Lucian lowered his sword and nudged aside the assassin's hood, revealing an unremarkable face—one with dull, washed-out eyes. A Tarnished, no doubt.
Honestly, Lucian hadn't meant to kill him at first. But once the fight started… well, he just got carried away.
What could he say? The guy was weak.
While the assassin's technique wasn't terrible, Lucian had already leveled up several times. Under the weight of overwhelming stats, the man's defense might as well have been paper. A couple of solid hits, and even his shield couldn't save him.
Well, what's done is done. No point wasting it.
He knelt and rifled through the corpse. The man had carried a broadsword—+2 reinforced—a Blue Crest Heater Shield, and a Finger Seal for Incantations. There were also three Smithing Stones [1], and a worn Iron Cleaver used by Misbegotten soldiers.
None of this surprised Lucian. He'd studied Irina's death in his past life thoroughly. An assassination attempt like this was expected.
In the game, it was clear that Irina hadn't been killed by the Misbegotten. That was just a staged scene.
At the site of her death, two distinct blood patterns had marred the stone behind her. One was a small, older puncture wound—nearly black from time. The other was a violent spray, smeared across half the rock face. An iron cleaver had been stabbed into the ground nearby—standard Misbegotten weaponry. Clearly, the scene had been manipulated, likely by someone who'd used the cleaver to mutilate her corpse postmortem and create a convincing narrative.
But that didn't track.
The Misbegotten, once brutalized and enslaved, carried a deep-seated rage. When they struck back, they didn't just kill. They vented. They hacked until nothing remained but pulp. They didn't stab someone and politely leave behind their weapon.
That's why Lucian knew this whole thing had been staged.
Suddenly, Melina's voice whispered in his ear.
"He was indeed a Messenger of the Two Fingers… I am not saying you were wrong to kill him. But if the Church of the Two Fingers discovers this, there could be consequences."
Lucian raised an eyebrow. "You don't think this was… heretical?"
"What does it matter?" she replied. "As you once said—following the guidance doesn't mean blindly following the Two Fingers."
He paused, mulling it over. For Melina, this probably wasn't a big deal. Even joining Volcano Manor or hunting fellow Tarnished wouldn't bother her.
Only Frenzied Flame—that was her one sacred line.
"In that case…"
Lucian threw the corpse over his shoulder and headed back toward Torrent.
Irina was still deeply shaken.
She had only just escaped from Castle Morne, pursued by rampaging Misbegotten. Her guards had stayed behind to hold them off, giving her a chance to flee. Her servants had scattered, one by one vanishing in silence—ambushed, no doubt.
Her father had once told her of a great bridge that connected Castle Morne to the realm of Lord Godrick. Hoping to find help, she had limped along the roadside, clinging to the stone railing.
Then she'd heard the gallop of hooves behind her—and a voice warning her that someone was stalking her from the shadows.
If not for that voice, she would already be dead.
Thinking back, she realized her servants had likely been assassinated one by one by that silent pursuer.
Her once peaceful life had been shattered in a single day. Her father, left behind in the castle—his fate unknown. The loyal guards and servants who had raised her—likely all dead.
She wanted to cry, but her blind eyes could not shed tears.
The sound of footsteps drew near. She flinched.
She had heard the battle but didn't know who had won.
Then the voice came. Calm. Familiar. Comforting.
"It's over," Lucian said gently. "The man who tried to kill you won't hurt anyone ever again."
Relief flooded her face. Her rigid shoulders sagged as the tightness in her chest began to uncoil. Her voice came in broken sobs, but no tears fell.
She tried to dismount, to bow and thank her savior—but her footing faltered.
Lucian caught her just in time, tossing the corpse to the ground to free his arms. He held her as she trembled in his embrace, soft and shivering.
His heart ached.
He gently stroked her back, his voice low and steady.
"It's over now. You're safe. I'm here. You're safe…"
Gradually, she calmed. Irina was strong. She had purpose.
Tilting her face toward his—blind though it was—she gripped his hand with both of hers.
"Please" she whispered, "I implore you. Would you mind taking a letter to my father, at the castle? He's the commander of the southern castle. The Misbegotten have rebelled—there's shouting, fighting everywhere."
"He stayed behind to buy us time. My sole wish is that he escape, even if his honour should be the price.
Please... I just want him to be safe..."
"I apologize… I know I owe you my life and yet here I am, begging you for more…"
Lucian clasped her hand firmly.
"Leave it to me" he said. "I'll reunite you with your father."
They rode together beneath the moonlight, Irina slumped against his back, finally asleep from exhaustion. The trauma of the day had worn her thin.
It was too dangerous to leave her alone. Lucian didn't know if more assassins would come.
He slung the messenger's corpse behind him, dragging it by the leg through the mud, leaving a crimson trail.
When they reached a cliffside, he tossed the mangled body—now missing half its skull—into the sea. Only when he heard the splash below did he turn away.
To prevent Irina from falling in her sleep, he shifted her to sit sideways on Torrent, cradled against his chest. One arm held her securely, the other rested on his sword hilt.
He was angry.
He wanted something—someone—to cut down.
So when they encountered a Misbegotten raiding party desecrating the corpses of her guards and servants, Lucian cut through them all.
Not a single Misbegotten was left standing.
Not one corpse was left intact.
The massacre didn't wake Irina.
There was no room for Melina to sit now. She floated alongside Torrent, quietly observing.
Lucian's combat instincts had sharpened. His footwork, his timing, his handling of encirclement—they had all improved significantly.
He was growing stronger. Fast.
They passed a dung beetle rolling ashes down the road without a second glance.
Soon, the outer walls of Castle Morne came into view. A site of grace shimmered nearby, and a merchant warmed himself by a campfire.
Night had fallen.
Lucian had no intention of breaching the castle tonight. Rest was vital.
He greeted the traveling merchant and handed him a hundred runes for permission to share the fire.
He sat with Irina nestled against him, still sleeping. His gaze was fixed somewhere distant, his thoughts unreadable.
From across the road, the bushes rustled.
A pair of glowing yellow eyes flickered in the darkness—like flames trapped in glass.
Lucian narrowed his eyes.
He recognized them.
Eyes touched by Frenzied Flame.
"Looks like the truth… is even more complicated than I thought."