I. FIRST SPARK

Never ask for the words for a prayer to those who came with you this far.

Guiding us to rebirth through the death of our dreams is the very same star.

Let the windy dawn burn the past away,

For the castle on a hill never shall betray.

No paper left to spare,

That feeling in the air

As we entwined the words

And held each other's hand,

And held each other's hand.

To fight until we fall,

Beneath the ancient wall

We swore a sacred oath:

"Be faithful to the end,

Be faithful to the end."

The thunder of hooves tore the forest idyll apart.

Ramilda Swann clenched her teeth and reached for the sword, a steely resolve etched on her young face. Two dozen knights of Astora rushed towards the enemy through a gloomy pinery, and she was the spearhead leading the charge. Atop of her partial plate armor was a blue surcoat with the golden emblem of the Order – 'the Shield of Flowers.' An open helmet with a red feather distinguished her from the others.

They rode through a glade spangled with huge rain puddles and hurried onwards, water spattering from under the hooves. A fresh nick marked a tree ahead.

"Sergeant, second mark!" she heard.

"Get ready!" Ramilda barked, pointing sidelong with her sword. "Frido! Flank'em from the right! Deal with the marksmen!"

"Yes, sergeant!" another knight shouted back. He pivoted his hand in the air, giving the signal, and separated from the wedge along with five others. Soon she could barely distinguish them amidst the trees.

Her flair didn't let her down this time; there really was an ambush set up for them. The damned margrave had no intent of surrender even after the knights all but finished his reign of terror. After losing his family nest, the rebel lord hid in the woods with his men and kept harassing the Astorans. Earlier today, his soldiers pillaged and burned another village – simply a bait for the knights. They must have thought they would plunge headlong into pursuit, but Ramilda was smart enough to send scouts ahead. They didn't fail.

Now her squadron was flanking the ambush, using the very same road curve the rebels occupied. They've probably heard their approach already, but the knights' wedge advanced roughly parallel to the road: by the time the enemy realizes where they were coming from, it would be too late.

Their warhorses thundered through the managed woodland, and what little undergrowth there was didn't hinder their advance. Sixteen knights will deliver the main strike. Five more under Frido's command will flank and deal with those who run from the initial attack. Crossbowmen will drop the stragglers if everything goes right.

"Fall in!" Swann ordered.

The wedge opened up and stretched out. They were getting close. Her heart beat faster, anticipating the fight.

Soon, she glimpsed silhouettes between the trees. More numerous than the knights, some of them were probably in hiding on the other side of the road. Panicked shouting filled the air: only now did they realize what was happening. The knights of Astora rode straight into the rebels' bare flank.

They let out no battle cry and simply lowered their lances. Amidst the ensuing chaos, Ramilda spotted two archers: one of them stopped and pulled the string, aiming for her. She raised her kite shield and ducked her head. The arrow scratched the rim of the shield and clanged against the helmet, breaking. The archer ran.

The knights smashed full speed into the enemy. Steel rang, and cries filled the air. Knocking down some unlucky brigand, Ramilda rode onwards. One more tried to block her way, swinging a long, spiked flail. Raising the sword, she slid to the right in her saddle and hacked as she exhaled. The flail went over her head, and the blade cut the brigand's neck. The next one was armed with a spear, and she gave him a wide berth, letting the crossbowman after her deal with him. A trigger mechanism clicked, and the spearman fell with a bolt in his chest. Meanwhile, Swann emerged on the road and cut down the archer trying to run away.

Turning her horse, she rode sideways, covering herself from the arrows. Three horsemen were headed her way already, but her friends rode at her side. She glanced across the shoulder, making sure the berm overlooking the road was cleared. Somewhere, a wounded horse neighed in pain. The entire right side of the ambush was overrun – now they only had to finish what they started.

"Push, push, we gotta finish them!" she shouted. "Wulf, Amory, cover me!"

Four knights stormed past them, bringing the fight to the other side of the road. Cenwulf adjusted the lance in his hand, Amory raised his crossbow, but at that moment an arrow hit his neck. The knight fell from the saddle clutching at the wound. Ramilda could only curse and ride onwards.

"I'll take the first one!" Cenwulf shouted.

The 'first one' was a bearded horseman in mail swinging his flail with a wild battle cry. Next to him rode a warrior clad in plate armor, a visored helmet on his head and a lance in hand. This one concerned Ramilda far worse, as he held the lance like a knight, aiming at her. If she were to clash in a wrong way, she would end up on the ground with broken bones.

She did the most sensible thing and simply peeled off to the right, evading the clash. The lance's tip barely scratched her shield. Off to the left, the bearded horseman cried painfully; Cenwulf ran him through with a lance, unseating the foe.

Raising her shield again, Rami turned the horse and engaged the third horseman, blocking his cut, her counter-blow clanged against his helmet. A cut, another one, a lucky riposte – she drove a sword point into the enemy's side, piercing the mail. He screamed angrily, aiming for another strike, and at that moment a bolt plunged into his heart. Ramilda glanced at her comrade and nodded abruptly.

She saw the rebel knight knocked off the horse, disarmed and wrestled to the ground. Enemy archers were all but gone, Frido's knights already cut off the retreat and were sowing chaos in their midst. The battle was won. Off to the side, two soldiers mounted their horses and dashed away.

"Leonora is wounded!" she heard someone cry from behind.

"You two, help her and Amory!" she ordered, pointing her sword at different knights. "Watch the prisoner! Rest of you, run them down!"

She spurred the horse, Cenwulf and two others followed. To their left, their comrades finished off the stragglers. The road curved into an open space where trees grew sparsely. Rainwater mixed with mud dappled the clearing, spraying from under the hooves. The fugitives were riding down the road, shooting for the edge of the forest. Their horses were nothing like knightly steeds, but the latter were slightly tired from riding through the woods. The seething blood made Ramilda restless, and she had no intention of letting the enemy slip away.

She noticed a figure emerge from behind a tree ahead – too late. All she saw were flames bursting out of a hand cannon's muzzle. There was a loud bang, and next she knew, she was out of the saddle. A sharp pain spread like fire through her chest, and the world spun in front of her eyes.

She fell into the puddle and was tossed by the force of impact, her entire body in clutches of pain. Moments later, Ramilda was lying on her back, unable to move. The heart stopped beating, and the suffering felt unbearable. She couldn't breathe and felt blood humming inside her head. In that instant, she knew she was dying. She wanted to cry for help, but the lungs did not obey. In the distance, she could hear hooves galloping. High above, beyond the black, naked tree branches, a gray sky lumbered. She realized this sky would be the last thing she'd ever see, and along with the pain came burning despair and terror before the inevitable end. Everything was fading away. The entire world shattered into a million pieces, and darkness finally engulfed her.

A flash at the edge of consciousness. A strange hum in her head, like an otherworldly chorus. Time and space felt barely tangible, creating a heavy, disorienting sense. Some smooth movement was the only thing anchoring her to the real world.

How much time had passed?

And where was she floating…?

Slowly, she came to her senses, and the hum vanished. Instead, she could hear the peaceful clatter of hooves and familiar voices. The strange viscous pain in her lower chest disappeared as well. Moments later, Ramilda realized she was riding in a saddle, arms wrapped around the horse's neck. She couldn't feel the helmet on her head. The rest of the unit rode nearby, stretched into a column.

The knight frowned. She was weak and felt like she would barely stand on her own, but most of all, something else bothered her. She had no recollection of what happened and how she ended up like this. She could remember the action and the chase, but some crucial detail kept eluding her.

And then Rami remembered. And as soon as the image of bursting flames flashed in her mind, she could feel her heart racing.

She was killed. She was dying there, under that gray, sullen sky. She recalled that tremendous pain and the all-consuming terror. One couldn't possibly survive a bullet through the heart. Even if by some miracle she was rescued, the only miracle-maker in the squadron didn't have any magic that could possibly heal her wound. Not that wound. Yet, there was no indication of pain. Something was wrong.

With a weak moan, Ramilda freed her arms from a simple noose and straightened up in the saddle, stopping the steed. As soon as she moved, the whole squadron erupted into screaming and cursing. Several knights quickly surrounded her, swords drawn. All eyes converged on Rami, full of shock and surprise, and some were looking at her with blatant hostility.

"What the hell!?"

"Get down!"

"Gwyn Almighty, she rose up, she rose up!"

"Get down now!"

The knightess cursed through her teeth.

"What's going on?" she asked in a hoarse voice and cleared her throat. "Why the hell did you draw your swords?"

"Get down from the horse now," one of the knights enunciated, pointing a lance at her. "And hand over your weapon."

"Get your picker out of my face, Sigibert," Rami replied adamantly. "Report properly! What's going on?"

"Sigi, don't listen to her! She's possessed!" someone else shouted.

"Yes, she must be possessed by a demon!"

"Quiet, you idiots!" the fair-haired Frido exclaimed, forcing his way to Ramilda. "What demon are you talking about? Look at her face!"

Swann touched it almost unconsciously. She could feel some strange wrinkles near the nose where there used to be none, and something that felt like scabs in random places. For a moment, she was at a loss: it was all about to slide into chaos, and she couldn't understand why.

"Your weapon!" Sigibert insisted.

"Rami, what happened to you?" she heard Leonora's voice. A knightess with short brown hair had a bandaged wound on her leg, and with this observation Ramilda confirmed to herself she wasn't delirious. "You recognize me?"

"Don't talk to her, sister! She can lash out at you!"

"We have to disarm her!"

"Ramilda, say something!" Frido shouted.

The pressure mounted, and Rami failed catastrophically to try and gather her thoughts. Then, commander's instincts kicked in. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand and bellowed:

"Silence! Stop this ruckus!"

Everyone fell quiet. Sigibert's lance was still pointed at her chest, the rest of the knights held their swords at the ready. She looked over everyone, trying desperately to keep face. Something clearly went wrong, but first, she had to calm her men.

"You are knights of Astora, not a herd of sheep! Get a hold of yourselves! I recognize everyone," she added calmly. "And I'm still your sergeant."

"Begone, demon!"

"Shut up, you fool!" Leonora shouted. "Can't you see a sergeant is talking?"

"Get this scaremonger the hell out of here," Rami ordered.

"She is no demon! She is undead!"

These words slashed like a whip. She only needed a moment more, and then the realization caught up with her. Ramilda felt her heart sink. Now, everything was clear.

"He's right," Sigibert said, looking her in the eye. "You are undead and therefore relieved of command. Now hand over your weapon."

"Quiet!" Frido ordered. In an emergency, if the sergeant was out of commission, he was the one to take command but even he got confused in the chaos and only now asserted control. "There are no demons here! Listen to the sergeant!"

"Order, knights, order," Ramilda articulated every word. "I will hand over my weapon. Whatever happens, stay calm. Frido!"

She demonstrated empty hands to Sigibert and untied the scabbard from her belt, tossing it to Frido. She placed her misericorde into Leonora's hands.

"Now, tell me properly what happened. Cenwulf, you were the last one to ride with me. Report."

"Sergeant, you… you were killed. A gunner ambushed us. He shot you with a hand cannon, right through the heart. When I… when I rode up, you were already dead."

Ramilda closed her eyes and shook her head. She still couldn't believe what happened.

"He's telling the truth, Rami" Leonora added. "We all saw that. I'm sorry, there was nothing we could do. You… you were gone."

"You turned undead, Ramilda," Sigibert said. "There's a curse upon you."

"I didn't give you permission to speak, knight," she replied. "Keep discipline. Frido, action report. What are the casualties?"

"Sergeant… You sure you're fine?"

"I am of sound mind, Frido. What are the casualties?"

"Three wounded. Amory was really bad, but we saved him. Sergeant Ramilda Swann… died in battle."

"Enemy status?"

"Defeated. We killed most of them, one or two managed to flee. Two prisoners."

"Understood."

"Frido, we have to tie her up," Sigibert insisted. "Now that she's undead she can lose control of herself."

"She is not hollow, Sigi!" Leonora retorted. "She's in perfect control!"

"She is still our commander!" another knight assented.

"Like hell she is!" Sigibert cut off. "Or did you forget how to deal with the undead? We have orders."

"That's right, she's cursed! She is no longer human!"

"We can't trust her!"

"What are you talking about?" Leonora was furious. "Don't you dare touch her!"

"Oh, I will dare!" Sigibert stated, moving the lance her way. "What are you, a traitor wannabe?"

"Stand down!" Frido barked.

"Who's the traitor here?" Leonora didn't seem to listen either. "Rami is human, she talked to you, she is our sister goddammit!"

"She is undead! Ramilda is gone, and we can't change that! This abomination is no Ramilda anymore! Stop with the sentimentality, she'll kill you first when she goes hollow!"

"So what, we should just treat her like a dog now?"

"Sigibert, this isn't right," Frido said. "We got to make sure, got to double-check everything."

"You dolt! What do you want to double-check? She has a Darksign on her body, and it will soon consume her!"

"For Gwyn's sake, people don't go hollow that fast! Nobody's seen this Darksign yet, we must look at it first and make decisions second."

"He must've forgotten already how she saved his ass," Leonora said. "What are you, bloody monsters!?"

"Nora!" Ramilda hailed her. "Calm down. And stop with the clamor, all of you! The moment I die, you unravel, I swear to gods! Even if I turned undead, you have a second-in-command. Listen to him and don't make it a bedlam! Because knights take no part in bedlam. You're in command now, Frido."

"Sergeant… we have to examine you now. Please get down. Nora, help me out with the cuirass."

Ramilda nodded, dismounting. For a brief moment, she felt like her comrades were a pack of hounds cornering the game. Those cautious, wary, sometimes outright hostile looks truly made her feel like a lone wolf. There was no talking to the undead. She still couldn't wrap her head around this. She was now a bearer of the Darksign, and those who used to call her friend were now subconsciously afraid of her. Even those who could still see a human in her. Some, it seemed, had written her off completely, like Sigibert.

As her comrades helped her out of the cuirass, Rami peered into the faces surrounding her, trying desperately to catch but a glimpse of compassion in their eyes. For now, only fear and distrust prevailed. Suddenly, she too felt really afraid. Nausea creeped its way up and she could barely suppress it, taking a deep breath. With great difficulty, she found the resolve to look Frido and Leonora in the eye. What she saw there brought her a slight relief.

The cuirass clanged on the ground as Rami unfastened her arming doublet. She pulled up her blue shirt and examined herself. Just below her chest, a black stain of the Darksign sprawled – a mark of the Curse. She gasped quietly with a shudder. Now that it all was confirmed, despair almost overwhelmed her. She wanted to scream but managed to find strength within and keep cool in front of her former subordinates.

"The Darksign is there," she announced nonchalantly, demonstrating it to the others. The knights gasped. She simply fastened the arming doublet like nothing happened. "Frido, lead the squadron back to the castle. Treat me as your subordinate."

"Sergeant Swann will ride unbound!" Frido ordered, waving his arm in a forbidding gesture. "I will watch her personally. Sigibert, you will ride along with me. Saddle up!"

They all mounted their horses and moved forward in grim silence. Ramilda simply went through the motions, aloof and withdrawn. Her gaze wandered somewhere out of this world, barely watching the road. Thoughts linked in a mercilessly painful cycle. Her future was swiftly fading away, crumbling into oblivion.

She became a pariah, now and forever. The Curse of undead branded her, and there was no going back.

Logs crackled in the fireplace, consumed by fire. For the longest time, Captain Conrad de Plancy peered into the flame, as if trying to find within it the answer to the question that troubled him for the past few weeks. The dance of orange tongues mesmerized him, and every now and then the captain thought he could see a pitch-black darkness among them. The dark sun engulfed in flames. The mark of the Curse he had seen so many times before.

Half a millennium has passed since the fall of Lordran, the first and the mightiest kingdom of men, founded by Gwyn the Lightbringer in time immemorial, when he waged war against dragons. The immortal lord who found a great soul in the First Flame. Having freed humankind of the dragons' tyranny, he reigned supreme, and the Flame gave him strength, shielding the world from the baneful darkness. But even this fire turned out to be ephemeral. And when the Flame almost faded, the Curse of the undead crept across the world, and darkness followed, taking root. Then, Lord Gwyn sacrificed himself to the Flame, lighting it anew, and for a time, it seemed, the Dark retreated.

Yet, even this sacrifice was not enough. Lordran stood for less than a hundred years before the Curse emerged once more, and the once mighty kingdom was the first to fall before it. Its dwellers turned undead en masse, its overlords locked themselves up in Anor Londo, and after a period of anarchy and chaos, a total collapse followed. Then, the Curse spread again, but the lands of men were still standing. For now.

Half a millennium was a long time. Humans adapted, like always, but the Dark took its toll, little by little. In countries like Astora or Catarina, the issue of the undead was bearable, but over the years, several dominions in the north fell victim to the Curse, and the sun spared no light for these lands anymore. Time and again, de Plancy caught himself thinking that the same doom could befall his native Astora.

He also caught himself thinking many things were different these days, unlike the way it was during the first outbreak of the Curse, before Gwyn's sacrifice. Knowledge offered by chronicles was surprisingly scarce, as if there was a deliberate effort to hush it up. The notorious issue of bonfires and their Keepers remained extremely obscure. Why did they appear on a large scale during the second outbreak, but not the first? Why were the soul-hungry undead so allured by them? Why were the Fire Keepers always female? Why did the newly-turned undead keep their sanity and what exactly made them go hollow, gradually losing their own self as they kept dying time and again? Questions without answers. The church of the Way of White evidently possessed many secrets, but kept silent, as always. And the problem still remained.

Hunting the undead was a nasty, graceless business, and the knights were reluctant to sign up for it. Slaying hollows to them was a routine that didn't contradict their cause, simply because hollows were empty shells with neither sapience nor personality. However, hunting down those who only turned recently stank of witch-hunting, which most knights, including de Plancy, despised. Those people were perfectly aware, indistinguishable from their own selves before their first death. They were the same people who only yesterday were someone's neighbors, friends, colleagues, battle brothers. And this caused many conscious knights to question the entire thing. Yet the policy of the Crown and the Way of White remained unequivocal, so the knights had to comply and take this poison.

It was even more bitterly painful if the Curse took some of their own. It was a rare occurrence, but every time it felt like a tragedy. Every time it sent ripples across the pond, causing heated arguments, accusations, grudges, and general bitterness. Knights of Astora never gave up their own. And yet, every knight who became undead had to be turned in to the Way of White. Harboring was equal to treason. Many years ago, when the Order tried to conceal the fact that one of them turned undead, it brought severe repercussions upon them. That infamous matter of prince Ricard.

Conrad knew many instances like this. Once, he himself had to throw two of his knights to the wolves, two people he loved and appreciated. He couldn't call it anything other than betrayal. Now, the Curse once again hung over him, sparking unrest among his men.

Captain sighed and closed his eyes. In his fingers was a letter, one that he didn't have a heart to read for several minutes now. It was from Baldwin Torne, the Order's superintendent and a good friend of Conrad's. This correspondence was private, having arrived separately from the official orders, behind the scenes. Knowing Baldwin's character, Conrad could already guess what to expect from the letter, but was still unable to bring himself to read it. He jerked his head, realizing there was no delaying the inevitable, and unfolded the paper.

"…Conrad, I strongly advise you to wash your hands of this. It is sealed, the decision is made, there's no changing it. I don't need to remind you what world we live in: bonfires burn for a reason. We can debate ad nauseam if there's any truth to what the Whites preach, but we can't deny one truth they insist on: the undead are dangerous. They are a threat to mankind, and the fall of Lordran is the prime example of it. If Gwyn's own kingdom came to such an end, what would happen to other countries if we allow this to spread? Balder and Berenike had already fallen into darkness, and how many more are yet to fall? The First Flame is the only thing separating us from this nightmare. We both saw that, Conrad, so tell me, why of all times did you have to rebel now?

What happened to Ramilda Swann is a nasty thing, I can't deny that. She was very promising, and I'm just as upset as you are that we lost a good knight. Especially if we keep in mind what a legend her father was. But a Darksign is a Darksign. The Grand Master made up his mind: she will be sent to the Asylum, and that would be the end of it. You say that she could help us understand the problem better, but nobody would agree to this – not the Grand Master, not the king, not the archbishop. I don't even know if it's better to give up your humanity to the bonfire against your will until you go hollow, or rot to the same point in the Asylum. All I know is that she turned undead, and there is only one fate for the undead.

Clerics are already furious that their whole affair with the Asylum was revealed. And they are not in the mood to negotiate. Have you heard? Thorolund is furious with that new little book that told the truth of their 'church' in the north, of how the 'pilgrimage' is nothing but bait for the desperate, and of the demon jailers. Soon everyone will learn of the prison, but I don't think anything is going to change. People are scared to death that hollows may flood the fields and the streets. We could possibly get away with this in Catarina, but we are in Astora. Can you imagine what would happen if anybody finds out that Knights of Astora themselves harbor an undead in their midst? Again? A catastrophe, Conrad! That story with prince Ricard is still remembered, and any such instance is a threat to both the Crown and the Order.

You say that we are fighting the symptoms, not the cause, and you are correct. But we are fighting a threat that we can't comprehend for now. We can berate the Church all we want, but allow me to remind you of something. For two thousand years, the Way of White has served the idea. Not the gods, not Gwyn, not Allfather Lloyd – the idea. The idea that the First Flame is crucial to the existence of this world, and that the Age of Dark will destroy everything we know. Beyond defending our home country, we, Knights of Astora, serve this idea, too. We've been fighting the Curse for centuries now. And for the Flame to live, bonfires must burn. Maybe one of these days the bright minds in Vinheim or some such will discover the crux of the issue and find out how to better combat the Curse, maybe even lift it. But until then, you and I both have to act in the most reasonable way we know."

Bonfires. Must. Burn. Conrad's heart bled at the sound of these words. The very idea of binding the undead to these magical fires and making them relinquish their humanity until they go hollow seemed inhuman. As far as he was concerned, it was simply a ritualized murder. Accompanied by lofty words of compassion, self-sacrifice, even by care for the victim, but murder nonetheless. However, many undead, especially those deemed too dangerous, were being sent north, to the notorious Undead Asylum, a decrepit church that once was a destination for many pilgrims. These days, it served as a prison for the undead, with demons as jailers. In an attempt to save itself, humanity set upon a truly dark path.

Rami was one of the best. Conrad still remembered that blue-eyed, red-haired girl who joined the Order after her father's death, carrying only her parent's longsword at her side. Commander Thurmod Swann was rightly considered one of the greatest knights in his generation. De Plancy himself was both a student and a friend to him. Out of seven years that Ramilda gave the Order, five of them she served under Conrad's command. She distinguished herself in all campaigns and missions – some doubted her at first, but she turned out to be worthy of her father.

She dealt flawlessly with that ambush. The fact that she, the commander, was the only fatality in the squadron spoke for itself. Even Amory was pulled from the brink by a miracle both literal and figurative. And so, when she rose up with a black brand underneath the armor, Conrad couldn't believe what had happened.

Once, he swore he will never again betray his own. Naturally, he couldn't keep the incident secret, so for a month now, Rami has been locked up in the castle, awaiting her fate, while Conrad was tap dancing before the brass. This incident was the last straw for him, and the captain hoped he'd be able to work something out. He had ideas of how Ramilda could help them in a new capacity, designs to finally alleviate the undead stigma – all in vain. They didn't even listen to him. Those who did shook their heads in unison, both Baldwin and Grand Master de Redin. He had to give up his knight again – and live with it. That was the reality.

Was it though?

The captain left the cozy armchair behind and started pacing about the room, humming a familiar tune. He had options, of course. He could keep his conscience clear and wash his hands not only of this matter but of the Order, too. That would change nothing though, so that option was unacceptable. He could get way out of line and go straight to the king with it, but it was unlikely the king would listen, and the Order would hate the captain for this stunt. Conrad was ready to sacrifice his career, but it would be foolish to throw his chance to influence the situation out the window, which would be the likeliest result of his parley with the monarch. Soon, however, he would lose his chance anyway: on his table lay the order to deliver Ramilda to a specific place on a specific day. So he had to make his move in what little time he had left.

He could, in the end, simply disobey and arrange for her to escape. That implied a whole array of consequences for both of them, and the end result was hard to predict. Baldwin was right about one thing: there was only one fate for the undead. Conrad had some idea of how the undead could revert the process of hollowing – he was sure Rami could do that. But if he was to set this plan in motion, there had to be some purpose to it.

Captain had little doubt that Ramilda would do something meaningful with her life even if he just gave her a second chance, but she had few options. Everywhere the undead went, they were met with fear, hatred and contempt. The Great Swamps were about the only safe haven for them, home to all different kinds of heretics and outcasts. Not to mention that the young knight couldn't fathom her existence without the Order: it was her entire purpose in life. Yet, Conrad couldn't help but think he could find a matching key.

He approached a lancet window, opened it, and gazed upon the castle yard, his hands pushing against a windowsill. He felt a fresh, gentle breeze on his face. In the distance, beyond the castle walls and above the forest, a bright-yellow rift split the clouded sky, lit with the glow of the sun sailing towards the horizon.

There was also this vague prophecy. "Thou who art Undead, art chosen. In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords. When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know."

Captain de Plancy had no love for vague prophecies. But he could see a kernel of truth in these lines. What if the key to the Curse truly was in Lordran? The Whites must have been sending expeditions there for a reason. Obviously, they knew something that others didn't, but cracking their secrets was a different matter. On the other hand, the idea to send their own people into Lordran has long circulated in certain quarters, Knights of Astora included, though it involved great danger. This was the idea that Conrad pitched to the Grand Master, hoping to secure salvation for Ramilda. Alas, he was made to understand the idea was too dangerous, crazy even, and would likely make matters worse for the Order.

And so, now the captain was here, in the castle of an outlaw margrave, and he had a choice to make. He could see the immediate consequences of possible decisions, and none of them were too bright. And yet, gazing into the golden horizon, he kept thinking that only one of these decisions could bear truly far-reaching consequences. Consequences that lay far beyond his line of sight, that could not be predicted. But Captain de Plancy could well imagine their scope.

"We will walk the ivory stairway… To a land so far away…" he cited the half-forgotten verses he had heard long ago. "Yeah, that's serious. Serious, and very much so."

Conrad smiled wistfully. He drummed his fingers on a windowsill and nodded repeatedly. Aside from Rami herself, most of all, he was going to miss her songs.

Now he knew what had to be done. It's going to be unpleasant. It's going to be tough. Especially for Ramilda. But it was time for a change, time for a chance, and the captain considered it necessary to take it, even if the chance itself was slim.

Because somebody had to.

The wind from the north was blowing cold. A lonely wayfarer entered a valley between the mountain spurs, wrapping herself up in a dark-blue cloak. The rocky ground was sparsely covered with moss and meager grass, and everything for miles around seemed desolate, forlorn, not a single soul in sight.

Ramilda shivered and stopped, taking in the landscape. Far ahead of her, seated on a cliff, she could see an old timeworn watchtower. Long ago, this was princedom of Lothian's northern border, but people abandoned this place, fearing the undead. There, beyond the mountains, lay the land of Lordran. The road she took led to the pass and beyond – to a rocky shore where the Asylum towered above the cliffs.

It was almost a month since she escaped. Captain de Plancy and her friends organized it well. They took her from the castle under guard, as they should have, and then simply vanished into the wilderness. They gave Ramilda her arms and armor, a horse, some money and supplies for the road. Captain promised to submit a bogus report telling how the prisoner escaped in the night and couldn't be found. All who took part in this repeatedly rehearsed the collective story they would claim. Nora even wanted to take Ramilda's guitar from the castle, but she got too nervous and forgot to do that, lamenting it all the way as they separated. Rami hardly cared: her friends already risked everything to free her, and she couldn't thank them enough.

Along with the gear, she was given a mission. Captain told her everything the night before, when he visited her in her cell to relay the plan of escape. As far as he was concerned, Ramilda simply departed on a mission – the most important one in her life. Get into Lordran, find the source of the Curse, and lift it if possible. As far as she was concerned, there could be no 'if' at all.

After leaving Astora, Swann avoided Thorolund's territory, never staying in one place for long, and headed further north. Her face hasn't born any clear display of hollowing yet, and what few signs she had, she could blame on smallpox. Luckily, even if somebody suspected her, nothing happened. Only problem was, the wolves killed her horse the other night. She had to leave some things behind, but even without them, walking in armor and with a tightly packed bag was not easy. Now, at least, she felt like a true pilgrim.

Only now, far from Astora, she decided to put on her blue surcoat again. If she was to walk the road of the prophecy, she had to do this without hiding her identity. Even if the prophecy was hogwash, she had to get to the bottom of it and find out how to lift the Curse. Neither she, nor de Plancy had any clue where to look. They only speculated the salvation could be found in Lordran. But Ramilda swore she would do everything she could. Her first destination was a dilapidated church turned prison. The Northern Undead Asylum.

Helping herself with an improvised hiking stick, she headed for the abandoned watchtower. The sky was cloudy all day long – it would be good to find shelter in case it rains. Mercenaries of the White Church sometimes used this road to convoy people like her to the Asylum, but right now the valley was desolate. Only minutes later, as she approached the tower, she noticed a flicker through the doorway: the fire was burning inside. Which meant there were people.

She decided to carefully check the tower anyway. There were no horses outside, which meant it was no war party. She approached the foot of the ledge to conceal herself and listened. No voices could be heard, and she couldn't discern the distinctive cracking of firewood either. She started to realize what kind of fire it was. She pulled her blade one inch from its scabbard and moved in.

As she ascended the cliff, she recognized a pleasant ethereal hum of the magical bonfire. These fires were made of undead bones, and it seemed like they could burn for the longest time without blackening, slowly vanishing into the magic flames. Such was the power of the First Flame, and every bonfire was lit from its divine spark. A coiled sword with a four-pronged crossguard was plugged into the center of the fire pit. A strange sense of attraction arose within, as if the bonfire beckoned her, and Ramilda had a sense of burden lifted off her shoulders.

Before she could enter, she heard light steps on the floor. Moments later, a woman in a woolen dress and a green shoulder cape came out to meet her. Braided blonde hair went all the way down to the waist. Ramilda bowed to her.

"Greetings," she said. "Sorry, did I disturb you?"

"Not at all," the woman responded. "Did you come from afar?"

"One could say so, yes," Ramilda smiled, sheathing her sword completely. The woman turned her head slightly, and it was only now that Ramilda noticed she was blind. "I am Ramilda Swann, knight of Astora."

"Ælswith," the woman introduced herself. "Please, come over to the bonfire, be my guest. People like you need some rest on their long journey."

"How do you mean?" Rami asked, squinting slightly.

"I can feel your Darksign. It's a heavy burden."

"How did you know?" the knight was baffled.

"I am a Fire Keeper. We feel certain things that others can't. You and I are both touched by the Abyss… though in different ways. I may be blind, but I can sense darkness in others."

"A Keeper… Does it mean you can help me?"

"Yes. I think I know what you want to ask. Come in, please."

Ramilda nodded with a heavy sigh and stepped towards the bonfire. She dropped her traveling bag and took off the helmet, exposing red hair tied in a high ponytail and covering the forehead with trimmed bangs. Flickering flames reflected in her blue eyes. For a long moment, she stared at the bonfire, lost in thought.

"Have you seen it before?" Ælswith asked, snapping her out of it.

"Once. But back then… I wasn't undead. Feels like… it's beckoning me now."

"It is a matter of course," the Keeper nodded. "All who are cursed are drawn to the flame. Even ordinary people gravitate towards the warmth subconsciously, let alone the undead. But you probably know that."

"What about the Keepers? Are you cursed as well?"

"Not exactly. It's hard to explain. But we, too, carry a shard of darkness within. And too much humanity – to the point that it alters our soul," Ælswith nodded at the bonfire. "Reach for the sword. Don't be afraid of the pull."

Ramilda hesitated for a moment, then approached the fire and extended her arm. Almost immediately, something stirred within her, something instinctive, as if spurring her to perform a familiar act. She recoiled in confusion.

"Don't be scared. The fire is trying to link with you."

"What will happen then? I heard the accursed who are linked to the bonfire are resurrected right there if they die again… until they go hollow, that is."

"Yes, you heard right. Don't worry. The accursed gain certain powers that other people don't have. You felt like you already knew how to do this, didn't you?"

"Yeah. It isn't… dangerous?"

Ælswith shook her head. Rami reached for the coiled sword again and closed her eyes, trying to concentrate and link herself with the bonfire. Next moment, she felt an invigorating wave of heat run through her body, and the flames wavered, shooting a burst of sparks, as if it was greeting the guest. Her feet were sore from marching, making her desperate to sit down, and the knight stopped resisting the urge.

"The flames give you strength," Ælswith reaffirmed, sitting down opposite her. "It's like… a beacon of hope for the lost ones, don't you think?"

Ramilda nodded silently, looking the Keeper in the eye, and only then remembered that she was blind.

"Yeah," she said quietly.

"What brings you to Lordran?"

"A mission. I must lift the Curse."

Ælswith grunted musingly.

"They placed such a grand task upon the shoulders of one person?"

"What choice do I have?" Ramilda smiled wearily. "Either I give up, or I fight to the bitter end."

"And you wish to do this… for what?"

"For all of us. I…" she swallowed, glancing to the side briefly. "I would lie if I tell you I don't want to save myself. Because my life is on the line, too. And I want to get it back – my friends, my place in the Knights, my dreams. But I want to do all I can to lift the Curse entirely. So that nobody had to suffer it."

"Everybody wants to live," Ælswith nodded. "Without repression, without suffering. There is no shame in that. But to lift the Curse entirely…? You think it possible?"

"I must try. If there is a shameful page in the history of our Order, it's the fact that we still did nothing to get to the truth. We just let the Whites to push us about and gave up our brothers and sisters. Isn't it madness? The fact that people turn their back on their friends so fast – everywhere? It's easy enough to see a threat in someone, but somehow nobody can fathom someone else's suffering…" Rami shook her head with a sigh. "And we were complicit in this. I was. You know, I always felt compassion for the undead, but I did nothing to help their plight. Only now… that I became one, did I realize how terrible it is. And I can't– I can't possibly look at myself in the mirror if I don't do all I can for everyone's sake. I am a knight. This is my cause. And… this is my dream, too, you know? To free myself and help free the others. And all I have is the shield to protect this dream with, and a sword that carries the memory of all that I hold dear."

Ælswith nodded knowingly, a warm smile on her face.

"Is there something else bothering you?"

The knight shrugged.

"It's not easy. Coming to terms with the idea that you became the other. You know, there was a time when I had to leave everything behind. When my parents died. But back then, I still had people who helped me tremendously. Out of compassion and for the memory of my father – he was in the Knights, too. And now… I'm all alone. And maybe there is no going back, ever."

"Your friends did help you escape, right?"

"Yeah. They didn't turn their backs on me, and I'll be forever grateful for that. If it wasn't for them, I would be done for. And they're in danger, too, all of them. And if not for all of mankind, then for their sake alone I will fight to the end. It's just hard without them is all."

"Yeah, it's hard to carry on without a shoulder to lean on. They couldn't come with you, but I'm sure they wish you luck and pray for you every day. And maybe, in a way, your friends are still with you. Who knows, maybe the opinion of a blind woman is worth something. They are noble souls, your friends. Just like you, it seems."

"Thank you," Ramilda sighed, slightly relieved.

"I must tell you this: you will find no cure in Lordran. Not in an obvious way at least. All the dark souls converge on that land, even live their own lives there. But for now, nobody managed to get rid of the Darksign. If only the prophecy of the undead turned out to be true… Is that what you're looking for?"

"In a sense. I don't put much stock in prophecies, but I must try regardless. I need to get to the Northern Asylum. There could be sane inmates still."

"And you are ready to risk your life for them? You do know that this is a prison for the undead, not a shelter?"

"Yes. The Whites dump the hollowing there. The bastards even make a profit out of it…"

"And do you know that the prison is guarded by two demons from Izalith?"

"No. Only heard rumors."

"One of them is a jailer, the other – executioner. As far as I know, the latter dwells in the basement and torments the prisoners. Just for his own twisted enjoyment. He is far more dangerous than his sibling, so try to avoid confronting him. The Jailer is dangerous, too – I'm afraid, it's going to be hard to fight him alone. They have a small host of hollows who obey them."

"Hollows? I knew demon sorcerers could play with your mind, possess even, but hollows…?"

"Yes. They possess the power of Izalith's fire, and all living are drawn to the flame."

"…Yeah, and it hardly matters that the flame of Chaos is just a twisted imitation of the First Flame, I get that. They teach that in the Order."

"True. See, the hollows have no consciousness to resist it, so they are perfect victims in that sense."

Ramilda nodded meaningfully.

"Yeah… it makes sense. Thanks for the warning."

She slowly unsheathed her blade. It was a longsword made of excellent steel with broad, slightly curved quillons. An oblong grip with a dark-blue wrapping and a round pommel was meant for two hands, but this sword could be wielded with just one, paired with a shield. The blade only bore superficial marks of the battles it went through, barely damaged over the seventeen years – nothing a good polish couldn't handle. Ramilda has only carried it for seven years: it belonged to her father before. It was the sword that they brought to her that black-lettered day along with the terrible news. That day, her mother and she learned of commander Swann's death on the battlefield. Slowly twiddling with the sword, Ramilda looked at it intently.

"Say, Ælswith… How many times do I have to die before I go completely hollow?

"I have no answer to this question. It depends solely on you and your will to live. A soul gives us life, but it is our humanity, our 'dark essence' that bestows upon us the character, the will, our dreams and wishes, all that makes us distinct personalities. And with each death, this humanity melts away, but death is not the only reason you lose part of it. It seeps away exactly as much as you are ready to let it go. As much as you're ready to despair. For those who are on the brink already, one death is all it takes to go hollow. And those who have the willpower, a sort of passion, a dogged determination to pursue their goal at all costs may die dozens, even hundreds of times before they lose heart. It's all in your hands."

Ramilda nodded, suddenly feeling strong again. Those words were music to her ears. If there was one thing she had confidence in, it was that she will never give in. Even though she feared she might not be strong enough. The Keeper's timing couldn't be more perfect.

"I understand. Thank you. Do you… do you mind if I rest here for a while?"

"Of course not. Rest well. Let me help you with the armor."

Once they were finished with that, the Fire Keeper disappeared up the spiral staircase for a time. Ramilda stayed at the bonfire, mesmerized by the glimmer of flames on her sword blade. A little later, Ælswith came back and approached her.

"You know, I have a gift for you. It might sound strange, but I have long expected someone like you."

She sat on her knees and produced a translucent flask out of her shoulder bag. Inside the flask was a slightly glowing bright liquid the color of amber. A hunch flashed in Ramilda's mind.

"Estus…?"

"Yes. You know what it is?"

"It's a bonfire's flame turned liquid. Is it true it can heal?"

"Only the undead, when they ingest it. Don't ask me why – I don't know the answer. I dole these flasks out to those who pass through the valley," she gave the vessel to Ramilda. "Keep it safe. It is your most valuable treasure."

"My sincere thanks," Rami replied, taking the flask. "I… How can I thank you?"

"No need," the Keeper smiled. "And take this too. You're going to need it."

She produced a vial this time. Then, magically, with a gentle hand motion, she pulled out a fluid mass – slightly elongated and pitch-black. The color was so deep that the true form of the sprite was hardly discernable, its rims glowing white with what resembled a weak flame. This sent a chill down Ramilda's spine: she once saw a mass just like this one. It was the essence of humanity. Looking at it, she couldn't help but imagine its shape somewhat resembled a human silhouette.

"Give it to the bonfire, and you will be imbued with it. It will somewhat revert the hollowing.

"No, you didn't just… No, no, you're far too kind! I can't accept this! Please, save it for other pilgrims, they need it more than I do! There may be someone out there who is… far more hollowed than I."

"You have a difficult fight and an arduous journey ahead of you. I know who to give it to. Open your hands, please."

Ramilda complied hesitantly. The essence slid down onto her palm and hovered over it. For some time, the knight stared at it, still barely believing she could manipulate it. Then, as if she really knew what to do, she kneeled before the bonfire and extended her arm towards the gentle flame, offering the humanity.

The flames flared up, engulfing the hand without burning it. The essence of humanity glowed white, transformed by the fire's magic. Something that lay very deep reverberated within – near that place on her body where she was branded with the Darksign. As if something that dwelled inside her all along tried to break through the black seal, feeling something familiar, kindred nearby, before the flame dissolved it completely. Rami felt the pain, like a heated iron touching the skin. Hissing through the clenched teeth, she waited until the mass of humanity dissipated without trace and pulled up her shirt. The edges of a roughly round seal were glowing with fire. Slowly, it faded, and along with it the pain subsided, too.

"Is this normal?" Ramilda asked.

"Yes. Alas, it is the price we pay. Do you have a mirror? Take a look."

Swann quickly rummaged through her bag and produced a small mirror. There was no trace of marks and creases on her face. None at all.

"I can't even fathom how I can thank you," she uttered touching her cheek. "You did so much for me already I feel embarrassed."

"Don't think about it," Ælswith replied with a smile.

They sat by the bonfire well into the evening and had a soulful chat. Ælswith told little of herself, trying to steer the flow of the conversation towards Ramilda and her life, her friends and parents, her hopes and dreams. This wasn't lost on the knightess who tried to shift the flow as well, but was nevertheless deeply thankful that the Keeper simply let her vent. That night, she had the most serene and sound sleep in weeks.

There was a rain in the morning, and the clouds lifted in the afternoon. Knowing what Ramilda had to face, Ælswith gifted her with three more Estus flasks so that she could give them to the prisoners of the Asylum if she rescues anybody. Ramilda was in the middle of packing when she heard some noise upstairs followed by an unusually loud caw. The Fire Keeper was absent for quite a long time, so Rami decided to go check on her. Ælswith descended to face her.

"Have you packed?"

"Yeah. What was it upstairs?"

"Ah… something quite unusual. It looks like you piqued someone's interest."

"How do you mean?"

"I wish I knew. I have a guess though. You… do know of the goddess Velka?"

Ramilda gave a little shiver. Velka, also known as the Black Goddess, was the goddess of Sin. But not in a literal sense. Her image was that of a just deity punishing for the sins – and absolving them. Her cult was mainly represented by small, tightly-knit groups and communities scattered across the land. It was only in Carim that the cult had large presence, though it still wasn't as big as the Way of White. Velka, once an ally to the gods of Lordran that the Whites worshipped, was a controversial figure that long since separated from them, placed in a peculiar opposition to the Way of White. She hasn't revealed herself to the world for hundreds of years, but her black-robed priests, called 'pardoners', absolved people's sins in her name, a competition to the White Church. It was said that Velka still conveyed her will through her messengers, giant black crows, creatures of myth to some, who, nevertheless, really existed.

"I do. Why do you ask?"

"Then you also know about her messengers. It seems one of them has just landed on the top of this tower and… told me she wishes to help you. To be precise, she wants to deliver you to the Asylum and from there to Lordran. Looks like the Black Goddess is truly interested in you. I have little idea why, but I have a hunch."

"If you say so…" Ramilda uttered, trying to wrap her head around all this. What Ælswith told her was so unexpected and outlandish she could barely believe it. It felt like a dream. But the Fire Keeper was dead serious. "Does this… messenger wish to depart right away?"

"If I know gods, they seldom tolerate the delay," Ælswith chuckled. "But I think you should better see it for yourself. May I help you with the armor?"

"If you will, please."

Minutes later, accompanied by the Keeper, Rami ascended to the platform on top of the tower, her weapon and bag in tow. She was utterly stunned by what she saw. Atop the decrepit crenellations, feathers ruffled from a cold sweeping wind, sat a giant black crow that could easily grab a human with a single claw hand. The bird turned its head towards Ramilda, almost like it was examining her, and the knight couldn't avert her gaze. For several moments, they have been staring at each other. Having no idea what else to do, Rami bowed her head. And the crow bowed in turn.

"Is it true that you are Velka's messenger?"

The crow tilted its head and cawed loudly. That was a confirmation.

"Why does your goddess need me?"

The crow looked up, opening its beak, and spoke in a guttural, almost human voice.

"Lordran. Lordran. The bell tolls!"

"The bell? Do you mean the Bell of Awakening?"

"The bell tolls! Fate of the undead! You! To the Asylum, to the Asylum!"

"Yes, I need to get there. Is there anyone I can rescue?"

The messenger confirmed with another caw.

"Can you help me get there?"

Same answer. Tilting its head again, the crow continued in a different voice.

"Anor Londo! Anor Londo! Your fate awaits! The mistress watches!"

"If she wills it… But why me?"

"The bell tolls! A brave heart! A brave heart is needed!"

"And your mistress will ask nothing in exchange for help?"

"Nothing! The mistress watches. The mistress knows."

"Well then… will you carry me?"

The crow straightened, flapping its wings, and looked north with a caw.

"Then let me say goodbye to the Fire Keeper."

Another cawing reply. Ramilda checked her gear and made sure she forgot nothing. After that, she approached the blind Keeper, looking her in the eye.

"Ælswith… Thank you for everything. You helped me a great deal. If we ever meet again, I will make sure to return the favor."

She embraced the Keeper, and Ælswith put her arms around her too.

"Good luck to you. Save who you can… and be safe. Vereor nox."

"Goodbye, Ælswith. Goodbye," she repeated, stepping back. "Hearken, ye black messenger! I am ready! Carry me north, to the Asylum!"

With a loud caw, the crow flapped its wings and took off its perch. In a moment, its claws locked around Ramilda, and her heart skipped a beat when the creature lifted her in the air. Holding to her bag with one hand, she clutched the crow's leg with the other. For a brief moment, she forgot how to breathe. The lonely tower got smaller and smaller as Ælswith watched them fly away with her blind eyes.