The Fallen Stars aided many displaced creatures, guiding them back to the lands stolen from them by men in ages past. Grateful were the beasts, from the gentle to the fierce, even those dark and predatory who once staunchly stood beside the demons in their crusade against mankind. In time, they slowly reclaimed their homes, tending to their kin, hunting and gathering as they had before, or roaming Aeltharia as nomads, as was their nature. The elves, as they had done for men, offered to teach them the deeper mysteries of magic, but the beasts were content, for they had learned all they needed through instinct, wisdom, and the teachings passed down through the ages.

  Under the guidance of the elves, men flourished, raising villages and quietly tending the land with wisdom, patience, and care. By 723 A.E., many of these villages became great farms, where men learned to love all things that grow, cultivating food and medicine, raising homes for kin and kindred, and finding solace in the earth’s quiet embrace. Yet ambition, ever restless in the hearts of men, was not forgotten. For there were those who wished to be more than mere tillers of the earth, who longed to shape wonders as their forebears had done, forging works that would stand against time itself, leaving behind a legacy that future generations would marvel at and revere.

  Nowhere was this spirit stronger than in the South, where men dreamed of cities radiant with magic, adorned with beauty and wealth, where divine knowledge would be gathered and the burdens of labor eased by invention. They envisioned towers reaching toward the heavens, palaces gleaming with silver and gold, and halls where wisdom would be preserved for all time. Yet the lessons of the elves weighed heavily upon them, tempering their yearning with caution. They feared to walk the path of their heretical forefathers, whose reckless ambition had wrought ruin and summoned the demons into the world, shattering the peace and harmony once known to all.

  In 725 A.E., Samael heard of the hesitance of the Men of the South and came to them by night. She shone like the Sun, for her flowing hair, her radiant eyes, and her robes were woven of golden light. Men and their beast-companions gathered, drawn to her presence as moths to a flame. They arrived in great numbers, and she greeted them, speaking to each in turn until all were gathered, awaiting her words. She had heard their dreams and knew their doubts. And so, she came to kindle their resolve, to guide their hands in the shaping of wonders yet to be. Moved by her words, they bowed before her and hailed her as Aurelyn the Radiant, their Empress.

  Samael accepted her new name, Aurelyn, yet would not take the mantle of Empress. She sought not dominion, but to guide the Men of the South as a saint, a beacon of wisdom rather than a ruler of unquestioned power. Thus, she became the founder of Santora, the Golden Nation, and its first saint, Saint Aurelyn the Radiant, also called the Star of Light. For a century, she led the southerners in raising three great cities, which together formed the proud and shining Nation of Faith: Sanctae Lucentia, the City of Faith; Florivistra, the City of Art; and Carnavella, the City of Grand Festivities.

  Saint Aurelyn took her seat of leadership in Sanctae Lucentia, within the Basilica di Luminaria, a golden cathedral vast as a palace. There, she also worked alongside her elderly advisors, the cardinals, some of whom were secretly elves, guiding the city’s governance and faith. The archbishops oversaw the city’s districts, while the bishops led their churches, leading their clerics in the service of education, faith, and love. Together, they then tended the people, offering wisdom and solace, ensuring that the light of the Seven Virtues burned brightly and unwaveringly still in Sanctae Lucentia.

  Though Aurelyn ruled Santora, she granted both Florivistra and Carnavella sovereignty, so long as they remained true to the Seven Virtues through the holy scriptures. Florivistra, a haven of artistry, flourished with musicians, poets, and craftsmen, governed by The City Council, whose guardians upheld law and order. Carnavella, a city of revelry, knew no slumber, its streets alive with carnivals, operas, and spectacles, where people donned masks, both literal and symbolic, living many lives in fleeting moments. The city was governed by the Grand Inquisitor, whose inquisitors moved unseen, guarding its joy from the shadows. In Florivistra, the Accademia dell’Arte Estetica rose, where actors and performers gathered to refine their craft, while Carnavella built the Anfiteatro dell’Eterna Mascherata, where grand performances of music, drama, and illusion enchanted all who entered. The cities, though different in spirit, were bound by faith, their people devoted to the bright shining light of wisdom and celebration alike.

  By 777 A.E., Santora stood prosperous and resplendent, rich in faith, art, and festivity. Men and beasts dwelt in harmony, for the Nation of Faith held the world’s strongest and mightiest military, The Luminari, known also as the Holy Knights, Paladins, or Crusaders. Masters of combat and strategy, they trained in Sanctae Lucentia, ever watchful against the darkness. In dark times of peril, they lent their aid to The City of Art and The City of Grand Festivities, defending the realm with unwavering resolve. Their presence alone was more than enough now to deter those who sought to bring ruin.

  The Luminari were led by the Grandmaster, who answered to the elderly cardinals and, above all, to Saint Aurelyn herself. With his seneschals, he commanded the marshals, commanders, and sergeants of the order. Even the clerics of Sanctae Lucentia stood among their ranks, bringing healing and wisdom to the battlefields of Aeltharia. Yet theirs was no conquest, but a holy crusade, not to subjugate, but to protect, teach, and defend those who kept faith with The Heavens, standing ever strong against the monsters that lurked in the silent shadows, ever seeking to bring ruin to the mortal races.

  Beyond Santora, the world marveled at the Nation of Faith, its devotion, its towering spires, its rich culture and power. Pilgrims from distant, faraway lands journeyed there, seeking to renew their faith in The Divine and their Seven Virtues, studying the holy scriptures in the light of Sanctae Lucentia. Yet not all looked upon Santora with admiration. Some questioned its deep ambition, believing that the southerners sought too much. Were not simple and humble villages and farmlands of old sufficient? Why raise three great cities when peace and contentment had already been theirs? To so many, Santora was a monument of devotion and progress; to others, it was a bright beacon of hubris, a nation whose reach would one day exceed its grasp. Yet for all their doubts, none dared challenge the Nation of Faith, save for the demons, who watched from the shadows, wary of Santora’s rise, knowing that its strength would one day stand against them. In silence, they plotted with patience, seeking the means to bring down the holy might of Santora.

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  And though the South rejoiced in its golden age, the memory of destruction lingered beyond its borders. To many, the people of Santora walked a path well trodden, content in a realm shaped by faith and wonder, yet shadowed by old fears. Few have the right to judge how others dwell beneath the stars. Yet history speaks grimly: where great cities rose, sorrow followed, and from pride came the fall. Thus were demons born to cleanse the world and restore true balance, answering the folly of men with fire, flame, and pain.

  In the distant Southwest, where the land breathed gently and nature walked hand in hand with man, a different life flourished. There, the people lived not in stone halls or wooden towers, but in tents of hide and cloth, ever moving with the wind. They were wanderers at heart, caretakers of flora, companions of beasts. Yet when they beheld Santora’s splendor, awe turned swiftly to unease. Though they bore no hate, the grandeur they saw was not their way, nor did they wish such splendor for their own wild homeland.

  When the travelers returned, their tales stirred many hearts. The high elders gathered beneath starlit skies, speaking in quiet tones of what the far future might hold. Some believed Santora bore no ill will, that their creed was their own and would remain so. Others, wary and wise, feared what time might bring, that one day, descendants might forget the promise of peace and seek to shape the world in their image. And so they resolved: their land would remain untouched, unmarred by towers and gold, a place where the sweet song of nature would endure, undrowned by the voice of progress.

  Thus, in the year 795 A.E., the tribes of the Southwest joined in harmony, forming the Nation of Balance, Siyowaska. Four tribes stood united, each entrusted with the care of a sacred domain. Beneath their banners flew no armies, but guardians bound by oath to protect the land from the hand of stone and iron. Chiefs led with wisdom, chosen not by blood, but by the strength of spirit and vision. Together they shaped a realm in which no city would rise, and no tree fall without reverence or care and deep respect.

  The Tayowakani, the Mountain Tribe, carved from the earth the towering Menohaska Range, a mighty wall of stone and root, encircling Siyowaska on three sides. Their people dwelt among the peaks, crafting homes within glowing caves where bioluminescent fungi and crystal veils cast twilight on their halls. Silent and steadfast, they stood watch along the ridges, guarding the borders with a single vow: that no harm would pass unseen, untouched, or unchallenged into Siyowaska by way of the mountain paths they held.

  The Tayashka, the Forest Tribe, made their home in the west, where the forest breathed its oldest breath. In the Ahotekha Vale, trees older than memory rose like towers, ancient witnesses to the shaping of the world. Among their branches, the Tayashka wove homes of vine and leaf, walking not upon the ground, but beneath canopies strung with bridges of living wood. They listened to the memories of trees, guardians of the past, and through them, the forest’s secrets would remain untouched by time or blade.

  The Siyohtani, the Plains Tribe, made their dwelling between mountain and wood, upon the endless, golden vast sweep of the Miyohota Plains. Beneath the open skies, they planted and reaped, maize, barley, squash, and bean, gifts of the earth, the wind, and the rain. But theirs was not a harvest of soil alone. They were runners, fighters, and archers, swift-footed and strong-hearted, rejoicing in contests of strength and skill. In games of stickball and racing, they honored their ancestors. In the Miyohota, there was feast and festival, with work and labor and laughter, song and story.

  The Ahyashka, the River Tribe, came last, their homes not bound to earth but drifting upon the waters. Along the Wiyohka Run, a silver thread through the heart of Siyowaska, they built great longboats with longhouses atop, villages beneath the sail and the sky. They traded, they gathered, they sang upon the waves. Where the river flowed, they followed, casting nets and stories into the depths. In the current, they found their path and purpose, and the quiet peace of the ever-flowing waters of the long, winding river.

  Siyowaska, the Nation of Balance, stood ever steadfast in its eternal vow to preserve the harmony of its lands, to keep the breath of nature unspoiled and sacred. Travelers from distant lands were welcome to visit and to trade, yet any attempt to sway its people toward the ways of cities and crowns was forbidden. Still, discourse was not shunned, and debate, when spoken with respect and gentleness, was embraced in the spirit of understanding. So generous were these customs that even Santora, the radiant Nation of Faith, found kinship with this second great realm of Aeltharia, and between them forged a firm friendship as enduring as stone and as clear as flowing water.

  That such a bond should arise surprised many, for at first, the entire world expected rivalry, two nations so different in way and purpose. Yet in the year 798 A.E., three of the seven cardinals of Santora, accompanied by a solemn host of priests and guarded by the noble Luminari, journeyed into the heart of Siyowaska. They came not in pride, but in humility, dwelling among the tribes, learning their customs, their ways, and their songs. In turn, they shared their own faith and lore in feasts and festivals beneath the starlit skies. Thus did trust take root, and in time, a pact was forged, Santora and Siyowaska would stand together, aiding one another and the peoples of Aeltharia in times of great need and sorrow, hope, and lasting peace for all.

  This alliance brought peace of mind to many beyond the bounds of both realms, folk of quiet lives: villagers, farmers, nomads, craftsmen, weavers, and scholars, who sought neither crown nor crusade. In the desert lands of Akhseth, the people made their homes beside the desert oases, thriving villages where water flowed and life endured. In the North and East, many communities rose with care, hewn in harmony with land and sky, governed by simple truths that nurtured joy in spite of hardship. Such folk placed highest value on home and hearth, on community and kinship, forsaking ambition for peace. And thus, the world beyond Santora and Siyowaska remained still, not in silence, but in calm and contentment, waiting, perhaps, for the call of destiny, yet deeply content in the warmth of the present hour.

  Yet the Aeltharians, in all their striving, were never truly alone. Since the days of the Divine Descent, the immortal elves have walked among them as watchers and guides. Samael, called Aurelyn, had once led the South into light, and so too did others tread the wide world in quiet love. Often they took upon themselves mortal guise, beast, bird, or kindred soul, that they might walk unnoticed beside those they aided. In time, some among them knew love, and from these unions came the half-elves, born of stars and earth, of grace and frailty. And to these children of twilight was given both the wisdom of the immortal and the yearning of the mortal soul as well.

  For the next century, the Aeltharians would make a vast variety of great achievements in their work to improve their livelihoods. They would even establish various rules in which every mortal would agree, based on the teachings and scriptures they learned from the elves. Material wealth was not important, as progress was driven by status and honor, which was gained through service to the community and personal accomplishments. They would even use the magic taught by the elves to balance the weather and prevent natural disasters that would harm them and their surrounding environments. In addition, methods to grow sufficient food and herbs were founded, along with various methods to heal critical injuries and illnesses.

  Kinslaying was forbidden above all, a grievous sin reviled by both mortals and immortals alike, and so too were all transgressions wrought against one’s own kin. Though predation was suffered between species in times of dire need, when food, raiment, or other vital sustenance grew scarce, such deeds, when wrought in excess or for greed, were condemned in all hearts. Those who fell into such offences were not cast forth in hatred, but brought before justice tempered with great compassion. They were granted the chance to endure trials arduous and humbling, steeped in sorrow and deep reflection that they might seek redemption. If they prevailed, they were welcomed once more into the fold, forgiven without shame. For the elves taught that every soul is worthy of a second chance, ere death and beyond.