Date: Year 001 of the First Age — After the Weaving of the Firmament
Location: The Wound at the Edge of the World, and the Deepvault of Khaer'Un
Vorthar rose from the hand of Night as poison rises from a wound.
The gods watched in silence as the fragment torn from Noctyros gave itself shape. It did not crawl, nor emerge slowly, but stood, fully formed, laughing into the night that birthed it.
He was beautiful to behold—and wrong in every way.
His skin shimmered like oil atop black glass, always shifting, never firm. His body mimicked that of the gods, but each limb bent just a degree too far, each eye blinked in odd rhythm, and his breath… it hummed a melody that no music should carry.
His face was carved in mockery of Noctyros, with cheekbones too sharp and lips too still. His eyes held a lightless fire—pits of promise, hunger, and betrayal. Where he stepped, the stone rippled; where he gazed, stars flickered and forgot their names.
"So this is your world," he said.
"Such care… such balance.
Let me unmake it… properly."
And with that, he struck.
The War of the Seal
The Firmament had just settled, still fresh and glowing with divine resonance, when Vorthar launched himself toward it. His fist, shaped from entropy and memory, cracked it—not broken, but bruised.
The gods knew they had but moments. Solarion raised Ardentia once more, though its blade was thin. The others gathered their fading strength. But they had poured themselves into the Firmament. Their dominion was exhausted.
Still, they fought.
Solarion met Vorthar mid-air, their blades clashing above the clouds. Ardentia screamed in the hands of its maker; Vorthar wielded no weapon, only twisting shadow turned sharp. Where his claws passed, law unraveled.
Each clash tore new wounds across the sky.
Terrum raised walls of stone, mountains upon mountains, trying to pin Vorthar. But the god of corruption turned them to sand with a laugh.
Nareida rose in tidal fury, her rivers crashing against him, but he drank them—turning water to bile.
Zephora called the storm, but her winds bent back upon themselves.
Celesthiel etched binding constellations, calling upon the pattern of stars—but Vorthar simply whispered a false name, and the sigils unraveled.
Even Noctyros—wounded, veiled once more—stood again in defiance, raising his arms in silent defiance of his broken kin.
But Vorthar was not alone.
The Chaos beyond the Firmament pulsed in rhythm with his breath.
He was no longer just a wound. He was a node—a mouthpiece for the void.
And still, the gods refused to yield.
The Binding at Khaer'Un
They could not destroy him. That truth was clear.
Solarion knew it first. He stood amidst the broken sky, chest pierced, flame flickering. He turned to the others.
"He bears our blood.
And we cannot shed it."
Lunara stepped forward, tears forming rings around her face.
"Then we do not kill him.
We bury him."
Aetherion raised his hand and drew forth the deepest pocket beneath the earth—Khaer'Un, a chamber below all roots, hidden in a fold of reality unreachable to any natural path.
There, in the blackest hollow of Kael'Thor, the gods came together and carved a prison not of stone or steel, but of their last remaining divine authorities:
Solarion gave his final flare: the Flame That Forgets.
Terrum forged chains of soulstone.
Zephora sang a lullaby of silence.
Nareida poured sorrow into the seal.
Celesthiel wrote the glyph of eternity without door.
Aetherion split space around the chamber, hiding it in folds.
And Noctyros—whose face never again was seen—sealed it all with a final word.
"Remain."
Vorthar, weakened by battle but still grinning, was cast downward into Khaer'Un.
He laughed all the way down.
And as the seal closed, his voice echoed:
"You are fading.
I… am only beginning."
The Slumber of the Gods
The gods fell into silence.
What remained of their power now lived in the Firmament, and in the Seal of Khaer'Un. Their forms did not perish, but they diminished, withdrawing into slumber—dormant, silent, watching from the veils between time.
Solarion's light became fixed—the sun no longer grew or dimmed, but followed a cycle.
Terrum returned beneath the mountains, buried in stone.
Aetherion's voice ceased; the skies held their shape.
Nareida wept herself into dream.
Lunara dimmed to a silver orb, gliding through night.
Zephora slept in the breath between winds.
Celesthiel fixed the stars.
Noctyros… vanished. None know where.
And the world was still.
But it would not remain so for long.
The Shaping of Mortals
The gods had given too much. Their Authority—divine essence—was spent, or locked away. And worse still, the Seal would weaken over time unless faith replenished their law.
The gods, even as they slept, knew this truth.
And so, from fragments of their remaining essence, they shaped mortals.
Not as heirs.
Not as worshippers.
But as tethers—conduits of faith, through which their power might slowly return.
Each god, in their final waking thought, cast forth a race:
Solarion made the Angels, beings of perfect light, to guard Aeversol and the sleeping Will.
Aetherion breathed the Dragons, majestic, elemental, bound to the sky.
Nareida wove the Mermens, seers of tide and wisdom, into the ocean deeps.
Terrum carved the Dwarves from stone and magma, creators of permanence.
Zephora scattered the Beasts, ever changing, wild and strong.
Celesthiel cast the Spirits, beings of pure elemental will born of starlight.
Lunara birthed the Elves, radiant and graceful, lovers of beauty and moon.
And Noctyros… from his broken form, birthed Man.
They were not mighty. They were not immortal.
But they were free.
Thus began the Second Age—the Age of Flame and Dust.
The gods slept.
Vorthar stirred.
And mortals opened their eyes for the first time beneath a world they did not yet understand.
Their choices… would shape all that followed.