Artamonn

The evil spirits began to gradually disappear from the lands, as if by magic, but in reality, it was merely a bloody and brutal extermination, involving warriors and the sound of cries of pain. This extermination was like a plague, destroying everything in its path. And it was all his fault—King Artamon, whose heart dwelt with hatred for everything connected with magic. People were grateful to him for destroying the evil spirits, but at the same time, innocent spirits and magicians who served people with kindness also suffered.

And then one day, karma decided to exact its toll. The king was overcome by an unknown illness, and no doctor could determine its cause or find a cure. The disease spread with incredible speed. He literally rotted alive, his skin peeling off his flesh, leaving behind only horrific marks and a stench. His only salvation was a mask that concealed his terrifying appearance. Whether it was simply an illness or a curse—no one knew.

But he knew he had no choice. He mounted his horse and raced into the depths of the forest where the witch healer lived. The villagers had turned to her for help, and she was his last hope.

He arrived at the scene and dismounted, walking to the door, his heart pounding. Finally, he knocked, praying she would open. "Please... open up."