Far from the obsidian spires of Nacrifa, far beyond the borders guarded by vampire sentinels and ancient treaties, there existed a realm that had not bent its knee to crown or fang in millennia.
Elarion.
A kingdom not ruled by bloodlines, but by power, knowledge, and memory.
Here, magic was not whispered about in fear, it was breathed, tasted, lived.
The night sky above Elarion shimmered unnaturally, stars rearranging themselves in patterns no astronomer would dare chart. The moon hung low and swollen, its light fractured as though strained through unseen glass. The air hummed, subtle, constant, alive.
Magic was restless.
In the capital city of Velarys, streets curved like living things, bending according to ley lines rather than logic. Buildings rose not in neat rows but in organic spirals, grown more than built. Crystals embedded in stone pulsed faintly as witches passed, recognizing kin.
Yet that night every crystal dimmed at once.
