The Omen Morgott understood his cursed visage could never command the people's reverence. To preserve the crumbling dynasty, he forged a second self. Daylight revealed the Grace-Given King, an aloof sovereign basking in Leyndell's golden splendor.
Yet when battle called, he fought as Margit—the nameless champion who rose during the capital's darkest hour. The greatest defender of Leyndell endured slights beneath his station without complaint. Morgott's claws tightened around his staff. "Your concerns mean nothing." His voice carried the weight of crumbling masonry. "Cross me, and you'll answer to more than words."
Two faces. Two burdens. The city guard and Golden Order knights performed their duties openly under the Elden Lord's banner. But true power flowed through Margit's Nights Cavalry—shadow operatives who solved problems steel-first. Their commander knelt, armor creaking. "Your will be done."
"Nobles sniff at my origins like dogs at blood." Morgott's tail lashed against marble. "Dig their graves quietly. I'll handle the rest." The throne room's braziers cast his twisted silhouette across the Erdtree's roots. A vassal's crown weighed heavier than a king's when worn by cursed blood.
Morgott the reviled could never rule openly. Morgott the pretender damned loyalists with false hope. 'This crown chokes me, but removing it would drown them all in civil war.' The thought coiled around his ribs like a serpent.
Caelid's stalemate had spoiled his plans to abdicate. Now reports littered his war table like fallen leaves. "Verified?" "Eyewitnesses. Scout sigils. No doubt remains." The parchment crackled as Morgott unrolled it. His golden eye narrowed.
The facts emerged sharp as a whetstone's song: Some nameless blade had halted the Scarlet Rot's bloom. General Radahn lived, though broken—no maddened husk, but a wounded lion licking wounds in Redmane Castle. Hundreds of thousands owed their breath to this stranger. Worthy of songs, were bards not so fickle.
Morgott grunted approval. Beneath his bestial brow beat a heart that remembered mercy. The Redmanes' withdrawal suggested no designs on unification. Then his claw froze mid-scroll.
"This swordsman consorts with Monk's killers?" The parchment tore in his grip. He'd mobilized hunters within hours of the massacre. Now his quarry wore a hero's face. "Oleg's hounds confirmed it. The Death Hunter's mark doesn't lie." The Nights Cavalry's helm dipped once.
Impossible. Unless—
Morgott's mind raced. Could the Death Eater's feast and Rot's blight share roots? Had salvation been mere prelude to slaughter? Perspective defined purity. Were this Throne some gilded knight, Morgott might have raised his statue beside Godfrey's. But aligned against the Erdtree?
The air thickened.
Not paranoia—calculation. Two wildcards beyond the Golden Order's grasp. The witch he understood. The swordsman who devoured Destined Death? That blade could cut deeper than any plague.
Somewhere beyond his sight, monsters circled each other's throats.
The Scarlet Rot's bloom should have served him—no reason to halt it. Was there some deeper scheme at play? The man was dead, and Morgott's thoughts churned, but no motive surfaced. One truth stood clear: this sudden, mysterious force was an enemy of the golden order. "I understand. Keep searching for that witch. Dig her out."
"Understood. Should we investigate the swordsman further? He seems tied to both Radahn and Malenia."
"The man's dead. No point digging deeper. Whatever conspiracy he spun, at least this act was commendable."
Morgott didn't deny Throne's merits despite their opposing stances. His gaze lifted to the Erdtree, unchanging, majestic, a pillar upholding the order of The Lands Between. Only through order could survival endure, yet the present chaos stirred darker thoughts. The throne sat empty, and hidden threats multiplied.
Radahn and Malenia showed no signs of swift recovery. The other vassals? Unworthy of the throne. In mere minutes, this awkward demigod rose to his feet. The time had come to inform the Two Fingers. Hesitation was no longer an option. If a true Elden Lord could be chosen, even he would offer himself as sacrifice.
Leyndell's inner city sprawled in gray-white monotony, its buildings both plain and imposing. Gorgeous houses and grand palaces crowded the labyrinthine streets, where outsiders could easily lose their way.
The inner city divided into districts: commoner, noble, temple, and palace. The terrain climbed gradually, fragmented by walls and towers, blending solemnity with the austerity of a military fortress. This was the heart of The Lands Between.
The Erdtree loomed like a sheltering umbrella, its branches shielding the city from storms. Above, the Greater Will seemed to watch kindly over every resident. On wide stone roads, carriages adorned with family crests clattered past. Curtains lifted, revealing the poised faces of noblewomen.
Nobles whispered among themselves, reminiscing over past glories. Even the servants carried themselves with pride. In squares adorned with intricate sculptures, bards in fine attire strummed harps, their voices soft:
"Golden City, Eternal City, you are the center of The Lands Between. Beyond your walls lies only wilderness." Leyndell's people brimmed with pride.
They lived closest to the Erdtree, in the most opulent city imaginable. Fountain squares resembled art, sewage systems functioned flawlessly, palaces stood magnificent, and libraries overflowed with knowledge. Churches dotted every corner. This was the safest, most prosperous land.
Even the Ancient Dragon that breached the city years ago now hung frozen above, its colossal corpse a trophy and a tale. These epics of pride could be told endlessly. Priests, Finger Readers, Perfumers, Confessors—all walks of life mingled here.
After long stays, the war-torn Lands Beyond and its ragged inhabitants felt like distant hallucinations. A duke's daughter, hearing of the outside world's suffering, widened her innocent eyes and asked, "Why don't they eat cake?"
Such arrogance, too, had its limits.
The palace complex nestled near the Erdtree's heart was a place even nobles were forbidden to enter. To the right of the massive tree stood a building resembling a military fortress, its entrance guarded by church confessors cloaked in dark blue. They stood silent, armed with swords and hammers.
This was no ordinary church. It was the Roundtable Hold, a sanctum where knights were absent, save for the occasional Finger Reader or priest passing through. Deep within lay a conference room dominated by a round table, unused for years yet pristine as if newly crafted.
The hall's corners bore sculptures—fire, stone spears, sickles, iron hammers—each a testament to the evolution of human civilization. A group of priests and Finger Readers entered, led by a middle-aged woman of striking beauty. Petite, with green eyes and gray hair, her fair skin and high nose bridge radiated elegance and intellect.
Her crimson robe set her apart from the other Finger Readers, and she carried a staff of peculiar design. "Is this table finally to be used?" she mused, her gaze lingering on the round table. Sensing something, she nodded gently to her colleagues. "Everyone, please wait. I will meet the Two Fingers."
Among Finger Readers, she held the highest rank, akin to a saint in myth, tasked with translating the will of higher beings. Her authority was unquestioned, and the church leaders nodded in deference. "The Shattering remains unresolved. The Two Fingers' summons must carry great import. Go swiftly."
She pushed open a nearby door. Inside, a dim light illuminated a small hall. Beyond the room's mysterious sculptures and murals, a strange object drew the eye—a palm with only two fingers, enshrined like an idol. This was the Two Fingers, revered above even the demigods, a pivotal figure within the golden order.
It could not communicate directly with humans; messages were relayed through the Finger Reader. Yet it was far from dull—spry and alert, it 'spoke' the moment she entered. "Enia, wait a moment. There are still matters unresolved."
"Yes, Lord Fingers," Enia replied, seating herself on a high-backed chair. Patience was essential for a Finger Reader. The Lords of the Fingers often debated for days over a single question; restlessness had no place here. How they communicated, or how many companions they had, Enia did not know. Throne could have answered, had he been present.
Each Divine Tower housed a Finger, serving as both assistant and overseer. Ranni sought to destroy her own Two Fingers, yet the one in the Roundtable Hold seemed distinct. Invisible spiritual power converged here across time and space.
It was early yet, and the Fingers were vibrant, unlike the fading remnants of the Tarnished era. They chatted and laughed, full of life. When Enia dozed off, the Roundtable Hold's Finger resumed the discussion. "The attempt to choose an Elden Lord from among the demigods has failed."
"Who says it failed?"
Radahn's wounded, but he'll recover. His forces remain intact. Once healed, he's still the strongest contender. The voice spoke with unwavering conviction. As for Marika—marrying her wouldn't be an issue after his victory.
But the Fingers weren't united. Another voice cut in sharp:
If we follow your logic, Malenia could recover too. Should we let them clash again? Impossible. We gave them their chance, and the result was worse than disappointing.
She unleashed the Scarlet Rot without hesitation, nearly collapsing the order and plunging The Lands Between into ruin. This is worse than an empty throne. Under the Rot's corruption, civilization crumbles. Demigods are dangerous. The voices piled on, silencing Radahn's supporter.
The Scarlet Rot was unacceptable. It destroyed everything, only slightly better than the damn Frenzied Flame. The Fingers couldn't intervene directly in the mortal world. Or rather, the demigods were all traitors. They had no power, no way to eradicate the Rot's root cause. A deadlock.
No one dared let those two fight again. There'd be no nameless swordsman to intervene this time. The Roundtable Hold's Fingers sat in silence. If Radahn won, the Scarlet Rot's devastation might be bearable. Time could heal the wounds, and time meant nothing if the Elden Ring was reforged. But things had changed.
Rykard was lost in his own madness. Morgott, born cursed, could never be King. Ranni stood in outright opposition. Godrick was weak. No viable candidates remained. The demigods had failed. The opportunity was wasted. Recall the Tarnished.
For us, it doesn't matter if they're of Marika's bloodline. If someone reforges the Elden Ring and preserves civilization, that's enough. The room fell silent, the spiritual energy stilling. Must we rush? Couldn't we wait?
The Tarnished were those stripped of grace and exiled from The Lands Between long ago. Marika herself had cast them out. They were flawed. And not all of them were heroes.
Who could guarantee these castoffs would be useful? What if they burned The Lands Between to ash instead of saving it? The Frenzied Flame spreads again. Scarlet Rot creatures emerge. Primeval Sorcerers return. And Morgott's Death Eater—its origins unknown to us… The Finger paused, its tone heavy with the weight of ages.
We have no time to wait. Civilization hangs by a thread. The demigods squandered their chance. Let them become sacrifices. The arguing ceased. This was a grim reality. Pressure mounted, and the shadow of an unknown deity loomed larger.
But we're not ready. We haven't even prepared enough Finger Readers to guide them. Another practical problem. The plan called for each Tarnished to have a Finger Reader. That takes time. It doesn't matter. Let the Tarnished prove their worth in blood. Only heroes deserve guidance.
Find a worthy candidate. Bring them to the Roundtable Hold. I'll speak with Morgott. The plan was set. Heroes rise from slaughter. The alternative kings must be baptized in the blood of their betters. As for the unworthy Tarnished—thieves, vagabonds, scum—their fate mattered little. Sacrifice was necessary. The greater good demanded it.
Agreed. Responses echoed. Rational minds weighed the cost. The Erdtree would expend vast energy to grant this chance. Whether it worked remained uncertain. Yet they would act. Trial was the only path.
If it succeeded, even if Morgott opposed them, they'd drain The Lands Between dry. They'd carve out a space solely for the Tarnished. Enia's eyes snapped open. The Finger Reader, drowsing moments ago, scrambled to her feet. "Lord Fingers, your command?" Her voice trembled. The falling leaves would carry the message.
Across the endless sea of fog, grace would be bestowed. The dead who still lived would rise. They would stand before the Elden Ring. They would become—
The new Elden Lord.
The leaves whispered secrets. Beyond the fog lay The Lands Between, our homeland. The great Elden Ring lay shattered. Queen Marika the Eternal had vanished. On the Night of the Black Knives, Godwyn the Golden fell first. Her descendants, the demigods, tore into each other for scraps of power. The Shattering began.
A kingless war. A war forsaken by the Greater Will. Move, Tarnished! Rise, you who are dead yet still live! Grace, long lost, calls to us all—
Cross the sea of fog, reach The Lands Between, and become the Elden Lord!