If memory serves, the entrance to Siofra River's well lies near Mistwood. Southeast-bound, so it's hardly a detour. Besides, this Fia—she's something else. The thick aura of death clinging to her doesn't spawn Those Who Live in Death, but it's a magnet for other things.
The power of death? Throne tilted his head, gazing into the endless sky.
Noon. The sun blazed at its peak. The clatter of carriage wheels reached his ears—a small white-tented wagon rolling into view. Anwen drove it, the kind of setup you'd expect from an ordinary family traveling The Lands Between.
Death Hunter, Death Petitioner, Death Eater—a single force splintered into three factions with clashing ideologies. The latter two looked eerily similar, no matter how you sliced it. Throne tugged the reins, urging Torrent forward. Might as well plot something along the way. Who knows? There could be other prizes waiting.
The sound of waves faded behind him. Crossing the grand Sainted Bridge, he caught sight of the Brandt family's former castle. Thanks to someone's meddling, it had long since changed hands, gifted to a Tarnished from Roundtable Hold who clearly didn't grasp the concept of toll collection. The bridge checkpoint had vanished as a result.
The current Tarnished weren't doing half bad. With the old ruling class uprooted, Limgrave's people flourished. Add Caria's purge of the Cuckoo, and the region thrived more than it had in a decade. Accustomed to desolation, Throne found himself stunned by the sight. Maybe "governing by doing nothing" wasn't just empty boasting.
Past the Sainted Bridge, the road forked. North led to Caelid via Summonwater Village; south, to the Weeping Peninsula. Throne veered south, taking a slight detour to revisit old stomping grounds. The Waypoint Ruins had transformed into a bustling town.
Once a north-south transportation hub, it had only prospered before because of its proximity to Mistwood, the Tarnished stronghold. Now that the Tarnished were "big shots," there was no need to guard the forest town Godrick's Army had burned to the ground. They'd relocated their camp to the better-maintained, more convenient Waypoint Ruins.
The chaos of disbanded soldiers after the war had drawn ordinary folk here. Business boomed, and under the Tarnished's protection, they didn't fear rogue soldiers looting their homes.
"It's changed," Throne muttered, riding through the town. Just a few months ago, this had been a rough market. Now, it was something respectable.
Rows of wooden houses, taverns, markets, animal pens—nothing was missing. Even the roadside land had been reclaimed. Caravans from Leyndell brought strong spirits from the snow-capped mountains, while fishermen from the Weeping Peninsula hauled in the sea's bounty. Against this vibrant backdrop, the dim Minor Erdtree in the distance seemed out of place.
Throne didn't dwell on it. Seeing such life in this decaying age was rare enough.
"Miss, we've arrived."
The carriage halted at the town's edge. Fia, draped in black gauze, peered out, instantly drawing the stares of nearby Tarnished. The short, round man stepped forward, shielding her from their gazes.
Throne glanced over, exasperated. "With attire like that, how've you survived this long?"
They were each too recognizable. When he traveled, he'd wrap himself in black robes, not even his eyes visible.
"Rest assured, no one knows our features," the man replied.
Throne smirked. Hah. Leaving no witnesses? Ruthless.
Exposure didn't matter. He could always flee with the Deathbed Companion. The other two were incidental, nothing more.
"Your Excellency Headless," Fia glanced around, "the place you mentioned—it wouldn't be here, would it?"
Waypoint Ruins was just a fledgling town, hardly the kind of place to harbor secrets.
"Of course not. I'm just passing through. Came to confirm a few things."
Throne dismounted, barely sparing a glance at the Death trio. He didn't want Ranni getting the wrong idea, and he had no interest in getting closer. The three exchanged uneasy looks. This Headless kept his distance, making him hard to manipulate later. His indifference only deepened their unease.
Fia thought for a moment, then stepped off the carriage.
"Anwen, stay here. Go get supplies."
"Yes, Miss."
Neither had any objections. Fia, barefoot, vanished into the crowd.
......
Waypoint Ruins was a mix of good and bad—Tarnished and ordinary folk indistinguishable. Occasionally, a Misbegotten or Living Jar would pass by. Throne found a restaurant and sat down. Across the way stood the warehouse where Sellen had once hidden.
Months had passed since then. The warehouse was gone, replaced by a new structure rising from the site—something between a castle and a manor.
He wasn't here to watch construction. The letter he'd left for Alexander had been lengthy, mentioning Waypoint Ruins as a meeting point.
Sellen hadn't gone to Caria, so he wasn't sure if Alexander had come. But if the Living Jar wasn't asleep, news of Limgrave's movements should have reached him. The meeting point had changed. Even if he hadn't come, he would've left something behind.
"May I sit here?" A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
Fia stood nearby, draped in black gauze. Her eyes sought his permission, polite and gentle. Throne considered it. She might prove useful later. He gave a slight nod.
"Thank you."
Fia pulled out a chair and sat down. She ordered a glass of water and sat quietly across from him, her gaze steady.
This wasn't like Melina's stare. Melina's was calm but distant, almost vacant. Fia's deep blue eyes were alive, sharp. Throne frowned, collecting himself.
"You're very interested in me?"
"Anyone would be interested in someone like you. In The Lands Between, few hold awe for death."
Fia traced the rim of her glass with slender fingers.
"They—especially the Tarnished—yearn for 'Grace.' As long as the Erdtree doesn't summon them, they remain immortal."
The Golden Order's people knew no natural death, but this wasn't a blessing.
"Because I know Grace isn't a good thing. It disrupts the cycle."
Throne's voice was cold.
"After the Elden Ring fractured, the side effects manifested in humanity."
His lack of hostility toward these death-seekers was simple: the Erdtree had to fall. The natural cycle had to return to The Lands Between.
"You know a great deal. In my homeland, 'immortality' was always a curse."
Fia picked up her cup, a meaningful smile playing on her lips.
"In time, those Golden people secretly rejoicing will come to regret it."
"Bodies hollowed out, minds erased, only weak souls lingering—they're no match for Those Who Live in Death."
"It's excruciating, isn't it?"
Throne tapped the table lightly, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.
"The Tarnished aren't affected. So why do they still chase Grace?"
"Greed knows no bounds, Your Excellency Headless."
Fia paused, her tone conversational, almost casual.
"There's a legend among the Tarnished. They say only true heroes see guidance. They're blessed with immortality. Fall a thousand times, they'll rise a thousand more."
Throne's pupils narrowed.
This was the question that had haunted him. If the Tarnished could resurrect, then everyone else might as well surrender. Given enough time, they'd grind their enemies to dust.
"Are you certain?"
"No, it's just a legend. But it's tied to death, so I took notice."
Fia smiled faintly, as if savoring the shift in Throne's expression.
"Why haven't I heard other Tarnished speak of this?"
"Perhaps it's not widely known. Or perhaps the price is too steep."
The price. Throne's mind raced. If such a thing were real, the already fragile Erdtree system would crumble further. Each resurrection would demand immense energy. Where would it come from if not from hollowing out The Lands Between?
He understood this all too well. In Ashina, the Dragon Heritage had carried similar consequences. The only difference was who bore the cost.
"You said this on purpose?" Throne's voice turned cold, his gaze sharp. This woman was cunning.
Fia placed a hand over her heart and dipped her head gracefully.
"Forgive my hesitation. What I can offer you is so little, it leaves me uneasy."
"This information is valuable. I won't press you for withholding it."
Fia blinked, stunned.
"You already knew?"
Throne's smile was cryptic.
"The ruler who died vanished long ago. The world he left behind has been riddled with holes by the Erdtree. But the lineage hasn't been completely severed."
He leaned back, his confidence unnerving.
Fia opened her mouth but found no words.
If Throne knowing her ideals was within reason, this revelation left her speechless. These secrets had faded with time. Under the golden order, no one cared to dig into such matters.
"Are you truly not a companion? Or a high-ranking member of the Church of the Two Fingers?" Her voice wavered, tinged with awe.
"I'm just a passerby."
Who would believe that? Even the greatest scholars in The Lands Between avoided these topics. What was he after? Fia's mind raced, but frustration took hold. This man knew too much. He was too powerful. Against him, she stood no chance.
She was overthinking it. Throne's goal was simple. He and Ranni weren't planning to burn the Erdtree and leave chaos in their wake. The living belonged to the living, the dead to the dead. Mixing the two? That wasn't Silent Hill. It was madness.
He glanced at the bustling street and suddenly shifted to another topic.
"Who's the Roundtable Hold Tarnished stationed at Waypoint Ruins?"
"Uh, 'Great Horn' Tragoth."
Fia frowned, puzzled by the question. She still wanted to probe him further.
So it was him. Throne remembered now. He scattered a handful of runes on the table and rose slowly.
"It's getting dark."
"Take your people and wait in Mistwood. I have things to do."
Throne's voice cut through the air, leaving no room for argument or question. Fia, her secret laid bare, felt the weight of his command press down on her chest. She opened her mouth to protest, but Throne raised a hand, silencing her before she could speak.
"Remember," he said, his tone flat, "in many cases, having utility value is a good thing. How to do it—that's your choice."
He didn't wait for a response. The man with the greatsword turned and walked away, his steps echoing in the empty room. Fia sat frozen at the table, her blue eyes sharpening with resolve. This opportunity couldn't slip through her fingers.
......
Throne wasn't worried about Fia giving up. People like her—like them—had no such luxury. They were rats in the shadows, scuttling through sewers, every move weighed down by caution and fear. Their goals had always seemed impossibly distant. Now, an expert had carved a path through the darkness. Of course they'd cling to him. Of course they'd follow.
He wasn't meddling. Not really. Throne was the kind of man who squeezed every drop of value from the hand fate dealt him. Even now, his mind was already turning over the aftermath—how to clean up the mess once the golden order was dealt with. If the ultimate goal remained out of reach, Fia and her people could still serve a purpose. Convenience had its own kind of currency.
The daylight faded, the streets thinning of travelers. Throne guided his horse through the winding alleys, turning corners until he reached a quiet, shadowed lane. He pulled out the doll, its wooden surface cool against his palm. Following Ranni's method, he channeled his mental energy into it. Moments later, azure particles shimmered in the darkness.
"You finally decided to call me out, Throne."
Melina's voice was soft but edged with irritation. She stepped forward, her appearance unchanged from their first meeting—still mysterious, still beautiful—but her expression was sour. She glanced around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.
"Where is this? How long has it been?"
"About half a month," Throne replied. "Waypoint Ruins."
Melina blinked. "Waypoint Ruins? This is Waypoint Ruins?"
Her voice wavered, disbelief coloring her words. She knew this place. It was where she'd first met Throne, where she'd stood before him with confidence, draped in mystery. Back then, she couldn't have imagined the twists her journey would take—how her disguise would be stripped away, leaving her exposed, a wooden goose among pirates.
"Don't underestimate human creativity," Throne said with a smirk. His tone shifted, teasing. "By the way, staying in that doll for so long—were you lonely?"
Melina didn't answer. She just looked at him, her gaze steady, her silence speaking volumes. The message in her eyes was clear: 'You? Infuriating.'
Waypoint Ruins was supposed to mean something. It was the place where their paths had first crossed. Shouldn't there be some flicker of emotion? Some hint of nostalgia? But Throne's face remained impassive, his smirk fading into neutrality. The man hadn't changed. He was still the same low-blood-pressure-master, his techniques as sharp as ever.
"Haha, just a joke," Throne said, his tone light. He reached out to pat the Spirit Steed beside him, lifting his chin slightly.
"I have Torrent now. No need to talk nonsense with a piece of wood every day."
"Who's a piece of wood?" Melina shot back, her voice rising. She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to caress the horse's head. But Torrent shifted, taking a half-step back.
Melina froze, her hand hovering in midair.
Throne chuckled, the sound dark and amused. "Hehehe. While you were gone, Torrent got used to me."
His grin widened, villainous and smug.
Melina glared at him, refusing to accept it. She stepped forward again, determined. Torrent's rear was pressed against the wall, leaving it no room to retreat. Finally, it lowered its head, though its eyes gleamed with a silent message: 'Fine, fine, I'll give you face.'
Melina glared at Throne, her fingers brushing Torrent's mane twice before she pulled her hand back.
"Speak," she said, her voice sharp. "How do you want to order me around this time?"
"Order?" Throne tilted his head, his tone softening. "That sounds too harsh."
"This is cooperation," he said.
"Hmph. You mean making me serve tea and pour water? That's cooperation?" Her voice cut sharp.
He scratched his cheek. "So you noticed."
The skin there was thick, calloused. He barely felt the motion of his own fingers. Business—he was about to bring it up when the clatter of hooves shattered the moment. He moved fast, pinning Melina against the wall.
Their breaths mingled. Chests pressed close. Outside, a cavalry unit thundered past, their armor dulled but unmistakable.
Tarnished.
Throne's eyes narrowed. "Why him?"
Vyke led the charge, his armor plain yet distinctive. Other Tarnished gilded themselves in grandeur, but Vyke wore simplicity like a badge.
The passing Tarnished didn't notice the things in the alley. Throne's mind churned, tangled in the rhythm of their breathing. Why was the Roundtable Hold here? Had they come for the Deathbed Companion too?
Before he could piece it together, Melina's hand pressed lightly against his chest, pushing him back.