The world had forgotten the wars.
The world had forgotten the scars.
The world had forgotten the price.
But it lived.
It breathed.
It sang.
Five hundred years had passed since the Abyss was silenced.
Five hundred years since Arin's last breath beneath a shattered sky.
Five hundred years since a boy gave everything for a dream he would never see.
Now, that dream filled the lands.
Cities stretched like golden rivers across plains once scorched black.
Skies once torn by war now shimmered with crystal-clear blue,
untouched by smoke or blood.
Children ran through fields without fear.
Songs of hope were sung from towers that touched the clouds.
The world had flourished.
In the center of the new world stood the capital:
Solaria.
Built atop the ruins of the last battlefield,
Solaria was a city of light and stone.
Every street was lined with banners of gold and white.
Every plaza bore statues of the Hero.
Arin.
Massive murals showed her holding a sword of flame,
standing victorious over a shapeless, shadowed figure.
The legend was simple:
"The Hero of Light.
The Savior of the New Dawn.
The Slayer of the Abyss King."
Children recited the oaths of Glory before they learned to walk.
Tales of Arin's triumph were taught in every school,
sung in every tavern,
whispered in every prayer.
Her descendants ruled now.
The House of Veyla.
A family line that traced its blood directly back to Arin herself.
The Kings and Queens of Solaria were not tyrants.
They were protectors.
Guardians.
Just as she had been.
But even in paradise…
not all was perfect.
Beneath the polished streets,
beneath the shining towers,
whispers stirred.
Old stories.
Forgotten fears.
Buried truths.
Because the world only remembered half the story.
Because history only sang half the song.
Because legends are written by the victors.
And sometimes…
the shadows write their own endings.
At the heart of Solaria, in the Grand Plaza,
a festival was held.
The Festival of Light.
A day to celebrate Arin's victory.
A day to remind the world that darkness had been defeated forever.
Children wore white cloaks and golden circlets.
Men and women lit massive pyres at every corner,
pushing back any imagined shadow.
The air smelled of incense and fire and sweet bread.
And under the tallest spire,
the current Queen — Lyra Veyla —
descendant of Arin —
stood proudly.
"Today we celebrate peace!
Today we honor the light that drives away the abyss!
Today we give thanks to Arin the Savior!
And vow to never let darkness rise again!"
The crowds roared.
Songs echoed.
And the world turned, bathed in gold.
But far, far beyond the shining cities and laughing rivers,
in the oldest forests and the forgotten ruins…
something shifted.
A pulse.
A whisper.
A memory stirring beneath the ashes of a dream.
Because peace, however pure,
is never permanent.
Because light, however strong,
always casts a shadow.
And somewhere,
deep in the earth,
the first crack appeared.
Invisible.
Silent.
Inevitable.
The world had been reborn.
But no rebirth is perfect.
No paradise is eternal.
No dream is safe forever.
The true story…
was only just beginning.