"A-Ad-Adula is awake..." Luth stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. His body trembled visibly, sweat lining his brow despite the cool mountain air. He clutched the edge of his cloak tighter, knuckles whitening as a subtle shiver coursed through him. The world around them, once calm and still, now felt brittle, like glass about to crack under unseen pressure. Every breath he took felt wrong, heavy with unseen weight.
Tarnished narrowed his eyes, tone turning grave. "Adula?" he asked, the name rolling heavily off his tongue, laced with a mixture of confusion and dread. The name echoed in the air, as if the world itself recognized its significance. He could already sense the mana around them spiraling faster, no longer a gentle current but a chaotic vortex, like the air itself was panicking. It whispered with tremors of oncoming catastrophe. Trees groaned faintly in protest, their leaves rustling despite the absence of wind. Each second it became more unstable, crackling with invisible static that danced against his skin like a warning, the prelude to a storm written not in clouds, but in raw, untamed energy. Even the animals of the woods had vanished—no birds, no insects, just an unnatural quiet stretching out like a held breath before a scream.
Luth inhaled shakily, the words catching in his throat before they finally came out. "Adula... The Glintstone Dragon," he confirmed, his voice trembling like a candle in wind. The mere utterance of the name seemed to draw the world quieter, as if nature itself was holding its breath. The air, already thick with anxiety, seemed to pause in reverence and dread. Even the low hum of insects ceased, leaving behind a vacuum of silence that made Tarnished's pulse sound deafening in his own ears.
Tarnished was jolted by his memories, his body tensing as a cold wave of disbelief swept over him. Scenes of glowing blue fire and crystalline wings flashed through his mind, each one more vivid than the last. "Impossible!! I killed the Glintstone Dragon while going through Raya Lucaria," he said, eyes narrowing, trying to recall every detail of that battle. He remembered the searing pain of the dragon's breath, the shimmer of its scales in the moonlight, and the resounding crash of its body hitting the ground. It had felt final—absolute.
Luth looked at Tarnished for a long moment, his eyes shadowed with knowledge and fear, before responding with a grave tone. "That was Smarag, Adula's twin." His words fell like stones, heavy and irrefutable. Tarnished's mind reeled at the revelation. Twins? He had never heard of two dragons so closely connected—especially ones of such power. Dragons, even singularly, were legendary threats. Not even seasoned warriors dared confront one without great risk. He had always believed such creatures were solitary, unmatched in their dominion. And now, there was another—one tied to even deeper forces, possibly stronger, still alive and awakened. He swallowed hard, his hands balling into fists. The implications were massive. What other ancient truths were still hidden, slumbering in the forgotten corners of the world?
His words fell like stones, heavy and irrefutable. Tarnished's mind reeled at the revelation. Twins? He had never heard of two dragons so closely connected especially ones of such power. Dragons, even singularly, were legendary threats. Not even seasoned warriors dared confront one without great risk, and now there was another, possibly stronger, still alive.
Tarnished fell into deep thought, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. Dragons are not mindless creatures. They are old, intelligent, and bound by codes few understood. He finally broke his silence, voice laced with caution. "But dragons don't attack unless provoked. Why are you so worried? What's changed?"
Luth exhaled, then spoke with a quiet urgency. "This village lies at the farthest edge from the Erdtree and the closest to the Mountain of Three Sisters. Adula does not strike the village directly, but every time she stirs or takes flight, her movements disrupt the balance. The beasts that dwell in the mist become restless and flee driven by panic. That panic drives them up here, onto this mountain. We've lost many good people before, not from Adula herself, but from what she displaces. Wolves, bears, even demi-humans they all get pushed uphill, and the village pays the price.""
Tarnished paused for a moment, his thoughts flashing back to a quiet, haunting image a sleeping dragon he had once glimpsed during the course of Ranni's long and cryptic request. It had been quite some time since he last encountered Ranni, not since the 'that' tragic moment. The memory still stirred unease in him. That dragon, cloaked in moonlight, had been rumored to be blessed by Ranni herself, an extension of her will, a companion bound not by chains but by ancient bonds of trust and magic. It wasn't just any beast it was a part of her world, of her story. Tarnished narrowed his eyes, trying to piece it all together as he said, "i will go handle the adula, you go in village". Luth was deeply skeptical about letting Tarnished go alone to fight Adula. He raised his voice, filled with concern, and said, "No, you can't just recklessly charge in and kill a dragon! Do you have any idea what could happen if you anger Ranni? After all, Ranni has always favored Adula. That dragon isn't just a beast, it's something precious to her." Tarnished, brushing off the concern with a cool stare, replied, "There's no need to be cautious on my behalf. I already have a standing feud with Ranni one that can't be mended so easily. This changes nothing. You go protect the villagers. I'll deal with that lizard myself." Luth hesitated, clearly torn, but there was no changing Tarnished's mind. He finally said, "Just be careful out there, alright?" Tarnished smirked grimly, adjusting his gear and muttering, "I'm undead, remember? I can't die. Not really. Tarnished whistled sharply, and with a sudden rush of wind and spark of spectral light, his loyal steed Torrent was summoned. The spectral horse pawed the ground, snorting softly as Tarnished stepped up and swung onto his back with practiced ease. He leaned forward and gave Torrent a reassuring pat on the neck, the familiarity between them evident in the calm they shared before the storm. "I will be going now, Luth. Take care," Tarnished said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air.
Luth gave a firm nod, though worry lingered behind his eyes. Tarnished turned his gaze ahead, the mist rolling thick and fast down the mountain slope. He muttered to Torrent, "Let's go, boy." At once, Torrent launched forward with a thunderous leap, hooves barely seeming to touch the ground as they descended the slope with the speed of a falling star. Wind howled past Tarnished's ears, and the mist parted before them in swirling, silver strands.
Luth remained rooted in place, watching until the last trace of Tarnished's silhouette dissolved into the mist. For a moment, he stood frozen, heart pounding, the air still vibrating with the echo of Torrent's gallop. Then, as if pulled by duty, he turned back toward the village.
His steps were brisk and his voice sharp as he began warning the villagers. He moved from house to house, gathering the elders, organizing the younger folk. With calm urgency, he supervised the defenses reinforcing barricades with carts, handing out spears and oil lanterns, and ensuring each family knew where to run if the worst came to pass. He even climbed up to the old lookout tower to check the visibility and signal lines, revisiting every emergency protocol they'd kept buried for years. The peaceful illusion of the village was gone. In its place, Luth helped forge a community on edge ready, alert, and bracing for whatever storm Tarnished might be trying to stop before it reached their doorstep.
Meanwhile, Tarnished approached the Mountain of Three Sisters, pushing through the thick veil of mist that clung to the land like a second skin. The moisture in the air collected on his armor, dampening the leather straps and leaving a cold chill seeping through the gaps in his plating. Every step felt heavy, as if the land itself were reluctant to let him pass. The very earth seemed to pulse beneath his feet with distant echoes of power, reminding him that this place was ancient and awake.
As he drew closer, his sharp eyes caught sight of visibly spooked beasts darting away from the direction he was heading. Wolves howled in fear, demi-humans scattered in disoriented packs, omen beasts stomped through the shallow water, and giant dragonflies buzzed chaotically overhead like shards of broken glass carried on the wind. Small rodents and birds, normally hidden by underbrush, now darted openly in sheer desperation, fleeing something they couldn't fight. The air reeked of fear and damp fur.
The land itself felt panicked, like a wounded animal trying to escape an unseen predator. Trees bent in unnatural ways, their limbs twitching slightly, as if even flora were disturbed by the dragon's stirring presence. The pressure in the air grew heavier with every stride.
Instinct kicked in, and he leapt from Torrent's back to intercept the stream of creatures rushing toward the village behind him. His boots splashed into ankle-deep mud, but his movements were fluid and exact. With measured precision, he struck down and diverted several groups to reduce the wave of chaos spilling downhill. He used wide, sweeping arcs to drive larger beasts away from the trail, and precise strikes to eliminate smaller threats before they could scatter further into panic. His goal wasn't annihilation—it was containment. He knew the villagers would have no chance if this tide reached them unopposed.
The terrain was slick—flooded up to Torrent's hooves—and the fog lay thick across the battlefield, muffling both sound and vision. Each step squelched beneath Tarnished's boots, the ground unstable and full of hidden dips that threatened to throw him off balance. Visibility was poor, no more than a few feet ahead, and with every cautious step forward, Tarnished risked stepping into an ambush, his senses strained to their limits. Shapes moved in the mist—some real, some imagined—and the tension made his muscles ache from constant readiness.
On any other day, this area, with its watery expanse and ethereal glow, might have been beautiful, a place worthy of admiration or reflection. Streams flowed with strange luminescence, their shimmer reminiscent of moonlight on crystal. Moss-covered stones jutted out like forgotten ruins, lending the battlefield a surreal, almost sacred air. But tonight, all that beauty was lost beneath the veil of impending violence. It threatened to become a massacre if he wasn't fast enough—if he didn't control the tide of chaos flooding down the slopes.
Realizing the danger of riding blind through a land where anything could emerge from the fog, he sent Torrent back into his ring in a flash of blue light. The familiar sound of spectral energy snapping shut was oddly comforting. He drew his blade with a hiss, its edge catching the faint light in the air. The metal sparked subtly as it left the sheath, alive with energy, as though it too sensed the danger surrounding them.
He dove into the fray. His blade danced through the fog, slashing through the chaos with controlled fury, a silver blur in the thick gloom. His every movement was calculated, purposeful, and relentless. He rolled beneath the swipe of a beast, sprung up with fluid momentum, and countered a charging demi-human, his blade slicing clean through. A dragonfly swooped at him, its wings slicing the air like razors, but he parried its sting mid-air, twisting his sword with practiced finesse.
Despite his skill, the sheer number of enemies kept pushing him back, wave after wave of desperate creatures flinging themselves at him. Some fought as if possessed, while others merely lashed out in blind panic, but all added to the chaos. His armor clanked with every movement, metal grinding against leather, each dodge and parry a step closer to exhaustion. His breathing grew heavier, more ragged, sweat mingling with blood on his brow. One misstep nearly sent him to the ground, but he caught himself with a spin, cleaving through two wolves that lunged from opposite sides.
The battle felt endless, like the land itself was testing his resolve, conjuring fresh nightmares from the mist. Time lost all meaning, each clash and dodge blurring into the next as if he were caught in some cursed loop. The very ground seemed to shift beneath him, slick with water and blood, a treacherous surface that made every movement a calculated risk. Even the fog seemed thicker now, clinging to his armor like a damp shroud, hiding the next foe until it was almost too late.
Still he fought on, teeth gritted, lungs burning with effort. Each swing of his blade was met with resistance—flesh, scale, bone. A malformed wolf lunged at him from the side, and he pivoted just in time to drive his blade through its throat. Another demi-human shrieked as it flailed from the mist, only to be silenced by a swift decapitating strike. The cries of beasts and clang of metal echoed through the fog like the dirge of a cursed symphony, a grim orchestra of chaos and pain.
But at last, bloodied and breathing heavily, he stood victorious, surrounded by the twitching remains of his foes. The silence that followed was eerie, unnatural, as if the forest itself were stunned by the violence that had just transpired. His arms ached and his legs trembled from the exertion, but he held his blade firm, refusing to show weakness even to the void. Minor cuts stung at his arms and legs, and dents marked his armor, but nothing fatal. His breath came in harsh, controlled bursts as he scanned the fog one last time for threats. He had survived the onslaught—for now.
With a grunt, he wiped dirt and blood from his blade, giving it a quick flourish before sheathing it once more. His fingers lingered for a moment on the hilt, as if drawing one last bit of strength from the weapon before moving forward. Torrent was summoned again, his form coalescing from spectral blue light, hooves hitting the ground with a faint thud that echoed across the quiet field. Tarnished climbed back on with a weary groan, his joints protesting, shoulders sagging under the strain of exhaustion.
The steed bolted forward, navigating the eerie terrain with instinctive grace, dodging patches of thick fog and veering around shattered roots and carcasses. The air still shimmered with leftover pulses of mana, residual from the clash, and the very ground felt unsteady beneath Torrent's gallop, as though the land itself hadn't quite recovered.
Three more waves of terrified beasts surged past him, darting blindly through the trees and over the waterlogged earth, driven by primal fear. Some looked back as they ran, eyes wide with terror, but none dared challenge him directly now. Their fear wasn't of him alone—it was of something larger, something older, stirring in the heart of the mountain.
The stench of blood and magic followed him like a shadow, clinging to his armor and skin, thick in his nostrils, a constant reminder of the chaos behind and the confrontation still ahead. He pressed onward, each breath a battle of its own, but his eyes burned with grim determination. The worst was still to come.
Finally, through the lifting mist, the base of the mountain came into view. A faint golden glow pierced the haze the Grace of Rest. Sanctuary. Relief. He dismounted and staggered toward it, collapsing to his knees as the healing warmth enveloped him. Sitting beside the flickering light, he uncorked a crimson flask and drank deeply. Instantly, vitality surged through his body, stitching wounds and calming nerves. He breathed out, slow and heavy, as the tension bled from his limbs.
With practiced care, he refilled his flasks, checked his equipment, and reorganized his satchels. Every item was placed with purpose, every strap fastened tighter. He knew what came next. His next opponent wasn't just another beast it was something ancient. A relic of magic and moonlight. A dragon of mana. A living monument to an era long gone, and one he would have to face alone.