Prologue: The Forgotten Kingdom of the South

At the dawn of the First Age, when the elder races shaped their dominions and the gods wove their influence into the lands of Eldoria, there existed a kingdom unlike any other—one untouched by the light of the divine, hidden beyond the reach of elves, dwarves, or orcs.

It was a land where the sun rarely rose, where the moon cast an eternal glow upon the blackened spires of forgotten cities. A place where shadows clung to the land as if they were alive.

This was Varethane, the Kingdom of Evernight—a realm of forsaken men, wielders of dark magic, and the chosen of a god long abandoned by the heavens.

Unlike the scattered kingdoms of men, who fought for survival across Eldoria, the people of Varethane did not worship the Pantheon of Light, nor did they forge their destiny through steel alone.

Their power was drawn from whispers in the void, from ancient rites and sacrifices, from a force older than the gods themselves.

The Renegade God and the Covenant of Shadows

Legends speak of a deity who once walked among the gods but turned against them—a Renegade God, who sought knowledge forbidden even among the divine.

His name had been erased from the sacred texts, cast into oblivion for betraying the celestial order.

But he did not vanish.

Instead, he descended into the farthest reaches of the world, to a land shrouded in eternal twilight. And there, he found mortal men, struggling to survive in the endless night.

He did not offer them salvation, nor did he demand their worship.

Instead, he taught them the secrets of the Veil, the boundary between life and death. He whispered to them the words of power that even elves dared not speak.

In return, they became his chosen.

The men of Varethane forsook the gods of Eldoria. They embraced the gift of shadow and sorcery, weaving magic not through nature or divinity, but through the very essence of existence itself.

• Their lifespans grew unnaturally long.

• Their scholars mastered the art of bending death.

• Their warriors did not fear the grave—for the grave was not the end.

Thus, the Kingdom of Evernight was born, and for centuries, it thrived in isolation, untouched by war, unseen by the eyes of the world.

The Forbidden Arts and the Unseen Expansion

As the years passed, the sorcerer-kings of Varethane deepened their understanding of the Veil, the thin barrier that separated the living from the dead. With each ritual, with each offering of blood and soul, they chipped away at the natural laws of the world.

• They raised structures not of stone, but of solidified darkness, citadels where the laws of life did not hold sway.

• Their cities whispered at night, and their libraries held knowledge that could drive even the wisest mad.

• But the most feared of their creations were the Eternals—men who had crossed the threshold of death yet refused to pass beyond it. Neither living nor truly dead, they were immortal sorcerers, bound forever to the power of the Veil.

Yet, even as their power grew, the people of Varethane remained unseen, uninterested in the world beyond their borders.

• The elder races knew nothing of their existence.

• The human kingdoms of the north dismissed rumors of a forgotten empire in the south as mere myths.

But that would not last forever.

For all things hidden eventually come into the light.

And when they did…

Eldoria would tremble.

Prologue: The Rise of Malakar, the Sorcerer-King

Beyond the borders of Eldoria, in the eternal twilight of Varethane, where the moon never wavered and the stars burned cold, a new power was rising.

For centuries, the Sorcerer-Kings of Evernight had ruled, each delving deeper into the mysteries of the Veil, unraveling the secrets of life, death, and eternity. Yet none had dared to fully break the boundary between the two worlds.

None, until Malakar.

Born under a sky of shattered constellations, he was a child of prophecy, marked by blackened veins and eyes that glowed like dying embers. From the moment he first uttered a word, the shadows whispered his name, and the halls of Evernight knew that a new master had been born.

His destiny was not to rule as a mere king.

He sought to rule forever.

The Sorcerer and the Renegade God

One fateful night, when the sky split with crimson lightning, Malakar ascended the Obsidian Spire, the highest peak of Varethane, where no mortal had dared tread. It was there, in the ruins of a temple long forsaken by time, that he called upon the one being who could grant him what he sought.

The Renegade God.

The wind howled, carrying voices not of this world. The stones beneath him trembled as the air grew heavy with something unseen, something ancient. Then, from the void itself, a voice older than time spoke.

"You call me forth, mortal. You dare to disturb the forgotten?"

A figure emerged from the shadows, wreathed in black fire, neither fully man nor god, but something in between.

His name had been lost to the world, erased by the gods who had cast him down.

But Malakar knew his name.

He whispered it.

"Xerathis."

The air shuddered, as if the very act of speaking it had bent reality. The figure's eyes burned with unholy light, his presence suffocating, overwhelming.

"You know my name. That is rare, even for one such as you," Xerathis mused, his voice carrying the weight of eternity. "But knowledge alone does not earn my favor. Why have you summoned me?"

Malakar, undaunted, stepped forward.

"I seek the one thing all fear to claim," he declared. "Eternity."

Xerathis regarded him in silence. The shadows around them pulsed, whispering secrets no man was meant to hear.

"Ambition," the Renegade God said at last. "I have seen countless mortals chase it. Kings, emperors, sorcerers. They all seek eternity, and yet they all fall to time."

Malakar's smile was cold, unwavering.

"Then they were weak."

The Forgotten Artifact

Xerathis stepped closer, his gaze piercing into Malakar's very soul.

"And you believe you will succeed where they failed?"

"I do."

Xerathis chuckled—a sound that sent a shiver through the fabric of the world itself.

"Then you seek something beyond what mortal magic can achieve. The Veil is not something that can be broken by mere will. But there exists an artifact—one crafted in the time before gods, before even the Titans ruled this world."

Malakar's eyes narrowed.

"What is this artifact?"

The shadows shifted, coiling around Xerathis like living things.

"The Heart of Nythrados."

Malakar had never heard the name before, but he felt its weight, its power, as if the very utterance of it had disturbed the slumber of something vast and forgotten.

Xerathis continued.

"Nythrados was no mere Titan. He was the first of them, the Architect of the World. But he was betrayed by his kin and cast into the Void. Before he fell, he forged a single artifact—his heart, his very essence, bound in an indestructible vessel. With it, he sought to defy oblivion itself."

The Sorcerer-King's breath quickened.

"And where is this Heart now?"

Xerathis' eyes gleamed.

"Lost. Buried beneath the ruins of an empire that no longer exists. A place where even gods fear to tread."

Malakar's fists clenched.

"Then I will find it. And when I do, I will become more than a king. More than a god."

Xerathis grinned, his form fading into the void.

"Then go, Sorcerer-King. Seek the Heart of Nythrados. And if you survive long enough to claim it, we will speak again."

As the last whisper of the Renegade God vanished into the night, Malakar stood alone atop the Obsidian Spire.

But he was no longer merely a king.

He was a man with a purpose.

A man who would reshape the fate of Eldoria itself.

For the path to eternity had begun.

Prologue: The Betrayal of Malakar

For years, Malakar searched.

From the forgotten ruins of Vel'Kazad, where the echoes of dead civilizations whispered secrets in the wind, to the blackened catacombs of Kareth-Mor, where spirits wailed of horrors unseen, he sought the Heart of Nythrados.

His path was carved in blood, his sorcery fueled by ancient texts long forbidden. His will was unbreakable, his ambition unstoppable.

And at last, in the Deep Abyss of Nythrakul, beneath a sky that had never known the light of day, he found it.

The Heart of Nythrados

Deep beneath the ruins of a forgotten empire, in a chamber untouched by time, the artifact lay waiting.

It was not a gemstone, nor a blade, nor an idol—it was a pulsing mass of obsidian and dark metal, veins of molten shadow coursing through it, as if it were alive.

The moment Malakar stepped forward, the air around him grew heavy, as though reality itself fought to keep him from taking what should not be taken.

Yet, with no hesitation, he reached for the Heart of Nythrados.

The moment his fingers brushed against its surface, the world shattered.

A howling vortex of darkness erupted, swallowing the chamber in void-born flame.

The Veil trembled.

And then, as the storm settled, a figure emerged from the abyss.

The Renegade God's Deception

Xerathis.

The shadows coiled around him, his form shifting between reality and nightmare.

He watched with a smirk, his eyes burning with the fire of forgotten stars.

"You have done well, Sorcerer-King," Xerathis whispered, his voice both a whisper and a roar. "You have found that which even gods have feared to claim."

Malakar, clutching the Heart of Nythrados, felt power surging through him—the raw force of creation and oblivion intertwined.

He looked upon his hands, already feeling himself transcending mortality, his veins darkened with the essence of the Titan's heart.

"At last," he breathed, "eternity is mine."

But then, he heard the laughter.

Low at first, then rising.

The laughter of Xerathis.

A god's laughter. A deceiver's laughter.

Malakar's triumph turned to dread.

His flesh grew cold. His heartbeat slowed. The power within him did not grant him eternal life.

It was stripping it away.

He gasped, his body collapsing, but he did not die.

He could not die.

His skin withered, his veins turned black as night, his soul was ripped from the cycle of life and death itself.

And with him, so too was his kingdom.

The Curse of Varethane

The Veil shattered, and through its rift, death itself seeped into the land.

Across Varethane, his people screamed.

The sorcerers, the warriors, the nobles—none were spared.

The dark magic they had once wielded betrayed them, turning their flesh pale and lifeless, their eyes hollow, their spirits bound to undeath.

Their city, once a kingdom of shadows, became a monument of the damned.

The skies blackened.

The rivers turned to ink.

The lands beyond withered, and the world of Eldoria felt the shift.

The Veil had been cast.

The barrier between life and death had been sealed, and those within Varethane would never know rest again.

Malakar, upon his twisted throne of obsidian, let out a howl of rage, his skeletal fingers clutching his crown, his hollow eyes burning with hatred.

Xerathis, still standing before him, watched with a cruel smile.

"You sought eternity," the Renegade God whispered. "And so, I have granted it."

Malakar roared in fury, his voice shaking the foundations of the world.

"YOU LIED!"

"I GAVE YOU EXACTLY WHAT YOU ASKED FOR."

The god's laughter faded into the void, his form vanishing into the darkness, leaving Malakar alone in his eternal nightmare.

He looked out upon his kingdom, at the horrors he had wrought.

His people—his once mighty sorcerers, his devoted followers—had become something else.

Undying. Cursed. Bound to him for all eternity.

And in that moment, hatred consumed him.

"If I cannot break this curse… I will break the world."

With eyes burning in defiance, Malakar sat upon his throne, his skeletal fingers tightening around the armrests, his mind already plotting.

"I will have my revenge, Xerathis."

"And when I do, even the gods will tremble."