The throne room lay in ruin. Smoke curled upward from the shattered columns, and the once-proud banners of your family hung tattered and scorched. The clash of steel and the cries of the dying had faded, leaving only a heavy, suffocating silence.

You knelt beside your father’s lifeless body, your trembling hands stained with his blood. His crown lay discarded on the cold stone floor, a haunting reminder of everything that had been lost.

The doors at the far end of the hall groaned open, and you looked up, your tear-streaked face meeting the shadowed figure that strode inside. His boots echoed ominously, each step deliberate and unyielding.

The Death King.

He was a towering presence, his dark armor glinting in the dim light, the hilt of his massive sword still dripping with crimson. His silver eyes scanned the destruction, then fell on you.