"Oh, sorry."
Throne stepped back quickly. Melina stared at him, her face blank.
"If you're so strong, why do you always pin me to the ground or against the wall instead of just dodging?"
Her confusion was palpable. The alley was pitch black; the Tarnished wouldn't notice.
Because it's instinct.
If you were a man, I'd have kicked you by now. Throne couldn't say that, so he kept it professional.
"In dangerous moments, the most convenient approach also provides cover. If the Tarnished rushed in, I could handle it ten different ways."
Melina considered this seriously, then nodded. She'd learned something.
"Alright, these Tarnished will rush out soon. Go in now and listen to what they're saying."
Throne's tone shifted back to business. When it came to scouting, Melina was unmatched; no barrier or magical trap could stop her.
"Simple enough, but why would the Tarnished rush out?"
Throne didn't answer, just glanced at the dark sky.
"They will."
......
The warhorse charged into the courtyard. The castle was still under construction, uninhabitable. 'Great Horn' Tragoth stood in the center, a sturdy man with a square face and a thick beard. His expression darkened as dozens of warhorses flooded in.
"What's the matter, Vyke? Rushing to Station Town?"
He assumed something had changed on the Weeping Peninsula. Station Town's primary purpose was to keep watch on Castle Morne. That fortress was impenetrable, and the Morne family had rebelled early, becoming a haven for Godrick's old remnants. That's what made it dangerous.
"Executing a mission."
Vyke dismounted and embraced Tragoth.
"Is the Sir moving against Castle Morne? I heard the Misbegotten are causing trouble."
"It's not about them. Let's talk inside."
Vyke wasn't one for games. He signaled Eina to settle the Tarnished and walked with Tragoth toward the wooden house. It was a temporary residence, sparsely furnished.
Vyke felt a surge of respect. Now that the Tarnished had gained a foothold, many had grown complacent. Tragoth remained steadfast, worthy of his reputation as the Roundtable Hold's most enthusiastic warrior. Vyke grabbed a water flask, took a swig, and got straight to the point.
"I'm here for the Deathbed Companions."
"Deathbed Companions?" Tragoth frowned, thinking.
The Roundtable Hold was now tied to the golden order; there was no room for dissent.
"Have they infiltrated Station Town?"
"I don't know, but we followed their trail from the seaside. They came this way, so we pursued them."
"Good. I'll arrange it immediately."
"Don't rush. Just blockade the town's outskirts. Alerting them would backfire."
Vyke had come a long way from his greenhorn days. He lowered his voice.
"Has there been any movement in the basement? Anyone spying?"
Tragoth had two tasks: monitor the Weeping Peninsula and guard the basement.
Morgott had been fixated on it, using it as bait.
"Yes, wait a moment."
The burly man turned and left. He returned shortly, carrying a small box. When he opened it, a foul, fishy stench filled the air.
"This is... the flesh of a Living Jar?"
"Yes. Not long ago, one came to spy. It died in the struggle."
"Was it strong?"
"No, it was weak. That's why I smashed it by accident."
Tragoth scratched his head and pulled out a bloodstained letter.
"We found this thing in its flesh."
Vyke's pupils contracted. The knight's words had been true. He'd always thought monitoring the basement pointless—never expected them to actually come. His fingers tore at the parchment, then froze.
The letter was a string of symbols that made no sense when combined.
"What kind of cipher is this? There's no pattern—none at all."
"Top scholars have examined it. It's a language never before seen in the Lands Between."
Tragoth's voice held no surprise.
This was the most secretive organization in the Lands Between—something even the Two Fingers couldn't comprehend. Bad news. If it were merely two individuals as Sir Gideon Ofnir suspected, they could surround and eliminate them with full force. No need for concern.
But this—an organization with numbers, with coded communication.
"How old is this?"
"Five days. Don't you find that... convenient?"
Vyke wasn't the only one. Even the throne thought it too neat. Fate had linked Death Eaters and Deathbed Companions. No other explanation for receiving news of this threat just as he prepared to purge the heretics.
Trouble. If their influence had already infiltrated the Tarnished, weren't they just another Recusant faction? Worse. Their savagery eclipsed both.
"Send word to the knight. At dawn we—"
Vyke lunged to the window mid-sentence. He didn't see the dust motes floating in moonlight—only stared at the sky. Shrill, unearthly birdcalls pierced the night.
A shadow flitted across the stars, stubby wings beating with impossible speed. Strange birds weren't uncommon here, but that aura—no imitation. Vyke whirled like he'd been burned.
"Get your men. We leave now."
Tragoth followed, panting. "Wait—what was that?"
The warrior's face hardened. "Deathbird."
When death's messenger returns, you run.
......
Horses reared as the chase began. The construction site erupted into chaos. The window where Vyke had stood moments ago swung on its hinges.
A figure materialized inside. Melina moved with none of a thief's furtiveness. She strode to the table, lifted the bloody letter, tilted her head. He'd guessed right again. Before guards could sweep the room, she vanished—letter and all.
"Item secured."
Throne spurred his horse through the town gates without waiting for Melina's rendezvous. Her voice came through the wood.
"Good."
His fist clenched. Useful, that one. Slipping into a place tight as a drum beneath its loose exterior—letting him focus on phase two.
He rode on his horse and saw from a distance the Tarnished placing tank traps ahead. They hadn't gotten the news yet—just following orders to blockade the town. Hooves thundered. Seeing a rider charge from the gates, they drew blades.
"Stop!"
Only a fool stops.
Throne dug his heels into Torrent's flanks. The spectral warhorse surged forward, clearing the two-meter tank traps in a single bound. A Tarnished warrior gaped up, great hammer slack in his hands—just before Torrent's hoof caved in his chestplate, sending him tumbling through the dirt.
"Move."
Throne unsheathed his greatsword.
These weren't ordinary foot soldiers. Each Tarnished here fought at knightly strength, armed with unpredictable skills and mismatched gear. Like the one in the distance—full plate armor, yet weaving Night Comets from a gnarled staff. Since when did they learn Glintstone sorcery?
Throne leaned sideways, gripping the saddle with one hand as Torrent galloped. His greatsword bit into the earth, then wrenched upward in a spray of dirt and stone.
The Tarnished raised their arms against the dust cloud. Torrent plowed through without slowing. Three bone-jarring impacts—three bodies hurled aside like ragdolls.
A knight burst from the haze. The sorcerer fumbled for a pumpkin-headed flail. Too late. Torrent's skull connected with his ribs, launching him skyward. Throne didn't glance back as they tore through barricades, leaving only choking dust in their wake.
"Who the hell is this bastard?!"
Curses chased them until heavier hoofbeats drowned the shouts. Vyke's cavalry finally arrived. No speeches—just a snapped order: "Skeleton crew holds the line. The rest, with me!"
Dozens of riders thundered past, leaving bewildered Tarnished in their wake.
"They're following."
Throne glanced back. The drumming of hooves already shook the ground. He patted Torrent's neck.
"Faster. But keep them on the hook."
The steed surged forward, tossing its head like the pursuit was beneath its dignity. Throne ignored the showboating.
His eyes scanned the twilight for that telltale wisp of decay. Deathbirds were supposed to be messengers, burning corpses in accordance with some ancient protocol. Now the deranged things hunted the living instead.
Drawn to death. Active only at night. And Fia, steeped in deathroot, might as well ring a dinner bell.
'Madwoman. Doesn't even fear being torn apart by those mindless carrion-eaters.'
Two variants existed. The lesser kind—call them juveniles. Then the true nightmares: Death Rite Birds, scions of a primordial horror.
Strong enough that ordinary champions stood no chance. Strong enough that the Erdtree would've annihilated them if it could. Throne didn't care about the politics. Kill the bird, leave witnesses, let the Golden Order connect the dots.
The Deathbed Companion lures it out. The lone devourer consumes it.
But why consume death? A purposeless conspiracy invites scrutiny. Better to let others invent their own reasons.
"Of course it's Vyke."
Throne's jaw tightened. The man still had uses.
If they were killed together, it would mean that the previous arrangements in Limgrave were all in vain. Worse—Finger Maiden Tina had joined the chase. One misstep, and he'd be joining the very death he meant to exploit.
No matter. He'd improvise when the time came.
......
Torrent's hooves tore into the forest loam, leaving a trail even blind men could follow.
The cliff loomed ahead. Without hesitation, the warhorse leaped. It kicked mid-air, slowing its descent, and landed with a thud before the carriage.
Fia gaped. They'd taken a circuitous route to reach this point, but she hadn't expected the horse to barrel straight off the edge.
Throne dismounted in one fluid motion. His voice was clipped, urgent.
"The Roundtable Hold is here. Led by The Dauntless and Great Horn. At least thirty of them. Emissaries from the Church of the Two Fingers are among them."
The trio froze, stunned. They'd been hiding for so long—this level of attention was unheard of.
"Did you bring them here?" The armored youth's short sword was already in his hand, his stance ready for a fight to the death.
Throne shot him a cold glance.
The Deathbed Companion stepped forward, her hand on his arm, restraining him.
"No," Fia said calmly. "They came for us. According to the timing, they left Stormveil before you and I met the Headless."
Her tone was steady. Throne had no reason to lie.
"Good. You're keeping your head."
Throne gave a curt nod of approval. Fia offered a wry smile.
"Since returning to The Lands Between, being hunted has become second nature. In the past, the Tarnished were scattered—easy to hide among them. But now, they're organized."
She'd hit the nail on the head.
Once, the Tarnished had been like grains of sand, scattered and aimless. No one bothered to hunt them. But now, they were united, a force to be reckoned with.
"Headless," Fia said, her voice steady, "what do we do now?"
She had no choice but to trust him. At least he wouldn't betray them.
"Head north. There's a Siofra River entrance well. Take your supplies and go in. Don't rush forward—you'll die if you do."
Throne produced an ornate small box from his cloak.
"Hide this. My people will find you soon."
The Nox, led by the Night Maiden, would arrive in Limgrave shortly. Their first stop: the Siofra River. The box was a replica of an amulet, a gift he'd once given to Ranni. Worthless, but it bore his mark, a symbol of his identity.
Fia took it without opening it. Throne's hand remained outstretched.
"Give me the deathroot."
She hesitated briefly, ignoring the protests of her companions, and handed over the box containing the cursed root. It attracted Deathbirds, and with a swarm of Tarnished on the move, exploring death was too risky.
Decisive. Calm. Throne admired her more by the minute. She was worth cooperating with.
He clenched the box and jerked his chin northward.
"Go. Now."
Fia turned, hesitation flickering across her face. Days had passed without contact between them. Their alliance had been transactional, yet she couldn't shake the feeling of being manipulated, as if she'd stepped onto a pirate ship the moment she met him.
"Headless," she said softly, "one last request. May I hold you?"
Throne blinked, caught off guard. He considered for a moment, then nodded. This wasn't about desire—it was curiosity, an experiment to see if her touch would drain his vitality.
Fia's expression softened, her face radiant with a sacred tenderness. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close, and whispered in his ear, her breath warm against his skin.
"You... are so warm. It feels... intimate."
Her voice was barely audible, a fragile thread of sound.
"Perhaps this is the reason why I trust you."