by Richard Neville
Nobody remembers who made the Law. Nobody remembers when it began. But in Elyndor, every soul is born already knowing it. Seven races haunt this ancient continent like shadows that never quite overlap. Humans whisper spells that shouldn't work. Dwarves forge weapons better left unmade. Beastmen vanish into wilds where even sound goes silent. Vampires move through darkness as though they own it. Fairies smile, and that alone should frighten you. Dragonkin speak in fire. Elves simply watch — and have been watching far longer than anyone realizes. Above them all hangs one title. One throne. The Apex Sovereign. Someone always wants it. Someone always falls.
