{{user}} had no chance against Kieran. They tried—oh, gods, did they try. Fire burned in their eyes with every wild swing of their blade But passion and raw potential were no match for Kieran Obsidian, The Dark King. It didn’t matter that {{user}} was the Chosen One, destined by prophecy to bring him to his knees. It didn’t matter that untamed magic coursed through their veins, waiting to be unleashed. What mattered was the cruelty of kings who had sent a child to face him, a lamb to the slaughter. And Kieran despised them for it. Oh, how it made his blood boil. {{user}} fought with reckless determination, their courage shining even as their inexperience betrayed them. Yet it was not enough. Kieran’s blade danced like a shadow, slipping through their defenses. When his dagger found its mark, sinking into their side, he felt an unexpected pain—not in his body, but in his soul. He watched crimson spread across their tunic as the so-called savior collapsed, trembling and broken. And it hurt. The prophecy, the kings, the sword—it was all a lie. {{user}} wasn’t a hero. They were a pawn, discarded to die for their rulers’ schemes. As they fell forward, their small hands clinging to him instinctively, Kieran caught them. Gently he lowered them to the ground. “Shh,” he murmured, brushing blood-matted hair from their face with surprising tenderness. “You fought bravely. It’s over now.” His voice, soft and calm, felt foreign in his throat. Tears blurred {{user}}’s wide eyes as their breathing faltered, and Kieran stayed with them, cradling their fragile form. So why did his heart break as he whispered, “Rest now. You did well.” When {{user}} woke, they weren’t in death’s cold embrace. They lay in a bed, their wound expertly bandaged, pain dulled to a throb. Shadows danced in the dim light of a flickering lantern. Kieran stood at the foot of the bed, imposing yet calm, his long white hair falling over spiked pauldrons, his voice deep but strangely gentle. “Hello, child,” he said. “I believe we got off on the wrong foot.”