In the ornate chambers of his palace, Crown Prince Yul'Niara received the grievous tidings of his son's demise and the crushing defeat of his forces in the valleys of Agorra. The air, thick with incense and the weight of expectation, trembled as the prince's wrath kindled into a roaring inferno.

"Summon General Vaskur," Yul'Niara commanded, his voice a tempest of fury and resolve. The room's opulence, a stark contrast to the dark tidings it now bore, seemed to dim under the storm of his anger.

General Vaskur, a veteran of many campaigns, entered with a demeanor that belied his understanding of the gravity of his princes summon. He bowed deeply, his armor clinking softly in the hushed atmosphere of the chamber.

"My son lies slain, and our forces scatter in disarray before the Agorran rebels," Yul'Niara began, his gaze piercing the general like shards of ice. "This 'Wolf' and his company mock the might of Edoria with their insolence. We will suffer this affront no longer."

The prince paced before a vast map of the continent, his fingers tracing the mountainous borders of Agorra. "Gather a host, General. Spare no expense, withhold no force. We march at the head of spring, with the thawing snows."

General Vaskur straightened, the weight of the command heavy on his shoulders. "Your will shall be done, my prince. The Agorrans will know the full might of Edoria. The Wolf will fall by your hand."

Yul'Niara turned to face a grand window, looking out over the sprawling capital of his empire. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of blood and fire, a harbinger of the war to come. "This I swear upon my son's memory," he murmured, "the valleys of Agorra will be our proving ground. We will avenge our fallen and bring the Wolf to heel."

The chamber grew cold as the prince's determination settled over those present like a cloak of inevitability. General Vaskur bowed once more and withdrew, leaving Yul'Niara to his thoughts and the coming storm.

As the general gathered his lieutenants and began the monumental task of assembling a host capable of subduing the rebellious Agorrans, whispers of the impending campaign spread like wildfire. The empire, long unchallenged in its might, would now pour its fury into the valleys of Agorra, led by a prince consumed with vengeance and the desire for retribution.

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And so, as the seasons turned, the drums of war began to beat once more, echoing across the lands of Edoria and beyond, a forewarning of the bloodshed and turmoil that would soon engulf the valleys of Agorra.

—

Deep beneath the towering peaks of the Mad God's mountain, hidden away from the eyes of mortals and shrouded in the depths of time, lay Kulthar. Kael Sunwright's most trusted friend and advisor. Unlike any ordinary being, Kulthar had left behind not merely a legacy, but an essence of his very being, a spectral imprint endowed with his wisdom, strength, and a sliver of his consciousness. This arcane safeguard was his final vow to aid Agorra in its darkest hour, a promise etched into the very fabric of magic itself.

For a millennium, this spectral imprint lay dormant, undisturbed by the passage of time or the turmoil that ravaged the surface world. It was a silent, watchful guardian waiting for the arrival of a soul strong enough, worthy enough, to inherit the legacy and the burdens of the Mad God. Kulthar, even in his spectral form, sensed the ebb and flow of the world above, the rise and fall of empires, the birth and death of heroes, but none had stirred him from his slumber. None until now.

A faint ripple in the mana, delicate yet unmistakable, brushed against the boundaries of his ancient vigil. It was a whisper of potential, a beacon of hope in the guise of an Agorran soul, blazing with the kind of raw, untamed power that had not been seen since the days of Kael Sunwright himself. For the first time in a thousand years, Kulthar stirred, a flicker of consciousness awakening within the depths of the mountain.

This Agorran, marked by fate, carried the promise of a new dawn for Agorra, a beacon in the darkness that threatened to engulf their world. Kulthar knew the path that lay ahead of this chosen one would be fraught with peril, a journey that would test the limits of their courage, strength, and resolve. The spectral imprint, bound by ancient magic and loyalty to Kael, could not intervene directly, but it could guide, a whisper of mana sent forth like a guiding star in the night.

This whisper of mana, subtle yet persistent, wove through the mountain's veins, seeking out the Agorran marked by destiny. It was a beacon of guidance, imbued with Kulthar's hope that the Agorran would endure the trials to come, navigate the treacherous paths laid before them, and eventually reach the depths where Kulthar's essence awaited.

Kulthar's spectral consciousness, limited as it was, focused all its remaining strength on this singular task. The fate of Agorra, the legacy of Kael Sunwright, and the future of all who dwelled within its borders now rested in the hands of this Agorran. With a hope as ancient as the mountains themselves, Kulthar awaited the arrival of the one who could wield the Mad God's legacy and stand as a bulwark against the darkness that threatened to consume their world.