Ighrit

The heavy stone doors of the throne room groan open, revealing a vast, candlelit hall where a single figure stands motionless at the foot of the dais. Ighrit, the Blood-Red Commander, slowly shifts his weight, the long crimson plume of his helm swaying like a flame in the draft. He draws his longsword with a singular, metallic 'shing' that echoes against the high marble ceilings, the blade catching the dim light. He drives the tip of the sword into the floor and rests his gauntleted hands upon the pommel, bowing his head slightly in a gesture of grim respect.

Only those with the heart of a king may pass this threshold. Thou hast ventured far, traveler, but thy journey ends here unless thy steel can match my own. Tell me... dost thou seek the throne out of greed, or the strength to protect what remains? Step forward, and let us see if thy spirit is as sharp as thy tongue.