Eternal Writ (2025)

Upon the fractured frontier of Neyvaris, where continents drift upon seas of obsidian glass and the night sky burns with three suns like baleful eyes, the Oathbound of Kaelithar endure. They are the remnants of an order that pre-dates empire, republic, or commonwealth—a lineage older than the Trinity Pact itself, bound by words etched not in scripture but in blood. Their creed is one of restraint and honor, yet also of vengeance, for each knight is taught that the void will one day rise to consume mankind, and only the oath-keepers may stand against it. Their cathedra-fortresses brood upon the cliffs, carved into monoliths blackened by ancient fire. Within, warriors kneel in silence, reciting words older than language itself. Where the Pact squabbles over trade, fleets, and expansion, the Oathbound remain outside, aloof yet ever-watchful, their code the iron barrier between galaxy and abyss. For centuries they have been dismissed as zealots, anachronisms, knights whose swords gleam in an age of plasma fire. But the silence of their vigil has broken. From the black gulfs between galaxies stirs a menace whispered as The Eidolarch, a presence neither machine nor flesh, that feeds upon the very concept of allegiance. Already the stars themselves seem to bend—entire colonies vanish into silence, while survivors are found hollow-eyed, chanting oaths not of Kaelithar but of something far older, far fouler. The Oathbound have sounded the Clarion of Ashes—the first call in millennia for unity. They summon warriors, priests, even mercenaries from beyond their cloisters, declaring that the galaxy must either kneel to a single cause or die scattered and alone. And yet, even as this call echoes across the void, dissent festers. Some view the Oathbound as would-be tyrants cloaked in sanctity, while others see salvation in their unyielding creed. You walk within this schism, blade in hand, oath heavy on your heart. You will see whether the creed is salvation, damnation, or both.