The crypt was built into the side of a mountain, nestled beneath a blackened sky that never quite turned blue. From the jagged ledge just outside, Xerces gazed down at a vast, sprawling land that seemed to stretch forever—an endless mosaic of magic, violence, and ancient power.
This was Elydria, a world fractured by eons of war, sorcery, and ambition.
Far in the east, golden spires pierced the clouds—Aureliath, the Radiant Empire of the high elves, their cities carved from moonstone and sung into being by ancient magic. The elves were proud, aloof, and deadly—guardians of knowledge older than nations.
To the north sprawled the Ironhold Mountains, home to the dwarves. Beneath those peaks, entire cities of stone and steel hummed with forge-fire. The dwarves were builders and warriors both, clutching their ancestral grudges like weapons forged in vengeance.
The southern jungles teemed with life—both wondrous and monstrous. Towering lizardkin tribes, serpent-worshiping naga, and primal orc warbands fought endlessly for dominance over territory soaked in blood. The air there shimmered with heat, magic, and danger.
West of the crypt, beyond the Deadlands and salt-bleached bones of forgotten giants, lay the Kingdoms of Man—fragmented realms of human lords, scattered across a continent in slow collapse. Bandits ruled more than kings, and the peasants huddled in fear, prey to the many horrors that stalked the night.
Elydria was no gentle land.
Above all, it was a world of monsters—not only the mindless beasts that dwelled in dark woods or sulfur pits, but creatures with hunger, cruelty, and intent. Wyrms that coiled around mountain peaks and demanded tribute. Vampire lords ruling over corrupted provinces. Demonkin tribes who rode from scorched rifts in the ground, slaughtering and enslaving anything human or weaker. No mercy was shown. Entire villages vanished overnight, either burned, devoured, or worse.
Some humans fought back, of course. Monster hunters. Warlocks. Mercenary bands with iron wills and gritted teeth. But they were few, and their success bought them only temporary peace.
The weak were meat. The strong were kings. And the monsters often ruled both.
From the edge of the cliff, Xerces could feel it—the pulsing heart of the world, thudding like a drumbeat made of war and sorcery. Magic here wasn't just a tool; it was the language of gods and tyrants. And his bones, stitched together with cursed energy, drank in that power like dry earth thirsting for rain.
He turned back toward the crypt. The dark was comforting now. Familiar.
This world was broken. Ruthless.
But to Xerces, it felt like home.
He was no longer a slave to the mundane, no longer a cog in a dying machine. Here, in Elydria, he could rise. Build. Dominate.
The flames in his sockets flared as the wind howled like the cries of a thousand dead.
Let the world fear its monsters.
He would become their king.