The roots of Skyria pierced the clouds like veins through the sky. From the earth below, they were mountains, impossibly tall and shrouded in mist. But those who dared to climb them never returned. For Skyria was hidden, its people unseen, its secrets guarded by the Tree at its heart.
The Quarties called themselves eternal. Born of the Tree's blessing, they lived centuries upon centuries, dying only by their own blood or their own will. Their skin shone in tones like marble and shadow, their eyes sharp, their bodies marked with tails, wings, or hair that flowed like silver streams. They bowed before the crown of Carfein, the kingdom their forefathers had built.
Yet not all crowns rest easy. Carfein had known only three kings—Yougen, Witheren, and Julian Almoth. And in the silence between their reigns, shadows lingered. A friend forgotten, an oath unbroken, and a prophecy carved into roots older than any throne.
Deep beneath the Tree, past stone and silence, something ancient stirred. Bound in veins that pulsed with the Tree's lifeblood, a figure waited. His hair, white as bone. His cloak, black as the cavern's maw. His eyes, closed—yet watching.
And when the silence cracked, a voice spilled into the dark:
"Blood shall bind… and the root shall break."