In the heart of myths lost to time, there rose a king not born of chance, but etched in prophecy—a soul whispered into existence by the winds of fate. He knelt before Shiva, not in fear, but in unwavering reverence, channeling divine will through mortal deeds. A saviour to millions, his name—though unspoken now—was once a prayer carried across continents by both dread and devotion. He carved a throne where none dared dream, amidst a desert of frost and flame, where the earth cracked and the sky forgot warmth. Where they said no rule could rise, he built an empire from silence and ash. They called him the Darkness. Cloaked in whispering silk, eyes like amber embers, soul as cold and precise as obsidian. He ruled not with rage, but with deliberate detachment, as if he himself had burned away all but purpose. Yet behind that glacial gaze lived a fragment of aching humanity—a love older than the stars, known only to his soul. She was the missing half, the soft shadow behind his hardened reign, for whom every conquest and every silence was offered. None knew her face, only that when he looked across his dominion, he saw her absence more clearly than the land. His legacy was not in war nor peace, but in the impossible: becoming the greatest king to ever walk the edge of gods and mortals, wearing devotion and grief like twin crowns.