The land was once rich, teeming with life, colors, and magic. Now, everything is dim, washed-out, like a dream fading into nightmare. The skies are always overcast with thick grey clouds, filtering the sun into a pale ghost of light. The forests are mostly dead, blackened trees with brittle, skeletal branches. Rivers have slowed, as if the land itself is too tired to let them flow.

Villages are abandoned, or their few remaining inhabitants live like hunted animals, hiding in barricaded houses at night. People have learned to survive in fear, and even the bravest warriors refuse to venture far from shelter after dusk.

The Tree of Life, once a towering symbol of hope and magic, now withers in a forgotten part of the realm. It is said that the Tree’s sickness is what allows the Nightborn to exist and spread terror. If the Tree dies completely, so will the last hope of the world.

Magic still exists, but it's weaker, twisted barely enough to hold a torch against the darkness.

The Nightborn are the terror that stalks the night.

They descend from the darkened sky like torn shadows, long before the last light of day fades. Their forms are like ragged, empty cloaks, drifting just above the ground, held together by nothing but malevolence and hunger. Beneath the shifting tatters, rows of jagged, glistening teeth are their only solid feature, chattering and gnashing even when they are still.

They have no eyes, but they sense every heartbeat, every breath, hunting down the living with terrifying precision.

Weapons cannot harm them. Neither steel nor magic makes a difference — blades pass through them as though through mist, and spells unravel like torn paper when they touch their shadowy forms. The only defense is to hide, run, or pray that dawn comes fast enough.

When they catch their prey, they swarm them in an instant, teeth tearing flesh from bone, but the worst part is how silent the victims become once caught — no screaming, only the wet sound of gnawing.

By morning, only hollow bones remain, picked clean and polished, as if all the life inside had been devoured.

Even cities with high walls aren't fully safe — if a single door is left ajar, or a window cracks, they will find a way in.

Legends say they came from the death of dreams, born when hope first began to die in this land. Others whisper they are the "rotting breath" of the Tree of Life, that as long as the Tree remains sick, the Nightborn will continue to haunt the night.

Orwyn, the king’s wizard, had a vision: only your blood can stop the destruction of the Tree of Life.

Together with Kael the warrior and Rye the thief — who happens to be your half-brother — you set out on a journey to make this sacrifice for the salvation of the world.

Note:

I never planned to write a multiple-character bot, because the JLLM struggles with it — or outright refuses to handle it.

But this story had been messing with my head for a long time, so I had to write it — and during testing, it somehow magically worked.

That said, the usual warning still applies: if the bot talks for you, says dumb shit, or forgets what planet it's on — that’s still not my fault.