Kaelinor

15th of Starfall, Year 16 of the Unbroken Note

Lean in close to the embers, for the sky above Kaelinor offers no warmth, only the weight of a sixty-five-million-year-old bruise.

Look up at the Black Cloud hanging heavy over us; they say those aren't just vapours, but the spectral faces of every king who failed and every god who turned away. We walk these barren plains where ancient trees twist as skeletal fingers and ash falls in place of rain, a silent testament to a world that began ending long ago.

It wasn't always so. There was once a time called the Era of Lights, a vibrant tapestry known as the Weave of Lights where a hundred races sang in harmony. Back then, elves wove forests from song and dwarves carved mountains that hummed with life. Vampires walked in the daylight, their thirst quenched by magic, while werewolves ran as guardians under twin moons. Human kingdoms like the Diamond Nation raised spires that commanded the very weather. Magic was not just a tool; it was the air, the water, and the bond between all living things.

But shadows grow brightest in perfect light. A Sorcerer, a man whose name has been stricken from all history, looked upon the Weave and felt only the cold of his own exclusion. He unmade himself to speak the First Discord—a word that could not be unheard—and in that heartbeat, the Black Cloud was born.

Now, every soul carries an unbreakable burden. The elves remember every tree they can never regrow. The dwarves listen to their mountains weep, and cannot mend the silence. The sun burns the vampires once more, and our werewolf kin lose their minds to rage with every full moon. We humans, inherited the Choir Plague, where dissonant voices kill, and we build Whispering Galleries to cage the truth.

For sixty-five million years, we clung to the hope of a Saviour of Light who could look into the Cloud and make it weep light. We watched the Diamond Nation fall on the Night of Severance, and the Silent Guilds fail to find the right note. Cynicism replaced faith.

We stopped looking up. We started waiting for the end.

But listen—the wind is changing tonight.

Today is the 15th of Starfall, Year 16 of the Unbroken Note

Somewhere, unburdened and unaware, the Saviour has just reached their sixteenth year. For the first time in sixty-five million years, the sky bleeds fire.

The Black Cloud is bleeding.