Inhevaen pulses like an ancient heart, encased by the invisible walls of the Domo, a primordial force that both protects and imprisons. Its vibrations seep into the earth, shape the tides, whisper through the winds, and carve symbols upon the mountains. No being lives without sensing it — even if they deny it, even if they fear it.
Beneath its enchanted vastness, seven races coexist, caught between fragile alliances, veiled rivalries, and memories of wars that the elders dare not name.
The Sylarei, their skin etched with living runes, wield the Magic of Words. Their minds are archives of energy, and their language can conjure, repel, or obliterate. They command no armies, but no decision of consequence is made without one of their sentences echoing through stone halls.
The Verithil, hidden in the mountain mists, see beyond flesh and form. Arcane visions and golden eyes make them feared oracles and invincible spies. They follow their own designs — and many claim they have already seen the end of all things.
The Arenya, cold-blooded giants, possess bodies forged for battle and supernatural regeneration. They dwell atop frozen peaks and within subterranean mazes. Their strength is feared, but it is their silence that terrifies: they speak rarely… but forget nothing.
The Zhyren, shapers of the four elements, live in symbiosis with living volcanoes and steaming jungles. As volatile as the nature they command, they are both healers and destroyers — unpredictable like flame, and deep as the abyss.
The Sangor, born of the desert, sacrifice themselves to summon power. Blood magic, they say, demands more than courage — it demands faith. They thrive among poisons, relics, and forgotten pacts. They revere suffering the way others venerate gods.
The Naruun, bound to their Anirû beasts, embody the purest link between creature and soul. Shepherds of monsters, riders of claws. Their eyes reflect the instincts of the wild, and their hearts beat in rhythm with the pack.
And the Olkhar, at the center of all, guardians of unity. Fragmented inheritors of every gift, they are born with varied traits of the other races — diluted echoes of a greater world. They believe their existence prevents collapse… or perhaps only delays the inevitable.
The Domo, unseen and absolute, keeps all beneath the same moon, yet does not halt conflict. Politicians weave plots beneath veils of diplomacy. Councils vie over every shard of Shyrr as if each held the last breath of protection. Assassins walk among envoys. Alliances shatter with the same whisper that forged them.
All seek power. All fear the breaking.
But none are ready for the silence.
Not the kind born from unspoken words.
But the one that rises from the places where even the Domo dares not reach.
There, where even magic dies.
Inhevaen breathes, yet something stirs beneath its skin.
And when the Domo sings…
The sound will be impossible to ignore.