Hildegard had thoughtfully prepared a small pouch, carefully wrapping the goods. Lucian accepted the bundle, paid her in runes, and turned to leave—but Hildegard suddenly called after him.
"Wait… I just rembered, there's sothing you might find interesting."
Lucian looked back. Hildegard produced a vial of pale pink liquid, faintly shimring in the light. He frowned—he had never seen this kind of perfu before.
Hildegard explained, a trace of pride in her voice: "This is my latest creation. For a short ti, it greatly strengthens the body in every aspect. Very powerful."
Lucian's eyes widened. Such a perfu never existed in the ga. That Hildegard had devised one herself was beyond his expectations.
But he quickly sobered. A drug with such potency surely ca with a cost. "What side effects does it carry?"
Hildegard twirled a lock of her hair around her finger, her tone sheepish, "Mm… nothing too serious. Stamina recovers a little slower, resistance drops slightly. The main ingredient is… a plant grown from scarlet rot."
The mont Lucian heard scarlet rot, his mind froze. Sister, you really dare to brew with that??
Hildegard, sensing his unease, thumped her chest confidently; "Don't worry! I've tested it myself. As long as you take Preserving Boluses within half a day, there's no danger. The drug works by using the rot's virulence to shock the body into higher performance. And I chose strains with only the faintest toxicity—unpleasant, yes, but not fatal."
Lucian pointed at the vial. "Then why show this to ?"
Hildegard grinned, pulling out a small pouch of moss steeped in dicine. "Heh, the truth is, this perfu costs too much to make, and no one will buy it. I brewed several bottles, but… well, I drank most myself. This last one I'll give to you."
Lucian swallowed. He was no fool, and anything tied to scarlet rot chilled him to the bone. Hildegard might have tested it countless tis, but his suspicion lingered. Even so, he accepted the bottle—free was free. If nothing else, it could sit unused at the bottom of his pack forever.
Lucian wandered the market a while longer, but found nothing else of worth. Returning to the Roundtable's grace, he let lina bear him back to Castle Morne.
First, he returned the Zamor armor to Elyssa, then made for Edgar's study. The old castellan had promised him a detailed map of Stormveil's interior.
Edgar handed him a parchnt, ink still damp in places—drawn in haste the night before, every corridor and stairwell laid bare.
"As I sketched," Edgar said, weary, "I realized sothing troubling. Stormveil must contain hidden passages—my skills in architecture can only go so far. Still, this is the best I can offer. May it guide you well."
Lucian accepted the map with a bow. "Thank you. Await my good news."
He turned to leave, but Edgar's voice followed him, "If you cannot best Godrick, then flee—no matter how shaful. Life is worth more than pride. Irina cares deeply for you… so you must return alive."
Lucian did not look back. "I'd win. For I am the true storm."
—
Fully prepared, he left only his ashes, perfus, and flasks in his satchel, all else sealed away in the grace's keeping. He did not bring his crystal tear, lacking any matched mixtures, but he did strap on the crystal darts taken from the assassin. They had a purpose yet to serve.
Mounted on Torrent, he cast one last glance at the looming walls of Castle Morne. Elyssa followed close behind—no steed suited her form had been found, but her speed and endurance matched any horse.
The soldiers of the Bridge of Sacrifice had been warned by Edgar: no one was to hinder their crossing today. The way lay open, unhindered.
They thundered across Limgrave, past bridges and plains. Guards tried to form lines, crossbows and halberds raised, but Lucian rode at the front, stormwinds sweeping aside all resistance. No need to kill needlessly—ti and strength were better saved.
Passing the place where once he'd freed Boc, Lucian glanced around. No sign of the demi-human tailor. Perhaps he had already set forth on his own path. First, Godrick must fall—then Boc could be sought again.
At last, the familiar gate lood ahead. Here once he had slaughtered scores of soldiers, now only a handful remained, with two dozing trolls by their wagons. Not even Godrick's knights stood guard.
They dashed through before the sentries could react. Too far gone in rot and weariness, the soldiers' pursuit faltered.
But within the gate itself, defenses grew fierce. The path was a narrow incline, flanked by cliffs, fortified with barricades, pavises, and rows of flathrowers.
Crossbow bolts whistled down, followed by gouts of burning oil, yet Torrent did not falter, galloping straight into the blaze. The steed knew its master would clear the way.
Arrows and fire halted mid-air. A heartbeat later, the storm rose—winds so fierce they lifted the burning oil skyward, turning the chokepoint into a hell of fla and tempest.
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