"When the last Oathbearer fell, the land wept and turned its face from the crown sigil.
But the Throne remembers.
It remembers everything."
— From The Oath-Tombs of Caldrithal, author unknown
There was once a time when kings did not merely rule by crown or blade — but by binding reality itself to their will.
In the ancient kingdom of Caldrithal, the royal bloodline was not just noble — it was divine in function, if not in origin. Passed down through generations, their veins carried something deeper than blood: a link to the Sovereign Weave, an unseen lattice of oaths and truth that stitched the world together.
This connection birthed the art of Sovereign Magic — not fireballs or illusions, but the reshaping of the laws of cause and consequence. Words spoken with sovereign blood behind them became more than speech — they became reality. When the High King declared, "No weapon shall be drawn in this hall." it became so, not even the gods could break the rule unless they wished to bleed.
The instrument of their power was the Crown Sigil, a relic formed not by craftsmen but by the Will of the First King. It was not worn but bound to the soul — a living entity of light and shadow, shaped by each monarch who bore it. No two Sigils were the same. No two bearers escaped unscathed.
Through it, the kings of Caldrithal ruled for a thousand years, until they vanished.
The Shattering
History calls it the Nightfall War. The last true monarch, King Thaelor, vanished in the year 0—marked forever as the beginning of the Hollow Age. On that night, the sky fractured like glass, splitting the constellations into dust. A silence fell across the land so heavy that it smothered birdsongs and prayers alike. Magic surged and then vanished. They thought no one possessed the crown sigil power anymore.
In the power vacuum that followed, chaos bloomed.
The Five Great Houses, once proud vassals of the crown, were the first to fracture. Without the Crown Sigil binding them in oath, they declared sovereignty in a single, blood-written accord known as the Sundering Decree. Each house claimed dominion over their ancestral lands, reforging old borders, minting their own coin, and crowning petty kings in halls where once they had sworn undying loyalty.
House Valcrane cloaked its mountains in storm and steel, calling its highborn "the rightful heirs of Caldrithal by strength alone." House Myrrien turned inward, retreating behind veils of enchantment and shadow, sealing their forested borders with wards that even birds would not cross. House Dravhant revived the brutal traditions of bloodlaw, swearing rule by duels and public binding. The other two — Thornehal and Erelin — carved out territories through fire and pact, drawing in mercenaries, surviving mages, and even Hollowborn dissidents in exchange for loyalty.
Though they claimed autonomy, each house watched the ruins of Caldrithal with wary eyes, knowing that should the Throne ever rise again, it would not forgive their treason.
The Church of the Arcanum, once constrained by the might of sovereign law, rose from its churches and catacombs and denounced the old magic. Without the Crown Sigil to bind them, the edicts of the old kings fell silent — and the church, long silenced under sovereign law, moved swiftly.
They declared the Sovereign Weave to be a blasphemy, a perversion of the natural order. What had once been divine right was now rewritten as devilry. The Church rebranded the binding arts as "Word-Sins" and began purging all records of them from the earth.
Sermons echoed from cathedral spires: "No man should rule reality but the Maker." The faithful rallied to this new truth, and soon inquisitions were sanctioned. Relic-burnings lit the nights. Former royalists were dragged from hidden enclaves and made examples of.
The Arcanum's power was no longer rooted in faith alone — it was fear, lawless and absolute. With the Weave fractured, they filled the void not with binding magic, but with doctrine, iron, and fire.
The Hollowborn, magicless and bitter, seized their moment and burned every remaining tome and scripture that pertained to the old kings and their power. For centuries, the Hollowborn had lived in the shadow of sovereign magic — bound by its laws, silenced by its presence. They were the ones untouched by the bloodline, those whom the weave never answered. In the eyes of the kings, they were subjects; in the eyes of the gods, they were just prayers, but with the collapse of the Crown Sigil and the silence of the royal line, rage long buried turned to fire.
They called it the Unbinding. Cities that once held royal archives were razed. Statues of kings were dragged from their pedestals and shattered in the streets. Libraries were torn down not for knowledge, but as revenge. The Hollowborn lit bonfires of scripture that turned night to ash-bright day. Their bitterness was not just rebellion — it was a reclamation. They would no longer be ruled by words spoken from golden thrones.
Some say they burned even their own dead if they bore trace blood of the old lines. Some say they danced in the flames, chanting that "no blood shall bind us again."
And so the world fractured.
Where once stood a golden kingdom, now linger only broken cities, warring baronies, gods that no longer answer, and forgotten histories.
Of Blood and Memory
Yet not all power was lost.
Magic still exists in the world, though it is pale and tamed — a flickering candle beside the wildfire of old. Scholars call it "graceborn magic": weak elemental control, enchantment, illusions. Useful, but shallow. Safe.
It is not binding.
It does not speak to the land. It does not bend time or chain men's fates with a whisper.
Only those of sovereign blood could command the world to obey.
But after King Thaelor, the royal line was declared extinct. Every potential heir was hunted down. Entire noble houses were wiped out to prevent the resurgence of binding magic. They came to be known as the Sigilhunts. Sigilhunters were given free reign—fanatics clad in iron and faith, armed with relics designed to sever the blood-bond before it could bloom. They did not seek justice. They sought extinction."
At least… they were believed to be.
In the far east of what was once Caldrithal, beyond the ruins of the Ashen Vale and past the forests of Old Drevan, lies a forgotten village hidden beneath a canopy of everwinter trees.
There, a boy has lived his entire life unaware of what sleeps beneath his skin.
His name is Elandar. He bears no crown. He knows no court. He speaks to trees and tracks stags through snowdrifts. Raised by a hunter and a healer, his days have been quiet, uneventful — marked only by strange dreams and the feeling, deep in his bones, that something vast and waiting has always been watching him.
As his sixteenth birthday approaches, under a sky cracked by the fractured star—a remnant scar from the Nightfall War—Elandar is drawn into a dream. In it, a throne rises from twisting roots and ancient stone, crowned by shadows that drip like blood.
When he wakes, the word "Awaken" slips from his lips—familiar yet strange. It feels heavier, deeper, as if spoken in a way he's never known before, carrying a power beyond mere sound.
Around him, the forest stirs, responding to the unspoken command.
The Throne That Waits
Legends say the Throne of Caldrithal was more than stone and seat — it was a binding point, a living node of the Sovereign Weave that amplified ones power, a place where oaths could become law. When the royal line vanished, the throne did not die.
It simply fell asleep.
But it remembers every word spoken upon it. Every law forged in blood. Every king who failed it.
It has waited in silence for over a century, unreachable, entombed in what remains of the Sanctum of Oaths, a crumbling monument that no map dares mark and no travelers return from.
Yet now, something stirs.
The world shifts.
And across the fractured lands of Caldrithal, those who once swore loyalty to the bloodline feel a chill. The Arcanum prays louder. The nobles sharpen their blades. And far in the south, a prophet whose face is always masked begins to write again in red ink and bone.
A new Oathbearer is coming.
Whether the world will kneel to him — or burn for him — no one yet knows.
But the Throne remembers his name.