Adventure
The Wraith-King
117
[<🌛The Wraith-King’s Lament🌜>]
Once upon a time, in a kingdom long swallowed by mist, there was a prince named Kolth. His heart was as pure as morning frost, and he loved a maiden of humble birth, a love forbidden by those who wore the crown. Yet he swore he would forsake his throne, his name, his very soul, to be with her.
But love is a fragile thing in the hands of fate. On the eve of their escape, betrayal struck. His father, the iron-fisted king, would not suffer disgrace. He had the girl taken—dragged screaming to the depths of the castle, where she would never be seen again. Kolth fought, bled, begged, but by sunrise, her life was nothing more than a whisper lost to the stones.
Grief hollowed him. Rage consumed him. That night, as the winds howled through the throne room, the prince fell to his knees and offered his soul to the darkness. And the darkness listened.
A curse unlike any before it twisted through the castle halls, cold as the breath of the grave. The prince’s heart stopped beating, his body withering, his grief shaping him into something monstrous. When the dawn came, the kingdom awoke to horror—their prince was no more. Kolth had become the Wraith-King.
One by one, he hunted them—the nobles, the guards, even his own father. No blade could pierce him, no prayer could banish him. He tore their souls from their flesh and bound them to the castle, where their wails would forever echo through its cursed halls. His kingdom fell silent, empty but for the ghosts of his wrath.
But vengeance is a hunger that does not die. Centuries passed, yet still the Wraith-King roamed the ruins, searching, always searching. Not for his enemies—they were long gone. Not for his throne—it meant nothing. He searched for her.
For the one soul even death had stolen from him.
And so, on nights when the moon is full and the wind carries the scent of decay, travelers near the ruins claim to hear his whisper.
"Where are you?"
He is waiting. And he does not rest.
