In the empire’s heart, where destinies entwine:
Malan’s ambition, Dion’s dark design,
Kiel’s wisdom deep, where fog-land giants stand,
Bal’s nomadic soul, roaming ancient land.
Bound by history, yet each path uniquely sown,
Together they forge an empire of their own.
In competition, innovation, and unity they thrive,
Under twin moons, their stories come alive.
– The Harmony of Empires by Liraelin Silverson
Creation: The 6th Month in the 28th Year in the Reign of Golden Harvests
A crack split the air as the [Drummers of the Sky] mimicked thunder, and the countless people at the Kulakhar fell silent, aware it was about to begin. The three auspicious hills stilled. The mighty shrines atop were crowded with onlookers who turned to watch the procession weaving through the plains, illuminated by thousands of torches and the golden light of the twin moons.
Three tribes of the ThurBal had convened in the plains of the Nomad’s March for the annual procession, with more than five thousand of the clans’ youth gathered to celebrate their passage from childhood to adulthood. It was a time of hope for a better future, filled with excitement as they became citizens of the empire and the Sulphen took hold within each of them.
In the heart of the quieting crowd, Lotem Jarval stood tall, a looming presence with shoulders broad as the horizon, his majestic bison fur cloak draped over him like a mantle of authority. His sharp, observant eyes scanned the crowd, his silent nods acknowledging those brave enough to meet his gaze. Even the impartial glow of the twin moons seemed to favor him, casting his long and distinguished shadow upon the grass, a silent monolith amid the stream of humanity.
Around him, the sound of conversations and footsteps persisted, yet there was a subtle gap, an almost reverent buffer unconsciously preserved by the crowd, acknowledging his distinct position among them. He carried no blade of metal, grass, or bone. He wore no armor. He displayed no symbols of authority. He didn’t have to. His skin, the color of burnt grass, and his piercing blue eyes, like shards of a clear summer sky, spoke of his Numen heritage and that was enough.
The [Drummers of the Sky] resumed their performance, the drums’ taut hides stretched over bone frames resonating loudly enough to quiver the very ground beneath his feet. Lotem sensed the atmosphere shift, the air growing tense as though bracing for a storm despite the clear sky above. The cool night air carried the scent of damp earth and distant fires, mingling with the tang of sweat and the rustle of grass under shifting feet.
The tension in the air was palpable, like the charged silence before a storm. As the drums’ rhythm reached its peak, the very ground seemed to pulse beneath them, then suddenly stilled, leaving only the hushed breath of the crowd. Lotem could feel the anticipation rushing in to fill the sudden quiet.
A voice broke the silence, as loud as thunder, recognizable to all in the assembled throngs. The Balar, the Khan of Khans, the true Khan of the ThurBal, spoke, and an image of him appeared in the night sky above, blocking the light of distant stars. The Balar stood, his snow-white bison cloak a mirror to Lotem’s own. Only a dozen such cloaks existed in the Sul Empire, none more treasured than the hide of Kathanka, the Balar’s steed before his ascension at the great Shrine.
“Brave sons and daughters of the eternal steppe,” the Balar began, his voice as deep and commanding as the thunderous beat of the drums that had swept through the crowd. “The path you choose from this day forward will sculpt the destiny of our tribes. It is a path fraught with the thorns of challenge, yet abundant with the promise of glory. I challenge you, young warriors, to grasp honor for our people. To ride the winds of fate and bend them to your will, as the falcon dominates the skies.
Eighteen generations ago, we journeyed to this land, rich in silk and bone, to find peace. Eighteen generations ago, we conquered this land with shrine and steel. We vanquished the endless legions of the Malan and the masters of their great sects. We crushed the spirit of the Dion [Bone Lords] with their ivory legions. We defeated the [Witches of Woven Word] and the [Luminaries] of the Kiel.” The voice paused, resounding triumphantly as it continued, “Sixteen generations ago, we ratified the Treaty of Swallow’s Grace. Sixteen generations ago, we transcended our forebearers, we discovered paradise and claimed it as our own. Now, this empire belongs as much to the Bal as it does to the Malan, Dion, or Kiel. This empire is ours.
Now, it is your moment to wield the power of our empire, the power of the Sulphen. Some of you will employ that power to create great works, to forge relics with powers yet to be seen. Some of you will join the legions, pledging yourselves to the defense of those too frail to defend themselves. The finest among you will enter Aslavain this very night and form your own triumvirates as you strive for the very zenith of power.”
Lotem stood tall amidst the gathered youth of the ThurBal, the Balar’s words echoing in his mind. The Khan of Khans, a living legend among their people, whose very presence commanded respect and awe. Lotem had always admired the Balar, not just for his strength and leadership but for his embodiment of the ThurBal spirit. How many times had he imagined himself wearing a cloak of white bison, standing proud beside the Balar as a beacon of their people’s resilience and honor?
The Balar had taken them from the jaws of destruction in the Beastlands to a land of paradise. He had fought the Sul Empire and he had won. Lotem couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride and determination. This was the path he wanted to follow, the legacy he wanted to build. The Balar’s words were more than just a call to action; they were a reminder of what it meant to be ThurBal, a reminder of the strength that lay within him.
Lotem’s hands tightened into fists, his broad shoulders stiffening under the weight of the Balar’s words. The twin moons cast their impartial light on his weathered face, but the fire in his eyes betrayed the storm brewing within. His heart thundered in his ears as he noticed heads turning toward him, their anticipation almost tangible. The boldest among them, the bravest youth of the ThurBal tribes, would seek to enter Aslavain and prove themselves in its many trials. Those admitted to Aslavain would compete for one year to gain fame, glory, and power. Success in Aslavain could allow a sheepherder to become someone of importance, someone of meaning. If they survived.
As the Balar spoke of Aslavain, Lotem’s thoughts drifted to his brother, the gaping void in his memory where his presence should be. The empire’s records claimed his brother had fallen to a Tul raid, but to Lotem, it was more than just a loss—it was an emptiness that gnawed at his soul. He could remember his laughter, the hunts, the shared dreams, but his brother’s face, his voice, even his name, were like shadows slipping through his grasp.
How could one grieve the loss of their very memory? Lotem could recall the thrill of the hunt, the laughter echoing across the plains, but the face of his companion was lost to shadows. The harder he tried to grasp it, the more it slipped away, like smoke through his fingers. It was as though his brother had been erased from existence, leaving behind only a hollow ache and fragmented memories that refused to piece together. He had been left with a patchwork of clues about his brother, every memory a mystery he desperately wished to solve. But the memories were gone, and their absence a continued wound.
Of the few memories he had left, the clearest was of his brother’s emerald sword, its rippling patterns forged deep into the swordgrass blade. He could imagine how proud his brother had been, how excited for the future as he showed off his new blade. Why could he remember the blade his brother had won in Aslavain more than his brother himself? He breathed in deeply through his nose and exhaled as the shamans had taught him. Did my brother share this rage, he thought, this fury sharp as grass and buried deeper than any root?
The Balar’s voice rose in volume, and Lotem refocused on the moment at hand. “Those of you destined to serve our empire in times of peace should spread your wings and explore the empire. I encourage you to use this opportunity to travel to a city that calls to you. I ask you to grow, to learn, and eventually, to return to the ThurBal and share your knowledge.
For those of you courageous enough to serve in the imperial military, I ask that you think of the threat to our east. We need soldiers to man the great colored forts across the Diontel, to hold the Tul at bay. There is no greater honor than keeping the people you love safe from the monsters at the gates.
For those of you who believe you have what it takes for greatness, I applaud you. Once you reach Aslavain, you will be charged with forming a triumvirate with two candidates from elsewhere in the empire. You will have until the fall equinox to arrive in one of the Eternal Cities and compete in the first of the three true contests. Should you prove powerful enough to win one of the Eternal Contests, seek me out in UlaanThur, and I will give you a boon as I have done since the Treaty of Swallows Grace.”
The Khan of Khans raised one fist, and a roar erupted from the surrounding tribes. Lotem felt his nerves settle; he was ready. He would avenge his brother and recover the blade whose memory he couldn’t seem to leave behind. He would win an Eternal Contest and rally the tribes to stand against the Tul.
He was confident that nothing else could bring him the peace he craved.
Sylva Strenath, poised with the grace of a perfectly spun thread, felt her heart quicken, her fingers curling into the fabric of her robe as the realization struck her—this was it. The years of relentless training, the solitude, the struggle—all had led to this moment. She had reached the pinnacle. Her life was about to truly begin.
The vast chamber loomed above, its domed ceiling etched with the ascensions of sect elders, their tales inlaid with streams of silver. Moonlight poured through a skylight, bathing the central altar in a celestial glow.
Thirty-six initiates of the Sect of Silken Grace formed a circle around the altar, their anticipation palpable—a testament to the moment’s gravity. From the hundreds given to the Sect at their creation, only these thirty-six had earned the right to compete in what the Malan called the Eternal Contest within Aslavain. Sylva had earned the right to petition the Immortals to enter Aslavain, form a triumvirate, and conquer its unknown wonders.
The dense smoke of the moonshadow incense curled through the air, its scent shifting from earthy to sweet as it absorbed the moonlight. Sylva’s nose wrinkled at the unusual aroma, the smoke glowing faintly as it spiraled toward the altar, seeming almost alive. The smoke, moving as if with intent, began to drift toward the altar, its scent subtly changing, drawing inward as if beckoned by the altar itself. It gathered in the center of the chamber, where the altar rose, a mirage of moonlight and silver hidden within the smoke.
Her heart pounded with a mix of nerves and excitement as she realized the time had come. Her long-awaited moment for freedom, her opportunity to transcend the sect’s fierce rivalries, was finally here. How often had she envisioned this day? To secure her place in the Eternal Contest and to step outside the sect’s confines for only the third time, finally achieving the liberty she so desperately sought. She knew logically that Aslavain didn’t technically count as the ‘real world,’ and it certainly wasn’t safe. Yet, to her, it was freedom.
A harp’s strings sang out, weaving a crystalline melody that pierced the chamber’s silence, each note echoing against the stone walls in a hauntingly beautiful cascade. Sylva smiled; the Ode to Empire always soothed her, its familiarity calming her nerves as the melody gently faded. Then Elder Valinsa, robed in woven silver, approached the altar. As the First Among Equals, she was the sect elder Sylva respected least, her strict adherence to propriety and hierarchy grating against Sylva’s sensibilities.
“Initiates,” Elder Valinsa’s voice was as hard as steel, “the time draws near when you shall be plucked from the ordinary, consecrated to our empire’s grand design, scrutinized. You stand apart from the unrefined masses, those who revel in their crude fascinations with bone and fire. You are the bearers of our empire’s most exalted legacy. It is my expectation—no, our collective anticipation—that not one among you shall falter and fail to gain admittance to Aslavain. Never once has a candidate of the sect failed to gain admittance; the shame of such a failure would be… unbearable. Do not let such ignominy define you; here, to falter is failure.” Her voice sharpened on the word ‘failure,’ the very idea igniting a furious spark in her eyes.
“You will not bring dishonor upon our sect, nor will you be the cause of our embarrassment. Triumph is the only outcome we will tolerate.” As she spoke, Elder Valinsa rotated slowly, locking eyes with each initiate, her gaze sharp and commanding. “Last year, three of our candidates were crowned champions in the Eternal Contests, a mere three out of all of the challenges over the course of the contest.” Her lip curled as though she had just bitten into a lemon, distaste evident on her face. “Do not allow their failure to inspire you. You shall do better.”
Elder Valinsa’s words cut like a blade, each syllable heavy with expectation. Sylva’s shoulders tightened under the invisible weight, the pressure to not only excel but to dominate coursing through her veins like the Lifethread itself. Failure was not an option—it was a disgrace she could not afford.
Her sect was unparalleled within the empire. For almost a millennium, the Sect of Silken Grace had reigned supreme. They had survived the chaos of the Beast Wars, fought in the Flower Wars, and grown even stronger in the years of peace since the Treaty of Swallow’s Grace.
“The shortsighted Treaty of Swallow’s Grace has compelled our empire to accept triumvirates comprising members from the dirty herds of the Bal, the deceptive Dion in their halls of bone, and the isolated Kiel living in the eternal mists. Yet, let the lesser peoples not dim your resolve; remember, you are imbued with the noble essence of our empire, the pure Malan spirit that courses through your silken veins. From the moment your Lifethread was spun and imbued by your parents, your destiny was sealed—not merely to participate, but to triumph in the name of the Malan.”
The elder stepped forward, and the moonlight streaming from above was absorbed into her silver robes until she shone. Her hands began to twist and shape an unseen object in the air in front of her, moving as though tying invisible strands into complex knots. Her fingers danced in the air with a precision that Sylva envied, and the thick smoke in the chamber began to glow with the same light as the elder’s robe.
“Remember where you have been assigned and ensure that your triumvirate arrives at the correct shrine for the Eternal Contest on the fall equinox. We tolerate no disobedience in this. You may be leaving the sect, but do not mistake me; you are still members of the Sect of Silken Grace, and that comes with obligations as well as rewards. Do not think that you can reap the benefits of our teaching without repaying our generosity.”
The elder’s hands stopped moving, and the incense froze in place before flowing into the silken robes of the initiates, transitioning the myriad robes from a uniform black into a rainbow of different hues. Sylva suppressed a gasp as her robe became a deep emerald green. She was to go to Eisentor, the City of Woven Word, one of the true Eternal Cities and the home of the Scholars of Silk. She had been selected to compete in the most competitive of the Eternal Cities. Only one initiate received such an honor.
“Remember, your debt is not yet paid, and you owe the sect more than you know. Win honor in our name, in your name. Now, the time has come.”
Sylva felt an exhilarating lift, her heart racing with the thrill of expectation. Bathed in a golden light, she sensed the dawn of her long-awaited destiny. At last, her life was poised to truly begin.
On the eve of his twentieth summer solstice, Hadrian of Cutra, a boy on the cusp of manhood, knelt, awaiting the start of his Ceremony of Loss.
Hadrian’s mind wandered to the rest of the empire. Years ago, a [Merchant] and [Courier] had stayed in Cutra for two weeks, sharing tales of their travels. The [Courier] spoke of a grand festival hosted by the ThurBal, culminating in a star-lit march before three Eldar.
Hadrian wasn’t sure what an Eldar was. The traders described it, albeit poorly, as a walking hill crowned with a Shrine. They spoke of clumps of grass falling from the elementals’ legs, with dozens of [Herbalists], [Alchemists], and [Farmers] scrambling to collect the magical soil and plants left in their wake. Hadrian couldn’t imagine such a sight.
Hadrian was born in Cutra, the Village of Untamed Mist, though it had yet to truly earn its name. The residents considered themselves part of the Sul Empire, close enough to the empire’s borders to benefit from their citizenship, even if the empire might disagree. For almost thirty years, the people of Cutra had worked to transform their part of the canopies in the great Fologian Forest into a village. Hadrian had spent his entire life in the canopies, hundreds of feet above the forest floor, where monsters lurked within the fogs.
He longed to feel soil beneath his bare feet, to witness the great herds of the Bal, to marvel at the stone cities, and to explore the cities ruled by the Luminaries and the Weavers within the Fologian Forest to the Northeast. He wanted to see everything. Yet, he understood that leaving Cutra meant leaving everyone he had ever known behind. He would embark on his grand adventure, but until he was strong enough to break the veil between worlds, he could never return home.
Cutra needed a Shrine to truly thrive. It needed to join the great network of the empire. A Shrine would allow Cutra to trade its wondrous fog-woven silk, tempting traders to make the dangerous trek. A Shrine would allow the youth of Cutra to return after their twentieth solstice without having to traverse more than a hundred miles of untamed forest beyond the Spine.
He knelt in the center of the village plaza, a wooden platform suspended by dozens of lines, connected to the great trees the village had shaped into their home. The homes surrounding him were built within the trunks of the great trees, carved into the wood with the aid of the Luminaries’ fire. Below the platform, the fog glands of the trees wept their eternal stream of gray fog. Each drop of fog drifted to the forest floor below, joining the rivers of mist that drained westward.
Tapestries of woven rope formed bridges and balconies, each cradling dozens of onlookers, a silent crowd composed of everyone he had ever known. A lone flute began to weave a haunting melody, its somber notes familiar as the dirge began. Soon, a second flute joined the first, then a third, their notes intertwining and interlocking, the harmonies impossible to ignore as the ritual began.
Pillars of fire rose from the platform’s three bonfires one at a time as three arrows fell from the heights onto the prepared stacks of kindling and wood. The flames did not just illuminate the area surrounding Hadrian; they each whispered silent promises as their light bathed his kneeling form. Luminaries’ fire, he realized with a start, as the light of the flames began to influence him.
The first flame, the color of the sky on a cloudless day, cast a serene glow that cooled the air, making his skin tingle with the electricity of potential. Its light slowed his thoughts, urging him to ponder every choice he might make. The flames encouraged him to approach the ritual with a logic divorced from emotion.
The second flame, the color of fresh leaves, spread through the wood like the first breath of spring. Hadrian felt the flames’ influence pushing him to experiment, to take risks. It spoke to him as though he were a seed trying to find a home in foreign soil. The flame encouraged him to spread his wings and leap from the nest with nature’s indifference to his personal gain and loss.
The third flame, the deep crimson of blood, pushed the other light, fighting with the rival hues as it began to pulse in a steady rhythm. This fire demanded retribution, repayment for what Hadrian was about to lose. It spoke with an unheard voice of injustice and righteous anger. Hadrian turned away from the rising force of the flame, preferring the gentle call of the forest to the fires of rage.
A drumbeat echoed through the fog, and the light from the fires mixed into the gray mist, dancing with every beat. The fog roiled, boiling with collected emotions: the crimson hue of rage, the verdant shade of hope, the deep blue of logic. The emotions remained trapped within the fog, within the air surrounding him, impossible to ignore.
To the residents of the village watching in silence, the fog was mesmerizing—a blend of colors and emotions captured in ethereal mist. To Hadrian, the fog illuminated by the Luminaries’ work was something… more.
The Luminaries of the Fogland had long ago learned the secrets of infusing flame with emotion and meaning. Hadrian had heard that in the Bridgelands to the east, lanterns filled with white flames of hope covered hundreds of miles of rope bridges, each lantern tended to by initiates to ensure that no stretch of the mighty highway through the canopies was unlit. Hadrian had helped create similar lanterns to hang in the branches surrounding Cutra to keep the fog at bay. He had thought he was ready.
These flames fought to control his emotions with unexpected ferocity. He hadn’t realized the difference between the gentle flame of a lantern and the raging blaze of the bonfires. This flame was far larger and stronger than any lantern he had encountered, and that was before the drum began its mighty pulse and the fog became infused with the light of the flame. His prior experience with Luminaries’ flame had been like the descending drops of fog—an occasional reminder to have hope in the future. The light around him now was a raging river, a torrent of emotion pulling him in three directions.
It felt as though his soul was at war with itself. He wanted to laugh, cry, and scream. He wanted to escape the dancing fog around him as the melody continued for what felt like hours. When the melody eventually faded, the emotions held by the flames and fog bled away, leaving only three fires of orange flame burning around him.
A familiar voice emerged from one of the bridges to his right. He turned, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden darkness as he searched for the speaker. Today would likely be the last day he would see his mother. They both knew he was unlikely to form a shrine. They had spoken that morning about the difficulty of his task. He lacked the formal schooling and expansive social networks essential for entry to Aslavain, and he wasn’t even sure he would make it that far.
Despite that, she believed in him. She believed he had what it took to become the best. She believed with unshaken confidence that he would pierce the veil between worlds. That his triumvirate would make Cutra a true part of the empire. That his triumvirate would be the first to expand the empire’s borders in generations.
Tears formed in his eyes as he saw her gentle smile and heard her soft words float through the fog. He knew this was it, his final goodbye.
“Have you made your choice, Hadrian? Will you accept Cutra’s dream as your own? Will you swear to return only when you are strong enough to form a Shrine?”
He cleared his throat, conscious of the watching eyes and listening ears hidden by the fog. He had recited his speech hundreds of times in the past month. Even now, with the lingering turmoil of the Luminaries’ flame, he was certain he could say the words with the conviction they deserved.
“I swear on the trees I have called home, on the people who have made me the man I am today, and on my very life to strive endlessly toward the dream we all hold.” Hadrian pitched his voice to carry across the open air of the canopies. “An empire cannot survive without expansion; this is a fact known the world over. Yet, the powers that be are content to hoard control over the empire’s destiny, afraid of the consequences of claiming our birthright.
“The first Luminaries braved the canopies and claimed the forest east of the spine despite the protests of the Malan, the Dion, and even the Weavers to the far north. The greatest among them, Hirion, formed not just a shrine, but an Eternal City, a place of wonder the world over. It is past time for a new wave of expansion, and Cutra shall be its herald.”
A familiar voice emerged from the fog on his left, and this time he couldn’t suppress the tears as he saw his father for what could be the last time.
“Your oath has been witnessed and accepted, my son. You have the blessing of everyone who has known you, and throughout your journey, know that you have our support, no matter how distant and far it may seem.”
At those words, the Summer Solstice truly began, and Hadrian felt a gentle shift, as though he were falling, taking him away from everything and everyone he had ever known. He closed his eyes as he felt the change and promised himself that he would never forget the love he saw in his Pa’s gray eyes.