Chapter One
The Nation of Asters
There are nations that are built on conquest, and others that are built on fear.
Asterin was built on order.
If one were to stand high enough above the world—high enough to see patterns rather than people—the shape of the empire would resemble a compass laid flat upon the earth. Four great regions stretched outward in quiet balance, each bearing a burden that kept the whole from collapsing. And at the very center of them all, like the pupil of an unblinking eye, stood the Imperial Capital.
It never slept.
Stone roads spiraled inward toward it from every direction, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, hooves, and wheels. Couriers rode day and night. Bells rang at precise hours. Towers burned with steady light even at dawn. From above, it looked like a lighthouse set in an unmoving sea—guiding, watching, commanding.
This was where the Emperor ruled.
This was where the nation breathed.
North of the capital, the land rose sharply, as though the earth itself were trying to escape the sky.
Mountains clawed upward in jagged lines, their peaks forever veiled in snow and ice. The air grew thin and sharp there, cutting at the lungs of the unprepared. Beneath those mountains lay caverns older than recorded time—winding, echoing, and heavy with the scent of metal and stone.
It was here that the empire's wealth was born.
Deep within those frozen veins slept the asters—gemstones and raw minerals torn from the bones of the world. Emeralds glowed faintly even before polishing. Diamonds slept like frozen stars. Gold, silver, iron, and rarer metals ran through the rock in quiet abundance. Every coin minted, every blade forged, every crown worn in Asterin carried the weight of the north within it.
House Kiranes ruled those lands.
Their banner bore a silver longsword piercing a blooming red rose—a reminder that beauty and blood were never far apart. From the high mountain estates to the cavernous mines below, Kiranes oversaw the lifeblood of the empire. Their ledgers were as closely guarded as the Emperor's own seals, their decisions capable of tilting the balance of the entire nation.
Yet even House Kiranes did not rule all of the north.
Far beyond the last sanctioned mine, beyond a hundred miles of treacherous ice and wind, stood a colossal wall. Black stone. Runed steel. Old magic woven so deeply into its foundation that even time hesitated before touching it. No gate opened there. No banner flew above it.
Beyond that wall lay territory forbidden by law, by faith, and by fear.
Ancient draconic traces—some real, some whispered—rested in those frozen peaks. Bones the size of towers. Scars burned into the earth itself. Legends said the wind there did not howl, but breathed. And so no one went in, and no one came out.
To the west of the capital, the land softened and darkened.
Forests stretched endlessly, their canopies knitting together until sunlight filtered down only in shards. Roots twisted thick beneath the soil, entangling old paths and swallowing forgotten ruins. Wildlife flourished in dense, intricate webs—predators and prey bound together in cycles older than the empire itself.
Farther west still, the forests gave way to caverns and shadowed valleys where the air smelled damp and alive. Shrines stood half-buried beneath moss. Paths vanished overnight. The west was not lawless, but it was unruled in a way no decree could fully tame.
To the east, the world opened.
Plains rolled outward in gentle waves, painted gold and green by endless fields of grain. Rivers cut clean paths through the land, feeding towns that thrived on harvest and labor. Windmills turned lazily under open skies. This was where the empire fed itself.
And farther east still, the earth dried and flattened into vast deserts where the sun ruled without mercy. Trade routes cut across the sand like lifelines, marked by stone pillars and guarded by caravans that never truly rested. Coins changed hands here faster than words. Languages blended. Foreign goods passed into Asterin—and Asterin's influence flowed outward in return.
House Elarion held dominion over this movement.
Their crest, a wolf's face, symbolized vigilance and survival. They controlled supply routes, trade systems, and currency itself. Nothing entered or left the empire without passing beneath Elarion's watchful gaze. Where Kiranes hoarded wealth, Elarion made it move.
To the south, the land grew quiet.
Forests thickened once more, darker than those of the west, their branches woven tight as if hiding something ashamed of the light. Paths dwindled. Villages thinned. And at the edge of the continent, where land met the endless roar of the ocean, a palace stood abandoned.
It rose from a sheer cliff of black stone, waves crashing violently below it, salt mist forever clinging to its walls. Gothic spires reached toward the sky like broken fingers. Beside it loomed a jagged rock hill, sharp and solitary, as though standing guard over a secret the palace itself could no longer speak.
Once, it had been royal.
Now, it was forgotten.
House Idreas governed the connective tissue of the empire—its institutions, facilities, and local governance. Their hawk-winged crest flew above administrative halls and regional courts, ensuring the Emperor's will reached even the furthest towns.
Together, eight major noble houses upheld Asterin. Beneath them stood twenty-eight lesser noble houses, then a hundred wealthy families whose influence bent markets rather than laws. Below them all lived the people—farmers, miners, traders, soldiers—each thread woven into the vast tapestry of the nation.
From above, it all appeared balanced.
From within, it was anything but.
Because empires are not held together by maps or crests or walls.
They are held together by people.
And people, unlike stone or law, break.
Far from the capital's towers, in a noble estate nestled between duty and destiny, a young girl would one day wake unaware that the world she lived in was already turning toward her.
And somewhere else—quiet, watching, and already named by whispers—
the Abyss was learning how to rule again.