u/FreudeG

The Magisters are finished.

Once the unquestioned authority of the Divine Order, their banners now hang in tatters as the city turns against them. Accused by the Godwoken of collusion with the Black Ring, the order has been condemned, and the Paladins have begun their purge with ruthless certainty.

There will be no trials.

There will be no mercy.

With Bishop Alexandar dead and unable to shield his followers, the White Magisters have been left defenseless. Worse still, Dallis the Hammer has abandoned them entirely, disappearing at the moment their loyalty became inconvenient.

Now the remnants of the order hide within abandoned barracks, shattered fortifications, and sealed archives, desperately trying to erase the knowledge they once guarded. Documents are burned, Source experiments dismantled, prisoners executed, and evidence buried beneath collapsing stone before the Paladins can reach them.

Some still cling to the belief that they served a greater purpose.

Others simply wish to avoid the fate awaiting them in the streets above, where the people of Rivellon hunger for retribution as much as justice.

The Divine Order once promised salvation.

Now its followers can only hope for a quick death.

Even as Arx burns beneath the assault of the Voidwoken, parts of the city still struggle to remain ordinary.

Trader Micheil Ros has just endured the worst day of his life. His daughter’s wedding, meant to be a rare moment of joy amidst the siege, descended into chaos when the Voidwoken attacked. Though his daughter and her new husband survived, the celebration was shattered along with much of the peace he once believed the city still possessed.

Now Micheil buries himself in routine, cleaning and reorganizing his damaged storefront while distant screams and collapsing barricades echo through the streets outside. Broken crates are repaired, ledgers rewritten, and shattered glass swept aside in the desperate hope that if the shop can be restored, perhaps life itself can be as well.

Not far away stands another store far stranger in nature.

The Toymaster’s shop is cluttered floor to ceiling with puppets, dolls, carved figurines, and intricate little mechanisms. At first it appears whimsical, almost comforting, until visitors begin to notice the subtle movements. A puppet’s head turns slightly when no one is watching. A porcelain doll shifts positions between glances. Soft whispers drift through the workshop long after the doors have closed.

The Toymaster is capable of something deeply unusual, imbuing Source into his creations and granting them a faint semblance of life and sentience. Not enough to truly call them living, but enough to make the distinction deeply unsettling.

Together, the two shops capture another side of Arx. Not the armies or the sieges, but the people trying to preserve fragments of normal life while the world collapses around them.

Beneath the siege, beneath the stone, Arx rots.

The sewers twist through the city like a second set of veins, carrying more than waste. Down here, the war above is only an echo. In its place are darker dealings, quieter cruelties, and dangers that do not need armies to kill.

Cells hold imprisoned mistakes best forgotten. Sealed chambers whisper with the threat of Deathfog, waiting only for the wrong hand to loose it. Thieves move through the tunnels with practiced ease, carving out territory in the dark, while trolls claim flooded passages as their own.

And deeper still, where the air grows thin and foul, the Voidwoken gather.

Every corridor hides something. Every turn demands caution. The sewers are not a refuge from the siege above, they are its reflection, stripped of honor and left to fester.

In Arx, even the ground beneath your feet is trying to kill you.

Arx burns, and the walls are no longer enough.

The Voidwoken surge through the streets in relentless waves, pouring over battlements and crashing against the last defenses of the city. The Paladins hold where they can, forming desperate lines in broken plazas and narrow streets, but every stand costs them ground. Every victory is temporary.

They are not winning.

They are surviving.

Steel meets claw, prayer meets chaos, and the city itself begins to give way under the pressure. Barricades collapse. Formations falter. The defenders are pushed back step by step, their resolve the only thing holding the line together.

Then something changes.

The Godwoken arrive.

Where they step, the tide begins to shift. What was once a slow collapse turns into a chance, a narrow and fragile opening to reclaim what has already been lost. The Paladins rally, not because the battle is won, but because it no longer feels hopeless.

The siege is not over.

But for the first time, Arx might endure.

The isolation has only just begun.

The Ruby District of Luyarnha sits in a fragile silence, its streets emptied but not abandoned. Doors are barred. Windows shuttered. Lights burn low behind drawn curtains as the people wait, not for if, but for when.

The Scourge Beasts have not yet come.

That is what makes it worse.

The air hangs heavy with anticipation, every distant sound mistaken for claws on stone or breath in the dark. The city holds itself in a tense, collective stillness, as though any sudden movement might be what finally draws the horrors in.

Amidst this quiet dread, a fragment of the Radiant Church still stands.

What remains of its hunters prepare with grim purpose, weapons blessed, armor fastened, resolve hardened into something unyielding. They position themselves like a stone set against the tide, fully aware that when it breaks, they may not be enough.