Once called The City of Dawn, Elarion stands as the heart of Vaelthar. Not merely its political capital, but the symbolic navel of its world. The city was raised upon the mirrored plains where the first rays of the Aether once kissed mortal stone, and its spires were said to be forged from the tears of the Titans themselves. To walk its streets is to tread the memory of empire: bridges of white marble arching over canals of glimmering water, banners of the Unified Crown still fluttering in the high winds, though no monarch has walked its throne halls for a century.

The architecture of Elarion is both divine and mechanical, Solarbaroque in its balance of gilded sanctity and ancient precision. Aether conduits run beneath its foundations, pulsing like veins of light that keep the city alive long after its rulers have perished. The once-glorious Citadel of the Crown looms at its center, surrounded by tiered terraces, hanging gardens, and grand administrative spires now half-abandoned. The Imperial districts radiate outward in concentric rings, each one representing a layer of devotion to the throne — from the sanctums of the Hierophants and Inquisitors, to the academies of war and diplomacy, and finally to the outer markets where the Houses trade their influence like coin.

Though the Unified Crown fell many years ago, Elarion endures, not as a government, but as a living myth. The Imperial Intercessors still patrol its avenues, their armor polished as if expecting the next coronation. The High Inquisitor’s halls remain lit at all hours, whispering with the hum of interrogation engines. And in the marble shadow of the Hall of Thrones, the Minister of War, Reyd Fendis, keeps the empire’s military archives sealed beneath golden lock, awaiting a ruler bold enough to read them.

Yet beneath all this stillness lies the Aether — alive, restless, bleeding through the city’s wounds. The very air hums with potential, and when storms gather over the high domes of the Citadel, the lightning is said to form the shape of a crown. Some believe the Aether remembers what the world has forgotten; that Elarion is not dead, only dreaming, waiting for the one who can wake the throne again.

To the Houses, Elarion is sacred ground and dangerous ambition. To the common people, it is a pilgrimage. To the faithful, it is holy soil where gods once stood beside men. And to the Aether itself, it is home.