Long ago, in a time when legends were still young and maps had yet to tame the wild edges of the world, there existed a vast and mighty land known as Elmore. So expansive was this country—its forests deep, its mountains tall, and its rivers wide—that no single ruler could govern it alone. Instead, four powerful sovereigns came together in harmony, dividing the land into four great kingdoms, each strong in its own right, yet bound by a fragile pact of unity.
These were the kingdoms of Strongbone, De Fra, Silleon, and Kingswell.
For a time, peace reigned. Borders were respected. Trade flourished. And though each kingdom upheld its own traditions, languages, and laws, there was a shared reverence for the land they called Elmore. But peace, as it so often does, began to crack beneath the weight of ambition.
Years passed, and as power shifted and thrones changed hands, envy took root. The kingdoms, once brothers in arms, began to question each other's intentions. Tensions festered until, inevitably, war erupted.
It began subtly—border disputes, broken treaties, whispered accusations. But before long, armies marched and banners clashed. The unity that had once defined Elmore crumbled.
The Kingdoms of Strongbone and De Fra were the first to retreat from the growing storm. Their rulers, wise though weary, recognized that they could not contend with what was coming. Neither possessed the sheer military might nor the resources to survive a prolonged conflict with their rivals. And so, they stepped back into the shadows of history, choosing survival over pride.
That left only Silleon and Kingswell.
The two strongest of the four.
The Kingdom of Silleon—renowned for its unmatched cavalry, disciplined warriors, and boundless gold mines carved deep into the hills of Darven.
The Kingdom of Kingswell—respected across continents for its formidable naval fleets, its strategic brilliance, and its lineage of sharp-minded monarchs.
Both were powerful in wealth, military, and recognition. Yet, somehow, both felt it wasn't enough. It was never enough. Greed and pride drove them forward, locked in a bitter rivalry that neither could afford to lose.
What followed was thirty years of unrelenting war.
A war not for land. Not for justice.
But for power.
Decades passed in bloodshed. Generations grew up knowing nothing but the sound of clashing steel and the scent of smoke hanging in the air. Villages burned, alliances shifted, and many brave souls fell forgotten on battlefields that had no name.
Then, at the end of a long and bitter campaign, the King of Kingswell—King Thorin—sought to end the cycle.
Worn by the cost of war, mourning the loss of too many of his people, he extended a hand of peace to his long-time enemy. With open arms and hopeful heart, he sent word to Silleon. The Kingdom of Silleon responded with what seemed to be acceptance. Treaties were drafted, messengers rode between castles, and for the first time in decades, there was a whisper of hope.
But hope, like peace, can be a fragile illusion.
At a grand summit held at the neutral grounds of Belvour Pass, King Thorin arrived with trust in his heart.
He was met with blades.
In a shocking act of betrayal, the soldiers of Silleon turned on him. Surrounded, outnumbered, and unarmed, King Thorin was slain in cold blood.
The act shattered any hope for reconciliation. And it left a kingdom grieving—not just for a monarch, but for the peace he had tried to create.
Thorin left behind a single heir—his only son.
The boy's mother, Queen Elinora, had died years earlier from a rare and incurable disease, leaving the young prince with only his father for guidance. And now, that father was gone. At the age of sixteen, Prince Lucas of Kingswell stood alone.
Orphaned and burdened with a crown.
There was no time to grieve.
With trembling hands, he signed military reports. With sleepless eyes, he reviewed battle strategies. And with a voice still finding its strength, he addressed generals and nobles twice his age. He was thrust into war not as a child but as a king. There was no room for hesitation.
By the time he turned seventeen, Lucas had already led an army into battle.
And he won.
In a decisive campaign that caught the enemy off-guard, the young king's strategy broke through Silleon's southern defenses and forced their retreat. The victory was not just military—it was personal. The boy had avenged his father, if only slightly.
Word of the defeat spread like wildfire. The soldiers of Silleon, once confident in their superiority, had been outmaneuvered by a boy not yet of age. King Mathew of Silleon was enraged.
Humiliated.
He could not comprehend how his armies—his generals—had failed against someone so young.
After that loss, Silleon withdrew from the front lines.
But they did not surrender.
The kingdom went quiet, its activity masked in silence. There were no more grand invasions, no more formal declarations. But those who knew Mathew knew the silence would not last.
Because King Mathew of Silleon was not a man who gave up.
Especially not when he had his eyes on something he believed should belong to him.