"We built rails not to reach each other, but to keep the world from splitting apart."
— Queen Orynne's Chronicle of Ash
When the ash of the First Scarring settled, Tilbara was no island of peace; it was a wound that would not close. Rivers bled ink, mountains moaned beneath the weight of lost names, and the air itself cracked with memory. In those days I—Orynne, last daughter of the Dawn-Line—stood among the five who swore to bind the land. We called ourselves the Founders of the Trail.
Durama — The Heart Fortress
Durama was raised first, upon the deepest scar of the ley-lines. My generals carved its walls from blackstone mixed with the ash of every burned village, so the dead would stand guard. The rail that reached its gate was hammered in rhythm with heartbeats—three beats, one breath—our pact to never forget the cost of silence.
Evalia — The Crown of Peace
Where rivers met, we built Evalia. Its round walls were forged from mirror-steel, so that rulers would see their own faces when they judged others. The rail that wound toward it shimmered gold, humming softly; it was meant to remind the living that peace, too, must be maintained like music.
Harama — The Cradle of Shinobi
To the south, among cedar forests, the first academy rose. Harama was never meant to be a fortress but a school—a place where children of rival clans could learn side by side before hate found them. The Trail through Harama carried bells instead of guards; each chime marked a child's vow to defend rather than destroy.
Shinganatsu — The Mirror Checkpoint
Northward we built Shinganatsu upon a lake so still it showed two skies. There, watchers studied reflections to predict storms and betrayals. We sealed the Trail beneath its waters with glass runes that could fracture time long enough to warn the capital of danger.
Amakatsu — The Northern Wall
At the island's edge, we raised Amakatsu—square, defiant, facing the sea. Beneath its foundations slept the first mythic guardian, Rudhana, chained in light and flame. He swore to awaken only if the balance of the Trails was broken. I prayed that oath would never be called upon.
The Compact of Ash and Dawn
When the rails connected, Tilbara pulsed once, as if the land itself drew breath. We thought we had healed it. Yet I knew the Trails were not merely roads—they were locks. Each station sealed something older, something waiting.
So I wrote one last decree, hidden beneath the archives of Harama:
"When the Trails hum again, the authors will return. And the children of the rails must choose whether to guard the world—or rewrite it."
The vision fades as Ken jolts awake, dawn spilling over Evalia's towers. The shard Kabe brought from the sea hums softly on the table beside him, pulsing in rhythm with the heartbeat of the island itself.