There had once been seven gods. Not six, as the histories claimed. Six ascended, building empires from the raw
materials of existence, their lust for power expanding with each whispered
plea. But the Seventh–the god of balance- was different. Where they raged, it
restored. Where they conquered, it calmed. For a time, the world knew peace,
but peace is a fickle thing and balances an unwelcome chain.
The betrayal began as a whisper. A shared glance, a decision made in silence.
Then it came with speed. They dragged the Seventh from the temple, bound with
steel; gagged with magic twisted from its own essence. Stripped of title, voice
and mercy.
Silence filled the gods' chamber,
disturbed only by the crackling of the sacred fire that threw dancing shadows
on the golden walls. Six figures sat in a circle, their faces veiled by hoods
woven from stardust and shadow. These were the voices that once shaped creation
— now hushed by something unfamiliar.
Fear.
"They never intended for the Seventh to
exist," one murmured, fingers tapping against marble.
"And yet it does," another hissed, voice
sharp as a blade. "And if it returns—"
"It cannot return."
The eldest god, cloaked in the silver
light of the first dawn, raised a hand. The chamber dimmed as his power
gathered.
"We erase it."
The words were a decree older than time.
One by one, the gods spoke the Seventh's
name then struck it from existence.
There was no trial. They refused to
acknowledge the Seventh reverence's innocence and declined the opportunity to
speak on its behalf. In the dark, they executed the Seventh, and from the
ashes, the monarchy arose. A bloodline born not of divinity, but of theft.
Power stolen, twisted, passed down through generations–strength merging through
marriage, through control–under the pretense of restoring balance, should the
world need it.
The star that gave its light flickered, dimmed, and vanished, causing the stars
to rearrange into new constellations, and the earth swallowed the temples built
in its honor, causing them to crack, crumble, and be destroyed.
All so the six could continue their game
and so their sins would never come to light.
And so the world forgot the Seventh.
But as the final syllable faded from
divine memory, a breath stirred the air.
The Seventh will rise again.
The gods froze.
A ripple went through the chamber—unseen,
yet sensed.
The marble beneath them shuddered. The
torches sputtered. And for a single heartbeat, time hesitated.
Then all was still.
The eldest exhaled, steadying himself
with a palm against the table.
"It is done."
One by one, the others nodded, unease
unspoken.
They had undone a god.
And yet—
Somewhere in the vast expanse of the
world, something stirred.
Because one of them, the silent one,
wept.
In a moment of weakness. Of guilt. Of
love.
Their sorrow sent a single breath of
magic into the world.
Not a weapon. Not a curse.
A message.
Scattered, not spoken.
Hidden in ink and thought.
Thirty-two fragments. Buried at the start
are thirty-two truths.
An encoded message, a path. Or a warning.
To remind the world of what it once knew:
That seven voices shaped it.
Divine breath gave each realm a tongue of power.
•
Virien — the noble tongue of Virelya, where elegance hides blades.
•
Kharic — the clipped, commanding tongue of Kharanhold, forged for
survival.
•
Myrali — the melodic language of Myrenna, spoken in secrets and song.
•
Drosvenic — the guttural dialect of Drosven, deep as stone and steel.
•
Solvari — the wild, radiant tongue of Solvayn, fire-born and wind-free.
•
Thirrean — the echoing voice of Thirren, carried by those who walk in the
light.
These six remained—spoken, weaponized,
twisted into politics and prayer.
But there was a seventh.
•
Selvahi — the language of balance.
Not shouted in courts, not whispered
in shadows, but woven—between thought and truth.
Selvahi could command storms.
Still rage.
Even silence the hearts of gods.
They erased it. The forbidden. Forgotten.
But some say the wind remembers.
Some say that the storm still speaks the
language.
And some… are listening.
Only fragments remain.
Scattered in forgotten scrolls.
Dreamed by orphans.
Echoed in storms.
Written on a map.
Waiting to be remembered.
"The storm does not remember the sky it
came from. But the sky has never stopped calling it home."
And so, the six god whispered a last word
into time "Remenai, Velaris." Remember, the Seventh will return.