Dawnbreak Spire

Stepping into the arcane illusion that stirs at the foot of the Dawnbreak Spire. The spellwork doesn’t just show the beginning of the battle—it immerses you in it. You don’t watch history here. You walk among it.

The Battle of the Dawnbreak: First Light of Battle

As experienced through the Memory of Light

The air shifts the moment you step onto the rune-etched stone of the plaza. Light bends and thickens. A low chime pulses from the Spire. Then silence. The illusion begins.

The world fades to soft gold, and you are no longer standing in a plaza, but on a high ledge overlooking the Crown of Anbaerin--the first three tiers of the city—only it is not the city you know. It is a place shrouded in black fog, its spires and walls unbroken, but profanes and mocked, its skies pulsing with violet and crimson lightning. Throughout the city you hear screams of agony, of ecstasy, of devotion below.

A female voice, at once sensuous and venomous, whispers through the air:

“You cannot unmake what you desired, dear little mortals...”

Then—Your perspective surges down from the heights of the Cragspires, settling down on a ring of seven, huddled together in the center of a small room.

Fear and desperation are palpable in this room. Crowded around these seven are men and women in makeshift armor and weapons more than the actual article, and what real armor or weaponry they did have was worn and damaged.

The illusory image of a tall elf, enters the illusion and addresses you.

Spectral Visage: First Mage Celebril Lassrien

Vallan, Student of the First Mage

"We had lost track of how many days we'd been in that room, reading, arguing, searching for an answer. Little did we know just how close we were.
Feldon was the key."

It is not an explosion. It is not a summoning. It is a revelation.

Amidst the mediations of the seven, a dim light begins to well within one of them, and then like a damn breaking, light erupts from him, and then a second, and a third, until all seven were like new stars. They stagger, eyes wide, pupils flashing with endless glyphs. A sound like every language spoken at once roars through the room, and then is gone.

The First Spell is born.

Not a single spell. Not even a grimoire. A complete understanding of The Arcane. As if the world itself whispered its code into their bones. And above—The veil breaks.

A burst of blinding light arcs across the sky, splitting the clouds of corruption. The fog recoils like a living thing, and light floods the city. Dawn breaks the horizon, cutting through the smoldering sky; light that hasn't touched it's cobbles for ages.

A ghostly figure steps forward from the illusion, pausing to address you directly.

_Spectral Visage: First Mage Feldon Cyrwic

Human, First Student of The Arcane

He gestures to the illusion of himself far below, standing at the back of a rag-tag, cobbled together militia, surrounded by six others all a glow with the frightful power of The Arcane. His voice is calm, measured, filled with quiet awe.

“We did not know what we were wielding. We only knew that it was the first glimpse of hope we knew.”

And then—

A sword is raised.

Spectral Visage: Aermick Frethon, the Dawnbringer

Human, Paladin of Light Reborn

The illusory figure of Aemerick Frethon appears at the front line, not in gleaming plate, but in dented armor and a war-weary scowl. His voice is rough, but alive with awe.

“We were ready to die any day, sure the spawn would find out what we were up to.
But something changed.
The light came from them. From the ones who dared to learn, who would not be tempted by the depravity Nyxrais offered.
I saw that fire in their eyes, and I knew it wasn’t just a weapon we'd found.
It was hope._”

The hovel they've been hiding in erupts outward. Demonspawn, demon fanatics, the subjugated, all of them freeze, stunned by what unfolds from that humble little room. Light--pure light. Not controlled—uncontained. The Arcane unleashed, and the world bends to their will.

They are joined by soldiers—willing souls like Aermick, who form a line to protect the newly born mages. The Knights of First Light are not yet named, but on this day they are forged.

They charge, cleaving into swaths of demonspawn, who, for the first time, retreat. Not from steel. But from the light of defiance, the weapon forged of desperate hope.

The hordes of darkness fled from that glorious light--the might of The Arcane made manifest in the bodies of those seven.

Above them, Nyxaris—a form woven from seduction and terror. Her eyes promised the ecstasy that only begot torment. Her wings are veils of silk and sinew, her voice enough to make stone tremble. She mocks as she reaches out—tempting, not striking. And as her lies reach their ears heroes begin to falter.

Then, from the far edge of the illusion, another figure emerges.

Spectral Visage: Aemerick Frethon “The Dawnbringer”

Human, Paladin of Light Reborn

Bleeding and weary, he turns towards you with a grim smile, holding a sword forged from pure light.

“Nyxaris wanted us cowed, groveling, fighting each other. So certain was she that we were the same pliable mortals she conquered ages ago. So certain was she that we would accept her pale imitations, her fruitless promises, her gifts of bondage.
Too late did Nyxaris realize what we had--the weapon we wielded.
Hope.”

The illusion shows him raising his blade—no arcane flourish, no divine storm, just an act of refusal. Refusal to be oppressed and treated like refuse. Refusal of her lies. And in that moment, the Dawnbringer is born, the notched, rusty blade Aemerick wields, begins to glow. That glow becomes a flood of light that turns back demonspawn and The Profane alike. Aemerick rallies his fellow knights to him, and they hold.

As the illusion begins to fade, you see the seven—burning with knowledge that no other has ever known—standing in a ring, faces streaked with tears and ash. Above them, sunlight fills the streets. And on the front line, Aemerick and his Knights of First Light stand at the edge of a fallen fountain, weapons lifted to the new morning.

No words are spoken. But the world is no longer the same.

And then—nothing.

Just the soft glow of the plaza, and the echo of a single triumphant chime.

The Battle of the Dawnbreak: The Hour of Ash and Glory

As experienced through the Memory of Light

The soft glow of the plaza dims. A cold wind stirs from the runes underfoot. A new pulse hums through the stone—slower than before. Deeper. Heavier.

And then—

You’re on the streets of the Third Tier, surrounded by chaos. The light that once blazed across the sky is now scattered in patches—flickering beacons amid deep shadows. Buildings burn with unnatural fire, and the cobbles writhe as if remembering pain.

You hear steel ring against steel, the sickly crack and crunch of broken bone, the chanting in twisted tongues not meant for mortal mouths, and—louder than either—screams. Not just of fear, but defiance.

A spectral woman sprints past you—malnuritshed, barefoot, dressed in rags. In her hands a cleaver lit with a alight with spectral fire. She leaps at the throat of a demonspawn twice her size. She doesn’t survive.

But demon doesn’t rise either.

Spectral Visage: Knight-Captain Ysolde Bannerthane

Dwarven, Hazzok's-Bane

She appears beside you, grime-covered, half her face burned, leaning on a broken halberd. She doesn’t address you, instead staring out over the burning buildings, wreckage, and bodies—she barks, voice hoarse from battle.

“This wasn’t glory. This was survival. It was cookboys and weavers, blind old men and armless scribes.
They fought with butcher’s knives. Shovels. Hope.
And they died godsdamned beautifully.”

She fades—but her words linger.

All around you, illusions flicker to life, and the Memory fractures into moments:

A group of street urchins lead a pack of hellhounds into a collapsed alley rigged by a newly initiated mage, erupting with arcane might, tearing the pack to pieces, but only to run headlong into other roving pack of horrors.
A stonecutter turned soldier, stands alone at a chokepoint, facing a demonspawn with a face like melting wax and limbs like bone-scythes. Unknowing of what he can do against such a horror, but fueled by the grief and anger of his daughter's death, he stands defiant. With his broken stave, he strikes the cobbles and the The Arcane answers! Wreathing the area in wrathful psychic lashes ladden with grief, ripping the spawn and those behind it to shreds.
A mother cradles her lifeless child, face streaked with soot and tears, and a winged demonspawn slithers from the shadows towards her, grinning and confident. The Arcane breathes over mother and daughter, weaving together something formed from the grief and pain, and as the spawn strikes, this saturated arcane energy takes hold of the mother's arm and catch the falling blade. The mother screams, and it becomes a war cry, defiance and righteous anger pour from her and she lifts a broken iron rod, and crushes the skull of the spawn.

The Army of the Dawn, as these humble hopefuls would later be called, are pushed to their limits—bleeding light, staggering under demonic onslaught. The First Mages, glowing with raw Arcane fire, do what they can to relieve pain and exhaustion, but they are only seven against a city of horrors. And Nyxaris? She rears her hideous head to counterstirke.

The Desperate Works of Nyxaris

The illusion darkens

The sky shifts, growing too dark. Now you see her true horror. Nyxaris—no longer a seductress, but a creature of unraveling dreams. Her form bleeds into the air like ink into water. The world reshapes itself around her as with every breath she speaks new horrors to life through The Profane:

A knight sees their lover returned to life—only to watch them twist into a crawling nightmare.
The cobbles beneath your feet become mouths, whispering your every regret.
A street transforms into a corridor of mirrors, and within them, each soldier sees their future, breaking their will with things they never asked to know.

She opens rifts—half-real places, liminal tears—where demonspawn pour out in madness. They do not walk. They skitter, squirm, writhe, and slither. They devour.

The illusion shifts.

Spectral Visage: Battle Medic Elu’Vey

Vissari, Hero of Berzog's Crossing

She stumbles into view, clothing in tatters, eyes glowing, and leading a train of soot-covered, and bloody children, through a thick miasmic fog. Her voice trembles with reverence—and horror.

“She broke the world like glass. Time stuttered. Thought spiraled.
For every one of us that held, a hundred were unmade.
But the people stood. This was the last hill to stand on—we weren't getting any more.
So we clung to hope and unleashed generations of fury and outrage!”

The image surges again—flashes of battle, so fast you can’t track them all:

A farmer with a pitchfork drives it through a demon’s throat while shielding a wounded soldier.
A pair of prostitutes cut down a demonspawn in an alley, under a shower of blood.
Orphans, no more than twelve, channel a wild burst of Arcane fire, annihilating a horror that had just slain three Knights of First Light.

But with each act of heroism, the cost deepens. Buildings collapse. Fire consumes. Life is snuffed out.

The illusion shifts and shakes, and transports you to the ring of the seven First Mages.

Each of them working to forestall the vile works of Nyxaris, but she is ancient and cunning, and knows many secrets the mages do not, all the while working to keep the demonspawn at bay and empower the rabble turned army. But under such an onslaught, who could handle such a burden?

In turn, you notice men and women of the city, coming up to the circle, and, in turn, you see each of the Firsts place a hand on them. Some leave emptyhanded, while others turn around and call forth lightning from the skies, or conjure great motes of fire to hurl at spawn, and many other great feats. These were the first initiates of The Arcane, awakened in a moment and turned out to fight, to ease the burden of the First Mages.

And then—stillness. A breath, held.

Your perspective lifts into the sky.

You see the city from above, streets run red as the city were bleeding, magic surging through the air, both of The Arcane and The Profane, and everywhere littered with ash and glory. At the center of it all, the silver spires of the Palace burn—not toppled, but defiled.

And in the center of that desecration stands Nyxaris, veiled in shadow. But her veil flickers. And for the first time—

She looks afraid.

The image fades.

No chime this time.

Just the silence of the cost.

The Battle of the Dawnbreak: The Fall of Cruelty

As experienced through the Memory of Light

There is no warning. No chime. No pause.

Only the sound of a city on the edge of becoming something else.

You stand once more in the Crown of Anbaerin, where the white stone streets still stand unmarred by time or war. The city itself endures, resolute, but the air is scarred by the memory of what passed here.

All around, the Army of the Dawn desperately clings to what ground they can hold. Soot-covered, bloodied, breathless, breaking—but yet unbroken.

The Arcane still swells in the air, a force alive.

Above the city, Nyxaris hovers, her form—a being of spirit and sin, of longing and lies—beginning to show signs of fraying. She shrieks across the tiers of Anbaerin, her wings tattered illusions, her body shimmering with rage.

"You cannot cast out desire! You belong to me!"

But her voice falls on deaf ears—the people no longer listen to her lies.

Spectral Visage: First Mage Feldon Cyrwic

Human, First Student of The Arcane

His image stands now in silence, his hand extended not in combat, but in offering.

“We couldn’t hold the battle and protect everyone at once.
Through the First Spell, we were able to share The Arcane.
Given freely. To those who could carry them.
Raising up the first generation of mages.
So that we, the Seven, could do what no one else could.”

All around, the Memory fractures into glowing images:

A young apprentice, eyes alight, hurls a chain of binding glyphs that wrap around a fiend’s limbs.
A carpenter, hands still scarred and blistered from lashes of hellfire, channels a shield dome over a group of wounded as a wave of gibbering mouths crashes against it.
A merchant, forgotten by name, utters a word in a tongue newly born of The Arcane, and turns three shadow-creatures to salt.

These are not random miracles.
These are gifts given from the First Spell.
The beginnings of magic seeded in the minds of the able.

The Final Stand

With The Arcane gifted, the Seven turn their attention fully to Nyxaris.

They do not chant. They do not burn. They focus—together, as one.

You watch as they reach out their hands, pin-pricks of light orbiting each of them like miniature constellations, synchronizing their power. The ground hums. The wind goes still. And Nyxaris falters.

She strikes wildly, desperately. She conjures regrets, unravels time, calls forward twisted echoes of herself—but nothing.

Her power, once dominant, is stymied in the face of combined will of the First Mages.

The city shakes—reality shakes—as a desperate contest of wills wracks the air. Collectively, spawn and mortal alike hold their breath as the fight for freedom reaches its crescendo.

Then suddenly, the world reels, and a terrible shriek splits the sky.

The Dawnbreak Spire Emerges

A ring of light blooms around the First Mages, and from that ring, a spire of radiant crystal and silver-veined white stone pierces the heavens.

It grows without force, as if unfurling like flower—called from the bones of Anbaerin by the touch of truth, and the entire city begins to glow like a thousand stars.

Its light washes over Nyxaris. And all that sullies the magnificent city recoils. Her spawn are the first to flee. They clamor over each other and tear into each in their rush to be away from the light. The depths of the city pour out horror upon horror, like a lanced boil—anything to be away from that terrible light!

She screams—in rage, in panic.

_"No. No—you were mine. You are MINE!"

But she is already unraveling. Her shadow breaks apart, pulled into the wind, fleeing southward, out to sea, like smoke from a dying fire.

Cast out.

Spectral Visage: Aermick Frethon, the Dawnbringer

Human, Paladin of Light Reborn

His figure kneels at the Spire’s base, sword grounded, eyes to the horizon.

“She thought us weak, and we were.
But even a cat should be wary of a cornered rat.
She thought she'd taken away all our hope. They all did.
What they did was push us so deep into a corner there was nothing left to do but slay the beast or die trying.”

The Aftermath

The city stands. The Spire sings. Its raw crystalline pillars shimmer with soft light. Around it, the people gather—not in triumph, but in solemn recognition of what was bought here.

The war was not over—it had just begun.

But for the first time in memory—The Demons lost.

And at the Spire’s base, the seven gather.

They speak no words.

They only close their eyes.

And breathe.

🪶 Inscribed upon the base of the Dawnbreak Spire:

“When the lies burned away, truth took root.
When the cruel fell, hope rose.
When lust for power shattered, unity stood.
This is where the world changed.”

The illusion fades.

And in the stillness, the chime returns.

Soft.
Reverent.
Hopeful.