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Peace had held for three decades. Long enough for people to forget the sound of war. Long enough for the scars of the old world to fade into legend, stories told to children as cautionary tales. Statues of heroes now gathered dust. Monuments of sacrifice leaned under the weight of ivy. And yet, beneath the quiet, the fractures of humanity never truly healed.
After the Founding of Afterlight, twelve provinces had emerged, bound under the Accord. Each province thrived in its own way—some led by scholars who devoted their lives to Ether research, others by engineers who built soaring machines powered by crystallized energy, and still others by mystics who communed with the subtle forces of the world. They traded knowledge, defended one another, and shared the advanced Ether reactors that powered the heartlands. For a time, it worked. For a time, unity seemed unbreakable.
But history had a long memory. Greed followed progress like a shadow, patient and unyielding.
The western provinces, flush with resources and influence, began to hoard Ether reactors, claiming they were necessary to maintain stability. The southern provinces, now dependent on these shipments, grew restless, their cities darkening whenever shipments arrived late. Accusations flew like sparks across a dry forest. "They stole our energy!" cried one side. "We delivered every crate!" cried the other. Minor disputes became major grievances, and soon, the tone shifted from negotiation to confrontation.
From the Citadel, Kael's descendants tried to mediate. Lysara, the current heir, had inherited not just the throne but the weight of history. She was young, barely twenty, yet unyielding, carrying herself with a grace that belied her resolve. "If one province burns, all burn," she told her advisors in the candlelit chambers of the Citadel. "Afterlight cannot survive another schism. We will not allow petty quarrels to unravel everything we've built."
Her words, however, were whispers against a rising tide of dissent. Smugglers trafficked black Ether, a volatile substance condensed from pure energy, capable of warping space itself. Villages disappeared overnight, consumed by their own experiments or stolen to feed shadowy markets. Rumors spread faster than Lysara's proclamations. People began to fear what was inside their own cities, inside the hands of those they trusted.
To the east, prophets arose, claiming visions of a Second Void. They declared the light of Afterlight false, unnatural, and dangerous, preaching that the world's devotion to order had violated the balance of creation itself. Followers gathered in throngs, chanting in the streets, shaking the foundations of long-held faiths. Riots broke out in provincial capitals, flames licking the edges of carefully maintained streets. Markets were overturned. Council halls were burned.
The Citadel, once a beacon of authority, now trembled under the weight of political strife. Lysara summoned council after council, but no argument quelled the rising chaos. Advisors whispered that war was inevitable, that compromise was a luxury the world could no longer afford.
In the hidden archives beneath the Citadel, Lysara poured over the ancient manuscripts of Seris, the scholar-mystic who had foreseen the rise of Afterlight centuries before. Dusty scrolls and fragile tomes filled the chamber with the scent of age and warning. One page, written in trembling script, caught her eye. It spoke in riddles: "If balance bends too long, it will snap where shadow sleeps."
The phrase haunted her. Scholars argued over its meaning; mystics debated the location of the "shadow," but all agreed on one thing: it was not idle prophecy. It was warning.
Then came the first disaster.
A single Ether reactor, the pride of the city of Veyra, exploded without warning. The blast was nothing like the controlled surges Lysara had trained her people to manage. The light did not fade as expected. Instead, it reversed, collapsing inward, consuming every reflection in its radius. Glass windows turned black, mirrors shattered from within, and buildings trembled like living things. Tens of thousands vanished, swallowed by the dark pulse, leaving nothing but echoes and silence.
The survivors fled, but the damage was irreversible. Cities surrounding Veyra reported tremors of dark energy, minor at first, then growing, until the very horizon seemed to warp. Stars overhead dimmed, one by one, as though the universe itself was holding its breath. Lysara climbed to the Citadel's tallest balcony and watched the horizon burn with the reversed light. She felt the weight of the Accord crumbling beneath her.
The Shattered Accord had begun.
Council halls emptied as mistrust overtook loyalty. Provinces withdrew, fortifying borders, hoarding reactors and stockpiling weapons. The black Ether trade surged in secret, feeding both necessity and ambition. Villages that had thrived in peace became hunting grounds for rogue alchemists and mercenaries. Prophets spread their doctrine like wildfire, declaring the darkness a test, a judgment from forces beyond comprehension.
Lysara, despite her youth, acted decisively. She sent emissaries to every province, not with demands but with warnings: unite or perish. She summoned the best minds, the bravest soldiers, and the most cunning strategists, knowing the challenges ahead would test every fiber of Afterlight's resilience. And yet, even as she acted, the echoes of that fateful explosion resonated across the world, a stark reminder that no authority could control the fracture's rising tide alone.
That night, Lysara stayed in the Citadel's highest chamber, gazing at the city beneath her. The shards of blackened light still lingered in the streets, flickering like dying embers. She traced the map of the provinces with her finger, noting every region, every weakness, every spark of rebellion. She whispered to herself, "This cannot be the end. We will survive… we must survive."
And somewhere, deep in the fractures of the world, the pulse of unseen power stirred. It responded not with violence yet, but with patience. It waited, biding its time until Afterlight fractured entirely.
The Shattered Accord was no longer a political term. It was a prophecy fulfilled. And from that night forward, the world of Afterlight ceased to believe in peace.
Darkness crept into every corner. Alliances crumbled. Trust became currency no one could afford. And in the quiet moments between explosions, the people felt it: a pulse beneath the earth, a whisper beneath the wind, a promise that the fractures would grow, that power would demand its due, and that the light of Afterlight itself would be tested beyond comprehension.
The stars, dimmed by the reversed light, seemed to mourn. The world waited.
And the echoes of the Shattered Accord rippled outward, unstoppable, unrelenting, and eternal.
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