Prologue
In the beginning, before kingdoms bore names and men drew lines upon the earth, there was only the Light and the Shadow. They were not enemies, nor were they whole. They moved together in eternal rhythm, bound by the magic that breathed through the world. From their union was born the Eclipsera, a power neither pure nor corrupt, neither mortal nor divine. It was said to be the heart of creation itself the pulse that gave meaning to dawn and dusk alike. For centuries, it flowed through the veins of humankind, a current of life and wonder. Those blessed by its touch could heal with a breath, command the wind, and shape the stars to their will. The world flourished under its balance until the greed of men learned its name.
In the Age of Sundering, two brothers rose from the same bloodline, each bearing half of the Eclipsera's grace. One sought to preserve its harmony; the other sought to rule it. Their war tore through the heavens, splitting the earth and dimming the sun for forty days. Mountains fell, seas swallowed cities, and the sky wept fire. When the battle ended, the elder brother's heart had turned to ash, and the younger's spirit had shattered into light. The Eclipsera vanished, lost to the deep places of the world.
The surviving kingdoms built upon their ruins Asterfell, born from the last light of the west, and Dravaris, forged from the shadows that survived the fire. In time, they forgot the true cause of the Sundering. They called it myth, a story to quiet children when the winds howled too loud. Yet the earth remembered, and in its silence, something waited
The seers of old left a warning carved in obsidian and bone, known now as the Prophecy of Dawn. It spoke of an age when light would wane, when kings would raise their armies and march beneath a false sun. It told of a child born of both mercy and fire, whose heart would carry the last breath of the Eclipsera. The prophecy promised that she would awaken the lost magic and tip the scales once more—but it did not say which way they would fall.
Some believed she would bring salvation, others that she would summon ruin greater than the Sundering itself. The truth, as all prophecies go, was written in riddles and shadows. The scholars of Asterfell locked the words away, declaring them forbidden, while the war priests of Dravaris sought to unearth the bloodline said to bear the mark. It was said that when the two kingdoms bled upon the same soil, the Eclipsera's pulse would stir again. And from that pulse, dawn would rise not in light, but in flame.
Now, centuries later, as the eastern winds howl and the drums of war echo once more across the valleys, the old words whisper through the dark. The stars tremble in their courses. The rivers run slower, as though the earth itself holds its breath. Somewhere within the realm of Asterfell, a young woman dreams of peace, her heart fragile but unyielding, her blood carrying an echo she cannot yet hear. And far beyond her sight, in the ruins of Dravaris, a man stands beneath a sky without sun, feeling a presence he cannot name.
The Prophecy of Dawn has begun to stir, and with it, the balance that once held the world together begins to tilt. The Light will bleed. The Shadow will rise. And when the two meet once more beneath the same sky, the war at dawn will begin.
