It's been over two thousand years since Kaermyr's forges thundered with the hammering heart of rebellion. And still, Ur‑Kimanât feels stuck—caught in an age that should've long since passed. Oxen pull the plows. Stone towers loom with jagged battlements instead of glinting spires. The people have forgotten what harmony ever felt like. The three dynasties—Arden, Sylwen, and Tervail—keep circling one another in an endless dance of ambition and distrust. They all think they've outmaneuvered the others. None realize they're dragging the realm toward ruin.

Once, chivalry meant something. Now it's just a mask for brutality. Knights who swore to protect now prey on the powerless. Guilds squeeze the poor with rules no one can escape, and the banks? They bleed every last coin from the veins of the desperate. And above it all, the throne stands empty—silent, waiting. But maybe not for much longer.

Magic used to breathe life into the world. It's gone now. The empathrunes, pulsing once with compassion, lie broken in tombs no one visits. They flickered out when the last Lorekeeper whispered the final spell. Elves, dragons, all the old beings—they've vanished into story. Only fragments of their names linger, etched into ruined stones, smoothed by wind and lichen. But people remain. We always do. Holding fast to life with callused hands, bending beneath the weight of a world that's forgotten what it once was.

Three houses still hold the bones of power. Arden, Sylwen, and Tervail—each claiming they descend from the heroes of the rebellion, though records are scarce and bloodlines are tangled. Petty lords squabble over grazing rights. Knights scour the land for lost relics. Peasants break their backs for grain to pay their tithe. In candlelit libraries, scholars pore over ancient texts, praying nonsense scribbles hold some forgotten truth.

Outside Kaermyr, the world struggles on. Settlements cling to survival amid scorched plains and shimmering glass deserts. Caravans trade steel for salt and water, inching across the wasteland. Bandits haunt the ruins of Elven keeps, hawking fakes to nobles too proud to know better. And sometimes, on still nights, travelers swear they hear something—faint laughter on the wind, or a horn call that doesn't echo back. Maybe ghosts. Maybe something worse.

The old stories say that on the thousandth night after the Shattering, the sky pulsed one last time with the glow of magic. Then everything went still. The rivers of aether drained from the world. The runes cracked. The stars went silent. Monks in Ironwood Abbey whisper the gods took magic back with them—left the world to grind on by steel and sweat alone.

The Breaking of the First Light (0 AOL)

It began under a bruised sky. Twin moons spilled silver light across the walls of Kaermyr. In the silence beneath, something ancient stirred—deep in the Blackstone Mountains, runes long buried lit up once more. Power not meant for mortals found its way into their hands. And in those shadows, a man named Arden the First forged something new: a blade that shimmered not with hate, but with mercy.

The Elves, once flawless and immortal, had ruled for ages. Beautiful, terrible, untouchable. They twisted the world to their will, turning rivers and forests into ornaments of conquest. But somewhere in their perfection, a flaw crept in: an emptiness where mercy should've been. Humanity was born in the cracks of that empire—fragile, short-lived, but capable of kindness. That small flame was enough to light a fire.

On the Night of the Crimson Tide, rebellion rose. Thousands marched—smiths, scholars, farmers—under white banners scrawled with the rune of mercy. They stormed the Elven strongholds, their blades unraveling centuries of tyranny in a heartbeat. The Elves fell. Their spells cracked. Their perfect walls crumbled. The last king, crowned in black iron, died on the steps of a broken throne.

But the cost was enormous.

The runes that held the world together shattered. Mountains split. Rivers boiled into mist. Forests froze into crystal mid-bloom. Storms of wild aether ripped across the land, warping sky and earth into nightmares. Continents vanished. The age of gods, magic, and immortality ended in fire and ash.

The Coming of the First Darkness (0 AOD)

In the silence that followed, a few places survived. In the Silverleaf Vale, trees still glow faintly. On the Isle of Dawn's Grace, lanterns drift over water as songs of healing echo into the dark. Deep in the Ironwood, monks tend a broken rune—the Balance Stone—said to keep compassion and power from ever being divided again.

At the center of it all stands Kaermyr, the Last City. Built from rebellion, stone, and old blood. Here, three houses rose from the ashes.

House Arden forged wealth and steel. They claimed the forges, the mint, and the markets. Their founder, Arden the First, wasn't just a smith—he was a symbol. He hammered empathy into iron. His descendants turned that legacy into gold. They built roads and aqueducts, raised granaries and council halls. Coins stamped with twin moons and the mercy rune passed from hand to hand across the realm.

House Sylwen rose through the sword. Born of rebellion's knights, they guarded the Vale's borders and kept peace with discipline and steel. Saugon Sylwen, their founder, turned scattered fighters into the Knights of the Black Cloak—sworn not to conquer, but to protect. Later generations codified their values: Valor. Bravery. Fidelity. They built hospices for the wounded and schools for the poor. But even they couldn't escape power's pull. By the time they joined the ruling council, they were no longer only protectors. They were players in the game.

House Tervail claimed knowledge. They came from the scribes who recorded the rebellion, and over time, they became masters of law. They guard the Prime Record, said to be the oldest book in existence. Tervail controls the archives, the courts, the legal scrolls that keep the city running. Publicly, they're advisors and mediators. Privately, they pull the strings.

The Age of Men (15 AOD)

The wars had ended, but the struggle never really stopped. The three houses vied for influence not through war, but through alliances, marriages, and quiet power moves. Every minting of coin, every shift in trade, every new law—they all came with a cost and a signature.

Still, the people adapted. Peasants sent their children to squire for Sylwen knights, hoping to climb the ladder. Artisans sought work under Arden's guilds. Scholars pledged themselves to Tervail's scriptoria. Markets bloomed in the city squares. Empath-blessed fruit was traded alongside steel tools and handwritten scrolls. It wasn't perfect. But it worked.

Kaermyr held onto something rare: the memory of mercy. Serfs could buy freedom. Nobles had to answer to guilds. A knight's honor mattered more than his bloodline. The city didn't thrive by might alone, but by the delicate balance of history, hope, and hard-won compassion.

And now? The wind is shifting again.

Something ancient is moving beneath the surface—older than the houses, older than Kaermyr. The throne has sat empty for centuries.

But maybe not for much longer.