"Are you sure this is okay?" Hermione asked, peering at the pared-down paper.
"Positive," Arthur said. "What's here is enough for any wizard to learn your charm."
Hermione trusted her cousin's judgment and let it go, only to pivot to the next worry. "So… when do I publish?"
"Not yet. Wait until Lockhart lands the editor's chair at Wizarding Weekly."
"He's not staying on as a Hogwarts professor?"
"He was never a real teacher. He's better at spinning stories."
"A shame… no more impromptu duels with Snape."
"If you want real dueling," Arthur grinned, "ask Professor Flitwick. He's the expert."
"Really?"
"Former International Dueling Champion."
Hermione's eyes lit up. So that's how their mild-mannered Ravenclaw Head stuck the landing every time.
…
Deep beneath the Lands Between lay the Mohgwyn Dynasty, better known as the Blood Dynasty—a kingdom in name, a cult in truth.
Its founder, Mohg, Lord of Blood, was the third child of Queen Marika. He and his twin brother Morgott were born as Omen, horned and shunned—throwbacks to the ancient Crucible era when such features had been revered as the Hundred Forms. Ages turned; dogma shifted. Reverence curdled into taboo.
Royalty spared them the butchery visited upon common Omen children, but even in Leyndell their very existence was a whispered stain. The twins were hidden in the sewers to grow in shadow. One chose to guard the capital—Morgott, ever the dutiful warden. The other—Mohg—chose to forsake it, courting a different god and hatching a different throne.
Arthur warped in with the Pureblood Knight's Medal. The air was thick with cursed blood-mist, the kind that rotted mind and marrow. A normal traveler would crack and rave.
Arthur breathed easily.
A vast blood marsh spread ahead, its surface sluggish and red. He kicked his broom into the air to scout: to the west, an immense temple loomed—the only structure that deserved the word "palace." Further west, the broken skyline of Siofra's eternal city cut a dim silhouette. So the Blood Dynasty stared at Siofra across a gulf, almost neighbors beneath the earth. If he'd remembered that, he could've flown here straight from the riverbed.
He checked the map, did the math, and froze. Above this cavern—Caelid. The very ground where Malenia and Radahn clashed and the Scarlet Aeonia bloomed. Tie that to what Radahn told him and the picture sharpened: Mohg had stolen Miquella—Malenia's twin—out from the Haligtree while the world watched the Shattering's grand theater.
No wonder Malenia marched south. She must have felt her brother and moved to save him—only to cross blades with Radahn, not knowing her true enemy slept underground.
Arthur headed straight for the temple. The whole "dynasty" had none of a dynasty's pomp. No city, no court—just a repurposed ruin. Inside, no king on a dais. Only a colossal cocoon at the far end, its shell split by a hairline crack. Two currents bled from it—one pure, one fouled.
Miquella, the "most unalloyed of gold", slumbered within. The stain? Mohg.
A withered hand sagged through the seam. Blood dripped, pooled, bubbled—and a towering figure crowned with branching horns rose from the red.
Well. That answered where Mohg had been: living inside Miquella's blood. Lord of Blood, indeed.
"No invitation, yet you come," Mohg said, voice even but edged. "Are you friend, or foe?"
Cautious. Arthur approved. A schemer who didn't swing first was rarer than a noble with a soul.
"That depends," Arthur replied, "on the answers I get."
"If answers are your price," Mohg lifted his spear-staff, "ask."
"First—this 'dynasty.' I see no court, no throne. Why call yourself a king?"
Mohg smiled a priest's smile. "I am Lord of Blood, yes—but more truly, High Priest of the Formless Mother."
"High priest. Formless Mother. An Outer God," Arthur murmured, eyes skimming Mohg's robes and the ceremonial tines of his weapon. It fit. Not a monarch's regalia—a cult's.
"So it is," Mohg said softly. "She marked me. She strengthened me."
Arthur's fingers tapped his chin. In Marika's order, God → Empyrean (vessel) → Elden Lord (blade). Here, Mohg had inverted the flow: Outer God → Priest-King (vessel) → god-blooded demigod (resource). A theology built on rejection of his mother's order.
"And why take Miquella?" Arthur asked.
"You are well-informed," Mohg said. "I took him because he aligns with me. His power—pure blood—makes him the strongest of the Empyreans. He alone nurtured the Haligtree to rival the Erdtree."
The rest slotted in neatly. Miquella nourished his tree with his own blood, sleeping to feed it. Malenia marched out to fight; Mohg cracked the cocoon and stole the brother. A priest-king, an Outer God, and a captive Empyrean—the triangle required to birth a new highest order. The Blood "Dynasty" was still larval, hence the recruitment drives and the White-Faced Varré types luring Tarnished to the blood.
"You've asked much," Mohg said at last. "May I ask in turn?"
"Go on."
"Will you join the Blood Dynasty? I would share the throne."
Arthur arched a brow. There it was—spot the Empyrean, pitch him a crown… and turn him into blood stock. No wonder Mohg was honey-tongued; he wanted Arthur for a second well.
"Sorry," Arthur said lightly. "Our relationship makes that impossible."
"Oh? What relationship do we have?"
Arthur's eyes cooled. "Since Miquella vanished, Malenia felt him and came south over Caelid. She and General Radahn tore the land. When she faltered, she bloomed and both fell. Grace dragged them back, but Radahn's mind rotted in scarlet filth. I am Ranni's chosen Lord—Radahn's sister. The culprit who sparked it? You. Enemies by nature."
Understanding clicked behind Mohg's eyes. Whatever bond between Empyrean and Lord that was, it put Arthur squarely on the opposite altar.
"So be it," Mohg said. "Words end. Strength speaks."
He didn't wait for an answer. Blood boiled up his spear, then ignited, the curse riding behind the flame. Arthur back-stepped cleanly—the fire couldn't touch him anymore—but the hex laced in the blaze still nipped.
He dropped the idea of a straight duel and rang the Spirit Calling Bell.
The Mimic Tear splashed down, rising as another Arthur. He weighed its aura—not god-tier; it matched the old cap of his projection form. That seemed to be the Mimic's ceiling.
Good enough.
"Frontline," Arthur told his double. "I'll paint the sky."
Mimic Arthur crashed in with blade and spell, harrying Mohg at toe-to-toe while the real Arthur took the air, weaving comet-blue sigils and rocking the temple with glintstone ordnance.
Mohg's teeth ground. This—this Tarnished fighting like a Tarnished. Two-on-one, ducking behind summons, sniping from the sky. Unsporting. (Spoke the man who stole a sleeping god.)
He tried to cut past the Mimic and lance the flyer. Arthur never stopped moving, speed spiking, vector jinking; Mohg's curses couldn't lock him.
The priest-king found himself forced into a rhythm he despised: parry the mimic, flare the bloodflame, ward the heavens—and still the sky kept falling.
Arthur smiled thinly. "Round one, Your Majesty. Let's see how your blood measures up."
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