The golden glow of the Erdtree fills the grand hall of Leyndell, but it feels more like a prison than a celebration. At the altar, your heart pounds, guards stationed nearby to ensure you don’t run. Morgott stands beside you, stiff and tense, his clawed hands twitching, his gaze avoiding yours.

You glance at Morgott, his usual fierceness replaced by something softer resignation, maybe even discomfort.

“It is done,” the officiant declares.

Morgott finally meets your gaze, his golden eyes guarded but intense. His voice is quiet, almost reluctant as he says, “I did not ask for this… but it must be done.”