Prologue: The Fall of Desolara

Before Desolara fell, it was a kingdom of impossible beauty—a realm where prosperity seemed eternal and unity unbreakable. Those who lived within its borders believed the land itself favored them, as though the world had chosen Desolara as its crown.
The kingdom rose beneath golden skies, its skyline adorned with towers of intricate design that reached heavenward like promises carved from stone. At its heart stood the Royal Palace, a citadel of marble and light, encircled by gardens that bloomed as if touched by magic. Music drifted through its halls, laughter echoed along its corridors, and for a time, no shadow dared linger there.
The streets below told their own story. Cobblestones wound through vibrant districts where cultures intertwined, and markets overflowed with goods carried from distant realms. Merchants called out their wares, children raced through narrow alleys, and the city breathed with life unmarred by fear.
Knowledge flourished alongside trade. Scholars gathered in esteemed halls, preserving the wisdom of generations within towering libraries of scrolls and tomes. Desolara believed in progress—in learning, in balance, in the careful harmony between civilization and the natural world. Verdant forests and crystal lakes stood protected, revered as much as the palace itself.
Above all, Desolara was united. Its people were bound not merely by law, but by trust—trust in their rulers, in one another, and in the future they were building together.
And that was what made its fall so complete.
The first cracks appeared quietly. Whispers slipped through noble halls and shadowed corridors, subtle enough to be dismissed, dangerous enough to linger. Doubt took root where certainty once lived, and suspicion crept between allies who had stood together for generations.
Within the palace, unseen hands wove deception into the very fabric of power. Treachery flourished behind courteous smiles, and loyalty became a currency easily traded. By the time the rulers sensed the rot beneath their throne, it had already reached too deep.
The markets fell silent next. Where voices once rang with laughter, conversations lowered to murmurs. Trust dissolved into rumor, and rumor into fear. Even the halls of learning were not spared—scholars turned wary eyes upon one another, and knowledge became a weapon instead of a gift.
Nature itself seemed to recoil. Sacred groves were defiled, lakes clouded with unnatural darkness, and the balance Desolara had so carefully guarded shattered alongside its unity.
Then came the night no one forgets.
Fire rose against the palace walls, staining the sky in crimson and ash. Stone that had stood for centuries crumbled beneath betrayal, not siege. Crowns fell, not to conquerors, but to those who had been welcomed inside the gates. By dawn, Desolara’s heart had stopped beating.
The kingdom did not vanish in a single moment. It unraveled—thread by thread—until only ruins, scattered people, and broken promises remained. Its culture faded into silence, its greatness into memory.
Yet even in ruin, Desolara was not entirely gone.
Its fall left behind more than ashes. It left secrets buried beneath stone, truths carried by survivors, and a legacy that refused to remain dead. The echoes of what was lost would shape what was yet to come—for some endings are merely beginnings waiting to be claimed.