Lucian had no intention of wandering the Haligtree just yet.
His goal this time was simple—activate a site of grace. Once lit, he could warp here at will. There was no reason to linger.
The Consecrated Snowfield was far too cold. He had no gear to ward off the chill, no talismans or draughts to resist the frost. It would not kill him, but the discomfort was real enough.
He decided: the next time he came here, he would bring every form of cold resistance he could muster. Once the grace was opened, he could return whenever he pleased.
From afar, he gazed at the Haligtree rising against the white horizon, folding his arms across his chest as he tallied his gains.
This journey had been worthwhile.
In the reality of the Lands Between, places like the snowfield and the Haligtree could not possibly be reached only by way of Leyndell. There had to be other paths.
If the only route was through the capital, then how could Malenia's Cleanrot Knight Finlay have ever carried her across the city and back to the Haligtree? Or how could the Haligtree's forces move so freely to Caelid?
Clearly, there were hidden ways. And now Lucian had found one.
The official path required absurd prerequisites: storming Leyndell, unlocking the Grand Lift of Rold, claiming the secret medallion halves from the Albinauric Village and Castle Sol… all long, grueling tasks. Even other mountain passes cost enormous time.
This way had saved him countless hours.
From here he could strike north to Ordina and enter the Haligtree, or head south to the portal that led straight into Mohgwyn's Dynasty.
And no one would ever expect him to appear here, of all places. If he chose to attack, they would be caught wholly unprepared.
The only regret: he had not found the snowfield's map fragment. Without it, he could not march straight to his targets.
He cast one last look at the distant Haligtree, then stepped into the grace's warmth. The bitter cold and the ache in his limbs melted away, though his armor still held its chill.
Melina appeared at his side, brushing a hand across the frozen plates. "It truly is bitter out there. Next time, you'll need to bring gear against the cold."
Lucian nodded. "Yes. Once we're back in Stormveil, I'll have Boc prepare something. And I should give him the Golden Tailoring Tools I picked up at the Church of Vows. With better tools, his craft can only improve."
He glanced at her, half-teasing. "Would you like to stay close for a while?"
Melina's face flushed crimson. When she was a spirit, unseen by him, she could dare a little boldness, but not now.
"No. You're far too cold," she said quickly, and vanished before he could answer.
Lucian tilted his head. Was his armor really that freezing? Or was she simply embarrassed again? Strange, she had held him for so long on the road just earlier…
He sat a moment longer, then warped to the Four Belfries.
Light, unshrouded by storm or snow, struck his eyes the moment he stepped out. After the snowfield's blizzards, it was blinding.
He blinked, adjusted, and spotted Selyra waiting at the highest belfry, seated against the stone. She rose at once and fell into step behind him.
The air of Liurnia felt almost mild compared to the snowfield. Sending her back ahead of time had been wise, her dancer's garb would have been no match for that bitter cold.
From the belfry's edge, Lucian scanned the land below. First, he needed to study the distribution of the Cuckoo knights and plan his return route to Stormveil. The encampment he had struck earlier had been a large one, likely a stronghold. Further along the lakeshore, more encampments dotted the land—several of impressive size.
Then his eyes caught upon a lone tower at the farthest reach of vision. A wizard's tower.
He remembered. The Converted Tower.
Its master had abandoned the pursuit of sorcery, turning instead to the Golden Order. Marika's statue stood within, and its wards could only be broken with the gesture of Erudition.
He recalled the name of the gesture, but not how it was performed. In truth, few ever solved it properly. Most simply climbed in from the outside.
Lucian smirked. That would do.
The tower might yet hold useful things—memory stones, sorceries, perhaps even incantations. Whatever remained, he would see it put to use.
With Selyra at his side, he cloaked them both in Unseen Form and slipped past the scattered encampments. The Cuckoo soldiers kept their posts, but the settlements were spread far apart—several kilometers between each—so discovery was no concern.
At one site, he spotted a sealed Evergaol, heavily guarded. He recognized it: the prison of a Carian Troll Knight.
Releasing him now would only mean dragging him into hostile territory where he'd be captured again. Better to return later and send him to aid Ranni's stronghold. For now, Lucian simply marked the location and moved on.
Soon, they left the cuckoo's reach behind. No soldiers patrolled the ground near the Converted Tower.
Inside, the place was a wreck. The cuckoos had ransacked every corner but failed to lift the tower's seal.
Lucian stood before Marika's statue, raised his arms, angled them upward into a triangle, and looked skyward. Nothing.
He tried again. Still nothing.
A soft laugh drifted at his ear. Not Selyra—she waited outside. Melina.
Lucian propped his chin in thought. A gesture alone could hardly suffice. Likely it required proper sorcerous resonance. He sighed. So be it.
He would climb.
Leaving through the lower floor, he eyed the broken outer walls. The distance from wall to tower was too far for ordinary men. But for Torrent, it was trivial.
With a double jump, horse and rider landed upon the ruined parapet. Lucian gauged the angle, spurred Torrent again, and vaulted clean through a window on the second floor.
From the ground, Selyra could only watch in silence. For a king to break into a mage's tower like a common thief… perhaps her first impression of him as a grave robber had not been so wrong.
Inside, manuscripts and tomes lay scattered, weathered to ruin by time. He leafed through a few. Most were Golden Order incantations, notes of conversion, half-legible and of little value.
The true treasures would be higher.
Ascending the spiral stair, he reached the top chamber. Books lined the shelves in neat order here, preserved by the sealed room. At the desk slumped the tower's former master—robes in tatters, bones showing through, his Lazuli Glintstone Crown still upon his skull.
On the desk lay a necklace of delicate make.
Lucian picked it up. A trap sprung.
A Comet Azur crashed from the ceiling. He twisted aside in time, the blast tearing through floorboards and out the level below. The force would have slain any lesser mage.
Cradling the necklace, he studied it. A memory stone, set as a pendant. Black and lightless, said to be a shard of the eternal city's black moon.
Worn about his neck, it sharpened his thoughts, smoothed his channels of sorcery. Spells came swifter, stronger—especially those of night. Like gaining a scholar's insight, a touch of brilliance.
Not stackable, perhaps, but invaluable nonetheless. And unlike talismans, it required no pouch slot.
He smiled faintly. Perhaps he should gather more trinkets like this. Rings, amulets—enough to rival a lord of rings himself.
He tucked the pendant beneath his armor and turned to the shelves.
The books here were rich. Sorcery tomes aplenty, but also volumes of Golden Order incantations—principles of causality, scriptures of fundamentalism. The mage had converted in earnest, though why he abandoned half a life's study, Lucian could not guess.
On his skeletal hand, faint upon the withered skin, lingered a golden seal of faith. Lucian eyed it, wondering if one could take such a mark by force. Perhaps by cutting the hand, like transplanting a command seal. He shook his head. Best not to tamper. His Dragon Communion Seal sufficed.
He gathered the tomes, ensuring nothing worth keeping was left behind, then vaulted from the tower's wall and into the open air.