Part One: The True Account Chapter One: The Name Sundered Earth
T he Earth has been broken before. More than once. Not as metaphor.
The continent beneath your ancestors' feet was once a single, unbroken landmass your geologists call Pangaea. They date its rupture to approximately 175 million years ago. They are correct about the timeline, but they do not know the cause.
That rupture was the First Sundering.
It was a tectonic catastrophe, but not a natural one. It was the visible scarring left by a war so absolute that its shockwaves shattered the planetary crust. The victors of that war would eventually be remembered by mortals as Dragons. The things they fought, the things they imprisoned in the deep earth, we call the Ancient Terrors.
The Second Sundering came seventy-four thousand years ago, and your species barely survived it. Your geneticists have found the scar in your blood. They know the size of the wound, but not its name.
The Third Sundering happened only six thousand years ago, well within the span of human memory if humans had been allowed to remember. Its geological scars are smaller than a continent's: the Shattered Basin where Nevada now sits, a handful of cratered ranges where the Ley Lines, the rivers of living power that vein the earth, overloaded and burst. The land healed enough that surface dwellers built cities on top of the wounds without ever asking what made them.
More importantly, it birthed a story.
The Great Lie: a falsehood so expertly engineered and so deeply seeded into human memory that your entire civilization was constructed upon it. The Third Sundering is the reason your species believes it inherited this world alone.
A Fifth Sundering is mounting. The Fourth was stopped in secret, six centuries ago, by people whose names this record will teach you. The veil between dimensions is decaying. You can feel it in the air if you stop pretending otherwise. Things long exiled to the darkness are returning. The only question now is whether humanity will remember the truth in time to do something about it, or whether fear will be allowed, once again, to make our choices for us.
I watched them walk into the earth tonight.
Ninety-three Kin. A battered clan, mostly Greenskins, led by two Ogre elders who should have been revered for the centuries of memory they carried. They walked into the Nether passage at the base of the sea cliffs in absolute silence. There was no ceremony.
The youngest of them stopped at the threshold. She could not have been more than thirty cycles old, which for her people is barely childhood. She looked back at the treeline the way you look back at a house you know you will never see again.
I wanted to call out to her. I am ashamed to write that my throat remained closed.
I understand the Accord. I have penned its justifications myself; sixteen volumes of rationalization that will sit in the dark for another thousand years. I know the arithmetic of survival, and I know why this exile loses the least amount of blood.
But I want this observation to sit beside those sixteen volumes, because the record must reflect the cost: understanding a necessity and being at peace with it are two entirely different animals. That child disappeared underground tonight because her face frightened a humanity that had been systematically trained to fear her. I will hold her looking back in my memory until the Cycle finally takes it from me. It is my final apology.