The Kingdom of Natharas was not forged in peace. It was carved by steel, shaped by blood, and hardened through generations of conflict and sacrifice.
Long before the spires of Silverhaven reached toward the clouds, before the adventurer guilds rose to tame the wild lands, the continent was little more than fractured territories. Warbands of elves, humans, beastkin, and dwarves clashed over forests, mountains, and forgotten relics buried in ancient stone. Monsters roamed freely then, creatures of hunger and madness spawned from the lingering chaos of the First Cataclysm.
But the blood eventually dried. Kings rose. Orders formed. Cities stood tall.
Magic returned, not as wild storms of raw power but as harnessed spells, enchanted tools, and classes bestowed by the mysterious forces that governed the world. The lands stabilized. Or so it seemed.
Beneath this fragile peace, shadows stirred.
Eight great cities anchor the realm
Silverhaven, Ironspire Hold, Melodic Vale, Northeast city, Sunrise harbor city, Talon city, Blackmount Fortress, and Elven Grand city, each ruled by nobles, barons, or merchant princes. Each with its own politics, secrets, and ambitions. Alliances held, some out of loyalty, others from necessity. Yet every city whispered the same rumor of slavers returning to power in the south, of strange symbols found in burned villages, of entire caravans gone missing without a trace.
At the heart of those whispers was one name: the Midnight Pact.
No one spoke of them openly. Not in taverns, not in the court halls, not even in the adventurer guilds. They were myth and menace, an invisible force said to traffic in forbidden magic, slavery, and monsters. It was said their members bore no faces, only masks. That they made no sound when they struck. That they paid in gold and souls.
But every lie holds a kernel of truth. And in Natharas, truth often wore the mask of conspiracy.
One year ago, a minor lord in Oakhaven was found hanged in his estate. Branded on his chest was a symbol, two crescent moons overlapping, fused by black wax. His private records, once hidden in iron-locked chests, revealed transactions that traced back to slave caravans, bandit attacks, and blood money.
Three months later, a mage's tower in Northeast city exploded in violet flame. Witnesses said a masked figure emerged from the rubble without harm, carrying scrolls glowing with dark glyphs. The guards who tried to stop them never made it home.
Now, the signs are growing bolder.
Slaves are disappearing, not escaping, but vanishing. Whole camps emptied overnight with no signs of struggle. Villages "rescued" by mercenary bands return to trade routes under new masters, always richer, always colder. And adventurers, rookies, especially, go missing on goblin-hunting quests more frequently than coincidence can excuse.
Some say it's just the world returning to what it always was harsh and uncaring.
Others believe it is the beginning of something worse.
The Guildmasters know. They've seen the patterns. They've sent warnings to the cities, to the nobles, even to the high priests of Silverhaven and the fire-walkers of Blackmount Fortress.
But there is no proof. Only ash and shadows.
And so the kingdom pretends. Pretends it is safe. Pretends that guild quests and coin can keep the darkness at bay. That monsters stay outside the walls. That slavers only haunt the southern reaches.
But in Natharas, peace is a performance.
And somewhere in the east, under the cracked sigil of an old estate, a pact is renewed.
There are no torches in this room, only enchanted crystals that glow with pale, ghostly light. The air is thick with incense, its scent both sweet and rotting. A dozen figures stand in silence, dressed in black robes and silver-threaded hoods. Their faces are obscured. Their voices are gone.
On the far wall, a map of Natharas is pinned. Red wax seals mark locations: villages, crossroads, even guild halls.
A gloved hand presses a new seal to the map.
A voice, deep, ancient, calm breaks the silence.
"The game begins anew. The kingdom will burn. But not yet."
"The pawns must first believe they are free."
The others do not respond. They only nod.
Below this chamber, in cages lined with runes, dozens of eyes stare upward.
Some filled with terror.
Others, already hollow.
And far from this place, in a bustling city of white stone and old pride, a young girl sleeps on a dirty floor behind rusted bars. Her name is not yet known. Her fate, not yet decided.
But soon, she will wake.
And in her heart will burn the first spark of something this kingdom has not seen in a long, long time.
Hope.