The Grace That Broke Us

A Telling from the Ashes

I. They said it was golden. Bright. Holy. The Erdtree rose like a promise— but oh, promises rot when they grow too tall.

And now? Now it stands hollow and aflame, a pyre for a god who forgot how to die.

II. Do you remember what it was like before the Ring shattered? No— you don't.

Because memory flees when truth becomes unbearable. We drank from the chalice of order, and called it grace. But grace is a lie when it blinds you to suffering.

III. They cast us down. Gods. Demigods. The rot-bloated, the mad-blooded, the puppets sewn with golden thread.

And we— the low, the left, the Tarnished— we wandered. Hollowed not by curse, but by longing.

Do you understand what it means to want peace, but not know what it looks like?

IV. This is the Lands Between. Between what? Between reason and ruin. Between mourning and myth. Between the world that was and the one we cannot reach.

Every sword swing is a prayer. Every death, a chorus.

But no one listens. Not the Two Fingers. Not the gods. Not even the flame.

V. But… one walks still. Ash upon ash. Wounds upon wounds.

A Tarnished. Not clean. Not pure. But willing.

And perhaps—perhaps!— that is enough.

To mend the ring. To burn the tree. To choose madness, or mercy, or something new.

We do not ask for gods. We ask for choice.

And if that Tarnished becomes our light, then even broken grace can cast a shadow worth following.