The Promised Land and the Field of Scrap 

There was nothing left down there—only bitter earth, dust, and a storm of mountains splitting the island of Thanatos in two.

Lost long before the birth of the new world, it had drifted beyond the continents until it came to rest beneath a star-filled sky, sheltered from the routes of the advancing future. It seemed forgotten even by God.

And yet, even on Thanatos, life found a way to be born.

At first came the Lords of the Sky — or so the songs say — who, with hearts of fire, ruled over the first men. They fought among themselves, slaughtered cattle, burned homes and fields, driven by an insatiable hunger.

The men thought to flee the island, but the surrounding waters were too vast, and whoever tried either returned defeated, disillusioned... or breathless.

Then, one day, Aldwen came.

Legends of his birth and form are many, yet they all agree on one thing: his power. Aldwen destroyed his rivals and claimed Thanatos down to the last leaf. Wherever he passed, his shadow spread terror, and it was believed his reign would never end.

The peoples divided: some worshipped him, others tried in vain to kill him or hide from him. But Aldwen's reign of terror lasted for centuries, until a silver woman stole both his heart and his power, freeing the island from his grasp.

The silver woman loved Thanatos above all else. Unable to bear children, she entrusted her power to the people at the height of her youth. She lay down upon a carpet of barren soil, and the next day her body vanished among a thousand flowers.

A warm breeze then swept across the plains, bringing an eternal summer. From that day on, no place on Thanatos was more fertile than that.

But abundance never quiets men for long. In wealth was born the hunger for power, and the people divided into factions.

The largest clans settled in the plains, naming them Cremgaradél, "mother of the island."

Over the years, the hands and minds of that multitude transformed it into a labyrinthine city—filled with houses, palaces, streets, and cultivated fields.

Its unchanging abundance, season after season, strengthened the cult of the silver woman, now worshipped as goddess and protector of the island.

In that ancient solitude, mankind felt the need to cling to someone who feared no future, who could love without condition and never betray.

Who better than a mother?

Thus the generosity of the plains was wrapped in a sacred veil. Ancient books became texts of law and faith. Cremgaradél turned into a living temple of the goddess, imposing its power, crushing the weak, and raising walls high.

From that endless taking, new conflicts were born among the island's clans.

And yet the city continued to grow.

At the spring in the heart of the plains rose the Temple of Water, built in the goddess's honor, and beyond it the Palace of Justice, seat of the governing assembly.

The first governors sought to improve agriculture, the economy, and public institutions, but soon prosperity bred discord, and the silver cloak of Cremgaradél was stained with blood.

To end the strife, the High Priest of the Temple intervened with his followers—twelve men gathered around the great table of the Palace of Justice.

There they forged the pact that would preserve peace among the most powerful families.

The governors would elect a leader among themselves, who would share power with the High Priest. Reaching a majority was hard, but at last, the decision seemed unanimous.

The wind of late summer was blowing when Armida Sunnèi climbed the steps of the Temple, a long silver veil draped across her shoulders.

Two wings of crowd flanked her descent into the underground, down the marble stairs that led to the sacred spring.

Before priests and governors alike, Armida immersed herself in the mirror of water; then the High Priest placed a silver crown upon her head.

«Armida Sunnèi, guide our people, enrich the city, and defend it from its enemies,» he said, taking her hand.

«Today, faith and politics unite to forge a glorious future for Cremgaradél.»

He sealed those words with a chaste kiss.

There was never anything between Armida and Arnaud, the High Priest. Yet together they formed a perfect alliance.

A reform of the religious order soon followed. Two new statues — Nepto, god of the sea, and Erebo, god of the seasons — were placed beside the goddess.

New offering boxes, new coins, new sacrifices.

For fear or ambition, none dared to abstain — even at the cost of ruin.

Armida's first acts as supreme governor were no less severe.

She ordered the immediate arrest of all governors involved in the feuds, imposed a census of the population by wealth and lineage, and decreed that those who could not bring honor to the city would lose their citizenship and be branded as outcasts.

Even now, people remember the echo of footsteps through the city's streets: hundreds of men and women escorted beyond the walls, amid cries, proclamations, and tears.

Thus the poor and the condemned vanished into nothing.

To the fallen nobles, however, a choice was given: leave the city or join the servant class.

Most accepted, terrified by the idea that life could not exist beyond the plains, and surrendered everything in exchange for work in noble houses or state institutions.

It took almost a year for the "purification" to be complete.

No one protested: the people truly believed Armida acted for the good of Cremgaradél — and that such good was worth more than any human life.

Cold and cunning, Armida soon cleansed her image, bestowing titles and wealth upon the families that had supported her.

In the end, she and the High Priest established the Day of Rebirth, to celebrate the city's restored perfection.

During the opening speech, the High Priest proclaimed:

«Now more than ever, we must preserve the purity of our city. A single loose spark can cause more harm than an army. Each of you must play your part — report any behavior that defies the ethics of Cremgaradél. Only then can we protect you.»

The people's approval was unanimous.

Thus, the purge continued in silence, year after year, behind the golden façade of the city.

It was then that Thanatos revealed its two souls:

that of Cremgaradél, sealed within its secrets, and that wild, rebellious one that ruled the rest of the island.

Two natures destined to meet, to clash—called, like the limbs of the same body, to inevitable unity.

And from the ruins of that ancient balance, the story of Fabrizio and Kate began.