Three colossal continents lost in oblivion:
Veirenden — a realm of eternal frost and ruthless cold.
Kraice — scorched land, a never-ending desert of fire and bone.
And Clins — wild and unpredictable, with its mountains, jungles, forests, and every savage breath between.
Right now, Clarenden is being torn apart by what people call “The War of a Thousand Years” —
or simply, “The War of Three Kings.”
Three kingdoms. Three crowns. Three ancient bloodlines too proud to bow,
too stubborn to share land with the bastards next door.
And so, the war drags on. 1,076 years of endless fucking fire.
At the top of each realm sits a house of legacy and blood:
? House Veirenden — icy rulers of the North.
? House Vermont — wild kings of Clins.
? And House Richstone — the eternally rich pricks who reign over Kraice, drowning in gold and arrogance.
And in the middle of all this —
while another thousand-strong horde from the North marches south to torch the sands of Kraice —
a little girl named Lyria Veirenden, barely nine years old,
sneaks into the woods with her best friend Selissa de Morvy
(the daughter of one of the North’s loyal vassals).
Their destination? Mushroom Glade.
Their ritual? Chaos, giggles, and childish freedom.
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Once they reach the clearing, Lyria throws down a checkered blanket,
pulls out a warm bun, a few pies, and a bottle of freshly squeezed apple juice from her little woven basket.
They sit.
They smile.
And they play their favorite game —
a tea party. Innocent. Pure. And about to be shattered.
Lyria:
“Would you care for a cup of tea, Lady Selissa?”
Selissa (tilting her head with a soft grin):
“It would be my honor, Lady Lyria.”
The forest was… too quiet.
No birdsong. No wind.
Just the dry crackle of twigs beneath their feet —
and the ragged breath of two little girls lost in a world too cruel for them.
“Lyria…”
Selissa froze.
“Did you hear that?”
Something stepped out of the shadows.
Not a bear. Not a dog.
A wolf.
Massive. Not gray. Not brown.
Black.
As the fucking void.
Eyes glowing amber. Rabid.
It moved slow. Reluctant.
But it kept coming.
“Don’t move,” Lyria whispered.
But it was already too late.
Selissa stepped back — snap.
The beast lunged.
Everything went red.
A splash of blood.
A scream torn in half.
A shadow slamming the earth.
Lyria screamed like her soul had been ripped in two.
She crawled to her friend —
but Selissa was already gone.
All that was left:
a little shoe, a broken arm,
and terror frozen in lifeless eyes.
“I’m here… I’m with you…”
Lyria sobbed, cradling the corpse.
The wolf vanished.
And with it — half of her heart.
She ran.
Blind.
Tears weren’t in her way —
they were her breath now.
Through the trees — silhouettes.
Men.
A fire. Laughter like gravel in hell.
Lyria tried to sneak past the camp…
But fate snapped under her foot like a dry branch.
“HEY! Someone’s out there!”
Darkness.
Rough hands gripped her like steel traps.
She struggled — useless.
One slammed her to the ground, the other crushed her wrist with his boot.
“Well, well…
Look what we’ve got here…
A dirty little princess.”
The voice oozed filth. And glee.
She felt her breath tearing apart inside her.
Like her lungs were shattering.
Her body frozen.
Paralyzed by fear.
But something inside…
was fucking burning.
“Touch me…
and I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth.”
She hissed through clenched teeth —
not begging. Threatening.
“Well, well…
Got some fire in you, don’t you…”
CRACK.
A fist.
Ribs.
Pain stabbed through her side like a spear of lightning.
The world blurred — bent sideways.
And then — chaos.
CRASH.
SCREAMS.
STEEL TEARING INTO FLESH.
Hell. Unleashed.
Silence.
Lyria, broken and shaking, looked up.
Mud on her face. Blood on her hands.
Pain in every breath.
Before her stood a shadow —
drenched in black, blade dripping crimson.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t offer comfort.
He just stared down at her.
“Next time — don’t be alone.”
He turned.
And vanished like a fucking ghost.
She lay there.
Alive.
But not the same.
Never again the same.
