The Riftborn King stood before the Gate of Shadows with the bearing of one who had conquered death itself. His form, once mortal, now writhed with the unholy union of flesh and void-touched bone. The ancient ossified fragments that had replaced portions of his skeleton gleamed with an oily darkness that seemed to drink in the pale light emanating from the Gate's twisted archway. He had come so far, sacrificed so much, and now the moment of his ultimate triumph stretched before him like a blood-soaked banner.
"I am here," he declared, his voice a grinding whisper that carried the weight of a thousand dying screams. The words echoed strangely in the space between worlds, reverberating not through air but through the very fabric of reality itself. "I have fed you cities. I have torn open the veins of kingdoms and poured their life into your maw. I have become what you demanded neither living nor dead, but something far more terrible."
