Long before the kingdoms there had been a special group of people.
Warriors that was said to match the skills of the Silver Eyed Warriors, known as the Whitefeathers; One of the only few that believed in the existence of the Gods. Many of those to possessed rare and unique abilities, topping even the strongest Huntsmen.
One had stood out from the rest.
The head of the family only known as the Scion.
A single person in possession of something that had been rare, magic. Not just any type of magic, it had been magic from both light and darkness.
The family believed that the Scion's power had really been given to the descendant by the Gods themselves. They had seen something worthy in the descendant, something not many people saw in others. Through each coming generation the power had been passed until the days of the Great War began.
Chaos broke amongst the kingdoms; through their fear and grief, it Grimm came and destroyed all which stood. As it spread like a virus, the Scion had been consumed by it all ultimately ending his life, and thus the power had vanished. Many years had passed by, a peace treaty had been signed between the four Kingdoms and there had been no sign of the powers of the Scion returning. The Whitefeathers had begun to lose hope. As their spark died, a shadow loomed over the land; a great evil seemed to be born from the ashes of the war that plagued the world.
The Elders soon came with a warning; They foretold, that should the Scions power return, calamity would befall the world. Both to the innocent and the guilty. All life on Remnant would come to an end, and those left standing would be infected by her poisonous tongue.
As an effort to protect themselves and the lives of Remnant, they hid themselves away, cutting off all and any kind of connections with those outside of the family.
Unfortunately it wasn't enough...