The King of Aestriana, Ahmaal zel Reethkilt, awoke from his sleep in a frigid sweat.
So. You’re awake.
The voice caused him to jump abruptly. The king frantically raised up and retreated to the headboard.
“Who’s there?!” he yelled in ghastly terror.
It is only me.
King Reethkilt shifted his eyes around the room. In the vague moonbeams that dared peer in through the window, he saw the silhouette of a man sitting in the far corner of the room.
“How did you get in here?!” he yelled once more.
There is no need for yelling, Your Majesty. The guards cannot hear you.
The figure extended a hand to the open window.
The wind brought me here. He paused. You know all about it, don’t you, Your Majesty? You hear the Voice of the Winds, after all.
The man dropped his hand to his lap, or so it seemed in the pervasive veil of blackness.
Do you hear that distant breeze? That faint elegy?
The king’s bed was soaked in his sweat; his old heart beat in his ears.
“Who—? Who are you?”
The figure remained still, its posture reclined and comfortable.
Your Majesty, I am, the voice paused, the End of the World.