In an age long veiled by silence and dominion, there stood two great powers beneath the heavens.
One was Vaelrith, the Dominion of Order—where men, elves, and dwarves lived not in freedom, but beneath the unwavering rule of the gods. Within its vast expanse lay ten kingdoms, each bound by law, each governed beneath a single, unyielding will.
The other was Noctyra, the Abyssal Dominion—a realm of darkness and ruin, where demons reigned and chaos knew no restraint. Eleven kingdoms lay within its grasp, each shaped by sin, each ruled by beings of dreadful might.
Yet no war stirred between them.
For fear alone was enough to keep the world in place.
And in Vaelrith—
fear was law.
At the heart of that dominion stood Aurelion, the Golden Crown, capital of the ten kingdoms and throne of divine authority.
It was a city wrought in splendor.
White marble towers pierced the sky. Streets of polished stone shimmered beneath the sun. Gold adorned every arch and pillar, gleaming with a brilliance that blinded the eye and soothed the ignorant.
To behold Aurelion was to believe in perfection.
Yet beneath such beauty—
there lay a silence too heavy to be called peace.
For this was no ordinary city.
It was where the gods walked.
On a day that bore no omen, no proclamation, and no celebration, the gates of Aurelion stood as they always had—tall, unyielding, and closed to those unworthy of entry.
Before them stood a boy.
His name was Lonan Margon.
He was but a child, no more than ten winters in age. His garments were worn, his shoes marked by the dust of travel, and yet within his hands he carried something of quiet significance—
a small cake, modest and imperfect, yet crafted with care.
He stepped forward.
"I have come to see my mother," he said.
The guards did not move.
Clad in armor of silver and gold, bearing the crest of Aurelion, they stood as unmoving as the gates themselves.
"State your name," one commanded.
"Lonan Margon."
The guard's gaze lowered, taking measure of the boy—not of his words, but of his worth.
A commoner.
"You may not enter."
Lonan's fingers tightened around the cake.
"…My mother serves within," he said quietly. "Miya Margon."
A flicker of recognition passed between the guards.
"Boy," one of them said, his tone softer than before, "you know the law."
No commoner may pass.
No outsider may enter.
Not without decree.
"…It is her birthday," Lonan replied.
For a fleeting moment, silence lingered—not as command, but as hesitation.
Then it faded.
"You must leave," the guard said.
"Before this draws notice."
But Lonan did not move.
"I only wish to see her."
And then—
a voice.
"Lonan!"
From within the gates, a woman hurried forth, her expression stricken with fear.
Miya Margon.
She wore the robes of one who served the divine—simple, unadorned, and bound by duty.
"Forgive him," she said at once, bowing her head. "He should not be here. I will send him away."
"Lady Miya," a guard murmured, "you must not be seen like this."
"I know," she whispered.
She turned to her son.
"You must go."
Lonan lifted the cake slightly.
"I only wished to greet you."
Her expression trembled.
For a moment, she was not a servant.
Only a mother.
But the moment passed.
"You must go," she repeated.
Then—
the air grew still.
The wind ceased.
The light dimmed.
And every soul present felt it.
A presence.
Divine.
The guards lowered their heads at once.
Silence fell as though the world itself dared not speak.
A figure approached.
Calm.
Unhurried.
Unchallenged.
Zerathion.
Emperor among gods.
The most feared being within all Vaelrith.
"What disturbance lies before me?" he asked.
"Nothing, my lord," a guard answered swiftly.
But Zerathion's gaze had already fallen elsewhere.
Upon the cake.
He stepped closer.
"Is that meant for me?" he asked.
Lonan met his gaze.
"No."
The word fell like a stone into still water.
Miya's breath caught.
The sky answered.
Thunder broke across the heavens.
Light split the air.
Fear seized all—
save one.
Lonan did not kneel.
Zerathion's expression darkened.
He took the cake.
Let it fall.
And crushed it beneath his foot.
Silence followed.
Then—
a voice.
"Why would you do that?!"
Lonan's.
Raised.
Defiant.
Miya fell to her knees.
"Forgive him!" she cried. "He is but a child!"
But Lonan stepped forward.
"No, Mother," he said. "Do not bow. He is the one at fault."
Gasps filled the air.
Zerathion turned his gaze upon him.
"Kill the boy."
The guards moved.
But Miya was faster.
She threw herself before Lonan.
"Spare him!" she begged.
A pause.
Then—
laughter.
Cold.
Cruel.
"Very well," Zerathion said.
A dagger was placed into her hands.
"If you would have him spared," he said, "end your own life."
Time seemed to halt.
Tears fell freely now.
"Mother…" Lonan whispered.
Before she could answer—
the wind stirred.
Light descended.
And a figure appeared.
Aelthira.
Goddess of wind and beauty.
"What is this?" she asked.
"A lesson," Zerathion replied.
Her gaze softened upon the child.
Then hardened.
"This is no justice."
"It is law."
Silence.
Then—
Miya moved.
The dagger rose.
And fell.
A cry shattered the stillness.
But it was too late.
She collapsed.
Still.
Gone.
Lonan knelt beside her.
His hands trembled.
But no tears came.
Only silence.
Slowly—
he looked up.
At the gods.
At Zerathion.
And in his eyes—
there burned something far greater than grief.
Hatred.
"I will destroy you," he said.
Quiet.
Unshaken.
And on that day—
beneath the golden light of Aurelion—
a child made a vow
that would one day shake the heavens.
And thus—
the Order
was broken.