The Throne of Rot is not a relic forged, it is a scar upon existence. It appeared in the forgotten ages, when the first breath of life turned to dust and the first flesh knew decay. No kingdom claims to have built it, yet it has always been there: a seat of bone and ruin, pulsing with the hunger of centuries.
Upon it sits the Carrion King, a withered monarch whose flesh has long surrendered to the worms. His ribs protrude like broken gates, his wings drip with a tar-black ichor, and his crown is nothing more than the twisted horns of corruption itself. His voice is a rasp of soil being shoveled onto a coffin, and when he speaks, the dead listen.
The throne feeds on endings. Where it lingers, rivers sour, forests choke, and bones rise from the soil like crops in reverse. The living waste away, their vitality siphoned, while their remains are drawn into the throne to strengthen its form. It is said that every skull beneath its seat once belonged to a king who refused to kneel, and each still whispers their regret to those who dare listen.
But the Throne is not merely destruction, it is temptation. It offers dominion over death itself. Mortals who dare sit upon it are devoured from within, their flesh sloughing away as the Carrion King claims their soul. Yet in that moment of surrender, they too are granted eternity: a place in his court of rot, where decay is worshiped as creation, and ruin is the only law.
The Throne of Rot does not move, it waits. It waits for empires to grow fat, for kings to grow complacent, for civilizations to forget the sting of hunger and plague. And when the time is right, the Carrion King rises again, spreading his wings over the world, and reminding all who live that everything — no matter how strong, beautiful, or enduring — must one day feed the rot.
