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The twin moons cast an ethereal glow across the Limgrave plains, their light so different from the familiar moon Harry knew from home. He sat at the Site of Grace, its golden wisps swirling around him like gentle fireflies, yet offering little comfort to his troubled thoughts.
"Your mind wanders far tonight," Melina said, materializing beside him in her usual graceful manner. Her violet eye studied him with that penetrating gaze that always made Harry feel she could see right through him.
Harry picked up a small stone, tossing it between his hands. "I keep thinking about my friends. Hermione's probably gone mental with worry by now. She always does." He smiled faintly, remembering how she'd fret over his homework schedules. "And Ron... he was injured when I... when I left. The rat—Pettigrew—he got away, and Sirius..."
His voice caught. The memory of Sirius's offer still burned bright in his mind: a chance at a real home, away from the Dursleys. Now he didn't even know if his godfather was alive or dead.
"Tell me about them," Melina said softly, settling beside him.
"Hermione's brilliant. Scary brilliant, actually. She'd probably have figured out half the mysteries of the Lands Between by now, with all those books she reads." Harry's fingers traced patterns in the dirt. "She got us through so many tight spots. The Philosopher's Stone, the basilisk... Harry paused, considering. "I wonder if time works differently here. How long have I been gone? A day? A week? Months?"
Melina's expression turned thoughtful. "Time flows strangely in the Lands Between. Even I cannot say with certainty how it compares to other realms."
"That's what I was afraid of." Harry sent a small spark of lightning dancing between his fingers—a trick he'd been practicing. "And Sirius... he's my godfather. Everyone thought he betrayed my parents to Voldemort, but he was innocent. We just proved it, and then..." He clenched his fist, extinguishing the spark. "He offered to let me live with him. First time anyone's ever wanted me. For so long I have lived with the Dursleys, and living in a real home with someone who really cares about me...I guess it was too good to be true."
"The Dursleys—they do not treat you well?"
Harry let out a bitter laugh. "They kept me in a cupboard under the stairs until I got my Hogwarts letter. They hate magic, hate anything that's not 'normal' by their standards."
"Yet you show remarkable kindness, despite such treatment," Melina observed. "Many would let such experiences harden their hearts."
"Yeah, well, being cruel wouldn't make me any better than them, would it?"
A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the distant howl of a wolf—or perhaps something worse. Harry had learned quickly that in the Lands Between, familiar sounds often had unfamiliar sources.
"You wish to return home?" Melina asked softly, though it wasn't really a question.
Harry nodded. There was no point in lying to her; she had an uncanny way of seeing through deceptions. Maybe it was something to do with her connection to Grace, or maybe she was just naturally perceptive.
Melina placed her hand on his shoulder, the touch surprisingly warm. "I do not know how you came to be here, Harry Potter, but I will help you find your way home."
Harry chuckled, though there wasn't much humor in it. "Thought your only job was to guide me to the foot of the Erdtree? Make me Elden Lord and all that?"
A small, enigmatic smile played across Melina's lips. "Perhaps I am taking your advice to heart. Maybe I should have my own reason to exist, not merely to aid others in their quests."
There was something in her tone, a layer of meaning Harry couldn't quite grasp. It reminded him of Dumbledore sometimes, how the headmaster would say things that seemed to have multiple meanings, none of them quite clear until later.
"You're keeping secrets," Harry said. It wasn't an accusation, just a statement of fact.
"We all have our secrets, Harry Potter." Melina's eye flickered to his lightning-scarred forehead. "Even you carry mysteries you don't yet understand."
"Like this dragon magic?" Harry held up his hand, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make the scales appear again. He wondered if his Dragon Hand Spell was a one-time thing. "You still haven't explained why I can do this."
"Perhaps because I don't fully understand it myself." Melina stood. "Your magic is unlike anything I've encountered. It's not quite dragon communion, not purely incantation... it's as though your very nature is changing, adapting to this world while remaining uniquely your own."
Harry frowned. "That's not very reassuring."
"Few worthwhile truths are." Melina gestured toward the distant horizon, where the massive Erdtree dominated the skyline, its golden leaves casting eternal light across the land. "This world has many secrets, Harry Potter. Some are written in stone, others in blood, and still others in the very fabric of Grace itself. But I promise you this: as we uncover them, we may find the path that leads you home."
"And what about your path?" Harry asked, standing as well. "What secrets are you keeping about your own journey?"
For a moment, something flickered across Melina's face—pain, perhaps, or resignation. But it was gone so quickly Harry might have imagined it.
"All paths in time, Tarnished," she said, using his title with what might have been affection. "For now, rest. Tomorrow we begin your real training with dragon incantations. The merchant Kale mentioned rumors of a dragon in in the lake. Perhaps observing one might help you understand your own powers better."
"A real dragon?" Harry remembered the Hungarian Horntail he'd seen Hagrid hatching, and somehow doubted the dragons here would be any less dangerous. "Brilliant. Just brilliant."
Melina's laugh was like distant wind chimes. "Your sarcasm is noted. But fear not—I don't intend for you to fight it. Merely to watch, to learn. Though given your tendency to find trouble..."
"I don't find trouble," Harry protested. "Trouble usually finds me."
"So I'm beginning to understand." Melina began to fade from view, as she often did when their conversations concluded. "Rest well, Harry Potter. And remember—while your thoughts may travel far, your strength is needed here and now."
As her form disappeared completely, Harry settled back down by the Site of Grace. He pulled out the wand he still carried, though it seemed to work differently here, less reliably. Running his fingers along the familiar wood, he thought of Hermione's methodical approach to problems, of Ron's strategic mind, of Sirius's determined spirit.
"I'll find my way back," he promised the alien sky above. "And maybe I'll learn enough here to help them when I do."
The Grace swirled around him, its light somehow warmer than before, as if responding to his resolve. In the distance, a dragon's roar echoed across the plains, and Harry Potter—wizard, Tarnished, and something else yet undefined—began planning for tomorrow's lessons.
Morning
The golden rays of dawn crept across Harry's face, stirring him from sleep. As his eyes fluttered open, he found himself staring directly into Melina's violet eye; she was sitting near him with an amused look.
"Were you watching me sleep?" Harry asked groggily, pushing himself up and running a hand through his perpetually messy hair.
Melina's melodic giggle filled the air. "As enticing as that prospect might be, I have my own duties to attend to. I was actually keeping an eye on another Tarnished—Vyke."
"Vyke?" Harry adjusted his glasses, which had gone slightly askew during his sleep. "There are other Tarnished out there?"
"Many," Melina confirmed, settling down beside him. "They wander these lands, each with their own purpose. Some seek glory, others power, and a few..." She paused, her expression darkening slightly. "A few have fallen to madness in their pursuit of becoming Elden Lord."
"And this Vyke person?"
"He treads a dangerous path," Melina said cryptically. "But enough about him. There are Tarnished scattered across West and North Limgrave, through the mists of Liurnia of the Lakes, and up in the Altus Plateau. Some even venture into more... treacherous regions."
Harry picked up a piece of bread Kale had sold him the previous day, tearing off a chunk. "Sounds like a cheery bunch. Are they all trying to become Elden Lord?"
"Many are. Though not all have the guidance of Grace anymore." Melina watched as Harry ate. "Speaking of guidance, you wished to observe the dragon today?"
"Right," Harry said through a mouthful of bread, earning a look that reminded him distinctly of Hermione's disapproval of his and Ron's table manners. He swallowed before continuing. "Where exactly is this lake?"
"First," Melina raised a finger, "we should acquire you a proper weapon."
Harry frowned. "I'm not really much for weapons. I mean, I used a sword once, against the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, but that was mostly luck. And the Sword of Gryffindor sort of... came to me when I needed it."
"A magical sword that comes when called?" Melina's eye sparkled with interest. "Fascinating. But here, you'll need something more reliable than luck and timely magical interventions."
"I suppose shooting sparks from my hands won't solve everything," Harry admitted, looking at his palm where five electric sparks appeared.
"Indeed not," Melina said, a hint of playfulness in her voice. "Besides, proper swordsmanship might suit you. You have quick reflexes from your... what did you call it? Quidditch?"
"Yeah, but that's different. I'm good at flying, not fighting."
"Then you shall learn." Melina stood, gesturing for Harry to follow. "There are many types of swords in the Lands Between. The straight sword is a reliable choice for beginners—well-balanced, versatile. Then there's the broadsword, slightly heavier but with more striking power."
As they walked, Melina continued her explanation. "Curved swords offer speed and fluid movements, while greatswords provide tremendous power at the cost of speed."
"How big are we talking about with greatswords?"
"Oh, some are taller than you are."
Harry stopped walking. "You're joking."
"Not at all. The legendary Starscourge Greatsword—"
"No," Harry said firmly. "Absolutely not. I'm not lugging around a sword bigger than me. I'd probably fall over trying to swing it."
Melina's eye crinkled with amusement. "Perhaps not the best choice for a beginner. Though watching you try might be entertaining."
"Glad I can provide amusement," Harry said dryly. "What about something... normal-sized?"
"The longsword might suit you," Melina suggested. "It's similar in size to the blade you used against your basilisk. Versatile enough for both cutting and thrusting, and not too heavy for someone of your build."
"My build?" Harry looked down at his rather skinny frame. "You can just say I'm scrawny. Everyone else does."
"I was trying to be diplomatic," Melina said with a small smile. "But size isn't everything. Speed and skill often triumph over brute strength. Besides," she added, glancing at his arms, his arms had muscles, "you're stronger than you look."
They came to a stop near what appeared to be ruins of an old church. A familiar figure sat near its entrance—Kale, the merchant, who waved at their approach.
"Ah, the young Tarnished returns," Kale called out. "And with the fair maiden no less. Come to blow up another part of my roof?"
"We're looking for a sword," Melina answered. "Something suitable for a beginner."
"Ah, taking up the blade at last?" Kale rummaged through his goods. "I might have just the thing. Found it in the ruins near the gate. Good steel, not too heavy..." He pulled out a longsword that, while obviously used, still maintained a decent edge.
Harry took the sword gingerly, nearly dropping it despite its relatively modest weight. "It's... heavier than I expected."
"Everything is heavy when you're not used to it," Melina observed. "Try holding it with both hands."
Harry adjusted his grip, remembering how he'd held the Sword of Gryffindor. This felt different—less magical, more practical somehow.
"How much?" he asked Kale.
"For you? Two thousand runes. And I'll throw in this scabbard. Can't have you walking around with a bare blade like some kind of savage."
Harry handed over the runes—something he was still getting used to—and attached the scabbard to his belt. The weight of it against his hip felt strange, foreign.
"Now then," Melina said, "shall we see about that dragon?"
"What, now?" Harry gestured at the sword. "I barely know how to hold this thing!"
"The best learning comes from necessity," Melina said with what Harry was beginning to recognize as her 'teaching' voice. "Though as I said, we're only going to observe. Unless, of course, you feel compelled to challenge it?"
"No thanks," Harry said quickly. "I've had enough of dangerous magical creatures for one lifetime. Between Fluffy, Aragog, and the basilisk, I think I'm set."
"Fluffy?" Melina asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Three-headed dog. Long story."
"Your world sounds quite interesting," Melina mused as they began walking toward Agheel Lake. "Though I notice these encounters didn't end with you being eaten, so perhaps you're better at handling dangerous creatures than you think."
"Or I'm just really lucky."
"Luck is a skill of its own," Melina said enigmatically. "Though perhaps we should practice some basic sword movements before we reach the lake. Just in case your luck runs out."
Harry sighed, already feeling sore muscles in his future. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"I have no idea what you mean," Melina said, but her smile suggested otherwise. "Now, let's start with a proper stance. And do try not to stab yourself—healing you constantly would be rather tiresome."
"Your concern is touching," Harry muttered, but he followed her instructions, trying to mimic the position she described. As he did so, he couldn't help but think that Hermione would probably have memorized every sword fighting technique by now, while Ron would be complaining about not getting a bigger weapon.
The thought made him smile, even as Melina began correcting his grip for the third time in as many minutes.
A Few Minutes Later...
"No, no," Melina said. "Your stance is all wrong. You're holding that sword like it's a broomstick."
"Well, that's what I'm used to," Harry retorted, adjusting his grip for what felt like the hundredth time.
"Ah yes, your flying sport." Melina circled him, her eye critically assessing his form. "But unless you plan to ride this sword through the air—which I strongly advise against—you'll need a proper grip." She paused behind him. "Your left hand should be at the pommel, right hand just below the guard. Think of it as an extension of your arm, not a stick you're waving about."
Harry adjusted his hands. "Like this?"
"Better. Now, feet shoulder-width apart. No—" She tapped his ankle with an ethereal foot. "Your right foot should be slightly back. You're not dancing at a ball."
"Never been to one of those either," Harry mumbled.
"Really?" Melina's voice carried a hint of amusement. "No formal dances at your magical school? How disappointing." She moved to his side. "Basic guard position. Raise the sword—not that high, you're defending yourself, not saluting the Erdtree."
Harry lowered the blade slightly. "This feels awkward."
"Of course it does. Everything feels awkward when you're learning." Her voice softened. "But you learned to cast spells, didn't you? To fly on a broomstick? This is no different." She paused, then added with a mischievous tone, "Though perhaps try not to turn any swords into half needle, half sword like you did in that magical school."
Harry's head snapped toward her. "How did you—"
"You talk in your sleep sometimes," she said with a small smile. "Now, focus. Basic strikes. Think of them like spellcasting movements—precise, controlled, purposeful."
She guided him through several basic cuts and thrusts, her teaching style shifting between gentle encouragement and sharp corrections. When Harry overextended on a thrust, nearly losing his balance, she was there with a steadying hand and a quip about gravity being the same in both worlds.
"You're thinking too much," she observed after a particularly clumsy sequence. "Your body is fighting itself. When you cast spells, do you think about every finger movement?"
"No, but I've been doing that for almost three years."
"And you'll be doing this for years too, if you survive." She held up a hand at his alarmed look. "That was a joke. Mostly. Now, try again, but this time..." She positioned herself in front of him. "Imagine you're protecting someone. Your friends—Hermione and Ron. What would you do if a Godrick soldier was charging at them?"
Harry's stance shifted subtly, his grip tightening. The next sequence of moves came more naturally, driven by instinct rather than conscious thought.
"Much better!" Melina clapped her hands. "You see? Intent matters more than technique, at least at first. The refinement comes later."
The lesson continued, Melina switching seamlessly between stern instructor and playful guide, her teaching style somehow managing to be both demanding and encouraging. When Harry finally managed a perfect sequence of moves, her proud smile made all the previous failures worth it.
"Well done," she said softly. "You might survive meeting that dragon after all."
"I thought we were just going to observe it?"
"Oh, we are." Her form began to fade as she prepared to dematerialize. "But in the Lands Between, it's best to be prepared for everything. Including dragons who don't appreciate being observed."
"That's not very reassuring!" Harry called after her disappearing form.
Her laugh lingered in the air. "It wasn't meant to be. Now, twenty more repetitions of that sequence. And do try to keep your elbows in—unless you want to end up like that Tarnished who challenged a Crucible Knight with poor form..."
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Harry's arms felt like lead after five hours of practice swings. Sweat dripped from his brow, and his glasses kept sliding down his nose, but he felt a sense of accomplishment. The movements were becoming more natural, less like he was wielding someone else's arm.
"One more sequence," he muttered to himself, raising the sword again.
That's when it happened. As he channeled his magic—or what he thought was magic—something different responded. Instead of the familiar warmth of his spells or the primal surge of dragon power, he felt a cool, silvery sensation flowing through his arms. The sword in his hands began to glitter with a pale white light, like starlight captured in steel.
Suddenly, images flooded his mind—movements he'd never seen, techniques he'd never learned, yet they felt as familiar as casting Expelliarmus. Without conscious thought, his body moved. He launched himself skyward, far higher than any normal jump should allow, easily clearing three meters.
Time seemed to slow. At the apex of his leap, Harry saw a massive bat—nearly the size of Uncle Vernon's car—flying toward him. His arms moved of their own accord, the glowing blade slashing forward in a precise arc. A blade of pure wind erupted from the sword, slicing through the air and catching the bat squarely in its chest. The creature let out an inhuman shriek before dissolving into golden motes that flowed into Harry.
His landing was considerably less graceful than the leap. Harry stumbled, nearly falling flat on his face, saved only by jamming the sword into the ground for balance.
"What in Merlin's name was that?" he gasped, staring at his hands. The sword's glow had faded, but he could still feel that strange power humming beneath his skin.
"You just used an Ash of War, Tarnished."
The unfamiliar voice sent Harry spinning around, sword raised in what he hoped was a defensive position. A figure stood several meters away, wearing strange armor and a conical hat that reminded Harry somewhat of the Sorting Hat's distant cousin.
The man is dressed in weathered brown leather robes or armor that appears tattered and worn at the edges. The most striking feature is his unique conical hat, which appears to be made of ornate metalwork with a detailed pattern of arches and openings, giving it an almost cathedral-like appearance. His legs are protected by metal greaves or armor pieces, and he wears armored boots.
His outfit has multiple leather straps and a decorated belt with an ornate buckle. The ragged edges of his robes and the worn appearance of his gear suggest someone who has seen many battles and traveled far.
"Calm, calm, Tarnished. I'm no foe." The man raised his hands in a peaceful gesture, though Harry noticed he carried his own blade—a katana-like sword.
"Who are you?" Harry demanded, not lowering his weapon. After three years at Hogwarts, he'd learned that mysterious strangers weren't always what they seemed.
"I am called Yura," the man said, bowing slightly. "A hunter of Bloody Fingers, though I suspect that means little to you, given your... unusual fighting style."
Harry kept his sword up. "What's a Bloody Finger? And why were you watching me?"
Yura chuckled, the sound warm despite his intimidating appearance. "Bloody Fingers are hunters who hunt other Tarnished for sport and worse. As for watching you..." He gestured toward the lake visible through the trees. "I saw you practicing near Dragon-Burnt Ruins. Came to warn you about Agheel."
"The dragon?" Harry lowered his sword slightly. "Melina mentioned it."
"Ah, you have a maiden's guidance already." Yura seemed to relax slightly. "And you are?"
"Harry Potter."
"Harry... Potter." Yura tested the name like someone sampling an exotic food. "A strange name, even for a Tarnished. Though I suppose I've heard stranger in my travels."
"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly from around here," Harry said, finally lowering his sword completely. His arms were grateful for the rest.
"Clearly." Yura moved closer, examining Harry with obvious curiosity. "Your technique is unorthodox. A mix of sorcery and something else. And that Ash of War you just used—the Sword Dance—where did you learn it?"
"I didn't," Harry admitted. "It just... happened. When I channeled my mag—my grace into the sword, these memories just appeared. Like I'd done it before, except I know I haven't."
"Interesting." Yura stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Grace works in mysterious ways. Sometimes it grants us knowledge from other warriors, other times..." He trailed off, looking at Harry more intently. "You truly have no idea what you're doing, do you?"
"Thanks for noticing," Harry said dryly.
Yura laughed again. "No shame in it. We all start somewhere. But perhaps you'd benefit from some practical instruction? Your form needs work, though your instincts are good."
Harry hesitated. "Melina's been teaching me."
"Ah, but can she demonstrate the proper way to parry a blade?" Yura drew his katana sword in a fluid motion. "Sometimes the best lessons come from steel against steel."
"I don't think—"
"He's right, Harry." Melina's voice came from nearby as she materialized. "I can teach you many things, but practical combat experience requires a physical opponent."
Harry wondered why Melina had decided to appear; maybe she had thought he was in danger.
"See? Your maiden agrees." Yura adopted a ready stance. "Now, show me that Ash of War again, but this time, try to hit me with it."
Harry gripped his sword tighter. "What if I actually hit you?"
Yura's laugh had an edge of steel to it. "Young Tarnished, if you manage to hit me with your current skill level, I'll give you my sword." He twirled his blade in a complex pattern that made Harry's eyes cross. "Now, come. Show me what grace has gifted you."
For the next hour, Yura demonstrated exactly why Harry had a long way to go. Every attempted strike was deflected, every clumsy dodge punished with a flat of the blade to his ribs or back. But gradually, Harry began to understand. The memories granted by grace weren't enough—they had to be earned, integrated through practice and pain.
"Better!" Yura called as Harry managed to execute the wind blade technique again, though this time it went wide of its mark. "You're thinking less, feeling more. Grace isn't just power—it's intuition, instinct."
"It's also nearly sunset," Melina observed. "And Agheel grows more active at night."
"Ah, yes." Yura sheathed his blade. "Best to continue this another time. The dragon's attention is not something you want yet, young Potter."
Harry wiped sweat from his forehead, breathing heavily. "Will I see you again?"
"Oh, I suspect our paths will cross." Yura adjusted his hat. "The Lands Between has a way of bringing warriors together, especially in times like these." He turned to leave, then paused. "A word of advice? When you do face Agheel—and something tells me you will, despite warnings—remember that dragons respect courage, but they punish recklessness. There's a difference."
As Yura walked away, Harry collapsed near the site of grace, his muscles screaming in protest.
"He's right, you know," Melina said softly. "About both the training and the dragon."
"Yeah?" Harry managed between breaths. "Which part?"
"All of it." She smiled that mysterious smile of hers. "Now rest. Tomorrow, we'll see if you can manage that Sword Dance without nearly falling on your face."
"I didn't fall," Harry protested. "I just... decided to get closer to the ground. Tactically."
"Of course you did." Melina's form began to fade. "Sleep well, Harry Potter. And do try not to dream too loudly about revenge on Yura's training methods. Some of us need our rest too."
Harry smiled despite his exhaustion. Between Melina's teaching and Yura's practical lessons, he might actually survive this strange world. Though as he heard a distant roar from the direction of the lake, he wondered if perhaps learning to fall properly should be his next priority.
Stormveil Castle
Screams pierced the darkness of Stormveil's grand hall, echoing off stone walls stained with centuries of blood. The moonlight streaming through the tall windows seemed to recoil from what it illuminated within.
"Where is the girl?" The voice was cultured, almost melodious, making its source all the more horrifying. A figure sat upon a writhing throne, where grafted limbs continuously reached and grasped at nothing, their movements creating a sickening symphony of creaking tendons and cracking joints.
Two monstrosities flanked the throne, their bodies a blasphemous fusion of human limbs arranged in spider-like configurations. Faces were stitched into their torsos, mouths frozen mid-scream, eyes still wet with tears that would never dry.
"We captured her friends, Lord Godrick." The captain's voice quavered, his armor rattling with his trembling. Sweat dripped down his face despite the hall's chill.
The great doors groaned open on hinges that wept rust-colored tears. Soldiers dragged in struggling captives, their chains creating a discordant melody against the stone floor.
"Illuminate our family reunion," Godrick commanded, his voice dripping with perverse affection.
The candelabras blazed to life, revealing Godrick the Grafted in all his terrible glory. His red cloak shifted with unnatural movement, countless arms and hands writhing beneath like maggots under dead flesh. The golden crown upon his head seemed to mock the very concept of nobility.
"The Spirit Tuner," Godrick crooned, rising from his throne. Each movement was accompanied by the whispers of dozens of grafted limbs adjusting, reaching, grasping. "The girl who speaks to the dead, who strengthens the Spirit Ashes." He lifted his golden axe, its lion head seeming to roar in the flickering light. "Where is she hiding?"
A captive, his face bloodied but defiant, glared up at the monstrosity before him. "Princess Malenia should have finished what she started, you grafted abomination!"
Godrick's laugh was like breaking glass. "Ah, you speak of my 'defeat'?" He leaned close, his breath hot and reeking of copper. "Let me share what that taught me about the true nature of family."
The axe fell, a golden arc in the candlelight. The man's arm and leg separated in a spray of crimson, his scream rising to join the castle's chorus of agony.
"You see," Godrick mused, watching the limbs twitch, "Malenia showed me that even the strongest can be made stronger." He gestured to his spider-servants, who scuttled forward to collect their grisly prizes. "Every defeat is an opportunity for... evolution."
He turned to a young woman, tears cutting clean tracks through the dirt on her face. "Where is the Spirit Tuner, child? Tell me, and I'll make your contribution to our family swift." His grafted hands reached toward her, fingers dancing like pale spiders. "Refuse, and well... some members of my family took days to fully join us."
She sobbed but kept her lips sealed.
"Such loyalty," Godrick sighed, almost lovingly.
With horrifying precision, he brought the blade down again and again, carving away chunks of flesh and bone. The woman's screams grew weaker with each strike until they faded to wet, gurgling gasps.
Blood-soaked and panting with exertion, Godrick turned to address the remaining prisoners. "You see now the price of defiance," he bellowed. "Speak, and your suffering will be brief. Remain silent, and I shall make you beg for death's sweet release!"
One by one, he interrogated the captives, each refusal met with increasingly grotesque mutilations. Fingers were crushed, eyes gouged out, and limbs torn asunder. The floor of the grand hall became slick with blood and viscera, the air thick with the stench of death.
As Godrick reached the final prisoner, a young man barely out of his teens, hope gleamed in his eyes. Surely this one would break, would give him the information he so desperately craved.
"Come now, boy," Godrick coaxed, his voice deceptively gentle. "You've seen what awaits those who defy me. Tell me where to find the girl who strengthens Spirit Ashes, and I'll spare you this torment."
The young man's gaze flickered between Godrick and the carnage surrounding them. For a moment, it seemed he might yield. But then his jaw clenched, and a spark of defiance ignited in his eyes.
"You'll never get your hands on Roderika," he spat, his voice trembling but resolute. "She's beyond your reach, and she'll see you fall, you monster!"
Godrick's face contorted with fury, spittle flying from his lips as he roared, "Insolent whelp! I'll flay the skin from your bones and use it to polish my crown!"
But even as he raised his axe for another devastating blow, a cold, calculating gleam entered his eyes. He lowered the weapon, a cruel smile spreading across his face.
"No," Godrick mused, his voice suddenly calm. "No, I have a far better use for you all."
He turned to his soldiers, who stood at attention despite the horror etched on their faces. "Take these miserable creatures to the grafting chambers," he commanded. "Cut off their remaining limbs – arms, legs, doesn't matter. We shall put them to good use in creating my newest children."
The prisoners' eyes widened in terror as the full implications of Godrick's words sank in. They began to thrash and scream anew, begging for mercy, for death – anything but the fate that awaited them.
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