In the twilight of the age, when gods turned their gaze away from mortals and left men to their own follies, the lands of Æthron lay shattered, their fields scorched and rivers choked with ash. War, that cruel and unyielding mistress, had swept her dark veil across the realm, sparing none from her wicked embrace.
It was said the flames of strife began in the kingdom of Caldrith, where a king's pride outweighed the wisdom of his council. King Edran the Valiant, though bold in name, had stirred the ire of his neighbors by laying claim to the sacred lands of Veyrn. "Let the gods judge my right," he declared, his voice booming from atop his gilded throne. Yet no gods answered his summons, and in their silence, men heeded only the call of steel.
Thus began the War of the Seven Banners, a contest of greed, ambition, and vengeance that knew no bounds. Kingdoms once bound by oaths of kinship now turned blade against blade, the banners of their ancestors desecrated upon bloodied fields. The mighty empires of Eseriel and Tyrnos clashed like titans, their armies vast and unrelenting, while lesser lords rallied their hosts in desperate bids for survival.
Amidst the chaos, whispers carried on the wind told of a greater doom. From the desolate wastes of the north, where no man dared tread, came signs of a fell awakening. The skies darkened with unnatural storms, and the earth trembled beneath unholy rumblings. The priests of the Old Faith claimed the world's balance had been broken, that the unending wars had drawn forth an ancient, slumbering malice.
But such portents were dismissed as folly by the highborn, who cared little for omens when gold and glory were at stake. Even the common folk, though fearful, found no strength to act; for how could they, broken as they were beneath the yoke of famine and despair?
Yet amidst this age of ruin, a spark lingered. In the shadowed corners of the world, beyond the reach of kings and their wars, a gathering began. Outcasts, exiles, and wanderers—those who had been discarded by the machinations of power—found themselves drawn together by chance or fate. Among them were knights who had renounced their oaths, mages whose powers defied the laws of men, and simple folk whose hearts burned with defiance.
It was a ragged band, ill-suited to the burden they would bear. But as their paths converged, so too did their purpose: to end the endless war. Not by treaties penned in gilded halls, but by shattering the very cycle of bloodshed that bound their world.
They would turn the war, not by blade alone, but by the will to defy even the gods themselves. And in so doing, they would awaken forces far older—and far more dangerous—than the kingdoms they sought to save.
Thus began their tale, written in fire and shadow, a song that would echo through the ages. For though their journey was fraught with peril, and though the odds stood insurmountable, it was said that in the darkest hour, the faintest flame burns brightest.
And so, dear reader, let us speak of them. Of the heroes who dared to turn the war. Of the lives they changed, the foes they felled, and the choices that would shape the world anew. For what is history but the retelling of impossible deeds?