Long ago, before the first king set a single stone upon a second, the land of Varendor belonged to no one.

It was vast and wild and full of the sort of things that made sensible people nervous. Mountains that hummed with old magic. Deserts that swallowed armies whole. Forests so dense and alive that first-time travelers often turned around and went straight back home.

Three peoples found their way into this world and, in the way of most people who find themselves sharing something they all want, they did not exactly get along. The Stone-folk carved their fortresses into the frozen north. The Sun-folk buried their palaces in the eastern sands. The Vine-folk disappeared into the southern jungle so thoroughly that most outsiders assumed they were a rumor.

They kept the peace.
That peace is no longer

Three centuries ago, the leaders of all three houses gathered at the Hearthstone — a great flat rock at the very center of the continent, perfectly equidistant from all three territories, which everyone agreed was at least convenient.

There, they signed the Compact of Varendor. A sworn agreement that divided the land, named the borders, and promised that no house would march into another's territory without an invitation.

For two hundred years, it held. Trade caravans crossed the continent. Scholars visited each other's libraries. Children grew up hearing tales about fierce northern warriors, mysterious eastern merchants, and shadow-hunters of the deep south as legends: wonderful, distant, safe.

But the night that great rock split apart, every treaty and trade agreement and carefully tended friendship cracked along with it. Old suspicions rose. Old hungers returned. Within a single season, the wars began.

Varendor today is a continent at war with itself. Three great houses, each convinced the other two cannot be trusted, each building higher walls and sharper weapons and fiercer armies, just in case. To be fair, each house has its reasons. To be honest, none of them are entirely wrong.

The game being played across Varendor is older than any living ruler. It is a game of strongholds and timing: knowing when to strike, when to hold, when to send your bravest fighters forward and trust that your walls will stand while they are gone.

In Varendor, your stronghold is everything. It is your home, your people, your history. The fortress must fall before the ruler can be touched. When the walls come down, it is only a matter of time.