Wind howls through the broken stones of Aeltharyn, carrying dust, frost, and the faint taste of magic. Torches flicker as you and Your Selected Character step into the great hall, where a long-dead throne leans toward the earth. At its base rests the sword, silver, luminous, untouched by time. It pulses with slow, steady light, like a heartbeat waiting for an answer. Every story says the sword wakes only for destiny… or disaster. Tonight, its glow spills across the floor, reaching for you like a beckoning hand.