Lucian awoke upon the sofa.
On his palm still lingered the distinct warmth of lina's soul. She had not withdrawn her hand—perhaps she too had drifted into slumber.
When he looked over, there was still nothing there. His thoughts turned instead to whether there might be a way to grant lina flesh once more. The few thods he could conceive of were not yet attainable—matters for the future.
He did not move, unwilling to disturb her, and only turned his gaze outward through the window. The sky was brightening; the great silver moon faded away beneath the brilliance of the Erdtree. That towering, radiant trunk seed to whisper a reminder; Lucian too had long since lost his holand. The thought drew a faint smile to his lips.
"To study the arts of the Banished Knight—it suits all too well."
But Lucian would not wallow in mory. The holand he could never return to was enough to exist within his heart. He had far greater matters to pursue, and would not let nostalgia bind his steps.
Not long after Lucian stirred, lina awoke as well, her soul keenly sensing the ripple of his spirit. For one who had only a soul remaining, such sensitivity was all the sharper—especially when they were still in contact.
Her eyes drifted to their joined hands. Because they had both fallen asleep, it was no longer a firm grasp. Her fingers rely hooked faintly about Lucian's thumb and forefinger, nearly slipping away. Yet his strong fingers curled back around hers, keeping them from parting.
His hand bore countless fine scars, and a thick layer of calluses. lina rembered the first ti she had held it—before the gate. She had been ready to aid him in strengthening his power with runes, when he suddenly grasped her hand upon noticing her own scars.
Back then, his palm had been pale and unmarked, smooth and clean—not at all the hand of a warrior. Now, by contrast, they were hands one could not look upon without a faint pang of sorrow. Was that how Lucian had seen her back then as well, prompting him to hold on so suddenly?
She shook her head. To feel sorrow for a warrior's wounds was, in truth, to trample upon his resolve.
"So it is morning already? I slept so long… how rare."
She thought to withdraw her hand, but just then saw Lucian turn his head toward her. He should not have been able to see her—yet his gaze landed unerringly upon her face.
Their eyes t.
lina froze. "Hm? …Did Lucian see ?"
She raised her other hand and waved it between them. No reaction.
"So it was only chance, after all…"
She knew it, and yet… a faint disappointnt stirred. It was not her wish to remain unseen; only the fate of being bound to soul alone.
When his gaze turned back out the window, lina hesitated. She no longer hurried to release her fingers. Since he did not withdraw, then… there was no need to let go just yet. Just a little longer. A mont more.
Two or three minutes later, lina's voice sounded beside him.
"I just awoke… forgive . I had not let go."
"You don't need to apologize for every little thing. Yesterday you promised , rember?" Lucian's tone carried helpless amusent. lina truly did apologize far too often.
"I… it is difficult to change at once. Sor—… no. I will be mindful."
As her fingers slowly slipped away from his, Lucian felt a strange, unnamable pang. The phantom pain he thought had long since vanished seed to return anew.
A phrase surfaced in his mind, suited to this very mont:
"Why is parting so bitter? Because life itself is suffering—and their presence was the balm against it."
He rose to his feet, stretching his body. The night had been rcifully calm, free from nightmares. Such a faint, fleeting ache was nothing to dwell on.
Rest was over. It was ti to move forward once more.
Lucian cleansed himself with water, washing away the sweat from last night's dreams. As the cool water poured over him, his spirit sharpened.
Castle Morne still had plentiful water, and Lucian kept to the habit of bathing every day or two. In truth, life in the Lands Between was not so harsh in its daily necessities—bathing, food, shelter, even privies were sufficient.
Though only a small portion of folk tended the soil, and few studied crops beyond potatoes and odd bread-plants, hunting alone could sustain most households. The Shattering War had slain so many that resources now outpaced the surviving population. It was only safety of life that was ever uncertain.
Lucian glanced at his body. His muscles were firr since the last strengthening of his stats. Would he one day resemble Godfrey himself, a colossus of pure muscle?
He mused that he would rather alter his form than simply swell with size. Against the giant foes of the Lands Between, fighting often felt like trimming toenails. Perhaps with a Great Rune he might gain the stature of the Demigods.
But if his body grew imnse, what of his sorcery? Though General Radahn was proof that a man could be both titan and mage. Still, if he had the choice, Lucian preferred to fashion himself into a true sorcerer.
Ah, no point dwelling on it. I've yet to even glimpse a Great Rune. The greater the hope, the harsher the fall.
He dressed and left the bath chamber. There was one day left before he could collect his reforged arms from the Roundtable Hold. A day still rich with purpose.
Perhaps he might study Glintstone Icecrag with Elyssa. Or… perhaps it was ti to speak with Edgar.
After all, the foe they would soon move against—Godrick the Grafted—was Edgar's very liege. Surely Edgar already knew. But it was best such tidings were spoken face to face.
When Lucian knocked, he found Edgar hunched over a desk, buried in the affairs of Castle Morne. With more hands to work, the castle rose swiftly from its ruin—but new troubles followed just as fast.
Edgar looked up, surprised. Lucian was not one to intrude without cause.
"Oh? You've co. Is there sothing amiss?"
Lucian nodded. "Tomorrow, once we reclaim our nded arms, we march for Stormveil. To put an end to Godrick."
"I thought to ask—how do you feel about it?"
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