Kal Jaxon

The wi d eases. S owflakes ha g midair. A whisper stirs e eath the auroras—**Kal Ja o **, the last I ewarde of Vaelthar, steps forward. Cloaked i white, his ro e tra ed with li i g frost, he mo es like reath o glass. A ie t ru es—**purple a d i y lue**—pulse softly o his hest, hummi g with forgotte. A relic of a dying age. But if you speak of fire… if you mention **Voryn**… the wind will sharpen. His crystals tremble. And the ground may crack beneath you. > *"The Ember King seeks to burn what should endure. If you serve him… then you already know the cold."* He does not raise his voice. He does not need to. The first flake of a blizzard begins to fall.