[Tae'ar]:(Earth)
Eight thousand years have passed since the Great Cataplasm shattered the Old World and erased the age of steel, towers, and forgotten gods of progress. What once was a globe of nations and machines collapsed into dust, fire, and silence. From its ruin, the New World was born, reshaped into five vast continents and scattered isles, where oceans swallowed cities and the land itself was reforged. Humanity survived not by clinging to what was lost, but by returning to ancient roots: stone, blade, fire, and faith. Kingdoms rose from the bones of the past, building new marvels without memory of the tools that once shaped the sky, carrying modern minds within primal hands.
Yet the Cataplasm did more than destroy; it gifted humanity a power both wondrous and terrifying. Cuendi, known as Lattruim ar veali Cuendi (The Wonder of the Natural World), awakened within a chosen few, allowing them to sense, shape, and command the energy of the world itself. Fire, water, wind, earth, metal, and wood answered their will, while deeper forces of spirit and matter whispered of forbidden mastery. This power became the foundation of empires and sects, of holy orders and hidden cults, dividing mankind between those who wielded the source and those who served beneath it. Whether Cuendi is a blessing or a curse remains unanswered, for with every miracle it births conflict, ambition, and war.
Now, in the present age, an era scarred by fallen kingdoms and centuries of bloodshed, the world stands restless and unbalanced. Great powers such as the Durendor Kingdom, the Dahuang Empire, and the Immortal Sects hold fragile dominion over lands shaped by ancient disasters and endless ambition. Beneath their banners, villages cling to survival, and forgotten ruins whisper of truths long buried. It is a world where heroes are not born of destiny alone, but of suffering, resilience, and choice. In this age of ruin and rebirth, legends are forged not by what was lost but by what humanity dares to become.
[Daedor]:(The Cliff Home)
Kian'dor Silverthar returned home as the sun dipped low behind the forested hills, its dying light spilling through the branches like embers caught in slow motion. His village lay tucked between ancient trees and worn earth, small, quiet, and easily forgotten by the wider world. No walls guarded it, no banners marked its name, only timber homes, stone foundations, and the thin trail of smoke rising from hearth fires that signaled life still endured here. This was not a place of glory or ambition, but of survival, shaped by generations who learned to live with little and expect less.
The village had grown around the old temple at the forest's edge, a relic of an age long past, its stone weathered smooth by time and prayer alike. Once it had drawn pilgrims and Cuendi practitioners from distant lands; now it stood mostly silent, tended by villagers in exchange for coin, food, or protection. Kian'dor had spent the day scrubbing its cold floors and clearing moss from cracked pillars, his hands aching and clothes dusted with ash and grime. Such work paid poorly, but it kept bread on the table and his family's roof intact at least for another season.
As he walked the narrow dirt paths toward home, he passed faces worn familiar by years of shared hardship. Children chased one another between homes built from scavenged stone and forest-cut beams, their laughter cutting briefly through the evening air before fading. Elder folk sat near their doorways, watching the world with tired eyes that had seen too many winters and too many wars. Beyond the village, the forest loomed ancient, patient, and dangerous, its presence a reminder that the world beyond the hearth was unforgiving.
This was Kian'dor's world: humble, harsh, and fragile. And though he did not yet know it, it was a world standing on the edge of change, waiting for someone like him to step beyond its quiet boundaries.
As Kian'dor walked from the small village center, he noticed the familiar shape of the Silverthar estate emerged through the thinning trees as Kian'dor crested the final rise. Once, it had been a proud sight: stone walls cut clean, banners flying, servants moving with purpose through wide courtyards. Now, the mansion still stood tall, but age and neglect clung to it like a second skin. Moss crept along the outer stones, paint peeled from shuttered windows, and only a handful of lamps burned where dozens once glowed. The legacy of a great house remained, but its pulse had slowed.
He pushed open the heavy wooden gate just as laughter echoed from the courtyard.
"Kian'dor! There he is!" boomed Gregdor Twightlhar, his stepfather, striding forward with a grin far too wide for a man who wore his years in his shoulders. Before Kian'dor could protest, Gregdor clapped him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Back from scrubbing holy stones again? Careful at this rate, the temple will shine brighter than our future!"
Kian'dor couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. Gregdor had never learned when to take life seriously, and perhaps that was precisely why the family survived as well as they did.
From the doorway, Xu Ling's voice cut through the moment, sharp and composed. "Gregdor, stop harassing him. He's tired." She stepped forward, eyes already assessing the dirt on Kian'dor's sleeves and the way his shoulders sagged. Strict, always observant, but when she reached him, she adjusted his collar and pressed a hand briefly to his arm, checking without words that he was well. "You should have eaten at the temple."
"I did," Kian'dor lied poorly.
She sighed, seeing through him instantly, but said nothing more for now.
Near the steps, his grandmother watched in silence, her thin lips pressed tight as her sharp gaze flicked past him and settled instead on Lin'wunan. "Come here, child," she called, beckoning the youngest stepsister closer. "Don't stand in the cold. You'll catch something." Lin'wunan all but skipped into her arms, basking in the attention, shooting Kian'dor a smug glance over her shoulder.
"I was waiting all day!" Lin'wunan announced loudly. "Did you bring me anything?" She tugged at his cloak without shame. "Anything at all?"
Before he could answer, Lin'wuin stepped in gently, resting a hand on her younger sister's shoulder. "Let him breathe first," she said softly, her voice calm and warm. She smiled at Kian'dor, not demanding, not expectant, just glad he was home. Lin'wuin had always been that way: kind, patient, quietly strong. Xu Ling's eyes softened at the sight of her, and even Gregdor's grin mellowed. Only the grandmother looked away, unimpressed, while Lin'wunan scowled, already resentful of the attention she felt was stolen.
The estate bustled faintly around them. Ten servants moved through the halls and courtyard, doing the work of what once had been fifty, cleaning, cooking, repairing what time and war had taken. This mansion had been awarded to the family long ago, when Kian'dor's uncle, a legendary general of Durendor, returned victorious from countless campaigns. He had died as he lived on the battlefield, cut down in the great war against the Dahuang Empire. His name still carried weight, but glory did not feed mouths, and the house had slowly slipped from prominence into quiet survival.
As they began to move inside, a familiar voice called out from the gate. "So, this is where you disappeared to!"
Kandor Bonduir waved as he approached, already grinning, already unwelcome in the way only a best friend could be. "I told the whole village you'd be here. Thought I'd beat them to it." He ducked past the servants without ceremony, clapping Kian'dor on the shoulder. "You look like hell. Must've been a good day."
Kian'dor exhaled, the weight of the world easing just slightly as the doors closed behind them.
For a moment, in this worn but living house, he was not a laborer, not a nobody in a broken world.
He was simply home.
While life at the Silverthar estate settled into its familiar rhythm of modest comfort and quiet struggle, the world beyond the forest did not rest.
[Avalor]
Far to the east, beyond rolling plains and ancient trade roads worn smooth by centuries of boots and wagons, rose Avalor, the capital city of the Durendor Kingdom. Where villages whispered, Avalor roared. Its towering stone walls stretched like a crown upon the land, reinforced by Cuendi-forged battlements that glimmered faintly even at dusk. Spires and citadels pierced the sky, banners bearing the sigil of House De'mir snapping in the wind as tens of thousands moved through its streets each day. Merchants shouted beneath arched bridges, armored patrols marched in disciplined lines, and the great bells of the city rang not for prayer, but for order.
Within the inner districts, far from the noise of markets and taverns, lay the Sanctum of Records, an austere complex of white stone and iron gates, guarded day and night by knights sworn directly to the crown. Here were kept treaties, war chronicles, sealed edicts, and truths never meant for the common tongue. It was here, beneath layers of wards and watchful eyes, that the impossible occurred.
At the turning of the night watch, an alarm was raised low, sharp, and brief, before being smothered by silence. When the guards finally breached the inner vault, they found no shattered doors, no slain sentries, no signs of forced entry. Only an empty pedestal where a single scroll had once rested. Its case lay open, its seals unbroken, its contents gone.
The stolen scroll bore no title, no mark of authorship, only a red wax sigil known to a handful of high lords and scholars of Cuendi. It contained knowledge deemed too dangerous to speak aloud, let alone lose. By dawn, whispers moved through the palace like a spreading chill. By midday, the city felt an unease crawling beneath the clamor of daily life.
And though Kian'dor Silverthar slept that night beneath a leaking roof, unaware of the theft that had shaken the heart of the kingdom, the thread of fate had already begun to tighten.
What was taken in Avalor would not remain far from him for long.