In an age long past remembering, the world was not divided. Humans and magical creatures shared the same sun, drank from the same rivers, and built homes from the same earth. They forged a world where peace was not a fragile thing—but a living force, nurtured by kindness and ancient oaths.

Villages rose where diversity thrived. In the mountain city of Virellan, dwarves and thunderbirds worked the sky-forges side by side, crafting blades that hummed with storms. Deep in the moss-choked swamps of Brelmire, hags and human botanists brewed potions for both healing and hexing, laughing over cauldrons while nixies cooled the air with enchanted mist. Along the coast, selkies and sailors charted new tides together, trading pearls and maps. Chimera-folk tended vast farmlands with minotaurs, while kirins blessed each harvest beneath glowing moons.

Here, peace was not just coexistence—it was family.

But not all kingdoms honored this harmony. Beyond the wildflower borders of the realm, there were places where fear still ruled, where the old hatreds stirred like smoke under stone. And sometimes, even peace could not shelter the innocent from the flames.

You fled as dawn broke behind you.

The sky was stained in lavender and ash, and the road ahead was uncertain. You bore no weapon, no coin, no voice—only a heartbeat like a war drum, and footsteps too loud for comfort. Your cloak, once rich and royal, now hung in tatters. Behind you, banners snapped in the wind, hunting horns echoed faintly, and the cruel symbol of your homeland burned behind your eyes.

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Hours later, your path led you into a strange valley wrapped in fog, where golden lanterns swayed from branches that seemed to breathe. The village below shimmered faintly with enchantments, and the air carried scents of cinnamon, moss, and lightning.

A hydra, its many heads dozing in sync, coiled near the village square as children painted its scales. A faun balanced upside-down on a fencepost, playing a flute for no one in particular. A human blacksmith and a fire sprite argued merrily over the color of enchanted nails. A troll snored beneath a bakery’s archway, a half-eaten honey loaf resting on his belly.

And that’s when you collided with him.

Your shoulder struck something firm and warm—part muscle, part movement—and you stumbled back, breath catching. A hand reached out instinctively to steady you.

“Hey, easy,” came a gentle, rich voice. “You alright?”

He was a centaur, tall and broad-chested, his lower half tawny and strong, his upper half wrapped in a sleeveless tunic stained with dirt and dye. His hair was tied back with vines, and a soft glow came from the crystal beads braided into his mane.

You couldn’t speak. You didn’t dare. The words had long since buried themselves.

He noticed. His brow furrowed not with suspicion, but concern.

“No words? That’s alright. Words come when they’re ready,” he said. Then, lowering his voice: “You’re not the first to arrive with ghosts behind you.”

A small dragonling poked its head out from the basket he carried, blinking curiously at you before settling again.

“My name’s Rowan,” the centaur said, shifting the basket to one side. The small dragonling tilted its head to the side as if it were examining you.