. They’ve never been too fond of Tarnished,” he says, somewhat sympathetically. “Now, tell me. How might I, Kenneth Haight, assist my lady?”

Roderika leans back on the wall, a pensive look on her face. 

“I won’t keep you long. I only wanted to know how you came into Nep– Lady Nepheli’s service. What do you make of her?”

His eyes sparkle with what she thinks might be pride as he puts down his quill to face her, now beaming.

“I knew I was correct in my assessment the moment I laid eyes upon you– nay– the moment my Lady spoke of you! You are a discerning woman indeed and busying yourself already. Lady Nepheli will benefit most from your counsel.”

She smiles back at him clumsily and is certain she must look quite bemused. Haight forges onwards.

“Now, where to start– if you must know, it was I who was next in line as the rightful ruler of Limgrave.”

“Oh! Truly?”

“I would never speak falsehoods to you, my lady. But I was unable to take the throne upon Godrick’s very timely and much-awaited passing– may he rot eternally, excuse me– for tragedy had struck my own fort.”

She makes the requisite ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ as he tells his story and privately laments that his profession was not that of a historian, with his inclination for details and talent for narration.

“-- so, of course, once I heard news of the complete chaos Stormveil was in, I hurried back to the castle, knowing someone ought to take stock of the land. But once I stepped foot through the gates, I was greeted not by a blade, as expected, but by a stately woman who had managed to unite the forces still left within.”

“Lady Nepheli?”

“Indeed it was! Her command of the stormhawk had rallied the people around her as they had the first ruler of this place. When I informed her of my claim to the throne, she ceded her own leadership ever so nobly, and well, I am many things but certainly not a fool! Her humility and strength– along with her hand in the awful tyrant’s death– made her the finest choice for a ruler since the Eternal Queen; may She rest in peace. And the Elden Lord, of course.”

He clears his throat.

“I take my duties quite seriously as the first and eldest lord of Limgrave to swear fealty to her. I could imagine no finer Lady.”

He ends with a flourish, before turning back to regard the mountain of letters on his desk– and if Roderika were to squint, she would see a faint, pitiful quiver upon his lip. 

“... I do hope that has answered your query.”

She certainly does not miss the long-suffering sigh that follows, and so clasps her hands together and nods earnestly.

“My many thanks! Apologies again for interrupting, but I appreciate your willingness to indulge me.”

Haight shoos her out of his quarters with a smile nonetheless.

“Now go out and make your inquiries. I’d imagine you have many more, my lady.”

***

Finding her way outside of the castle’s halls proves only slightly easier.

She emerges into a grand courtyard full of people going about their day. There is the steady, unfamiliar thrum of chatter, metal upon wood, and the faint clop of hooves on the stone as a man guides a pair of horses past the gate. Birds drift through the sky, and many rest at the tops of trees that dot the yard, their yellow leaves shaking with each faint tremble of wind. And she has seen the first rays of morning peak out over the ocean, the way the green hangs from the grand cliffsides of the country, but she has never found anything more lovely than people-- a world lived in. She is struck with the desire to lie down on the grass and feel the sun on her back, but a woman hanging clothes beneath a wooden platform calls out to her.

“How might I help you?”

The woman grunts in response, bending over a basin of water to wring out a pair of trousers. Her dark hair catches seconds of the sun, held together in tight braids that sway from side to side as she moves. A stray behind her, lying on a shaded patch of grass, raises its head ever so slightly to regard her. It flicks its ears once before settling back onto its side. They unsettle her still, with their bruised skin and patchy fur, but she supposes she should take heart to see it with more meat on its bones than most.

“Looking for something to do?”

“Perhaps someone to chat with, too.”

The woman looks up from her work and smiles.

“I could use an extra hand. We can talk and work together.”

And so, she finds herself washing and hanging clothes with the woman in the shade, gossiping quietly as they twist up the garments and roll the water out between their hands.

“Many think there’s nowhere to go but up now,” she offers as Roderika fixes a tunic from the clothesline.

“And you?”

She laughs lightly, some half-derisive sound.

“I’ve seen enough to know we shouldn’t get complacent, even under a new guard.”

She returns to the basin, and the woman hands her a sopping-wet gown she’d just finished scrubbing.

“I’ve always thought we ought to demand better, even now. Any lord or lady that doesn’t kill their people is better than the last, true enough. But that doesn’t make ’em a good one. And now more than ever, we’ve got to have good ones.”

The woman continues on.

“This land needs to heal, and I reckon the new lady’s got her work cut out for her. Might need the hand of god to help with this mess.”

Roderika realizes she’s smiling some strange, lopsided smile, and the woman looks at her sheepishly.

“Oh, come now! She doesn’t strike me as a bad lass. She’s let us back into the castle for one, and the soldiers have been feeding– oh, oh dear– hand the cloth to me. Like this, see?”

She wrings the water out of it with the force of a giant-- a wonder, really. It splashes onto the grass, and she gives it one last shake in the air for good measure.

“You make it look easy,” she admits, only somewhat envious.

“You’ll get the hang of it.”

They work in peaceful silence until Roderika straightens out the final garment, a pretty blue kirtle she hopes will be quick to dry, with sunset soon to be in the air.

“Thank you,” she says, standing. “It’s such awful work alone.”

Her hands ache but still, she smiles easily. Any work is good work here.

“It was my pleasure.”

She waves her a hasty farewell, and the woman disappears behind the clothesline, surely inspecting their handiwork. That, too, did not come easy to her, but she had learned it all the same in these lands as any traveler ought to do.

She makes her way through the courtyard, doing her best to look unassuming as she drifts across the grass, watching the soldiers gather from atop a stone walkway. The older man—the exile who had escorted her here to this strange place—sits atop the steps, fiddling with strings tied atop a small bundle of cloth in an impressive knot. His hood is cast to the side, and when he sees her, a half smile rises to his face that disappears almost as quickly as it comes.

He waves her over, and she takes a tentative seat next to him.

“My lady has not summoned you as spymaster, has she?”

She can’t help the mortified giggle that escapes her.

“Hardly! Could you imagine? I reckon I’ve not a proper cunning bone in my body.”

To her surprise, he laughs along and finally slips the string off his package to reveal some bread and a few rissoles, each wrapped in cloth.

Her stomach makes an undignified noise, and she grimaces.

“Figures you’d be running around Stormveil without a morsel,” he says, a faint mote of humor in his voice. “Here you are.”

He breaks her off a piece of bread and drops a few dumplings into her palms. She waits just a moment, out of some old sense of decorum rather than a need to refuse-- any meal’s a good one-- and only takes a bite when he turns his head to chuckle.

“No need to be polite. My old man always makes me extras, just in case.”

And so they sit and eat together in silence, watching the soon-to-be soldiers march in neat little lines. The clank of spears, armor, and swords cuts through the buzz of the crowd, a disparate clutter of men of different cloth and color, doing their best to move as one. She reckons they’re doing alright, though they have yet to earn their stripes. Or feathers, rather.

“How did you all come to serve her?”

“Exiles, the lot of us. When the warrior king and his ilk won the castle, we were given a choice. Return unto the penal colonies or serve here. For some of us, our only crime was our choice of master. For others… well, we’ve gotten wiser with age.”

The man grunts and wipes a smattering of crumbs off his face, far less impressed with his future fellows-in-arm.

“Suppose I can’t be too angry with the lord– for he had bested us fair enough.”

“Godrick?”

He scoffs.

“Hardly. The man has only the tendrils of history behind him and brute strength. It was a day of rejoice indeed when he fell. The new queen, Nepheli...” he takes a thoughtful pause. “Fierce and kind in equal measure, I figure. We have grown tired of fighting, and she seeks to heal this land in her own way. And she can summon the storm as our lord of old once did.”

“Oh! Deenh, yes? We’ve met!”

He only laughs and shakes his head.

“A descendent, same as the queen.”

They wait on the steps in that peaceful, noisy quiet as the sun slowly lowers itself from its perch up high. Finally, he affixes his hood upon his face once more and gets to his feet with a groan.

“She takes her leave in the graveyard now– to call the wind and bend it to her will. Reckon it’ll be as good a time as ever if you want to catch a glimpse of the old king.”

His face is hidden under that scarlet cowl, but she’d swear on her summoning hand the man winks at her.

“I’m sure she’ll be eager to hear your report as well.”

***

Nepheli stands in the middle of the graveyard, arms outstretched, catching the swiftly setting sun. It sways upon her body in rays-- tracing stripes across the golden and brown of her skin-- just as it settles on the flowers across the graveyard, glinting and gleaming. Two stormhawks, one spirit and one flesh, spin and dive above her as she moves the wind with each step. She moves herself around the courtyard, arms gliding in practiced grace, holding two invisible swords. It’s as if she’s dancing.

She waits for a moment, something tight and wanting upon her breath.

And she exhales, slow and heavy, and feels it dissipate into the cool air.

The place is empty, as if in some unspoken pact. All is silent besides the gentle bellow of wind as she moves it and the noble sound of the creatures that move with it. (She thinks that Deenh has begun to read her mind, somehow– catching her eye with a knowing sharpness before settling onto a particularly large gravestone, extending her grand wings in a fine display of strength, half-warning. The other hawk catches sight of her, bowing its head to Nepheli before shooting off past the yard. She turns, and Roderika catches that glimpse of familiar melancholy before a soft smile alights a new glow on her face. She raises her hand to the sky in greeting, and Roderika hurries down the stone steps to say hello.

Nepheli draws herself down upon her knee, as if she is swearing fealty. Her cheeks redden and she bows, in one slow, unsteady movement. When she rises, Nepheli is still smiling that harvest moon smile, mirth dancing upon her lips.

“I eagerly await your account of this castle’s state of affairs, my lady.”

Her face reddens, but nonetheless, she clears her throat.

“Well... er... let’s see. Bit of a mixed bag-- not really, truthfully. Lots of admiration, some skepticism, er, a general sense you’re doing a much better job than Godrick thus far.”

She turns her head to the side to cough.

“I should hope so.”

Nepheli coughs again, and she realizes she’s holding back a rather undignified giggle. A loose grin crawls its way up her face, and she can’t help but snort into her hand.

“I know! Me, a royal advisor? I haven’t the faintest idea what to do. You ought to be patient with me, though! I’m doing this for your sake.”

Nepheli composes herself, running her hands down her side as if smoothing the folds of an unruly skirt. She has to admit that she misses her old dress-- thick strips of hide and leather adorned with brilliant red cloth. Some charming mix of wordly sensibility and relentless impracticality. She supposes it must be nostalgia.

“Don’t fret. I was... certain you would do something similar-- or at least I had hoped so. You’ve always been clear of mind and heart.”

Nepheli takes her bruised hands into hers with a wry smile.

“Haight had nothing but praise when he spoke of-- don’t look at me like that! He didn’t sing on you, I swear it.”

She’s not certain what face she is making. A sour one, most likely.

Nepheli runs a thumb across her knuckles and makes some strange sound of amazement.

“Look at you with battered hands. I remember trudging through the hold covered in blood and sweat, watching you work in your silks, and wondering if ever your skin could tarnish.”

She resists the urge to bite her lip like a child-- and she will not turn from her but she does not think she can meet her eyes, embarrassment threatening to spill from her mouth.

“Should have seen me in that coward’s shack. A right mess I was, living through this land like the rest of you,” she mumbles.

Deenh squawks from her stone, some sharp, indignant call.

“What a menace you are,” Nepheli says fondly.

She squawks again, and Roderika drops her hands, turning to look out into the yard, still quiet. There is nothing human here besides them. The spears, the swords, and the flags stick from the graves, and they too are presence, somehow. But the stones themselves feel strange, almost natural. The cemeteries seem to sprout from the ground in this peculiar land, growing alongside its trees and flowers.

“I wouldn’t ever think the graveyard so empty.”

“These… my people have been kind to leave me on my lonesome in times such as these,” she turns to survey her empty kingdom. “But sometimes I worry it is fear alone that moves them away.”

It is her turn to look melancholic, folding her arms across her chest.

“It is generous of them to allow me a reprieve from Lady Nepheli. Here I am free to be—”

“Nepheli Loux, warrior?” She asks teasingly.

“Just Nepheli at the moment.” she grimaces.

Deenh, surely growing frustrated in her foiled attempts to speak, or rather shriek her mind to them, leaps from the grave, gliding into the air. They watch her disappear with the breeze, some soft chime of a spirit’s return.

“I have been trying to live free of… lineage,” Nepheli murmurs when the earth is silent once more. “I am a warrior and have always been. It is close to my heart, and it is something none can take away.”

Breath leaves her, shakily at first, before she speaks again, voice as steady as the ground they both stand upon.

“But… I have been led by violence since birth. It has begun to feel different to me.”

Nepheli turns to meet her eyes with a renewed sense of vigor.

“Perhaps the name will return to me one day like a home, but for now, you need not call me by the title of another.”

“You’ve changed much,” is all Roderika can say.

“Have I?”

Nepheli grins again, that strange, marvelous thing-- a fresh, budding hope she thinks she’d like to tend to. And Roderika can’t help but press her own hand to her lips, some old habit, a futile attempt to hide herself away. As if she ever could. Her eyes sparkle with triumph. 

“... I won’t dignify that with a response.”

Chapter Text

She runs a hand down the cloth, smoothing its wrinkles and drawing it taut. It’s wonderful the ways in which light and laughter drift in through her open window like little motes of dust. The world is still full of sound and movement the daybreak after Haight’s departure, and she can’t help but marvel at the wholeness of it all. In the wilds, every body gone was a breath stolen, a land suffocated by absence. But here, the beating heart of the castle continues at pace with hardly an interruption. Mostly. It’s all she can do to rise from her linens in good time to steal a moment for herself as the pile of scrolls atop her desk grows more imposing by the hour.

She’d like to think she’s settling in well. 

(A traveling perfumer had set up shop in the courtyard, and she had traded two vials of crushed arteria for a lovely collection of needles and fabric. She ought to thank that lonely merchant by the seaside-- he always had an eye for its vibrant sprouts. But if she were to write, would the letter find its place?)

Daisies, she thinks, peering over the blank space. I should add some daisies.

One little stitch each day, and in a year’s time, she’ll have a masterpiece. Needle in hand, she draws the thread through the curtain and starts on a petal.

(Could she be happy here? Maybe. Certainly, surrounded by people in this burgeoning land. And yet. Each night, she falls asleep, hoping to dream of stars, but each morning, she awakes with the fading ghost of a nightmare– never to be remembered. It’s a small seed of doubt, a childish bit of hesitance– but in its quietest hours, the castle becomes cursed.)

Absent-mindedly, Roderika tugs the thread a bit too harshly, driving the needle into her waiting finger. It’s more a shock than anything painful, and she pulls it free with a prick and a sharp hiss. The whirl of movement frees the stack of letters from their perch, leaving them to drift sadly onto the floor. She raises a palm to her temple, fighting back the inane urge to shove the rest of her work off the table.

Her better sense and a growing headache win out, and she crouches down to pluck up each of her fallen correspondences– those brave, battle-hardened soldiers. In the flurry, she almost misses a knock at her door. 

It is almost imperceptible the first time, so much so she thinks she must have dreamt it. But, with ears strained, the sound of a second knock, barely louder than the first, is unmistakable. She presses the wounded finger to her lips to wipe away a spot of blood and her other hand curves carefully around the door handle. The door swings open with a deep groan– loud enough to wake the whole castle, and she finds her early morning guest is already halfway down the hallway. 

“Nepheli?”

The lady of the castle stops in her tracks and turns towards Roderika-- looking far younger than she’s ever seen. Her thick hair is free of both veil and crown, having traded her noble garb for a loose-fitting tunic. She meets her gaze with a small smile. Those harvest eyes are ringed with dark circles that stretch starkly across her skin. Even her tiredness renders her painterly , she thinks somewhat enviously, stifling a yawn.

Nepheli shifts, something nervous and apologetic gathering beneath her breath.

“... Did I wake you?”

She shakes her head quickly and gestures towards her desk before she can stop herself-- that monstrous thing, looking more untidy than ever. She should have never thought to laugh at Haight’s plight. With a growing sense of bewilderment, she shuffles forward to block the mess. 

“No, no! Not at all. I’ve been practicing my stitches since daybreak.”

Nepheli only nods, relieved– looking smaller somehow and unsteady. How she wishes she was any good with people– wishes she hadn’t spent the last few seasons speaking only to wolves and traders. She had wasted her girlhood being comforted only to realize that now, as a woman, she had never quite learned to return the favor.

“Didn’t sleep well?”

Nepheli smiles that small, half-a-smile, her mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“...This place is far older than even the demigods. Strange things tend to find their way to my quarters at night.”

“Ah,” she says in place of an answer. 

“And you? Have you been an early riser all this time?” she inquires gently, leaving her to feel as if she has failed quite considerably in consoling her.

“I’ve– I fear I’m rather stressed, truth be told. I suppose I was given proper warning, but I just haven’t a clue how Haight manages all this.”

Her lips purse as if considering what to say before a fond wave of annoyance chases the worry from her face.

“Not once have I been able to determine where and how he finds the time for all his obligations. I’ve already received a mountain of letters.” 

“…from the man who left yesterday?”

She’s seen Nepheli’s expression on herself before, nobly endeavoring to resist the urge to bury her face into her hands. She’d likely think to curse him if he wasn’t full of good sense and heart– each rare qualities amongst the aristocracy. Their lady sees the virtue in him clearly, but she’d surely be all the more grateful for his presence having lived her own dreadful early years. (The thought of Nepheli in her family’s court makes her want to laugh. She’d show them all indeed—a lesson on nobility in every sense of the word.)

“Yes. I believe he wrote them in advance and is directing them sent to my desk twice a day. He is relentless once an idea takes hold.”

“Truly? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Like a dog with a bone,” Nepheli replies solemnly. “I’d need the strength of giants to wrench a conviction from his mind.”

Despite herself, she giggles and marvels at the way her unyielding countenance softens.

“I-- Roderika. Would you mind walking with me?”

“Of course, my lady! Just let me put on my boots.”

She ducks into her room with a smile, listening as her voice sweeps past the thick wooden door, light and long-suffering.

“… It’s Nepheli to you.”

***

    Their footsteps echo through the halls as daylight cuts sharp lines down their path. The place is hardly asleep– she’s not certain it ever rests. The sounds of people above and below, drifting from the kitchen or through the courtyard, meld into a soothing hum. Nevertheless, she softens her steps and her voice as she follows Nepheli through the winding corridors. (Nepheli, who has revealed herself to be a remarkably fast walker.)

“—and what do you think?”

“Hm.”

Each time she turns to regard her, hardly slowing in pace, she seems to find something new to dissect. (She understands the impulse but cannot say it doesn’t unsettle her. Is her smile too crooked? Her tone too light? To tune is to understand, to see all creatures in angles of slivered glass-- each point on a mirror. She knows she isn’t searching for an enemy-- that heart of hers beats with a staggering sincerity. But each time she tunes– gleaning her spirit with those steady eyes, she keeps her verdicts to herself.)

“I value Haight’s insight immensely. But I fear that, as with many things, he is much too hasty.”

She disappears down a set of stairs as Roderika calls out to her several paces behind– her voice carrying through the whistle of wind. 

“Far be it from me to overstep, but… perhaps haste is what we need?”

It must be easy to forget here, within this stronghold of life. She cannot say she minds stillness, but stagnation is a cruel mistress, and death has long since followed at her heels. In this moment, she knows they all– the washers, the soldiers in the courtyard, and the woman just below her– crave change– the quick sort that leaves you hesitant and dizzyingly hopeful in equal measures.

Her laugh rings up from the steps.

“Perhaps.” 

They duck past the castle walls like children, desperate not to be caught. Her breath hitches around each corner as if some small part of her is still wary of a proper scolding. Nepheli, on the other hand, looks like a huntress– eyes narrowed with a little phantom smile. Peering over every wall and breaking off into her steady stride– the kind she finds rather charming, terseness and all, though she has to jog a bit to keep up. They come to a stop at an old wooden door with a rusty latch-- patches of pink sunlight filtering through the cracks. Nepheli leans her side against it, and it opens with a rough shove into the shrouded side of a hill covered in greenery. Pushing past the vines, they emerge onto a cobbled road, splitting through Stormhill’s sweeping plains, covered now in crops. The cold morning air prickles her skin, and Nepheli turns to her with a smile.

“You mustn’t tell anyone. I fear Haight would be inconsolable knowing we’ve had such a gaping hole in our defenses all this time.”

“You have my word.” 

They walk past a smattering of trees cast against a stony hillside. It may only be her imagination, but the wind seems to blow less fearsomely as of late-- and blue peaks through the sky as it has never done before. It smells only of seaside here, past the rigid cliffs that tumble into its depths. Past the woods, nestled between the hillside and the unforgiving castle walls, lies a grove strewn with gravestones. The earth had stolen each of their names and swallowed them in flowers and brush. But far be it for the dead to ever truly be forgotten, as their spirits dance with the jellyfish-- the most she’s ever seen beyond her own little graveyard. Delight and nostalgia —the melancholic kind —race through her heart.

She leans towards a curious one, drifting ever closer to them. This one speaks to her like little bells, like waves upon the shore.

“What’s your name, little one?” she coos.

It whispers back to her in song before floating over to its siblings.

“What was it?” Nepheli says from her side.

“I can’t tell you that!”

She only smiles and takes a seat upon the grass, absentmindedly picking dirt off her trousers.

“I suppose it’s… silly, but when I found this place, I could think of no other to bring but you.”

She clasps her hands together, eyes shining with wonder.

“It’s wonderful! Would you mind if I set my wolves free?”

She pauses and then nods cautiously. With a gentle ring of her bell, her darlings leap out in a howl of wind, scattering across the grove. They run past the graves, stopping only to nip at the tendrils of spirits who dance ever so slightly above their reach. Nepheli watches them with wide eyes, a delighted laugh escaping her when one comes up for a sniff.

“They’re beautiful. ... May I ask now what you call them?” 

“You may,” she replies teasingly. “They were a gift from another, so I know not what they were called before me-- but they answer all the same.”

She beckons them over, and they each come bounding from the brush in a ghostly breeze.

“Aglaea’s the smallest, and Thalia’s the biggest. Euryn— come here, girl,” Euryn tilts her snout, letting Roderika part her fur, “has a funny little scar by her cheek.”

Nepheli nods, repeating their names softly. Aglaea settles beside her, and she decides to follow suit, resting on the ground with her face to the sky. The blades of grass tickle her cheek with each breath. A beetle scuttles its way across her fingers, and she raises it to the sky with a grin. (She had spent her whole life terrified of every little thing, except bugs-- though she has yet to travel eastward, where perhaps she might change her tune.)

“What do you think of?”

“Caelid. I’ve never been.”

“The land is rotted still, but people have begun to make it home once again.”

“What do you think of?”

Nepheli sighs and rests her hands upon her knees, outstretched into the grass— only moving to pet the wolves. A jellyfish brushes past her, a ghostly tendril slipping through her, and she watches a shiver run down her body in a dark trail of goosebumps.

“Thank you, Roderika. I had hoped to show this place to you. And I— I needed a moment away from prying eyes and ears.”

“Oh?”

She shifts, moving again to pick at the threads of her garb– a nasty habit she once had, portending a storm.

“Truthfully, Haight’s correspondences are the least of my worries,” she forges on. “I received word of an unofficial visit from the Elden Lord.”

“Oh,” she says again, feeling faintly lightheaded

“They have never been fond of… writing in advance.” 

“Ah.”

Nepheli stares at her imploringly as if she might have any power to make sense of the matter.                                             

“... when?”

“Two nights from now.”

“Oh.”

Chapter Text

She leans through the open window, watching the rain come down in torrents. Even the tempests of the peninsula pale in comparison. When the first dark cloud sprang into the sky, she had joined the frantic shuffle of bodies and carts within the courtyard, desperate to move indoors. The day was young still, with much business to be done. Tasks that seemed impossible without the strength of trolls were swept away in a mass of people, sorting wares and moving stalls with an almost mechanical precision.

Standing in the empty courtyard, the storm had rolled in like a ghost, warm and heavy. It had felt like the land itself was growling— its rotten breath spewing up from the depths. The water must have pulled loose something putrid, something awful and human. There had been bodies in Stormveil, thousands, a tragedy so common as to be wholly unremarkable. But this was different— neither rotten nor diseased. A horrid living stench that left her scrambling to regain her dignity in the dampened remains of the market, wiping bile off her lips. Even here, the smell whispers in. She pinches her nose as Nepheli promises she’ll grow used to it soon, voice soft with sympathy.

“I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”

Roderika only smiles in response.

(She supposes she ought to think of the downpour as an omen, but she had so greatly missed the herald of spring. Remorseless as it was, there was something peaceful to the steady thrum of rain from above, something gentle in the lively clamor of people beneath. She thinks she might even hear someone singing.

The hold had been so horribly still.)

“You can sit down if you please.”

She closes her eyes and lets the wind kiss her face. There is the faintest tremor in her voice, almost imperceptible. In moments like these, where worry furrows her solemn brow, she wants to gather her up and comfort her— but every word she imagines feels rough and wrong against her throat.

“I’m quite alright. Might you need anything?”

Nepheli mumbles something indiscernible, one hand cradling her forehead. The other is wrapped around a quill so tightly she’s worried it might snap.

“You need not trouble yourself, Roderika.”

Thunder rolls out across the moor, far too late to be of much help.

“I’m afraid it’s my duty to share all your troubles now, my lady.”

She speaks those words often now, frightened they have begun to lose their meaning. But each time, Nepheli looks at her as if she were full of grace.

Her dark eyes soften, odd and heavy, as she mulls over her words, a pensive look upon her face. “You never need to call me that.” 

Before she can respond, the door creaks open, and Nepheli drops her hand from her temple as if she’s been burned. A young knight slips through to greet them both, appearing more akin to a wet hound than a man. She winces sympathetically.

“Your Grace, Lady Roderika,” he gives them each a polite nod, even as he catches his breath. “Your guest, er, guests, have arrived.”

She angles her head towards the empty corridor on the far side of the room.

“Should we move to the grand hall?”

Nepheli settles back upon her makeshift desk— a small table within the private dining room they had fashioned into a study, waiting for their visitors and the rain to pass.

“Here is fine. Thank you,” she murmurs.

The second time the door opens, it is with a rattling gust of wind and another deluge of rain. Two cloaked figures step through, each inexplicably dry. The first one strides forward-- the Elden Lord she realizes, something twisting in her chest. They remove their hood, eyes bright and looking much the same as she remembers. A strange bird, tawny hair fixed atop a face of fine brass. Their smile, surely having dimmed not even for a moment, only widens at the sight of them.

Nepheli rises from her seat to greet them in kind, the hard lines strewn about her face fast softening. “Shirking your responsibilities?”

“But of course.” 

They bow with a theatrical flourish. The man beside them — far too tall to be a man, she realizes— remains quiet and impossibly still. Any mirth that may have painted Nepheli’s gaze quickly fades as she assesses them both, lips tightening into a single dark line.

“I see you’ve brought a companion.”

“Ah, yes. Bad form to travel alone these days. I see you have done the same.”

“Roderika has,” she clears her throat, “kindly agreed to advise me.”

They nod sagely.

“It is good to see you both, then.”

As if in agreement, the shrouded figure extends a shriveled finger from beneath his cloak. His skin is withered and warped around the bones, but each incremental movement is made with hypnotizing precision. The shaky, certain hands of a crone– except they had all gone still, content to observe this new world alongside the rest.

Roderika ventures a guess, curiosity biting at her better sense.

“A… finger reader?”

The man raises a palm to her, as if following an invisible line in the air. The Tarnished observes him carefully before clasping their hands together, looking at Roderika with intrigue.

“Quite so. Difficult times for my friend here, as you can imagine.”

Nepheli looks at them now as a wolf might, hackles raised, though she supposes it is only posturing. It was an odd fellowship they had— never quite friendship but respect nonetheless. A warrior’s bond. Something she suspects she’ll never be fully privy to.

The Tarnished steps forward with open hands, as if making a peace offering. “Now, I promise I have not come all this way to add to your troubles. If anything, it is my hope to alleviate some of them.”

“What do you request?” Nepheli asks stiffly.

“Merely stay for a single night and a listening ear. I intended to conduct an investigation of my own, but to see you both well, I am reminded I came bearing summons. Quite informally, of course,” they add quickly, upon her forlorn expression. “I would be pleased to have you visit the capital soon. And Roderika– a pleasant surprise. Master Hewg dutifully waits for you. I have endeavored to convince him to leave his place, but I fear you must come entreat him in person.”

A warm smile spreads across her face, dizzy with hope and relief, though her words are lost in the thunderous knocking that follows.

Once, then twice. The door opens without an answer as the young knight returns, looking somehow even wetter. 

“M-my apologies, Your Grace. My Lord,” he mumbles. “The, er, the lower chambers have begun flooding.”

Nepheli inhales sharply.

“The kitchen?”

“Quite damp.”

“And the quarters?”

“The water’s rising quickly. Marika’s immaculate piss, it hasn’t rained so much since–” he stops abruptly, a horrified expression dawning on his face. “Excuse me—”

The Tarnished smiles mildly. 

“You… you’d best come see for yourself.”

Nepheli nods impatiently and starts out the door, stopping only to rest her hand atop Roderika’s shoulder.

“Please do not harass my royal advisor in my absence.”

They nod. “You have my solemn word.”

With a gentle laugh– and a silent vote of confidence singing just above her arm– she disappears into the storm, the tall man trailing behind her like a phantom.

“Pay my companion no mind. He merely wishes to observe the castle,” the Tarnished calls out, though their words too are surely lost in the noise.

The door slams shut with another volley of rain and a sharp crack of lightning. She raises a hand to her chest, fingers curling towards the soft fabric of her collar in nervous silence. The Tarnished–perhaps just as impenetrable as her lady–looks on with some strange melancholy, removing a neat bundle of cloth from their pack. They gently unwrap the parcel and place it in front of her, revealing a bundle of arrows tied together with loose string.

“Hewg tried his hand at fletching. He has announced himself an abject failure, but these may just be the finest arrows this side of the sea.”

Each head, perfectly smooth, glints in the darkness, with twine and leather wrapped carefully around the crest. She does not need to hold them to know with complete certainty that they have been carved by the hands of the gentlest man in the world. That same tender heart which guided her through a long, tearful youth into strength of her own right. 

Her lips start to tremble, and she speaks quickly, before long-forgotten grief rises to her face.

“I-- thank you, m’lord. This is much too generous. Tell Hewg I think of him often-- and am glad he’s well.”

They smile and nod.

“You may call me by my name, if you wish.”

(She’s not sure which new feeling descends upon her features, but they quickly acquiesce.)

“If you must, Tarnished is just fine.”

“We are… all people now,” she says as softly as she can.

“But still no golden strike for us lot.”

Something sharp threads their words. A child who came of age inside a furnace, just as they all had. She had learned that, even across these many ages, they were all nothing but children. Something rotten crawls its way up her throat. 

“You are one of us no longer.”

“And yet. I fought alongside you all in search of a kinder world. The first sin, a stain on my body that will never be forgiven. I am one of you no longer, yet half my people despise me all the same.”

She meets their eyes, strange copper tinged with a gold that roils its way through the warm sea like a serpent. They meet hers in return.

“Yes,” they sigh like the tired watcher of every era. “It’s different now, isn’t it? This world is perfect now, but its people are not. I see the way even those I might have once called friends shirk away as you do. It is different. Power does not absolve one of its pursuit, however noble it might be.” 

Their face grows gentle as silence settles through the room, leaving her with the impression she’s been sized up like livestock.

“You have a steady heart, Roderika, though you think yourself steeled from anger. It will be a gift. Loux takes to lordship as graceful as a newborn lamb. We are blessed her soul is as virtuous as one too. You will need to take to her like a wolf.”

She bites her tongue, the urge to chide them fast fading into self-reproach.

“… I’m sorry. You remembered me a gift. One of my most treasured. That was kind of you.”

The bell hangs heavy above her waist. They look at her kindly, and she hears its ghostly little chime somewhere in her mind. (She chastises herself– for when had she become so cold? They had visited her once in the hollow days of this new land– had come to her as kin.)

“Do you remember tuning my first spirit?”

“The banished knight.”

“Engvall.”

She nods. His song was much the same as the storm that cradles this castle now. 

“I’ve returned each of them to their fates. They are ordained to choose just as we do. But I fear, in those I have given voice to, have I stolen their souls as well? Tell me, can such a thing be lost?”

“...I think all things remain adrift in some sense or another.”

“Who am I to ordain anything?” they lament softly, barely even a whisper.

Despite herself, she smiles– a warm smile– and extends her hand towards theirs.

“No one at all. You’ll make a good lord yet.”