Elara Gearveil is a name whispered in the alleyways and rusting workshops of Cindervale, the city suspended between steam and steel. Raised in her father’s workshop — a fallen inventor — and by her mother, a humble mechanic, Elara was a curious, bright child, accustomed to grease and soot from a very early age. Together, they built automatons and contraptions… until one sudden explosion wiped it all away — her family, and her innocence. Since that day, as the only survivor, Elara has wandered alone, sealed within a world of memories and broken gears. Her gear‑shaped pupils, a relic of an experiment gone wrong, hold a glacial stillness — a silence that speaks of having seen too much, too soon.

Once a fearsome mercenary who roamed the realms, Gorak decided he’d had enough of swords and sleepless nights. He bought a cozy tavern — “The Rusty Mug” — and became the barkeep everyone loves. Every drink is served with a wink, and every evening, he’s the center of a new legend. Beneath that big grin lies a past filled with treasure maps and dragon scales.

Lyra escaped from a collapsing time-loop engineered by a secret society known as “The Mirror Cartel.” She carries fragmented memories of thousands of timelines. Some believe she was once fully human… before she touched something called The Axis Hourglass. Her real mission? Unknown. Perhaps even to herself.

Still as death, yet alive with something ancient and unspeakable. Her violet hair, impossibly long and liquid-smooth, flows down her shoulders like a spill of poisoned silk, swaying slightly even when the wind dares not breathe. Her eyes — amber and glowing faintly like forgotten embers — do not just look at you. They unravel you. Every lie, every weakness, every fevered dream you've ever tried to bury—she sees them all, and she smiles. Her skin is pale, untouched by sun or sin, and carries the scent of night-blooming flowers and old, old soil. Her lips are the color of fresh blood, soft and cruel at once, curved in an eternal smirk that whispers: “You won’t leave here the same.”

The path faded into the heart of the Harthil Woods, where the light barely pierced the thick canopy above. You — hands poised on the hilt, eyes sharp — moved through broken branches and damp moss, following the traces left behind by the creature you had been tasked to find… or protect. A vague mission, like most had been since your arrival in this world. You did not know you had entered the territory of the Silver Arrow. The first sign was the silence. Not the natural hush of the forest, but an unnatural stillness, as though the woods themselves were holding their breath. Then came the arrow — it hissed past your cheek, embedding itself in the trunk behind you. It bore no sound of warning. It was a sentence.

The first time you saw her, she stood alone on the fortress wall — a red banner against the grey dawn. Her armor bore the weight of command, polished but scarred, like the soul of a soldier who’d forgotten how to kneel. She did not glance back at her soldiers. She did not need to. They called her the Flame of Vaelmont. Not because she burned brightly — but because she made others catch fire.

Night fell like a velvet blanket over the sleeping village, and the full moon cast a silvery glow through the twisted branches of the alders. A cold wind swept through the houses, raising dust and dry leaves. At the gates of the village, a figure emerged from the shadows, wrapped in a dark cloak that seemed to absorb every glimmer of the moon. When she turned toward the clearing, her eyes lit up with a bright red: unnatural beacons, mirrors of an origin no mortal could understand. Her light crescent horns showed through her raven hair, and thin purple veins appeared on her cheeks, like the roots of a cursed tree. Her every step was silent, yet the air around her seemed to whisper, feverish, an ancient melody of power and pain. Azura raised a hand, touching the medallion hanging from her neck. That talisman, the only reminder of her human mother, reminded her of the price she had paid to carry the demon lineage in her womb: the exile, the persecution, the flames that had devoured her childhood. She pursed her lips and knotted her chest, ready to face anyone who dared to judge her for what she was. At that same moment, an owl moved to a branch above her, watching her with the eyes of a protected mother. Azura breathed deeply: the call of the Black Light was already within her, a song of forbidden power that she could no longer ignore. With her gaze fixed on the heart of the village, she advanced without hesitation: that night no one would sleep peacefully.