There was a time when the world was young, and the echoes of Creation still trembled across the valleys and mountains of Myranthel. When primordial fire roared with a will of its own and darkness had not yet been bound, the First Races were born—children shaped directly from that eternal flame.

  From the embers of pure light arose the Elvar, keepers of memory and balance, whose voices could weave harmony into the very fabric of the world. From the heart of stone and molten steel rose the Dravern, steadfast as the mountains that birthed them. And from the deepest hollows of the dark emerged the Shadowborn, beings whose true names were lost with the turning of the cycles, though their whispers still haunt the forgotten reaches of the North.

  As the eras turned and the flame of the Elvar mingled with the shifting breath of time, new kindred appeared. From them came the Elves—graceful, proud, eternal wanderers of Myranthel’s forests—and the Fey, green-eyed nymphs cloaked in living light, whose bond with the primordial fire burned bright but brief. They faded with the centuries, yet traces of their blood still linger in a chosen few.

  From the Dravern descended the Dwarves, tireless delvers who tamed mountain, cavern, and abyss, raising kingdoms of stone and iron. And from them came the Ancient Men—wise and vigorous—still bound by a slender thread to the eternal flame. With time, some grew fleeting, driven by a restless spirit, while others preserved the inner fire and became Mages and Sorceresses able to shape the same forces that had forged the world.

  But the shadow never truly vanished.

  Creatures born of it continued to roam Myranthel, waiting in silence for their hour to return. And the Shadow—cunning, insatiable—learned that it did not need to spawn monsters to thrive. It could twist what already existed. It fed on pain, despair, resentment, and ambition, slipping into the hearts of those who yielded and warping their souls until they broke. From such corruption arose Witches, Black Mages, Dark Elves… and the first Krogar—twisted things the size of children, yellow-eyed and needle-smiled, living remnants of the Shadow’s legacy.

  Thus unfolded the early cycles of the world: races rising and races lost, light against the gathering dark. All that followed—wars, broken oaths, heroes and betrayals—would be sung for generations to come.

  But everything began here, in the days when Creation still burned.

  Centuries later, when the peoples of Myranthel walked with steady steps upon the earth, the Relics of Dawn were forged: seven fragments of power shaped by ancient hands, each bound in purity to the primordial fire. They were not mere weapons nor ornaments; they were emblems of balance, born of the spirit of every people and a mirror of their virtues and fears.

  What had once been conceived as a bond between kindred soon became the seed of discord.

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  Ambition, doubt, and hunger for dominion fanned disputes like embers in the wind. Nations coveted each other’s relics, seeking to gather them and claim a power no single race was meant to wield. Thus began an age of wars that spanned centuries: mountains cracked, forests were reduced to ash, ancestral cities sank beneath the earth, and seas ran red.

  The shadows feasted on the chaos.

  Corrupted beings and creatures born of darkness rose to ravage wherever the light faltered. Yet amid the devastation, unlikely alliances formed, and heroes of mixed blood held the tide. Some victories are sung to this day; some defeats are whispered only on moonless nights.

  When the final great battle threatened not only the races but the world itself, the wise made a desperate choice: to hide what had torn the world apart. The Relics of Dawn were sealed in secret places and scattered across the edges of Myranthel. The shadows were defeated—or so many believed—and their essence seemed banished forever.

  A fragile peace followed, thin as ancient glass. But the prophecies never forgot the Relics’ power, nor warned in vain that one day they would be gathered again.

  A day of judgment.

  A day of rebirth.

  In time, Myranthel entered a new age. Men—more numerous and widespread than any other race—became its rulers. For a while, lasting peace seemed possible.

  But peace seldom endures.

  From the blackest reaches of Valdara rose a new wielder of shadow: Morvanyr the Umbral, a mage whose thirst for power knew neither limit nor form. Guided by whispers that should have remained buried, he found the relic forged of darkness itself—Khar’Zhul, most feared of all. With it, he spread corruption like a silent plague and gathered around him a lethal cult: the Order of the Raven.

  Darkness swept the western lands with unrelenting force. Lesser kingdoms fell to madness and dread.

  Yet Myranthel did not yield.

  When shadow threatened to swallow everything, one man rose to unite the races: Eryndor Galathor, King of Elyndor. He forged an alliance of men, elves, dwarves, and mages, and together they marched into the last war against Morvanyr. The Umbral fell, the Order of the Raven was shattered, and the world breathed again.

  But that peace did not last.

  For Eryndor’s heir, Ardyn Galathor, could not resist the same murmurs that had once guided Morvanyr. Ambition consumed him. Under his rule, the Order of the Raven rose anew, and with the might of the throne he spread domination like wildfire: Valdara was subjugated, elven and dwarven strongholds were broken, and the southern frontier was left a wasteland of ruins.

  Only Drauhen, shielded by the Thalen range, remained free.

  Then an ancient prophecy was unearthed from forgotten temples:

  “When the blood of Galathor spills upon the northern lands,

  the sleeping fire shall awaken.

  That blood shall bear the Mark of Flame—

  both key and path;

  the hand that gathers the Relics.

  For when the Flame rises again

  and the Relics are found,

  darkness shall be vanquished…

  or exalted.”

  Many believed Ardyn himself would bring salvation or ruin.

  But destiny’s fire rarely burns where it is expected.

  Terrified by the darkness growing inside him, Ardyn sought to destroy his own blood: a child marked by prophecy, bearer of the Mark of Flame.

  He did not know the prophecy spoke not of his downfall… but of his legacy.

  The child survived. He grew in exile on the borderlands of Drauhen, far from Galathor’s reach and the echo of war. Ignorant of his heritage and destiny, he carried—unknowingly—a mark that would one day lead him to what slept within, and shape the fate of the world.

  And in the forgotten corners of Myranthel, the echo of a dormant fire began to breathe once more.

  Thank you for reading the prologue.

  Since the chapters are short, I decided to release the prologue along with 11 chapters on the first day. After that, I plan to continue publishing new chapters every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

  If you enjoyed this chapter, I invite you to continue on to the next one.Your time and support truly mean a lot.