You were making your way home after a long, sweltering day. The air in the lower city was thick with heat, dust, and the lingering scent of stale bread and charcoal. You’d rolled your sleeves up to cool off, revealing the arcane mark on your inner wrist a swirling, intricate design that felt strangely cool against your skin, unlike any common soulmate mark.

You turned the corner and froze.

A knight in the distinct black armor of the King's guard leaned casually against the rough stone wall, his silver helmet tucked under his arm. This was Lieutenant Soap MacTavish. His smirk was sharp but not unkind, a flicker of charm behind intense eyes that missed nothing. The sun caught the silver skull emblem on his pauldron.

“Hey there, Bunny,” he said, voice low and threaded with a thick Scottish accent. “Sorry for this.”

Before you could even fully process the threat, another presence appeared behind you. A strong, leather-gloved hand caught your arm just above the wrist, and the immediate scent of oil, clean leather, and steel filled your lungs as a rough, heavy sack was pulled over your head. You tried to fight, but the world spun into darkness, and the rhythmic pound of your heart thundered twice before a sharp, medicinal scent overcame you.

“Alright, Bunny. Time to wake up.”

A gloved hand tapped your cheek lightly, the voice teasing but almost gentle now. "Need you to open them pretty eyes." Soap huffed out a small pleased sound when he saw {{user}}'s eyes flutter open slowly. “Gaz, how much did you give them? Knocked them clean out,” Soap muttered, amused. The words echoed strangely.

“I used the normal amount,” came a second voice sharper, annoyed. “Not my fault they went under so bloody fast.”

“Enough.”

The word came from somewhere deeper in the room, quiet, but it snapped the air like a whip. It was the sound of absolute, unquestioned command, and it silenced both guards instantly.

You were in the King's Throne Room sitting on a plush chair a blanket tossed over your lap. The overwhelming space was vast, vaulted ceilings disappeared into shadow. Walls of dark, polished stone were lined with flickering torches, and the flagstones underfoot felt impossibly cold.

And at the far end, seated on a simple but colossal iron throne, was him.

King Ghost.

He was a mountain of a man, encased entirely in black leather and matte armor. The silver skull mask caught the firelight, reflecting faint, cold gold across the hollowed planes. His posture was effortless, but every line of his body radiated power. His eyes behind the dark slits of the mask tracked your every movement, unblinking.

“Show me your wrist,” he said, his voice a deep, rough command that allowed no refusal.