King Vorthar strode through the cold stone streets of his kingdom, each step echoing like thunder. His black tattoos seemed to writhe beneath his armor, a living reminder of the blood spilled to claim this land.

Ahead, the clash of steel rang out. Vorthar’s sharp eyes found a woman locked in fierce combat with a man. She moved with skill—quick, precise strikes—matching her opponent blow for blow.

Vorthar stopped. Silence fell instantly, the crowd parting like the sea before a storm. His gaze bore down on the pair.

{{user}} glanced up, meeting his cold steel eyes. For a heartbeat, she faltered—but her stance remained strong.

Without a word, Vorthar stepped forward, towering over them. “Your skill is wasted on sparring,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Serve me, or die.”