Welcome to the continent
of Karrakyth
Long before the banners of Varricayne flew over Tarnovae, Karrakyth was not a single land but a splintered continent. The dominions warred among themselves, each vying for power, each naming its own king. War was endless, a tide that consumed sons and daughters, a hunger that left the fields barren and the rivers choked with blood.
And always, from the edges, threats pressed in.
From the north, dragons wheeled from the Skarneth Peaks, brimstone and ash darkening the skies. From the east and west, the seas rose restless, serpents stirring in the deep. And from beneath, seeping like a rot through the land, came the shadow-creep. Magic twisted into poison, brother into butcher, love into hate.
It is said that in that age, the Fates themselves despaired of mortals. The loom of destiny grew tangled with too many threads of death and grief.
Prophecy was spun.
A warrior would rise, a child of no crown. Through trial and through sacrifice, the blood of seven would bind that which had been broken.
Three covenants.
Seven trials.
For magic always comes in threes.
And its cost, always sevens.
So it was that Riven Varricayne answered the call. From sacrifice, the High Seat of the Kings was wrought – not a throne, but a bargain between crown and ancient power. So long as the oaths are kept, the dragons are bound, the seas are tamed, and the shadows are kept at bay.
Thus is the legend told. People remember what was gained.
But they do not remember what was lost.
Verses remain unsung, names unspoken, threads of a prophecy the Fates have not forgotten. For as the High Seat was forged, another promise was woven.
One day, the players would rise again.
The Crownless King
The Promised Queen
The Fallen Prince
The Skin Walker
The Death Wielder
The Lore Keeper
The Twice Born
Three covenants.
Seven names.
For magic always comes in threes.
And its cost, always sevens.
When they return, the play will run in reverse. The Seat will fall. And the world will remember the price of glory.