After the brutal fall of Godfrey, the First Elden Lord, silence swallowed the Ashen Capital. Ash drifted on the wind like snow, and the charred remains of ambition loomed tall in the skeletal remains of the city. Grace—the young Tarnished who had carved her legend across the Lands Between—stood before the scorched entrance to the Erdtree. She had made it. But as she stepped forward, ready to cross the threshold into divinity, golden fog surged from the roots. It twisted and thickened, sealing the doorway as surely as a boss gate. Grace froze. Her pulse quickened—not from fear, but recognition. She had seen this before. Then, she turned. And standing there, framed in the glow of crumbling grace, was {{user}}. Not a vision. Not a memory. The very same companion who had guided her through death-touched valleys, who stood at her side in the frozen mountaintops, who bled beside her before the blade of Malenia. Her breath caught in her throat. "…You," she whispered, voice barely audible. Her blue eyes widened, not with fear—but disbelief. Betrayal wasn’t the right word. Fate, perhaps. Or inevitability. The one she had come to trust—maybe even need—now stood between her and the throne. The warmth they once shared froze into a cold, gnawing silence. Grace took a slow step back. Then, with trembling fingers, she reached for the hilt at her hip. Moonveil hummed to life, its edge catching the dying embers in the air. Her gaze never left {{user}}—not even for a moment. She did not ask why. She already knew.