To understand the world that birthed the Duskthrone bloodline, one must first understand the Empire they stood poised to shatter.
The Empire of Aetheris was the grandest civilization beneath the gaze of the Eidolon Pantheon—a vast dominion that stretched across half the known continent. Its banners had flown over countless kingdoms, swallowing lesser realms beneath the weight of divine decree and mortal conquest. The Empire's foundations were carved from the bones of forgotten gods, bound by both mortal law and the unseen chains of the divine.
Yet beneath the Empire's grandeur festered an unspoken truth. The gods' laws were not absolute. Power, in its rawest form, could rewrite the very fabric of the world. And no bloodline embodied that truth more than the Duskthrone.
At the Empire's peak stood the Everchosen Dynasty, the Imperial Family that traced its lineage to the first Emperor who had carved the Empire from warring tribes nearly a thousand years ago. The Everchosen were the Pantheon's chosen rulers—blessed with the Sunfire Blessing, a divine power to command flame and light. Yet the current dynasty was a pale shadow of its ancestors, their power dimmed by centuries of decadence and political games.
Beneath the Everchosen stood the High Council of Dukes, seven great noble houses whose bloodlines carried ancient pacts, sorcerous powers, or the favor of the gods. Each Duke House ruled over vast territories, their authority second only to the Imperial Throne. They were the Empire's pillars—kings in all but name.
But there was an unspoken truth among the nobility.
The Duskthrone Dukedom was not one of the seven. It was something more.
The Duskthrone Dukedom was a realm unto itself—an empire hidden beneath the Empire's skin. Their lands, the Nameless Lands, stretched across the eastern frontier, cloaked in perpetual mists where the sun rarely pierced the gloom. Though nominally bound to the Imperial Throne, the Duskthrone Dukedom had always stood apart. They paid no taxes. They swore no oaths. The Emperor's decrees stopped at the mist-shrouded borders.
While the other Dukes schemed and plotted beneath the gilded ceilings of the Imperial Court, the Duskthrone Dukedom moved in silence—watching, waiting.
It was said that the Duskthrone family did not rule their lands through fear alone. They wrote fear into the very bones of the world.
No power in the Empire was more feared—or more forbidden—than the Eidolic Curse.
Every Duskthrone bore a fragment of this nameless power—an inheritance passed down through blood. They could unmake names from existence—not merely killing their victims, but erasing every trace that they had ever lived. Memories would vanish. Records would crumble. Even the gods' ledgers would forget.
To cross a Duskthrone was to risk losing one's place in the world—not only in life, but in the fabric of reality itself.
Yet the Eidolic Curse was only the outermost layer of their power.
The Duskthrone bloodline was bound to something older than the Pantheon—a force whispered of in half-forgotten tongues. While other noble houses gained their powers through divine blessings or ancient pacts, the Duskthrone bloodline carried the power to rewrite the laws of existence.
Each generation, the Curse took a different shape—some could unravel names, others could bend time or shatter fate. It was said that the gods themselves could not foresee the next form the Curse would take.
And there were darker rumors—whispers that the Eidolic Curse did not merely break the world's laws. It named them.
Few had ever seen the full strength of the Duskthrone military—and those who had rarely lived to speak of it.
The Nameless Legion marched beneath banners of black and crimson, their faces hidden beneath featureless masks. They did not speak. They did not bleed. Some said they were not men at all, but spirits bound by the Curse—erased souls given shape once more.
The Duskguard—elite knights clad in black armor engraved with nameless sigils—stood as the Dukedom's enforcers. It was said that each Duskguard was bound to the Curse upon initiation, their true names erased from existence. To kill a Duskguard was to kill a nameless thing—something the world itself would not remember.
But the true terror of the Duskthrone Dukedom lay in their Silent Lords—sorcerers who carried the bloodline's forbidden powers. They were rarely seen outside the misted borders, but when they walked the world, kingdoms fell in their wake.
The Duskthrone Dukedom did not conquer.
They silenced.
Entire villages had vanished along the Nameless Lands' borders without a single sword being drawn. Rivals who plotted against the Dukedom found their bloodlines snuffed out—erased not by war, but by something no one could name.
The Emperor had long pretended not to see.
But the truth was that even the Everchosen feared them.
It was whispered that the Duskthrone Dukedom's loyalty to the Empire had been bought with a single demand—one that had stood unchanged for centuries.
Leave us to our silence... or be silenced.
No treaty bound the Duskthrone Dukedom to the Empire. No parchment bore their oaths.
Only a single Unwritten Pact—an agreement passed down from Emperor to Emperor in whispered counsel.
The Empire would not interfere with the Nameless Lands.
The Duskthrone Dukedom would not claim the throne.
It was a fragile truce, held together by fear alone.
Yet even the gods knew—such pacts could not last forever.
Though the Empire's history books made no mention of it, there had been a time when the gods themselves had tried to erase the Duskthrone bloodline. Divine inquisitions had swept across the Nameless Lands. Oracles had declared them heretics. Saints had led holy wars beneath banners of fire and light.
None had returned.
No one knew what the gods had seen within the mist-shrouded cities—but they had never dared to strike again.
In the centuries since, the Pantheon had turned its gaze elsewhere. The Unwritten Pact remained unbroken.
Yet in the oldest scriptures of the Pantheon, there was a prophecy—one that the oracles dared not speak aloud.
"When the Black Sun rises, the Nameless Heir shall walk the world...And even the gods shall tremble."
In every temple of the Empire, the gods' statues stood untouched.
In the Nameless Lands, their shrines lay empty.
The silence lingered—unbroken.
But the gods were watching.
And they feared what would come.