Xyo_

The Kingdom of Helloria was once bound by the sacred Orūzh, its power upheld by the three tenets of existence: Zūhren, Kaelth, and Væsh. When the great schism fractured the land, its roots were severed, each brother carving a fragment to forge their dynasties. The purity of the Orūzh’s power was lost to greed, and the land withered under war, famine and ruin.

Yet deep within the untamed wilds of Velloria, the last of the Hellorian Laza endure. The keepers of forgotten wisdom live among the whispering flora, guarding the remnants of the Orūzh. 

A daughter of the Væsh Laza, Xymóra was born in blood and shadow, her arrival marked by the deaths of those sworn to protect her. Yet, when she is told she must never set foot beyond the bridge, she knows she will.

The Last Keeper of the Orūzh

On the night of Zūhrena, the festival of creation, when the stars aligned and the flames of new beginnings lit the sky, the three fractured kingdoms, Vellora, Læondale, and Moore, marched upon the once-sacred village of the Lazæns, with a singular and brutal command: "Let no soul dare to intervene. One who resists is to be struck down without mercy."

The night was cloaked in silence before the inevitable clash. The air, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and lost legacies, trembled as the forces of the kingdoms approached the Orūzh, the ancient and revered tree. It was said that the roots of this tree held the power to grant those who claimed them unparalleled strength, wealth, and even longevity. Such was the allure that had consumed the three brothers, each one eager to bend the land's power to their desires.

Led by the promise of dominance, the kingdoms did not come in peace but with steel, fire, and bloodshed. As the first rays of dawn broke through the thick fog, the village was awakened to the sound of soldiers' boots trampling across the earth. The Lazæns, peaceful and deeply connected to the land, were unprepared for the brutality that awaited them. Their cries for mercy were drowned by the roar of the invaders.

The villagers fought bravely, but their weapons were no match for the overwhelming force brought by the brothers. The Zūhren festival, once a time of renewal and creation, was now desecrated by the savage hand of greed. The invaders ravaged the village, leaving it engulfed in flames as the lives of the Lazæns were extinguished in the wake of their ambition.

With each swing of the sword, with every life taken, the Orūzh was defiled further. When the three brothers reached the heart of the village, they each laid claim to a root of the Orūzh. The roots were harvested, carved, and shaped into thrones to seat the new emperors. With the carving of each root, it was said that the power of the Orūzh was transferred, its strength, its might, its very essence now bound to the ambitions of the brothers.

By the time the sun set on that fateful day, the village had been razed to the ground, and the once-revered tree was left in ruin. The sacred land, soaked in blood and forgotten by time, would never be the same again.

And so, the brothers ascended to their thrones, each crowned by the power of the Orūzh. But the cost was dire.

The land had been torn asunder, its harmony broken. The roots that were once a symbol of life and unity had been twisted into instruments of power, and with them, the kingdoms were forever changed.

The Night of Ashes