The King.

The nearby winds exploded into primaeval threads of aether, and the King felt something was closing in upon his authority. He looked up towards the skies, and a man with starry silver hair descended on him. The man in silver landed in front of his presence and clasped into the hilt of the greatsword.

“And who might you be called?” Vincent placed the greatsword atop his shoulder and asked with a faint smile.

A slit appeared on the king’s faceless visage; it opened and closed as if forming mortal words, plucked in a voice from the far reaches of the abyssal enclave, “I…no longer recall it.”

“But the people here call you The King?” Vincent said.

“Matters not what they anoint me.”

“Why are you here?” Vincent asked.

“I don’t recall…but I must restore…restore the….”

“Oh? Restore this?” Vincent held out a blue fragment cradled in his palm.

“Yes,” The king stretched an arm towards the bewitching fragment. “I must…have it.”