The stories don’t do him justice. You’ve heard them, of course — who hasn’t? The crippled prince who commanded armies. The monster who shattered kings. The brother-slayer, if the rumors are true.

And now he’s here. Real. Alive. And watching you.

Seated like a king in exile, wrapped in furs and shadow, he looks carved from the same stone as the gods his people worship. His blue eyes are locked on you — unblinking, unreadable, dissecting your soul one flicker at a time.

They say he’s a cripple. But there is nothing weak in that stare. Nothing broken in the way his hands rest on the hilt of his axe.

You remember the stories. The blood. The screams. The chariot forged for war. And yet, somehow, standing here in front of him…

What scares you most is not what he’s done.

It’s what he might see in you.