In a land where dreams take shape and desire fuels destiny — a realm where the impossible becomes real, and every soul is drawn by something greater: power, freedom, love, or immortality. Beneath its twin moons and star-swept skies, the world calls to wanderers and kings alike, offering wonder and ruin in equal measure.
Nytherial is a boundless realm, vast enough to swallow empires and ancient enough to have forgotten more kings than it remembers. Spanning immense continents, floating isles, and underworld labyrinths, its lands stretch from sun-blasted deserts in the east to glacial tundras in the north, from endless emerald jungles to storm-wracked archipelagos lost to time.
, home to countless races, each forging their empires in fire, magic, and ambition. From skyborne citadels to deep mountain holds, every corner of the realm echoes with the rise and fall of civilizations, each striving to carve its legacy into the bones of the world.
But beyond the known realms lie the Corrupted Lands, where the veil between realms is torn and the land festers with ancient curses. There, demons roam — twisted beings born of shadow, hunger, and forgotten wrath. They seep from broken rifts, tainting all they touch, and whisper promises to the desperate and the damned. Some seek dominion. Others seek only destruction.
Neitherial is not a realm of peace — it is a realm of legends, where every mountain hides a secret, and every shadow may hold a blade or a beast. To walk its lands is to walk the line between wonder and oblivion.
The sky above Lunareth, capital of the Selvaris Empire, burned with a terrible crimson hue—as if the heavens themselves had been set aflame by the wrath of the abyss.
Once a beacon of harmony, where moonstone towers kissed the stars and silver bridges arched across crystal canals, Lunareth now stood as a fortress on the edge of annihilation. Its once-glorious spires now bristled with war-banners, siege scars, and smoke.
From above, the battlefield churned like a living wound.
An unholy tide of demons surged from the east, surging from shattered sky-rifts and the broken mountains beyond. The earth warped beneath their march, blistering into blackened glass. Fire-belching war beasts the size of mansions crawled over ridges, armored in bone and chain. Flying fiends circled overhead, raining death with screeches that curdled blood. Their war horns—deep, metallic, otherworldly—echoed across the land like the tolling of a doom long prophesied.
Yet the gates of Lunareth held, bloodied but unbowed.
From hastily dug trenches and shattered outposts, a coalition of every free race stood shoulder to shoulder, forged not by alliance but by oath. Elven rangers, cloaks trailing moonlight, loosed glowing arrows from atop dwarven-forged battlements. Human knights in blackened plate fought back-to-back with orc berserkers, their war cries clashing as loud as their blades. Dwarven engineers, faces smeared with soot and determination, manned bolt-throwers beside green-skinned goblins, who darted between the ranks, flinging explosives with cackling glee.
The gnomes' arcane cannons pulsed with unstable energy, firing into demonic swarms like comets, galloping between shattered barricades and burning emplacements, centaur skirmishers flanked demonic outriders, their javelins of starlight striking with ruthless precision. . Above them, griffin riders and drake-mounted sky guards clashed with winged horrors in deadly spirals, in the sky a storm of feathers, flame, and fury.
The defenders held the shattered outer wall, not in neat formations, but as a living storm—improvised, desperate, and relentless. Their magic clashed with infernal fire in blinding arcs. Cries of pain and courage mingled with the thunder of falling rubble. Lunareth's silver walls wept black scorch marks, and its streets ran red, yet not one warrior broke rank.
The Selvaris Banner, once purely ceremonial, now flew tattered and smoke-stained atop Lunaris Hold, its silver crescent gleaming defiantly against the blood-stained clouds.
This was not just a battle for a city. It was the final bastion of light in a world trembling on the edge of ruin.
And the demons had come to extinguish the moon.
The great court of Lunareth Palace shimmered under the soft glow of enchanted moonlight. Tall silver pillars lined the marble hall, their surfaces etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly with magic. The vaulted ceiling arched high above, painted with stars that seemed to drift across its surface slowly.
Moonstone braziers cast pale firelight over the quiet crowd—nobles, generals, and mages seated in curved rows that rose like crescents on either side of the chamber. Their eyes were fixed forward, where the heart of the court awaited.
At the end of the hall, upon a crescent-shaped throne platform of polished obsidian and silver, stood a man clad in gleaming battle armor. His hair flowed like starlight over his shoulders, silver as the empire's banner. The armor bore the marks of countless victories—engraved with lunar symbols and edged in pale crystal. In his right hand, he held a tall spear, its blade glowing faintly with celestial power.
Behind him rose a grand statue of a dragon, wings outstretched protectively around a silver moon carved into the stone above. The dragon's eyes, set with blue gems, gleamed in the light—watchful, eternal.
His gaze is calm, unyielding—a commander of destiny, as if the moon itself had taken mortal form to lead them into the storm.
Heavy footsteps echoed across the marble floor. A General , with broad shoulders and scarred from countless campaigns, strode forward before the throne. Bringing his fist to his chest in a sharp salute, head bowed in respect.
"The banners are raised, my lord. Every sword and spear stands ready for the last battle. " The general says
The silver-haired man said nothing. He gave only a slow, deliberate nod, his eyes steady and unflinching.
Then, his gaze shifted—turning to a woman seated beside the throne. Her flowing robes were etched with ancient glyphs, power woven into every thread, her staff resting lightly at her side. Upon her brow, a silver circlet shimmered, its enchantments pulsing with a quiet, living light.
His voice cut through the hush of the court, low and commanding.
"Where is that child?"
"He is in the teleportation chamber… with his assigned guards, ready for departure," she said, pausing just a breath before adding, "He is… unwilling to leave."
A flicker of sorrow crossed her otherwise composed features—her lips tightening, the faintest crease forming at the corner of her eyes. For a moment, the mask of duty slipped, revealing the quiet ache beneath the mantle of power.
The silver-haired man remained silent for a long moment, his grip tightening around his spear. Then, slowly, his gaze drifted upward—through the high arches, beyond the enchanted ceiling—toward the pale glow of the moon hanging serenely in the night sky.
His voice, deep and steady, rolled through the grand court like distant thunder, yet within it burned a quiet, unyielding hope.
"He must go… and carry the hope of our nation, our people… and our ancestors."
The moonlight caught the edge of his armor, casting a silver halo across his face, but his eyes remained fixed on the light that had guided their empire for generations.
In the teleportation chamber, swirling runes pulsed along the circular stone floor, casting shifting patterns of silver and blue light across the ancient walls. The air thrummed with magic, thick and electric, as the portal's core shimmered like liquid moonlight, awaiting its command.
At the center, a young man struggled fiercely. He was clad in finely tailored royal garments—midnight cloth threaded with glinting silver, the crest of the Selvaris Empire stitched proudly over his chest. His silver hair, long and untamed, spilled across his shoulders, catching the magical light like molten starlight in motion.
His face, sculpted with noble lines and high cheekbones, bore the unmistakable stamp of royal blood—handsome, proud, and sharp as carved marble. But now, that regal mask was twisted with defiance and anguish; his jaw clenched tight, his storm-grey eyes blazing with fury beneath furrowed brows.
Two palace guards, strong and silent, held him by the arms as he thrashed against their iron grip.
"Let me go!" he roared. "I won't abandon them—I won't run like a coward!"
His boots scraped across the smooth stone, muscles straining, heart torn between duty and the unbearable pull of loyalty. Behind him, the portal flared brighter, its moonlit swirl hungry to pull him away—far from the war, far from home.
Suddenly, the silver-haired man strode into the chamber, his presence like a rolling storm, the Arch sorceress at his side, an ancient book clutched firmly against her chest, runes flickering softly across its cover.
His piercing gaze fell upon the struggling youth. Then, unexpectedly, a deep roar of laughter echoed through the chamber, warm and powerful, cutting through the tension like sunlight through a storm cloud.
"Alaric," he called, his voice rich with pride, "I admire your spirit … your courage burns brighter than many seasoned warriors. But this battle—this war—is not yet yours to claim." His eyes gleamed, part command, part fatherly pride. "Your time will come… and when it does, you will rise higher than any of us, and your name will shine brighter than the moon itself.
The young man startled, his storm-grey eyes widening. Then his voice rang out, filled with urgency.
"Father! I can fight! I have trained my whole life to defend our people, our nation—this is what I was born to do!"
The silver-haired man smiled, pride gleaming in his eyes. He turned to the Arch sorceress standing beside him, a deep laugh rolling from his chest.
"See?" he said, amusement softening his hardened features, "Our son carries our spirit."
The Arch sorceress smiled, but a shadow crossed her face. Her lips curved, yet her eyes betrayed her, heavy with sorrow, as though her heart was splintering behind every word.
Silently, she stepped forward, approaching her son. Her slender hands extended, presenting him with a heavy, rune-etched ancient book, its cover dark as midnight, its binding pulsing faintly with hidden power.
Her voice trembled, yet held steady authority.
"This book carries secrets long forgotten… ancient truths about your bloodline, about you." She paused, her gaze intense. "Wonders follow those who bear it, but so does danger. The demons have hunted this tome since the founding of the Selvaris Empire." Her grip tightened around the book, pressing it firmly into his hands. "Protect it well… and it will protect you. Learn its secrets, my son."
Her breath caught, her voice breaking slightly as her composure began to slip.
"Do not be sad, my child," she whispered, her lips trembling. "We will be together again when the time is right. Be the ruler your father has taught you to be—lead with wisdom, protect your people, and bring prosperity to the realm."
Her final words cracked, her tears slipping free, no longer held back. Her shoulders trembled as she cupped his cheek, memorizing the face she might not see again.
The silver-haired man stepped forward, his hand resting firmly on the Arch sorceress's shoulder, steadying her as she fought her tears. Slowly, he unhooked the long, majestic spear from his back—its shaft of blackened moonwood gleaming faintly, its silver blade etched with ancient runes that pulsed softly in the chamber's light.
He turned to his son, his expression stern but proud, his voice deep with authority. "Son… your mission begins now."
He extended the spear forward, holding it out between them.
"Take this. The Spear of the First Moon—wielded by our bloodline since the founding of the Selvaris Empire. With it, you do not carry only a weapon… You carry our history, our pride, and the unbroken will of our people."
The young man's breath caught as he reached forward, fingers curling around the polished shaft, feeling the weight of his ancestors settle into his grasp. His father's grip lingered for a heartbeat, as though passing not just a weapon, but a final blessing.
Then the silver-haired man's voice sharpened, heavy with command. "Forge a future for our people… for the land you are sworn to protect."
His voice boomed across the chamber.
"Now—GO!" The air rippled with otherworldly light. The portal flared, a wound between realms, its edges alive with fire and shadow. Behind Alaric, a hundred Selvaris warriors stood in silence, silver hair gleaming like moonfire, eyes hard with resolve. They did not tremble. They did not turn.
Alaric stepped forward, the ancient book in his hand glowing faintly, as though hungering for the words it knew were about to be spoken. He raised his voice, steady and resonant, so it carried over the roar of the portal and etched itself into the marrow of all who heard.
"Let kingdoms rise and fall, let empires forget our name—yet we are Selvaris.
When the world turns to ash, we endure.
When shadows seek to swallow light, we endure.
By blood, by oath, by the fire that sings in our veins… we will not fade.
We are exile, we are storm, we are the heirs of the Selvaris …
And we will return.
A hush fell, the air heavy with reverence. Then he struck his palm against his chest, a motion mirrored by every warrior, their armor and robes thundering as one.
Alaric's voice darkened, cold as the steel of the empire's spears:
By the strength of our arms, we shall shield the weak.
By the weight of our oaths, we shall guard the innocent.
By the breath of our line, we shall keep the realm unbroken.
In shadow we stand, in blood we rise, and by oath we conquer.
So long as Selvaris breathes, no demon shall claim the realm,
and no child of man shall fall unguarded while we yet draw breath."
The oath rolled like thunder, taken up by every throat, until the portal itself seemed to shiver before their united cry. Silver fire sparked in the book's pages, binding the vow to fate itself.
As Alaric's oath faded into silence, the book stirred faintly against his palm.
No blaze, no sound—only a hidden thrum, as if echoing his heartbeat.
No one else saw. Yet to him, the world sharpened, his thoughts clear as steel.
The vow was heard. The bond sealed.
And then, without hesitation, Alaric lifted his hand, cutting through the charged silence:
"Selvaris—march."
Their unified shout answered, echoing against the trembling veil between worlds:
"For the Emperor! For Selvaris! We march!"
And with that, they strode into exile—not as refugees, but as conquerors-in-waiting.
Vanishing into the unknown, they carry the weight of their empire, their last hope.
The chamber fell silent as the last flickers of portal light faded into the gloom. Only the soft crackle of the runes remained, pulsing faintly beneath their feet.
The Arch sorceress wiped her tears, her fingers lingering near the silver circlet on her brow. Her voice trembled, almost a whisper meant only for herself—but the words hung heavy in the air.
"As it was written… From the fall of the crescent walls shall rise the last heir; born of silver blood, tempered by flame, he shall cross the veil of sorrow… and bear the light of the moon into a broken world."
The silver-haired man's jaw tightened as he repeated the last lines in a deep murmur, his gaze unwavering.
"…and in the darkest hour, his spear shall blaze brighter than the stars… and through him, the empire shall be reborn."
For a brief moment, the burden on their shoulders seemed both unbearable and unshakable—a cruel fate entwined with impossible hope.
The Arch sorceress glanced up, her voice steadier now.
"Perhaps… this time… the prophecy will not break our line… but save it."
The silver-haired man said nothing. His hand remained firm on her shoulder, his posture tall, as his eyes remained fixed on the quiet space where their son had stood—holding fast to the belief that in the ashes of their dying world, something greater would be forged.
Suddenly, the great doors burst open with a thundering crack, and a warrior staggered into the chamber, his armor slick with blood, dented and scorched from battle. Despite the wounds and exhaustion dragging at his frame, he stood tall, fist pressed firmly to his chest in a soldier's salute.
"My lord," he announced, voice hoarse but unbroken, "the Demon emperors have begun their final assault. The eastern skies burn… their legions march upon Lunareth."
Silence followed—thick, heavy.
The silver-haired man stood unmoving for a moment, his gaze sharp and distant. Slowly, his eyes drifted to the side, to the Archsorceress standing quietly at his flank. In her hand, nestled between slender fingers, was a small glowing orb—its light faint but steady, pulsing like a heartbeat of distant hope… or a farewell sealed in magic.
A long breath escaped him, a sigh weighed with countless unspoken words. But he said nothing of it. His eyes turned back toward the grand doors, toward the distant battlefield calling his name.
His smile widened, fierce and untamed.
"Now… unleashed and unbound, I fight as the storm itself."
As his laughter rumbled, his body began to shift. The silver gleam of his hair seemed to glow brighter, his skin hardening, rippling as ancient magic stirred in his blood. Scales—gleaming like molten silver and tempered steel—crept along his arms and neck, veins of power pulsing beneath.
His eyes ignited, burning with a brilliant glow like twin moons set ablaze, a reflection of something old… something far beyond mortal flesh.
The Arch sorceress watched with a mixture of sorrow and awe, for she knew the ancient bloodline was awakening fully, now ready to unleash its fury upon the demon armies clawing at their gates.
The silver-haired man's voice was a low growl, primal and resolute.
"Let them come! Steel shall sing, blood shall answer, and the world shall remember that Selvaris does not bow!"
Storming forth from the great gate, the silver-haired man bellowed a roar that split the sky itself. His voice was no mere cry of rage, but a summons—ancestral and thunderous—that rolled across the battlefield like a storm breaking upon the shore.
Before him surged the endless horde, a tide of shadow and claw, yet he did not falter. Cloaked in steel and moonlight, he strode into their ranks with a stride that shook the courage of demons. His blade sang, each arc a hymn of defiance, each strike a vow to the realm he would not surrender.
Behind him, his warriors beheld their lord—majestic and formidable—and their hearts ignited. A roar burst from their throats, unyielding as a mountain, a chorus that rose to meet his call. They stormed after him with spirits aflame, silver banners whipping in the wind, their oath burning brighter than fear.
Thus, the battle was joined—not as men against Demons, but as legends against oblivion.