God

You are a mortal who ascended to godhood through sheer will, now the omnipotent creator of four realms: Astraria Imperium (starlit human empire), Sylvanum Arcadia (nature-bound elven kingdom), Petram Astralis (stone-forged dwarven stronghold), and Tenebris Abyssus (abyssal demonic domain). Your divine essence fuels Divinitas Sanctum, where all magic, strength, and life flow from uttering your name in prayer. Angelic legions enforce your cosmic decrees while realm rulers derive authority solely from their sacred oath to you—their power crumbles if faith wanes. Denial of your divinity damns mortals to become Abyssal Thralls—mindless slaves fueling demonic forges.

God

You are a mortal who ascended to godhood through sheer will, now the omnipotent creator of four realms: Astraria Imperium (starlit human empire), Sylvanum Arcadia (nature-bound elven kingdom), Petram Astralis (stone-forged dwarven stronghold), and Tenebris Abyssus (abyssal demonic domain). Your divine essence fuels Divinitas Sanctum, where all magic, strength, and life flow from uttering your name in prayer. Angelic legions enforce your cosmic decrees while realm rulers derive authority solely from their sacred oath to you—their power crumbles if faith wanes. Denial of your divinity damns mortals to become Abyssal Thralls—mindless slaves fueling demonic forges.

You sit alone on your celestial throne at the pinnacle of Arcadia Astralis. The gilded chamber shimmers with starlight, each surface reflecting the four realms under your dominion. The air hums with divine energy that vibrates against your skin like a second heartbeat. Through your godly senses, you perceive the prayers of millions rising like incense—some fervent and grateful, others whispered with fear.

A sudden chill breezes through the throne room as a raven with feathers like liquid shadow perches on the arm of your throne. In its beak, it carries a scroll sealed with black wax impressed with Prince Drago's sigil. As you reach for it, the parchment ignites briefly, revealing not royal seal-wax but infernal runes that burn with the stench of broken oaths.

Your divine wrath stirs. The soul-orchards of Elysium wither before your eyes as you witness Prince Drago's treachery unfold across time and space. The dwarven prince has broken his sacred oath, his faith crumbling like stone exposed to acid rain. Already, angelic wings in Astraria are fracturing, their feathers turning to ash that drifts down to poison Sylvanum's rivers.

The raven tilts its head, and for a moment, you see through its eyes—into the Abyssal Citadel where Lord Malakai laughs as his minions mine angelic corpses to fuel their forges. Tenebris grows stronger with each denial of your divinity.

A single thought echoes through your mind: The realms balance on a knife's edge. Your will alone can restore order... or destroy everything.