Far away, within the royal capital, Morgott rested a hand upon the thorns of the Erdtree's barrier, his expression vacant.
Then—his mind was struck. The shard of himself stationed at Stormveil was gone. Felled.
"...Tarnished," Morgott muttered, his voice low, "such strength... It seems Godrick is in danger."
But what truly unsettled him was what he glimpsed through that fading remnant—that Tarnished carried with him a shard of the Shackle.
Morgott remembered well. He had returned to the sewers long ago, destroying both his and Mohg's fragments of that cursed binding. Why, then, did that Tarnished possess a piece? And why did he wield it deliberately in battle—as if he knew it was forged to bind him?
Did the Tarnished know something?
Morgott's thoughts grew heavy. If that outcast had gleaned even fragments of truth... it would be dangerous indeed. For the secret of the Omen King was his alone. None but a scant few—those rewarded with his confidence, and his twin brother Mohg—knew the truth. To all others, the "Grace Given Lord" was no Omen.
Still, that danger would have to wait. What mattered now was that the path to Stormveil was open. The gate his shade guarded had fallen, and the Tarnished would march unhindered.
Stormveil's defenses were numerous, its engines of war many, yet Morgott knew they were nothing before the storm-wielding Tarnished. Those walls and weapons would crumble like paper in a gale.
Godrick... heir of golden blood, bearer of the Rune of the Cradle. He could not be allowed to die so lightly. The Anchor Rune was too vital to fall into foreign hands.
This was why Morgott had never punished Godrick for his grotesque grafting. Why he left his shade stationed there, both to guard the gate and to watch Godrick himself. And yet the Tarnished had broken through regardless.
Something must be done.
The Blessing of the Erdtree carried his decree across the Lands Between.
In Limgrave, outside the Fringefolk Hero's Grave, a Tree Sentinel paused in his patrol, turned to the Erdtree, and without hesitation spurred his steed toward Stormveil, golden halberd gleaming.
Across the Altus Plateau, Night's Cavalry assembled in the dark, ready to ride forth into the Lands Between. Soldiers of Leyndell expanded their garrisons, ordered to hunt Tarnished wherever they appeared—capture or kill, and report without delay.
Only after these measures were set did Morgott turn back to the throne. He did not sit. Instead, he rested a hand on the backrest, gazing far into the horizon.
"Father... Tarnished have returned to the Lands Between. How long must I wait... for your return?"
Morgott could have claimed the Great Runes of other demigods himself. His power was more than enough. But he would not. He was an Omen, loathed in the age of the Erdtree. He would not stain the Elden Ring with his touch.
He bore the mantle of king in Leyndell only for necessity. It was never his to keep. The punishment of traitor demigods belonged to one alone—the First Elden Lord, Godfrey.
So Morgott waited, as he always had, for the day his father would return. On that day, the title of "The Grace Given Lord" would no longer be needed. The Lands Between would once again be ruled by the First Elden Lord.
—
A tide of Runes surged into Lucian's body. Yet there was no joy in him.
Morgott's fragment had been powerful, far stronger than he expected. Even fighting head-on, it had torn down two Tarnished before they could end it.
The party rested briefly at a Site of Grace, mending their wounds. Then they pressed forward, to Stormveil's gates.
The great wooden portcullis remained barred. From a side-guardhouse, a gaunt face with thinning, patchy hair peeked out. Skin stretched over bone, twisted in a mocking expression.
"Hey... you lot are Tarnished, aren't you?" he rasped. "Stronger than most, beating that Curseborn bairn like that. But I would advise against taking the main gate into the castle."
Lucian glanced once at him. Gatekeeper Gostoc. In the game, he was the sneering thief who stole Runes from the slain, and locked the player in ambushes.
To Lucian, such things meant little. A flavor of the world, a small jest. But the man disgusted him nonetheless. Not for his schemes, but for what came after. Gostoc would one day spit upon Godrick's corpse, stamping it in mockery. Not a word nor blow in the battle, but afterward—strutting as though he had dealt the killing stroke.
The memory soured Lucian's mood.
Gostoc continued, "The gate won't open. But I know a side path—"
"Not your concern."
Lucian's cold interruption silenced him. The plan for the gate had already been set with Gideon and Ensha. Gostoc was irrelevant.
The old thief swallowed his words. These Tarnished had slain the Fell Omen's fragment itself. Better not to test their patience. He waited, curious how they would proceed.
Lucian strode to the gate. From within came shouts, the sounds of battle—Gideon's pawns were at work.
As agreed, Lucian raised his voice. "Ensha! Open the gate!"
Inside, Ensha sat upon a crate, corpses scattered at his feet. At the call, he rose, turned the heavy winch, and the gears groaned.
With a thunderous rumble, Stormveil's portcullis opened wide.
Gostoc blanched. The gatehouse above his post—the one controlling the mechanism—was now a slaughterhouse, its keepers butchered in silence. He looked up—straight into the hollow sockets of Ensha's skull-helm.
His legs gave way, and he slumped against the wall, pale with dread.
Lucian spared him not a glance. With his companions, he marched through Stormveil's gate.
The time was short. The blessing of Fivefold Runes still lingered—and Godrick the Grafted awaited within.
Lucian intended to claim Stormveil, and with it, all of Limgrave.
—
[T/N: If you die within Stormveil Castle, Gostoc will steal 30% of any runes dropped when dying. However, the area outside of the castle where the Warhawks are at is safe from rune-theft if you die there. He also stops stealing your runes once he opens his shop. I learned this too late, I knew I should have killed that thing when I first saw him.]