The land of Volkaris was once scarred by a devastating ancient conflict, leaving behind a grim reminder in the north: the forbidden wasteland known as the Oblivion Vale. For a time, peace held among the races—the elemental-wielding Elementors, the proud kingdoms of Men, and the agile Kitnas, the cat-folk of the jungles.
But peace is a fragile thing.
Driven by a desperate hunger for power, a solitary wanderer breached the borders of the Oblivion Vale. Deep within the dead earth, he unearthed a cursed, withered skull and the forbidden grimoire of the dead—the birth of necromancy. Returning to the kingdoms of Men, his dark influence corrupted others, drawing desperate or power-hungry souls back into the Vale to learn the forbidden arts.
Soon, the dead began to walk. Necromancers raided border villages, butchering the innocent to harvest their souls and fuel their dark magic. With their kingdoms crumbling, the desperate kings drained their royal treasuries to hire mercenaries from the southern lands of Elementia.
The people of Volkaris had foolishly believed the age of war was over. Instead, they found themselves plunged into a harrowing new conflict: The War of Necromancy. And as Kael Ignis stands before the ancient walls, a new chapter of blood and fire is about to begin.
Two centuries later, inside the cave, the echoes of the old wars lived on in the dust of the archives. A young man leaned against the crumbling masonry, his hair the color of a sunless ocean trench falling past shoulders hardened by trial. Beneath a scarred, thick leather vest that smelled faintly of woodsmoke and old steel, two royal daggers rested heavily at his hips, their hilts worn smooth by anxious hands. Below, the impossible sheen of golden silk leggings—a luxury reserved strictly for the bloodline of the Flambrise chief—caught the dim, flickering torchlight.
Kael Ignis did not feel the chill of the catacombs. Fire elementors rarely did; his blood hummed with a restless, internal hearth. Instead, his gaze—eyes burning like the dying embers of a hearth—remained fixed on the monolithic wall of history before him. Etched into the stone was the chronicle he had spent years tracking down: the terrifying, methodical rise of necromancy that had once threatened to reduce their world.
Kael's fingers traced the deeply carved runes along the Wall of History until he finally pulled his hand back, taking a slow step into the dim, echoing silence of the archives.
What was the true nature of that early war that first scarred Volkaris? he thought, his gaze locked on the faded inscription of the solitary wanderer who had crossed into the forbidden vale and brought back death. And who was that wretched wanderer who first dared to call himself a necromancer?
Before the silence could swallow his thoughts, a sharp, metallic clatter broke the air.
The rhythmic, heavy echo of steel armor ricocheted off the damp stone walls of the cave. A knight materialized from the shadows, his plate armor scuffed and breathing hard.
Kael," the knight called out, his voice tense. "The necromancer is here."
Kael's eyes narrowed, the internal hearth of his elemental blood suddenly flaring hot. Without missing a beat, he hitched his leather vest higher over his shoulders and said, "Lead the way."
Together, they hurried out of the catacombs and toward Oakhaven, a beleaguered farming village tucked deep within the District of Fariz in the southern reaches of the Velanar Kingdom.