The world of Aurevia was no stranger to struggle.
Its kingdoms rose and fell on the backs of soldiers and farmers, kings and merchants, priests and beggars. Its people argued, bartered, bled, and dreamed, much like they always had.
To the north lay Veyrden, a land of smokestacks and soot, where iron rails cut through blackened fields and men broke their backs in mines that never seemed to empty. To live in Veyrden was to labor, and to hope that your children might labor less.
Across the eastern seas sprawled Azerath, the marble empire. Its cities rose on pillars of white stone, its armies marched in perfect lines, and its laws were etched as deeply into its people's hearts as into its monuments. Order was their creed. Disobedience their sin.
Southward flourished Lurienne, a kingdom of green valleys and sunlit rivers, ruled not by kings of blood but of faith. The Hierophants claimed that Aurevia itself whispered to them, and that all who obeyed the Covenant obeyed heaven. Cathedrals bloomed like flowers, and pilgrimage roads never slept.
And upon the seas stretched Osvarra, the scattered isles. Its people were sailors, traders, and pirates alike. Wealth flowed through their harbors like tides, yet never stayed long. In Osvarra, loyalty was worth less than silver, but more than steel.
The world was fractured but familiar, balanced by greed, pride, and tradition.
Until one day, the cards appeared.
The morning the world changed began without warning.
It began with silence.
The dawn rose on Aurevia as it always had, golden light spilling over towers, fields, and waves. It was a simple dawn in Aurevia, a day like any other. In the bustling trade city of Kartha, merchants pulled open their stalls and shouted the promise of fresh goods. In the farmlands of Lurienne, peasants wrestled stubborn soil in the hope of coaxing another meager harvest. In the marble towers of Azerath, clerks sharpened quills, preparing to record yet another day of decrees from the Council. Priests rang their bells in Lurienne.
And then it happened.
It began as a ripple with no lightning, no thunder, no warning. Just a sudden, hushed stillness. Birds froze mid-flight. Wind died in the fields. For the space of a heartbeat, Aurevia itself seemed to hold its breath. The wind ceased. Flames froze in their lanterns. A cart hung mid-rattle on cobblestones, its wheels unmoving though the mule strained forward. Children's laughter caught in their throats. For three long heartbeats, all of Aurevia was a painting.
And when life resumed, every person found something new in their hands.
Every person alive, man, woman, child, looked down and found a card in their hand.
Palm-sized, weightless, yet undeniably real. Each was different, yet alike, and a single word etched across its surface in a script that glowed faintly, as if written in the language of stars.
Some hands trembled as they read: Flame. Chains. Illusion.
Others stared in horror: Hunger. Silence. Sloth.
Some were simple: Hunt. Heal. Strength.
Others were strange: Whisper. Gas. Chains.
A few were terrible: Ruin. Decay. Death.
Each was true.
The first woman to test hers, a baker in Veyrden, burned her own table to cinders with trembling fingers. A soldier in Azerath crushed his iron spear to powder with a grip that should have been ordinary. A child in Lurienne sang, and her crippled father stood from his bed for the first time in years.
And so, in a single day, the world was unmade. It did not know whether to cheer or scream. This day would be termed as The Drawing.
In a cramped inn in Lurienne, a farmer stared at the word on his card: Water. He blinked, licked cracked lips, and whispered, "Is it real?" His wife leaned over his shoulder, clutching her own card: Stone. Her eyes filled with tears. For all their lives they had fought the earth for every drop, every sprout. And now… now they might command the very elements.
In the grand square of Azerath, soldiers in steel uniforms snapped to attention. Each one held a card, each one different. Their General strode before them, his own card flashing in his gauntlet: Command. He raised it high, voice booming across the ranks.
"Do you see? Aurevia itself has chosen us. We are marked. We are weapons!"
The soldiers roared in answer, but some did not cheer. A young recruit, card trembling in her hand, read the word carved into it: Escape. What did that mean? Was it cowardice? A curse?
The priests of Lurienne declared it Judgment.
The scholars of Azerath declared it Law.
The pirates of Osvarra declared it Opportunity.
Wars erupted before the first year had ended.
The baker who burned her table became a warlord, torching villages until knights slew her in her sleep. The soldier who crushed his spear rose to general, then betrayed his king and crowned himself. The child with the healing song was chained, forced to sing for the court of a noble who never aged again.
It was an age without mercy, remembered only as The Great Fracture.
For decades, Aurevia tore itself apart.
Families betrayed families for a rarer word. Towns vanished in duels between men who thought themselves gods. Seas boiled with the clash of Wind and Water. Cities of stone cracked beneath armies of Strength.
Kings were overthrown by beggars. Priests drowned in their own sanctuaries. Merchants bought and sold lives like coins.
Yet even in ruin, power gathered. Three great empires rose from the ashes:
The Dominion of Azerath - The Council seized every card. Children at six were tested in great halls; their words recorded, their lives assigned. A boy with Shield became a soldier. A girl with Quill became a clerk. None disobeyed. Order was survival.
The League of Osvarra - On the seas, cards became currency. An Alchemist was worth ten thousand crowns; a Whisperer twice as much. Assassins and pirates thrived, but so did merchants. No throne ruled Osvarra, only wealth.
The Covenant of Lurienne - The Hierophants declared every card a divine gift. Children at six who received their word were celebrated in ceremonies bathed with incense and song. To disobey one's card was to disobey the heavens. Their rule was faith, and faith was iron.
The other lands, like Veyrden and Kartha, were broken, absorbed, or enslaved.
As centuries passed, the cards became law.
Children received no word at birth. Instead, in their sixth year, they awoke with a card in hand, a rite of passage as certain as breath. Families celebrated or despaired depending on the word revealed. Nobles prayed for Sovereign. Peasants prayed for Strength. None prayed for Death.
Ceremonies grew around it. Festivals in Osvarra, processions in Lurienne, examinations in Azerath.
And over time, stories spread of a word never seen. A word whispered in prophecy and drunken song alike: Hero.
Some claimed a Hero would unite Aurevia. Others that a Hero would destroy it. Many scoffed, but still the tale lingered for what was a myth, if not a hope disguised as fear?
Generations passed. Wars came and went. Empires rose and fractured. But the Hero never appeared.
Not until two boys, born countries apart, reached their sixth year.
One in the broken forges of Veyrden, now partitioned between the three empires, where smoke blackened the sky.
One in the marble halls of Azerath, where laws carved deeper than love.
Each awoke with a card in their hand.
And both read the same word.
Hero.
And though neither boy knew of the other, nor the weight their card would demand, the world itself shuddered in anticipation.
Because Aurevia had never known a Hero.
Until now.