Where the Sun Judges All
Endless sands stretch beneath a sky so bright it scalds the eyes, where shadows shrink and lies wither in the heat. This is the Desert Kingdom, home of the draconians — solitary, cold-blooded, and tempered by a land that offers no mercy.
Unlike the structured realms of elves or dwarves, the Desert Kingdom has no crown, no capital. Its people gather only for sacred purposes: to mate, to war, or to settle matters of blood and honor. Leadership is not inherited, but earned in the ritual of the Sunken Bed, an ancient lake basin where combat becomes a dance, and the victor claims the right to lead — until challenged anew.
Yet, beneath this brutal simplicity lies a culture of artisans and mystics. Draconian glassblowers craft weapons and armor of tempered glass, gleaming like molten jewels yet strong as stone. Their polished glass beads serve as currency, each a mark of labor and pride. To the draconians, the sun is not a god of kindness but of trial and truth — its light reveals, sears, and purifies.
Scattered across the desert are hidden tribes, wandering merchants, and those who whisper of a time when the sands will bloom once more. And beneath the dunes, slumbering in the oldest caverns, is said to be a golden dragon, dreaming of the world’s first dawn — and perhaps, its last.
The Desert Kingdom is not conquered. It is survived. And those who endure its trials carry its fire within.
