The Kingdom of Praeven lay cradled within the vast waters of the Lake of Lumber, its cities and fertile lands shielded as though the world itself sought to protect it. From above, it seemed blessed — forests thick with timber, rivers clear and abundant, fields golden with grain. Its people believed this bounty was a covenant from the Divine Light, the faith upheld by the reigning House of Seymour.
Upon the throne sat King Charles of House Seymour, sovereign of Praeven, second son of the aging King Edward. The firstborn, William, had relinquished crown and inheritance alike for love — a scandal still whispered through court halls and market squares.
North of Praeven rose the mountain spine of Montes Glauci, cold and unyielding. Beyond it sprawled the Kingdom of Bree — vast, powerful, and hungry.
Bree was a land of contrast. Its southern coasts were battered by salty seas, its northern borders swallowed by endless desert. Its resources were scarce; its ambition was not. Where Praeven saw divine blessing, Bree saw opportunity.
But land alone did not divide them.
Faith did.
Praeven followed the Doctrine of the Sacred Flame — a belief that kings ruled by divine anointment and that bloodlines were chosen vessels of holy will. Bree rejected such claims. They followed the Tides of Ascendancy, a faith rooted in strength, dominion, and divine right through conquest. To the Breen clergy, prosperity was proof of favor — and if Praeven prospered more, then clearly its blessing had been stolen.
For generations, the two nations waged war beneath banners embroidered with scripture and steel alike. Each side called the other heretic. Each king crowned his soldiers as instruments of righteousness.
Peace, when it came, was always thin as parchment.
The most recent truce had been sealed not by swords, but by marriage.
Queen Davina of House Tsvirkunov — born of Bree's most powerful noble family — had crossed the mountains to wed King Charles of Praeven. The union was hailed as a miracle of diplomacy. Yet beneath the silk and ceremony lingered distrust.
For the Tsvirkunovs were merchants before they were nobles. And merchants counted gain in coin and influence.
The border remained restless. The mountains whispered. And in the shadows of court and countryside alike, old hatreds festered like wounds never allowed to heal.
What neither kingdom foresaw was that their next great war would not begin on a battlefield.
It would begin with a secret.
A hidden son.
An obsessed girl.
And a fire that would turn an entire village to ash.