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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Morgott knew he was bereft of his Great Rune.

It wasn't just the heavy feeling in his limbs, as if pulled by gravity magic. Even his consciousness began to blur. His innate power and intelligence continuously leaked out from the gaping wound. In his final effort, he lifted his head, hoping to gaze upon the branches of the Erdtree one last time, even though he knew, not even in death could he be accepted…

Yet he did not die. Time lost its meaning in his fading consciousness, and there was no telling how long it had passed. But gradually, sensation returned to his numb body; at first he felt the change in temperature, then someone fiddling with his limbs. Vaguely, he heard someone spoke: "I don't understand … he would be … a hindrance …"

Then there was light, golden light, wavering before his eyes.

After slipping in and out of consciousness several times, he finally heard the relieved voice of the Tarnished: "He's alive."

Another voice, a cold feminine one, said: "Great Rune shall not recognizeth a defeated one. Such restoration shall beest but temporary."

"Just as long as he can persist until the Ring is fixed." Tarnished's voice came from very close by. He then felt his broken body being lifted by a pair of small yet strong arms and positioned into a sitting posture, as the feminine voice sighed softly:"… Fine, fine. But remember, I'm only doing this for the sake of…to return thy favor."

"My most sincere appreciation." Tarnished said softly.

At the time Morgott was still as in a dream, not thinking clearly, and Tarnished's voice simply sparked his memory of the man like a stone thrown into the water would naturally cause ripples:

He was definitely an unusual one. It’s difficult to describe what kind of person he really was. Morgott first met him in Stormveil, when he – or more precisely, his projection - stood high up patrolling as he usually did. That's how the strange guy, dressed in Tree-and-Beast Surcoat, had swaggered into the tunnels against the direction of all the other soldiers, heading straight to the castle.

At first, Morgott found him peculiar but didn't suspect he was a Tarnished; he thought he was just a regular soldier returning to the castle for some reason. It wasn't until the man reached the cliff in front of the castle gate, seemed to sense Morgott's presence, he cautiously looked up toward the tower— despite that he immediately lowering his head again, the omen's extraordinary vision had already spotted that there was no light of grace in his eyes.

Morgott quickly realized that he was a Tarnished and figure out his intention. He aimed to disguise himself, infiltrate Stormveil to attack Godrick off guard to rob his Great Rune.

A clever little human, that was Morgott's first impression on him. But even if by chance, Morgott wasn't here today, or even if he suddenly showed mercy and pretended not to see, someone like this could never obtain a Great Rune. Godrick, as shameful as he was, was still a descendant of the golden lingage, not to be defeated by a scoundrel who dare not to challenge his soldiers.

"Foul tarnished." He revealed himself amidst golden specks of light, said coldly: ".. In search of the Elden Ring…emboldened by the flame of ambition."

With a leap, he landed before the Tarnished, looking down upon the astonished human. He might be sturdy for a human, yet he seemed so diminutive and fragile compared to an omen. He seemed to be in his early twenties at most, face still carrying baby fat. He didn't even know to draw his sword out right away when facing an enemy.

Facing such a clumsy opponent, striking first seemed almost unsporting. So, Morgott merely strolled forward, expecting the Tarnished to either turn and flee in fear or collapse to the ground. To his surprise, the Tarnished quickly regained composure after a moment of panic. Instead of drawing his sword or raising his shield, he bowed with knightly grace.

“Oh, mighty omen, I meant not to offend your lordship!” He cleared his throat and spoke as if singing an aria, “I am not attempting an invasion; It’s just that in deep thouht I strayed off... In fact, I don’t even know where I am right now!”

As he spoke, he looked up. This was a stranger to Morgott, a Tarnished he had never seen before. This Tarnished was quite handsome, and he clearly knew how to use his good look to gain others' trust. His expression was innocent and friendly, and his purple eyes were full of sincerity.

But just listen to the nonsense he spouted! Tarnisheds were once warriors of Lord Godfrey, or at the very least, descendants of warriors. How had they fallen so low? The words Morgott was about to say was caught in his throat. He frowned, remained silent for a moment, then lost all interest in combating with such a pathetic little thing.

“Fleeth then, I have no interest in tormenting. But expecteth not such mercy next time. Put thy foolish ambitions to rest.” With these disdainful words, he turned and left, not even bothering to check if the Tarnished had truly left.

He hadn't expected this momentary lapse would allow the Tarnished to sneak into Stormveil and actually seize the Great Rune. When Godrick, who had lost most of his grafted limbs, was carried to him by a few soldiers （screaming and shouting all the way), accused him of negligence with a bluster that belied his fear, he was so surprised that he forgot that he was now Margit the Omen Fell, and retorted, " How couldst thee beest defeat'd by the likes of that?"

Godrick's face went red and white, white and red again. His voice cracked from the sharpness: "You—if it weren't for that dark-skinned wench—you—I don't have to explain myself to YOU!!"

Alas, if he didn't need the omen to reclaim his Great Rune, Godrick certainly wouldn't want to see him. It was after Morgott left Stormveil that he pieced together the events from his subordinates' reports: the Tarnished had allied with the Roundtable and, together with a warrior named Nepheli Loux, defeated Godrick.

Morgott had always disapproved of Godrick's ways, but Godrick was still one of the very few remaining descendants of Prince Godwyn. Moreover, Stormveil served as his base for gathering information in Limgrave, and he couldn't afford to lose it.

Fortunately, the Tarnished had not yet reached the Divine Tower. Morgott immediately sent a message via warhawk to the two Night's Cavalry stationed in Limgrave, instructing them to gather their forces and set up a blockade. Before dawn, his subordinates found the Tarnished on the main road.

At first, when only one Night's Cavalry and a squad of soldiers blocked the road, the Tarnished did not lose his fighting spirit.

His combat stance bore traces of formal knightly training, yet he fought with the ferocity of a wild beast. Morgott could discern that this Tarnished must have been of noble birth, formally educated, and had countlessly faced death to master such skills. He had seen the same skill in only two person before—Lord Godfrey and Prince Godwyn.

He stood atop the ruins, looked down on the battlefield, and was astonished to discover that the Tarnished's strength far exceeded his expectations. He had initially believed that Nepheli Loux was the mastermind, and had wondered why it was not her, but this Tarnished to take the Great Rune. Now he understood: he had misjudged, mistaking a lion for a cat.

Then he should no longer hold back.

Another night's cavalry and his squad appeared in the distance, surrounding the Tarnished. The latter finally showed a look of panic.

“Wait, wait! So many against just me, isn't that a bit unfair?” He dodged and twisted to avoid the soldiers' swords, all the while shouting comically, “Hold on! At least let me take a sip… Oh, come on, no honor in this!” His antics elicited a low chuckle from the cavalry.

Morgott frowned at the spectacle, finding it undignified. He revealed himself and leaped down, shouting, “Enough! This is no place for fooling around. Retrieving the Great Rune is our priority.”

“Just hear me out, Lord Margit!” The Tarnished seized the momentary halt in the assault and cried, “Why resort to violence? Let’s solve this in a more civilized manner... Besides the Great Rune, I have something else you might be interested in.”

Morgott didn't want to hear a single word from him, but once again, the Tarnished surprised him. Seeing what he was waving in his hand, Morgott felt his stomach sank down. It was his shackle- a fragment of it, but the inscriptions on it still glowed with golden light. It still held the power to bind him. How had such a thing ended up in the hands of a Tarnished?

“Though I can't read, the merchant who sold this to me said it has your name on it.” The Tarnished observed Morgott's expression, a smug of triumph appeared on his face. “It seems quite important to you, isn’t it? By rights, it should be returned to its original owner, but it cost me quite a few runes to buy it…”

Even for a omen like him, Morgott would never want anyone to see him bound to the ground in a humiliating state. The Tarnished had indeed struck a nerve. After a brief hesitation, He agreed to the exchange the Tarnished proposed—

He shall dismiss his subordinates, allowing the Tarnished to duel him alone. If Morgott wins, he would of course reclaim the shackle from the Tarnished's corpse. If on the contrary the Tarnished wins, he promised not to deliver a killing blow and to return the shackle all the same.

Morgott let out a sneer. "Perhaps I should thank thee for thy generosity, Tarnished." He had indeed underestimated the his strength earlier, but now the Tarnished's stamina and supplies were nearly exhausted from the previous fight. Morgott had also keenly noticed that the Tarnished's sword had emitted a slightly different sound during clashes, indicating internal cracks in the steel.

The outcome of this duel was a foregone conclusion.

Nevertheless, Morgott enjoyed a long-awaited, exhilarating fight. Such skilled opponents were rare. Both of them were masters of blades, and he genuinely praised, “Well, thou art of passing skill. Warrior blood must truly run in thy veins, Tarnished.”

In truth, Morgott could assert that this Tarnished was among the best of human warriors—but among humans only. His mortal body limited him in strength, reflexes, endurance, and speed. Moreover, Morgott wields not only his cursed sword but also unpredictable incantations and his horned, battering ram-like tail.

Finally, with a teeth-grating sound, the Tarnished's sword snapped in two, and he was punched several meters away. This was a prime opportunity to end his life, but Morgott did not rush forward. Instead, he stood still, waiting for the Tarnished to rise once more—not to mock him, but to show respect to an opponent.

Morgott often reflected later on. He should have remembered how cunning and lack of dignity the Tarnished was. He shouldn't have forgotten his previous lessons and once again fell victim to deception. One moment admiration rised in his heart for the fight, and the next he was bound by golden light and suppressed hard to the ground.

The Tarnished had never intended to give him the shackle, he should have known better. Even though his power was enough to rival the omen, the Tarnished planned not to defeat him honorably. Before giving the projection a fatal blow, he pretended: "I'm sorry, but I cannot die yet… and I cannot let one such as Godrick hold the Great Rune. "

His apology only made Morgott felt more humiliated, if possible. The omen’s hands gripped the dirt beneath him as he sneered angrily, "Spare me of thy tedious excuse. Just doth it- or art thee too coward to kill?"

As the projection dissipated and memories returned to his true body in the Capital, he had to put aside his anger and think of a way to deal with it.

It would be useless to have the night's cavalry hunt again; a single rider would surely be defeated by the Tarnished. On the other hand, if he consolidates forces, the searching range will be limited. What’s more, his projection was constrained by the shackle.

But what if he attached his power to a mortal and used his body as a support? The previous projections were purely Morgott himself, and that's why the shackle was effective…

-

Morgott assumed that the next time they met, he and the Tarnished would fight to the bitter end. But whenever it came to this man, his predictions never came true.

He caught the Tarnished in front of the walls of the Weeping Peninsula. To be more precise, it was the Tarnished and a demi-human, a human maiden, and not far away even a normadic merchant who was trying to hide his presence. Before he was able to speak, the Tarnished jumped to his feet, sword and shield clutched in his hands, and brazenly called out, "Wait - I don't want to fight you! Watch this, behind me is the daughter of Castle Morne's Castellan. Her father is one of Godrick's men, just like you."

Morgott's gaze swept over the young girl, her face was pale as she leaned against the crumbling stone wall, her head hanging slightly from her slender neck. Yes, the dress she wore was stained with blood spots and dirt, but the fineness of the material could still be seen. It was not something a commoner could possess, and her long blonde hair and covered eyes matched the rumors he had once heard - the only daughter of lord Edgar was born blind.

He felt anger churning in his stomach, and his voice lowered as a result, appearing more threatening, like rumbling muffled thunder, "Tarnished, I has't bethought thee brazen enough, but to holdeth an innocent maiden hostage …"

"Huh? That’s not how it is!" Tarnished cried out in protest, turning to the girl, "Irina, please, could you vouch for me?"

The girl bravely stepped forward despite her fear and faced the direction of the omen, "You misunderstand. This Tarnished did not hold me hostage, but saved me." Her voice, though trembling, was clear and composed, revealing the careful upbringing of a noble. "I am Irina, daughter of Castle Morne's Castellan Edgar. Our city has suffered a terrible rebellion..."

At the time of the rebellion, the Castellan, worried about his blind daughter, sent a few of his close guards to escort her out of the city. His original intention was for them to hover around the Weeping Peninsula for a few days, and return once the rebellion was suppressed, but he apparently misjudged the scale of the riot. Not only the castle, but in fact the entire Weeping Peninsula was thrown into chaos. One by one, Irina's guards lost their lives, and the rest of them mutinied, abandoning Irina by the side of the road, alone.

Lucky for her, the Tarnished passing by found her before the marauders and monsters did. By then, Irena had already realized things were not as simple as her father had portrayed. Worried about her father's safety, she implored the Tarnished to deliver a letter on her behalf to persuade her lord father to leave Castle Morne and go north with her to seek reinforcement in Stormveil.

However, the Tarnished brought her an even grimmer news – Stormveil had already fallen, and Lord Godrick, having lost his Great Rune, was nowhere to find. As she recounted these with a faintly disappointed face, Morgott couldn't help but glanced at the Tarnished, only to see a sheepish, guilty smirk on his face. The Tarnished must have concealed the truth, not telling Irina that he himself was responsible for the fall of Godrick.

"You've seen for yourself, things are chaotic these days. I couldn't just leave her, a delicate young woman, abandoned on the roadside!" Tarnished said reasonably, then added under his breath, "…But bringing her along is just as dangerous."

He had commandeered a horse for Irina to share with Boc, his demi-human seamster, but an ordinary horse could never catch up with his spirit steed. They were too slow, not to mention that Irina had no means to defend against the imminent threat of flying stones and arrows. Earlier that day, if Boc hadn't reacted in time and turned the horse around, they would have been hit by a catapult.

"…" Morgott could roughly imagine that scenario, and he frowned, "Tarnished, what doth thee want?" Despite the circumstance, he would never again …

The Tarnished flashed a pleasing smile and Morgott instinctively felt something amiss. But it was too late. The shameless human spoke with an arrogant tone: "I promised Irina to deliver the letter. While you, Margit, as a … (he racked his brain for a moment) honorable warrior, and colleague of this poor girl's father, can't just stand by and watch, can you?"

Morgott swore he heard a suppressed chuckle from his night's cavalry behind him.

He should have smashed the Tarnished’s head with his cane before he uttered more nonsense, yet he made a point. He couldn't leave the only heir of a lord unprotected, and he couldn't pretend that the rebellion in Castle Morne didn't exist.

But he was even more determined not to let the Tarnished, his greatest concern, walk away. So he interrupted Tarnished's smug speech about their joining efforts to pacify Castle Morne and asked coldly, "Then, prithee, giveth me one reason not to finish thee here and then taketh my men to Castle Morne?"

The Tarnished froze, then cautiously replied, "Because I have something you want..."

Morgott sneered, " Tarnished, thee bethink not i cameth unprepared, doth thee? The Fell Omen wonneth't falleth into the same trap twice."

The look of bewilderment on the Tarnished's face was truly amusing, something Morgott savored for a long time afterward. The little human was at his wit's end, but he struggled on: "Then at least I won't let you take it so easily. If we both get injured, neither of us will benefit, especially with a great battle ahead of us."

Morgott could see he was trying to stay calm as the Tarnished extended a hand, "Let's set aside our enmity temporarily and work together. Then, once everything is settled, we can continue our duel... I’ll fight you properly, I promise!"

Morgott hesitated for a moment, the Tarnished had a point. The situation in Castle Morne was clearly more urgent and did not allow him to waste any more time here.

What's more - deep in his heart, Morgott couldn't shake off a peculiar feeling - the expression Tarnished had shown before killing his last projection. It wasn't one of triumphant arrogance, but a mixture of sadness and regret, almost as if he was about to cry. This indicated that he still had some shame left in him.

Glancing at the hand, which was much smaller than his even in full plate armor, Morgott snorted and signaled the Night Cavalry to summon another Funeral Steed.

He and the Tarnished were far from good enough for handshaking.

TBC.

Chapter Text

Horseback journey for such a long distance is tedious, especially with the damned weather on the Weeping Peninsula - when it rained incessantly and the dampness seemed to be soaking through his cloak into plate armor, Tarnished, who preferred sunny days, felt an overwhelming urge to strike up a conversation with his only traveling companion. The topics he came up with slithered from Nimgrave customs to how to polish omen horns, to whether the funeral steed would eat his specially made dried rowa. Unfortunately he didn't get a half-hearted response-

Well, not entirely. When he asked, "So what's the significance of that shackle?", the omen shot him an angry glare. Tarnished instinctively felt that if he didn't shut up, Margit might just "forget" their purpose and kill him right away.

Things took a turn when the two arrived in front of Castle Morne, after they worked together to take down the castle’s indiscriminate guardian golem. Morgott was polishing his cane, when Tarnished's attention was first caught by the sword monuments that stood amidst flowers.

Half a day's journey down the road, Morgott was somewhat accustomed to the fact that the Tarnished would be distracted at any moment - but he still tilted his head as the Tarnished read the words on the monument aloud, "Mo… Morne… Castle…Siege?"

The Tarnished seemed to be somewhat illiterate, and it took him quite some time to understand what the text meant: "The Siege of Castle Morne…"

" A lone hero fights for his vengeance

Only to fall at the hand of Lord Godfrey"

Morgott couldn't bear it and finished reading for him.

So this was the place recorded in the books: the southernmost tip of the continent, where the First Elden lord Godfrey once battled, a glorious chapter of his greatness. The saga engraved on the sword monument towering under the dark clouds in front of him gave a very different impression compared to the words he had seen in the dim candlelight of the sewers. With mixed feelings, Morgott stepped forward, silently paid tribute to his lord father, who he couldn't address publicly.

"I'd love to see it, a battle between a lone hero and a undefeated warlord." The Tarnished said, "It must be incredibly thrilling."

Morgott was silent for a moment and finally couldn't help but asked: "Tarnished, didst thy ancestor ever recounted to thee the fate of his majesty?"

The history of the Erdtree records the illustrious achievements of his lord father, but all records came to an abrupt end at the border of Limgrave and Caelid. Shortly after his last enemy fell, the lord who once ruled the Lands Between was banished. Ever since then, his name seemed to become a taboo in the Royal Capital. let alone told to him, a cursed omen.

The Tarnished looked at him in surprise, then tapped his head and said, "Ah, I never told you. I'm different from the other Tarnished."

"…?"

"I've heard that Tarnisheds are warriors who left after Lord Godfrey in the first place or their descendants, and that the Lands Between were their homeland. But I am from somewhere else." The Tarnished explained, "In my homeland Lordran, they called me - Ashen one, As for what came before that, I can't remember. I rose from a grave when the bell tolled, to link the fire. Judging by the burial goods, I was probably a knight in life. But I remembered nothing- my name, my family, which lord I servered before…we are all undead, that's one thing I share with the other Tarnisheds. "

Morgott was slightly taken aback by his words, but this did explain some of the anomalies. Ever since their first encounter, he had felt that this one was slightly different from average Tarnisheds. More than just his superior martial arts, he also carried a strange aura… Now he understood, it was an aura as if he had been smouldered from within, matching his title.

"Ashen one…" he repeated the word, only to see Tarnished suddenly stand up straight and his expression change slightly. "That's all in the past, you might as well call me Tarnished." He said awkwardly. Morgott didn’t quite understand, but he nodded nonetheless.

"But, if you're interested, I'll ask the others for you when I’m back at the Roundtable Hold." the Tarnished offered, seemingly in a gesture of goodwill, as they ascended in the lift together.

He should have refused, Morgott thought, but the words didn't come out of his mouth. Whether he refused or agreed, it would sound like he was allowing the Tarnished to leave alive, and he had no such intention...

The lift creaked to a halt, revealing a hellish sight before them.

The smell of burnt human flesh wafted toward them with a gray smoke. Morgott tightened his grip on the cursed blade slightly. A huge pile of corpses appeared before them, where the misbegotten were setting fires, desecrating corpses, and fighting each other all over the place. In the corner a few rabid dogs were gnawing voraciously, leaving no doubt about what their food once was. Farther away, broken sound of hooting and screaming lingered in the air - it looked like a barbaric sacrifice or some kind of cultish revelry. All the participants were so involved that they didn't even notice their arrival.

"Savages…" Morgott's voice came from behind clenched teeth. The Tarnished gave him a sideways glance, gripped his sword and shield tightly and whispered: "There are too many of them. You go left, I’ll go right."

Morgott snorted, not considering these savage beasts worth his concern. But The Tarnished acted with practiced caution. He first threw a shadow bait into the gathering, and then one by one, he used his bow and sword to reduce the number of enemies from the outskirts. Morgott, seeing his deft handling, stomped himself up high, his whole body and horn-covered tail assuming a smooth curve as he jumped into the midst of the crowd with surprising agility for his massive size.

In mid-air, a giant golden hammer materialized in his hands. As he descended, the hammer struck the ground with immense force, crushing several rabid dogs into mush, before the dust had cleared, several flying daggers shot out from the haze, accurately letting down a few misbegotten that had come to investigate the noise. For those farther out, what awaited them were his staff and golden greatsword.

Tarnished, who had just executed a Misbegotten wielding a great axe with a backstab, caught sight of this scene from the corner of his eye and couldn't help but marvel inwardly. He was so engrossed that he failed to notice a not-quite-dead Misbegotten crawling stealthily towards him.

"ding" - fortunately, a throwing knife with golden glow whizzed past his face, striking the would-be attacker. Morgott leapt over, slightly panting from the previous fight, rasped: "Too carelessthou art, Tarnished! T's a wonder thee hast survived this longeth..."

"Hahaha, you are so reliable." the Tarnished laughed, rubbing his nose. "Can't blame me for getting distracted though, it's rare to witness such a beautiful combat form.. Fantastic…no rules or moves to speak of, simply a killing technique that utilizes strength and dexterity to the extreme … for a human body like mine, it would be hard to reach such peak even at its limit. And your golden weapon, is that a incantation?"

Morgott paused, looking at the Tarnished in disbelief, partly at the fact that he had the leisure to comment on his combat skill in the middle of a battlefield, and partly at the Tarnished's use of the word "beautiful" to describe an omen. This was indeed the first time he had ever heard such word to be used on him.

Instinctively, Morgott wanted to retort. It was excusable that this Tarnished lacked common sense, but did he really not know even basic expressions? Yet the undisguised admiration in those violet eyes made him feel like a duck strangled, unable to utter a single word.

Then he frowned again, "Tarnished, what art thee up to anon?"

Morgott hadn't forgotten that last time the Tarnished had that look he shafted him with a shackle. And if he were to count seriously, the time before last, the Tarnished had flattered him with "mighty lord omen," and not before long he snatched Godrick's great rune.
In short, when he was all smiles, Morgott knew that nothing good was going to come of it.

"Hey, what could I possibly be up to?" The Tarnished laughed as if he had heard something funny, then blinked innocently and said, "I thought we had more or less bonded after all our interactions, Margit."

His voice was deliberately lowered, hoarse as a little hook, and his intonation drawn out longer than usual, making it sound a bit sweet. Morgott instinctively felt there was some profound meaning behind these details, but could not comprehend what it was. So he acted as if he hadn't heard anything, shook off the blood and flesh stuck to his curse blade, and walked silently inward.

The Tarnished, did not seem to bother whether he answered or not, followed close at his side.

They'd taken care of some more misbegotten and a pumpkin-head who'd gotten so mad that he didn't know the difference between friend and foe. The whole city seemed to have become a world of misbegotten, with enemies coming out from behind every corners at any moment, waving choppers at them, but no humans in sight. Morgott listened carefully and led Tarnished towards a corner of the city wall where the archery towers were attached - the source of the shouting.

Under a gallows, perhaps the last bastion of human resistance, a few soldiers hid behind cover, taking turns fighting off attacking Misbegotten, including some winged Misbegotten archers. Arrows flew everywhere, bringing occasional screams, making human resistance increasingly difficult. If not for the Misbegotten's lack of organization and the fact that the winged ones couldn't fly very high, this slight resistance might have already been crushed.

"…You, I know you!" Morgott's form was huge among humans and misbegottens, so naturally he could be seen from afar. A soldier wearing tree and beast surcoat called out in both fear and awe. After Morgott and Tarnished settled the enemies outside, he cautiously ran out from behind the cover, "You are Margit the fell, are you not? Did Lord Godrick send you here?"

"I see you're quite famous around here."the Tarnished teased.

Morgott ignored him, turned to asked the soldier in a deep voice: "How many living people art hath left in the castle? Where is thy Castellan?"

Standing nearly twice the height of the soldier, he loomed over him like a small mountain, causing the latter to shiver in fear. "I …don't know… where Lord Edgar…" The soldier stammered, pointing vaguely towards an upward staircase. Morgott had long been accustomed to such attitude, so he simply nodded, then head toward the steps.

Castellan Edgar was sitting on the archery tower with a tired face, bandaging himself on a bench. He was badly injured. A wound that seemed to have been inflicted by beast's claws and teeth stretching from his neck across his entire arm, almost teared open his aorta.

All his remaining guards appeared to be sent to the front lines to resist the Misbegotten., so the lone Castellan stood alert the moment he saw the forms of Omen and Tarnished appear around the corner, picking up a Banished Knight's Halberd that had been at his side. He relaxed upon recognizing them.

"You are… the fell omen, Margit, if I remember correctly." As one of Godrick's direct subordinates, he recognized Morgott and sighed in relief, slumping back down.

"And you ......" His gaze turned to the Tarnished, noticing his purple eyes. "You're a Tarnished. Quite an unexpected combination. I am Edgar, commanded by Lord Godrick to hold this castle. but I'm sure you've seen the chaos along the way. Castle Morne is unable to respond to whatever orders His Lordship may have."

It seemed he hadn't known the latest news, but Castle Morne was also in worse shape than they'd predicted. Morgott pondered for a moment. Judging by what they had seen on the way, Morne City was almost beyond reclaiming - he and the Tarnished had merely chosen the closest route, and there were likely countless Misbegotten rampaging throughout the castle, while the remaining human forces were pitifully few.

He soon made a decision. "Gather your remaining men, Tarnished and I have cleared a path while entering the castle; you can retreat through there."

Edgar looked up in surprise, scrutinizing the Omen. "The order I received from lord Godrick was to hold my position no matter what..."
"Holding it would only get the rest of your man killed, I don't see the point." Tarnished interjected.

"...... You are right, but as a knight, isn't it our duty to honor our lord's command even facing death?" Edgar said solemnly. He ignored the Tarnished’s raising eyebrow and asked, "Why are you here, Tarnished? You don't seem like a soldier to me."

"Me, well, I'm here to deliver a message." The Tarnished said, rummaging through his bag. Morgott caught a glimpse of a black and gold object, stained with a bit of blood—his shackle… This careless Tarnished was just an arm's length away, and Morgott could easily snatch it back.

However, his demi-god pride kept him still as he watched the Tarnished finally pull out a folded handkerchief. "I met your daughter Irina by the side of the road, and she entrusted me to deliver this letter to you. By the way, when I found her, all her attendants were either dead or had fled. "

Lord Edgar's face changed slightly as he took the handkerchief serving as a letter from the Tarnished and read it quickly. From his expression, it was clear his resolve was being severely tested.

After a long moment, he looked up and said, "Irina… Thank you for taking care of my daughter. But still, I cannot leave. Even if the castle has fallen, I have a duty to fulfill as its castellan. If possible, I would like to ask you…"

He stood up, seeming to search for something to offer as a reward. His uninjured hand searched for a moment in a nearby chest, pulling out a thin white twig. It was a sacrificial twig, undoubtedly a valuable item though it could only be used once. The Tarnished's eyes lit up as he eagerly took the twig and stowed it in his pouch with a cheerful grin. However, he interrupted Edgar before the latter could finish his request.

"No way! Absolutely not! Take care of your own daughter. I'm too busy to be bothered with her fate."

Probably having never encountered such a shameless thug, lord Edgar was dumbfounded and speechless. Even Morgott, who knew the Tarnished to some extent, felt a headache from his behavior. The omen said in a deep voice of anger: "Tarnished, thou…"

"Alas, Margit, try not to persuade me. What can we- two strangers- do about the lass if her own father doesn't even care?" The Tarnished interrupted him, speaking boldly while winking at him from an angle where Lord Edgar couldn't see. and then said with fake emotion, Then, with a mock sigh, he added, "Poor thing! A blind lass all alone. We encountered sooo many misbegottens and trolls on our way here, didn't we? Let's just hope she meets a troll first, so she can die quickly. Otherwise..."

Morgott paused, realizing the Tarnished was provoking Edgar on purpose.

Such approach… The corner of his mouth twitched, and he couldn t help but think of his own twin in the sewer of Leyndell, the Tarnished and Mohg are quite similar in some ways. If the two of them ever met, they might even get along well.

Even if it was a shameless tactic, it could be useful. Thus, as he had turned a blind eye to Mohg's bloody conspiracy, Morgott didn't expose the Tarnished’s intention this time either.

Sure enough after these words, Castellan Edgar's face changed and his gaze shifted hesitantly to Morgott. Morgott knew what he was hesitating about: an omen was obviously not for him to trust either, compared to an unknown Tarnished. The Tarnished, oblivious to such common sense, immediately jumped between the castellan and the omen, vigilant like a mother hen protecting her chicks.

"You’ve only paid me alone. This Omen fought hard all the way here, yet now he is still empty-handed."

He scowled at Morgott as he said it, almost writing "Help me convince him" in big letters on his face.

Morgott looked at his comical expression, feeling a rare urge to laugh. Twisting his head to suppress laughter, he coughed and said, "Lord Edgar, I hast other missions on handeth and hast no time to taketh care of thy daughter. However, if thee still hast unfinished business here, I wouldst be able to lendeth a hand."

To support the Tarnished's words, he reluctantly added, "Ahem, if…thee can still afford the payment."

Lord Edgar's face was so annoyed, as if he wanted to curse, but in the end, he just picked up his weapon with his good arm, and said hoarsely, "I understand. Follow me, you two."

"Castle Morne has a long history. It was once the last stronghold for those people who would not succumb to Lord Godfrey." Edgar recalled the last of his men under the tower, told them to collect their supplies and weapons and head for the lift, while he himself took the Tarnished and Morgott towards the rear of the castle.

On the way he told the two, "It was said that a lone hero fights for his vengeance to the very end. The nameless hero forged all the weapons of his people into a supreme weapon… the Grafted Blade Greatsword. When he ultimately fell to lord Godfrey, the sword became a treasure of Castle Morne, passed down through generations.."

"When the rebellion broke out, a misbegotten warrior looted the treasury. If the castle cannot be reclaimed, we must at least retrieve the Grafted Blade Greatsword. It must not be left in the hands of defilers…" He hesitated for a moment and said to them, "Assist me to reclaim it, and bring it back to Lord Godrick. He will surely reward you generously... This way, the sword will return to the Golden Lineage and not be dishonored. "

His tone was heavy, clearly indicating that the wound on his shoulder was inflicted by that misbegotten warrior. Despite his severe injury, he was determined to reclaim the sword even at the cost of his life. Morgott followed him in silence, but suddenly he was gently poked, and when he looked down, he saw the Tarnished withdrawing his elbow and whispered to him with a cunning smile, "A deal, Margit?"

"Nay." The omen flung only one word, quickening his pace to shake him off.

"You haven't even heard what it is yet!" The Tarnished protested in a huff, catching up with him.

"Thee wanteth to tradeth mine shackle or something else for the Grafted Blade Greatsword." Morgott coldly exposed his attempts. He might dislike tricks, but it didn't mean he was foolish. The Tarnished gave a startled "How did you know?" look, entertained him for the second time in a day, but Morgott kept his composure and mocked, "Tarnished, forget thy foolish ambitions. With thy tiny frame, thee wonneth't be able to wield that weapon properly."

"You... you..." The Tarnished's face blushed, but in front of the Omen, who was twice his height, he couldn't come up with a retort. All he could do was to mutter incessantly like a demi-human who had been hit with a stick.

His little muttering kept Morgott in a good mood, until the group of three jumped down from a beam into a prison cell.

After dealing with a Misbegotten, a sound from the corner caught their attention. It was a transparent soul, cowering in the corner as if so it wouldn't be found. It didn't realize it was dead and was still rambling: "Save me, I'm a noble! I can't die here! I don't want to be defiled!"

However, its fate was already obvious: before they had dealt with the Misbegotten, it had been feasting on something in the corner. As The Tarnished shone his lantern, they found a partially devoured human corpse., shreds of silken cloth and bloodied entrails mixed together in one place. Lord Edgar sighed and closed the corpse's wide-open eyes, "Poor soul, he will not return to the Erdtree now."

Then he kicked the corpse of the misbegotten again and cursed, "True to their name, defilers, even his heart is as filthy!"

Though he was cursing the misbegotten, Tarnished immediatly felt the omen beside him stiffen for a split second. He turned his head to look, drawing the castellan's attention.

Realizing his words had been careless, Edgar apologized, "…I was referring to these deceitful and resentful Misbegotten, not intending to offend you, Fell Omen."

"Thee didst not offendeth me," Morgott replied tersely. "Rath'r than focusing on such trivial matters, we shouldst hie and dealeth with yond misbegotten warrior."

Lord Edgar breathed a sigh of relief, and nodded as he led them on. The Tarnished looked skeptically at him and then at Morgott, but said nothing. Sure he lacked the common sense of the Lands Between to figure out what all this misbegotten, returning to the Erdtree, tarnishing, and such was all about, and naturally didn't understand how it was related to Margit, but he understood that this was not a good time to ask questions. So he made a mental note for now, decided to ask Sir Gideon Ofnir back at the Roundtable Hold later.

With Morgott present, the two humans barely had to lift a finger. The omen seemed to have some sort of natural dominance over the leonine misbegotten. The beastly creature, which had been roaring ferociously, turned tail and tried to flee as soon as it saw him. Morgott pinned it to the ground with his cane, ending the fight before it even began.

When the greatsword was handed over to him, Castellan Edgar was still a bit stunned and unresponsive, not expecting the matter to be resolved so easily.

It wasn't until he saw his daughter, who was guarded by a Night's Cavalry, surrounded by misbegotten corpses, that he snapped out of his daze and hugged the tearfully joyful Irina. Only then did he understand what had happened and repeatedly thanked the Tarnished. "I don't know how to thank you enough... I plan to take Irina north to Stormveil to report the situation here to Lord Godrick. If we meet again, please allow me to express my gratitude properly."

Tarnished coughed and rubbed his nose in it, deciding that it would be better to keep Godrick's current situation to himself. Anyways, they would find out when they went to Stormweil,sooner or later .

He pointed at Morgott who was scolding the night's cavalry - caught red-handed asking asking Boc the seamster to adjust the decorative chains on his armor, so instead of receiving a commend for protecting Irina, he got an earful. "I only delivered a message. If you want to thank someone, thank Margit."

"Well…" the castellan said very cautiously as he looked at the towering omen and the night's cavalry in ominous black, "I never expected the Omen and Night's Cavalry to be so kind. I will make sure to mention their deeds to Lord Godrick."

The Tarnished chuckled awkwardly, his eyes gleaming with a sly plan. "Speaking of that, I do have a small favor to ask of you right at hand."

Lord Edgar looked at him questioningly, and the Tarnished continued with a innocent face, “I have long admired the Grafted Blade Greatsword, but how could a commoner like me ever got the chance to see it up close? Margit resolved the misbegotten warrior so fast that I didn't even have time to get a good look. If I could just hold it in my hand once before presenting it to Lord Godrick…"

Morgott knew he should never underestimate the Tarnished.

Just as he was reprimanding the night's cavalry for slacking off during work hours and relaxed his guard for a moment, he suddenly heard a commotion coming from behind him.

He turned around in surprise, only to see the Tarnished grasping the Grafted Blade Greatsword that should have been in Castellan Edgar's hands, and wrapping the demi-human seamster in his other hand as he leapt into the air. A spirit steed whinnying and neighing as it appeared beneath him, carrying him off into the distance.

Lord Edgar and the Night's Cavalry reacted quickly. They immediately mounted their horses and chased after them, however, with a deft jump, the spirit steed jumped up the cliff on an updraft that ordinary horses could not use. Morgott saw the Tarnished peeking a head out from behind the rock, laughing loudly.

"See you next time, Margit! Oh, by the way, Lord Edgar, Godrick is no longer in charge now! Don't bother looking for him, find a good place to settle down with Irina!"

... He really should have smashed the Tarnished's head in right after finishing the business in Morne Castle!

TBC.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

In a moment of carelessness, not only did he fail to reclaim Godrick's Great Rune, but the precious Grafted Blade Greatsword was also swindled away. Infuriated, Morgott searched for a long time in Limgrave, but could not find any trace of the Tarnished. Clearly, the cunning man knew he was in the spotlight and was hiding somewhere.

A few days later, news arrived from the Night's Cavalry in Liurnia—they had captured a Tarnished prisoner and confiscated some illegal goods.

Morgott released the messenger hawk and immediately maneuvered his projection to ride towards the lake.

When he arrived at the Scenic Isle mentioned in the letter, he was disappointed to find that it wasn't the Tarnished he was looking for, but a bald man in leather armor. The so-called "illegal goods" is merely some arrows, fowl foot and rubbish. Exhausted from traveling all night, Morgott rubbed his face and listened to the Night's Cavalry's apologetic report.

"I do not blame thee. Yond Tarnished is not someone thee can capture alone. Next timeth thee seeth a suspicious figure, immediately sendeth a message. Doth not try to square him. "

Then he turned his gaze towards the bald man under watch, who was crouching on the ground with his legs spread, ears perked up as if eavesdropping on their conversation. Seeing Morgott looking over, he immediately flashed a somewhat familiar, obsequious smile with eight white teeth and tentatively said, "Honorable…omen, and ser knight... I accidentally overheard your conversation. Could it be that…you happen to be looking for a Tarnished with fair hair and purple eyes?"

Morgott looked down at him, "…Thee recognizeth him." He commanded firmly, "Tell me everything thee knoweth."

The bald man, who introduced himself as Patches, began to cry and complain dramatically, painting the Tarnished as a bully.

He not only burned, killed, and looted the camps and cemeteries of Limgrave, oppressing the local people and guards, but he also made life miserable for other Tarnished. For instance, he—Patches, an honest and upright merchant—had his goods robbed by that villain so many times that he had to leave his cozy home and try his luck at Liurnia Lake.

"Get to the point!" Morgott's face darkened, interrupting Patches' exaggerated performance. His voice rumbling in his chest like muffled thunder, scaring the small human into trembling.

The cries came to an abrupt halt, and Patches looked at him with shrunken shoulders, a look Morgott knew extremely well - a mixture of fear and hatred. But he immediately lowered his head to hide his thoughts, gave a sardonic snort, rubbing his hands, "If it is your wish to capture him, I do happen to have an idea."

After saying this, the bald man shut his mouth, only his eyes darting slyly to the night's cavalry. Morgott understood what he meant and gestured to the night's cavalry, who grunted and tossed the captured items at his feet, Patches immediately pounced on them, checking to see if anything was missing from his package.

And just as he was rummaging around, an piece of rune- to be more precise, an exaggeratedly large one- suddenly landed in front of him. The golden light reflected in his eyes, and for a moment Patches's eyes went straight.

"Tell me what thee have in mind. There will be more rewards if we do captue the Tarnished." The night's cavalry said.

Patches gleefully clutched the rune and his bundle in his arms, and without hesitation, began to spill his story: "It's simple, my lord, very simple. That guy and I go way back. You see, he comes by every so often to... ahem, buy some things from me. Well, more like rob me. You just missed him, he was here just yesterday morning. I always know nothing good follows when he shows up. Every time he comes around, I end up having bad luck..."

Seeing that he was about to skew the topic elsewhere again, the night's cavalry coughed as a warning. and Patches hurriedly said, Patches quickly added, "I reckon he'll be back in a day or two. When he does, I can easily lure him to a place, where you can lay an ambush ... and that's it!"

"The Tarnished is very cunning. He's not as easy to deceiveth as thee maketh it sound," Morgott said coldly from the side.

Patches responded calmly, "Oh, honorable omen, that's because you don't know his weakness..." His eyes darted towards the Night's Cavalry, specifically eyeing the pouch at his waist with a greedy look.

The night's cavalry snorted, and instead of pulling out another rune, he poked the bald scum with the tip of his weapon. Patches immediately yelped, "Don't get Rough! I'll talk, I'll talk. His weakness is that he can't refuse my requests - he'll absolutely go wherever I tell him to go, and there's no need to worry about him asking questions."

"Just now you said he was a bully who robbed you!" The Night's Cavalry couldn't stand it any longer and kicked Patches over. He turned to Morgott and said, "My lord, this guy is full of lies. We should just—"

According to the usual practice, the night's cavalry would wipe out all the Tarnished they met in their patrols. This exception was made only due to Morgott's special orders given days before. Seeing that Patches was not the target person, and his words were cunning and greedy, clearly lying, the night's cavalry followed their usual protocol and pushed the bald man onto a rock, going to execute him.

Patches immediately screamed like a pig getting slaughtered: "You unreasonable barbarians! I warn you, that Tarnished is a good friend of mine! If he finds out that you have hurt me, he will definitely come after you!"

Morgott pressed his aching temple; he didn't think Patches was telling the truth, but perhaps it wasn't all lies - the most obvious proof was his fawning smile and cunning nature, strikingly similar to that Tarnished.

Waving his hand to halt the excution, Morgott said in a deep voice, "Last chance to tell the truth." His dragon-like eye locked on Patches, "Thee wouldn't wanteth to anger me, O foolish Tarnished."

Patches swallowed hard and nodded. He was shoved up by the night's cavalry. Clutching his package as if it were a lifesaving straw, Patches carefully said under the sharp gaze of the omen, " I wasn't lying about us knowing each other for a long time. We're from the same place—an outer land called Lordran. Back there, he was known as 'the Ashen One'... "

Morgott nodded, recognizing the term, "I hath heard of it."

"My lord, you are truly knowledgeable." Patches flattered, continuing, "The title ‘Ashen one’ refers to the those who were once burned dead and lost most of their humanity. Look, aren't there quite a few Marionette Soldier around here? He may look more human, but he's not much different from them. he doesn't die, doesn't tire, and always follows some predetermined goal. They called it ‘the duty’."

The Night's Cavalry pressed, "Then what is this Ashen One's duty?"

Patches shrugged and snorted, "My good ser, how would I know such intangible things? In our land, there was a prophecy similar to the ones here in the Lands Between—something about a champion of ash saving the world in the doomsday. If you ask me, it's all a bunch of bullshit. But since he's an Ashen one, his duty must have something to do with the fire."

"What is the fire you mentioned?"

"That's a vey, very long story." Patches impatiently waved his hand, "I'll make it short, the fire in Lordran is just like the Elden Ring here. When the flame goes out, the world ends. So those useless Cleric kept picking people to link the fire -those who succeed were called Lords of Cinder, and those who fail were burnt down to ashes. Simple, right?"

"If that's the case, why would this Ashen One, with such a heavy responsibility, cross the fog sea to come to the Lands Between?" the Night's Cavalry asked in confusion.

Upon hearing this question, Patches sneered and said grimly, "My dear ser, why else would I say that all those prophecies are bullshit? Those Ashen ones already failed once, and are no more than wastes. They sent them to link the fire only because they couldn't find anyone else. It would be a miracle if this shit actually worked. See, Lordran has already fallen. Besides me and that guy, no one survived. "

The night's cavalry and Morgott looked at each other, both somewhat speechless.

Morgott fell into deep thought. It seemed the Ashen One had many similarities with the Tarnished of the Lands Between: both were undying and had some sort of duty or guidance leading them to become a ruler. Though it seemed odd to refer their king as ‘Lord of Cinder’ , he interpreted it to be synonymous with the Elden Lord.

Grace only favored those Tarnished with exceptional potential and strength. If they continuously avoided combat and rejected their mission, they would eventually lose their grace and revert to corpses. Thus, the true way to kill a Tarnished was to crush their will and extinguish their ambition for the Elden Ring.

Was this Ashen One pursuing the Elden Ring because he failed his original duty? Perhaps due to similarity of duty, or because he was a formidable warrior, the grace responded to him. If this is the case, killing him once or twice wouldn't suffice.

There were precedents for handling such cases. Three Tarnished had previously came close to the Elden Throne. Morgott knew they had incredibly resilient minds and wouldn't be defeated by one or two failures. One of them was imprisoned in the mountaintops, waiting for time to erode his will.

But such a cruel move was to prevent the spread of the frenzied flame. Morgott typically preferred more civilized methods, like dealing with Gideon Ofnir, a smart man who recognized his own limits and chose to step back.

Another, Bernahl, once known as the Beast Champion, is said to have lost his mind over the death of his beloved woman, and was nowhere to be found.

Morgott didn't see the need to eradicate these individuals completely. Unlike the greedy, foolish vultures driven by ambition, they were elites of the Lands Between. When lord Godfrey returns, they might become valuable servants to the true Elden Lord.

If the Tarnished in question was one of these figures, negotiation might be possible - provided, of course, that he was first made to return Godrick's Great Rune, the shard known as the anchor ring, found at the center of the Elden Ring, which must not be missing.

As Morgott contemplated, Patches continued to flatter, "I'm telling the truth, my lords. Once you know the right way, dealing with those foolish Ashen Ones is simple. He never doubts me. I can trick him into a transporter trap or kick him off a cliff. Just a little reward from you, and I, Patches, will get the job done perfectly."

As he spoke, his eyes kept darting to the night's cavalry's pouch.

This sleazy bald man didn’t realize that the night's cavalry were lonely warriors who rode in the darkness. Because of this, they valued the bonds and loyalties between each other highly. Hearing Patches' shameless words, the knight's eyes behind his helmet filled with anger. He rebuked in disgust, " That 'Ashen one' put so much trust in you, and yet you turned around and sold him out. Have you no shame?"

Despite his words, a task was a task. The Night's Cavalry tossed another golden rune at Patches, who immediately pounced on it, seemingly ready to kiss it. The knight shook his head and remarked to his superior, "I almost pity the man, being betrayed for so little. He'd be devastated if he ever knew."

Patches suddenly burst into laughter as if he had heard a hilarious joke. The bald man laughed so hard that he almost fell on the ground.

"Hahaha... I'm sorry, dear ser, but what you said was just too funny! I just couldn't help it!" fter a while, Patches wiped the tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes and managed to say, " Because you tried to analyze that guy using normal human logic! Devastated... hahaha, he doesn't even have such feelings!"

Seeing that Morgott and the Night's Cavalry weren't harm him anymore, Patches dropped the faulty honorifics and squatted back on the ground, looking up at them with a sly grin. "Don't say I didn't warn you... that guy, back in Lordran, was known as the 'Lord Seeker'. He slaughtered four Lords of Cinder—basically your equivalent of demigods—and dragged their corpses back to their thrones."

"If I were you, I wouldn't be so confident... even with an ambush set up, you never know who will end up dead."

……

The Lake of Liurnia and its shores have long been the territory of the Carian Royal Family and the Academy. Though the mages were embroiled in civil war, any foreign force would still arouse their vigilance.

Morgott carefully examined the map and chose a battleground to the west of the Scenic Isle, far from the two major forces. He discovered a swamp filled with poisonous gas, infested with crabs. As an Omen, he was not afraid of the toxins, but the Tarnished would be affected, making it a favorable environment for Morgott.

To avoid alerting the cunning Tarnished, he sent the Night's Cavalry back to patrol the east bank as usual, while he transformed his projection into a commoner and watched Patches from afar.

Patches had not lied. Two days later, the Tarnished appeared through the mist on horseback. He seemed quite familiar with Patches. As soon as he got off the horse, he yelled: "The fowl foot tasted pretty good, do you have more in stock? And I'm out of arrows... What? You want five thousand runes? You're robbing me! Two thousand, I'll give you two thousand at most!"

Morgott watched carefully, listening to their conversation carried by the wind. Patches and the Tarnished bargained like common folk, ending with Patches getting a black eye, and the Tarnished tossing two golden runes before grabbing the goods he wanted. It seemed Patches' claims of being frequently robbed by the Tarnished were not unfounded.

The Tarnished stood there, contentedly counting his arrows and placing them in his quiver, while Patches said mysteriously, "Hey, I've got some important information recently...say, you want to make some big money?"

The Tarnished took the bait and headed in the direction Patches indicated. Morgott immediately took a shortcut to get ahead. Patches had placed some rainbow stones there beforehand to lead the Tarnished on a detour, ensuring Morgott would arrive first. Morgott selected a tilted boulder and waited on it. The collapsed rock created a narrow path that he would raid from above once Tarnished had passed underneath.

Only, the horn-covered tail of the omen swung uneasily twice - there seemed to be a faint sound of screaming on the wind, not of one, but of many… But when he listened carefully, the bubbling of the surrounding swamp and the scurrying of crabs drowned out the faint cries. He could only suppress his mind and concentrate on the passage before him.

The sound of splashing mud reached his ears, and the Tarnished appeared in his sight, covered in mud and leaves. His hair and clothes were a filthy, wet mess, indicating he had already battled the crabs in the swamp. He was making a grim face, shoveling some green boluses into his mouth, which meant that he had been poisoned, a good sign for Morgott.

Just as the Tarnished was about to exit the passage, Morgott descended from above, his cursed sword slashing through the spectral steed's spine with immense force, breaking it in two.

With a sorrowful whinny, the spectral steed turned into particles of light and vanished. The Tarnished reacted quickly, twisting his body in mid-air, even returning the attack as he dodged. But no matter what, he landed in the knee-deep swamp, the heavy mud clinging to his boots and pants, slowing him down significantly. Next moment, Morgott's hammer struck his chest, sending him flying!

"You…" the Tarnished spat out a mouthful of blood, only then did he see his attacker clearly. He couldn't help but show a look of surprise. His reaction was swift; he used the distance created by the strike to throw a bolt of lightning back at Morgott. The damp environment of the swamp facilitated the spread of lightning. Though Morgott sidestepped and avoided a direct hit, the spreading lightning still shocked him, causing a paralyzed feeling.

The omen grunted and threw his golden dagger while jerking forward to close the distance between them. As long as he was close enough, the Tarnished wouldn't be able to use his lightning without hitting himself as well.

The Tarnished understood the danger and quickly stomped a trail of frost to block Morgott's advance while moving in the opposite direction, with Morgott relentlessly pursuing him.

The noise of their battle soon attracted the giant crabs from the surrounding area. The crabs, instinctively fearful of the Omen, bypassed Morgott and attacked the Tarnished. The Tarnished barely managed to dodge the blow, only to be swept by Morgott's cursed sword on his left shoulder. He dodged many times to gain some distance.

The Tarnished was now covered in mud and water. He wiped his face to catch his breath. His left arm hung limply at his side in an unnatural position. He didn't bother to check it. He could tell from the sharp pain that his left shoulder was dislocated by the previous hit, and the sacred seal that he grasped in his hand had fallen in the muddy water, lost.

Now, he couldn't throw lightning spears or hold his shield anymore, but he was facing both Margit and the crabs!

TBC.

Chapter Text

The Omen raised his left hand again, and a radiant longsword appeared in his hand. This was the final blow—yet just then, an axe flew in from the side, accompanied by a loud shout as a figure charged forward!

He had to leap back to avoid the attack, and the newcomer seized the opportunity to pick up the axe, swiftly delivered a spinning slash that severed one of the crab's pincers. The crab let out a painful screech. The Tarnished did not retreat immediately but instead seized the moment, thrusted his sword into the gap of the crab's abdominal shell, killing it before running towards the rescuer.

Morgott frowned at the newcomer.

He recognized this dark-skinned female, the adopted daughter of Gideon Ofnir - Morgott had heard of her fame but had never seen her in person. She was a formidable warrior, exuding a wild strength in her blood. Her last name, the hawk-engraved axe in her hand, and her warrior attire all traced back to the same lineage as the first Elden Lord, Godfrey.

That bald man Patches was indeed a trickster. He found a way to notify her to lay in wait here, intending to trap the Omen.

"I hast heard of thee, Nepheli Loux." Morgott did not attack immediately, but raised his voice, "Thy father madeth a non-aggression agreement with the Grace-Given. Thee shalt not obstruct mine mission. Leaveth anon, warrior, or I shall consider this as—”

Previously, Sir Gideon had sent word to the capital, stating that Nepheli's assistance in defeating Godrick was not from his order, but an unauthorized "childish act", and promised to discipline his adopted daughter. Morgott didn't want to take action against her, so as not to disrupt their agreement.

To his surprise, before he could finish his sentence, Nepheli pointed at him and cursed loudly, “Cut the crap, vile monster! Today, I will kill you right here!”

This was far from the first time he had been called a monster, but most people, especially after his reputation as the "Bane of Heroes", only dared to talk behind his back. Even Godrick wouldn’t dare speak such words to his face. Stunned by this unexpected insult, Morgott’s rage surged, and he roared coldly, “Retract thy insolent words, warrior!”

Both gripped their weapons tightly, and the battle was imminent.

Morgott's golden pupils were fixed on Neferi, but he didn't miss a single move of the Tarnished behind her - the latter, half-kneeling on the ground, had taken advantage of the gap between their conversations to press his dislocated left arm back with one hard push. He grimaced and muttered a painful curse, weakly taking out a Flask of Crimson Tears to drink.

At this moment, the Omen suddenly attacked. Golden throwing knives flew out, and though Nepheli deflected two, she couldn't stop the rest. The Tarnished had to roll aside, losing his grip on the precious flask, spilling its contents onto the ground. Before he could lament, the massive figure of the omen had already turned into a blur, lunging towards Nepheli!

The Tarnished instinctively moved to intervene, only to realize that it was just a false move; Morgott parried Nepheli's attack with a conjured dagger, the real fatal sword swept across, smacked Tarnished so hard that he barely blocked it with both arms , before he was sent flying. For a moment he was in so much pain that he couldn't manage to rise.

Morgott didn't stop, his body turned on the ground with a dexterity that belied his size, the wind he brought up splashed the muddy water with a person-high spray. Nepheli barely dodged the attack, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer force. The warrior rolled and jumped back, her eyes now filled with fear and caution as she looked at the Omen. She dared not approach, instead swinging her hawk-engraved battle axe, summoning a storm to aid her attack.

The wind blades were razor-sharp. Even if the omen skin was tougher than most, it instantly left countless blood marks on him. Morgott stomped on the ground and jumped backward, leaping out of the range of the storm. His peripheral vision caught the Tarnished eagerly pulling out a a black stone with golden patterns from his pouch.

Morgott couldn't help but smirked coldly in the back of his mind. He reversed his direction to attack towards the Tarnished.

“Nepheli!” the Tarnished shouted, slamming the Shackle of Margit to the ground. The warrior understood and attacked from behind. But to their horror, the Magic Field they expected did not appear!

This projection was created by Morgott through a human vessel, making the shackle ineffective against him. It would be fine if Tarnished didn't use it, but if he did, it would instead become a death trap for himself!

The Omen’s curse blade struck the Tarnished without hindrance. At the same time, his thick, horned tail whipped through the air, smashing into Nepheli’s side. The brown-skinned warrior woman fell against the rock wall, crying in pain. her torso was crushed by the immense force, and a jagged wound from her flank to her shoulder bled profusely.

—At this point, both Nepheli and the Tarnished were doomed to fall. The Omen’s battle prowess, which had stacked high the corpses of heroes, was on full display. He looked at the female warrior, his fingers twitching, ready to eliminate this obstacle before dealing with the Tarnished.
At that moment, however, the Tarnished's voice urgently called from behind him, “No...don’t kill her!”

The Omen tilted his head slightly, seeing the Tarnished kneeling and prone in the muddy water, looking utterly disheveled. From his expression, it was clear that Patches' claim that "Ashen Ones are untiring and unfeeling marionette" might need some reconsideration. At least for now, his face was full of pain, and his voice was almost squeezed out from his throat: "She's not your target…and is no longer in a position to fight…Let her go! You can have the Great Rune, the Grafted Blade Greatsword, your shackle, you can have them all! "

Tarnished kept coughing as he struggled to speak. Blood mixed with bits of internal organs constantly spilling out of his mouth. Morgott indifferently averted his gaze. There was no need for an exchange; he didn't even need to strike again. Soon, he could pick up everything from the body of the Tarnished. Furthermore, this adopted daughter of Gideon Ofnir had repeatedly stepped over the line he had warned her about. It was necessary to teach her, and those who indulged her, a lesson.

"Please...have some mercy, Margit, I'm begging you!" the Tarnished pleaded again from behind him.

It was Nephili who shouted defiantly instead, "Don't beg him!" The warrior clutched her own wound, but could not stop her blood from continuously flowing out, staining the swamp under her feet red. She gritted her teeth, her bloodshot eyes full of anger: "A monster like him has no sense of mercy … He slaughtered the village ahead! Those are all defenseless commoners! Even their corpses were defiled…O Monster, you can kill me here once, but I, Nepheli Loux, swear here in the name of a warrior that one day, I will avenge them! "

Both the Tarnished and the Omen were stunned upon hearing this.

Morgott's face darkened. He realized that the faint screams he had heard earlier were not his imagination. He had no idea there was a village nearby—it wasn’t marked on the map—so he hadn’t given it any thought. If he had gone to investigate, perhaps he could have at least saved a few of the villagers... but there were no “ifs.”
He chose his primary task and continued to ambush the Tarnished, allowing those cries for help to be carried away by the wind.

The omen was silent for a moment and then lowered his weapon with a sigh, "Warrior, the tragedy thee speaketh of wast not mine doing."

Suddenly, he felt the exhaustion from days of pursuit, and even the not-so-serious wounds on his body now stung unbearably, almost bending his back. It was clear that Nepheli did not believe his words, but Morgott had no desire to argue further. He simply growled, "Leave," and let her go. Enough blood had been spilled here today.

Not much time had passed since he had heard the cry, so perhaps if he went now, he could still track down the real murderer. He grabbed the Tarnished by his collar with one hand, ensuring that he would obtain the Great Runes and other items when the Tarnished died.

He leapt onto a tall rock and ran in the direction from which the previous sound had come, soon leaving the badly wounded warrior far behind.

Morgott's senses were much sharper than normal human, and with a vague direction to follow, following the slight scent of blood and fire, he quickly found the entrance of the village. The ghastly state of it instantly reminded him of Castle Morne. The omen surpressed his boiling anger, and jumped onto the roof where he had a better view to observe.

The village is hidden in the middle of a natural cavern, lacking daylight. Only the flickering flames burning here and there lit up scenes of unbearable tragedy: countless corpses were piled up haphazardly like slaughtered animals, some had limbs that were deliberately snapped into pieces, and some were hanged up on a wooden frame, obviously experiencing the whipping and torturing before dying a miserable death.

However, the blood coming out of these corpses was not red, but of a weird silver-white color. Morgott saw a glint of light and jumped down to pick up the object. It had a cool, metallic touch, but when squeezed, it deformed like clay. Coagulated albinauric blood... No wonder it remained hidden from the world -- this was a village of the Albinaurics.

Morgott sighed inwardly. The Albinaurics were artificial beings, and like the Omens, they were not blessed by the Erdtree, thus regarded as filth. However, they were much weaker than the Omens and suffered from a congenital affliction that caused them to gradually lose their legs over time. As one could imagine, once the location of the village was exposed, only two fates awaited them: direct death or captured, to be used as "material" for all kinds of cruel experiments, and to die a painful death after inhumane torture.

He glanced at the Tarnished in his hands, who appeared to be completely in a coma. Blood dripping down the corners of his mouth and fingertips, His silver hair clung messily to his cheeks, mixed with blood, sweat and mud.

Driven by some strange impulse, Morgott reached out and wiped the disheveled hair aside, his rough, calloused thumbs brushing over the sockets of Tarnished's eyes to take away some of the dirt.

Even so, Tarnished's eyelashes only twitched a few times reflexively, and those violet eyes did not open. Perhaps due to the near-death, without those irritating expression, his face showed a strange, serene beauty, like a fallen statue in the mud.

The Omen suddenly recalled the time when the Tarnished defeated his first projection. At that moment, the Tarnished had a strange expression on his face, a mix of regret and sorrow. Even now, Morgott couldn’t figure out what he was thinking at that time, but for an instant, that expression reminded him of Godwyn—

HE was always cheerful and kind. Unlike other members of the Golden Order, he did not discriminate against omens. In Morgott's early memories, his elder brother's figure stood as firm as a perfect statue, and no difficulty could make him frown.

But in their last few meetings, his brother’s face was always shrouded in melancholy. At the time, Morgott didn’t understand his thoughts, assuming it was the banishment of their father that cast a shadow over him… In retrospect, Morgott was shocked to realize that in his memories, the Golden Prince's original features had long been blurred, and had been replaced with the face of Tarnished instead.

The Omen's fingers suddenly clenched into a fist as he became aware of how foolish his thoughts were: aside from his good looking face, how could this Tarnished ever compare to Godwyn?

Now that he had found the village, there was no need to prolong the captive's suffering. He recited the Erdtree's prayer in his mind, and a golden dagger appeared in his hand.

However, just as he was about to finish the Tarnished, the omen suddenly sensed something behind him. Instantly, he released the Tarnished and leaped away with agility—the next second, a burst of fire erupted where he had been standing. The assailant, realizing their cover was blown, no longer hid their actions and threw more powder in his direction.

A depraved perfumer?

Morgott recognized the costume between dodges, three vicious dogs barked and jumped over the exploding fire. It looks like the incense has driven these dogs mad, that they displayed no sign of fear towards the omen. he swung his cane to get rid two of them, but then he heard a cracking sound coming from behind him. With no time to think, he simply used his arm to fend off the last dog and charged forward towards the depraved perfumer.

The Omen's might was dreadful, and his attack speed rivaled that of a dragon. The perfumer's screams were stuck in his throat by the impact, and he lost his life in the instant. But the next second a large spray of powder split out of his mouth along with his blood, and Morgott choked at the pungent smell, and hastily retreated with bated breath.

His pupils narrowed slightly the moment he caught sight of the second assailant, and his body tensed instinctively. The grotesque Omen-like mask with an evil grin was an image he had seen countless times in his nightmares. The hulking figure was clad in a blood-stained perfumer's outfit, but instead of holding perfuming bottles, he wielded two extremely menacing weapons, made from the omen horns that had been sliced off alive - with Morgott’s eyesight, he could even see the blood-stained flesh and mud on those weapons!

"Omenkiller…" Morgott growled lowly through gritted teeth, feeling his cursed blood in his veins first freezed, then boil with rage.

He would always remember—how, in the graceless twin’s youth and vulnerability, they were tormented by the Omenkillers. The miserable cries of the prey and the laughter of the hunters who took pleasure in them seem to echo in Morgott’s ears even now. The golden incantations, originally symbols of sanctity and grace, were inscribed on the shackles, turned into a cage that imprisoned them. And he remembered how Mohg was hung upside down beside him, bleeding to death-

The usually calm and composed omen let out a beastly roar, and the sealing layer on his cursed sword cracked, revealing the ominous patterns beneath. This was not his true body but a projection, The human body at its core could not withstand the power of a demigod, groaning under the strain. But Morgott paid no heed, and furiously charged at the killer!

Yet, his usually agile limbs were uncharacteristically numb, and after barely parrying a strike from the Omenkiller, which was as heavy as a thousand pounds, he stumbled to the side. The tuberous horns on the killer’s blades sliced his thigh and instantly tore a half-arm-length gash on it!

Morgott realized something was wrong. Precisely because his cursed blood was immune to most toxins, he rarely encountered poisoning, and had become particularly careless in this regard. Perhaps the powder had infiltrated the tiny wounds left by Nepheli’s wind blades earlier, or maybe the depraved perfumer had a special method to deal with omens. At this moment he felt his entire body becoming stiff and numb, strange colors appeared in his field of vision, and his hearing and sense of smell began to get confused as well.

But Morgott was, after all, a formidable warrior. Even while severely poisoned and outnumbered, he still managed to slayed the Omenkiller and all his
attendants.

He had paid a price himself - one bloody, reeling wound trailed from his leg to the end of his tail, and another tore through his already tattered cloak, cutting from his chest to his lower arm; the Omenkiller appeared to have coated his weapon with blood grease, making the torn wounds unable to heal. Blood continued to snake downward, moistening the omen’s gray fur to a dark red.

But it was also due to the blood loss that the effects of paralytic incense he had inhaled earlier began to wane. The omen's chest heaved and rasped as he turned back around, holding onto a wooden fence to see if the Tarnished was dead by now.

However, there was neither a person nor any object to be found.

Morgott's face darkened once again. His first guess was that someone had stolen the Tarnished's belongings while he was distracted. First that Nepheli Loux, then the Omenkiller, and now some thief—could his bad luck never end?

The next moment, he realized he was mistaken—a cold, hard object was pressed against his back, ready to pierce his heart with just a slight push. The Tarnished's voice, though weak, didn't sound like that of a dying man: "It seems the goddess of luck is on my side today, Margit."

"You…" Morgott gritted his teeth, coming to a realization, "You're playing dead, vile Tarnished!"

Same to you. I never expected you, out of all, would ambush me. That's not like you." Tarnished laughed behind him, though his laughter soon turned into a few coughs.

The tip of the blade in his back nudged, leaving a small sting on his skin, and retreated. Tarnished, not caring whether he agreed or not, said, "Let's call a temporary truce."

Morgott slowly turned around. Something flew towards him, and he instinctively caught it, finding it to be two clumps of boluses, one red and the other green, only with some suspicious blood stains on it. The Tarnished lazily explained: "Cures poison and stops bleeding. Eat them quickly."

The omen’s golden pupils looked over at him. The Tarnished, covered in blood and mud, was obviously still in a sorry state. He sat against a half-collapsed wall, his main hand weapon long lost in the swamp, and all he was toying with was a tiny dagger. Morgott squeezed the boluses and asked with a frown, "Thee still hast droplets hidden on thee?" The Tarnished's Flask of Crimson Tears had been knocked over in the previous battle, and the Warming Stones would glow and emit heat, it was impossible for him not to have noticed.

What he didn't expect was the Tarnished pulling out a familiar, delicate little leather pouch from around his neck and giving it a shake. "Blessed Dew Talisman, it grants slow recovery. Oh, the pouch is from your last projection, hehe."

That was... the talisman pouch his wet nurse had given him. Morgott nearly laughed out of anger. It seemed he needed to reclaim much more from this shameless Tarnished than just Godrick’s Great Rune. Slowly, he said, "Thou art indeed clever and very lucky. ...but alloweth me teachest thee a lesson, Tarnished."

"Thee shouldst hast killed me when thee hadst the chance just now!" Before he finished speaking, he had already pounced on the Tarnished. With one hand, Morgott had him by the neck, and with just a little bit of force, his fragile human spine would snap!

If the Tarnished thought that such tactic would make Morgott hesitate or even soften, he was gravely mistaken. Falling for his tricks twice was enough; Morgott would not give this cunning Tarnished any more chances to escape like before!

The Omen panted heavily as he lowered his head, the poison still affecting him. The normally effortless pounce left him dizzy. He gritted his teeth and steadied himself, then reached into the Tarnished’s collar with his other hand, yanking out the talisman along with the pouch. Without wearing it close to the body, the talisman would no longer be effective.

"What art thy last words?" He asked.

The Tarnished's face was only half an arm's length away from his, and he could even feel the other's warm breath ruffling his hair and beard. The purple eyes locked onto the Omen's golden ones without flinching. Yet, those eyes showed no fear or hatred of a dying man. The Tarnished was merely a bit startled, and even that surprise quickly faded, replaced by a calm and knowing bitter smile: "You really are... merciless. I thought..."

"Last words!" Morgott increased the strength of his yoke.

The Tarnished suddenly whispered, "Godfrey."

Morgott was stunned; he hadn't expected to hear that name. The Tarnished spoke as if he was reciting a saga. "I later asked Sir Gideon—he said that lord Godfrey continued his conquests beyond the fogged sea, fighting until he was besieged and exhausted in a battle against many heroes. He was nailed, along with the Beast Regent, to an old tree, maintaining a majestic standing posture even in death."

To fight until his dying breath, that was indeed what his lord father would have done. What he revered as deeds of a lord. He had once said with great pride- in the customs of the badlands, to die but not to fall was the greatest honor of a warrior.

Morgott did not know whether he should be glad or sad, hearing that his lord father had fulfilled his last wish. He felt as if his throat was blocked by a lump, and his eyes burned with heat. The Tarnished gently covered a hand on the back of his gripping hand, saying softly, "He meant a lot to you, didn't he? I'm sorry…but since all the other Tarnished have come back from the dead, I believe he will too."

"…" Morgott turned his head, letting his overgrown horns hide his expression. He panted for a moment, struggling to drive the images the Tarnished had conjured out of his mind. He must not be merciful, the situation did not allow his personal feelings to cloud his judgment, and it was for the sake of Lord Godfrey so even more so –

His voice was rough and deliberate as he spoke: "Nice tryeth. Thy last words, Tarnished, and I shalt not give thee a fourth chance."

The Tarnished looked helpless. "You... Alright, listen to me. You know I’m not a real Tarnished, so I don’t know if I can return to the Grace after I die. Do me a favor, Margit—if I don’t revive, you can take all my belongings— but please take my body to the Scenic Isle, to a bald man named Patches. Tell him to deliver me back to Lordran; he’ll know what to do."

If it were anyone else, the Omen would have nodded and sent Tarnished on his way, but not Patches… After a moment of silence, he replied, "That man is not worthy of trust."

The Tarnished actually chuckled. "I knew it must be him... That bastard, how much did you pay him? Hmm?" His throat, grating against Morgott's hand as he spoke, caused a paralyzing itch with each vibration.

Morgott's tail twitched involuntarily, and he recalled Patches' assessment of the man before him. Frowning, he said in a low voice, "Tarnished, if't be true thee kneweth this, then thee shalt know better—"

"Because he's the only other person from Lordran who survived besides me," the Tarnished said with a smile.

The fair-haired man lowered his eyes and softly spoke words that heavy as a thousand measures, " I once betrayed him. I betrayed everyone in our homeland, and betrayed my own duty. I chose to extinguish the fire and let the darkness engulf everything. I’ve commited such a grave sin and still have the audacity to live on. He has every right to hate me."

Morgott straightened up in shock, pulling back to scrutinize the Tarnished.

In his impression, the Tarnished was nothing more than a cunning rogue. Morgott would have no doubt believing he was capable of petty crimes. But if what the Tarnished said was true, then he was admitting to a sin as grievous as shattering the Elden Ring—

But the Tarnished was now at his mercy; what benefit would there be in telling such a lie? Moreover, his expression and tone were so sincere that it didn't seem feigned. "…Rest assured, in this matter, Patches will not shirk responsibility, because my body can still serve as kindling, and perhaps there's hope to rekindle the fire."

The Omen's previously steady hand trembled slightly. He knew he shouldn’t ask; what the Tarnished said might just be a lie, and his answer could not equal the one he wanted to know. But the doubt had been swirling in his mind for so long. For countless times he had sat in front of of the Erdtree, asking the same question to his mother across the thorns, whose fate within the tree was unknown—

"Why?" He eventually couldn't hold back asking hoarsely, “Ashen One, why didst thee chooseth to do so?”

Instead of answering his question, the Tarnished raised his hand to touch the omen’s single eye, and sighed softly, " Margit, I can see you are burdened with too much already. Let me teach you a lesson as well - you are gazing into the abyss. You must learn to look away. Or one day, it will gaze back into you…"

His fingers were extraordinarily cold, contrasting with the Omen's blood, which was warmer than normal human. The touch felt like a snowflake gently landing on his eyelid, yet carried the sensation of burnt ash. Morgott, following the Tarnished's gentle pressure, closed his eye. An inexplicable feeling made him allow the Tarnished to gently caress his cheek, outlining the lean contours.

It was not the answer he wanted, but the Tarnished had a point. Seeking to understand his mother’s intentions was now futile. The shattering of the Elden Ring and the ruin of the Lands Between had already become a fact of life. Perhaps even Queen Marika herself hadn't foreseen such an outcome.

He said in a deep voice, “I understand. Thank thee, Tarn—”

Halfway through his sentence, he suddenly realized something was wrong, his golden pupils widening in astonishment -

His realization came too late.

Countless specks of light appeared on the Tarnished, and his whole body began to vaporize!

"Thee…!" Morgott reached out his hand, trying to fish for it, but only caught his droping cloth. With a clanging sound, a small ivory sickle lost its support and crashed to the ground, and it was only then that he noticed that the dirt under Tarnished's body had been stained with blood to a dark red ......

The Tarnished had spoken so much to stall for time—not to await possible rescue, nor to pray for a sudden act of mercy, but to wait for the loss of blood to take away his own already dying life. So long as he wasn't defeated outright at Morgott's hands, the Great Rune wouldn't change hands!

"Tarnished!" Realizing he had been tricked once again, the omen stood rigid in place. He gritted his teeth and roared in anger, but his shouts could not bring back the treacherous man who had already escaped.

Panting heavily, he looked around, and in the end, could only vent his frustration by hurling the two clumps of boluses to the ground.

TBC.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

This is definitely not a good idea ......

The stench of scarlet rot felt like it was ingrained in the air around them, and the red soil underfoot was sticky to step on. Morgott frowned as he looked at the nomadic merchant in front of him, whose suspiciously stained hands were rummaging through the bundles on the back of his pack donkey, slowly taking out a few packages.

"Here, it's all here. Take a look yourself," the merchant said indifferently, appearing far more enthusiastic about the instrument in his hands than the two customers in front of him.

Several piles of items were laid out before the Omen, their origins almost beyond doubt --corpses. A mostly intact but blood-stained Land of Reeds outfit, arrows, a ritual pot, a festering finger of unknown use... Morgott frowned again, using his cane to poke through the junk, finding only two pieces of dragonwound grease that seemed somewhat worth buying.

This is definitely not a good idea, he thought.

He had almost captured Tarnished in Liurnia using the trap laid by Patches, yet once again the latter's cunning exceeded his expectations. Three times, three whole times, he had allowed Tarnished to slip through his fingers - not to mention their first encounter where his own carelessness allowed the Tarnished to escape, leaving the infamous reputation of the fell omen on shaky ground.

After that, Morgott returned to the Scenic Isle immediately, only to find Patches already fled away, and the Tarnished had become even more slippery after this failed attemp. Morgott could no longer track him, but reports about the Tarnished kept arriving on his desk.

The most important one was that he somehow infiltrated the Academy of Raya Lucaria and defeated the imprisoned Queen of the Full Moon, Rennala.

He became the second Tarnished, after Gideon Ofnir, to acquire two Great Runes. Although for some reason, the Tarnished had not yet gone to the Divine Towers to restore them, the situation clearly no longer allowed Morgott to play this cat-and-mouse game slowly.

When he heard that the Radahn Festival was about to be held, he had no choice but to take the risk of sending his projection to the scarlet land—undoubtedly, that Tarnished would not miss this grand event. No Tarnished would.

Caelid was filled with scarlet rot, troublesome Pests, gaint crows and dogs, and other creatures. Radahn's Redmane army was never friendly to the forces of Leyndell. While these enemies might not threaten him, they could continually harass and slow him down.

Besides, Morgott had no doubt that once the man heard about his arrival to Caelid, he would become even more wary. Therefore, Morgott decided to have his projection disguised as an ordinary commoner.

As it turned out, Morgott never expected that he would be robbed just as he entered Caelid.

His incarnation took the form of a tall and thin old man, wearing ordinary Leyndell attire. A few Tarnished mistook him for an easy prey, surrounding him with crude laughter: "I didn’t expect to make two fortunes in one single day! Hey, you skinny stick, what the hell are you doing in Caelid? Do you not enjoy you good life in the king's city, drinking from your mama’s breast? Haha, don't tell me you're here for the Radahn Festival... "

"..." The Omen looked at them speechlessly.

It was obvious these were a band of not-so-successful bandits, as evidenced by their outlook and the equipment they wore; Perhaps having given up on the impractical ambition of becoming Elden Lord, they chose instead to set up camp deep within the Aeonia Swamp, making a living by robbing passing Tarnished.

As for how he ended up in a den of bandits, it all started when he entered Caelid. Nowadays, most of the Tarnished in the Lands Between have gathered on this scarlet land. Where there are so many people, there must be a mix of forces and all kinds of people. The Tarnisheds have even organized a small black market among themselves, to sell or exchange their surplus items.

Morgott learned about this from the Night's Cavalry patrolling Caelid. However, these Tarnished were not fools. This black market had no fixed location; it was passed on by word among the Tarnished and moved frequently. They would scatter and flee at the sight of any threat, such as Night's Cavalry, groups of Redmane soldiers, or other formidable creatures.

Thus, the only way to blend in was to disguise himself as a Tarnished. Morgott happened to know perfectly how it was to be a gracelss being. After wandering around Caelid for a day, he was indeed invited by a sneaky Tarnished to a nearby black market.

There, he did not find the fair-haired Ashen One, but did see a long-lost item. A blood-stained black stone with faint golden patterns. The pattern and shape were unmistakable. When he saw his shackle carelessly tossed in a corner of a stranger's stall like garbage, a surge of rage rose within him.

"Where didst thee receiveth this?!" He grabbed the stall owner, almost roaring. The latter was startled but fearlessly warned, "Hey, newbie, don't you know the rules? We only trade here; we don't ask about the source of the goods!"

The surrounding Tarnished glanced over, some already placing their hands on their weapons, moving towards them. Morgott suppressed his anger. He was not afraid of these Tarnished, but he didn't want unnecessary trouble. He released the stall owner, throwing out a large piece of rune, and said sharply, "Well then, beside the items, information art also for selling, right?"

"O generous ser, of course." the stall owner replied greedily, his attitude instantly changing from surly to fawning. He pocketed the rune, carefully offering up the shackle fragment, and added, "We got this from a captive." He looked suggestively at the omen, "Captives, too, can be bought and sold."

Morgott didn't believe that the Ashen One would be captured by such a character ... but upon seeing more items that originally belonged to him, there was no room for disbelief - the most conspicuous of which were the whistle ring and the spirit calling bell, both unique items that could only be used by the Tarnished. There were also some rings, talismans, and other miscellaneous items.

It seemed the Tarnished hadn't casually sold off his shackle, and Morgott's anger subsided somewhat.

So he followed the stall owner to the Aeonia Swamp, where they said to have another black market specifically for trading captives - of course, this was a complete lie. As soon as he arrived, Morgott was surrounded by a group of bandits. The leader laughed heartily and gave him two choices: hand over everything he had and be allowed to leave, or they would get them from his corpse all the same.

"I suggesteth thee to look behind." Morgott said slowly.

The leading Tarnished spat at Morgott's feet, "You think I'm stupid, old man? Cut the crap and hand over your valuables if you don't want to die!"

In the next second, his head was smashed like a watermelon by Morgott’s cane. The other bandits screamed and drew their weapons, but they quickly met the same fate. The entire bandit camp erupted in chaos as if a pot of boiling oil had been splashed with water.

Once Morgott revealed his true form, and the bandits recognized him as Margit the fell, they were utterly terrified and immediately fled in all directions, didn’t even think of resisting.

The Omen quickly scanned the area and, seeing that his target was not among them, began to chase after the stall owner. Unexpectedly, just as he leapt over a low wall towards him, the stall owner suddenly made a sinister expression and pulled a lever—

The ground under Morgott's feet suddenly collapsed, and a spiked iron ball smashed down above his head at the same time!

With a swing of his cursed blade, he deflected the iron ball, but the recoil caused him to fall even faster. In the corner of his eye, he saw that the bottom of the pit was lined with upward-pointing wooden spikes. An ordinary person would be unable to see the spikes in the darkness and would surely be impaled. However, Morgott reacted swiftly, grabbing the tip of one spike with one hand. His massive body twisted with surprising agility and leapt back up.

The stall owner had leaned over the edge of the trap, wanting to see what happened to the omen, but before he knew it, a shadow flashed before his eyes, and he was pinned against the ground by Morgott. Terrified, he began to plead desperately, "Don't kill me! Please don't kill me! I can no longer see the grace, ahhh—"

"Where is he?!" Morgott roared. Seeing that the stall owner was too frightened to understand his question, Morgott took out the shackle and waved it in front of his eyes. "Where didst thee receiveth this thing?"

"I'll talk! I'll talk! He's right here at ......"

The stall owner suddenly raised his hand and splashed some liquid. Morgott quickly dodged out of the way but was inevitably splashed some, even with his omen skin, he immediately felt a sting where the liquid touched. Then the scum took the opportunity to run, but he didn't get more than a couple of paces away before two golden daggers ended his life.

Morgott tore a piece of his cloak to wipe the liquid from his shoulder and neck, frowning as he looked at the tainted cloth. The scarlet slime adhered to it was wriggling as if alive, disgusting to behold. Obviously, the liquid was none other than mudwater from the rot-infested swamp.

His omen blood is naturally resistant to scarlet rot, even if it's a projection, just getting a little bit of it won't be a big problem. He would just have to endure the stinging pain until the rot dissipated. Morgott then searched the stall owner's body and retrieved the items that originally belonged to Ashen One.

He searched the camp in this neighborhood for a while longer, by now the bandits had fled cleanly except for the dead ones, and not finding any useful clues, he changed back to his human form and raised his steps to leave.

Just then he heard a female's voice, "Please... please wait."

The faint voice stopped the omen. He turned and looked back, seeing a pile of assorted junk in the corner from which the voice had come from. He used his cursed sword to rattle away a few barrels and broken crates, revealing a cage covered in dirty fabric. A pair of blue eyes glinting in the dim light, peering through the gaps between the fabric.

"Please... could you let me out?" the voice pleaded. Morgott frowned. There was no glimmer of grace in those eyes, indicating that this was another Tarnished. Perhaps it was a result of infighting among the bandits, or maybe a captured prisoner.

He had no intention of getting involved in Tarnished affairs and was about to leave, when the girl spoke urgently again, "Wait, you are infected with scarlet rot. If you don't get treated in time, you will die!"

A thin arm stretched out from the iron bars, holding a clump of red boluses: "I can be of help—"

The omen’s golden eye stared at the boluses for a moment before he walked slowly to the cage and picked it up. He rubbed the boluses onto the infected area as the thin voice had instructed, and instantly the Scarlet Rot there lost its vigor, dried up into powder and fell off, and the stinging pain disappeared.

This female Tarnished actually knew how to treat scarlet rot, no wonder the bandits had captured her. On this land, the skills she possessed were invaluable, enough to incite greed in most people.

"Doth thee not recognizeth me, Tarnished?" he said coldly. "Aren't thee afraid that I shall kill thee as soon as I hast used thee?"

"I know, you are... Margit the Fell Omen..." The Tarnished's thin hand shrank back, lightly gripping the iron bars, appearing somewhat uneasy, but she bravely continued, "But as you can see, I'm imprisoned here. Without food I’ll die in days, which is even worse than a quick death."

"You are looking for something, aren't you?" she said confidently, continuing to plead with Morgott, "Perhaps I can help... You could use more boluses, and maybe some wit as well?"

Morgott mused for a moment, then reached out and grabbed the iron chain on the cage. His muscles bulged slightly as he gave it a strong tug, breaking it apart. The Tarnished let out a delighted gasp and hastily pushed open the narrow cage door and crawled out.

The moment she was exposed to the dim red light, the Omen's eyes widened in astonishment.

By the Erdtree.

Morgott took a sharp breath; he... uh... he had never... seen... such...

To put it nicely, this girl looked...... quite distinctive. From her clear and delicate voice, one would never imagine she looked like this: at first glance, she seemed like a cross between an Albinauric and a basilisk. She had bulging face, puffy pale skin, with two oddly large watery blue eyes set on it. Her tangled red curls, dirty and wet, clung to her cheeks like strands of algae. With only rags wrapped around her body to cover necessary parts, her exposed part of body was frail and emaciated, devoid of any beauty. Her skin was covered with scars, as if the new was stacked on top of the old.

Morgott frowned, look at the shape of those old wounds. Some are cut by sword blade, some are pierced, some are caused by torture devices, and fire burns…The newer wounds were clearly inflicted by the bandits. Not fatal but certainly painful.

Some long-buried unpleasant memories stirred at the edges of his mind, and Morgott's tail thumped irritably on the ground.

"Sorry... my appearance is so unseemly..." The Tarnished thought he was displeased with her look. Embarrassed, she hugged herself, looked around, and then pulled down the filthy cloth from the cage to use as a makeshift cloak, trying to cover her peculiar appearance. However, the cloth was not large enough; while it covered her upper body, her thin, bruised, and blood-streaked legs remained exposed.

The Erdtree had never favored him, but it’s loving enough to respond to his devotion. Points of light entered the Tarnished's body, abd her hideous wounds started to close and heal, new pink flesh growing in their place. The Tarnished watched in amazement: "So, the rumors are true. You can use Golden Incantations dispite being an omen..."

Before Morgott could warn her to keep her mouth shut, she apologized first, "Please forgive my rudeness for not introducing myself…In fact, I had an accident not too long ago during a magic experiment and lost most of my memory. I can't even remember my own name. "

A mage’s experimental accidents – such things happened frequently. The Tarnished in front of him was, actually, lucky –compared to the "celebrities" at Raya Lucaria who had blown themselves to pieces or turned into sorcerer balls.

The Omen snorted, understanding a bit more now. No wonder her attitude towards him was different; Similar to that fair-haired Ashen One, she was lacked of common sense.

"No matter. I shall call thee Tarnished," he said casually.

"If you don't wish to expose your identity, you'd better not." The Tarnished, however, said carefully, "Tarnisheds don't address each other like that... It would raise suspicion and bring unnecessary trouble. If it pleases your lordship, just call me Ribbit."

She made a strange sound, almost like 'ribbit,' similar to a basilisk's croak. Morgott couldn’t help but suspected it was a insulting nickname given to her by other mages, considering her appearance did have some similarities to a basilisk. Nonetheless, this Tarnished showed some cleverness. He nodded, "I understand... Then thee may calleth me Mohg."

"I will address you as Lord Mohg in public." The Tarnished repeated in a low voice, then showed a hint of confusion, "Strange, that name…sounds somewhat familiar."

Morgott didn't pay much attention to her words. He and Mohg had grown up in the sewers, and very few knew about the existence of the Omen twins, let alone recognizing them. And this girl has no marks of cursed blood on her, so It was likely just a coincidence.

Ribbit led him to the basement where the bandits hid their treasures. Two Tarnisheds guarded the place, but Morgott easily dealt with them without even revealing his omen form. Among the hidden treasures, he didn't find more items belonging to the Ashen One—no armor, nor the Grafted Blade Greatsword.

This indicated that the Ashen One had only had his pouch stolen; the Great Runes were likely still on him... Morgott wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

Ribbit, on the other hand, grabbed a lot of items from the chests: a standard academy robe made of deep blue silk with a red sash, a pair of fitting boots, a witch’s glintstone crown, a meteorite staff, and a very impressive-looking sword. There were also countless items like throwing knives and pots.

"Those bandits took all my things. Luckily, they haven't sold them yet... at least not all of them." Seemingly quite pleased, she gave a smile, the first since her encounter with Morgott. He noticed that her smile softened the oddity of her facial features, making her look somewhat endearing: "By the way, I haven't asked yet. What are you looking for?"

"Not what, but who," the Omen replied. "I'm looking for a Tarnished, a man about six feet tall, with silver-blonde hair and lilac eyes." He paused, reluctantly adding, "He's quite handsome. If't be true thee hast seen him, thee wouldn't hast missed him."

"Hmm, are you hunting a criminal?" Ribbit murmured thoughtfully, pondering for a long time before saying, "No, I haven't seen anyone with those features... Of course, I can't say for sure because of my memory lost." She scratched her face and then asked, "Any other clues? Why do you think he's here?"

"Because those bandits were selling this at the black market," Morgott said, opening his palm to reveal the shackle, the spectral steed whistle, and several talismans. "These things... shouldst be in his possession. While he might selleth other items, the whistle wouldst never be one of them. It is useless to those not recognized by the spectral steed."

Ribbit carefully picked up the items one by one and examined them. If Morgott hadn't stopped her, she might have even tried to imput some mana into the shackle. Finally, she set down the whistle ring, asking, "If such important items were taken, could it be possible that he was killed by those bandits?"

"Impossible," Morgott instinctively retorted. "Yond man's cunning is far beyond thy imagination. I've been chasing him for a long time, and he's always had a knack for turning around even seemingly certain death - I bethink not he'll die." the Omen gritted his teeth, "Nor shouldst he die at the hands of someone else’s."

Ribbit smiled again.

"I understand... I will help you find him. So—let us make a deal, Lord Margit."

TBC.

Chapter Text

Morgott made a deal with the Tarnished girl Ribbit.

There’s a saying in Raya Lucaria: “Only magic could defeat magic.” Perhaps to deal with a cunning Tarnished, one must employ another even more cunning. From this perspective, the omen had no doubts about Ribbit's abilities.

During their brief half-day cooperation, she had demonstrated her ingenuity multiple times: crafting various tools to distract monsters, using traps to ambush relentless enemies... “The weak have their own ways of surviving, Lord Margit,” that’s what she said.

However, no matter how smart she is, there are always situations where brute strength prevails. Otherwise, she wouldn't have been captured by those bandits.

Compared to her intelligence, her body was extremely frail; aside from being able to run fairly quickly, even swinging a regular sword left her breathless. The meteorite staff she carried was merely for show—due to the previous accident, she lost her memory and forgot all the magic she once knew, so the staff was only useful for knocking.

Thus, she made a deal with Morgott - she would help Morgott find his fugitive, and Morgott was to escort her to the Redmane Castle. “In fact,” she said with a smile, “I suspect our goals may converge.”

The Omen agreed with her; there was no way that Ashen One would miss a major event like the Radahn festival. However, waiting at the Redmane Castle wasn’t a good idea. Besides the soldiers remained in the castle, there were other Tarnisheds gathering there. Between the omen and Ashen One, they would undoubtedly choose to help the latter. Therefore, he had to catch the man before he entered the castle.

"Well, first of all – we go shopping." Ribbit said. She wasn’t reffering to the black market - The people there are a mixed bag; The information they sell were untrustworthy, and they might even turn around and sell them out should the price suffice.
She was looking for normadic merchants. "Their stuff is of much more reliable quality, and they won't gossip."

Thus, the opening scene unfolded. They found a nomadic merchant in the northern highlands of Caelid. Ribbit was right; the merchant was very cautious, only showing his wares after she mentioned being a friend of Kale, like a secret code.
If it were up to Morgott, these scraps were more like trash than merchandise.

Ribbit, however, was excitedly comparing a set of Land of Reeds armor against herself, only reluctantly put it down until she was sure she couldn't run too far weaing it. Then she longingly fiddled with arrows and lost ashes of war, like a child unable to walk away from candy, until the omen was annoyed and asked, "What's going on?"

Ribbit glanced around sheepishly and said, "I have not a single coin on me."

Morgott pressed his forehead. Ribbit had scavenged quite a few items earlier in the bandit camp, yet she had the nerve to lie so blatantly. He knew the truth but couldn't be bothered to argue. So, he took out several Golden Runes and gave them to her as fund for the mission, leaving her to negotiate with the merchant.

After a while, Ribbit came back, jubilantly holding up a torch emitting a strange fragrance: "Look—a Beast-Repellent Torch! Torches such as these were used to keep unwelcome beasts away from treasure troves hidden in caves!"
Judging by her bulging pouch, it was clear she had bought far more than that torch. The omen, with a slightly sterner tone, reminded her, "Tarnished, what news hast thee gotten?"

Even in his human form, he was much taller than the petite girl. His looming presence made her shrink back, swallow hard, and lower her voice, "…He hasn't seen the person you mentioned, but… he did tell me the locations of two other nomadic merchants in Caelid. We can ask them tomorrow."

The omen nodded. The sky had already darkened; He looked around, the nomadic merchant had packed up and left on his mule, and in the distance, several giant dogs were wandering aimlessly. Camping outside in Caelid wasn't safe. He pointed to a nearby abandoned shack and said, "We shalt campeth there tonight."

Ribbit followed behind him dejectedly. After a while, she quietly added, as if explaining, "Both merchants do business near the main road in Caelid. If that person passed by, someone would have seen him."

She looked like a disappointed child, which made Morgott feit somewhat uncomfortable. The omen couldn't help but reflected on whether he had been too harsh on her. He was used to commanding subordinates, but Ribbit was not one of them. She was not a Night Cavalry accustomed to fighting and killing in the dark, but a young girl who seemed to have had a hard life. It was understandable that she would want to reap benefits for herself.

But Morgott had no intention of apologizing. He had encountered too many Tarnished by now—these wanderers spread across the Lands Between like fleas, most of them deceitful and greedy. Showing them any leniency would only result in being taken advantage of.

Realizing that she had only made a fool of herself, Ribbit resignedly went about her own thing. She cut the beast-repelling torch into several pieces and hung them around the small shack. Then, following a shabby, seemingly pieced-together notebook, she busied herself with making all sorts of boluses, tools and poisoning the arrows.

The omen was lost in thought, watching her skillfully handling the materials, listening to the crackling of the campfire - he was thinking about that Ashen one, considering how to proceed once he captured him.

Morgott didn't believe for a second that man could ever defeat Radahn. It was simply impossible. He himself had once crossed paths with the Starscourge General on the battlefield; the Ashen One was strong, but in a direct confrontation, he couldn't even best Morgott’s projection, let alone Radahn.

The scarlet rot had turned the hero who sealed the stars into a mindless beast, making him even more formidable. An enemy unburdened by reason or fear, driven only by the desire to kill and devour, was often more dangerous than those who could be bargained with. If the Ashen One were slain and the Great Rune fell into Radahn's hands, god knows what unknown calamities would be unleashed.

This was his last chance. No matter what, he couldn't let himself be swayed by the deceptive words of the Tarnished, allowing him to escape once more. He had to resolve the matter as soon as he saw that man – that is, too kill him at first sight.

The Omen pondered silently, absentmindedly stroking the rough surface of his cane. His arm muscles tensed and relaxed, until a humming melody broke his train of thought.

Ribbit was mashing some herbs along with rowa berries and encapsulating them into a clean bottle, while humming a slightly familiar, mournful tune:

" O, locus ille, beatus quondam, nunc deminuit. (Oh, the once blessed land, now shattered and broken)

Nos, destinatae matribus, nunc fiunt turpes( new bride soon to be mother, yet tainted and withered)...

Ploravimus lacrimavimusque, sed nemo nos consolatur(We mourned, we weep, yet no one consoles us)…

Aureum, cui irascebaris? (Oh goddess! Who has brought your wrath upon us? )"

Her ethereal, gentle singing dissipated into the night breeze. Noticing Morgott's gaze, Ribbit looked up and smiled, "I heard this from a strange bat with human face at Liurnia of the Lakes. It sounded beautiful, so I spent some time to learn it… It's a pity I don't have a lyre, or I could play it for you, to pass the time ."

The music reminded the omen of a pageboy in Leyndell—a young man who always practiced flute in the garden at dusk after his shift. Despite the melancholy, the flute's sound soothed Morgott's loneliness and bitterness in countless difficult days.
"Thee said thee hath lost thy memory." Morgott's gaze softened slightly as he asked, "How much doth thee remember?"

"Not much. I only remember things within the last few months, and most of my memories are like shrouded in a fog. " Ribbit held up the small bottle in her hand, "Only when I see familiar people or items, that fog lifts a bit, that’s why I remembered how to make these tools."

Morgott nodded and asked again, "So, why didst thee come to Caelid? A little one like thee, in this scarlet land, could easily becometh a meal for any beast." Although she was a bit greedy, someone who would have the leisure to learn a song did not look like those ambitious Tarnisheds chasing after the Great Rune.

"That's because—" Ribbit sighed, rummaging in her pouch before taking out a tattered scroll and spreading it out for Morgott to see. "Look, this was in my bag when I woke up, meaning it's something I had before I lost my memory."

It appeared to be a long-used map, pieced together from several fragments, with details of the lower half of the Lands Between—Limgrave, Weeping Peninsula, Caelid, Liurnia, and the volcanic region. While the Altus Plateau and the Mountaintops of the Giants farther north were still blank, with only a few red dots of unknown significance scattered about. Judging by the many markings and routes in different colors and shapes on the southern part, it seemed the map had been frequently used by its owner.

Her slender fingers traced across Limgrave and Caelid, pointing to Redmane Castle on the lower right of the scarlet land, where a conspicuous red star and a scrawled date were marked. "This mark... I remembered something when I saw it. I… had promised someone to meet here and attend the Radahn Festival together."

"I suppose he must be my friend, though I can't remember what he looked like or his name." Ribbit murmured. "I have a strange feeling—an intuition—that the Radahn Festival is the key to everything. When I reach the Redmane Castle, I might be able to regain my lost memories."

"Tarnished," Morgott said, frowning, "doth thee knoweth what the Radahn Festival is? It’s a ceremony held by Starscourge Radahn’s followers—a ritual, or rather a battle, meant to bury their deranged lord."

"Year after year, countless Tarnisheds gathered there driven by their ambition, hoping to seize Radahn’s Great Rune, only to end up as more corpses buried in the red sands. Those who consider themselves mighty warriors meet such fates; what chance doth thee hast in this?"

"Well, because I only learned about the Radahn Festival after coming to Caelid—I thought it was some kind of celebratory festival," Ribbit replied, sighed and muttered, "I just want to sell my boluses and make some money..."

The Omen looked at her in disbelief. He had intended to dissuade her from this suicidal notion but was left speechless when Ribbit cheerfully said that if things got too dangerous, she would just run away at the start of the festival.

Pressing his forehead, he wanted to warn her that things wouldn’t be that simple.

Just then, a strong intuition, however, sent a chill down the back of the omen's neck!

He quickly dove forward, picking up Ribbit and pulling her aside. The next instant, a sword glowing with ominous red light slashed through the door, sweeping horizontally and severing several wooden pillars at once!

Wood chips exploded, and Morgott took the blow on his back. He hadn’t yet transformed into his omen form, and this human guise lacked the robust defenses of his true form’s skin. His back was left a bloody mess.

Morgott grunted in pain, but fortunately, it was only a flesh wound. He couldn’t afford to treat it and rolled outside with Ribbit in the first moments. With its support pillars gone, the already dilapidated wooden shack groaned and collapsed, sending up a cloud of faint red dust.

Golden dots of light coalesced around his body, forming the tall, robust, tailed form of the omen. Morgott swung his Cursed Sword, deflecting an attack that cut through the dust, while he held Ribbit in his other arm, retreating further away. In that moment, he saw their assailant’s weapon clearly—a wide-bladed flying sword controlled by magic.

“Hide!” he hissed, pushing Ribbit behind a large rock before charging towards the enemy. The figure was clad in armor entwined with thorns and shrouded in a sinister black and red mist. It was a testament to the countless killings he had made, while the iron thorns wrapped around his helmet were a symbol of a condemned prisoner. Seeing the Omen approach, the attacker called back the flying sword to his hand and took up a large shield from his back.

The enemy's martial arts were unexpectedly strong, and Morgott could sense that the one in front of him was just a projection like himself - in other words, his true body must be even stronger, perhaps on par with the fair-haired Ashen One. When had such a man appeared in the Lands Between?

His heart tightened, and he noted the enemy’s characteristics. Realizing this was no time for hesitation, Morgott aimed to end the fight quickly and decisively.

"Clang!" With A dull thud, the thorn-armored man blocked Morgott's strike with his shield. The broad greatsword in his hand, like a serpent flicking its tongue, suddenly glowed red and left his grip, carving an arc toward Morgott's back.

Morgott sneered, "Is that all thou art capable of, sneaking around?" The omen summoned a golden hammer, and his body spun rapidly, deflecting the attack and continuing with undiminished force to strike the greatshield!

Under Morgott’s absolute strength, the man in Thorns Armor let out a muffled grunt, forced to his knees with his shield tilted to one side. The cursed sword sliced through, sent his head flew in the air. This was indeed a projection - before the head hit the ground, it already dissipated along with the headless body.

Morgott snorted coldly and turned his head to look for Ribbit, only to be met with a startling scene—

The skinny Tarnished was surrounded by two giant dogs, along with a bird of death flying in mid-air quacking and occasionally swooping towards the ground. She fled desperately with a terrified look on her face.

The beast repelling torches they had hung around the shack had all gone out during the attack, and Morgott had brought her a bit further away for her safety, never imagining that she would instead run into the area where the monsters were roaming!

Morgott immediately darted over to her, and the Bird of Death, sensing his presence, had the sense to fly away. He killed the giant dogs and practically fished the little Tarnished out of the jaws of one.

"Have you lost your mind, little Tarnished?" he growled. How could she not even call out for him? At this distance, he should have heard her scream, but instead, she blindly ran around, practically feeding herself to the monsters.

Her left arm was broken, with bone shards protruding from the torn flesh. Drenched in sweat from the pain, the girl was pale and unable to even utter a sound. Seeing her pitiful state, Morgott sighed and refrained from scolding her further. Silently reciting a prayer, he cast a healing incantation.

Golden sparks appeared and intertwined. Morgott's voice was low, "Bear with it." He carefully pulled her arm apart, aligning the broken bones roughly. Ribbit groaned in pain but was held firmly in place by him.

Fortunately, the incantation took effect quickly. Golden light poured into the wound, replaced the searing pain with warmth. The girl finally relaxed slightly, sobbing and gasping for breath.

The wounds on Morgott's back were also healed. He grabbed her good arm and pulled her up from the ground, but her legs were too weak to support her, only to slid down.

Morgott had to scoop her up. Carrying her in one arm, he retrieved the tools scattered in the ruins and relit the beast-repelling torches. Their mounts, just ordinary horses, had fled in fright, and he couldn't stray too far to search for them. He would have to wait until dawn.

"I... I didn't want to distract you..." Ribbit explained softly, "You were fighting, so I didn't call out..."

"Enough, save thy lies, Tarnished," Morgott interrupted her disdainfully, placing her against a broken wall. Doth thee honestly believe I don't know what's happening?"

He initially rushed to rescue her without realizing, but it only took a moment's thought to understand that Ribbit was trying to escape while his attention was diverted. He should have seen it coming - Tarnisheds were all of a piece, and this one was no exception. Her previous obedient demeanor was just a ruse to lower his guard. As a Tarnished, how could Ribbit not want to stay as far away from him, the "Fell Omen," as possible?

"Stop playing thy little tricks, Tarnished." After this incident, any goodwill he had toward Ribbit vanished completely. Growling like a beast, the omen easily clasped Ribbit's neck with one hand, applying slight pressure. "Forget not what thee saw with thy own eyes—the last Tarnished who tried that is now rotting in the swamp."

"I-I won't dare anymore, my lord. Please, spare me this once," Ribbit stammered, her face pale, nodding repeatedly in fear. Morgott's golden eyes stared at her for a moment longer, ensuring she understood the warning. Only then did he release her, and Ribbit immediately curled up in a corner.

Morgott didn't bother to pay her any more attention, and sat himself down to rest on the other side.

Probably because of the unbearable pain of the injury, the little thing whimpered incessantly like a wounded puppy. By the middle of the night, the annoying moans had turned into sobbing, making it even more unbearable. Morgott opened his eyes only to see Ribbit cowering in the corner, trembling and convulsing. Her broad forehead was covered in sweat, her clothes were torn and blood-soaked, and her hair clung to her face in strands.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." she murmured indistinctly with her eyes tightly shut, vaguely apologizing. Two streams of tears ran down her cheeks, carving paths through blood and mud. She looked so pitiful that even Morgott felt a twinge of compassion.

He reached out and touched her forehead, finding it warm to the touch. Omen's body temperature was higher than that of a normal person, indicating she was having a fever. Morgott wasn't particularly skilled in healing incantations, and her injuries were severe, made it even harder to treat.

What a pain in the ass. How had he ended up babysitting for a Tarnished? Morgott sighed inwardly, cursing Ashen One for who knows how many times that day. but the thought of the fair-haired man reminded him of something that could come in handy.

Earlier in Liurnia, he had scavenged a Blessed Dew Talisman from Ashen One, which had a slow healing effect. Morgott hung the leather pouch containing the talisman around Ribbit's neck. Her flushed face gradually eased, and with a soft moan, she opened her eyes. "It’s... it’s you... Margit..."

Probably because of her fuzzy consciousness, she forgot to use honorifics and just mumbled vaguely, "S-sorry …I… I kept on mess things up…" Tears welled up in her eyes.

The Omen sighed again and placed a hand soothingly on her red hair. "Sleep, little Tarnished, what thee needeth is rest."

TBC.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Morgott woke up first thing when the sky turned bright.

He noticed a slight weight on his shoulder. Looking down, Morgott felt his heart skip a beat. Ribbit, at some point, had sat up and fallen asleep against his shoulder. The bizarre features of that face were quite a lot to take in up close… Her red hair was tangled and matted, her large head awkwardly leaning against his arm, with a suspicious trace of drool dampening his Cloak.

...An old man really shouldn't be subjected to such shocks.

He gently supported her head, moving her to lean against a half-broken pillar instead. Ribbit, deep in sleep, remained asleep. Morgott then leapt onto a tall, withered tree to survey the surroundings. Bathed in the golden light, the red and pale earth of Caelid appeared a little more alive rather than completely sickly.

From this high vantage point, he could see two Minor Erdtrees, one near and one far, standing quietly under the morning sky. Their beautiful and solemn presence made Morgott feel a deep, inner softness. Facing the Erdtree in Leyndell, he performed his daily morning prayer.

When he finished, he noticed Ribbit stood silently behind him, watching.

Her eyes were swollen like two blisters, making her look even more like a basilisk, and her timid expression was both comical and pitiful. After a night, Morgott's anger had subsided. And since he had just finished his prayer, he was in a calm mood. The omen eased his tone and asked in a softened voice, "How art thee feeling?"

"Fine enough." Ribbit replied, taking out the leather pouch with the talisman to return it. But Morgott shook his head, "Keep it. This talisman shall slowly restore thy health."

"This surely worth a lot... is it okay to just give it to me?" Ribbit asked. In her surprise, the girl even forgot to be afraid.

"Consider it an advance payment." To Morgott, the talisman was actually of far less importance than the pouch. It was from his wet nurse, symbolizing her expectations and blessings for him…to become a lord. In some ways, those expectations had been fulfilled, but in others, it it carries a hint of irony.

But the little Tarnished, naturally unaware of the complex background, only sniffed and gladly put the leather pouch away. Morgott added, "I shalt offer other rewards for thee as lief as thee find the Ashen One, and thee shalt take the loot on our way as thee like."

Seeing Ribbit's eyes light up, he issued a timely warning: "But marketh my words last night, Tarnished. The patience of the fell omen is limited, especially towards thy kind."

Usually, when Morgott exerted both authority and kindness in this way, his subordinates would show obedience, while ordinary people would be both fearful and intimidated. But Ribbit giggled. "You know... I've heard a lot about you-- ruthless and merciless to Tarnisheds—you’ve gained quite a fame among my kind. But in the end, not only did you save my life twice, but you are also very generous. I might even say you're kinder than most Tarnisheds I’ve met."

Her sudden remark left Morgott at a loss. Before he could think of a response, Ribbit blinked, smiled sweetly, and patted her chest. "You have my thanks. I'll help you find the Ashen One, that I promise."

Since then, she became noticeably more diligent in her work.

Morgott found the horses that had run off the previous night. They continued south along the Highway, following their plan to seek out the other two normadic merchants. The entire day was spent traveling, with Ribbit occasionally stroke up conversations with passing Tarnisheds, exchanging supplis and information.

As the sun set once again, they veered off the highway and approached a ruin. The small letters on the map identified this place as “the Cathedral of Dragon Communion," or more accurately, what’s left of it. A bit further south liad the Impassable Greatbridge, and beyond that, the Redmane Castle.

As they approached the ruins, they noticed a bonfire already lit inside, with several figures moving around. Another black market organized by Tarnisheds. Morgott hesitated to leave, but Ribbit pulled him back, "Good chance! let's go and see if there's anything noteworthy. "

To avoid drawing attention, she donned her Glintstone Crown to conceal her face and had Morgott changed into a battlemage robe to blend in; his notorious cursed sword was wrapped in fabric and carried on his back, disguised as a staff.

Soon, Morgott found himself sitting among a group of Tarnisheds around the bonfire. A man holding a Glintstone Staff seemed quite friendly to them, perhaps because of their mage disguise. A burly and bare-chested man, wearing a skull mask, collected some runes and handed them two cups of dubious-looking liquor.

Morgott silently watched as Ribbit flirted with the male mage, who kept urging her to remove her Glintstone Crown until Morgott shot him a glare, making him retreat sheepishly. Nearby, a few thieves was discussing their tricks for dismantling dungeon traps, while a man with a katana bragged about the "exclusive treatment" he received at the Volcano Manor.

Morgott was never good at socializing; he had long been used to being alone, and he couldn't help but felt increasingly uncomfortable among the crowd. Even though he knew he appeared as an ordinary human now, he felt completely out of place. Ribbit, on the other hand, seemed to thrive, effortlessly mingling and engaging with everyone.

She had a peculiar charm that could easily earn others' trust and affection.

As the night wore on, Morgott grew more and more convinced that they were merely wasting their time; these people were bottom-tier among the Tarnisheds, and their information was often outdated or mixed with absurd rumors.

Just as his patience was wearing thin, someone suddenly spat and said, " All I hear is you spewing bullshit. The one who got both Godrick's Great Rune and Full Moon Rennala's is the same person—a fair-haired man..."

Finally, someone mentioned the information they longed for. Both Morgott and Ribbit's spirits were lifted as they looked towards the man who spoke. He was a large man dressed in vagabond knight armor, and he was sneering at the other slim Tarnished, whose face was flushed red. " Just looking at you, I can tell you are far away from the Roundtable. This news has spread all over the hold. "

As the two looked ready to brawl, Ribbit quickly stepped in, feigning curiosity. The Vagabond Knight glanced at her thin frame and scoffed, "You? Forget it. The Roundtable is no refugee camp for losers."

His words were harsh, but Ribbit knew well that if people spoke up, they likely wanted to show off what they know. Under the assault of countless flattery and drinks, and with the encouragement of those around, the man eventually began to speak. “Young lass, you’d be better off just listening for fun. The Tarnisheds at Roundtable Hold are ranked. The top dogs are nothing like us. The guy I was talking about—when he stomps his foot, the whole bulding would shake, and with a wave of his hand, he smashes every furniture around. He once fucked five women in one single night and…"

A tall, skinny man nearby rolled his eyes and interrupted, " Five women at the Roundtable Hold? What, are you including the twin maiden husks? "

The conversation was veering into the bizarre. Ribbit wiped her brow and tried to steer it back on track. She asked with a feigned look of admiration, "A hero like him would definitely come to the Radahn Festival, right? I wonder if I'll get the chance to see him?"

"...That one is never short of women," the Vagabond Knight said with a mocking look, mistaking Ribbit for someone trying to climb the social ladder. "He does have a soft spot for beauty—but too bad for you, I think you’ve missed your chance. He hasn’t returned to the Roundtable Hold for over half a month. Some are saying that he might’ve died out there. Otherwise, he would have come back to repair his gear by now."

Someone asked, "If he already has two Great Runes, how could he die?"

The Vagabond Knight shrugged, "Who can guarantee they'll never stumble in these days? No matter how strong he is, he’s still mortal. I heard the Fell Omen has been hunting him down for a long time, and there are many Tarnisheds who want him dead too—the All-Knowing Gideon Ofnir himself is at the top of that list."

He lowered his voice and said, "It is said that shortly before he disappeared, he had a heated argument with Gideon Ofnir ... After that, the All-Knowing's attendant, Ensha, was found dead in the hall, and his adopted daughter disappeared. If you ask me, that man is either dead outside, or he refused to bow to the old man and joined another faction."

Someone nearby chimed in, "I still think he was reckless. If he had taken Godrick's Great Rune, he should set himself up as the ruler of Stormveil and start to build his own forces. he'd be a damn Lord by now."

"Such limited ambition," the Vagabond Knight scoffed, eyes gleaming with greed. "If what the Two Fingers say is true, having two Great Runes would be enough to mend the Elden Ring and become the Elden Lord. Why would he care about mere Limgrave? If I were him, I'd seize the chance to launch a surprise attack on the Grace Given in Leyndell, while the Fell Omen is still hunting him in the south."

Hearing his name suddenly mentioned, Morgott's grip on his cup tightened. The man continued smugly, "That so-called demigod is nothing but a coward who hides behind the Fell Omen’s cloak all day. He's just like his nephew, Godrick, all bluster and no bite. Of course- they are in the same lineage, haha. "

The group of Tarnisheds burst into raucous laughter, with some even questioning Morgott’s lineage, saying that Marika had cuckolded the Elden Lord with some random man. The vulgarity of their words was too much for Morgott to tolerate.
He was about to reveal his true form and slaughter these disrespectful louts when Ribbit tugged at his sleeve. The small Tarnished put a finger to her lips, indicating for him to stay quiet, and led him behind a nearby wall.

"Hold on, I have a better way to teach them a lesson," she whispered. She then dashed off to a spot further away. When she returned, she was holding a throwing pot.

The omen sniffed the air, only to catch a faint whiff of a foul smell, but he could never have predicted what Ribbit did next.

"Hide well," Ribbit said with a mischievous grin, and then hurled the pot over the low wall—

The pot arced through the air and landed right in the bonfire around which the Tarnisheds were gathered. The already cracked pot exploded with a bang upon heat, scattering its contents everywhere. The people sitting around the fire, mouths wide open in laughter, suddenly found themselves with a mouthful of the pot's contents.

"What is this... ugh!" The pot didn't contain explosives or scarlet rot, so no one was seriously harmed, but an indescribable stench quickly filled the camp, causing chaos.

Amid the confusion, a loud voice shouted from atop the wall, "Those who talk shit should bite their own words!"

This was followed by a string of laughter that faded into the distance along with the sound of galloping hooves.

-

The two of them galloped through the night until they had left the Cathedral of Dragon Communion far behind and could no longer see it. Only then did they rein in their horse and slow down.

"Did you see the looks on their faces? They got quite a mouthful!" After all that running, Ribbit still couldn't stop laughing, rocking forward and backward on her horse. Morgott tried to keep a stern face, but his lips kept twitching upwards. He had to turned his head away to hide his smile.

"As a warrior's descendant, thee shouldn't useth such vulgar trick, and certainly shouldn't be proud of it," he lectured gruffly. By the Erdtree, he wondered where this little Tarnished came up with such a nasty plan.

"I think they should thank me instead," Ribbit said sweetly, her eyes twinkling. Morgott asked her why, and the little Tarnished shamelessly boasted, "I just saved their lives from Margit the Fell Omen! Now when you think about them, you won’t fell the slightest trace of anger, but instead you pity them, do you not?”

Morgott felt both exasperated and amused. His own brother, Mohg, had always liked to tease their guards with sewer mud when he was a kid. Of course when he was caught, he couldn't get away with a good beating, but most of the time the cunning boy could slip away with his familiarity with the pipes.

Everytime Morgott caught him and scolded him for causing trouble, Mohg would retort that his brother was born with an old man's face, always acting righteous. As a child, he caused Mogott headache, but those moments felt precious now. At least they shared everything, good or bad, and were inseparable back then.

They were born together into this cruel world, but had entirely opposite personalities. Thus their fates had diverged. Now, Morgott wasn't even sure if he could trust Mohg entirely...

His thoughts were interrupted by Ribbit's light cough. The little Tarnished spurred her horse forward a bit, riding alongside him. "A question, may I?"

After Morgott nodded his assent, Ribbit asked, "Those people mentioned that having two Great Runes is enough to mend the Elden Ring. I suddenly thought, as a demigod, the Grace Given King should have one Great Rune of his own, does he not? And Godrick's would be easy enough for him to obtain. He also sits right in Leyndell, at the foot of the Erdtree. If he had mended the Elden Ring from the start, the Shattering War would never have happened. So WHY didn't he do it?"

Morgott was momentarily taken aback, not expecting such a question. But then he scolded her with a frown, "Thou art truly audacious, Tarnished. Tis not a matter for thee to concern. If thee hath asked such a blashphemous question before the Shattering, thee shalt hast thy tongue cut and exiled."

Ribbit grimaced and shrank back, closing her mouth. For a moment, the only sound was the clopping of hooves, but it lasted only about a minute before she spoke again, "I was just curious. You wouldn't cut my tongue, would you, good sir?" Her words were pitiful and flattering, but Morgott recognized the mischief in her eyes.

He sighed. This little thing was no longer afraid of him. If he didn't satisfy her curiosity today, he would find no peace.

The answer was quite simple: as an omen, Morgott could never allow himself to take the throne of the Elden Lord. Disguising himself as the "Grace Given" was already a blasphemous act, done out of necessity to defend the capital. Moreover, he knew better than anyone that since the Shattering, the Erdtree had grown thorns, warding off all who deign approach. Even with two Great Runes, the Elden Ring could not be mended—unless the Erdtree itself was burned.

Of course, these secrets could not be divulged to a Tarnished. He could only provide the one reason he could share: "Regardless of Godrick's misdeeds, he is still the last blood of Prince Godwyn. If not for his incompetence, he would hast been the rightful heir to the Golden Lineage."

"Morgott the Grace Given is the second son, and he hast no desire to usurp the throne for himself. With Prince Godwyn dead and Godrick unfit to rule, the only one fit to sit on the throne is the First Lord... He hast long awaited the return of Lord Godfrey."

"Hmm, I see. So he sent you to hunt other Tarnisheds to ensure no one could claim the throne before Godfrey's return," Ribbit mused, rubbing her chin. "But there's still something I don't understand. Why do you serve the Grace Given? Even now, you omens are despised and persecuted. Only Miquella the empyrean sees you as people..."

"Yond was but a child's delusion; his so-called pure gold was weak, and would bend easily ." Morgott sneered sarcastically, "Tarnished, wouldst thee lock a lion and sheep in the same cage and expect them to coexist peacefully? The differences between humans, demihumans, misbegottens, and omens art far greater than yond."

Even among humans, there was little peace. Otherwise, Liurnia wouldn't be engulfed in war between the Academy and the Carians; on the battlefields between Leyndell and the Volcano Manor, Rykard's methods were far more vile than the misbegottens of Castle Morne. And Caelid right in front of them, was the very best example.

"If't luck hast it, he might temporarily ascend godhood, but he wouldst never command true loyalty. His fragile and naive peace wouldst shatter soon enough." Morgott's gaze shifted from the red earth to Ribbit, his golden eyes glowing in the night. "All demigods art one piece. Driven by their ambition, foolishly pursuing things beyond their control...bringeth themselves and everything around them to ulter ruin."

“You disdain them,” Ribbit said, tilting her head. It wasn't a question but a statement.

Morgott suddenly realized that perhaps Ribbit's disarming nature had worked on him as well. Unwittingly, he had said too much. He quickly looked away. “And what about thee, Tarnished? Doth thee still remain loyal to the king thy ancestors served, or doth thee perhaps agree more with the stance of isolation of the Academy?”

Ribbit laughed, "Oh lord Margit, you don’t understand common folks like me at all. We don't care about those bigwigs' affairs. As long as I don't starve or freeze, as I could sleep under a roof and preferably have a lover to warm up my bed, I shall call it a wonderful day." She patted her horse’s neck, urging it forward, leaving Morgott behind.

“…Where didst thee learneth such nonsense?” Morgott sighed and caught up with her. Ribbit didn’t answer but began humming a tune, one that sounded like a tavern song about a princess who was cursed to became a frog but eventually saved by a true love kiss—it sounded awfully stupid.

“I vaguely remember a lord saying he’d make me a knight,” Ribbit said cheerfully as she sang, "He must have been a big fan of mine."

“Stop daydreaming, little Tarnished. Thee’d struggle to move in chainmail, let alone full plate armor,” Morgott couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“I don’t need armor. Enemies won’t get close to me; I’ll just throw fetid pots at them first.”

“…Did thee wash thy hands just now, Tarnished?!”

TBC.

Chapter Text

Aside from learning that the Ashen One had already left the Roundtable Hold, the Tarnisheds at the Cathedral of Dragon Communion provided no further useful information. Morgott and Ribbit found a deserted ruin to rest in for the night, and the next day, they continued north along the highway.

Desperate scenarios played out everywhere in Caelid.

They had witnessed the battlefields where the Redmane Army clashed with the local creatures—flaming defensive lines that could no longer deter the ravenous giant dogs, and camps that had been thoroughly overrun, devoid of any living souls, where only crows feasted. Even the dragon that had fallen from Farum Azula, with their stone-like scales, were not spared from the rot.

Morgott had known of the situation here from reports, but reading about it was nothing compared to the shock of witnessing this hellish landscape firsthand. Especially when, as they passed through the Gate of Sellia one day, a mad-beastly roar, like that of a dragon, came from the red sandy beach below the cliff -

They both saw that figure, wandering alone amidst the dunes—Starscourge Radahn, once hailed as the mightiest of the demigods, now appeared like a solitary, feral beast. Morgott stood on the cliff, gazing down, and it seemed Radahn sensed his presence too, stopping to roar in his direction for a long time. The sound evoked a deep empathy in him.

The harsh environment and days of relentless travel yielded no results. Morgott began to feel a sense of frustration. Fortunately, Ribbit was by his side, and no matter how dire the circumstances, the mischievous girl always seemed able to cheerfully come up with some (not-so-reliable) plan to keep going.

That afternoon, they arrived at Fort Faroth in northern Caelid. The fortress, once grand, was already deserted, with only bats and spirits wandering within. By this point, the two of them had nearly scoured the entire Scarlet Land, yet still found no trace of Ashen One.

The nomadic merchants, the Tarnished markets, Sellia townsfolks, or the Night's Cavalry patrolling at night…no one had seen a man matching his feature. It was as if he had landed in that bandit camp out of nowhere and then mysteriously vanished without a trace.

"That’s impossible!" Ribbit groaned in frustration, her eyes scanning the map repeatedly. "He couldn’t have left no trace at all. Even if he teleported straight from Dragon-Burnt Ruins to the swamp, we’ve already searched every path leading to the Redmane Castle..."

She was so absorbed in tracing routes on the map that she failed to notice her mount veering towards a ditch. Morgott quickly grabbed her reins. "Watch the road," the Omen warned with a sense of resignation. Ribbit only responded with a vague grunt, continuing to study the map, leaving Morgott no choice but to guide their horses side by side.

" By the way, we're close to the Minor Erdtree in Caelid," after another minute, she finally looked up from the map, showing him a tree-shaped symbol with an innocent smile. "Would you like to pay your respects at the foot of it?"

"I didn't realize thee hadst become so devout, little Tarnished," Morgott, now well-acquainted with Ribbit's antics, easily saw through her intentions. He glanced over and teased, "T' seemeth to me thou art not after a pilgrimage, but the Crystalline Tears, aren’t thee?"

"W-What Crystalline Tears? Do I look like that kind of person?" Ribbit’s face flushed red as she swatted Morgott’s arm. "Forget it, if you don’t want to go. I’m tired anyway!"

Morgott couldn’t help but smile. He knew this little thing was quite greedy; She never left anything behind, not even the offerings from roadside graves, let alone all the unclaimed treasures in the ruins. But she was wise enough to know when to stop and never caused any trouble for them, so he turned a blind eye to it and allowed her to get a little advantage for herself.

Regardless, She had indeed figured Morgott out perfectly. He wouldn’t miss out on a chance to visit a Minor Erdtree. Besides, although a Minor Erdtree was usually heavily guarded by Erdtree Avatars and soldiers, they could recognize the golden lineage and would not attack a descendant of Marika. Collecting a few Crystalline Tears wouldn’t be a big deal. So Morgott gently tugged on her mount’s reins, and the two of them turned off onto the path leading to the Minor Erdtree.

By now, the sun was already dipping low in the sky, and the temperature had dropped, shrouding all of Caelid in a red fog.

As they drew closer to the Minor Erdtree, Morgott sensed something was amiss. There were no signs of the usual Erdtree Guardians, and—the omen’s nose twitched—there was a faint, almost imperceptible stench in the air.

He raised a hand to stop Ribbit, who asked in confusion, “What’s wrong?”

“The stench of rot lingers here,” Morgott said in a low, wary tone, furrowing his brow. “Be on thy guard, Tarnished.”

By all accounts, they were already at the foot of the Minor Erdtree, yet the foul odor grew even stronger. Now that he could be sure that this was unmistakably Scarlet Rot, Morgott quickly transformed into his Omen form, taking his cursed blade from his back into his hand. Ribbit, alarmed by his actions, also readied herself, clutching several throwing pots in her hands.

As they approach further, the stench coiling around them almost tangibly. Under the dull red light of the setting sun, crows circled and cawed overhead. Scattered jars piled up at the foot of the tree, casting an eerie atmosphere over the should-have-been serene and sacred site.

Ribbit looked around in confusion and murmured, "Where's the Erdtree Avatar?" Morgott was just about to reply, when he heard a slight crack of a twig overhead.

"Watch out!" The Omen's eyes flinched as he picked up Ribbit with one hand and jumped out of the way, and almost at the same time, shrill howls rang out above the two as a group of Erdtree Guardians, armed with spears and swords, dropped from a thick root and attacked.

From their appearance, one could easily tell that they had been thoroughly corrupted by Scarlet Rot. Even their weapons were rusted and decayed.

These guardians had lost all sense, transformed into mindless monsters that knew only how to attack. Morgott swept them aside with his staff, his sense of foreboding growing stronger—

The next moment, a massive shadow descended from above, bringing with it a stench so foul it could almost knock them out!

The setting sun cast a long shadow behind it, enveloping both of them entirely. Ribbit swallowed nervously; though Morgott was already much taller than her in his Omen form, this—this creature was at least three times her height, like a small mountain looming before them. The rotten stench emanating from its bloated belly was overwhelming.

She quickly pulled out two clumps of preserving boluses, stuffing one into her mouth and the other into Morgott's. The rust-and-grass scent of the boluses helped to dull the nauseating odor. Morgott recognized the familiar form—there were Erdtree Avatars in the Royal Capital as well. However, this one before them was totally different… This was no ordinary avatar. What should have been a majestic, golden tree-like form was now entirely covered in a layer of red rot, with pale spores sprouting from between the branches.

The Erdtree Avatar—originally emerged from the Erdtree’s will to protect its offspring—had now become a puppet and breeding ground for rot.

All because of a group of senseless traitors, demigods in name only, who sought to seize a throne that was never theirs. Like a plague, they knew only to pillage and slaughter, to satisfy their greed, willing to let the fire of ambition consume everything, even at the cost of destroying the most cherished things.

Morgott was filled with both sorrow and rage, his arm tensing and relaxing around the cursed blade. Even though he knew in his heart that this avatar had been corrupted beyond salvation, it was still difficult to strike down the embodiment of the very tree he held sacred.

Unlike Morgott, who hesitated, the corrupted avatar showed no such reluctance, and swung its massive staff down upon them without hesitation!

"Don’t just stand there!" Ribbit screamed in fright, frantically slapping his shoulder. Fortunately, his hesitation didn’t interfere with his instinctive battle reactions. As the massive staff swept toward them with crushing force, the omen reflexively leaped into the air, taking her with him and narrowly avoiding the blow. At the same time, a small pot filled with explosives smashed into the avatar's decayed leg, exploding in a burst of fire.

Fire could stop the spread of rot, but against the hulking avatar, the small flames merely burned away a few branches on its surface. Instead, it enraged the creature further. With a powerful kick to the ground, it leaped over two meters into the air and then came crashing down with tremendous force!

As the heavy, redundant body made a cracking cackle, foul-smelling pus erupted from its abdominal cavity, spewing out spores that dyed the air around it red. Just breathing in the air might be enough to cause rot infection. Morgott quickly jumped back, while Ribbit kept pulling out clumps of boluses and shoving into their mouth.

"Stop fighting!” Ribbit mumbled, “Let's run! It can't stray too far from the Erdtree—"

But Morgott, instead of retreating, had made up his mind.

He placed Ribbit on a higher rock and leapt up alone, kicking off the cliff wall before landing behind the corrupted avatar. He ran his palm over the blade of his sword, igniting it with his searing blood. As the blade struck, it gave the sensation of cutting through rotten wood; steel alone could hardly inflict damage. But in the next moment, flames erupted from Morgott's blood, blasting away half of the bushes on the avatar's back!

The putrid avatar let out a silent scream and collapsed to its knees. Morgott didn't waste the opportunity, circling around to its front and driving his blade deep into the weak spot in its chest.

"Morgott, remember, thou art a descendant of warriors. Thee shall engrave the instinct for battle into thy bones." His lord father had once given him this advice. Even minds as wise as the Eternal Queen or the Beast Regent required force to drive their decisions. And the Golden prince did not conquer ancient dragons with mere words.

Since childhood, Morgott had lived by this creed. His battle-honed skills allowed him to wield his cursed blade fluidly, even when his heart doubts.

As the Omen panted, steadying himself, the ground was covered with spilled pus and infected branches. His right hand trembled slightly, and his left arm was covered in wounds—not from the avatar’s attacks, but from the self-inflicted injuries he had caused to unleash blood flames.

The Putrid Avatar was dead, but the Scarlet Rot on its body was still writhing, eating away at the remaining branches and even the land around it. It served as a stark reminder to Morgott - he might be able to kill one Putrid Avatar, but he could not eradicate the entrenched rot. All his efforts were in vain, and perhaps, even the act itself was a blasphemy.

The Omen's back bent in exhaustion as he slowly knelt down, picking up a branch that was still relatively intact. He watched in sorrow as it was consumed by the rot at a visibly rapid pace.

"Margit... are you alright?" Ribbit cautiously approached him, placing a tentative hand on his arm. "You... you'll get infected like this. Let it go. Your wounds and your feet need to be treated."

The Omen stood like a towering stone statue, silent and motionless beside the shattered remains of the corrupted avatar. His cursed blade dripped with rotting ichor and fragments of spores, while his bare feet and the hem of his cloak were soaked in the foul liquid that pooled around him, yet he seemed oblivious to it all.

Morgott stirred slightly, but he didn’t respond to her. Instead, he shook her hand off and said, "Bringeth the fire pots—these fragments and the sludge need to be dealt with, or the rot will continueth to spread."

His voice was deeper than usual, carrying an ominous weight, like a storm on the horizon. Ribbit, sensing the tension, dare not to argue and just quickly handed him oil pots and fire pots. Morgott gathered the corpses of the guardians and the fragments of the avatar, watched as they were consumed by the flames. Only then, at Ribbit's repeated urging, did he use the boluses to treat his hands and feet.

Though the pus was wiped away, the omen's skin had already been eroded in places. The gray-white fur that covered his body was burned away, revealing patches of blackened, red-raw skin beneath.

The road back to Fort Faroth was long and filled with flying dragons. Morgott, unwilling to engage in more battles, found a natural cave nearby. After driving out the Rune Bear that had taken residence inside, Ribbit lit a Beast-Repellent Torch at the entrance.

The cave’s interior was unexpectedly spacious. After passing through a narrow passage, they found a wide open area with a rare, clear underground spring bubbling up. A few animals even resided there, though it was unclear whether they had fallen through cracks in the rocks above or had been accidently trapped by the Rune Bear.

Ribbit hunted a small deer and roasted it over the campfire, filling the cave with a savory aroma as she prepared their dinner. She also dutifully fetched water for Morgott. With Scarlet Rot everywhere in Caelid, they were more comfortable here than they would have been staying overnight at Fort Faroth. However, Morgott had neither appetite nor the desire to speak. He simply sat by the cave wall, silently sharpening his weapon.

The stinging pain of the Scarlet Rot still lingered in the crisscrossing wounds on his left arm, but Morgott would rather endure the gnawing pain. It was the only way to dull the guilt he felt inside. He kept his head down, focusing on his task, until Ribbit, who sat nearby with her knees hugged to her chest, spoke softly, "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have suggested coming here."

Morgott’s hand froze on the whetstone for a moment before he replied, still with his head down, "Didst I ever censure thee? If thou have nothing else to attend to, then take this time to rest. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow."

"I’d rather you blame me! You won’t treat your wounds, and you won’t let me see to them..." Ribbit raised her voice. She wasn’t blind to the subtle tremble in his fingers as he held the whetstone, and the sweat that beaded on his forehead and arms from the pain. "How am I supposed to sleep like this? I’m worried sick!"

"Thy worry is unnecessary. These minor injuries won’t affect anything," Morgott said calmly. As an omen, he had a high resistance to almost all types of effect. Injuries of this nature had been a common occurrence for as long as he could remember—

But the little one was relentless. She suddenly reached out and grabbed the tip of the Omen's tail. Morgott stiffened immediately, and in a tone more severe than ever before, he sternly rebuked her, "The nerve of thee! Don’t thee dareth to touch me!"

He couldn’t help but feel a wave of fear. Thankfully, he managed to stop himself from instinctively lashing out with his tail; otherwise, he might have flung her across the cave.

But then he saw her face—a face drained of all color, with pale, trembling lips and pupils shrunk to pinpoints, as if Morgott hadn’t just shouted at her but had stabbed his sword straight into her chest. A face filled with sheer horror. Even her breath stopped for a moment, then she gasped for air, like a bellows struggling to fill her lungs. Slowly, she covered her mouth, backing away in a daze before collapsing onto a rock, with large tears welling up in her eyes. All these reactions felt like a slap to Morgott's face.

The omen was all too familiar with that expression, and from the look in Ribbit’s eyes, he instantly realized that she had regained some memory—possibly because she had heard the same words from others before.
In the end, she was no different from the others. She only appeared so brave and kind because she remembered nothing and hadn’t seen his true nature yet. Once he revealed his beast-like omen side, she became terrified—just as she was supposed to. Morgott wouldn’t blame her for reacting as any human naturally would; instead, he blamed himself.

He had been too lax with his boundaries lately, allowing her to overstep again and again, the omen thought in both anger and humiliation. When did he start to allow Tarnisheds get so close to him? He was a fool, continually making these fruitless efforts with this little thing. She had exhausted what little wit she had, yet still failed to even find Ashen One, let alone capturing him.

Now that they had scoured all of Caelid, the only place left where the Ashen One could be hiding was the Swamp of Aeonia. Morgott would have to risk venturing into that scarlet mire, but he had no doubt the girl wouldn’t survive in there.
Perhaps it was time to part ways…When he thought of this, he felt a surprising pang of reluctance. But the moment Morgott recognized this weakness in himself, he immediately scolded himself inwardly.

Feeling restless and anxious, Morgott grabbed his freshly sharpened cursed sword, and approached Ribbit, who was quietly wiping away her tears. He stopped a short distance away. “Give me the Preserving Boluses thee hath left. I shalt need them all.”

The poor girl was startled, hiccuping as she lifted her head, looking utterly confused. She stammered, "W-What? But now... where are you going?"

"The swamp," the Omen replied curtly. "It’s the only place left we haven’t searched, but bringing thee along would only slow me down. Thy task ends here, and thou art free to leave, for the Redmane Castle."

"But-you’ve lost your mind! It's too dangerous there!" Ribbit said in a paniced thin voice. "A-And the boluses—we’ve used too many today, there’s barely any left. At least wait until your wounds are healed, and until I gathered the materials to make a new batch."

“I shalt not waste my time here any longer. Any delay could allow the Ashen One to slip away again. If there are no supplies, then so be it.” Morgott shaked his head and head towards the cave entrance. But to his surprise, the little Tarnished suddenly jumped up, and blocked his path with her two arms spread wide.

“And you think I’ll- what- just let you leave and go suicide like that?” her eyes were now full of anger instead of fear, “You will let me treat your wounds, and sleep till tomorrow morning. We go to Sellia to purchase the material for the boluses, then I will accompany you into the swamp.”

Morgott tried to push her away, but she clung tightly to his cloak. When the Omen easily shook her off, she lunged at him, grabbing hold of his tail once more, trying to anchor him in place with her meager weight. This action completely ignited Morgott's fury.

"Tarnished, is there no end to thy stupidity?" he roared as he spun around with his tail froze in place. "Hast thee lost all basic fact to the point where thee don’t even know that my horns and blood can infect thee? Even thy soul would be defiled, unable to return to the Erdtree— If thee haven’t become hopelessly foolish, thee shouldst know that I was sparing thy life!"

Ribbit was startled and instinctively let go. But when Morgott moved to leave again, she grabbed his cloak once more and asked stubbornly, "Is that why you won’t let me touch you?"

The Omen sighed, feeling utterly exhausted. "Be wise, little Tarnished. This is just a projection of mine—even if it dies, it won’t affect my true form. But thee only have one life. Thee hast already done everything within thy reach. Following an Omen any further shall doth thee no good."

"But I won’t let you leave like this," Ribbit insisted again. "At least not with such a wrong perception. Don’t see yourself that way, my friend. It’s not one's natural traits that make them impure, but hearts driven by greed."

She looked up at Morgott with with worry, compassion, and something else he couldn’t understand, something that made his heart jolt with a strange, aching softness.

"I never saw you as defilement... quite the opposite," she continued. Her hand slid from his cloak to his clenched fingers, her touch as light as a feather and cool as spring water, yet it felt like it burned him. "You are a truly beautiful man, far beyond anyone I’ve ever met."

Morgott stood there, frozen and unsure of what to do. As the "Grace Given" he had received countless praises, but those words of admiration belonged only to the veiled monarch. He knew too well that once he revealed his true form, he would be met with scorn. Yet the Ashen One and Ribbit, both of them, had seen his real self, and still, they called him "beautiful"—a word that seemed so distant from anything he had ever associated with an Omen.

"By the Erdtree, what madeth thee to come up with such illusion?" he mumbled, his anger somehow dissipating, replaced by a bit of unease when he heard Ribbit's soft laughter. He had to warn her: “My curse was inborn and couldst not be broken. Many hadst tried to cure us, but centuries of research yielded no results, only causing suffering for both the perfumers and mine kind.”

“I’ll not try to cure your ‘curse’, if that’s what you are worried about, for I don’t see a problem in you.” Ribbit spoke seriously. Morgott couldn’t help but respond in a low voice, "Don’t pretendeth thou’rt not afraid of me, little Tarnished."

Her fingers checking his wounds paused for a moment. When she finally resumed, her voice tinged with a strange distortion, "I’m not afraid of you… I’m afraid of myself— I know how ridiculous that sounds, but when you told me 'Don’t touch me’,something suddenly came back to me... In the past, I had said the same words to someone. To someone I loved very deeply."

Morgott looked back at her in surprise, for he had assumed it was some mage who once bullied her. Ribbit choked back sob as she continued, "And... those were the last words I ever said to her. It wasn’t because I hated her. Just like you, deep down, I was afraid that touching me would defile her… but now that I would never see her again, all I felt was regret…"

Morgott didn’t know what to say to comfort her; he had always been clumsy in such matters. Ribbit quietly cried as she applied bandages soaked in herbal juices to his wounds. The cool, damp sensation eased the burning pain, and Morgott let out a long breath. Seeing how skillfully and deftly Ribbit treated his wounds finally put his mind at ease.

It took a while for the girl to collect herself. Then she casually started the conversation again, “You never answered my question."

“What question?” Morgott responded in a soft tone he hadn’t even realized.

"You once said you despised Miquella for his naivety, but you never explained why you serve the Grace Given. Why do you pray to the Erdtree everyday? Why do you have faith in an order that never blessed your kind?"

"Watch thy tongue, Tarnished," Morgott warned, frowning. Yet by now, he had almost grown used to it. He didn’t know whether it was due to her memory loss or just her unique way of thinking, but Ribbit often said things that were quite astonishing. She even questioned what exactly the Greater Will was, and how it differed from the outter gods… She spoke about these things as casually as she would discuss how miranda flowers coexisted with rot.

Perhaps curiosity is the nature rooted in mages - Ribbit didn't mean any harm, she was simply asking a question, so without being too harsh, he thought about it and answered, "I don't believe in the Erdtree for its blessings."

"Nay, for me-- everything I’ve received is a blessing of a different kind. Little Tarnished, thee seeth the Lands Between in its current ruin, but once, there were great dynasties here, brilliant civilizations, and countless people living in peace. All of this was brought by the Golden Order, watched over and witnessed by the Erdtree..."

"To me, the tree is like a mother. Isn’t it the most natural thing for children to protect their mother?" Morgott sighed. "But those demigods, blinded by their desires and arrogance, brought only destruction and death. I often remind myself of how terrifying the disasters caused by such blind pride can be." He slowly began to tell Ribbit of the glorious scenes he had witnessed in the past and the events of the Shattering War, only concealing his true identity-

In the Erdtree’s most abundant days, golden dew dropped from every branch like honey. The graced people of the Golden Order knew no illness, hunger, or death. Day and night, Leyndell basked in brilliant light, far removed from all the mortal suffering.

Whenever the sun rose over the horizon and slowly climbed toward the tree’s lush canopy, the scent of incense from the censer worn by those heading to morning prayers would waft through the air. When the Radiant Goddess sent her distant greetings from her chamber, the sacred verses and devout hymns echoed through the wind, passing through gates and flowing streams, and reaching even his ears deep underground.

The grand city seemed as though it would never fall, much like the Eternal Queen herself, even when swarms of ancient dragons attacked, when the mighty Gransax used itself as a weapon to crash into the city walls, and the red pillars of lightening linked heaven and earth as if the doom was coming. The Golden Prince stood ever undaunted.

In his youth, he had his moments of recklessness. One day, during the celebration of their victory, with the guards distracted, he and Mohg escaped the sewers and climbed to the roof of a chapel. The sight he beheld then was beyond words.
He remembered that day, when the streets were packed with crowds, and the roads were lined with blue silk, sprinkled with golden petals like the sea glittering at sunrise. When Prince Godwyn and the humanoid Fortissax rode their chariot down the avenue, the crowd cheered with genuine joy. Adults and children alike wore carefree smiles on their faces.

That was the sight he had vowed to protect with his life. But that golden age, that era of abundance… it was so beautiful, yet so fleeting.

The change didn’t happen without signs. When lord Godfrey’s final foe fell at his feet, the color of grace faded from his and his warriors’ eyes, and the first Elden Lord was exiled overseas without a reason. The Crucible Knights were stripped of their titles and positions, scattered across the land. The ever-flowing sap of the Erdtree gradually became a rare commodity, held in chalices by priests, accessible only to the elite. Queen Marika’s presence grew increasingly scarce, and even in the Royal Capital, her statues were replaced with those of Radagon, the King Consort.

But none of this was the heaviest blow.

On that cold Night of the Black Knives, Godwyn the Golden was the first to perish, reduced to a soulless corpse. His death was the symbol of all hope’s end, the trumpet that marked the fall of an era.

When news of the Elden Ring’s shattering arrived, the Lands Between were plunged into the Shattering War. Facing a chaotic capital, the Elden Throne empty, the order trampled. Morgott had lost everything—his parents, his brother—everything he loved, everything he had sworn to protect…

Only because the city still stood did he not fall into despair. Instead, he rallied, organizing soldiers and building defenses. It was faith that united everyone. Even when facing the Lords’ army, which greatly outnumbered them—commanded by the strongest demigods Radahn and Malenia—the walls of Leyndell stood firm through countless assults.

"…Forgive me, this must be terribly dull for thee," Morgott said, realizing how long he had been talking. Perhaps old age made one prone to getting lost in memories. When he came to, he noticed Ribbit’s hand had lingered on his shoulder blade for quite some time. Thinking that such ancient history must be tedious for the young, Morgott paused and cleared his throat in apology.

"No, I was just thinking…" Ribbit’s voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper, but Morgott’s keen hearing caught it clearly: "Sometimes, you don’t feel like a human to me."

"I was indeed born to be omen," Morgott responded reflexively, misunderstanding her meaning. Behind him, the girl shook her head behind his back, her hair making a soft sound against the material of her robe.

"You are almost… divine ..."

The last word was drowned out by the distant rumble of thunder. Morgott's greatest secret had nearly slipped from her lips, and whether it was from anxiety or anticipation, his heart almost stopped. He turned around and accidentally met Ribbit’s gaze, feeling another jolt in his chest.

Was it just the dim lighting in the cave? Ribbit’s eyes, normally a clear sky blue, now seemed more complex and shadowy, with a faint purple hue. Morgott sensed something was off, but before he could think it through, she turned her head and looked outside.

"It’s raining," she murmured. Caelid's weather was sudden and fierce. Just moments after hearing the thunder, a downpour was already pouring down.

Morgott noticed Ribbit shivering, wrapping her thin robe tighter around herself, and hugging her arms as if she were freezing. He quickly urged her to sit by the fire. To his surprise, Ribbit sat right next to him, pulled a corner of his cloak over herself, and cheerfully said it was much warmer this way.

Her playful smile was no different from usual. After a moment of hesitation, Morgott wrapped his tail around the little Tarnished, and the earlier doubts faded from his mind.

Ribbit gently patted the spot where his tail sprouted horns and said, " Let’s go back to Sellia tomorrow to restock the ingredients—and visit a friend of mine who lives there. Don’t be too anxious， I’ll help you find the Ashen One, didn’t I promise that?"

Morgott nodded. Since they had a journey ahead of them the next morning and the cave seemed hidden and safe, he didn’t insist on keeping watch. After Ribbit’s repeated urging, he lay down by the fire, and before he knew it, he had fallen asleep.

TBC.

Chapter Text

Sellia located in the heart of Caelid, right beside the Swamp of Aeonia. Local sorcerers made a living by trading herbs and glinstones. If one was in need of common magical materials, it’s far more reliable to go there than to try luck at the black market.

They first went to Sellia to purchase materials like Dewkissed Herba, Crystal Cave Moss, and the like. It was then that Morgott learned that the most crucial ingredient for making Preserving Boluses was Sacramental Bud—An immature bud containing fresh blood, believed to originate long ago from a strain of buds cultivated with youthful, sacramental blood-- Miquella's blood.

Such bud was quite rare, only growing abundantly around a church on the hill behind Sellia, and that was how Ribbit came to know her so called friend.

But he didn’t expect it would turn out to be a young girl deeply afflicted by the Scarlet Rot.

The Sacramental Buds around the church somewhat helped in suppressing the Scarlet Rot, perhaps this was the reason Millicent chose to reside in this place. Dressed in a gown soaked with blood and pus, she leaned painfully against the broken wall, struggling for every breath—Morgott could smell the heavy stench of rot emanating from her. Her body was on the verge of collapse, yet she still retained her sanity. Whether this was luck or misfortune was hard to say.

Her deep red hair, the face reminiscent of the Eternal Queen, and her resistance to the rot—Even a demigod like Radahn was driven mad by the same torment —all pointed to one unmistakable fact. Only one person in this world possessed such abilities; there was no doubt about her identity and origins.

Morgott restrained his impulse to draw his sword immediately. It was only after Ribbit had gone behind the church to gather the buds that he approached Millicent. The girl continued to gasp in pain, her eyes closed as if she were half-unconscious. But just as he neared her, almost ready to wrap his hand around her throat, that she suddenly spoke in a faint voice: "Please... don’t come any closer. The Scarlet Rot ... it's stirring violently... I might lose control of it at any point and harm you..."

Morgott froze, felt a flush of heat rise to his face, ashamed at the thought of killing someone so helpless, yet still care to remind him of danger. And so did Millicent as she struggled to open her eyes. Realizing the true intent of the Omen, she gave a bitter smile. "You... you’ve come to end my life, haven't you? Before you do... may I ask why?"

"Do you know your own identity and origin?" Morgott asked after a moment's hesitation.

Millicent's expression shifted to one of understanding. "Yes... although it's vague, I can sense a connection to Malenia... I am of Malenia's blood, though in what capacity I know not. A daughter, sister, or perhaps an offshot... So you... do you serve the Redmanes?"

“Nay. I take orders from Morgott the Grace Given.”

Millicent pondered this for a moment. "I see... then, may I ask you to hear me out? This would also benefit His Grace..." The girl gasped in pain as she propped herself up. "I still have an unfinished resolve... During the Shattering, to salvage her defeat... Malenia abandoned her dignity... Had she not done so, she would never have unleash the power of Scarlet Rot... I... I must go to her side... to return to her the dignity, the sense of self she once held, which allowed her to resist the call of the Rot."

Morgott carefully scrutinized her; the girl didn’t seem to be lying. He surmised that she might be a fragment unconsciously created when Malenia bloomed, carrying Malenia’s will to resist the rot with her. Whether she was the only one or one of several such offshots was unclear. This would explain Malenia's prolonged coma- She had lost pieces of her personality.

One thing Millicent said was indeed true: restoring Malenia’s will to resist the rot would remove a significant threat to Leyndell, even to the entire Lands Between. However... Morgott looked her over, it was obvious that the girl had little chance of fulfilling her wish. The Scarlet Rot had already destroyed most of her body functions; her right arm was entirely gone, and she could no longer stand on her rotten legs. Even if he arranged for her to be taken north, the harsh conditions of the journey would likely claim her life long before she could reach Haligtree.

Morgott didn’t truly despise his half-sister by blood—not to the point of feeling compelled to take her life. Compared to Rykard, he still felt some measure of pity and regret for Malenia.

“Pitiful thing. I seeth there's no needeth for me to do anything—Thee won’t liveth much longer,” Morgott murmured. As he noticed Ribbit's figure approaching out of the corner of his eye, he retrieved his hand and took a few steps back.

Unaware of what had just transpired, Ribbit cheerfully showed Morgott and Millicent the bounty of buds she had gathered and began crafting them into Preserving Boluses. “We have enough to search the swamp for days. I made some for you too, Millicent—here, hold out your hand.”

Ribbit equipped herself with a green horn-shaped talisman and a pair of heavy dragonhide gloves to enhance her resistance to the rot. She carefully applied the boluses to Millicent's afflicted areas. From her gentle and practiced movements, it was clear this happened more than once. She showed no disgust toward the foul-smelling, pus-ridden flesh, only sympathy as she comforted Millicent, who in turn trusted and appreciated her deeply. “Thank you... I feel much better. Don’t let me hold you back, my friend. Go on with your own task... Tonight, the rot won’t torture me.”

“...The rot hast taken root deep within her. The boluses might delayeth her death, but they cannot cure her.” As they exited the church and made their way toward the entrance of the Swamp of Aeonia, Morgott couldn’t help but tell Ribbit.

“I... I know that. I hope you don't mind me giving her the boluses...” Ribbit replied, lowering her head. “But I don’t want to give up. Millicent herself hasn’t given up yet，she’s been resisting the rot all this time. Even if I could do little help but give her one night of peaceful sleep, or even just a moment of less pain, I think it’s worth my effort.”

When she looked up at Morgott, her determined eyes caused him to lose focus for a moment. The little Tarnished always showed care and concern for those around her, whether they were afflicted with rot or were an Omen like him. She touched them without a trace of revulsion; her kindness was completely selfless, carrying a childlike innocence. That pure gentleness was something Morgott had rarely encountered in his life, and even he, with his hardened heart, couldn’t help but be moved.

Perhaps it was because of this that he didn't want to see her hopes crushed.

They didn't find Ashen One in the Swamp of Aeonia, but instead stumbled upon a group of wandering Cleanrot Knights and an old commander. These knights were likely once under Malenia's command, having survived the Shattering War and the explosion of the Scarlet Rot followed. However, for reasons unknown, they had remained in the swamp, their minds lost to the continuous corruption. While searching their bodies, Ribbit discovered a golden needle in the veteran general's pouch.

“This is… an Unalloyed Gold Needle,” Morgott informed Ribbit after examining it closely. “I’ve seen descriptions of it in Miquella's left notes in Leyndell. T'wast said that such needle wast crafted by the Empyrean for his sister, designed to ward away the meddling of Outer Gods—including the Frenzied Flame and the Scarlet Rot." Unfortunately, by the time they found it, the needle was already snapped in the middle.

But as predictably, Ribbit wasn’t one to give up easily. “I’ll find a way to fix it,” the Tarnished said stubbornly as she carefully put away the needle.

Over the next few days, she seemed distracted, often gazing off into the distance with a deep sadness in her eyes. At times, her expression revealed a struggle, a hint of anxiety.

Morgott initially thought this turmoil was due to Millicent’s situation. However, one evening, as they sat by the campfire, Ribbit suddenly spoke up, “We’ve searched every corner of Caelid. I’ve thought it over—continuing like this won’t yield much. We need a new strategy—not to find the Ashen One, but to make him come to us.”

“How doth we doth that?” Morgott asked, intrigued.

“We need a bait he can’t refuse,” Ribbit explained. “Something like a rare artifact or a legendary weapon—something that would lure him in. We find an underground tomb, set up enough traps, and spread word to draw him in.”

As she spoke, Morgott immediately knew what the bait should be. An item rumored to be capable of countering the Starscourge. If Ashen One sought to claim Radahn’s Great Rune, given his nature and the taste he’d had of Morgott's shackle, he wouldn’t be able to resist… but only death would be waiting for him.

“Impressive, little Tarnished,” he praised. “Once again, thee hast proven thy smarts, surpassing anyone I’ve ever encountered—including that Ashen One." This time, with Ribbit by his side, the man would have no chance of escape.

Morgott immediately contacted his subordinates, and the reply from the Night's Cavalry made both of them light up with excitement. Just miles from the Impassable Greatbridge, near the Cathedral of Dragon Communion, there was a catacomb—perfectly positioned as all Tarnisheds heading to Redmane Castle would pass by.

Word was spread. A rumor soon circulated among wandering merchants, and then reached the ears of Tarnisheds. Within days, almost every Tarnished in Caelid had heard of it: a hidden tomb in south Caelid, said to contain a treasure capable of countering General Radahn!

The tomb wasn’t particularly large, but it was guarded by several giant dogs and crows. Morgott had the Night Cavalry stationed nearby, and inside the tomb, years of neglect had caused the passageways to flood. The result was ankle-deep pools of Scarlet Rot mud throughout the corridors, with Miranda flowers growing in abundance—these plants, normally toxic, had become even more dangerous as they now sprayed rot-infused pollen.

Morgott dealt with the Cemetery Shade that lurked in the deepest chamber, while Ribbit did her utmost to set up numerous traps in the outer corridors. With the scarlet rot-filled pools, it was enough to stop most of the Tarnisheds who were drawn by the rumors. Morgott knew that these traps wouldn’t be enough to halt Ashen One, but they would certainly give him enough trouble and drain his Flask of Crimson Tears—

Once he stepped into the final chamber, Morgott would be lying in wait, ready for an ambush. Ribbit would activate the chamber’s mechanisms from the outside, sealing both Morgott and Ashen One inside, cutting off his last chance of escape.

—He would have no choice but to face Morgott. The Omen smirked at the thought. A battle long overdue, but one had been evaded time and again through cunning…

The Radahn Festival was set for tomorrow night. Ribbit went out once more to inspect the traps, returning to the chamber with tired steps. Many Tarnisheds had come by over the past few days, but most turned back at the sight of the scarlet rot pools and the clusters of Miranda Flowers in the corridors. The more reckless ones were caught in her traps and either returned to the nearest Site of Grace or remained there forever. So far, the plan had gone smoothly, but the fair-haired man had yet to show.

By now, it was Ribbit who seemed more anxious, while Morgott patiently reassured her that they had done all they could. The rest was up to fate. No one could control everything. The young Tarnished simply lacked the patience, but Morgott believed that Ashen One might also be waiting for the right moment, avoiding revealing himself too soon.

Of course, they had discussed another possibility: if by tomorrow night, the man still hadn’t appeared, Morgott would take on his human form and enter Redmane Castle alongside Ribbit. What would happen next was beyond their guess, and they could only react as the situation unfolded.

"Thee needeth rest," he said, watching Ribbit pace back and forth, her face tense with worry. Amused, he tried to comfort her, "Even if he doesn’t show up in the end, I won’t killeth thee. Relax."

“You are so annoying somethimes!...It’s not just that I’m worried about,” Ribbit sighed, her voice tinged with frustration. “There’s also the Radahn Festival—my memories—I… Perhaps you’ll laugh at my weakness. But I’m scared. Scared of my own past… Is there anything more ridiculous than that?”

“There’s nothing ridiculous about it,” Morgott responded gently, his golden eye gazing at her with calm concern. “Sometimes, forgetting and losing something can beest a blessing in disguise.”From the scars and burn marks on Ribbit’s body, Morgott could infer the harshness of her past. A simple description like “not easy” would be an understatement. The overlapping scars on her skin spoke volumes about the suffering she must have endured.

The abuse Morgott suffered in his childhood was tied to the curse in his blood, but Ribbit’s ordeals were likely due to her unusual appearance.

“But do you know what it’s like not to remember where your home is, the faces of your kins or friends, or even know who you are or where you were heading to?” Ribbit murmured. “That hollow, empty feeling is truly terrifying.”

Morgott sighed, “Thou art not the only one who hath lost. The Two Fingers commandeth Tarnisheds to cross the fog sea and return to claim the Elden throne, but they didn’t bother to tell that it’s a narrow path with nay endeth. Doth thee knoweth how many hast turned to dust for futile ambitions? How many have fallen into despair, when their dreams shattered? Shouldst thee be willing to heed the advice of an old man, then let go of thy past, of the things thou once sought, and focus only on what thou truly desire now. Thee might feeleth empty and fearful for a period, but as long as thee liveth, new memories will eventually fill the void.”

Ribbit didn’t reply, but the way her hands anxiously tugged at her belt betrayed her inner turmoil. Morgott continued, “Thee needn’t returneth to Raya Lucaria. The Grace Given couldst always use a clever mage.”

His intention was to steer Ribbit away from dwelling on her past. As expected, her attention shifted at the mention. “Are you saying I should go to Leyndell?”

“Not Leyndell. Stormveil,” Morgott said with a slight smile. He was confident that Ribbit could make something of herself in Leyndell as well, but it would be a waste for her to go unnoticed. This idea hadn’t just sprung up; he had been considering it for days. “Thee hath heard it that night at the Cathedral of Dragon Communion—Stormveil is no longer under Godrick's control. In fact, there's a local noble named Kenneth Haight—by bloodline, he hast a faint claim to Limgrave—had been going around seeking a new ruler for Limgrave.”

"I hast heard that Kenneth Haight despises Godrick so much that he's considering choosing from 'mongst the Tarnisheds. That, I cannot alloweth. But at the moment, I can’t bethink of anyone who couldst truly fulfill the duty as a ruler. Once matters here are settled, I must returneth immediately to deal with the matter. If thou art willing to wend backeth with me as mine assistant, I shalt be glad to hast thee by mine side."

Ribbit stared at him in astonishment, her eyes widening as she finally asked, "Why don't YOU become the new Lord of Stormveil?"

"Nay castle wouldst ever accepteth an Omen as its ruler," Morgott sighed, uncertain how to feel about her words. The look of complete trust and admiration from her was a warm yet heavy burden for an old and weary man like him. But Ribbit just giggled and said, "Aren't the Night's Cavalry under your command? I believe you'd make a good Lord—call it a girl's intuition."

As they discussed how to manage Stormveil, smile again appeared on Ribbit's face. Though still tinged with lingering tension, she managed to joke, remarking that the omen was so thin that it made her wonder if the Grace Given's followers were even getting enough to eat.

"Watch thy tongue, little Tarnished, lest King Morgott hears thee," Morgott lazily threatened, "and he'll belike cut off thy tongue."

Hearing Ribbit's cheerful laughter, himself also felt a sense of relief. It seemed that, with time, she would come to terms with everything. With her help, Limgrave would surely flourish again...

-

Time passed slowly in the dimly lit catacombs, making it difficult to gauge the hour. Morgott adjusted the blanket over Ribbit, who had fell asleep finally, and stepped out into the corridor. Judging by the angle of the light filtering through a collapsed crevice, it was already midday.

He made another round of inspections, but as he returned to the chamber, a sudden scream pierced the air.

Morgott's heart clenched as he rushed inside, but the dark hall was empty except for Ribbit. There was no sign of any enemy. Under the flickering ghostflame, she curled up by the roots, body twitching uncontrollably in her sleep. Her forehead was drenched in sweat, eyes darting beneath tightly shut lids, and she was mumbling, "No...please... it hurts!" over and over.

"Wake up!" Morgott grasped her arm, shaking her gently yet firmly. Ribbit screamed and opened her eyes, though her gaze was still unfocused. She clung to Morgott's cloak as if seeking help, or perhaps trying to vent her sudden pain, but all she could do was groan, "It hurts... please, stop... don't burn me..."

Morgott watched in shock as she writhed on the ground, seemingly in the throes of some unbearable torment. His first instinct was to use a incantation, but it had no effect on her—Ribbit's distress seemed more like a hallucination, or perhaps memories from her past resurfacing.

"Wake up, t's just a dream," he repeated, trying to pull her back to reality. After what felt like an eternity, Ribbit slowly began to regain consciousness. Her robe was soaked with cold sweat by then, and she was still trembling with sheer terror. Morgott placed a hand on her frail shoulder and used another healing incantation. Warm, golden light flowed into her, bringing a bit of color back to her pale face.

“Fire,” she mumbled incoherently. “I dreamed of fire—a fire that burnt everything…”

“I cannot escape.” Tears streamed from her vacant blue eyes as she curled up against Morgott’s chest, trembling. “I’m so afraid… it hurts… but there's nothing I could do…”

Morgott’s heart sank slightly. Fire was an ominous sign; The prophets of the Golden Order once prophesied that all ends would be consumed by fire, a terrifying prediction that unsettled hearts and hinted at rebellion. It earned the wrath of Queen Marika, who had them stripped of their grace, shackled, and exiled overseas.

Now, on the eve of the Radahn Festival, Ribbit’s dream of flames seemed to carry a similar portent of doom.

Morgott had never agreed with Ribbit’s plan to go to the Redmane Castle. He couldn’t guarantee her safety entirely in the battlefield's shifting tide. Once Ribbit had calmed down for a bit, he gravely advised, “Perhaps thou shouldn’t attendeth the Radahn Festival. T’s too dangerous for thee. Stay here, and I shalt returneth to fetch thee, once it’s over.”

Ribbit seemed to not hear his words, her gaze fixed blankly on a corner of the chamber. After a long pause, she weakly asked, "...The Putrid Avatar that day...why didn't you run away from it?"

Morgott was taken aback by the sudden question and hesitated for a moment before she repeated her inquiry，“I thought you wouldn’t choose to fight. After all, you are so devout to the Erdtree…”

“I considered running away for a moment. Not out of fear, but because I wast unwilling to oppose the will of the Erdtree, even though it was controlled by Scarlet Rot. There were moments when I bethought it might be best to leave it be for now, hoping for a change in the future.” Morgott admitted, his hands clasped lightly before him. He sighed, “But trees groweth continuously, and they eventually decay and die, The corrupted branches left on it art of no use but harm."

“You are so harsh on yourself, Margit...if it causes you such pain, is it worth continuing?”

“I'm afraind responsibility is not always pleasant,” Morgott responded with a hint of melancholy. Joy and happiness… those words were never meant for him, only for his glorious parents and elder brother. “But I must doth what I believeth is right and important. Little Tarnished, one day thee might findeth that on one side of the scale of thy soul, there art achievements, fame, and even your life, while on the other side lies thy responsibilities. At that time, thee shall hast to maketh a harsh choice. Thee must choose firmly.”

“But how can ONE person bear it all alone?” Tears streamed down Ribbit’s cheeks, for reasons Morgott did not understand, her voice streched thin. “It doesn’t make sense that the world would fall apart if one person is missing, does it?”

“Generally, that’s not the case,” Morgott replied with melancholy. “But if everyone bethought that way, terrible calamities wouldst descend. Consider the consequences of Queen Marika shattering the Elden Ring; bethink of how the Frenzied Flame tempts victims, turning them into vessels of destruction. I hast heard another tragic tale… the very man I’m hunting. He confessed to me that he chose to extinguish the sacred flame of his homeland, leading to its engulfment by darkness. Countless lives were lost, and a whole civilization destroyed -- all because one man hadst gaveth up on his duty.”

“Why?” Ribbit’s face turned ashen, her hands clenched tightly together. She asked, trembling, her voice a mixture of tears and groan. “How could someone commit such a terrible crime?”

“Though I don’t know his reasons,” Morgott said, thinking of his mother with deep sadness, “there is no doubt… such sins art never forgiven, not even by himself. I can seeth that he is tormented by his actions, consumed by regret.”

...

After that conversation, Ribbit curled up in a corner, holding her knees. Aside from occasionally sipping from a slender bottle, she hardly moved. Morgott didn’t disturb her, allowing her to sort through her thoughts.

Time slipped by unknowingly, after what felt like ages, long enough for the Omen to feel a bit drowsy, Ribbit suddenly stand up. “I’ll check outside once more. If anything happens, I’ll warn you.”

Morgott nodded, for some reason, he felt his thoughts...slipping into a murky haze. He watched as she walked to the door, then turned back to him solemnly. “I...Thank you, Margit, most sincerely. No matter what might come out, no matter who I was, I’ll always be your friend… if you would do me the honor and allow me to be.”

When she spoke those words, she seemed so different, almost as if she had become another person, like a sword finally pulled from the stone. An uneasy feeling rose within Morgott, and he tried to call out as she turned to close the door, but as he stood, dizziness struck him. His normally agile body felt weighted down, and he collapsed to the ground with a thud. The heavy door closed behind Ribbit. After the sound of the stone dragging, he heard her soft footsteps fade away.

He barely managed to lift his head slightly, catching a glimpse of blood on the floor. A small pool of blood marked where Ribbit had been sitting, with drops trailing toward the door. The dim light made it hard to see; without lying there, he might not have noticed.

Next to the blood was an open vial, releasing a faint purple mist. Morgott’s mind buzzed as he recognized it: a sleep pot…

Then, he was swallowed by the darkness.

Chapter Text

When he finally awoke from the influence of the slumber jar, Morgott's first reaction was confusion and urgency. After a brief examination of the traces in the tomb, he realized that Ribbit had used her body as a cover to open the sleep pot, allowing the haze to spread slowly while she stayed conscious through bleeding. Until the haze affected him, and enabling her to leave. But why did she do all this? Was she worried he would stop her from going to Redmane Castle to reclaim her memories?

The tomb's door could only be opened from the outside, and even after transforming back into his omen form, it still took Morgott a long time to break through the stone gate. He rushed out to see the moon already hung high over Caelid, and distant sounds of a cheering crowd from Redmane Castle faintly reached him, with fire illuminating half the sky—clearly, the festival had begun!

Morgott's expression changed drastically as he rushed toward the Bridge of the Unbreakable. During the festival, the portal at the bridge allowed passage, and he was directly teleported into the castle. However, as soon as he entered, he was intercepted by Jerren, the Castellan and leader of the Redmane Knights. Jerren did not attack, but he showed no friendly face to the omen: “Margit the fell, state your purpose. We do not wish to be enemies with you—but I will not allow you to disrupt the Radahn Festival.”

Morgott’s tail twitched behind him as he suppressed his rising frustration and asked, “Bid me, is there a red-haired female tarnished in a mage’s robe attending the festival?”

“Yes, there is such a person. I remember she entered with a half-wolf warrior,” Jerren readily admitted, but added a warning, “Even if she is a fugitive you seek, you must wait until the festival ends to discuss it.”

“Then is there a fair-haired male tarnished?” Morgott described Ashen One's features and possible weapons, but this time Jerren only shook his head, stating he hadn’t seen anyone fitting that description.

The omen tightened his grip on his staff. “Alloweth me in,” he demanded of the castellan. Seeing Jerren about to object, he lowered his voice, insisting, “Yond man carries two Great Runes with him. I bethink thee understand what that means!”

Radahn had already lost his sanity. If those two Great Runes fell into his hands, even unactivated, they would make him stronger, not to mention the calamities that could ensue. If the Starscourge went berserk, the entire Lands Between would suffer, especially his old soldiers stationed in Redmane Castle!

Jerren clearly understood the implications, but his interests did not align with Morgott's—or rather, the “Grace Given”. The old castellan in his peculiar armor hesitated, calculating the risks and rewards. Watching Jerren’s changing expression, Morgott felt unprecedented impatience, his gaze crossing the battlements toward the vast red dunes beyond, fearing this momentary delay might prevent him from saving Ribbit—

Just then, a massive meteor streaked across the sky of Caelid, crashing down onto the beach with a thunderous impact!

Even the Redmane Castle shook, with several soldiers losing their balance and falling to the ground. Jerren stared in shock toward the battlefield: "General Radahn has lifted his seal!” This was unprecedented, indicating that someone among this year’s festival heroes had forced Radahn to unleash his power!

“Let me in immediately!” Morgott's ominous premonition peaked; he couldn't hold back any longer, stepping forward to grab Jerren by the collar and roaring, “There’s nay rule against an omen participating in the Radahn Festival, is there?”

Jerren clearly understood the gravity of the situation. He nodded and quickly signaled the soldiers to activate the lift. When they descended to the beach where the portal was, they found many resurrected tarnished gathered there—most with broken armor, looking weary and unwilling to challenge further, simply waiting for the festival to end. The appearance of the fell omen among the crowd caused a stir.

Morgott’s sharp gaze quickly scanned the gathered tarnished, but the result made his heart sink completely: Ashen One was not among them, and Ribbit was nowhere to be found.

For a tarnished not to return to a Site of Grace, there were only two possibilities: either they hadn’t yet died… or they had died permanently, with no chance of resurrection.

What was that little tarnished thinking? As he rushed towards the Redmane Castle, Morgott had asked himself this question countless times—what reason could she have for deceiving him, and did she even understand what she was doing? Did the child believe that her cleverness would allow her to defeat Radahn?

The omen thought with pain that Ribbit was too young, having never witnessed the Shattering or the horrors of any war. She hadn’t seen the countless soldiers and knights who perished at Radahn’s hands in battle—otherwise, she would at least know to be afraid. After confirming that Ribbit was nowhere among the crowd, Morgott’s sense of foreboding reached its peak. Without hesitation, he shoved aside several tarnisheds blocking his way and charged toward the portal on the beach.

But before he could touch the portal, a surge of purple magical light suddenly flared, and a figure stumbled out, collapsing to the ground—

Morgott halted in his tracks. This was not Ribbit— the tall figure bore no resemblance to the small female tarnished. Yet, the sight was striking: the person was clad in heavy armor and a fur cloak, but instead of a human head, he had a beast-like wolf head.

Jerren had mentioned that Ribbit entered the city alongside a half-wolf knight. However, only him escaped from the battlefield. Morgott could see the half wolf was gravely injured; his left arm was bent unnaturally, with bone shards protruding from torn flesh, and a deep, visible wound on his right leg covered in frost. Morgott also noticed the ornate greatsword in the half-wolf's hand, marked with the insignia of the Caria royal family.

"Coward!" Morgott roared, anger surging through him at the sight of a royal knight abandoning his companion to flee alone. He lifted the half-wolf effortlessly, as if he were a child. Shaking him roughly, he demanded, "Where is she?!"

"Wh-what—" Blaidd gasped, his eyes widening in shock for he had just stepped out of the portal only to be lifted completely off the ground. His feet kicked in the air as he took in Morgott's appearance, and suddenly, recognition dawned on him: "It’s you, the fell omen! …I’ve heard him—she spoke of you—"

His gaze flickered past Morgott, looking into the crowd behind him, and he froze: “The tarnished? He didn’t come out…?”

In retrospect, Morgott realized that the half-wolf had referred to Ribbit as "he" twice, hinting at something amiss. Yet, in this moment of desperation, Morgott pushed aside all doubts, only muttering “Fool!” as he slammed the wolf knight to the ground and activated the teleport.

After a dizzying swirl, the omen found himself on the battlefield across the strait.

The howling wind whipped across the red dunes. Countless broken weapons and fallen soldiers were scattered across the ground. Following the path made of shattered blades, tattered banners, and Rattahn's great arrows, the first thing Morgott noticed was the massive figure of Radahn himself. His golden eyes narrowed as he sensed the unmistakable presence moving in Radahn's direction—

The Great Rune!

Morgott’s expression shifted. Why was the Great Rune that should be carried by Ashen One appearing here as if fallen from the sky? He recognized the essence of this Great Rune—it belonged to Godrick the Golden, the anchor ring found in the center of the Elden Ring, and its fluctuating aura could only mean one thing: its bearer was on the brink of death!

Without a moment’s hesitation, Morgott pushed his legs to the limit, charging toward Rattahn like an arrow loosed from a bow, while the golden dagger materialized in his hand.

“Out of my way!” he roared, swinging his wrist—not aimed at the head of the Starscourge adorned with a red-maned helmet, but at the emaciated horse beneath him. Yet, the mountainous body sidestepped with surprising agility. The dagger only graze his leg before embedding itself in the sand, scattering into golden motes.

Fortunately, this moment halted Radahn's charge toward the Great Rune regardlessly—despite being eroded by corruption and having lost his mind, Radahn seemed to retain some primal instinct, keenly aware that this was an attack he could not ignore. Moreover, from the golden dagger, he faintly sensed a familiar, unsettling presence—

Suddenly, Radahn's crimson eyes turned toward Morgott. The beast-like man let out an enraged howl, as if recognizing his long-standing rival, the one who had thwarted him just before reaching the throne. In a sudden turn, he abandoned the nearby Great Rune and charged directly at the omen!

Without flinching, Morgott lowered his body as his cursed blood surged through him. He charged forward with a speed rivaling that of a top-tier warhorse. Meanwhile, the Starscourge, surrounded by crackling purple lightning and enhanced by gravity magic, matched his pace. The two figures, one larger and one smaller, raced toward each other, kicking up a storm of red sand.

Just as they were about to collide, the half-wolf knight suddenly leaped from Morgott's back, wielding the royal greatsword enveloped in frost, slicing through the air in an arc: “I’ll draw the enemy! Go save him!”

Morgott hesitated only for a moment before dodging the Starscourge's sweeping attack, redirecting his path toward the Great Rune and leaving the thunderous clash between the half-wolf knight and Radahn behind. However, as he jumped over another dune, his steps faltered, carving a deep mark into the red sand.

—He should have guessed it; that thought flashed through Morgott’s mind in an instant.

The Great Rune struggled like a butterfly about to break free from its cocoon, fighting to escape from its owner's chest. The golden light pierced Morgott's golden eyes, illuminating the small, doll-like body lying in a pool of blood.

It was not Ashen One he had hoped for. Instead, it was Ribbit. Her tangled curls soaked in crimson, appearing like flowing lava under the golden glow. A dagger was lodged in her throat, causing her head to tilt back slightly, and her lifeless blue eyes stared vacantly in Morgott's direction, hauntingly empty.

The moment he saw Ribbit’s lifeless body, everything clicked into place: why the belongings of Ashen One had appeared at the bandits' stall, why Ribbit had been imprisoned in their camp; why they had searched for so long for the entire Caelid, yet found no trace of Ashen One. Because all along, he had been right beside him.

Ribbit’s scheme to trap him in that catacomb was now fully understood. It was meant to ensure that Morgott could not intervene until the festival concluded and “she” could slip away after obtaining the Great Rune.

Yet, no matter how cunning he was, Ashen One ultimately miscalculated two crucial points: he underestimated the resilience of Morgott’s cursed blood against the sleep haze and underestimated the power of the Starscourge. The first error meant Morgott awoke far sooner than he anticipated, while the latter was far more lethal…

Morgott knelt beside the body, a whirlwind of emotions churning within him—anger, disgust, irony… and profound sorrow. After all, the body still bore Ribbit's appearance. The bond formed over these past days was not false; it had become almost instinctual.

Before he could sort through his emotions, Morgott instinctively made a choice. He swiftly pulled out the dagger, and as blood sprayed forth, the healing light surged in, rapidly closing the wound.

…This was to prevent the Great Rune from falling into Radahn's hands, he told himself, trying to ignore the aching sensation in his chest. Yet, when the prayer ended and the tarnished remained motionless on the ground, his heart sank.

"It can’t be." Morgott gritted his teeth and prayed again—once, twice, repeatedly, channeling his mental energy into healing light. He was certain that every wound on the tarnished had healed, but… those eyes still stared vacantly upward. A breeze swept through, coating the glassy surface with dust, snuffing out the last remnants of life.

Morgott’s heart plummeted. The grace of the Erdtree could heal all ailments and wounds, even bringing back those clinging to the last threads of life, but… it could not revive the dead. He hesitated, lowering the slender arm. Should he try again? Perhaps there was still hope…

"Thank you, Margit, most sincerely. No matter what might come out, no matter who I was, I’ll always be your friend… if you would do me the honor and allow me to be.”Ribbit's voice flickered momentarily, echoing in the swirling sands.

Morgott pressed his hand against the tarnished's chest, as if trying to force the Great Rune back.

"Thee despicable fool… get up!" he trembled, unable to accept that he could just die like this. After deceiving him time and again, he owed Morgott a serious fight—one that should have taken place at the gates of Stormveil, but had been repeatedly postponed and evaded.

However, after struggling for a moment, he painfully closed his eyes, unable to deceive himself any longer—the consequences of overusing resurrection powers flashed before him, the twisted form of Godwyn appearing in his mind. He had seen it before; he could not repeat that mistake. Morgott stood up abruptly, his bleeding heart igniting with fury.

If Ashen One were still alive, that rage would become a blade piercing through him. But since he was dead, Morgott could only resent the unfairness of fate and the architect of the Shattering War!

Even if his true self were here, he could not guarantee killing Radahn; He knew that his current form, a mere projection would stand no chance. Yet, at that moment, he might have been no more rational than the Starscourge, only wanting to vent the turbulent emotions within him.

Thus, he clashed with Radahn until his human form, the core of his being, perished, and his projection was completely destroyed. All remaining power and memories of Caelid surged back into his true self in the capital. The sorrow and unwillingness seemed unwilling to relent, leaving painful marks on Morgott's heart...

--

Leyndell.

The Royal Capital at the foot of the Erdtree, located on the eastern side of the Altus Plateau, is the heart of the Lands Between. Even amid the Shattering, it remains bathed in radiant golden light that blurred the boundaries of day and night.

The Knight Commander ascended, nearing the throne room, filled with anxiety. He bore bad news, fully aware that the Grace Given would not want to hear it... Margit had failed once again, and the fair-haired tarnished - that terrifying man had defeated the mightiest of all demigods, and obtained the third Great Rune.

As usual, he paused a few steps from the throne room door and called out, "My King." As expected, there was no response. He remained patient, waiting before calling again. For two days, the Grace Given seemed unusually silent; aside from dispatching a Crucible Knight to Caelid, there were no other instructions.

After several calls, a disembodied voice finally echoed from above: "What is it?"

The voice carried evident fatigue and even a sense of... despair. The Knight Commander dared not speculate further, choosing his words carefully: "My King, there is breaking news... The Divine Tower of Caelid has opened. The one who obtained General Radahn's Great Rune is the fair-haired tarnished you ordered us to pursue—"

"Impossible!" The Grace Given abruptly interrupted. The demigod's authority pressing down like a weight, making the Knight Commander falter. Before he could respond, the King continued to deny, "Impossible... Margit did see his corpse with his own eyes."

The Knight Commander swallowed hard and raised the cloth bag in his hand. "This... was sent by the Night Cavalry from Caelid. It seems the tarnished did not engage him, but entrusted this to him to pass on to Margit—though the cavalryman believed your grace should see it first."

He stepped forward as per tradition, presenting the cloth bag before the empty throne adorned with the Elden Crown, pulling back the fabric. Of course, both he and the Night Cavalry had confirmed there were no dangerous items inside, but the contents were indeed peculiar—

Laid upon a tattered piece of fabric, several items were arranged: a bloodstained black stone engraved with golden patterns, a teardrop-shaped talisman embedded with a ruby, and a vial of pale blue liquid faintly shimmering with light.

"...What art these?" The Grace Given asked after a short silence. The knight commander quickly composed himself, responding, "Scholars have determined that the black stone is likely part of Margit's shackle—its patterns match--"

“The vial of liquid.” The demigod interrupted him, and the knight commander smoothly changed the topic: “That is a liquid called ‘Celesetial Dew,’ related to the former Elden Lord, king consort Radagon. It is said that he once anointed himself with these dew at the Church of Vows to repent of his territorial aggressions, and signaled a reconciliation with the Carian Royal Family... Since then, this ritual of atonement has been established.”

He explained with a sense of trepidation, but not daring to deceive. If these things truly held the meanings they suspected... it would be an overt act of sedition. No, perhaps this was the Tarnished’s scheme to deliberately sow discord, intending to drive a wedge between His Majesty and his right-hand man.

“I understand.” For some reason, the knight commander detected a sense of gritted teeth in the demigod's voice. “Thou may leave... I will sendeth forth the fell omen once again."

"This time, Margit shall certes slayeth that Tarnished.”

TBC.

Chapter Text

After the knight-commander took his leave, a long time passed before Morgott emerged from the passage beneath the Erdtree and approached the throne. Slowly, he bent down and picked up the objects scattered upon the ground. There was no doubt these items were authentic, and their true significance was known only to him and Ashen One. Even if after his incarnation’s dispersal, others collected these from the battlefield, they could not have selected such specific items.

In that instant, the Omen’s hand crushed the bottle of Celestial Dew. Pale blue liquid splashed onto his gray skin, but failed to quench Morgott’s wrath. Even the talisman in his grasp warped slightly beneath his strength.

Very well.

Most excellent indeed.

That Tarnished toyed with him like a puppet for naught but his own amusment! All the past days of mourning, now laid low as a trifling jest. Worse yet, that brazen wretch bestow upon him a ‘gift,’ as though to mock his folly in plain sight!

Morgott vowed to hunt down that knave who had repeatedly deceived him. Yet events already unfolding now left him no time to pursue the Tarnished’s trail.

The death of the Starscourge had unleashed a series of consequential events. With the departure of General Jerren, lord of Redmane Castle, the Redmane soldiers he left behind continued to resist the encroaching Scarlet Rot. Yet, signs of faltering morale began to emerge. Meanwhile, in Limgrave, the meteor that fell after the seal was lifted, had struck a great crater in the Mistwood. According to reports from scouts, that crater led directly to Nokron, the Eternal City deep underground.

Morgott dispatched a Crucible Knight from Leyndell to rally the Redmane forces in Caelid. He also ordered Stormveil Castle to send soldiers to guard the perimeter of the crater, yet forbade them from any attempt to venture within. He could ill afford further losses to explore that unknown ancient city. Still, he had uncovered some troubling information: the half-wolf warrior he had briefly seen at Redmane Castle, the one who traveled alongside Ribbit was in fact the shadowbound beast of Ranni.

For years, the Lunar Princess had let her brother wander amid the red sands of Caelid’s wastes, only to have her agent appear now—at this critical juncture—to take part in the Festival of Radahn? It's hard not to see a connection between this and the Tarnished's seizing of Rennala’s Great Rune. Morgott refused to believe her intentions were pure. It mattered not if she wished to see Radahn—or the husk that once was Radahn—laid to rest; No matter how one looked at it, the Tarnished and Ranni were already conspiring behind the scenes.

At this most unfortunate moment, Kenneth Haight took advantage of the situation, imprisoning the deposed Godrick and openly installing a Tarnished as the new Lord of Stormveil. And that Tarnished was none other than Nepheli Loux, the warrior who had once crossed blades with Margit.

Afterward, as though the Omen King did not already have enough troubles, word reached him that Raya Lucaria had fallen under the sway of a witch. There has also been some unusual activity at the Volcano Manor. Large numbers of Recusants had fled in all directions, sowing discord. In their wake came rumors that Rykard had been slain by an ascendant band of Tarnished—whose leader, some said, was called "Siegward of Catarina".

For several days now, Morgott had worked ceaselessly. Pressing his weary fingers against his tired eye, the Omen King stooped to examine the files once more for any missing detail. Only when he heard movement at the entrance of the throne room did he remember that it was time for the knight-commander’s daily report, and hastened back toward the passage of the Erdtree.

The news was grim as ever. A group of Tarnished making their way northward from Caelid had somehow obtained the medallion and activated the Grand Lift of Dectus. Although most were intercepted by the guardian golems stationed outside, many still slipped past and vanished across the expanse of the Altus Plateau.

When Morgott dismissed the Knight-Commander, the exhaustion in his voice could no longer be hidden. It was yet another blow atop an already crumbling defense. These Tarnished had no true potential to become Elden Lord. But they would do everything in their power to break into the capital, pushing the already strained defenses past the breaking point.

Yet he still noticed that as the knight-commander turned to leave, his step faltered. Morgott noticed the pause. He sighed and asked once more, voice low but edged with iron: "Hath thou more to report?”

“My king… I… am uncertain whether this merits thy attention…” The knight-commander bowed his head lower, voice subdued. “Merely dull rumors, I beg thy pardon, Your Grace.”

“Speak freely,” Morgott replied, his tone calm and clipped.

“I have heard… whispers,” the Knight-Commander said carefully, weighing every word. “Idle talk that Your Grace need not heed. Still, within the city, a handful of nobles… have begun to speak privately about that fair-haired Tarnished.”

A silence followed—long enough to unsettle even a hardened commander. The Omen King’s voice came again:“Continue.”

The Knight-Commander sighed, finally delivering the part he had most dreaded. It surely came as no surprise to the king. Indeed, it was entirely predictable -- when news spread that a Tarnished had bested General Radahn and claimed three Great Runes, uncertainty had begun to fester among the people. In truth, it was not a mere few—it was a considerable number. Though most of the nobles and knights of Leyndell still bore the faint traces of golden linage, the allure of a power strong enough to end the current broken, decaying state of the Elden Ring was overwhelming—enough to dwarf their erstwhile loyalty to their Goddess and King.

This was no longer the age of the Shattering. At then, Leyndell had stood united behind its rightful successor, standing firm against Carian forces, awaiting the return of the Eternal Queen. Yet as time passed, that fervent hope grew cold. Rumors and idle tales proliferated amidst countless disturbances, only to reach a fever pitch when the Tarnisheds emerged from beyond the sea of fog, beginning their prophesied return to the Lands Between.

The city had seen the appearance of Oracle Envoys—those rotund beings who carried golden flutes—beings said to herald the dawn of a new era. From that moment, the whispers began: the Grace-Given King had lost the favor of the Greater Will, and would soon be replaced by a Tarnished. Such talk had quieted after several well-known “would-be Elden Lords” among the Tarnisheds failed. But now, for the first time, one Tarnished had gathered three Great Runes. The long-muted murmurs rekindled into open speculation, and worse, they gained momentum. Some even suggested that the king should welcome the Tarnished into Leyndell as an olive branch—hastening cooperation to restore the Elden Ring, and even to wed Queen Marika herself.

To the knight-commander, this was utter madness. Though the King’s own father was unknown, there was no doubt that he carried the blood of Queen Marika the Eternal. Supporting a Tarnished in such a manner would mean delivering his own mother-god to an outsider in marriage. Even if His Majesty could endure such humiliation, history would surely curse him for it.

Yet if one faced reality, the only princess of the Golden Lineage—Malenia—was not only stricken with Scarlet Rot, but now lost without trace. Only Queen Marika could seal a union that would secure the continuity of the Golden Order. Such were the dire straits they faced.

He heard the King’s cool voice echo above him:“Now then, what counsel wouldst thou offer on this matter?”

The Knight-Commander bowed deeply, voice measured with restraint: “The knights of Leyndell are loyal to Your Grace… but whatever Your Majesty decides, I believe the choice must come swiftly.”

Judging by the Tarnished’s past exploits, a siege on the capital was no longer a matter of if, but when. And if no pact had been forged by then…the Commander could only pray that his King would once more summon the strength he had shown in the days of the Shattering—to defy fate, and strike down this fatal enemy.

---

Night had fallen.

A squad of Leyndell guards patrolled the city streets. Ever since the Night of the Black Knives, their torches had been replaced with Sentinel's Torches, capable of revealing hidden assassins. Yet none of them noticed the massive shadow slipping silently beneath a sewer grate as they passed by.

Morgott pulled his cloak tighter and moved swiftly through the subterranean passages beneath the capital. This place had been home to him—and to many other unwanted children of the city. He knew every turn, every tunnel, every shortcut that avoided the nests of rats or the swarms of cursed frogs. Occasionally, he passed another of the Omenborn, who would shrink back into their stone hovels at the sight of him. They knew him well - that Morgott was the elder one of the fearsome twins.

The omen descended deeper, down and down, until he stood before the doors of an ancient chapel at the very bottom. His furred, grey-black hand rested on the heavy stone for a moment before he pushed it open.

“Well, well. Such a rare delight,” a lazy, mocking voice called from behind the chair's high back. “My dearest brother! It has been a long while. What wind blows you back to grace these filthy depths??”

Mohg’s silhouette loomed monstrously against the stone walls, a grotesque crown of horns spiraling from his head. The Omen Prince, larger even than his elder brother, radiated a presence thick with smell of blood. His single pale yellow eye glittered with amusement. “Let me guess,” he drawled. “The Erdtree’s been knocked over by some Tarnished, or perhaps the mighty Lord Godfrey has finally returned—so you've decided to abdicate the throne and return to our charming, pest-infested home?”

Morgott ignored the venom in his brother’s tone. Mogh had never spoken kindly of anything touched by golden order, and frankly, if he ever did, Morgott would probably start checking him for signs of frenzied flame.

The elder Omen said nothing, simply walked to the chair across from Mogh and seated himself, his voice low and firm:

“I need your help, Mogh.”

The pale candlelight flickered softly. Only after a long silence did Morgott finish recounting the string of recent events. Mohg listened intently, inspecting the intelligence and items his brother had brought. With a sigh, he finally spoke.

“Brother, I warned you long ago.”

“In all the demigods, save perhaps Miquella, none are harder to contend with than that scheming witch. Did you not see it? Behind Nepheli stands the Tarnished, and behind Sellen, quite possibly, Ranni herself. As for the one who slew Rykard—it may have been another, yet surely their plotting played no small part. Look here—this piece of intelligence claims the Tarnished once conspired with the defiers. He vanished for a whole moon’s turn. D'you think he sat idle all that time?”

Mohg let out a cold, mirthless laugh.

“Ranni’s greatest weakness hath ever been her lack of martial strength. And now, the Tarnished do serve to mend that flaw most perfectly. You should have come to me as soon as you had a glimpse of their alliance.”

Morgott pressed his lips together, offering no reply. He could not bear to admit, nor able to explain why he had sunk into a grim despair because he thought the tarnished was dead. Fortunately, Mohg took it upon himself to supply a convenient excuse.

“You did believe he was slained, and thus Ranni’s schemes undone. Yet this Tarnished seemed to be the ruthless sort, one who even turned his own death into a perfect ruse. Hah… I must say, I find myself rather intrigued.”

As he muttered this, Mohg stroked his chin with a suggestive smirk—and even letting his tongue flick against his never existing lips—it was clear that “intrigued” meant something far less innocent.

Morgott scowled at his brother’s lecherous demeanor, and barked in irritation:“Mohg!”

The younger omen seemed to delight in provoking his brother.

“Oh come now, my dear brother. ‘Twas but a jest!” He chuckled heartily, then finally straightened his posture. After a brief pause, he began counting on his fingers. “Three options.”

“Option one,” Mohg began, counting off with a flick of his finger, “Immediately recall all forces from Leyndell, Caelid, and Limgrave. Forget all those other distractions—converge from both flanks and raze the Caria Manor to the ground. If we can drag that little Ranni out and kill her, fantastic. If not? No matter. Sever her knights, her inner circle—without them, she won’t stir much of a storm on her own.”

“That is impossible.” Morgott frowned at once, voice hard and low.
The plan’s success hinged on consolidating all available strength, even requiring Morgott himself to abandon Leyndell for open war. Yet in the wake of the Shattering, most of the Lands Between had descended into madness and delusion. Without sufficient forces to maintain what little remained of order, it would all come crashing down. Worse still, the Tarnished lurked in shadow, eyes ever-watching; the Giant's Flame burned atop the Mountaintops, and deep beneath their very feet, the Frenzied Flame whispered in chaos. A single spark could unravel everything.

“I knew you’d object,” Mohg shrugged, unconcerned.“Still, it's the option with the highest chance of victory. Command is your strength, brother. And no matter how cunning Ranni may be, her pitiful few stand no chance before a true army.”

“Very well—option two: negotiate with the Tarnished.” Mohg paused for effect, then continued with a cunning smile.

“We have the armies. We have two holders of Great Runes—yourself and me. You carry the legitimacy of the ‘Grace Given.’ And most importantly—we have our beautiful, noble, and wonderfully fertile mother. No one knows what she’s like inside the Erdtree, sure—but I’d wager she offers far more than anything Caria could ever put on the table.”

Morgott’s brow twitched.

That suggestion echoed the whispers of Leyndell’s nobility—a soft chorus growing ever louder. But those fools were ignorant of the Erdtree’s silent rejection, while Mohg… he knew. Of course he knew. And still, he said it.

He was implying that, again--to set flame upon the tree.

“Thou speakest of that accursed path that no one ever succeeded!” Morgott hissed, voice taut with fury.

“The others failed because they were fools,” Mohg scoffed. “Abandoning their purpose for a pretty finger maiden. That’s not a condemnation of the path—it’s a condemnation of them. They lacked the mettle to be Elden Lord. That’s all.” He spread his hands with exaggerated patience. “The Erdtree was never meant to remain unscathed… Ah, but I tire of debating it with you.”

They’d had this argument a hundred times or more, never reaching agreement. At times, things got so heated, they’d come to blows. The brothers believed in entirely different futures—but in stubbornness, they were twins indeed. According to certain Perfumers’ records, it was believed that the blood of an omen child were naturally more unyielding than most. Whether that came from the curse itself… no one could say.

“Then… option three.”

“Kill the Tarnished.”

Mohg’s voice was so steeped in malice that Morgott’s heart near skipped a beat. He continued, with unsettling calm: “He seems to hold a certain fondness for you—or should I say, for ‘Margit the fell’. And judging by the Starlight Shards he sent, I’d wager he even seeks forgiveness.”

“He knows not your true name… nor your purpose. Perhaps he seeks to sway 'Margit' to his side. We may wield this ignorance as a blade—earn his trust, lure him forth, and strike where he stands.”

Mohg smirked. “I’ve even chosen the spot for you. All you must do is feign loyalty, then, when the time is ripe, whisper to him of a secret route—a sewer passage, hidden and forgotten, leading straight from the outer wards to the Throne Room. I trust I needn’t explain what comes next?”

That sewer system was a battlefield they knew intimately. Here, the Omen brothers would hold every advantage: two demigods, both bearers of Great Runes, joined by their twisted kin and bolstered by knights poised in ambush at every exit. Even should the Tarnished carry multiple Great Runes, he’d never leave that place alive.

And with him gone, Ranni—deprived of her sword hand—would pose little threat. The remaining Tarnished, wielding only Rykard’s Rune, could never hope to claim the mantle of Elden Lord. The plan promised far more than simple vengeance—it offered finality.

Morgott lowered his head, gaze fixed on the flickering shadows the candle cast across the stone floor. He pressed a weary hand to his brow as Mohg’s voice droned on, now muffled, almost gentle:

“...You’ve only the one chance, brother. Don’t squander it.”

---

By the time he emerged from the sewer, it was deep into the night.

Bathed in the soft glow of the Erdtree, Morgott walked slowly toward the Throne Room. A few patrolling guards skirted around him with unease writ plain across their faces. Whether they underestimated the Omen’s sharp hearing—or simply didn’t care if he heard at all—they muttered at a distance: “That cursed Omen fiend… has the gall to return, even now…”

“Who’s to say he hasn’t long since thrown in with the Tarnished? No idea why His Grace would ever trust a defiled thing like him…”

Once, he would have ignored such contempt. He had grown used to it. But now—because of the Tarnished—that scorn gnawed at him.

Unbidden, his mind wandered. He saw her again—Ribbit, humming by the campfire while crafting trinkets, watching quietly as he prayed each dawn. On the road, her voice was a constant chirping presence. And when he bled cursed blood, she did not flinch to touch the wound. It was those quiet moments, so gentle, so small, that had lulled the Omen into laying down his walls, his doubts.

But it had all been a lie—a beautiful illusion spun atop betrayal and manipulation.

By the Erdtree, he had even once considered naming her the Lady of Stormveil. The Tarnished must’ve been smug with triumph at then. The thought alone made him want to retch.

Why was he still dreaming? Why would he ever believe she was unlike the others…?

It had been a mistake from the very start.

Perhaps the moment he chose to stay his hand at Stormveil, when first they met, was the moment everything veered off course—no longer the rightful road, but a path into uncertainty.

Now, he was trapped. Neither path ahead nor behind held surety. The careful balance he’d bled to uphold lay shattered, undone by a wild card no one had foreseen. The last guardian of the Erdtree stood upon trembling ground.

His tail, twisted and tumor-ridden, dragged across the stone. The omen slowly stepped over the great roots crisscrossing the floor, entering the Erdtree Sanctuary.

There stood the phantom of Godfrey, axe in hand, radiant as a golden statue. It did not attack—it would never strike one of golden blood—but neither did it acknowledge Morgott in any way.

And now, just as ever, when the Omen King knelt before it and whispered: “O Lord Father… why dost thou tarry still?” The phantom’s gaze remained fixed ahead, blind and unmoved.

Morgott bowed over a gnarled root, forehead resting against his clasped hands as he whispered his prayer. From the cathedral’s terrace, he looked down upon the capital. The Erdtree shimmered above in the dark, golden Rune fragments dancing in the breeze. Roofs of gold tiled the horizon—layered and magnificent, a vision untouched by time.

He remembered how, as children, he and Mohg had snuck out of the sewers, slipping past those guards drunk on victory from the Ancient Dragon War. They’d climbed high to glimpse this same vista.

He remembered, too, that once—long ago—Queen Marika, Godfrey, and Prince Godwyn had stood upon this very balcony, casting blessings upon the people. In those days applause and cheers had thundered, and with his omen sight, young Morgott had seen every smiling face clearly—joyful, unburdened.

That was the world he had sworn to defend with his life.

How cruel, then, that now those homes stood empty. The streets echoed only with hollow wind. And in this sacred place, stood only an Omen.

Yet even so—he, the Last King of Leyndell, survivor of the Shattering, the one who had preserved the Erdtree’s splendor from a thousand usurpers—would not allow the Tarnished to take another step forward.

The Omen rose slowly, and in his golden eyes burned the reflection of the ErdTree. Its radiance banished all shadows, consumed every doubt.

Every hesitation was buried deep, far from the light.

TBC.

Chapter Text

When a soldier reported that a red-haired girl outside the camp was asking specifically for “Margit the fell,” Morgott nearly tumbled off the makeshift bed of stacked crates he’d been using. But when he rushed to the camp gates, he found—Yes, it was a familiar face, just not the one he was hoping for.

Millicent—The same lass Ribbit aided at the Church of the Plague in Caelid. A fragment of Malenia.

Though she still clutched the bloodstained, empty sleeve where her right arm had once been, there was no trace of the torment and deathly pallor from before. Her crimson hair, now tied back, gave her a sharp, composed air, and her golden eyes regarded the Omen steadily, unblinking.

“I bring a message,” she said, voice low, “from a friend we share.” She placed her left hand over her chest and opened her fingers, revealing a cruciform Erdtree seal, and a familiar vial filled with celestial dew. “He bade me deliver this gift to you, as a token.”

The so-called “message” was, in truth, a location—But there was one condition: Morgott had to follow her there alone.

So, the Tarnished knew full well how hot the bounty on his head still burned. The omen gave a sharp, joyless laugh and waved off the Night’s Cavalry who had begun to close in. With his staff in hand, he followed her on his own. Together, the two rode west from the nearby fork in the road, until finally arrived at a place all too familiar to Morgott: The Erdtree-Gazing Hill.

A few furtive demi-human skulked among the overgrown ruins nearby. At the sight of Millicent, they shrieked in feigned bravado—but once they spotted the towering figure behind her, they immediately fled yelping. Yet there was no sign of the Tarnished.

Sensing the Omen’s wariness, Millicent offered a gentle explanation. “There’s still some time before the hour he and I agreed upon.” Then, she settled herself gracefully against a broken wall, her movements calm and composed. Though dressed in the simple garb of a traveler, her bearing was unmistakably noble.

“Thou seem’st to have regained some measure of thy health.” Morgott broke the silence, watching her steadily. “Though I suspect the Preserving Boluses hath such effect.”

“…So he didn't tell you?” Millicent looked up, the corners of her mouth twitching into a faint smile. “That does sound like something he would do. As you can see, no boluses could help with my problem. What truely worked miracle was the needle you two found in the Swamp of Aeonia.”

She touched her chest lightly, over her heart. “I’ve never seen its like before, but since inserting the needle, the scarlet rot has ceased to writhe. Even the nightmares… have abated.”

And how did that needle magically mend itself out of nowhere? The repeated “resupply” visits to Sellia made far more sense now. Clearly, that stop at Commander O’Neil’s wasn’t chance. Not even close. The Tarnished must’ve been searching for the needle, until he was captured by those bandits, and then deliberately leveraged Morgott to defeat the old veteran. The bastard probably had a contact inside the town all along. Morgott’s expression soured as he crushed the rising fury back down.

“Dost thou believeth his every word that easily?” he said, voice clipped.

“I had no choice. Better to risk the unknown than rot away piece by piece. I chose to trust him.…And fortunately, it seems I chose well. And now, though I can scarcely believe it myself, I can move as I please, travel again, breathe again. All thanks to you and the Tarnished." Millicent tilted her head slightly, studying the Omen’s changed tone, and added, "I understand that our causes may not align fully, yet I am no wretch to spurn a debt of gratitude. If there ever comes a day when I can repay it... allow me the chance.”

Her expression was earnest—uncannily so. For a fleeting moment, Morgott was taken aback, unsure how to respond. But then he remembered—how the Tarnished had once deceived him in the same manner. The brief warmth that had stirred in his chest was crushed beneath renewed suspicion. Whether Millicent spoke in sincerity or in guile, she was right about it: They were bond to stand on opposite ends of the field.

Just then, the sound of hooves reached his ears—several horses, not just one. He turned northward, gaze sharpening. If that was the Tarnished, he had not come alone.

Soon enough, the riders emerged from behind the trees. The one in front wore a helm, but his mount gave him away: the long-horned spectral steed, unmatched across the Lands Between. Three others rode close behind. One was clad in the unmistakable, horned armor of the famed “Great-Horned” Tragoth. Another bore a corroded metal armour reinforced with scales. The last was robed, blindfolded man, neck bound by the wheel-shaped collar that marked him as a exiled cleric.

It seemed that after the battle at Radahn Festival, the Tarnished had begun to gather power of his own.

“Margit! It's been a while.” came the Tarnished’s voice, carried by the wind. He removed his helmet, letting sweat-drenched hair whip back in the breeze, and waved at both Morgott and Millicent with the casual ease of an old friend.

Though his face was streaked with sweat and dust, unshaven and road-worn, and his once-silver-blonde hair was a tangled mess from days without washing, the Tarnished was still unreasonably good looking. When those violet eyes turned toward Morgott, they always seemed to say, “I’m truly glad to see you.” Though, it only made him feel as though his stomach were clenched in a fist. Rage stirred like a blade twisted deep within his chest. He could feel the cursed blood pounding harder through his veins. And yet—Mogh’s warning still echoed in his ears: “You’ve only the one chance, brother. Don’t squander it.”

He stood like a statue, frozen. Fortunately, for once, his omen-born features served him well—horned and scaled, his face revealed little emotion even at the best of times. The Tarnished didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. His spectral steed faded into motes of light, and he landed lightly before them with the easy grace. He grinned warmly as he reached out and gave Morgott’s arm a friendly pat.

“This is for you—Thought it might come in handy on the road.” he said casually, tossing a long, wrapped bundle toward Millicent, before turning to instruct the other Tarnisheds to set up camp in the ruins nearby. Then, with a gesture that was almost courtly, he turned back to Morgott and asked, “Shall we walk a little?” It was almost absurd. That tone—Morgott had once seen the same manner in Godwyn, while the Prince was speaking to a young noblewoman.

And yet he couldn’t help but notice how much the Tarnished had changed. His armor, though scratched and weathered, was now finely crafted, worlds away from the rags and patchwork of old.The traces of his former confusion and impulsiveness were gone; Now… there was a calm certainty in how he moved, like someone who'd earned the right to lead.

More than anything else, it was the fire. That searing, smoldering presence had grown so much stronger—standing near him now was like standing beside a living furnace. If once he had been the spent ash of a dying flame, now the Tarnished truly burned—a sunfire barely contained in his flesh.

"After Caelid," the Tarnished said gently as they walked into the nearby woods, "I can imagine how furious you must’ve been—perhaps confused, too. I simply couldn’t be in two places at once. So it wasn’t until now that I asked Millicent to reach out for you. I hoped we might have a chance to speak." Under a towering tree, he came to a halt and turned to face Morgott. "You must have many questions. Ask freely—I shall hide nothing from you any more."

"Dost thou not fear that I might strike thee down here and now, Tarnished?" Morgott growled, voice low and tightly held.

The Tarnished blinked, then grinned again. "That’s your first question?" Then, in a hushed tone, he asked in turn: "Will you?"

Morgott realized, with a flare of bitter understanding—the Tarnished knew he wouldn't. That was why he dared to appear here, to speak so lightly, even to provoke. His arrogance was galling, made all the worse by the strength and cunning behind it. Morgott's grip tightened on his cursed blade. He had to remain calm. He would not let this man rule his emotions again.

"After thou didst smite the Starscourge—whither didst thou go?" he demanded.

"From Caelid, I returned to Limgrave. The process was anything but smooth, I must say — yet at the Radahn Festival, my purpose was at last served. The death of the Starscourge broke the seal he had cast upon the very stars… and in doing so, opened the gates to the Eternal City—Nokron beneath," the Tarnished replied, just as he had promised—frank and unguarded. "Once my task there was done, I traveled north to the Volcano Manor, and from thence to Altus Plateau. I've just returned from the Shaded Castle before seeing you."

Morgott caught the casual drop of a detail.

"And this…Siegward, who slew Rykard—who is he?"

"Twas I," the Tarnished replied with a sly smile. "The name was for show—meant to honor a friend, and fool Tanith’s spies. Rykard hid in the deepest bowels of Mt. Gelmir. I had to convince her I was loyal to gain an 'audience'." He sighed, "Only to find out that Rykard had long since been devoured by the Great Serpent; I'm afraid even if part of his will endured, it had drowned in madness."

Morgott’s stomach turned. So the Tarnished now held FOUR Great Runes.

He pressed on, "How didst thou deceive those traitorous fools? They art not known to grant trust lightly."

The Tarnished chuckled. "You know their mission, do you?"

Morgott did know it—These so-called recusants, who brandish rebellion against the Two Fingers as their banner, do naught but sanctioned infighting, butchering their own kind who refuse to join. Yet, the Tarnished's smile betrayed his same old wickedness—he’d pulled some stunt, no doubt.

"The magic of the Queen Rennala grants rebirth," he revealed. "Form, face, even gender, all could be altered. But without the Great Rune of the Unborn, such transformation is fatal."

Morgott understood immediately. With the Academy in the throes of a power shift, fresh corpses were in no short supply. The Tarnished had altered one such body’s appearance, dressed it in the target’s armor, and passed it off as genuine. None at Volcano Manor would have dreamed the corpse they verified with their own eyes was a forgery.

He’d taken the gears as rewards and return them to their owners. With everything back in hand, he rallied those Tarnished hunted by Volcano Manor—comrades now bound by shared betrayal—and led them in a counterattack against Rykard’s lair.

It was the sort of trick only a mind steeped in treachery could conceive—This tarnished truly knows how to play the game. Were it not for his own deception, Morgott might’ve applauded.

And at last, the riddle unraveled—how he had become Ribbit in Caelid. Now Morgott saw it clearly: every gesture, every innocent glance of Ribbit had been a calculated move. A part of some grander game. And that realization—that the little one he'd thought sweet, clever, even kind… was nothing but another mask worn by this manipulative bastard—

The rage that boiled in him now felt like magma behind his ribs. He had once believed "her" to be a rare light in his life of shadows. Now, knowing the truth… it was all a farce. A mockery of what little happiness he’d ever known.

"Why tell me this now, Tarnished?" Morgott growled, "What purpose dost thou serve?" The man clearly had no intention of renouncing his claim to the Elden Throne—then why the performance? Why the confession?

"Because...you hold a special meaning to me, Margit." The Tarnished's voice was calm, composed. He even reached out—foolishly, arrogantly—to touch Morgott’s clenched hand. "I had no choice but to deceive you. But I want you to know—I never saw you as a pawn."

Morgott stiffened, while he continued.

"Do you remember what I asked you in Caelid? I asked why we could not be allies. And even now, that remains my wish. I have journeyed far, seen much of the Lands Between. Unlike the others, the veiled monarch seems to me a ruler of both virtue and strength."

He paused, watching for any flicker of response. "I hold four Great Runes now. In open arms, Morgott the Grace Given would not best me. But I desire no more bloodshed. Should he choose alliance over defiance, I shall see him remain a ruler in his own realm, when I ascend as Elden Lord."

Rage surged so fiercely within Morgott that he could scarcely remain still. How dare the Tarnished—after using him to obtain the Great Runes—speak with such condescension, as if the throne of Elden were already in his grasp, as though Morgott should thank him—for being stripped of what was his birthright?

“And I have answered thee once before, Tarnished,” he growled, grasping his accursed blade tight, rage rippling beneath his voice. “Mayhap thou hast the might to seize a crown… but mere might alone commands not the hearts of men. How wilt thou assure me that the tragedy of Lordran shall not repeat itself?”

The Tarnished freeze at his words, lips pressed into a bloodless line. Silence held him briefly, before he finally spoke—slow, solemn, and low. “I do not deny my sins, Margit.”

“But precisely for that reason... more than any other, I cannot bear to witness such ruin once more.” His voice trembled, almost a whisper. “No regret can restore Lordran. But if anything yet lies within my power… it is to spare the Lands Between from the same fate.”

“You once told me of the old days,” he said, softer now but resolute, "A golden age of happiness and abundance. You long for it too, do you not, Margit? The dreams we shared...”

Indeed… Morgott remembered bitterly. Back when he had been “Ribbit,” the Tarnished had painted visions of a rebuilt Stormveil, not as a fortress of power, but as a haven for all. Not just for human—but also demi-humans, misbegotten, omen-born, even frenzied merchant-kin. He had spoken of a realm where all were given a place, where peace was possible. But now… that vision tasted of ashes.

“We have both heard the prophecy of the Two Fingers: a Tarnished shall one day become Elden Lord. And now… only two remain who may truly claim that right—myself, and Gideon Ofnir. Think on what the man did at the Village of the Albinaurics. Think on how he regards your kind. Would you see such a man upon the throne?”

“But I—I would see your people no longer reviled. Right the wrongs suffered by you and your kin.” The Tarnished stepped closer now, voice persuasive, thick with intent. “This is why I fight. For the vision we hold in common. And thus, I ask you…to lend me your strength.”

Hatred and cold fury churned like frostbound steel in Morgott’s breast—yet none of it reached his face. Instead, he softened, as though moved by the Tarnished’s words. A flicker of doubt, carefully feigned, crossed his features.

“What wouldst thou have me do?” he asked, voice low with measured hesitation. “I could carry thy word to the Grace-given King… but…”

“No, I donnot ask that of you. If the Grace-given grows suspicious—or worse, deems you a traitor-- your kind already suffers enough scorn in the Lands Between. I won’t risk bringing ruin upon you." The Tarnished shaked his head. He hesitated for a while, then pondered, "Is there any way… to smuggle me into Leyndell? If I could speak to your king directly—face to face—I might yet win him to my cause."

Ah, there he is, finally showing his true colors. "And if not?"

"Then I shall detain him—peacefully of course, and just for a time—until all is settled. By then, surely, he’ll see reason.”Morgott laughed silently to himself, hiding his scorn behind a mask of contemplation, listening as the Tarnished, blind in self-assurance, spun his thread.

“The gift thou sent hath likely soured the King’s trust in me,” Morgott said at last, with just the right note of regret. “I cannot draw away the guards of the capital, nor command the Night’s Cavalry as once I could. Yet—there is another path.”

He asked for the Tarnished’s map and parchment, scratching out a rough route with ease. “Through the sewers beneath the city, follow this path, and thou shalt find thyself in the deep, where lieth a Cathedral of the Forsaken. My brother and I shall await thee. A hidden tunnel runs straight from there to the Throne Room.”

As for why such a hidden passage existed, and how he came to know of it—well, that was easily explained. Morgott, weaving half-truth with half-lie, told the Tarnished that all Omen children born of royal lineage were reared in the shunning-grounds beneath Leyndell. Thus, such paths were known to them like the lines of their palm. And naturally, a ruler would require a secret way to pass on unspeakable orders, veiled from the eyes of even their most loyal subjects.

“I shall see to it that the Omen along the path art warned not to interfere with thou or thy retinue,” Morgott said, allowing the faintest curl of a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Though… some among them might choose not to heed my word.” He turned, letting his words hang in the air a beat longer before concluding, almost indulgently: "But I suppose that won’t be much trouble for you, will it, Tarnished?"

He saw it then—the gleam in the Tarnished’s eyes. That telltale spark stirred whenever he felt challenged. Good. He was taking the bait.

The Tarnished pressed for further details—guard rotations, patrol routes, the weaknesses in the capital’s defenses. Morgott indulged him all, if only to deepen the illusion of trust. He even revealed the entrance to the shaft leading to the Divine Tower. What did it matter? Whether the Tarnished bore three Great Runes or four, Morgott knew full well how to see him buried with all his ambition.

Their conversation carried on until the sun dipped beneath the western horizon.

But the night here was never truly dark on Altus Plateau. The Erdtree, vast and luminous, painted the skies in a ceaseless cascade of golden light. Even so, the drop in temperature was sharp and biting—so stark that the Tarnished’s breath came out in puffs of pale fog. He stamped his feet to warm them, muttering with a crooked smile, “Is the Plateau always this cold? I’m almost starting to miss the First Flame.”

“Perhaps thee should return to your campfire, then,” Morgott offered, feigning concern.

“No... Let’s take another walk around. Who knows when we’ll have the chance again?”

He seemed as though he still had words left unsaid, and Morgott followed him in silence as they climbed the hill. Yet even once they reached the top, the Tarnished said nothing—until at last he cleared his throat, fumbling for words.

“Uh—nice, nice view up here, isn’t it?” he managed, his voice cracking.

Morgott gave him a puzzled glance, then turned his gaze toward the distance. The ruins where Millicent and the others had made camp were now far behind them—only the faint glow of a small bonfire flickered through the broken walls. Closer by, low shrubs and wild grass swayed beneath the night sky, insects humming softly in the underbrush. Golden motes drifted from the Erdtree, carried by the gentle wind. It was beautiful—so long as one ignored the Tarnished standing beside him.

“I just… it reminds me of Caelid,” the Tarnished continued, tripping over his own tongue. “I mean, that place was… uh, beautiful too—no, not beautiful, more like… ah—Altus Plateau is, you know, shinier…”

“…If thou hast something to say, then speak it plainly, Tarnished,” Morgott said, frowning. It was clear enough what the fool was attempting: to rekindle the “bond” they once shared. Yet, for all his grand speeches before, it seemed the man had little wit of his own—Morgott now suspected those earlier eloquent words had been the handiwork of his followers, rehearsed well in advance.

The Tarnished came to a halt, his expression twisted with panic. Marika’s tits, he thought miserably. I must look a complete idiot to Margit right now…But no—he couldn’t back down now.

“I—I mean to say… I never thanked you properly,” he blurted out, taking a deep breath. “You saved my life in Caelid… and you’ve shown me more kindness than I deserve. I may be an Ashen One, but I’m not without gratitude. Everything you’ve done for me—I remember it all.”

Better left unsaid. The words only stung.

Morgott kept his gaze fixed on the distant firelight and spoke at last, his tone flat as stone:“That was because thy disguise was convincing enough. I never once suspected thy true nature.” Else, Tarnished… thou wouldst not have been left for death on the bandits' camp.

The Tarnished, oblivious to the venom beneath those words, chuckled. “Heh, yeah, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. But I’m glad for it—it gave me a chance to truly know you. From the very beginning, I’ve had this feeling that we’d get along,” he said, inching closer, laying a hand upon the Omen’s arm. “And I was right, wasn’t I? Forget titles, forget curses—we could be friends, you and I, Margit.”

Morgott barely restrained the urge to shove him away, and simply listened as the Tarnished went on, “I heard it from Blaidd afterward—the half-wolf knight, my friend. He told me you came to the Redmane Castle… to save me.”

“I thought thou wert dead.” The words tore out from Morgott’s throat, rough and trembling despite his will to steady them. “I saw thy corpse with mine own eyes… and the Great Rune rising from it.”

The Tarnished froze, his expression faltering before he bowed his head and murmured, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intent. You arrived faster than I expected—or rather, I underestimated Radahn…” He had gone to such lengths to craft his elaborate snare—meant to lure and bind Margit—but the battle against the Starscourge had been far beyond even his reckoning. Hundreds of Tarnished had gathered, many renowned, with heros like Blaidd and Alexander, yet the battle dragged from night till dawn before the general finally fell.

And what had shocked him most was Margit’s reaction. Melina had told him—despite seeing the Great Rune within him, despite surely realizing his identity—Margit had cast healing incantations upon him again and again. Even when he believed him dead, the Omen had raged against Radahn’s ghostly might until his own projection was slain and dissipated.

Just recalling it made warmth rise to the Tarnished’s chest, sweet as honey.

“You’ve always stood against the Tarnisheds, yet you did all that for me,” he said with a foolish grin, daring enough now to take the Omen’s hand. “Tell me—am I wrong to think you might FEEL SOMETHING for me, too?”

For a heartbeat, Morgott simply stared, stunned. Had he misheard? Was this some strange modern turn of phrase, some casual token of friendship?

But before he could ask, the Tarnished’s hand shot up—grasped his horn—and with a sudden pull, dragged the Omen’s face down and kissed him.

Morgott’s golden eye went wide with shock. For a long second he did not even react, frozen as the Tarnished clumsily bit at his lips rather than kissed them. The pain of torn skin snapped him from his stupor; in a burst of fury and instinct, he seized the man by the collar and hurled him to the ground.“Thou—thou wretched fool—!” The words choked in his throat, his tongue—so fluent in rhetoric and venom—suddenly knotted and useless.

The Tarnished looked just as dazed. He rolled over, rubbing his mouth, his once-handsome face now the picture of an idiot. “I—I’m sorry—I mean—uh…” he stammered, too mortified to meet Morgott’s eyes. Instead, his gaze fixed desperately on the Omen’s twitching, restless tail against the ground. “I—I’ve been flirting with you for months, and you never turned me down, so I thought—uh—well, I thought…”

Morgott was stunned once again—so much so that for a moment, he could not speak.

The wound on his lip was small, yet it burned as if laced with venom, impossible to ignore. In an instant, fragments of memory surged through his mind—each one clicking into place with awful clarity. Suddenly, the inexplicable things about the Tarnished made sense: why he had spoken in that strange, hushed tone back in Castle Morne; why he was always flicking that silver-blonde hair of his and winking those violet eyes; why he found excuses to touch, to lean close; why, even when disguised as Ribbit, he’d made jokes to stroke the fur on Morgott’s arm and tail—

The Tarnished’s voice reached him as if through water, muffled and trembling. “So… am I really that unattractive to you?” he asked.

ITS BECAUSE I NEVER REALIZED THOU W'RE FLIRTING, THOU INSUFFERABLE FOOL! NO SANE PERSON WOULDST FLIRT WITH AN OMEN!!! Morgott shouted inwardly.

He drew in a long, shuddering breath, forcing calm into his voice. “...Tarnished. I am a male being, as thou art—and cursed at birth as an Omen. If thou seekest to flirt, thou shouldst find—”

His words broke off as the Tarnished stepped closer. For the first time in his life, Morgott—king, warrior, sinner—retreated. His back struck a tree.

The Tarnished caught the rope tied around Morgott’s cloak, yanking him down to meet his eyes. Those violet irises were darker now, smoldering with fire unknown to him. His voice came low and rough. “You don’t get to tell me what kind of person I’m allowed to flirt with, omen fell.”

For the first time in his life, Morgott thanked the goddess for his gray-black skin, for the horns and scales that hid his face—for he could not imagine what expression twisted across it now. Never in his cursed existence had he felt so utterly undone.

He froze—motionless—as the Tarnished drew closer again. Clearly, the Tarnished took his stillness as permission. Rising on his toes, hands clutching at Morgott’s shoulders, he pulled him down once more. This time, the kiss was hesitant, trembling—no biting, only soft, uncertain touches. His roughened fingers brushed through Morgott’s silver-gray hair with fragile care.

“Tarnished…” Morgott rasped, his voice hoarse, dry. “Who wouldst believe such nonsense from thee? Thou hast struck down four shard bearers, only to climb the Altus Plateau and prattle such folly to thine enemy?”

They had only met five times at most, spent perhaps weeks in each other’s company—and most of that time trying, quite literally, to kill each other. More than once coming within a breath of success. And now, the Tarnished was confessing to him.

T'was pure madness. The sheer absurdity of it all was on par with a wretched omen-child from the sewers ascending to the throne of Leyndell.

The Tarnished chuckled softly. “Is it really so hard to understand? I met a impressive omen in Stormveil, and he spared my life. From that day on, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Has no one ever told you，” he went on, tone low and teasing. “That the way you speak—so measured, so courtly—is adorable? Or that the way you fight…I can’t take my eyes off you.” He sighed. “I never dared to hope. But in Caelid, you were so kind to me…”

“…You once asked if I knew the meaning of that shackle. I didn’t then. But now I do.” Between ragged breaths and scattered kisses, he continued. “I owe you an apology. For all the ways I’ve angered you. But I’ll make it right—if you’ll let me, my dear Margit?”

Morgott could only stare, speechless—like a mortal man standing before a monster, rather than the other way around.

The Tarnished’s eyes were an uncommon shade in the Lands Between, a color that lent him an otherworldly beauty. With his face flushed, lips curved in that faint, wicked smile, and those pale lashes half-lowered as he looked up at Morgott—had he stood before any other soul, man or woman, they would have melted at once, past grudges all forgotten.

Even the unflinching omen could feel his heart hammering, cursed blood boiling in his veins—he did not know whether it was rage, or something perilously close to desire. Perhaps both. His feelings toward the Tarnished had always been too tangled to name.

It was the first confession of his life—however bizarre the circumstances were, it was still the first time anyone had ever held Morgott this way. Those gentle kisses, those earnest words of praise… such things he had only ever glimpsed in childhood dreams, in which he and Mogh were ordinary boys, unmarked by curse or sin.

So this was what human lips felt like—like falling leaves, like raindrops, feather-light upon his skin, yet striking deep ripples through his heart.

Morgott’s tastes were no different from any other man’s. And for a fleeting moment, he wished he could forget everything—duty, blood, throne—and push the Tarnished against the tree, return the kiss, lose himself in it.

If only they were not enemies.

If only he were not the last king of all kings.

If only the Tarnished were not the hunter of shardbearers.

Had he not known beforehand of the Tarnished’s alliance with Ranni, had he never heard how the tale of gold and moon came to its bitter end—

How, Rennala the Queen of full moon, who ruled the battlefield with serene grace，before her even the proud Golden Order did humble itself in wedlock and peace, was in the end betrayed by her husband, when his need of her was spent. Stricken and bereft of heart, the Queen waned into madness, and was left to wither in her lonely halls, little more than a ghost of her former self.

The Tarnished’s kisses trailed from his cheek down to the thick cords of Morgott’s neck, fingers daring to circle him, brushing along the ridges of his spine. He failed to notice how the Omen’s eyes had sharpened—how clarity and malice had returned where confusion once dwelled. He mistook the tightening of Morgott’s muscles for shyness.

Ah, Tarnished, Morgott thought silently, this pit you have dug for others shall serve as your own grave. Your cunning has run its course.

Before the man could pull away, Morgott pressed his palm to his back, drew him in close, and murmured against his ear: “Thou art a fool, little Tarnished.”

That name—once spoken only to Ribbit—made the Tarnished’s eyes light up. He leaned in, smiling with shameless delight, whispering his tangled words of love between feverish kisses. And no matter how Morgott had already steeled his heart, it stirred and ached all the same.

But he remembered well how flawless the Tarnished’s performance could be. In Caelid, he had left no trace of deception—not a misplaced word, not a single gesture out of place. No wonder Morgott had never seen through the mask of Ribbit.

The Tarnished’s only weakness, perhaps, was his pride. He thought the rest of the world fools—that even those he had deceived and used for multiple times could be swayed again with honeyed words and a well-placed smile.

When the Tarnished’s hands began to wander—too far, too bold—Morgott caught them firmly. He forced a calm tone into his voice. “I must return, ere suspicion grows. And thou… must remember thy purpose. Until thou art Elden Lord, there is no room for such folly.”

“I’ll miss you,” the Tarnished pleaded softly. “At least… one last kiss before I go?”

Morgott hesitated—then relented. He could not risk tearing the fake peace now. And honestly, he thought, the Tarnished is not unpleasant to look upon. In that regard, at least, he supposed he was the one to take advantage.

They parted in the woods with a kiss, one striding away, satisfied and unsuspecting, back toward his camp—the other returning swiftly to Leyndell, to weave the snare that would end the hunter’s game.

Neither of them could have foreseen that they would meet again the next day—not in the shunning grounds beneath the city, but far above them, beneath the radiant boughs of the Erdtree Cathedral.

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