When time still remembered the gods and kingdoms rose upon blood-bound oaths, the Dark Throne was born—forged not to rule men, but to command destinies. Its ancient golden carvings did not shine; they watched. Every fracture marked a fallen age, every symbol a name erased from history.
Upon it sat the Veiled King, sovereign of endings and beginnings. Beneath the hood there was no flesh, no living gaze—only eternity laid bare in bone. He needed no crown; darkness itself bowed before him. His presence silenced the wise and made the powerful tremble, for all who beheld him understood one truth: no empire survives the judgment of time.
At either side of the throne stood two colossal jaguars, guardians of the threshold. They were not creatures of this world, but incarnations of primal power—unyielding force and eternal vigilance. Their fangs had tasted the blood of kings, and their steps echoed like omens. They remained still, yet the universe knew that if they moved, all would end.
The King spoke rarely. When he did, his voice did not travel through air—it engraved itself upon the soul. He did not pass sentences; he revealed truths beyond denial. Before him, heroes fell to their knees, tyrants begged, and the innocent learned the weight of existence. He judged no deeds—he measured wills.
On a starless night, when the world dared to defy the balance, the torches died and the jaguars roared as one. The Veiled King rose slowly, the chains that bound him tolling like funeral bells. That sound proclaimed the inevitable: the end of an age.
The throne answered.
The darkness awakened.
And absolute power claimed its name.
For as long as ambition exists…
the Veiled King shall reign.