"The Sun, you say?"
"The Sullied Sun... it too seems to represent a form of death. At least, Miquella has long prayed to it for Godwyn... hoping that a 'True Death' would finally visit him through its eclipse."
The Sun—a forgotten celestial body in the Lands Between. Its brilliance had been utterly smothered the moment the Erdtree took root. People spoke of the Stars and the Moon, but the Sun was a taboo, a relic of an era the Erdtree sought to erase.
"I don't know much about it," the Tarnished admitted.
"Nor I... its presence is too ancient," Melina shook her head. Even with her memories intact, she doubted she would know much. In the Golden Order, to look back at the previous age was heresy. Only Miquella, in his desperate search for a cure for his brother, dared to seek the Sun.
"Regardless of the Sun, with Destined Death stolen and the Ghostflame re-emerging, the 'eternal life' of the Erdtree is already rotting," the Tarnished remarked.
"So it seems," Melina replied softly. To her, whether it was the Rune of Death or the Ghostflame, anything that could end the stagnation and tragedy of the Lands Between was a mercy.
"Wait, Tarnished... what is that on your head?" Melina's train of thought was derailed as she stared at him.
The Tarnished was currently wearing a massive, bulbous Glintstone Crown. "It's ugly, right? Tell me the truth." He tapped the stone casing. It was a Karolos Glintstone Crown, a symbol of academic honor that supposedly increased one's intelligence.
"..." Melina didn't speak, but her expression said everything.
"Want to try it on?" He reached out to hand it to her.
"I... I refuse." Melina vanished into the Site of Grace instantly.
"Guess she hates it too. Well, at least I saw a new side of her. She's getting picky."
The Tarnished continued through the Academy. Most sorcerers gave him a wide berth, but he noticed a few who were slumped over, snoring. A familiar pale purple mist hovered over their heads.
(Trina's Crystal Ball can collect this, right?) He pulled out the sphere, and the mist flowed into it like silk, making the crystal look even more dreamlike.
"You there! Tarnished! Get back!" a voice warned.
The Tarnished turned to see a large, anthropomorphic jar with long, spindly legs sprinting toward him.
"What is this? A runaway kitchen appliance?" He grabbed a nearby sorcerer by the collar.
"That's a Warrior Jar! We can't control them—they live for combat! It probably sensed your strength and wants to test itself!"
The Tarnished dodged a heavy, clay-fisted punch. The Jar began to spin like a top, its arms outstretched, whirring toward him.
"I didn't start this. If it breaks, don't blame me." He dodged the spinning attack and delivered a heavy, palm-strike reinforced with Grace. The jar cracked, leaking blood and scraps of meat—remnants of the warriors it had consumed.
"So the legends are true... they really are made of warriors. Disgusting, but fascinating." He turned to the trembling mages. "Clean this up. I'm not done with my tour."
As he walked away, he doubled back. "Almost forgot." He picked up a smooth, unadorned small jar from a shelf. "This'll make a perfect Rancor Pot."
The sorcerers watched him go, their teeth gritted. "Thief! Bandit!" they hissed under their breath. But they didn't stop him. They knew where he was going next.
Up the stairs, the air grew heavy. A bestial scent wafted from the great hall ahead. It was a presence more primal and powerful than Godrick. Nearby, he saw a Stake of Marika.
AOWOOOOOO!
A howl tore through the air. A massive wolf with crimson fur and intelligent eyes leapt from the shadows. In its jaws, it held a shimmering blue magic greatsword. It swung the blade with the grace of a fencer.
"A wolf? And you know magic?" The Tarnished leapt over the strike, landing on the wolf's back and flipping into the center of the hall. "Fine. Let's see how you like a pack of your own."
He rang the Spirit Calling Bell. Three spectral Lone Wolves appeared, snarling at the Red Wolf of Radagon.
"Five wolves on the field. My bet is on me."
The Red Wolf was no ordinary beast. It didn't charge blindly; it paced, casting Glintstone Phalanx—three blue daggers that hovered over its head.
The battle was a blur of fur and steel. The three spectral wolves were surprisingly agile, weaving through the Red Wolf's magic as if they had fought sorcerers before. While they distracted the beast, the Tarnished stayed low, watching for the opening.
The Red Wolf leaped high, spinning in the air to bring its magic blade down in a crushing wave. The Tarnished dismissed his summons just in time and rolled beneath the shockwave.
He drew his Newel Moon. "You remind me of someone... let's see if you have his spirit."
The Tarnished mimicked the wolf's own low-slung stance. He charged, stay-sliding along the floor. The Red Wolf jumped to the right to counter, but the Tarnished used his left hand to pivot, sweeping his blade in a 360-degree arc that caught the wolf's underbelly.
With a cry of pain, the wolf stumbled. Before it could recover, the Tarnished leapt and drove his blade straight through its back, pinning it to the floor.
"Too slow, little puppy." He released a burst of Zamor frost, freezing the wolf solid. The Red Wolf didn't leave a corpse; it dissolved into motes of Golden Grace.
(Red hair... just like Radagon, the man who left Queen Rennala. Interesting connection.)
He touched the newly formed Site of Grace. Melina didn't appear—this Grace felt weak, like a temporary echo.
He stepped out into the debate parlor's courtyard. He was halfway through the Academy's surface. He could feel the Great Rune nearby... but suddenly, a golden symbol flashed in his vision.
It was an urgent SOS. A summoning sign from a fellow Tarnished.
"Wait... this is Istvan's signal?"
The Tarnished touched the burning gold sign. The world of Liurnia dissolved, and he was pulled across the map to a familiar, rainy landscape.
The Weeping Peninsula.