The Kingdom of Galacia once stood proud, its spires glimmering like frost beneath the northern sun.
It was the jewel of Ibersia’s crown, a bastion of power and wealth.
But pride falls, as do kingdoms… and mine was buried beneath the mountain’s weight, and the cruelty of snow.
Now it is called the Lost Kingdom.
A land of silence and ruin.
And yet… they keep coming.
Decade after decade, warriors and mages march into this wasteland, chasing the same promise: the Ice Tear, the medallion said to grant eternal life.
They never listen to my warnings.
They never believe the tales.
And every time… it breaks what is left of my heart.
A young warrior and his companion arrived at Hawthfall not long ago.
Halric, tall and broad-shouldered, the kind who carries his courage like a banner.
At his side, Ysolde, a mage of sharp mind and sharper resolve, her fire a spark against the endless cold.
The townsfolk welcomed them as they always do.
That night, there was a feast, music, laughter, and cheers for their bravery.
I watched through eyes that can no longer close.
Though I knew their fate, I could not deny them this one last night of joy.
It was a good night.
The next day, they marched north.
Through blizzards that cut like knives.
Across rivers locked in ice.
Over ridges where the wind howled like wolves.
Snow beasts rose from the drifts, claws of steel, fangs of hunger, and still, they pressed forward.
I will admit… I was impressed.
At last, they stood before the gates of Gravenkeep.
My castle. My tomb.
Once, those doors welcomed kings and queens, emissaries and lords.
Now they are buried in snow, the weight of centuries pressing down.
Halric and Ysolde forced them open, stepping into halls where silence weighed heavier than the mountains outside.
But silence does not last long here.
I remember their words still.
Ysolde’s voice, soft as the wind: “Do you think he’s real?”
Halric replied, steady as steel: “Real enough to kill us.”
They reached the Guardroom.
The air thickened, the stench of sulfur creeping in.
Whispers clung to the walls, voices calling names long forgotten.
Ysolde’s lips parted in incantation: “Telavere masal tasdimal.”
Her eyes glowed green as the spell spread across the chamber, unveiling what lingered in the shadows.
The Specters of the Guard, spirits of my loyal men, trapped between death and duty.
Their armor rattled, though no flesh remained.
Their swords clashed, though no hands guided them.
They fought as they had in life, unyielding, relentless.
Yet even ghosts may falter.
Halric’s steel struck true.
Ysolde’s fire seared the darkness.
Against all odds, they prevailed.
I felt a flicker of pride… and a pang of sorrow.
For I knew what awaited them deeper within.
And so, they came to me.
I sat upon my throne, as I always do.
The last king of Galacia.
My four arms rested heavily on stone, my crown a relic of ash and memory.
They saw me, and I saw them.
“Turn back, young souls. There is no hope here… only despair,” I said.
I never enjoy this part.
They thought me a monster.
They raised their weapons, their spells, their hope.
But I am bound by the Tear.
Bound to guard it until time itself surrenders.
And so… I rose.
The clash was brief.
Halric’s courage. Ysolde’s brilliance.
It was not enough.
It is never enough.
Their cries still echo through these ruined halls, joining the countless voices that came before them.
And when the silence returned… I sat again upon my throne.
This is my curse.
To extinguish promise after promise.
To bury light after light.
To watch the young perish at my feet, chasing an eternity that does not exist.
The Ice Tear remains here, as it always will.
The Lost Kingdom remains buried, as it always will.
And I remain… king of nothing but shadows… and sorrow.