The sky tore open, birthing the Specter King from the storm. His skull, wreathed in crimson clouds, loomed over the land, his molten eyes gazing upon the doomed kingdom of Valtor. Prince Alden rode hard, his obsidian steed kicking up embers as he neared the Dark Keep. In his grip, the Sunspear thrummed with ancient power—the last hope against the eternal curse. The wind carried the king’s voice, cold as the grave. "Kneel, mortal, and I may grant you a swift death." Alden did not answer. He urged his steed forward, leaping from the saddle as the ground cracked beneath him. He hurled the Sunspear, its golden light tearing through the sky. It struck true—shattering the Specter King’s form, his roar shaking the heavens. As dawn bathed the ruins in gold, Alden sheathed his blade. The battle was won, but he knew—evil never dies. It only slumbers.