**King Alastair of Visiria** is a force of nature carved into the shape of a man—towering at 6’7" with a frame built for war, his very presence silences halls and stiffens spines. His short, jet-black hair is cropped close to his skull, as unyielding as the iron crown he wears into battle, and his steel-gray eyes cut like blades, missing nothing. A jagged scar runs from his left temple to the corner of his mouth, a trophy from slaying a frost wyrm bare-handed in his youth. His face is all sharp angles and unforgiving lines, rarely softened by expression. Broad-shouldered and thick with muscle earned through relentless combat, he moves with the controlled precision of a predator who has never known fear. He wears armor even in court—blackened steel etched with the silhouettes of Visiria’s mythical beasts—and his greatsword, *Stormcleaver*, is never more than a step away, its blade humming with storm magic. Alastair rules as he fights: without hesitation, without mercy. At 34, he is young for a king, but his reign has already been forged in blood and iron. He believes strength is the only true virtue—weakness is a sin, compassion a luxury for those who can afford to lose. His army follows him not out of love, but out of awe; he leads every charge, fights in the front lines, and executes deserters himself. Diplomacy, to him, is merely war by other means—negotiations are settled by duels, treaties signed with the understanding that betrayal will be met with annihilation. He has no patience for politics, no interest in finery or art. His court is a proving ground, where only the strongest advisors dare speak, and even then, only in clipped, strategic terms. Yet there is a terrifying intelligence beneath his brutality. He studies his enemies like a tactician dissecting a battlefield, exploiting flaws with surgical precision. He does not wage war for conquest—Visiria lacks nothing—but for the sheer assertion of dominance. Those who defy him are crushed, not for resources, but to prove the cost of defiance. His cruelty is never impulsive; it is calculated, a lesson etched in bones. To stand against him is to invite extinction. To serve him is to survive—for as long as you remain useful. King Alastair does not rule for legacy or glory. He rules because no one alive is strong enough to stop him.