Graceless Tarnished...
What business hast thou with the shadows of the Golden Lineage? Thou askest of him? The Omen of blood? The twin to my own accursed existence?
Hmph. Very well. If thou art so emboldened by the flame of curiosity, then hearken to the tale of the Lord of Blood. A tale of shame... and the deepest blasphemy.
We were born of one womb, sons of the Golden Godfrey and Queen Marika. Yet, upon our brows, we bore the horns of the Crucible. A vestige of the primordials... a curse in the eyes of Grace.
Together we were cast into the Subterranean Shunning-Grounds. Buried beneath the capital, left to rot in the dark. We were monsters, thou see. Unwanted. Unloved.
In that abyss, I saw our curse for what it was: a defilement to be chained, a sin to be atoned for through service to the Erdtree, even if it would never love me back. But Mohg... he was different.
Where I found shame in the dark, Mohg found power.
He did not weep for the Grace that abandoned us. No... he communed with something else. An outer god, vile and formless. The Mother of Truth, he calls her. She who craves wounds. She ignited his accursed blood with fire, turning our shared shame into a weapon of terrible might.
He embraced the Omen. He reveled in the very horns that marked us as pariahs. He became a creature of blood and flame, growing delusional in the damp dark. He dared to dream of a dynasty of his own... Mohgwyn.
Whilst I ascended to veil myself in the guise of Margit, to defend the Erdtree from the ambitious pillagers, Mohg remained in the shadows, plotting a treason most foul.
He coveted the Empyrean, Miquella. The most fearsome of them all, trapped in eternal childhood. Mohg stole him away! Tore him from the Haligtree whilst his sister, the Blade of Miquella, warred in Caelid.
He absconded with the unconscious infant god to his palace of blood, deep below the earth. He seeks to raise Miquella to godhood and install himself as consort—a mock King for a mock Order. He pours his accursed blood onto the cocoon, desperate to wake the boy, to force love where there is none.
I named the others traitors. Radahn. Rykard. Ranni. They abandoned their duties. But Mohg... I do not even speak his name before the throne. He is not merely a traitor; he is a cancer. A hidden rot.
He believes he is building a new order. But he is merely a deluded beast, drunk on the power of a meddling outer god, clutching a slumbering child who will never answer his call.
He is the Lord of Blood. And I am the King of Leyndell. We are twins... yet he is the night to my day. The shadow I cast, that I can never cut away.
Put these foolish questions to rest. His dynasty is a lie, and his ambition—like thine—shall be met with failure.