In the depths of ancient history, the greatest empire the world had ever known flourished: "Miraphin."
An empire that combined unimaginable wealth with an invincible army, ruling over lands that stretched beyond the horizon, where the sun had roamed since the dawn of time. Under its banner, twelve kingdoms united—each a force in its own right, yet all bowed to one sovereign, a symbol of absolute rule.
But, as history teaches us, greatness does not last forever. The empire's iron grip, once unyielding, began to crack slowly, leaving behind a legacy of chaos and change.
This empire did not fall due to an external invasion or military might, but because of its betrayal of itself and the growing divisions within its heart over time. In his final years, the emperor became a symbol of weakness, worn down by favoritism and concessions that diluted his authority and sowed mistrust among the allied kings. The twelve kingdoms, once the shields of the empire, turned into warring factions, each seeking to expand its influence and assert dominance.
With each internal conflict, the empire's foundations shook. Open and secret rebellions against the emperor erupted. The army's leaders, once described as tireless swords, split into opposing loyalties and personal ambitions. Governance became a game of chess, where every side waited for a moment of weakness to push the empire toward complete collapse.
As chaos spread like wildfire, the battle for power even reached the imperial court itself. The court, which was meant to protect the crown, became a trap of conspiracies and treachery. The pursuit of influence among commanders and nobles reached its peak, turning the empire into a stage for a hidden war fought behind palace walls—long before it reached the battlefields.
In 466 AD, the empire finally collapsed after the emperor's death. The twelve kingdoms splintered into nine independent realms, each struggling to assert control over the fractured lands left in the wake of the old order's fall. With each new ruler, conspiracies and conflicts erupted anew, as if the curse of the fallen empire relentlessly pursued them all.
Amid this turmoil, a king from one of the strongest realms rose—Kalion Steelheart, a monarch whose vision reached beyond the borders of his own kingdom. His ambition was not limited to ruling his land alone. He dreamed of rebuilding the shattered empire and uniting the divided realms under a single banner to restore order to a world drowning in chaos. With his brilliant mind and the help of his right hand, Astrius, a man with the rare ability to read into people's hearts, Kalion managed to persuade rulers and lords to attend a great summit at his palace. There, he promised them a shared future—not one founded on war, but on alliance and unity.
The summit was tense, but the king succeeded in calming the atmosphere, using promises of a shared future to revive a long-lost glory. After lengthy discussions, the rulers and commanders agreed to crown him as the new emperor under the name of the "Empire of Aspher." All present saw in this agreement the dawn of a new age of peace and strength.
The attendees gathered in the palace hall, filled with anticipation, their faces glowing with smiles, and their breaths synchronized with hope for a bright future. Cheers echoed loudly, and all eyes turned to the throne, as if the empire were about to be reborn. But behind the palace walls, something darker than anyone could imagine awaited.
What was thought to be a moment of rebirth quickly turned into a terrifying nightmare, as if fate had chosen that night to reveal its cruel face. Before the new Emperor could sit on the throne and begin his reign, a horrifying truth was about to turn everything upside down.
While the hall rang with the sounds of hope, the unthinkable happened. The body of the new emperor, who was to be crowned at that very moment, was found hanging in his private chamber—dangling by the neck in a gruesome scene that filled the place with horror.
Blood streamed across the floor, soaking it as if reflecting an unspoken dark history. The red pool that spread across the ground bore silent witness to what had occurred behind closed doors. In that moment, hope vanished, and everything became inexplicable. Nothing was as it seemed.
Beside the corpse, a mysterious message was written in the king's own blood—scattered words on the wet floor, embodying the betrayal and treachery committed before the crown could even grace his head. It was more than mere words—it was a screaming cry from a dark soul, carrying a hidden warning and a chilling tale of what may have been the vilest betrayal in the nation's history:
"When kings fall, crowns wither, and thrones collapse, but the blood of betrayal still screams in the silence of the innocent. Today, the scales have returned to weigh the truth. Rest in peace—for the world you left behind… will never forget."
In that moment, time seemed to freeze in the grand hall. Everyone felt the air grow heavy, as if all around them had thickened into mystery. Silence reigned, and one question echoed in every mind:
"Who did this? And why choose this exact, critical moment?!"
The scene was terrifying. A dense silence blanketed the palace, and the faces of the rulers were filled with shock and fear. Everyone realized this was not just an assassination—it was the announcement of a new era of chaos.
The dream of unity collapsed in an instant, and the noble families quickly reverted to their old rivalries. Some suspected the intentions of the other monarchs, while others accused nobles within the kingdom itself. The summit disintegrated, and the imperial dream turned to ashes in a single night.
In the heart of this tangled chaos, one nobleman emerged—Astrius Eugene, the right hand of the late king—with a different voice, one filled with weight and cunning. He stood before the rulers and kings, his tone brimming with fury and accusation, and declared:
Astrius: "I know what I'm about to say will reopen deep wounds, but truth knows no borders, and it cannot be buried forever. The king you trusted… was nothing but a mask hiding a monster. A monster who betrayed the former emperor and was the cause of the fall of the White Kingdom. He murdered King Yuvir Frostheim in cold blood when the man came seeking peace, and spared not his family, though they never wronged him. His crimes are unforgivable, and the blood spilled by his hand still cries out for justice."
He looked around the room, the expressions shifting between shock and repressed rage, and continued, his voice calmer but dripping with accusation:
Astrius: "And his sons, whom you now call for to succeed him, are not as innocent as you think. They were the emperor's hands in the shadows—those who murdered that ruling family in cold blood. All of this… while we remained silent, turning our eyes away from the truth knocking violently on our doors."
He paused, allowing his words to sink deep into their souls, planting seeds of doubt, then continued firmly:
"Everything that has happened was a calculated game—a meticulously crafted plan to seize the throne. But today, we will not be partners in another betrayal. Today is the day we reclaim justice… at any cost."
As doubt grew among the rulers, the noble began to share stories of threats and imminent danger faced by his own family, adding a new layer of coercion to his position. Given his close connection to the late king, it was natural for his claims to be met with suspicion. But Asterius, with clever maneuvering, managed to turn the tide in his favor, raising his head cautiously and saying:
"Some may think I'm just a treacherous conspirator—but the truth is far worse. I had no choice. My family was under constant threat from the late king, their lives in danger. He wasn't just a tyrant—he planned to eliminate anyone who stood in his way. The threats were real, and I had no option but to comply to protect them."
He went on to recount dark details of the king's attempts to destroy his reputation and crush all who opposed him:
"I tried many times to rebel against his rule, but the consequences were dire. He laid traps for me and used his army's influence to silence me. I even saw my family members being watched with every step I took. These are not just words—this is the reality I lived… where his eyes followed me night and day."
He pointed to some of those present.
"But as you see, I wasn't alone in this fight. Others in his inner circle secretly worked to protect the system and paid with their lives. Do you think if I had resisted, I wouldn't have been the first to die?"
In the lower levels of the palace, behind a thick iron door layered with dust and silence, the king's three sons were slowly unraveling in a darkness untouched by light or mercy.
Clenched fists, ragged breaths, struck the door with increasing desperation. Each blow produced a muffled creak, swallowed by the walls above, unheard, unnoticed.
The youngest screamed, his voice raw and cracking: "Let us out! We are the rightful heirs! This is a coup! Traitors... you damn traitors!"
But his voice bounced back at him, distorted—mocked—by the very stones, as if the walls themselves scoffed at their fading claim to power.
The guards outside didn't flinch. They had been given strict orders: silence. To close their ears, and bury their consciences beneath the weight of obedience.
Inside the cell, the cracks were beginning to show. Not in the stone—but in their spirits.
The eldest sat on the cold floor, eyes wide, staring into a void only he could see. He didn't scream. He didn't curse. He simply breathed—slowly, deliberately—as though recalculating everything from the beginning, trying to comprehend a betrayal too vast to name.
The middle brother, meanwhile, had begun to doubt everything— The servants who raised him. The palace that sheltered him. The father who died without a single word of explanation.
The air was heavy… suffocating.
And time refused to move.
Above, in the throne hall, the vice-regent stood tall on the royal steps, letting the echo of his voice ripple across stone and silence:
"From this day forth… the bloodline of tyranny ends… and the age of justice begins."
He leaned forward slightly, as though addressing both the nobles in the room—
and those imprisoned below, without naming them:
"I swear to you… never again shall a king be born without accountability,
nor buried without judgment."
At that moment, the silence in the hall grew heavier, and the tension thickened. The leaders began to realize their options were limited—and if this man had endured all this, perhaps there was no one more capable of handling the current crisis.
With each word he uttered, doubt deepened. His voice was fuel feeding the fire of betrayal that devoured the people's trust in the late king's heirs.
Because of this speech, which unveiled a dark past, the rulers and kings made an unexpected decision; They refused to recognize the late king's sons as rightful heirs to the throne. Instead, they unanimously agreed to crown this nobleman as the new emperor of the "Empire of Aspherion."
This decision, born of fear and suspicion, reshaped the balance of power in the world. Under the leadership of the new emperor, the empire regained its stability—but it was no longer the same. It became a new entity, born from betrayal and conflict, and led a vast campaign to reunite the scattered lands.
Yet behind the palace walls, secrets multiplied—as if the betrayal that birthed the empire had turned into a curse that would haunt it forever.
With the death of the Emperor, and over the span of centuries, the once-solid alliances began to slowly unravel. The economy deteriorated, and each part of the empire became a burden on the others. Lands that had once been under imperial control began slipping through the fingers of the rulers again, like sand escaping one's grasp. Corruption, which had long crept in the shadows, began to consume the empire from within—corrupting everything from principles to people.
As the struggle for power intensified among generations of emperors, the competition for the throne turned into a ruthless and merciless war for influence and wealth. The sons and grandsons—who believed their blood alone granted them legitimacy—drowned in disappointment and betrayal. The civil wars that erupted between these rival factions brought ruin to what was left of the once-great empire, turning their rivalries into an unstoppable force of destruction.
In the end, specifically in the year 861 AD, after centuries of unrest and conflict, the empire shattered into fragments. Independent kingdoms began to rule themselves, savoring their newfound freedom after decades of oppressive control. Among these rising nations was a kingdom known as Arcadia.
Arcadia emerged with a strange and enigmatic system that captivated the hearts of observers and bewildered minds across the world. Its structure, unlike any known kingdom, bore exceptional and unexpected characteristics.
The kings of Arcadia were unlike any other rulers; they possessed extraordinary physical abilities and minds sharper than the limits of human intellect. Strangely, succession was not hereditary—instead, it followed a mysterious and unpredictable pattern. Every five years, a new king would suddenly appear, without prior notice or any known coronation ceremony. The only certainty was that the coronation took place behind closed doors, without the public—or even the nobility—bearing witness.
Despite the mystery surrounding the system, it proved to be extraordinarily effective. Each king achieved remarkable feats during his short reign, leaving an unforgettable mark on the kingdom's history. Yet, with every new cycle of rule, questions surrounding the nature of this unconventional system multiplied—turning Arcadia into a subject of fascination and curiosity among the other ruling monarchs.
This phenomenon repeated itself eleven consecutive times. In each instance, a new king would emerge unexpectedly, leading the kingdom with a wisdom that unsettled rivals and kept them in a constant state of anticipation. This situation sparked anxiety and suspicion in the hearts of other rulers and leaders, who could not comprehend the mechanics behind such an impenetrable regime.
As curiosity grew—and the desire to uncover the truth intensified—other kingdoms began planting spies within Arcadia's royal capital, Dreamcrown, the land surrounding the royal palace. Despite being among the world's most skilled operatives, the information these spies could gather was painfully limited. All they observed was that the lords of the noble houses—those of the highest rank and influence—would gather at the royal palace at specific, synchronized times. After these gatherings, they would vanish completely, as if swallowed by the earth itself.
Through collaborative intelligence efforts between several rival kingdoms, a disturbing theory emerged: Arcadia's governance was not in the hands of the king alone, but rather controlled by a secret council made up of those noble lords—ruling the kingdom from behind the curtain, using the king as a mere executive front for their agendas.
But, as with any human system, the secret council was not immune to fractures. After years of strength and cohesion, cracks began to appear within its foundation. Confidential information started leaking to enemies, and Arcadia's strategies began mysteriously failing on the battlefield.
Strong suspicions arose; a traitor had infiltrated the council—especially after the addition of new members—leading to a breakdown in trust.
Conflicts erupted into the open, and the council fractured into factions, each accusing the others of betrayal. This internal division began to weaken the governance of the kingdom more and more.
Map of the Kingdom of Arcadia
The lands of the Kingdom of Arcadia are spread in delicate balance, each region essential to the diverse character of the realm—from towering mountains, fertile plains, and deep valleys, to distant islands.
Northwest – Lands of House Nightover
Nobles of ice and night.
Realm of Frostnov
At the far northwest, where biting winds meet eternal snows, and pale moonlight glimmers over barren frozen fields, rise the walls of Everwinter—a fortress woven from the very fabric of night, draped in frost and guarded by shadows. For centuries, House Nightover has ruled from within these walls. Whispers say their blood is as cold as death, their hearts fearless and merciless, their minds dripping with a silent understanding of life and death alike.
They are unlike other noble houses—not of gold feasts and loud laughter, but of secrets and long silences. Their men and women share a visage unmistakable… silver-white hair like moonlit snow, eyes icy-blue as frozen rivers, skin pale as if never warmed by sunlight. Some claim they were born of winter itself; others say they were never human, but spirits sculpted from eternal frost.
Their distinctiveness isn't just in form, but in their cold philosophy of life. In the halls of Everwinter, no voices rise, no words are spoken carelessly. Every utterance is weighed by the scales of time, every promise carved as meticulously as epitaph inscriptions. In a world rife with blood and deceit, they stand as silent observers—knowing that yelling does not change fate, and strength lies not in force, but in patience, vigilance, and knowing the precise moment to strike on the chessboard.
A sentence as icy as it is profound... For one who lives on fragile ice must know that collapse is inevitable. And when the ice cracks, none survive.
Thus they find their pleasure in silence, in waiting, in the serene knowledge that all things fade—and wisdom does not lie in preventing the fall, but in foreseeing it and preparing for it.
Since the days of their founder, Duke Arcadius Nightover, bold Lord of the North—whose silence breaks storms, and whose blade glistens through the dust of night—they earned renown. Known among the white mountains as "Sword of the North"; wherever his name is spoken "Ender of Night", darkness bows to his presence. A man who kneels only to truth—speaks only in wisdom. His house remained unbent to any king, unbroken by storms, steadfast as the frozen sea… broken only by what surpasses winter itself.
House Nightover is among the oldest noble families in the kingdom, celebrated for its unwavering loyalty to the crown and its mastery of warfare in unforgiving terrain. They rule the far northwest, the duchy of Frostenov, a vast region blanketed in snow most of the year, known for its bitter winters and relentless winds that forge the spirits of its people.
Surrounding the region are the Black Griffin Mountains, a rugged range of icy peaks forming a natural barrier between Nightover lands and the rest of Arcadia. This made invasion exceedingly difficult throughout the ages. Among these mountains lie ancient stone fortresses; some still garrisoned by mountain troops guarding passes, others now silent ruins whispering tales of long-past wars.
Despite Nature's harshness, Frostenov thrives thanks to its rich mines of rare minerals, making it a principal supplier of iron and silver to the realm. And though the climate is brutal, its lower valleys host small settlements reliant on big-game hunting, fur trade, and the harvesting of tough timber from its frozen forests.
In the far north lies the land of Nivaria, covered in perpetual mist that rarely lifts—earning a mystique among Arcadians. Its frozen pine forests stand silent and majestic, their trees ice-wreathed sculptures beneath the gloom. Legends speak of elusive creatures haunting the trees, and ruins lost beneath centuries of snow. Few dare to venture into the mist—for whoever is lost there rarely returns.
The region is ruled with unwavering resolve by Duke Lucas Nightover—a name seldom spoken in councils, but whose mere mention hushes all. He is not merely the king's representative, but the shadow guarding the kingdom—the silence that precedes every storm. Unknown to chroniclers, though he authored their hidden pages. Historians searched manuscripts and genealogies for him—but found no origin. He did not appear in academy records, nor among war graduates or philosophical councils… as if he emerged from nothing and chose to remain shrouded in mystery.
House Nightover—the rare lineage said to be born from cracks in the ice—Lucas is undoubtedly their most refined and lethal incarnation, his gaze alone able to fell foes.
But what elevated him to legend was not his appearance or rank—but a single battle.
The sky hung heavy with the smoke of war as hooves neighed and arrows whistled through the chaos. Amid the fury stood Earl Ron Castro, scion of a noble house, baldly erect, wielding a blood-glinting sword under dawn's fierce light.
Ron was a man etched by war even at rest: cropped hair of dark grains streaked with time, eyes blazing with unyielding resolve. The deep lines on his brow were not from age, but from years of war, loss, and decisions that could not be undone.
Fate did not grant him long—for a poisoned arrow struck his right temple mid-battle. He collapsed with lethal grace, faith flickering from his eyes as his sword tumbled from his grasp, and the ranks staggered with horror at the sight.
He staggered, gasping, venom coursing through him like living fire—but he fought on, each strike a rebellion against death itself. Each move was a scream of will; each step a taut thread between life and oblivion.
Then suddenly…
Dust parted. Earl Othrice Vollmar emerged, astride a black mount like a crouching beast from hell. He vaulted from the saddle like a predator, and before Ron could respond, raised his massive blade. Sunlight struck it with brilliance—light witnessing treachery.
Then… He plunged the blade into Ron's chest.
Time froze. Standards wilted. Ron Castro dropped to his knees, his wide eyes still searching for the victory he had been promised.
In that moment hearts trembled in silent awe… faces whispered questions of fate when their final leader falls.
Then, Duke Lucas Nightover moved. He strode calmly to the front. No one had ever seen him hold a sword before, nor heard of him training in warfields—but he commanded the army as if the battle was scripted in his mind. He fought bravely, skillfully, with cunning not taught—and the army prevailed.
People asked afterward: "How?" How could a man unknown as a warrior become a general in an instant?
When they looked at King Irvin afterward, they saw him looking at Lucas with a faint, knowing smile—not surprise, but certainty.
And then everyone knew… What they witnessed on that battlefield was only a small secret of Lucas Nightover.
Following ancestral tradition, he maintained order and discipline. His house long stood as the kingdom's sword against northern threats, where legends speak of eternal fog hiding unknown secrets at the realm's edge.
Their motto was never mere words—but wisdom passed through generations:
Their Sigil: The emblem merges snowflake and tiger—a union reflecting House Nightover's profound philosophy and icy temperament. It takes the form of an intricate snowflake with interwoven sharp lines shaped into a watchful tiger's face.
The tiger's features seem born from the snowflake's heart—sharp, resolute, radiating cold determination.
Its blue, glowing eyes reflect the mysterious frost that defines Nightover, while the tiger lines flow with precision and harmony, as though carved from solid ice.
The snowflake itself is symmetrical and branching, its lines reminiscent of fissures in ice—reinforcing a sense of seriousness and discipline.
Their Words: "Enjoy your life, as long as the ice has yet to break."
Northwestern Realm – Wintersoul
To the northwest lies the territory of Wintersoul… a land seemingly carved from both ice and fire, where the cruelty of nature intersects with the cruelty of man.
It was ruled by Marquis Newt Nightover, the younger brother of Duke Lucas Nightover, but he was never just a shadow of his sibling … He was a fire of his own, blazing in the heart of frost.
If Marquis Newt Nightover were to stand before you, it would seem as if ice had been sculpted into the form of a man—then molten lava poured over it.
His face… half light, half flame. No—half life, and half omen of death. That crimson line splitting his features wasn't light poured upon flesh, but a sacred wound from an eternal battle between light and darkness.
His short hair was white as snow, yet it blazed at its peak like flame—his head a battlefield where a furious winter clashed with a fiercer one. And his eye… that eye, gazing at you with the color of a cold sea, didn't just see—it judged, condemned, and warned.
His lips curved in a faint smile, not of joy, but something deeper—more unsettling… a blend of mockery, death, and truth.
His cheek was stained with blood—not just the blood of others, but as if his own face had committed the ultimate sin and refused to be cleansed.
His robe, black as a moonless night, was veiled in a dark red glow, as though his wounds burned from within—as if fire lived beneath his skin.
The hand resting on his chin did not speak of contemplation, but of disturbing pleasure, as if he were admiring the world's weakness… and torturing it with a glance.
"Redsnow"—the sword that fell from the heavens like a meteor and refused to return. A fusion of ice and flame, wisdom and madness, ruler and rebel, master and curse.
Unlike the traditions of the Nightover family, known for their ice, silence, and night, Newt ruled with ice, fire, and blood. He was a sword master—unrivaled—wielding his blade as though it were an extension of his soul. He showed no mercy, no hesitation, his mind as cold as the ground he stood upon, and as sharp as the edge of the blade that never left his side. The people called him "Redsnow," a name that spoke of the blood-stained snow left in his wake.
Wintersoul was once a haven for mercenaries, a harbor for sailors, a market for traders, and a cradle for the Nightover branches. A thriving land despite its harshness, filled with silent hills slumbering beneath snow, and valleys cascading toward coastal cliffs, where the waves crashed against ancient forts as if screaming from the memories of war. Some still stood inhabited, while others—like sunken ships along the shore—were nothing but ghosts of the past.
Yet despite its harshness, Wintersoul was a natural fortress. A land not for the weak-hearted, but forged by souls that knew no surrender. It was the iron front of the Nightover bloodline… one of the greatest and most feared realms.
But everything changed in a single night… in a war known as "The Black Sun."
The kingdom burned… The noble houses collapsed like leaves in a storm. A catastrophe unlike any before. Two kingdoms—Evalen and Nightforce—forged an alliance to bring down the Kingdom of Arcadia… and Wintersoul was the first gate on their path.
The enemy's armies marched south, crossing the valley between Wintersoul and the Westwood Forest in the lands of Saveros. From that day, the valley came to be called Snowfall — the Fall of Snow.
It was named so not because snow fell… but because the spirit of Wintersoul fell there.
And from then on… Wintersoul was known only in hushed tones as: "The Lost Realm."
Its ice burned away, its fire silenced… and nothing of it remained but an echo in the wind.
The Western Territory – The Lands of House Hartley
Lords of the fields and liquid gold.
Territory of Saveros
Their domain lies within the territory of Saveros, at the far west, where the terrain begins to soften gradually. Here, Saveros stretches out — the main trade artery of the northwest. Caravans from all across the kingdom converge here, laden with rare goods and resources drawn from the north. The region teems with traveling markets and vast warehouses, encircled by wide lands ruled by House Hartley.
For nearly two centuries, the banners of Hartley have flown over the lands of Raispon and Kallery — where golden wheat bends beneath the autumn breeze, where horses run free across endless meadows, and where the vineyards yield wines that fill the goblets of kings. This was never a house of cold chains of castles or courtly intrigues, but a lineage that ruled through the land itself… through farming, through horses, and through wine poured in the feasts of nobles. They were the backbone of the kingdom's economy; without their harvests, the tables of the nobility would go bare, without their horses the armies would falter, and without their vineyards the aristocrats' revelries would fall silent.
Their men and women bore the warmth of their lands in their very features — hair the color of aged oakwood, and amber eyes shifting between gold and dark honey beneath the changing sunlight. They were not quick to trust, nor quick to act without measure. They knew the world was not run by honor alone, but by foresight and vigilance. The Hartleys were never taken unawares, for they never left a place without leaving an eye behind to watch it… lessons passed down through the generations.
Castle Valhaven was not raised upon a high mountain or a rocky cliff as most of the kingdom's fortresses were, but upon a gentle hill embracing the fertile plains at the heart of Raispon — where wheat dances in the wind and the earth breathes the scent of ripened vines. It was not a fortress of war, but an oasis of wisdom and wealth, a living center for the civilization of the soil and the sweat of farmers.
Built from golden sandstone quarried in Kallery, its walls hold a warm hue that glows beneath the sun, as if carved from the very fields themselves. It is wrapped in orchards and vineyards flowing around it like a green river of life, exuding the scent of fresh earth and fruit — not blood and iron.
At its heart lies an oval courtyard where horse auctions and annual harvest festivals are held. The walls are not high, but reinforced with clever design; low towers ring them, each fitted with round watch platforms that allow guards to see every span of the land around them. For as the Hartley saying goes: "They do not raise their swords — they open their eyes."
Inside, the castle is not lavish like the palaces of kings, but furnished with a practical elegance: polished wood, locally woven rugs, and wide windows opening to the farmland — so that the ruler is always in the company of what he rules.
In the banquet hall, food is served upon tables of ancient oak, with wine from their own vineyards poured into goblets engraved with their crest.
To the east, the vineyards stretch to the banks of the Allicine River — a vital agricultural artery used to irrigate the lands.
To the west, the open pastures where Hartley steeds are bred — famed for their speed and strength. It is said that every army that marches on Hartley horses marches with the heartbeat of the land.
To the south, the bustling town of Raispon — alive with merchants, laborers, and farmers. Its weekly market is one of the most famous in the northwest, selling everything from seeds to aged wine.
To the north, towering granaries like stone pillars hold the kingdom's harvest, operated by ingenious mechanical systems passed down from one Hartley generation to the next.
Though the castle is no fortress of war, its underground levels hold sealed chambers and long vaults — meant for secret councils and for storing records and treasures. The Hartleys keep neither their entire wealth, nor their intentions, out in the open.
Valhaven is not merely a residence — it is the living emblem of a house that chose to rule through the land, not over it, and to wield liquid gold — wine and wheat — as their instrument of power, rather than the sword.
Their words are a mixture of caution and cunning, for the world is full of false smiles, and alliances are not forged on blind trust, but on sharp awareness… on knowing who is watching, and who is being watched. That is why House Hartley has never been easily deceived, never had their lands seized, never entered battle unprepared.
Their weapons were not swords nor schemes, but wealth — the silent power no kingdom can ignore. That is why kings could never dispense with them, nor merchants rival them. They were the hand that fed the realm, the horses that bore its soldiers to war, and the wine that washed away the cares of the mighty.
Since Regis Hartley founded the house two centuries ago, they have walked the same path… never chasing power with the sword, but waiting for it to come to them — as it always does, to those who hold the land that keeps the kingdom alive.
Their Sigil: A broad-winged brown falcon, its edges glinting with a faint violet sheen, standing atop an inverted sword planted into the earth — a symbol of wisdom before battle. The falcon's feathers are adorned with ancient golden runes, as if they carry secrets etched in history.
Its eyes are pure white, without pupils, giving it a legendary and mysterious aspect — as though it sees what others cannot. Behind it, a circular halo split into two halves: one dark, the other bright, symbolizing the balance between firmness and mercy, between past and future.
This emblem embodies a lineage that takes pride in glory and strength, yet knows that survival comes only through wisdom and cunning.
Their words: "Always, Leave an eye behind."
Northeast – Realms of House Windsword and House Rosefield
Lords of the Eternal Winds and Flowers of War
Realm of Nerossia
In the far northeast stretch the endless plains of Nerossia, scoured by relentless winds that have earned it a formidable title: "The Land of Storms." Here, the air roars like a living beast, and the sky moves like a restless canvas that never settles.
Ancient stone watchtowers stand along the jagged mountainsides—built centuries ago to overlook the northern roads, granting whoever ascends them a strategic view of any hostile movement. Their presence is a stark reminder that Nerossia is no place for the faint of heart.
Yet despite its harsh environment, Nerossia is home to some of the most disciplined and noble knights in the realm.
At the heart of this land stands Skyrock Palace, the stronghold of House Windsword—whose loyalty to the royal crown is as fierce as the gales that scour their homeland. Their traditions are steeped in military discipline, and each generation bears the weight of strength, loyalty, and honor.
Their castles, perched atop the high peaks, are fortresses of stone and steel, reinforced with walls thick enough to withstand the harshest sieges. The people of Windsword are warriors by both nature and creed, guarding the northern borders and standing as an unyielding wall before the kingdom's enemies.
The Valhern River, twisting like a silver serpent through the plains, springs from the peaks of the Rimehold Mountains and winds its way south until it pours into Lake Ethlyn. The river is sacred to the people of Nerossia, believed to carry the souls of their ancestors, returned with the snows each winter.
The Black Needle Forest—a dense woodland of dark conifers—lies west of the realm and is among the oldest forests in the kingdom. Old legends speak of lingering spirits and nocturnal creatures that appear only during storms.
The Safray Plains stretch across the heart of Nerossia, often blanketed in soft snow. Despite their calm appearance, they are treacherous, home to sudden blizzards and snow-whirlwinds.
The Rimehold Mountains guard Nerossia's northern flank—towering, immovable, said to deflect even the wind itself, and hiding within their depths rare crystal mines found nowhere else in the realm.
Lake Ethlyn remains half-frozen most of the year, its waters deceptively clear and unnervingly still.
The Town of Esterfell... Southern Gateway to Nerossia.
At Nerossia's southern border, where the winds ease just enough to grant newcomers a breath, lies the town of Esterfell—the first sight for those arriving, and the last farewell for those departing.
Esterfell is not merely a town; it is Nerossia's first reflection. It guards the province's southern gate and serves as the only officially opened checkpoint for travelers entering from the rest of the kingdom.
Its buildings are constructed from grey stone, with steeply pitched roofs of resin-treated timber to resist the snow. Crystal lanterns line the streets, glowing all night with currents of cold energy.
At the town's center lies the Pact Square, where stands the carved statue of the family's first founder—Sycron Windsword… the First Storm of the House.
In an age when the winds heralded invaders, Sycron Windsword stood as the rock upon which storms broke.
The man who carved the mountains as his seat. He abandoned the palaces of kings out of contempt for weakness, and chose the towering peaks upon which to build his first fortress—Skyrock, the stone that dared to touch the clouds.
His eyes were as blue as the blades of ice, capable of repelling the sun with a single glance.
Inventor of the Arts of the Wind, he trained his men to fight within tempests until their enemies' screams were heard before the clash of steel.
He swore that his blood would run as salty as the sea—or not at all.
Nerossia – Edge of the Narrow Creedsban Bridge.
Dawn had not yet drawn its first breath when Earl Sycron Windsword's battalion reached the bridge.
The fog was not a veil, but a crawling creature, slipping in from the sea like a snake that had lost the sound of its hiss, coiling around the stone pillars as though blessing a death yet to be recorded.
Creedsban Bridge was too narrow to bear the weight of new history. It could fit no more than nine men abreast, and offered no retreat for those who crossed it. Beneath it, the sea carved its patient wait; above it, silence prepared itself for regret.
And they were there.
The enemy.
Seventy men stood as if risen from the graves of treachery. They did not move, they did not speak — they only stared. Their faces were without features, as though hatred had melted them away and reshaped them from the rubble of ancient fear.
Sycron did not hasten. He rode his gray steed — a creature impossible to tell if it was flesh or mist.
His eyes, blue with the sharpness of frost unthawed since birth, swept the scene — not as a commander gauging numbers, but as a hunter scenting treachery in the wind.
"Withdraw…"
He spoke, his voice like a sword drawn slowly from its scabbard. "…or you will be buried before your hooves touch the soil of the southern gate."
No reply came.
They were waiting. And at the rear, a Nerossian knight raised the Banner of the Wind — a flag that did not flutter from air, but from resolve.
Suddenly, without signal, the old knight surged forward… not as a man, but as a storm.
Behind him, the two hundred poured forth like the roar of an ocean provoked. The earth trembled, swords ready to sign the first symphony of blood.
But… before steel could meet steel…
The bridge erupted from beneath.
It was not the sound of an explosion, but the sound of betrayal. The very ground turned over — and from under it, they came.
They had been there from the start. The enemy soldiers — not seventy… but hundreds — hiding like worms in rotted wood, waiting for the moment honor forgot to check the shadows.
Rusty chains, claw-like grapples, and curved knives dripping in silence shot upward, as if to slaughter justice from beneath its own feet.
The stabs were not just wounds — they were messages.
And the screams… were not heard. The enemy had learned to kill the voice before the body.
The trap was complete.
The bridge was narrow.
The enemy ahead… behind… and below.
And the sea needed only a single minute to claim whoever fell.
Terror? No. Terror was too small a word for this. Sycron did not waver.
He raised his sword — a twin-bladed weapon unlike the swords of men.
Legend said it was forged at a dawn unrecorded in the scrolls of time.
When he turned it, the light shimmered around him as though pledging allegiance to the weapon, not the man.
"Stand as though your souls themselves are holding this bridge," he roared. "Let not your death convince anyone that a Nerossian ever knew fear."
Then began the infernal minutes. It was no battle — it was a ritual of slaughter.
Man after man fell — as if the air itself had abandoned them. The Nerossian formation, built upon discipline, began to fracture under the pressure — like thin glass beneath a traitor's foot.
And as the bridge narrowed under blood, treachery thickened, and silence became more present than life.
Then they reached him.
Sycron — in the middle. Hell before him, the sea behind, and the ghosts of betrayal beneath.
His men… were dying.
But he did not retreat. He lifted his head — his left eye was gone, stolen by a silent arrow. But the right… that eye was like a window of pure steel, staring at the enemy not to see, but to judge.
Two thrusts pierced his chest. Blood gushed out as if winter itself had decided to burst from within him.
Yet he… did not fall. He did not groan. He did not scream.
Instead, he raised his sword one last time… then stepped back in measured paces, as if weighing the ground with the scales of his soul, until he leaned against the wooden rail of the bridge. There, where the waves crashed below as if calling him, he let his weary body rest in one final dignity…
And let the wind embrace him in a silent farewell… He fell from the bridge's height like a knight slipping from the page of a legend, until the sea swallowed him — as one returns a heart to the chest of the earth.
It was not a fall… but a deliberate release.
To end where he began… in the cold arms of his homeland, beyond the reach of enemy hands eager to defile his body. Death in the depths was his final victory.
Here's the precise and faithful English translation of your passage, preserving its historical and grand narrative tone:
In the war records, that battle was never entered under the name "The Battle of Credspan Bridge." Places are not named until they have swallowed enough events to turn stone into legend.
The survivors called it "The Bridge's Maw," and the name was no metaphor. By dawn, that crossing was no longer merely a bridge—it had become a ravenous entity.
Its cracked arches resembled an open jaw groaning under the weight of footsteps.
The hiss of arrows through the fog was like the exhale of a waking beast.
And when treachery burst from beneath the stones, the rusted chains that rose were nothing but the drool of ancient metal.
Even the sea below… seemed like a throat awaiting its swallow.
"We misjudged," wrote the watchman who had witnessed the battle from the top of the watchtower. "They thought they were crossing a bridge, when in truth they were walking over an alert maw. The collapse in the end was nothing more than its final bite."
As for Sycron himself? Legend says the maw never let him go. Even the sea that devoured his body was but the stomach of that stone-born creature. And so, when the Nerusians pass the bridge today, they do not say "Here Sycron fell," but rather, "Here the Maw swallowed the Prince of Winds."
The name stood as an admission of truth—that some places are not built, but born hungry. And that some defeats are not battles, but meals.
"When the fierce northern gales howl, know that Sycron is still testing the patience of his descendants." So said the old commander, Arden Windsword—Sycron's last personal guard—who did not take part in the battle, and lived to the age of ninety-one.
The Northern Wind Market — Here, Nerossia's special wares are displayed: white wolf pelts, snow-wine, and the bones of icebirds used to craft rare tools.
Skaya... The Fortress that Dances on the Edge of the World.
At the far northeast of Nerossia, where known maps end and mystery begins, lies the town of Skaya — a vigilant sentinel at the edge of the known world. Ruled by the Windsword family with an iron grip, yet beneath its military armor beats a thriving commercial heart.
Skaya is not merely a town, but a living line of defense. Stone watchtowers surround it like the teeth of a sleeping dragon, each manned by sleepless sentries, their eyes fixed on the northeastern horizon — that misty line where earth melts into sky, as though it were the end of the world. The military presence here is not for show, but for a war that waits to begin. Soldiers train day and night, swords sharpened to the beat of war drums.
Yet in the town's center, where war's silence ought to reign, the Skaya market thrives with movement. It is not vast, but it holds a strange allure that draws visitors like moths to a flame.
Tall buildings of northern timber and insulated glass shield from the cold outside, yet grant panoramic views of the frozen northeastern ocean.
Warm cafés and taverns serve "Black Pole Brew" — a blend of rare herbs that grow only under the shadow of the gales.
Curio shops display jewels carved from the bones of mythical beasts said to have vanished centuries ago.
Visitors come to see "the place where danger meets beauty," and it is said merchants pay dearly for the right to sell here, for goods in Skaya gain a mysterious value simply upon arrival.
The residential districts seem suspended between two worlds:
High apartments clinging to cliff faces, where residents can watch the aurora dance over frozen waters.
Homes carved into mountains, heated by geothermal springs while snowstorms howl outside.
Strangely, every window faces the northeast — as if the people cannot resist staring at that far horizon… as though they are waiting for something to come from there.
Why do visitors increase despite the danger? Why does trade flourish in a place fated to be only a military garrison?
No one answers aloud, but the town's elders whisper: "Skaya is not just a place… it is a trap. A beautiful trap."
To challenge the Windswords is to challenge the storm itself.
Their Sigil: A great sword with a gleaming silver blade — long and strong — emanating a quiet light from the heart of the metal. Intricate engravings of raging winds swirl along the blade, flowing from a grand golden hilt adorned with bronze-edged details in delicate patterns, reflecting the sacred lineage it bears.
Around the sword, lines of curving air dance — winds in their most glorious form — gathering and bursting forth as if embodying the spirits of legendary heroes who ruled their ages.
These winds encircle the sword as if touching it, feeding it, even driving it toward a great destiny.
Their Words: "With the wind at our back, and the sword in our hands, we carve our legacy across the sky."
Realm of Ayvin
To the south, beyond Nerossia's cold breath, lies a rare and fertile oasis known as the Ayvin realm—an exception to the harsh climate of the northeastern lands.
Here, nature grants an unexpected reprieve… a blessed stretch of volcanic soil, nourished by pure rivers flowing down from the mountains.
It is a valley alive with abundance, where crops that wither elsewhere flourish in rich profusion. The produce of Ayvin is a noble treasure indeed—yielding medicinal herbs, rare fruits, and black wheat… a precious grain used to make the finest bread in the kingdom.
This land is ruled by House Rosefield, a family renowned for their exceptional skill in cultivation and their wisdom in stewarding their domain. Their careful governance has made them one of the kingdom's foremost suppliers to royal courts and major trade centers, for their fields and orchards feed both the people and the economy alike.
At the heart of Ayvin's lands, where the winds scatter the fragrance of wildflowers, rises Castle Narcissus—standing tall like a dream carved from marble and gold.
It is encircled by the vast Rosefield Forest, whose ancient trees wave their branches to greet visitors like silent sentinels, while silver-threaded rivers weave around the castle like silken ribbons tying the earth to the sky.
Along the road leading to its great gate, golden fields and crimson roses bloom in welcome, as if laying out a living carpet for the arrival of princes.
The castle's walls, built from pink quartz stone, gleam beneath the sunlight as though sculpted from the very mantle of dawn.
At night, its lofty towers bear garlands of starlight.
The Emerald Lake brushes the eastern walls of the castle, its surface mirroring the fortress as if it were a second castle from a realm of fantasy.
In its gardens bloom the narcissus flowers from which the castle takes its name, while the whisper of fountains sings to the past.
Here, where roses never fade and waters never run dry, House Rosefield rules with a wisdom to match the beauty of their land.
To the south, where the ground bends gently, lies Deerhollow Valley.
Clear rivers wind through it like strands of silver, and a green forest breathes with life.
Here, herds of white deer run between the trees like graceful phantoms, listening to the songs of the streams.
The valley—resembling a painting by a master of old—is House Rosefield's favored hunting refuge, where banquets are held beneath the shadows of giant trees, and ancestral legends are retold.
House Rosefield thrives in a realm of peace and prosperity, bringing life and abundance to a land that is harsh by nature. While House Windsword guards the borders with military vigilance, House Rosefield nourishes the kingdom from the depths of the earth. Together, they form a vital part of the realm's foundation—a balance between sword and soil.
Their Sigil: "The Deer Crowned with Roses".
Upon their banners, embroidered with gold thread and crimson silk, it flutters like a visual melody embodying the spirit of Aiven's land.
At the heart of the shield stand two pure white deer, facing each other in solemn harmony, their heads held high with pride and dignity.
Their forehooves are raised in mid-air, as if poised to leap, yet they remain rooted like the ancient trees.
The intertwined antlers are the crest's most striking feature—not mere deer's antlers, but golden branches blooming like roses, curling together in intricate design.
It is said they symbolize the family's wisdom and their unbreakable beauty, soft yet strong.
Between them hang two roses, and at the meeting point of the antlers rests a narcissus flower, crowning the emblem with an unseen diadem.
Their words: "Let it Bloom Forever."
East – Realm of House Vanheim
Heirs of Ash and Blood
Realm of Varlom
House Vanheim sways through the pages of history like a tale of blood and shadow—a family distinguished by its crimson hue, whose echo resounds across the eastern lands.
It is said that its first founder, Duke Dravan Vanheim, was a crimson shadow before which all others grew pale… eyes of iron-gray that foresaw massacres before they began.
A body like a towering wall, crushing foes by sheer presence before ever raising a sword.
The world knew him as The Bloodstorm—a whirlwind of flesh and blood that ground all in its path to ruin…
But to his dying enemies, drowning in a sea of their own torn entrails, he bore another name; The Lord of the Blood-Tide. A name that became a curse engraved upon the tongues of the dead.
His army did not invade—it flooded the land with red death. Even his scarlet hair was seen by his enemies as an omen… for whenever he approached the battlefield, it blazed like a dawn made of blood, foretelling catastrophe.
The king himself measured his steps carefully—for behind those gray eyes lurked a storm that knew nothing but the spilling of blood.
He was a knight unmatched, yet his hunger for power paved his path with the blood of innocents and the souls of vanquished foes.
Dravan believed that strength did not spring from nobility, but from savage battle fought upon the knife-edge between life and death.
Years passed… yet the shadow of the bloodstained duke still stretches its crimson fingers across the brow of the realm.
They did not abandon the founder's ferocity—only refined it into an art. In their marble halls, the names of the fallen are recorded in dark red ink.
"Submit or die" has not changed… but now it is a phrase that ends royal negotiations before they can even begin.
Their wars are now akin to diplomatic rituals—they set out in gilded attire, and return with severed heads dangling from their hands.
Even their scarlet hair has become the world's reminder: "This is the bloodstain that will never dry."
The family is famed for their hair—deep crimson, glowing like embers—and their gray eyes, which reflect the mystery and destruction woven into their history.
Their colors have always been symbols of power and ruin, and when one meets those gray eyes, a question arises; Are these eyes of wisdom… or eyes that have witnessed the spilling of blood across generations?
At the heart of the Duchy of Varlom, history still shapes the present. Its vast lands, clad in fields of grain and legumes, bear the memories of generations who paid for this soil with their blood.
Varlom was—and remains—the economic backbone of the East. Yet protection of these lands is entrusted to battle-hardened knights and heavily armed mercenaries, for here there is no wealth without danger.
As for Mirova, the fertile land encircled by nourishing rivers, it remains under House Vanheim's rule—but loyalty here has grown fragile.
Over time, the family's course has shifted; where once Duke Blatir Vanheim stood behind the king, today he schemes for something far beyond that. It is said he sees the royal throne as a gilded cage, and the royal family as a burden that weighs upon his heart.
In the minds of the people, his name is not Blatir, but a title that has crept from tongue to tongue until it has eclipsed his own—The Crimson Serpent.
He is not known for killing, but for making death seem like a merciful choice. He does not raise his voice, nor does he need to threaten—when he is silent, minds begin to conjure the worst that could happen. He smiles when hearts should tremble, and speaks when all know it is already too late.
No one has ever seen him slither… but all have felt his bite.
And the bite… is always unseen.
Whispers spread that Blatir plans to break from the crown and forge new alliances, threatening the future of the entire kingdom.
Their Sigil: A crimson serpent, in a design that melds elegance with danger. The serpent coils upon itself in a spiral, sculpted in high relief like a statue, seeming to emerge from the very artwork.
It does not form a simple ring, but a burning spiral aflame from within—embodying the essence of House Vanheim: transformation, absolute power, and an unyielding will.
Its golden, glowing eyes stare with unsettling steadiness, and its fangs—like poisoned crystal—gleam with a dim light, symbols of the house's harsh wisdom.
The serpent's tail does not end in the usual fashion, but seems to unravel into ancient sigils, etched as relics of an eternal authority that cannot be erased.
The background is no empty void, but waves pulsing in dark gold, suggesting that it is not merely a creature, but an immortal entity lurking behind the veil of time.
Their words: "When the sky turns crimson… we have arrived."
Within these words lies the heart of House Vanheim—a mirror of their dark and sacred creed.
In their world, there is no place for weakness or hesitation, and no room for regret.
The crimson sky, the color of blood, is their signal of arrival—not only to the land they intend to subjugate, but also to the souls bound in chains of power and fire.
Their philosophy transcends mere visible strength; they live by a single law:
To endure, one must be ready to lose everything.
Every step in their lives is woven with blood, and every decision made not solely for power, but for the preservation of their bloody legacy.
They know that every victory demands sacrifice, and every triumph requires destruction—whether that destruction be of their enemies, or of themselves.
If they fear anything, it is to live without regret, without consequence.
For to them, crimson is not merely the color of the sky—it is the blood-oath that follows them in every moment, in every battle, in every chapter of their blood-soaked history.
The Southern Lands – House Cypher and House Morlan
Masters of cunning warfare and stratagems.
Realm of Emberville
In the southeast, where the snow melts shyly and the fields bloom with the color of fire, the lands of House Cypher stretch out like a carpet of dusty gold. There, in the heart of Emberville, rises Sakura Palace—less a palace, more an eternal monument to blood that never yielded, and to a face upon which the sun never sets.
The southern lands span vast plains and rugged plateaus, where harsh winds sweep over lonely hills, carrying with them the echoes of military drills and the clash of sharpened steel.
Emberville—the stronghold of House Cypher, a family that knows nothing but war and the mastery of strategy. They are not mere nobles, but engineers of warfare, having founded a military academy under the former Marquis, Kyori Cypher, to train the kingdom's elite knights and most skilled warriors.
It is said that every royal soldier carries within their fighting style a trace of Cypher techniques, and that their academy has produced the greatest military leaders in the kingdom's history.
Despite their declared loyalty to the crown, Emberville remains a state within a state, ruled by its own laws, fortified with castles and vast training grounds—always ready for wars that may never come… yet always prepared.
Firestone... the fortress of iron and flame.
In the far north of Emberville's domain, where the ash of mountains meets the fire of the earth, the city of Firestone rises like a drawn sword that will never be sheathed. It is not merely a town, but a citadel of fire and iron, breathing battles, living on trade, and sleeping to the sound of blades being sharpened at every dawn.
It was named Firestone because the first to build its walls was the eldest son of Kyori Cypher—the warrior Nuvil Cypher. He used stones quarried from the heart of the dormant volcano in the Draxul Mountains, stones that still retain their heat to this day. Thus, the city remains warm even under the cruel winter winds from the accursed north.
In Firestone, the sword is only sheathed in the flesh of an enemy—or in the heart of its bearer. The city is a haven for every warrior who seeks immortality, every mercenary chasing personal glory, and every merchant who knows how to turn war into profit.
Here stands Foxmire Castle, the highest-ranking military fortress in the south, serving as the command center for House Cypher's knights in the region. Here, contracts are sealed, high-level military councils convene, and commanders are dispatched to every corner of Emberville.
The Seven Rings of Iron; a vast training ground divided into seven circles, each specializing in a different art of combat—from sword dueling, to archery, to hand-to-hand fighting.
In the heart of Firestone lies the Flame Market, the largest marketplace in Emberville, where merchants from across the kingdom and neighboring lands converge.
From Draxul come black metals and rare jewels. From Varlom arrive silk fabrics and exotic poisons. From Dreenland descend caravans laden with timber and natural healing remedies.
Here, grand deals are struck; weapons inlaid with ancient meteors are sold; tamed wild beasts are traded; and even spies and intelligence are bought and sold.
Eastern Varlom Border: a rugged land bristling with watchtowers and early-warning outposts, for Varlom has long been a restless realm. Here begins the Gateway to the East.
The Grimpath Pass to Dreenland: a long, steep road flanked by carved stone pillars in the shapes of fallen warriors, whose spirits, it is said, whisper through the night.
Despite its military nature, Firestone's heart burns with a constant pulse. Every year, it hosts the Festival of the Seven Flames, where fires are lit in the squares, warriors duel before the crowds, and the tales of Cypher ancestors are told amid poetry and music.
Its people hold to an ancient creed: "Iron is tested by fire, and men are tested by iron."
House Cypher are not merely rulers in Firestone—they are a legend walking on two feet. Every family member owns a training hall bearing their name, and each generation of knights gives rise to a school in their honor.
Firestone is more than a city—it is the will of flame and the heir of iron. Whoever seeks war finds glory here; whoever seeks peace must bear it with the sword.
It is the land that will not break—because it does not know fear. It is the gate of Emberville, its northern shield, and its burning tongue.
And for those who have not heard of it, know this—there are cities built of stone… but Firestone was built of will, fire, and blood.
Foxakura... the blossoming jewel of Emberville.
A town born from a poet's dream, and paved to the rhythm of a noble vision.
In the southern heart of Emberville, between verdant hills and lush valleys, Foxakura rests like a bride draped in white and flowers. A trade town of rare character, unlike any in the north or south, as though crafted by the hand of an artist who had forgotten how to paint ugliness.
Its streets stretch softly and gracefully through the town, paved with pale stony earth carefully brought from the valleys of Nerossia, then crushed and shaped with exquisite care until they resemble marble in smoothness—yet retain their warm, earthen touch. They are laid in perfect order, like rows of timeworn tiles, preserving the coolness of footsteps and lending to the walk an air of calm and refinement. Not flashy, but pristine and meticulous, as if whispering that they were made to suit only those worthy of walking upon them.
And at every corner, every crossroad—arranged in a harmony pleasing to the eye—stand pink sakura trees as guardians of beauty. Their petals fall gently, drifting like soft dances in the air, painting the horizon and giving the town an eternal spring, even in winter.
In the town's center, within the Royal Spring Square, rises a grand fountain etched with the sigil of House Cypher. At its heart stands a statue of Kyori Cypher, the legendary founder, depicted holding a book in one hand and a sword in the other. Legend says Kyori himself sketched the town's design, insisting it be built exactly as he had envisioned it in his dreams.
Though Foxakura is officially a free town under the rule of House Cypher without harsh laws, those who enter quickly realize they are in the presence of another level of elegance and grace. Commoners may visit, but only nobles have made it their home. Golden-balconied houses, fine dining halls, markets where the rarest spices, fabrics, and even jewels—seen only in royal exhibitions—are displayed.
Among its most notable landmarks:
Silk Street – a long road lined on both sides with shops belonging to the finest tailors and craftsmen from the greatest cities of the continent, where the eyes of nobles compete for the latest fashions and the most luxurious fabrics.
Arca Theater – an open-air stage where musical and dramatic performances are held every sunset. It is said that attending an evening there equals listening to ten years' worth of wisdom.
The Ancient Kyori Library – home to rare manuscripts dating back to the founding days of the Empire. Scholars and researchers may only enter with special permission from a member of the Cypher family.
The Flower Alleys – a network of narrow lanes whose walls overflow with flowers and aromatic plants. It is said that walking through them removes sorrows and purifies the soul.
Foxakura is not merely a town… it is an experience that pulses with life. A place not built merely to be inhabited, but to be lived in as if it were a breathing painting. Here, time does not pass… it lingers, granting you the chance to merge with beauty—not as a guest, but as a part of it.
Their Sigil: "The emblem depicts a fox, its head drawn in elegant, curved lines that convey a sense of mystery and intelligence. Its ears are sharp and slender, pointed upwards, and its small, slanted eyes hold a piercing gaze that reflects constant focus and alertness.
Behind it glows a brilliant sun in a golden-orange hue, its rays streaming like an eternal radiance, as though blessing… or warning it.
Its coiled body, leaning forward, appears to be in perpetual motion, while its long, curved tail is formed of interwoven lines symbolizing constant transformation—as if the fox never ceases to change. At the tips of the tail, the lines merge into small circles, representing the complex processes unfolding within this creature's mind.
The emblem's primary color is deep orange, with golden accents on the edges of its ears and tail, adding a touch of elegance. Its eyes shine in a vivid, sparkling green, as if observing everything around it.
Visually simple yet powerful in impact… it embodies intelligence and cunning, suggesting that this fox could solve any mystery without leaving a trace behind."
Their words: "We are prisoners of our destinies."
Realm of Azmoff
In the far south, where the sun rises only with hesitation, lies a land drowned in fog… Azmoff. A place that breathes ash, encircled by dead trees and mountains that seem not to protect, but to watch. And there, at the meeting point of doubt and betrayal, stands a nameless town… people simply call it the Capital. Or, more simply, Azmoff—the same name as the realm itself, as if there were no need to distinguish between the body and the head… for they are one.
A town without a face. Dark, suffocating, unlike anything but itself. Looming above it is Umbra Castle, the silent stronghold of House Morlan, the realm's dynasty carved from mystery and ash. The castle dominates from its height like a glass eye that watches without blinking, while the city below lives on the margins of the law… or perhaps from it.
In Amoff, gambling is not fought, nor is theft forbidden… only managed. Watched. Regulated at times, and left unchecked at others—so long as the share reaches where it must. Here, it is not law that rules, but the balance. And the balance in Azmoff is always tipped toward whoever pays more.
Further south, at the very edge of the fog, the port of Portzon stands like an open mouth toward the sea. It neither smiles nor frowns… it simply waits. It welcomes ships whose origins are never questioned and loads goods never recorded in the kingdom's ledgers. Before the port lies a silent town, as if woven only to grant soldiers and men a place to rest… or to lose themselves.
Half of those who once lived in the realm have left it. Azmoff no longer suits the nobles who grew up under Rivaldo Morlan, the realm's founder, who drew life from the rock and made the skies breathable from poisonous gas. He built the capital first and made it the nucleus of an entire system. He wanted Azmoff to be a kingdom within the kingdom… but illness confined him, and the instructions he left for his sons bore no fruit—instead, they rotted.
Rivaldo's sons—some noble, some greedy. When other kingdoms and families tempted them with secret offers—removing the useless in exchange for establishing bases and influence—they divided. Then betrayed each other. And Azmoff began to bleed. Not from outside… but from within.
Then came Haith Morlan. The young man who had vanished from the realm's sight—some say studying in the western kingdoms… others, searching for himself among the shadows. He was no legitimate heir, and no one expected his return. But he came back—not with a message, but with an army. He entered the capital like a beacon of light… carrying deals, loyal men, and gold.
Earl Marcelov Morlan—the ruler at the time—received him cautiously. Haith presented himself as a support, so he was allowed a presence in the capital and granted the title of Baron upon the recommendation of Arcadia's Third Governor. Within just two months, Haith's forces had seeped into every corner, becoming part of the military and economic fabric.
Then, on a moonless night, the order was given.
The army moved. Swords were placed at throats, gates at joints. Within half an hour, the capital was surrounded, its military routes choked by Haith's secret dealings. Haith stood before Umbra Castle, demanding surrender—not with pleading, but with certainty. Marcelov, realizing the lesson too late, bowed… then was executed. Along with all who stood with him. The old era was crushed by a single sword.
A new flag was raised.
Haith Morlan, the new Earl, stood before the people of the capital. He waved his hand as if heralding a new age, and the weary people thought salvation had come… but the truth?
Haith was not their salvation. He sought neither legacy nor justice. Those who knew him from his time away understood well: "Haith was not a statesman… but a man of whims. And what he did? It was not a long-laid plan… but a whim. A whim… that succeeded."
And whims, when they succeed, become destiny.
Between Azmoff's dark mountains runs a secret network of roads carved into the rock, stretching like a spider's web between the mines and neighboring cities.
The Morlans are not merely merchants, but architects of an economy capable of shaking the kingdom's stability if provoked. Their mines fund the kingdom's wealth, yet no one truly knows where that wealth disappears to.
Rumors speak of underground cities, entered only through hidden tunnels, where everything is bought and sold in a thriving black market.
Despite their outward calm, House Morlan is not to be underestimated; their weapons are not only swords, but contracts, gold, and secret agreements.
Their Sigil: "The emblem depicts a stylized eagle soaring above flames—a symbol of strength, pride, and the power to bring change.
Its wings spread wide, with sharp lines emphasizing independence and dignity. Its head is sharply defined, and its round, luminous eyes, like pearls, reflect foresight and the ability to see far.
At the emblem's heart lies a shield engraved with intricate geometric patterns, representing the old values of House Morlan and resembling the armor of knights who once defended their ancestors.
The shield is encircled by a beam of light radiating from the eagle's core, symbolizing that true strength comes from within… from the family itself."
Their words: "Power is not in what we own, but in what we choose not to reveal."