Back when gods walked among mortals and the skies spoke in flashes of divine will, there lay a continent that bore witness to the descent of immortals from the sea of clouds. Some places were blessed by the heavens, their lands fertile and rich with life, while others were cursed, left to wither under the weight of divine disdain.
One such town, cursed with unending misfortune, was Tinavel—a place where the gods' wrath seemed etched into every stone and woven into every breath of air. The land cracked under the oppressive heat, rivers dried into brittle scars across the earth, and crops shriveled like forgotten relics. It was as if the immortals harbored an ancient grudge against Tinavel, for they allowed nature's cruelties to reign unchecked.
The cemeteries overflowed, unable to contain the rising death toll. Graves were dug hastily, marked only by crude wooden stakes as mourners grew numb to loss. The sick languished without remedy, their moans blending with the cries of starving children. A foul stench clung to the town, a mixture of decay, sickness, and hopelessness, thick enough to choke even the strongest of wills.
Yet, amid despair, humans are stubborn creatures. Tinavel's people still held onto fragments of tradition, celebrating the annual festival commemorating their town's founding. On that fateful day, tired faces gathered in the town square, shadows of smiles flickering like fragile embers. Makeshift stalls offered stale bread, wilted flowers, and faded ribbons—meager attempts to mask the town's decay. Children played half-heartedly, their laughter brittle as glass.
But joy is a fragile thing.
Without warning, the ground shuddered, a low, guttural groan rising from the earth itself. Plates of stone cracked, dust clouded the air, and terror rippled through the crowd like wildfire. Screams replaced laughter. People scattered, clutching loved ones, their footsteps uneven on the trembling ground. Vendors' stalls toppled, and food spilled onto the dusty streets, trampled underfoot.
It felt like the end—until the sky tore open.
A blinding light split the heavens, fierce and unrelenting. The sun burned with unnatural intensity, casting long, warped shadows across Tinavel. But then came the rain—first a mist, then a downpour, heavy and relentless. Water struck the parched earth with a hiss, like steam escaping from a boiling kettle.
The rain wasn't ordinary. Though fierce, it fell like tears—soft, endless, and warm. The townsfolk stood frozen, drenched to the bone, watching as puddles formed where the ground had cracked moments before. Then, the impossible happened: the stagnant, polluted waters began to boil, releasing a thick, pearly smog. The sickly stench that had plagued Tinavel for generations vanished, replaced by a delicate fragrance—fresh, sweet, like wildflowers after a storm.
A whisper rippled through the crowd.
"A castle… aye, 'tis a castle, ain't it now?"
Eyes turned skyward. Emerging from the clouds was an enormous structure, cradled by a hand of light as if the heavens themselves had plucked it from the stars. It descended slowly, impossibly delicate for something so grand.
Another quake followed, fiercer than the last. People fell to their knees, not out of fear but reverence. "Oh, heavens, have mercy upon us!" an elderly woman cried, her hands trembling in prayer.
"We beg thee—spare us, we implore!" a man shouted, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face.
But the gods offered no reply—only the quiet after the storm.
The rift in the clouds stitched itself closed, the blinding light dimming. The rain ceased, leaving the world washed and raw. The castle remained, perched on the distant cliffs beyond Tinavel's borders, its silhouette etched into the horizon like a scar left behind by the divine.
And then, life began to change.
The rivers, once thick with sludge, ran clear and sweet. Crops sprouted from barren fields overnight, their leaves vibrant with life. Animals returned—deer, birds, even creatures long thought extinct. The sick awoke as if from deep slumber, their fevers broken, their wounds healed.
It was called a miracle.
But miracles always come with questions.
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"Though it happened years past, sir," the farmer said, his hand raised to shield his forehead from the relentless sun. His voice was rough, unpolished, like someone who had spent most of his life beneath the open sky.
The horse standing before him—a massive, regal creature—huffed softly. Its coat was black as night, and its eyes gleamed like polished onyx, deep and impenetrable. "Hath any man set foot in the castle himself?" the rider asked, his voice calm and monotonous, yet bearing the unmistakable weight of authority.
The farmer shook his head, shifting his weight uneasily. "Nay, sir. The castle lies far yonder, and the fields… well, they be safer now."
The rider studied the man intently, his gaze sharp and penetrating, as though he were searching for something hidden within the farmer's words. His gloved hand tightened on the reins as his horse shifted restlessly beneath him. "And where, pray tell," he continued, his tone unwavering, "doth the fabled castle lie?"
The farmer blinked, his dull eyes flickering briefly with life as he looked at the stranger. "At the river's end, sir…" he said slowly. "Where the wild grows twisted—trees so thick they choke the light, and the vines… they move, even when there's no wind.
High above, on the summit where no bird dares fly… it waits."
For a moment, the air seemed to change. The farmer's voice, once coarse and hesitant, took on a strange cadence. The brave horse, ever loyal to its master, suddenly tensed, its large, steady hooves scraping against the ground. It snorted, a sound that cut sharply through the silence, and the rider's gaze darted toward the surrounding fields as unease crept into his expression.
Without another word, he spurred his horse forward, galloping swiftly through the quiet village of Ailva. As they passed under the fading light of day, the rider's features seemed to shift. His hair, once an ordinary shade of brown, deepened into a fiery red, and his eyes glimmered with a light that was not wholly human.
They followed the river's winding course, the rushing water guiding them ever closer to the place the farmer had spoken of. With every step, the air grew heavier, the ground beneath them darker, as though the world itself were bending under an unseen force. The rider could feel it pressing against him—a weight that sank not only into his body but into the depths of his soul. It was a presence that no ordinary mortal could hope to endure.
"Is this it, then—the path to that forsaken hold?" he murmured, his voice barely audible. His eyes flickered with an unnatural glow as he scanned the space before him. With a blink, the world around him shifted, and what had been invisible moments before now came into view.
Suspended in the air were countless magic circles, intricate and impossibly complex, each inscribed with symbols in an ancient, unreadable language. They rotated slowly, perfectly synchronized, like the inner workings of an otherworldly machine. The sight was mesmerizing and unnerving, a reminder of the forces at play beyond the mortal realm.
The rider's horse whinnied softly, trembling as if it could sense the danger lying just beyond the boundary of magic. The man dismounted with practiced ease, every movement deliberate and precise, like a nobleman stepping down from his carriage. He tied his steed to a tree outside the invisible barrier, running a gloved hand down its neck in a silent gesture of reassurance.
At his side hung a sword, its sheathe finely crafted, though worn from years of use. Beneath his clothing, a protective enchantment shimmered faintly, the result of his own careful spellwork. His face, though pale and marked by exhaustion, remained calm and resolute. The toll of countless sleepless nights and scarce provisions did little to diminish his striking features—there was an undeniable grace about him, even in his weariness.
***
Two months ago.
In the heart of the Jormania Continent, within the grandest empire known to man—a place of boundless fortune and prosperity—there was a man whose luck had turned so tragically that even his subjects could scarcely believe it. To lose the gods' grace was an unimaginable fate, yet it had befallen him.
"Forgive me, Your Imperial Highness… I—I did all within my knowledge!" he said, kneeling before the regal figure in the grand hall, his voice trembling with desperation.
The lady turned her head slightly, her expression cold, distant. A few soldiers stepped forward, seizing the man by the arms and dragging him away. "Your Highness! Please, have mercy! I beg of you—spare me!" he shouted, struggling against their grip, his voice echoing through the chamber.
The doors slammed shut behind him, muffling his cries but not silencing them entirely. Only then did the lady allow her composure to crack. She sank to her knees by the bed, her trembling hands clutching his cold ones as she pressed them to her forehead. Her breath hitched as she knelt there, her sorrow spilling out into the silence of the room.
"Father…" she called softly, her voice trembling as her gaze rested on the unconscious man before her. "What debt did you owe the gods, that they would do this to you? Why have they forsaken you? How could they turn their back on you, like this?" A single tear slipped down her cheek as she spoke, her words heavy with sorrow.
She was desperate for answers—answers to a tragedy she had never imagined. Yet the one who held those answers lay still and cold in his bed. The princess could feel the warmth leaving her father's once-strong body, and with it, a deep despair took hold of her heart.
Even as her mind remained clouded with grief, she could not allow herself to falter. As crown princess, she bore the heavy burden of maintaining order within the empire. Few knew of the emperor's incapacitation, and it was a secret she was determined to protect.
During a court session with ministers and officials, a troubling matter was brought to her attention: the rapid and mysterious transformation of Tinavel. At first, she dismissed the reports as baseless rumors, likely crafted to deceive greedy or naive nobles. Yet the findings of an imperial guard soon shattered her doubts. The changes were real, and their implications far graver than she had anticipated.
Clinging to this glimmer of hope, the princess personally oversaw a thorough investigation of Ailva—what was once known as Tinavel. With great care and secrecy, she drafted a confidential letter to a trusted relative, setting into motion a plan she hoped would uncover the truth and restore order to the empire.
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「To my dearest cousin, Andras Cyra Vel Thrasocorvus, noble Tular of the Zilach Karmini,
May the favor of the gods ever illuminate thy path and grant thee strength in thy noble duties.
It is with a heart laden with grief that I pen this missive, for my father, the Emperor, lies in the grip of a malady most strange and dire. Though the finest healers of the realm have offered their skill, his condition grows steadily worse, and I fear that the sands of time slip swiftly from our grasp. His recovery is paramount, not only for the well-being of our family but for the very stability of the empire.
I implore thee, in utmost secrecy, to turn thy gaze toward this affliction and use all the sway and resources at thy disposal to seek a cure. Be it from our learned physicians or foreign scholars whose wisdom may surpass our own, I beg thee to leave no stone unturned.
As I ponder on the plight that befalls us, my thoughts return to a curious event of recent weeks, which might offer a glimmer of hope. From the distant city of Ailva—a place once bereft of fortune—comes a tale of a miraculous transformation. This city, now a thriving beacon of commerce, is said to have been touched by a divine light, a celestial blessing that has revived the land, bringing forth rich harvests and prosperity. The people of Ailva, in their reverence, believe this boon to be a gift from the gods themselves. It is within my mind that such a miracle may hold the answer to our Emperor's malady. Therefore, I beseech thee, cousin, to investigate this occurrence with utmost care, seeking any remedy or healing practices that may be linked to this wondrous event.
I place this grave task in thy capable hands, knowing that thy discretion and swift action may be the salvation of our Emperor and the future of the empire.
With deepest respect and unwavering trust,
Rukana Cyra Vel Nicolaeis, Crown Princess of Imperium Nicolaeis and Tular of the Velχi Viths」
As the letter burned in the fireplace, Andras replayed its contents in his mind. The weight of Rukana's message hung heavily upon him, but despite the burden, he began to devise a plan with the resources he'd gathered. His duty as a relative—and his concern for the task—compelled him to move forward.
***
Presently.
After what felt like hours traversing the dense forest and scaling various heights, Andras was momentarily lifted from his exhaustion by a breathtaking view. Just as the farmer had described, the area lay at the river's end, where wild flora thrived uncontrollably, and the fabled castle stood high upon a cliff.
Despite the stunning scene, Andras' breathing was labored, his body drenched in sweat. The hike had been manageable at first, but with each step, the pressure intensified, as if some force sought to keep him away. His vision began to blur, and just as he struggled to breathe, a silhouette appeared before him.
In his desperation to survive, he reached out to the figure. "Mother?" he gasped, his voice barely a whisper.