Today is a special day.
Across all four kingdoms, everyone is united in nervous anticipation. One week ago, the Aerialis—nomadic messengers who drift through the sky—spread the news everywhere: a new underground fresh water spring has erupted in the frozen region of Tundria. No kingdom has hitherto claimed this lawless, snowy land of exiles, criminals, and mixed bloods. Now, the Council must decide who will claim it.
The Council is a symbol of peace. It was formed centuries ago after the Great War of the Withering Age brought every kingdom to the brink of extinction. Its purpose is to allocate scarce resources fairly through negotiations and votes, so that kingdoms need not resort to war to satisfy their needs.
Today, diplomats from all four kingdoms gather to decide the fate of the Tundria spring. Each kingdom's hopes, fears, and ambitions hang in the air like pollen in bloom.
Verdantia, the forest empire, is widely acknowledged as the largest and richest kingdom. The men are marked by their green hair patterned like elegant grape veins, while the women are renowned for their eternal, delicate beauty like that of orchids. Verdantia's forests have plentiful resources, and the kingdom's diverse culture thrives with a richness few can rival. Yet beneath the surface, Verdantia is not perfect—the empire is weighed down by its sheer size and has grown almost too complacent in its own sense of invincibility.
Across the deserts, Cactoria stands in contrast. It is a kingdom of spires and scorched sands, of red-headed warriors hardened by sun and scarcity. Their martial discipline and resilience rival Verdantia's might, but the harshness of their land leaves them ever in want of the resources that feed armies and cities alike. Were it not for the deserts' cruel barrenness, Cactoria might have been the supreme power of the world.
Then there is Aquariel, whose people flow like their rivers, ever-present yet never dominant. The Aquariel people are known for their translucent skin and hair, giving them an ethereal, fluid appearance that mirrors the rivers they inhabit. Their lands stretch across waterways that nourish every other kingdom, binding them together with currents of life and commerce. Their neutrality is their shield; their diplomacy, their strongest weapon. Though they cannot muster armies to rival Verdantia or Cactoria, they carry influence in every drop of water that runs through the world.
And finally, there is Mycarynth, the spore dominion, whose lands are dark, damp, and almost unvisited. Whispers call it the Kingdom of Death, for their people thrive in shadowy rot and possess eerie parasitic abilities. Travelers avoid its borders, and few know its inner workings. Of the rare souls who have ventured into Mycarynth, some claim it is a realm of pale ghosts with silver hair, drifting silently through misted corridors. Mycarynth is a kingdom shrouded in secrets, where decay nurtures life in ways no one else can comprehend.
Negotiations at The Council started long ago, and a decision is expected any minute now. Across the four kingdoms, every mind is fixated on the proceedings, every breath held in tense anticipation.
Soon, a shadow swells on the horizon—countless Aerialis streak through the sky, their wings beating like the pulse of the world itself. The crowd leans forward, hearts pounding, eager to learn which kingdom will claim the spring in Tundria.
Petals of news begin to drift down, but the excitement dies instantly. Silence falls, almost too heavy and suffocating. On one petal, in bold, unmistakable letters, it reads:
"Lead Verdantia diplomat assassinated. Council disbanded permanently. Prepare for war."
The air feels as if it itself has frozen. The fragile peace that has held the kingdoms together for centuries is torn asunder. War looms.