High above the emerald canopy of Mytherien, where the air thinned and the stars whispered to the leaves, stood Elarindor, the Worldtree. Its colossal trunk stretched so wide that cities could be carved within its bark, and its highest branches breached the clouds.
At its summit, cradled in a vast open chamber shaped like a blooming petal, floated Voxis, the Elf Queen.
She lay suspended horizontally, as if sleeping on the air itself. Tiny currents of wind spiraled gently around her, rustling her long silver hair. She wore a long silk white dress, its layers barely concealing the bountiful curves of her form.
She was pale and tall, nearly 185 centimeters, her limbs long and elegant. Her ears stretched outward in sharp points. Her eyes remained closed, but even in that slumber, a faint glow pulsed beneath her eyelids—violet for Dream, silver-white for Spirit, pale green for Wind, and dark green for Nature.
Then, without sound, she rotated upright. Her body turned slowly, gracefully, until her bare feet hovered inches above the polished wood of the chamber. She landed silently, and her eyes opened.
In that moment, the mana around her stirred to life. She released a pulse of energy—not powerful nor aggressive, but filled with purpose. The Worldtree responded. The spirit of the land took hold of her message and carried it not through wind or word, but through essence, toward those who needed to hear it.
She turned without a sound and walked into the heart of the tree.
Something vast had begun.
***
Far from the mortal world floated a chamber of infinite white. A void without end. Within it hovered six spheres of perfect energy, each one glowing with distinct colors and radiating its own aura of presence.
Fuve of them floated completely still, unburdened. The sixth, smallest and dimmest, quivered under their weight—strained to even be in the presence of the others.
The largest sphere pulsed with deep crimson, threaded with streaks of black and silver: Fire, Gravity, and Soul. Varkhaz, the Dragon King. When he spoke, his voice rumbled—deep and gravelly.
"Why did you summon this meeting, Voxis? And Alzareth, why have you brought this human who is barely Fourth Stage into my presence?"
Across from him floated a sphere colored violet, green, and pale silver. It radiated no pressure, yet was equal among the rest. Voxis.
"I have seen a prophecy. One that alters the fate of all Thalmyris."
"Speak it then."
"When the moons align and there is only silence, a name shall rise from the heart of the world: Kaelen Draeven. Born beneath the weight of stars, shaped by void and tethered light, he shall walk where time unravels and dreams burn. Three shadows shall bind him—one of space, one of weight, one of falling stars. He shall be the tether and the blade, the silence before the storm… and its echo after. Where the Rift yawns wide, he shall stand. Where the world fractures, he shall hold fast. He, the child of Draeven, shall close the wound in the sky. Let the skies mark this vow—one hundred years from this breath, Kaelen Draeven shall awaken. The Starborn has been named."
A long silence followed.
Then, without warning, one of the spheres—a radiant orb of pure neon blue—faded from existence.
No one commented. If anything, they were surprised it had come at all.
Then, a golden-white and violet sphere spoke. His voice was regal, patient, absolute. Alzareth.
"You questioned why I brought a Fourth-Stage human to this meeting. This is Therion, patriarch of House Draeven. The prophecy names his bloodline. He deserves to know."
A childlike whisper came from the smallest sphere, pure black in color: Death. Maereth.
"Finally… hope. Perhaps this will all end soon."
From across the void, another voice—older, colder—came from a sphere of immaculate white: Life. Vaedros.
"We should prepare the child. Train him from the moment he touches mana. Shape him into what we need."
The Death sphere flared, its aura rising in silent protest. Her voice remained soft, unwavering.
"No. He deserves a childhood. A life before the weight of the world is laid across his shoulders."
"Yes, the weight of a world," the Life sphere replied with disdain. "A world with over a trillion souls. And you would leave it to chance? To a human?"
"Maybe I should do you a favor," whispered Maereth, "and kill you now. Save you from worrying."
Before Vaedros could respond, Varkhaz spoke again.
"Enough. We have more urgent concerns. Whether we guide the child or not, prophecy always finds a way. All of us here know that."
"Do we?" Vaedros spat. "Prophecies twist. They give hope, but not truth. It says he will close the Rift but also that he is the echo after its storm. That could mean salvation… or devastation. What if he joins the Rift instead? What if he ushers in the end!?"
At that, Therion's aura pulsed briefly. He didn't speak out of turn. But his anger simmered like a forge.
Alzareth, his sovereign and the most powerful human alive, did speak.
"No one will touch the boy. Not without permission. He is human. Ours. And if the patriarch of House Draeven wishes for your help, he will ask. If you object—"
His voice sharpened, the chamber trembling as his sphere flared.
"—then face me."
With that, the golden-white sphere vanished, taking Therion with him.
Silence lingered for a moment longer in the white void.
The sphere of immaculate white, Life, flared once—its edges rippling like a disturbed pond.
"Hmph," Vaedros muttered. "Typical human arrogance. Always threatening, always claiming. Dominion over dust."
"You speak of arrogance," came Voxis' voice, soft but edged like a blade, "and yet you would mold a child like clay, then curse him when he cracks."
The Life sphere dimmed slightly, but did not respond.
The black orb of Death spun lazily in place, humming a faint lullaby of a melody no one but her could hear.
"They'll break him," Maereth whispered. "Whether they mean to or not. But oh… what a beautiful disaster he'll be."
"Enough of your riddles," Varkhaz rumbled. The crimson sphere pulsed slowly, like a beating heart buried beneath stone. "There is no room for poetry when the world splits open."
Then Maereth giggled, her soft voice curling through the void like smoke.
Suddendly a new sphere appeared It was a beautiful violet, as if spun from twilight itself. Silver and gold threads spiraled inward across its surface, weaving in arcs toward a center that refused to remain still—constantly shifting colors, as though cycling through forgotten spectrums.
"Hi Enthis, you're late." she said. "Or early. Or both. Or neither."
A slow, echoing voice emerged—unhurried and layered, like overlapping whispers from different moments in time.
"The hourglass cracks," Said Enthus. "And the grains within name themselves gods."
Another pause.
"When cause forgets effect… and effect precedes intent… the child will already have chosen. Long before we speak his name."
No one responded because no one understood anything he said.
Varkhaz let out a deep sigh.
"Always the same with you, preaching nonsense I never understand."
With that the spheres slowly faded from existence one by one.