Fifty years ago, life in Vaeloria moved forward the way it always had.
Ships arrived at the ports before sunrise. Fishermen dragged in their nets while merchants argued loudly over salt, silk, and grain. Children ran barefoot through narrow streets, and guards leaned against stone walls, half-asleep beneath the afternoon sun. Even the threat of pirates—ever-present along the outer seas—had become routine. Dangerous, yes, but familiar.
Nothing about that day felt different at first.
The sky was clear. The air was warm. Bells rang to mark the hour just past noon.
Then the light began to fade.
At first, people barely noticed. Some thought clouds were rolling in from the coast. Others shaded their eyes and looked up, confused by the sudden dimness. But the darkness did not move like weather. It spread too evenly, too quickly, as if something vast were passing overhead.
Within moments, the sun was gone.
Shadows stretched unnaturally across streets and fields. The sky turned a deep, bruised gray, swallowing color from the world below. Conversations died mid-sentence. Market stalls stood abandoned as fear crept quietly into the crowd.
Then the lights appeared.
They flowed across the sky in slow, twisting patterns—bands of pale green, violet, and silver, shimmering like reflections on water. They were beautiful, undeniably so, and that beauty only made them more terrifying. People stood frozen, caught between awe and dread, unsure whether to kneel or run.
Some prayed.
Some screamed.
Some could not move at all.
The sun did not return that day.
As hours passed, panic spread beyond the cities into farms and coastal villages. Livestock grew restless. Ships at sea lost their bearings. Temples filled to overflowing as priests offered prayers that grew more desperate with every passing moment.
By nightfall, the darkness still held.
Inside the capital, Emperor Rhaegon Vale summoned his High Council. Scholars argued with generals. Astral readers clashed with temple oracles. Every explanation contradicted the last. Some insisted the event was celestial—a rare alignment of forces misunderstood by lesser minds. Others claimed it was punishment, a warning sent by higher powers.
No one had proof. No one had answers.
As voices rose in anger and fear, the world itself seemed to answer.
A sound split the air.
It was sharper than thunder, deeper than any quake—a violent crack that felt as if it had torn straight through the sky. The horizon flared with blinding light, followed by a shockwave that rattled windows, toppled shelves, and threw people to the ground.
Then came the dust.
It rolled across the land in thick waves, choking the air and turning the world into a blur of gray. When the ground finally stilled and the light faded, the unnatural darkness was gone. The sky returned to its pale blue, as though nothing had happened.
For a moment, there was relief.
Then shapes began to move within the dust.
Figures stepped forward—tall, upright, unmistakably humanoid. They emerged in silence, thousands of them, their forms solidifying as the haze thinned. At a distance, they could have been mistaken for people.
Up close, they were anything but.
Their movements were precise, almost deliberate. Their eyes reflected light in strange ways. There was no panic among them, no confusion, as if they knew exactly where they were and why they had come.
Humanity would later give them a name:
The Umbren.
Fear turned to violence faster than anyone expected.
A thrown stone. A shouted insult. A blade drawn in panic.
The first blood spilled that day stained the earth deeper than any prophecy ever could. What followed was chaos—clashes that erupted without warning, villages burned in fear, and borders erased by war.
The Umbren did not retreat.
They did not plead.
They fought with a calm that terrified even seasoned soldiers.
Weeks became months. Fields were left untended. Trade collapsed. Entire regions of Vaeloria were made unrecognizable by fire and steel. The empire bled itself dry trying to push back an enemy it did not understand.
In the end, desperation won.
Emperor Rhaegon signed a pact few believed would last. The Umbren were granted restricted territories, forbidden from expansion. In return, open war ceased. Soldiers returned home carrying scars and silence. Cities slowly rebuilt.
Peace returned—but it was uneasy, fragile, and forced.
Time passed.
Children were born who had never seen the sky break. Markets reopened. Ships sailed again. The war became something spoken of in hushed voices and history lessons.
But the truth had already taken root.
Some Umbren could walk among humans unseen.
They learned human speech, wore human faces, and entered society quietly. Some rose into noble houses. Some whispered advice into the ears of rulers. Some fell in love, or claimed they did.
Their children were neither fully Umbren nor fully human.
No law could untangle what blood had already mixed.
Outwardly, Vaeloria learned to coexist. Treaties were upheld. Violence lessened. Life appeared, once again, almost normal.
Yet beneath the surface, distrust lingered like rot beneath polished wood.
People learned to smile carefully.
To choose words wisely.
To wonder who was truly standing beside them.
Something had come into the world that day beneath the broken sky—something patient, something unfinished. And though the darkness had vanished from the heavens, it had not left Vaeloria.
It had simply learned how to hide.
This is not a story of how the world ended.
It is the story of how it changed—and how the sea, the crown, and the shadows would soon collide in ways no one could stop.