Lucian stirred from sleep, an odd itch dancing across his cheek.
Blinking away the haze of slumber, he found a pale, delicate face hovering dangerously close to his own. He flinched—then recognized it instantly.
Irina.
Her head bobbed like a chick pecking at grain, soft lips parted slightly with a thin line of crystal-clear drool at the corner. A few strands of hair dangled down, brushing across his face as she unconsciously nuzzled closer—the source of that maddening itch.
She's asleep?
Lucian lingered on the sight, unable to help himself. Normally, she had little quirks—a tilt of the head, an extra bounce in her step—that spoke of her youth and playfulness. But he knew the rebellion at Castle Morne had left deep scars on her heart. Those monts of innocence were rare, breaking through the storm clouds only occasionally.
It made this defenseless slumber all the more precious… and painful to see.
If not for the rebellion, she might have lived her life in peace.
He committed every detail to mory—the relaxed features, the gentle rise and fall of her breath. In the ga, you die here. But not this ti.
Carefully, he lifted his head from her lap and rolled away, escaping without waking her. Rising to his feet, he brushed the dirt and grass from his clothes.
Sothing was wrong.
It was still the dead of night. The wandering rchant and his skinny mule slept nearby, heads drooping. When Lucian had t him the previous evening, the man had already pitched his small tent. There was no reason for him to be sleeping out in the open like this.
He drew his greatsword, scanning the surroundings. That's when he noticed it—a faint, pale-blue mist curling low across the ground. So thin you wouldn't see it unless you were looking.
"This way, Tarnished." a voice called, cool and clear as moonlight. "May I have a word?"
Lucian knew that voice. The Lunar Princess… Ranni.
He hadn't expected her to appear here of all places.
She sat perched atop a massive fragnt of ancient ruin, a towering silhouette beneath the night sky. A great snow-white pointed hat rimd with silver threads, a cloak of unknown creature's fur, and a plain white robe that seed at once regal and unassuming. Her skin was an ethereal blue, her two right hands folded neatly in her lap.
One body, one spirit—two faces beneath the wide brim of her hat.
It was her.
Lucian approached until he stood before the ruin, forced to crane his neck to et her gaze.
"A pleasure to et thee, Tarnished." she said. "I am the witch Renna.
I'd heard tell of a Tarnished hurtling about atop a spectral steed and dared attempt the Bridge of Sacrifice. And upon looking into the matter, the talk, I surmise, is of thee."
"Thou'rt possessed of the power, no?
To call forth the spectral steed nad Torrent."
"Yes," Lucian admitted without hesitation. "I can summon Torrent. We travel together."
Ranni inclined her head, then brought forth two items from beneath her cloak—one in each of her right hands.
"Ah. As I had hoped. I was entrusted this, for thee..."
"By Torrent's forr master. 'Tis a bell for calling forth spirits."
The sight briefly triggered an odd mory—of the Grafted Scion's twin swords stabbing toward him—and the strange resemblance made him shiver.
She ignored his expression and revealed her gifts: in one hand, a small silver bell, the Spirit Calling Bell he had been yearning for; in the other, a small box containing the Ashes of the Lone Wolf.
"This bell," she explained, "Summon them with it, from ash unreturned to the Erdtree. The spirits will obey thine command but briefly, as they recall battles past. But so spirits… are not so easily called forth."
Her gaze flicked toward his pack—she ant the Stormhawk King.
She offered the second gift. "The Ashes of Lone Wolves. Treat them well, as you do Torrent."
"Now it is thine. To do with as thou wishest."
Without waiting for thanks, her form began to dissolve into drifting snow.
"Forgive mine intrusion, Tarnished. I doubt we shall again et. But all the sa, learn well the Lands Between."
Just before vanishing, her eyes lingered on the nearby Site of Grace, as if sothing there caught her interest.
"How long will it be, I wonder... Before the Tarnished tire of obesiance to the Two Fingers?"
And then she was gone.
Lucian sat before the Grace, turning the bell over in his hand. A delicate ring chid when he shook it, and he felt an imdiate connection to the ashes in his pack—awareness of their presence, the knowledge that a flow of magic could bring them forth. The Stormhawk Denneh and the three wolves responded readily, but the Stormhawk King remained aloof.
He focused, trying to reach the proud bird… but failed. Its will was clear: You're recognized, but not yet worthy. Equip the Ash of War: Storm Stomp instead.
Lucian scratched his head. Not summoning the King for now, it seed.
He pulled out the Whetstone Knife, studying it. No idea how to use it.
"lina? You there?"
Her form appeared at his side, her voice tinged with sothing unguarded. "That woman…her spirit lingers within my own. I sense a bond—yet the mory eludes ."
Lucian hadn't expected that. He had no answers to offer.
lina shook her head. "Perhaps... it was but an imagination. You wish to bind an Ash of War to your blade? I shall aid you in that."
"You can do that too?" he asked, genuinely surprised. If the ga had this many interactions, her popularity would've been through the roof.
She accepted the knife, the Ash of War, and his halberd. "Perhaps it was only a whisper of mory…A thod that lies buried in oblivion, yet known to by birthright. Like one who grows into the blade's true purpose... I... have rely rembered what was already mine."
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