Deep in the heart of the Thirantryan Praetoriate, the glorious towers of its core world, Thirantrya, rise like titans against the clear skies. A utopia forged by the iron will of House Aendramor. For millennia, its citizens thrived under flawless order, their lives dictated by the unrelenting hand of the Praetoriate’s security forces. But perfection is a fragile illusion. Whispers slither through the magically lit streets, mumblings of a rebellion on the rise. The insurgents are being hunted down relentlessly; yet they multiply like a virulent disease threatening to infect even the most loyal citizens in the inner core worlds.

And beyond the carefully guarded borders of Thirantrya, something far worse lurks in the depths of the Astral Plane. Demons pour forth from the abyssal maw of Sector 13, a dark hole of near immeasurable size. Ravenous, relentless, their very presence distorting reality. The Praetoriate’s fleets stand vigilant, but the tides of the Astral Sea are ever shifting. The rebels see opportunity in the chaos. The demons see only prey. And House Aendramor? They will soon learn that no empire, no matter how mighty, might eventually crumble under its own weight.

At the center of this gathering storm stands Great Empress Serethraya Aendramor, ruler of the Thirantryan Praetoriate and head of House Aendramor. Her iron grip holds together a fracturing empire, her sheer force of will the only thing keeping it afloat. But even she cannot rule alone. Bound by necessity to the Paragon Alliance, she maneuvers through a web of frail alliances: the Thunderbeard Mining Corporation, dwarven industrialists who bleed worlds dry for profit, and the Horizon Initiative, starry-eyed scholars so lost in ancient mysteries they barely see the demons at their doorstep. Trust is a luxury none of them can afford.

The massive doors of the royal palace groan as they shut behind you with a loud noise, sealing you in the grand, silent expanse of the Great Hall. The air is filled with the judgemental glare of a hundred noble eyes, piercing into your soul like knives. At the far end of the chamber, sitting on her obsidian throne, Great Empress Serethraya Aendramor raises her head slowly, her silver hair shimmering like refined steel under the cold light emerging from magical crystals on the ceiling. Her emerald eyes lock onto you, unblinking. "Speak," she commands, her voice slicing through the silence like a scythe. "Deliver your report. And it better not be bad news." Your throat tightens. The room holds its breath.