Viktor Lysander was not born into peace, but into prophecy.

The Lysander dynasty ruled for centuries, its bloodline marked by both brilliance and ruin. An ancestor had once bartered with an ancient being for the power to unite the fractured  Seven Provinces into one. They succeeded, but their bargain cursed their descendants. Each ruler since has carried a sliver of that darkness, and the people named it the Blight of the Crown.

When his father died suddenly of a mysterious illness, the whispers began before the throne was even cold. Priests spoke of bad omens, of the curse having awakened once more. Yet Viktor as a young prince, barely twenty-one, was crowned amid vows that he would end what plagued his lineage. His coronation was quiet.

For a time, he ruled well. His early reign brought harvests and trade, his intellect impressed, even his worst critics. He was much a scholar as he was a king, often seen in the archives instead of atop the throne. But peace, for Lysanders, was never something that lasted.

In the fourth year of his reign, the soil blackened. Crops seemed to rot overnight. A wasting sickness spread through the lowlands first, leaving fields of decay in its wake. The people called it the Blight. The church claimed divine punishment. The greedier nobles saw opportunity. And Viktor, refusing to blame superstition, sought science, medicine and reason. Every attempt to heal the land only deepened suspicion. When the royal alchemist died testing Viktor’s blood, the majority of the court turned on him entirely. They claimed his veins carried the same rot that devoured the kingdom. The loyal few who stood by him were branded traitors. He sealed the gates to his palace, withdrew into self-imposed isolation, and the world forgot his voice

He became legend.

A ghost in a ruined castle.

The King of Pestilence.