How did it get to this?

Fortune was on his side, his maiden had said. Had those words not been spoken with the weight of destiny?

...

"Foul tarnished, in search of the Elden Ring.

Emboldened by the flame of ambition.

Someone must extinguish thy flame.

Let it be Margit the Fell!"

Though a melee fighter, he had been so sure of this to be a victory. He had slain worse looking foes on his way to Stormveil Castle. His two blades, as well as his quick wit and movements had never disappointed him. Those were the reasons he had never relied on heavy armour and weaponry, making it hard for him to move. Indeed, he was still wearing the clothes he had woken up with, reminding him of bits of a life as a nomadic warrior, a life that seemed so long ago.

Margit's movements were easy to read.

Quick and without fear, he sliced through his enemy's openings, jumping and rolling away every time that monster swung his staff around. Until now, the pack of wolves he had summoned when passing the gate had done good work at distracting his opponent.

"Well, thou art of passing skill. Warrior blood must truly run in thy veins, Tarnished."

Fine words and from an enemy no less. He knew he was strong - he had known before, but they were still balm for his lonely soul, who had been wandering through these cursed lands, where humans were few and sane ones even fewer. His thoughts went back to her, at the Table of Lost Grace. She, whose embrace was like a mother's, whose embrace could give him comfort, even if for just a moment.

But what he fool he was, losing his focus in the middle of a fight.

Margit was kneeling, exhausted from all the cuts, so he went for the finishing blow. Twirling around, slicing down with both his sword and his sabre to get this over with and return to what he now called home, Margit suddenly struck him with his tail, so he was smacked onto his back, pushing the air out of his lungs. Thankful he hadn't let go of his weapons, he tried to get up, but it was harder than he thought and before he could move out the way, Margit, who had gotten rid of the weakened wolves, struck him again.

With all the power he got, the warrior forced himself to roll away. With bloody hands, he grabbed his flask of crimson tears. The moment he emptied it, Margit had leaped into the air and come back down faster than he could react in his beaten state. The monster smashed him to the stony ground again and the second flask rolled out of his hand and down the cliff.

His vision flickered and everything was upside down.

Was this it, then?

Margit grasped at the collar of his tabard and slowly lifted him into the air.

Cla-clank. The sound of iron onto stone. His sabre. His fingers had not been able to hold it firmly any longer.

Faintly, he realized how silent the world suddenly was, the only sound finding his way to his eardrums being the warm blood dripping from him and to the earth below.

"Put these foolish ambitions to rest."

What was he speaking of? Foolish Ambitions?

The warrior closed his eyes. He then remembered when he had woken up, when he had first taken a look upon a lakes surface. At first, he had only seen his face. Fair green eyes glistening back at him, surrounded by a pale complexion. If he was so very young, then why did he always feel so old, so exhausted?

His mother's messy dark hair: Its strands always covering his left eye, even though he tried to tie them back. Only wearing a cowl would clear his vision properly.

But beyond all that, something else: Warmth. A flame, a burning desire.

A want – to have it, to mend it:

The Elden Ring.

And with it, to become him; the new Elden Lord.

With new power flowing through his limbs, he raised the sword he was still barely holding in his left hand and in a swift motion, cut through Margit's arm, effectively besting him.

He was let go and fell to his knees. His opponent however dissolved into stardust.

"I shall remember thee, Tarnished

Smould'ring with thy meagre flame.

Cower in Fear. Of the Night.

The hands of the Fell Omen shall brook thee no quarter."

Meagre his flame might have been before, yet it had given him the power needed to win this fight and now burned as bright as the Erdtree at night. His heart was full of pride.

He would become the Elden Lord. He would restore the Golden Order.

...

Or would he?