Prologue
When you think of the underworld, what comes to mind?
A realm of total obsidian and lost souls perhaps?
Or a land of ghouls and demons?
A place of the undead, forever burning in an endless torment?
You would be right to think this.
I thought so too.
But then, I allowed myself to imagine—what if the underworld was not merely a place of total suffering and darkness, but a kingdom.
A realm called Chthonia, ruled not by undead chaos but by real law. A realm whose inhabitants were not the dead, but The Chthari.
Who are the Chthari you might ask?
Well, the Chthari are dark-born beings, shaped from the raw substance of the Underrealm itself. Not remnants of mortal lives, not wandering spirits—but creatures who were made here, born here, who belong.
They are,
Flesh and blood.
Immortal unless killed.
Capable of love, desire, sex, reproduction.
Stronger in darkness, weaker in light.
Above all, they are ruled absolutely by Haidēs.
They do not die and become Chthari.
They are born as Chthari.
So, how would one recognise a Chthari?
It is simpler than you might expect.
Their skin carries the hues of the realm that birthed them—obsidian black, ash-grey, ember-bronze, and shades so dark they seem to drink the light around them.
Some—the powerful ones amongst them—bear horns curved like crowns or scars that glow faintly when their power stirs. Others pass easily for mortal, save for their eyes—always their eyes—which shimmer with embers, violet flame, or molten gold.
Their bodies run warm, as if heat itself answers to their blood. When angered, the air around them thickens. When aroused, shadows cling closer, attentive.
The realm is held together by a rigid structure, a ladder of power that defines one’s worth in the eyes of the throne
There were the High Chthari—these were the lords, lordesses, generals and courtiers. They were ancient, powerful and ambitious. They alone possess the power to challenge the throne, though the laws of the realm provide narrow paths for such defiance.
Then, there were the Bound Chthari—the iron spine of Chthonia.
These were the soldiers, guards and the enforcers bound by blood oaths to their king. They lived and died for the the throne.
Finally, there were the Low Chthari—these ones were the overlooked ones, the invisible foundation of the realm. They were the workers, the attendants and the informants.
Their roles were essential, yet invisible.
No Chthari left the Underrealm without the king's permission.
Not a High one, not a bound one, and certainly not one entrusted with guarding the rifts.
Despite what surface myths claim, the Chthari are not mindless creatures of excess. They are governed by laws—ancient ones—especially where desire is concerned.
Among the Chthari, flesh is free. They may take lovers as they wish, so long as those bonds remain fleeting. Pleasure is indulgence, not crime. Desire is expected; attachment is not.
But bonding—true mating—is another matter entirely.
A mating bond among the Chthari is not merely intimacy. It is an exchange of power, a merging that alters magic and fate alike. Such a bond cannot be taken by force, nor sealed in secrecy. It must be entered with awareness, with consent, and under law.
And never—never—across realms without sanction.
To bind oneself to an outsider is forbidden unless performed through a Sovereign Rite, witnessed by the realm itself—For when a King bonds, his crown is no longer just his own; it also belongs to the one who holds his heart—Without it, the bond fractures. Power corrupts. One or both may be destroyed.
This is why such unions are rare and feared.
For once a bond is sealed, power flows both ways. Neither mate stands untouched. Harm to one weakens the other. And for a ruler, that vulnerability is dangerous.
Which is why the Sovereign may have many lovers, but only one true mate.
Only one bond that reshapes the crown.
In Chthonia, such laws are not suggestions. They are survival and mandatory.
And this, my dear readers, is how a Light folk came to stand at the heart of darkness—not as a soul, not as a sacrifice—but as a complication the Underrealm itself had not foreseen.
Opposite Chthonia lies another truth the world prefers to romanticise.
The Light Folk.
They call themselves the Luminari, though Chthari know them by different names—Sunborn, Radiants and Light Folks. They are not made of light, not truly. They are flesh as well, but refined by brilliance, shaped by order, sustained by radiance.
Where the Chthari are born of shadow and heat, the Light Folk are born beneath open skies.
Their skin carries warmth rather than fire—golden, pearl-pale, bronze brushed with sun. Their veins glow faintly when their power stirs, casting soft illumination beneath flesh. Their eyes reflect the spectrum of dawn: amber, silver, clear blue, burning white.
Light clings to them easily.
Darkness does not.
They are strongest beneath the sun and the stars. Prolonged shadow dulls them, weakens their connection to the source they revere. Yet they endure it when duty demands.
For the Light Folk believe in purpose above all else.
They believe the world must be ordered. Balanced. Purified.
And to them, darkness is not balance.
It is corruption.
They tell their children that shadow spreads if left unchecked. That it festers. That it consumes all things given enough time. They teach that the Underrealm is a wound in existence—one that should have closed long ago.
So they sharpen blades of light.
They raise warriors sworn to dawn.
They speak of cleansing as though it were mercy.
To the Luminari, the Chthari are not a people, but a mistake. A blight that must be expunged for the world to heal.
Thus war was not declared in hatred, but in conviction.
Light marched against dark not for conquest, but for annihilation.
Battles were fought at the borders of realms, where shadow thinned and light bled into dusk. Chthari steel met radiant fire. The ground cracked beneath opposing truths—one side fighting to exist, the other to erase.
Neither believed themselves cruel.
Both believed themselves right.
And it was during one such incursion—when Light warriors crossed where they should not have—that a single Luminari was taken alive.
A soldier of light taken to the kingdom of darkness
Not as spoils.
But as consequence.
For Chthonia does not forgive trespassers.
And Háidēs does not ignore imbalance.
