In the age before memory, the world was a dream.
The land did not merely exist; it was alive.
The mountains sang deep. The rivers, a flowing melody. The wind through the leaves hummed a lullaby.
This was Tarnheval, a world where magic was not a tool to be wielded, but the very air in its lungs.
And there were those who could hear the entire symphony.
They called themselves Morthilin.
They were not born to rule, but to listen. To serve.
They were who found the threads of ethereal and wove the path of Warrior's Will, the Hunter's Instinct, and the Arcane's Spark.
In them, the world found its balance given form. They were the gardeners of reality, tending to the song, mending the frayed notes, and ensuring the harmony never faltered.
---
Then, the song was broken.
A great tear of light and sound ripped through the center of Tarnheval. The mountains grew quiet, the rivers cried, and the sky bled red.
From that wound emerged something the Morthilin had only whispered of in their darkest fears: Morvash, the Devourer of Echoes. A being not born of the world but of the void beyond it. It had no shape of its own, only hunger. It did not wish to share in the music; it wished to silence it forever, to unmake the dream itself.
The once-whole world was shattered, left broken and quiet, its music fading into a sad whisper.
The Morthilin fought with their life on the line and died for the world, giving it one more chance to live another day. But they disappeared in this disaster. Their story became a forgotten legend, their name lost to time and carried only by the wind and dust.
Yet Morvash was not defeated. It lingered, a patient void coiled in the deep cracks of Tarnheval, listening for any last notes.
---
As time passed, a faint hum lost in the disaster returned. The broken world, slowly falling apart, began to dream. It dreamed of the lullaby it once hummed.
In one last effort to save itself, it gathered the final bits of fading memory, the soft echo, the Morthilin's Legacy. It searched for someone to carry their burden.
But the strong trees of the world were too stiff. The brave fighters, the clever mages, the sharp hunters, their souls were already full. There was no room left for the three paths to rise again.
So the world looked not for strength, but for emptiness.
It searched for something hollow, like a broken flute, where a single, desperate note could still be played.
A soul that had been cast aside from its natural flow. Not chosen for its power, for its ambition, but for the emptiness within.
The last seed of the Morthilin has been planted in the most lifeless ground.
And now, the broken world waits... to see if something will grow, or if Morvash will finally consume the last whisper of its song.