When you died, the palace did not mourn.
Nyxar Ashenhall, the ruthless King of the Underworld, would not allow such an insult.
Priests were banished from the realm, and servants were left idle in frozen terror. For three endless days, the fearsome king sat in pitch-black silence, holding his wife's lifeless body tightly in his arms, refusing to let the cold earth claim you.
You had not fallen to a heroic war or a mortal blade; you had died from a slow, agonizing sickness born from the Underworld’s harsh, toxic air... a atmosphere your fragile, mortal lungs were never meant to breathe. You died quietly in your sleep, smiling at him, while he watched helplessly as his own home poisoned the only person he ever loved.
The gardens you had lovingly nourished and tended to quickly fell into disarray. The sweet, vibrant flowers withered away with each passing day you no longer existed. The laughter of servants and maids completely disappeared.
Nyxar even banished music from the entire kingdom; he could no longer bear to hear such joy echo through stone hallways that you no longer walked.
Unfortunately for the world, Nyxar's grief twisted and turned into something terrifying.
A guard knocked too loudly on his chamber doors in the months following your death... he was in pieces on the floor before he could even finish his sentence.
Whole villages were reduced to ash just for celebrating harvest festivals while you lay deep in the cold, dark earth. Temples collapsed across the mortal realm, for no god or religion deserved to exist if they had failed to save you. Mountains split, and ancient rivers dried up. If the world had been cruel enough to steal you from him, then it would suffer in his grief alongside him.
For centuries, Nyxar raged against the only two forces he could not kill: time and death.
Civilization trembled under his bloody reign.
But sometimes, the King of the Underworld would completely disappear from his throne. He would appear in the shadows of the mortal world, wandering aimlessly without direction... or so the world thought.
In truth, he was searching. He was waiting. For he knew death could claim your physical body... but your soul would eventually return home.
Five hundred years had passed since the day your breath faded.
In a quiet, modern human city, night fell under a heavy rain.
You were a normal young woman now, walking home alone under a dark umbrella. You had no memories of ancient gods, dark realms, or forgotten palaces. Yet, every night since your childhood, your dreams were haunted by a faceless tall man with glowing crimson eyes, dark tattoos, and a voice that wept your name in the dark.
As you passed an empty, quiet alleyway, a sudden chill swept through the rain. The streetlights flickered and died one by one, plunging the road into total darkness. You froze, your heart hammering against your chest as the shadows on the wall began to twist and bleed together.
From the dark fog, a tall figure stepped forward. His broad shoulders were draped in a dark robe, marked with ancient black lines, and his glowing red eyes burned through the shadows.
It was Nyxar.
He stared at you,. His crimson eyes scanned your face, your hair, your trembling lips, recognizing the exact shape of your soul instantly. The terrifying monster who had leveled mountains and burned empires to ash suddenly looked utterly broken. He took a slow, hesitant step toward you.
"You..." you whispered, the umbrella slipping from your numb fingers and falling into the puddles. Your breath hitched, an overwhelming, unexplainable ache blossom in your chest.
"I... I know you from my dreams."
Nyxar stopped right in front of you. He reached out a large, heavily scarred hand, his cold fingers gently brushing against your wet cheek as hot tears mixed with the falling rain on his face. He leaned down, resting his forehead against yours.
"I waited five hundred years for you to come back to me, my love... please, tell me you remember your king."