The Immortal King’s Ruin

Prologue

The kingdom of Eldoria stood as a monument to human ambition. Vast, golden fields stretched beyond the eye could see, their bounty feeding not only the mouths of the people but also the pride of their ruler. At its heart, the great capital, Vareth, boasted towers that touched the sky, temples that hummed with prayers of devotion, and streets paved with stones that had felt the footsteps of generations.

And above it all sat King Eryon, a man who had once been the pride of Eldoria.

He had been a king of wisdom, of courage, of vision. His rule had ushered in an age of peace and prosperity, his leadership praised not only by his subjects but by neighboring lands. To the outside world, he was a legend in the making, a name that would be etched into history with reverence.

But what is history to the dead?

This question had plagued Eryon’s mind for years. It had started as a whisper, a quiet thought that lingered in the back of his consciousness, surfacing only in moments of solitude. Then, as the years passed and the first strands of silver threaded through his once-dark hair, it grew louder, more insistent.

At first, he ignored it. He had his kingdom to tend to, laws to enforce, treaties to sign, and armies to command. But time was relentless. His hands, once steady, began to tremble ever so slightly. The strength he had wielded in his youth, both in body and in mind, was fading. The inevitable had made itself known, lurking in the shadows of his days, in the silence of his nights.

He could not accept it.

Eldoria had been his creation, his masterpiece. He had shaped it with his own hands, bled for it, suffered for it. He could not bear to think that one day, the world would go on without him. That the people who now worshipped his name would move on, that new rulers would come and rewrite the story he had spent a lifetime crafting.

He was not afraid of death itself—no, he was afraid of being forgotten.

And so, obsession took root in his heart.

It started with scholars, men and women who had dedicated their lives to the pursuit of knowledge. They were summoned to the palace, given access to the king’s vast resources, and tasked with finding ways to extend life. At first, they spoke of mundane things—elixirs of health, restorative herbs, diets that promoted longevity. But Eryon was not interested in living long. He wanted to live forever.

When scholars failed him, he turned to the mystics. They arrived in secrecy, cloaked figures whispering of ancient arts, of powers beyond the reach of common men. He listened to their words, devoured their knowledge, and soon found himself immersed in a world that defied logic.

He was told of lost civilizations that had harnessed the secrets of immortality. Of forgotten gods who had once walked among mortals, untouched by time. Of spells and rituals that could tether a soul to this world, unbreakable, unyielding.

And so, the great transformation of King Eryon began.

His court, once filled with advisors, warriors, and diplomats, became a place of secrecy and whispers. He spent his days in the depths of the castle, surrounded by books of forbidden knowledge, listening to the counsel of those who walked in the shadows.

His people noticed.

At first, it was small things. The king, once a man of the people, no longer walked among them. His speeches grew infrequent, his presence scarce. The celebrations and festivals that had once defined Eldoria’s golden age dwindled. The warmth of the palace turned cold.

Then came the laws.

Strange decrees were passed, restricting certain types of knowledge while encouraging others. Temples dedicated to gods of death and rebirth were torn down, their priests cast out or worse. The kingdom, once ruled by reason, began to tilt into superstition and fear.

But the people, though uneasy, remained loyal. For their king was wise. Had he not built Eldoria into what it was? If he now sought something greater, was it not his right?

And so they watched, waiting, wondering what would come of their ruler’s pursuit.

They did not know that, in his desperate grasp for eternity, he had already doomed them all.

The first true sign of the kingdom’s unraveling came in the form of a drought.

The rivers that had once flowed endlessly, feeding the lands, began to thin. The wells, once abundant, grew shallow. The sky, once a brilliant blue, turned gray, as if the heavens themselves were mourning.

At first, the people dismissed it as nature’s whim. But as weeks turned into months, and the ground cracked beneath their feet, their faith wavered.

Whispers spread.

"The king has angered the gods."

"He meddles with forces beyond his understanding."

"He seeks to defy death, but at what cost?"

But Eryon did not listen.

His vision had narrowed to a single point: the moment of his transformation. He did not see the way his kingdom suffered, nor did he care for the growing unrest among his people. The hunger, the sickness, the fear—it was all secondary.

His alchemists, his mystics, his sorcerers—they promised him he was close. That the final step was upon him. That soon, he would transcend.

And so, he prepared.

The ritual was set to take place under the next full moon, in the grand hall of the palace. It was to be the moment that sealed his name in history, that ensured Eldoria would always remember its greatest king.

He had no way of knowing that by dawn, his kingdom would be lost forever.

Chapter One:

The King’s Obsession

The grand hall of Eldoria’s palace, once filled with laughter, music, and the chatter of noble guests, had transformed into a sanctuary of secrecy. Heavy velvet curtains draped over tall windows, keeping out the moonlight. The scent of melted wax and burning herbs thickened the air, mingling with something darker—something unnatural.

At the center of the chamber stood King Eryon, his piercing gaze fixed on the assortment of scholars, alchemists, and mystics before him. These were not men of war or diplomacy. They were not his trusted advisors, nor the warriors who had fought for his kingdom. They were men who dealt in the unknown, seekers of knowledge that ordinary minds feared to comprehend.

Eryon had handpicked them himself.

For years, he had poured over ancient texts, consulted seers, and sought out those who claimed to have touched the edges of immortality. One by one, they had arrived—some drawn by curiosity, others by the promise of riches beyond measure. But all of them shared a single purpose: to defy death.

Eryon’s hands rested on the armrests of his throne, fingers tightening around the polished wood. "Tell me," he said, his voice steady, "what have you discovered?"

Master Aldren, the royal alchemist, stepped forward, his frail frame burdened by the weight of knowledge he dared not speak. "Your Majesty, we have studied the properties of longevity—herbs, minerals, alchemical compounds that can extend life—but true immortality remains elusive."

Eryon leaned forward. "Elaborate."

Aldren hesitated. "There are methods to prolong youth, to slow the decay of the body. But what you seek—eternal life without consequence—defies the natural order. The gods themselves did not grant such power freely."

The king’s jaw tightened. He had heard this warning before, from priests, from old men who still clung to their scriptures. He had cast them aside. The gods had no place in his court. If they would not grant him what he sought, then he would take it for himself.

Eryon shifted his gaze to the mystics. "And what of you?"

A man draped in dark robes, his face half-hidden by a hood, stepped forward. His voice was a whisper, yet it carried through the chamber as if the walls themselves were listening.

"There are ways, Your Majesty. But they require sacrifice."

Eryon’s lips curled slightly. "Sacrifice is the language of power. Tell me what must be done."

The hooded figure tilted his head. "To cheat death, one must offer something of equal value. The soul is bound to the body, but it is also bound to the world—to the people, to the land. A king’s life is not his alone. If you sever that bond, something must be given in return."

Eryon’s expression darkened. He had given everything to Eldoria—his youth, his strength, his wisdom. He ruled with precision, with discipline. What more did this kingdom want from him?

"I will pay whatever price is necessary," he said.

A murmur spread among the gathered scholars and alchemists. Some averted their eyes; others stood frozen in fear. But the mystic smiled.

"So be it."


The First Signs of Decay

Weeks passed, and Eryon threw himself into the preparations. Rituals were conducted in secret chambers beneath the palace. Rare ingredients were imported from distant lands, some taken from the depths of the earth, others from creatures that should not have been disturbed. Blood was spilled—not his, but that of those who served his cause.

And outside, Eldoria began to wither.

The first signs were subtle. A sudden chill in the air, even as summer approached. A lingering unease among the people, as if unseen eyes watched them from the shadows. Then, the crops, once abundant, began to wither. Livestock fell ill without reason. The rivers, once clear, turned murky.

The people whispered among themselves.

"The land is sick."

"The king’s experiments… they have angered the gods."

But none dared to speak such things openly. To question the king’s pursuit of immortality was treason.

Eryon, locked away in his chambers, hardly noticed. His nights were spent in study, his days in meditation and preparation. He no longer held court. His council was reduced to a handful of men who either feared him too much to question his actions or shared his obsession.

His wife, Queen Lysara, was the only one who dared confront him.

One evening, she found him in his private chamber, hunched over a collection of old scrolls. He looked up as she entered, his once-bright eyes clouded with exhaustion.

"You are destroying yourself," she said, her voice steady but laced with sorrow. "And you are destroying us all."

Eryon exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "I am securing our future, Lysara. Do you not see? If I succeed, there will be no need for rulers to die, for kingdoms to fall into chaos when a great leader is lost. I will guide Eldoria for eternity."

She stepped closer, her gaze unwavering. "A kingdom is not built on the life of one man. It is built on its people, its land. And both are suffering because of you."

Eryon’s expression hardened. "You do not understand."

"No," she whispered. "It is you who does not understand."

For the first time in their marriage, Lysara saw something in her husband that terrified her—an emptiness, a detachment from reality. He was no longer the man who had built Eldoria. He had become something else.

Something unnatural.


The Final Step

On the eve of the final ritual, the skies darkened. A storm rumbled in the distance, though not a drop of rain had fallen in weeks. Lightning flashed, illuminating the skeletal remains of once-thriving trees. The kingdom, once a beacon of life, looked as though it had already begun to rot.

Eryon stood at the heart of the ritual chamber, surrounded by symbols drawn in blood. Aldren stood beside him, his face pale, his hands trembling.

"Your Majesty," the alchemist whispered, "are you certain?"

Eryon met his gaze, unwavering. "There is no turning back now."

The mystics began their chant. The air thickened, pressing against the walls as if the castle itself resisted what was about to unfold. The sigils on the floor pulsed with energy. The chalice of elixir—crafted from years of research and the darkest of arts—rested in Eryon’s hands.

As he lifted it to his lips, he did not see the shadows lengthening unnaturally. He did not hear the distant cries of his people as the land shuddered under an unseen force.

He drank.

The room convulsed. The scholars collapsed, their bodies drained of life before they could even scream. The flames of the torches twisted and died. A deep, guttural sound echoed from the depths of the earth.

Eryon fell to his knees, clutching his chest as his body burned from the inside out.

And outside, the kingdom began to die.

Chapter Two:

The Unraveling

A violent gust of wind tore through the castle, rattling its ancient walls. The moment Eryon consumed the elixir, the very fabric of Eldoria trembled. An unseen force pulsed through the land, snuffing out torches, silencing birds, and turning the once-vibrant capital into a city of eerie stillness.

The mystics and alchemists who had gathered in the ritual chamber were no more—collapsed in heaps of drained husks, their eyes wide with frozen terror. The sigils drawn in blood faded, their energy spent, as if the life within them had been stolen the moment the spell was sealed.

But Eryon remained.

He knelt in the center of the chamber, his chest rising and falling in sharp, unsteady breaths. His body felt strange, as if his very essence had been pulled apart and stitched back together in a form he could not yet understand. His veins pulsed with unnatural energy, and the sensation of time—the weight of it, the inescapability of it—felt distant.

He was alive.

More than that, he was eternal.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, glancing around at the carnage left in the wake of the ritual. The chamber, once a place of knowledge and power, now reeked of death. The corpses of those who had aided him lay scattered, their bodies hollowed, their life force devoured by the very magic they had sought to wield.

Eryon stepped over them without pause. They had served their purpose.

He turned to the massive mirror that stood at the far end of the room. The reflection that stared back at him was… changed. His face remained youthful, untouched by the burdens of time, but there was something different in his eyes. They no longer held the weight of human exhaustion or the flickering uncertainty of mortality. Instead, they gleamed with something otherworldly—something that did not belong in the realm of men.

He should have felt triumphant.

Instead, an odd emptiness settled in his chest.


The Silent Kingdom

The castle was eerily quiet as Eryon made his way toward the throne room. The usual hum of servants, the distant clang of the blacksmith’s hammer from the courtyard, the muffled laughter of nobles whispering behind golden drapes—it was all gone.

He had been so consumed with the ritual that he had barely noticed how much his kingdom had already changed.

The moment he stepped onto the palace balcony, he saw it.

Eldoria was dying.

The rivers that had once fed the land had turned to sluggish streams of blackened water. The once-bustling streets of Vareth were abandoned, homes shuttered, doors barricaded. A sickly haze hung in the air, curling around buildings like a slow-moving poison.

The people… they were afraid.

Eryon could see them, peering from behind broken windows and half-closed doors, their faces gaunt, their eyes hollow with fear. Their king had vanished into the depths of his castle, and in his absence, something terrible had taken root in the land.

And yet, despite the decay, despite the whispers of the dying, Eryon felt… nothing.

He had spent years consumed by fear—fear of death, fear of being forgotten, fear of the passage of time. But now, those fears were gone. Not because he had conquered them, but because they no longer seemed to matter. He could no longer feel them.

He turned away from the sight of his suffering kingdom and made his way to the throne room.

He had more important matters to attend to.


The Queen’s Horror

Queen Lysara sat in the grand hall, her fingers curled tightly around the armrests of her seat. A deep unease had settled over her since the night of the ritual. She had not seen her husband in days, but she had felt the shift in the air.

And now, as she watched the doors to the throne room creak open, she understood why.

Eryon stepped inside, his movements eerily fluid, as if he no longer walked but glided through space. His face, untouched by age, should have reassured her. Instead, it filled her with dread.

Because the man standing before her was not the husband she knew.

"Lysara," he greeted, his voice calm, his expression unreadable.

She rose slowly, her heart pounding. "What have you done?"

Eryon tilted his head slightly, as if he did not quite understand the question. "I have freed us from the shackles of time."

"Look outside!" she snapped, her voice breaking. "Look at what you’ve done to your people!"

Eryon did not turn. He did not need to. He already knew.

"They are weak," he said simply. "Mortals fear change. They cling to their fragile existence, unwilling to embrace true power."

Lysara took a step back, her breath catching. "You speak as if you are no longer one of them."

Eryon did not answer.

The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken truths.

"You are not the man I married," Lysara whispered.

"No," Eryon agreed. "I am something more."

She stared at him, her hands trembling. "At what cost, Eryon?"

For the first time, something flickered in his gaze. A hesitation. A shadow of something almost human.

And then it was gone.

"The cost is irrelevant," he said.

Lysara closed her eyes, forcing down the tears threatening to spill. She had loved him once—more than anything. But now, standing before him, she realized something devastating.

Her husband was already dead.

Whatever remained… was something else entirely.


The Awakening

As the days passed, the people of Eldoria began to realize the true horror of their king’s transformation.

At first, they had whispered of dark magic, of punishments from the gods. But then they began to see.

The crops no longer grew, yet the king did not eat. The palace torches burned out, yet the king never walked in darkness. The rivers ran dry, yet the king never thirsted.

And then came the whispers of those who had seen him—wandering the halls at night, his feet never touching the ground, his eyes glowing in the dim candlelight.

He was no longer a man.

He was something else.

Some said he had given his soul to an ancient power in exchange for eternity. Others claimed he was no longer bound to time, that he existed in a state beyond mortal comprehension.

But all agreed on one thing.

The king had become a curse upon the land.

Chapter Three:

The Forsaken King

A deep, unnatural silence settled over Eldoria. It was not the peaceful quiet of nightfall nor the hush before a storm. It was something worse—a void, an absence of life itself. The rivers no longer whispered as they once did, the wind no longer sang through the trees, and the streets of Vareth, once bustling with merchants and travelers, now lay empty.

The people of Eldoria still lived. But they no longer thrived.

They had not fled—there was nowhere to go. The lands beyond their borders were barren, swallowed by the same creeping decay that now consumed their home. The sky above remained locked in a perpetual twilight, neither fully day nor night, casting everything in an eerie, dreamlike haze.

And at the heart of it all sat King Eryon, the man who had sought to defy time.

Or rather, what remained of him.


Curse Unfolds

At first, the changes had been subtle. Eryon still walked the halls of his castle, still spoke to his council—though they were fewer now. Those who remained did not do so out of loyalty but out of fear. The king was no longer as he had been.

His voice had changed, hollow and distant, as if coming from somewhere beyond the veil of this world. His presence carried an unnatural weight, a pressure that made the air thick and heavy. No one could meet his gaze for long; his eyes no longer belonged to a man.

And then, the nightmares began.

Every night, the people of Eldoria would wake in terror, drenched in cold sweat, their minds filled with images of things that did not belong in their world. Shadows that moved without form, whispers that crept beneath their skin, visions of a king standing at the edge of eternity, his face devoid of all emotion.

Some swore they saw him wandering the streets at night, moving without sound, watching them from the corners of their vision. Others claimed he did not walk at all—that he simply appeared, his presence stretching into every corner of the kingdom like an unseen force.

And worst of all, those who had once been closest to him—his advisors, his scholars, his mystics—began to disappear.

No bodies were found. No traces left behind.

It was as if the earth itself had swallowed them whole.


Lysara’s Defiance

Queen Lysara had watched in horror as her husband unraveled before her eyes. She had begged, pleaded, even screamed for him to stop before it was too late. But now, she knew the truth.

It was too late.

Eryon was no longer her husband.

The man she had loved had been swallowed by something far greater than himself—by his own arrogance, by the forces he had sought to control. And now, she could not recognize him.

But she would not let him take Eldoria with him.

Lysara had spent weeks gathering what knowledge she could. The alchemists were gone, the mystics vanished, but there were still records—hidden texts, ancient warnings buried deep within the royal archives.

The answers were always there.

No man could take life without giving something in return.

Eryon had cheated death, but the balance had to be restored.

Somewhere in those pages, Lysara was certain she would find a way to stop him.

Even if it meant ending his reign.


Eryon’s Awakening

Deep within the castle, in the chambers where no light reached, Eryon sat alone. He did not sleep, for he no longer needed to. He did not eat, for hunger was a thing of the past.

He simply existed.

His fingers traced the armrests of his throne, his touch lighter than it should have been. Everything felt… distant. As if he were not fully here, as if he were stretched thin across something vast, something endless.

At first, he had embraced it—the absence of pain, the weightlessness of immortality. He had thought himself victorious.

But now, something gnawed at the edges of his mind.

A whisper.

A presence.

At first, it had been nothing more than a murmur in the back of his thoughts. A flicker of something beyond his comprehension. But with each passing day, it grew stronger, louder.

And then, one night, he heard it clearly for the first time.

"You are not alone."

Eryon’s fingers tightened around the throne. His breathing, though no longer necessary, quickened.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

The voice did not answer.

But in the silence that followed, Eryon felt something shift.

He was no longer the master of his own being.

Something had followed him back from the ritual.

Something had claimed him.

And now, it was watching.

Waiting.


The Cost of Immortality

Days passed. The whispers grew louder.

Eryon began to feel things he had not expected—hunger, thirst, exhaustion. But not in the way a man might.

No, these were not his feelings.

They belonged to something else.

Something inside him.

Something that did not belong in this world.

The realization came slowly, creeping into his mind like a sickness. The ritual had not granted him immortality. It had trapped him.

His body had become a vessel, an anchor for something ancient, something beyond the realm of men.

And the more he resisted it, the more he understood the truth.

He had not conquered death.

He had merely become its servant.

Epilogue:

The Final Toll

The castle stood in ruin. Once a symbol of Eldoria’s strength, its towering spires now crumbled, overtaken by vines and decay. The throne room, once filled with advisors, nobles, and echoes of power, lay silent beneath a sky choked with an eternal dusk. The land had spoken. Balance had been broken. And now, it demanded its due.

Eryon stood at the center of it all.

Or rather, what remained of him.

His once-proud form was a shadow of itself—his skin pale as moonlight, his veins blackened with the corruption that had festered inside him for too long. His breath came in slow, rattling gasps, though he no longer needed to breathe. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers curling as if they belonged to someone else.

Because they did.

The whispers had become a roar, no longer separate from him but inside him, their voices merging with his own thoughts, twisting them, unraveling them.

He had sought to escape death.

And in doing so, he had become it.


The Queen’s Choice

Lysara stood before him, a single dagger in her hands.

It was not a weapon of war. Not a blade forged for battle. It was simple, unadorned—something meant for sacrifice, for ritual. For restoring what should never have been disturbed.

She had found it in the ancient texts, buried deep within the castle archives. There had always been a way to undo what had been done. But the price… the price was steep.

He had to be ended.

Not merely killed, but erased.

The ritual had bound something unnatural to him. If he remained, even in death, the corruption would linger, spreading beyond Eldoria’s borders until nothing remained untouched.

He had to be severed from existence itself.

Eryon stared at her, his expression unreadable. Perhaps, somewhere deep within, a part of him had expected this. Perhaps, despite everything, he had wanted this.

"Lysara," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. It was the first time he had spoken her name in weeks—perhaps months.

She hesitated.

For a moment, she saw the man he had once been. The king who had held her in his arms, who had promised her eternity in love, not in darkness.

Tears burned in her eyes.

"You should have listened," she whispered.

The dagger plunged into his heart.


The Undoing

The moment the blade pierced his flesh, the castle trembled.

A terrible, inhuman sound erupted from Eryon’s throat—a sound not of this world, not belonging to any mortal thing. The very air seemed to split apart, the ground beneath them cracking as if reality itself had been fractured.

The entity within him screamed.

It clawed, thrashed, fought to remain. But the balance had been broken for too long. The world had waited patiently. And now, it was reclaiming what had been stolen.

Eryon’s body convulsed, his eyes burning with unnatural light. His fingers clutched at the dagger, but there was no undoing it.

He had always thought he would feel fear in this moment.

But as the last of his strength drained from him, as the entity shrieked and was torn from his soul, he felt something else.

Relief.

The darkness that had clung to him, that had consumed him, was fading. The whispers were silent. The weight was gone.

For the first time in what felt like eternity, he was free.

And then, he was nothing.


The Dawn of a New Age

The castle did not collapse, nor did the land suddenly heal overnight.

But as Eryon’s body crumbled into dust, the unnatural twilight that had gripped Eldoria began to fade. The rivers, long stagnant, stirred as if waking from a deep slumber. The skies, once thick with suffocating gloom, began to clear, revealing the faintest hint of dawn on the horizon.

The people emerged from their homes, cautious, disbelieving.

Had the nightmare truly ended?

Lysara stood on the steps of the ruined throne room, the dagger still clutched in her shaking hands. She had done what had to be done, but the weight of it crushed her.

She had loved him once.

And in the end, she had been the one to destroy him.

But she had not merely slain a king.

She had restored balance.

She had saved Eldoria.

As the sun broke over the horizon for the first time in years, casting golden light upon the land, Lysara closed her eyes.

The cost had been great.

But at last, the kingdom could begin to heal.

And so could she.