The Black Archive of Arcadia (2)

The Southwestern realm – House Blackmirth

Lords of Shadow and Mirage

Realm of Shadowfell

In the heart of the southwest, where dense forests drown the land in darkness, lies Shadowfell, a hidden realm woven between towering trees and tangled roots that form natural labyrinths nearly impossible to penetrate.

Here, sunlight struggles to break through the interlaced canopy, and the wind whispers between the branches, carrying with it ancient legends of mysterious beings and concealed worlds.

Scattered throughout the forest are mist-laden lakes whose depths hide secrets yet to be uncovered—waters said to be so deep that no one truly knows where they lead.

Their hair is black as midnight, smooth as heavy shadow, and their eyes are silver, like the moon in a dark sky—reflecting a cold gleam that follows all who dare meet their gaze.

These eyes are not mere features, but gateways to truths beyond human grasp, as though they see the future or read the hidden realities others fear to even imagine.

At the heart of the Valley of Black Clouds, where perpetual fog conceals the borders of the known world, Darksoul Palace stands as a silent sentinel of the gloom.

Built from Andrith Blackstone, a rare kind of basalt that glimmers faintly under the rain.

Five twisted towers rise like clenched fingers, glowing at night with pale blue lanterns.

The main gate, carved into the form of an enormous face with its mouth open to enter, is known as the Gate of the Abyss.

The gardens brim with Nightshade flowers that bloom only under moonlight.

The surrounding settlement is Shadow Creek—the only village allowed near Darksoul. Its inhabitants are former palace guards and their families. The houses, built from the local forest timber, are roofed with stone slabs to keep light from piercing through.

Its most famous site is the Market of Forgetting, selling strange relics unearthed from the forest.

In the Forest of Echoes, the colossal trees store sounds and release them years later. Cutting any tree is forbidden, for they are believed to hold the spirits of ancestors.

At its center lies the Lake of Mirrors, which always reflects a sky different from the real one.

The Valley of Darkness is a narrow mountain pass leading to the palace, where the wind moans like human wailing—said to be caused by "hidden tunnels" beneath the ground.

"Darksol is not built upon the earth… it grows from it, like the long shadow of our mistakes." — Darius, the Old Guard.

The Founder of House Blackmirth — the true history behind the royal nightmare

The name Blackmirth is not some ancient lineage sung through the centuries, nor a bloodline whose roots run deep into forgotten ages. It is a family whose history reaches back no further than the founding of the kingdom itself.

The laws of Arcadia's throne were strict and unyielding; No king was permitted to marry or sire children during his five-year reign. He must remain single, untouched by personal bonds.

Yet Arcalis, the unwanted prince, was born—the fruit of the Second King of Arcadia's broken oath and shattered law.

When whispers of the truth reached the noble court, fury erupted, and murmurs of rebellion began to rise. The king faced two choices: sacrifice his son… or lose his crown.

He chose deception. In a public spectacle, he feigned the child's burial—but what he carried in his arms was no human body, but a dead wolf wrapped in a heavy cloak. None dared to question him.

With the aid of a few loyal advisors, the king hid the truth, exiling the child and his mother to the farthest southern lands.

What none foresaw… was that the boy would not wither into obscurity. Instead, he grew in the arms of shadow, gained strength, and carved out his own dominion—later known as Shadowvale.

There, he forged a blood pact with the primal forest tribes, transforming them from savages into his personal guards.

Arcalis did not seek the throne, nor did he wage war upon the crown. He maintained a balance—fragile, dangerous.

Beneath his lands, he dug a secret network of tunnels still in use to this day.

When King Aldric Ursus, The eighth king of Arcadia, attempted to invade Shadowfell three times, he failed each time.

Arcalis was thirty years old then… and in the end, Aldric was forced to send annual tribute to Shadowfell as a token of submission and appeasement.

From youth, Arcalis was known for a dark, sardonic wit—his humor a shield against the harshness of life in Shadowfell.

Yet he always laughed in a strange way, as though laughter itself was an act of defiance against death and despair.

Not every man who earns a blood-soaked title wins it by the number of bodies claimed, but by the manner in which those lives were taken—and by the laughter that followed.

They called him Blackmirth—the Black Jest—not because he was a jester of war, but because he laughed when lives were extinguished. Not out of cruelty… but like one broken so far inside that grief no longer had meaning.

Amid the war against the eighth King of Arcadia, where the struggle raged fiercest along the borders of Shadowfell, deep within the sunless lands, the last three soldiers fell at Arcalis's feet.

The first—a staggering man drowning in his own blood—lifted his gaze in one final plea: "Forgive me…"

But Arcalis, battle-worn into something no longer humanly readable, drove his sword slowly into the soldier's head… without blinking.

What horrified the surviving troops was not the act—they had long since grown accustomed to death— but the laugh that followed the strike… A hollow, ringing laugh that drifted through the air like a curse wandering on the wind. The echo of that laugh became a name they would never utter without lowering their eyes: Blackmirth.

Despite the war, not all of Arcadia was united against him.

Before he became "Blackmirth," Arcalis was a man of immense influence, with sprawling connections among many noble houses of the kingdom.

Some respected him for his military and intellectual stature. Others forged secret alliances with him to protect their interests from the central crown.

And there were those who feared his wrath more than they trusted their own heir to the throne.

For that reason, all of Arcadia did not rally to overthrow him when he rebelled against the king's orders.

The Eighth King was never a figure of consensus, and his authority was eroded,

while Arcalis, in the eyes of many, was the true leader of a justice that spoke little… but acted.

Shadowfell remained a small, independent kingdom apart from Arcadia… until the appointed day came…

On a cold morning, six months after the death of King Arcalis Blackmirth, and three months into the reign of King Irvin Luscarth of Arcadia, Duke Sathiron Blackmirth stood before the gates of Darksoul palace, staring at a letter sealed with the royal crest.

He did not attend the oath ceremony in person.

Instead, he sent the family sword—Moonsteel—to the royal court, along with a brief note: "For your heart and for your kingdom… I offer this."

After years of resistance at his father's side, Sathiron acknowledged King Irvin Luscarth—not under military compulsion, nor from economic pressure.

He explained his choice to no one, not even family.

Rumor held that he saw a prophecy in the young king's eyes during a secret visit—akin to the ones told of their forebears.

It was said a private discussion had taken place between them in the king's chamber only a day before Sathiron recognized his claim to the throne.

The consequences; the family split in two—

Some saw the change as inevitable,

Others as betrayal to the founding principle.

Sathiron's younger brother, Vairis, left the castle forever, declaring: "Blackmirth is dead."

Yet what is certain is that Sathiron—his silver eyes inherited from his ancestors—was the only one who saw what others did not… and chose to carry that secret to his grave.

Shortlife — the Land of Madness and Lethal Void.

At the far southern tip of the province, where maps end and legends begin, lies Shortlife—

a cursed expanse whose name no one dares speak above a whisper.

It is neither desert, nor forest, nor plain—

but an enchanted void, a dead land with no villages, no roads, not even a stone to cast a shadow.

Here, the sun does not rise naturally, but creeps shyly behind heavy gray clouds, as if ashamed to light what lies within.

The wind does not howl… it groans, carrying mad whispers from those who entered… and never returned.

Military outposts—where sentries lose their minds

Along its border stand crumbling stone watchtowers manned by guards who have gone insane. Once, they were fierce soldiers—but Shortlife first stole their dreams, and then their souls. Now they laugh in the dark, scratching the tower walls with bullets engraved with unreadable warnings.

One will suddenly scream: "It's watching us!" while others whisper only two words: "Don't enter."

The mad sentinels claim they sometimes hear voices of those who went inside—voices rising from beneath the ground, repeating the same line: "We didn't know it was alive…"

Why not close Shortlife?

Because it expands. Every year, the border grows by one more meter, and the watchtowers are rebuilt farther out. No one knows what drives it from within… or who drives it.

"Shortlife is not a place… it is a hunger with land." —Final words of the deputy military commander before shooting himself.

The reach of House Blackmirth stretches from their shadowed heartlands to the farthest edges of the kingdom—keepers of secrets known only to the chosen few.

They are not merely rulers of vast lands,

but masters in the dark, playing the game of power from behind the curtain…

and no one dares face them or lay their secrets bare.

Their Sigil: A black wolf seated in meditative stillness, its body long and sleek, fur thick and flowing.

Its silver eyes gleam like twin jewels in the dark—sharp, unblinking, capable of seeing clearly into the depths of night and through every trial.

Its head is lifted, fangs bared in silent power, one ear angled forward as if to catch the faintest whisper.

Around the wolf coil dark gray, mist-like strands, shrouding it in an air of secrecy, as if guarding deep truths.

Encircling it is a thin silver ring that complements its black pelt, while faint gray rings beyond seem to represent the shadows that enfold the family and the secrets they vow to protect.

The circle imparts a sense of closure and contemplation—reflecting the family's reclusive nature, dwelling in shadow and pulling the strings from behind the scenes.

Their Words: "In the shadows lies the truth no one sees."

The Southwest and Southeast – Realms of the "Starkov" and "Sparoff" Houses

The Bloodline of the Shattered Stars

Realm of Astelaria

To the west lies the region of Astelaria, where towering mountains rise from the heart of the earth, encircled by brooding clouds that seem to guard ancient secrets.

These lofty, desolate peaks form a natural fortress shielding the strongholds of House Starkov, a family known for its iron grip over the region.

Their impregnable towers, perched upon the very edges of the mountains, overlook deep valleys, with lofty watchtowers scattered among them granting a sweeping view of the surrounding lands.

These fortresses are not only meant to repel invaders, but also to quell internal uprisings, and they are manned by hardened warriors trained from childhood in the arts of war.

At the far western edge of the land, where the scent of wet earth mingles with the dew of ancient trees, lies Luminar… a land that breathes mist and hides the sun behind curtains of dense forests and rivers that twist like silver serpents.

It does not lie at the heart of the region, but at its fringes, in a secluded place as though time had forgotten it… or deliberately concealed it.

At the heart of this land stands Volstar Palace, not as a human stronghold, but as an ancient being from an age before language itself.

One who sees it for the first time might mistake it for a shard of white meteor fallen from the heavens, yet the cracks running through its stone body sprout golden veins that gleam under the sun, like the arteries of a star still pulsing with life.

Its spired towers, leaning slightly as though bowed in pride rather than in defeat, command the horizon with a gaze that cannot be resisted nor disputed. Its walls, carved as though they were born rather than built, speak with a single voice: "Here, treachery is not born… it is buried."

The banners of House Starkov do not flutter above it in vanity, but as a warning… an oath still repeated across generations. Even the wind passes by slowly, as if paying respect to its majesty, while light itself… enters only with permission, as though commanded to obey.

Volstar Palace is not merely the seat of the family, but a memory carved in stone… a story retold at every threshold, with every echoing step.

Stretching across the southwest, Narvix lies nestled beneath the shadows of towering mountains, silent guardians who have witnessed the grandeur and tragedy of the past. Once, Narvix was a bustling trading town surrounded by lively villages teeming with activity—markets filled with scents and sounds, and caravans passing through laden with goods from the farthest reaches of the kingdom and beyond. The land was fertile, and its people lived in harmony with nature, building a future untouched by anything but the dust of passing days.

But the Great War, the War of the" Black Sun", tore the entire family apart, scattering them like broken stars, and shattered that dream as glass does under the hammer's blow. In those dark days, flames consumed villages and lands, and trade routes turned into paths of ash and corpses. Narvix's soil became a grim canvas of blackness and hellfire, where the winds carried the scent of burning and smoke, and the horizon thickened with the fog of destruction.

Over the years that followed the catastrophe, life struggled to bloom again on the scorched earth. Yet Narvix was no longer as it had been. The vibrant villages and bustling commerce were gone, replaced by vast open plains dedicated to training knights in the celestial art of the sword—the legendary discipline founded by Valdir Starlom, the family's founder and an Arcadian legend.

These plains echo with the cries of ancient battles, their soil bearing the memory of the first swing of the Sword of the Sky. The wind that sweeps through the dry grasses tells tales of unbreakable resolve and knights who know no fear, weaving new legends from ashes in a silence that foretells a coming storm—carried by a blade whose gleam has never dimmed with time.

Today, despite its faded appearance, Narvix remains a spirit renewed—an emblem of endurance and rebirth—a place where knights test their hearts and time measures their mettle between the star of the sky and the blackened earth.

Here, where the wind howls across barren lands, the warriors of Starkov endure harsh training, carving their paths through dry grasses and rugged terrain in preparation for the toughest battles.

These plains serve as the ultimate test of endurance and resilience, making them the perfect ground to hone the combat skills that keep the Starkov family at the forefront of this harsh land.

The Starkov family's history spans over three centuries, founded by their great ancestor Valdir Starlom, who united the scattered western tribes under one banner after a series of bloody wars with neighboring clans.

Valdir, one of his notable descendants, was famed for his exceptional bravery and sharp strategic mind. He established Dragonguard Castle atop one of the Black Mountains, making it his seat of power and a watchpoint from which he ruled his lands with an iron fist.

Since then, the descendants of Terence have ruled these lands with strength and cunning, relying on their proud military heritage and legacy of leadership and warfare.

Their Sigil: The emblem depicts a six-pointed golden star, its edges sharp and radiant, catching the light of the sun and shining with unmatched majesty and unwavering strength.

The star is perfectly symmetrical, each point standing tall like the will of the family it represents. Its golden hue glows with an inner fire, casting a deep, powerful light upon all around it.

At the heart of this blazing star rises a golden sword, its blade forged with precision and strength. It is outlined in fine black lines, emphasizing its intricate details and lending it depth and dignity. Its hilt is adorned with dark gemstones, symbolizing the wisdom and burdens the family carries.

The sword is not merely a weapon… but the very essence of what is known as "The Seventh Star", a symbol of unity and defiance. Its design suggests both shield and beacon, standing steadfast against adversity, its gleaming tip piercing the fabric of time, reflecting the family's heritage, patience, and sacrifices through the ages.

From the star radiate beams of light in all directions, representing the reach and power of Starkov—yet intertwined with dark shadows, hinting at the duality of their strength… they shine always, but at a price not free from blood.

Their Words: "From the Stars to the earth, we know only steadfastness, and we do not bow to death."

Realm of Azmarth

In the heart of the eastern lands, where dry earth meets towering mountains… lies the domain of House Sparoff, once under the great banner of House Starlume.

Before the War of the "Black Sun.", the Sparovff and Starkov families were bound by both blood and oath—united as one kin.

But the war that tore the kingdom apart and claimed thousands of lives left deep scars upon the land and in the hearts of its people, shattering that union.

Many bloodlines perished, yet Sparoff and Starkov endured the storm.

And though time has shifted and their shared history is fractured, the blood of Sparoff remains deeply rooted in their land, holding fast to their ancient ties with the Starkov—reviving the days of glory that once bound them.

It is a land that fights not only with the sword, but with illusion as well. Even the sun here rises from the west three days a week.

The Oases – In every oasis lies a poisoned well whose taste changes according to its victim. Its sweet water conceals the sound of tunneling machines digging beneath the ground.

The Stars... They move counter to the celestial dome, painted upon vast silk curtains suspended between the castle towers.

The Winds... They carry luminous dust that causes tactical hallucinations. Enemies turn their blades upon each other, believing they fight the phantoms of House Sparov.

The Military Barracks… "The Guts of the Firebird"

Beneath the castle sprawls an entire military city, carved into the belly of the desert.

Armories – Swords coated with stardust metal—a substance that gleams in darkness—emit a whistling sound like the wail of foxes when drawn.

The War Hall... Its floor is a living map of shifting sands, reshaping itself according to enemy movements.

The Main Castle: "Phoenix"... A fortress not built… but reborn from ash

The castle sits at the desert's heart like the mummified corpse of a mythical bird, its broken stone wings casting shadows across vast stretches of sand. Its walls are not of ordinary stone, but of rock infused with mercury, glowing at sunset with a hue like frozen blood.

The Towers... They appear as shattered staves, but are in truth platforms for launching fire arrows. Each leans at a different angle, mimicking a false collapse—while within, armory chambers release the Shadow Guard.

The Main Gate... A charred wooden panel that appears fragile, but is forged of Azmarith metal, which melts flesh at the touch. Engraved upon it in blue flame: "He who enters… is eternal."

The Azmarith Knights… "The Mirage Host"

They wear no armor, but robes woven of desert mist that shift in color with their surroundings. Their steeds are eyeless black horses that run across sand as though galloping upon water.

It is said that "Phoenix" is not a building, but a living being that slumbered beneath the sands since an age long past. The Sparov did not build it… it awoke for them.

Once every hundred years, the castle consumes itself in blue flame, only to be reborn—larger and more deceptive than before.

Azmarith does not fight you… it makes you believe you have won.

When you raise your banner above its towers… you find you stand upon a mirror.

Your army reflects beneath you… yet it is not your army. The sky you see is not your sky.

Even your cry of victory… is returned to you by the echo—yet in another's voice.

Perched atop a high mountain, above barren ground lashed by winds from every direction, Phoenix seems to whisper the echoes of past wars—reminding them of the bond that once united them with House Starkov, and urging them to stand firm against the tempests of time.

Their hair is of shining golden-blonde, and their eyes are deep as the calmest oceans of the world, carrying more than mere memories… within their gaze lies the echo of past wars and the promise of battles yet to come. They do not forget the days when they fought beneath one banner.

Even now, amid this restless calm, they carry in their hearts the memory of those glorious days, holding fiercely to a unity they were once part of.

And despite the rift, their loyalty remains true. They still tend to their bond with House Starkov, yearning for the day the past returns—but not before they forge a great power strong enough to allow and preserve that unity.

Their Sigil: A golden six-pointed star, radiating brilliant beams—a symbol of strength and influence.

Its edges are smooth and intertwined, representing the deep interconnection among the family's members. But a powerful arrow pierces the star's heart, slanting through it to form "The Seventh Star."

This arrow represents the deep fracture that tore the family apart in generations past.

Forged from a dark, blackened metal, its sharp lines speak of power and precision.

Its tip seems to touch the very heart of the star at the instant the hearts were broken, while its shaft extends to embody the emptiness left by the separation.

At the lower edges of the star lies a thin silver ribbon, symbolizing renewed hope and the desire to mend old ties. This ribbon reflects the will to rebuild and recover, showing the family's ability to overcome division and return to unity.

Their Words: "Our past begins tomorrow."

Southwestern Realm – House Malacard

The Golden-Winged Sovereigns

Realm of Vulkorth

A little to the southwest of the capital, where the earth embraces the sky with twilight, and the soil breathes death and life together.

If the sky darkens above Vulkorth… know that a Malacardian has bled.

The Realm of Vulkorth cradles the heart of the kingdom, and though it leans slightly toward the southwest, it remains its pulsing artery and one of its political and military pillars. Within it, landscapes clash as if they have been at war since the dawn of time.

The northern reaches are towering mountains, their peaks veiled in snow during winter; in summer, they bear upon their slopes a violet aurora known as The Flame of the Dead.

The central lands of Vulkorth are black plains—fertile soil said to have absorbed the blood of thousands of soldiers through the centuries—unyielding to those who do not belong, but loyal to those born from its ashes.

The southeast is barren and dry, home to warrior tribes who live along the border and fight as though they do not fear loss.

The southwest gradually opens into forests, where damp air and mist linger, and where nocturnal creatures roam unafraid of the light.

Amid this harsh diversity, Vulkorth was born… unlike any other realm, and none of its people resemble the rest of the realm.

Ravenholm is the stronghold, the pulse, and the stone heart of Vulkorth. It lies in the mountainous north, as though watching the world from above—not in fear, but in vigilance.

Towering over it stands Darkfeather Palace, built of smooth black stone that gleams like frozen glass, edged with golden trims that pulse at night as though swallowing the light. No wide gates, no many windows—it is a fortress more than a palace.

From its balconies… the entire town can be seen—its fire, its glory, and its ghosts.

Ravenholm itself transforms by night, when torchlight spills from its stone windows, and lanterns hung along the walls glow like a cluster of fallen stars refusing to leave the earth.

The town is famed for; — Its dueling squares, where soldiers train their children to fight before they learn to write.

— Its markets of swords and armor, where no gold is traded—only iron and taut leather.

The Tributary Tribes — Despite the Malacard dominance, Vulkorth is not bound by a single bloodline. It holds several sub-tribes, each bearing sharp differences in temperament, yet all rally beneath one banner when it is raised.

— The Blacksoul Tribe – Children of the harsh shadow. They dwell in the arid southeast and are the first to meet invading forces. They believe spirits are never buried but inhabit the next body. Known for their black tattoos and eyes that never blink in battle.

— The Morfgold Tribe – Guardians of the sorrowful gold. They live in the northwest, near ancient mines said to be cursed. Renowned for their skill in metalcraft and for forging armor that cannot be pierced without at least three strikes. They speak in a strange tongue understood only by their own, and it is said they smile only at funerals.

In the far south lies Oryxia—not a town in the traditional sense, but a vast valley surrounded by mountains on three sides, with its northern edge stretching until it touches the eastern border of Shadowfell From above, your eyes might deceive you; you might see it as a quiet marketplace, humble dwellings, and scattered dueling arenas hidden among the shadows. But beneath this innocent facade… lies the Crucible. It is a stronghold that only the Ravens may enter.

Oryxia is not a training camp, but a rite of passage that no one is allowed to bypass… it is the Coronation Grounds.

In this valley, every member of House Malacard—without exception—is tested through a series of trials that go far beyond the limits of the body, delving into the depths of the mind, survival skills, tactics, loyalty, and even weakness. Everything is revealed… and everything is measured.

"Featherless"—a title heavier on the spirit than any weapon.

This name is given to those who have yet to prove themselves worthy of being called "Ravens" within House Malacard. It is a harsh reminder to these young fledglings that they are nothing more than bare creatures—without feathers, without protection, without the right to soar with the flock.

A whisper runs among the seasoned: "You are Featherless… so do not lift your eyes, do not speak, and do not dream of flying before you have earned your feathers."

But some hear in that name not an insult… but a challenge. For feathers do not grow until you have learned how to bleed without breaking.

In the traditions of House Malacard, one is not considered a true Raven until they are crowned in Oryxia, having passed trials that know no mercy. Until then, they are known as Featherless—a title not spoken with pride, but as a constant reminder that they have yet to take flight.

The Featherless is a raven's chick—fragile, unqualified, untested by the dark. For that reason, every Featherless is denied the family's secrets, holds no right to issue orders, is never addressed by formal titles, and is treated as a shadow in a palace that does not recognize halves.

No one can claim the title... "Raven", the family's highest honor, until they are formally crowned in Oryxia.

That coronation is not conducted with ceremony or words, but with blood, sweat, breaking… and rising again.

There, deep in the valley, identity is carved… and the true darkness of a person is measured.

A handful realize... Oryxia is not only a center for training, but hides within its depths the Raven's Library—a secret archive where every letter, map, and kingdom secret has been stored for many centuries… accessible only to those who have lost their name and voice, becoming nothing but a shadow.

"The Rebellion of the Five Moons" – The Epic of the Shadow That Devoured the Sun

Seven decades ago, when the sun still rose upon the banners of House Ravalios, and when the great kingdoms still bowed before the golden crown forged by King Kilibra himself, cracks had already begun to appear in the walls—cracks no one wished to see.

The ruler at the time was King Fyodor Ravalios, descendant of Kilibra IX, but from his ancestor's greatness he had inherited only the name. His crown was heavier than his ability, and his eyes saw nothing but the pleasures of the throne. In his neglect, the kingdom was not burning from without, but from within—from the rot that began to spread through the very pillars of the royal court.

Duke Eustrith Malacard was never the sort of man to raise his sword against the crown easily. He was a man of iron, loyalty carved into his bones, his blood mingled with the traditions of the realm. Yet… he was not blind.

He saw what others refused to see.

He saw how the king's four children—those meant to be the shields of the future—had instead become the daggers of ruin.

The two youngest—Prince Calidor and Princess Cassandra—were a single face of pure arrogance. They walked the streets of the capital as if all around them were but invisible slaves. They spoke louder than the law, and gave orders as though the blood in their veins were strands of divine light untouched by justice.

Anyone who spoke against them, opposed them, or even dared to lift their eyes to meet theirs, vanished in the night… their family awaking the next morning to find blood-stained boots on the doorstep.

The other two—Prince Alistar and Prince Valeron—carried a different poison. They were not reckless, but the mind of crime and the spirit of tyranny.

They entered political councils, debated matters of war and peace, decided upon taxes, and laid hands upon the kingdom's ledgers—not to repair them, but to open back doors for themselves and their allies. Any who opposed them were branded traitors, stripped of their titles, and left the kingdom in silence—whether to exile… or to the grave, no one knew.

The kingdom's treaties were no longer drafted in Dreamcrown Palace, but in the back rooms of the realm.

Islands were sold to the highest bidder. Lands were divided as tables are divided at feasts. The kingdom's wealth became numbers in hidden ledgers, bled from the sweat of the poor and poured as wine upon the tables of the new nobility. And the women of noble houses… became pawns in political games, dowries for hollow agreements.

Eustrith was not alone in the shame that burned in his chest.

Some of the kingdom's oldest and most powerful houses seethed in silence. This was no longer merely a dispute over power or political corruption—it was something greater.

It was a violation of the sacred. For King Fyodor, in the worst depths of his decline, not only turned a blind eye… he encouraged the depravity.

He erased entire villages from the maps, burned them, displaced their people, for no reason… save that one of his children desired a morning view of the sea, or a castle overlooking the mountain's flowers.

And yet, even these crimes—bare of all humanity—would not have ignited the rebellion, had it not been for that cursed journey. The journey of King Fyodor, accompanied by Prince Calidor and Princess Cassandra, to the realm of Vulkorth… there, where the end began.

The sky was heavy with clouds on that ill-fated day when King Fyodor Ravalios set foot in Ravenholm, bringing with him two of his children: Prince Calidor and Princess Cassandra. The king was received with all the pomp of formality, rich in courtesies and painted smiles, yet beneath them… sparks leapt from the eyes.

Duke Eustrith Malacard, lord of Vulkorth, stood tall despite the embers burning in his chest, striving to maintain the fragile thread of balance. He looked at the king, who sat as though his very presence were a throne carried upon dignity itself—his eyes half-closed, his face wearing a loathsome noble smirk.

Throughout the visit, the duke tried to calm matters, to suppress all that roared within him—for the sake of protocol, the homeland, and blood he did not wish to see spilled.

Until the knight came.

The knight ran into the grand hall, kneeling, breath ragged, whispering into the king's ear. Fyodor turned slowly toward Duke Eustrith, eyes sharp, and spoke the words like a serpent spitting its venom:

"Did you allow my son to duel your cursed son, Duke Malacard?!"

The duke's heart clenched. He did not know… how could this have happened? He answered with composure, masking the quake within: "Your Majesty… if this happened, it was without my knowledge."

But Fyodor did not answer—he strode from the palace with quick steps, the duke following close behind. And when they reached the courtyard…

Screams.

Prince Calidor was screaming, half his face smeared with blood. A deep gash ran from below his brow to his left eye. On the ground, Princess Cassandra knelt, pressing the wound, her face taut with strain, while servants and guards rushed about in vain.

The king stopped. He looked at his son. Then turned toward Duke Eustrith…

And roared, his voice nearly tearing the palace apart: "Malacard!!! Do you dare insult your king by disfiguring his son's face?!"

The duke froze where he stood. In the grand courtyard, its white stones blazing under the midday sun, the crying boy stood trembling as though his very bones were about to shatter. His hands shook, his lips pressed tight in a final, desperate attempt to hold himself together…

But when his eyes met the king's… everything inside him collapsed at once.

The boy raised a quivering finger toward the young man standing before him… Then cried out, in a strangled voice that pierced the crowd's silence: "H… him!! That wretch attacked me!!"

The echo slammed against the palace walls and reverberated inside the duke's chest before reaching his ears.

Everything stilled at once.

Even the birds above froze in mid-flight.

King Fyodor… did not move. He only looked.

But it was not a human gaze. It was the gaze of a king—a predator who had scented blood.

His eyes burned like embers beneath a crown of gold, and he spoke in a voice that seemed to descend from the depths of hell: "You…"

The young man they pointed to— Rynov Malacard—took one step forward, then stopped. His feet no longer knew the ground. Everything in his body fought him: lungs refusing air, heart pounding as if trying to escape his chest, sweat running from his brow like blood.

He looked at his father, his eyes searching desperately for a refuge that did not exist. "F… father… I… I swear! I swear on everything! He asked me to duel! He started it! I didn't think… I didn't think he was this weak!! It was his fault!! He didn't dodge it!!"

And then… the blow struck him before the hand did. A slap—not from flesh, but from a shattered heart.

It was Duke Eustrith's hand. Faster than the eye could see, heavier than all the rage the kingdom had ever known.

The duke stared into his son's eyes, his voice low but sharp as a blade at the throat: "Why… did you agree to his duel…? WHY!!!?"

Rynov didn't answer. He didn't know himself.

He was breathing fast, searching for a moment in time when what was broken could still be fixed.

And then… the silence broke.

The king's knights surged forward—

like shackles thrown onto a prisoner's wrists.

One seized Rynov's arm, yanking it hard.

The young man cried out: "Father!! Father, no!!"

The duke faltered, stepping half a pace forward— but the knights were ready.

One's hand rested on his sword hilt; another blocked his path with his body. And in an instant, Rynov was being dragged away.

He tried to fight. He kicked, punched, reached for his sword— but it was too far.

Three knights slammed him to the ground,

and a fourth seized the back of his head…

and smashed it into the stone.

Rynov's skull struck the palace floor, a final gasp escaping his lips.

The son of Duke Eustrith knelt between four royal knights, their hands crushing his shoulders as though pressing down the weight of his entire life.

Prince Calidor, blood on his face and lies in his voice, shouted as he was led away: "Kill that damned bastard!! Kill him!!!"

In that moment, the duke came fully to himself. He roared, his voice shaking the very walls: "Your Majesty, Stop this now!!"

But… the king was already standing before him.

Calm. As though he had been waiting for this exact moment. He took one step closer, fixing him with a gaze impossible to read or break.

Then he spoke: "Hold yourself, Eustrith. Your son… will simply pay for what he has done."

Simply.

Was it "simply" when your son was being taken to his death before your eyes?

Was it "simply" when you knew nothing would ever be the same again?

Every sound after that was muffled. The ground grew colder, and even the sun seemed to lower its gaze from the scene.

Duke Eustrith, the man who had fought in five wars and survived three royal conspiracies,

had no sword this time. He bore something heavier— the helplessness of a man watching his son slaughtered before him… unable to stop it.

His heart boiled like a cauldron.

His hand gripped his sword hilt.

Every fiber of him screamed for blood, for vengeance, for slaughter.

But… from the corner of his left eye, he saw it:

His wife, Adalia— standing there, cradling their infant son, tears streaming down her face. Behind her, five Malacardian guards… awaiting an order that would not come.

He looked around.

The royal knights—no fewer than fifty—

ringed the courtyard.

Every corner. Every exit.

This was not justice… It was a trap.

Rynov knelt, blood running from his brow and nose. His head was yanked upward…

and the great knight—Sir Drathmond—

raised a heavy sword in both hands.

He stepped forward… and behind him, the king watched— with eyes that held no grief, no regret, not even pity.

The soldiers before Adalia moved.

So did the duke.

But he could not reach them.

A sword in one hand…

a family in the other.

His eyes swept the faces—

Adalia with the infant, surrounded by hesitant, faltering guards.

His knights, the Malacard men, scattered across the courtyard—half heroes, half slaves in a broken realm.

And the king…

the king unworthy of his crown,

watching with that cold smile like a corpse that had forgotten to die.

If he moved, they would all die.

If he stayed, only his son would.

Rynov lifted his head. He looked at his father. Then whispered: "Father…"

The sword rose.

Light did not even have time to fade.

And it fell.

It split the air, tore the moment apart,

and divided life into Before and After.

The head fell— and it was not just a body that died.

It was the next generation of House Malacard. The dream. The honor. The blood upon which its walls were built,

and the hope hidden away for the days to come.

The sound was like truth spoken for the first time— the sound of separation. The sound of an ending.

The head struck the ground. What remained of his body still knelt, alive for a heartbeat…

before collapsing.

Adalia screamed.

But no sound came out.

It was a cry from a broken heart… a heart in which all meaning of life had been lost.

Duke Eustrith remained leaning… caught between motion and stillness. His body was slightly bent, like a man who stumbled but never finished the fall. Blood fell like rain.

Nothing after that moment was as it had been. His eyes fixed on the bloodstain.

Once, Rynov had run over it with a wooden sword… and now… his blood fell upon it.

The king… breathed slowly. He turned his head, and in a tone that could never be forgotten, said: "Thank you for the hospitality… I enjoyed my time."

Then he turned… and walked away.

Nine days passed since that scene.

Rynov was never buried.

His body was never washed.

Instead, it was left stretched out in a room of cold stone, surrounded by candles that went out one by one… each candle a wish, a dream, a life never lived.

On the ninth night, Duke Eustrith stood before the mirror. There was no light in him.

Only ash.

He drew one breath… and donned his golden armor, the armor that had not been worn since the "Kryvest" War.

He stood at the edge of his castle balcony, where Jey Malacard awaited his word, and roared in a voice that no longer sounded human: "Whoever has not yet died… take up your sword!! Tonight… we wash the shame with their blood!!"

The night was heavy as a funeral shroud, and the wind howled like starving wolves, carrying in its cry the vows of death.

Five banners rose in the darkness, bearing emblems that would never be forgotten… and never forgiven.

The golden falcon that never bows – the banner of House Starlom, led by Duke Aerith Starlom, the blade that never rusts, said to have slain more than five hundred men with his right hand alone.

The ghost who walks among men – the banner of House Nightover, led by Duke Noah Nightover, known as "the Northern Ghost," for none had ever seen his true face… except the dead.

The smiling skull – the banner of House Vanheim, led by Duke Dracoma Vanheim, the man who only laughs when the earth bleeds.

The fox that devours other foxes – the banner of House Cypher, led by Marquis Scarline Cypher, the madman rumored to drink wine mixed with the tears of his enemies.

The unyielding storm – the banner of House Windsword, led by Earl Alexander Windsword, the warrior said to have been born on a battlefield and walked on corpses before he ever walked on earth.

And behind them all… Baron Rothix Hartley, the Western Corsair. So named for his origins in the farthest reaches of the western lands, he roamed and voyaged through realms, islands, and distant territories, amassing a fortune equal to that of an entire kingdom, and founding his own house. Three years ago, he dropped anchor in Arcadia and settled, building his home here. He was the one who funded half the supplies from his black coffers.

No one knew the army's true number, but the earth groaned under their march.

Two hundred thousand? Perhaps less… or perhaps more.

The valleys had turned into open graves, and the wind carried the scent of burnt flesh for miles.

The Battle of the "Black Water"

That night, the river lay cloaked in a silver mantle, stretched beneath a cold moon like the eye of a judge awaiting the verdict. But that stillness shattered with the first corpse drifting in the current, limbs dangling, as though the river itself had begun swallowing testimony of what was to come.

The armies of House Malacard and House Cypher stood on the western bank, facing the royal Arcadian troops, their golden armor gleaming in the moonlight like statues from an ancient temple just freed of dust. This was no clash between two armies… it was the slow amputation of a city's limbs while it still screamed.

On the first morning, the ford boiled like a cauldron, tossed by the screams of men and the crash of steel upon steel, as spears pierced bodies and emerged from backs dripping with living flesh. Every knight who tried to cross sank halfway into the water before being dragged down by an enemy into the riverbed — which was no longer soil, but a carpet of fresh corpses. The river's blue vanished beneath a dark red tide, and the crows circled above like a whirlwind of endless hunger.

By evening, the water had turned violet, as blood mingled with the oil from burning arrows that rained from the sky like showers of fiery malice, hissing as they touched the boiling slick. Red bled into violet, and the river became a poisoned canvas, carrying charred corpses swaying in the slow current.

At dawn on the second day, the moon bent low to see — but found no water. Instead, it beheld a black current, not from the night's darkness, but from the entrails of soldiers torn open by steel, their intestines floating to the surface like pale serpents twisting before dissolving.

On the bank stood Duke Eustrith, his hair soaked in blood and sweat, balanced upon a fresh corpse added to the bridge of flesh his men had built to cross. His boots sank into rotting meat beneath his feet. Steam from his breath left his mouth like a second blade, and his eyes did not turn to his men but to the river, as though reading a message written by the souls that had drowned.

His grip on the sword loosened; he bent slightly, then raised his head sharply, pointing the blade toward the dark current. "Look… even the rivers refuse to carry your shame. And now… drink the blackness you made us swallow, until your last breath chokes on it."

At that, his men roared, and the Malacard ranks surged forward like a bloody tide, while the river devoured the last who dared to stand.

The Battle of the "Burnt Bones"

That morning, the east was a gaping maw of some colossal beast, waiting to swallow all who stepped toward it. The ground was wet with the night's dew, but soon the dew was drowned in blood, until the fields seemed watered with dark wine.

On the horizon, the armies of House Vanheim and House Windsword stretched wide, their ranks forming a black wall of flesh, broken only by banners snapping in the cold wind. Before them stood the royal knights and the King's Guard, forming the heart of the defending army. Above them, a ceiling of gray clouds hung heavy, as if held back until granted leave to collapse.

Earl Alexander — called The Tempest by his men — did not wait for the horns. He drove his horse forward as if the earth receded beneath him, plunging into the battle's heart with a spear thrust that tore through the first rank. But before him stood another tempest — Drakoma. Their meeting was like the collision of two mountains, every movement birthing a vortex of blood and screams.

Before noon, both wings commanded by Alexander's lieutenants had fallen, the ground thick with corpses whose loyalties could no longer be told apart. In the chaos's core, Drakoma moved like a beast from legend, ripping the King's personal guard from their places, shredding bodies with his curved blade as though bone and cartilage were no more than thin shells under his fingers.

The air rang with the whistle of arrows and the clash of steel, but above all was the grinding sound — the grinding of bones beneath the fighters' boots. The earth was no longer soil, but a paste of blood, mud, and bone fragments crushed by charging horses.

By sunset, the sun was sinking behind heavy clouds when Drakoma gave the order to gather the shattered bones and torn remains into a great heap. This was not the clearing of a battlefield — it was a deliberate ritual of vengeance. They set it ablaze, and the flames rose, shifting from orange to blue as human fat caught fire.

Night fell early, but darkness did not claim the plains; the pyres lit everything. The freezing soldiers huddled around them, warming their hands on the heat of their dead enemies. The stench of burning flesh clung to their throats, as if the dead were exhaling the last of their souls into the lungs of the living.

Before dawn, when cries of victory came from the west, Drakoma was walking across the still-warm ash, leaving black footprints on the ground, as though he were crushing the King's face beneath his heavy boots. He knew that no matter how many times the capital washed its walls, it would forever carry that scent in its stones… the stench of Burnt Bones.

The "Breath of Frost" Battle…

The cold that morning did not come from the sky… it seeped through the ranks of the Nightover army, as if their souls carried an eternal winter.

They advanced from the northwest of the royal palace, like a thick fog crawling over the ground, hidden beneath the clanking of armor under a heavy silence. And when they drew near, the silence was but a deceit… for the war horn burst forth, shaking the walls of the capital.

The Nightover army, nicknamed the "Living Frost," moved with deadly harmony, as if they were musicians in an orchestra of death—each sword strike a note, each thrust a rhythm.

At the forefront, their fully armored knights, their frosted helmets reflecting the morning light like flashes of blades, bore black banners embroidered with silver on their shoulders, fluttering as if the wind breathed through them.

Facing this flood, the knights and royal guards lined up, and usually, soldiers from every noble house in the capital would stand behind them… but this time, they did not. The only swords that cut into Nightover's forces were wielded by those sworn to protect their king to death. Their eyes fixed on the enemy, the cold biting their faces, but the blood in their veins boiled, ready for the encounter.

Sir Harold Falkor, commander of the royal guard knights, raised his sword high, shouting: "For Arcadia! For the King!"

At the first clash, the silent truce shattered…

The air filled with the screams of iron in pain.

Swords struck armor, spears pierced flesh, and soon the snow blanketing the battlefield's edges was stained with crimson.

Nightover's soldiers fought with complete coldness, never retreating from a wound, striking with precision as if their bodies were machines that knew no hesitation. Their blows were not random; they targeted armor joints, horses' necks, and tendon at the knees.

On the other side, the Arcadian knights fought as if death was their last concern, defending every inch of ground as though their entire city stood behind them.

Amidst the clamor of swords and neighing horses, Duke Noah Nightover rode his white steed as if it were an extension of his soul. He leapt over burning barricades, waved his sword in fleeting flashes, cutting through ranks like a stormy wind. He moved through the smoke like a ghost, visible only when his foes fell to the ground, as if death itself had taken form upon a horse.

At a pivotal moment, two Nightover knights on massive black steeds broke through Arcadia's lines, wielding enormous battle axes, toppling heads as if they were wheat stalks in an abandoned field. But Sir Loren Harkfield, one of the most skilled duelists, stepped forward steadily, cutting through the crowd until he faced one. The first strike was like lightning, sparks flying between them, then came a decisive blow that ended the Nightover knight's life—but Loren himself fell seconds later beneath Duke Noah Naytfor's hooves.

The ground trembled beneath the hooves, and the sky rained arrows. The corners of the northwest battlefield turned into a whirlpool of chaos, where sounds of death mingled with the breaths of frost, until it became difficult to distinguish the steam rising from the fighters' chests from the clouds of blood soaring in the air.

By midday, the snow had taken on a dark hue, and the cold was as sharp as the edge of a sword… yet no one retreated. It was clear this was not merely a battle… but the Breaths of Frost, where the cold did not only kill the body but devoured the soul.

Amid gusts of wind that froze even the warriors' breaths, Duke Noah Nightover pressed forward with unyielding steadiness. His swords gripped not just iron, but the resolve of ancestors and the will of peoples who refused to surrender. Every strike he delivered was not merely to kill flesh, but to expel fear from the hearts of his comrades and ignite a spark of hope in the darkness of battle.

Nightover's forces moved as one legion, flowing between enemy lines like an unstoppable wave, and when the fighting raged at the city gates, none of the city's guards dared to confront them. The silence before their fall was more profound than any battle cry, eyes scanning for anyone who dared resist, only to have their bones crushed beneath merciless blows.

No door was broken. No home was looted. They simply raised a wall of human ice around the capital's estates.

Duke Noah stood at the first main street, his pale eyes fixed on the king's shadow dancing behind the high windows. He could have stormed the palace if he had wished… but he waited.

When Duke Eustrith Malacard arrived with the rest of the armies, he found the city intact—but paralyzed. Its wealth was piled in the squares like an offering of surrender. Children peered from windows as though watching a storm pass without touching them.

"Why didn't you go in?" Eustrith asked, wiping blood from his chin.

Noah slowly turned his head toward him, like a moon moving in its orbit: "Wealth is not looted… it is inherited. And blood that need not be shed… is the only stain that cannot be washed."

In that moment, Eustrith realized they had been walking a road no different from the king's own. They had not yet won… they had merely become guardians of a new order.

When the five moons breached the royal palace hall…

All they heard… was silence. No war cries. No victory chants. The palace was empty—save for the throne, which was draped with the corpse of King Fyodor.

But he had not died a hero's death. The sword was buried in his heart, and his eyes were open with fear. He had taken his own life.

"Coward!! Even death you stole it from me!!!" roared Eustrith Malacard, standing before the king's body. Then he stepped forward and struck, severing the head in a single blow… raising it high as though it were a war trophy.

But that was not enough. He stepped past the throne to the royal balcony overlooking the town… where thousands were gathered in the square. He hurled the head down.

Silence. Then… some laughed, as if they had witnessed a dark joke. Some wept, but not from grief… from relief. Others knelt, thankful the cursed reign had ended.

Yet all felt one thing… the war was not over.

It had only just begun—only now with a new face. A face that would never be kept in portraits, nor hung upon walls.

In the depths of the palace… underground, where stones whispered their secrets to the rats, and where rot mingled with history, the five leaders gathered with Baron Rothix Hartley… the man no one swore allegiance to, but everyone feared.

There, they did not discuss who should rule… but what must never be allowed to rule again.

A new order was being born from the ashes of treachery—but this time, they would not mistake the enemy.

They all agreed: "We will not repeat the mistakes of our forebears… nor our own. From this day forth… no royal family shall reign. Instead—a rule where the master's name is never known, and he is never toppled by the people too late… because we will topple him in the very moment."

And so, the Hidden Council was founded.

A system never written in books, never chanted in the squares, never taught in the schools of princes.

From that time on… the kingdom was not ruled from the throne alone, but from behind the walls. From a place unseen by eyes… and deaf to the people's voice, listening only to the pulse of danger.

In the end, even the king's sons, Alistar and Valeron, were abandoned by the land of their birth before they abandoned it themselves.

When they heard the first sparks of revolt, they did not wait for its flames to reach the palace walls. They gathered what gold and clothes they could and slipped away into the night—like criminals, not princes.

Today, they are exiles in western lands that know not their names, nor honor their blood. They wander, hiding their identities as one hides shame. Once, they were heirs to a crown encrusted with blood. Now… nothing more than two ghosts in a foreign land.

It was not merely a revolution… it was an eternal eclipse of the sun.

As Baron Darius Hartley was said to have remarked, pouring red wine as though pouring the king's blood: "The moons cannot rise in revolt… until the sun is gone."

The current ruler of the noble House Malacard, Duke Rossipov Malacard, known by the title: "Blade of Dawn," is a man in his fifties, with dark golden hair and deep golden eyes like the sun sinking into twilight. Tall and broad-shouldered, his face carries an eternal expression suspended between sorrow and determination.

He was born with an unquenchable desire—not for rule itself, but to prove that the name Malacard will never be forgotten.

He fought in the "Black Sun" war with his youngest son, a war whose origin and cause remain unknown—only the loser is known.

He lost his wife, his only daughter, and two of his sons. They were not buried in the royal cemetery, but in the soil of Vulkorth, beneath the black tree that never blooms.

While other regions awaited the king's reinforcements... Malacard was digging graves.

And fighting alone. Since that day, Rossipov has not looked upon the capital, Dreamcrown, as he once did. His gaze toward everyone in the court became heavy with a silence heavier than a thousand accusations.

Therefore… the laws of House Malacard were enforced even at the borders of the capital, as if whispering: "We are here, and we do not trust you."

Today, House Malacard stands as the most steadfast noble house after the war.

Militarily: Vulkorth's army is considered the best trained and most loyal to its masters. Politically: they avoid emotional alliances and prefer cold clarity in their relations. Popularly: the people in the region love them—not because they are kind, but because they are strong and never abandon them.

"Why was the raven left to bleed in its cage?"

King Irvin Luscarth was not the kind of man to hesitate when settling disputes. But in the face of the name Rossibov Malacard, silence was a calculated choice—not a sign of weakness.

In the early days of his reign, the kingdom was like a leaky ship, swaying in a storm of blood, its loyalties like loose planks that any wave could tear away. The coup against the late King Adrion had not been a pure victory, but an open wound, dripping blood between fragile alliances of the great houses—each watching the other, every oath of loyalty hiding either fear, ambition, or both.

Irvin Luscarth knew that confronting House Malacard before securing his grip on the rest of the nobility would be political suicide. So he poured his efforts into locking down loyalty, house by house, until the field was emptied of potential rivals.

A year later, when one of the most formidable noble houses dared to refuse recognition of his reign—its lord mocking his youth, scorning the monarchy itself, even reaching out to hostile foreign kingdoms for borrowed weapons and soldiers—fate closed every door to mercy. When word reached Irvin, he did not hesitate. He led his battalions in a sudden assault, leaving nothing of the family but the ruins of their keep and land drenched in a sea of blood. The sight was a message to every house in the realm: "Kneel… or drown."

His deputy, Duke Lucas, had once told him in a late-night council: "Irvin… Moving an army against Malacard now would be like tossing a torch into a powder magazine. Rossibov hasn't raised a sword yet… but he knows exactly where to strike."

Indeed, Rossibov's rebellion was of a different kind—one without battles or sieges, yet as poisonous as a drop of ink in a cup of water.

He refused to attend the crown's councils, leaving his wooden chair empty—a silent reminder to all that obedience was not mandatory.

He paid his tribute in silver coins instead of gold, a small, repeated slap that could not be called treason, but carried an insult greater than a dagger's thrust.

Irvin knew that any move against Malacard would turn the widowed duke into a ballad sung in the taverns of the capital: "The man who was killed because his heart would not kneel."

And then there was Rossibov's personal cunning… He would speak openly, coldly, looking into the eyes of the king's messengers and saying: "I'll wait for your move and repay you for what was done to us… But if you so much as draw a sword toward Vulkorth, you'll find your knights' corpses hanging on our walls for the ravens to feed on."

Such threats were backed by hidden alliances with border kingdoms—alliances that could never be proven officially, but were enough to make any sane commander choose patience over confrontation.

And so, Irvin left him in isolation for five years, feeding on his grief. But what no one knew… was that he was waiting for a misstep.

Irvin watched him as a hunter watches a wounded wolf; never closing in until he saw it stumble, never striking until certain the bleeding had dulled its claws.

But Rossibov's misstep was no mere stumble—it was an explosion. And Draxul was the spark.

When it was torn from his grasp, Rossibov had nothing left but fire—and the king, who had waited half a decade to settle the matter, suddenly found himself facing a war he had not chosen the timing for… but which had arrived at the very moment he thought he was the one deciding it.

Vulkorth – Darkfeather Palace… "The Morning of Plunder"

Morning rose over Vulkorth like a corpse without warmth.

Mist wound itself around the stone towers like damp shrouds, and the mountain winds blew with a whistle that sounded like the moans of spirits who had never found rest.

Duke Rossibov Malacard stood on the balcony of the palace, his hands resting on the cold stone railing. His golden eyes were like embers fading beneath a layer of ash, gazing out over the long plain below the fortress.

There, in Draxul, Baron Kymri's soldiers were tearing down the "Golden Raven" banners that had flown over those lands for three generations. One by one, the standards fell to the dirt, replaced by silver flags bearing wolves with bared fangs—as if declaring the beginning of a winter without end.

Kiray Malacard stood beside his father on the high balcony, the wind whipping his long coat until he looked like a sharp shadow clinging to the wall of the sky. His fingers clenched the hilt of his sword so tightly the knuckles whitened. His gray eyes were fixed on the distant plain where their banners were being uprooted one after another.

He spoke in a deep voice, heavy with the coldness that tried to mask the fire beneath: "Why are they taking our land, Father?"

It was no innocent question, no naïve inquiry… but a challenge. In his words lay a veiled accusation, as if to say... Why do you allow it?

Rossibov did not turn toward him, as though meeting his son's eyes might open a door he did not wish to cross. He kept watching the horizon, his golden eyes filled with a silence heavier than a scream. He knew that any answer would be either a lie—or a betrayal of the voice of blood that had pounded in his chest for five years.

At last, he said in a low voice, sharp as a blade: "Draxul is not merely land… It is the last remnant of meaning we possess."

Kiray did not move, but his grip on the sword tightened until it seemed his bones might break. Inside him, rage wrestled with despair, and the son who had grown up amid ruins and tragedies saw in his father only the remnants of a man standing at the edge of an abyss. Rossibov felt the weight of Kiray's gaze, as if it were a mirror showing him the wound that had never healed—the wound he had passed on to his son.

Between them, the wind carried the scent of gunpowder and snow, whispering; Either you break… or you explode.

Images flashed in Rossibov's mind like stabs; The day his eldest son, Arthur, carried him on his shoulders at his tenth birthday, shouting among the mountains: "Look, Father! The mountains smile at us with gold!"

The day his middle son, James, fell from his horse in the Battle of the Red Twilight, writing with his blood upon a stone: "Forgive us our weakness."

All of it… now dust beneath the boots of foreign soldiers.

"Ghosts in his eyes"…

When the first Malacard banner fell, Rossibov did not see wood and silk—he saw faces.

Aethelfeld, his wife, lying on the steps inside the keep, her arms wrapped around their little daughter Lyra, shielding her even after her heart had stopped. She was like an empty shell cradling her shattered pearl.

King Irvin handing him the documents that revealed the late King Adrion's conspiracy with the kingdom's enemies… and the wall of silence in his eyes, black and impenetrable.

The scream of James in his nightmares, lost in the darkness of memory:

"Why did you abandon us?"

Rossibov gripped the edge of the balcony until the veins in his hands showed, and whispered as if speaking to the king's ghost:

"Five years I've waited for you to avenge us… and now you steal our remains!"

"Soldiers from the realm of the dead"…

In the armory hall, his sons' swords hung on the wall like rusted crosses. The wall itself looked like a funerary monument bearing names no one would ever read.

Before him stood men no one had dared to gather in the same place: Karja, commander of the Black Desert Knights, long an enemy of the kingdom—especially House Sparoff. He had brought soldiers whose pale faces seemed as though the wind had eaten their features away.

Four leaders and their battalions from the Kingdom of "Uthena"

Diablon, the mad earl, his eyes glinting with an unquenchable hunger for blood.

Nithor, son of Duke Yorgoth Rakalion, a man who walked with vengeance in every step.

Mercenaries and their leaders are carefully deployed around the kingdom.

Sir Fedrik, the knight who had defected from the king's own guard.

Rossibov pointed to the swords on the wall, and spoke with a voice steeped in the venom of years: "Those swords are no longer enough for me… They made me a beast—let them now see the wolf grown from my sons' corpses!"

"The speech of blood"…

In the great square of Darkfeather Palace, the people had gathered. Their faces were cracked from hunger and cold, their shoulders bent from years of war.

On a platform of black stone, Rossibov held aloft the document granting Draxul to Baron Kymri, then cast it into the fire. The flames devoured the parchment slowly, as if devouring the body of the kingdom itself.

He roared, his voice shaking the earth: "They did not only steal our gold… They stole our right to grieve! They offered us pardon for the blood of our sons, as if it were a debt to be forgiven! But the dried blood beneath Draxul's soil cries out today…

If the crown makes theft lawful, then rebellion is justice!

And if my silence is treason, then this war is my last loyalty to those buried without shrouds!"

There was silence at first—then from among the crowd came a single word: "Malakard!"

It swelled into a collective shout, then into a roar that made the mountains tremble: "Vengeance!!! Vengeance!!! Vengeance!!!"

The Black Council in the royal palace…

In a closed hall with walls of ebony carved with the faces of kings who had all died by treachery, King Irvin Luscarth sat, wiping the blade of his sword with a piece of silk, watching the reflection of his own eyes in the steel… wishing he could wield it as he once had.

At his feet lay the spy reports on the Malakard uprising.

Atres Starkov, his war advisor, said: "We must crush them before they gather more men. We don't want a civil war."

Irvin set the silk back on the table and replied with a coldness like ice: "Rossibov did not rise for the throne… but for a grave to lie in with his family.

He has finally given me the reason… and I will give him his grave.

And we shall call it: the Field of Vulkorath."

"Wars do not begin with swords… but with a silence that ferments into poison, and with an injustice that waits until the victims forget they were ever human." — From the War of the Last Kneel, memoirs of Duke Rossibov Malacard

Vulkorth is not merely a region… it is a story. A story of loss, loyalty, and silence louder than any voice.

And House Malacard are the witnesses of that story… and the bearers of its sword.

"When the last moon falls on Vulkorth… the Darkfeather Palace will remain lit… as long as there is one who remembers the name Malacard."

Dreamcrown – Royal Palace Balcony Overlooking the Training Yard, Daytime.

The sun stood high in the sky, casting its golden rays to flood the capital with a sharp brilliance. Below, the training yard knew no rest; rows of soldiers moved in disciplined formation, their swords flashing with the sun's glare each time they clashed, releasing a metallic ring that mingled with the sweltering heat and the scent of dust rising from the ground.

On the stone balcony, Lucas Nightover stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes following the soldiers' movements without truly seeing them. He was staring at something farther… deeper… perhaps at the shadow of war drawing near like a flood.

Quiet footsteps approached from behind. Julian Hartley appeared, holding two cups of dark wine, its faint steam rising as if the drink itself were breathing.

Julian, in a low voice, extending one cup: "The soldiers are ready… but you don't seem to be."

He offered the cup. Lucas took it, but his fingers never lifted it to his lips. His gaze remained fixed downward.

A heavy silence—broken only by the clash of steel.

Lucas, in a quiet, grim tone: "Do you know why they carry those swords?… Because we never gave Rossibov a single reason to carry his against us."

Julian glanced at him, his brows lifting in restrained surprise. He drew a deep breath before replying.

Julian: "The man's a traitor… He stole a crown land—"

Lucas, cutting him off, his words sharp with bitterness: "Crown land?… No. We stole his right to be a father first!

Remember the day we exposed Adrion's conspiracy?… You told me: Now Malacard will have his justice. But Irvin… stayed silent."

They both fell quiet for several seconds, the only sound the wind teasing the palace banners.

Julian, struggling to keep steady: "Silence isn't a crime."

Lucas, his voice low but tightening: "It's the wound that bleeds anger!… I know that well.

I too… lost people I loved."

He reached forward, gripping the iron railing until his knuckles whitened. Raising his head, he spoke as though the past stood right before him.

Lucas: "But I didn't seek revenge… and neither did Rossibov seek the throne. All he wanted… was a grave for his wife and children, buried with dignity… in Draxul, according to his family's traditions.

And we… we turned that grave into a battlefield."

Silence again—this time heavier. Julian looked away from Lucas's face, staring into the dark horizon.

Julian: "And what do you expect us to do?… Bow to him? Apologize? Regret won't help us now; the war has begun."

A faint laugh escaped Lucas's throat—without joy. He wore a tired smile, his eyes glinting with the shadow of years, before speaking with a sad, mocking edge:

Lucas: "Do you know what he told me a week ago?…

Lucas, when my children stood before the invading army, they did not kneel. I was proud of them, even through my grief… I honored their memory, kept their faces in my heart.

But I… did not kneel to Irvin… and he made that a crime."

He paused for a moment, then lifted his gaze toward the training yard.

Lucas: "Now… the war isn't against Malacard… it's against the shame we planted in the heart of every father in Arcadia."

Julian lowered his head, exhaling slowly, staring into his cup. He whispered, barely audible.

Julian: "So... we're the villains?"*

Lucas, looking at him with weary eyes: "No... we're the ignorant ones.

We thought land was held by swords... But Rossibov taught us that land is held by dignity.

And we robbed him of it twice— Once with the death of his family... And again by stealing the very soil they were buried in."

He raised his cup, studied it for a moment, then hurled it from the balcony.

The glass shattered against the yard's stone as if it were his own heart breaking.

Lucas: "The war was never necessary… It was a necessity we made with our own hands.

And now… we'll pay for it with the blood of another generation."

The balcony fell silent… and the sounds of steel below kept echoing, like the ticking of a countdown clock toward bloodshed.

"The greatest wars are not fought in the fields… but in the silence before them,

when men decide their blood is cheaper than their dignity." — From Lucas's Nightover quotes, After the War of the Last Kneel.

Their emblem: a massive black raven, wings outstretched, hovering over a cracked golden sun… and in its talons, twisted blades stained with the glow of dusk.

The background: its upper half is as dark as the deep night, and its lower half a cracked dark gold, like a land exhausted by glory.

The eyes of the raven glow with a dark red hue, as if seeing both past and death at once.

From the raven's beak drips a thread of blood, silently.

Surrounding the emblem is a frame shaped like an iron wreath engraved with ancient symbols representing martial traditions and family secrets.

This emblem is raised on their banners at Dark Feather Palace, on the black shields bordered with gold, and on the official seals of House Malakard.

Their words: "From blood… dawn is born."

The Southeastern Quarter of the Kingdom's Heart — House Castro

Lords of Emerald Craft, Heirs of the Honored Sword

Realm of Dreenland

They are not merely a point on the map of the great kingdom, but a second heartbeat. Beating just beneath the heart itself, veering a fraction toward where the sun rises. This is Dreenland, that spot which, if you stood at the center of the royal world and stretched your arm southward, you would touch with your fingers its far right edges—where the border of greenery meets the border of glory.

Here, where the river flows like a silver thread between hills resembling the backs of charging knights, the land hides beneath its emerald grass the blood of ancestors and the sweat of craftsmen. Even the air carries a strange contradiction: the scent of ancient olives mingling with the clash of swords hanging in the halls of Cloudhorn Castle under the rule of the Castro family.

The kingdom turns around its heart, but Dreenland does not turn… it grows. It grows history like an oak tree whose roots intertwine with the rocks of legend. When you walk its paths, you feel as if you tread upon open books; every stone here a piece of armor, every house a page of an epic.

Do you see that golden spot where the sunset light falls? There… in the southeastern corner of the central castle… tomorrow is born from the womb of yesterday.

Where the land is painted in shades of green, and the soil whispers secrets of ancient roots, lie the lands of the Castro family.

The Castle of Hornholm sits atop a sloping plateau like a sleeping unicorn, its ivory walls tinted by weather's hues—gray at rain, golden at dawn. Its main tower is rounded like a horn, crowned with a blue glass peak where moonlight reflects to ignite the "Golden Sword's Glow" hanging in the upper hall.

A castle unlike any other… even the clouds pass around it as if fearing to scratch it. On clear nights, its tower becomes a giant candle, its golden and blue light piercing the mist like an ancient promise: that this land is guarded by a sword that never sleeps.

Here, the terrain is rugged and harsh, dotted with deep caves through shaded valleys. Villages hide amid dense vegetation and high cliffs, built atop complex rock formations, their paths known only to those who have learned their secrets.

The cliffs conceal entrances and exits, making the land a natural fortress beyond the reach of prying eyes.

This land is attributed to the noble knight and founder of the Castros… Dreen, who planted its first seed after the rebellion of the Five Moons decades ago. It is known for its emerald forests, ancient castles, and handcrafted industries whose secrets remain preserved in its stone workshops.

The Castro family is renowned for their perfect mastery of earth and craft.

It is said that the greatest and most cunning artisans hide in those distant villages, crafting masterpieces unmatched elsewhere, with hands guided as if by the very spirit of the land itself.

Every piece they make is not just an object but a living part of the earth's soul, infused with strength and wisdom. Their craft is not merely a profession but a spiritual quest that binds nature's essence to the touch of man. Their hair is a vibrant green like wild plants, their eyes blue like the clear sky after a storm—piercing, holding the depth of untold earth secrets.

They are not merely craftsmen, but guardians of ancient wisdom, bound to the land by a bond deeper than understanding.

The Castro family rules their lands not by military force, but by artistic skill, natural knowledge, and the power to create what others cannot even imagine. Their influence stretches beyond their green borders, and their creations are in high demand throughout the kingdom.

Not only that… despite being expert craftsmen in the secrets and nature of the land, they are also masters of the sword arts. Seasoned and honorable knights, undefeated in battle.

The Castro family; a noble house producing the kingdom's most efficient and loyal guards and knights. Its members are known for iron discipline and unwavering loyalty, generation after generation. Their mountain castle, managed by their ancestors, is a school that graduates guards who never retreat, and their swords bear witness before their names do.

Thier Sigil: The emblem depicts a magnificent sword, its blade glowing with an ethereal golden radiance symbolizing strength and nobility alike.

Its edges graduate in color from light green at the hilt—symbolizing life—to deep blue at the tip—symbolizing the secrets of the future and the limitless sky.

This gradient represents a delicate balance between growth and destruction, between the potentials of life and the power of fire that creates and destroys.

The sword appears forged from the elements of the earth itself, engraved with natural motifs reflecting the family's deeply rooted heritage. When moved, it emits a sense of calm power, as if the winds themselves bow in reverence to its bearer.

Above the blade, a golden crown studded with emeralds embodies the noble lineage of the family and its long history of leadership. The winds swirling around the sword dance gracefully, signifying their command over both nature and fate.

The entire crest represents wisdom in strength, the union of past and future, the balance of fire and life, and embodies the eternal journey of the Castro family.

Their Words: "We are the blood of the earth, the fire of battle, and the heirs of the eternal legacy."

The Center – Heart of the Kingdom

In the heart of Arcadia lies Novaca, the kingdom's radiant jewel and home to its most exclusive markets, reserved solely for the nobility.

Here, the rarest goods and most precious artifacts, imported from every corner of the realm, are put on display.

Everything luxurious and uncommon can be found—exotic flowers, precious metals, the finest fabrics, and jewelry crafted with the most delicate artistry.

The markets reflect the land's grandeur, with glass façades and carved marble columns, insulated from the noise of the outside world, embodying an elegance beyond compare.

Encircling these grounds is the royal town of Dreamcrown, the true heartbeat of the kingdom, crowned by the great royal palace, built atop a towering hill that overlooks the entire city.

From there, the rulers can watch over the realm, as castles and lofty towers stand like sentinels guarding the ancient city.

The palace itself is a symbol of authority and dominion, its massive windows opening onto vast courtyards, lush gardens, and watchtowers that offer an unbroken, sweeping view.

On the western outskirts lies the town of Arkith, facing the caravan passage leading to Dreamcrown. Built upon rugged hills where barren stone meets a clouded horizon, it remains shrouded in obscurity.

Little is written about it—barely a mention in the old records, as though its existence were a burden unworthy of documentation.

Its people live more in shadows than in light, each carrying within them a long, unspoken silence that weighs the air with cold and sorrow.

Its walls are crumbling, its alleys so narrow they seem to choke, and time here holds no meaning.

It is nothing more than a forgotten dot on the maps—unremarkable, untouched by the hand of curiosity.

This intricate geographical tapestry masterfully embodies Arcadia's wealth and influence, where political and economic interests intertwine relentlessly among noble houses.

The struggle for control over the markets and political sway never ceases, as families shift between alliances and betrayal in a constant pursuit of dominance over the kingdom's heart.