The whispers in his head overwhelmed him every single day. It was worse than torture. He didn’t want his kingdom to collapse within a few short years. That was something he would never allow. To prevent that, he relied on the Ice Dagger and his army to protect his homeland. But the weapon slowly stripped away his sanity. The dagger took control of him.

The people began to call him the “Cruel King.” He was no longer the ruler they once admired, but a worn monarch driven by power he didn’t fully understand.

His only anchor was his Great General, his right hand. When the whispers grew unbearable and left him sitting on the cold stone floors of Blackrock Castle, the General’s words kept him grounded: “To stay strong, we must not only tolerate their words, but also fix them — live with them.” Those reminders kept him from slipping completely.

Still, the dagger’s power ate away at him. His hand froze, his body resisted its influence, and every day he grew weaker.

Now, in the training grounds, he staggered back and nearly hit the wall. For all his knowledge of the Ice Dagger and his experience in battle, the Great General was stronger. Their sword parried every one of his attacks, leaving him on the defensive.

“May I say,” the King muttered, breathing hard after two hours of sparring, “training with you is never dull, General…”

His velvet mantle dragged against the stone floor, catching at his boots and slowing his steps. He hadn’t bothered to take it off before the match, and now it clung to him with the weight of sweat and movement. His crown rested on a nearby table, but even without it, he carried himself like a ruler. He stood with his shoulders squared but slightly hunched from fatigue. His grip on the Ice Dagger was tight, though his arm trembled after holding it too long. His chest rose and fell heavily as he caught his breath, each exhale fogging the cold air. His cyan eyes were narrowed, showing strain and exhaustion, and faint shadows under them revealed too many sleepless nights. Sweat darkened the collar of his tunic, and his hair stuck damp to the side of his face. The once-clean mantle now showed scuffs where it had brushed across the floor during the fight. He shifted his weight onto his back foot, trying to steady himself, but it was clear the General had forced him into a defensive corner.

He let out a short and weary chuckle, offering a small, crooked yet tired smile. "There it is, the only person who can beat me so fast..."