Long before the crowns were forged and the banners raised, the lands were sung into being by the hands of Solis and the whispers of Aether. The forests breathed with life unbound, and the mountains held secrets older than the tallest kings. Rivers ran silver and swift, carrying tales of creatures that walked before the dawn of men. In those days, the world knew neither greed nor war, only the quiet harmony of its own making.
Yet, as all things are won't to do, balance is fragile. Even the brightest light casts a shadow, and even the gentlest whispers may turn to a roar. The first fractures came not with fire or sword, but with desire—the desire of hearts untempered by wisdom. Small kingdoms grew into ambitious realms, and with ambition came whispers of treachery. The old races—the elves, the dwarves, and those that walked silently in the forests of legend—retreated, leaving the lands to men, who were yet young, brash, and untested.
It was then that the first blades were broken. Not in battle alone, but in oath and trust. Alliances forged over centuries crumbled under the weight of pride. Thrones, once symbols of unity, became instruments of dominance. And in those days, the Solis burned bright in the skies, yet even its golden light could not shield the world from itself.
The songs of the elders tell of a time when magic—wild and untamed—danced freely through the veins of the earth. Aether ran like rivers of fire beneath the soil, waiting to be called, yet not all who reached for it were worthy. Many fell to madness or worse, for the art of creation is not gentle, and the hands of men are often impatient. Thus, the world grew harsh, a realm where only the cunning or the relentless could endure.
Forests thickened into shadows, mountains sharpened into jagged teeth, and creatures long forgotten prowled the edges of human sight. Yet amidst this growing peril, a strange harmony persisted. For every blade that broke, a song remained. Songs of loss, of sorrow, of valor unsung—and these melodies, carried by wind and river, awaited those with ears to hear and hearts to remember.
So it was, that in the quiet years before the great wars, the lands lay in a fragile peace. Men tilled the soil, built walls and cities, and whispered tales of heroism and horror alike. It was a peace as delicate as spider silk, and all who dwelled upon the earth felt the tension, though none could name it.
It was in such a time, in a hall warmed by firelight and the faint scent of old stone, that an old man leaned upon his staff and began to speak. His armor was dented, his cloak worn, and his hands bore the scars of battles long past. He had seen kings rise and fall, watched friends die and enemies fade into dust. Yet his voice remained steady, carrying the cadence of a thousand stories lived and remembered.
"Listen well, children," he said, his eyes glinting beneath heavy brows, "for the world you walk upon now was not always as it is. The rivers you sail, the trees you climb, even the stones you tread upon—all have witnessed the breaking of blades and the fading of songs. And though these lands appear tranquil, the echoes of the past linger still, waiting for those who dare to hear them."
Around him, the young faces of the hall tilted toward the firelight. Some squirmed, distracted by the warmth or the taste of bread, but a few sat motionless, rapt with attention. One boy in particular, small of frame and pale of cheek, leaned closer to the crackling hearth. His dark eyes reflected the flames as if he were trying to capture every flicker, every shadow. Though no one yet knew his name, something in his posture betrayed a hunger not for food, nor for play, but for the stories themselves—the legends of a world that was, and the promises of a world yet to come.
The veteran's voice deepened, taking on the weight of ages. "Long ago, the lands were ruled by those who knew both mercy and might. Yet even the noblest hearts can falter. Betrayal came not with drums and horns, but in whispers and glances, in the breaking of trust between friend and king. The wise foresaw the darkness, but few heeded their warning. And so, the world changed. Blades were shattered. Thrones lay in ruin. Magic grew wild and capricious, for even the greatest masters could not command it without cost."
He paused, letting the crackle of fire fill the silence. The children leaned in, some biting their lips, others wide-eyed, imagining mountains split by swords and forests trembling with unspoken power. Outside, the wind carried the scent of pine and smoke, as if the world itself were listening to the tale.
"And yet," the veteran continued, softer now, "for every blade that breaks, there is a song. A song that carries memory, sorrow, hope, and the courage of those who dared to rise again. The song endures, even when the makers are gone. Remember this, for one day, it may call to you—though you know not when, nor in what form it shall arrive."
The boy shifted, drawing his knees close, and for a moment, the world of the hall and the world of legend seemed to merge. He imagined the forests, the rivers, the peaks and shadows, alive with voices from centuries past. And somewhere in that imagined realm, he felt the faintest pulse of a melody—one that would follow him long after the hearth went cold, long after the hall emptied of laughter and chatter.
The veteran's voice fell silent, and the hall was left with only the crackling fire and the sighing wind beyond the walls. The children stirred, stretching and yawning, the spell of story fading like mist in the morning sun. Yet the boy did not move. He remained, eyes fixed upon the dying embers, as if listening for the echo of a song no one else could yet hear.
Outside, the world lay quiet and untroubled. The sun cast long shadows over the stone battlements, and the air carried only the faint scent of coming winter. Peace reigned, fragile and untested, as it had for many years. But somewhere in the quiet corners of the kingdom, the first notes of an old song were stirring again—waiting for the day when blades would break, and the world would remember how to sing once more.