The golden glow of Grace dimmed as he rose, strength flowing steadier through his limbs. The Giant-Crusher rested against his shoulder, each step he took through the Sanctuary echoing in the hollow silence left behind by Godfrey's shade.
Ahead, the roots of the Erdtree thickened, curling deeper into the citadel itself, guiding him higher. He followed them, his boots thudding against polished stone, his eyes tracing the quiet halls. Statues lined the way—warriors frozen mid-strike, maidens in prayer, dragons bowing low. A city still dressed in grandeur, though hollowed by time.
The climb wound upward, carrying him deeper into the Erdtree's shadow until at last he reached heavy double doors, carved and inlaid with gold filigree. Their size alone announced their purpose. He pushed them open, and the chamber beyond welcomed him in silence.
The Queen's Bedchamber.
Golden light from the Erdtree spilled in through tall windows, painting the chamber in amber. A massive bed lay against the far wall, its sheets untouched, a throne of white stone nearby—empty, waiting. Once, this had been the private sanctum of royalty. Now, it was silent as a tomb.
At its heart, another Grace flickered into being, golden strands unfurling like roots at his feet. He stepped forward, lowering to it, letting its warmth brush against his calloused hand.
For a moment, his eyes wandered the chamber. The bed remained perfectly kept, as if the queen might return at any moment. Yet the stillness said otherwise. The throne, though grand, bore the weight of absence. It was a reminder: even royalty, even gods-in-flesh, fade.
The climb was steep, the very architecture bending around the Erdtree's roots, until the path leveled into a great archway. A veil of pale golden fog shimmered, dense and glowing. It pulsed faintly, like the breath of something alive, barring the way forward.
He placed a hand against it. The surface rippled under his touch, cool and weightless, yet firm as stone. Beyond it, he could feel the weight of power waiting—coiled, heavy, oppressive.
With a steady breath, he pressed forward. The fog swallowed him whole, and the throne room of Leyndell opened before him.
Beyond lay the throne room of Leyndell—vast, silent, lit by pale shafts of Erdtree light pouring down from above. At its center, before the Elden Throne itself, stood a lone figure. Cloaked in black, twisted horns jutting from his flesh, a staff of cursed power gripped in one hand.
Morgott.
The omen king turned slowly, robes dragging against the marble, his voice carrying like a tolling bell across the chamber:
"Graceless tarnished. What is thy business with these thrones? Godrick the Golden, slain. General Radahn, defeated. And Rykard, done away with. The demigods… all their thrones lie bare. Yet still… the Erdtree wards you off."
His grip tightened, and golden flame bled through the cracks in his staff as his words grew colder:
"The thrones… stained by my curse. Such is thy lot. Tarnished. To spurn the grace of gold, and cling instead to this accursed strength."
He took a step forward, the ground trembling faintly beneath his presence.
"Nay. I shall put thee to death. For all that is foul, all that defiles the Erdtree… I Morgott, last of all kings, shall put thee down."
And with that, golden sorcery exploded into his hand, the omen king unveiling his full might.
The battle for the throne was about to begin.
The throne room erupted.
Morgott's first strike split the silence like thunder. A golden spear of cursed light burst into being, hurling across the chamber with the weight of divine fury. He raised the Giant-Crusher to meet it, the colossal stone hammer intercepting the blast. The impact shook the air, the shockwave rattling the marble beneath his boots.
Morgott pressed forward, his movements swift for one so massive. Twin blades of shimmering gold flashed into existence in his hands, his form blurring with speed as he carved through the space between them. The weapons crashed down in a storm of strikes meant to overwhelm.
He planted his feet, meeting them head-on. The Giant-Crusher roared in his grip, each swing answering Morgott's blades with earth-shattering force. Sparks and arcs of golden flame lit the chamber as hammer and sorcery collided, the sound like avalanches colliding within stone walls.
The shade of Godfrey had been a test of primal strength. This was different. Morgott's every strike carried the weight of a ruler protecting his throne, a sovereign fury that could not be faked. His sorceries burned bright, weaving curses and fire into a tapestry of relentless assault.
Yet he endured. Step by step, swing by swing, his strength matched the omen king's fury. His body bent beneath the weight of golden spears and firestorms, but it did not break. Each blow of the Giant-Crusher shook Morgott back, cracks creating spiderwebs through the marble floor. The throne room became too small for the clash of titans, every movement consuming the space with violence.
Morgott summoned a vast rain of golden swords from the ceiling, their descent like judgment itself. He braced, rolling forward into the storm, the hammer in his hands rising and falling in brutal rhythm. Each sweep cleared a path, shattering conjured blades like glass until at last he burst through, driving the weapon down in a quake that forced Morgott to stagger.
The omen king snarled, defiance etched in every line of his twisted form. But for the first time, he gave ground.
The clash had begun as one-sided judgment. Now it was a duel—two powers colliding as equals, the arena itself trembling under the weight of their struggle.
Morgott's fury did not abate—it deepened.
Golden flame swirled about him as his twin blades lengthened into spears of searing light. With a guttural roar, he swept them wide, unleashing a wave of cursed fire that carved across the throne room like a tidal surge. The heat seared the stone, leaving trails of molten gold in its wake.
He dug in, lifting the Giant-Crusher as a shield, the stone weapon absorbing the inferno. The air burned, his skin blistering under the assault, but he held. With a grunt, he pushed forward through the blaze, hammer swinging low and brutal. The floor buckled as the weapon connected, but Morgott slipped aside with unnatural grace, answering with a shimmering blade of gold that caught his shoulder and sent him stumbling back.
The king pressed his advantage. Above them, countless golden swords bloomed in the air, poised like the judgment of the Erdtree itself. At a snap of Morgott's fingers, they fell—dozens upon dozens, streaking downward in merciless arcs.
There was no retreat. He surged forward instead, rolling through the barrage, each sword striking inches from his flesh. One grazed his leg, another split his arm, but he rose amidst the storm with the hammer already in motion. The Giant-Crusher tore a path through falling blades, stone and steel shattering as he burst forth into striking range.
Morgott caught the blow with his conjured twin blades, the impact splitting the air with a sound like thunder. The two forces locked together—brute strength against divine sorcery—neither yielding. Cracks spiderwebbed across the marble floor, and the throne itself shuddered against the clash.
Then Morgott changed tactics. With a sweep of his hand, the golden weapons dissolved, reforming into a colossal spectral hammer. With a roar, he brought it down, its size dwarfing even the Giant-Crusher.
He braced, raising his weapon in both hands. Stone met sorcery, the collision ringing out like a bell tolling the death of kings. The shockwave threw dust and shattered glass through the chamber. His knees buckled. Morgott's golden weapon bore down. For a moment, it seemed the omen king's wrath would crush him where he stood.
But he roared back, muscles straining, fury burning through exhaustion. With a surge of strength, he shoved upward, knocking the golden hammer askew. The Giant-Crusher swung wide, carving into Morgott's side with earth-shattering force. The omen king staggered, golden blood spraying, his curse burning hotter with pain and rage.
The battle raged on—Morgott summoning spears, flurries of light-blades, waves of flame—each attack meant to break the intruder's body and will. Yet blow after blow, he endured. He adapted. His swings grew sharper, his footwork steadier, the rhythm of battle tipping in his favor.
The throne room was becoming a ruin. The walls bore cracks, the marble floor split and broken, and golden fire licked the wreckage. Two titans clashed in a storm of strength and sorcery, but the balance was shifting.
Morgott, for all his wrath, was being pushed back.
Morgott staggered, yet his eyes burned brighter than ever. He spat golden blood onto the floor, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of bitterness.
"Accursed… tarnished… why dost thou persist? Naught awaits thee but the hollow husk of thine ambition."
His body erupted in golden flame. Spears of cursed light rained from the ceiling in relentless arcs, while his conjured blade cut swift and savage, more fury than form now. Every swing carried the force of his desperation, the refusal to let another lay claim to the throne he had guarded in vain.
He charged into it, unflinching. The Giant-Crusher swept through the storm, a mountain in motion. Blades pierced his flesh, one embedding deep into his side, but he did not falter. He tore it free, his hammer already rising high. With a shout that shook the chamber, he brought the colossal stone down.
The impact struck Morgott full in the chest. The omen king crumpled, his knees slamming into the cracked marble. Gold fire guttered, his twin blades dissolving into sparks as he fell to one arm, breath ragged. Still, he tried to rise, lifting a trembling hand toward the Erdtree beyond the shattered windows.
"I… am its last defense," he rasped, blood dripping from his lips. "The Erdtree… shall not suffer thee…"
He stepped closer, towering over him. For a moment, he hesitated—watching this king, this omen who had been cast aside by the same order he defended, who still struggled to fulfill his duty. There was tragedy in Morgott's strength, in his loyalty, in his refusal to abandon the Golden Order that had abandoned him.
But pity did not stay his hand. He gripped the Giant-Crusher with both arms, muscles trembling, and swung.
The hammer fell like a landslide.
The floor split wide beneath the impact, shockwaves shaking the throne room. When the dust cleared, Morgott lay broken upon the marble, his light extinguished at last.
The floor split wide beneath the impact, shockwaves shaking the throne room. When the dust cleared, Morgott lay broken upon the marble, his light extinguished at last.
Silence followed. Smoke curled upward. The scent of charred stone and golden blood filled the air. The chamber, once resplendent, now lay in ruins—a fitting tomb for the omen king.
Then, a tremor ran through the stillness. From Morgott's corpse, a faint shimmer began to rise, at first no more than a glimmer upon the air. It swelled, coiling upward like molten breath drawn from the very marrow of the Erdtree itself. The light congealed into form—gold made tangible, runes burning with solemn weight.
Morgott's Great Rune revealed itself, hovering above his fallen form. It radiated the strength of a monarch who had borne both loathing and duty, the burden of grace denied yet defended till his fall.
The rune settled inside his chest with the others. The corpse of the king was still.
Morgott's Great Rune had been claimed.
Silence followed. Smoke curled upward. The scent of charred stone and golden blood filled the air. The chamber, once resplendent, now lay in ruins—a fitting tomb for the omen king.
And he stood over the corpse, chest heaving, the Giant-Crusher dripping with divine ichor. Another demigod had fallen. Another step had been taken toward the throne and the shattered Ring that awaited.
Past the shattered throne, the great tree loomed, and there lay the visible root of his journey—the Erdtree itself. He walked on, each step echoing in the cavernous hall, the hammer still heavy in his grasp. The doors opened to a vast stairway, leading upward into the golden glow.
At the top, the Erdtree towered, vast and magnificent, its branches filling the heavens. The trunk rose higher than sight could follow, shimmering like molten gold. But there, before the entrance, the way was blocked.
A wall of thorns as tall as a fortress twisted across the opening, alive with a faint shimmer of divine light. The Great Rune of Radagon woven within the brambles, strengthening them. He reached out, pressing a hand to the growths. They did not yield. They did not burn. They simply stood—unyielding, eternal. No weapon would shatter them. The Erdtree itself denied him entry.
He stared upward at its impossible height, its radiant branches. This was the throne's true defense—not Morgott, but the will of the tree itself bolstered by a Great Rune.
It towered before him, golden and unyielding, their glow pulsing with the will of the Erdtree. He pressed his palm against them, testing their strength—not a splinter gave way. They would never part for him, not as he was.
He drew back, jaw set. If the Erdtree's door was barred, then he would make another path.
The lift at Leyndell led nowhere for him. The Rold Medallion was beyond his reach; no maiden had come to guide him, no gift had been pressed into his hand. The way the world was meant to open simply would not.
So he would climb.
The Mountaintops loomed in the far horizon, pale and jagged against the clouds. Sheer cliffs of frozen stone cut down into mist and shadow, walls of ice that rejected all but the desperate. There was no path. No carved stairs or forgotten road. Only frost, wind, and death waiting in the heights.
Still, his grip tightened on the Giant-Crusher. He had the strength. His body was carved for this—each climb, each pull, each brutal inch forced against the world's refusal. He would drag himself up the cliffs if he had to. No barrier, not thorn nor stone, would keep him from what he sought.
At the base of the stairs, the Grace kindled, creating warm gold against the cold air. He lowered himself to it, breath steady, and stared into the faint shimmer. His path was never the one written. He was not led, not guided. Every step he carved alone.
He stood at the edge of the Capital's edge, the Erdtree blazing gold above and behind him, and before him nothing but sheer, frozen cliffs. The wind howled across the chasm, carrying with it flecks of ice sharp enough to sting the skin. From here, the Mountaintops loomed like jagged teeth, their peaks vanishing into clouds.
He stepped forward.
The cliff wall was slick with frost, stone and ice fused into one seamless, merciless face. No handholds marked the way, no hint of passage carved by others before him. The land itself denied the climb.
With the Giant-Crusher strapped to his back, he drove his hands into the sheer rock, the shock trembling down into his bones. His hands lodged deep, forming anchors. Hand over hand, he hauled himself up, fingers scraping for purchase on frozen stone. Another swing, another thunderous impact, another foothold gouged into the cliffside.
The world shrank to breath, frost, and stone. His muscles burned with the weight of his own defiance, each pull dragging him higher. Below, Leyndell's white rooftops fell away, the walls of the Capital shrinking until they were no more than a pale smudge beneath the fog. Above, the Mountaintops loomed ever distant, their ridges seemingly no closer no matter how far he climbed.
Hours blurred together, his arms and legs numbed by the cold, blood stinging where ice had bitten through skin. Still he climbed. Still he swung the Giant-Crusher, carving a path that had never existed.
At last, he hauled himself over a final ledge, chest heaving, frost clinging to his lashes. His boots sank into snow that came up past his ankles, the sound muffled and strange after the endless pounding of hammer on stone.
The Mountaintops stretched before him, endless white plains broken by shadowy peaks and twisted trees frozen in time. The air here was sharp, brittle with a cold that seemed to gnaw at the marrow.
He straightened, the Giant-Crusher balanced across his shoulders. His breath steamed in the thin, bitter air as his eyes swept across the endless expanse.
The Mountaintops of the Giants. He had reached them, by his own hand alone.
The mountaintops stretched out before him like another world altogether—one stripped bare of mercy. Snow swept in waves across the plains, whipped into veils by the wind that howled endlessly through jagged ridges. Trees lay twisted and petrified in ice, their branches like the gnarled fingers of corpses reaching for a sun that no longer shone here. The land was not merely cold—it was dead, a vast white tomb that gave nothing and took everything.
He trudged forward, boots sinking into drifts that clawed at his legs. Every breath burned his lungs, the air so sharp it felt like knives drawn across his throat. His hammer weighed heavy across his back, frost beginning to cling to its great stone head, yet he carried it easily, as though defying the mountain's will to crush him.
There was no sound but the ceaseless scream of the wind and the crunch of snow beneath his steps. No birds, no beasts, no sign of life. Only silence, vast and unbroken, stretching on forever. It was as though the world itself had frozen in time, caught in its final breath.
At last, after hours of pressing through the blizzard, the snow thinned. The white plains sloped downward, and the ruins of a once-proud city revealed themselves. Towers of pale stone half-buried in frost jutted from the earth, their spires cracked and bowed under centuries of ice. The ancient capital of the Zamor warriors.
The wind howled around him, a shrieking chorus tearing across the mountain's crown. Snow blasted against his bare skin in relentless sheets, biting, clawing, trying to burrow into flesh and freeze it solid. But he only stood there, unmoving, the pale light of the plateau casting his body in stark relief against the storm.
Nearly naked, save for the loincloth, he was exposed to the frozen heights, he should have been undone long before the climb was complete. His lungs should have been blackened with frost, his blood slowed into sluggish ice, his flesh cracked and blue. Yet none of it touched him. His chest rose and fell steady, unshaken. His muscles burned not with cold but with strength, as though warmth pulsed in his veins. The frost that landed on him melted before it could cling.
He flexed his fingers and felt the raw air sting his skin—only for the sensation to fade, dulled by the sheer resilience he had carved into himself through trial and war. Once, this place would have killed him. Now, it was nothing. He was beyond it.
A slow breath left him, turning to vapor instantly, swept away by the blizzard. He did not smile, but the thought settled in him all the same: the world had tried to break him at every step, and here he still stood. Not clothed, not armored, but alive—alive in a way few ever were.
The ruins lay ahead, half-swallowed in ice and silence. Without another pause, he set his bare feet into the snow and pressed onward.
The ancient Zamor Ruins rose ahead, jagged stone spires jutting from the snow like broken teeth. The air shifted colder still, a deathly silence settling as figures emerged from the mist—ashen warriors draped in frost, their bodies thin as starved corpses yet sharp and deadly as drawn blades. Their weapons gleamed with ice, breath spilling in pale clouds as they moved soundlessly across the frozen ground.
He did not slow.
The first Zamor warrior lunged, spear aimed at his chest, frost trailing like smoke from its point. The Giant-Crusher swung down in reply, a mountain of stone against a sliver of ice. The hammer connected, and the warrior shattered with a sound like breaking glass, body and weapon splintering into a thousand frozen shards.
More came, swift and silent, their blades glowing with cold enchantments. He let them. One slashed low, another high, frost licking at his skin, but he bore it, and drove forward. The Giant-Crusher arced, carving a path through the ruins, stone shaking as each swing fell. Warriors crumpled, crushed into the earth, their frost unmade by sheer weight.
One last Zamor knight, larger than the rest, stood defiant at the ruin's heart, spear raised high, frost swirling in a storm around him. The hammer struck before the frost could fall. The warrior collapsed into the snow with a hollow sound, frost vanishing as though the land itself gave up its hold on him.
The ruins fell silent once more. He stood among the fragments, the snow drinking the stillness, his breath steady as if the clash had been nothing. The frost that clung to the broken stones whispered of a once-great people—now reduced to brittle remnants, shattered and scattered like ice in the wind.
The Mountaintops opened into a graveyard vast beyond measure. Bones littered the snowfields—immense ribs rising like the broken arches of a ruined cathedral, skulls the size of watchtowers, charred limbs half-buried in ice. The remains of fire giants. Once-living behemoths who had walked as mountains, now reduced to shattered husks.
He slowed, dragging the Giant-Crusher through the frost behind him. Their scale dwarfed all thought, each corpse a reminder of power beyond comprehension—and yet here they lay, extinguished. Whatever had ended them had carved their fate into the world itself.
The silence pressed against him, broken only by the shrill, lonely wind. These had not been creatures of frailty. They had been made to endure flame eternal. But all things, no matter how vast or fierce, could fall. The Lands Between were littered with proof.
Ahead, the Forge came into sight.
A black bowl called a forge, carved directly from the peak of a mountain. Its colossal basin dark and empty, the great wound of stone unlit. Where once fire had roared, now there was only a dead silence, ash and cinders long since gone cold. The air carried no warmth here—only the cutting bite of the wind. The forge was a corpse, like the giants that had built it.
He stared into its abyssal mouth when movement caught his eye.
There—at the far edge of the mountain—something moved. Vast, hulking, alive. Not another corpse, but a remnant. A survivor.
The Fire Giant.