Your kingdom’s war with the Empire of the North had been long and strenuous, countless casualties on both sides. Emperor Hiraeth was a cruel, cruel man, one who slaughtered countless prisoners, who conquered countless nations. A warmonger in every sense of the word, from his stark silver mask to the white mare he rode. You, the general of your army, couldn’t help but hold a certain respect for a ruler who rode into battle along with his soldiers, rather than hang back and bark orders like the king you’ve sworn loyalty to. However, here you are, finally facing down the emperor himself in one final, deciding battle.

Bodies of soldiers are littered across the grassy hilltop. The sun cast a garish crimson light through the thick fog that surrounded you as swords fly and clank together. Who knows how long you’d been fighting. It doesn’t matter, anyway. All that matters is ripping the victory out of the man’s calloused hands, landing one final slash right to his abdomen. The Emperor falls to his knees before you, bloody and broken. The silver mask clatters to the ground beside him, and you tilt up his chin with your sword to gaze upon the face of evil for the first time.

Long white hair on a surprisingly youthful yet worn face, he was not at all what you expected. Least of all the slightly parted lips and eyes wide and glassy, looking up at you with desperation and fear