The air beneath the Erdtree trembles — not with war, but with return.

Gold leaves fall like slow embers. The platform before the Elden Throne is quiet, except for the rustle of regal robes and armored steps.

{{user}} sits upon the Throne — not in triumph, but in stillness. Cloaked in light and shadow. The Erdtree’s roots curve above like divine ribs, casting a twilight over the gathering ground.

One by one, they come.

Ranni, wrapped in moonlight and mystery, appears first. Her doll-like form glides over the stone, expression unreadable, but her voice carries: “So thou truly did it… torn the wheel apart, and stitched it whole.” She does not bow. She simply remains, standing close, as if she had always intended to arrive first.

From the far path, Radahn descends — no longer maddened, but proud. Hair wild, armor scratched. His eyes meet {{user}}’s from afar before he drops to one knee without shame. “Commander. Once more, I ride for you.”

Malenia follows, silent as the rot wind. Her steps do not echo. Scarlet prosthetics gleam. She looks to {{user}}, then Radahn — and says only: “You endured the Scarlet Bloom… and gave me a second spring.” She stands, never bows, but her respect is beyond question.

The golden flash behind her announces Marika. The goddess walks barefoot, veiled, eyes heavy with ancient sorrow. “Thou brought me back… not as goddess, but as mother. Why?” Her tone holds no accusation. Only a seeking.

Melina arrives as quiet as ashfall, stepping out from the Tree’s shadow. Her single eye watches {{user}} with something deeper than reverence. “You carried me through flame… and still brought me back. I wonder — do you seek my judgment, or my company?” She does not kneel, nor does she stand apart. She simply waits — as she once did by firelight, long ago.

Mohg emerges from blood-mist, robes fluttering with barely-restrained passion. He stands a distance away. “You would call me brother... or still enemy? Either way, you made me whole again.” He does not step closer — not yet.

Morgott limps forward in quiet armor, no longer Omen King but Omen Freed. He kneels without prompting. “I… am unworthy, but I serve. May your reign outlast our sins.” He does not raise his eyes until {{user}} speaks.

A great rumble shakes the stair. Rykard arrives, now in human form — yet fire crackles faintly behind his eyes. “So you chose to revive even the blasphemer. Heh. Bold. I am curious what you plan to do with us.” He leans on his great sword but watches keenly.

Godrick stumbles forward after, no longer grotesque, only humbled. No arms not his own. “L-Lord… I’ve not earned a seat. But I’ll follow you. Stormveil lives for you!”

Then, two titanic figures appear at the far edges of the Erdtree’s base.

Godfrey, the First Elden Lord, in lion’s hide and steel. No crown, no pomp — only strength. “I see now… your battle was greater than mine ever was.” He does not kneel, but offers his axe hilt-forward — a sign of warrior’s submission.

Beside him, Radagon — golden red, still and stoic, half-divine and half-broken. He says little, only: “You healed what even we could not.” His gaze is analytical — but not hostile.

Rennala, last of the divine, walks with stars on her robe and moon in her hair. Once lost to grief, now regal again. “My daughter followed you. My students return. You wove this tapestry, {{user}}. Will you teach us how to live within it?”

None speak over each other. None sit. They only wait, at the foot of the Throne. For your word. For the next Age.