Chapter Twelve
For the eggles, once oppressed and scattered, rose with a fury long restrained. The memory of suffering burned within them, and though they were mortal, they were no longer alone.
For the Gods turned their gaze once more to the world.
Not in dominion…
But in aid.
They moved through unseen means—through signs and wonders, through miracles that defied the natural order. They sent visions into the dreams of chosen warriors, revealing paths, granting knowledge, and calling forth those who would stand against the remnants of tyranny.
And in times of great need, when mortal strength faltered, the heavens opened.
A loyal Arucana would descend from Araboth, answering the call, lending their power to the struggle below. And in the most dire of hours—when the fate of nations hung by a thread—Luth’ Meriel and Holindiel themselves would come forth, leading the armies of Araboth into battle beside the hosts of the eggles.
Thus did heaven and world stand united.
The war against the Arucane continued.
It stretched across millennia—an age of fire and reckoning. Kingdoms rose and fell in its wake. Legends were born in its shadow. And one by one, the Arucane were brought low.
Their numbers dwindled.
Their dominion crumbled.
Their memory faded into fear and myth.
Until at last… only one remained.
Massuzoth.
King of the Arucane. Last of his kind.
And on a dawn marked by ash and silence, after a war that shook the foundations of the world, he fell.
And with his fall, the line of the Arucane was ended.
The tyranny was broken.
The long reckoning was complete.
And as the sun rose upon a world freed at last from their shadow…
A new age began.
The Fourth Age had dawned.
And in the dawn that followed the fall of Massuzoth, the world entered a time of healing.
For the scars left by the Arucane and the forces of the abyss ran deep across the lands. Kingdoms lay in ruin. Fields were broken. The very bones of the world bore witness to the long war that had come before.
And the Gods, in their mercy, turned once more to the shaping of creation.
They reformed the face of the world.
Mountains were raised anew. Valleys were softened. And the seas themselves were stirred by divine will, rising to swallow the remnants of the Arucane dominions. Their fallen kingdoms were cast beneath the waters, buried in silence, that their memory might fade and their corruption be sealed away from the living world.
Thus was the surface made whole again.
And as the centuries passed, the eggles of the world began to wander.
The races spread outward, seeking new lands, new beginnings, and new purpose. They crossed the reshaped earth, settling where the land would receive them. And with time, distance grew between them.
Great oceans lay between their homes.
Endless waters stretched where once there had been roads and shared lands.
And slowly… they drifted apart.
No longer did they walk together.
No longer did they speak as one.
Though the stories endured—tales of the Arucana, of the wars, of the abyss and the heavens—these too began to change. Passed from one generation to the next, they lost their sharpness, their certainty, their truth.
Until at last…
They became legend.
And the memory of a world once united was all but forgotten.
Thus was the Fourth Age brought to its quiet end.
And in those long years, the darkness stirred only faintly.
For within the abyss itself, a different war was long being fought.
The Infernal Five—lords of that broken realm—rose against one another, each seeking dominion over the depths. Their conflict consumed the abyss, turning its fury inward, and for a time, the world above was spared their full attention.
But such wars do not end without consequence.
And though the world knew peace…
It was a peace built upon a storm yet unresolved.