City of Eltherin: The Sacred Jewel of the North
Amid the frozen northern expanse, where endless white plains stretch beyond the horizon, stands the city of Eltherin—an architectural masterpiece that borders on the mythical. It is the spiritual capital of Isvelda, and the grandest city of the north, where beauty meets awe, and faith fuses with power.
Upon entering Eltherin, one feels as though they've passed through a gate into another realm. The streets are paved with smooth white stones that reflect the sunlight by day and shimmer under moonlight by night, granting the city a constant celestial glow. Dark green trees line the roads, their leaves dancing with the northern breeze, while vast gardens stretch wide, adorned with rare flowers exuding divine fragrances—like the very breath of the gods.
Fountains are scattered at every corner, their pristine waters flowing gracefully, reflecting the torchlight that adorns the ornate balconies of the buildings. Sacred birds soar above the city's towering spires, while marble statues fill the public squares, embodying the stories of the great souls who dedicated their lives to guarding this sacred land.
At the heart of the city rises the Grand Temple, the crowning jewel of Eltherin and the holiest shrine in the north. It is encircled by towering white marble walls carved with ancient sacred inscriptions. Its massive gates, forged from gold and silver, stand as silent sentinels, reflecting sunlight in a radiant blaze.
The lofty ceiling is supported by colossal pillars etched with holy writings, and above it looms a magnificent dome inlaid with blue crystal stones, said to reflect the stars each night, bathing the city in a heavenly aura. Inside the temple, vast halls stretch out, their ceilings adorned with murals that recount the temple's legacy and its greatest protectors. Gentle light spills from golden candleholders, casting a reverent glow that fills the soul with awe.
In the central altar, the priests moved in silence, clad in immaculate white robes embroidered with silver threads bearing the temple's emblem—a symbol of purity and faith. Their chants, soft yet eternal, echoed through the hallowed walls, like the lingering voices of centuries-old prayers.
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In one of the temple's most majestic halls—restricted to only the highest clergy and northern rulers—an old man sat at a solemn white table. Its surface, smooth as marble, was engraved with intricate religious symbols that reflected the temple's deep-rooted history. Despite his age, his presence alone was enough to fill the chamber with reverence and dread.
He was Archbishop Callistos Eithern, the highest authority not just in the temple, but across all of the North. He wore a long, plain white robe with delicate silver embroidery along its edges, representing wisdom and purity. Around his neck hung a sacred pendant—a sun-shaped emblem crafted from pure silver, resting gently against his chest.
His deep, ashen eyes—lined with the wrinkles of time—remained fixed on the closed chamber doors, as though he already knew what was about to unfold.
Moments later, the door opened quietly. Four men entered at once. They were clad in white armor adorned with the temple's emblem. Their movements were disciplined, but the moment they laid eyes on the old man before them, they knelt in unison, placing their hands over their chests in a sacred salute, and said in one voice:
"Forgive our delay. We salute the Highest Authority of the North."
They took their seats immediately, each man settling into place in silence, tense under the weight of the Archbishop's gaze—a gaze so heavy it seemed to thicken the very air in the room. These men were none other than the rulers of the northern cities, the most powerful figures in Isvelda after Callistos himself.
The Archbishop spoke calmly, but his voice carried an irrefutable certainty:
"I trust you all know why I've summoned you here today."
The rulers exchanged glances before one of them—a man in his forties, bearing a resemblance to Callistos but with sharper eyes—broke the silence.
He was Alexander Eithern, Callistos' younger brother and governor of Eltherin.
"Is it because the prophecy of the Ashborn is nearing?"
The Archbishop nodded slowly, then replied with a quiet voice heavy with responsibility:
"Yes. The time draws near, and we must be prepared before it comes to pass.
The magnitude of this disaster will not be limited to the North… it could engulf the entire continent."
A heavy silence fell. Callistos turned his gaze to one of the men seated nearby, a stern-faced ruler with eyes that spoke of long years in politics and leadership.
"Isaac, contact the South. Tell them I request an audience with their ruler immediately."
"Understood." Isaac answered without hesitation.
The Archbishop then turned to his brother, Alexander, who sat upright, ready to receive orders.
"Ensure our northern forces are ready to move at a moment's notice."
"It will be done, Archbishop."
Callistos' eyes moved across the room, and his tone grew firmer:
"Listen to me carefully… According to the prophecy, there are two harbingers of destruction. One will appear in the Nehariv Mountains, and the other… is coming from the Kingdom."
One of the rulers slammed his fist on the table, his voice filled with fury:
"Damn it! Just as I feared—nothing good ever comes from those corrupt nobles in the Kingdom!"
The Archbishop sighed, as though the burden of centuries had settled on his shoulders. He looked down at the table for a moment, then spoke in a low voice, laden with regret:
"I am already full of remorse… Remorse for not attacking the Kingdom after the death of the first Emperor and the rise of its corruption. And now, I face the consequences of my inaction."
Another silence settled, until he clenched his hand upon the table and raised his head with resolute determination. His tone now carried not only regret—but acceptance of the burden.
"This calamity will bring oceans of blood and thousands of innocent deaths. I won't claim it's for the greater good, or justify it as a noble cause… But there is no escaping the coming war. Mistakes will be made. And I will be held accountable. I will not run from that."
He looked each of them in the eye, then declared with finality:
"It is my fate to bear this burden. And it is yours to bear it with me. If we are to err, let us err with courage. If we are to win, let us win with honor. And if we are fated to fall… then let it be as men who kept their dignity to the end."
His words were not merely a warning—they were a vow.
A vow that the North would not stand idle in the face of what was to come.