The flame of the True Mother burned like no other. An endless vitality, so rich and vibrant and scouring. A catalyst by which the world could change. Even something so small as him.

The flame was still within him now. Every heartbeat was cowed by it, every vein scoured and raw. He'd voice to scream again now, but he would not. The pain mixed now with blessed surety of purpose, with a wide-eyed certainty, his faith was rewarded.

And the gifts he'd been granted must be shared.

He followed the death she'd left among Godrick's soldiers, their blood providing an easy trail to follow. The cuts on their bodies were as clean and calculated as a surgeon's mercy. Oh, he'd had a good feeling about this one, and it was always so gratifying to be right.