The Crimson Sovereign - Throne of the Thirteenth Vow

He sits upon a throne of iron fangs — a crown not worn but grown, a mantle soaked not in dye but in centuries of blood. The sword before him is not merely a weapon; it is the ledger of the fallen, each drip a name, each stain a chapter.

The red cloak pools like spilled wine across the cold stone, gleaming under a light that does not come from sun or fire, but from the memory of conquest. Smoke coils at his feet as if the very air fears to rise too high.

None know his face. None need to. For the crown of thorns and steel proclaims his dominion louder than any herald. He is not king by birthright. He is king by oath — the thirteenth and final one, sworn in silence, sealed in blood.

Around him, the world waits. Not in hope. Not in reverence. But in dread.

size: 896 x 1120

For when he rises, empires fall.