Yet pride is the poison of kings, and hubris the downfall of empires.
In time, UN3 grew swollen with arrogance, their hearts hardening like iron in the forge. They turned their backs upon the Round Table, spitting venomous words against the Crown and its loyal vassals. No longer did they heed the King’s decrees, nor deign to treat with their fellow lords. Their tongues, once silvered with diplomacy, now dripped with vulgarity and scorn.
The King, patient and just, had long endured their insolence. But even mercy hath its limits.
Thus did He summon His Executioner, a grim specter clad in shadow, bearing weapons most terrible—flames that hungered for stone and timber alike. With a decree of fire and blood, the Executioner descended upon the wicked UN3. Their castles, once towering and proud, were set ablaze, their walls crumbling into ash. Their halls, where once they had plotted in hubris, were reduced to smoldering ruins. The very earth trembled as UN3’s power was torn asunder, their name cursed by those who had once feared them.
Of Silence and Shadows
Yet even as the flames devoured their strongholds, no word of defiance nor plea for mercy escaped the lips of UN3’s lords. Like rats fleeing a sinking ship, they vanished into shadow, their voices choked by shame or fear. Whispers spread among the common folk that WhiteKnight and his ilk skulked in forgotten crypts or moldering forests, their once-proud sigils buried beneath cloaks of beggars. The King’s heralds rode forth, demanding their surrender—but only silence answered.
The realm held its breath, for such quiet was unnatural. Had they perished in the flames? Fled beyond the mountains? Or did they yet linger, nursing their wounded pride in some accursed den? None could say. Even the spies of the Crown returned empty-handed, muttering of empty keeps and cold hearths. The Round Table, once vexed by their bluster, now stirred unease at their absence. "A foe who shouts may be answered," spoke the King’s wise counselor. "But silence breeds specters in the minds of men."
In taverns and market squares, tales grew wilder with each passing moon. Some claimed WhiteKnight had been glimpsed as a wraith, haunting the ruins of his fallen citadel. Others swore his council now conspired in whispers with foreign powers, though no proof ever surfaced. The King, ever vigilant, decreed that any who sheltered the traitors would share their fate—yet still, no sign emerged.
Thus did UN3’s legacy twist from defiance to dread mystery. Their name, once roared in challenge, became a hissed warning. Lords who once envied their power now crossed themselves at the mention of their silence, for it was said that pride unmourned festers like a wound. And so the realm learned anew: Hubris may spark rebellion, but silence is the echo of its grave.
