History of the Radiant Citadel

After centuries of slumber, the Radiant Citadel was rediscovered by Sholeh Alamae, a renowned scholar and explorer from Akharin Sangar. Her expedition was driven by a lost celestial map found deep within Sangari archives—an artifact older than any known dynasty, detailing a legendary city that once united civilizations. Determined to reclaim this legacy, she assembled a coalition of scholars, planar navigators, and diplomats, leading them into the Ethereal Plane in search of the lost city.

Akharin Sangar sent envoys westward, seeking signs of living descendants among regions where volcanoes still raged. Their search led them to a hardened society of firewalkers, nomadic survivors who had built settlements on the very edges of volcanic devastation. These people, still practicing the rites of their ancestors, spoke of a sacred pilgrimage—a trial of endurance and faith that led to a place few outsiders had ever reached.   These pilgrims of fire, guided by ancient traditions, walked the Ashen Path, a treacherous journey leading through volcanic heartlands to the buried ruins of Old Tletepec.

A joint expedition of Sangari diplomats, Tletepecan explorers, and planar navigators set out to follow the phantom currents through the Ethereal Plane. After weeks of navigating shifting mists and planar distortions, they found a vast, floating delta—a city adrift between realms.   Shankhabhumi had not been destroyed but instead forcibly removed from the Material Plane due to a cataclysmic planar event centuries ago. Its people had survived by anchoring their civilization within the currents of the Ethereal Plane, preserving their traditions and way of life through spiritual rites that allowed them to navigate both realms.

An expedition was sent following these trade markers, eventually leading to a hidden desert stronghold—a city cut off from the world, yet still standing, its people continuing the legacy of Sensa’s merchant kings.   When the first descendants of the Sensa Empire stepped onto the Radiant Citadel, their Dawn Incarnate—the Amber Scorpion—awakened, its golden carapace gleaming beneath the Auroral Diamond’s light.   With this moment, the greatest economic power the Citadel had seen thus far returned.

For centuries, Siabsungkoh’s merchant dynasties had thrived in isolation, controlling vast networks of trade in silk, spices, rare magical goods, and clandestine enterprises. Their economy was built not only on commerce but on intrigue, negotiation, and control. Unlike the Sensa Empire, which had structured trade with bureaucracy, Siabsungkoh’s success lay in fluid, unregulated mercantilism—where influence shifted as quickly as the tides.   Their return to the Radiant Citadel was not an accident—it was an opportunity.

By 1269 DR, the Radiant Citadel was flourishing politically and economically, but its spiritual foundation remained fragile. The Speakers for the Ancestors were still adapting to their growing responsibilities, with conflicts between Akharin Sangar’s structured governance and Siabsungkoh’s fluid mercantile influence shaping the city’s policies.   Amid this uncertainty, the Turquoise Lion, the Dawn Incarnate of Akharin Sangar, sent forth a vision to its Speaker—a powerful dream of shifting sands, a coastline of obsidian-black cliffs, and the deep, resounding echoes of voices carried on the wind.   The vision was interpreted as a call to seek out Djaynai, a civilization renowned in ancient times for its oral traditions, music, and deep reverence for ancestral spirits.

By 1284 DR, the Radiant Citadel had reached a critical turning point. Trade was booming, the economy had diversified, and political factions were solidifying. But with growth came complications—the city’s expansion was beginning to strain its resources, and social disparities were widening. The struggle between Sensa Empire’s structured commerce and Siabsungkoh’s fluid trade networks had transformed the Citadel into a place of profit and power—but culture, faith, and identity risked being overshadowed by economic ambition.   It was in this moment that San Citlán was rediscovered—and their arrival would shift the soul of the Citadel forever.

The delicate balance of Atagua’s ecosystem had spiraled into collapse—the soil was failing, crops refused to grow, and the land was becoming choked by invasive, toxic plant species with local farmers often being raided by slavers from the Empire of Thay nearby.   Droughts, wildfires, and food shortages had pushed Atagua to the brink, and as their people struggled to survive, they sent their last desperate call to the stars—an ancient ritual meant to summon aid.   Their prayers were answered not by gods, but by the Radiant Citadel.

Djaynai’s arrival in 1269 DR had reinforced the importance of ancestral reverence and spiritual governance, but it had also raised new questions—what of civilizations that had lived in direct coexistence with spirits, yokai, and celestial beings?   This question became the obsession of a small group of scholars, monks, and celestial diviners, many of whom had already studied the visions that led to Djaynai’s return. Among them, a San Citlán priestess named Jisoo Moonveil became the leading voice in the search for lost civilizations where mortals and celestial beings shared power.   Her research, combining Djaynai’s oral traditions with San Citlán’s spiritual dream-walking rituals, pointed to a realm hidden behind layers of divine protection—a place where rulers had long consulted celestial beings for guidance, where spirits and mortals lived side by side.   The signs all pointed to Yeonido, a civilization deeply tied to the Yokai Realms, a land where powerful supernatural entities roamed freely and shaped the world alongside humanity.   But unlike previous civilizations, Yeonido was not lost.   It had hidden itself.

The arrival of Atagua (1279 DR) had reinforced the Citadel’s role in environmental intervention and relief work, while the Shieldbearers and Field Naturalists Guild had grown into powerful institutions managing humanitarian efforts and ecological restoration projects.   As these efforts expanded, the Field Naturalists and the Cartographers’ Collective began mapping anomalous planar phenomena, trying to understand why certain regions of the Material Plane seemed to be vanishing from historical records.   Their research eventually led them to an impossible conclusion—there was a civilization that had not disappeared in the conventional sense but had instead become trapped within the fabric of a living dream.   This was Dayawlongon.

The Shieldbearers—now a respected institutional force responsible for humanitarian aid—and the Field Naturalists Guild observed alarming reports of failing harvests and withered farmlands in the western territories. Their investigations revealed that the ancient agrarian civilization of Godsbreath, long known for its sustainable agricultural practices and communal living, had been silently suffering from an environmental collapse. For centuries, Godsbreath had thrived on innovations in farming and water management, but severe droughts and soil depletion had pushed its people to the brink.   In response, a joint expedition composed of Shieldbearers, Field Naturalists, and envoys from San Citlán and Siabsungkoh set out to locate the source of the crisis. Their search led them to a vast, parched valley once known as the granary of Godsbreath. There, amidst cracked earth and abandoned fields, they discovered the resilient remnants of Godsbreath’s agrarian communities, still clinging to hope and ancient traditions.

A group of dedicated scholars and meditative practitioners, inspired by the celestial influences of Yeonido’s Amethyst Tiger and Djaynai’s ancestral traditions, began to search for a lost civilization known for its profound wisdom and disciplined governance. Their ancient meditative techniques—passed down through generations—led them on a pilgrimage along forgotten spiritual trails. These journeys culminated in the rediscovery of Yongjing, a civilization renowned for its philosophical inquiry and commitment to balanced leadership.

Zinda had long been an enigma. Once known for its arcane artisans, grand magical architecture, and mercantile ingenuity, it had seemingly vanished from the world centuries ago. Though traces of its influence could be found in scattered ruins, enchanted artifacts, and forgotten blueprints, no one had set eyes upon the true descendants of Zinda in generations.   Its rediscovery came not through prophecy, celestial visions, or political negotiations—but through a single ship, battered by time and storm, arriving unannounced at the Citadel’s outer docks.

Tayyib’s people had lived under the direct guidance of celestial beings, their rulers chosen not by mortals but by divine ordination. To them, the concept of governance being shaped by compromise, mortal politics, and economic ambition was anathema. They saw themselves as divinely chosen caretakers, sent not merely to integrate into the Citadel but to redefine it under celestial law.   Their return began with a pilgrimage—one foreseen in their sacred astrological records. Their priests and scholars had studied the patterns of the Auroral Diamond’s radiance for decades, convinced that it signified a place of celestial convergence. When the divine omens aligned, Tayyib’s chosen emissaries set sail, following a path carved by the stars themselves.

For generations, Umizu had been a naval superpower, thriving on seaborne trade, mercenary fleets, and rapid territorial expansion. While other civilizations had pursued diplomacy and cultural exchange, Umizu had already been trading with extraplanar merchants, Wildspace fleets, and cosmic entities far beyond Toril. They did not need the Radiant Citadel to survive—but they saw an opportunity to exploit it.   Their return was not heralded by prophecy or ancient rituals, but by a fleet of astral-junk warships, each bristling with cargo and crew, sailing straight into the Citadel’s trade docks without warning. Their captains demanded immediate recognition, docking rights, and access to interplanar commerce.