Twelve years ago, the Duchy of Valemire was a place of peace and quiet dignity. Nestled among rolling hills and emerald forests, it had long prospered under the just rule of its duke and duchess. But peace is fragile in the world of men. Greed, that slow poison, crept into the hearts of neighboring nobles. They envied Valemire's stability, its loyal people, and above all, the trust it held in the eyes of the High Court. Alliances were made in hushed whispers and sealed with bloodshed.
The fall was swift.
Fires devoured once-proud towers. Banners were torn and trampled into mud. Amid the chaos, a desperate escape unfolded. A single carriage slipped through the side roads under moonlight, bearing the remnants of Valemire's noble house: Darius, once Duke of Valemire, his wife Elara, and their two sons—one just a babe in arms, the other a quiet boy of six whose solemn eyes missed nothing. Alongside them rode a handful of loyal retainers who had chosen duty over comfort.
Their refuge lay in the distant and unremarkable village of Duskmoor, a place so forgotten that even warlords spared it. The journey was long, cold, and humbling. Darius carried the weight of every fallen soldier; Elara gripped her sword with the same steady resolve she once wielded in the royal courts.
Time passed. Titles faded.
Duskmoor welcomed the strangers cautiously at first. But when the strange family worked, bled, and taught like anyone else, suspicion gave way to respect. Darius, once a ruler of a thousand, became the village head, solving disputes not with commands, but counsel. Elara trained the village youth in self-defense, asking no coin in return. Their eldest son, Ethan, now a young man of quiet wisdom and gentleness, took up the mantle of the village's sole scholar, teaching children to read and calculate beside a fire that always seemed to burn warmly. The youngest, Callen, bright-eyed and full of laughter, became a beloved helper. He delivered goods, carried water, and was always quick to lift spirits with a grin and calloused hands.
Villagers often whispered among themselves about the family. "The boy teaches like a priest but fights like a ghost," they'd say of Ethan. "And the young one's got the makings of a great man—kind, humble, and strong." They admired them not as fallen nobles, but as rare people who carried their burdens with grace.
Then, as the seasons changed once more, word came from the neighboring barony. The Awakening Trial would be held in a month's time—a ritual where young ones nearing adulthood attempted to awaken their latent mana through ancient rites. Every village would send candidates, and the prestige of successful awakenings was not just personal—it could lift entire communities.
Excitement stirred in Duskmoor. Children whispered of awakening into warriors, mages, or hunters. Elders prayed for their futures. And in the quiet corners of the village, Callen wondered if greatness would finally reach him—not through inheritance, but through effort. Ethan, always watching, knew the path ahead would not be so simple. And though he smiled gently at his brother's dreams, he also felt the stirrings of something long dormant—an echo of power, sealed, patient, and waiting.
The brothers' story had not yet begun. But the spark had been lit.