The Lion looked down on the ruins. He was too late. Much too late. This was not the time to have left Anor Londo. Still, it was what the Great Lord would have wanted, what the young Lord would have wanted, and most importantly, it was the least he felt he could do.

How long ago had it been that this fate had begun? Was it so close that he could have stopped it, could have saved them had he left sooner? Was it that night so long ago, before the Flame destroyed Ilyon? It was custom that the Dragonslayers wore full helmets so that they might never show weakness. They thought it so that they would not disgrace their Captain, but in truth, it was the opposite.

The Lion roared so that the cavern walls shook, casting his sculpted helm to the poisoned earth. Countless bestial demons emerged from their hiding places, awakened by the red-hot rage, as if the Bed of Chaos were loosed once more. Worry lined the knight-captain's fair face. His red eyes were sunken for lack of sleep, and as was increasingly becoming the case, he hadn't the luxury of time to shave. His high scarlet ponytail was matted from sweat and grime, no longer a brilliant plume.

With his sturdy dragonslayer spear, forged of mighty titanite to pierce scales of stone, he had no trouble tearing through demon hide, no matter how thick. Lightning flashed, and mighty bolts tore through meat and marble, shattering what was left of the fallen city. After an hour or so, there was nothing left of the demons. More would inevitably creep out of the sealed dome, but for now, the upper ruins were purged of the twisted life. The cold and noble Captain Ornstein of Gwyn's Knights stood alone covered in blood and hardened magma, roaring for more.

Hands shaking, he sat amongst the corpses and drew a roll of parchment from his belt. He read it again. He started to put it back, but then he read it yet again. The last words of a Daughter who would never know her father.

"My what?!" the young man snarled.

"If you would allow me continue, dearest-"

"Thou speakest of intimacy which dideth not occur!"

"You don't remember that passionate night when Ilyon burned above us?"

"My brothers canneth attest they and I fought the blazes while they yet burned!"

"Yes, oh, that was it," the woman moaned sensuously. "That passion. That desperate need to save everyone. I had thought of it before, but that was when I knew you would be the perfect father."

"Then tellest me when I lay with you!"

"Oh, Ornstein, if only you had a sense of humor… or a sex drive."

The Witch of Izalith, one of the Lords who seized the Flame for themselves, stood opposite a young soldier on a vast field of ash. She licked her plump lips as she spoke, the only part of her visible beneath her fanciful robes of black silk and gold. Still, a rather distinct bump caused the loose fabric to tent. The youth was fair-skinned and fiery-haired and -eyed, but his face already had lines of worry. Much of his own body was covered in heavy brass plate, and he gripped a simple spear in one hand defensively.

In the hollows beneath the archtrees, the peoples of Flame lived apart. The burning and collapse of the City of Fire and its Tower of Flame had shattered the trust once shared by the former pygmies. The soldier knew his Lord did not blame either of the others, but in the eyes of the people, it would be tantamount to treason. For the young prince's tutor to do so was unspeakable, yet he could not refuse such a distinct summons.

"As much as I wish we could have made this little one… naturally…" the Witch continued, patting her belly, "her origin lies elsewhere."

"Then how?!"

"Oh, hold your enthusiasm," she pouted. "I won't be able to bear it if you keep it up."

The soldier's eyebrows twitched.

"Even I," the Witch chuckled, "cannot create life from nothing. I could double-down – truly be vain and conceive my Daughters by myself – but that's boring. There's no spice to be had, arguing with doppelgangers of oneself. So I decided to find fathers. Only the best for my girls!

Now, of course, I have a bit of a reputation," she said, waggling her hips, "and no one wishes to have illegitimate children, even if they would be perfectly cared for. I was forced to use other means. In your case, my beloved Ornstein, I made the seed from your beautiful hair. Do you think our Daughter will have her father's hair? I certainly hope so."

The soldier clutched at his wild, tall ponytail in bewilderment. The Witch stepped forward to feel it as well, but he barred her path with his spear.

"Why," he growled, "I prithee tell me, didst thou reveal to me alone this violation?"

The Witch smiled sadly.

"We are all liars now, Ornstein. Pitiful creatures of Want, grand though we are. You've seen the beginnings of it, haven't you? How Gwyn's friends and family bicker over who is to rule what. They invent glories for themselves and think nothing of the war that is to come.

You are a rare sort, dear Ornstein. Your lies are honest. Always the model by which Gwyn's soldiery is judged, yet that model is a lie. You wear a mask to hide your fangs and stout armor that won't rattle when you quiver with rage. You know of zeal but also of restraint.

I'll offer you this once, though I know you won't accept. Join me. Become my consort, and be free of the burdens which you will surely bear."

"Thou explainest nothing and offerest insult to my Lord. It is my honor to tutor the young prince, yet thou insist thou bearest my child and thus I should join thee. Thou art mad."

"That you already have experience in child-rearing was quite appealing, true, but at heart, it is because I can trust you, Ornstein. I believe I can trust Gwyn, but I also know he trusts in turn those he should not. I tell you alone that this child is yours because we will soon face dangers we may not be strong enough to overcome. If I do not survive, I can trust you watch out for them – for your Daughter and for all my girls, born and unborn."

The Dragonslayer rumbled with self-loathing. The Witch had been terribly wrong about a great deal of things. He had been too busy to visit when the birth of the new princess of Izalith was announced. As soldiers became Knights and princesses became Witches in their own right, he saw the girls only occasionally and in formal capacity. When the war with the dragons rose, they acted in union, and not one of them stood out.

He became the Lion, Captain of the Knights, Chief of the Dragonslayers, First of the Four, and Right Hand of the War God. He hardly had time to think of them. Yet from the start, he admitted, he had unconsciously paid close attention to their individual accomplishments. The socialites of Anor Londo praised his ability to diplomatically remember what each was know for and turned to him for advice. He was not so selfless.

It was a sin, the likes of which even wicked Velka didn't know. A celibate, holy knight dedicated only to his Lord and his duty, had a secret child. He took undue pride in his Daughter's accomplishments. He could never speak of his joy; that was the penance he must endure for such a crime. He bore it with the dignity he did all things, but when his fellow Knights vanished into the Dark of Oolacile, his Lord passed on, and the prince he had accompanied from infancy was exiled, he could not bear the thought of losing his secret treasure as well.

With a crack of thunder, Ornstein burst from the ruins and into the dilapidated bell tower. It had been built after the fall of Izalith to warn of demon attacks, but in the wake of Gwynael's exile, he had trouble explaining its need. The demons were suppressed, surely, thought the nobles of Anor Londo. The Dragonslayer could hardly gainsay them when in truth, much of the funding dedicated to the tower was solely to support the hidden Daughters of Chaos. It had been many years since the last shipment, but he had recently received a letter in their secret code, a final farewell.

"We will soon be little better than beasts which feed on humanity. If the fates are kind, we will perish before we are consumed by Chaos or driven mad by its hunger."

Ornstein had descended to the wastes below the holy capital as fast as his feet could carry him. The tower was empty, and the ruins held only demons. Where could they be? A scream rang out from above. Trailing streams of lightning, the Dragonslayer bounded up the immense supports of Londo's wall.

He leapt across the toxic swamp to the rattling shantytown. The wretched humans which lived among the waste of the Burg above were all screaming now, but only a few of them could be seen actively fleeing. The demigod sprinted past them, careful not to put so much of his weight down as to break the flimsy planks which formed the floor of the town. Entering an enormous stone tube which formed some inscrutable part of the sewage system, he found the interior criss-crossed with the web of an arachne demon. The poisoned and deformed residents of what the people of Anor Londo called "Blighttown" hung limply from the webs.

Several of them were already dead, desiccated husks from which all vitality had been drained. Glancing upward, he saw the demon, about to stab its proboscis-tongue into its next victim. The Dragonslayer's jump shattered the platform on which he had stood, and his sturdy spear shattered the demon's back. The pair fell through the rickety platforms, eventually breaking against the iron grate at the bottom.

"Quelaag! What dost thou think thou art doing?!" he roared.

The woman springing from the demon's head had clearly seen better days. Her eyes were red and sunken, if they could be seen at all beneath the rain of wild hair that fell about most of her upper body. She was pale and thin from malnourishment to the point of visible ribs. Even with the corpses above, she'd not eaten, clenching their humanity in a trembling fist.

"They owe it to her!" she screamed madly. "She saved them, so it's alright if I kill a few to save her!"

"Calm thyself!" Ornstein snarled, twisting his spear in her spider abdomen.

The demoness screeched in pain but relaxed, breathing unevenly.

"Sir Ornstein," she said slowly, having trouble keeping her vision focused. "I hate for you to find me in such condition. We have to hurry!" she said suddenly, panic taking over her voice. "Quelaav won't make it! I need more humanity!"

"I said calm thyself! What hast happened to Quelaav? What of thy other sisters?"

"Quelaav drained the blight," Quelaag whined. "It's killing her so fast! I bound her to a bonfire, but it's not working!"

"That ist impossi- Nevermind. Here. I had brought a small amount of that vile substance, but I see it is not enough."

He held up a sealed jar within which a number of the sprites squirmed uneasily.

"Thou must first promise that this – this behavior – will never happen again. Art thou a proud witch of Izalith and dragonslayer or a mere beast to be hunted by Lloyd and his church?"

She stiffened.

"I am… the second princess of Izalith… and should act as such."

He brushed the hair out of her face and grabbed at his own. He tugged free the old ribbon that held up his proud plume, letting it fall about him as a blood-colored cascade. Tersely, he tied her hair into a familiar ponytail.

"Good. Dost not forget thou art more than demon. No matter how dire the situation, one must always keepeth his covenants. Such is all that keepeth us from falling into the Dark. Now, what of thine other sisters?"

"A thought hath come to me, Captain," Artorias said suddenly.

"A miracle if there ever wert one."

"Uncalled-for, Captain," Artorias continued, "I just-"

"Dad, look out!"

Artorias howled in agony as his kart was blasted with lightning and shrunk.

"Hmph," Gough muttered. "I have a feeling the Captain is only bad at this game because those placing poorly can cast lightning."

"May I speak, or will you all interrupt me at every turn?" the Wolf Knight chuckled.

"As long as you are content with green shells at every turn, old friend!" the giant retorted, blasting his kart and taking the lead.

"Lords, fine! That Fire Keeper girl wast asking what I knew about the Prophecy earlier. For the museum. I wasn't helpful, but I learned a lot."

"Two miracles in one day-"

"Stoppeth that! And why art thou holding that blue shell whilst Gough holdeth the lead?"

"Why canst thou not keep thine eyes on thine own screen?"

"Fine! Captain, hast thou ever noticed how similar thou art to Quelaag? You were both guarding a princess which was some sort of secret at some of the highest and lowest parts of Lordran, you were both the last active member of a group that hunted dragons, you both put the needs of those you were protecting before your own, and you were both the leader of the defense in your city before it fell."

"Those are all common details, Artorias," Ornstein grumbled as his kart fell off the track for the umpteenth time. "Next thou wilt insist Alvina is my sister since we are both cats who guarded ruins."

"I didn't know thou hadst any family, Captain," Artorias snickered. "Ah, speaking of Quelaag, hast thou heard she'st pregnant?"

"WHAT?!"