Talon stepped out of the restaurant, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The food was decent, though he still couldn’t quite tell what meat he had been chewing. He hoped it wasn’t rat. At least the bread wasn’t trying to break my teeth, he thought. That was already leagues better than the taverns back on the Lye Continent. The streets were busy now, with groups of people in matching gear moving about. From their weapons and the way they carried themselves, he could tell they were mercenaries. Some wore armor with brass studs, others had odd gear strapped to their backs—like a cross between a barrel and a kettle with pipes jutting out. Talon gave it a long look before muttering, “Either that’s a portable brewery or a bomb. Either way, not something I want near me if it leaks.” He spotted a familiar group—the same mercenaries he’d overheard in the restaurant talking about the ruins. They seemed more approachable than the others, so Talon figured this wa

The ruins stretched for miles, a wasteland of shattered stone and broken landscapes, all hidden under a mountain range. From above, it probably looked like nothing but an endless graveyard. Down on the ground, though, it was worse; every step carried a risk of sudden death. “Traps,” one of the younger adventurers muttered, pointing at a half-collapsed hallway ahead. Rusted arrows still jutted out of the stone walls like teeth. Evidence of the previous expedition teams that had passed through. The Team Captain gave it a glance. “Don’t worry. Those arrows are older than your grandmother’s knees. The real problem is the ones that don’t look broken.” He tested the ground with his boot. Nothing. A second step and the stone beneath him gave a sharp click. With a curse, he jerked back just as a volley of darts hissed out of the walls, slicing the air where his chest had been. He turned, grinning wryly. “See? Still sharp enough to ruin my day. Maybe your grandmother’s knees too.” The

The hall stretched endlessly before them, a cathedral of broken stone and shadows. Dust floated in the still air, and the silence pressed down so heavily that every breath felt like a trespass.None of them could speak. The truth was written in every face — fear, dread, and a kind of awe that no one wanted to admit.The entire team was too shocked to move, they had even forgotten to breath, and this wasn't just because the gravity in this particular hall was heavier or because the air was thick. They were too struck by the sight before them. The hundreds of skeletons, of Saints, that seemed to have died in combat.Even in death, their presence lingered. Saints were different from ordinary warriors; they were forces recognized by the world itself. A farmer might not know what a Saint was, but if one walked past him, his knees would weaken, his heart would pound, and his mind would simply know. It wasn’t an aura that could be hidden unless a Saint willed it — it was recognition written

Few matters inspire more awe—or more envy—than the moment of Awakening. In that instant, the ordinary spirit blossoms into something greater, and a Power Core is formed within the soul. Though every race along the Path of Order may Awaken, none may exceed five such transformations in their lifetime. Five is both the ceiling and the ideal, for beyond that threshold lies only ruin as the unleashed power consumes the vessel.The gods, or perhaps fate itself, have decreed that these Awakenings do not come evenly. Instead, each race is granted what scholars call Golden Stages—rare periods when Awakening comes more easily. Men are blessed with three, the Elves with only two, while the Dwarves boast four. Yet the number matters less than the discipline of the seeker, for an Awakening without cultivation is like a sword without an edge: beautiful to behold, but blunt

There are, so far as the wisest can guess, an uncountable number of realities. Some are vast, others small; some simple, others more intricate than any labyrinth. Yet in all of them, a single constant holds: only the races of the Path of Order are born within these realms. The creatures of the Path of Chaos belong elsewhere, for their true cradle is the Abyss—an outer dimension so unfathomably large that it may rival the universe itself. I will speak more of that hateful place in due course. The Infinite Realities, though many, are not wholly unalike. Each obeys a set of base rules—call them laws, if you like—which bind them together in a shared design. But as one travels further from a known reality, these laws grow ever more strange. At a certain distance, they diverge so completely that even the keenest traveler cannot recognize what unfolds before their eyes. What is natural in one world may be nonsense in another. Between every reality s