The world was not always a place of monsters and mud. Long before the Conjunction of the Spheres tore the veil between worlds, and long before the first Elven ships anchored on the golden sands of the Continent, there was a First Race. They were the marrow of this earth, rising from the soil alongside the Gnomes and Dwarves.
Their heart was a city of white stone and flowing gold: El Refugio de Dios [The Refuge of God].
At its center stood Lucas, the first King. He was a man of quiet strength, whose benevolence was as vast as the northern plains. He knelt before the Altar of the Old Gods, his palms open to the sky. He did not ask for gold or the power to conquer; he asked for the means to protect his kin from the biting hunger of the wild.
"Escuchadme, Antiguos [Listen to me, Ancient Ones]," Lucas whispered, his voice resonating through the silent Great Hall. "Mi gente tiene hambre. Mi gente tiene miedo. Dadnos la fuerza para labrar este mundo [My people are hungry. My people are afraid. Give us the strength to carve this world]."
The heavens did not answer with thunder. Instead, a pulse of heat radiated from the earth itself. A voice, ancient and heavy like the shifting of mountains, filled his mind.
"Lucas, tu bondad es el puente [Lucas, your benevolence is the bridge]. Te entregamos el Poder de la Sangre [We give you the Power of the Blood]. Tu vida será el medio para transmutar la realidad [Your life will be the medium to transmute reality]."
Lucas felt his veins burn with a new, divine rhythm. This was not a gift of infinite magic, but a Sacrificio de Vida [Sacrifice of Life]. To change the world, he would have to spend the very essence of his body.
He stood upon the balcony overlooking the thousands who waited in the plaza. He held a ceremonial staff of gold and crystal—a conduit for the gods' gift. As he gripped the staff, the connection was instantaneous. There was no need for a blade or a wound; the crystal pulsed in time with his heart, drawing his vitality directly through his skin.
The glass chambers of the staff filled with a pressurized, glowing crimson fluid. Lucas paled, his breath catching as a wave of exhaustion washed over him. His very strength was being siphoned into the tool.
"¡Mirad! [Look!]" he cried out, his voice strained but firm. "El poder fluye de mi vida [The power flows from my life]."
He pointed the staff toward a jagged, ugly mound of grey rock. As he willed the change, a concentrated bolt of his own transmutative essence erupted from the crystal. The rock shivered and reorganized, its molecules dancing until it became a polished block of pure white marble. Lucas stumbled, his legs momentarily weak from the drain on his health, but the stone stood transformed.
"Venid, hermanos míos [Come, my brothers]," Lucas commanded, leaning on the staff for support. "Dividiré este don entre vosotros. No seremos esclavos de la tierra; seremos sus arquitectos a través de nuestro propio aliento [I will divide this gift among you. We will not be slaves of the earth; we will be its architects through our own breath]."
One by one, the subjects came forward to receive the Centella Sanguina [Sanguine Spark]. The transformation of the North began, built on the physical cost of their own bodies.
Architects did not use saws or hammers; they held conduits that hummed with the sound of a beating heart, projecting their own life force to melt and shape the white spires of the city. In the bitter winters, the people did not gather wood; they touched the cold hearths, and through their intent, their blood warmed the air, turning the freezing wind into a gentle, crimson heat.
For generations, El Refugio de Dios was a paradise of Sacrificio. They lived in a golden age where every building was a monument to the will of those who had spent their health to create it. They lived in peace, never imagining that a man would one day find a way to fuel these same miracles using the blood of his neighbors instead of his own.
******
The golden age of El Refugio de Dios [The Refuge of God] was built on the noble principle of Ofrenda [Offering]. For centuries, the citizens understood that to create was to give a piece of oneself. While the law allowed one to Absorber la esencia [Absorb the essence] of fallen beasts or nature to replenish their own vitality, the laws of King Lucas were absolute: La sangre de los hombres es sagrada [The blood of men is sacred]. To take the life force of a fellow human without their willing consent was the ultimate taboo.
But as the spires grew taller and the people grew comfortable, a shadow began to fester in the heart of the royal court. Among the high scholars was a man named Beltrán. He was brilliant and cold, and he had grown tired of the physical exhaustion that followed every act of transmutation.
"¿Por qué debemos debilitarnos para construir? [Why must we weaken ourselves to build?]" Beltrán whispered in the vaulted silence of the Great Library. "Si el poder fluye de la vida, aquel que consuma más vidas se convertirá en un dios [If power flows from life, he who consumes more lives will become a god]."
Beltrán began to experiment with the Ritos Prohibidos [Forbidden Rites]. He did not merely want to "reload" his strength from animals; he sought to use Malicia [Malice] to devour the very powers and souls of others—stealing their life, their memories, and their connection to the gods to fuel his own ascension.
One moonless night, Beltrán brought a high-ranking guard into his laboratory under the guise of a ritual. He held a modified crystal conduit, its glass darkened to a deep, bruised purple. Instead of letting his own life flow into the device, he pointed it at the unsuspecting man.
"Absorción Total [Total Absorption]," he commanded.
The effect was horrific. The guard did not merely tire; his body began to wither as his entire essence—his very soul and accumulated power—was ripped from his pores in a violent, glowing mist. The conduit hissed, gorging itself on a potency no animal could provide. Beltrán felt no fatigue. Instead, he felt a surge of stolen godhood—a cold, terrifying strength that made his own pulse feel like an ocean.
He looked at his hands, which now glowed with a dark, unstable light. "Ya no soy un hombre de sacrificio [I am no longer a man of sacrifice]," Beltrán laughed, his eyes reflecting a corrupted crimson. "Soy el Rey que devora [I am the King who devours]."
He began to gather followers in secret, teaching them that the "old ways" of Lucas were a chain of unnecessary suffering. They stopped offering their own blood and began to hunt the "unproductive" members of society, consuming their powers to build monuments that burned with a sick, flickering light.
"Algo está mal, Isabel [Something is wrong, Isabel]," the King said to his Queen as they watched a new tower rise in a single night. "La ciudad ya no canta; grita [The city no longer sings; it screams]."
Beltrán was no longer a scholar; he was a predator. He realized that to reach the height of a god, he needed the blood of the royal line itself. He began to plan his coup, intending to turn the entire population of El Refugio de Dios into a vast reservoir of stolen power.