Cresshire

Cradled between mountain and sea, Cresshire was once a village known for its peace. Its people lived by the rhythms of planting and harvest, by the hum of markets and the comfort of lullabies. Sons grew into farmers and fishermen, not soldiers. Daughters learned trade and craft, not war. It was a place that seemed too fragile, too gentle, to ever taste the iron tang of blood.

But the Second Great War did not spare gentleness. When the First King of Dimmore called for recruits, it was the boys of Cresshire who were handed rusted swords and told to fight. They marched beneath banners that promised honor, though all they found was terror. The ambush came at dawn: the clash of steel, the shriek of magic unleashed against those with no shield against it. What followed was not battle but slaughter.

From her balcony above, Queen Thana watched the massacre. Her heart beat with the truth she had long denied: this war was not rebellion, but cruelty disguised as duty. In that moment, Cresshire became more than a village. It became a graveyard, a symbol of innocence betrayed, a wound etched into the memory of Dimmore.

To this day, the people of Dimmore speak of Cresshire in hushed tones. Not as a place of fields and markets, but as the spark that lit the queens’ rebellion, the night when letters were sent to summon the other queens to beseech the Mother Goddess. Cresshire’s name carries the weight of sacrifice, a reminder that even the quietest villages can shake kingdoms when their bones are broken.