Somewhere far from Earth, in a galaxy over 13.4 billion light-years away, lies a planet four times the size of Earth.
It has two moons—one in the northern sky, the other in the south—eternally opposite, like mirrored sentinels in the void.
The world looks eerily familiar: like a snapshot of London in the 19th century, but darker, stranger, alive with secrets.
The World
Cities & Streets
Cobblestone roads echo with the clatter of hooves and creaking wagon wheels.
Gas lamps flicker to life at dusk, their soft golden light bleeding into the fog.
Buildings loom—Victorian townhouses, Gothic spires, and blackened warehouses puffing coal smoke into the sky.
The air is thick with oil, leather, and rain. Heavy. Dirty. Real.
Fashion & Culture
Everyone dresses to impress—long coats, corsets, top hats, bonnets, lace gloves.
They carry pocket watches, canes, parasols. Status is everything.
In smoky taverns and crowded coffeehouses, gossip flows like ale.
The class divide cuts deep: nobles glide in carriages while street urchins work the alleys with quick fingers and quicker lies.
Politics & Society
Monarchs cling to power. Empires rot from within. Revolutions simmer under silk and steel.
Secret societies trade in prophecy and blood.
Nobles fund expeditions—not just across lands, but through dimensions.
The world is changing… and not everyone will survive the shift.
Atmosphere
Fog clings to the streets like a curse.
Clock towers toll over rain-slick alleys.
And at night, only the desperate dare walk alone.
Because in the shadows, monsters watch.
The Power Struggle
The Royal Family vs. High Nobles
The Royal Family wears the crown—but the High Nobles pull the strings. Dukes, Arch mages, and Grand Ministers control armies, magic, land. Some nobles hail from bloodlines older—and darker—than the monarchy. Alliances are fragile.
Oaths are easily broken, especially when power or prophecy is involved.
"The King wears the crown, but the Archduke owns the army that guards it."
The Lesser Nobles: The Wild Cards
Barons, Counts, merchant-nobles—ambitious and overlooked. They play both sides, smile in court, and deal in forbidden relics behind closed doors.
They dream of divine bloodlines, even if it means tampering with magic they can't control.
"A noble with nothing to lose is more dangerous than a king with ten armies."
The Church of the Sacred Flame vs. The Crown
The Church blesses kings... and burns heretics. They claim divine authority over magic, though none know its true origin.
Some within whisper of replacing monarchs with prophecy-born rulers.
"No king sits higher than the Flame."
Commoners on the Brink
Magic-tech and industry awaken the lower classes. Workers, rogue mages, and rebels organize in secret. They speak of freedom—and revolution.
"We built their towers. Maybe it's time we tear them down."
Secret Societies & Forgotten Truths
While kingdoms fight for crowns, others seek eternity. Ancient cults and watchers from beyond chase truths older than time. Nobles scoff at the myths... until their heirs vanish.
"You chase titles. We chase eternity."
PRAXIS
Among the many kingdoms of this world, one stands apart.
PRAXIS — the second-strongest realm on the continent. Not born of bloodline or divine right, but of brilliance, calculation, and ruthless efficiency.
Feared by all. Respected by even more.
Here, nobility is earned.
Genius is currency.
Arcane industry and political manipulation are weapons.
At the top sits:
At its helm sits King Varyndor the Eternal, a tactician feared across nations. Ten noble houses once stood against him. Now they kneel—or vanish.
No one knows their true ranks anymore. Only Varyndor does. And that secret is the linchpin keeping Praxis from devouring itself.
January 6th, 1001 AE — Evening
The twin moons hung low in the sky, casting pale blue light over the manor grounds. Inside, the silence shattered.
A scream knifed through the stone corridors of House Skywhisper's (High Ranking Noble) estate. Upstairs, in a chamber warded with glowing sigils and alchemical wards. Lady Elira Skywhisper writhed on a bloodstained mattress. her skin fever-slick, jaw clenched tight enough to snap.
The air shimmered with arcane tension. Six enchanted lanterns pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat.
She was burning up—drenched in sweat, teeth clenched tight enough to crack. Two midwives worked feverishly: one muttering healing incantations with trembling lips,
The other grinding silverleaf and wolfsbane into a glowing tonic to keep her conscious.
Six enchanted lanterns floated above the bed, pulsing in rhythm with Elira's heartbeat. The shadows on the walls twisted unnaturally, almost like they were watching.
Protective runes glowed dim on the floor. Bottles lined the shelves—some faintly humming, others sealed with wax and runes too old to decipher.
One shimmered a deep crimson: phoenix tear. Unopened.
Outside the door, armored guards stood still as statues. Another scream. One flinched.
Inside, it was time. The baby was coming.
The head emerged. One midwife steadied her breath and reached forward with practiced hands. A final push—then silence. Blood. Trembling hands. And silence.
Fifteen seconds. No cry. No breath.
The baby lay still in the midwife's arms. Wet. Motionless. Her lips parted, but no sound escaped. She turned to her partner, eyes wide with fear.
Lady Elira was fading fast—barely conscious, her chest rising in shallow, ragged breaths.The mattress beneath her soaked with magic and pain.
The lanterns above flickered—once, twice—then dimmed.
The runes on the floor blinked. Some went dark.
Outside the room, footsteps approached. The guards didn't move.
Inside, time seemed to stop.
The child was too still. Too quiet. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was wrong. One of the midwives whispered a breathless prayer to the Sacred Flame. The other reached for the red bottle.
Then—
Somewhere Else...
Darkness.
Jay floated in a place with no up, no down—just endless black. No body. No breath. No sense of time.
He didn't know where he was. He didn't even know if he was.
Then something flickered.
A faint light, white and distant, blinked once in the dark. His mind twitched—like it remembered being alive. Like it recognized the name Jay. His name.
The light pulsed again, brighter. Closer.
Something pulled at him. A voice? A memory?
The void trembled.
Back in the Manor...
A sound. Sharp. Sudden. A gasp.
The baby twitched.
Then—A cry. Loud. Shrill. Alive.
It shattered the silence like glass.
The midwife dropped to her knees, clutching the child to her chest, eyes wide with disbelief and relief. Behind her, Lady Elira groaned faintly—alive, but barely.
Outside, attendants and nobles breathed again. The door creaked open.
Figures in silk and velvet poured into the room, faces lit with cautious hope.
At the center, Sir Marek Veldrin Skywhisper stepped forward. Tall. Imposing. His black hair slicked back, his sharp blue eyes locked on the child.
"Congratulation, Sir Marek."
"It's a girl," one of the women said, voice trembling with something unspoken.
He didn't respond.
He simply stepped closer, brushing the infant's brow with his gloved fingers.
The child blinked once, and then went quiet again—watching him.
His face showed nothing. But behind his eyes... something shifted.
Not surprise. Not pride.
Recognition.
As if he sensed what no one else dared speak aloud.
This child had returned from somewhere no one comes back from.
And she hadn't come back alone.
Elsewhere —
Far from House Skywhisper's estate, buried deep below the earth where maps go blank and compasses spin, a single candle burned in a vault that should not exist.
No door. No path. Just a room carved into the bones of the world—lit by that one stubborn flame.
Around it, Nine figures knelt in silence, faces hidden behind masks of ivory, obsidian, and blood-stained gold.
Their robes shimmered faintly with stitched glyphs that rearranged when not looked at directly.
A Tenth mask sat on an empty pedestal—cracked down the center. It had been waiting for years.
Then—without sound or signal—the flame flickered. Once. Twice.
Then it flared, dancing violently with blue-white fire. The air shifted. Cold. Breathless. As if the vault itself had inhaled.
One of the masked figures—the one in bone-white porcelain etched with thorned runes—spoke first:
"It breathes."
Another tilted their head, listening to something no one else could hear.
"The Weave stirs. Something has returned."
A third raised their gloved hand above the candle. Their shadow did not follow.
"The child has survived the veil. But she brought something back with her."
The room darkened. The candle didn't dim, yet all light seemed to bleed away from its edges.
A high, warbling tone rang out from nowhere, bending the air like heat over a forge.
The porcelain-masked figure stood. Slowly. Deliberately.
"Begin the Watch. Her name will echo."
They turned to the empty pedestal.
"The tenth chair must not remain empty much longer."
TO BE CONTINUED...