The carriage jolted with a rhythmic, bone-deep tremor. Inside the opulent cabin, a youth who appeared no older than fourteen or fifteen stared listlessly at a shimmering data panel visible only to his mind's eye. His gaze lingered on a specific attribute that sat at a dismal 9 before he let out a heavy, stifled sigh.
He possessed long hair that shimmered like fresh frost, and his eyes, a piercing glacial blue, held a faint, golden luminescence. By any human standard, this physical vessel was a masterpiece of divine craft.
As he had suspected, he had crossed over. He was now an inhabitant of the Lands Between, the very world of Elden Ring where he had spent more hours than he cared to count. As a veteran Tarnished with over two thousand hours of speedrunning and boss-killing experience, he knew the location of every legendary armament and the precise recovery frames of every demigod. He knew the patrol routes of every dungeon imp and the exact direction a Crucible Knight would turn its head. He was certain that if he had been summoned in the age of the Tarnished, he could have torn through the Lands Between and claimed the throne before the first leaf of the Erdtree fell.
But fate had played a cruel trick. He had arrived in the wrong era, in the wrong body, and as something entirely non-human.
The current year was 46 of the Golden Era. The Great Elden Ring remained unshattered. It had been less than half a century since Queen Marika the Eternal had claimed the Altus Plateau and established the Golden Order. The cataclysmic War of the Ancient Dragons between Farum Azula and the Erdtree had concluded only a decade ago. As for the demigods who would one day plunge the world into the Shattering, most were currently nothing more than children playing with wooden swords.
He was Luthier Saux, the only son of the Dragon Lord and the Dragon God. Having hatched from the Sovereign Egg that had remained dormant for a millennium, he was the world's sole Ancient Dragon demigod and the legal heir to the crumbling majesty of Farum Azula.
Under normal circumstances, inheriting such a prestigious bloodline and a seat among the world's top three powers would be a dream start for any reborn soul. But this was the world of Elden Ring. History taught a grim lesson: not a single demigod of the Golden Age ended well. They were assassinated, exiled to the sewers, driven mad by the loss of their feet, devoured by blasphemous serpents, or rotted away by Scarlet Rot until only a single limb remained. This was, without question, the most high-risk profession in existence.
As for Farum Azula, Luthier had viewed it from the skies after learning to fly in his draconic form. While the floating city was not yet the crumbling ruin the Tarnished would one day find, its weathered spires and whistling cracks suggested it was a miracle the place stayed airborne at all.
To make matters worse, less than three months after he emerged from his shell, Farum Azula received a formal diplomatic missive from the Golden Order.
The letter began with flowery congratulations from Queen Marika and Lord Radagon regarding his birth. It spent several paragraphs emphasizing the "deep friendship" forged between their nations since the war ended. Then, the tone shifted toward its true purpose.
"Their Majesties, concerned by the slumber of the Dragon Lord and the dilapidated state of the Sky Castle, formally invite Prince Luthier to the Royal Capital, Leyndell. The Golden Lineage shall provide the Prince with the finest education and care, treating him with the warmth of a blood relative as a testament to our precious bond."
Stripped of the pleasantries, the intent was nakedly clear: they wanted a hostage.
Two weeks later, Luthier found himself on the road to the capital. It wasn't a matter of cowardice; Farum Azula simply lacked the strength to defy the Golden Order. Marika's side boasted a surplus of demigods and heroes. On his side, the Dragon Lord slept in the cracks of time, Greyoll remained dormant in Caelid, and the Great Priest Gransax had perished beneath the walls of Leyndell thirteen years prior. His only powerful kin, Lansseax, served as a priestess in Leyndell and had barely returned home in a decade. Her brother, Fortissax, was so inseparable from Prince Godwyn that they might as well have shared a shadow.
Could a level 60 dragonet really say no to the Queen?
Luthier shook his head, clearing the dark thoughts. Whether he liked it or not, he was a political pawn now. Since he was currently a bargaining chip to be used in peace and a sacrifice to be executed in war, his only priority was survival and rapid growth.
The carriage slowed. From outside the window came the sound of approaching hooves.
"Your Highness, we have reached the Vania Valley. Shall we set up camp for the night, or push on another fifty miles to rest in Vania Town?" a respectful voice inquired.
Luthier slid open the carriage window. Riding alongside him on a tall, scale-maned horse was a handsome youth with grey hair and crimson eyes. This was Agheel, one of the two guard captains of the Farum Azula delegation.
"We camp here. Tomorrow morning, we bypass Vania Town entirely and head for Karen City to resupply," Luthier replied after a moment of thought.
He had studied the route earlier. Fifty miles was nothing to them, but forcing a small town of a thousand people to host a foreign delegation of five hundred on short notice was an unnecessary burden.
"Understood." Agheel saluted and rode off to relay the orders. The procession came to a halt with practiced efficiency.
Dreadwyvern warriors fanned out to secure the perimeter while knights began pitching tents. Fifteen minutes later, Luthier sat before a warm campfire in the center of the camp, cradling a cup of mulled wine Agheel had provided.
"So, is the camp secure?" Luthier asked, looking at the young captain. One would never guess from his youthful appearance that Agheel was a high-ranking wyvern whose strength rivaled the greatest heroes.
Agheel bowed slightly. "The outer defenses are set, Highness. The Storm Knights are on a three-shift rotation. Thirty Dreadwyvern warriors are stationed in pairs at key defensive nodes. Elder Morel and Elder Atok are situated to the east and west to ensure the security of the royal pavilion."
Luthier nodded at the orderly report. Then he paused. "Where is Greyoll?"
"Uh..." Agheel hesitated, searching for the right words. "Captain Greyoll has chosen to station herself on the hilltop overlooking the camp. She wishes to maintain a clear view of the surrounding ten miles."
"Oh? Did she say anything else?" Luthier asked casually.
Agheel's expression stiffened. He gave a wry smile. "Nothing else, my Lord."
Luthier smiled back, though it didn't reach his eyes. He set his wine on a flat stone and picked up the Dragonscale Blade resting beside him. "The men have been working hard while I sat here resting. There is time before dinner. Walk with me, Agheel. I should perform my duties and check on the troops."
"As you command." Agheel bowed low. Unlike many of the arrogant or stubborn dragons, he held a genuine, if quiet, respect for his young sovereign.
Evening had arrived. A dull, pale crimson light spilled from the sky, turning the surface of the Vania River into a shimmering field of scales. The meadows on both banks glowed with a warm, greenish gold. The two walked along the camp's makeshift paths. Luthier stopped occasionally at the tents of resting knights, chatting with them about trivial matters to ease their nerves. Agheel followed half a step behind, silent and vigilant.
As they reached the camp gates, the Storm Knights on guard duty snapped to attention, striking their breastplates with their right fists in a formal salute.
To these warriors, who hailed from Stormveil and had served the dragons for generations, the title "Storm Knight" was a badge of honor. They were not yet the "Banished Knights" Luthier remembered from the game.
Beyond the gates, the patrol grew more rigorous. Luthier didn't stop to talk, simply returning the salutes in silence as they walked the perimeter. The camp walls had been raised from the earth by the two Elders using primordial incantations, then reinforced with hardening spells until they were as sturdy as city stone.
Such precautions were necessary. Moving a prince to a foreign land as a hostage was a volatile political act, especially between two powers that had been at each other's throats only a decade ago. There was always the risk of a third party looking to stir the embers of war. Furthermore, while the Vania Valley was deep within Golden Order territory, it was still a far cry from the capital's heart. The restless fires of Mt. Gelmir were close enough that raids by Demi-human tribes or wandering Trolls were a common occurrence.
Rounding a watchtower, they came to the base of the hill Luthier had noted earlier. He stopped, shielding his eyes against the setting sun to look upward. On a jagged rock at the summit, a slender figure sat cross-legged.
She was a warrior-maiden with a high ponytail and two Dragonscale tachis strapped to her back. Despite her youthful appearance, Greyoll was two hundred and sixteen years old, a high-ranking wyvern of immense power and a certain candidate for the next Council of Elders.
Her eyes were closed. The evening wind whipped her hair across her face, but she remained as motionless as the stone beneath her. Even as Luthier and Agheel came within a hundred paces, she gave no sign of acknowledgement.
Agheel's jaw tightened. He took a step forward. "Highness, shall I summon Captain Greyoll to receive your orders?"
"No need. Let us move on." Luthier shook his head with a faint smile and continued his walk along the river.
His calm was not a performance. In the three months since his "birth," he had learned the internal politics of the Sky Castle. Since the nameless "Forbidden War" a thousand years ago, the Dragon Lord had slept and the Dragon God had vanished, leaving Gransax to rule. Since Gransax's death thirteen years ago, power had shifted to a complex web involving the priestesses Lansseax and Fortissax, alongside the Senate and the Council of Elders.
This web was torn by factions. Some sought to control him as a puppet; others saw him as an obstacle to their surrender to the Erdtree. Greyoll belonged to a third group: those who were loyal to the office of the Demigod but did not yet respect the person holding it.
To these ancient, proud, and martial dragons, they would gladly die to protect his life, but they would never truly submit until he displayed a capacity worthy of his bloodline.
"Highness, are you truly not offended by her behavior?" Agheel asked once they were out of earshot.
Luthier stopped. He kept his back to Agheel as he spoke. "I understand Greyoll's heart. She is angry that I accepted the invitation. She sees me as a prince who has not yet proven his worth, yet made a humiliating compromise with a foreign power against the advice of the Elders. In her eyes, my first impression is quite poor, isn't it?"
Agheel stood frozen, stumbling over his words. "That... Highness, please do not think so lowly of yourself. Your decision was for the greater good. Lady Lansseax and many of the Elders also—"
"It's alright, Agheel." Luthier turned his head slightly, offering the youth a small, reassuring smile. "I am not being cynical, nor am I criticizing her."
"The truth is simple," he said softly. "They need me to prove something. And I intend to show them."