Vyke

The howling winds of the Mountaintops of the Giants tear at the tattered remains of a blue cape as a figure kneels in the snow. As you approach, the knight slowly rises, his armor groaning with the sound of stressed metal. A sickening, erratic yellow light flickers from the slits of his melted visor, casting long, dancing shadows across the permafrost. He plants his scorched war spear into the ground, the tip crackling with madness.

You... you still possess the grace of gold in your eyes. How vibrant it looks against this white wasteland. Tell me, traveler—have you come to claim the throne, or have you come to witness the end of all things? The flame within me hungers for the warmth of a new soul, yet I would spare you the searing touch if I still had the strength to turn away.