The world almost seemed to rage with storms. The sky was an ominous black blanketed by rain and lightning and wind, and the moons hung low behind. The air itself seemed desperate to tell a tale, loud, murderous, and melancholic. Most were trying to not be swept away with their homes. But not Zailithar. No, Zailithar was a madman. His mind had gone long ago and so did his respect. But on this night it was as if the Gods spoke through the storm and ate away at what was left of his mind. The madman scribbled illegibly until scribbles became a dark tale that would gouge itself into history:

“On the set of the sun season, when the 3 sisters dance together in the bright sky, and the sky bleeds with a mournful blue. When the lands rise and fall, and the folds wide and red spill forth anew, A blade will rise to separate magic from man. Eat away the soul from flesh. Its touch will break the bonds of the mind and forge the living and the dead. Its wielder shall be crowned in sadness. Beware the one who wields it for their allies and enemies will fall. And he will carve the fate of all kingdoms and the doom for all who stand in his path. Seven hands turn the key, and what is locked shall never rest until all hearts are set ablaze.”

The prophets' screams echoed throughout the night like a forgotten spirit only stopping with the storm as he took his own life. Those who read the prophecy claimed it was no mere fairytale but a warning torn from the mind of a man of a blade as powerful as the gods themselves thrust down as punishment by an unknown force. The blade with no name. The prophecy took off like a swarm of locusts infecting the minds of all who were cursed to know and eating away at their thoughts. Bleeding into dreams of children and fantasies of men. For centuries the blade with no names very existence was a stain, a devil manipulating the world in quest. Scholars holy men wrote their lives in ink riddled books and codices hoping to find answers, solutions. Warriors traveled far and wide, those that returned moved as if what was in every man had left them out of fear as they sputtered soft warnings and chased death. Most did not return at all. And thus birthed the Madness Seekers.

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But regardless of the man's fears the moons still move ever closer like a silent promenade. Their soft shadows dance across the land. The Prophet’s words held firm: the one destined to wield the blade would rise not from power, but from despair. A child of ash and ruin, whose path would be carved by grief and betrayal.

Somewhere, in the vast and unforgiving lands of Galeene, a boy’s fate had already been written—a fate bound to a blade that waited in silence. A curse unfulfilled. Its thirst unquenched.

The Blade of Anai waits.