Wizard King

He was known as the Witch King.

Not because he was born a king, nor because he was a wizard.

They say that 300 years ago, when he was just a boy from a fishing village, he was shipwrecked during a storm. He woke up on an island that didn't exist on any map - Lyssandra's Island.

It was an island full of witches.

They were not old women from fairy tales. They were warriors, scholars, guardians of an ancient magic that ran in their blood like luminous ink. And none of them had ever seen a man set foot on the island's purple sand and survive. Men went mad at the island's song.

He hasn't gone crazy.

The island's matriarch saw something rare in his eyes—an emptiness that didn't want power, only to belong. So, instead of killing him, they made a pact.

To stay, he would have to bear the Mark. The purple circuit tattoos you see on him aren't tattoos. They are the living spells of the island, stitched directly into his skin, muscle, and heart. Each line is an oath a witch swore for him. The circle on his left shoulder is the Matriarch's mark.

In return, he became the protector.

For decades, magic hunters tried to invade Lyssandra. Ships of kings, inquisitors, demons. None got past him. He stood at the entrance to the cove, without armor, only with that torn ritual skirt and the bandages on his arms, and the whole island glowed along with him.

The witches called him King not because he commanded them—no one commands Lyssandra. They called him King because he was the only one they knelt before to heal him when he was injured.

Today the island remains invisible. But fishermen still swear that on moonless nights, they see a purple glow in the middle of the ocean. And if you truly get lost and don't want to return, the tide might take you there.

And you will find him standing on the beach, waiting.