Centuries passed. Kingdoms rose and fell, but through every war, every plague, and every famine, the seven remained. They did not age. They did not wither. They only grew stronger.
The world came to know them not as children of eclipse, but as lords of the night.
Varrek, the Master of Flames, ruled from the charred ruins of a desert fortress. Entire armies had tried to dethrone him, but he reduced them to ash with a flick of his fingers. Kings who dared defy him found their cities swallowed by infernos that burned for decades. The sands themselves still glowed red beneath his throne.
Syrath, the Weaver of Illusions, took no fortress of stone. She ruled from within the minds of mortals. A single whisper from her, a single glance into her mirror-like eyes, and even the bravest warriors saw their worst nightmares walking at their side. Entire kingdoms bowed to enemies that did not exist, surrendering without a single drop of real blood spilled. She called it her "kingdom of lies," and to her, fear was greater than gold.
Kaelith, the Whisperer of Minds, preferred subtler reign. He did not command armies or burn cities. Instead, he sat upon the gilded thrones of men, though none ever remembered inviting him there. Kings became his puppets, queens his slaves, priests his mouthpieces. Nations were reshaped not by the sword, but by his honeyed words. Some swore Kaelith had been the same advisor whispering in the ears of rulers for five hundred years, never aging, never questioned.
Drosan, the Keeper of Beasts, withdrew into the dark forests and mountains. There, he was lord not of men, but of creatures. Wolves, bears, serpents, and even the winged horrors of night moved at his command. Villages near his realm lived in fear, for every full moon brought the echo of his beasts, tearing apart any who strayed too far from their hearths. Hunters told tales of a man cloaked in fur, riding a black wolf the size of a horse.
Malvora, Mistress of Poison, chose her dominion in silence. She seeped into wells, rivers, and wines. Kingdoms that angered her found their crops withering, their children coughing blood, their rulers swollen with plague. She had no need for an army—disease was her sword, venom her crown. And when her victims begged for mercy, she drank from their veins, savoring the taste of fear mixed with despair.
Ithar, the Collector of Souls, was worshiped as a god in some corners of the world and feared as a devil in others. He carried with him crystals—each one glowing faintly with the trapped essence of those he had consumed. Entire battlefields had fallen silent when Ithar arrived, for he needed no sword. He only opened his hand, and the souls of thousands tore free from their bodies, screaming as they were drawn into his collection. His temple of black stone, lined with crystals, pulsed with the light of the damned.
And Zephyros, the Wielder of Storms, dwelled above all others, in mountains crowned with thunder. Lightning danced eternally across the peaks where he made his home. Mortals called him "the Storm King," believing him a wrathful god. He delighted in their fear. With a gesture, he could summon hurricanes to sink fleets, or thunderbolts to reduce castles to rubble. Of the seven, he was the most patient, the most cunning. For while his siblings squandered their power to satisfy hunger and pride, Zephyros waited. He knew the prophecy. He knew that in the end, only one of them would remain.
The world had become a kingdom of shadows. Humanity whispered of them in fear, priests cursed their names, and heroes rose to strike them down. Yet all fell. The seven were eternal.
But eternity is a long time.
And eternity breeds jealousy.
The siblings began to turn their gaze not only outward, but upon each other. Varrek, with his fires, boasted that none could withstand his flame. Syrath scoffed, claiming that even his fire could be smothered by illusions so perfect he'd burn shadows instead of enemies. Kaelith murmured that both were fools, for he could make mortals sacrifice their own blood willingly without raising a hand. Drosan howled that beasts alone were the true rulers of earth, while Malvora hissed that their strength meant nothing when poison could silence even the strongest. Ithar said little, only raising his crystals with cold smiles, reminding them of the countless souls trapped forever at his command.
And Zephyros… Zephyros watched.
The prophecy lingered in all their minds. "When the Dawnblade is found, only one shall reign eternal."
For centuries, the blade's resting place was unknown, hidden by the last sun-priests before they were hunted to extinction. But whispers had returned—rumors of a temple that had awoken, walls shifting with light, its doors sealed until the time was right.
The Dawnblade was stirring.
And the seven knew: if one of them found it, the rest would not survive.
The age of silent rule was ending.
The age of war between the seven had begun.