The eternal mists of Ethyndil still caress the scars of a shattered world, where the Four Kingdoms—Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Luminarghs—forgot too late the power of their alliance. Their lands, once united by the Four Crowns' Pact, are now but the shadow of a faded dream.
Tharion, the realm of Men, spreads its cracked citadels and tattered banners. Elyndor, the sanctuary of the Elves, watches its ancient trees wither, wounded deep in their sap. Keldorim, the underground domain of the Dwarves, groans beneath the weight of its collapsed tunnels. And the Crystal Peaks of the Luminarghs, once dazzling specters of light, are now but tombs of fractured glass, their dying gleams streaking the sky with pale trails.
It all began with the Dark Mage, banned from the Four Kingdoms for attempting to corrupt the pact of the alliance. In the caves of Arthan, he unearthed the Masscrits—cursed tablets where the power of ancient demons roared. At the summit of mount Ignis, he traced runes in blood and ash, summoning four creatures from the abyss.
Their names? It doesn't matter. Their masks, however, sealed Ethyndil's fate: an elf of bewitching beauty, a human king of irresistible charisma, a radiant envoy haloed in purity, a jovial dwarf with rugged wisdom … perfect decoys.
In Tharion, an elf named Lirwel offered King Darlan a "Seed of Eternity." When he touched it, his fingers turned to stone, his whole body fossilizing in a suffocated groan, transforming into a grotesque statue, his crown now useless. The Men, screaming betrayal, marched upon Elyndor, their swords thirsting for vengeance.
In Elyndor, within the majestic throne hall, a false human king reduced Lord Aelar to dust with a mere dismissive gesture, his eyes gleaming with cruelty, as the courtiers, stunned, silently watched Aelar's ashes flutter in the light breeze.
The Dwarves, deceived by a Luminargh with a beguiling aura, saw their king Veleran pierced by a blade of living steel, his blood mingling with the metal, screaming in agony.
As for the Luminarghs, fooled by a Dwarf whose wounds healed too quickly, they lost their queen Liora, decapitated in the midst of a gathering by an illusion with blood-red reflections.
The fratricidal war ignited Ethyndil: Men against Elves, Dwarves against Luminarghs, each believing they avenged an affront. The plains of Tharion burned beneath Elven flames. The sacred woods of Elyndor were trampled by spiked boots, their ancient roots defiled. The tunnels of Keldorim, overwhelmed by hordes of goblins rising from the depths, became deadly traps; the Dwarves, masters of stone, fought with the desperation of the doomed, but the invaders, countless and crawling, drowned their defenses under waves of gray flesh. The corridors collapsed, burying warriors and innocents alike beneath shrouds of rock. Keldorim was mutilated: its grand halls tainted with muck, its forges extinguished forever.
When the survivors—Men with dulled swords, Elves wielding splintered bows, Dwarves with arms smeared in soot and blood, Luminarghs with dimming auras—pierced the veil of deception, it was already too late. The Dark Mage's armies stood at their gates.
The orcs had overrun Tharion. The Warzâgs, shadow specters, engulfed the Luminarghs, while the goblins, already triumphant in the tunnels, joined the slaughter. The Pact of the Four Crowns, once an indestructible bastion of iron, was now nothing more than scorched parchment.
Now, the inhabitants wandered among the remnants of their former grandeur. The Men drifted aimlessly through what was left of Tharion's villages, their vacant eyes fixed upon the crown atop the stone effigy of their king—his face locked in a final grimace of terror.
The Elves roamed the ravaged glades of Elyndor, whispering prayers to mutilated trunks as if their chants could rekindle the sacred sap. The Dwarves, survivors of Keldorim's tunnels, scraped through rubble in search of salvageable possessions before beginning their exodus, cursing the goblins with every breath.
The Luminarghs—translucent phantoms barely visible—glided among the crystal fragments of their Peaks, desperately seeking the lost radiance.
Yet, in the heart of the gloom, a legend persisted: that of a Chosen One, born of Elf and Man, who would rise from Ethyndil's ashes to break the Dark Mage's grip and unite the four armies beneath a single banner.
But that … is another tale.