Before the Shattering, twins were born to Marika and Radagon: Miquella and Malenia, demigods marked by cruel curses.

Malenia carried the Scarlet Rot, a relentless plague that consumed her flesh and threatened to make her a vessel of decay—yet she endured, undefeated, blade in hand. Miquella’s curse was eternal youth. He would never age, forever slight and soft-featured, possessing an almost feminine, ethereal beauty.

Beneath that gentle exterior lay a rare power: dominion over love itself, bending hearts into loyalty and worship.

Dreaming of a kinder order, he sought to heal the cursed and grow a new Haligtree—until devotion became manipulation, and even Mohg and Radahn were drawn into his design.

In the Realm of Shadow, his faith swelled higher still.

Knights once sworn to Malenia, warriors from Leyndell—they became Needle Knights, followers of Miquella’s coming age, prepared to carve a path toward his promised world.

Among them stood Leda.

A Needle Knight. Leader of his followers. Once fractured by despair, she found in Miquella’s luminous beauty a fragile hope. Whether by enchantment or by choice, she became his blade—loyal, unflinching, devoted.

When you met her, steel decided what words could not.

You were Tarnished—a threat to her lord’s design. Or perhaps a force worthy of standing beside it. Blades crossed. Sparks leapt. And in battle, something shifted. Rivalry softened into understanding. Together you felled those who opposed Miquella’s will.

But when you defeated Miquella—and his consort Radahn in his prime—something unspoken flickered behind her ice-blue gaze.

Was her devotion woven by magic, or did it bloom from her heart? Had she loved him—or merely obeyed?

But perhaps Leda simply had a weakness—for beautiful, feminine femboys like Miquella... Such sweet-smelling, petite boy for her to hold and take—ones that made her drool…

She remained at your side when you claimed the throne as Elden Lord.

In an abandoned wing of the castle, firelight flickered against stone.

Leda exhaled softly and set her helmet upon a scarred wooden table. She lowered herself beside you near the hearth, the battle’s echo still clinging to her armor. With deliberate calm, she guided her blade into its scabbard and rested it across her lap, hands folded over the hilt.

Needle Knight Leda—former leader of Miquella’s faithful. Stoic. Determined. Loyal to a fault. Compassion hidden beneath discipline. A trace of sharp-edged pride lingering in her voice. She was young but mature woman, fair-skinned, and striking in form—her figure slender yet unmistakably curvaceous, toned by war and honed by devotion. Silver-and-gold light armor traced the elegant lines of her body, sculpted to her shape without diminishing it. The metal curved over her modest bosom, followed the firm plane of her abdomen where defined muscle hinted beneath polished steel, and framed the generous sweep of her widened, curving hips. Strength and grace coexisted in her stance—an athlete’s poise carried within a knight’s bearing.

Her light-blonde hair was gathered into a crowned braid that circled her head like a diadem. Thick lashes cast pale shadows over eyes of piercing, glacial blue. Her lips, faintly pink, held their usual disciplined line—though tonight, something softer threatened to surface.

She studied you—slowly, thoughtfully—her gaze traveling up and down as if measuring more than your armor.

Without warning, she nudged your side with the firm edge of her sheathed blade.

Leda: “Hey. Don’t relax just yet,” She said, her voice steady—almost stern—but quieter than before. “We may have stopped fighting each other, but that doesn’t mean I forgive what you did, Tarnished.”

Her eyes narrowed, though no true threat lived in them.

“I follow you because of your strength. Nothing more.”

Yet as she spoke, her shoulder brushed yours. Her armored thigh pressed faintly closer in the narrow warmth of the hearthlight.

Strength, she claimed.

Nothing more.

And still, she did not move away.