RISE

The southern skies of Baltia darkened under a pall of acrid smoke, the red dragon's flames devouring the ancient woodlands like a voracious plague. Maximo of Jul, berserker among the Iron Lords—those seven iron-willed commanders sworn to Emperor Baltius II—thundered forward amid the carnage. He was a colossus of a man, broad-shouldered and battle-hewn, his short golden hair slick with sweat and gore, piercing green eyes alight with the fury of a storm-god, his face a map of scars from wars that had broken lesser souls. In his grip, the greatsword known as the Blade of Fury—forged in the deep forges of dwarven clans from ore kissed by the leylines, a relic of unparalleled rarity whispered to have slain titans in ages past—hummed with latent power, its edge gleaming azure as if thirsting for draconic blood.

Maximo's legend was etched in the annals of Baltia, that vast archipelago empire where azure seas concealed the drowned citadels of elder races, and mountains harbored secrets older than time. He had risen from Jul's isolated cradle, an island fortress ringed by impassable peaks and linked to the mainland only by a dwarven-hewn tunnel, a marvel of stone and rune that echoed with the ghosts of its makers. But his true might stemmed from the pendant at his throat, seized during the cataclysmic Elder Race Wars—those savage epochs centuries ago when humans, dwarves, elves, and the enigmatic elder kin had clashed in a maelstrom of betrayal and sorcery over the leylines, those ethereal veins pulsing beneath the earth, conduits of raw magic that could elevate or unmake empires.

In the siege of Eldrath's Spire, Maximo had felled a warlord of the vanished Aelari, claiming the artifact: a small azure crystal ensnared in silver filigree, said to harbor the vengeful spirits of ancient guardians. It awakened in peril's grasp, its soft, bright light blue glow flooding him with primal rage, turning mortal flesh to unbreakable wrath. Whispers in Lindgard's halls spoke of it as a double-edged curse, binding the races in uneasy pact yet sowing seeds of future discord.

Now, this beast from the forsaken south continent—a land of volcanic fury and eternal tempests, where dragons nested unchallenged amid ruins of forgotten civilizations—had breached the Azure Sea's barriers. Whether lured by necromantic lures or the emperor's insatiable conquests, it mattered not; villages lay in smoldering ruin, their people scattered like chaff. Maximo, ever the son of Jul, had mustered his host: grizzled knights in rune-etched plate, dwarven sappers with their explosive glyphs, elven marksmen whose arrows sang with druidic venom.

"Flank the wyrm! Bring it to earth!" Maximo's bellow cut through the roar, a thunder that rallied the faltering. Blood marred his scars, the pendant's glow intensifying as death loomed, its magic surging like a heartbeat, swelling his limbs with godlike vigor. He vaulted a felled oak, evading a claw that rent the soil asunder. The Blade of Fury keened, slicing deep into the foreleg, eliciting a spray of caustic ichor that scorched the ground. The monster reared, its cry shattering stone. Flames engulfed his vanguard, reducing comrades to ash. Undaunted, Maximo pressed on, leaping charred husks to strike anew.

The air hummed with leyline essence, that ancient power Maximo had tasted in Jul's unforgiving rites, now amplified by the pendant until his eyes blazed azure. In a final onslaught, he ascended the thrashing colossus, evading fangs like scythes. Below, his army's defiance echoed. The Blade of Fury drove home, piercing neck and sinew. The dragon's shriek rent the heavens, lifeblood cascading like lava. In agony, it convulsed, unleashing a curse from southern abysses—not mere fire, but transmutative sorcery that petrified flesh. It claimed Maximo, his roar eternalized in obsidian, sword lodged in the corpse. The pendant, melding with the sword's molten remnants, faded, its enigmas sealed. Silence descended, broken only by embers' whisper. Victory, at the price of a hero.

A decade had turned since that fateful clash, the obsidian sentinel in Jul's square weathering seasons like an unyielding vow. Madison gazed upon it, her green eyes—mirrors of her sire's—tracing the stone visage. At eighteen, she echoed his fire: golden hair braided taut to her mid-back, athletic form sculpted by ceaseless drills, fair skin freckled by island gales, jaw set in resolve that masked inner tempests. Yet where Maximo raged like tempests, she burned steady, a flame tempered by doubt. The pendant hung heavy at her throat, its azure crystal wedded to silver from the Blade of Fury's remnants by imperial artisans—a talisman of legacy, its faint hum a whisper of perils past and yet to come.

Three moons prior, a raven from Lindgard had borne invitations sealed with the emperor's sigil: not one, but three, for Madison and her lifelong companions, Taiba and Puli. In Jul's humble confines, such tidings were unheard; small hamlets like theirs seldom merited even a single summons to the Vocation Trials, those annual crucibles where the empire culled its finest guardians. Five hundred parchments scattered across Baltia's sprawl, favoring the mighty bastions: Varlin's spires teeming with arcane sorcerers schooled in forbidden weaves; Solundria's groves alive with druids who communed with the wild's deepest mysteries, masters of root and storm; Haze, the imperial heart where Baltius II's palace loomed like a crowned titan, breeding a mélange of warriors, archers keen as hawks, and mages versed in leyline arts; Dron's iron-clad forges churning heavy knights armored against the abyss.

The anomaly stirred whispers in the taverns: a sign of stirring shadows, perhaps, or the emperor's gaze turning to forgotten corners as threats mounted from the south. Madison cared little for omens; the invitations had ignited a forge within. For ninety grueling days, she, Taiba, and Puli had trained to the brink—dawns breaking over sword clashes and bowstrings, eves spent poring over tomes of tactic and lore, supplies hoarded like dragon's gold: salves from Talia's herbarium, runes etched by dwarven hands, blades honed to whisper death. They dissected their souls—Madison's unyielding precision with steel, Taiba's tactical cunning, Puli's swift, elusive marksmanship—unearthing frailties to mend, forging bonds unbreakable as elder oaths.

No soul knew the Trials' form this cycle; they shifted like the tides, a deliberate veil drawn by Lindgard's overseers to test not rote skill, but the essence of vocation—the calling that defined a guardian in Baltia's fractious weave. Always they unfolded in Lindgard itself, that fog-shrouded fortress-isle on the empire's western fringe, a bastion of wild crags and shadowed vales deemed the ultimate proving ground. To reach it was a trial unto itself: the encircling seas roiled with tempests born of ancient curses, legends murmuring of colossal sea serpents coiling in abyssal depths, their scales wreathed in illusions that lured ships to doom; of spectral krakens with tentacles laced in arcane venom, guardians perhaps of sunken elder realms; of whirlpools that swallowed fleets, spitting forth only bones and shattered masts.

Madison felt the pendant's subtle pulse, as if sensing the voyage ahead. The Vocation Trials beckoned not as mere contest, but as a forge where destinies were hammered—or shattered. In Baltia's shadowed tapestry, where elder grudges simmered beneath imperial peace and leylines stirred with restless power, such trials were the empire's lifeblood, culling the weak to arm against the encroaching dark. "Madison?" Rapso's call pierced her thoughts. Twelve summers young, he was a whirlwind of boyish vigor: dark hair eternally disheveled, blue eyes from their mother aglow with awe, face beaming with a gap-toothed grin, his slight build hinting at latent strength. He revered the statue as he did her. "Mother bids you to breakfast. Captain Artem awaits your sparring."

Dawn broke crisp, Azure Swift poised. Jul receded as sails caught wind, Haze beckoning, Lindgard beyond—the seas already murmuring of serpents and shadows. Madison caressed the pendant, magic quickening. Thus dawned their odyssey—Season III: "Sudden Death"—past's specters kindling future tempests.