Three great races coexisted within the ring of centuries:

  — The Elves of Darion, whose crystal-glass towers saw science dance in unison with magic.

  — The Dwarves of Kirion, whose underground forges birthed artifacts that made the very earth tremble.

  — The Beastkin of Argan, whose chieftains wore the fangs of slain dragons instead of medals.

  Human tribes came later—strange guests without ancestral memory. The elves shared their knowledge, the dwarves grumbled but forged their plows, and the beastkin taught them to read the tracks upon stone. Until that fateful day when the ashes of betrayal eclipsed the sun…

  He entered history as the Red Prophet—a man clad in a cloak of Maltese wolf pelts. His sermons spread like wildfire through dry grass:

  "Why do the elves' skyscrapers cast shadows over our huts? Why do dwarven steam machines not till our fields?"

  When the last citadel of the elves fell, the victors found only the Garden of Silence—hundreds of bodies frozen in prayer, their faces turned toward the black sun. The dwarven emperor, Kirion, ordered an inscription upon the gates:

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  "Here, the wind has died."

  In the port city of Piona, where the air reeked of salt and lies, lived a boy-paradox. Seven-year-old Adiar Elyusei wore a silver mask shaped like a wolf’s visage—the last gift of his elven mother, whose flame had been swallowed by a human mob. His short sword, Moon’s Tear, smelled of wormwood and old oaths.

  "The dead teach better than the living," Adiar whispered, adjusting the strap of his maps. His ship, Argent’s Shadow, swayed at Pier No. 7, where tar mingled with fish scales.

  A crew of twelve souls—a cabinet of scarred fates:

  — Rachel Seid, with tattoos of sea demons coiled around her biceps.

  — Simon Durr, whose wooden prosthetic tapped Morse code upon the deck.

  "Captain!" Rachel tossed the helm aside with the grace of a battle-hardened gorgon. "A kraken surfaced at the Silent Reefs. They say its tentacles guard artifacts of the Second Age."

  Adiar ran a finger along his blade, leaving a crimson dew upon the steel.

  "We won’t take the beast… but what it protects."

  As the waves began to lap at the hull, the boy pulled from beneath his armor an eleven pendant—a droplet of frozen light. Somewhere in the world, towers without soot upon their walls must still stand. Somewhere, his true kin still breathe.