At the beginning of time, the reality got split into the two: the Light Realm and the Dark Realm. Though complete opposites, they were locked in a delicate balance—light and dark, calm and chaos, forever side by side. The Light Realm thrived in peace and unity. It became home to proud and noble races: the enduring Humans, the ancient and wise Elves, the intelligent and brave Dwarves, the winged Seraphims with their heavenly grace and flying abilities, the water-dwelling Naiads, and the Lumaris—fierce yet gentle beast-folk with deep hearts and sharp minds. Together they lived in balance, guided by thoughtful rulers and protected by armies shaped through years of learning and tradition.
The Dark Realm was another story entirely. Twisted and wild, it was filled with creatures of shadow: Devils, Goblins, Hellhounds, the Kaldrins—corrupted cousins of the Lumari—along with soulless Torkes and the Fallens, who were criminals from the Light Realm cast into exile. These lands weren't just divided by space, but by spirit—a constant, silent clash where magic, memory, and mistrust lived at the borders.
The two realms were always at war. Several battles were fought throughout history. But the most groundbreaking war was the one that changed the fates of the two realms forever; THE SEVENTEENTH HOLY WAR.
Even now, the world remembered the Seventeenth Holy War, waged forty years ago from today.
Winds still carried the dust of forgotten battlefields. Broken weapons lay hidden beneath grass, where blood once ran like rivers. The land of ALDORIA itself seemed to hum with the memory of that terrible conflict.
That war was fought by giants.
On one side was AURELIUS VAELCREST, the beloved King of Aldoria—wise, brave, and divinely chosen. On the other stood MALACHOR, the Demon Lord, whose rise turned the skies black and made seas boil.
The war tore through both realms. Flames fell from the heavens. Mountains split. Entire kingdoms vanished. Even the sun seemed to dim in mourning.
Aurelius united elves, humans, dwarves, and lumari under one banner. He didn't just command from a throne—he fought in the trenches, blade in hand, courage in his heart.
Their final battle was at Drevgard's Maw, under a blood-red sky.
Steel met shadow. Hope met ruin.
But it wasn't just a fight—it was a clash of beliefs. Aurelius fought for love, freedom, and peace. Malachor wanted to reshape the world in cruelty and fear. They battled for twenty-one days. On the dawn of the twenty-second day, Aurelius drove his holy sword, SERATHORNE, through Malachor's chest.
The war was over—but so was the king's life. He fell beside the demon and never stood again.
His last breath held no fear, only peace. The world wept. Candles burned in every temple. Statues were raised. Songs were sung. The name "Aurelius Vaelcrest" became eternal.
And from those ashes, healing began. The dark realm was completely sealed by the archmages.
Now, forty years later, peace had returned, gentle as spring after a long, cruel winter. Aurelius's son, ALTHERION, now ruled from the Crimson Throne.
Altherion was not just a king—he was a reformer, a dreamer, a man with a steady hand and a sharp mind. Under his guidance, Aldoria flourished. Cities grew rich, and races once divided stood together again. The old grudges faded. All the kingdoms formed a peaceful alliance under his rule. Altherion reshaped the royal army into a disciplined shield—more than just soldiers, they became a promise of peace. His leadership kept even the boldest creatures of the Dark Realm from crossing into their lands. In Aldoria, peace wasn't just a dream—it was real.
Beside him stood his mother, QUEEN MOTHER YSMYRA, wife of the late king Aurelius and the soul of the royal family. Across the realm, she was loved—not just for the crown she once wore, but for her strength and kindness. She carried her grief like a queen, and her pride in Altherion was quiet but fierce. To her, the kingdom and her son were all that remained of her beloved Aurelius—and she guarded them with all her heart. The people cherished her. She was their constant, a gentle reminder of where they'd come from. She cherished the citizens of Aldoria as own.
In the growing legacy of the royal line stood PRINCE KAELITH, Altherion's only son. Just nineteen, he already showed signs of greatness. Gifted in magic, bold in battle, with a spirit that shone bright, Kaelith was seen by many as the beginning of a new golden age.
Far from the city, in Aldoria's quiet east, near the town of Drakenshade, there was a village called Elarith. It was a peaceful place—simple homes, stone paths, and fields kissed by morning light. The people here didn't talk of politics. They grew crops, told bedtime stories, and lived soft, steady lives.
At the edge of the village, where woods met fields, lived a man named AEGON GREYMIRE. He had once served in the royal army. Now, he was just a quiet farmer with a limp, a cane, and eyes full of secrets. His days were gentle. He worked his land, brewed potions, and spent every moment with the reason he still breathed—his grandson, Eamon.
EAMON GREYMIRE was seventeen. Slim, sharp-eyed, and black haired. He had no friends. He didn't play in the streets or dance during festivals. He didn't chase fireflies or tell jokes.
His world was his grandfather. Aegon had taught him everything—magic, yes, but also how to survive. How to fight. How to think. How to feel. The bond they shared ran deeper than blood.
To others, Aegon was a retired mage. To Eamon, he was the world.
One soft morning, sunlight broke through the mist and lit up the fields like gold. Birds sang. Smoke curled from chimneys. Eamon was in the yard behind their cottage, shirtless and sweating, moving through sword drills like a dancer.
His blade moved with his breath—fluid, focused.
Aegon watched from the porch, sipping from a wooden mug. He smiled.
"Stop showing off in front of the birds," he called.
Eamon laughed, lowering his sword and wiping sweat from his brow. "You're up early", he asked.
"Old bones don't sleep much," Aegon said. "Besides, I've got something for you."
Eamon's eyebrows rose. "What is it?"
Inside, the cottage was warm and cozy—scrolls, maps, dried herbs, and glowing embers in the fireplace.
Aegon opened a drawer and pulled out a letter. The seal showed a phoenix curled around a serpent.
Eamon frowned. "This isn't yours."
"No," Aegon said. "It's for your grandfather Arvin."
Arvin Windmere—an old friend of Aegon. A healer who lived past the Whispering Vale in Verdelane Forest.
"Are you sick?" Eamon asked.
"Not yet," Aegon chuckled. "But Arvin brews a medicine for my leg. And I want you to deliver this letter yourself and bring the medicine."
"I've never gone that far alone", said the worried Eamon
"I know," Aegon said gently. "But it's time."
Eamon looked around their home. He'd barely left it in years. The thought of going beyond the woods stirred fear in him—and something else.
Aegon saw it.
"You'll leave at dawn. Take the east trail. I've packed food and your blade."
Eamon smiled. "You already planned this."
Aegon winked. "I trust you."
Eamon took the letter. "I won't let you down."
"I know," Aegon said with a grin. "Just don't trip in front of strangers."
That evening, the sun sank behind the hills. Eamon checked his gear. Aegon gave quiet advice—how to find your way by moss, how to sense danger, what herbs to avoid.
They shared a meal with jokes and laughter. Aegon played a soft tune on a bone flute. Eamon sat by the fire, watching the flames.
And so, the next morning, before the sun had fully risen, as the stars began to fade and the world turned lavender with light, Eamon stepped onto the path.
He carried a sword with him and the letter which his grandfather gave him.