The torrential rain seemed endless, completely drowning out the 'rustling' of the pen tip. At first, Melina was a bit nervous, but as time went on, she seemed to forget what she was doing. When it came to spacing out, no one in The Lands Between was better at it than her. The young girl's eyes were unfocused, her mind empty, just staring at a small boat drifting far away in the lake.
It bobbed up and down in the rain, no one knowing where it was drifting to. How similar this little boat was to herself. What exactly was her mission? Where did that obsession come from? Why go to the Erdtree? Am I not just like this boat carried away by the waves, waiting for the moment of capsizing at any time? Perhaps the sound of rain always stirs up sorrow.
Her right eye gradually lost its luster, and just then, a 'rumble' of thunder struck, causing her to start. "You are lost." Throne stood nearby, holding the finished drawing, and sighed: "Doing something, or not doing something, stems from your own decisions. No need to think too much; I will help when the time comes."
When reaching the end, if Melina still wanted to become kindling, then he would say goodbye freely. If she changed her mind—there was more than one way to burn the Erdtree. He could even change the outcome of the Battle of Aeonia, so what was this? "Nonsense, I have never been lost." Melina regained her senses.
For some reason, she always felt this man exuded infinite confidence, as if he understood what she wanted to do and could change it. She was stunned for a moment, then gently snatched the white paper from Throne's hand. Looking at it, her eyes widened slightly. A young girl stood before the window, her hand resting on the frame, seemingly gazing into the distance.
The drawing showed only half of her profile; the expression was somewhat lonely, somewhat lost, yet full of longing. "How about the title 'The Maiden of Mission Yearning for the Future'?" Throne tossed the pencil aside and thought for a moment before adding: "Consider it a return gift for teaching me incantations." "It's terrible. Who is yearning for the future?"
Melina wrinkled her nose, yet she folded the drawing in half and tucked it into her bosom. "I didn't realize that besides drinking and bragging, you had this skill." "Heh, I know plenty of things," Throne said shamelessly. Writing novels and drawing portraits were the only two skills left to him from his previous life. The drizzle continued to fall, and no one in the room spoke.
Throne accompanied Melina in her daze, like a special two-person game, but because of this, the two were closer than usual, elbow touching elbow, hair brushing against hair. I don't know how much time passed, but the rustling rain gradually weakened. The dark clouds covering the sky quietly dispersed, and a few rays of sunlight finally shone in through the gaps in the clouds.
"Look, that boat is back." Melina suddenly spoke. Throne turned his head to look and saw that the boat, which had drifted far away, had returned to the dock at some point. "Do you know what this means?" Throne asked with a long tone, then suddenly grinned: "It means you are too idle. What's so good about looking at a broken boat!" Hahaha.
The man's hearty laughter came, and Melina's slightly melancholy mood was completely ruined, causing her to grit her silver teeth and glare fiercely at him. Being sentimental is a disease; it needs to be cured. Throne couldn't be bothered with the young girl's mood. He had always been free and easy in his conduct. What confusion, what hesitation?
Just raise a three-foot sword and kill everyone in sight. Putting on his mask, straightening his black robes, and tucking Moonveil back into his waist, the man heard the sound of warhorses treading along the long street and reached out his hand to the dazed girl. "Let's go, let's go kill Godrick!"
The rain had stopped, leaving the ground soft and treacherous. Throne's warhorse sank into the mud with each step, its hooves lifting clumps of wet earth. The uneven gait jolted him, a stark reminder of Torrent's smooth ride. He wasn't built for these ordinary warhorses; the relentless bouncing felt like it might shake him apart.
He guided the horse around a scarred forest, its terrain hacked into jagged pits and mounds, following the cavalry. "Whoa—" The warhorse reared, its hooves pawing the air. Throne's gaze snapped to the horizon. A 'volcano' erupted in the distance, flames roaring skyward. Incendiary bombs streaked through the damp air, slamming into the fortress walls with brutal force.
Stone and flesh exploded into the air. The relentless boom of war drums echoed across the battlefield. Massive puppets lumbered forward, their heavy steps shaking the ground. Trolls flanked them, shields raised like mobile fortresses. Thousands of soldiers advanced, loosing arrows at the towering walls.
Behind them, figures crowned in glintstone unleashed torrents of magic. Arrows and bolts rained down from the walls, cutting through the attackers like scythes through wheat. The air thickened with the stench of blood and charred flesh. This was war—raw, unrelenting, and alive.
Throne tightened his grip on the reins, inhaling the acrid tang of destruction. His instincts had been right. Without this fortress, the Tarnished would've crumbled at the first assault. But now they stood behind towering walls, ballistae bristling from every tower, holding the high ground. Their diverse skills were on full display. He watched as great bows thundered, sending shields spinning into the air. Arrows found their marks with deadly precision, piercing foreheads in a single strike.
Even seasoned knights couldn't match such archery.
Magic Downpour and Crystal Burst erupted in rapid succession, overwhelming the defenders. When ladders slammed against the walls, the Tarnished responded with incantations. Flames erupted, engulfing soldiers who screamed as they leapt to their deaths. Poisoned daggers and lightning pots rained down. A group of knights breached the wall, only to be consumed by white spirit flames, their armor cooking them alive.
Magic, incantations, weapon skills, and even spirit ashes—Throne saw it all. The ashes, though inferior, fought without fear. Wounded Tarnished retreated briefly to sip from crimson flasks, then surged back into the fray, revitalized. Priests chanted incantations, amplifying their strength.
"Chaotic, yes, but it's this chaos that lets the Tarnished shine," Throne muttered. In siege warfare, numbers mattered less. Fort Haight's position, backed by the sea, limited the attackers' approach.
Godrick's army was rushed, their siege preparations half-hearted. Each assault sent only a handful of soldiers over the walls, while the rest cowered behind, paralyzed by fear. They were no match for the Tarnished, whose strength eclipsed theirs many times over. Magic outmatched them, melee overwhelmed them, archery outclassed them. The casualty ratio was grotesque. Most of the Tarnished's losses came from the relentless barrage below the walls.
Throne saw a gunpowder barrel smash onto the wall, directly blowing a dozen Tarnished into flesh, without even the chance to drink the flask of crimson tears. Or the rocks or giant crossbows thrown by Trolls could pierce people into meat skewers on the spot. And those archers were not bad either, always able to shoot down a few Tarnished. "What are you muttering about over there!?"
The Godrick Knight next to him roared. He was watching his comrades struggle and die in a sea of blood, and he had the heart to kill Throne. "I said this method of siege cannot be effective; it's just a waste of military force." Throne looked back coldly.
Seeing the knight glaring, about to draw his sword, he used his thumb to flick Moonveil out by an inch. Clang— The long sword was ice-cold, causing the knight's mouth to twitch, and he resentfully took his hand off the sword hilt. This Tarnished was more powerful than those on the wall; he didn't want to die in vain. "Come with me, His Highness wants to see you."
Several warhorses galloped toward the camp outside the city. Along the way, it was full of bloody wounded soldiers. Most of them were poisoned, their bodies covered in frost or Scarlet Rot, just left on the roadside to fend for themselves. The sound of killing shook the sky. Throne looked up and saw that even the Trolls had rushed to the front this time, using their shoulders to ram the city gate.
Boom, boom, boom—the muffled sounds came from afar, and several figures jumped down from the city wall to fight on the shoulders of the Trolls alongside the covering Banished Knights. The leader, wasn't that Vyke? 'The young man has guts.'
Throne applauded silently in his heart. With him leading the charge, the fighting spirit of the Tarnished became even more intense.
Some mages held blue dew in one hand and a staff in the other, replenishing mana while releasing magic. AI Model: gemini-3.0-flash
The camp was much emptier now. Throne saw Godrick sitting on a chair, frowning, clearly in a foul mood. Even when a knight reported Throne's arrival, he merely waved his hand and told him to stay put. Throne was happy to oblige.
He borrowed a pair of binoculars from nearby and gazed from afar at the death match centered around the city gates. Vyke led the charge, his war spear piercing the head of a Troll. Two Banished Knights and a Grafted Scion immediately lunged at him, forcing the young man back. Vyke hunkered down behind his greatshield, thrusting his spear repeatedly.
The Old Knight leaped down with powerful Tarnished to provide cover, while other Tarnished unleashed their full firepower. Magic and arrows carved out a vacuum around the city gates, as if creating a small arena, except that various buffing incantations were showered upon Vyke's head as if they cost nothing. 'Not bad, a classic shield-poke playstyle.' Throne nodded inwardly.
He saw a Troll punch Vyke, shield and all, into the wall, yet the young man continued to hold his ground while spitting blood. They clearly had opportunities to kill him, yet they couldn't take his life. When the bullet-riddled Troll fell, the Grafted Scion was hacked into mincemeat, and the Banished Knights retreated in panic, a tsunami of cheers erupted from the fortress. "Hurrah!!"
The atmosphere in the camp froze. They watched as the gates swung open and a group of heavy-armored Tarnished charged out, launching a counter-charge over the Troll corpses. Leading them was still Vyke, still spitting blood, while their own battle lines wavered, looking utterly bewildered. Bang!! Godrick smashed the side table with a punch and snarled, "Sound the horn! Retreat!"
Woooo—
The war horn's blast stretched long and low across the battlefield. Godrick's army broke like rotten timber, their morale in tatters as they scrambled back from the Tarnished lines. But Vyke didn't give the order to pursue—just raised his blood-slicked spear in a silent command to hold. He stood like a rusted iron monument at the edge of the killing field, drawing a single finger across his throat in promise toward the enemy camp.
"Filthy gutter-born rats!" Godrick surged to his feet, golden battleaxe flashing. Before he could take three steps, the Tarnished melted back into their fortress with mocking cheers. The gates crashed shut. Only their jeering voices remained, hurling curses at Godrick's lineage from the battlements. A taunt. A retreat. The bastard thrill of it.
Behind his mask, Throne's mouth split into a grin. He watched, cold-eyed, as knights swarmed to restrain their seething lord. "Your Highness, don't take the bait." "The city reeks of ambush." Godrick wasn't a fool—just volatile. The suspicion took root as his breathing slowed.
These vermin wanted to lure him inside. His axe swung in a blind arc, reducing his ornate chair to splinters. He caught Throne observing from the shadows. "Well?!" The demand ripped through the tent. Every noble and knight turned as one, their stares venomous—like they wanted to string Throne up as a battle standard.
"The Dauntless earns his name." Throne kept his voice level. Godrick's glare sharpened, so he added, "Only a hero's worth fighting. Crushing ants would bore you."
Godrick's shoulders loosened. Better. A worthy enemy meant greater glory when he broke them. The flattery settled warm in his chest. He moved to sit—remembered his demolished throne—and leaned on his axe instead. "Don't waste my time with pretty words. Speak plain."
"How many troops can you field?" "Seven thousand. Why?" "Then you've already won." Throne gestured toward the battlefield. "Eight to one losses today. Two thousand of yours, three hundred of theirs. Fort Haight holds maybe eight hundred Tarnished total. Keep this pace three more days, and they'll have no one left to hold the walls."
He paused, letting the numbers sink in.
"Today wasn't a failed siege. It was victory by attrition." The logic was polished, undeniable. Godrick's gaze flicked to his strategist, Darian, who gave a tight nod.
"Well said! I nearly sent you to demand their surrender, but it seems you're still useful!" Godrick's grin showed too many teeth. He spread his arms to the assembled nobles. "Today was a triumph! A few more days, and final victory is ours!"
The nobles exchanged glances. Their men lay broken on the field while Godrick's personal forces remained untouched. What could they say? They swallowed the bile rising in their throats.
"Congratulations to Your Highness on a great victory." Reality had the sharp edges of a bad joke. The corpses beneath Fort Haight's walls might disagree—but Prince Godrick's strategy was peerless, his victories unbroken.
Godrick's laughter boomed through the hall, rich and self-satisfied. He'd salvaged both his pride and his power, and Throne, standing before him, had become unexpectedly pleasing to the eye. A mere swordsman would've been worthless, but this man, this sharp-edged blade, had saved his face. That made him invaluable.
"Excellent," Godrick said, his voice dripping with approval. "You saw the heart of victory. Truly, a man of talent. Such service demands reward."
He stroked his chin, the gears turning visibly behind his eyes. Then it struck him—an idea worthy of his brilliance. "In the name of the Golden Lord, rightful heir to the Elden Throne, I dub thee Honorable Knight of Godrick!"
Throne froze. Knight of Godrick? The irony was almost too thick to breathe. He was the assassin sent to end this man's life, and now he was being knighted? The absurdity clawed at him, but he kept his face neutral. After a moment, he saw the logic. A thousand gold for horse bones—Godrick was buying loyalty without risking a penny.
"Your generosity outshines the stars," Throne said, bowing low. "How could I refuse such an honor?" The words tasted bitter, but he swallowed them. A title for an assassin—now that was magnanimous.
"Good." Godrick's smile widened. "The official investiture will take place upon our victorious return to Stormveil. I expect you to earn further merits in this war." The nobles erupted into applause, their clapping hands a chorus of sycophancy.
Throne's mind raced. Everyone knew Godrick was desperate to raise a banner, just as the Roundtable had elevated Vyke 'The Dauntless.' Right, Throne thought bitterly. And after you've used me, you'll chop off my hands and graft them onto yourself. The ultimate honor.
His sneer was hidden behind a mask of deference. Trusting this demigod wasn't an option. Throne's thoughts were consumed by one thing: how to kill him.
Godrick, oblivious to the Tarnished's malice, clapped a hand on Throne's shoulder. "Come. You'll attend the war council. I permit you to offer suggestions."
"As you command," Throne said, bowing again. Close proximity to the target—this was exactly what he needed. The best way to stab someone was from right beside them.
Godrick's army was a shambles. It lacked the iron discipline of the Haligtree or the brotherhood of the Redmane. The demigod and his nobles swept out without a backward glance, leaving the wounded and defeated to fend for themselves. Screams and wails echoed through the camp. If the Tarnished trapped in the isolated city hadn't been short on manpower, a single counter-charge would've shattered Godrick's forces.
With Godrick's favor, the hostility within the army faded. Throne was given a private tent. As soon as he sat down, Melina emerged from the shadows, her voice dripping with disbelief. "I thought you'd be sacrificed for morale—or at least sent to the front lines as cannon fodder. Can't you think of anything better?"
Throne rolled his eyes and replied gloomily, "Without some assurance, how would I dare return and court death?"
"What assurance?"
"Understanding the client's psychology. Predicting exactly what he wants. Making the correct judgment."
Melina frowned, not entirely following, but her silence conceded that Throne might be right.