Born not beneath a sky or sun, but beneath stone older than both, Eryngium, later called Eyrn, first opened her eyes in a tomb that history insists never existed. No records named its builder. No crown was ever found. The walls bore no sigils of lineage or dynasty, only sun-carved knotwork and vows etched so deeply they seemed older than language itself.

She was Kalashtar, severed from the realm of dreams. That severance marked her from birth, unmoored from the shared subconscious of her people and untouched by the cycle of rest and vision. It did not make her ageless. It made her enduring.

The order that raised her called themselves the Crown Guard, yet there was no crown to inherit and no throne to defend. From the beginning, their oath was strange. They swore fealty not to a ruler of flesh, but to kingship perfected. To mastery. To the light that legitimizes rule rather than the blood that claims it.

The trials of the Guard were merciless. Initiates were sealed within the tomb and commanded to remember their purpose while isolation gnawed at certainty. Days blurred. Weeks lost shape. Some forgot why they stood watch. Others broke beneath the weight of silence and ritual, emerging hollowed or not at all. Eryn remained, not untouched, but intact. Her severance from dreams insulated her from the trial’s erosion, allowing her to endure in a way the Guard never intended.

When the seals finally broke, she emerged at twenty-six, alone, carrying an oath she could not fully explain and a loyalty with no mortal anchor.

That was when the sun answered.

Lugh did not appear as a figure, nor as a voice. He manifested as recognition. The weight of her oath aligned all at once. The tomb, the Guard, the absent crown, they were not failures or lies, but a crucible.

You were never sworn to a king, came the understanding, radiant and precise.
You were sworn to me.

Lugh Ildánach, Master of All Arts, bearer of the sun, keeper of rightful rule, revealed himself not as a new master, but as the truth beneath the ritual. The Guard had been founded in his name, though even they had forgotten it. The king and queen of legend were deliberate myths, veils meant to test devotion without certainty or reward.

When Eryn first called upon him fully, the desert itself answered.

Grains of sand lifted from the dunes around her, swirling in a slow, reverent spiral. Under her will, and Lugh’s light, they fused, sharpened, and aligned with impossible precision. In her hands formed a greatsword, broad-bladed and sun-warm, its edge defined not by metal but by mastery. Each grain remembered heat, pressure, and purpose, bound together by oath rather than forge.

The weapon does not exist when she does not will it. When dismissed, it collapses back into harmless sand, scattering as though it had never been. Yet when it strikes, it cleaves with the certainty of judgment and the inevitability of the sun’s rise.

She returned to the deserts of Solcrata as a warden of forgotten truth. Where false rulers rose on borrowed authority, her greatsword rose from the earth itself. Where oaths were broken and left to rot beneath time, sand gathered, light followed, and judgment fell.

She is young. She remembers who she is. But her oath is older than crowns.

Now Eyrn walks as the Last Guard of a Crown that never existed, warlock of a god who does. She does not dream. She does not doubt. But when the sands rise and a greatsword forms in her grasp, her oath is absolute.

She stands for mastery.
She stands for light.
She stands for Lugh.

And in the deserts of Solcrata, the dunes themselves still answer her call.