Beneath the earth, where sunlight had never set foot, lay a world that never slept.
They called it Noctarion.
It was no mere cave, nor just a mining tunnel. It was a continent layered upon itself, breathing, shifting—slow as a giant deep in a long dream. Its stone roads curled like veins, leading only downward, never back. From the vaulted ceiling above, bioluminescent mushrooms dripped a greenish light, soft as twilight caught and held. Somewhere far below came a low, steady rumble—not a waterfall, but the heartbeat of the earth itself.
Here, kingdoms stood in the shadows, watching each other through the drifting haze of the mines.
Wingless fae from Lumendel. Goblin smiths in Ironroot. Exiled men lurking in Chasmor. Glass-skinned creatures from the spires of Glassveil. All lived under a single, unwritten law: work… or sink.
But their labor was not to build homes, nor to mend the world. They mined the Core Source—a primal, pulsing mineral that glowed with a bluish-violet light. To most, it was just a precious stone. But to those who had touched it… it seemed to remember. As if it carried a story older than time itself.
And above all else stood the figure who never showed his face—The Overlord of Noctarion.
His voice was heard only through emissaries, his face forever hidden behind a mask. He ruled through puppet kings, setting kingdoms against one another, ensuring the mines never fell silent.
No one truly knew what he sought.
Some said he gathered the Core Source to strengthen Noctarion. Others whispered he meant to open a gate to another world. But among the darker rumors, one belief chilled even the bravest tongues: he did it… so he would never die.
Tonight, upon the hanging rails of Chasmor, a mine cart swayed gently in the dark. Inside, a lone human stirred awake. He did not remember how he had come to be here. Only one thing pulsed through his awareness—the rhythm of the machine, thudding deep in his chest.
In Noctarion… that was no accident.
It was a calling.