Nothing endures... except pride.
And even that, if left without fire, becomes slow-burning ash.
Thousands of cycles ago, when time had no name, and when the earth opened its edges to any who walked it, there were no continents—only one vast land. There were no nations, only whispers of souls seeking refuge. In those forgotten ages, when the realms intertwined like threads in a single robe, the first rings were laid.
Those rings were the point of beginning… the first seed of what would later be known as the Rings of Dominion.
And it was said—and their word is not denied—that the First Emperor was neither man nor king, but an echo of an ancient voice, born from the womb of darkness, not to grant light, but to arrange it, as one sheaths a sword.
He sought to forge law from chaos, authority from light, and destiny from names.
And as time stretched on, only one continent remained: The Great Continent.
As for the others, the ones once drawn on the atlas then erased, they became, in the eyes of the Celestials, no more than blurred margins, fit for those who were not born to rule—but to be ruled.
Only the Seven Kings… sons of origin, bearers of pure blood, chosen by the Empress with her celestial gaze, became the lords, the rulers, the law itself.
But what is never spoken—not in palaces, nor in forbidden tomes—is that even this very continent—the continent of power and centrality—is set upon an edge.
An edge unseen, unmarked on maps, unacknowledged—because, quite simply: it is not permitted to exist.
The First Kingdom was built upon illusion.
The illusion of superiority.
The illusion of purity.
The illusion that light chooses who is born to it—not who seeks it.
And this illusion has been fed, generation after generation, with more victories, more massacres, and edicts descended like revelations, recited like sacred scripture.
But beneath this shining balance… there was movement.
Movement not from without—no lurking enemies, no distant forces—
but from the depths.
Beneath the thrones.
Beneath the entire world.
There—where dwells the Great Shadow, the thing whose name was forgotten, not because it was lost… but because they collectively buried it, as if to utter it were a crime.
Each of the seven great kingdoms claims to be the First Sentinel, the extension of the Greater Will, that its throne is not of stone—but of fate.
But the truth is simpler—and deadlier:
All fear one moment only...
The moment history awakens.
And all realize that light itself… was never anything but a mask,
and that the origin—the true origin—was born of shadow.
And now the winds return… slowly.
Passing over golden bridges, not knocking on doors, but moving through walls.
They brush against crowns now heavy upon the necks.
They stir walls once thought immovable—until the end of time.
And they call…
Call the Seven Kings to a gathering held but once every age,
a gathering where no invitations are sent—only calls felt in bone and marrow.
And from atop Norazim Palace, whose ceiling no mortal can reach,
whose end no bird can see,
whose skies no cloud dares settle within…
The Great Empress prepares to appear.
But this time…
She does not appear to bestow honor,
nor to issue judgment,
nor to inaugurate a new age.
But to stand…
Silent, like an ancient mountain,
and watch as thrones fall, one by one…
as the leaves fall, at the whisper of the first wind.
⟡⟡⟡
The upper hall of the Palace of Nurazim, highest of the First Kingdom's fortresses, shimmered with the glow of celestial crystal pillars—lit only when the full council of the Seven Kings is summoned.
Its ceiling was not stone, but pure radiance, crafted like a man-made sky meant to dazzle.
Upon the central triangular throne sat the Great Empress, Seralain of the Eternal Light, her form draped in a robe of spectral threads, woven only once every hundred years. Her crown bore a single blue gem—said to have been carved from the core of the first sun at the dawn of creation.
Before her, the Seven Kings assembled—the sovereigns of the mighty kingdoms spread across the arms of the continent.
Each bore his ring, his fragment of the ancient power granted when the Empress raised them as kings, honoring them with the right to rule in her name.
King Kasserion, ruler of Astral North, stepped onto the ritual circle. Tallest among them, coldest in speech. His voice sliced through the hall like iron:
"Our northern borders report strange movements. Not armies. Not storms. But creatures... not human.
The soldiers of the Eternal Vigil saw shapes crossing the snow: heads like vultures, feet like hyenas, and eyes… not of mind, but of an ancient hunger."
A heavy silence spread—not from fear of what was said, but of what it meant.
Kasserion did not see phantoms. He sent them.
King Valdrem, lord of Silveron the Lunar, prince of the high clouds, master of the roaming mists, let out a laugh.
He sat on a throne of floating glass, as though gravity refused to claim him. His robe shimmered silver—visible only under full moonlight—and his eyes mirrored ancient storms.
Twirling his silver collar, he said:
"Creatures with hyena feet? Perhaps your cold is crafting shadows for you.
Maybe what your soldiers saw were but specters of their own fear.
As for us in the Great Continent, our seven gates have not opened since the First Cosmic Age.
And whoever is out there… let them dare, if they can."
Then he leaned in, whispering:
"Insects do not knock on titans' doors."
King Marek Domar, ruler of Darvalon the Fiery, stirred as if the earth responded to a hidden rage beneath his skin.
He rose in his blazing armor, his voice pounding like the drums of eruption:
"The western sea is no longer still.
Flagless ships fill the horizon.
The Ocean Continent moves, forging alliances like a hunter gathering his blades.
And the underfolk—the dwarves we once fed like a widow tossing crumbs to rats—now stand on pulpits, preaching of rights."
He slammed his fist upon the throne's arm, and flames behind him flared. The walls of the hall shifted, as if fire itself translated his fury.
In that moment, silence fell like an altar descending.
The Staff of the Spectrum rose slowly, then struck the floor with a single blow—like it struck the heart of the world itself.
The Celestial Empress, lady of the Great Continent, heir of the First Blood, sat upon the central throne of the hall.
None knew whether the throne was stone or light—and none dared ask.
She did not sit—she manifested.
Her features were timeless. Her hair, like night adorned with stars.
Her eyes... did not gaze, they judged.
And when she spoke, her voice was not an echo—it was a mirror of intent, reverberating in bone, not in ear:
"What was cast out has no right to rule.
What was banished has no right to represent.
We are the origin.
We are the first word.
We are the final silence."
Then she paused, as a sound of unseen wings seemed to flutter behind her throne.
"You speak of phantoms circling our borders?
Of ships that bear no banners?
Of dwarves cloaked as priests?...
You tremble at shadows of your own making."
Some lowered their eyes.
"And now you whisper of a holy war,
As though it were a curse too dreadful to recall.
That was no war—it was a cleansing.
Those who died were not ours.
They were scum expelled by light once it purified itself."
She raised her hand.
The flames froze.
The light withdrew from the windows.
The hall dimmed—as if within the dying heart of a star.
"The First Holy War did not ignite because the enemy drew near.
It began because we grew weary of their existence.
We did not fight them…
We erased them."
She continued, her voice now a blade sharpening against their very souls:
"Return them to their places—or uproot them.
I will not suffer barking voices at our borders…
Nor half-bloods bargaining with our name in the distant plains."
Then she fell silent.
But that silence was no mercy—it was the end of debate.
⟡⟡⟡
When she departed, the kings remained where they stood, exchanging glances.
There was no trust among them—only legacy, glory, and walls made thick with time.
And outside… the wind crossed the kingdom's bridges, watching silent knights, and silver-eyed hawks readying to bear messages.
In the depths of another continent…
A new sword began to sharpen.
Not on stone—
But on an ancient silence that sounded like the voice of nothingness.