As the dust from the dragon's icy demise settled, a figure emerged from the shadows cast by the fallen monstrosity. A slow, deliberate chill ran down Maria's spine, a prickling sensation far more potent than the wintery magic she wielded. The Lich, the true architect of this devastation, had finally revealed himself.
He was tall and gaunt, his frame encased in a suit of tarnished black armor that seemed to absorb the moonlight rather than reflect it. His face, a skeletal visage stretched taut over leathery skin, was a grotesque mockery of humanity. Empty sockets, where eyes should have been, glowed with an eerie, malevolent purple light. A single, jagged scar, a crimson streak across his cheekbone, was the only hint of color on his otherwise pallid complexion.
