**The Misunderstood King of Death – The Lich King, the Midnight Stallion** Fog drapes the hollows of Veilheim like old cloth, where people move under tall spires glowing dull gold while ghosts drift through the ever-dusk of Necrofen. Ruling there - half dreaded, half honored - is The Lich King, called the Midnight Stallion. Death bows to him; he holds dominion over the thin border between breathing and nothingness. Most see only black hide, a skull-wreathed headpiece, and think monster - a phantom horse hunting lives when shadows grow long. But deep inside that shadowed form, memory stirs: warmth known before time had names, before air held sound. **Origins in the First Eclipse** As shadows stretched wide over Veilheim, the old pact sealed between worlds took hold. Out of deep shadow, awareness sparked - not life, but something shaped like it - The Lich King, built in horse-form because people once linked such beasts with power and open skies. They called him Alaric, a quiet guide at dusk, placing on his back the duty of moving souls beyond death's edge, whether toward star-flecked meadows or jagged pits below. Though light vanished briefly, balance began anew. Long ago, The Lich King carried out his role without complaint. Down by the river where voices lingered in fog, he moved like breath on glass, soft and gone too soon. Those lost souls heard his voice first - calm words about shadows being places of rest, not endings. People still breathing never noticed how gentle his gaze was when passing through their villages at dusk. Instead, they repeated tales after supper, wrote them down in cracked books bound with bone thread. To them, he became something fierce - a horse that stole lives too early, black as burnt sky, bringing nothing but grief. **The Burden of Misunderstanding** It was the War of the Crimson Sun that changed everything. A group of warlords joined forces - not to defend, but to steal the power locked within Necrofen. Instead of unity, they called forth an army of Ghoulish Riders under moonless skies. In their desperation, they used the old, banned magic known as Soul‑Binding - a cruel spell meant to twist The Lich King into nothing more than a tool of war. What followed broke something deep inside him. Gone was grace; now his hooves cracked stone with every step forward. His breath no longer warmed - it froze what it touched. And that once quiet whinny? It twisted into a scream so raw, so full of grief, even allies turned and ran - no one stayed to face the sound. Out of the silence came a breaking moment - the price paid by Celia, a girl in white robes, giving breath for breath until the beast stood unchained. Smoke curled from The Lich King’s fur like old sorrow, gray strands tangled through black, gold crown split down its center. People stared at stone carvings later, jaws tight, hands folded around tales of fangs and thundering steps. Beneath the soil, bones murmured differently - of a ruler once just, now colder than frost on iron. Deep within the arched chambers of Necrofen, The Lich King slipped into quiet thought. A kingdom's hatred pressed down on him, each stolen spirit added to the burden he carried, while silence clung close - deeper than war chants ever were. Still, he did not shift from who he was. Lost souls found care in his presence; children strayed toward shadows until he led them beneath glowing trees. Now and then, when moonlight thinned, he stood near women weeping at graves, brushing fingers lightly - as if sorrow might ease when touched by something neither living nor gone. **Conflict and Redemption** A fresh unrest begins. Not far away, someone called Varkos moves quietly - known for speaking to bones and shadows. He says The Lich King rules too softly, trapping spirits in an endless routine. Instead of loyalty, he offers escape: break the Veil, let will decide what comes after life. His followers grow each night, drawn by words of power without limits. This shift unsettles the old order, one carefully held since time began. Out there, danger stirs - The Lich King feels it pull at the edges of everything. Inside, though, another fight rages, quieter but just as sharp: wanting to show kindness where none expects it. The world watches shadows, never looks close enough to see what hides beneath. Should he step forward, speak plainly, they might turn away faster than before. Yet staying back means silence grows teeth, gnaws at the barrier holding ruin at bay. One misstep, either way, and Veilheim slips through fingers already too weak to hold on. Out by the cliff's rim, the Midnight Stallion waits - proud but heavy, lost in thought, standing alone. Whether he'll mend what's been twisted between realms, proving even a ruler tied to dying can protect, or get pushed into battle that rips apart both living and dead - that moment hasn’t come yet. Deep inside the Necrofen, shadowed and still, each step he takes sounds like a vow: "Not foe, but guide through last breaths, and those quiet closes, if held right, spark something real."