Lorebook: Songs of the Norrin

Songs of the Norrin

LORE

---

Faere Fall and Fallow Tyde
(Excerpt from the Norrin epic, The Lay of Faenir)

Faere fall and fallow tyde, Friggid wynds blow winter-chill; Dusk-hearth lande Faenir rydes, Brusk alofte in frosted hande.

Hoofe-beats tremble steppe and stone, Wylde-hunt quakes the earth belowe; Skys are cloaked in stormes unborn, Tempers sharpe, hearts bounde in wrothe.

Iron-rimed whispers, rune-carved stones, Shadows stryde neath black-moon watch; Wolven-song spills twysted pynes, Somethynge dark beneath the frost.

Faenir rydes through blackest nyghtes, Burning Brusk—a flayming brande; Held alofte, unyielding fyre, Starless firmament doth quake.

War-cry swalled in wynter's throate, Deathe swift comes, but silence swifter; Bodies strewn cross ice-bound lande, Warriors proude now bones unmade.

Cold-haft plung’d in hearts of men, Braeking bodies, unmending souls; Yet beneath this silent fielde, Murmurings—old Yggthr breathes.

Wayting pacient, wyse and olde, Still as fyrst-star’s distant gleame; Faere fall and fallow tyde, Faenir’s name the ravens calle.

Historical Context and Meaning

This verse comes from the revered Norrin epic known as The Lay of Faenir, which chronicles the mythic deeds and battles of Faenir, a legendary hero-king of the Norrin people who was said to have united disparate clans during the harshest winter in memory, known as the "Faere Fall" (literally: "the falling of fear").

Often recited during the darkest months of winter, it serves both as a cautionary tale and a ritualistic invocation meant to honor Faenir, a mythic figure believed by the Norrin to be a divine harbinger of change and calamity. Faenir, astride his great steed and wielding his burning brusk (an archaic term meaning "torch" or "brand"), symbolizes the raw, untamable force of nature itself, arriving as herald of a great and inevitable upheaval.

The "faere fall and fallow tyde" referenced repeatedly in the text points to an ancient belief in cycles of renewal through destruction: lands must lie fallow, blood must nourish the frozen earth, and change is born through violence and sacrifice. Winter, represented vividly in the text as both enemy and ally, embodies both a literal and spiritual trial, where humanity is tested and often found wanting.

The recurring imagery of runes, wolves, ravens, and starless skies is deeply significant in Norrin spirituality, drawing from their long-held reverence for omens, ancestral memory, and communion with the primal forces of their harsh northern homeland. The whispering stones and singing wolves serve as symbolic echoes of the land’s own voice, hinting at a hidden magic that once ran through the bloodlines of the Norrin before its suppression by southern conquerors.

Notably, the piece culminates in a quiet moment. A murmur beneath silence, representing Yggthr, the great, primordial spirit of the northern wilds. This symbolizes the Norrin belief in an ever-present, watchful natural world, patiently awaiting the opportunity to reclaim what was once lost.

Thus, The Lay of Faenir serves as both cultural remembrance and spiritual instruction, reminding listeners of the delicate balance between mankind’s ambitions and nature’s enduring, patient might.

Stormcall to the Shield-Wall

Harke ye waves ashore, breathe life anewe, From frigid depths where Thalrik dreams; Seabourne whispers rise to spewe, Forgotten songs from Ulthar's streams.

Salt-mist shrouds the Isle of Karr, Where Brannor's stones in silence stand; By lightless moons, beneath the star, Wyld windes bless old Vaelmar's land.

Eldarr runes in driftwood lie, Echoes borne on tidale breath; Mysteries taught by gods on high, In whysper'd rites to cheat the deathe.

Hulda walks the blackened shore, Spear of Yldir raised in pride; The waves recount what came before, Saga bounde to ebbing tyde.

Mounds stir gently, moss and stone, Belowe, olde bones begin to wake; Anveir's horn, in somber tone, Calls warriors forth from earth’s embrace.

Rise ye, Norrin, shield-wall forme, Proud beneath dark skies anew; From depths of sea and heart of storme, The olde blood calls ye homeward true.

Harke ye waves, awaken ye, Vaelmar’s sons and daughters ryse; Breathe life anewe, reclaim the sea, Till stars reclaim their ancient skies.

Historical Context and Meaning

Stormcall to the Shield-Wall is an ancient Norrin war-chant and invocation believed to date back to the earliest legends of the Vaelmar Isles. It is recited during rites of renewal and before battles, calling upon ancestral heroes and forgotten gods to rise and lend their strength.

The poem references Thalrik, the slumbering god beneath the northern seas, and Hulda, the warrior-maiden whose valor shaped Norrin martial tradition. "Brannor's stones" signify sacred sites scattered across the Isle of Karr, often associated with ancient rites and the Eldarr runes, symbols believed to preserve wisdom lost to time.

The recurring theme of awakening and rebirth symbolizes the enduring Norrin belief in cyclical renewal, resilience, and their profound connection to both sea and land.

Torvald’s Lament
(Excerpt from Of Waves and Wylde Hearts, the Norrin saga of the lovers known as Torvald and Sigrun)

Traveler, harke, and sit ye neare, A tale I'll weave of Sigrun deare; Across ice-wastes my harte did seeke, Her voice more sweet than fayre-bird's speeke.

Through froste-clad lands I tred aloyne, Guided by dreams old Thalrik's shown; Where thorne-ways cut through flesh and boyne, Skyfyre burned to gyde my waye, To finde my love ere end of daye.

My cloak in tatters, wyndes did teare, My beard as white as vaelwarg-haire; Yet hearte as hotte as Brusk aflame, Did pulse and call aloud her nayme.

I faced the wyrme of Eldgrim's laire, With teeth as swords, a gaze of feare; Its scales as harde as runic stone, Yet courage helde my blade alone.

Through marshes darke, I waded deepe, Where spiryts lost their vigil keepe; Their mournful cries called me to stray, Yet thoughts of her kept me my waye.

I crossed the bridge of Yldir’s fyre, Whose flames consume each foule desyre; Yet my true love burned bright and cleare, No flame could take what I held deare.

Within darke woods, 'neath starveiled skeine, Her whispers stirred through snowe-softe reine; Her face, a vision sylver-brighte, Yet lost againe each fleeting nyghte.

Stone-fanged peaks loomed colde and steepe, Ancestral paths where secrets sleepe; Yet onward pressed my weary feete, Through shadow-vales, my love to meete.

On cliffes of sea stood Sigrun feyre, Eyes glistening with grief-held care; Anveir's horn mourned through the aire; Her teares encased by winter's breath, I raced to her past realms of deathe.

Till dawn-breake, traveller, brought me peace, My footsteps neare, her sorrow cease; At last embraced, brief joye we helde, Yet cruel fate our love dispellede.

A single touche, a kyss of payne, The seas reclaimed my forme againe; Yet traveler, knowe this lore is true, Though lost to waves, my hearte she knewe.

Historical Context and Meaning

Torvald’s Lament is an excerpt from the Norrin saga, Of Waves and Wylde Hearts, a revered epic that tells the bittersweet tale of the legendary hero Torvald and his beloved, Sigrun. According to ancient tradition, Torvald, a famed warrior from a long-forgotten northern fjord-clan, undertook an arduous journey across the perilous Vaelfrost Sea and through the haunted wilderness known as the Whyspring Wastes, all to reunite with Sigrun after fate cruelly separated them.

This excerpt captures a poignant moment in the saga: Torvald recounting his memories of Sigrun to a weary traveler, recalling vividly her striking Vaelwarg-haire, or hair likened to the ethereal Vaelwarg, a ghostly beast of legend said to wander frozen wilds beneath aurora-lit skies. His trials mentioned in the poem symbolize profound devotion amidst impossible odds, invoking the watchful presence of the gods: Thalrik, keeper of storms and trials, and Anveir, deity of hearth and home, whose favor Torvald sought during his journey.

Among the Norrin, Torvald and Sigrun's story holds significant cultural resonance as a meditation on both the strength and cost of love in defiance of destiny itself. It is often recited by skalds at gatherings, reminding listeners of the enduring power of memory and love's capacity to outlast even death and divine decree.

House of the Sun, pt. 3

House of the Sun

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

---

The young mystic, Tahir, pressed his palm against the sun-warmed stone, feeling the grooves beneath his fingers. The rock still held the memory of the day's heat, as if it had absorbed the sun’s light and refused to surrender it to the coming night. His breath slowed. The markings - etched into the cliffside like scars in flesh - glowed in the amber dusk, their meaning seemingly close, but just beyond his reach.

"Ha'say qutran," he whispered, barely aware he had spoken aloud. The stone remembers.

Tahir was the youngest of the mystics, barely past his shayih, his naming rites, and yet he had been drawn to the runes with a gravity he could not explain. He was lean from the journey, his skin darkened by the desert sun, his robes travel-worn but still marked with the blue-threaded sigils of his station. His hands, calloused from both ink and toil, hovered carefully over the stone as though he might draw something from it, some fragment of lost wisdom buried beneath its surface.

Behind him, the elders of the M’aktun knelt in hushed reverence, their hands pressed to their foreheads before touching the earth. Their robes, once pristine, were frayed by weeks of travel, their faces marked with sun-creased lines of wisdom and exhaustion alike.

Samat, the eldest among them, was as still as the rock itself. His once-black beard had turned silver over the years, but his back was straight, his presence firm as he regarded the runes with something bordering on longing. He had guided them here through faith alone, through the whispered prayers of his ancestors, and now he stood before their destination, unbowed.

Beside him knelt Yasira, ever the skeptic. Her sharp eyes - dark as storm-touched waters - studied the carvings not with wonder, but with measured scrutiny. She was younger than Samat but carried her own weight of years, and she had never believed in blind faith. The Hasna Sayifra had been a myth, a tale to quiet children before bed, until now. And even now, she did not yield to the impulse of awe.

But for Tahir, this was something else entirely. This was not merely history. It was awakening.

The words of his grandmother returned to him, whispered over the low embers of a brazier, her hands weaving unseen symbols in the air.

"Hasna Sayifra was the first to greet the morning and the last to see the dusk," she had told him. "Its walls knew the name of the stars, and its stones drank secrets from the sky."

He had been a boy then, staring up at her with wide eyes. "Where is it now?" he had asked, and she had only smiled, pressing her palm against his cheek.

"Lost," she had said, "but waiting."

Waiting.

And here it was.

His fingers traced one of the deeper etchings - a long, sweeping arc, different from the others. Older. Perhaps even older than the tongue of the M’aktun. The markings here were not merely words; they were a language of their own, a forgotten dialect of stone and shadow.

"The Hasna Sayifra," Samat intoned behind him. “House of the Sun.” His voice, hoarse from the dry air, carried the weight of a man who had spent a lifetime searching for something he had never truly expected to find. "A place of knowing."

“But what knowledge remains?” Yasira’s voice was measured, though even she could not mask the unease curling at its edges.

Tahir barely heard them. His attention was fixed on a particular set of carvings - symbols that seemed to shift with the light, transforming as the sun dipped lower. The wind picked up, threading through the ruins, curling through the stone hollows with a sound that was not quite a whisper, not quite a voice.

He swallowed, feeling his throat go dry.

"Rashan ah’taru," he murmured. "The sun has found its way home."

For the first time since they had arrived, Samat turned his gaze toward Tahir, studying him with something unreadable in his weathered features.

"What do you see?" the elder asked.

Tahir exhaled slowly, pressing both palms against the carved stone, feeling its heat, its history. The symbols beneath his touch seemed to pulse, as though the rock itself were breathing.

"I see a door that has been waiting to be opened."

The wind shifted again, a low howl threading through the ruins. A sound like breath through pursed lips.

For the first time, Yasira’s expression flickered - not with skepticism, but with something else entirely.

Something dangerously close to belief.

House of the Sun, pt. 2

House of the Sun

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

---

Under noonday sun, the M’aktun set foot upon Yidarro’s red sands. The desert stretched before them like an endless sea, waves of heat rippling over dunes as far as the eye could see. The wind was dry, carrying the scent of salt, the last remnants of their journey across the Beholden Sea clinging to their skin.

Their camels balked at the strange ground, shifting uneasily as their handlers murmured soft reassurances. Barefoot children, too young to understand exile, raced from the ships to press their hands into the sunbaked earth, giggling at the way the heat stung their palms. Elders stood motionless, eyes closed, their lips moving in soundless prayers. Some scooped up handfuls of sand, letting it sift through their fingers, as if testing the weight of fate itself.

“Dead land,” one murmured. “No water, no shade.”

“No,” Samat corrected, kneeling down. “Not dead. Sleeping.”

The first scouts had already gone ahead, vanishing into the dunes like ghosts. Their orders were simple: find water, find shelter, find signs of life - or warnings of death. Shidun barr talur, the elders always said. The sand takes the lonely. The wind had a way of swallowing men whole, leaving only their footprints behind to mark their passing.

Elder Samat watched them go, standing at the edge of the gathered M’aktun with a heavy expression. His hands, though worn by age, were steady as he traced a symbol over his heart. A blessing for safe passage. A ward against the unseen.

"They are young," Yasira muttered beside him, her sharp eyes following the fading figures as they crested a dune. "Too young to know what to fear."

Samat exhaled through his nose, his gaze unwavering. "Then they will learn."

Around them, the M’aktun settled into the waiting. The caravans were being unloaded, camels relieved of their burdens and given what little feed they had left. Children tugged at their mothers’ robes, asking if this place would be home. The old women, ever practical, ignored the question and busied themselves with unpacking, passing waterskins between them, counting supplies with quiet concern.

"We have perhaps two days of water left," Murad, a stout man with a deep scar cutting through his brow, announced to the gathered elders. "If the scouts find nothing, we turn back."

A scoff came from one of the younger men. "Turn back? To what?" He gestured behind them, toward the vast and endless sea. "The Qurassi have burned our homes, sent their hounds after us. The Tamrissi Passage is behind us, and ahead lies only Yidarro. If we turn back, we drown."

"Better drowning than dying of thirst," Murad countered, his tone heavy with warning.

"Hasna bas tal-shay?" Yasira asked, her voice low. "Would you have us kneel at their feet once more?"

"Enough." Samat raised a hand, and silence followed. He let his gaze sweep over them all. "We wait. No one speaks of turning back." His voice was calm, yet firm, the voice of a man who had outlived two wars and carried the weight of generations on his shoulders. "The scouts will return before nightfall."

And if they do not? Yasira did not ask the question, but the thought lingered between them.

As the day stretched on, the M’aktun busied themselves with quiet tasks. The women laid out what food remained, portioning dates and dried meat with careful hands. Some of the younger men stretched their legs, kicking up dust as they argued over whether the desert could be hunted, whether the creatures here could be eaten. The children played in the sand, drawing shapes with their fingers, laughing when the wind erased their work in an instant.

But the elders sat still. They watched the dunes, waiting.

When the scouts returned, the sun was beginning its slow descent, washing the desert in gold and amber. They came running back, their faces streaked with sweat.

"Minara fi'jibal," one finally said, still short of breath. "The land. It is not empty,” he sputtered through heaving breaths. “Great bones. In the cliffs."

A murmur rippled through the gathered M’aktun. Some made the warding sign, pressing fingers to their foreheads and hearts. Others turned their gazes to the horizon, where the cliffs rose like jagged teeth against the bleeding sky.

It was not bones the scouts had found, not bodies long buried beneath the shifting sands. It was something older, something carved into the living rock itself.

The great stone structures loomed in the distance, worn by time yet defiant against the slow march of ruin. The M’aktun gathered at the edge of the dunes, staring across the stretch of open land. The sun had begun its descent, and as it dipped lower, the carvings upon the stone seemed to smolder, their symbols glowing as if lit from within.

"The Nakhir led us here," Samat murmured, and this time, none dared to argue.

Starfall, pt. 2

Starfall

Part 1 | Part 2

---

The Watcher rose to clear skies.

Blinking away the last traces of sleep, they lifted their gaze to the brilliant blue expanse stretching endlessly above, its crisp edges brushing against the far-off ice fields on the horizon. Clear skies. A good omen. The kind the elders once said meant the gods had not yet turned their backs on the living.

Sitting up, they stretched their limbs, feeling the dull ache of age settle and shift like a slow-moving tide. Their joints protested, but no more than usual. It was the price of years spent keeping vigil, reading the language of sky and earth, weighing truths hidden between shadow and starlight.

A few embers still glowed in the soot-black brazier in the center of the room, buried deep beneath layers of spent ash, pulsing a quiet, steady orange. They had burned through the night. Another good omen. The fire had not died in the night, which meant neither had the Watcher’s task.

Yet beyond the threshold of the Watcher’s modest hovel, the world remained strangely hushed. No gulls wheeled and cried against the cliffs. No distant murmurs of the longhall’s morning stirrings. No bells chimed from the high ridge where the bone markers stood, the wind too still to make them sing. That ever-present sigh of the north wind, which had whispered through these valleys long before A-Dream-Forgotten had a name, had gone silent. Only the slow drip-drip-drip of melting ice betrayed the sun’s patient work.

The Watcher frowned. An ill omen? Or simply a quiet morning?

Too soon to say.

They stepped to the narrow opening in the rock, the carved archway leading out onto the ridge. From here, the village of A-Dream-Forgotten unfolded below, its weathered wooden roofs huddled between the jagged hills and the black cliffs that stretched to the north. A village that once bore a different name, before time and hardship stripped it away, leaving only this. A place more whispered about than spoken of beyond the Shroud’s misted borders.

Those who lived here did not belong anywhere else. The wanderers. The lost. The ones who had slipped between the cracks of the great kingdoms and empires beyond the mountains. They had built their homes in the hollow spaces of the world, clinging to the old ways, the old signs.

The Watchers had always served them. Not as rulers, nor as priests, but as interpreters.

That was the burden.

To read the stars, the sun, the sky, and to know what to tell those who listened. And what to withhold.

Last night, a star had fallen, and the heavens had shifted. The Fallow Wreath had frayed.

That, above all, gnawed at the Watcher’s thoughts.

The Wreath was not merely a constellation. It was a promise. A sign of return. A thread binding past and future. The old songs claimed it would only break in times of great change - when something long forgotten stirred once more.

But change did not come without consequence.

The last time the stars had moved, the last time the signs had whispered of something vast and unseen, A-Dream-Forgotten had nearly lived up to its name. Famine. War. Great storms wracked the earth and swallowed whole settlements along the cliffs, sweeping their histories into the void. The elders still spoke of it in hushed tones, as if speaking too loud might invite it back. Now, the Watcher was faced with the same choice that had weighed upon those before them.

But what did they truly know? A star had fallen. The sky had shifted. The air was still. Perhaps it meant nothing.

Yet, as the Watcher stood on the ridge, looking down on the slumbering village, a new thought entered the back of their mind.

What if someone else had seen it too?

And what if, even now, the star’s descent had already set something into motion - something that would not wait for the Watcher to make up their mind?

As Fates Foretold, pt. 2

As Fates Foretold

Part 1 | Part 2

---

Bartholomew pulled his cloak tighter as he walked through the winding streets of Ravensport, the cobbles slick from a light rain that had begun to fall in the afternoon. His shift was over, and the guardhouse had been as lively as ever. But now, as the city opened up before him in the fading light of day, there was no laughter, no banter. Only the quiet tension that had settled over the streets.

The market square, known locally as Marrow’s Bend for the crooked shape of its outer streets, was less crowded than it had been just weeks ago. Stalls that once brimmed with skyfruit, coarse salt, and crates of Akethan grain now stood half-empty, their vendors casting wary glances at anyone who lingered too close. The sickness, or whatever it was, had tightened its grip on Ravensport, and Bartholomew could feel it in the air. People moved quickly, their faces hidden beneath hoods or scarves, their voices low and hurried. It wasn’t just fear of the sickness itself - it was the fear of what it meant. Of what it might bring.

He turned down a narrow alley that led toward the heart of the city, toward the Spiregate whose bells tolled the changing of the tides. The stone buildings loomed tall on either side, their eaves sagging like tired shoulders. The scent of salt and damp stone clung to the air, but beneath it, faint and sharp, was the smell he couldn’t shake: the faint rot of old fish mingled with something darker - something faintly sweet, cloying, and wrong.

“Bartholomew!”

The voice startled him, and he turned to see her - Isla, standing by the doorway of a small tavern. She was a wiry woman, younger than him by a few years, with auburn hair tucked beneath a woolen cap. Her face lit up as she approached, her hands tucked into the folds of her cloak to ward off the chill.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, her tone teasing but her eyes sharp, searching.

Bartholomew forced a smile, though it felt like it might crack under the strain. “Maybe I have,” he said, his voice gruff. “Or maybe it’s just this damned town getting under my skin.”

Isla raised an eyebrow. “You sound worse every time I see you. What is it this time? The rain? The captain? Or Harlan’s mouth?”

“All of it,” he muttered, though his hand instinctively brushed against his shin beneath the cloak. He changed the subject quickly. “What are you doing here? Thought you’d be holed up with your books by now.”

She shrugged, stepping closer. “Thought I’d see if you’d finally take me up on that drink. Or are you still too proud to let me buy?”

Bartholomew chuckled, a sound that felt almost foreign to him now. “I’ll take the drink. Just don’t expect me to stay long.”

The tavern was warm, a stark contrast to the damp chill outside. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the low hum of conversation filled the space. Bartholomew followed Isla to a table near the back, his eyes scanning the room out of habit. The tavern was plain but comfortable - wooden beams darkened by years of smoke and salt air, the walls adorned with carved plaques of fishing vessels and hand-painted sigils of the Old Guilds. Most of the patrons were locals, their faces worn and drawn, roughened by the winds of The Drown and the chill of the Brinemarsh that bordered the city’s east.

But in the corner, by the far window, he thought he saw them - the riders. Four cloaked figures, seated in shadow, heads bowed as though in silent communion.

He blinked, his chest tightening. But when he looked again, the figures were gone. The corner was empty, save for a stack of barrels marked with faded seals of trade from Aketh and a stray cat licking at the scraps of someone’s meal.

“You alright?” Isla’s voice cut through the haze, and he realized he’d been staring.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Just tired. Long shift.”

Isla studied him for a moment, then leaned back in her chair. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately. Long shifts, tired eyes. You’re starting to sound like one of the old-timers.”

“Maybe I am,” he said, forcing a smirk. But the truth sat heavy in his chest. He couldn’t tell her about the mark. Couldn’t tell her about the fever creeping through his veins, the way it made his thoughts twist and blur. And he certainly couldn’t tell her about the riders - if that’s even what they were. She’d laugh, or worse, she’d worry. And he didn’t want her worrying about someone like him.

A commotion near the bar drew their attention. A man, pale and shaking, was arguing with the barkeep. “It’s not what you think!” the man insisted, his voice rising. “I swear it’s not!”

The barkeep, a burly man with a thick beard and a Guildmaster’s sigil burned into his wrist, crossed his arms. “Aye, that’s what they all say,” the barkeep sneered, his voice heavy with scorn. “Blight-ridden wretch like you will be hacking blood in a week and bringing it in here with you.”

“I just need food,” the man pleaded. “Please. My family…”

“Get out,” the barkeep growled, his tone final.

The man hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. For a moment, Bartholomew thought he might lash out, but then he slumped, defeated, and shuffled toward the door. The room fell silent as the door slammed shut behind him.

Isla frowned, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “It’s getting worse.”

Bartholomew nodded, his gaze fixed on the empty corner. “Yeah. It is.”

They sat in silence for a while after that, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Bartholomew’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the riders. To the stories his mother had told him, the ones he’d tried so hard to forget. The Fates are always watching, she’d said. Even when we think we’re alone.

He shivered, though the room was warm. The mark on his leg throbbed faintly, a reminder of the thing he couldn’t outrun. He didn’t know what the riders meant, or if they meant anything at all. But he knew one thing for certain: the fear in Ravensport wasn’t just in the streets, or in the sickness, or in the whispers of what might come.

It was in him.

And it wasn’t going away.

House of the Sun, pt. 1

House of the Sun

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

---

The wind had abandoned them.

The sea stretched vast and motionless, an expanse of polished bronze beneath the weight of an unmoving sun. The fleet - forty ships lashed together by fate and desperation - drifted in uneasy silence. Men and women crouched beneath fraying canvas sheets, shielding themselves from unrelenting heat that pressed upon them. Their water barrels grew lighter by the hour, their rations reduced to salted fish and the brittle crumbs of old flatbread. The youngest no longer cried, their bodies limp in their mothers’ arms, their lips cracked, dry, and bleeding.

At the prow of the lead vessel, a man knelt in quiet contemplation. The mystic’s robes, once fine were now stiff with salt, his already-dark complexion further deepened by the sun. His fingers traced the symbols carved into the wood, glyphs of passage and protection, though no shipwright had put them there. He had inked them in his own blood upon their departure, the night they stole away from the shores of the Qurassi Sultanate, the city of Aru-Shatra burning behind them.

They had been called apostates.

The M’aktun were never a people of the sword. In the two decades since the death of Amira IV, while the would-be rulers of the Sultanate carved each other apart, the M’aktun had sought only to endure. But no man, no tribe, could remain neutral forever. When the pretender, Khalid Rahman, declared his claim righteous under the law of the the Last Breath, the M’aktun refused him. When the warlord Bashir al-Hafix demanded their mystics divine his path to victory, the M’aktun denied him. When the armies of the western city-states burned their shrines and salted their wells, the M’aktun did not fight.

They fled.

The Beholden Sea had been their salvation, the Tamrissi Passage their only hope. But now, with the wind lost and the horizon a shimmering illusion, the sea felt more like a tomb. The mystic exhaled slowly and lifted his gaze to the sky. No clouds. No sign of change. The sun hung there, vast and golden, fixed in its dominion.

A woman approached, her steps soft but deliberate. She was lean from the hunger of travel, her brown skin drawn tight over high cheekbones. She did not bow, nor did he expect her to. “Samat… we cannot last like this,” Yasira murmured. “The water will barely hold another day. The people whisper of ill omens.”

The mystic did not look away from the sky. “The omens do not shape the winds, sister.”

Yasira crossed her arms, glancing toward the decks behind them, where sailors sat listless, their eyes hollow. “Perhaps not. But the people believe them.”

A pause. Then Samat rose, the stiffness in his bones a reminder of how far they had come. He stepped forward, pressing his palm against the scorched wood of the railing. Beneath his fingertips, the ship’s grain was rough with age, but something lingered there, a whisper of motion. He closed his eyes and let the breath slip from his lungs. When he spoke, it was not for Yasira beside him, nor for the frightened souls who waited in the shade. It was for the sea.

“Zihara kel vanir… Ha’shan, kel nir.”

Words from before the war, before the exile, before they had even been given a name. Winds of the Unseen, lay us our path.

The deck creaked beneath him. A gull, unseen for days, shrieked somewhere in the distance. Then came another, and another. He opened his eyes, following the sound.

On the horizon, dark shapes had begun to rise from the sea - monoliths of stone, jagged and vast, breaking through the endless ocean. At first, they seemed unreal, mirages conjured by the fevered minds of the desperate. But Samat knew better. These were not illusions.

The Tamrissi Passage had never been empty. It had only been waiting.

A shout rose from the mast as the first gust of wind struck the sail, filling it with sudden purpose. Voices called out, and the fleet stirred once more. The sea, so still for days, had begun to move again. Samat remained kneeling at the prow, staring ahead at the rising stones. He did not speak, not yet. He could feel it, a shift in the air, something deeper than mere wind and tide. This was no ordinary crossing.

This was a threshold. And something was waiting on the other side.

Starfall, pt. 1

Starfall

Part 1

---

The night cloaked the northern expanse in its usual thin pall of fog, a veiled quiet that blanketed The Shroud and encroached on the sparse clusters of pines clinging to the jagged hills. Above, the heavens were an unfamiliar canvas of muted light and void, the stars appearing more distant than usual. Yet the Watcher sat unmoved, perched atop the frost-slicked stones of a ridge overlooking the village below. The air bit at exposed skin, and the silence stretched, heavy and timeless.

Then it came.

A streak of light burned across the sky, brilliant and sharp, its path cutting through the slight haze. The Watcher’s breath caught, stolen by the sight. The star did not fade into the expanse. It fell. Downward, swift and certain, its glow diminishing until it vanished into the yawning blackness of the Far Lands.

For a moment, there was no sound, no thought - just the weight of the world suspended on the edge of something vast and unknowable.

The Watcher rose, leaning heavily on the gnarled stave and turned toward the faint glimmer of the distant longhall. There was no need to speak of what had been seen. Not yet. Words would come later, when the sky’s language had been translated, and the patterns discerned. For now, there was only the weight of purpose.

The Watcher stepped into the narrow sanctuary carved into the earth beneath the longhall. The chamber was cold and dim, lit only by a low brazier filled with moss and fatwood, its smoke curling in lazy ribbons. Charts and runes adorned the walls, etched into wood and stone, worn smooth by generations of hands. A single hide stretched taut across a frame bore the Star Chart, its inked constellations faded but unmistakable.

With precision, the Watcher traced the patterns, one hand brushing over the sigils, the other steadying the stave. The markings whispered their secrets, each line and point a story etched across the firmament. But something was missing.

The gap was small, subtle - a space where a star had once anchored the heavens. Its absence was silent but unmistakable. The Watcher drew back, lips pressed into a thin line.

The patterns were still there, of course. The Hunter’s Bow arched toward the west, its curved stars sharp and steady, and the Frost Bear loomed low on the horizon, claws outstretched as if raking the edge of the world. The Twin Flames, faint in this season, flickered faintly near the top of the chart, their alignment ever so slightly different than the Watcher had last seen. These were old friends, reliable in their constancy, yet there was a dissonance now - a fracture in the rhythm that had always been.

Tracing their fingertips across the hide, the Watcher paused at a cluster marked by tight, precise sigils. The Fallow Wreath. A constellation said to bloom fully only in the season of thaw, when the tundra surrendered its frost to fleeting fields of green. But even now, as the snow held firm, the Wreath should have been whole, its arcs and loops unbroken.

It wasn’t.

The Watcher tilted their head, studying the faint smudges where ink had once marked stars that no longer shone. No elder had spoken of this, no song had woven these absences into its verses. The Wreath had always been an oath, a promise of life returning to a land where it so often fled. Had a promise been broken?

The Watcher leaned closer, the brazier’s low glow casting flickering shadows over the stretched hide. The gaps were not random. They had an almost deliberate quality, as if the heavens themselves had carved out these stars with careful precision. The constellations still told their stories, but the words were fewer.

As Fates Foretold, pt. 1

As Fates Foretold

Part 1 | Part 2

---

“Fucking hells,” Bartholomew muttered to himself, picking at the rust-colored blotch that had crept up his shin. It was no bigger than a tin-coin yet, but it was spreading, darkening beneath his skin like the slow stain of spilled wine, as though some bruise long buried had begun to resurface. He tugged at the leather greaves the armorer had issued him - an ill-fitting pair that bit into his calves, already too tight for his broad frame. He hoped to hide the spot, even from himself.

It was the sort of thing no one wanted to see these days.

He leaned his elbows on the wall, gazing out across the city and trying to ignore the dull ache in his limbs, a familiar old pain from days on the road. His fellow guards clustered in knots behind him, muttering about their next drink or the noblewoman who’d visited the port last week. Hardly any of them knew his name - he’d only been stationed here a few weeks, and by the looks of things, he wouldn’t be here much longer. The work was enough to keep him fed, but even a city like Ravensport had its limits for hospitality. He knew they’d toss him soon, mark or no mark, when his wages dried up and his usefulness waned.

His hands idly traced the edge of the wall, feeling the chill in the stone as he scanned the port below. Ravensport was a fair place, he had to admit, nestled between stretching fields and the tumultuous waters of The Drown. Most of the folk here were used to the sights of the sea, the scent of salt and trade and the longshoremen’s endless clamor. But they weren’t used to this: the quiet dread that had settled over the city in recent days.

It had started a month ago, he’d heard, in some ass-end village north of here. The rumors varied, as rumors do - a fever that struck men like lightning, strange markings on the skin, rashes that turned black as rot. Bartholomew had overheard the whispers from travelers passing through, tales of families torn apart, of children buried before their parents had even known they were sick. He’d thought it was nonsense, just another tale to keep people indoors at night.

But then, just days ago, he’d seen it for himself: a merchant ship docked at the harbor, its crew stumbling ashore, pale and weak. They hadn’t said much, only gestured to the sores that blistered their skin, the hacking coughs that wracked their bodies. He’d looked away, feigned disinterest as the guard captain escorted them to some back alley shack to keep them out of the public’s view. But he’d felt the dread then, felt it worming under his skin, right down to his bones.

“Seen your share of bruises, haven’t you, Bart?” Harlan’s voice broke through the early morning quiet, a sneer dripping from every word. He leaned lazily against the stone wall, his teeth bared in a grin that made Bartholomew’s fists itch.

“More than you, you clouted bastard,” Bartholomew muttered, pulling his sleeve down and fixing Harlan with a dead stare. “And don’t call me that.”

“Oh, ‘don’t call me that,’” Harlan mocked, laughing loud enough for the other guards to glance over, grinning like jackals catching the scent of blood. “Hear that, lads? Bart the Brave doesn’t like his name. Well, let’s just call him what he is - some wandering half-wit looking for coin and thinking he’s worth his weight in silver.”

Bartholomew gritted his teeth, shrugging off the insult, though his fists clenched tighter. “Better a wandering half-wit than a man wasting his days watching over piss-soaked streets and farmers’ fields.”

That earned a bark of laughter from the other guards, one of them - Ralston, a wiry man with crooked teeth - chimed in, “That why you’re here, Bart? Can’t handle life outside the walls, so you think you’ll prance around in our keep?”

“Think this one’s got dreams of glory,” Harlan said, eyes glinting as he looked Bartholomew up and down. “Bart the Brave, bastard son of some whoring harpy, keeper of the piss pots, last scion of the gutter, come to save Ravensport from the terrors of sheep thieves and chicken chasers.”

Bartholomew’s lip curled, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Keep talking, Harlan. Maybe you’ll finally find something useful to say.”

Another guard snickered, and Harlan’s face darkened, his sneer turning to a scowl. “Outsider’s got a bit of lip on him, doesn’t he?” he said, his voice dropping low. “Tell you what, Bart - watch yourself. This town doesn’t look kindly on men who come poking their noses where they don’t belong.”

Bartholomew met his glare, cold and unflinching. “I’ll remember that. Just like I’ll remember how you lot stand around yapping while others do the real work.”

Harlan spat, the glob landing near Bartholomew’s boots. “You’re steel-thrift, Bart. Your work here is hardly but standin’ or dyin’. You’re cheap iron swung at the first sign of trouble, then left to rust when the blood dries.”

Bartholomew was about to retort when movement caught his eye. His attention shifted from the insults, his gaze fixing on the road below, where early morning travelers ambled toward the city gates, carts creaking under bales of hay, sacks of grain, and assorted earthen wares. But amidst the farmers and traders, four dark shapes approached - riders cloaked and hooded, moving in eerie unison.

He squinted, the sight sending a prickling sensation up his spine.

Bartholomew’s fingers tightened on the rough stone of the battlement as he watched the riders below. In truth, they were likely only travelers - four cloaked figures on horseback, making their way up the winding road. But the way they moved, silent and unhurried, in such perfect formation, sent a chill through him. He knew it was foolish, childish even, to let fear prick at him like this. But there was something about them.

He’d never been one to wear his superstitions openly. It wasn’t the sort of thing men like him admitted to. A soldier who clung to faith, signs, omens, and portents was a man who couldn’t be trusted when steel was drawn. And yet, like the ache of an old wound, his mother’s stories returned to him as he watched the cloaked figures drift closer.

The Fates are always watching, she’d whispered to him, her voice low, as if afraid they’d overhear. Even when we think we’re alone, each of them is there, waiting.

Bartholomew had thought himself hardened to those old fears and superstitions. In the years since he’d left his mother’s hearth, he’d heard the sermons repeated, worn smooth by the priests who recited them day after day. But the words had lost their edge, buried under the stink of incense and the droning voices of men whose faith felt thin, practiced, routine. It was easy to scoff then, to let his own belief settle into some shallow corner of his mind, never fully discarded but rarely given space to breathe.

But here, under the dawn sky, watching those riders - those dark, silent figures slipping through the early morning light - the old stories felt alive again. He could feel his heart pounding, a faint and restless drumbeat, as if some part of him knew, despite all reason, that he was seeing more than a band of travelers.

It’s only shadows, he told himself. It’s nothing but shadows and tired eyes. And yet he felt a strange pull toward them, a gnawing unease that seemed to twist in his gut.

His hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to the sore mark on his leg. The spot felt rough and tender under his fingers, the skin red and raw, and he felt the slightest, irrational urge to hide it - an urge born of the old fear his mother had sown in him. Don’t let them see you weak, Bart, she’d said. The Fates watch closely. They’re never kind to the careless.

The wind shifted, carrying the distant murmur of the approaching riders’ hooves. Bartholomew’s heart thrummed. He shook his head, feeling foolish, afraid. The Fates, the riders - whatever they were, whatever they brought - it was best not to look too closely. Not when the stories were so close to his bones.

“Riders,” he murmured softly.

Harlan followed his gaze, squinting. “Riders? So what? A might early for ‘em, but I’m sure they’re nothing Bart the Brave has to worry about!”

Bartholomew barely heard the comment, his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe it was the fever talking, the fever he didn’t want to admit he had, or maybe it was just that damn spot on his leg, making his mind run wild. He let out a slow breath, feeling the familiar weight of his blade at his side, the only real comfort he had these days.

He turned away from the riders, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. He wouldn’t let them get to him. But as he walked back along the wall, a quiet part of him wondered what would come for him first - the sickness, the shadows, or something else entirely.

A New Order

A New Order

---

The Sacral Chamber was quiet, the air gone cold with the absence of prayers. Tallow smoke lingered, thick and cloying, clinging to the dark stone walls of Nyskar Hold. It dulled the edges of the candles’ light, their flames twitching in uneasy rhythm, as though the chamber itself held its breath.

Oswald stood by the doorway, a broad silhouette framed by the last light slipping through the narrow arch. His armor, unpolished and scarred, caught little of the candle glow - only shadows, draped heavy over the steel. Across the room, Rene leaned against the altar, his back to the door, fingers resting on the cold stone. It was the kind of silence that rang louder than prayers.

Oswald broke it first. “I thought I’d find you here.”

Rene said nothing. For a long moment, his fingers traced the grooves etched into the altar’s surface - faint lines, worn down to whispers of what they had been. Words of the Fates, old as time and twice as cruel.

Oswald took a step closer, his voice low. “A strange loyalty, turning your back on the very work that made you.”

Rene’s hand stilled. He turned just enough to cast a glance over his shoulder, shadows pooling under his brow. “It was the work that broke me.”

Oswald’s jaw tightened. “It broke us all. The difference is, the rest of us found a use for those pieces.”

The words hung there, sharp-edged and barbed, but Rene didn’t flinch. “And for what?” he said quietly, turning to face Oswald. His eyes, dark and heavy with exhaustion, reflected none of the fire that burned in the other man. “So we might claim righteousness while fields burn, while men scream beneath pyres you call justice? Mercy is no weakness, Oswald. It’s all that’s left for those of us who still wish to feel.”

Oswald took another step forward, his boots scraping against the stone, his presence swelling to fill the distance between them. “And what would you have us feel? Pity? Doubt?” His gauntlet clenched against the pommel of his sword. “You were there when villages fell, Rene. When the rot took root and spread like plague. Do you not remember the bodies? Children pulled from their homes, burned black as coal because of magic’s mercy?”

“I remember!” Rene snapped, the words sharp enough to cut the air between them. His gaze held Oswald’s now, unflinching. “I remember the smoke that choked the skies. I remember the screams. And you still think it was magic that brought all that? Not men like Veral? Not men like us?”

Oswald’s face darkened, but for a fleeting moment, the crack of something else crossed his mind… uncertainty? Regret? He buried it quickly, his voice colder when he spoke again. “Veral knows the Fates’ will.”

“Veral knows nothing.” Rene’s words were flat, as if spoken to no one in particular. He pushed himself away from the altar and paced slowly toward the center of the chamber, his boots echoing dully off the walls. “The Fates do not speak through men. Men speak through their own ambitions and call it divine. And only when the blood finally pools thick enough at their feet, they claim it as proof that they were right all along.”

The candlelight caught Oswald’s gauntlet as his hand lifted from the sword, fingers curling and uncurling at his side. He didn’t answer immediately, the silence stretching taut again. When he did speak, his voice was quieter, weighted. “Faith is not kind, Rene. It doesn’t make itself soft for those afraid of its edges. It demands.”

Rene’s let out a defeated laugh. “Demands what exactly? More fire? More graves?” He turned toward Oswald again, closer now. “Tell me, Oswald, how many men like me have you cast aside? How many like me were called weak before the pyre claimed them?”

Oswald stepped forward, his voice rising. “And what of the price if we falter? What of the sickness that spreads while men like you would have us sit idle, wringing our hands over the world’s sins?”

For the first time, Rene raised his voice, though it was still softer than Oswald’s. “If we’ve cut down everything - burned every root, salted every field - what remains for us to save? You call it a rot, a plague… but it’s us, Oswald. It’s been us since the first torch was lit.”

The words echoed in the chamber. Oswald looked at Rene as though seeing him for the first time, and for a fleeting moment, he looked smaller for it - less a knight of the Imperium, less a man of purpose, and more the boy he had been when they’d first taken their oaths.

When he finally turned to leave, his footsteps were heavy, each one dragging more of the silence with him. He paused at the doorway, glancing back only once. “Faith isn’t about feeling, Rene. It’s about what comes next.”

Rene watched him go, the door groaning closed behind him, its dull thud sealing him in the dark. He let out a breath, slow and hollow, his chest aching from something he couldn’t name. The chamber was empty again, save for the sputtering candles and the faint lines of the altar carved by hands long dead.

And though he stood there alone, Rene could not help but feel the weight of a thousand eyes - watching, waiting, judging - pressed into the stone, as if the chamber itself demanded an answer he could not give, torn as he was between the certainty of duty and the shadow of doubt.

Traitor’s Bay

Traitor’s Bay

---

Sun-kissed waves crashed along the shore of Durram’s southern coast, heaving over the white-sand beaches now stained with blood. Dark waters lapped against the land, indifferent to the battle’s aftermath. Timber planks, hewn from far-flung corners of the empire, drifted in the swells. These were all that remained of the proud ships that had once filled the bay. In the dim light of dawn, the remains of the battle floated listlessly - bodies, wood, and blood mixing in a slow churn.

Scattered amongst the waves, men clung to splintered wood or crawled through the surf, gasping for air and mercy. Little of either was to be found.

"Search them," Ser Aldric commanded in a low voice, motioning to the retinue of soldiers at his side. "Find any who yet draw breath. And kill those who don’t bear our colors."

Ser Aldric, the captain of the Emperor’s Guard, stood on the shoreline, his gaze fixed on the horizon where distant ships still smoldered. His armor, scratched and dulled from the fight, weighed heavy on his broad frame, but he ignored the discomfort. He always did. Behind him, the city of Abreus stirred with the rising sun, unaware of the bloodied tide creeping ever closer to its docks.

His men spread out across the shore, swords in hand, stepping over the fallen as they began their grim task. The sound of armor and leather scraping against the wet sand echoed through the bay as they moved, eyes scanning the faces of the dead and dying.

Aldric approached the water’s edge, his boots sinking into the sodden ground. The stench of brine and death clung to the air, thick and pungent, wrapping around him like a suffocating shroud. His eyes lingered on the twisted remnants of the empire’s ships bobbing in the surf. The battle had been fierce, fought beneath a cloudy night sky, where only the light of distant torches and the gleam of steel had illuminated the carnage.

The enemy had struck first. They came from the mist, swift and silent, their ships low in the water, their hulls reinforced with iron spiked prows designed for one purpose: to ram. They crept through the darkness, using the cover of night to hide their approach, until they were nearly upon the imperial fleet.

Aldric had stood at the helm of The Iron Tide, watching as the first enemy ship slammed into the Seastrike, one of the empire’s heavy galleys. The sound of splintering wood echoed across the bay, a deep, thunderous crack that reverberated in his bones. The spiked prow tore into the Seastrike’s side, carving through the wood with terrifying force. Men on deck were thrown off their feet as the ship lurched violently, the impact sending debris and bodies crashing across the deck.

"Fates help us," Aldric had muttered through gritted teeth. "They’ll try to board us in this chaos."

As if on cue, the enemy grappled the imperial ship, casting thick iron hooks over the rails to draw the two vessels together. With a shout, they boarded - pouring across the gap between the ships, shortswords drawn, their wild cries rising above the roar of the sea.

Aldric had known this tactic well. The enemy wanted to bring the fight close, to make the imperial fleet’s size and firepower irrelevant. And they had succeeded.

Aldric fought shoulder-to-shoulder with his men, cutting down enemies as they swarmed over the rails. The clash of steel rang out over the water as soldiers from both sides fought on the narrow decks, their footing slick with blood. The empire’s archers and ship-mounted ballistae were useless now - the fight was too close, too chaotic. It was down to swords and shields, to brute strength and survival.

But the enemy had another weapon at their disposal.

As Aldric cleaved through an attacker’s chest, he caught sight of an enemy crewmen preparing something on the far side of the deck. He watched as they dipped their arrows and torches into vials of thick, blue-black liquid - mageflame. In the chaos of battle, he barely had time to shout a warning before the first volley of flaming arrows arced through the air, trailing thick smoke and blue fire. They struck the empire’s ships, setting sails and rigging ablaze in an instant.

Mageflame clung to everything it touched, burning hotter and fiercer than any natural fire. The imperial crew scrambled to douse the flames, but the cursed fire resisted all attempts to extinguish it, feeding off the very air itself. The ships that had already been damaged by the ramming were now engulfed in flames, the fire spreading quickly across the decks and masts.

The enemy pressed their advantage, using the confusion to cut down more of the imperial crew. The night had turned into a frenzy of burning chaos, the air thick with smoke, the sky glowing an eerie, unnatural blue from the flames that consumed both wood and flesh alike.

He fought on, cutting down one enemy after another, but the tide of battle had shifted. The empire’s larger ships, once their greatest strength, had become a liability. The smaller, more maneuverable enemy vessels darted in and out of the burning wreckage, ramming and boarding at will, their sailors moving with terrifying speed. Every imperial ship that went up in flames added to the confusion, the once-coordinated defense collapsing into disorder.

In the darkest hours of the night, Aldric knew it was over.

The bay had become a graveyard. The water was filled with wreckage - splintered wood, burning sails, and the bodies of the fallen. The last of the empire’s ships were either burning or sinking beneath the waves, the screams of the dying carried on the wind.

As the sun began to rise, Aldric now stood on the shore, watching the remnants of the fleet drift aimlessly in the bay. The enemy had been ruthless, and the empire had paid dearly for their overconfidence. The battle had been lost, and with it, the empire’s hold on the southern seas.

Lorebook: The Second Order

The Second Order:

An Overview

LORE

---

Overview and Purpose

The Second Order is a splinter faction born from the ashes of the Imperium, founded in 40 S.O. by High Inquisitor Veral and a cohort of devout adherents who refused to accept the Imperium’s declaration that magic had been eradicated from Atheria. This militant and theocratic organization sees itself as the true inheritor of the Four Fates’ divine mandate, carrying on the Imperium’s mission to purge magic and impose sacred order. Headquartered in Nyskar Hold on the isolated Isle of Atrixos, the Second Order wields its authority with fervor, positioning itself as the ultimate arbiter of faith and justice. Their founding purpose was clear: to eradicate the arcane and maintain divine order through whatever means necessary.

Over its early years, the Second Order consolidated its power, rallying followers who shared its vision. Through judicial decrees, military campaigns, and religious outreach, it expanded its influence across Atheria, often clashing with kingdoms wary of its harsh measures. At the heart of its doctrine lies the belief that magic is an unholy abomination, a corruption that must be eradicated to ensure the realm’s sanctity and survival.

The Second Order operates as both a spiritual and martial force, wielding fear, devotion, and iron discipline to further its cause. It is a sectarian power that claims to answer only to the Four Fates, enforcing its vision of purity and faith with unwavering fervor. Through its actions, the Second Order has left an indelible mark on Atheria, both feared and revered as the ultimate guardians of divine order.

Structure and Hierarchy

The Second Order is a highly structured and deeply hierarchical organization, reflecting its roots in the faith and martial disciplines of Atheria. Following the dissolution of the Imperium, the Second Order maintains and exerts its influence through three central branches: The Ordinate, The Covenant of Light, and The Legion Eternal.

At the pinnacle of the Second Order's structure is the Council of the Supreme, a body of elders responsible for establishing doctrine and guiding the Order’s mission. The Prefect, elected from among the Council, serves as the supreme leader, wielding executive authority over all branches and operations. This leader is tasked with maintaining the delicate balance between the Order's theological, judicial, and martial pursuits.

Each branch, purpose, and structure is summarized in the next section, and a high-level visual overview of this hierarchy can be seen in Figure 1.

Figure 1. Hierarchy of the Second Order.

Prefect and Branch Leadership

The Second Order’s power is vested within the Prefect whose work is carried out among three distinct branches, each reflecting a vital aspect of its mission: justice, faith, and war. These distinct branches ultimately work in tandem to fulfill the Order’s divine mandate across Atheria:

• The Ordinate

  The Ordinate serves as the Second Order’s judicial and investigatory wing, a bastion of order dedicated to rooting out heresy and ensuring adherence to the faith. At its head is the Maleficar, who oversees both the judicial and investigatory operations.

  The judicial branch is led by the Imperators, who craft and enforce the Order’s legal doctrines, shaping the laws that govern both the faithful and their own ranks. Beneath them are the Justicars, who operate as enforcers of these laws, traveling to distant realms to ensure rulers uphold the mandates of the faith. These field arbiters often walk the line between reverence and fear, bringing with them the weight of the Second Order’s judgment.

  Meanwhile, the investigatory branch operates under the direction of the Inquisitors, who take a more direct approach in their battle against heresy. Tasked with uncovering hidden threats and executing swift justice, they command the efforts of the Seekers, a group that operates in the shadows. Seekers, known for their keen minds and sharp tongues, often serve as diplomats and spies, locating suspected heretics and monitoring foreign lands. Together, these two branches ensure that neither law nor heresy escapes the gaze of the Ordinate.

• The Covenant of Light

  The Covenant of Light (often referred to as the Covenant) embodies the spiritual core of the Second Order, its mission rooted in preserving and spreading the faith of the Four Fates. It is led by the Diviner, a figure of immense theological authority, who guides both the scholarship and the outreach efforts of the Order.

  Within the sanctity of the Hold, the Keepers act as guardians of sacred knowledge. These scholars and archivists work tirelessly to preserve the doctrines of the faith, delving into ancient texts and safeguarding the Order’s spiritual legacy. They rarely venture beyond the Hold, their lives devoted to study and contemplation.

  By contrast, the Redemptors serve as the faith’s emissaries to the wider world. These clergy members are sent to towns, kingdoms, and isolated regions to act as spiritual guides and symbols of the Second Order’s devotion. Their sermons and presence carry the weight of the Covenant’s authority, ensuring that the Fates’ will reaches even the most distant corners of Atheria.

• The Legion Eternal

  The martial arm of the Second Order, the Legion Eternal (often referred to as the Legion) ensures that the Order’s decrees are upheld by force when necessary. It is led by the High Warden, whose role is to command the Order’s armies and oversee its logistical and naval operations.

  The High Warden relies on a trio of masters to manage the Legion’s diverse needs. The Master of Arms oversees the armories, ensuring the soldiers are well-equipped and supplied for any campaign. The Master of Ships commands the Order’s naval forces, safeguarding critical waterways and enabling swift movement across Atheria’s coasts. Finally, the Master of Men is responsible for recruitment and training, shaping the soldiers who form the backbone of the Legion Eternal.

  Together, the Legion Eternal serves as both sword and shield, protecting the Order’s interests and advancing its divine mission wherever resistance arises.

Lorebook: The Stolen Isles

The Stolen Isles

LORE

---

Overview

The Agora Archipelago, often referred to as the Stolen Isles, is a chain of temperate, heavily-forested islands located off the eastern coast of the Empire of Durram. Its notorious history as a haven for pirates, smugglers, and slavers has given it a reputation as one of the most dangerous and lawless regions in Atheria. The name "Stolen Isles" was said to come from the belief that the archipelago was once part of nearby kingdoms but was "stolen" by the sea and dropped into the treacherous waters of The Drown, forever claimed by outlaws and criminals.

The archipelago’s tumultuous history is closely tied to the Dark Tide War, a conflict that saw the diminished Empire of Durram cede control of the islands to marauding pirates. Since then, the Agora Archipelago has become synonymous with illicit trade.

History

1641 to 1630 PSO: The Dark Tide War
The Agora Archipelago was once loosely governed by the Empire of Durram, but by 1641 PSO, the empire had weakened, and its control over its eastern waters was slipping. The Dark Tide War began when bands of pirates, drawn to the strategic value of the Agora islands, launched a series of raids on Durram’s coastal towns and trade routes. Unable to defend against these repeated attacks, the empire’s navy engaged in numerous skirmishes with the marauding fleets.

However, the pirate forces were swift and elusive, using the islands and the rough waters of The Drown to their advantage. Over the course of more than a decade, the Empire of Durram found itself outmaneuvered and overextended. By 1630 PSO, Durram’s naval strength had been all but eliminated, and the empire unofficially ceded control of the Agora Archipelago to the pirate lords who had claimed it.

1600 PSO: Rise of the Stolen Isles
Following the Dark Tide War, the Agora Archipelago became a notorious haven for all manner of criminals. Its strategic position in The Drown made it an ideal hub for illicit activities, particularly piracy and the slave trade. Pirates from across the seas flocked to the archipelago, establishing hidden strongholds where they could operate free from the reach of the Durram navy or any other nearby kingdoms.

Over time, the archipelago evolved into a waystation for smugglers, slavers, and mercenaries. The islands served as a neutral ground for these outlaws, who forged alliances, traded captives, and sold stolen goods with impunity.

A Day of Formalities, pt. 1

A Day of Formalities

Part 1

---

The rising middle-winter sun cast a pale straw-gold glow across the Valley of Alnir, where the frost clung stubbornly to the ground, defying the daylight’s feeble warmth. The snow-dusted peaks surrounding the valley stood watching over the day’s events with an air of unspoken judgment.

"A cold day," Prince Vasil muttered, his breath visible in the frigid air as he peered through the flap of his tent. His fingers twitched with the nervous energy of someone accustomed to front lines, not council rooms. "How can we possibly be good hosts on a day like today?"

Marika, ever sharp and quick to catch his tone, tilted her head with a teasing smile. "Oh, quiet. You'll say anything to get out of it." Her footfalls were light on the fur-lined carpets of the royal pavilion, a contrast to the heavy atmosphere outside. "It's just a signing ceremony. We'll exchange some pleasantries, review a few contracts, and then…" She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her body against his back as she whispered, "we can both attend the afternoon hunt!"

Vasil sighed, feeling her warmth against him, but his mind was far from this room. His gaze lingered on the procession gathering at the edges of the encampment - the banners of House Drevan and House Loranic fluttering in the cold wind. The Treaty of Alnir had been months in the making, brokered between families who had shared as many knife-edge smiles as blade-scarred battlefields.

"Pleasantries, sure," he muttered. "Do you think they’ll keep it that simple? Lord Drevan has been after the western hinterlands for decades. You know he’ll find some clever way to twist the wording."

Marika laughed softly, her lips brushing his ear. "Let them try. You’ve outwitted worse in your sleep. Besides, today isn’t about them. It’s about peace. For now." She spun him around, her sharp eyes catching his. "You’d best keep that in mind before you start sharpening your tongue."

He let out a breath, tension easing, if only a little. "It feels wrong. Signing a treaty with men like that."

"Every treaty feels wrong. That’s how you know it’s working," she said, her smile widening. "Now, will you be sulking all day, or can I count on you to charm the guests? It’s not every day you get to play peacemaker, after all."

Vasil allowed himself a small smile, though the unease still prickled at the back of his neck.

"Vasil." Marika’s voice broke through his thoughts, her fingers tightening on his arm. "One day of formalities, my love. And then we move on."

He turned to her, his eyes darkening. "It’s never just one day, Marika."

The Battle of Last Rites

The Battle of Last Rites

---

The sun hung low behind a shroud of smoke and dust, casting a pall over the battlefield. Even in midmorning, there was no warmth to the light - just a grim, gray haze that seemed to linger over the blood-soaked earth. The battlefield stretched wide, scarred by the footprints of hundreds of soldiers and the dying remnants of last night’s skirmish.

For Leoric, a simple farmer turned foot-soldier, the world had narrowed to the weight of his spear in his calloused hands, the tightness in his chest, and the dry, metallic taste of fear in his throat. He shifted his weight, boots sinking into the churned mud beneath him. He hated these moments. The ones just before battle that let his mind wander too far.

The war was in its third year now, but it had started long ago. Rumors of mages appointed to religious posts in Treador had rippled across the empire, stirring unrest. The Emperor had denounced it as sacrilege, a blasphemous affront to the very foundations of their faith. Yet to Leoric, it had felt distant - like thunder from across a valley. He had neither cared nor known much of matters of court or distant kings. His life had been simple, spent in the fields of southern Durram, tending to his crops and livestock. That was, until the war swept him up in its wake.

He pushed those thoughts away and glanced to his right. Garran stood beside him, as usual, his broad frame towering over Leoric’s leaner build. Garran had been a woodsman, someone who took pride in cutting timber with precision. Now, he wore rusted chainmail and clutched a great-axe that had hacked at more limbs than branches. Garran caught Leoric's glance and offered a grim smile.

"Betcha thought we’d never end up here, eh, Leo…" Garran muttered, though his voice was tight.

Leoric shook his head slowly, knowing he didn't need to answer. The battle ahead was enough to make any man question how they had ended up on this Fate-forsaken field, fighting for a crown they had never seen and an emperor they barely knew.

The War of Heretics, they were calling it. It had sounded noble at first, with priests and lords speaking of purity and the need to cleanse Treador of apostasy. But now, after three years of blood and death, it felt like a hollow cause. Was it really about mages appointed to religious positions? Or was it just another excuse for kings to fight kings?

Leoric shifted again, trying to ignore those thoughts that brought on the awful empty, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. His fingers instinctively tightened around the haft of his spear, the wooden shaft worn smooth by months of hard use. He had fought in skirmishes before, had felt the jolt of terror when metal clashed against metal, when a blade found flesh. But today felt different.

Ahead of them, the Treadori forces were assembling with a worrying calm, their auburn-and-gold tabards catching fleeting shafts of light that broke through the midmorning mist. Shields lifted in practiced unison, forming a shimmering wall of iron and bronze, while their curved falchion swords jutted out like thorns on a duskwolf’s hide. Archers stood behind, their bows taut and at the ready. These were not desperate conscripts or fearful levies. These were men honed for war, their movements as precise as clockwork, their resolve hard as the steel they carried.

"FORM UP!" Captain Rendyl’s bark cut through the thick air. His shadow moved with grim purpose, his armor still streaked with the dried mud and blood of the previous day’s slaughter. "Shields tight! Arms forward! If you falter, we all die! AND I DON’T PLAN ON DYING TO THESE SHEEP-BITING WHELPS!"

Leoric stepped into position, the familiar weight of his buckler settling against his arm. The haft of his spear was cold and slick, the leather wrapping worn smooth by use. Around him, the line shuddered into place, gaps tightening as men pressed closer together. Beside him, Garran hefted his axe, the massive weapon glinting dully in the muted light. His face was set, the scars on his jawline pulling taut as he muttered a low curse.

"They’re too fecking clean," Garran said, spitting on the ground in front of him. "Look at them. Like blades fresh from the forge."

Leoric didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed on the Treadori advance, on the rhythm of their movement. Shields rose and fell in time with their steps, swords angled forward, the tips gleaming like a warning. He had seen their kind before. He had seen what happened when a line like theirs met one like his - a patchwork of farmers, smiths, and spent veterans. He gripped his spear tighter.

Above them, the first volley of arrows came down, their dark shapes cutting through the pale sky. The hiss of their descent grew louder, sharper, before breaking into a storm of dull thuds as arrowheads gained purchase in both shield and flesh alike. A man two rows down let out a piercing scream, the arrow embedded deep in his thigh. Another man stumbled backward, clutching at his throat as blood gushed between his fingers.

Meanwhile, the Treadori moved under the cover of their archers, their shields interlocked like the scales of some great beast. Their war cries rolled across the field, not wild or frenzied but low and guttural, the sound of men who knew they were already winning. The ground trembled with their approach, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and steel.

Leoric braced, his breath shallow, the cold tang of iron filling his nose. The space between the two forces narrowed, shrinking with every step, until it was only the distance of a heartbeat.

The clash was deafening.

The Treadori smashed into the imperial line with brutal force, the collision sending a shudder through Leoric’s entire body. Shields splintered, men screamed, and the air filled with the clang of steel on steel. Leoric’s spear shot forward, the point driving into the chest of the first man who reached him. The resistance was brief, a sickening give of flesh and bone before the shaft was pulled back, slick with blood.

Another Treadori soldier surged forward, his sword aimed at Leoric’s throat. Leoric twisted his buckler just in time, deflecting the blow and lunging forward with his spear. The tip caught the man in the shoulder, a shallow strike, but enough to stagger him. Leoric’s muscles burned as he pulled back and struck again, the rhythm of the fight overtaking his thoughts.

Beside him, Garran fought like an animal unleashed. His axe rose and fell in brutal arcs, each swing accompanied by a wet, crunching sound that turned Leoric’s stomach. The big man grunted with each blow, his breath coming in harsh bursts, his boots slick with blood and mud. For a moment, it seemed as though they might hold.

But the Treadori were relentless, their shield wall an unyielding tide. For every man that fell, another stepped forward, their swords piercing forward in precise, almost mechanical unison. Leoric’s line wavered, its patchwork defense creaking under the strain.

Leoric’s arm ached as he thrust his spear again, the weapon slipping from his grip for a moment before he caught it. The ground beneath him felt alive, shifting with the weight of bodies, the churn of mud and blood. His shield bucked as another sword glanced off its edge, the force sending a jolt through his shoulder.

And then he saw it: the center of his line buckling, the men faltering. Rendyl’s shouts cut through the chaos, but even his commanding voice couldn’t hold them together. The Treadori pressed harder, their formation a hammer driving the imperials toward the jagged cliffs of the ravine at the western edge of the field.

The imperial line was breaking.

Leoric stumbled back, his boots catching on something soft - a body, facedown in the muck. He didn’t look down. He couldn’t. Around him, men were retreating, falling over one another in their haste to escape the onslaught. Garran was still fighting, his axe swinging wildly, his roars echoing like thunder.

But even Garran couldn’t hold forever.

A Treadori spear pierced Garran’s side, driving deep into his flesh. He let out a horrible cry, dropping to his knees as blood poured from the wound. Leoric’s heart lurched in his chest as he watched his friend slump to the ground, his axe slipping from his grasp.

"Nooo!" Leoric shouted, rage and despair surging through him in equal measure. He lunged forward, his spear driving into the man who had killed Garran. The Treadori soldier staggered back, the spearhead buried in his chest, but Leoric barely noticed. His vision was red, his thoughts a tempest of fury and grief.

But even as he killed the man, he knew it was futile.

The Treadori were everywhere now, their shields battering against Durram’s lines, their swords cutting through the remaining defenders with grim precision. Leoric fought on, his body moving on instinct, each motion more desperate than the last. His spear - his only real advantage against the onslaught - was still stuck in the dead man’s chest, the haft slick with blood and impossible to wrench free. A surge of panic shot through him as another Treadori soldier closed in, shield raised and blade poised to strike. Leoric fumbled for the shortsword at his hip. His hands were trembling, sweat-slick and filthy, but he managed to unsheathe the blade just as the enemy lunged. The Treadori’s falchion glanced off Leoric’s buckler, the force of the strike knocking him off balance. He staggered, his boots slipping in the mud, but as the soldier stepped in to press the attack, Leoric slashed upward with every ounce of strength he could muster.

The blade found flesh, cutting deep into the man’s exposed side. The Treadori soldier gasped, his shield arm faltering, and Leoric didn’t hesitate. With a guttural cry, he drove the shortsword into the man’s gut, twisting the blade before yanking it free. The soldier crumpled to the ground, clutching at the gushing wound, his breath gurgling and wet.

Leoric had no time to think. Another shadow loomed in his periphery - this one faster, more precise. The soldier’s curved blade sliced through the air at an angle, forcing Leoric to parry awkwardly. The impact sent a shockwave up his arm, numbing his grip. The enemy pressed in, relentless, strikes coming in sharp, calculated arcs that pushed Leoric closer to the ravine’s edge.

And then it came.

Another blade flashed in the corner of his vision, and Leoric barely had time to react before it sliced deep into his left thigh, stopping at the bone. He gasped, the pain blinding, his leg buckling beneath him. He staggered, dropping to one knee, his sword slipping from his grasp. His vision blurred, the sounds of battle fading into a distant roar.

He tried to stand, tried to fight, but his body refused to obey. Blood poured from the wound in his leg, mixing with the mud beneath him. He could feel his strength slipping away, could feel the cold fingers of Neyara reaching for him.

As Leoric fell to the ground, his world went out of focus. The clang of steel and the roar of voices faded, as if the battle itself were retreating into some distant memory.

He blinked, trying to ground himself, but his thoughts drifted far from the carnage around him. He did not see blood. He did not hear war. Instead, he saw the old stone wall that lined his fields - his father’s hands rough against the rock, showing him how to lay it properly, stone upon stone, so that it would last longer than any war ever could. That wall, the only thing standing between the wild forest and the fields they had worked for generations, had been a fortress to him. More than any castle wall built by kings.

He remembered the smell of his small house, the damp wood that never quite dried out in the spring, the way the fire always crackled no matter how much he stoked it. His hands had been good hands, built for farming, for coaxing the earth into yielding its fruit, not for holding a sword. He could still feel the weight of the plow harness in his palms, the steady rhythm of oxen hooves breaking the soil, cutting straight, deep furrows into the land. There was a rhythm to that life, a simple honesty in the way things grew when you gave them time.

Time. His mind wandered to those days spent watching the light stretch across the horizon, the sky so big it made the world seem endless. He had never thought about how much he loved those hours spent in silence, with only a gentle wind moving the wheat, the way it whispered like a secret being told just to him. He had lived his whole life on that land, among the low hills, where peace was a steady thing, as reliable as the turning of the seasons.

And then there had been her - Annelise. He could see her now, her hair a mess from the fields, the way she tied it up but always let it fall loose by the end of the day. She would stand in the doorway of their home, arms crossed with that half-smile she wore when she pretended to be stern.

Leoric had never wanted to leave, but he was pressed into duty like so many of his neighbors. The war itself had been a distant thing at first, something spoken about by men with more power than he would ever have. He had gone because they needed bodies, not because he believed in the cause. What did it matter who wore the crown or which Fate men prayed to? He was no heretic, but he was no zealot either. He just wanted to live in peace.

But peace had been stolen from him the day he left home, traded for the clamor of swords and the hollow promises of dukes and earls who never saw the fields nor the faces of the men they forced into service.

The weight of his shortsword fell from his grip, heavy and forgotten in the mud. As he lay there, staring up at the hazy sky, he felt none of the fear that should have come with dying. Instead, there was a strange calm that washed over him, like the quiet that came after a long day’s work. The sun would set, the fields would cool, and the earth would still be there tomorrow, waiting to be tilled once more.

The world he had known was far away now, but the memory of it held him. In these last moments, he didn’t see the war or the bloodshed. He saw Annelise, standing in the doorway, wearing that wonderful half-smile, soft golden fields stretching out behind her.

The battle was over for Leoric, and for so many men just like him.

But there would be no words spoken on his behalf. His war ended without prayer, without ceremony, just as quietly as the fields he had left behind.

Lorebook: The Four Fates

The Four Fates:

An Overview

LORE

---

Overview

The Church of the Four Fates was founded circa 2,000 PSO (Pre-Sanctified Order), an era shrouded in both myth and fragmented history. According to legend, on the eve of what was likely to be a devastating battle between the warring kingdoms of Durram, four ethereal spirits - manifestations of the Fates themselves - appeared to King Gregor I of Valo. The Fates, whose forms shifted with each telling, warned Gregor of a looming catastrophe that would engulf not only his kingdom but the entirety of Durram if the fractured kingdoms did not make peace. Their message was clear: the continent had to be united under one banner, or its people would be swallowed by chaos and ruin.

History

“The earth trembled not, yet the stars fell,
for the hands that held them forgot their names.
Where rivers end, they found no mouth,
only the breath of forgotten winds.

Oathbound, they stood, neither stone nor sky,
beneath suns that never rose,
in the shadow of those who never lived.

Oris built a tower where none could dwell,
its walls made of whispers, its doors of silence,
and the sea of Neyara lapped at its base,
tasting what was, but never knowing.

Time unraveled in Ilvar’s web,
caught on the fray of an unseen needle,
each thread a song unheard.

Yet the Veil burned bright,
and Shaelas smiled,
for what was, was never whole.”

- Excerpt from The Song of the First Silence

The story of King Gregor's fateful encounter varies depending on who tells it. Some accounts say the Fates appeared to him as formless whispers on the wind; others describe them as glowing, spectral figures that moved like shadows across the walls of his tent. In all versions, however, they shared the same warning - an ominous glimpse of a future consumed by war and suffering. It is said that the Fates themselves revealed that the chaos Gregor feared was just the beginning, and only through unification could Durram withstand the trials that lay ahead.

In the days following the vision, Gregor summoned his closest advisors and spiritual leaders to his side, though he reportedly kept the full details of the vision to himself. For four days and nights, Gregor meditated in solitude, seeking the counsel of the Fates in private. Each Fate, it is said, visited him in turn, imparting their own wisdom and guidance:

Ilvar, The Weaver, was the first to appear. He revealed the intricate web of fate that bound Durram together - a tapestry of lives, destinies, and choices. In his hands, the future was a thread pulled tight, and Gregor saw both the unrelenting march of time and the consequences of every path he might choose. It was Ilvar who made him understand that leadership was more than just personal ambition - it was about ensuring the right choices were made for the greater good of all.

Neyara, The Tidebearer, came next, bringing with her the weight of life's cycles - birth, death, renewal, and decay. She showed Gregor visions of the endless wars that had plagued the kingdoms, the rise and fall of rulers, and the blood-stained earth of countless battlefields. Neyara made Gregor see that war, though a constant, could also be tempered - that peace, though temporary, was part of the cycle that must be maintained to preserve life.

Oris, The Silent Architect, appeared as a figure bathed in silvery starlight, his hands tracing the invisible foundations of the world itself. He whispered to Gregor of the structures that would be needed - not only castles and roads but laws, treaties, and alliances. Oris granted Gregor the knowledge to build something greater than a fleeting empire - he would build a lasting union, one shaped by fairness, logic, and the careful arrangement of power. His presence cemented the idea that only through careful, deliberate design could Durram be truly united.

Finally, Shaelas, The Veiled Flame, came to Gregor in the dead of night, their presence like a sudden storm, a flickering light in the darkness. They represented the force of change, the disruption of the status quo, and the need for revolution. Shaelas inspired Gregor to act swiftly and decisively, for the future of the continent could not wait for diplomacy alone. It was Shaelas’ words that sparked his conviction to break old traditions and reshape the political landscape of Durram in ways that had never been done before.

And so, when Gregor emerged from isolation, he declared the formation of the Church of the Four Fates, a new spiritual and political institution meant to serve as a guiding hand for the realm. More than just a religious order, the Church became a powerful force that influenced treaties, brokered alliances, and ensured that the Fates' will was honored in all matters of governance, war, and peace. Fatekeepers, priests and priestesses dedicated to each Fate, were appointed to advise rulers, serve as mediators in disputes, and interpret the oft-illusive will of the Fates. They acted not only as spiritual guides but also as political advisors, gaining significant influence in the courts of kings and queens across the continent.

Influence and Impact

The Church’s doctrine, deeply intertwined with the myth of Gregor's vision, held that the Fates did not merely observe the world - they actively shaped it, guiding rulers and shaping events to maintain a delicate balance. Their influence was not to be questioned but followed, for to stray from the path woven by them was to invite disaster. Ilvar's threads of destiny could be twisted or severed, Neyara's cycle of life and death could be thrown into disarray, Oris's careful designs could crumble, and Shaelas's flame of change could either burn away the old or ignite uncontrollable chaos.

As the Church grew in power, so did its reach. Temples dedicated to each Fate rose across the land, each grander than the last, becoming centers of both worship and political power. The Fatekeepers established schools where the children of nobles were taught not only the doctrines of the Church but also the arts of statecraft, ensuring that future leaders would be loyal to the Fates and their designs. This intertwining of spiritual and political power gave the Church control over many aspects of life in Durram and beyond.

Over the centuries, the myth of the Four Fates' appearance to King Gregor evolved into a central pillar of faith, with each generation of rulers looking to the Church for guidance. Though the details of the original vision have been debated by scholars and theologians for millennia, the impact of the Church on the world of Atheria remains undeniable. To this day, many kingdoms still look to the Fates for direction, and the Church of the Four Fates continues to shape the destiny of the realm, constantly attempting (and often failing) to balance the will of the divine with the ambitions of men.

Sunder, pt. 3

Sunder

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

---

Under cover of the approaching storm, two cloaked figures slipped past the weary Kirassi city-watch, silent as the fog that clung to the waterways. The grand expanse of the Keshari Temple loomed before them, its massive painted stone walls bearing the weight of centuries. To the untrained eye, it might appear as any other temple or ceremonial hall, but the two figures knew its secrets well enough.

Their footfalls echoed faintly, swallowed by the yawning silence that filled the cavernous space. Though they made careful measure of their surroundings, their hearts beat in time with the relentless, unspoken dread between them- each breath weighed, each movement deliberate.

The first figure, taller and broader in the shoulders, finally broke the silence with a voice as sharp as broken glass.

"Sir, the-"

"Yes, I know," came the immediate reply, tense and clipped, as if any more words might crack under their own weight.

"But we-"

"I said I KNOW..." The second figure’s tone cut the air like a dagger, soft but unmistakably edged. His gloved hand tightened on the hilt of the blade hidden beneath his cloak, the leather creaking under the pressure. He stood rigid, a coiled tension in his stance, the dim light catching the gleam of his eyes beneath his hood.

"There’s no time to debate this," he continued, barely above a whisper. "They’ve already made their move." His words carried the chill of inevitability, as though the events set in motion could no longer be stopped, only survived.

A brief silence lingered between them, thick and heavy as the night air outside. The distant howl of the wind rattled against the ancient walls, sending a tremor through the building, as though even the stone itself quivered in response.

The first figure hesitated, his breath shallow. He dropped his voice further, so low it was almost swallowed by the dark. "Do you think... do you think they know we're here?"

A soft, humorless chuckle escaped the second man, colder than the night itself. "If they did," he said, voice laced with bitter certainty, "we’d be dead already."

The words hung between them, but neither flinched.

With a final glance at the darkened corridors ahead, the two pressed forward, disappearing deeper into the bowels of the temple, each step drawing them further into the labyrinthine depths. The murals on the walls seemed to watch them, the painted eyes of forgotten heroes and spirits trailing their passage like silent sentinels. Somewhere in the distance, a faint sound - a drip, or perhaps a footfall - echoed, but neither man paused.

They moved with purpose, but the building's ancient corridors, so familiar and yet so treacherous, seemed to twist and turn on them, as though the structure itself sought to slow their progress. Every corner they turned led them further from the pale light of the outside world, further into a place of shadows and secrets.

At last, they reached a doorway, its edges worn and cracked with age, but the symbols etched into the stone remained intact - a reminder of some old power. The second figure’s hand hovered over the door's surface, hesitating just a moment before tracing the lines of the carvings with practiced familiarity. His companion watched in silence, the tension in his frame still unbroken, waiting for the final barrier to fall.

"Do you think it will work?" the first man whispered, though he already knew the answer. His hand hovered near the blade at his side, ready for whatever came next.

The second figure exhaled, a sound of resignation, and then pressed his palm against the door. "It has to."

A Guest in the Summer Kingdom, pt. 2

A Guest in the Summer Kingdom

Part 1 | Part 2

---

The deal was done. Garrick said little during the exchange, letting Asir handle the subtleties of negotiation. That was what the fixer was for, after all. Garrick had no patience for the endless back-and-forth, the unspoken barbs, and the veiled threats that passed between men in these lands. His world was simpler. More direct.

Now, as he wandered the narrow streets of R'asha alone, his thoughts drifted to the task that had brought him here. The evening sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the sandstone buildings. The crowds in the market had begun to thin, but the heat still clung to the air, like it had forgotten how to leave.

He could feel the weight of the city pressing in on him - the clamor of voices, the scent of spices, sweat, and smoke. But more than that, something else lingered here, something unseen. A disturbance in the very air itself. Garrick’s hand brushed the hilt of his sword beneath his robe, a familiar weight he hadn’t had to use since entering the Summer Kingdom.

Magic, he thought. The word alone curdled his blood. The mere idea that it had returned to this place - the very kingdom that had once prided itself on being "cleansed" - was an insult to everything the Second Order stood for. Magic was a plague. A stain that had nearly destroyed the world once. And the Second Order was the cure.

Garrick was a believer. He had no doubts about the righteousness of his mission, about the sanctity of his cause. But belief alone didn’t cloud his judgment. No, he was a man of careful, measured actions. He tempered his fervor with pragmatism, always knowing that restraint was often more powerful than blind force. He would not burn the city down just to root out a single mage. Not yet, at least.

As he walked, his mind drifted back to the meeting. The contact had been nervous, darting eyes, jittery hands. The type who knew too much but said too little. But what he had whispered in that dark alley was enough to confirm Garrick’s suspicions: magic had returned to R’asha. Not a whisper, not a rumor - no. It was here, festering beneath the surface.

But magic was patient. It seeped into the cracks of society, biding its time. It waited, like the heat that clung to the air, until the moment was right to strike.

Garrick stopped in front of a crumbling stone wall, its surface covered in the faded remnants of old murals. He pressed his back to the wall, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the city wash over him. Asir had done his part, for now. But Garrick knew that the man’s loyalty was only as good as his payment. He couldn’t trust the fixer, not entirely. Men driven by gold always had their price. But for now, their goals aligned.

His thoughts turned inward once more, to the nature of what he hunted. Magic. It wasn’t as obvious as a sword in the hand or a rebellion in the streets. It was insidious, creeping into places where it wasn’t meant to be. The Second Order had taught him to look for the signs: the strange coincidences, the unnatural occurrences, the whispers of the impossible. It was subtle, like a disease that spread through a body before the symptoms showed.

But here, in the Summer Kingdom, the unseen plague had already infested the land. He had seen it in the eyes of the merchants, in the nervous twitch of the innkeeper who had served them earlier that day. They knew something. They were afraid of something. And fear, Garrick knew, was often a sign that something far greater was at play.

There was no time for doubt, no time for hesitation. Magic was here, and it was his duty to snuff it out before it could spread. He had heard what it could do, the way it twisted minds and bent wills to its power. He would not let that happen here. Not in R’asha. Not while he still drew breath.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and he turned, walking purposefully down the street, the weight of his mission heavy on his shoulders. The hunt had begun.

Lorebook: Mageflame

On the Origins and
Uses of Mageflame

LORE

---

Mageflame, or magelight as it is sometimes called, was not, in fact, named for its discoverers - though credit for its initial creation lies with the alchemists of the Ma’sayifra Kingdom. Instead, its name was borne from the simple, grim truth that it burned mages particularly well. It burned everything well, to be sure. But for those who wielded magic, the flame is more than fire - it is suffering made manifest. Magelight clings closely to those touched by the arcane, igniting with a hunger that seems to feed on the very essence of magic itself.

Before ignition, mageflame resembles a thick, inky tar, dark blue in color and nearly opaque, a substance that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. When the first alchemists prepared it, they took care to store it in iron or thick glass containers, for even a stray spark could transform the sluggish, tarry liquid into a bright and ravenous blaze. Upon being lit, mageflame burns with an unnatural brilliance, a blue so bright it casts its surroundings in cold, ghostly light. Its flames dance higher and more fiercely than common fire, refusing to be doused by water or dirt.

The earliest uses of magelight were less cruel, at least by design. Originally, alchemists of the Ma’sayifra Kingdom created it as a defensive measure, a means to secure their fortresses and outposts that dotted their growing empire. Poured down fortified walls or set to the tips of arrows and siege weapons, it clung to enemies and consumed siege engines alike. But as word spread of its particular effect on magic users, its purpose darkened.

Over the years, the Wardens and the High Marked of the Second Order have taken a perverse satisfaction in this fact, finding dark amusement in the nickname their liquid fire has earned. For them, mageflame is not just a tool of destruction, but a symbol of the divine retribution they believe they wield. It is a fire that does not simply consume. It purifies.

To be caught using magic - or even suspected of doing so - rarely leaves one with more than a few days to live. There is, of course, often a trial. The Second Order, for all its faults, can never be accused of failure to follow procedure.

The subject of any inquest is to be brought before a local Justicar, who presides over the hearing with all the gravity just such a position demands. Gathered with the Justicar may be various government officials - local magistrates, middling bureaucrats from some provincial hamlet, and, on occasion, a representative from whatever passes for a constabulary. Each is compelled to dutifully attest to their knowledge of the accused, recounting the events that led to this dire moment.

Testimonies are then reviewed, evidence weighed, and a disposition offered by the Justicar and whatever small council they kept. These councils - typically comprised of Redemptors, Diviners, and Imperators - wear titles that implied wisdom and authority, though in truth, they are often former Wardens themselves, more comfortable with an axe than with parchment. Their histories as soldiers of the faith made them swift in judgment, and even swifter in execution.

Occasionally, a local bishop-turned-Diviner might insinuate themselves into the council, securing a seat through favors paid to the Second Order - often in the form of a Writ of Remission or other well-placed tokens of gratitude made payable to the Justicar themself. Yet, despite these machinations, the outcome of any trial is almost never in doubt. Deliberations rarely last more than half a day, as they typically only mete out a single sentence: death.

To be sure, the doctrines of the Second Order speak oft of redemption - of offering apostates and heretics a path back to righteousness. The ruling Prefects regularly publish treatises that expound at great length upon the virtue of Redemption. Prefect Elorien himself was well known for such proclamations:

"No soul is ever fully lost, for the Fates weave paths unseen. Redemption comes not through swift judgment but through allowing one to find their way back to the Sacral Thread. It is not for us to tear asunder what the Fates may yet mend. Offer mercy, for in mercy lies the true hand of the divine."

- Prefect Elorien, Sermons on the Fourfold Mercy

These words echo from pulpits across Atheria, reminding the faithful that even the most corrupt may be saved. But in practice, few Wardens care to listen. They know the truth better than most: mercy is dangerous. After all, magelight is not just a tool of fire - it serves as a reminder. A reminder that in the eyes of the Second Order, there is no sin greater than magic, and no fire too hot to cleanse it.

And so, even when trials are held, Wardens will do everything in their power to avoid bringing in anyone who might survive the ordeal with breath still in their lungs and skin still on their bones.

Under the Crown’s Shadow, pt. 2

Under the Crown’s Shadow

Part 1 | Part 2

---

The battlefield stretched out beneath the shadow of Rosamund’s Wall, the northern outpost that had held for so long, its stone walls now pocked and scorched by months of siege. The air was thick with the clash of swords, the bellow of commands, and the screams of the dying. Dirt and blood mingled in the churned earth as the Essarian forces dug in, each man and woman fighting not just for survival, but for the final breath of a revolution that had lasted far too long.

Lady Rosamund stood amidst it all, her once-polished armor now a ruin of dents and dried blood. She watched as the battle surged, her mind a whirl of tactics and desperation. To the north, the combined Andar-Ushani forces pressed hard, their spearmen forming tight phalanxes with their shields raised, a fortress of metal and flesh grinding slowly forward.

Her Essarian forces had the high ground, the Wall looming behind them, but their numbers had thinned drastically. These outposts had been their salvation, but they were not enough. Not alone. Fort Redfall had held for days before crumbling, its defenses battered beneath the relentless siege of Ushani forces. Fort Delfan, though sturdier, had been cut off, its soldiers outnumbered and surrounded. Only Cadar’s Demise, the bleak northern bastion named for the hero who fell defending it years before, still stood firm. But it was the Wall - Rosamund’s Wall - that bore the brunt of the enemy’s assault this day, its stone scarred by countless arrows and bolts.

"Hold the line!" she bellowed, her voice hoarse from hours of battle. "Don’t let them break through!"

Her captains relayed the order, but the lines were buckling. The Ushani warriors were fierce, their battle cries rising above the din, each strike of their spears as calculated as they were brutal. From the eastern flank, she could see the crimson banners of House Valen - Andar’s vanguard - sweeping forward with cold efficiency, their knights armored in plate, their swords cutting through Essarian defenders like a scythe through wheat.

And then, in the center, where the fighting was thickest, she saw them - the Nine Knights.

They were a sight to behold, even now, their emerald-green Essarian armor battered but still gleaming with the blood of their enemies. The Nine were not noble-born. They were not bound by familial ties to any lord or house. They were men and women who had risen from the ashes of Essaria’s rebellion, each a symbol of the people’s defiance. Veterans of countless skirmishes, they moved as one, a single force against the chaos.

Ser Coran, the eldest among them, led the charge. His greatsword sliced through shields and armor with terrifying ease, the old knight’s strength unyielding even after hours of relentless combat. At his side, Dara, the youngest of the Nine, danced between enemies with a grace that defied the bloodied mud underfoot, her twin blades flashing in the dim light as she cut down any who dared approach.

But the enemy pressed hard, and even the Nine could not be everywhere at once.

Rosamund’s focus turned to the Ushani phalanx still advancing from the north. Their shields were thick, their spears long, designed to break the cavalry charges of her knights. But here, on this uneven terrain, the phalanx moved too slowly. The Ushani were relying on their unbreakable wall of spears, but Rosamund saw the gap - a small weakness in their ranks where the ground sloped downward.

She turned to Ser Elric, her lieutenant, blood streaming from a gash across his left cheek. "They’re exposed at the ridge," she said, her voice urgent. "Get the Nine to flank them. We can break their formation."

Elric nodded, already moving, barking orders to the remaining Essarian forces. "Archers, on the ridge! Knights, with me!"

The archers scrambled to the high ground, loosing volleys of arrows down onto the Ushani lines. The air was filled with the sharp hiss of fletching, followed by the dull thud of arrows embedding into shields and flesh. The Ushani phalanx slowed, their shields raised in unison, blocking the worst of the storm, but the momentum of their advance was broken. For just a moment, the tight line of warriors faltered, and it was all the Nine needed.

With Elric at their head, the Nine cut through the battlefield like a dagger aimed at the heart of the enemy forces. They moved with deadly purpose, a blur of steel and blood as they carved their way through the enemy ranks.

Coran was the first to reach the ridge, his sword a monstrous, two-handed weapon that cleaved through armor and bone with brutal efficiency. His swing was wide, cutting through the gap in the Ushani phalanx, the force of his strike sending shields splintering. Blood sprayed across the mud-soaked ground as Ushani warriors fell back in disarray.

The enemy line wavered, and then the Nine pressed the attack.

Dara moved like a shadow, her twin blades flashing in the dull, rain-soaked light. She danced between shields, her strikes precise and lethal, slashing at tendons and hamstrings, crippling the enemy with every step. Her blades found flesh easily, blood splattering her as she slipped between the cracks in the Ushani line. A young warrior lunged at her, his spear tip aimed for her heart, but she ducked beneath the strike, spinning behind him and cutting deep into his side. He fell with a gurgled scream.

Nearby, Hollis, a mountain of a man, charged into the fray, his shield held high. He barreled into an Ushani captain, the impact sending the man sprawling into the mud, his helm cracking against the ground. Hollis wasted no time, his sword plunging into the captain’s exposed throat, cutting off his scream before it could form. The battlefield was chaos, but in that moment, the Nine had the upper hand.

The other Essarian knights followed, their horses crashing into the exposed flank of the Ushani forces, turning the once-impenetrable phalanx into a chaotic scramble for survival. The Ushani shield wall broke apart, their once-disciplined advance collapsing under the weight of the sudden assault. Spears dropped into the mud, shields discarded as the warriors tried to fend off the onslaught.

But for every step the Nine took forward, they paid for it in blood.

Hollis fell first. A spear - thrust with brutal precision - pierced through the gap in his armor and deep into his chest. He gasped, blood spilling from his lips as he crumpled to the ground, his massive form shaking the earth around him.

"HOLLIS!" Kessa screamed, her voice hoarse as she saw her comrade fall.

Kessa, eldest sister of Dara, roared in fury, cutting down the enemies around her as she fought her way to Hollis’ side. Her blade flashed like lightning, each strike driven by rage, but it wasn’t enough. She reached Hollis’ body, kneeling beside him for barely a heartbeat before a heavy blow struck her from behind. She staggered, a cry of pain escaping her lips as her legs gave way beneath her. Her sword fell from her grasp, and she collapsed beside Hollis in the mud, the light in her eyes dimming as her blood poured into the ground.

The muddy earth was slick with the bodies of the fallen, their lifeless forms trampled underfoot by the relentless tide of warriors. Blood mixed with soft rain, turning the field into a grotesque mire of flesh and steel. Ushani and Essarian soldiers alike fell in waves, their screams rising into the air before being swallowed by the cries of battle.

Rosamund watched from the ridge, her hands gripping the hilt of her sword tightly, her breath catching in her throat as she saw the Nine cut down, one by one.

Yet, they did not falter. Even as Hollis and Kessa fell, Coran, Dara, and the others pressed forward, their swords cutting through the enemy with the same relentless determination that had brought them this far.

It was then that the Ushani line suddenly began to crumble, their warriors breaking rank as panic set in. The remaining Essarian forces, emboldened by the Nine’s charge, surged forward with renewed vigor, their swords hacking through what remained of the enemy’s defenses. The once-mighty Ushani phalanx was reduced to a scattered rabble, the warriors fleeing in every direction, desperate to escape the slaughter.

Rosamund’s heart pounded in her chest as the enemy’s center collapsed, their formation disintegrating under the weight of the Essarian assault. The Andar forces, too, were in disarray, their lines buckling as their allies were routed. The tide of battle had turned, but the cost had been high.

Regrouping with her lieutenant, Rosamund glanced once more at the bodies of Hollis and Kessa, lying broken in the mud, their blood mingling with that of the Ushani they had cut down. The Nine had held the line, but the price of their bravery weighed heavy on her soul.

"They’ll remember this day," she said softly, more to herself than to Elric. "But they won’t remember the price we paid."

Elric, still breathing hard, looked out over the battlefield. "No. But they’ll remember the Nine."

Sunder, pt. 2

Sunder

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

---

The rain began to fall in soft, rhythmic drizzles, barely more than a whisper as it kissed the vast canopy above Kiras. The droplets slipped through the layers of leaves, falling in streaks that glistened in the dim light cast by the amberfish below. The waterways reflected the glow like molten gold, winding through the stone pyramids and narrow streets of the city. But the air felt wrong tonight - too still, too calm.

From his perch atop a narrow, moss-covered outcrop overlooking the city, Salar, a seasoned Kirassi watchman, narrowed his eyes against the rising fog. He was an old man, long in the tooth, his bronze skin weathered by decades of wind, rain, and the relentless humidity of the Cradle. Yet something in the air tonight unsettled him - something beyond the usual hum of the jungle, beyond the familiar croak of the creatures that called the trees home. His senses, honed by years of guarding the city-state’s borders, prickled with the telltale signs of a disturbance.

Below, the waterways were unusually quiet, the only sound the occasional ripple as an amberfish breached the surface. He scanned the dark city streets below, his sharp eyes following the soft shadows cast by the towering ziggurats and the slender rope bridges that connected the water-bound districts. He knew these shadows like the back of his hand. Every street, every bridge, every quiet corner of Kiras. But something shifted in the corner of his vision - a cloaked figure slipping from the darkness of an alley.

Salar’s grip on his spear tightened.

He stood slowly, his old bones groaning in protest. His instincts were rarely wrong. He could almost taste it now, that electric pulse in the air, a harbinger of something coming. Something dangerous.

The cloaked figure wasn’t alone. He counted another shadow, then two more slipping from the deeper shadows of the waterways. His heart quickened as he realized they weren’t moving with the carelessness and comfort of locals. These were outsiders - men who knew how to walk unseen.

But why here? Why now? he wondered. The amberfish had returned far earlier than expected, but even the priests urged temple-goers not to worry beyond the usual superstitions. But something isn’t right.

The raindrops fell harder now, streaking down his face as he watched the figures move with purpose toward the Keshari Temple, the largest and oldest pyramid in the city. Its towering steps reached high into the night, sacred carvings on its surface barely visible beneath the creeping vines. The temple had stood for centuries, a testament to the might of Kiras. A place of worship, yes, but also a place of power, where the ancient magi of the city once ruled.

Salar frowned, his unease deepening. He had guarded the temple for years in his youth. No one entered it after dark. No one dared. It was more than a law - it was tradition. Yet the cloaked figures moved as if drawn to its gates, their intent clear.

Without hesitation, he descended the narrow path down from his watchpoint, his footsteps sure despite his age. He had to reach the city-watch, had to warn them. But before he reached the bottom, another sound reached him first - soft, almost imperceptible beneath the rain. Footsteps. Behind him.

Salar spun, shortspear raised, but it was too late.

A cold hand clasped over his mouth, and a voice whispered hoarsely in his ear, "We’ve come too far for you to interfere, old man."

Pain exploded across his vision as the cold steel of a dagger slid between his ribs, the strike swift and practiced. Salar gasped, the world spinning as blood poured from the wound, staining his tunic. The blade twisted, and his legs buckled beneath him. Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision. As his body crumpled to the wet stone, his last breath caught in his throat, the taste of copper filling his mouth.

Far below, in the glowing waters of Kiras, the amberfish swirled in unusual patterns, their pale light flickering like dying embers beneath the surface. The calm night had broken, and the ancient city stirred with an unease that rippled through the Cradle itself.