The kingdom of Haldrith burned with a slow fire. Not from war—but from fear. Archmages ruled the cities, selling hope for gold, casting illusions of prosperity while poverty festered beneath shimmering facades. The people bowed not to kings, but to comfort.
And from the mountains came the Stoics.
They wore armor without crest, cloaks without sigil. Each carried a weapon forged long ago—not with spells, but with purpose. Wyrmsteel. Void-iron. Emberwood shafts bound in runes of resolve. These were not relics of glory, but tools of endurance—beautiful, yet unenchanted.
Where sorcerers shaped flame or shadow, the Stoics wielded the Aegis Anima: a will honed so sharply it cut through lies and fear alike.
Orien, youngest of the Stoics, carried a longsword etched with silent verses from the Disciplines of Stone—a blade named Aketar, meaning That Which Does Not Falter.
He arrived alone at the gates of Solas'tir, the city of Eternal Light, where the Archmage Vaeril kept peace through illusion—each citizen enchanted to see only what pleased them, even as rot crept beneath their feet.
The guards mocked him. "Another sellsword come to break the spell?" they laughed. "What will you do—meditate us to death?"
Orien said nothing. He simply stepped forward.
The light around him bent—then shuddered. Illusions rippled like disturbed water. The Aegis Anima radiated from within him, not seen, but felt: a stillness so deep it pulled at the seams of falsehood.
By the time he reached the city square, a crowd had formed. They stared as the shimmering banners began to fade. Gilded towers dimmed. False joy cracked.
Vaeril appeared in a flash of violet fire, staff alight with arcane sigils.
"You trespass in a city held together by belief," he snarled. "Break the illusion, and you will break their hope."
Orien unsheathed Aketar. Its edge caught no light—only silence.
"I do not break what is real," he said. "Only what pretends to be."
Vaeril struck with flame, shadow, fear. But none touched Orien. The Aegis Anima wrapped him like armor—not blocking the spells, but rendering them meaningless. His clarity was a weapon no magic could bend.
He stepped forward, stroke by deliberate stroke, and struck Vaeril's staff—not with force, but with the precision of truth.
It shattered.
The illusions collapsed.
The city stood bare. Real. Broken—but awake.
And Orien turned to the people and said:
"Now you are free. Not safe. Not certain. But real. That is enough."
And then he left, blade on his back, silence in his wake.