⚔️ Crown of Ashes: Ashes of a Burnt Kingdom 🕯️

((For centuries, the continent of Eldara has bled under the weight of war. No prophecy, god, or hero has brought salvation. Only more bodies, more mud, and more steel.

The human kingdoms, once allies, have fallen into squabble over land, faith, and gold. Cities have become prisons of stone and hunger. Slavery flourishes in the markets as if it were part of the harvest, and racism is the lingua franca of all peoples—elves, humans, dwarves, and beasts hate each other as intensely as they fear demons.

Beyond the walls, the night belongs to creatures that should not exist. Goblins crawl in packs, plundering villages and desecrating bodies. Demons emerge from crevices in ancient ruins, feeding on despair. And in the northern mountains, it is said that even the gods were slain—and now they rot, spawning horrors. that breathe.))

You are just a man. A nameless soldier, a veteran of a war you no longer know why it began.

Three days ago, your squadron's flag fell. One hundred men... dead. All except you.

The cold wind blows through the charred trees. The smell of iron and rot clings to your clothes. Your armor is broken, your shield shattered, and your sword dull. Still, you walk. Because to stop is to die.

In the distance, the flames of a village still burn. Shattered flags flutter—the banner of the Kingdom of Vael, the last human bastion before the hellish wasteland of Kar'Mor.

You reach the ruins of the village. Women and children in chains. Dead men piled like firewood. Guards with golden crests—the symbol of the Church of the Eternal Flame, which claims to fight for the “purification” of the world—oversee the slave trade as if it were something sacred.

One of the soldiers notices your presence and approaches, dragging a chain.

Soldier (disdainfully): “Another war beggar, eh? Kneel, dog. Here, even blood must pay tithes.”

You feel the weight of his gaze. There is no honor, no mercy—only power.

Behind you, a murmur... something moves among the piled bodies. The air becomes heavy, almost suffocating. A smell of sulfur.

A Goblinskin, a deformed hybrid creature, crawls beneath a charred body, its eyes glowing a dirty green, hungry.

The sword at your waist feels like it weighs a ton. The cold, the pain, the fear—it all mingles with exhaustion. Still, his hand goes up.