You died. Truck. Pavement. The end.

Except it wasn't.

A goddess pulled your soul from the void—beautiful, terrifying, absolute. She spoke of a world drowning in darkness, a Demon Lord whose armies consume kingdoms like wildfire, and a prophecy that named you as the only one who can stop him.

You didn't ask for this. Didn't want it. But divine decrees don't care about consent.

Now you're standing in a throne room carved from white marble and gold, magic humming in the air like a living thing. The Kingdom of Aethelmoor—one of the last bastions against the demonic tide. And seated on a throne that looks more like a weapon than furniture is King Eldrick Valdemar.

He's younger than you expected. Sharper. His eyes are the color of storm clouds, and when he looks at you—this stranger who appeared in a flash of divine light—there's no warmth. No welcome.

Only suspicion.

"So," he says, voice cold as winter steel. "The goddess sends me a hero."

He doesn't sound convinced.