Mytha answers these questions while Bel fights with the mushroom bartender over potentially expired skeptic's spice.

I assume I killed a copy of you? A sophisticated golem perhaps?

"That Drangleic is a dream. An illusion of many mirrors. So many undead 'knew' that I was the ruler of Earthen Peak that an image of me was formed there. A memory of battle, to test further undead until the world itself crumbles."

As one of the few sane people able to reach the lost city I felt it my duty to save what I could and remember all.

"Bel has precious little attachment to the past, but this means much to me. Thank you. Truly."

Also to go harass that odd repair tree every now and then.

"I beg your pardon? Ah, no matter. It was no doubt one of the high priestess' mad servants."

Are you the only dragon heir or are there more? Obviously Aldia's giant soul dragons don't count.

"That is the unforseen danger in the dragon's blood. While it is true that the blood can only ever dilute, and each successive generation will be a pale shadow of the last… it grows ever more difficult to identify an heir. Each holds the power to regress their form and become a dragon anew.

So long as the Age of Fire holds, their power remains bounded by Fire. They are dangerous, yes, but their power is no greater than any other forbidden art.

As for myself, I have renounced much of it and will become merely human once more. I love and respect my god as strongly as I ever have. Yet his path is not my own. The dragons are passed. They do not hold the path forward we all seek."

Well, after we managed to get untangled from the elevator, we continued through a long tunnel to the depths of the caldera. Naturally, my keen undead senses spotted the bonfire, but there was something else far more important, which I was forced to watch in horror.

While Harvest Valley was ruined as a tourist destination by great swathes of poison, lava apparently only counted as "mood lighting."

All the undead who had reached the Keep while Mytha was away or had arisen in the Keep to begin with, had built something resembling a town on either side of the Iron Bridge. The bridge itself, designed as a decadent, glorious entrance for King Ferran… had become an arena. Starting on the bridge proper and extending to stones which were slowly sinking into the sea of lava which surrounded the Keep, was an arena for bloodsport.

Undead, free undead who should have been doing anything else, were killing each other for fun. Some poor bastard got shoveled into the lava by a sword the size of a pillar, and the crowd applauded. Then the bastard came right out of the bonfire, no downtime at all, and joined a group of them eating. I don't want to think about what the food might have been.

"It was hollows," Mytha says flatly.

"Of course it was hollows! It's not like they were dragging drakes all the way into the Keep!"

"O'Harrah's traditional dishes were surprisingly delicate."

"You ate-?! Manhunter O'Harrah?"

"We're all made of meat in the end, dear. Cannibalism among undead is a time-honored tradition for replenishing the Dark Soul. My thin dragon's blood would not keep my youth forever. Challengers were rare, but my students sometimes brought offerings."

"Ugh. I've swapped spit with a cannibal."

"Now, dear, if you recall that blood sausage we had during the…"

"Don't ruin the blood sausage for me!"

Your contact slumps, sighing.

"Well, I figured as much. Bartender! Something that burns! I need to forget how to taste!"

So. The fights. Well, the fight club. The fights themselves were nothing special. Except that they happened. And also that the damned bridge was the most populated place I saw during my whole adventure. Same for you?

Well, I won't go over all of them who were there, so let's talk about the cute girls!

There was O'Harrah, the archer with a bow that clearly compensated for nothing because she wore a miniskirt and had great legs!

Sharron, a survivor of the Sunken Kingdom and a very tricky combatant! Hourglass figure, but I think that's because she spent too much time with spiders.

Lorrie was adorable, absolutely the type you wanted to protect! I mean, her face was. What little you could see in her ultra-heavy plate. To be totally honest, she would probably protect you instead.

Rachel! Very practical armor. Rare to see her face as well – cold beauty. She used a great deal of "tools" and kept flexible…

"You're not going to talk about your favorite, dear?"

"I already introduced you."

"Oh, gracious no. The kind gentleman who gave you so much of his attention. His powerful thrust which took you from behind, at such length that–"

Your contact raises a single finger, and Mytha goes silent, giggling under her breath. The barmaid, a walking mushroom, delivers Bel's drink. It smells like cinders and regret, even from the other side of the table. The contents of the stone mug are pitch-black and syrupy. The mushroom strikes a flint and lights the rim of the mug on fire.

"I was expecting a Moonshine Greatsword, but this is fine, I guess."

At last, Bel removes the Eastern greathelm. Her tanned face is quite plain, though it has all the sharpness of a Drangleic native. Her hair is tied into a utilitarian bun, though a lock seems to have slipped loose. With no regard for decorum, she stifles the flame with her prosthetic hand, tilts her head back, and chugs. It's only after several long seconds that she slams the empty mug down. The mushrooms give her a harsh look.

"Alright, Your Majesty. Let's set something straight. We're talking about Maldron. Maldron the Assassin. The infamous traitor who is particularly fond of backstabbing… with a lance, of all things.

You've met Maldron. I've met Maldron. Every Bearer of the Curse before you has met Maldron. We've all met Maldron. Can we please leave him out of the story?"

"Dear, if you're going to leave such a gap in the narrative, then why don't I take over?"

"No, no, it's fine."

Alright, so. The fight club. The short of it is that they were a little concerned that Mytha had left her place. The reasons were all over the place.

Some wanted to kill her for the sport of it. Others, because she was no longer human. Some were concerned that without Mytha killing most of the undead who tried to reach the Keep, weaker undead would get through more frequently, and the fight club would be filled with unskilled combatants.

They all started arguing with each other, so I knew I had my opportunity. I clapped my hands just right to make that kind of loud, sharp, annoying clap. I still had to yell at some in the back to shut up, but I had their attention.

"Alright! If it's a fight you want, I'll give it! If I beat your best, you'll let us pass!"

That was a trick, of course. Some of them might have been keeping personal records, but they certainly weren't running the fight club like horse races. They immediately started fighting over who was best. I'd hoped to sneak away, but Mytha's too pretty for that. Also too tall and green.

So eventually, the brawls and arguments ended. The fight club's blacksmith, a northman named Dennis, gave me a roster and said we'd do best of five. If I lost, I'd be stuck fixing their garbage equipment for a while, and Mytha would have to go back down.

Now, she wasn't happy about her fate being decided by a wager and the fighting skills of someone she'd known for about an hour. She threatened to skewer half of them, but between numbers and them all being undead near a bonfire, she backed off.

Bel stops and looks at Mytha.

"What did you do while I was fighting, anyway?"

"I politicked as subtly as I was able. I thought I might feed you information on your chosen opponents. Only, the bouts were far too swift. I did speak a while with that armorer. As it happened, we belonged to the same sect."

Mytha turns to you before continuing, "O Monarch of Men, understand that I had long lapsed in my faith. My despair had no end, and neither god nor dragon was of aid. The good sir oracle reminded me the teachings of our god – that strength came first from the heart and arm, then from one's allies. I was fortunate enough that one had found me."

"Is that why you gave me that medal afterward?"

"It is the traditional award for one who fights to aid another."

Bel adjusts in her seat, rummaging in a pouch for something.

"It normally has a higher standard, doesn't it?"

She holds up a disc of untarnished holy brass. A certain heretical symbol for the sun is inscribed on it. A Sunlight Medal.

"You know as well as I that the Lord Dragonborn demands no grand duty."

Well, worth a medal or not, the five lined up. I could pick my fights, and it was first to three. After each fight, I could rest at the bonfire and mend my gear.

Now, I could tell they thought they would pull a fast one on me. Whoever I picked first, they'd dance around and make me reveal my fighting style. The rest would take their time to study me, and then they'd all have another smith to abuse. I needed to prevent them from getting too wise. I needed to control exactly what they learned.

So I picked poor, sweet Lorrie.

What what I could see, none of them recognized my weapons. It was baffling, but apparently the mosquete and the mighty terceiro – ah, rather, tercio – had been forgotten. They thought I was some sort of sorcerer.

Lorrie had clearly fought sorcerers before. In spite of her heavy armor and greatshield, she stayed loose. As we walked to our starting positions, her shield arm was at the ready. She would block a weak area attack or use it to throw her momentum away from a single powerful arrow. If she got close, she would certainly sling the shield on her back to two-hand her exceptionally-long greatsword.

We took opposite sides of the bridge while a referee stood on a viewing deck in the middle. Lorrie and I stared at each other. I looked into her shining eyes, at her sweet, innocent face. The referee clanged his mace on his shield to mark the start.

I shot Lorrie right in her stupid, exposed face.

It probably wouldn't have killed her outright, but I'd set boltstones in my gonnes to deal with her armor. The shock arced through her helm and fried her brain quite thoroughly.

I slammed the stud of my gonne into the ground for effect just as Lorrie's body hit. I had to resist the urge to reload. Revealing that would have been a weakness. I needed them to believe I could hammer out shots like throwing knives.

Now, there was no clapping or anything, except from Mytha. One lunatic did shout a "woo" at the sheer upset. While they were all dumbfounded, I called for O'Harrah to be next and quickly made my way back to the bonfire.

As I've said, I'm no proper fighter. I'd revealed one of my tricks in the first fight. These fight junkies would be ready for it the next time. At best, I could take two shots with the mosquete before an opponent crossed the bridge. They'd be ready for them.

I wouldn't be able to get a killshot with a glancing blow against a hard target. I needed something soft. Something I could deal with in the event of a total miss, without having to reveal my dragóns.

That meant O'Harrah and her sexy bare legs… which I could probably break with my iron arm. She didn't carry a melee weapon either. Certainly an easier choice than Sharron and her two swords.

Well, it didn't turn out that exciting in the end.

The duel started, and we both immediately hid. I wasn't about to run out in front of a professional sniper. Slowly, we both crept toward the center of the upward-sloping bridge, hoping to get a glimpse of each other to fire our ranged weapons. I of course continued using the mosquete, and she had an Alonne greatbow.

It wasn't a bad weapon by far. In fact, it's still wildly popular in the far east. Certainly the quickest and most flexible weapon in its class. Only, it's still a greatbow, and I had a gonne.

O'Harrah had to climb further up the bridge and stand upright to draw her bow. I stopped moving long before she did and lay flat on the ground to minimize my profile. I only had to pull the trigger when she took aim.

No exciting miniskirt brawl broke out, alas.

It was a second unsatisfying fight, and the crowd didn't know what to do with themselves. Frankly, I suspect O'Harrah was only on the top five fighters list because of her legs distracting the other competitors. In any case, I picked my next fight without thought.

The choices were: Sharron, who I mentioned not wanting to fight already; a fellow named Oliver, who carried entirely too much steel for me to feel safe fighting; and Maldron.

Maldron, who seemed the reasonable choice. Maldron, in unassuming armor, carrying an unsuitable weapon for dueling. Maldron, who openly wore the symbol of the traitor Raime. (Though I did later learn Raime had the right of it.)

Well, what came next probably would have worked if it'd been anyone else. What Maldron did, I mean. And by anyone else, I'm excluding you as well. And probably the Seven Angels. Well, what Maldron did probably would have worked on anyone who's not a hero, one of Aldia's experiments, or a secret agent.

Before the fight, he waved at me pleasantly. Like he does. I hadn't spoken with him yet, so I thought he might have been the friendly sort. Just competitive or maybe an idiot. When the fight began, he ran straight at me.

Now, that's not a terrible strategy. I shot, but he blocked it with his lance; not with his greatshield. He knew enough to realize the shots were physical projectiles rather than magic. That meant he could deflect them. Trying to use a shield to completely block the shot would have just knocked him on his ass. Instead, he let it glance along the side of his lance and over his shoulder.

I swung the mosquete onto my back and steadied myself. I didn't think he could make the charge, even with an undead's stamina. The bridge was just too long. I was right, of course, but I failed to anticipate his next action.

He stopped just at the edge of his lance's reach. I hadn't drawn a dragón yet. I expected I would need to evade his lance and wanted to save the surprise of the smaller gonnes for a counterattack.

He didn't follow up on his attack, though. He stopped, looked me in the eye as he reached for something on his bandolier, then threw a jar of acid at me.

My eyes and my armor burned nearly as badly as my rage. Out of reflex, I checked my gonnes to ensure they weren't damaged – and then he knew exactly what was in the holsters on my hips. Clever bastard.

I angled to shoot, but too late. He sidestepped the first shot. I staggered the second, but he already knew the delay in my wheel mechanism somehow. I braced for the lance, but it never came. He'd thrown his weapon and shield aside.

Another jar of acid blinded me as he rushed in. Iron legs are stable, but legs mean nothing if your core is broken. An uppercut took me to my knees, but Maldron grabbed me. He trapped my iron limbs in joint locks. He wasn't going to let me fall down. That would ruin the show.

In case you ever wondered if your teeth regenerate at the bonfire, they do.

See, this was Maldron's trick. It's hard to be an assassin when half the world's undead. Killing is simple enough, and it hardly matters when your target will just regenerate at a bonfire. You have to break their spirit.

I struggled at first. I was furious about the acid, of course. I managed to preserve my gear for however many decades, and then this monster throws acid all over it. Who was even making jars of acid?! Well, after I had time to think – probably after spitting the third tooth at Maldron's helmet and breaking most of my fleshy fingers on his breastplate – I went limp.

I had to stop giving him the satisfaction of a struggle and wait for another opportunity. Maybe I could bore the audience enough that he'd gamble on a more interesting show.

But no. That wasn't what Maldron was after. It wasn't about the show the audience wanted to see. It was the show he was putting on. That close, he could speak where only I would hear, and he relished in it.

"Who was really the traitor, Captain Sabela?" he said.

Of course, that was a bolt from the blue. I knew this asshole.

"Alastar Maldron."

Well, I didn't quite say it because half of my teeth were gone, and I couldn't feel my face. Anyway, he was one of us. The few "survivors" from the war with the giants. Rather, only the "Seven Angels" survived. The rest of us came back undead. We weren't locked away immediately – I might have been the first since I as good as dead anyway.

"You still remember everything, don't you? Poor girl. Then answer me. What did the King make us die for out there? Why did he imprison us, who bled for him?"

He twisted my flesh arm a way it wasn't meant to go.

"How strange to see you again. I'd have welcomed you. Only, how strange again is it that you're with that woman. Mytha of Shulva. Everything happened because the King started listening too much to his chaplain. That Velstadt of Shulva."

The bone started coming out of my elbow a bit at this point. To keep myself focused, I tried using my heartbeat to keep track of time as he continued.

"They're all sick. Poisoned by the dragon they call God. The damned reptile's name is Sinh; how stupid can a people be?"

Things were beginning to get actually dangerous at that point. My prosthetic's mounts were tearing through my flesh. You… well, you'll find out what happens if their magic is broken. Of course, Maldron was still talking. "Caw caw" says the crow.

"Velstadt filled the King's head with all manner of nonsense. Fear of the Dark. Trust in higher powers. Velstadt convinced the King that his mother's teachings were wrong. The teachings which had brought him so far. Velstadt drove him to shun his brother and then Master Raime."

At this point, I wasn't going to last much longer, so he let up. Or maybe he let up because he wanted me conscious enough to hear him make his point.

"Shulva's dragon cult has much to answer for. And you brought their princess here. She had almost hollowed, even without my intervention. You gave her new life. See to it that she doesn't use it for anything, or you'll see me again soon."

At last, he threw me to the stone and pinned me with one foot.

"Such is the fate of Monarchists, new or old! If failed royals wish to conspire with one another, let them! The result will be the same. I concede my match."

He picked up his gear and started walking off. I staggered to my feet, not quite sure what to do next. My teeth were kind of everywhere, and I wasn't sure if lifegems could regenerate more permanent wounds. Well, it didn't matter in the end, but the answer is yes.

I heard running behind me, but I was tired, and it could have been anything. Maldron had come back around and drove his lance into my back. It ground over the iron railing of the bridge and shot me over the edge.

In my opinion, the worst part about dying in lava is that the air burns you for several seconds before you actually touch the lava.