The return to the capital was a blur of blood, exhaustion, and relief. As Riven and the soldiers marched back through the towering stone gates, citizens lined the streets to welcome them. Cheers echoed through the city like thunder, a wave of joy breaking over weeks of tension. Children waved small banners. Old men bowed their heads. Mothers held their little ones close, weeping with both sorrow and gratitude. For a moment, the fear was over.
Though bruised and bloodied, the soldiers stood tall. They had survived wave two. For now, the kingdom of Deyveth still held strong.
Riven barely spoke during the celebration. His body ached, and his mind was heavier than ever. There was pride, yes—but there was also something deeper stirring within him. A need to understand the world he had been summoned into. Strength was not enough. Power without direction was just chaos.
After the ceremony and brief rest, Riven returned to his father's estate. The halls were quiet again, the scent of burned herbs and polished wood filling the air. He wandered, uncertain of what he was looking for, until his steps led him to the old library.
The room was vast—high shelves lined with books bound in leather, wood, and silk. Some were ancient, sealed with arcane locks. Others were new, dusty from disuse. He ran his fingers along the spines until one caught his attention: a thick, blue-covered tome titled "Races and Kingdoms of Orithal."
Riven pulled it free, sat at the long table beneath a sunlit window, and began to read.
The continent of Orithal, it turned out, was divided not only by mountains and rivers but by philosophy, culture, and lineage. Seven major kingdoms ruled the known lands, each inhabited by different races, each with their own customs and ideologies.
The southeastern regions were covered by vast ancient forests stretching for hundreds of miles—home to the elves, the race closest to nature and the arcane. The elven kingdom, Velarion, was nestled deep within the Emerald Veil, a mystical woodland where the trees whispered and the rivers shimmered with mana. Their capital city, Luthalorien, was a masterpiece of tree-shaping magic, with buildings woven from living wood and crystal canopies reflecting moonlight even in day.
Elves believed in balance—between life and death, man and beast, magic and the mundane. Their warriors were agile and precise, masters of long-range combat. Their archers could shoot with unerring accuracy even from the tree tops, and their mages practiced elemental control with a grace Riven had never imagined. Their elders, ageless and wise, ruled by council. Elves meditated daily, using ancient songs to connect with forest spirits. Outsiders, especially humans, were viewed with caution. The elves considered the chaos of the world a direct result of mankind's haste and ambition.
Moving northeast across the Vale of Whispers and through the mountains of Onari, Riven read about the dwarves of Khurnaz-Dol, a subterranean kingdom forged in the heart of the Ironback Range. Unlike the elegant elves, dwarves were blunt, proud, and deeply traditional. Their culture revolved around craftsmanship, honor, and kinship.
Their capital, Grumbak-Thar, lay within a series of caverns lit by glowing veins of crystal. Every stone, every anvil, every weapon was made with purpose and pride. Dwarves were short but broad, incredibly strong and resilient. Their warriors wielded war hammers and tower shields, trained in brutal close combat. They had no love for magic, but their runesmiths—ancient artisans who carved enchantments into armor and steel—were feared and respected across the continent.
North of them, past frozen rivers and wind-scoured tundra, were the icy lands of the Frostborne, a tribe-like race of pale-skinned warriors living in the kingdom of Skarnheim. Half-giant blood flowed through their veins, giving them incredible physical power and towering stature. They lived in mead halls and hunted beasts of the north, forging their bodies and spirits in the cruelest climate imaginable.
The Frostborne were fierce, loyal, and driven by rites of glory. Battles were sacred to them, duels fought under the northern lights. They honored strength above all else, and the right to lead was earned through combat—not bloodline. Magic among them was rare, but their shamans could summon blizzards or commune with ancient mountain spirits.
To the west lay the vast plains and steppes of Zarhaan, the home of the beastkin—a race of humans with animal traits. Some bore feline eyes and claws; others had lupine ears or tails, even scaled limbs or feathers. Their kingdom, Myrrvahl, was nomadic. Great moving cities built on titanic beasts wandered the land, each tribe independent yet bound by a code of survival and unity.
Beastkin culture was fluid and diverse. Their combat styles mimicked the animals they resembled—fast, wild, instinctive. They embraced both martial prowess and spiritual connection to nature. While they rarely meddled in foreign politics, they were quick to respond if their kin were threatened.
Riven turned the page again.
South, near the great inland sea of Sorinel, was the human empire of Vandross—a kingdom ruled by tradition, military power, and rigid hierarchy. Unlike Deyveth, which leaned on merit and nobility, Vandross believed in control and legacy. Their capital, Arcanhold, was the seat of the Grand Emperor, a human who wielded both political and magical power.
Vandross was known for its Knights Arcana, warrior-mages trained to balance blade and spell. Their society was heavily stratified, with magic users given elite status, while commoners lived under strict control. They were expansionists, believing in humanity's divine right to rule. Riven frowned at that. It sounded too familiar.
Lastly, deep in the deserts of the east, the draconids of Seryth-Kaal ruled beneath the scorched sun. These lizard-like beings had hardened scales, horns, and breath of flame. Their kingdom thrived in ancient stone temples surrounded by sun-baked sands, where bloodlines were traced back to dragon ancestors.
Their society was brutal—only the strongest survived. But it was also rich in forgotten wisdom. Their oracles spoke in tongues, and their warriors danced with fire. Riven read of Kael'Zir, the Flame-Born, a draconid warlord said to have razed a hundred cities during the Age of Chaos.
As Riven closed the book, his mind was reeling. These weren't just stories. These were real powers—real threats, or perhaps allies. This world was vaster than he ever imagined, each kingdom like a different blade on the edge of a wheel. And he was right in the center of it.
The candle beside him had burned low. Outside, the sun had already begun to dip. Tomorrow, he would continue reading. There were more kingdoms left—more truths to uncover. But for now, Riven understood one thing clearly:
To survive in this world... he needed to know it.
And then, he would conquer it.