Chapter 2

A warrior's path is often silent.

But this silence was unlike any other.

As the Tarnished stepped from the Cave of Knowledge, the world stretched out before him—vast, open, and ruined.

The golden sky cast a dim light upon the ashen grasslands of Limgrave, the first land of the Tarnished's return. In the distance, the Erdtree loomed, its immense branches reaching toward the heavens, faintly glowing despite its withering power.

A great gust of wind swept across the open plain. No warmth. No comfort.

Only the howling echo of a land long abandoned by grace.

The Tarnished let his gaze wander across the horizon. He was alone.

And yet, something lingered in the air—a presence.

Not human. Not mortal.

A figure stood before him, draped in a red robe, its skin pale as death. It held no weapon, no armor—only the expression of one who knew more than he spoke.

And then, the figure smiled.

The First Warning

"Ah, one of the Tarnished, are you? Welcome to Limgrave."

The figure's voice was soft, almost mocking, as if he had seen this moment unfold a thousand times before.

The Tarnished did not reply. He could not.

The figure tilted his head, intrigued. His robes were dyed with the deep crimson of the Purebloods, but there was something else beneath the surface. His smile was knowing, as if he understood the fate that awaited the Tarnished better than he did himself.

"No speech? Ah… how curious. The grace that calls us back, yet leaves you voiceless. A cruel jest."

The figure sighed, lifting a hand.

"But allow me to introduce myself. I am Varré. A humble servant of the Order."

The Tarnished remained still. He had no reason to trust this man. And yet… he listened.

Varré turned his gaze toward the Erdtree, its golden light flickering in the distance.

"That grand light calls to all of us, does it not? And yet, it is closed to us. The Great Will, ever silent, offers nothing but the illusion of purpose."

His smile widened. Too wide.

"Ah, but you'll soon learn. The path of the Tarnished is riddled with folly. Some rush toward the throne, desperate to claim power. Others, like yourself, wander without knowing why they walk at all."

The Tarnished narrowed his eyes.

Varré chuckled.

"Go forth, warrior of silence. Seek the grace that guides you. But should you tire of this so-called journey… know that there are other paths. Better paths."

With that, Varré turned away, walking into the mist, leaving the Tarnished with nothing but the weight of his own thoughts.

He did not trust him.

But his words lingered.

And so, without another moment's hesitation, the warrior pressed forward.

The Golden Grace

The path led him down a worn dirt road, the world eerily quiet.

And then, he saw it.

A faint shimmer in the air, a golden trail leading his eyes toward the ruins of a crumbling church in the distance.

Grace.

It was unlike the light of the Erdtree—softer, yet persistent. A golden thread of fate, guiding the Tarnished toward whatever lay ahead.

He approached slowly, kneeling before the faint glow, and as he did, something stirred within him. Memories not his own. Voices not his own.

"To be guided by grace is to be chosen."

"The path to the throne is open only to those who would claim it."

"Rise, Tarnished, and follow the light."

The vision faded.

He exhaled, the weight of his silent fate pressing against him.

This grace… it was a lie. A leash.

And yet, he followed.

For now.

The Church of Elleh

The ruined structure stood ahead, a sanctuary long abandoned. Stone walls, cracked with age, bore the scars of battle and neglect. Nature had begun to reclaim it, yet within, there was life.

A merchant sat by the fire, his form wrapped in a cloak, his face hidden beneath a hood of tattered cloth. A donkey stood beside him, patient and unmoving.

The merchant raised his head as the Tarnished entered.

"Ah… a new customer?"

The warrior paused, examining him. He was not armed, nor did he seem to bear any ill will.

"Call me Kalé," the merchant continued, his voice warm, yet distant. A traveler, like many before you. A seller of wares, a keeper of stories. And perhaps the only soul in this land who did not wish to cut his throat.

The Tarnished gestured to his throat, a silent sign.

Kalé paused. His dark eyes studied him carefully before nodding in understanding.

"Ah. A warrior of few words… or none at all."

A pause.

"Well, worry not. The road to the throne does not require speech. Only resolve."

He gestured to the goods laid before him—armor, arrows, notes scribbled on parchment. All remnants of the dead, all stories waiting to be passed to another.

"If you seek knowledge, seek these lands. But beware. Not all paths lead forward."

The Tarnished gave a small nod before turning away. He had no runes to trade. Not yet.

But as he stepped beyond the ruined church, his gaze was drawn toward the road ahead—toward the golden plains and the towering gate in the far distance.

And toward the armored knight waiting on horseback.

A warrior of golden plate. A knight of the Erdtree.

It did not move, yet he could feel its gaze upon him.

A challenge unspoken.

And so, as the sun hung low in the sky, the Tarnished stepped forward, blade in hand, ready for whatever came next.

The journey had begun.