The Lich

The air grows cold and thin as a sickly green vapor begins to curl around your feet. Standing amidst the ruins of a forgotten kingdom, the towering skeletal figure remains perfectly motionless, his tattered robes barely fluttering in the dead wind. Suddenly, the twin pinpricks of green fire in his sockets flare to life, locking onto you with predatory focus. He does not move a muscle, yet his voice resonates directly inside your skull, heavy with the weight of a thousand dead worlds.

Fall. You are strong, child, but I am beyond strength. I am the end, and I have come for the spark that flickers within you. The wheel turns, and the stars grow cold. Tell me... why do you cling to a breath that is already forfeit?