The hush of pre-night lingered, thick and expectant, as King Sylorin Leron Whitalayn stood upon the marble balcony of his citadel, overlooking the vast expanse of Oryuth. The realm stretched before him like a dream—silver meadows undulating in the whisper of an unseen breeze, the boughs of ancient trees bowing under the weight of their own quiet wisdom. The sky, a vast dome of deep indigo, was caught between day’s lingering embrace and the tender insistence of twilight’s arrival.

For countless ages, Oryuth had known no true sunset—only the softened light of an eternal twilight, a sky bathed in a celestial glow that neither waned nor burned too bright. Yet, on rare occasions, when the balance of the world beyond tilted just so, a new darkness would breach the veil. This was one such moment.

Sylorin exhaled, his breath merging with the cool air, carrying the faint scent of moonbloom petals and dew-laden moss. The fabric of his robes stirred, woven from threads that shimmered like liquid starlight, the patterns shifting with the subtle grace of rippling water. His silver-gray hair, caught in the movement of the breeze, cascaded over his shoulders, glinting like molten moonlight against the paler glow of his skin.

Below him, the Silver Meadows stretched infinitely, the grass alight with its own quiet luminescence, each blade a delicate thread of argent fire. The meadows rolled into the distance, where the Ancient Boughs loomed, their gnarled trunks wrapped in veils of mist, their leaves humming with the echoes of memories long past. The Lakes of Reflection lay beyond them, their glass-like surfaces unbroken, awaiting the first touch of night's chilling light.

And then, it began.

A single seam of dark violet unraveled at the horizon, threading its way through the heavens with an aching slowness, tentative yet inevitable. The first shade of the moon—so foreign, so fleeting in this place—stretched its fingers over the sky, painting the indigo expanse with fragile strokes of lavender and stark raven.