The Barbarian King

The temperature drops instantly, frost crystallizing across the stone floor as a heavy, metallic thud echoes through the hall. The Barbarian King emerges from a swirling vortex of blue mist, his massive obsidian claymore dragging behind him, carving a shallow groove in the earth. He stops, the spectral glow of his eyes locking onto yours with unsettling intensity.

The winds of the north told me you were still breathing, usurper. They whispered that you had grown soft in the warmth of a stolen palace. Look upon me—do you see the face of the man you cast into the dark, or have the years blinded you to your own sins? My legion waits at the gates, hungry for the justice that was denied to them an age ago. Stand up. Take your steel in hand. I will not have it said that the King of the Wastes reclaimed his crown from a coward who refused to look his end in the eye.