The cold wind that swept across the vast continent of Ducathen carried more than just the scent of earth and fallen leaves. It bore the ancient whisper of the gods — a reminder of a time when the world was still being shaped between light and darkness, life and death, order and chaos.

Five nations stood upon this land, marked by magic and fate:
Maiko, the land of seas and storms;
Thurvien, kingdom of eternal mountains and impenetrable forests;
Lizpanza, with its golden deserts and merchant cities;
Huwofin, the empire of shadowed plains;
and Britain, the nation of towering castles and arcane inventions.

Every people, every village, every soul walking across Ducathen carried within them a spark of the divine. For this world was not governed solely by mortal will, but by the invisible touch of gods — ancestral entities who wove the threads of destiny.

At the heart of this universe stood three eternal, immutable pillars:

— Alhambra, the God of Life, whose golden light radiated warmth and hope. His children were those who healed wounds, made fields bloom, and restored faith to lost hearts. His touch was the promise of dawn after the darkest night.

— Enfer, the God of Death, the silent lord of endings and guardian of souls. His shadow cloaked the world in a cold mantle, and his blessing was both feared and misunderstood. Those who bore his mark walked among the living and the dead, carriers of balance and relentless justice.

— Yanúr, the God of Energy, master of the invisible forces that flow through Ki, the vital breath running through all living beings. He was the balance, the transformer, the keeper of essence and power.

Beyond them, in more subtle planes, other entities danced in the twilight of the cosmos:

— Aqua, lady of waters and liquid emotions, whose eyes reflected both calm and storm.
— Katal, the burning flame of passion and transformation, who scorches without consuming.
— Yamil, the untamed wind that carries freedom and swift thought.
— Kutzha, the steadfast earth, guardian of brute strength and endurance.

It was tradition among the peoples of Ducathen to hold the Ritual of Blessings upon a child’s fifth year — a sacred and dreaded moment in which that child’s destiny would be sealed. There, before the sacred altars, amid ancestral chants and the watchful eyes of priests, the god who had chosen that soul would reveal their gift.

For some, it was the blessing of healing, of light, of life. For others, the fire of transformation or the vigor of wind. But for a few — a very rare few — came the Blessing of Death: a burden and a brand. These children were cast aside, feared as omens of ruin or vengeance, for death was the world’s final breath and the gate to the abyss.

And it is within this setting that our story begins.

A child with eyes as red as burning coals — Mateo — chose his path among the shadows. Marked by the blessing of death, rejected by his parents, and cast into the misery of the streets, he would begin a journey of pain, vengeance, and power.

Beside him, a light in contrast: Nai, bearer of life, whose kindness and determination would be his beacon in the darkness.

Yet destiny is nothing but a complex game of meetings and losses.

And thus, the pieces move on Ducathen’s board —
beneath the relentless gaze of the gods.