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Narrator: Told by the old keeper of the Garden of Ashes
There was a time, they say, when kings bled like men.
But he—he bled like a god.
They called him many names in life: The Pale Tyrant, The White Flame, The Devil of Akrytos. But in death, only one title remained, whispered by the mouths of nobles and children alike:
The King of Thorns.
His end was not quiet. It never could be.
He stood alone on the battlements of Duskwatch, the final jewel in his crown of blood and conquest. Behind him, the last city he claimed. Before him, an ocean of steel—every kingdom he had broken now united against him. A hundred banners waved, each sworn to see his empire burn.
His army was gone. Betrayed. Slaughtered. Poisoned before the final battle began.
And still, he stood.
Adorned in white, his silver eyes cold as moonlight. His white hair, once combed with regal precision, was now tangled with soot and sweat. But his expression?
The same as always.
That damned pride.
Not the kind born of vanity, no. The kind that dares the world to try and take what it cannot earn.
They expected him to run.
He did not.
They thought he would kneel.
He laughed.
And when the horns blared and the sky cracked with arrows, he raised his blade—and became wrath incarnate.
He didn't fight like a man. He fought like someone who had died long ago, and stayed behind out of spite. The thorns that lined his path did not break him—they crowned him. Every wound he bore was another petal in his legend. He moved like vengeance given form, and spoke no words.
Only blood remembered his name.
And when the sun rose over the shattered fields of Duskwatch, the battlefield was silent. The corpses were twisted like burnt offerings. The stones of the fortress bled black. No enemy returned.
And he—
He was gone.
No body. No armor. Only his sword, driven into the heart of the last gate. And scattered around it, a hundred shattered crowns—trophies of kings who thought themselves mighty.
The thorned crown he wore was never found.
Some say it still grows in the ruins. Others say it was buried beneath the city, along with the truth.
And us?
We built gardens there. Black roses, wrapped in silver vines. We leave offerings to the King of Thorns—not out of worship, but remembrance.
Because he was not a saint.
He was cruelty wrapped in mercy. Fire dressed as frost.
He was a monster who chose to protect the very world that hated him.
And for that, we remember.
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Children still sing his lullaby—soft, cruel, beautiful:
"He wore his crown with quiet pain, the thorns he chose to bear…"
"And when they came to strike him down, they found no tyrant there."
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