Aresedal was a world so vast that even the oldest cartographers admitted most of it stretched beyond the edges of their parchment. From the circling fjords of Tharvos to the whispering dunes of Qahir, the land sprawled like a living tapestry woven from countless histories—elves with silver-threaded veins attuned to the Ley, dwarven holds carved into the bones of mountains, humans scattered from the fertile Heartlands to the storm-bitten coasts, beast-kin roaming the great plains, and mystic orders lingering in monastic isolation.
But no description of Aresedal felt complete without acknowledging what lay far to the east, beyond the sky's dying edge: the Dark Continent.
A mass of land spoken of in shaken whispers—its shores black as obsidian, its interior smothered beneath cloudbanks that never broke. No vessel had ever crossed the ocean separating Aresedal from that forbidden coast. Sailors claimed the waters themselves rejected intrusion: currents that fought like living beasts, storms that rose without moon or wind, and drifting ash that stained sails with soot from unseen fires.
To common folk, it was myth.
To sages, an enigma.
To rulers, a distant threat—too far to confront, too ominous to ignore.
To Arden—back then only a Vaelorian child—it was merely a story.
He lived high above the village in the ancient halls of Vaelorian Citadel, where legends lined the stone walls like sleeping spirits. From its terraces, he watched the world unfold in miniature below—villagers drifting like threads of color, the sea stretching toward the unknown horizon. The Dark Continent was too distant to matter.
He had no way of knowing that fate would one day drag him toward the shadows no man had ever crossed.
The elders taught that Aresedal had weathered many calamities, but none had carved deeper scars than the War of the Black Tide.
It began as a whisper—dark storms gathering over the eastern ocean, malformed beasts washing ashore, Ley lines flickering like dying embers. When the monsters finally crawled from the sea in impossible numbers, Aresedal learned the meaning of fear.
Cities burned. Kingdoms vanished overnight. Even the sky dimmed.
Then came the man who would become the First Emperor.
No crown, no prophecy, no lineage foretold his rise. He was a battle-worn general, a wanderer carrying the weight of too many lost campaigns. But he bore something else: an unbreakable will. He united scattered races, forged alliances between kingdoms that had slaughtered each other for centuries, and held the world together not by pride, but survival.
Beside him—never behind—stood the First Protector.
A wizard so gifted in the Arcane that later myths exaggerated him into a demi-god. His pact with the Emperor was simple:
I will defend what you build.
You will lead what I save.
Together they stabilized the Ley and coordinated the armies, pushing the Black Tide back into the sea.
And when the Barrier was forged—an impenetrable transparent wall sealing off the horrors beyond—the world believed it the Protector's final, greatest gift.
But the Barrier had a cost.
The Protector demanded refined mana stones—pure, continuous, unwavering. Without them, the seal would wane… and possibly collapse.
The Emperor, having witnessed the brink of extinction, did not hesitate. He granted the Vaelorian land, authority, and a permanent flow of imperial mana stone. Caravans arrived monthly, crates heavy with shimmering crystal that kept the Barrier alive.
To the Empire, the Vaelorians became the Barrier-bound lineage—stewards of the world's last defense.
But inside their citadel, far from prying eyes, another tradition endured:
The Choosing.
The Guardian's Mark.
The Trial.
A ritual older than imperial memory.
Sacred.
Unspoken.
For a time, peace returned. Cities rose from ash, nations rebuilt, and the Empire took shape.
Hundreds of years later, this was the world Arden was born into—a world healed, yet trembling beneath its scars.
At nine years old, his world felt small, warm, and full of laughter.
Unlike the villagers far below, he and his younger brother Lorian—eight, bright-eyed, endlessly curious—grew up within the towering stone of Vaelorian Citadel. Their mother, Mariel, sometimes took them to the village to buy herbs or fabrics, her gentle voice guiding them through crowds while common folk bowed respectfully.
The brothers spent their days racing through castle halls and sunlit courtyards. Lorian—smaller and faster in short bursts—was notoriously clumsy and laughed at every stumble. Arden loved leading him through hidden passages their ancestors had carved centuries before.
It was during one of Mariel's errands to the village that Arden first met Sera.
Sera was the daughter of a skilled hunter—wild-spirited, bold, and unafraid of anything. Her mother worked as a cook in the Vaelorian household, and so Sera often followed her into the castle kitchens. One day, she wandered into the upper courtyard where Arden and Lorian were arguing over who would climb the old cedar tree first.
Without a word, Sera scrambled past them, reached the upper branch, and declared herself victor of a contest she had never been invited to join.
Arden was instantly enthralled by her audacity. Lorian admired her just as quickly.
Thus, the trio formed.
…
The Festival of Lights had once borne a weight far greater than laughter and painted stalls. Born from reverence for the War of the Black Tide, it commemorated the forging of the Barrier and the dawn of the Empire that followed.
But time softens even the sharpest wounds.
The memory of black storms, sea-crawling horrors, and desperate last stands faded into distant myth—stories for hearth fires and restless children.
Now, the festival meant something simpler:
Food. Music. Lanterns drifting like fire spirits. Lovers stealing moments. Children racing through streets with sticky fingers and cheeks full of pastries. Tradition survived, but its truth slumbered beneath layers of celebration and forgetfulness.
Arden, Lorian, and Sera were such children.
They darted through the crowds Mariel brought them to visit, weaving between dancers, stealing sweet pears from unguarded baskets, and using powdered firemoss to make lanterns flicker strange colors. Arden had spent weeks gathering the courage to steal some from a family alchemist—when tossed behind unsuspecting festival-goers, the moss burst in tiny sparks that made people gasp and search for a source.
Sera laughed until she bent double.
Lorian tried to act innocent and failed spectacularly.
It was the last night Arden remembered where happiness had no shadow.
…
The castle was quiet when they returned.
Too quiet.
The festival fires still glowed in the village below when the Summoning came—not through drums or bells, but through a deep, resonant vibration that shuddered through the stone floors and walls of Vaelorian Citadel.
Only Vaelorian blood could hear it.
Only their lineage could respond.
Arden and Lorian felt it instantly. They turned to their mother.
Her face drained of color.
"No," she whispered. "Not tonight."
The hall inside was already filling with elders—cloaked in midnight, silhouettes wavering like shadows cast by an ancient flame. No villagers, no servants—only Vaelorian blood.
One elder raised his hand. Silence fell.
Minutes passed like stretched and trembling heartbeats.
A faint tremor shook the air before a glowing thread of mana traced itself across the courtyard stones.
In front of everyone, a glyph appeared.
And Lorian—small, sleepy-eyed, still rubbing at his face—stumbled forward as though pulled by an invisible thread.
A crimson sigil ignited on his forearm.
It pulsed softly at first, then brightened into a mark unmistakable to every Vaelorian alive.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Mariel lurched forward, a cry tearing from her throat.
"No! He's too young—he's not ready! Take it from him—remove it!"
Two elders recoiled at her desperation.
"The Guardian has chosen," the eldest said, voice heavy as stone. "We do not interfere with its will."
"He is a child!" Mariel shouted, eyes brimming with tears. "Choose someone else—anyone else!"
"We cannot deny the Choosing," another murmured. "To oppose it is to corrupt the Trial."
Mariel seized Lorian's arm, trying to shield him behind her.
"Yes, you can! Just take it off him—please—"
The doors at the far end of the hall burst open.
Thaleus Vaelorian strode in—broad-shouldered, dignified even in panic, dark hair streaked with early silver, cloak half-thrown from his rush. A respected mage, revered for brilliance and power.
Tonight he looked undone.
"No," he breathed, eyes locking onto the glowing mark. "Not him… The Choosing fell on Lorian?"
His voice cracked.
The elders bowed their heads.
Thaleus reached Mariel, gripping her shoulders with trembling resolve.
"Mariel—stop," he said, strained. "You cannot interfere. None of us can."
"They'll take him!" she cried, pounding once against his chest. "He's our youngest—he's just a boy—"
Thaleus shut his eyes, pain twisting his features. "He was chosen," he whispered. "The Guardian's choice is absolute. You know this."
Mariel shook her head violently. "I don't care! Let the it choose someone else!"
She tried to break free again—
Thaleus wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back with heartbreaking gentleness.
"Mariel… please… You'll doom everyone if you interfere. Our ancestors learned the hard way. The Choosing cannot be disrupted. Ever."
Her sobs echoed through the stone hall.
Arden stood frozen, powerless, watching his mother be drawn away inch by inch while Lorian trembled, tears streaking his cheeks beneath the glow of the Mark.
The elders waited in rigid silence.
The doors of the inner sanctum opened.
Lorian looked at Arden—fear, confusion, and trust tangled in his eyes.
Then, guided by an elder, he took a single step forward.
Each footfall drew him deeper into a destiny older than any Vaelorian alive.
The Mark brightened.
The doors closed.
And the castle fell into a silence Arden would remember for the rest of his life.