In the past, the sun in Innererde was not just a celestial body, but the heartbeat of reality itself. It radiated thick golden light, uniting reason with existence, ensuring that every knight's promise was law, and every sword forged was justice manifested. However, glory is a short fuse.
Now, that light has faded to cold ash. The sky no longer covers; he groaned. Under Dunklerbaum's creeping shadow, the laws of nature began to bend like hot iron being forced to break. Gravity loses its certainty, time no longer flows in the same direction, and space between dimensions begins to leak spewing horrors from the Anord into the crevices of a dying world.
This is the decay of Dàn. Fate is no longer a thread neatly woven by Gudą's will, but a dead knot that entangles the remaining souls. Honor has become an artifact, and courage is just another form of delayed madness. In a land where prayers turn into frozen groans, destiny no longer leads towards salvation, but towards the inevitable peak of darkness.
Everything that has a beginning must swallow its own end. On the Mittelerde frontier, where the dust of history accumulates so thickly that it suffocates the voices of the past, an entity remains trapped in a cruel limbo. His consciousness was fragmented, stored in a fragile container, awaiting the first shock of reality collapsing.
There, amidst ruins that no longer had a name, lay the remains of a knight wrapped in a blanket of oxide and suffocating silence...
The figure was asleep in the rust.