Sacred Union

The mountains outside the borders of the Facilis kingdom groaned with the weight of iron and voices. No longer exiles whispering in the shadows, the Outcasts had assembled something that resembled an army. Rows of men and women stood in formation, their faces lined not only by hardship but by an unbreakable will.

Banners stitched from scavenged cloth fluttered in the cold wind, each marked with the fractured crest of the Outcasts—a symbol once feared, now resurrected. Their leaders called them not rebels, but the true inheritors. And this day, steel and fire echoed across the valley as weapons were tested, speeches made, and soldiers trained to move as one.

They did not seek peace. They sought revelation. To tear down the walls of illusion the Royals had built, to throw the world into chaos so that its “true colors” could bleed out.

And at the center of it all, their whispers carried a single name.
Wrex.

Far away from their chants, Wrex sat in the dim light of a secluded chamber. His reflection glared back at him from the blackened glass of the war-table, his face worn with questions.

What were his motives? Was he a liberator, a pawn, or simply another tyrant waiting to take form?

His mind dragged him back—to that room, years ago, when an unknown group had first approached him. He could still smell the damp stone, hear the shuffle of cloaked figures.

“You are not meant to be ordinary,” their leader had said, voice muffled by a mask. “Your blood carries a truth that will either destroy this world or free it. Choose carefully whom you trust.”

At the time, he had dismissed it as manipulation. Now, their words gnawed at him.

The truth unraveled slowly, like a wound reopening.
His father had always kept him from the old estate’s forbidden wing. Always kept the locks tight, the papers hidden, the walls untouched.

Now Wrex understood why.

The notes he unearthed told of a Sacred Lineage—a family that had been entrusted to guard a secret older than the Facilis throne itself. His bloodline.

If exposed, the illusion of harmony would collapse. People would learn that everything—the parades, the festivals, the peace itself—was a carefully painted mask. A stagnant world crafted by the Royal Family, whose true goal was not to preserve humanity, but to reshape it.

The “chosen ones” would be sheltered. The rest, discarded like ash in the wind.

And if the Royals had their way, this reality would never be questioned.

But Wrex… he was not like his father. He could not hide forever. The Usurper’s path was opening, step by step.

In the capital’s underground chambers, the Persecutors and the faction of so-called Normalists argued around a hollow-map.

The Persecutors spoke of control, of weaponizing Wrex to collapse Montlaif from within.
The Normalists spoke of order, of preserving the illusion by binding Wrex to the Royal Family as a loyal figurehead.

Two opposing strategies, one common truth: both wanted to use him.

In the dim room, Rizor leaned back in his chair, eyes sharp. He said nothing. His silence was its own kind of prophecy.

The tension broke when the chamber doors opened.

Loria stepped in, her eyes burning with newfound determination. She no longer looked like the uncertain figure from before—now she carried herself like someone who had chosen a side.

Behind her stood Fozic. His presence alone stirred unease—on his shoulder glinted the faint mark of the Outcasts’ crest, visible to anyone who dared look closely.

“You’ve all made your plans for him,” Loria said, her voice cutting through the room like glass. “But Wrex will not be your pawn. Not the Royals’, not the Normalists’, not even yours.”

The room fell silent. Dozens of eyes turned toward her—some with recognition, others with the quiet calculation of predators.

Her declaration marked her. From this moment forward, Loria was a traitor.

But her resolve did not waver.

In that silence, something unspoken was forged.
Not yet a rebellion. Not yet an alliance. But a sacred union of fate, pulling Wrex, Loria, and even Fozic into the center of a storm greater than any faction could control.

And beyond the horizon, in the camps of the Outcasts, their soldiers marched, their chants rising like thunder:

“Tear down the Crown. End the cycle. Follow the Usurper.”

The prophecy stirred, the cycle cracked, and the pieces of the game drew ever closer together.