Chapter 1: Welcome to the World, Thalvoria
The world was small, but it wasn't simple. Not when you lived on Thalvoria, a planet that felt like the universe's idea of a cruel joke—a single landmass surrounded by an ocean so vast and vicious it might as well have been alive.
It wasn't just water out there; it was teeth, tentacles, and scales glinting under the sun, lurking inside the waves. If earth had its sharks and whales, Thalvoria had nightmares with fins.
From above—or at least in the old maps drawn by explorers who dared to venture too close to the shoreline—the land looked like a misshappen leaf floating in endless blue.
Forty-five percent of the planet was solid ground, a patchwork of forests, rivers, rolling hills, and golden sands. But don't let the balance fool you. That remaining fifty-five percent? A liquid labyrinth teeming with creatures that could swallow ships whole or drag entire villages into their watery abyss.
And yet, life clung to this tiny oasis, as if daring the sea to try harder next time. Two mountains stood sentinel over the land, one in the north and one in the south, each stretching from horizon to horizon like ancient scars carved into the land.
They weren't just majestic peaks crowned with snow, no—these were jagged, brutal things made of black rock that seemed to absorb sunlight rather than reflect it. Locals called them the Spines, because they looked exactlly like what they sounded like: the rigged backbone of some colossal beast buried beneath the soil.
Dragons and wyverns ruled these heights, their massive forms cutting through the skies like living storms. To see one soar overhead was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, for while they never interfered in the affairs of those below, their presence was a constant reminder of how fragile mortal lives truly were.
Between these towering monoliths lay everything else: fertile plains where farmers grew crops faster than the wind could scatter seeds, dense jungles thick enough to lose yourself in for days, and rivers that snaked lazily through the terrain before spilling into lakes so clear you could see your reflection staring back at you. Or maybe not you.
Some claimed the waters held spirits though most dismissed such tales as bedtime stories meant to scare children away from swimming alone.