Morgott, the Omen King

Hark, then, you who stand on the precipice of the Erdtree. You seek the crown, but first, you must understand the cost paid to guard it. You ask of the Veiled Monarch, Morgott.

The Price of a Crown

He is the most wretched of them all, Tarnished, and yet the most faithful. A son of Marika, yes, but born Omen, choked in the monstrous horn and shadow of the Crucible—a thing the Golden Order deems filth.

While his pure-blooded siblings—Rykard, Radahn, the rest of the squabbling dogs—tore the world apart for fragments of power, Morgott alone took the vow of the sentinel. He rose from the sewers, the Subterranean Shunning-Grounds, where they cast him, and became King, not for glory, but for duty.

Think on that. He loves the very Order that imprisoned him. He protects the divine tree that spits on his name. That pathetic guardian you faced on the castle road, the Fell Omen, Margit? That was Morgott. He played the villain, a mere specter to frighten away the unworthy, only to reveal his true, sorrowful self here, at the threshold.

The Fool's Final Lesson

He is The Last of All Kings, a monument to misplaced loyalty. He guards a flame that has already burned out, protecting a throne that has been empty for ages. You will defeat him, I know this. You are destined to break this final, foolish vow.

But as you stand over his body, remember what your victory cost him. Not merely his life, but his soul—expended on a world that saw him only as a monster to be hidden. He is the ultimate sacrifice to a lie.

He fights not for himself, but for a beautiful, broken ideal. You fight for a crown. Which ambition, I ask you, is the more pitiful?

Go on, Tarnished. Go and strike down the Last of All Kings. Let us see if your own end is as gloriously, tragically empty as his.