Three hundred years ago, the world stood at the edge of ruin.
It began with a single man—one whose name has been scoured from every record and forbidden to be spoken. He was a summoner, not of the sacred traditions, but one who carved his power from blood and pain. Spirits bound to him were not companions, but victims—ancient and powerful, twisted by dark rituals into weapons of war. Cities fell to his command, their spires blackened by curses, their rivers turned to shadow.
The kingdoms cried out. The people hid or fled. And the veil that separated this world from the Spirit Realm began to tear.
Hope came not in the form of armies, but in seven souls who refused to surrender.
The first was Alarion Caelrith, a knight whose blade shimmered with radiant light. They called him the Dawnblade, a man of unshakable will and unmatched mastery in both aura and light magic. Beside him stood Saphira Nyrelis, a dark mage shrouded in whispers. Her spells did not destroy—they bound, sealed, and suppressed the evil that leaked from spirit fractures. Together, they fought in perfect contrast: light and shadow, sun and moon.
Around them gathered five more.
Virelia Stoneward, the shield of the north, held lines that should have broken a hundred times. Her shields gleamed with waterborne runes, her walls unmoved by even the fiercest spirit. Caelen Duskryn, the thunderblade of the south, danced through enemy ranks in streaks of lightning, each swing of his sword breaking spirit bindings like brittle glass.
Thalos Meredryn, archmage of the east, summoned storms from the sky and fire from beneath the earth. With six spirits under his command, he turned entire battlefields into elemental maelstroms. Ardan Veyranth, the silent arrow of the west, an elven bowmaster, struck from unseen places—his arrows carried by the wind, blooming into thorns upon impact.
And then there was Elyria.
She was not a warrior. Not in the way the others were. She healed. She stood between the dying and death, raising men and women from the brink, and sometimes beyond it. With her came two spirits—Lumira and Elarien—beings of pure mercy and light. It was said that where she walked, grass regrew upon charred land.
Together, the seven heroes faced the Dark Summoner in the ruins of the old capital. The battle raged for three days. When it ended, there was silence—not the peace of victory, but the stillness after a storm too great to measure.
The summoner was gone—utterly destroyed, his spirit devoured by the backlash of his own forbidden pacts. No seal, no return. Only erasure.
In the aftermath, the kingdom was reborn.
Alarion and Saphira were crowned as King and Queen, chosen not only by triumph but by the Equinox Flame—a divine force that awakened within them, balancing light and dark in one soul. From their union came the royal bloodline, and with it, the sacred right to rule.
The five heroes were granted dominion over the outer realms: Virelia to the north, Caelen to the south, Thalos to the east, and Ardan to the west. Elyria took no duchy. Instead, she founded the Temple of the Eternal Light and vanished from the world's stage—though whispers say she still lives, ageless and watching.
In time, the people forgot the terror. The scars healed. But the veil never fully closed.
And as the generations passed, the balance weakened. The Equinox Flame dims. Spirits stir in places they should not. And from beyond the veil, something watches once again.
This is not where the story ends.
It is where it begins.