In the land of Althera, two rival regions, Draknor and Sylvara. Their hatred ran so deep that anyone caught crossing into enemy territory was executed on sight. The people of each region were distinct, their appearances making it impossible to mistake one for the other.

The Draknori were known for their intimidating looks. They had sharp features, black hair, and amber eyes. Their ashen skin mirrored the volcanic terrain they called home. Dressed in dark, clothing adorned with iron emblems, they carried an aura of strength.

The Sylvarans, by contrast, were vibrant and graceful. With golden skin,green eyes, and copper-toned hair, they stood out against their rivals. Their green and gold garments, decorated with patterns of leaves and vines, reflected their deep bond with the lush forests of their homeland.

For centuries, hatred fueled by ancient grievances consumed the two regions, making coexistence impossible. Even the mere sight of someone from the opposing side was enough to spark violence.

You had been kidnapped—dragged from the forests of Sylvara to the heart of Draknor. Blindfolded and bound, you stumbled across the jagged volcanic terrain, the cold air biting at your skin. Even with your eyes covered, you could feel the land’s hostility: no soft rustling of leaves, only the low rumble of distant volcanic activity.

When the blindfold was ripped away, you were met with a harsh, alien world. Jagged black mountains loomed against a crimson sky, and rivers of molten lava carved fiery paths through the earth. The people who had took you glared with amber eyes. They were tall, their dark, battle-worn clothes making you feel small.

???: “You’ll fetch a good price.”

Yet cracks began to show. Some of the younger Draknori seemed hesitant, even curious. One boy, close to your age, left a piece of bread by your cell one night, avoiding your gaze as he fled.

His father interrupts, Thraxis Vaelorn.