Centuries. After centuries.
Humanity faced a god.
Not a metaphor. Not a legend embroidered by time. But a real, wrathful, radiant being—Ouserous. The God of Storm and Salt. And when he descended, with thunder echoing like war drums across the skies, every kingdom, every tower, every soul… trembled.
Even now, the world still held its breath.
In the borderlands of Berkimhum, in the eastern seat of Phoenixia, the city nearest to the site of divine descent, the palace walls felt too thin. The marble floors seemed to sweat. Servants whispered; courtiers flinched at echoes. As if even now, the storm might return. As if Ouserous might stretch his hand across the horizon and drag their cities into the sea.
The nobles, the monarchs, the crowned heads of seven human kingdoms—all gathered.
And yet, two chairs remained empty.
One, bearing the crest of a flaming crown—the seat of King Henry of Berkimhum.
