After bidding farewell to Thorin and his kinsmen, Tarnes pressed on toward Minhiriath. Though he still encountered scattered Orc warbands, he no longer gave chase to the survivors. His purpose had sharpened; there was no time to waste on routing every last cowardly foe. His destination called to him.
The Orcs who fled carried with them tales of their encounters. A legend, dark and grim, began to spread through their foul warrens—a story of a knight in silver-white wolf armor astride a horned steed that moved like the wind itself. They whispered of a colossal greatsword that cleaved Orc and Warg alike and of a terrifying power that could unleash lightning from the heavens.
Had Tarnes known of the terror his name now inspired, he might have found it grimly amusing. It was they who attacked on sight, only to flee and paint him as the monster. But such matters were beneath his notice.
The whispers eventually reached the ears of Men, filtered through captured Orcs and passed along merchant caravans. But the stories were dismissed as exaggerated tales of another brave Dúnedain Ranger patrolling the wilderlands. For now, the legend of the wolf-armored knight remained a shadow, a rumor on the fringes of the civilized world.
All of this was of no consequence to Tarnes. After another half a month of travel, he finally crossed the Brandywine River and set foot upon the soil of Minhiriath.
The moment he did, a profound resonance echoed within him. The Elden Ring, dormant for so long, pulsed with a sudden, vibrant energy. This was the land foretold in his dream. This was where he would rebuild his home.
Torrent let out a soft, knowing snort, sensing his master's quiet elation. Tarnes reached out and stroked the spirit steed's neck, reining in his own surging joy.
"Easy, old friend," he murmured. "This is the land, but not yet the place. We must find the heart of it."
For two more days, he rode into the heart of the desolate land, a sea of green rolling over the forgotten scars of a previous age. He finally drew Torrent to a halt before a vast stretch of stone ruins. A magnificent city had once stood here, but now its collapsed towers and crumbling walls were choked with dark green ivy. From the deep shadows within, the low growl of a wild beast echoed.
He guided Torrent on a wide circuit of the ancient city, a journey that took the better part of the afternoon. To the east, a tributary of the Brandywine offered a source of fresh water. The terrain was mostly flat, ideal for building. Faint traces of old roads, now little more than depressions in the earth, radiated outwards, promising that paths of commerce and travel could one day be restored.
"This will do," Tarnes said to himself, his decision made. He patted Torrent's neck and rode into the ruins.
He expected to find Orcs lurking in the shadows or bandits holed up in the skeletal remains of the buildings. Instead, the only life that stirred was a pack of wild wolves. They emerged from a collapsed great hall, their eyes gleaming in the gloom. The alpha, a great grey beast, took a step forward, its lips peeling back in a silent snarl as it scented the blood of countless Orcs and Wargs that still clung to Tarnes's armor. After a tense moment, the alpha let out a low growl, a clear warning, then led its pack away into the shadows.
Tarnes watched them go. They were not Wargs, and they had not attacked. He had no quarrel with them.
He continued on until he arrived at the very center of the city. He found what he was looking for at the city's heart: a wide, shallow depression in the earth where some great monument had once stood. The ground was clear, the soil rich. It was here. This was where the new age would begin.
Tarnes dismounted and stroked Torrent's forehead before dismissing him. He walked to the center of the shallow pit. A soft, golden light bloomed from his chest, casting the encroaching dusk in a warm, ethereal glow. The Elden Ring manifested, a lattice of interwoven golden arcs hovering in the air before him.
His consciousness plunged into the golden expanse within. Images flooded his mind: the windswept ramparts of Stormveil Castle, the starlit spires of the Academy of Raya Lucaria, the fiery halls of Volcano Manor. The faces of his former foes flickered past—every tarnished, every demigod, their forms dark and dormant. His spirit reached for them, but they remained inert.
But a deeper knowing guided him, a thought that arose from the core of the Ring itself. He had to plant the seed first.
His focus shifted, and the maelstrom of images coalesced into a single point of light. He saw a single, perfect seed, glowing with the promise of life. It was not like the faded seeds he had found scattered at the feet of minor Erdtrees in the Lands Between, which were embers of a dying flame. This seed was a sun, vibrant and brimming with power.
His consciousness snapped back to reality, the Golden Seed now resting in his palm.
He looked up to see the Elden Ring drift to the center of the pit. As if on command, the seed floated from his hand, followed the Ring, and settled gently upon the soil.
The moment it touched the earth, the Golden Seed lost its physical form, sinking into the ground like a drop of liquid gold. It took root instantly, drawing power from the very soil of this new world.
A sprout of pure gold broke through the earth. It trembled slightly, turning toward Tarnes as if in joyful greeting.
The Elden Ring, glowing with a matching brilliance, drifted over the sapling and merged with it, sinking into the young plant and vanishing from sight. Infused with its power, the golden sapling grew at a visible rate, its form thickening and strengthening until it took on the shape of a small tree. It stopped growing when it reached about Tarnes's knee.
A quiet understanding settled over him. He had planted the seed of the Erdtree. His quest was not over; it had just begun. Now, he had to nurture it, to protect it, and to help it grow. Upon this tiny, golden sapling rested all his hopes for the future—and the future of the Lands Between.
***
(End of Chapter)
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