In those days, when the world was still called Aeltarion and not simply “the Wasteland,” the sky split in two. Not metaphorically — literally. The Great Rift, the wound left by the Fall of the Last Dawn, still gapes above the Black Ridge, and from it seeps neither light nor darkness, but something else entirely: the memory of what existed before everything.
On one side stood those later known as the Sisters of the First Ray. Ten elven women, born in the final moment when the sun still remembered what it was like not to fear the night.
Solar Oath, whose blade was a fragment of the very first morning.
Stellar Guardian, whose armor bore constellations that slowly rotated.
Dawnforest Song, whose hair caught fireflies like nets catch fish.
Crystal of Hope, whose skin turned pain into healing.
Wind of Eternal Spring, carrying on her blades the scent of blossoms that no longer existed anywhere.
Flame of Justice — she who burned but did not consume her own.
Lunar Healer, whose eyes were two moons capable of mending even death, if it had not yet finished speaking.
Golden Prophetess, who knew every possible ending and still walked forward.
Wings of the Morning Star, the only one to grow a wing of pure light upon her back.
And Heart of Living Light — the one even her enemies called nothing less than “the Last Hope.”
They were not merely warriors. They were the world’s answer to the question: “Is it still worth fighting?”
And the world answered them with its shadow.
Against them rose the Black Crown of the Rift — an alliance with no single king, but ten thousand kings, each believing himself the only one.
First came the ancient elven knights, those whom the Rift had kissed earliest.
Whisper of the Dead Forest, whose eye was a hole into nothingness and whose sword was the heart of a long-dead world tree.
Blood Moon Warden, whose veins glowed beneath his skin like cracks in the moon.
Fallen Star Knight, with a single black wing hanging from his back.
King of the Rotting Root, whose body had become half forest, and the forest — half rot.
Silent Dream Eater, who had no face, only endless void.
Behind them came those called the “Second Generation of the Damned”:
Last Warden of the Black Tree, whose armor sprouted bleeding black roses.
Knight of the Cursed Crown, half his face rotted away to reveal golden elven bone.
Scar of the Moon Witch, blind yet seeing better than the sighted.
Name Eater, whose helmet was woven from screaming faces.
Root and Bone, half tree, half skeleton.
Silent Ash Lord, from whom fine gray ash constantly fell — the ashes of his own burned life.
Knight of the Shattered Mirror, whose shards showed every viewer their own death.
Widower of Eternal Night, his blade wrapped in the hair of all his dead wives.
Black Lotus — beautiful and terrible, like death itself in bloom.
And Warden of the Last Dawn — he who once guarded the sun and now guarded its grave.
But that was not enough.
The Rift opened new doors, and from them emerged those once called “beasts,” now known as the Clans of the Abyss.
Shadow Fox Inquisitor in a fox-skull helmet, his censer smoking oblivion.
Iron Raveness, whose feathers were sharper than any blade.
Blood Wolf Ravager, whose axe remembered the taste of slain gods.
Thorned Cat Fallen, whose rapiers danced a venomous waltz.
Antlered Warden of Decay — a stag who had become king of corruption.
Silent Ghost Fox, whose nine spectral tails were both illusion and sentence.
Crimson Elf Traitoress, who had not crossed to darkness out of fear, but out of love for it.
Bone Raven Lord, whose staff ended in a screaming skull.
Venomous Vixen Huntress, whose arrows sang before they killed.
And finally — Cursed Stag Knight, the last of those who still remembered the true sound of dawn and hated that sound more than anything in the world.
They were not an army in the usual sense. They were a wound that healed itself by tearing pieces from the world.
The war had already lasted three hundred years. Not without pause — the world sometimes exhaled. But every exhalation ended with a new blow.
At first, the Sisters of the First Ray drove back the ancient elven knights at the walls of El’Darion. Solar Oath personally severed the arm of the King of the Rotting Root, yet he simply grew a new one — from her own blood. Flame of Justice and Silent Dream Eater fought for three days and three nights above the Rift’s abyss until the sky turned black from their fire and shadows.
Then the Clans of the Abyss came. Iron Raveness burned an entire forest to lure out Dawnforest Song. Blood Wolf Ravager and Flame of Justice clashed in a duel still called “The Night When Stars Burned.” The Wolf lost, but carried away half her fire — now his axe sometimes flares golden, a reminder of the one he could not kill.
Thorned Cat Fallen and Crystal of Hope met in a duel of minds and blades. The Cat left a scar on the Healer’s face — the first scar she could not mend. Since then, Crystal has worn it as a reminder: even light can be cut.
The cruelest blow came from Crimson Elf Traitoress. She had once been a friend to Golden Prophetess. On the night of betrayal she came to her not with a sword, but with a kiss — and left a black rose blooming in her heart, still poisoning her prophecies. Since then the Prophetess sees two endings: one bright, and one in which she herself becomes the next Queen of Rotting Radiance.
Last Heir of Night and Heart of Living Light have never yet met face to face. Both know that when they do, the world will either heal… or cease to exist. They are the two ends of one arrow. One tip bright, the other black. And the string is already drawn.
Now, in the 317th year of the Rift, the war is gathering strength once more.
Shadow Fox Inquisitor burns the last shrines of light.
Lady of the Black Thorn gathers under her banners all those weary of hope.
Faceless Ash King marches at the head of his host, and behind him nothing remains — not even ash, only emptiness.
And the Sisters of the First Ray… they still stand.
Their armor is battered.
Their hair is streaked with ash.
Their eyes no longer shine as they did on the first day.
But they still believe.
And the darkness… the darkness is also tired.
It no longer merely wishes to devour.
It wants the light to surrender.
It wants the Heart of Living Light to kneel and say: “Enough.”
And then, the old chronicles say, the true end will come.
Not death.
Not victory.
But a choice.
And when that choice is made — whether the entire world becomes light or the entire world becomes darkness — the Rift will finally close.
Or it will swallow everything.
The end of the chronicle is unknown.
The last pages were torn out.
They say the Cursed Stag Knight took them.
They say he still reads them every night, trying to understand on whose side he himself wishes to die.
Or perhaps — on whose side he wishes to live.
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