Year 1349 – Solor Valley, The Ancient Lands
The sky was still open, but the earth had turned dark with blood. Spears were stuck deep into the ground, crossbow bolts still lodged in bodies long gone cold. As the disciplined march of the Sunborn echoed through the valley, it carried with it a rhythm that once struck fear into the hearts of their enemies.
Commander Lilian, clad in silver armor that gleamed like divinity, stood tall. Her golden-white cloak danced in the wind, and the long spear in her hand reflected sunlight like a blade of pure fire.
For her, this was just another day.
Another victory. Another clean death.
Because Lilian had never known love.
She had never been shaken.
She was still the uncracked image of perfection.
She had not yet seen Wold.
As the mist crept down, shadows moved with silent precision. From the trees emerged the figures of the Nightborn. Among them, one stood out.
Wold.
He wore no heavy armor. Only silent, dark leathers that never betrayed a sound.
Twin daggers hung from his waist in a perfect cross.
A short bow was strapped to his back—but he didn't need it.
His gaze was calm, icy. But there was fury buried deep within; not at injustice, but at the absence of it.
And in that moment, Lilian met his eyes.
Her heart—just slightly—stumbled.
For the first time, the tip of her spear did not point at an enemy… but toward uncertainty.
In that heartbeat of silence, everything stopped.
The child of the Sun and the child of the Night saw one another.
And in the heart of war, something sparked between opposites.
It was not peace.
It was not victory.
It was only… the beginning.