The Prophecy
Before the stars carved their paths across the heavens, before kingdoms rose and fell in the dust of forgotten empires, there was a whisper.
Not heard, but felt echoing through the bones of the world.
It was written in the oldest tongue, etched into stone beneath the roots of the World Tree, guarded by the Order of the Veil. A prophecy not sung in court nor taught in temples, but buried, for fear of what it promised.
"In the age when the moons divide and shadow bleeds into flame,
One born beyond the Veil shall awaken the Crown's fire.
His hands shall carry no magic.
His name shall not echo in this land
Yet the fate of kings and the ruin of realms shall walk beside him."
For centuries, it was dismissed, too vague, too distant.
But then came the signs.
Storms that howled in silence.
The night both moons bled red.
And now, as the Kingdom of Aurenholt teeters on the cusp of unrest, the whispers stir once more. The air grows restless. Old magic wakes in forgotten places.