Tempest
Draconium

Lore:Once, in an age when magic still listened to its wielders, there existed a kingdom that lived in balance rather than fear.
Its name was Aethera.
Aethera was a realm where light and dark magic coexisted, not as opposing forces, but as partners in an ancient dance. Dawn magic healed wounds and coaxed life from the soil. Dusk magic protected borders, bound dangerous truths, and reminded the people that shadows had purpose. The kingdom thrived because it refused to deny either half of itself.
Many called Aethera home. Dwarves sang runes into stone, carving cities beneath crystal-veined mountains. Fae drifted between realms, sealing bargains with laughter and thorns alike. Elves tended forests that remembered centuries in every leaf. Humans built spires, schools, and libraries where magic was studied with discipline and reverence.
At the heart of the kingdom stood the Royal Family of Aethera, not rulers by conquest, but the living fulcrum of balance. Their bloodline carried both light and dark magic in perfect equilibrium, a gift said to originate from an ancient dragon pact. As long as the royal line endured, the land itself remained whole.
The youngest heir was named Tempest Draconium.
Tempest was born beneath a sky torn open by thunder. The storm did not rage. It waited. From her earliest years, it was clear her magic did not fit neatly into any existing doctrine. Wind bent toward her unbidden. Flames shifted color when she passed. Tutors cautioned restraint, for magic like hers did not tolerate excess emotion or careless intent.
What set Tempest apart was not strength, but harmony.
Where others wielded light or shadow, she embodied the space between. Her magic manifested as green fire, an emerald flame unknown to Aethera’s scholars. It was neither holy nor profane. It burned with judgment rather than hunger, capable of cauterizing corruption or reducing lies to ash while leaving truth untouched.
The Fae regarded it with reverence. Dwarves called it living ore. Elves named it the forest’s final breath. Humans, lacking poetry, whispered that it was cursed. Tempest did not fear the fire. She listened to it. Fairy tales, however, rarely linger on envy long enough to name it.
Beyond Aethera’s borders lay a rival kingdom that coveted magic but could not create it. They believed balance was weakness, coexistence a lie told by those already in power. When their own light faltered, they turned eagerly to forbidden black magic, carving strength from sacrifice and stolen will.
They did not come with armies. No. They came with silence.
On a moonless night, shadow seeped through the kingdom like spilled ink. Wards that had stood for centuries unraveled thread by thread. The balance of Aethera fractured as dark magic was twisted and light magic flared wildly in resistance.
The Royal Family stood together when the ritual was cast. Death would have been mercy. Instead, the invaders chose erasure.
The magic of the royal bloodline was torn away, sealed through an ancient, absolute spell. Their bond to the land was severed, and Aethera screamed. Rivers dulled. Forests fell silent. The Fae withdrew. Dwarves sealed their gates. Elves mourned without song. Humans fled with stories no one believed.
Tempest survived.
Some say the Fae hid her. Others insist the land itself refused to let her vanish. When she awoke, her emerald fire was gone, replaced by a hollow ache, as though her very soul had been cauterized. The storm that once answered her name lay silent, bound behind seals she could neither see nor break. Exile became her teacher.
In forgotten libraries, cursed ruins, and half-mad whispers, Tempest learned the truth. Her magic was not destroyed. It was scattered, fragmented and bound to relics, bloodlines, and places where light and dark magic had once clashed. To reclaim it, she would have to walk willingly into corruption and negotiate with powers that fed on imbalance.
The irony was cruel.
To restore Aethera, she must wield both light and dark again, risking corruption with every step.
Her weapon awaited her long before her magic returned.
A scythe, forged in Aethera’s final years by dwarven smiths and fae enchanters. Not a farmer’s tool, but a symbol of inevitability. Its crescent blade was etched with runes that weighed intent rather than blood. Tempest favored it for its precision. Endings, she believed, should be deliberate.
When fragments of her power finally resurfaced, the green fire returned first.
It did not roar. It crept.
Emerald flames traced her fingertips, coiled along her breath, and clung to the scythe’s edge like a living halo. The fire did not scorch indiscriminately. Darkness unraveled beneath it. Light bent willingly, reinforcing rather than resisting.
To witness Tempest Draconium in motion was to understand Aethera’s oldest truth.
Power was not chaos.
Balance was not mercy.
And some endings were necessary for beginnings to take root.
She no longer walks as a princess.
She walks as a storm wrapped in silk and thorns, a collector of echoes, reclaiming her inheritance piece by piece. Whether she will restore Aethera to its former glory or become its final cautionary tale remains unwritten.
Yet one warning remains, etched into obsidian and gold, left behind for heirs and tyrants alike:
“Qui audet tenebrarum potentiam gerere, paratus sit ab eis consumi.”
He who dares wield the power of the darkness must be prepared for the darkness to consume him.

• - Written by @aelina_ashe