For generations, the continent had one safe place. Frysia: home of the Millennium Bearer, host of the Conclave, the house where nations talked instead of fought, because nobody makes war on the man who can see the future.
It took six months to arrange and one evening to finish. A fleet that sailed away on legitimate orders. A truth-reader blinded — not corrupted, distracted. A best friend at the door with empty hands and a mission. Soldiers arriving through tears in the air itself, which should not have been possible.
By morning, the Millennium was in an enemy vault, the Bearer was broken, and Frysia's two centuries of grief had begun.
Pull at any thread of the Betrayal and you find the same uncomfortable truth: nobody planned to destroy Frysia. Every nation simply wanted the Millennium for itself — and the destruction was a side effect everyone could live with.