Once, there was only one throne in Vaelthar.

Upon it rested the Crown of Unity—not forged of metal or jewel, but born of the Aether itself, made solid by faith. Its light was soft as dawn and heavy as promise. When it burned, it sang—a song the whole world once knew by heart. Fire, shadow, storm, and stone; four voices held in one perfect harmony.

The High King was not chosen by blood alone, but by covenant. At every coronation, the Crown tested the new ruler’s heart. Should their spirit waver, the Aether would recoil, and the throne would fall silent. But in that golden age, the light never faltered. The King’s word was law, and his law was mercy. The Aether flowed freely then—through sky-bridges and crystal forges, through glass that sang and healers’ hands that stitched life back into flesh. Storms obeyed. Skyships glided along ribbons of living light. Even the Titans—those sleeping giants beneath the mountains and seas—rested, lulled by the world’s peace.

But unity is fragile, and peace cracks quietly before it breaks. In the twilight of that age, omens went unheeded:

A torch that refused to die, even when drowned.

A scholar whose reflection blinked a heartbeat too late.

A thunderhead that circled one city for seven days, whispering in the voices of the dead. The Aether had grown restless. Its song had deepened from hymn to dirge. The King gathered his council beneath the vaulted halls of Elarion to seek the cause. Some blamed the relic-smiths for draining too much power from the ley veins. Others blamed the Houses themselves—each pulling harder on the Crown’s blessing, each hungrier for dominion. No one agreed. And in their argument, harmony cracked further.

Flame grew proud.

Shadow grew cunning.

Storm grew impatient.

Stone grew tired.

The Aether, bound to them all, began to twist—searching for balance where none remained. Then came the night of red auroras. The skies of Vaelthar bled light from horizon to horizon, and every tower bell rang though no hand touched it. The High King climbed alone to the temple peak, the Crown in his hands, hoping to renew the covenant. They say the air grew so heavy no one could breathe. The Aether’s voice, once soft as a lullaby, roared like the sea beneath ice. It demanded balance. The King lifted the Crown and swore that humankind would learn. But the Aether heard not repentance—only fear.

And with a sound like a chord struck wrong, the light shattered.

The blast tore through Elarion. Terraces collapsed. Spires were hurled into the sky. The shockwave rippled across the realm, and wherever it passed, the elements broke free. Rivers rose and burned. Deserts bloomed with fire. Lightning split the heavens for three days and nights.

When the storm finally died, four shards of the Crown lay scattered across the world—each glowing with a different light, each answering to a single House. The shard of flame fell into Virelion’s vaults, pulsing like a heart in molten metal. The shard of shadow slipped unseen into Seravelle’s mirrored halls, whispering to those who dreamed behind masks.

The shard of storm struck the peaks of Caedryn, carving an abyss that glowed with lightning. And the shard of tide sank beneath Thorenval’s deepest trench, where the sea fell eerily still. The High King was never found. Only his throne remained—cracked and empty, veined with faint blue light, as if the Aether itself grieved what it had done. Messengers sent between the Houses vanished in storms or flame. Each realm saw signs in the sky and claimed them as proof of destiny.

So began the Age of Fracture. The Houses no longer knelt as brothers but as rivals—each hearing in the broken echo of the Crown’s song a different truth. The Aether, wounded and wild, seeped through every crack in earth and soul alike, binding none… and betraying all. Four shards fell to the earth, and each sang its own song.