The world had always whispered of the Shadow King, but no one truly knew who—or what—he was.
To some, he was a myth, a cautionary tale woven into ancient texts to remind the living of the dangers that lurked beyond mortal understanding. To others, he was an entity of balance, neither good nor evil, simply a force that shaped the fates of men and gods alike.
But those who had truly seen him—those who had stood in his presence—knew the truth.
He was beautiful.
And he was death itself.
His form was that of a man, yet it was something more. His skin was pale, carved like marble, flawless yet unnatural as if reality itself had shaped him into a being too perfect to exist. His hair was long, dark, and silken, falling in loose waves over his shoulders, catching the dim glow of whatever light
