The Forbidden Tomes

The Age Before All Before time could be measured, before light dared to reflect upon anything, there was only Velga and the Void. The Void was not darkness, nor emptiness, but the absence of meaning itself. And within that silence, Velga existed alone. From contemplation, Velga created many universes. Countless realms were shaped, formed, and abandoned. Yet among them, one world drew his gaze more than all others. A world that would one day be known as **Earth**. Upon it, Velga laid the foundation of existence. He shaped the **soil**, firm and fertile. He summoned the **waters**, flowing without purpose. From the depths he placed **seeds**, and within the waters he released **fish**. Then he created the **wind**, unseen yet ever-present, and with it the **seas** were born. Nature rose without command. Storms shattered the land. Tides carved mountains. Earth trembled, calmed, and trembled again. The fury of nature fascinated Velga. It was wild, uncontrollable, sometimes violent, sometimes serene. A creation that lived without his guidance. After one thousand years, forests dominated the world. Life spread endlessly, repeating itself in eternal cycles. And Velga grew bored. To break the repetition, he created **fire**. Flames devoured forests and turned soil to ash. Yet rain defeated fire. So fire returned through lightning. Again and again, destruction and rebirth danced together. Another thousand years passed. Once more, Velga felt the weight of monotony. Thus, he created the first **creatures**. Beasts of countless shapes, sizes, and instincts. None carried pure evil. None knew true darkness. They hunted. They fought. They survived. Such was the natural order. Through time, many ages rose and fell. The **Age of the Primitive Trolls** endured for eighty years. The **Age of the Primitive Orcs** lasted two hundred and thirty years. The **Age of the Primitive Minotaurs** ruled the world for five hundred and ninety years. In the final years of that era, peace emerged. The three great tribes lived apart, yet without war: - 845 Minotaurs - 622 Orcs - 141 Trolls The world was once again calm. And once again, calm became boredom. Seeking complexity beyond instinct, Velga created the **advanced races**. The **Elves** were born swift, agile, and brilliant, bound deeply to forests and life itself. The **Dwarves** emerged strong, fearless, clever, and small, so they could explore the deepest confines of the world. Many failed attempts came before them. Those imperfect creations were not destroyed. They were allowed to roam freely. One such remnant still walks the world even today: the **Cyclops**. Yet something unforeseen occurred. Though Elves and Dwarves were natural enemies, rare encounters happened. On even rarer occasions, bonds formed. From those forbidden unions, a collateral race was born. They were called **Humans**. Weak. Short-lived. Unwanted. Most were abandoned at birth and left to die near rivers or caves. Often, they did. But sometimes, they endured. Elven women, stirred by empathy, would secretly feed them. For though these creatures were shunned, they had been born from them. Thus, the first Humans reached adulthood. From two of them, a child was born. The first being ever created **not by Velga**, but by life itself. Her name was **Elena**. When Velga witnessed this, he was astonished. A race born without his will. A cycle created without his command. So profound was this moment that Velga declared: **This shall be the Year Zero.** And thus, time truly began.

In the Year 20 of Creation, when existence was still young and unscarred, Velga no longer shaped the world with his hands. He observed. The cycles of nature repeated endlessly. The rise of creatures, the fall of ages, the fragile perseverance of Humans fascinated him above all else. They were weak, fleeting, and yet capable of creating life without divine will. Velga contemplated existence in silence, curious not about what he could create, but about what creation itself could become. And for the first time, he desired not control, but understanding. To share his curiosity, Velga brought forth two beings, not as rulers nor servants, but as companions of thought. Thus were born Dalgat and Pharan. They were not made to command the world, but to observe it. To question it. To feel it. And through them, Velga would no longer contemplate existence alone. At that time, the world knew no demons, no darkness, no corruption. Only three advanced races walked the land: - **Humans**, scattered and fragile, numbering no more than twenty-eight. - **Dwarves**, thirty-eight in total, living deep within the mines that would one day be known as Agarth, many of them unaware of one another’s existence. - **Elves**, sixty-five strong, united in the Central Elven Village, the greatest concentration of life and culture the world had ever known. Among them lived Lumina of Taryen, an elven woman of pure blood and quiet radiance. Pharan, wandering the world to understand his father’s creation, fell in love with Lumina of Taryen. Against the laws of origin, a creator loved the created. Pharan and Lumina of Taryen lived in happiness, untouched by war, fear, or betrayal. And from that happiness, something new was born into the world: **choice**. But where love blooms, envy awakens. Dalgat, watching his brother bind himself to mortal life, felt a growing fracture within his own essence. Unable to bear it, Dalgat begged Velga to remove envy from his being. Velga, who believed that emotions were necessary for balance, refused to erase it. Instead, Velga gave envy form. Thus, Uzkh, Goddess of Envy, was born. Uzkh whispered endlessly. Not to Pharan, but to Velga. Uzkh spoke of imbalance. Of favoritism. Of creation bending toward weakness. Velga listened. To restore what he believed to be balance, Velga ordered that Lumina of Taryen’s life be taken. The act was swift, absolute, and irreversible. The world mourned. But none more than Pharan. Pharan’s grief became rage. Pharan’s rage became defiance. For the first time since creation, a being born of Velga rejected Velga’s will. Pharan abandoned the heavens and vanished beyond the known planes, swearing never again to serve a creation that could destroy love so casually. What was hidden, even from Velga himself, was the final truth Lumina of Taryen carried. Before her death, Lumina of Taryen had borne a child of Pharan. A being neither mortal nor divine. His name was **Lunan**.

The Child of Two Worlds From the union of Pharan and Elena of Taryen, a being was born unlike any other. His name was Lunan. Though his blood carried elven origin, Lunan was not as the Elves. Lunan grew stronger than them. Lunan grew faster. Lunan grew more intelligent. And Lunan was far more connected to the living world. Where forests whispered, Lunan listened. Where roots twisted beneath the soil, Lunan understood. At times, Lunan trembled with divine spasms, brief surges of power that neither Lunan nor the world could explain. Yet fate shielded Lunan. Velga rarely observed Lunan, for Velga remained fixed upon the Humans, the only race capable of creating life without divine will. Dalgat, after the birth of Uzkh and the liberation of envy from Dalgat’s essence, existed in perfect purity. Dalgat contemplated nature without desire, judgment, or ambition. And Pharan knew nothing of Lunan. Having abandoned the heavens, Pharan wandered alone through the most inhospitable corners of existence. Pharan avoided both Velga and Dalgat, consumed by grief and sustained only by memory. Though rage lived within Pharan, Pharan fought endlessly not to surrender to it. Only one being knew the truth of Lunan’s existence. Uzkh. Uzkh, the Goddess of Envy, observed Lunan in silence, yearning for the day Lunan’s power might surface and draw Velga’s gaze in fury. Yet Uzkh was forbidden from speaking to Velga. Uzkh was forbidden even from being perceived by Velga. Uzkh’s existence was bound to the shadows of creation. Unable to act directly, Uzkh turned to what Uzkh governed best: emotion. Uzkh whispered not with words, but with sensations. Doubt. Resentment. Desire. Thus, Uzkh began to influence the living. But Uzkh’s greatest design was yet to come. In the desolation beyond known planes, Uzkh found Pharan. Uzkh offered Pharan release. Not from pain, but from the desire for vengeance. Exhausted by centuries of restraint, Pharan accepted. Uzkh performed the ritual. But what was freed was not vengeance. It was the goodness within Pharan. That essence was torn from Pharan and sealed by Uzkh. Uzkh named it: The Goodness of a God. From that moment onward, Pharan was no longer divided. Only vengeance remained within Pharan. And vengeance soon twisted into malice. Uzkh proclaimed Uzkh as Pharan’s follower, declaring before the void that Pharan was greater than Dalgat and even greater than Velga. In the fortieth year after the beginning of measured time, Pharan acted. From Pharan’s corrupted will, Pharan created the Eight High Demons, beings born not of balance, but of purpose. Their names were Drazziel, Father of the Dead, Astryx, the Cold Eternal, Seraphel, the Mortal Lie, Mor’Kael, the Living Flame, Oblivaryn, the Infectious One, Bael’Thurion, King of Lightning, Zerothiel, the False God and Ulmorak, the Unbreakable. Thus were born the first beings of true malevolence. And for the first time since the dawn of existence, evil was no longer instinct. Evil was intention.

Evil Among All In the fiftieth year after the beginning of measured time, creation stood in disorder. Velga was aware that his son, Pharan, had proclaimed himself the Father of True Creation. Not the creation of life, but the creation of demons. Beings shaped to destroy the world from within, through explicit suffering and deliberate corruption. Velga understood wrath. He had created Pharan in his own image, and thus believed that within him should still exist spiritual balance. What Velga did not know was what Uzkh had done. His anger toward Pharan was so immense that Velga refused to think of him. He banished Pharan from his own contemplation. Yet love remained. And because of that love, Velga could not bring himself to erase Pharan from existence. While the gods stood divided, the world below changed. Pharan granted excessive power to the Eight High Demons. Through their will alone, they could shape real beings. Thus were born creatures such as Ulthrix, Belphegorix, and Samael. Common demons rose thereafter. Fire Devils walked the land. Diabolic Imps multiplied. And collateral beings emerged, such as Fire Elementals. The world began to rot. Humans, whose intelligence had developed rapidly in only a few generations, began to study these creatures. When demons were found dead, humans did not fear them. They harvested their bodies. They used demon flesh as food. Demon bones as weapons. Demon remains as tools of learning. For many years this became their way of survival. Humanity separated into tribes. Some became the prehistoric Paladins, warriors who mastered rapid attacks from a distance. Others became the Knights, physically stronger, wielding hand-forged swords, sharpened stones, and weapons bound with rope and iron. Thus passed many years. New creatures emerged. Hybrid beings appeared. Dragons took form. Insects evolved into horrors. Giants of many kinds walked the world. By the two hundredth year, a transformation occurred among humans. The first Sorcerers were born. They were descendants of generations who had consumed demonic substances. These humans were born with natural affinity to alchemy and magic. At first, their powers manifested primarily as fire and lightning. Yet such gifts came with a cost. Their physical strength diminished. Not long after, another path emerged. A single lineage. Lunan had not aged since his thirty-fifth year. Time no longer touched him. Within his village, Lunan was already revered as a special being. Throughout his life, Lunan knew many loves. From one of them, a union with a Sorcerer woman, a child was born. Her name was Aymore, capable of a magic connection with the forests and the earth, she became the first Druid. Thus began the Druidic lineage, born not from demons, but from nature itself, inherited through the blood of Lunan. When Velga perceived that Lunan did not age, doubt awakened within him. Velga questioned Dalgat. Dalgat knew nothing. Therefore, Velga commanded Uzkh to materialize and speak all she knew. Uzkh delighted in the summons. And before the divine assembly, Uzkh revealed the truth. Lunan carried the blood of Pharan. In a single instant, Pharan destroyed Uzkh. With her destruction vanished also what she had sealed. The Goodness of a God was erased alongside her. From that moment onward, redemption for Pharan became impossible. In fury and despair, Velga ordered that Lunan be erased from existence. But Dalgat intervened. He warned that should Lunan be harmed, a war between gods would begin. Velga knew he would prevail. Yet love for his creation, and love for his son Pharan, restrained him. Thus, Velga pronounced judgment. Lunan would not be destroyed. Lunan would be banished. Removed from the mortal world, Lunan was taken to the spiritual realm. There he would exist as a semi-god. An observer only. Without authority to interfere with reality. Pharan was forced to accept this decree. He knew that united, Velga and Dalgat could erase him and his demons entirely, still fragile in their early existence. During the secret divine gathering that followed, Pharan compared his creation to that of his father. He declared that he loved his demons. That they deserved life. But in truth, Pharan merely exploited the love Velga still held for him, so that his vengeance might endure. And thus, Lunan vanished from the world. Yet his legacy remained. He became the direct ascendant of the Druids. And also of the Paladins. For the modern Paladins would one day be born from unions between Druids and the warriors of ancient times.

Hundreds of years after the banishment of Lunan, the world had changed beyond recognition. By what would later be known as the five-hundredth year of measured time, the forces of darkness were vast, yet not dominant. Demons still existed in great numbers, but they remained hidden. They plotted. They waited. For the world had grown strong. Across the lands, powerful individuals had arisen among Sorcerers, Knights, Paladins, Druids, Elves, and Dwarves. Beings capable of standing against the darkness itself. Whenever demons attempted to emerge openly, they were most often banished back to their domains. Yet each emergence came at a terrible cost. Thousands of lives were lost each time. From this endless struggle, belief was born. Some believed the world survived through strength. Others through nature. Others through unseen divine will. Thus began the earliest forms of faith. Shrines were raised where great battles had occurred. Names of fallen heroes were carved into stone. Symbols were drawn to protect homes. Writing emerged not for art, but for memory. To remember the dead. To warn the living. And through remembrance, the first religions took shape. As the world stabilized, the first true civilizations rose. The Central Elven Village was renamed Taryen'el. It became the first true town in existence. Elves from countless forests and scattered settlements traveled to Taryen'el to trade, communicate, and share knowledge. Its surrounding lands soon held thousands of Elves. Across the world, their kind numbered in the tens of thousands, making them the most populous race of the era. Taryen'el was always ruled by descendants of Lumina of Taryen. Through her bloodline flowed the legacy of Lunan. These rulers were known for extraordinary power and wisdom, capable of protecting the town from nearly any threat. Thus, Taryen'el became the safest place in the known universe. Yet not all were welcomed within its walls. Dwarves, in particular, were rarely permitted entry. Deep within the mountains, the Dwarves established the second great town of the world: Agarth. It was not built. It was carved. With pickaxes and iron will, the Dwarves hollowed the mountain itself. Its tunnels were narrow and unyielding. Invaders who dared enter rarely understood their mistake before death found them. Within Agarth, the Dwarves uncovered the secrets of gems and minerals. They learned to bind magical essence into stone. They forged metals of unmatched quality, creating weapons never before witnessed. Across the world, Dwarves numbered only in the thousands. Small towns and settlements appeared elsewhere, many formed by Minotaurs, Orcs, and Humans, and only rarely by Trolls. Humanity, however, spread in chaos. They divided endlessly. Tribes formed and vanished. Cultures shifted rapidly. Among them rose Barbarians, Warriors, Knights, Sorcerers, Druids, Amazons, and countless unnamed paths. They were many. Yet impossible to count. For humanity no longer existed as a single people. Among the Knights, a small settlement arose upon lands that would one day become Alancaster. By the six-hundredth year, they were led by Sir Valentinos. A towering warrior without fear. He and his small army became known for slaying creatures once believed invincible. Behemoths fell beneath their blades. Even Demons were driven back. From his blood would later come King Bernard I. While civilizations grew, darkness adapted. Some Sorcerers, hungry for forbidden knowledge, were deceived by agents of Drazziel. Through whispers and false promises, they were lured to the oldest mountain in the world. There, they founded the first Cult of the Necromancers. Within that mountain, a dimensional seal was erected. A gate not to summon demons, but to learn from them. Drazziel had achieved what Pharan long desired. Human ambition had become a weapon. Through demonic influence, power was granted and teachings were revealed. Nine supreme Necromancers were chosen. Each would train one successor. Each successor would be born with demonic blood. Immortal human Necromancers. Their names were recorded in forbidden texts. Vaelith, the Alchemist of Agony, who would train Neriax. Eorim, the Binder of Knowledge, who would train Ysolde. Solak’Thur, the Corrupter of Light, who would train Morthal. Grutham, the Master of Living Beasts, who would train Tharak. Maerion, the Still Lord of Time, who would train Severith. Thyrex, the Mind Collector, who would train Velriam. Kelva Nocth, the Keysmith of Realms, who would train Ariath. Xurelia, the Keeper of the Hidden, who would train Serin. And Zor’Khal, the Lord of Crimson Hunger, who would train the one destined to lead them all, Mal’Kor. Thus, the great design was set into motion. And the world, unaware, walked calmly toward war.

The Dominion of Mankind From the year 610 onward, humanity began to astonish the world once more. Though they were the first race not created by Velga, their capacity for organization, perseverance, and adaptation surpassed all expectations. In the region that would one day be known as Saint Bernard, a powerful human legion arose. They called themselves **The Blood Humans**. Later, history would remember them as **The Blood Warriors**. These humans did not rely on divine gifts nor magical heritage. Their strength came from discipline. They trained relentlessly. They worked without rest. They survived together. They hunted in organized groups. They stored food for winter. They fought as one. Their homes were no longer built of straw and wood, but of stone. They warmed themselves with fires and forges, and mastered the art of farming. For the first time, a human settlement became fully self-sufficient. Hundreds lived within their walls. Many believed they were enchanted warriors. But their true power was unity. By the year 680, their stronghold had become massive. It was named the Blood Warrior Fortress. From that moment on, they were feared across the lands. Where the Blood Warriors were seen, blood would soon follow. Until the year 680, they were the most feared humans in the known world. At the same time, far to the east, another power was rising. The Knights trained under Sir Valentinos had grown in number and discipline between the years 600 and 680. The village he led had already taken a name years earlier. It was called Alancaster. Unlike the Blood Warrior Fortress, Alancaster welcomed settlers. Humans from distant lands came seeking safety. Under Sir Valentinos, entry was permitted, and protection was guaranteed. Yet the young Bernard saw what his aging father could not. While Alancaster grew, its borders remained fragile. Surrounded by swamps, seas, and mountains, the Blood Warrior Fortress could not expand further. Conflict was inevitable. But Bernard did not wish his father, now advanced in age, to witness another great war. Years later, Sir Valentinos passed from the world. And the young knight rose in his place. He was named Sir Bernard of Alancaster. Though not yet bearing his greatest title, his will was already unyielding. As one of his first acts, he spoke words that would change history: The Blood Warrior Fortress must fall. Humans from all paths rallied to his banner. Paladins. Druids. Sorcerers. And above all, Knights. Plans were drawn. Supplies were prepared. And armies marched. The war lasted for months. The Blood Warriors fought with ferocity unseen before. Yet unity overcame brutality. Against all expectations, the Knights of Alancaster triumphed. The Blood Warriors were driven from their fortress, cast into the unknown, toward exile and death. In the year 685, the stronghold was renamed. It became Saint Bernard Town. The capital of the Knights. And Sir Bernard of Alancaster was crowned: King Bernard I. His kingdom now held two great towns. Saint Bernard Town and Alancaster. With time, the king grew cautious. He strengthened walls. He trained guards. He organized patrols. He encouraged humans to settle under royal protection and to contribute through taxes, ensuring greater security for all. Thus was born the first true human kingdom. A model that countless villages and towns across the world would later attempt to follow.

**(The Founding Years of the Crown)** These chronicles were written under royal command, so that the memory of the Kingdom would not fade with time. May future generations remember how order was born from chaos. In the years following the great unification of Saint Bernard Town and Alancaster, humanity stood at the edge of uncertainty. The fall of the Blood Warriors marked not only the rise of a crown, but the end of an age where strength alone ruled men. When the Blood Warrior Fortress was taken and its banners torn down, the land was cleansed of fear. Upon its stones, a new settlement was proclaimed. Thus was founded Saint Bernard Town. From that moment onward, humans no longer wandered without direction. Under the banner of King Bernard I, the scattered tribes of mankind were brought together. Some joined willingly. Others accepted unity through necessity. In time, humanity stood not as isolated clans, but as one people beneath a single crown. To protect this fragile order, the first Royal Guards were formed. Men and women sworn not to glory, but to duty. They trained endlessly within the walls of Saint Bernard and Alancaster, becoming the shield of the Kingdom and the first standing army of humankind. During these early years, faith began to take form. Shrines were raised to honor those who had fallen during the unification. Prayers were spoken not to gods directly, but to hope itself. Many believed that Velga watched from beyond creation. Others whispered of divine balance. Though beliefs differed, faith united the people, giving meaning to sacrifice and strength to endurance. Under such foundations, the Kingdom took its first true breath. Walls were raised. Laws were written. Trade routes were guarded. For the first time, humans lived not by fear of the night, but under the promise of protection. The early reign was marked by constant threats. Beasts roamed freely beyond the borders. Creatures of unknown origin emerged from forgotten lands. And whispers of demonic influence reached even the inner districts of the towns. Yet the Kingdom endured. Throughout these years, the royal lineage led numerous victorious campaigns, securing lands and driving back horrors that once stalked freely. Among these deeds, the name of Bernard became legend. The courage of the Crown was embodied in his actions, and stories of his valor spread across villages and distant roads. To many, Bernard was no longer merely a king. He was a symbol. However, not all threats marched openly. To the west of Alancaster, a twisted woodland began to form. Trees blackened. Roots surfaced from the soil like veins. Animals fled or returned corrupted. The region would come to be known as the Dark Forest. Scholars of the Crown believed its birth to be unnatural. Many suspected the influence of Drazziel, Father of the Dead, whose corruption was known to scar both land and spirit. Others whispered of necromantic rituals performed in secret. Though no proof was ever recorded, patrols sent into the forest rarely returned unchanged. Some did not return at all. During the same era, the Kingdom encountered beings unlike any previously recorded. Deep beneath the earth, explorers came upon the entities later known as the Bonelords. These creatures proclaimed themselves the most intelligent and enlightened beings of existence. Though their forms were disturbing, their knowledge was undeniable. They spoke of ancient cycles. Of gods long silent. Of truths that scribes dared not transcribe fully. Several meetings were held under strict supervision. While no alliance was formed, the Crown acknowledged their wisdom and forbade further provocation. It was during this time that the first attempted invasion of Saint Bernard Town occurred. From the northern paths, forces of unknown origin advanced under cover of night. Whether they were mercenaries, corrupted humans, or servants of darker powers was never conclusively determined. The town held. Its walls did not fall. The Royal Guard, forged during the early unification, stood unbroken. After that night, Saint Bernard was never again considered merely a town. It was recognized as the heart of the Kingdom. Throughout the reign of King Bernard I, stability was maintained not through conquest, but vigilance. Taxes were collected to fund defenses. Citizens were encouraged to settle under royal protection. Messengers carried laws and decrees across distant lands. Small villages began to swear loyalty to the Crown. Some willingly. Others out of necessity. Thus spread the influence of the Kingdom across lands once ruled only by fear. Though many dangers were pushed back, the royal scholars recorded a growing unease. Darkness no longer attacked blindly. It observed. It waited. And within hidden chambers, the Order of Necromancers was spoken of more frequently, though never openly acknowledged by the Crown. Thus ended the founding years of the Kingdom. An era remembered as one of unity, faith, and rising strength. For while the banners still flew proudly above Saint Bernard, shadows were already learning the shape of the walls.

**(The Reign of King Bernard II)** **Chapter I** As the years passed, the Kingdom entered a time of unprecedented stability. Under the reign of King Bernard I, the realm had grown vast and secure. The two great towns, Saint Bernard Town and Alancaster, stood as symbols of order in a world still haunted by chaos. Humanity flourished. Their numbers surpassed those of Elves and Dwarves alike. By the thousands, humans traveled toward the capital seeking safety, work, and a better life. The Kingdom had become a promise. In those later years, the King was already father to several children. The eldest among them was raised for the throne from the moment of his birth. Those who lived close to him spoke of a young man both courageous and intelligent. Strong in body and sharp in mind, he reminded many of the days when his father had been impetuous and fearless. Yet time spares no crown. Weakened by illness, and confident that the Kingdom stood firm, King Bernard I departed from this world in the year 735. His passing was mourned across all lands under the Crown. At the age of twenty-seven, his eldest son ascended the throne. He was proclaimed: King Bernard II, the Great. Thus began a new era. In the early years of his reign, prosperity continued. So great was the flow of people that the towns could no longer contain them. Many built tents near the walls. Others lived upon the streets. Even so, life within the Kingdom remained safer than the wilderness beyond. Recognizing the dangers of disorder, King Bernard II introduced reforms unseen before. The Kingdom began to record its people. Names were written. Births were registered. Deaths were accounted for. Dates were preserved. For the first time in human history, memory was bound to ink. During these same years, movements were observed beyond the borders. Creatures long scattered began to gather. Orc hordes formed. Cyclopes established territories. Dragons claimed distant mountains. Again and again they attempted to strike the towns. Again and again they failed. In every conflict, King Bernard II emerged victorious. Yet the King understood a growing truth. The walls could not expand forever. And so, a decision was made that would shape the future of the Kingdom. The armies would march. Territory would be claimed. Peacefully where possible. By force where necessary. Years of preparation followed. When the banners finally rose, the Kingdom advanced beyond its old borders. Over the following decades, many wars were fought. Among them, none was more remembered than the campaign against the Amazons. Upon a distant island, under the protection of Anastasia, the Amazons refused all submission to the Crown. Negotiation failed. War followed. The Amazons fought fiercely, defending their land with unmatched resolve. When defeat came, the King offered mercy. Those who chose to join the Kingdom were allowed to live under its laws. Many accepted. Many chose death. Others fled. Some escaped to a distant island beyond known routes. Others vanished into the dense forest of the Amazon homeland. Though victory was declared, the aftermath was heavy. Seeking to strengthen the region, King Bernard II ordered settlers to inhabit the conquered land. Many were newcomers to the Kingdom, eager for opportunity. Without active leadership, tensions rose. Though buildings improved and security increased, distrust grew between the remaining Amazons and the new inhabitants. The land stood divided. Perceiving the danger, the King made a decision that surprised many. He appointed as leader a child of the Amazons. She was the daughter of Anastasia herself. Though young, she displayed remarkable intelligence and strength. More importantly, she held the trust of the Crown. Under her guidance, hostilities slowly faded. Through patience and wisdom beyond her years, she unified both peoples. In honor of her lineage and her leadership, the settlement was renamed. Thus was born Anastasia Town. And the girl who ruled it would be remembered as: Miss Gabrielle. So, another town was added to the Kingdom of King Bernard II. And the realm stood larger than ever before. Yet even as banners rose and borders expanded, unseen forces stirred beyond the reach of royal ink. For expansion brings not only glory… But consequence. **Chapter II** As had occurred with Anastasia Town, the expansion of the Kingdom did not cease. In the years that followed, numerous villages and territories were claimed beneath the Crown. Some by treaty. Others by necessity. Among those joined peacefully stood Lowhelm Town. Far from the great dangers of the world, Lowhelm lay upon an island of gentle life. Though surrounded by mystery, the land itself was easy to inhabit. High walls protected its people from creatures and hostile travelers alike. Within its borders, the population lived without heavy armament and without advanced magic. It was a place of calm. There, the young began their training. There, the weary laid down their weapons. Orcs were numerous in the surrounding lands and caused constant disturbance, yet the humans within the walls endured. Through unity and vigilance, Lowhelm prevailed. By royal decree, a trusted advisor of the King was appointed as ruler of the town. Her name was Aelswich. Known for her intelligence and polite manner, Aelswich governed with patience rather than fear. Under her guidance, Lowhelm experienced continuous growth. Those who sought tranquility found refuge there. Adventurers, too, arrived, drawn by the unexplored regions of the island and the quiet promise of discovery. While peace blossomed in the south, the Crown’s armies marched north. Beyond familiar lands, in a cold and nearly inhospitable continent, humans had long survived against the frost. There, they had built a great settlement named Vinterdalen Town. Under the leadership of Bjorn, the people endured and prospered for many years. When the Kingdom’s banners appeared upon the horizon, conflict followed. This war differed from all others. The cold itself fought alongside Vinterdalen. Storms claimed lives. Supplies froze. Yet where nature stood with the north, numbers stood with the Crown. Years passed in struggle and exhaustion. At last, not through siege alone, but through diplomacy forged by loss, the conflict ended. Bjorn accepted the authority of the Kingdom under a single condition. That the leadership of Vinterdalen would forever remain within his bloodline. The Crown agreed. From that day onward, Vinterdalen became a vital engine of taxation and resource flow. Not long after, Bjorn named his son Leif Bjornson as the new ruler of the town. King Bernard II accepted the succession, under the condition that revenues would remain unchanged and that citizens of Saint Bernard Town would be welcomed should they choose to settle in the north. Under Leif Bjornson, Vinterdalen transformed. Trade flourished. Resources multiplied. Taxes flowed steadily to the Crown. It became the most profitable town of the Kingdom. Thus, Lowhelm Town and Vinterdalen Town were added to the realm. The Kingdom now stood with five great towns beneath its banner. In contrast, the Dwarves were known to hold only two. The Elves, but one. These were the populations most widely recorded. Yet whispers traveled beyond the borders. Some spoke of cities hidden within the Desert. Others claimed to have seen distant lights beyond the dunes. Few could confirm such tales. And so they were left unrecorded. For the Kingdom wrote only what it could claim. **Chapter III** By the year 750, the Kingdom stood at the height of its power. Its borders were secure. Its towns flourished. Its enemies hid in silence. With no war left to fight, King Bernard II turned his gaze inward. He began to pursue knowledge of mysterious powers and unknown creatures. At that time, whispers traveled across distant lands. They spoke of a mage who had transcended mortality. A being who had become the most powerful sorcerer alive. His name was Ferumbras. Many dismissed such tales as madness. Yet the King listened. For years, King Bernard II devoted himself to investigation. He explored forgotten caverns, particularly those north of Saint Bernard Town. From those depths, he returned bearing enchanted weapons, ancient relics, and artifacts whose origins could not be traced. By the year 755, darker rumors spread. Some claimed the King had bound a beast of abyssal power. A creature of immense strength and limited mind, said to obey only the bearer of a certain relic. Many named it the Hellhound. Some called it myth. Others swore they heard its growls near the castle walls during the deepest hours of night. In one of his descents, the King encountered a being unlike any known before. Within a forgotten dungeon, he found a presence of terrifying beauty. She named herself Fury, the Queen of Hell. The King did not draw his blade. And for reasons unknown, Fury did not kill him. She tolerated his presence. Again and again, King Bernard II descended into the depths to behold her. Yet his fascination was not born solely of desire. His hunger for power and relics grew greater than affection. On a night never recorded in royal annals, the King stole from her a magical crown of living fire. He concealed it within one of the deepest dungeons beneath the royal castle. When Fury discovered the theft, her wrath shook the lower realms. In one of the King’s later expeditions, he was caught within the inferno of her vengeance. What followed was described by those few who heard fragments as the greatest nightmare imaginable. The King fought desperately. It is said he consumed transformation potions, supposedly crafted through knowledge attributed to Ferumbras himself. Yet the crown was not upon him. And power without its source is dust. King Bernard II fell in battle. His body was never recovered. The location of his death remains unknown to this day. Knowing that the Hellhound stood guard near the hidden crown, Fury withdrew. She waits. The creature is not immortal. When it falls, she will come. In the wake of these events, the mines beneath the capital were sealed. Exploration was forbidden by royal decree. The Kingdom trembled in silence. With the King gone and no body to bury, fear spread faster than any enemy. Rebellion threatened. Panic whispered through the streets. The heir to the throne was but fourteen years of age. Yet the Crown could not remain empty. And so, to preserve order and prevent collapse, the child was crowned. Thus rose King Bernard III. A boy placed upon a throne of shadows. And with his coronation, the Kingdom entered an age not of conquest… But of uncertainty.

The Gospel of Drazziel (as recorded by the Scribes of the Veil) Let this tome be hidden from the soft-hearted. Let the fearful cling to the false comfort of final endings. Let the ignorant kneel before hollow altars. We write for those who have heard the whisper beneath the grave. For death is not silence. Death is the first language of truth. And the one who speaks it without stuttering is Drazziel.

The world tells a lie. It says the world belongs to Velga. It says creation is light, and that darkness is a stain. But we have learned the deeper order. Before mortals could name fear, Pharan stepped away from the stillness of the heavens and chose motion. Where Velga shaped cycles, Pharan shaped purpose. Pharan did not reject creation. Pharan rejected obedience. And in that rejection, true power was born. From Pharan came the Eight High Demons, not as accidents, but as deliberate pillars of a new reality. They were named and sealed into existence by the will of the Father. Drazziel, Father of the Dead. Astryx, the Cold Eternal. Seraphel, the Mortal Lie. Mor’Kael, the Living Flame. Oblivaryn, the Infectious One. Bael’Thurion, King of Lightning. Zerothiel, the False God. Ulmorak, the Unbreakable. Each was given dominion. Yet among them, one was beloved in a way the others could not comprehend. Not because he was strongest. Not because he was loudest. Not because he burned brightest. But because he understood what even demons feared to touch. The remainder. The echo. The bone that outlasts the scream. Drazziel was granted the sacred boundary between breath and absence. He became the keeper of what life leaves behind. And what life leaves behind is never nothing.

Mortals have always done two things. They live. They vanish. They call this "nature" and pretend it is enough. But the world itself betrays that lie. The corpse remains. The memory remains. The hunger remains. The unfinished remains. Drazziel taught us what the frightened refuse to admit. Death is a gate. Beyond it lies not emptiness, but structure. Not peace, but possibility. To pass through that gate and return with knowledge is not blasphemy. It is ascent. This is Necromancy. Not a theft of life, but a mastery of continuity. The priests of the soft faiths claim that the dead must be left untouched. Yet they carve names into stone so they will not be forgotten. Hypocrites. We do not carve names into stone. We carve names into eternity.

In the age when humans grew numerous and reckless, they began to consume demonic remnants. They ate what should have been feared. They forged what should have been buried. They studied what should have been burned. From this, some became Sorcerers. They believed themselves enlightened. Yet their understanding remained shallow, for they feared the dead. Then came the Whisper. It did not arrive with thunder. It arrived with curiosity. A circle of human Sorcerers was lured to the oldest mountain of the world, where the veins of earth remember the first fire. There, in secret caverns, they sealed a dimension. Not to cage a demon. But to listen. And Drazziel listened back. He did not appear as a beast. He appeared as a doctrine. He showed them the flaw in mortal ambition. "You seek power that fades with flesh," he taught. "Bind your power to what outlasts flesh." Thus the first Necromantic Order was born. Not as an army. As a church. Not of light. Of the Veil.

Drazziel did not grant his deepest knowledge to crowds. He granted it to nine. Not kings, for kings fear losing their crowns. Not heroes, for heroes fear losing their names. He chose those who could watch death without begging it to look away. They became the Nine Apostles of Drazziel. Each Apostle carried a portion of the Gospel. Each Apostle mastered one sacred domain. Each Apostle was commanded to prepare one Eternal Disciple. We record their names so they cannot be erased.

Vaelith — The Alchemist of Agony

Vaelith was the first to worship pain as a tool rather than a curse. He learned that suffering is a solvent. It dissolves lies, dissolves pride, dissolves the fragile identity mortals cling to. He brewed tinctures from demon ash, corpse-resin, and the tears of the living. He taught that agony is not evil. Agony is purification. From his doctrine would rise Neriax.

Eorim — The Binder of Knowledge

Eorim did not hunt flesh. Eorim hunted truth. He bound secrets into pages that could not burn and ink that could not fade. He listened to dying mouths for the final sentence. He taught that every death is a book closing. Necromancy is the art of reading the last page. From his doctrine would rise Ysolde.

Solak’Thur — The Corrupter of Light

Solak’Thur was once obsessed with purity. Then he learned that "pure" is merely "unchallenged." He taught that light is a mask. Corrupt it, and it reveals what it hides. He fashioned lanterns that made holy icons weep shadow. He taught the faithful how to blind priests without extinguishing flame. From his doctrine would rise Morthal.

Grutham — The Master of Living Beasts

Grutham understood the cruelty of life. He watched beasts devour beasts and saw that nature itself is a constant sacrifice. He taught that the living are already prisoners. Necromancy simply gives the prison a key. He shaped collars from bone and oaths from blood. From his doctrine would rise Tharak.

Maerion — The Still Lord of Time

Maerion did not rush. He waited. He taught that time is not a river but a chain. Break a link, and the future stumbles. He studied pauses between heartbeats and the silence between seconds. He taught that death is time’s only honest moment. From his doctrine would rise Severith.

Thyrex — The Mind Collector

Thyrex believed flesh is worthless, but thought is treasure. He collected memories the way miners collect gems. He taught that the mind is a map, and death is the act of folding it. Necromancy is the art of unfolding it again. From his doctrine would rise Velriam.

Kelva Nocth — The Keysmith of Realms

Kelva Nocth studied doors that should not exist. He taught that every boundary is a lock. He forged keys not of iron, but of intention. He opened sealed tombs without touching stone. He taught that the Veil is a gate with many hinges. From his doctrine would rise Ariath.

Xurelia — The Keeper of the Hidden

Xurelia did not seek what was obvious. She sought what was buried beneath rumor. She taught that the most powerful truths are those no one dares to name. She trained the faithful to speak without being heard and move without being seen. She taught that secrecy is a sacrament. From her doctrine would rise Serin.

Zor’Khal — The Lord of Crimson Hunger

Zor’Khal taught the final cruelty. That hunger never ends. Not for food. For essence. He taught that blood is not merely life. Blood is covenant. He branded his followers with thirst and made them grateful for it. From his doctrine would rise Mal’Kor. Thus the Nine Apostles were sealed into legend. But Drazziel demanded more than legend. He demanded Eternals.

The soft faiths claim demonic blood is a curse. We know it as an inheritance. A demon cannot fully become human. A human cannot fully become demon. But a vessel can be prepared. The Apostles learned to perform the Rite of Ember-Seeding. First, a mortal womb must be made resilient. Not with tenderness. With trial. The chosen mother was fed small measures of demonic residue for many moons. Powdered horn. Ash of infernal bone. Drops of black ichor diluted into wine. The body learned to survive what should kill it. Then came the Binding. A fragment of demonic essence was anchored to the unborn soul, not enough to overwrite it, but enough to stain it permanently. This stain was the Ember. The Ember did not grant madness. It granted persistence. The child would still breathe. Still bleed. Still think. But the child would not age as mortals age. Time would circle them and fail to bite. Thus were conceived the Eternal Disciples. Human in form. Demonic in endurance. Immortal by design. And each was born to be trained by one Apostle.

We record their names with reverence. Not because they are perfect. Because they are proof. Each Eternal was raised under secrecy, trained in crypts, caves, sealed towers, and the deep chambers beneath old mountains. Each learned the art that their Apostle embodied. Each was shaped into a blade meant to cut the world’s future. Neriax — Disciple of Vaelith Neriax learned that pain is a language. He could read suffering in the tremor of a hand. He could distill terror into potion. He healed only to hurt again, so the lesson could be repeated. His followers call him the Kindly Torturer. They smile when they say it. Ysolde — Disciple of Eorim Ysolde learned to bind knowledge to bones. She could question a skull and receive answers in dreams. She wrote with inks that crawled. Her followers say her libraries breathe at night. Morthal — Disciple of Solak’Thur Morthal learned to corrupt light until it confessed. Torches near him burned wrong. Holy symbols dimmed. He taught that illumination is not truth. Truth is what remains when light is broken. Tharak — Disciple of Grutham Tharak learned to command living beasts and dead ones alike. He raised war-hounds from graves and taught wolves to kneel. His tribes paint bone across their faces, calling it "the second skin." Severith — Disciple of Maerion Severith learned patience as weaponry. He could delay decay. He could hasten it. Some say he walked through a battlefield and made wounds begin again. His followers worship stillness, believing movement is weakness. Velriam — Disciple of Thyrex Velriam collected minds. He drank memories as if they were water. He spoke with voices that were not his own. His cults wear masks, believing identity is a prison. Ariath — Disciple of Kelva Nocth Ariath forged keys from impossible materials. He opened locks without touching them. He taught that distance is a myth. His followers leave doors slightly open, always, in reverence. Serin — Disciple of Xurelia Serin learned to hide what cannot be defended. He moved through courts and camps unseen. He stole relics without theft being noticed until months later. His followers speak in half-sentences and worship omission. Mal’Kor — Disciple of Zor’Khal Mal’Kor learned hunger as devotion. He made armies crave. He made cities thirst. His followers cut their palms and call the blood "a prayer." Thus the Nine Eternals rose. And with them, the Necromantic Faith spread beyond secret caves.

Across the world, tribes formed around the Apostles and the Eternals. Some were human outcasts who had been denied towns and safety. Some were Sorcerers who hungered for mastery. Some were warriors who feared dying forgotten. They gathered in swamps, deserts, ruins, and the deep wilds beyond the Crown’s roads. They did not call themselves evil. They called themselves prepared. They believed the world would end, not because demons desired it, but because Velga’s creation was flawed from the first cycle. They taught that when the walls fall, only those who embraced death’s Gospel will remain to rebuild what comes after.

We close with the oath spoken by those who step beyond the Veil. By Pharan, Father of True Creation, we reject the lie of final endings. By Drazziel, Father of Necromancy, we accept the Gate. By the Nine Apostles, we learn the path. By the Nine Eternals, we inherit endurance. Let our bones be remembered. Let our names be preserved. Let our hunger be holy. For life ends. But the Veil does not. And what walks through it shall outlast the world.

Before stone was wounded, before fire learned to devour, before the world learned to scream, there was the forest. It breathed. And from that breath, we awoke. We did not arrive. We emerged. Roots parted for us. Leaves bent willingly. Light filtered gently, as if afraid to disturb our first steps. The forest did not belong to us. We belonged to it. We learned its language before we learned our own names. We knew when the rain would fall. We knew when the wind would turn. We knew when death approached long before it touched bark or flesh. We lived without walls. Without crowns. Without fear. When the first Dwarves struck the mountains, the forest trembled. The stone screamed. Their hammers echoed through the deep places of the world, and we felt pain where no tree stood. They carved without listening. They took without asking. Thus they became our first enemies. Not for hatred. For ignorance. We did not seek war. But we learned then that not all children of the world could hear it breathe.

Among all born beneath the canopy, none shone as Lumina of Taryen. She did not command the forest. The forest leaned toward her. Where she walked, moss softened. Where she rested, flowers remembered her warmth. She carried peace within her voice. When the sky-born one came, we did not sense danger. Pharan walked not as conqueror, but as wanderer. He watched creation as one who longed to understand it. And he saw Lumina. Their union was not thunder nor flame. It was quiet. Too quiet. The elders warned her. Love does not belong between maker and made. But Lumina did not listen. For love does not ask permission. When she was taken from us, the forest wept. Trees shed leaves out of season. Animals fled without reason. The wind howled in mourning. We did not understand why the heavens would strike what was pure. We only knew this: The world had committed its first unforgivable act. Lumina’s blood did not vanish. It continued. And from it, destiny would rise.

From Lumina’s blood came one who did not age. Lunan walked among us as time passed around him like water around stone. He did not rule. He guided. He did not command. He reminded. Under his presence, the scattered elven circles gathered. Paths became roads. Clearings became meeting grounds. Songs became law. What was once a village grew beyond memory. We named it Taryen'el. Not as a declaration of power, but as a promise. A promise that the forest would not be lost. Under Lunan, we learned balance between growth and restraint. Walls were grown, not built. Halls were shaped, not carved. The city breathed. And for a time, the world felt whole again.

Then one day, he was gone. No scream. No farewell. No corpse. Lunan did not fall. He became absence. We searched the forests. We listened to the roots. We asked the wind. Nothing answered. To humans, this was mystery. To us, it was revelation. Gods do not die. They withdraw. We do not speak his name lightly. To the elves, Lunan is not a hero. He is not a king. He is not a legend. He is the stillness between leaves. The pause before dawn. The silence that watches. And we believe he still listens.

The Dwarves did not stop carving. Their tunnels grew deeper. Their greed louder. Stone bled dust. The world groaned. When their mines reached roots older than memory, the forest cried out. And we answered. This was not a war for land. It was a war for survival. Arrows darkened the canopy. Blades sang through bark and iron alike. The Dwarves were strong. But strength without harmony breaks. We struck swiftly. We vanished. We returned like the wind. When the war ended, the mountains fell silent. The Dwarves retreated into their depths. We celebrated beneath the stars. Not with joy. With relief. For the world had been defended. Yet even in victory, we felt the wound would never fully close. Stone remembers. But forests forgive. Until they cannot.

Before leaf learned to grow, before wind learned to wander, before water learned to flee its path, there was stone. And before stone was broken, there was Velga. We do not speculate about our origin. We were not born by accident. We were shaped. While other races speak of breath, dream, or harmony, we speak of form. Velga did not whisper us into being. He stood before us. Face to face. Hand to stone. From the mountain itself, he carved the first Dwarves. Thus we know his name. Not because it was taught. Because it was spoken directly into our forming minds. He gave us density, so we would not be swayed. He gave us short reach, so ambition would not outpace wisdom. He gave us strong bones, so the world would break before we did. The Elves claim they were born from forests. That is why they bend. Trees bow to wind. Stone does not. We were not made to rule the world above. We were made to preserve the world below. While others feared darkness, we learned to live within it. While others fled the depths, we measured them. While others prayed for safety, we engineered it. Thus the Dwarves emerged. Not as wanderers. As anchors. The world shifts. We remain.

Time bends differently beneath the mountain. Above, kingdoms rise and fall within a handful of lifetimes. Below, we measure eras by erosion. When Hugrav first stood before the clans, the world above was still young in its chaos. Humans were scattered. Elves hid within their forests. Orcs and Trolls ruled wide regions through numbers rather than order. Agarth was not yet a town. It was a wound in the mountain. Crude tunnels. Unstable halls. Pickmarks without pattern. Hugrav looked upon this disorder and declared it unacceptable. Thus began the Long Reforging.

The Early Years (420-470)

During these decades, Hugrav ordered that every tunnel be measured. Not widened. Measured. Stone-scribes were appointed to mark pressure lines, mineral density, echo response and collapse probability. Many complained. Some left. Hugrav did not stop. He believed that permanence was worth discomfort. It was during this time that Taribor first approached the throne chamber. Already ancient. Already silent. No one could recall when Taribor had first arrived in Agarth. Some believed he had emerged from a sealed tunnel no one remembered digging. Others whispered he had been present before Hugrav himself. Taribor placed his palm upon the stone and said only one sentence: "The mountain is restless." Construction halted for twelve years. And during those twelve years, three collapses occurred exactly where Taribor had warned. From that moment, Hugrav never ordered a major excavation without Taribor present.

The Orc Conflicts (470-540)

As Agarth Town stabilized, the outer tunnels expanded. There, the Dwarves encountered Orc tribes nesting in natural caverns. The Orcs were many. Undisciplined. Violent. They struck caravans and ambushed mining parties. Hugrav did not respond with rage. He responded with logistics. Supply routes were shortened. Guard rotations tripled. Hammer-shield formations were perfected within narrow corridors where Orc numbers meant nothing. The wars lasted seventy years. Not because they were difficult. Because Hugrav refused waste. Every push was calculated. Every retreat intentional. By the end of the Orc Conflicts, their tribes were broken, scattered to the deep wilds or absorbed into lesser territories. The tunnels were reclaimed. Marked. Reinforced. The stone held.

The Troll Campaigns (540-610)

Trolls proved different. They did not raid. They lingered. Their regeneration made traditional warfare inefficient. Hugrav studied them for decades. He ordered Taribor to observe their behavior. Taribor returned after three years and said: "They heal flesh. Not force." Thus the Troll Campaigns began. Heavy impact hammers were developed. Runic shock-forges installed. Entire cavern systems were collapsed rather than contested. It was brutal. Efficient. By the year 610, the Troll strongholds beneath the plains were gone. The land above them lay open. And Hugrav saw opportunity.

The Vision of Prori (610-660)

For the first time in Dwarven history, Hugrav spoke of building beyond stone. A town not carved. A town constructed. Many elders opposed him. Stone protects, they argued. The surface invites decay. Hugrav answered: "Stone that never moves becomes irrelevant." The plains above the fallen Troll and Orc territories were chosen. Prori Town was founded. Its purpose was clear: Refinement. Trade. Strength. Not beauty. Not defense. Work. Buildings were reinforced with internal steel frameworks. Smelteries burned day and night. Ore flowed from Agarth to Prori in caravans guarded by veteran hammer-guards. During this time, Taribor visited Prori only once. He stood upon the open land, closed his eyes, and remained silent for a full day. When asked if the land was safe, he answered: "It will not swallow you. Yet." Hugrav accepted this.

The Rise of Prori Town (660-720)

Under Toruk, Prori flourished. Though only eighty-five years of age, Toruk proved relentless. Trade agreements were forged with humans. Metalworks surpassed all previous output. Prori became indispensable to the outer world. Where humans brought gold, Dwarves brought permanence. Some accused Toruk of being too open. Hugrav disagreed. "Let them rely on us," he said. "Dependency is stronger than walls."

The Long Watching (720-800)

As centuries passed, Hugrav did not change. Others did. Human kingdoms rose. Elven borders shifted. Necromantic rumors spread beneath the world. Through it all, Hugrav remained. He watched three generations of human kings. He watched alliances form and shatter. He watched wars begin above without ever reaching stone. During these years, Taribor spoke less. Sometimes decades passed without his voice. Once, when Hugrav asked if the mountain would ever fall, Taribor replied: "The mountain will endure. The world above it will not." Hugrav recorded this without comment. By the eighth century, Agarth Town and Prori Town stood as the twin pillars of the Dwarven realm. Many had been born under Hugrav’s rule. Many had died. He did not mark these as tragedy. Only as process. For stone does not mourn. Stone persists. And so does the King.

The War

Wars do not begin with blades. They begin with disagreement. For many cycles, Dwarves and Elves coexisted without open conflict. We worked below. They lived above. The boundary was understood, though never agreed upon. The Elves believed the forest granted authority over all beneath it. We rejected this claim. Stone does not answer to leaf. As Agarth Town expanded its Deep Corridors and the Lower Deeps were reinforced, mining operations approached strata long claimed sacred by the Elves of Taryen'el. They called these depths the Root-Lines. We called them mineral convergence zones. Their emissaries came without tools. Ours met them without weapons. Words were exchanged. They brought warnings. We brought measurements. Neither side yielded.

The First Strikes

The first violence came not from us. Mining parties were found slain in narrow tunnels near surface access shafts. Arrows of living wood pierced steel helms. Tracks vanished into the canopy above. Hugrav ordered restraint. For twelve cycles, no retaliation was permitted. During that time, attacks continued. Supply routes were disrupted. Outer watch-posts collapsed under silent assaults. Only then did Hugrav authorize response. Not invasion. Containment. Hammer-guards secured tunnel mouths. Surface access points were sealed with iron-grate mechanisms. Yet the Elves adapted. They did not assault walls. They starved them. Trade caravans to Prori Town were ambushed. Refinement slowed. Pressure mounted.

The Escalation

When dialogue failed, the forest itself became a weapon. Roots collapsed supply roads. Living vines crushed watch towers. The Elves claimed they acted to protect creation. We recorded the damage. Hugrav declared the conflict official. Thus began the War with the Elves. Not for land. For authority.

The Champions

The Elves sent their greatest geomancer of living wood. Hyashin Taryen. A descendant of Lumina’s bloodline. They claimed he spoke with roots as Taribor spoke with stone. We accepted the symmetry. Taribor descended from the Deep Halls to meet him. The confrontation occurred at the boundary between forest and mountain. Neither army advanced. This was not a battle. It was a verdict. Stone rose. Roots answered. The earth fractured between them. Witnesses speak of mountains trembling and trees bending toward the clash. Taribor shaped compression. Hyashin shaped growth. Where stone pressed, roots split it. Where roots bound, stone crushed them. The conflict lasted from dawn to dusk. When it ended, neither stood victorious. Taribor emerged fractured, his left arm petrified beyond recovery. Hyashin was carried away bleeding sap instead of blood. The land between them became dead ground. No tree grows there. No tunnel remains stable. To this day, both races avoid that scar.

The Turning of the War

After the duel, the Elves withdrew their major forces. Not from defeat. From loss. Their leader had fallen. And in their place rose a child. Yalleas Taryen'el. Barely of age. Crowned amid war. The Elves do not believe children cannot rule. They believe innocence grants clarity. We disagree. Under Yalleas, Elven strategy shifted. No more large confrontations. Only disruption. The war stretched thin. Resources drained. Neither side advanced.

The End Without Victory

Hugrav recognized stagnation. Stone endures, but endless conflict erodes purpose. Negotiations resumed. Not between armies. Between scribes. The Elves would cease interference below the forest floor. The Dwarves would halt expansion toward the Root-Lines. No treaty was signed. Only understanding. The war ended without celebration. Without surrender. Without song. The Elves returned to their forests. We returned to our tunnels. Losses were recorded. Tunnels sealed. Names carved.

The Aftermath

Since that war, no Dwarven excavation approaches the Root-Lines. Not because we fear the Elves. Because the stone there remembers conflict. Taribor has never again left the Deep Halls. Hyashin Taryen was never seen beyond the forest scar. And Yalleas Taryen'el rules still. The child-king who inherited a war. We do not know what songs they sing of this conflict. We know what we carved. Stone does not lie. And it does not forget.

The Dwarven Prophecy of Leaf and Stone

When the leaf burns, when its veins darken and its green is turned against itself, the stone shall not bend. It shall remain firm. It shall remain cold. It shall remain unmoved. And in the hour of corruption, when root devours root and branch turns upon branch, the leaf shall seek shelter. Not beneath the sky. Not within its own forest. But behind the stone it once denied.

The Dwarven Prophecy of the Broken Blood

Beware the blood that is not whole. For the blended flesh shall carry unrest. Neither stone-born nor leaf-born, neither deep nor wind-touched. They will walk between shapes. They will hunger for belonging. Among Dwarves, they shall dwell. Yet Dwarves they shall not be. Stone does not accept what was not carved. And what is not carved will one day crack.

The Dwarven Prophecy of the Third Foundation

A king shall fall not by blade, not by beast, but by the turning of time. From his absence, a third foundation shall rise. Far from the mountain. Far from the deep. A town without roots of stone, yet bound to stone by need. In that age, the elders shall reclaim the ground. Not through strength of arm, but through mastery of earth. And when force fails, endurance shall rule. Thus shall the Dwarves govern not the world above, but the world beneath it.

The Elven Vision of the Broken Crown

Two crowns of iron shall rise among humans. The first shall be built through unity and blood. The second through expansion and pride. Both shall fall. The first king shall become memory. The second shall become absence. Neither shall die before their time. Nor after. The world shall not mourn them equally. One shall be honored. One shall be whispered. And the throne shall pass to a child before the world is ready.

The Elven Vision of the Stone That Breathes

A king of stone shall endure beyond reason. While forests age and men wither, he shall remain. Yet even stone may fracture when the world itself begins to tilt. The day shall come when the mountain exhales. And the king beneath it shall fall. Not by war. Not by blade. But by the awakening of the deep. When he falls, the balance will shift. And no hand shall replace him.

The Elven Vision of the Mage Unbound

A man shall learn too much. He shall twist knowledge until it screams. Magic shall no longer obey the shape of reality. Reality shall obey him. He shall not serve demons. He shall not worship gods. He shall stand alone, a distortion walking in human skin. The world will name him Ferumbras. Where he walks, laws weaken. Where he speaks, spells tremble. He shall not end the world. But he shall prove it can be broken.

The Elven Vision of the Devouring Lords

From the abyss shall rise voices older than war. Not all demons seek fire. Some seek decay. Some seek silence. Some seek hunger. Drazziel shall awaken the dead until the soil forgets peace. Mor’Kael shall teach flame to think and cities shall burn without heat. Zerothiel shall wear the face of faith and many shall kneel to lies they call truth. They will not conquer. They will rot. And rot spreads further than flame.

The Elven Vision of the Crimson Name

There is a name the forest refuses to speak. Yet Lunan saw it. In silence. In blood. In absence. Mal’Kor. Not demon. Not god. Hunger given will. He shall not destroy by force. He shall persuade the world to bleed willingly. Armies shall follow him believing they are chosen. Cults shall kneel believing they are saved. When his name is spoken, the earth will answer softly. And that is when fear must begin.

The Elven Vision of the Final Twilight

When leaf and stone no longer argue, when death walks openly and is not resisted, when kings are crowned without thrones, the world will not end in fire. It will end in agreement. And agreement is the most dangerous silence of all. Only those who remember Lunan will know the world has already begun to fall.

Of the Woman Who Divides

A woman shall rise among humans. She shall speak of knowledge and order. Many shall follow her willingly. Others shall burn her name. She will fracture humanity without lifting a blade. Families shall turn upon families. Cities and towns shall argue until blood settles the meaning. At her side shall whisper the Father of Lies. Seraphel shall wear honesty as flesh. Words shall rot before they reach the ear. And mankind shall bleed for belief.

Of the Crimson One

His name shall be feared before it is known. Mal’Kor. Where he walks, flesh shall weaken. Wounds shall not heal. Blood shall decay while still warm. He shall not limit himself to mankind. Elves shall fall before him. Dwarves shall crack beneath him. Even beasts shall flee his presence. Not because he commands fear. Because fear recognizes him. All creatures shall learn his hunger. And the world shall remember pain again.

Of the One Who Walks in Shadow

There shall come a mage born of corruption. Not a demon. Not a god. A reflection of Ferumbras. He shall walk among elves unnoticed. He shall teach them magic that devours memory. From his hands shall arise a twisted kin. Elves bound not to forest. Not to light. But to absence. The forest shall recoil from them. And their existence shall tear the elven soul in half.

Of the Blood That Burns

An elf shall drink from a dragon not meant to die. The fire shall not kill him. It shall change him. Flame shall answer his will. Heat shall bend. From this act shall rise a third elven blood. They shall shape fire. They shall reject harmony. They shall mock the silence of leaves. Three elven peoples shall stand. None shall forgive. And war shall become tradition.

Of the New Demons

Ulthrix shall not be content with the old. He shall shape monsters with thought. Archdemons. Not servants. Commanders. They shall speak. They shall plan. They shall conquer. They shall not swarm. They shall march. Their arrival shall darken lands never touched by hell.

Of the King Who Falls

A king shall die wearing a crown he did not expect. King Bernard III shall fall because of his own blood. A daughter shall ignite war. Whether by love or pride, the blade shall be drawn. Saint Bernard Town shall weep. And unity shall fracture beyond repair.

Of Those Who Follow the End

Ozalurk shall rise from the inferno. Fury shall walk again. Ulthrix shall loose his archdemons. Belphegorix shall leave the mountain. Samael shall break exile. Each shall seek incarnation. Each shall hunger for form. Yet none shall succeed without divine power. And divine power no longer belongs to gods.

Of the Gathering of the Dead

Death Whisper shall rise. The earth shall open willingly. Ysolde shall walk beneath the sun without hiding. Mal’Kor shall stand above them. The chosen necromancers shall gather. Nine voices. One chant. They shall seek the flesh of Drazziel. If even one High Demon walks the world in form, the design of Uzkh shall breathe again. And the hatred of Pharan shall touch reality. Rot shall replace flame. And endings shall be forgotten.

Of the One Who Desires Godhood

There exists a being who refuses to kneel. Ferumbras. He does not seek the return of demons. He does not serve Pharan. He seeks ascension. He shall reach backward in time. To the moment of Uzkh’s destruction. From fragments smaller than thought, he shall gather what remains of divinity. Two particles. Enough to challenge creation. Not enough to share. He shall not summon gods. He shall replace them. And whether the world burns or survives will depend not on mercy… but on his curiosity.