Prologue: The Great Destruction

        It started with a singular spark. One person to go against the millennium of tradition predating even the beginning of humanity. But even the smallest spark can ignite the most catastrophic fire. Amidst a seemingly peaceful kingdom, only fifteen years ago to this date, one woman lost her way, dragging thousands down with her. 

        “All of what now lies before you–these mountains of sand and miles upon miles of barren earth, all cracked and dried from years of drought without an inch of rain since its creation–used to be a lush, sprawling forest. All those old enough to have borne witness to it claim that it was a peaceful, beautiful place teeming with life and light and vitality everywhere they looked. It was a utopia, the perfect place to live and raise a family. A wise king ruled the land, ensuring the young prince and princess were raised among the finest divine sorcerers and most formidable knights. The crest of the phoenix alighted a sense of pride in all those ruled by it and fear and respect in all those enemy to it. Protected by the prodigious mountains of the north, but as free as the ocean to the west was vast, and as safe as the forest that cradled it; for hundreds of thousands of years, Anruin seemed an impenetrable force, unable to be shaken by any mortal. But it wasn’t a mortal that shook the kingdom. 

        “In its height of glory, all traditional gods were worshipped, near equals in the collective consciousness. The ancient Acacia that fathered the forest, the wild Caspian that was the tempest and wave of the ocean, and the hot-headed son of Soltiar, the fire god Ignis that instilled troops with vigor, among many, many others, were common household names. It was the latter, Ignis, that was provoked to the point of the creation of the desert. The balance of power between the gods was held up solely by the dependence of mortals on them. The illusion that peace and magic could only be provided by blind worship was the pillar of the collective belief, the only thing that kept the people docile and tame. It was a fragile power the gods held, supported by the very kingdom that vowed to hold its people in the highest degree over all else. It didn’t take much for that pillar to crumble. 

        “A decade and a half ago, common sense finally swept the nation. The commonfolk began to wonder why magic was reserved only for those most deserving, why they couldn’t come up with their own way to spin such a divine gift without the explicit permission from those above. The movement started small, a group of a few women that called themselves the Sisterhood of Humanity, led by a young scholar named Althea. It didn’t take long before the movement caught on, fueled by secretive informational pamphlets, underground meetings in the dead of night, and a partnership with another series of smaller organizations quietly fighting for the people to have any sort of say in the kingdom. Soon, much of the kingdom had lifted the veil of loyalty in favor of logic, although many feared the persecution of the royal family if any such ideas were dared expressed. 

        “One dry summer night, dozens of people gathered in the depths of the forest, out of the watchful eye of the nobles, their cover aided by the rogue tribes of elves gathered just barely inside the kingdom’s borders but bearing no loyalty to the king. The air smelled of pine and wildflowers. All was quiet but a gentle breeze and the gentle humming of the crowd. The potential sorcerers filled a clearing around a blazing bonfire they had lined with smooth stones, around the size of a small quail’s egg, their surfaces entirely covered by runes of binding and power. Half a dozen stones of the same origin were piled in the heart of the fire. As the crowds’ chanting colored the night, the moon god’s palace was rising above, full and nearly overflowing with sweet, silver power, its gentle beams proliferating the air with invaluable magic, only accelerated by the blessing of the current summer solstice. The day of the divine creator, the moon of light and divinity, and the heat of the flames to capture it all. It was famed to be the most beautiful setting for a betrayal. 

        “The chanting grew to its height as the moon did, calling upon the stones that grew hot in the coals and glowed with a white, opalescent light. It grew brighter and brighter as minutes ticked by, and the inferno seemed to dull, its energy being annexed by its stone heart. The light broke free of the constraints of the runes, the web of light growing tighter and tighter until they completely shed the grey, becoming a ring of opals, brimming with potential. According to legend, anyone who swallows a stone gains the fragment of the fire god’s power trapped inside, christening them as much a sorcerer as one divinely ordained as such. 

        “An eerie silence hung over the clearing for but a moment after the ceremony, a charged veil of anticipation, no one quite believing the victory so easily claimed. But a threat loomed just behind the treeline, marked by a trail of dead elves and scattered arrows, none able to meet their targets before their masters fell. A small militia, a mix of citizens blind to corruption and obedient soldiers more akin to a pack of guard dogs than human beings steadily approached. Before the sorcerers were even sure of their magical victory, another exchange of power was already underway: the Final Battle.

        “Birds fled the branches in droves, animals that had previously slept close and unafraid scattered to find any semblance of cover possible, and the elves that had been keeping watch leapt from the trees to aid their magical companions. In less than a second, the wolves had lunged for the throats of those who dared deceive their master, shattering the silence into sharp, fragmented screams that ripped through the air without hesitation, piercing even the heavens themselves. Most sorcerers scattered into the woods, the knowledge that they stood no chance already deeply rooted in their minds. Most didn’t make it past the first set of trees. Skin was scorched to a blackened crisp as people desperately reached into the blaze, grabbing as many white-hot opals as they could bear to hold before attempting their escape. Dozens of bodies joined the stones, hiding those not already taken and only adding fuel to the burning inferno. All were too preoccupied to notice the fire growing beyond the stones of protection, disrupted by desperate grabs for the power inside. 

        “In the end, it mattered not who claimed the true victory. The moment the spark of defiance was lit, all were doomed. The chaos below caught the attention of the divine for the first time. Ignis, forever as prideful as the sun was bright, was enraged by the mortal’s rebellion. To capture his power in mere rocks, to combine it with that of the moons’, his father’s greatest enemy, and the forests’, a realm he had no part in, in an unholy, wretched stew of the arcane, was a sin so horrible in his mind that such an act was near unbelievable. And yet, here the sinners were, doing away with his power even as they were massacred. Ignis’s rage could not be contained by the stones nor slaughtered with the thieves. The spark was already lit, the stones already created. It mattered not whose hands they fell to, whether it be sorcerer or noble. The curiosity that bred such an abomination was a thing only man possessed; the possibility of a repeated incidence was all the motivation the god needed to pull the problem up by the root. Humanity was to be scorched from this plane.

        “On that dry summer’s night, the grass was easily the first to catch. The air reeked of ash and burning flesh. The crackling of an ever-growing hell overtook the trees; torches that stood to the heavens were created faster than they could fall. When the heat ate away at the wood enough to send a tree crashing down, it could be heard throughout the forest, a public announcement of at least one more life forced to its knees before the reaper. Only minutes had passed, and few remained. The fire of Ignis worked faster than any natural flame. The original four Sisters of Humanity raced towards the kingdom, intent on warning the villagers of the danger. Amongst them, six opaline stones were smothered by the heavy fabric of their cloaks, gently smoldering to mimic the freshly scorched hands that cradled them.

        “Only three women made it to the kingdom alive. Five stones remained. The name Constance was the first to be carved on the memorial wall. The nearby kingdom was beginning to awaken from the sounds of slaughter and burning. The people had already begun to frantically pack their things, terror spreading as fast as the fire. The remaining women unleashed warnings upon the ears of all who would listen, their urgency and desperation rivaling the passion of the flames. Many heeded the mad calls with no greater voice of logic to lead them astray, while the crowds that diverged from the sister’s path met their demise not long after. As the women flew through the streets, more and more citizens seemed to flock towards them, all headed towards the same safehouse in the mountains, which the kingdom had always been assured they could flee to in times of emergency by the royal family, all of whom fell before they could make it there themselves. 

        “The cloud of smoke was fast approaching, at first lacking the flames themselves, although not lacking deadliness. The heavy ash choked the breath out of lungs and stung eyes enough to send tears streaking through the dirt and blood on one’s face, a noose of certain death for the weak, a harrowing inconvenience for the rest. Only two of the women successfully fought their way through the town, with most of the kingdom on their tails. Three opals remained. Salem joined the others on the wall. The crowd thinned as the fire grew. The kingdom that once so vainly attempted to smother the spark was rapidly reduced to kindling. The rest of the world was no better. A blanket of flames was draped across the world. There would be no stopping the god’s wrath that day. Only one of the sisters made it through alive, the other, one who would’ve become our leader if the circumstances allowed, was reduced to a sacrifice and a distraction. Two opals remained. Noleta was added to the memorial. The survivors fled to a remote area in the far reaches of the forest, one of the select places that had yet to burn, where a large chasm awaited them; a deep abyss carved into the earth centuries ago was the only known sanctuary from the hellscape. 

        “As the last sorcerer swallowed a stone, her throat burned, singed with heat and power.  As the civilians took cover, the opal infused with her very soul, alighting her veins with the divine and setting fire to her deepest being. Althea’s spirit was intertwined with the magic she called forth into existence and her greatest dreams were finally achieved. With her newfound strength, she barricaded the mouth of the cave, carving temporary sealing wards and sigils of protection everywhere that posed even the slightest suggestion of its ability to be compromised. These sigils are still scattered in the rock to this day. Meanwhile, leaders emerged amongst the chaos, noble members of the Sisterhood’s following. The now King Belial and Queen Raca began to direct the crowd, setting them up in the abandoned kingdom within, once inhabited by dark elves and creatures of the shadows, now taken up by those that had driven them out long ago. 

         “All the civilians could do was make their best attempts to heed the word of their leaders, to remain calm and take cover. For all others above, hope was long lost. Everything the blaze touched became fuel. Even the other gods were powerless to do anything but look on in horror. The world burned for months on end. No doubt part of the world is still burning even now. For us, however, the hellfire made quick work of the land, reducing the trees and buildings to nothing but ash and rubble, rendering all earth above the cave useless to farmers and hateful to all who dare stray too far into the desert left behind. As the last of the flames died down, Althea turned her attention back to the desert, unwilling to abandon the idealistic hope of fellow survivors amidst the rubble. Heeding not the words of the townspeople, nor those of the elders, her denial of the kingdom’s newfound isolation drove her to the Aftermath. With promises of her return, the last remaining sorcerer, our auspicious, brave savior, walked into embers of a world long-past, drifting across the fresh wounds of the land in search of others to aid her in healing the world. 

        “In the years since, her name was added to the wall of memories just beside the palace, forever lying amongst her fallen sisters, forever awaiting her return. The last opal now rests in His Majesty’s crown, a reminder of our greatest achievements and our perseverance in the face of the higher powers who wish to do away with our existence. It’s only one of the many physical reminders left behind from the founding of this great nation. This day marks fifteen years since the creation of the kingdom we now call our home, fifteen years since Althea departed from us. May the kingdom of Shifting Sands stand ever proud, may the sorcerer yet return, and may our autonomy from the wretched Ignis forever remain. Strength to our king and strength to our kingdom!”

        Thousands of voices echoed the princess’s final words, a swell of halfhearted murmurs, only amplified by the stagnant air and looming cave walls. An ocean of people awaited the much duller speeches to follow; empty words of nationalistic empowerment fell on the deaf ears of Shifting Sands. In their boredom, the people studied the royal family’s every move, a restless jury to those above. On the palace balcony, the princess shifted with unease, glancing at the king as he took the stage, a vain attempt to divert the hungry eyes to a new victim as she fell back from the limelight. It was all she could do to keep up her enthusiastic facade, knowing full well that it was transparent in the eyes of her people.