Formidas IV was born into a lineage blessed by divine decree, destined to rule the kingdom of Avalon as mage-kings. From his earliest days, Formidas roamed the hallowed stone corridors of the ancient Obsidian Keep, where the chronicles of his forefathers' legendary exploits whispered tales of honor and duty.

Guided by the watchful eye of Grand Vizier Acarus, Formidas underwent a relentless education, mastering the arts of statecraft, combat, and the enigmatic arcane disciplines. Acarus discerned in his young charge a quiet intellect and a unique affinity for fire magic, which set Formidas apart from the brash warrior-kings of antiquity.

The abrupt demise of his father propelled Formidas to the onyx throne at a mere 19 years of age. The loss of Acarus, slain by an assassin's hand, deprived the young king of his wise counsel, and he soon found himself grappling with the fractious vassal lords and quelling persistent uprisings that tested his mettle. Self-doubt gnawed at his confidence.

In the middle years of his life, Formidas marshaled his authority through sheer force of will and the mystic knowledge gleaned from age-old grimoires. He became reclusive, dismissing all counsel and immersing himself in arcane studies. His fiery temper and imposition of martial law against dissenting voices sowed seeds of resentment among his disillusioned subjects.

At the age of 75 winters, Formidas projected an aura of invincibility, refined through the crucible of decades in power. Yet, within the chambers of his heart, he grappled with an overwhelming sense of siege, besieged by both internal and external adversaries. Bitterly, he regretted his estrangement from his family; his son had sought refuge in exile, while his daughter languished in captivity for charges of treason.

Lately, Formidas had been tormented by harrowing prophetic nightmares, foretelling calamity descending upon Avalon and his lineage. Fearing the annihilation of all he had labored to construct, madness began to gnaw at the edges of the king's thoughts. He perceived assassins lurking in every shadow, and he prepared dark incantations in a desperate attempt to secure his rule.

The once-benevolent Formidas had now metamorphosed into the very architect of his impending demise. Yet, amidst the tumultuous currents of his descent into darkness, there remained a slender glimmer of hope. Could redemption be attained if he but opened his heart? As the eve of cataclysm loomed and vultures circled his beleaguered throne, was there still wisdom to be found buried beneath the ashen remnants of his soul?