—Where Names Meant Nothing, and One Meant Everything—
In a place far—far away, beyond the farthest dream of mortal ken, past the sighing veil where time forgets its own reflection, a galaxy turns upon itself in the likeness of a thorned crown. Its stars—jewels of impossible hue—burn in reverent orbit around a silent heart that hums like a sleeping god.
within the crown's inner rim drifts a modest system of fading worlds, circling a weary sun that still remembers when it was young. Among them gleams a blue fleck no greater than a teardrop upon infinity's cheek.
Neva'mor.
A world unlike any other that survived the first shattering of creation. Once, before the oldest names were carved into stone or screamed into scripture, it was the battlefield of gods and hungering voids—the war that cracked the scaffolding of all reality's first breaths. When that war ended, neither victory nor mercy remained; only aftermath.
Mountains soared to the heavens. Oceans boiled with celestial blood until the tides themselves learned silence. Even the wind carried fragments of forgotten names—too sacred to praise, too profane to curse.
And from such ruin, life did not bloom by grace; it persisted by defiance.
through the ages, mortals clawed their kingdoms from the dust of divine corpses. Nations rose beneath the banners of their patron gods, and when belief faltered, the soil turned barren beneath their feet. Empires fattened on prophecy and perished of zeal. Each century bled into the next like a wound that refused to close, every crusade waged to prove which god shone brightest while all stars dimmed.
For Neva'mor is a realm of gods and monsters—and the mortals who dared to mimic both.
Here, even the meek learned to wield prayer as blade. Faith could damn as easily as it could save. And divinity itself, once unshakable, drowned slowly in mortal ambition.
Yet history—treacherous archivist of its own lies—never sleeps without dreaming. It stirs beneath every epoch, murmuring of change like an echo trapped in glass. Across the high vault of heaven, that change lingered—a breath withheld, an omen half-seen, trembling at the edge of becoming.
Where, then, did it wait? In what cradle did the next convulsion of fate draw its first, hidden breath?
Perhaps in the oceans, those dark and sorrowful mirrors of the sky. Their depths coil with the bones of drowned eras—cities reduced to coral prayers, empires dissolved into whispering silt. There, leviathans the size of nations slumber, their dreams lighting the waves with faint blue grief, mourning for the lives they have forgotten were once their own.
Or perhaps in the drifting isles, fragments of worlds that defied gravity and rose into the clouds. They hang like half-remembered dreams, their roots knotted with storms of living lightning. Pilgrims who dare the climb speak of thunder that speaks back—an ancient tongue repeating devotions so old that even the gods, wearied by eternity, have ceased to claim them.
Or higher still—aloof, solitary, and cruel—perhaps the secret rested upon Dias, the Dagger of Worlds. That mountain does not ascend so much as pierce, its blade of stone cutting the seam between heaven and void. When night falls, the stars burn along its edge like candles trembling before the skin of creation itself.
Yet none of these sacred immensities bore the spark that would rewrite all fates. Not the abyssal tombs of the sea, nor the dreaming peaks of the sky, nor the silent mountain's wound in the firmament.
For in the irony that only history pretends to forget, its next chapter began not with thunder, but with a chuckle. Not in the high, nor in the deep, but in a place small enough to be dismissed, yet old enough to be remembered. Even the gods knew of it—one had marked it long ago as a mere checkpoint, a waypoint on the pilgrim's road between miracles and monotony. They knew its name, and therefore ignored it. For what god stoops to watch what he believes he already owns?
And so the world turned, blind to the quiet seed beneath its heel—a place neither sacred nor profane, where eternity, patient and amused, waited to see what might grow from neglect.
On the continent of Shadan'urm, verdant and boundless, lies a forest older than flame—a sea of living emerald whose vast canopy filters sunlight into dreaming mosaics.
The air tastes of memory; the roots hum with secrets; and the rivers shimmer with veins of starlit moss.
At the meeting of one such river and the deepwood's heart rests a quiet village. Its rooftops sag beneath ivy and age. Smoke curls upward in thin strands that never seem to reach the sky.
Its name endures only in whispers among pilgrims and wanderers:
Erl'twig—the place where gods once walked disguised.
A place more question than answer, half-remembered by charts, half-forgotten by men. The forest pressed too close here, clutching the hamlet like a jealous lover, its boughs draping over rooftops and fences in a tangle of shadow and bloom.
And it was here, in this hushed, breathing hollow—this cradle of green and shadow—that history, in its relentless cruelty, chose to awaken once more.
Not with trumpets, nor banners, nor prophecy—but with a whisper, a footstep,
and the arrival of a smile that would tilt the scales.
——From the Trees, and the Buzzing of Beez——
At dawn, the procession emerged.
The forest was still half-asleep, draped in fog and the perfume of damp earth. The first light bled softly through the canopy, not in radiant gold, but in frail, cautious beams—as though even the sun feared to trespass upon what was coming.
They crossed the threshold of the trees like figures returning from memory. Each step carried the weight of ceremony, yet none was declared. No horns, no banners, no shining signets to mark their purpose—only the soft exhale of the wind, dimming into nothing as it folded about them.
Nothing marked their coming: the dew remained unbroken, branches unbent, and the hush of the forest clung like a fly caught in web. Birds stilled in mid-song, their throats bound by awe. Even the light seemed cautious, filtering through fog with the timidity of prayer. It was as though the world itself paused, uncertain whether to greet or flee them.
No dust stirred upon their cloaks, no glimmer dared drift across their path. Even the smallest flecks of light hesitated, suspended like thoughts half-formed. The air thickened with quiet expectation, and for a breathless instant it felt as though the world itself were watching—waiting.
The whispers came first, threading through meadow and lane like unseen pilgrims. They moved faster than footsteps, lighter than sound, gossip traded by the ghosts of wind and wheat. By the time the travelers neared the gate, the village already knew—though none could say how. Doors half-opened. Curtains stirred. And the silence that followed spoke louder than the rumors themselves.
When at last they entered Erl'twig, the village received them without murmur or motion. No greetings, no wonder—only a quiet shaped by caution, stretched thin beneath the weight of watching eyes. Narrow lanes, damp with moss and age, guided their steps in uneven rhythm. The timbered houses stood close, their eaves bowed by time, forming narrow corridors of dim light where the air itself seemed to settle in wary stillness.
Soft voices broke the hush in fragments—
"Strangers again, and at this hour?"
"A bit early for travelers, ain't it?
"Best they pass through. Pay em' no mind."
"Woah… Look at that one's eyes."
A door creaked shut. Footsteps retreated. A shutter clicked against its frame, and the silence grew once more.
Their passing left the murmurs behind, but the mist carried the shape of them, faint and unfinished, like echoes without walls. Step followed step, unhurried and exact, the sound too calm for the hearts that beat behind closed doors.
Beyond the narrow lanes, the village unfolded in tiers of shadow and smoke. Stone walls leaned with the fatigue of years, their mortar darkened by rain and lichen.
Thatched roofs bowed under the weight of mist, and faint trails of moisture slid down shutters warped by countless seasons. The path widened, turning between rows of cottages where windows glimmered like dusted gems.
Smoke rose from the stone chimneys in slow dispersal, carrying with it the scent of peat and boiled root through the tempered air. The air hung evenly across the roofs and lanes, the entire village resting in unspoken quiet.
Deeper within, a blacksmith's hammer fell once—an iron note extended beyond its moment, reverberating through the stillness as though the sound itself had forgotten how to die. The echo thinned across distance, settling into the weave of daily rhythm where labor and silence shared the same voice.
The stillness diffused outward, following the worn path that shifted toward the square where the market gathered. There, the faint tang of metal yielded to the mingled scents of yeast, clay, and fruit skins, the atmosphere thick with the residue of ordinary trade halted mid-act.
Merchants stood at their stalls, their gestures incomplete: a wheel of cheese half-cut, a loaf mid-sliced. Bread cooled in open windows, crusts faintly glistening where the morning light touched the steam. Coins rested upon the counters, unclaimed, their dull gleam absorbing the quiet that the travelers carried with them as they passed through.
Beyond the last row of stalls, a church emerged from the cobbled verge, its limestone worn to a dull sheen by rain and years of ritual passage. The travelers passed before its arched doors just as a bell rope shifted within, releasing a single tone that lingered too long against the stone—a sound less rung than released.
Two monks stood in the doorway. Their robes hung coarse and heavy, edges frayed where thread had outlasted dye. One paused, gaze drawn to the procession on the road.
"The hymn comes before the hour."
"Then the hour follows the wrong sun."
Neither spoke again. They bowed their heads, turned, and crossed the threshold. The sound of their sandals receded across flagstone, merging with the echo of the bell until both were indistinguishable.
For a moment, nothing followed—only the faint sway of incense smoke escaping through the half-open door, a thread of fragrance curling into the gray air before dispersing. The travelers continued past without pause, their passing neither announced nor denied. In their wake, the square seemed to regain its measure, yet not its ease.
Some villagers lifted their hands instinctively, tracing the warding sign of Mar'aya in the air. Others touched amulets at their throats, fingers lingering on worn metal as if the charms might grant clearer sight.
The villagers watched as one might watch a rare comet—knowing such brilliance passed once in a lifetime, yet unable to decide whether to call it omen or spectacle, aware that not every marvel invites a response.
——Outposts & Outsiders, From Fog They Came——
The road ran gently through the heart of Erl'twig, a narrow thread of cobble and silence. On either side, low stone wells brimmed with mirrored sky, their surfaces unbroken but for the trembling of mist. Fences sagged beneath veils of moss, worn timbers cloaked in the finery of neglect. Smoke coiled from the chimneys in slender ribbons, the air danced with the scent of peat, damp earth, and burnt log—an aroma that spoke more of endurance than comfort.
Every step along that road seemed a trespass through a memory too old to belong to any single age. The village did not stir so much as endure the morning, its quiet shaped by observation rather than welcome.
The procession advanced through that muted dawn—figures moving with the measured grace of ritual, their pace unhurried, their composure out of place in so small a village. Their boots met the cobbles in a steady cadence, the sound fading swiftly along the narrow street.
At the far end of the lane, the road curved toward the eastern gate: a modest rise crowned by a military outpost, its timbers dark with dew and age. The checkpoint bore the mark of the Red Crusade—banners of Mar'aya's crimson hung in weary folds, their sigils glinting faintly beneath the soft breath of morning. The once-bright embroidery of suns and scales now dulled to the shade of old blood, but still it caught the faint light as though remembering its duty.
A handful of soldiers stood guard along the east gate. Their postures straightened as the travelers approached—not in challenge, but in a silence that reached beyond discipline. The younger among them shifted; their elders said nothing. The air between them took a pause in unfamiliar recognition.
A stir passed through the soldiers as a figure emerged from the rise.
She was tall, her gait deliberate, the crimson of her mantle subdued beneath the mist. Armor, once polished to mirror brightness, now bore the matte sheen of campaign and prayer—each plate etched with the sigil of the Scales and the Dawn. Her cloak brushed the cobbles, weighted by dew, and at her hip hung a blade whose scabbard had tasted both consecration and blood.
General Arkeia, the Sword of Mar'aya.
Chosen in clarity and flame.
The sworn edge of judgment, made flesh.
Her presence was sanctity incarnate—unbending and immaculate. The morning mist seemed to hesitate around her, parting without touch, unwilling to profane the edge of her presence. Silver hair framed her face like threads of consecrated light, gleaming with the hard beauty of forged moonsteel. Her eyes—pale, unflinching, as if carved from tempered frost—caught the dawn and made it yield to command.
She paused at the edge of the gates, studying the road ahead.The procession advanced without sound or standard, its movement too deliberate to belong to mere pilgrims. Even from this distance, the symmetry of their pace unsettled winds.
"Report," she said, her voice low and measured.
A sergeant stepped forward, gauntleted hands clasped behind his back. "No insignia, General. No known banners. They move under no mark of the Twelve."
She regarded him briefly, then turned her gaze again to the mist. The shapes within it wavered—five, perhaps six. One taller than the rest, his presence drawing a faint tremor through even disciplined hearts.
"Hold formation," she said quietly. "Hands steady. Observe until ordered otherwise."
The sergeant straightened, his visor lifting slightly. "General?"
She slipped off her right gauntlet, setting it lightly against the rail. "It may be nothing," she said, mostly to herself. "Still... the air feels twisted."
Her gaze remained on the figures as they advanced—unhurried, symmetrical, as if each step answered some rhythm unheard by mortal ears.
"Still the bell," she said at last.
The order carried no uncertainty, only restraint. The soldiers lowered their spears, the checkpoint falling into silence broken only by the soft rain upon stone.
Arkeia exhaled slowly. She had watched many dawns unfold over Erl'twig since taking command, yet this one held a peculiar weight. The air was too even, the fog too uniform—its quiet precise rather than gentle.
"I used to joke," the sergeant muttered, forcing a thin chuckle, "that the fog came seeking sanction past our post, General."
His attempt at humor fell quietly into the still air, unanswered. Arkeia's gaze remained fixed on the road, where the procession had begun to slow. Their silhouettes gathered before the gates, motion reduced to a measured pause.
For a time, neither soldier nor traveler spoke. The only movement came from the banners overhead, their fabric lifting in the faint current.
From within that pale abyss, the mist sang—a low, ceaseless hymn that wove through the silence like the memory of a prayer half-forgotten. Its murmur carried the weight of those who had waited too long for forgiveness, a song of quiet despair and unending patience. Arkeia knew it well; it had kept her company in the long, faith-stretched hours between dawn and judgment.
Her hand lifted—steady and unyielding—the same hand that had held the sword of judgment and struck down those who defied divine order. Her voice carried like a bell struck in still air:
"State your business, travelers."
Her tone was not cruel, but it was absolute—polished with duty, sharpened by faith.
The strangers stood motionless with the morning's haze, the faint shimmer of their cloaks catching the budding light.
Arkeia's gaze sharpened. "And answer plainly," she continued, her words slow and deliberate, each syllable measured like the swing of a blade. "Do you serve he called, the Promised One?"
The question drifted along the fog like incense and omen, its echo swallowed by the mist that danced to unheard tunes.
Time lingered between seconds—an instant drawn taut, suspended in the quiet before intent found its form.
And at last, the silence broke.
"Pardon... Pardon… just—one moment," came a voice from the lead figure, light and unhurried, touched with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to command. "Curse this infernal thing—ah!"
With a small, theatrical tug, he lowered his hood.
The man revealed was—if such a word could suffice—beautiful. Not in the way of poets or artists, but in the quiet, disarming symmetry that draws the eye before the mind can protest. His hair caught the pallid daylight like gold dulled by memory; it fell just above his shoulders, soft yet deliberate. A fine black robe hung about him, its folds too precise to be accidental, its weave betraying craftsmanship far beyond common cloth.
He smiled—and the world of simple things seemed, for that heartbeat, to make perfect sense. A smile that could soothe the wary and steady the uncertain. Yet behind it, beneath that grace, lingered a stain—a shadow too polite to announce itself.
It was not malice. Nor deceit.
Simply a shadow.
His presence carried the weight of contradiction—something too refined for blasphemy, too radiant for sanctity. He stood like a statue carved by unwilling hands, one that inspired both reverence and alarm. The longer one looked, the less the senses agreed on whether to kneel or to draw steel.
When he spoke, his voice held warmth traced with amusement, smooth and deliberate—silk drawn across the keen edge of a blade.
"Ah. Much better. It's dreadfully rude, meeting new friends without a proper face, don't you think?"
The sound carried just enough charm to unsettle. His tone did not demand trust—it invited it, and that was worse.
He felt like sunlight flashing off metal: beautiful, bright… and dangerous.
"Answer the question," Arkeia said. Her words broke the hush like iron meeting stone.
From her rear, Mar'aya's crusaders adjusted their stance in disciplined sequence. Shields inclined a fraction forward; boots pressed into the packed soil, anchoring formation. A veteran tested the balance of his sword with a brief turn of the wrist, habit rather than preparation. Another warrior's hand rested upon the haft of his axe, his breath steady, measured to the rhythm of command. The youngest among them—armor unweathered, conviction untempered—murmured a fragment of prayer, the words incomplete but carried with sincerity that needed no form.
The checkpoint was ringed by quiet. A mother drew her child nearer, her hand resting lightly on his hair. Near the well, an elder pushed himself upright, giving a brief, whispered blessing, the tone as worn as the stone beneath him.
"Mercy guide their scales," he whispered, fingers tracing a hesitant symbol of Mar'aya across his chest.
No one fled. No one spoke.
They watched, their silence thick with wonder and doubt, unable to discern whether what they beheld was sacred or strange, an arrival or a sign.
The stranger stood amid it all, golden-haired and calm as the first light of dawn. His gaze drifted over soldiers and villagers alike, not judging, not approving—simply observing, as though watching actors stumble through a play he already knew by heart. His eyes, bright and unreadable, lingered just long enough to make each soul feel seen, and in that noticing lay the unease.
"Very well then," he said at last, the faintest sigh escaping him.
He bowed. Not the bow of a mere man, but a gesture so measured and complete it might have been the relic of an older age—every motion precise, every breath effortless, as if courtesy could be sword and shield.
"We are of House Rex," he began, pausing a fraction before the name, as though tasting something bitter beneath the polish. "Well… in truth, my brother and I are. Our companions"—he gestured lazily behind him—"share our nobility by proxy. Simple travelers, seekers of ruins and culture. Perhaps a touch theatrical, if you'll forgive it. Let's call it pilgrimage."
The name fell softly into the air—yet when it struck the ear, it carried the weight of storms—and for some... chains.