"Vargram," the man in the robe was heard to say. "There's no other way."
The man, grave and somewhat monotone, pulled a long brown blindfold from a pocket. He tied it where the eyes of his crown should have been. Traces of glintstone showed on his hands. The man was being consumed by his own art.
"I'll do things my way, or not at all, Wilhelm," the man answered.
The man in plate armor, wolf pelt details on his helm and cloak, had a rougher, fiercer voice. His greatsword stood out.
The whitish blade split into two, and those two branches curled around each other like a spiral. A relic of some ancient faction. Older than any Tarnished.
"You already know the names of the ones you're about to crush, kid," Bernahl said, readying his weapon.
"So be it," Mitranis said, nodding.
His gaze changed. He'd made up his mind. He breathed, taking his Claymore in both hands. He looked at Vargram. Then he vanished.
An instant later he was already on Wilhelm, set to kill him. The man blocked the attack with his sorcerer's staff, leaping back. A way of dodging the force of a blow that spoke of real experience.
At the same time, the hermit made a motion with his staff. But no spell came out of it. Or so it seemed. The truth was something was closing in on Mitranis from behind, in a fraction of a second.
The boy dodged it. It should have been impossible. But it happened. That was the absurd power Bernahl had been waiting to see, no question.
"Who would've thought!" Bernahl crowed, lunging at Vargram. "My student keeps getting faster and faster. What do you think, friend?"
The blow of that enormous sword, the Godslayer's Greatsword, was Vargram's answer. But the weight and mass of Bernahl's mace weren't for show. The Tarnished's arms seemed to shake, just slightly. That wasn't good.
Wilhelm's spells were silent bursts, unlike the glintstone sorceries Hestia used. These went for the enemy's back. Sorcery turned ambush, meant to bring down someone as relentless as Mitranis.
He just dodged, watched, closed the distance and extended his Claymore, landing crosswise or downward cuts. Sometimes upward ones, bending his knee first.
That stance gained power on the upward cuts, but they came slower. It could be a lethal strike, but it left room for the enemy to dodge, or prepare a counter. And Wilhelm would do the second.
The impact of that burst felt cold, and burned at the same time. It was definitely time to get some decent armor. It stung, sharp. The glintstone hit and left that contained burst of crystal shards behind. The thing felt like a blade.
"Shit!" Mitranis snapped.
The boy was losing control. Or so it seemed, as crystal and glintstone attacks kept coming, along with those beams appearing from behind. All of it fast. The best sorcerer Mitranis had ever seen.
Then, finally, the boy closed the distance Wilhelm's spells had been buying him. He leapt and gripped his Claymore's hilt tight with both hands. It would be a downward cut, meant to tear his enemy apart.
The dark blue beam of sorcery struck his back. And Mitranis smiled. He used that momentum — not to strike with the sword. A kick, a full-force stomp with the sole of his foot against Wilhelm's chest.
The errant sorcerer landed flat on his back, Mitranis's foot on his chest. He tried to move his staff to unleash his attack. Mitranis dodged it, using his Claymore for balance — already driven through the Raya Lucaria sorcerer's crown.
"First time my student finishes his work before his master," Bernahl said with relish, Vargram already at his mercy.
The man no longer wore his helm. His long hair, falling across his face, hid his eyes. Blood traced his lips. His sword was releasing flames hard to make sense of. Black and white.
They were surely lethal, threatening, but Mitranis could see that even that hadn't held Bernahl back. Besides, one thing was clear to Mitranis: his master had only delayed his own victory.
"Are you going to kill me or not?" Vargram asked, his voice ragged.
Bernahl nodded. He no longer wore the helm with its beast details, two facing each other, one on either side of the piece. The sweat on his brow said the fight had been fun.
Meanwhile, Mitranis pulled his sword out of Wilhelm's head — not that it could be seen, hidden under the crown he'd worn to the very end. Only the blood staining the floor, thick and dark, gave it away.
"I'm heading out, Bernahl," he said.
He wiped his greatsword's blade with a cloth and made for the entrance of the stronghold.
There, Mitranis looked around. Something ached in his chest. More than his own back, sore from Wilhelm's attacks. What was it? Anguish, grief... A burning.
A burning like the one that had run through his whole body when he regained control of himself, only to see Godrick the demigod, decapitated, right in front of him.
That minute, that fraction of a minute he spent thinking, seemed to stretch on forever. Images of the abandoned capital, memories of things he'd lived, and hints of things he hadn't, followed one after another.
Then he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Bernahl appeared from behind.
"You forgot to take something as proof of your hunt," Bernahl said, dropping Wilhelm's staff into Mitranis's right hand. "The Staff of Loss, I think it's called. Might suit her, don't you think?"
"That's not something Lady Tanith would use," Mitranis replied, his voice flat.
It was an obvious jab. Bernahl meant the woman Mitranis had followed for nearly a full month. He gave a small smile, then a short laugh.
"I'll go find something else to show Lady Tanith, then," the boy said, heading back into the stronghold. "Nice sword you took off Vargram. That one's not for Lady Tanith either, is it?"
"Not at all. I've got the man's helm in my bag. Hurry up, kid." Bernahl's voice turned more serious.
Mitranis sighed. He went back into the stronghold and took what he needed to take. Bernahl watched him from a distance.
"Heh... It's going to get harder to keep covering for this kid." The words barely audible, almost a whisper. "Instead of taking everything, he's the one they're going to end up taking."
The murmur of dampness, the drops falling from the cave's ceiling, had been drowned out by the chase. Footsteps splashing, ragged, heavy breathing.
Things weren't supposed to go like this. That honorable Tarnished had helped the defenseless. He'd fought and won against those Demi-Humans, even outnumbered. Big ones, small ones, some slow-witted and others cunning, skirmish and bravado running in their veins.
But now it was different. Someone else was hunting Istvan now. Young, agile, and above all, lethal. One look had been enough for the man to know it.
Istvan's heavy armor wasn't helping either. The earlier fight had worn him out, and his signature skill, Gravitas, didn't seem to be keeping that assassin from closing in. He knew how to keep his distance, how to hug the cave walls. He used everything to his advantage.
A path leading upward could be seen in the cave. There was nothing left to do but keep going. Run, jump, dodge rocks almost blind. Adrenaline was the best rudder for something like this.
Light came into view. A small island. It didn't matter what was out there. In the end, this was a dead end, and all that was left was to fight.
Istvan stopped, raised his sword, and turned to face his rival.
"Is this how you wanted me?" he asked, gripping his sword's hilt tight. "We'll fight here, then. Don't get cocky, brat. Experience is on my side."
"Experience, you say." The hunter kept walking closer, his steps light, relaxed.
Then he vanished. Before Istvan could drive his sword into the ground and trigger his Gravitas, a dagger was already at his throat.
"Experience won't grow you a new throat."
The cut would be quick. Clean, merciless. But instead of that dry sound, a loud, desperate, high-pitched shriek rang out.
"Stop, please!" came from the mouth of the cave.
Mitranis didn't slit Istvan's throat, then. He only looked at the creature approaching him. It was a Demi-Human. Short, hunched over. Running on all fours, the way those creatures could, even though — paradoxically — they could talk.
"Don't kill that man, my lord!" the creature shouted as it ran.
Then, in a sudden fit of mercy — maybe weakness — Mitranis let the creature, with its elegant feathered hat, cling to his right leg. It held on there.
He managed to look the creature in the eyes. Desperation, resolve... hope. Could a creature like this hold onto hope? Mitranis himself couldn't, most of the time. He'd only just learned how, and only barely.
Maybe, a few months ago, Mitranis would have kicked that scum away. Not because it was scum. He wasn't like that. But he had to act like it, given the training he'd received, and the work he did.
Mitranis sighed and pulled the dagger away from Istvan's throat. He shoved him forward, so the Tarnished ended up on his knees. He took his enemy's sword, to make the point clear: there could be mercy, but no escape.
"Fine... Could you at least tell me who you are, and what you have to do with this guy?" Mitranis said.
His voice was hard, but it dissolved into a sigh right after. He closed his eyes for a second, a long blink, just to rest. To rest from the character he was playing. One that fit him worse and worse each time.
"Thank you! A thousand thanks, my lord!" the creature said, almost a squeal. "I'm barely worthy of giving you my name... but I was called Boc. Boc, seamster's apprentice, at your service."
Mitranis studied the creature closely while Istvan still caught his breath. A creature that asked permission to exist. That bowed its head, but not only out of fear. Maybe self-loathing.
The boy had lived that too. Years ago, when he remembered arriving at that Manor. Bernahl had brought him — not by the hand. Never by the hand.
Inside that enormous manor was a lady in beautiful garb, a silver mask, and a flawless bearing. Mitranis would come to learn that her bearing was the only flawless thing about her.
"This is what you bring me?" she asked, lowering her chin slightly.
He was kneeling. Bernahl had set him down off his shoulder when they arrived. The woman lifted her head again, just to wait for her recusant's answer.
"I think he has potential," the man said.
"You think." She answered, her voice dry, without any emphasis at all. "Doesn't matter. You know what you're doing, Bernahl. I just hope it isn't wasted time."
The boy didn't speak. His throat was tight. The fear of being hurt was plain. But there was another fear. A stronger one. One that, twisted as Bernahl's act might have been, carried real weight.
"I..." the child's voice came out tight, high, almost pained. "I— I'll be useful. I'll help."
Tanith said nothing. Bernahl only watched. He could have struck him and dragged him off. But he had to admit one thing: the boy had guts.
"I'll be useful... Can I?" he asked, looking straight at where the nonexistent gleam of that woman's eyes should have been.
Hard to say what happened behind that mask. Only that Tanith didn't just lower her chin a little. She tilted her head further, saying nothing. Then she settled back into that firm bearing, seated on what looked like her lady's throne.
"Make him useful," the woman told Bernahl.
Bernahl nodded. He wore his helm, that silver one, which didn't let anyone see a single feature or expression either.
He took the boy by the shoulder to lift him up. He gave him a gentle push, so they'd leave together.
Mitranis looked back. He looked at Tanith. From the same distance they'd been left at. Standing now.
"I— I hope to be important here someday." His voice high, nervous. Something more. "Will I be able to?"
The woman showed no gesture, no reaction at all. She stayed silent for just a couple of seconds.
"Survive. Learn," she answered, waving a hand for him to leave. "If you come to matter, my Lord will let you know."
Ten years had passed since then. Mitranis still didn't quite know whether he, or anything, mattered in that place. Tanith was still the same. The same as when she'd gone quiet and looked at him.
And yet, the silence, the way she tilted her head, the barely perceptible softness in her words — they made him feel like he mattered.
Mitranis looked back at Boc. Time to return to the present.
"By the Goddess..." he said, sighing. "You're a seamster, Boc. So... let's do something about this."
About thirty minutes passed. Mitranis now wore an old, sturdy armor. Stone scales layered over strong steel. It felt heavy, but just the right amount.
It wasn't the first time the boy had been forced to wear armor. It had clearly been part of his training.
"This feels strange," Mitranis said, rolling his arm in circles. "But it works. Thanks, Istvan."
The knight sat on the grass, down to nothing but a loincloth. Beside him was Boc, using his sewing kit to alter the leather-and-cloth armor Mitranis had worn until moments ago, fitting it to the Tarnished.
"Are you really sure about this, boy?" Istvan asked, his face carrying something beyond seriousness. "You people kill, hunt. You take proof. And you're telling me my armor and my sword are enough? You're leaving me at a complete disadvantage. I'm nothing now!"
Mitranis crouched down. He looked closely at Istvan, and smiled.
"Well, you'll have to keep this little guy company," he answered, his expression teasing. "Boc's going to need someone with him on his way to becoming a seamster. Maybe you can be his model."
Istvan clicked his tongue and looked away from the brat who dared mock him. It was ridiculous. He'd been completely defeated.
That boy was absurdly fast and strong. There was no clear explanation for it. Only one Tarnished had the reputation of being that fast, and no one had heard from him in a long time.
Before standing up, Mitranis looked at Boc. He smiled at him with something close to warmth. That creature could apparently blush, and it did.
"Look after this fool, Boc," Mitranis said, resting his hand on the Demi-Human's feathered hat.
"I will, master!" the creature exclaimed, its expression thrilled. "I'll be a great seamster, just like my mother!"
The Demi-Human had told him a little about his mother during all this. That she'd loved him, taught him to become a great seamster. That she'd made him feel like he mattered. Without her, he wanted to prove that to the world.
"You will be," the boy answered, standing up. "And your mother knows it. Anyone can tell you were the most important thing to her."
With that, Mitranis turned and went back into the cave. He walked through the dark passages. The faint splash of puddles underfoot wasn't enough to pull him out of his thoughts.
His chest ached. Too much. That same burning from Leyndell. A force impossible to describe, and a presence he could feel further off, in some structure at the far end of the island.
He hadn't even gone near it. But he'd heard of that place. A temple for those who followed the path of dragon worship. The ones who devoured the hearts of those creatures to perform that communion.
What kind of power was it that caused these sensations, this burning and pain in Mitranis's body? The same one that had run through him when he defeated Godrick.
"What the hell is happening to me?" he asked, hand pressed to his chest, against the surface of his new armor. "What the hell am I carrying inside me?"