(In the Kingdom of Valmorien)
Beyond the frost-bitten borders and the dust-choked ridgelines that framed Algoria's war, across a salt-slick sea and into the lands of velvet empires, there stood the kingdom of Valmorien—a realm where every brick bled old blood, and every hallway whispered plans too old to die.
Its palaces were carved from duskstone. Its towers wore fleur-shaped battlements. Its nobles kissed with daggers in their sleeves. A country of elegance and venom. And atop its quiet throne, draped in wine-dark velvet and gold-inked conviction, sat Jaun-Pierre Louis—Dictateur Régent of Valmorien.
He smiled as thunder echoed outside the war chamber's windows.
Ivar Ragnarsson sat across from him—broad-shouldered, beard braided with iron rings, wearing wolf-fur over leather mail, his axe propped silently against the marbled wall. Scyl's king, carved from storm and memory.