Millennia before Dynasty Richinaria was forged in divinity and dream, there was a man without a name.
Accused of robbing a sacred temple of the God of Healing, he was branded a heretic by the very priests he had once worshipped with undying devotion. In punishment, they severed both of his hands, sentencing him not to death, but to exile, casting him into the blistering, endless dunes of Nesmarone where the sun was merciless and the wind carried the whispers of madness.
He wandered for days, blood staining the sand, mouth cracked from thirst, until his legs gave way beneath a sky that had no mercy left for him. When he awoke, it was not to fire or fury but to the soft breath of shadows in a cave, where a lone woman with eyes if the ocean and a soul older than time tended to his wounds.
She fed him. She cradled him. And when she placed her palms over the stumps of his arms, they healed. His hands returned. That was when she saw it. The man could heal not just bandage wounds or slow pain but to regenerate tissue, bone and even essence itself. Yet, there was a cost that was his his Bane.
No matter how skilled or strong he became, he could never heal himself. Every injury, every illness, every fracture of his soul would remain forever raw. The woman, unbothered by this cruel paradox, began to teach him. Regeneration, reconstruction, she taught him what she knew. He trained beneath her watchful gaze for years, unknowing of who she truly was. Then, on a day where the desert skies wept black ash, she stood before him and told him her time had come. Her vengeance was near. She had been wronged by the gods and now she would make them pay.
The man, no longer a hollow wanderer but a weaver of life and rebirth, dropped to his knees and swore not just loyalty but servitude for eternity. And not just him. His children, and their children's children would follow the oath. The woman accepted. As payment for their eternal loyalty, she promised him the most sacred of prizes.
She would give him the Core of the very god who had forsaken him. And so, during the final crescendo of the Destras Cataclysm, she rose into the divine skies and slaughtered the God of Healing. She tore his Core from his chest and brought it to the man, no longer nameless, but reborn.
He was Sarphie, First of the Healing Flame.
With the Core embedded into his essence, Sarphie ascended as a Divine tethered to regeneration, loyalty, and unyielding service. And when the woman and her husband founded what would become Dynasty Richinaria, he stood at their side, not as a knight or vassal but as family.
Thus, House Sarphie was born.
For thousands of years, House Sarphie served the Richinarias with absolute loyalty, guarding the sacred lineages, healing the bodies of rulers and soldiers alike, and even caring for the other Houses. They never sought thrones. They never asked for power.
That was until five decades ago when without a word or warning, House Sarphie vanished. They escaped into the sacred forests of Mintheris, veiling their presence from even the keenest of Divines. The four other Great Houses of Richinaria whispered of betrayal. Only the Richinarias understood why the Sarphies had left. And now, after fifty or more years in silence, the Healers have returned.
And of course, the Throne Room of the Richinarias had the heirs of the Four Houses.
House Viaca, House Maximilian, House Levenees, and House Obligatio.
The Throne Room of the Richinarias was the same as it was when Vastarael first cake to it when he was four years old. At the center stood the throne of the Dynasty Monarch. On each of its sides were two thrones, meant for the Dynasty Monarchess, the Grand Duchess, the Grand Commander and the Finance Queen, the current rulers of Richinaria. Below the staircase leading to them, four raised daises fanned outward in a semicircle, each one hosting a seat for the ruling Houses of Richinaria.
Lord Landle Viaca sat on the leftmost dais, his skin bronzed from the heat of the forge, carrying the scent of steel and ember as if it were his cologne. His House's sigil was a roaring hammer encircled by three serpent chains. His glare was the type that broke lesser men, and even in silence, his presence rang with discipline. The weapons his House produced were they were national icons, wielded by legends and engraved into statues across the world.
Lord Landle was the previous Grand Duke of Richinaria before his adopted daughter Adelasta took over his position.
To his right, the stern and towering Lord Damius Maximilian loomed like a war god, adorned in ceremonial plate mail that was more polished than most men's souls. Their symbol was a curved blade. His silver-blond hair was pulled into a warrior's knot and a curved sword floated behind his back. Every generation of his lineage birthed warlords and tacticians. His bloodline bled onto battlegrounds that won the Dynasty its golden age.
On the third dais, Lady Sylveira Levenees defied all conventions. She was a matriarch whose skin was pale and eyes that shimmered with mystic runes. Her flowing midnight robes never touched the ground. She was said to have rewritten mage theory at the age of eleven and had trained a hundred Archmages who now led the mystical guilds across five continents. There was no mage who didn't know her name, no spellcaster who didn't revere or fear her. The House symbol was a mystic circle.
Lastly, seated with pristine poise and a ringed scepter was Lord Vaskein Obligatio, the one whose voice controlled the rise and fall of currencies across the continent. His suit was a mix of navy velvet and crystal thread, stitched with ancient runes of wealth-binding. A single flick of his finger could bankrupt a nation or save it. He had no need for bluster. His power was measured in silence and decimal points.
They watched as the great ebony doors groaned open. Anamorsia entered.
She was clad in a black and silver regalia, long. Everyone bowed, though some did so reluctantly. After all, she wasn't the Dynasty Monarch. She climbed the few steps to the Monarch's throne and sat, crossing one leg over the other like she was born to reign in place of her brother.
The throne itself responded to her presence. The glowing crystal at its center pulsed once then dimmed, as though acknowledging her temporarily borrowed dominion.
The room hushed. Then, her golden eyes found Leon and Leones.
They sat on Milliania and Anamorsia's seat. White hair laced with crimson streaks and golden eyes... they were as beautiful as all Richinarias were. They grinned when they saw that she sat where her brother was supposed to sit.
Anamorsia rested her chin on one hand.
"Well then. Let us begin."