The Tale of a King
Year of Carnage — Three Thousand Years After the Year of the Fallen
In the elder days, when the sky hung low above the earth and the moon shone like a silver jewel within reach of mortal hands, there stood a kingdom older than memory.
That kingdom was Afriterra.
It was a land where magik breathed within the wind, whispered through the rivers, and burned within the fire that clawed toward the heavens.
Magik was the lifeblood of Afriterra.
Across the kingdom rose mighty temples devoted to the Elemental gods, the dieties of Fire, Water, Air, and Earth. The people of Afriterra believed these ancient powers shaped the world itself.
They believed they ruled the storms.
They believed they commanded the seas.
They believed they held the fate of every living soul.
For countless generations, the people bowed before them. But among them lived a man who refused to bow.
His name was Vordor.
He walked the roads of Afriterra barefoot, clothed in little more than faith. While the world knelt before the elemental gods, Vordor proclaimed the truth of a greater power.
The Sky God, Eledumare. The unseen Creator. The ruler of the endless heavens.
To Vordor, the elemental gods were not masters of the world.They were only shadows.
But the people of Afriterra did not listen. They mocked him.They laughed at him.
And they named him the greatest fool the kingdom had ever known.
They called him Vordor the Freak.
Yet the heavens were not deaf to his devotion.
One night, beneath a sky crowded with stars, Vordor dreamed.
In his dream, four celestial beings descended from the heavens.
They were women of unearthly beauty, their radiant wings blazing with divine light. Upon their heads rested crowns that shone like fragments of the cosmos itself.
Messengers of the Sky God.
One by one, they placed their crowns upon Vordor's head.
And as the final crown touched him, the four crowns fused together, becoming a single diadem of unimaginable brilliance.
In that moment, Vordor the Freak ceased to exist.
He became Vordor the Blessed.
Through the power of the divine crown he was granted dominion over mankind, over the Djinn born of smokeless fire, and over every creature that walked, crawled, swam, or soared beneath the heavens.
The beasts of the wild bowed before him.
The birds of the sky answered his call.
The fish of the seas obeyed his will.
Even the smallest creatures trembled beneath his command.
For every kingdom there is a king.
And for every king there is a crown.
Chosen by the Sky God, Vordor the Blessed rose like a blazing star in the firmament, King of Kings, ruler of Afriterra, bearer of the crown that held dominion over all living things.
His reign was an age of glory. His name thundered through the centuries.
But time devours all things. Kingdoms crumble. Empires fade.
And even legends are buried beneath the weight of years.
Yet some powers are not so easily forgotten.
For when Vordor the Blessed finally died…the crown did not die with him.
It vanished.
And with its disappearance, the world entered a darker age.
But the crown was never destroyed.
It was only waiting….
Waiting for the day another soul would dare to claim the power of a king.