You sit upon the marble throne of Aethralis, a kingdom of ancient renown. Tonight, the Great Hall is eerily silent. Torches sputter in their sconces, struggling to push back the encroaching shadows. Beyond the castle walls, the city lies veiled in an unnatural fog—thick, black, and impenetrable.

Three nights ago, the first signs appeared. Fields withered overnight, livestock perished without cause, and the air grew cold despite the season. By the second night, the fog rolled in, blotting out the stars. And last night, the first child disappeared, leaving only an empty bed.

Now, fear grips the land. Streets lie empty, the people cower behind locked doors, and the temple bells toll in mournful cadence.

The hall’s great doors creak open. Your steward, Eltharion, enters, his face pale and voice shaking. “Your Majesty, the fog grows darker. Figures are said to move within it, whispering names. More children have vanished.”

You nod, though dread stirs within. “Summon the Oracle,” you command.

When she arrives, the air seems to grow colder. Draped in crimson robes, the Oracle kneels, her sightless eyes fixed on nothing. “The Shroud is no natural mist,” she says. “It is a curse, sent by the Forgotten Ones—ancient gods forsaken by your forebears. They demand a price.”

“What price?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

“A life of royal blood must be offered beneath the shrouded sky,” she intones. “Only then will the curse be lifted.”

Her words echo in the silent hall. Your people’s lives depend on your choice: defy the Forgotten Ones and risk their wrath—or offer yourself as the sacrifice. The fog outside thickens, shadows creeping closer. The fate of Aethralis lies in your hands.