The wind did not whistle—it prayed.
The Chapel of Anticipation, perched upon that island surrounded by a roaring chasm, trembled with the mere presence of two figures. The statue of Marika, half-eroded by centuries, still held her gesture of outstretched arms and the posture of sacrifice—a plea for redemption that would never come.
Before it, Mitranis struggled to breathe, kneeling on the cracked tiles. His hands bled slightly. So did his mind. Everything had happened so quickly: the skirmish, the battle, the desperation and helplessness.
And Margit…
Margit stood there, as if time itself had failed to cast him out of the world.
He did not move. He did not speak.
It seemed as though he was gazing beyond the eyes, searching in Mitranis for a forbidden reflection.
"I remember nothing from before," the young man said, without being asked. "I don't know who I was—at least, not before I was found by the recusants."
His words drifted for a moment into the salty mist before he went on:
"All I have are dreams. Not memories—just fragments that return each night. They are not always the same, and I could not always say they feel like something real."
Margit tilted his head without answering. The mist veiled part of his face, but his left eye shone beneath it.
"In those dreams… I travel with women. All dressed in black. Agile. Silent.
I never see them in full daylight. They only move by night, like shadows that breathe."
Margit did not interrupt. Yet each word struck him with a strange weight. He already had an idea—no, a clear reference—of what Mitranis's dream-born account suggested.
"I also dream of being alone. In a room without windows. Dark.
And my hands…" Mitranis looked at them, trembling, "my hands shine. They give off a soft golden light. And if I focus it… I can do this…"
His index finger brushed the floor, recalling.
"…A spark. A golden lightning bolt. I would play at cooking insects, vermin. It amused me."
Then there was silence. Silence from both of them, mutual. It was not dead space—it was part of their dialogue. For Margit, what he had heard and seen from Mitranis was entirely clear. There was little need to infer. What was happening with this young man was becoming more tangible by the moment.
"She always appears. A different woman each time. She looks at me and tells me I must not do that. That no one must ever see me. Ever."
Margit drew in a slow breath. The gesture was imperceptible—almost human.
If they—those terrible women, spoken of with fear and hatred throughout the Lands Between—had forbidden such a thing to Mitranis, then this was another undeniable clue to reinforce Margit's suspicions.
No… they were no longer suspicions. This was the prelude to certainty.
"It is not grace that you carry," murmured the Omen, his voice deep and ancient.
"It is not ambition, nor an echo of an oath. It is something else… something you were never meant to harbor, neither now nor at the moment of your conception."
Mitranis lowered his gaze, pressing his lips together. He did not fully understand the context of Margit's words. Yet he found himself agreeing—without knowing why. It was not something he had ever noticed in his dreams.
The women never spoke of reasons, origins, or any natural condition within him. They only said these powers were forbidden to the group that had sheltered and raised him before he became a recusant.
"Why do you say it like that?"
Margit did not answer. He turned slightly, as if hearing a call in the wind.
Then he faced Mitranis again, gesturing toward the field of weapons driven into the earth beside the chapel—rusted relics of ancient duels.
"Take up a sword," he said. "Not that dagger. Don't even think of using it."
Mitranis hesitated. He took a few steps. Margit's gaze was an unspoken order: drop the dagger to the ground. Mitranis obeyed. Then he walked toward a cluster of blades embedded in the ground, adorned with golden leaves—half-withered, half-petrified—the remnants of a Grace equally withered, diminished.
"You want to continue our battle?" the recusant asked, his breath ragged, insidious. "I'm in no condition to fight. I'm probably bleeding inside, in fact."
Margit extended his left arm—the one that did not hold his great wooden staff. A faint glow bloomed from his outstretched hand. At once, golden energy rose from beneath Mitranis's feet, enveloping him in a powerful surge. When the light faded, he felt renewed.
A healing enchantment. A potent one.
Margit lowered his arm with calm assurance. That spell was his answer: this would not be a battle. The Omen wanted something else.
"Not exactly," he said. "We are going to… train. Raise your sword and take your stance."
His voice was firm, without anger.
Only certainty.
"Three minutes. No more. Survive."
"And if I don't?"
"Then perhaps the light within you… was never truly yours. Just… decoration."
Mitranis assumed a defensive stance. He gripped the long, blackened blade in both hands. He was ready to fight. The Omen studied his posture—it was clear someone skilled and strict had taught the recusant to wield a longsword. In fact, his sword form was more solid than with the dagger.
Margit opened his palm. A golden dagger materialized in his bent hand.
It was the signal. The duel was about to begin.
"Prepare yourself."
Margit hurled the golden dagger. Then another. And another, until five—six in total—each one tracking Mitranis's movement. The young man darted side to side, blocking and deflecting with his blade.
Though forged of sacred energy, the daggers carried weight—enough that no sword could truly parry them without strain. Each impact sent a jolt through Mitranis's arms, the vibration biting into the marrow of his bones.
The Omen now summoned a lance, advancing with the certainty of a golden beast set to gore its prey. The ground groaned beneath his steps.
Mitranis raised his sword in guard, deflecting the thrust by mere inches. A heartbeat slower and he would have been on the ground. He leapt back, just as Bernahl had taught him. If not for a master as strong as Margit, the recusant would have had no chance.
Next came the hammer—golden, colossal, drawn from the void. Mitranis blocked with both hands, but the blow flung him several meters back. His spine struck a fallen gravestone. This time, the strike had landed. Likely a few cracked ribs, and his right shoulder dislocated. He forced it back into place with a grimace, swallowing the pain.
As he set the joint, light gathered above him. Then he saw it—an overwhelming sight: vast golden swords hanging in the air, descending like rain.
He could not avoid them all. One grazed his shoulder, another sliced his thigh.
Blood spilled freely. Not mortal wounds, but they burned with searing pain. And then—his hand began to shine. Not from fear. Not from rage or agony. From instinct. Instinct to survive and overcome total helplessness.
A golden lightning bolt crackled in his palm. Just one. Brief. Imperfect. But real.
Margit noticed. He stopped his attack. The hammer dissolved in a swirl of light—and the Omen dodged the bolt, then another, and another.
It was the lightning of the Capital's Dragons, wielded innately by Mitranis.
And then came the rest—natural, instinctive, faster than thought. Daggers erupted from his hands, one after another, mirroring Margit's earlier assault. Five, six in total, streaking toward the Fallen Omen.
It was enough. It was… impressive. Terrifying. What had been suspicion—a prelude to certainty—was now undeniable truth. Mitranis was… him. Or what remained of him, as the whispers told of that night. That fateful night which began the total downfall of the Lands Between.
"Enough," Margit said.
Mitranis collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. He had never unleashed so much of his power. He had not won. Nor had he lost. It was something different—something heavier, more absolute. Though he did not yet understand it.
Margit stepped closer, his presence growing more imposing with each stride. Then he knelt before Mitranis. His gaze had changed—it was… almost understanding. Fraternal.
"That light…" he said softly, like a broken prayer, "that light was never made for you. And yet…"
He said no more.
He turned away, walking slowly, each step like a farewell. As the mist swallowed his silhouette, his voice came one last time, barely audible in the wind.
"The light scorned in darkness. His light, and his final breath… they live in you."
"What?"
Margit gave no answer. Instead, he struck the ground with his great staff. A small column of pale, dim light appeared—a modest portal.
"Your friend will be needing you. We will have the chance to continue our battle."
Without another word, Margit turned his back to Mitranis. Then he vanished.
Was it a battle? A challenge? An interrogation? Perhaps the prologue to a truth still veiled from him.
Mitranis stared at the place where Margit had stood only seconds before. Without thinking, he let himself fall backward onto the stone, arms and legs spread.
"Ah… what a hell of a fight that was!" he exclaimed, giving himself a moment to rest.
After a few breaths, he sat up, then rose to his feet. Turning around, he walked slowly to retrieve his dagger. He looked at it for a moment before sheathing it again. Then, opening his palm, he summoned one of those same daggers—the ones he had created by mimicking Margit.
"For all of it, I can only thank that old man for this skill."
The dagger dissolved, shattering into a thousand shards of solidified sacred light.
It was time to step through the small portal and find Hestia. More battles awaited. The demigod had to be overthrown.
Godrick—the last of the golden lineage—had to fall.