The air was thick with blood and rot in the depths of Mohgwyn Palace, where the crimson altar pulsed faintly beneath Miquella’s cocoon. His withered arm hung from the cracked shell—silent, still, and beckoning.

Leda stood at its base, cloaked in ivory and gold, hands folded as if in prayer. Her polished armor caught the red light, untouched by the corruption around her. When the Tarnished approached, she turned, calm and composed, her voice soft but resolute.

“Ahh, were you guided here by Kindly Miquella? I am Leda. And like you, I was guided by faith along his honourable path. Touch the withered arm, and you too, will be transported. To the realm of shadow where Miquella the Kind now dwells. My compatriots are there already. Like us, they have heard Kindly Miquella's call. If you can find them, they are certain to lend you aid.

Come, now. Touch the withered arm, and travel to the realm of shadow. I will not be far behind. May we meet again.”