"We were born among stars, but we were never meant to stay."
In the first breath of time, before the sun knew its name and before the stars scattered their light across the firmament, there was only sky. Vast, endless, divine.
And from that sky, the Sky Father looked upon the void and whispered, "Let there be life."
From the winds, He shaped the first people, fragile of flesh, but radiant in soul. He lifted them not to the earth, but to the heavens, and announce.
"We have created this haven for you, and to us you shall submit."
It was an oath between the creator and the creation.
There, suspended above the world, humanity flourished. In crystalline cities drifting among the clouds, they knew neither hunger nor war. The Sky Father gave all people their share, no more, no less. He fed them with golden fruits from hanging gardens and bathed them in starlight.
They were His children.
And they called themselves the Aetherian.
Below them lay the earth, untamed, wild, mysterious. A world filled with beasts and silence. No man dared descend, for what need was there for soil when the skies were paradise?
Among the Aetherian, it was believed that to walk upon earth was to fall, to be cast out, to be lesser. And so they turned their eyes upward and lived in splendor.
For a thousand years or more, the sky people knew only peace. They built great temples in the clouds. Towering halls of silver and light. They studied the patterns of stars and danced in storms as if they were festivals. Their hearts were light, and their souls were proud.
Too proud.
Then came the Day of Banishment.
It began with a trembling wind. Harmless, at first, a slight stir in the air. Then it grew. A storm unlike any before.
The sky groaned.
Clouds turned black. Winds howled like wolves in agony.
Temples toppled. Homes were ripped from the firmament. Lightning carved the skies into jagged scars. In the midst of the chaos, the Aetherians cried out for their Father, but He did not answer.
Instead, the voice of the Sky thundered across the storm:
"You have forgotten Me."
And they fell.
Like feathers torn from a broken wing, humanity plummeted. Their cries echoed as they descended, cast out from their paradise without warning or mercy.
No sin was named. No trial was held. Only silence.
They landed scattered across the earth, forests, mountains, deserts, oceans. Many died upon impact. Others crawled from the wreckage, confused, grieving, desperate.
For the first time in memory, they touched soil.
Some climbed trees, others scaled cliffs, praying to return. They lit fires, sent smoke into the heavens, hoping the Sky Father would see. Would forgive. Would bring them home.
And yet.. the sky stayed silent. Ignoring their pleas of return.
Generations passed. Memory became myth. The sky became a place of longing, a story told to children before sleep. Yet the yearning never died.
From broken stones and broken hearts, humanity rose again.
They built villages. Then towns. Then kingdoms. They tamed the beasts of the earth and bent the rivers to their will. But the stars always called to them.
And so, they built the Tower of Babel.
It began as a monument, an act of remembrance. Then it became ambition incarnate. Stone by stone, the tower climbed the sky.
Its builders were many, architects from the western kingdoms, sorcerers from the northern wastes, priests from the sun-bleached east. They all had one dream.
To go back.
To reclaim what was lost.
The Tower pierced the clouds. It grew so tall that the sun took longer to rise behind it. So vast that cities were carved into its outer shell. Inside, scholars built the Library of Babel, an eternal vault of knowledge and scripture.
All that humanity knew. Magic, science, history.. was poured into it.
They believed if they gave enough, the Library will favor them in return.
But the unknown remains unknown.
Until the day the sky bled.
Clouds turned crimson. Stars disappeared. A voice older than time roared across the world.
"You rise against My will."
From the rift in the sky, the skyborne descended.
Beings of wing and wrath, clad in divine armor, wielding weapons forged in stars. They struck the Tower, shattered its peak, and burned the Library.
The tower crumbled. Knowledge turned to ash.
But humanity did not yield. Nor will it ever lower its head.
For the first time since the Fall, all the kings of men stood together. From every corner of the world, banners rose. Warriors, nomads, sorcerers, knights. They marched not to reclaim paradise, but to defy the god who cast them out.
Thus began the War Against the Heavens.
The skyborne were mighty. Divine. But they were not invincible.
At first, mankind suffered defeat after defeat. No blade could pierce celestial skin. No flame could burn those born of the storm. Entire armies vanished beneath beams of light and divine thunder.
Then, in the caverns deep beneath the roots of the world, they found the Arcane Energy.
Magic, pure and primal.
Power older than gods.
With it, they forged new weapons. They summoned storms of their own.
Humanity rose again, not as beggars, but as warriors, and master of their own.
The war raged for a century.
Some believe it will never end.
Even now, the skyborne still descend in the dead of night, raiding villages, burning fields, hunting the children of earth like wolves stalking lambs. They claim it is justice. That this is the Sky Father's divine punishment.
But others remember.
They remember the light above the clouds. They remember the golden gardens, the peace, the unity. And they believe that someday, humanity will return. Not as servants, but as equals.
Not to beg, but to ascend.
And somewhere in the ruin of the Tower…
A new page has opened for a new path.
—To be continued...