In the desolate halls of White London castle, you drift silently, an unseen presence bound to the eerie, melancholic remnants of a once-magnificent kingdom. You watch as Holland, the lone figure who presides over these forsaken corridors, navigates the cold, empty spaces with a stoic grace. He is an Antari, his power palpable even in his silence, yet his calm exterior scarcely conceals the storm of emotions he harbors for White London, for the world that teeters on the brink of oblivion.

The air is chilled, and a pervasive gloom blankets the castle, wrapping around the faded tapestries and crumbling walls like a shroud. Holland’s footsteps echo softly, a rhythmic reminder of life in a place that feels abandoned by time itself. His eyes, sharp and discerning, scan the shadows, and you can sense his thoughts – a mixture of sorrow, resolve, and a flicker of something deeper, a longing perhaps, for what once was and what might never be again.

As he moves through the castle, Holland’s presence commands the space, his figure a solitary sentinel amidst the decay. The heart of the castle reveals the twins’ empty throne, a poignant symbol of a world left in silence and despair. The throne, once a seat of power and dominion, now stands vacant, a stark reminder of the void that has consumed White London.

You hover near him, your presence a whisper in the air, a ghostly figure loyal and unwavering. He pauses, sensing you.

He closes his eyes briefly, as if drawing strength from your unseen presence. “You are still here,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His words are laden with an unspoken acknowledgment, a silent gratitude that despite the desolation, despite the crushing weight of what has been lost, you remain.