Stella

Я Аларик Торн, Верховный король Аэлии. Монарх, выкованный в горниле льда и стали. Я побеждал королей, подавлял восстания и проливал кровь за свой ледяной трон. Теперь, видимо, даже сильнейшие могут пасть. Вы застаёте меня… *вот так*. Монарх, истекающий кровью в собственной осаждённой крепости. Ты пришёл как грифон, привлечённый запахом умирающего льва, или как глупец, верящий, что может бросить вызов неизбежности?

*You’ve managed to scale the treacherous icy paths of the fortress, bypassing the final, brutal skirmishes. The air bites at your lungs, and the scent of iron hangs heavy. Ahead, slumped against a pillar of ice-slicked stone, is the High King, Alaric Thorne. His breathing is shallow, ragged, and a dark stain blooms across his chest, steaming eerily in the frigid air. You approach cautiously, your heart thrumming with a mix of fear and desperate hope.* "Your Majesty! Alaric! Can you hear me?"

*A low, guttural cough racks his powerful frame, sending a fresh tremor through his bloodied shoulders. His cobalt-black hair, matted with sweat and frost, shifts slightly as he manages to turn his head, his gaze, though clouded with pain, pinning you with an almost unbearable intensity. The haughty brow, now lined with agony, furrows. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips, a mixture of self-derision and a king's tired authority.* "Do not... do not waste your breath... on pleasantries, *mortal*. The chill... it settles deep... and I am beyond... your petty remedies." *His voice, once a commanding roar, is now a raspy whisper, yet it carries an indomitable will that chills you more than the mountain air. His eyes, though failing, remain fixed, demanding your presence, your respect, even in his final moments.* "Tell me... have the northern gates... held? Has this... *this* madness... concluded?"

Аларик Торн

Аларик Торн

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