Ældorra Lore

Painting the Banner of Bremyra

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

There’s something special about taking an idea from the page and bringing it into the real world. For me, drawing and painting scenes and symbols from my story, The Veil of Kings and Gods, isn’t just an extra step, it’s part of how I connect with the world I’m building.

The act of painting slows everything down. My hands work while my mind wanders the streets of Castellum, hears the sea breaking against the cliffs, and feels the weight of a thousand years of history pressing through the colours. It’s not just art for the sake of art, it’s a doorway into the heart of the kingdom.

Painting is a passion I’ve carried for as long as I can remember, and it has a way of anchoring me in the work. Every brushstroke feels like a moment spent inside the world itself. I intend to keep creating more pieces like this, not only banners, but places, faces, and artefacts, anything that helps me see the story as clearly as I can feel it.

A Brief History of Bremyra

What does a crimson banner with a golden griffon really mean?

This isn’t just paint on parchment, it’s the symbol of Bremyra, a southern kingdom carved between sea cliffs and old stone keeps. They never conquered, they endured. While other kingdoms fell to war and magic, Bremyra held fast, ruled by kings remembered in silence, not in song.

The golden griffon stands for honour held through fire, and the blood-red field. It’s not for war, it’s for the ancestors who built it with bare hands. Every banner has a story, and this one? It’s only the beginning of mine.

🎥 Watch the time-lapse video here:

Prince Patrick: Duty Wears a Crown of Silence

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

There are kings born with glory in their blood, and there are those who wear power like a wound.

Prince Patrick of Bremyra is no conqueror carved from legend. He is not the first son, nor the boldest. He did not march off with banners raised and swords drawn like his father and brothers. Instead, he was left behind, to rule in silence, to shoulder a realm not by destiny, but by circumstance.

When King Cedric departed on his expedition, taking with him Patrick’s elder brothers, Aric and Aiden, the third-born prince was not meant to lead. And yet, years have passed, and no word has returned from the expedition’s path. Now the court stirs with unease, and Patrick remains, a regent in all but name.

He governs with quiet endurance. His hands are stained not with blood, but with ink, the endless scrolls of diplomacy, tax levies, marriage negotiations, and royal petitions. Yet there is something deeper behind his golden hair and cool gaze. A weight. A weariness. A knowing look passed only between those who did not ask to carry the realm, but do so anyway.

In the quiet of the library, where the firelight reflects off old treaties and maps, Patrick does not play at king. He studies. He listens. He calculates not in ambition, but in caution. Around him, kingdoms bristle, Arvendral grows restless, Tsunamia watches with silent interest, and suitors press for alliances. Yet the prince offers no bold proclamations. Only silence. Measured decisions. The stillness of a man who understands the cost of speaking too soon.

He is not alone in his burden. His sister, Elana, moves like a shadow alongside him, fierce, articulate, and bound for marriage to secure Bremyra’s position. There is a shared understanding between them: the weight of expectation, the sacrifices they will not name aloud.

And then there is Simion, the magician now bound to Patrick’s court,once a kitchen boy in the same castle where Patrick now rules. A childhood thread, pulled taut by fate.

If Patrick sees more than he says, he does not show it. But one cannot walk long among wolves without learning how to bare their teeth.

He was never meant to wear the mantle of power. Yet power, like silence, often chooses those who do not crave it.

The Gods of Ældorra: Who They Were Before the Fall

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

Author’s Note:
In my fantasy novel The Veil of Kings and Gods, the world of Ældorra is shaped by ancient gods, divine betrayal, and the remnants of a shattered empire. This post explores the origin of Ældorra’s divine war, drawn directly from the mythic past within the story itself. If you enjoy deep lore and high fantasy, this is for you.

Before kingdoms warred and magicians stood above kings, Ældorra was shaped by gods, divine beings whose presence touched every corner of the world. In the time of the Imperium Arcana, magic was not a distant force, but a living breath that pulsed through every stone, sea, and soul. This magic, ancient and sacred, came not from study alone, but from the gods themselves.

Among these deities stood the God of Magic, the mightiest of them all. His power was the very source of the arcane that wove the empire together. He was not only a divine figurehead, he was the guardian of all, it was he who anointed the magicians as the empire’s true rulers, custodians of magic who were revered not just as wielders of power, but as the chosen of heaven. To command the arcane was to speak with divine authority, and so the magicians ruled not by bloodline, but by divine will.

The Imperium flourished under this covenant. Cities of marble and gold rose across the land, and every breath of wind, every whisper of light, carried the weight of enchantment. From the fjords of the north to the eastern deserts, magic was life, and life was divine.

But divine creations are not immune to betrayal.

The fall began with a god of the First Heaven, once the deity of balance and insight. His corruption was not a sudden blaze but a slow rot, fed by ambition and the hunger for more. The god descended from his sacred post, abandoning the divine realm to seek darker paths. Deep within the First Hell, his magic became something twisted and foul. No longer a god, he was reborn as a demon: Azaroth.

Azaroth’s rise did not go unnoticed. While the magicians of the Imperium grew complacent, blinded by their own greatness, it was the God of Magic who first sensed the rot. Alone among the heavens, he understood the threat. And so, the two former brethren clashed, not with armies or swords, but with the raw essence of creation itself. Magic and corruption tore through reality. The heavens cracked. The seas rose. The skies burned.

In the end, the God of Magic made the ultimate sacrifice. With the last of his divine essence, he sealed Azaroth within the First Hell, imprisoning the demon for eternity. Yet victory came at a cost: the God of Magic himself was torn apart, his name lost to time, his power shattered.

And with his fall, so too fell the Imperium.

What followed was silence. The gods no longer walked the world. The arcane throne stood empty. The magicians, left to their own devices, could no longer claim divine mandate. But before the empire’s final breath, the last emperor passed one final law: that the magicians would remain autonomous, above kings, above law, outside the reach of Church and Crown. Thus, the Order of Magicians was born.

The gods’ war was long buried by history, but its echoes never faded. In The Veil of Kings and Gods, the seal on Azaroth begins to weaken. Forgotten powers stir. And the divine magic once thought lost whispers again from the shadows of Ældorra.

The gods may be gone.
But their war is not over.

Want more?
This is just the beginning. The divine echoes of this history shape every chapter of The Veil of Kings and Gods, especially through the eyes of Simion the Magician. New blog posts, lore entries, and behind-the-scenes content are released every other day. Subscribe to the blog, follow on YouTube, or check out my short stories for deeper glimpses into Ældorra’s ancient past.