It was a long, long time ago, so distant that even memory itself struggled to hold its shape. In the ages of the Old Gods, before the scars of war were carved into history, the five realms of Thyrennor flourished in peace and prosperity. Beneath vast skies and across fertile lands, the Elves, the Iliodans, the Humans, Dwarves, and the Demi-kin lived side by side. Though their cultures differed and their customs clashed at times, they learned to coexist, bound together by an unspoken agreement that harmony was worth preserving.

  For a time, that harmony endured.

  Yet among the Demi-kin, there existed one soul who found peace insufficient. Where others sought balance, he sought dominion. His name was Materama, and within him stirred a corrosive ambition that refused to be quenched. He did not desire coexistence—he desired control. An insatiable greed festered in his heart, urging him to claim rulership over all of Thyrennor, not through unity, but through force.

  The four other races would not allow it.

  They set aside old rivalries and ancient grudges, rising together as a single force against the threat that Materama posed. Elven magic, Dwarven steel, Human valor, and Iliodan mastery of the seas converged in a war unlike any seen before. What followed was not a swift conflict, nor an honorable duel, but a brutal struggle that spanned decades. Blood soaked the land, and the cries of the fallen echoed through the ages.

  At last, the era of Materama came to an end.

  Unable to destroy him, the allied races sealed Materama away in the deepest, most forsaken depths of Thyrennor—far beyond the reach of mortal hands. To ensure he would never rise again, the key to his prison was split into five equal fragments. Each race took custody of one fragment, swearing sacred oaths to protect it, hide it, and never allow it to be reunited.

  The war ended, but peace did not return.

  Too much blood had been spilled. Too many lives had been lost. The trust that once bound the races together shattered, leaving behind suspicion, grief, and fear. Thyrennor would never again know the harmony it once cherished.

  The Elves, led by their holy queen, withdrew deep into the sacred realm of the Evarenth Woodlands—a place so ancient and sanctified that no mortal feet were permitted to tread upon its soil.

  The Dwarves, under the command of their High King, sealed themselves beneath the earth, retreating into labyrinthine cities of stone and iron, hidden so completely that none could find them, no matter how desperately they searched.

  The Iliodans descended into the deepest reaches of the impossible waters, realms where pressure crushed bone and darkness swallowed light. They swore an eternal vow never to surface again, severing themselves from the open shores of the world.

  The Humans claimed the open grasslands of Aldrion—the Heartland of Great Kings, past and present—where they built kingdoms upon memory and ambition.

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  A small voice cut through the stillness. "What about the Demi-kin?"

  The question was filled with curiosity that could not be contained.

  At the sound of his thin, harmless voice, she smiled, the slight curve of her lips betraying a tenderness she did not bother to hide. "The Demi-kin who faithfully followed in the footsteps of Materama were sealed alongside him," she replied gently.

  "And the ones who didn't?" he pressed. "What became of them?"

  She hesitated. Her eyes lingered on his face, taking in his anticipation, his innocence. "The majority of them took shelter in the Free Realm," she said at last. "And for those who could not… they scattered across the lands of Aldrion, fated to be hunted down by the crusaders of mankind."

  His expression darkened. The cheer drained from his face, replaced by something heavier. "Aunt Mira…"

  "Yes, my boy?"

  "Will I also be hunted down by the Crusaders?"

  The question was not born of fear, but of genuine curiosity. It made her heart ache all the same.

  Aunt Mira did not answer immediately. She masked the sadness in her eyes with a bright smile, her palm rising to rest gently against his cheek. Her hand moved slowly, stroking his dark green skin with care and tenderness. In the quiet tranquility of the moment, her gaze locked onto his yellowish pupils—eyes that betrayed his hybrid origin.

  "No, my boy," she said softly. "You will not be hunted down by the Crusaders."

  "Why?" he asked.

  She chuckled lightly. "Because you are not a pure-blooded Demi-kin."

  "But my skin is different from my peers," he argued. "They all say I'm different. That I'm a freak."

  Instead of anger, Aunt Mira laughed it off, her tone warm and reassuring. "Different? Yes, you are. Weird? You are not. What you are, my boy, is special. A hybrid born of two separate origins."

  He stared at her, perplexed, the word settling slowly in his mind.

  "Your mother was a Human," she continued, "and your father was a Demi-kin. Which makes you none of one, yet both of each. A hybrid."

  He mulled over her words in silence. So I won't be hunted down and killed by the Crusaders, he thought.

  "Yes, child," she affirmed, as if hearing his thoughts. "You will not."

  Another thought surfaced, heavier than the last. "What about my father?" he asked aloud. "If he's a full Demi-kin… does that mean he will be hunted down by the Crusaders?"

  For a brief moment, she faltered. The question caught her off guard, and though she quickly regained her composure, the shift did not go unnoticed. She closed the book resting on her lap with a soft thud.

  "You know what, kiddo," she said, rising to her feet, "I think it's time for bed now. You don't want to be up late for tomorrow's lessons, now do you?"

  He shook his head.

  "In that case," she smiled, "an early sleep would suggest otherwise."

  She pulled the blanket higher, tucking it neatly beneath his chin, her movements practiced and gentle. With a small wave of her hand, she conjured a soft breeze that extinguished the candle by his bedside, plunging the room into darkness.

  As she turned to leave, he called out again. "Aunt Mira."

  "Yes, kiddo?" she replied, her hand resting on the wooden doorframe.

  "When are you going to tell me stories about my mother and father?"

  Even in the dark, his yellowish pupils glowed brightly.

  Aunt Mira held her composure, her face calm, her eyes steady. "Goodnight, Adrian," she said, her smile gentle yet heavy with unspoken emotion.

  She closed the door behind her and retreated into the living room. There, she sat down heavily, her gaze drifting to the desk where a small bundle of tobacco rested. She picked it up, bringing it close to her finger.

  With a moment's concentration, flame bloomed—controlled, calm, and harmless. She lit the tobacco and inhaled deeply, the smoke easing the weight pressing against her chest. Leaning back against the couch, she stared at the ceiling, exhaustion finally catching up to her.

  "A good question, sister," she murmured softly. "Where the hell are you…?"