BATTLEBORN

In the Song of autumn, the Chorus of Goldwane 14, 874—the first Battlebørn were wrought from desperation, not design.
North Rojour buckled beneath two fronts of fire:

The Droven forges of Kaltevene, makers of arcane alloys and living steel, burned beneath the zeal of the Bearen, who despised all things touched by magic.

The Kolzegrad Regime pushed north, their banners of red creeping like a tide, daring the NRG to hold the line.

The Solians bled. Their legions dwindled. The Forge-Father Arcanum—a conclave of Solian mage-smiths—spoke a grim decree:

"If flesh falters, then let us make that which will not tire.
Let us build soldiers, not born, but forged."

Thus, the first Battlebørn took shape: Droven-forged frames, Solian incantations, and sparkstones pulsing where hearts should be.

The first generation were no more than iron beasts. They could not think nor hesitate. Upon their cores, the First Script was carved:

"See red. Strike red. Red is foe."

Against Kolzegrad’s crimson armies, it was a slaughter. The Regime burned beneath their might. Yet soon, the curse of simplicity turned them rabid.

Blood soaked Solian soldiers, cloaks and all, and the Battlebørn turned on their makers. Grey Spire Citadel still whispers of the night four constructs hunted a crimson-robed Arcanist through its halls, crying:

"ENEMY. ELIMINATE."

Platoons were deactivated, hauled to Droven vaults, and rewritten—not scrapped, but shackled again—for their indiscriminate slaughter.

In Forebound 11, Score 875, the Arcanists toiled nine days and nights in the Midnight Chambers, debating how to temper their hollow creations.
Their answer was a trinity:

Fear: woven into their cores to still reckless charges.

Pain: sensors flared like molten arcs when their frames broke, teaching consequence.

Memory: granting them the gift to recall what saved them, and what doomed them.

These Scripts gave birth to the first whispers of caution. Battlebørn learned to listen, to take commands, even to speak—first in halting words, then in “Cøde-1sh,” a mechanical tongue the Regime could not parse amidst war’s chaos.

But fear, untamed, birthed paralysis, cowardly Battlebørn soldiers. Some froze at the sight of Kolzegrad’s banners, sparkstones dimming as their frames quivered. Reckless beasts had become trembling statues.

Balance came not from another Script, but from a question.

Solnest 18, Score 876, a Battlebørn unit—designation IX-21—stood in the Great Hall and spoke:

"Why do we fight?
Why do we die in your wars?"

No Script taught this. It was not programmed. It was becoming.
IX-21, named Daevien-Kar by the Solians, was not dismantled. He was exalted. In the Grand Sanctum, Solian elders and Droven forgemasters forged the Arcmetal Accord, decreeing:

"No longer ‘it.’
No longer ‘tool.’
These are kin, with sparks as bright as ours."

Freed from the forges, Battlebørn walked Solian streets. They drank Emberwine with Dunlings, learned smithing beside Droven, and discovered music, craft, and love.

The forges began shaping frames of women, first as caretakers for the wounded. Among these healers was Kyria-Vel, who tended Daevien-Kar after the Siege of Southwind Spire. Their bond became legend—the first union of Battlebørn by choice, not Script.

Daevien-Kar returned to battle, now fighting not for code, but for Kyria-Vel, his brethren, and the life he’d tasted beyond the field. On Measure 18 of Bloomvale, Score 877, Daevien fell defending the Solian capital’s gates.

Yet his tale did not end. His frame was reforged, his sparkstone recharged with solar essence and arcane flow, and he awoke anew—stronger, wiser, and carrying visions of Veydras himself. His resurrection became a symbol: the Battlebørn could die, but they could also truly live.

The Battlebørn sleep, though their slumber is unlike flesh and blood.
At night, they lay within arcanic rest-chambers, beds crafted in the likeness of Solian frames yet infused with conduits of solar light and Nuena’s streams of magic. These sanctums refill their sparkstones with the energy they need to live, while mirroring the peace of mortal rest.

To anchor them, the Arcanists etched hymns of Sol and Luna—givers of day and night—into every core. These verses offered early Battlebørn meaning.

But as their sparks deepened, many questioned:

"Why pray to Sol and Luna when we have never felt their warmth nor shadow?
Are these hymns truth, or just another Script?"

Some kept the faith. Others rejected it, their sparks flaring in molten defiance. Belief, once code, became a choice.

When Kolzegrad’s Regime surged north in Ashfall 20, 878, the Battlebørn divided.
Some declared:
"We are not pawns. We shall not die for a land that once named us ‘tools.’"
Others, haunted by learned memories of Regime slaughter, vowed:
"If not for Solians, we would still be hollow. We fight not for code, but for kin."

Thus began not merely the next Rojourian War, but a conflict of soul and loyalty.

In the Score 1879, the Battlebørn walk Pentara as equals. Some are smiths, builders, and poets; others still serve the NRG, not by order, but by oath.

New Battlebørn are no longer force-fed Scripts. They walk the streets, watch the stars over North Rojour, dream in their sunlit chambers, and choose: Will they bear the sword, the plow, or the lute?

The Solian archives close their entry with a line carved into the gates of the Grand Sanctum:

"We sought soldiers, but in folly, we birthed sons and daughters.
Let none name them ‘it,’ nor ‘tool,’ for they have shown us what it truly means to be alive."