Elden Ring: Tarnished Flame Vyke

"Nah, that was too real to be a dream," he muttered, trying to piece together the fragments of his hazy thoughts. His mind churned over the implications, though they remained as elusive as smoke.

"Ahem!"

The sharp, deliberate sound drew his attention. He turned towards the source to see Nyra standing before him, her presence as unsettling as ever.

Dressed in her usual assassin attire, her face was concealed.

"You've got work to do," she said.

He stood, brushing the dust from his sleeves. "I take it you mean the castle."

Nyra inclined her head. "The nobles are still lounging in their filth, unbothered. If you want results, you'll need to remind them what happens when they defy you."

A shadow of a grin crossed his lips. "Then I suppose it's time for a demonstration."

The hall was grand, its gilded pillars stretching high above, but the stench of decay and neglect tainted its former glory. The nobles huddled together as he entered, their opulent robes in stark contrast to the filth they wallowed in.

He strode forward, his presence commanding and his voice a low growl that silenced the murmurs. "This castle is an embarrassment," he began. "And so are all of you."

The eldest of the nobles, a portly man adorned with rings that barely fit his fingers, stepped forward with a nervous laugh. "My lord, surely you don't mean—"

"Silence!" His voice echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap. The noble stumbled back, his face pale.

"You've had plenty of chances to fix this mess," he continued, his gaze sweeping over the cowering crowd. "But instead, you squander your time. From this moment forward, you have one week—one week to restore this castle to its former glory. If it's not spotless..."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. Then, with a flick of his wrist, a crackling blade of energy materialized in his hand. Its glow reflected in their terrified eyes.

"...you'll all be dead."

The nobles trembled, some falling to their knees, others stammering incoherent pleas.

"Nyra," he said, without turning.

She stepped from the shadows, her movements silent and precise. "Yes?"

"Make sure they don't forget my words."

Nyra nodded and approached the nearest noble, drawing a slender dagger from her belt. The metallic scrape was enough to send a wave of terror through the room.

"You heard him," she said, her voice almost playful. "Best get to work."

The nobles scattered like frightened rats, their desperation filling the halls with the sounds of hurried footsteps.

As the last of them fled, he turned to Nyra. "Do you think they'll manage?"

Nyra tilted her head, the veil shifting slightly. "Fear is a powerful motivator."

"Good." He sheathed his blade, his eyes lingering on the now-empty hall. "They'll either clean this place, or they'll be replaced."

Soon, he arrived and gazed at the pile of bodies of the misbegotten. He had something in mind to try.

"Give me fire, Nyra," he said.

Without hesitation, she handed him the torch, asking no questions.

He stepped forward and set the bodies of the misbegotten alight. The flames roared to life, consuming flesh until nothing remained but charred bones.

"What are you planning to do?" she asked, her curiosity evident.

Before he could respond, she noticed something strange. As the fire reached the bones, they began to change, turning a pristine white.

The fire crackled and hissed as it consumed the twisted remains of the Misbegotten, the heat peeling away charred flesh until only bones remained. Nyra watched in silence, her unease mounting.

The flames shifted, their orange glow fading into a pale, ghostly blue. The air grew colder, a biting chill that seemed to drain the warmth from her very skin.

"Umm, what are you planning to do?" she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.

Before he could respond, the white bones began to tremble, vibrating against the scorched earth. A low hum filled the air, resonating like a distant wail.

The ghostly blue flames surged, and from them rose translucent, jagged figures—spirits of the Misbegotten, their forms writhing with rage and torment.

Nyra stepped back, her hand instinctively going to her dagger. "What in the hell is this?"

He stood still, his eyes locked on the rising spirits. Slowly, he raised a hand, his fingers curling as if grasping an unseen thread. The spectral forms froze, their ghostly howls silenced. The air around them grew heavier, the spirits bending toward him in eerie, submissive bows.

"It worked," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Nyra's patience snapped. "Worked? What worked? You're binding vengeful spirits now? What are you, some kind of necromancer?"

He turned to her, his expression calm but his eyes alight with purpose. "It's not necromancy. Not exactly. This is something else."

She crossed her arms, her stance tense. "Then explain, because I'm not in the mood for vague answers."

He sighed, stepping away from the burning remains as the spirits hovered silently behind him. "The Deathbirds," he began. "They were ancient keepers of death, long before the Erdtree and its false cycle of life. They burned the dead in ghostflame, releasing their spirits and guiding them to the Spirit World."

Nyra tilted her head. "And this flame..?"

"GhostFlame," he replied. "The Misbegotten are creatures of rage and suffering. Their deaths leave behind a residue, a kind of spiritual weight. By burning their remains, the ghostflame purifies that energy and brings their spirits into a state I can control."

Nyra gestured to the hovering spirits. "And now they're your little army of the damned?"

"Not quite," he said, his tone thoughtful. "They're bound by their anger, their need for purpose. I'm giving them that purpose. They obey because I've given them direction in death—something they never had in life."

She glanced at the spirits, their glowing forms flickering like dying embers. "And what happens when you lose control? When their rage outweighs your hold on them?"

He smiled faintly. "Then I'll put them back where they belong. But for now, they're useful."

Nyra let out a frustrated breath, her fingers drumming on the hilt of her dagger. "And you think this is... safe?"

"Nothing about power is safe," he replied, his voice steady. "But it's necessary. The Erdtree's cycle has left too many souls in limbo. If I can harness even a fraction of what the Deathbirds once wielded, I'll be one step closer to understanding the true nature of death."

Nyra studied him for a long moment, her veil obscuring her expression. "You're playing a dangerous game," she said finally.

"I always do," he replied, turning back toward the castle. The spirits followed silently, their ethereal forms casting eerie shadows against the night. "Come on. We've got work to do."

Nyra hesitated before falling into step behind him. "One day, this is going to bite you in the ass," she muttered.

He smirked, his gaze fixed ahead. "Probably. But until then, I'll make it worth the risk."