A/N: Messed up my days! We'll have a massive update for Apples and Atoms tomorrow, alongside other things. Dark wrote this chapter, I simply adjusted and made edits.
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SPOILERS FOR SHADOWS OF THE ERDTREE AHEAD!
"Journal entry #12
And so it began...
~?
Fallout
The moon hung low upon the horizon, a weary silver sliver draped over the great halls of Raya Lucaria, its pale light spilling through shattered windows and dancing across the polished glintstone floors. A hushed stillness clung to the air, as if the academy itself was holding its breath, caught between the echoes of a past age and the weight of an uncertain future.
Queen Rennala sat upon her throne, the cold touch of the crystalline seat biting through her robes, yet she did not stir. A tome—ancient, dust-laden, long untouched—lay heavy upon her lap, but her eyes never strayed to its pages. The words held no meaning to her tonight. Her thoughts drifted far from the academy's silent halls, carried upon the whispering winds to the distant capital, where the grand shadow of Leyndell loomed over the Lands Between.
There, Radagon had fallen.
Not slain, not yet—but broken.
Defeated by the very boy he once called son.
Rennala exhaled slowly, a soundless sigh lost in the hush of the chamber. No, not truly his son. She had always known. Not in the way of flesh, nor even in the way of the soul. Radahn—her Radahn—stood apart from him in every way that mattered. And yet, the boy had carried something else, something that transcended lineage and birthright. A strength not merely of body or magic, but of will. Of presence. Of inevitability.
Now, all the Lands Between whispered of it. The Golden Order's champion, its paragon, lay humbled, his radiance tarnished, his form bearing more than just wounds of battle. This was a deeper ruin, one not even the crucible of grace could mend.
Rennala felt no sorrow at the thought, nor did triumph stir in her chest. Only the cold whisper of vindication curled through her mind like a phantom. She tilted her head slightly, gazing beyond the shattered ceiling, past the drifting stars that once held promise, and into the distant void where dreams and regrets were swallowed whole.
You chose her, you fool.
A bitter, silent laugh curled at the edges of her lips.
And now, you reap the rewards of your failure.
(.0.0.0.)
Marika felt it the moment it happened.
A tremor in the Will.
A ripple that coursed through the very roots of the Erdtree, through the sinew of the Lands Between itself. It was not merely the fall of a man, nor even the breaking of a champion. This was something greater, deeper—a shift in the very foundation of order. A disturbance that sent cracks skittering through the unseen laws that held this world together.
Even now, seated within her grand hall, she could feel its echoes within her bones, reverberating like the slow, solemn toll of a great bell.
Radagon had fallen.
Marika exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, tracing her fingers absently across her stomach. She already knew what lay within. Twin embers, cradled in divinity. The seeds had been planted long before her other half's foolish duel, before he had strode forth with that stubborn resolve—burning, devoted, desperate—to prove himself worthy in her eyes. Again and again, he had come to her, as though ardor alone could erase the past. As if devotion could unmake what had already been set in stone.
And yet, for all his golden might, for all his unwavering faith in the Order, he had failed.
Not against some upstart Tarnished, not against the hollowed remnants of war-torn champions who had long since lost themselves to time. No, he had fallen to a boy.
A boy who was not truly a boy.
Not in the way the Will had intended.
A chuckle slipped past Marika's lips—soft, dangerous, curling like a whisper of wind through a fractured temple. No one was near to hear it, but even if they were, they would not understand. Not as she did.
How fitting.
Radagon had always been a creature of conviction. A being sculpted by doctrine, bound by laws that did not truly exist, clinging to chains he could never see. He had sought to command the will of the stars themselves, to bind what was meant to be free. And in doing so, he had been undone.
Marika leaned back into her throne, golden light flickering across her skin as she cast her gaze toward the towering chamber doors. The twin guards of Leyndell stood motionless, unwavering in their vigil, oblivious to the shifting currents of fate that swirled unseen in the air. They were like Radagon—loyal, steadfast, blind to the truth.
Her fingers tapped idly against the gilded arm of her throne.
And what of you, little Radahn?
She let the question linger, unspoken yet alive, carried on the breath of a world in flux.
What shall I do with you, now that you have seized the stars themselves?
(.0.0.0.)
From the highest tower of Caria Manor, the young Ranni princess watched the moon.
It had always spoken to her in ways the sun never could. The golden light of day was blinding, overbearing, demanding of reverence and obedience. But the moon—ah, the moon was different. It whispered. It beckoned. It revealed truths hidden in shadow, secrets veiled in silver mist. And tonight, its voice was clearer than ever.
Even here, beyond the northern lakes, she had felt it. A tremor in the fabric of fate. The ripples of a great struggle, a tide of change that lapped at the edges of the world.
Her brother had done it.
Not Rykard, whose hunger gnawed at both body and soul. Not the one yet to be born, whose fate lay tangled in the unseen. No, it was Radahn.
Her strange, powerful, ever-smiling elder brother.
She had always known he was different. Too knowing. Too unafraid. There was a certainty in his every step, a weight in his words that belied his youth. As though he walked a path already traced in time's fabric, unshaken by the unknown. As though he had glimpsed something beyond the sight of even the stars.
And now, the world knew it too.
The halls of Caria Manor hummed with whispers—murmurs of scholars, of sorcerers, of seers who had peered into their oracles and found the unthinkable made true. Radagon, defeated. A name once spoken in hushed reverence, now marred by the stain of loss. It was unshakable. Inescapable. And yet, undeniable.
For the first time in an age, something stirred within Ranni. A pull, subtle yet insistent. A quiet longing. A recognition of something ancient, something inevitable.
She lifted her gaze once more to the moon, her ethereal fingers tightening around the balcony's stone railing.
Perhaps he is not merely my brother.
The thought slithered through her mind, weightless yet profound.
Perhaps he is something more. A piece upon the board I did not see.
Far above, the moon gleamed with quiet approval.
(.0.0.0.)
It had been unexpected.
The fire crackled low in young Rykard's chamber, its emberlight casting restless shadows against the stone walls. Rykard sat in stillness, fingers steepled before him, his breath slow and measured.
Radagon—defeated.
He turned the thought over in his mind, testing its weight, feeling its texture against the edges of his ambition. Never had he imagined such a world, one where the stalwart champion of the Golden Order could be bested. Until now.
And if the Golden Order could fall…
His lips parted slightly, a whisper of breath slipping past as the idea took root, winding itself through his thoughts like a serpent coiling around prey.
Then what else is possible?
A slow smile unfurled across his face, sharp as a blade's edge, glinting with something dangerous—something knowing. The future had shifted. The lines of fate, once so rigid and immutable, had blurred.
And that—that—was exhilarating.
His fingers drummed idly against the armrest of his chair, a rhythmic, deliberate cadence. The world had always been a place of gods and rulers, laws and legacies set in stone. But stones could be cracked. Gods could bleed. Kings could fall.
His golden-eyed brother had proven that.
Rykard let out a soft chuckle, a sound as rich as it was ominous. Radahn. His peculiar, unbreakable brother. The one who stared into the abyss and did not flinch. He had always been an anomaly, an enigma wrapped in iron and certainty.
And now, the world watched him.
Rykard would be no exception.
He would watch Radahn carefully—more carefully than ever before. Not out of fear. No, never fear.
But out of possibility.
(.0.0.0.)
She did not smile.
She did not whisper the things others whispered in the halls of Raya Lucaria.
She did not gasp, did not marvel, did not lower her voice in reverence or disbelief.
She only sharpened her blade.
The steady scrape of steel against stone was the only sound in the quiet room, rhythmic and deliberate, a cadence that did not falter. Sparks leapt and died in the dim glow of candlelight, fleeting embers swallowed by the darkness.
Radahn had won.
That was expected. That was inevitable.
The others spoke in hushed voices, awed and breathless. Radagon, defeated. They marveled at the thought, at the idea that the great champion of gold had been humbled. Some shuddered at what it meant. Others saw opportunity in the upheaval.
Friede only prepared.
She had no use for awe. No patience for doubt.
For where one battle ended, another would begin.
The world did not stop turning for one man's fall. A toppled king did not mean a shattered throne. The true war—the only war—had not yet begun.
She would be ready when it did.
Her blade glided against the whetstone once more, slow and precise. No tremor in her grip, no hesitation in her stance. Always forward. Always prepared.
Because strength did not rest.
And neither did she.
(.0.0.0.)
Gwnyevere found her mother's infidelity… troublesome.
Not in the sense of scandal—though it would surely be that, should the wrong ears hear of it—but in the weight it placed upon her mind. The division between her parents had always been an unspoken thing, a rift never mended, only widened. And now, this?
She looked down at the petals in her hands. Red. The same shade as his hair. The same shade as the blood that had been spilled in the name of kings and gods alike.
She should not be pleased.
And yet, she was.
Her father had always held himself above all things, convinced of his right, his destiny, his purpose. Radahn had shattered that illusion. Not simply in body, but in pride. That was a far deeper wound, one that would fester long after bones had mended.
She exhaled, twirling the flower between her fingers.
'For all your arrogance, father, you have finally met someone you cannot conquer.'
(...The Lands Between...)
From the burning peaks of the shadow lands to the whispering graves of Finger Ruins of Miyr, below the Cathedral of Manus the message spread like wildfire.
Radagon was defeated.
Not by war, nor by rebellion, nor by the slow decay of time.
By a boy.
By Radahn.
The golden order trembled. The stars themselves had shifted. And for the first time in an age, the Lands Between held its breath.
For they knew, in the quiet, uneasy stillness that followed...
The world would never be the same again.
A/N: Aaaand scene. There we go!
Should this remain a story, then? Yay or nay! Do let me know~!
Once more, we're sticking with the "Embers" rule for this story, and others. If folks don't like this, it will remain...but it won't be continued. Meaning that if the story itself ain't popular, it will fall further and further back in the update schedule. I'm working two jobs -might need a third soon!- so I barely have time to write; as such, I cannot afford to write something folks don't enjoy. So by all means, speak up! Your voice matters! Make yourself heard!
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EDIT: Hey, you made it! Thanks for reading! Hope you all have a great day!
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R ~!