They say that each god once received a part of the world to love, a fragment to shape according to their heart.Some shaped the sea, others fire, others still the darkness where the stars hide.But Lyseria chose the light of the skies. Not the sun's—too scorching and proud—but the light of dawn: fragile, hesitant, the kind that births colors and lulls shadows to sleep.
For a thousand ages, she tended her hanging realm: a garden of air and light, where islands floated, carpeted with mana-flowers.
It was a place without pain, without borders, where the winds sang the names of sleeping souls.
Then came the War of the Gods.No one knows who started it, nor why the heavens began to bleed. Divine flames swallowed the celestial continents; even the most peaceful were forced to choose a side.
Lyseria refused.She did not raise a weapon. She raised flowers.And when war found her, she went out like a light—without ever striking back.
