He was once a king. A warrior crowned by blood, battle, and broken oaths. Now he rules silence. Seated on a throne of ruin, his flesh long gone, yet his grip eternal. The sword that named him still stands, not for glory, but as a warning. The shield of the sun lies by his side a symbol of light he could not save. This is not victory. This is the memory of power. A cursed throne that no longer bleeds, but never rests.