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Before the child of the moon opened her silver eyes, before her name was known or feared, the world was already stirring.
Beneath the sky, the Land of Vareth splits — each realm nursing ancient grudges, buried magic, and kings more concerned with fire than truth.
This is the world that awaits Elira.
It was not always so divided. Before the rise of the Black Flame, the realms spoke in harmony — if not peace, then at least shared ritual.
The unity shattered when the war claimed the last Moonwitch Queen — Senanya.
Crystal Vale *The Whispering Land*
Hidden under shrouds of mist and time, it's cradles the remnants of old magic.
Trees with bark like silver veins tower over glades.
It is the birthplace of witches, where moonlight lingers longer.
The Moon bound folk and Cradle witches, sworn to the old ways, to the balance of spell and silence, dwell here.
With eyes pale and deep, they know things that words cannot hold.
They live in earthen homes built into the roots of the land.
Some say the Vale breathes.
The Black Flame dares not enter without dread, for the land itself resists them.
Even the Vale cannot remain untouched forever.
Prophecies stir in the root and some among the witches whisper that a child has been born — one who will awaken the threads.
Wysteria peaks *The Ashen Crown*
A land of jagged mountains, Wysteria is the seat of power for the Black Flame Order.
Once ruled by firebearers and sunlords, its cities are now built of black stone and burning metal, crowned with spires that pierce the ashen skies.
Their temples once housed relics of sun and fire magic, but they were razed, the old gods declared heresy. In their place rose the Creed of the Flame, who preach purity through control and fear.
The Flame's hunters—shrouded in obsidianarmor—ride from these cities like shadows on smoke. Their task; to cleanse the land of the Old Blood and all who defy the Flame's will.
They wield blades that can cut spell from soul, and masks that hide their faces from both man and moon.
Here, the Moonwitch is myth and curse. Her name is spoken in fear, blamed for storms, misfortunes, even disease. But myths have roots. And deep beneath the mountains, in tombs sealed with seven locks, some secrets cannot remain buried.
The Drowned Wastes
Beyond the eastern cliffs lies a land half-swallowed by sorrow.
The Drowned Wastes is a mire of ruined kingdoms and poisoned tides. Fog clings to its waters like mourning cloth, and the cries of the drowned echo across its rotting shores.
Its people are hardened by salt and shadow. They build their homes on stilts or float them on broken hulls. Witchcraft is currency here, traded for fish, secrets, or safety. Some say every family hides a spell in their bones.
Here, those who are exiled come to vanish. The desperate, the hunted, the betrayed. And in the stillest parts of the Wastes, ancient shrines weep blood when the moons are full. The sea remembers, and it does not forgive.
The Stormheath
To the north, where the sky roars with endless thunder, lies Stormheath. Its people are forged in battle and bond, their banners marked with horns and storm-runes. Long ago, they stood beside the witches, shield to spell, when the world burned. But the Flame's promises seduced many, and when the old Witch-Queen fell, Stormheath turned away.
Now, they train their young in war from the moment they walk. Yet not all have forgotten. In the highest passes, veiled by perpetual storm, dwell the Horned Sisters—rebel warriors said to be descendants of witches who fled the culling.
They wait, they watch, and when the sign comes, they will return with vengeance in their hearts.
The Gloaming Sea
Southward stretches the Gloaming Sea, vast and unknowable. Its waves are black glass at dusk, its tides whisper in tongues long dead. No map can hold its shape, for the islands shift, and the winds lie.
Legends speak of sea witches who keep the names of the drowned, trading memory for magic. There are ships that never reach shore, and lighthouses whose flames burn blue. It is said the first Moonwitch crossed these waters on a boat of bone and song, chasing the moons' reflection.
Those who seek truth here must sacrifice certainty. For in the sea's embrace, even identity can be unmade.
Kireth Sands
To the west lie the Kireth Sands, a desert of shimmering ruin. Once, it was the cradle of the star-touched towers, built by those who called down moonsong and skyfire. Now, the towers are dust and glass, half-buried beneath winds of black grit.
The Kirethi wanderers remember. They cross the dunes barefoot, leaving no trace, singing to the stars in voices cracked by time. Though they speak not the word "witch," their dreams are filled with silver-eyed children and burning sigils.
It is here, some believe, that the Veil between worlds thins to nothing. Spirits pass like wind over sand, and prophecies are carved into the bones of the earth.
Travelers who return speak of visions—of a girl with silver light in her blood.
In The Hollow
Nestled deep between words, there lies a place not marked by map — a sanctuary of stone and green, where an old woman tends the fire and waits.
Here beneath the gaze of forgotten gods, a child sleeps, will train and dream of things she does not yet understand.
And above all, the sky watches.
Seven moons turn in the heavens—each with a name, a pull, a purpose. Prophets once read their dance and wove spells to match their rhythm. Now those prophets are dust, their temples ruins. But the moons have not forgotten. They stir when the wind shifts, when the Threads tremble.
In forgotten hollows and ruined sanctuaries, the old names are whispered again. Moonwitch.
Bearer of Threads.
Breaker of Flame.
The war did not end. It only slept.
And now, it begins to wake.