In the candlelit halls of Eldara's Grand Library, stories did not rest in silence—they breathed through stone and parchment.
Princess Lorelei ran her fingers along the spines of ancient tomes as she moved between shelves taller than trees. The air was thick with the scent of old ink, pressed leaves, and faint stardust—a fragrance only elven libraries could carry.
She paused at a familiar alcove where a faded tapestry hung. Threads of gold and silver shimmered faintly in the dim light, weaving the image of two kings—one crowned in leaves and starlight, the other in iron and fire—standing hand in hand beneath a single sun.
It was the Pact of Halendor, a symbol of a time long buried by ash and mistrust.
Lorelei reached for the book that lay beneath it: "Annals of the Twin Crowns: A Chronicle of Unity".
She opened the heavy volume, and the memory of the world before her own began to unfold.
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Long ago—before the song of dragons faded and the stars whispered their last to mortal ears—there were two thrones that stood not in opposition, but in unity.
Eldara, kingdom of the high elves, nestled within the ancient forests and veiled valleys where magic grew wild and sentient. It was ruled by the Celestian bloodline, keepers of light and balance, bound to the cycles of nature and memory.
To the south rose Embrathil, the realm of humankind, carved from stone and will, its towers built not by enchantment but by grit, flame, and mortal resolve. Men of Embrathil were short-lived but fiercely ambitious—curious, bold, and brave in ways the elves once found reckless.
For centuries, the two races regarded each other with distance—elves seeing men as ephemeral sparks, men seeing elves as proud and detached.
But in the time of King Aeralon of Eldara and King Roderic of Embrathil, that changed.
They met not through diplomacy, but through war.
A tide of monstrous beasts from the Blackmount had spilled into the realms of men, creatures twisted by forgotten sorcery. Embrathil fought and bled. Eldara watched from the highlands, hesitant—until one day, King Aeralon rode into battle beside Roderic, his armies descending like a storm of stars.
Together, they pushed back the darkness. The war, known as the War of Veils, ended with the forging of the Silver Accord, a pact of mutual defense and shared knowledge. It was not merely words on paper, but magic woven into oathstone, sealed by both elven starlight and human fire.
For a time, the world believed in unity.
Eldara opened its libraries to human scholars. Embrathil welcomed elven healers and seers. Children of both bloods were raised hearing tales of peace. Trade flowed. Festivals were shared. A generation grew up never knowing war between elf and man.
Then came the betrayal.
No one truly agrees on who struck the first blow. Some claim it was a human general, corrupted by power and fear, who sought to steal an elven relic—the Heart of Elurein, said to grant visions of the future. Others whisper it was an elven prince, jealous of human ambition, who cursed the human king with dreams of madness.
Whatever the truth, the trust was shattered.
The Heart was taken—or lost. The elven queen of that era died mysteriously. The humans claimed innocence; the elves accused them of treachery. In a single season, embassies burned, alliances broke, and soldiers once brothers turned their blades on each other.
Embrathil, lacking the magic that ran through elven veins, could not withstand the wrath of Eldara. But the humans fought with fury, refusing surrender. When Embrathil's capital, Drelascar, finally fell, it was not razed—it was abandoned.
The elves withdrew, not out of mercy, but regret.
They locked their borders with song and spell, leaving the ruins of Embrathil to the wilds and the dead. From that day forward, no elf crossed into human lands, and no man dared enter the veil of Eldara.
Yet rumors remained. Of survivors. Of hidden bloodlines. Of old magic still stirring beneath Embrathil's broken towers.
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Lorelei closed the book and leaned back, her thoughts caught in the tapestry of that ancient tale.
She had grown up hearing both sides—her mother's solemn warnings, her father's bitterness, and Seraphine's constant hope that the past could one day be forgiven. Alric, ever the scholar, had spent years collecting forgotten histories, trying to find the truth hidden beneath legend.
Kael and Lyanna—young enough to only know the hatred through stories—looked to her with innocent questions.
But now… now Embrathil was more than legend. Her father had said strange things stirred near its ruins. And Elandor—his face still burned in her mind—had emerged from that shadowed past.
Who was he, truly?
She looked again at the tapestry of the two kings beneath one sun.
How easy it was to forget that peace had ever been real. And how fragile the thread of trust could be.