Once Upon a Time…

Truth: Beauty
Location: Court of Spring, beyond the Enchanted Forest

The Royal Court rises just outside the Enchanted Forest, where spring never truly fades. Its castle gleams beyond flowering canopies and winding paths, a vision of elegance carefully preserved.

Here, beauty is not softness. It is control. It is power shaped into ceremony and spectacle.

Within these halls moves Valric, the Peacocking Champion, Jewel of Spring, Defender of Courtly Perfection. He announces arrivals, initiates charm duels, and turns every gathering into performance. Once betrothed to the princess who vanished, Valric reinvented himself as the living heartbeat of the Court. Few notice how closely he watches the crowd while smiling so brightly.

And always, the Court feels the absence of the one who fled.

The princess who would become the Crownbreaker disappeared beyond the forest, leaving behind a kingdom ruled by tradition and fear. The King remains on the throne, his vault sealed deep within the castle walls. Some whisper that the vault holds more than jewels. Some believe it holds the Court’s greatest lie.

Beauty can inspire loyalty.

Or it can hide decay beneath gold.

Truth: Wonder
Location: The Court of Winter, south of Lunaris near the Stardust Sea

The Fae Realm was once the heart of the ancient Winter Court, a land where moonlight and wonder wove through every breath and magic hummed softly in the bones of the earth. At its center stood High Lord Auren, crowned in starlight, beloved by his people, and bound to the Everlight by oaths older than memory.

Beside him stood his younger brother, Lord Draven.

Quiet where Auren spoke. Shadow-touched where Auren shone. Together, they were balance made flesh. Light and dark, wonder and power, bound by blood and trust.

Until the night that shattered everything.

Auren was murdered beneath the celestial boughs, his blood staining the frost-lit roots of the sacred glade.

No blade was ever found. No witness ever spoke. Draven was blamed.

The Fae accused him of ambition turned to betrayal and cast him from the realm without trial or farewell. His name was stripped from their histories, replaced only by whispers and titles meant to erase him. In the hollow grief that followed, the Fae cloaked their lands in the most powerful glamour ever woven.

From that day on, the Fae Realm vanished from the maps.

Time fractures beneath the glamour. Paths refuse to remain where they were. The stars above the realm do not match those of the wider world, as though memory itself burns quietly overhead. The realm now appears only to the chosen, or to those already bound by its magic.

Among its twilight forests walks Sylvi, a Whispersmith whose riddled verses carry truths too sharp to speak plainly. At her side moves Whimsy, the white starfox, a creature said to be born of constellations and stardust. Some believe it was her hand that sealed the realm away from the world.

The Fae Realm remembers wonder not as innocence, but as power layered in beauty, charm, and secrets.

Here, names are weapons.
Wishes are answered sideways.
And nothing is ever quite what it seems.

Truth: Power
Location: The Shadow Lands, Castle within the Silverfrost Forest

The Shadow Realm rises within the Shadow Lands, its castle swallowed by the tumultuous Silverfrost Forest, where twisted branches shimmer with frost and secrets cling to every path. The air here is sharp with magic and memory, and even the ground seems to listen.

Here, power is not cruelty. It is survival honed into strength.

Darkness is not feared. It is understood.

The realm is ruled by Lord Draven, whose name is never written in the Fae histories. There, he is known only as The Fallen One or The Lord of Crimson. Exiled and condemned after the death of the Fae High Lord, Draven rose not through inheritance, but through will alone. The curse of the blood moons became both his mark of exile and his source of power. Some believe it feeds the magic of the Shadow Realm itself. Others see it as a wound that never healed, a reminder of an injustice never answered.

It is whispered that Draven’s castle shifts its halls to conceal the truth of that fateful night, corridors bending and doors vanishing as though the stone remembers what its master will not speak aloud. Nyxbane bleeds crimson through the forest floor, its presence tied to the realm’s curse and the power Draven commands without apology.

And always, near him, walks Ereval.

Ereval is no ordinary beast. Towering and spectral, with fur like smoke and eyes the color of fresh blood, the wolf exists somewhere between myth and memory. On the night the Fae High Lord was slain, it is said that only one creature witnessed what truly happened. A black wolf stood silently at the edge of the starlit glade. When the body was found and Draven was condemned, the wolf followed him into exile without hesitation.

The Fae called it proof of guilt. Draven never spoke of it.

Since that night, Ereval has remained at his side. Some whisper the wolf is a cursed familiar, a remnant of forbidden magic bound to its master. Others believe Ereval is not bound by loyalty, but by truth. It may be the only being who knows what truly occurred that night, carrying the burden of silence in place of a voice.

Draven neither commands nor fears the wolf. At times, he is seen speaking to it in hushed tones, as though confiding secrets to a shadow that understands far more than it should.

The Shadow Realm remembers what the others refuse to face.

Power is neither good nor evil.

It simply is.

Truth: Courage
Location: The Dragon Lair, City of Drakaris

The Adventurer’s Guild rises from the Dragon Lair, where volcanic stone meets restless sea and dragons wheel above scorched cliffs. Off the mainland lies Drakaris, a city shaped by fire, honor, and hard-earned survival. Here, courage is not spoken of lightly. It is proven.

The Guild was founded on a single belief. Power means nothing if it is not earned.

Warriors, mercenaries, dragon riders, and wanderers gather beneath its banners, drawn not by lineage or title, but by the promise of becoming something stronger than they were before. Trials are constant. Failure is expected. Survival is respected.

At the heart of Drakaris stands the Torched Tavern, its beams blackened and reforged after dragonfire reduced it to ash. The Tavern once belonged to Wyll’s father, a gathering place where stories were traded as often as coin and where the Guild learned who it was. When it burned, many believed it would remain a scar upon the city.

Wyll did not agree.

He rebuilt the Torched Tavern by hand and by will, refusing to let it become a relic or a warning. Stone by stone and beam by beam, he restored it as a place of warmth rather than glory. In doing so, he inherited more than a building. He inherited the soul of the Guild.

Now run by Wyll Hallowshade, the Tavern is where newcomers are welcomed and veterans return. Wyll is trusted by all. Loved by most. Feared by none. Dragons allow him near without challenge. Adventurers listen even when they pretend they are not.

He remembers names. He remembers choices. He remembers who someone was before they became legend.

By the fire, Wyll tells stories not to glorify war, but to remind the Guild why they fight at all. He tempers arrogance with humor, steadies the reckless before they break themselves, and holds the center when tempers flare. If the Guild has a heartbeat, it is his.

Among those who arrived seeking more than survival was James, once a princess of the Royal Court, now known as the Crownbreaker.

Born into splendor and raised for rule, James was trained in diplomacy and ceremony from the moment she could walk. But her heart never belonged to the throne. The crown felt less like destiny and more like a cage.

So she chose differently.

James left the Royal Court in quiet defiance, abandoning the line of succession willingly. The Court called it betrayal. James called it truth. She did not leave seeking escape, but strength. She wanted to earn her place in the world, not inherit it.

On the road between realms, she was found by Eldaria, a mercenary by trade and a realist by nature. Eldaria recognized not entitlement, but hunger. She trained James in combat, survival, and restraint, stripping away courtly habits and replacing them with discipline and grit. Their bond was forged through miles walked, meals missed, and battles survived.

By the time they reached the Adventurer’s Guild, James was no longer a princess playing at bravery.

She was a warrior who chose to stay.

The Guild did not ask James to explain herself. They tested her instead. That moment marked the true fracture between the Royal Court and the Adventurer’s Guild. Not a war of armies, but of values. One realm clung to beauty and tradition. The other chose action and courage.

James stands within the Guild now, walking its halls, training its recruits, and carrying the weight of both worlds. Eldaria remains at her side, unyielding and fiercely loyal, believing not in prophecy or crowns, but in preparation and earned strength.

As the Convergence approaches, dragons grow restless. Old oaths stir. The Everlight flickers.

The Adventurer’s Guild does not wait for fate.

Wyll keeps the fire burning. Eldaria holds the line. James sharpens her resolve.

Courage is not the absence of fear.

It is choosing to stand anyway.

Truth: Truth
Location: Everywhere and Nowhere, reached through portals across Alluxia

The Magic Library does not exist in a single place.

Its doors appear where they are needed, opening in forgotten corridors, beneath stairwells, behind velvet drapes, and in the quiet moments between certainty and doubt. It exists in all realms and none, bound not by geography, but by purpose.

The Library remembers what the world forgets.

Shelves shift without warning. Staircases rearrange themselves. Books rewrite their own pages. Time bends subtly within its walls, stretching or tightening depending on what a reader is meant to learn. Here, truth is not simply recorded. It is watched.

At the heart of the Library walks Merrick, Keeper of the Unwritten, Guardian of the Hidden Stacks, and Emissary of the Everlight. His origins predate written history, and some believe they predate the Everlight itself. Whether born from the first story or shaped into existence by the Library’s need for a guardian, Merrick has always been here. Robed in twilight and star-ink, he carries forgotten prophecy in his silence and speaks only when a truth is ready to be heard.

Merrick does not command the Library. He listens to it.

He is its steward, its memory, and its quiet conscience. As the Everlight flickers, he has begun to speak more plainly, offering riddles, fragments, and pages torn from stories not yet finished. Which can only mean the end is closer than he ever hoped.

Scurrying through the stacks are the Fablemice, tiny creatures burdened with towering packs of enchanted books. Born from a long-ago magical mishap, they are silent scribes of the nearly forgotten, recording moments no one else notices. Every Fablemouse knows a guest’s name before it is spoken. Their glowing eyes seem to recognize truths not yet realized. Though they test Merrick’s patience endlessly, he protects them fiercely, for they carry memories the world cannot afford to lose.

Where Merrick governs the unknowable, Alice Inkfoot governs what can still be cataloged. Assistant Archivist of the Outer Index, Alice is the keeper of names, realms, and recorded paths. Her enchanted ledger contains every soul who has passed through the Library’s outer halls, and she guards it with unwavering devotion.

Alice has a way of recognizing people before they introduce themselves, as though their story arrives a moment ahead of their voice. She confirms names rather than discovers them, guiding guests gently through the process with warmth and precision. If someone hesitates, she nudges them forward, smiling as if she has already read the next line.

Those who watch closely notice that the ledger often changes only after a name is spoken, as though it is waiting for the guest to choose how they will be known.

Beside her stands Rowena Vale, Curator of the Inner Index. Where Alice records who enters the story, Rowena ensures that the story aligns. She does not assign placement. She confirms it. With quiet certainty, she senses when threads are about to cross too soon or when a moment requires stillness. Her presence steadies the Library itself, and when she nods, it is said the world exhales.

Together, they form the balance that keeps the Library from unraveling.

The Magic Library appears calm, even cozy, but it is not gentle. It holds dangerous prophecies sealed behind riddles, memories too sharp to revisit, and truths that can fracture entire realms if revealed too soon. The Index of What Was, What Is, and What May Never Be writes continuously, sometimes adding names that have not yet arrived.

During the Convergence, the Library grows restless.

Its doors open more often. Its whispers grow louder. Its guardians watch more closely.

For when truth is forgotten, the world fractures.

And when truth is remembered, everything changes.

Truth: Curiosity
Location: The Isles between the Court of Autumn and the Court of Summer

The Lost Isles drift between the Court of Autumn and the Court of Summer, scattered like half-remembered dreams across restless water. Here, maps are suggestions, compasses lie, and time behaves like a game it never quite finishes playing.

The Isles feel young and ancient all at once.

Laughter carries easily on the wind. So do secrets. Lanterns glow long after they should burn out. Ships arrive that should not exist anymore. Some never leave at all.

Freedom in the Lost Isles is intoxicating.

It is the promise of slipping loose from consequence, of staying exactly as you are for just a little longer. Many come believing they have found escape. Few realize they have found something far more dangerous.

Among the docks and crooked gangplanks walks Captain Ren Blackwater, a man who never tells the same story twice. His grin is quick, his charm effortless, and the ticking that follows him is impossible to ignore. The Lost Isles call it Croc. Tick. Tick. Tick. Some say Ren stole a moment of time itself. Others believe time is hunting him in return.

Ren treats the ticking like a joke.

The Isles do not.

Beneath the shimmering surface of the Obsidian Sea, where water darkens like polished glass, another presence watches the shore.

Nerissa of the Obsidian Tide, Voice of the Obsidian Sea, remembers what the Isles pretend to forget. The merfolk of these waters do not rule through force or song. They rule through memory. Nerissa listens where others laugh, and keeps count where others lose track.

She knows Ren well.

Some say she saved his life once in the black currents. Others believe she bound him to the Isles through a bargain neither fully understood. Nerissa never confirms either version. She watches him with the patience of someone who knows how stories end, even when the characters refuse to grow up.

She is aware of the ticking.

Beneath the Obsidian Sea, Croc is not a sound but a pressure, a steady rhythm felt through bone and tide. Nerissa believes it is tied not only to Ren, but to the Lost Isles themselves. She fears what will happen when the rhythm changes, when the game finally stops.

Along the shoreline, her name appears carved into dock pylons, anchors, and driftwood charms, as if the sea itself is reluctant to let her be forgotten. Some believe Nerissa remembers the Isles as they were before time fractured, before freedom became a trap disguised as play.

When the Everlight dimmed, the Lost Isles barely seemed to notice at first. The lanterns still glowed. The laughter continued. But Nerissa watched the tide pull farther than it should have, and she marked the moment.

Because the Lost Isles are not truly timeless.

They are simply very good at pretending.

The sea does not shout its truths.

It waits for you to stop running long enough to hear them.