Winds of Kil’darn -- Book 1 -- The Herald of Demise
an excerpt

Great is a world that never ends. And yet the sickness it is that consumes us all, may well be as wide as every ocean, and as dense in nothingness as the void between stars. A world without death is no world. Life and death are inexorably intertwined. Some say a miracle will come to change the world, heightening everything to a new perfection. Some say the world before the last sundering was perfect. Some say the time of the humans was perfect. But even the records of those times are lost and long ago.
There is a prophecy that says there will yet come a time to reunite the elves, with the dwarves, and stop all contest in the two lands, wherever they may lie: the land above, that is Great Mount Gashkell with its wealth and secreted earthen chambers, and the land below of Bardohk, where the old dwarves dwell still, their memories and their hatreds stirring as wide and as dark as the Eternal Endless. Whether the dwarven opposition would end in the elven lands, of Cyrendelle, with their shattered kingdoms, and bloody wars over all that can be made war of, or even the peace-loving Troll-kin and their war-loving enemies in the golden Southern Tyrriniannas Seas. Some say it is an impossibility that any miracle will ever come, that the land has been forsaken since it was born. That even the two lands of sky and sun rage on their battle of night and day will fight their combat, eternally, and while we sleep away in the Netherland, and while we at last may rest there, never will the two kingdoms, or any kingdoms be resolved. Is there any chance?
Similarly there are those who speak, and hide from the light, those who live beyond the night, who laugh, and make a mockery of the idylls of humanity, in all its deprecated forms. They say there will never live a life beyond the lives we know. They say the end is the only end we will ever know, that the seeds of life and love, will die as they are sown. And to the end we bring all life, and then divinely will we sing: “the miracle!” While the world of Evanthar breathes her last. All will meet their end. And when then we see the irony to those that cheer: what peace may come! Only in death may there be peace.
Some believe in miracles. Others do not wait for the whims of old gods of any land, they follow the spirit of things, and believe there is a moment that will come, like the great sundering, to wake them all from their endless sleep. And the day will break, and the sun will set, but the two kingdoms will remain, each of them from night to day. Only the perception of reality will ever change. By the ten circles of light and dark they struggle with each day to make a name for themselves, fighting against the tides of the Netherworld, the Others, and the Endless Ones.