Lucian rode atop Torrent across the desolate, barren snowfields.
The wind howled ceaselessly, and the blizzard blurred the world into a shapeless void. The mountains ahead were nothing more than faint, hollow silhouettes. All around, there was only a single color: the endless, smothering white.
Aside from the occasional tree jutting out at the roadside, there were no landmarks to speak of.
The only guide in this trackless waste was a faint, wavering golden light drifting above—Grace's guidance.
No map, no markers, no destination. Even if he looked back, the cave he had come from was already lost to sight.
It was only thanks to that shimmering light that Lucian could keep moving forward.
It had been a very long time since he had traveled this way—without a map, with only Grace to follow. The last time was at the very beginning, after leaving the Stranded Graveyard and stepping foot into Limgrave.
Back then, he had followed Grace's lines to the Gatefront, where he first encountered Melina. After meeting her and securing his first map, he no longer relied on Grace for direction.
For compared to the faint threads of Grace, the routes stored in his own memory—what players would call "strategy guides" were far clearer. With a map in hand, he could match the terrain to what he remembered, and navigate with confidence.
That was why he had always gone out of his way to gather maps, whether from the steles, merchants, or even from others' hands.
But now, without one, the absence was stifling.
Still, he wasn't here to explore. He only needed to unlock a site of grace in this snowfield—for the sake of teleportation later. He didn't expect to return anytime soon.
If he could find a landmark near the grace, all the better. Ideally, the Mountaintop of the Giants—then he could bring Elyssa here next time, let her guide the way. It would give her an excuse to visit her people, the Zamor, and see how they fared on the mountain.
If their life here was too harsh, he could always bring them back to Stormveil. It would be far kinder than this frozen land.
And if this place was truly the Consecrated Snowfield, it opened paths toward Miquella's Haligtree—or even the Mohgwyn Dynasty.
Lost in such thoughts, Lucian soon found himself buried under a thick layer of snow. He shook himself back to his senses, conjuring a gust to scatter the frost from his body.
The snow was relentless. If he didn't clear it off every so often, it quickly piled up again. Until now he had simply brushed it away with Storm's winds, but he decided to do better—shaping the gale into a flowing armor of air around himself, warding the snow from clinging in the first place.
The chill had begun to seep into his bones. His armor, though cloaked and layered, had never been meant for warmth. If only he had prepared heat-restoring draughts beforehand.
Not that it mattered much. With his body's strength, even stripped bare he would only stiffen, never freeze to death.
Torrent, meanwhile, was unfazed. His thick fur shrugged off the cold, though the heavy snowdrifts did slow his hooves. Each step sank deep into the powder, and the steed grew restless, unable to run free.
Instead, Torrent dawdled, nibbling at roadside Rowa fruit.
Lucian had tasted the mountain-grown variety once. The verdict: poor. The fibers were too coarse to swallow, the flavor like unsweetened mint gum—icy cold, with shards of frost. Edible, but unpleasant.
By far the best remained Leyndell's golden dried Rowa fruit—sweet, chewy, almost like candy. Trust the capital's lords to know how to make a proper treat.
With nothing else to occupy him, Lucian let his thoughts wander in such trivialities.
He had no idea how long he had been riding. The world around him never changed, endlessly repeating itself. The mental strain of such monotony was greater than the physical. Were it not for Grace still pointing forward, he might have thought himself going in circles.
For a moment, he regretted not learning even the simplest flame incantations. A little fire would have been welcome here—not just for warmth, but for comfort. Ordinary torches were useless in this blizzard.
He had acquired a basic Flame incantation book in a trade with Ranni, but he had never gone to see Brother Corhyn to learn it. Detours had been costly then.
Storms could shield him from snow, but not change the air's temperature. Hot winds blew hot, cold winds blew cold.
He was just considering whether to pull out the Sword of Night and Flame to use as a torch when he suddenly felt warmth on his back.
He knew it well. Not true warmth, but the illusion of it—the sensation of Melina's spirit touching him.
She wrapped her arms gently around him from behind. She could do nothing against the cold itself, but she could at least offer the faint comfort of phantom warmth.
"Thank you, Melina."
Her head rested against his back, her gaze fixed on the unchanging white horizon.
"…Let us find a grace quickly, and return. Your armor is hardly fit for the cold."
Lucian chuckled softly.
"It's not so bad. Not beyond what I can endure. You know me, if I wasn't prepared for it, I'd never have stepped out of that cave."
She nodded. That much was true. Even if the teleportation had been unexpected, he would never rush out blindly.
"When I find the grace, we'll head back. This place is far too cold."
He lifted his eyes to the sky, following Grace's line into the unknown. He sighed.
"But who knows how far it still is… even Torrent's slowed by the snow."
There was no help for it. In a new land, finding grace and marking a teleport point was essential. Without it, the alternatives would be endless hours spent trudging through caverns.
Melina said nothing more. She only tightened her embrace slightly.
In that lonely white expanse, Lucian felt genuine warmth.
The pale, colorless world seemed, for a moment, painted over with life. The hollow silhouettes of distant peaks became guiding beacons.
Because he knew: he was not alone.
Behind him was the girl for whom he fought.
"I feel better already," he murmured. "Having you with me… I'm fortunate indeed."
"I will always be with you" Melina whispered. "Always. And when I gain a body of my own… I want to remain by your side still."
Lucian drew in a long breath. His reply was solemn, sincere.
"It would be my greatest honor."
And so, with the girl he loved at his back, Lucian pressed onward across the endless snowfield.
Beneath the land, a vast creature stirred. It sensed faint vibrations from above.
Its body, still asleep, moved on instinct, seeking prey.
Dozens of massive fingers erupted from the snow ahead of Lucian and Torrent, forming a cage.
Not even Torrent's keen senses had detected it. The spectral steed shrieked in alarm for the first time.
Until it attacked, the Fingercreeper had left no trace—its signs buried beneath the snow. By the time it struck, even Torrent's double jump could not evade its grasp.
Melina started in surprise, but quickly steadied herself. In battle, Lucian needed no protection from her.
The colossal hand closed around them, fingers grinding together to crush.
This was no common Fingercreeper, no ring-bearer warped by sorcery. This was an ancient, primeval one—pure flesh and power. It had never donned magic rings, never degenerated into weakness.
Its kind knew nothing of restraint.
Who needs trinkets, when flesh itself is might?
But this prey was wrong.
Its grip found not yielding flesh, but something unbreakable—something swelling larger even as it held it.
Lucian had called upon the Great Rune, his body magnifying to a colossal size. He tore apart the imprisoning fingers, ripping flesh and spilling blood that froze into black ice upon him.
Rising from the gory ruin, he seized the hand at its base and wrenched, tearing the monster in half.
Still, the severed parts moved. Each half dragged itself upright, crawling to attack anew.
Lucian snarled.
At the larger half, he struck first. Wind gathered around his fist, and when it fell, the bones within shattered, bursting through the flesh. Snow cratered outward in a ring.
He seized two of its fingers, ripped them free, and wielded them like hammers, smashing its body into pulp.
The other half attempted to flee.
From his storage, Lucian drew the Dragon Slayer Swordspear. The Sword of Night and Flame was too small in his enlarged hands—still a sorcerer's weapon at heart. Against a beast like this, he needed something worthy of his size.
The Swordspear grew with him, its length titanic, its head ablaze with black flame.
He hurled it.
It burned a clear path through the storm, pierced the creeping hand, and pinned it writhing to the ground.
Lucian leapt upon it, wrenched the weapon free, and brought down a stormbolt from the sky. Lightning crackled through blade and beast alike, spreading across the snow in jagged scars.
He did not stop until the thing was charred black, crumbling like brittle coal at a touch.
Only then did he shrink back to his normal size, dismissing the corpse and summoning Torrent once more. The mount was unharmed, having spirit-walked clear of the ambush.
Melina reappeared behind him, arms encircling him once more.
After that violent interruption, they returned to their journey.
At last, Grace's line ended—leading to a ruined shack, half-buried in a mountain hollow. Its walls gave some shelter from the wind, though snow still filled it knee-deep.
Inside lay a long-dead corpse, mummified by the cold, a scroll clutched tightly in its hand.
Lucian lit the site of grace first, then pried the parchment from its frozen grasp.
A crude map. At its end was drawn a tree—not the Erdtree, but another, blooming with immense flowers.
There was only one it could be.
Miquella's Haligtree.
That meant this place was indeed the Consecrated Snowfield.
He looked out. From here, faint against the horizon, he could just glimpse it—the sacred tree, smaller than the Erdtree yet dazzling alone against the snows.