Before swords were drawn and names were cursed, there was peace, fleeting and fragile, like frost on the grass before dawn.
The world was once whole. It bore a single name—Elyndor—a realm of towering mountains, forested valleys, and cities whose spires touched the stars. Magic pulsed in its roots and rivers, an old magic, elemental and alive. It was not taught; it was inherited. It did not serve; it was respected.
But peace, like magic, is a delicate thing.
Elyndor shattered into two.
To the east rose the Kingdom of Velmora, carved into the icy cliffs and wind-beaten highlands. Its people built strongholds of stone and tradition. They were born to discipline, trained from childhood to command sword and bow, and taught to revere the strength of order. They saw magic not as power to wield but a dangerous temptation—something to be bound in law, contained in relics, buried in scripture.
To the west, across the rift that split the continent, bloomed the Dominion of Kael'Thar. A realm of dense forests, ancient ruins, and caverns that whispered to those who dared listen. Here, magic was a birthright and a beacon. It danced in their blood, wove through their songs, and surged through their veins. Kael'Thar's people revered the old ways, believing that to bind magic was to deny the world its soul.
When the Rift opened—a scar in the land deep and dark—it brought more than earthquakes and storms. It unearthed relics long forgotten. Creatures long buried. Secrets meant to remain sealed. And it sparked fear.
Velmora blamed Kael'Thar's unrestrained magic for the rupture, for the omens in the sky and the beasts that slithered from the shadows.
Kael'Thar accused Velmora of sacrilege, of digging into the world's heart with iron and greed.
Tensions grew. Accusations became skirmishes. Skirmishes became raids. Raids became war.
A war not for conquest, but for conviction.
Velmora fights to contain magic and preserve what remains of the old world's order. Kael'Thar fights to protect its heritage and awaken what was lost.
Steel meets spell. Faith meets fire.
And between them lies the Rift.
The war has burned for six years. Neither side relents. Neither side forgets.
And deep beneath the ash, something ancient stirs once more.