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"You should sit," Melina said softly, helping Harry down beside the newly activated site of grace. The golden light cast a warm glow over his pale face. "That battle with Margit... you pushed yourself too far."
Harry winced as he settled against the wall. "Had to be done. Every minute we waste, Godrick could be—" He stopped, not wanting to finish the thought of what might be happening to Artan, Roderika and the others.
"I know. But you won't help anyone if you collapse." Melina knelt beside him, her violet eye studying his face with concern. "The grace will help restore your strength, but you need to actually rest for it to work."
"I'm fine," Harry insisted, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. "Just need to catch my breath."
"'Fine' is not how I'd describe someone who just had a magical sword run through them." Melina's tone was gentle but firm. "Even with the Golden Seed's power, you're not invincible."
Harry managed a weak chuckle. "Sounds like something Hermione would say." His expression softened. "She'd probably lecture me for an hour about reckless behavior."
"Your friend sounds wise." Melina smiled. "Though I doubt even she could match your particular talent for finding trouble."
"Trouble usually finds me, I'll have you know." Harry tried to sit up straighter and immediately regretted it. "Usually. This time might be a bit more my fault."
Melina's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh? So the trouble magnet actually went looking for it this time?" she teased, trying and failing to suppress her grin. Harry chuckled slightly, before remembering something that has been on his mind for some time.
"Melina," Harry said quietly, "remember when we first met, you mentioned the Frenzied Flame being the most dangerous of the Outer Gods?"
Melina nodded, not sure why he was bringing it up. "You've been thinking about that?"
"Well, yeah. You said 'most dangerous,' which means there are others. What are they like?"
Melina's expression grew somber. "There's the Rot God, for one. Some say it afflicts Malenia herself, though I cannot be certain of this."
"Malenia?" Harry leaned forward, wincing slightly. "I think you mentioned her before, she is one of Queen Marika's children, and I heard she is one of the most powerful demigods out there?"
"Yes. You've heard the soldiers speak of her, haven't you? The undefeated swordswoman."
Harry nodded. "But what's this about rot? Is it..." He hesitated. "Is it anything like what we saw in Caelid?"
"Ah," Melina said softly. "You've made the connection. Yes, Caelid is... was... different once."
"Was? You mean it wasn't always that... that nightmare?"
"No." Melina's eye grew distant. "Caelid was once like Limgrave - perhaps even more beautiful. Rolling plains, proud warriors, the Redmane Castle standing tall. Then came the battle between Malenia and General Radahn."
Harry frowned. "What happened?"
"During their fight, Malenia... she bloomed. Released the power of rot itself. Some say it was desperation, others say it was inevitable. But in that moment, she sacrificed her pride, her honor, to avoid defeat." Melina's voice grew quiet. "The entire region was consumed. The scarlet rot spread like a plague, turning the land into what you saw. The soldiers, the animals, even the very earth - all transformed."
"Bloody hell," Harry whispered, thinking of the twisted horrors they'd glimpsed in Caelid. "All that... just from one battle?"
"One bloom of the rot, yes. That's the true horror of the Outer Gods, Harry. Their power isn't just destruction - it's corruption. Transformation. The Frenzied Flame burns, but the Rot... it twists. Changes. Creates suffering that lasts generations."
"Like a disease," Harry said, thinking of the magical ailments Madam Pomfrey had told him about. "But worse."
"Much worse," Melina agreed. "Regular diseases can be cured. But the rot? It's like a curse that spreads and spreads, with no end. There is said that someone once tried to heal Malenia of her Scarlet Rot, but I think it's clear they failed. I have never been there for long. The soldiers here in Limgrave are lost, they are without a purpose, but the soldiers in Caelid are suffering, and many of them have long lost their minds, and there's nothing there to save."
Harry shuddered, remembering the shambling forms they'd seen from a distance. "And Malenia... she has this power inside her? All the time?"
"She contains it, mostly. But yes, that's what they say. Can you imagine?" Melina's voice held a mix of pity and horror. "Living with such a thing, knowing what it could do? What it has done?"
"It's horrible," Harry said. "I thought I had it rough with..." He touched his scar absently. "But that's nothing compared to carrying something that could destroy entire kingdoms."
Melina watched him with her violet eye. "You're thinking of your friends again, aren't you?"
"Hard not to. If this rot is so dangerous... Godrick is collecting body parts, but I wonder if there's more to this. I mean, are these Demi-Gods as powerful as you say? I'm not sure just collecting body parts will be enough to one day challenge them for the Elden Ring?"
"I'm not sure, but Godrick has done this since the Shattering; they say that he once suffered a great defeat from Malenia, and to survive he had to kneel before her, and beg to her," Melina said. "Godrick is cruel, but he's not foolish enough to mess with powers like that. Still, his 'grafting' is its own kind of horror."
A rough voice suddenly called out from a side door near the gate: "You there! Young Tarnished!"
Harry and Melina tensed, but the voice continued in what seemed to be a friendly tone.
"No need for alarm! Name's Gostoc, gatekeeper of this castle. Saw your fight with Margit - quite impressive! Though you look like you've seen better days."
Harry peered through the gloom at a hunched figure in the doorway. "You work for Godrick?"
"Work for him? Ha!" Gostoc's laugh was bitter. "I suppose you could say that, though not by choice. But I know every secret path in this castle. Could help you find your friends... for a reasonable fee, of course."
Melina's eye narrowed. "And why should we trust you?"
"Because I hate that grafted fool more than anyone," Gostoc spat. "Been trapped here serving him for years. But I'm no fighter - can't do anything about it myself. You though..." He gestured at Harry. "You've got power. Real power. Not that stolen strength Godrick takes from others."
Harry exchanged a look with Melina. "What exactly are you offering?"
"There's a side passage. Leads right past the main gate, avoids most of the guards. I can show you the way... for thirty percent of any runes you collect."
"Twenty percent," Harry countered, remembering the haggling he'd seen at Diagon Alley.
Gostoc cackled. "Oh, I like you! Bold, even half-dead. Twenty-five, and I'll throw in some inside information about where they're keeping your friends."
Before Harry could respond, Melina touched his arm. "A moment, please." She drew him aside, speaking in a low voice. "We should consider this carefully. He could be leading us into a trap."
"Could be," Harry agreed. "But we need to find Artan and the others quickly. And honestly..." He grimaced. "I'm not sure how many more direct fights I can handle right now."
Melina studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. But stay alert. Something about him feels... off."
They turned back to Gostoc. "Twenty-five percent," Harry said. "But if you betray us..."
"Yes, yes, terrible death, horrible vengeance, I'm sure." Gostoc waved dismissively. "Save your strength for Godrick. Now, first thing you should know - they're keeping the new 'materials' in the east wing. That's where your friends will be."
"They're not 'materials,'" Harry said sharply. "They're people."
"Of course, of course," Gostoc said smoothly. "Poor choice of words. Now, about that side passage..." He gestured to the door. "Just through here. Though you might want to rest a bit longer first. You look ready to fall over."
"I can manage," Harry insisted, pushing himself to his feet. He swayed slightly, and Melina steadied him.
"Stubborn one, aren't you?" Gostoc observed. "Well, your funeral if you rush in. Though I suppose that's better than ending up as part of Godrick's... collection."
"Harry," Melina said quietly. "Ten minutes. That's all I ask. Let the grace do its work."
Harry wanted to argue, but the world was starting to spin slightly. "Fine. Ten minutes. But then we move."
"Wise choice," Gostoc said, settling against the doorframe. "While we wait, perhaps you'd like to hear about some of the castle's defenses? Always good to know what you're walking into..."
As Gostoc began describing guard patterns and patrol routes, Harry felt the grace flowing into him, slowly restoring his strength. He tried to focus on the information, but his mind kept drifting to his captured friends. He'd already lost too many people in his life - his parents, nearly Hermione in the second year. He wouldn't lose anyone else, not if he could help it.
"You're thinking too loud," Melina murmured, so only he could hear.
"Sorry," Harry whispered back. "Just... I got them into this. They followed my lead, trusted me."
"And now you'll help them," she said firmly. "But you can't help anyone if you don't take care of yourself first."
"Wise words indeed," Gostoc interjected, making them both start slightly. "Though I do hope you're planning to be a bit more stealthy inside. These walls have ears, you know. And eyes. And various other grafted body parts..."
"That's not helping," Melina said flatly.
Gostoc shrugged. "Just telling it like it is. This castle's seen some right horrors. Speaking of which, how are you with heights? Because there's this lovely narrow ledge we'll need to cross..."
As Gostoc continued his unsettling description of their route, Harry felt strength gradually returning to his limbs. The pain from Margit's wound was fading to a dull ache. He knew it wasn't fully healed - that would take more time - but it would have to be enough.
"Right then," he said, pushing himself to his feet more steadily this time. "Ten minutes are up. Time to move."
"Are you sure?" Melina asked, though she already knew the answer.
"No," Harry admitted. "But Roderika and the others don't have time for me to be sure." He turned to Gostoc. "Lead the way. But remember - twenty-five percent of the runes, nothing more. And if this is a trap..."
"Yes, yes, horrible death, we covered that." Gostoc gestured impatiently. "Coming or not?"
Harry took a deep breath, checking that his sword was secure and his grace was flowing smoothly. "Let's go."
As they followed Gostoc into the room from where he came from, Melina stayed close to Harry's side. "I still don't trust him," she whispered.
"Neither do I," Harry whispered back. "But sometimes you have to work with people you don't trust to help the people you do."
Melina's eye widened slightly. "That's... surprisingly wise."
"Don't sound so shocked," Harry said with a faint grin. "I do occasionally have good ideas."
"Less chatting, more sneaking," Gostoc called back softly. "Unless you want to explain to the guards why you're having a cozy conversation in their castle?"
Harry and Melina fell silent, following their dubious guide deeper into Stormveil Castle.
The wind howled through the ancient stones of Stormveil Castle as Harry, Melina, and Gostoc made their way along the weathered walls. The hunched figure of Gostoc led them through a side chamber, his movements quick and furtive like a nervous rat.
"Watch your step," Gostoc warned, his voice carrying an edge of barely concealed amusement. "Wouldn't want our distinguished guests taking a tumble, would we?"
The chamber they entered was dimly lit, with moldy tapestries hanging in tatters from the walls. A gaping hole in the stonework opened to the outside world, revealing a narrow pathway that hugged the castle's exterior wall. Harry could taste salt in the air from the distant sea.
"Blimey," Harry muttered, peering down at the clearing below. The drop wasn't fatal, but it would certainly hurt. What caught his attention were the massive eagles perched on the rolling hills below – each one easily twice his size.
"Are those... blades on their feet?" Harry asked, noticing the gleaming metal attached to the birds' talons.
Gostoc let out a wheezing laugh. "Aye, those are Stormhawks. Nasty pieces of work. They hunt in packs, like wolves with wings. Best to keep your distance, unless you fancy being carved up like a holiday roast."
Melina stepped closer to Harry, her voice low. "Be wary. Gostoc speaks true about their hunting patterns, though I suspect he knows more than he's sharing."
They continued along the precarious pathway, the stone beneath their feet worn smooth by centuries of use. The wind tugged at Harry's clothes, and he kept one hand on the wall for balance. Finally, they reached another opening in the castle wall, this one large enough for several people to pass through comfortably.
"After you," Gostoc gestured with an exaggerated bow that made Harry's skin crawl with suspicion.
They jumped through the opening, landing on yet another exterior pathway. Ahead, Harry spotted the familiar sight of a Site of Grace, its magic dormant and waiting to be awakened. But before he could reach it, a chorus of sharp whistles pierced the air.
Five massive Stormhawks descended from above, their blade-equipped talons glinting in the sunlight. Gostoc's reaction was immediate – and telling.
"Every man for himself!" he cackled, turning tail and sprinting back the way they'd come.
"Harry!" Melina called out, moving to stand back-to-back with him.
But Harry was already in motion. Drawing on his growing mastery of grace, he conjured twenty spheres of golden light, each one blazing like a miniature sun. With a thought, he sent them spiraling toward the approaching Stormhawks in complex patterns.
"Let's see how you like this," Harry growled, his voice nearly lost in the wind.
The spheres detonated in rapid succession. The Stormhawks didn't even have time to screech before the blasts consumed them. As they dissolved into golden motes, Harry felt the familiar warmth of their runes flowing into him, like drinking hot butterbeer on a cold day.
"Impressive," Melina said, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "Your control over multiple projectiles has improved significantly."
Harry approached the dormant Site of Grace, still catching his breath. "Thanks. Though I have a feeling our friend Gostoc was hoping for a different outcome."
"Indeed," Melina agreed. "His type is common in these lands – those who survive by profiting from the deaths of others."
Harry knelt before the Site of Grace, reaching out to touch it. Golden light spiraled up from the ground, forming the familiar sword of grace. As it activated, words formed in Harry's mind: Stormveil Cliffside.
"Well," Harry said, standing up and brushing off his knees, "So far so good, let's just hope this doesn't get more complicated."
Melina gazed up at the towering walls of Stormveil Castle. "The real challenge lies ahead. Godrick's forces will be better organized inside the castle proper."
"Then we'd better be ready," Harry replied, checking his sword and making sure his ring was secure. "Artan and the others are counting on us."
The wind continued to howl around them, carrying the distant sounds of clashing steel and inhuman screams from deeper within the castle.
"You know," Harry said, breaking the momentary silence, "if someone had told me at the start of summer that I'd be storming a castle in another world to save friends from a mad demigod who grafts body parts onto himself, I'd have thought they'd been hit with a Confundus Charm."
Melina tilted her head, her visible eye showing a hint of amusement. "And now?"
"Now?" Harry shrugged, a small smile forming. "Now it feels almost normal. Though I doubt Hermione would believe any of this even if I could tell her."
"You care deeply for her," Melina observed, her tone neutral but thoughtful.
Harry felt his cheeks warm slightly. "She's my best friend. She's always been there for me, even when things seemed impossible." He paused, then added, "Like you are now."
A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the wind and the distant cry of another Stormhawk. Finally, Melina spoke again, her voice carrying its usual quiet strength.
"We should press on. The longer we delay, the more time Godrick has to prepare his defenses – or worse, to proceed with his grotesque experiments on your friends."
Harry nodded, his expression hardening as he remembered why they were here. "Right. Which way do you think we should go? I'm guessing our 'friend' Gostoc won't be coming back to guide us."
"There," Melina pointed to a partially hidden doorway further along the wall. "That should lead us deeper into the castle. But be cautious – Godrick's soldiers often hide in ambush around such passages."
"Wouldn't expect anything less," Harry replied, drawing his sword and creating a few small spheres of light to hover around them. "Ready?"
Ascending the wooden platforms filled Harry with unease - each step causing the ancient boards to creak ominously. The void below seemed to stretch endlessly into darkness, making him press closer to the castle's stone wall.
"Bit strange, isn't it?" Harry whispered to Melina. "No guards anywhere."
"Indeed," Melina replied softly. "Be on your guard. This could be another of Godrick's traps."
They reached the top platform where a round chamber awaited them, illuminated by sputtering torches. Just as they approached the inner door, a scream echoed from beyond, followed by furious cursing.
Harry's instincts kicked in. He burst through the door, ready with his sword in hand, emerging into a vast corridor. The ceiling stretched so high it was lost in shadow, with wooden platforms and stairs crisscrossing the space above like a giant's game of pick-up sticks.
The scene before him froze him in his tracks. A horrific creature skittered across the floor - a grotesque spider-like abomination whose legs were made of grafted human arms. But what drew his attention was the warrior facing it down - a woman with olive skin wielding an axe.
Before Harry could intervene, the woman moved with practiced efficiency. Her axe flashed, severing two of the creature's arm-legs in a single sweep. As it shrieked in pain, she drove a short sword straight through its eye. The monster collapsed, its limbs twitching before falling still.
The warrior turned to face them, her keen eyes assessing Harry and Melina.
"Well, who do we have here?" she asked, cleaning her blade with a napkin she pulled from a pocket in her pants. "Tarnished, are you? Clearly not one of Godrick's lot."
"No," Harry replied, lowering his sword slightly but staying alert. "We're here to stop him, actually. He's taken some friends of mine."
The woman nodded grimly. "I am Nepheli Loux. Tarnished and warrior, like you. I'm here by decree of my father." Her gaze drifted to the fallen creature, disgust evident in her expression. "How utterly repellant this is... This 'grafting' of Godrick's ill befits a Lord. He's tainted the very winds."
"You know about the grafting then?" Harry asked, thinking of Artan and the others. "We need to find his prisoners before he can-"
A distant crash interrupted him, followed by the sound of marching feet.
"Guards," Melina warned quietly.
Nepheli gestured to a recessed alcove. "In here. Quickly. We should talk, but not where Godrick's soldiers can find us."
They hurried into the alcove, which was deeper than it appeared, forming a small chamber hidden from the main corridor. As the sound of armored footsteps grew closer, Harry could make out Nepheli's features better in the dim light.
She has a powerful and athletic physique. Her dark, shoulder-length hair flows freely, framing her intense, determined expression. Her almond-shaped eyes are bold and captivating, with dark eyeliner accentuating their fierce gaze. Her lips are painted a deep crimson.
She wears a headpiece crafted from intricately designed metal, resembling a crown. Her outfit is minimal, featuring a strapless top made of black, fur-like material that blends with the rough, primal aesthetic of her attire. A leather strap crosses her chest diagonally, securing her gear in place.
Her left shoulder is protected by a detailed metal pauldron, while her wrists are adorned with thick bracers carved with ornate patterns. She also wears a fur-lined skirt held together by a sturdy belt and chain.
"Your friends," Nepheli whispered once the patrol had passed. "When were they taken?"
"Less than a day ago," Harry replied. "A group of us were ambushed near the gate. Some got away, but eight were captured."
Nepheli's expression darkened. "Then there's still hope. Godrick usually keeps his... subjects... alive for several days before the grafting. He believes their fear makes the process more effective."
Harry felt sick. "Do you know where he keeps them?"
"The dungeons are below, but reaching them won't be simple. The way is guarded by his knights and more of those..." she gestured toward the corridor where the arm-spider lay, "experiments."
Melina spoke up. "You seem to know much about the castle's layout."
"I've been here three days, mapping the routes and killing Godrick's abominations where I find them." Nepheli's voice carried a note of grim satisfaction. "I could help you reach the dungeons, but in return, I want your aid when I face Godrick himself."
Harry exchanged a look with Melina before nodding. "Deal. But we save my friends first."
"Agreed." Nepheli peered out of the alcove. "The patrols run on regular intervals. We have about ten minutes before the next one. I know a way down through the kitchens that's less guarded."
"Why are you really here?" Melina asked suddenly. "You mentioned your father's decree."
Nepheli's expression remained neutral, but Harry noticed her hand tighten on her axe. "My reasons are my own, but know that I want Godrick stopped as much as you do. His grafting is an abomination against nature itself. No true Lord would resort to such measures."
The sound of distant screaming echoed through the corridors, making Harry's blood run cold.
"We need to move," he said urgently. "That could be one of my friends."
Nepheli nodded. "Follow me, and stay quiet. The kitchens are through a service corridor two levels down. We'll need to be careful - some of the floors have collapsed, and Godrick's creatures nest in the gaps."
The Great Hall
The grand hall of Stormveil Castle echoes with distant screams, their haunting melody mixing with the howling winds that whip through the ancient stone corridors. Torchlight flickers across weathered walls, casting dancing shadows that seem to writhe like the countless grafted limbs adorning the castle's twisted lord.
Godrick the Grafted slouches upon his grotesque throne, a masterwork of horror crafted from fused bone and flesh. His form is massive yet somehow withered, skin pallid and stretched across a frame that nature never intended. A heavy cloak of deep crimson conceals the obscene collection of arms grafted to his back, though occasional twitches beneath the fabric betray their presence. His face is a cruel artwork - sunken eyes gleaming with desperate pride, wispy white hair hanging limply around a golden crown that sits askew upon his head.
The main hall stretches vast before him, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Rows of pillars march into darkness, each carved with scenes of the golden lineage he so desperately claims. Five soldiers in dull armor drag a struggling figure forward, their boots scraping against the stone floor slick with old blood.
"Another one?" Godrick's voice rasps with contempt. Without warning, he hurls a sword that embeds itself in the floor before the prisoner. The soldiers release their captive, stepping back as the man lunges for the weapon.
The would-be hero charges with a roar, blade flashing in wild arcs. Godrick moves with shocking speed for his bulk, weaving around each slash with casual grace. His third arm shoots out from beneath the cloak, fingers like iron closing around the man's throat. The prisoner dangles helplessly as Godrick rises, retrieving his massive golden axe with yet another grafted limb.
"Pathetic," Godrick sneers, studying his prey's purpling face. "Is this truly the best you can bring me? Where are the mighty heroes? The great warriors?" His voice rises to a shriek of frustration. "I am Lord of all that is Golden!"
The axe moves in a brutal arc. The man's screams turn liquid as first his arms, then legs are severed with surgical precision. Blood paints elaborate patterns across the floor as Godrick lets the ruined torso fall.
"Not even worthy to join with my flesh," Godrick spits. "Guards! Take these limbs to the grafting chamber - I want a new spider for the courtyard. Feed what remains to the hounds."
The heavy doors groan open, admitting a towering figure in bronze armor. The Crucible Knight strides. His horned helm betrays no reaction to the carnage.
Godrick's face twists with barely contained rage. "Why do you abandon your post, knight? Your loyalty may not be mine, but I still command your service!"
The knight's voice emerges like steel on stone: "Margit the Fell has been defeated, Lord of Grafting. He was defeated by a Tarnished."
A heavy silence falls, broken only by the wet sounds of the guards gathering severed limbs. Godrick's many hands clench and unclench, and for just a moment, true fear flickers in those ancient eyes.
"A Tarnished strong enough to defeat Margit?" Godrick leaned back in his throne, his grotesque face twisting into something between a sneer and a smile. His grafted arms writhed beneath his cloak like serpents sensing prey.
Blood from his recent victim still dripped from his golden axe as he rose from his throne, his true height becoming apparent as multiple limbs shifted beneath his cloak.
"Finally," he growled, his eyes gleaming with malevolent anticipation, "someone worthy has entered my castle. Someone whose strength is fit to be grafted onto my divine form." He lifted his axe, admiring how the firelight played across its golden surface. "Let them come. I shall take their arms, their legs, their very soul... and add it to my collection. Every warrior who falls before me makes me stronger - their strength becomes my strength, their power becomes my power."
The Crucible Knight remained motionless, his bronze armor reflecting the dancing flames as Godrick continued his proclamation."When I'm done, this Tarnished will be begging for death... but I shall deny them even that mercy. They shall live on as part of my glorious form, bearing witness to my ascension to true godhood!"
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