And lo, I awoke beneath a sky that had forgotten its dawn.
The winds whispered of grace, but their breath was hollow.
Every horizon shimmered with promise... yet reeked of memory.
Hope stood before me, radiant and false,
her light the first sin I ever believed.


And lo, beneath the sky’s grieving hymn, I beheld the Golden Tree... a pyre disguised as paradise, burning slow with sorrow’s flame. its roots writhed through the bones of the forgotten, drinking from the sins that once were prayers. Then spake the Serpent, coiled within my soul: " Gaze upon it, o pilgrim of ash, for even light may descend through Hell, and call itself divine. ”


She appeared as a quiet apparition, her eye sealed against the full light of this ruin. O spirit born to the pyre, she extended the hand of accord, a bargain of grace for her own oblivion. "i can play the role of Maiden" she offered, and the full weight of the transaction was laid bare. the Serpent's voice, cold and final, settled in my heart: " She offereth herself as sacrifice. Accept it. For the ambitious must learn... those who love thee are but fuel for the pyre thou climbest "


The knight rose before you like a soul barred from the true path, one who once swore fealty to Stormveil, yet was cast into shadow when his oath no longer pleased the throne. his torch sputtered like a dying prayer, its glow revealing not devotion but the quiet terror of one abandoned by his own lord. He came at you with the desperation of the forgotten. and when his breath failed, the darkness welcomed him as though he had never left it. Then spake the Serpent: " Learn this, Bearer… the faithful die first, and the walls they serve do not mourn them. "


He stood crowned in borrowed flesh, a sovereign of scavenged glory,
stitched together by fear of being forgotten.
Arms upon arms, voices upon voices, yet not one was truly his. He roared of lineage, of the might of old golden blood, but his throne was built from the limbs of better men.
And when your blade found the truth beneath his patchwork majesty,
the hall trembled, not at his fall, but at how little was required to unmake him.
Then spake the Serpent: “ Behold the fate of kings who cannot stand alone. Greatness worn is not greatness earned. ”