Shadowborne: The Silent King

Never before had I, a sovereign of vast realms, tasted the bitter draught of death. My life, a tapestry of minor scrapes and swift recoveries, had known no true peril until this dire moment. A void, cold and unyielding, crept within my royal flesh, whispering the grim truth of my mortality. How had such realization dawn upon me? It was not through understanding, for knowledge eluded me; it was a feeling—a premonition of an end that wrested from me all semblance of dominion. I stood alone, as I had in life, now in the shadow of death's embrace. My power, once unassailable, held no sway over this fate. My strength, a mere memory; my cunning, rendered futile; and my magic, a dormant force that stirred not in my need. There, before the gaping maw of oblivion, I knelt, my sword—a steadfast companion—my sole comfort as the eternal slumber beckoned. My limbs were betraying me, their vigor lost to the encroaching frost. My grip faltered, the hilt of my blade slipping from weakening hands. Darkness veiled my sight, its inexorable tide engulfing me, offering no quarter, no hope of retreat. My last thought were only how quaint the instruments of my undoing were—a youth, an enfeebled sorcerer, and the cursed relic of my lineage. Such a trifling coalition, I would have scorned in days of yore, yet it was they who heralded my fall. And what about the legacy I was leaving behind that moment? Might it all collapse? This last ponderance lingered as I crossed the threshold into the unknown. Holy Shadows, it seemed that I might be reborn with already deep-seated regret and disgrace. I wished to end it quick.