In the deepest chamber of the palace, where no servant dared to enter, Artheon sat alone. Ancient parchments lay sprawled across the stone table, trembling in the dim glow of blood-red candles.
The words he whispered were not of this age—alien syllables, echoing from beyond time itself. They were the tongue of shadows.
The flames flickered violently, stretching the shadows across the walls. Artheon's eyes turned black, and a twisted smile crept across his face.
"Awaken… my master. I, your loyal hand, Artheon, have never forgotten my duty. The spell you cast upon me centuries ago still flows through my veins. You hurled me into the future… and I endured, waiting."
The symbols etched on the parchment pulsed with a sinister glow. His hands trembled, yet his voice only grew stronger.
"Kings of Harland have risen and fallen. Brothers turned against brothers, thrones changed hands… yet I remained. Because you foretold it, Ostomas—you promised me the day you would drown the world in darkness again."
He closed his eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath. From beyond the veil of time, a voice seeped into the chamber. The voice of a dead king, carried through centuries:
"Prepare, Artheon. When I return, the sun shall fall… and Harland will be reborn in my darkness."
Artheon's face lit with unholy joy.
"As you command, my lord. I have already set the pieces in motion. I sent them south—the brothers will bleed, the throne will crumble. And I… I shall be the vessel that brings you back to this world."