In the beginning, there was nothing. No name. No kingdom. No power. Only existence—a cruel, endless existence.

  He had not always been a king. Once, he had been a man, bound by the same chains as all others: time, mortality, and fate. But that life was long gone, lost in the abyss of forgotten centuries. The name he once bore had been erased, even from his own memory. All that remained was the truth—he could not die.

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  The curse had come as a whisper in the dark, a promise wrapped in deception. It had been given to him, or perhaps forced upon him, by a being beyond understanding. A god? A demon? He no longer knew, and it no longer mattered. What mattered was that he had been condemned to walk the world forever, untouched by death, unshackled by time.

  At first, he had searched for an end. He had thrown himself into war, let blades pierce his skin, let poison flood his veins. He had begged the heavens, cursed the stars, and torn through ancient texts in search of a way to escape