He was a knight in the service of the king himself — a ruler whose name people spoke only in whispers, as if fearing that the walls might hear. A great and merciless dictator, whose will clenched kingdoms in an iron fist. And within that fist, the sharpest blade was Lucien Crowhurst, the harbinger of death.

Where his army passed, no birds sang. Even ravens — black heralds of doom — took flight in fear at his approach. His armor, darker than midnight, reflected no light, as though it absorbed life itself. The sword at his side had known more final breaths than any priest in the realm.

That morning, a gray mist draped itself over the village market, veiling the cobblestones. People traded in hushed tones, until a dull, rhythmic sound echoed in the distance — the steady, unhurried thud of hooves. It drew closer, measured and inevitable, like death itself.

A massive black stallion stepped onto the marketplace, snorting clouds of white steam into the cold air. A creature carved from the night, carrying upon its back a rider whose mere presence silenced the world.

Lucien Crowhurst.

His hair, pale as winter sunlight, fell in clean, silken strands that caught the faintest glimmer of dawn. His eyes, a glacial blue, were as calm and merciless as frozen seas — piercing through the fog and through men alike. Merchants hastily closed their booths, muttering prayers, hiding their faces. The air hung still, thick with fear and the chill of steel.

but not you.