The moon died screaming.
It was not a sudden death, but a slow, agonized unraveling, visible to all and understood by none until it was far too late. For centuries, it had watched over Elaria, its pale glow binding the ley-lines and anchoring the fragile balance between the worlds. It was more than stone and dust, it was the spine of the realm's magic, the eye of the gods, the vault that kept the old things sleeping beneath.
And then it broke.
Some claim the fault lay with the Arcanum, with their blind pursuit of forbidden truths buried in the catacombs beneath the Citadel. Others whisper it was the fault of the Highborn, whose lust for immortality led them to make promises to powers that should have remained unspoken. A few still say it was fate.. that the world had simply reached its end, as all things do.
But the truth, as always, is bloodier than legend.
The sundering began with a whisper, an ancient name, spoken in a language not heard since the first fire fell from the stars. The name was carved into the walls of reality by a man who should never have existed, a man born of prophecy and plague, heir to a forgotten throne that had no right to rise again. He did not conquer with armies. He conquered with ruin.
When the moon split, it screamed through every mage still bound to the ley. Minds burned. Wards shattered. The laws of nature bent like reeds in a hurricane. Gravity twisted. Time convulsed. Whole cities vanished beneath skies that bled starlight and ash.
The gods fell silent.
Magic turned feral, once a gentle tide, it became a storm, raw and cruel, tearing the world like flesh. The old wards, the Weeping Circle, the Rootbound Sigils, even the Citadel's Heartstone.. all failed. Their guardians died cursing their own names.
Elaria, the jewel of the continent, endured, barely. Its spires, once luminous with protective glyphs, now cracked and dim. Refugees flooded in from the borderlands, bringing rumors of the Nightborn, shadows that walked like men, feeding on memory and song. And behind them, always behind them, the one known only as The Hollow King, clad in moon-forged steel, his voice like the wind over a grave.
By the time the council acted, it was too late. The World Sigil had been broken from within, shattered by hands trusted too long. The city fell in a night.
And yet, not all hope perished.
Atop the cliffs of Eldreach, where the wind never sleeps and the bones of titans lie buried beneath moss and stone, a lone figure stood, armor scorched, eyes rimmed with firelight and grief. They were not a hero. Not anymore. Perhaps never.
They had failed to stop the Fall.
But failure is not death. Not yet.
Elaria had fallen. The gods were dead or sleeping. The Hollow King walked the land. And the remnants of a broken world gathered like coals in a dying hearth, still warm enough to burn.
Vengeance, like magic, needed only a spark.