The Legend
The stars above tell the tale of life. Each constellation, an ancient whisper—etched across the voided canvas.
The Scale of Action, telling the story of Judgment.
The Wheel of Inevitability, telling the story of Acceptance.
The Threads of Choice, telling the story of Individuality.
The Silent Pair, telling the story of Duality.
The Fire of the Lost, telling the story of Hope.
The Dense Crown, telling the story of Knowledge.
The Serpent's Embrace, telling the story of Betrayal.
Each one, a paradox.
Each one, an anomaly.
In all the vastness of the universe, these stories burn bright—watchful, eternal.
Below, the earths breathed their first breath. From a single, unassuming point in the soil, two paths branched outward.
One, wild and overgrown—swallowed by twisting grass and gnarled underbrush.
The other, smooth and familiar—worn by countless steps, kissed by silver light.
Between the sky and the soil, a spider toiled.
It danced across its web, weaving dew-touched silk with tireless precision. Strands snapped beneath the weight of time, only to be respun again and again. Around it, the worlds blurred—quiet, detached, indifferent.
Then—a shift in the heavens.
The Sun, bold and golden, finally rose.
The Moon, pale and serene, crossed its face.
Light bled from the edges, casting spears across the sky.
"The debate between fate and destiny: which is set, and which can one change? Or are they intertwined—immutable threads, weaving through the choices we think are ours? Perhaps, like a spider's web, the pattern is both fragile and unbreakable—a paradox of freedom within structure. If fate is the Sun, and destiny the Moon, are we caught forever in their dance—or do we cast our own shadow upon them?"
The Eclipse did not wait.
And civilization…
Fell behind.
The stars remained.
Silent. Watching. Waiting.
18th Day of Spring, Year 13,495
The forest rose high above them, ancient trunks stretching like pillars beneath a ceiling of green. Shafts of sunlight broke through the canopy in golden blades, painting shifting patterns across the mossy earth.
Doran walked at the front, a basket of fish strapped to his back. The weight made his steps slow but steady.
Just behind him, Benji carried a bundle of firewood. His head hung low, gaze locked on the dirt trail. Each step landed heavy, as though the earth itself were tugging at him.
Mira danced around the two.
Her steps were light—more bounce than stride. A cloth bag of berries swung in her hand, and her waist-length red hair caught every flicker of sunlight. Her eyes never stayed still—always drifting, always searching, as though the woods were whispering secrets only she could hear.
Birdsong filled the air. Leaves rustled softly as the wind stirred the branches.
"We brought back a lot," Doran said, adjusting the basket on his back with a grunt. "The village should be happy."
Benji only grunted in return. It wasn't agreement—just acknowledgment.
"The amount of fruit leather this'll make…" Mira's voice was pure delight. "I'm already drooling just thinking about it!"
She grinned wide, a burst of joy against the forest's hush.
Doran smiled to himself.
The trail opened.
Trees gave way to an open field, bathed in sunlight. Long grass swayed with the breeze, dancing in lazy arcs. In the center stood a single tree—gnarled and weathered by time. Yet at its highest branch, a single golden flower shimmered in the light.
Mira's eyes locked onto it.
"Do you believe in the Gods?" she asked suddenly, voice soft—like the question had slipped out without her knowing.
Silence followed.
Doran and Benji exchanged quick glances. Neither knew what to say. Neither knew why she'd asked.
The moment passed… almost.
Mira's gaze lingered on the sky, her steps slowing.
"Before I had moved to the village," she said, "there was a woman that talked about them all the time. I wish I could remember her."
Doran tilted his head. "How long's it been since you moved to Fructum?"
"Twelve years," Mira replied, her tone distant.
Benji stayed silent. His eyes stayed down. If he was listening, he gave no sign.
They came upon a narrow creek cutting through the field. A wooden bridge crossed it, its planks creaking gently beneath their feet.
A passing carriage rumbled by on the far side. The driver offered a polite nod, which Doran returned with a wave.
Benji fell behind again. His steps had slowed, burdened by a weight that never seemed to leave him.
"You've never talked about the Gods before," Doran said, glancing over his shoulder. "Why now?"
Mira let out a small laugh—bright, almost carefree.
"She said they made the seven constellations to tell the story of life."
Her eyes gleamed with the memory.
Doran watched her, something shifting behind his eyes. His pace didn't change, but there was a quiet interest in him now—deeper, thoughtful.
Behind them, Benji remained silent, his shoulders tight. Something was clearly eating at him.
They reached the village just as the sun began to mellow, casting long shadows over the cobbled paths.
Laughter echoed between the buildings. Children darted through the streets, chasing each other, kicking up dust with every step. A few of them waved at Benji. He gave a half-hearted wave in return, eyes still lowered.
Doran glanced sideways at Mira. "That still doesn't answer my question," he said with a crooked smile. "Just adds more. Like—who was this mysterious woman that told you all that?"
Mira shrugged. Her eyes were far away.
"In all honesty? I don't know," she said quietly. "But she had beautiful, long, dark black hair…"
There was something in her voice—nostalgia, maybe. Or sadness. Maybe both.
Doran's smile faded, curiosity blooming quietly in the space she left behind.
They reached the shop.
Doran stepped forward and pulled the door open. A small bell above it jingled softly. Warm sunlight streamed in behind them, casting their silhouettes in gold.
"Who's there?" came a voice from inside—gruff, familiar.
"It's us, Mr. Cotar!" Doran called out. "We brought back a good amount! And you're telling me the rest of that story later," he added, shooting Mira a playful glance.
She giggled, swaying slightly on her heels.
Benji lingered at the doorway, eyes scanning the room. His expression was unreadable—but at least he was there.
From a side room, Mr. Cotar emerged, squinting against the light. He was hunched and round, his wispy white hair clinging to the edges of his scalp like dandelion fluff. His clothes were worn but well-kept. Despite the permanent frown etched into his face, his eyes were sharp—piercing.
"Oh. It's just you three," he grumbled. "Put whatever you picked up on the counter."
Doran smirked. "Can't even get a 'hello' anymore?"
Mr. Cotar only grunted, but a flicker of amusement sparked in his squint. He shuffled behind the counter, settling into a creaky old chair and pulling out his journal.
Mira stepped forward and placed her overflowing bag of berries and fruit on the counter with a proud smile. "You won't be grumpy once you see what we brought back!"
Mr. Cotar glanced up. His glasses clung to the bridge of his nose, trembling slightly as he leaned forward. His eyes widened in surprise.
"How did you…" he muttered.
He picked up a single, perfectly ripe berry between two fingers—delicately, like it was made of crystal. His brows lifted, disbelief etched across his face.
Mira crossed her arms, beaming. "And to think, there was so much more. We didn't even make a dent in the area. Gonna need more hands for tomorrow."
Mr. Cotar didn't reply. He was still examining the berry like it held some ancient secret.
"How did you manage to gather so much?" he finally asked, voice hushed.
Without a word, Benji tossed his bundle of firewood onto the counter beside the bag. The wood thudded, jarring the silence.
He'd already turned to leave.
"I gotta go," Benji said, not looking back.
Doran and Mira exchanged a look—confused, a little concerned.
"Sorry about him," Mira said softly. Then she brightened again. "But make sure I'm the first to know when the fruit leather's done!"
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Mr. Cotar's mouth.
"Just get out of here," he muttered—but the joy in his voice couldn't quite hide beneath the grumble.
He watched them as they left, the fading sunlight catching the shimmer in his old eyes.
They walked through the village, trying to catch up to Benji.
The scent of fresh-baked bread, tilled earth, and faint electricity lingered in the spring air.
Ahead, a woman and her daughter struggled with baskets, the weight obvious in their arms.
"Hey Mira," Doran said, gesturing subtly, "they look like they could use some help. Maybe you'll get food as a reward."
Without hesitation, Mira darted off toward them, calling out cheerfully.
Doran took a deep breath, then continued on his own, passing familiar stalls and faces. Step by step, the village began to thin. The homes turned to fences. Then grass. Then silence.
He reached the edge of the village—and kept going.
Soon, the wooden bridge came into view, arching gently over the narrow creek. Doran slowed as he approached, stopping just before the first plank.
He glanced around.
No one.
Still, he spoke aloud. "Mind telling me why you're acting this way?"
A pause. Then—
"I leave next week."
The voice came from beneath the bridge.
Doran hesitated.
Slowly, he stepped off the trail, walked to the side of the bridge, and dropped down to the creek's edge.
Benji sat in the shadows, his head buried in his hands.
Doran sat beside him. The water of the creek set a gentle tune to the melody of the wind.
"Where to?" he asked quietly.
Benji didn't look up. "The Practum Kingdom's still young. I figured I'd move up fast…"
"So you're staying here?"
"No."
The word came quickly. Sharply.
"I found a ship leaving the planet. I'm joining the Azule Sovereign."
The creek shimmered in the orange glow of sunset. Golden light kissed the rippling water, casting flickers of warmth across their faces.
Doran let out a soft sigh. "Just… don't leave without saying goodbye. Alright?"
He glanced at Benji. "You'll break her heart."
With that, he stood, bent over, brushed dirt from his pants, and slid out from beneath the bridge.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go back."
Benji hesitated… then managed a smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Of course."
They began walking back toward the village, the sun sinking low behind them. Their shadows stretched long over the grass.
And then—the sky exploded.
A massive pillar of light bloomed over the village—radiant, violent, wrong.
It pulsed golden and fierce, like a second sun had torn a hole through the sky. Cracks of raw energy spiderwebbed across the air, splitting outward in jagged veins.
The village froze.
A baker dropped a loaf of bread.
A child stopped mid-laugh and pointed up.
A grocer let the weight of a melon fall from his hand.
All eyes turned toward the light. Awe held them—then fear.
The pillar expanded.
A wave of golden shimmer rolled outward, swallowing the village. People turned—too late.
Children screamed.
Adults staggered back.
A mother reached for her daughter just as the light engulfed them both, locking them in place.
Everything it touched shimmered, warped, and stilled.
The light pulsed again.
Those within it—still conscious—caught fleeting glimpses of the world around them stretching, bending, breaking.
Buildings warped into surreal shapes.
Trees twisted like they were made of smoke.
And then—the light began to pull inward.
A low rumble shook the earth.
Doran and Benji stood frozen, the pillar's glow washing over their faces.
Disbelief.
Terror.
"What is that thing?" Doran whispered.
"I… I don't know," Benji breathed.
Leaves fell in slow motion. Time seemed to crack.
Then—
The pillar erupted.
There was no warning.
No time to run.
Just a flash—a blinding detonation that devoured the sky.
Buildings shattered like glass.
Trees bent, snapped.
The very air screamed.
Doran and Benji were hurled through the air, tossed like ragdolls in the wake of the shockwave. Debris swirled in every direction—splinters, stone, dust.
Doran raised his arms, eyes wide.
Benji clenched his jaw, face twisted in horror.
And then—
Nothing.
Just light.
And silence.
No birds. No wind. No voices.
Only the soft crackle of dust settling—and the faint shimmer of golden light, casting ghostly hues across the rubble.
Underneath broken wood and stone, Doran stirred.
His eyes fluttered open—unfocused, heavy.
Pain throbbed through his skull. His body ached. Dirt coated his skin, and his breath was shallow.
"…Where… am I?" he whispered.
With a weak groan, he pushed against the debris. Wood creaked under his touch. Slowly, trembling, he rose to his feet. The air smelled of smoke and something else—sharp, metallic, electric.
What was once a quaint village…
Now stood as a beautiful tragedy.
His home, encapsulated in gold.
Frozen in time.
Too perfect to be real. Too devastating to deny.
Doran stood amidst the ruins, breath shallow, heart pounding louder with every step.
He moved forward—slowly.
Stumbling over a pile of debris, he slipped as his foot caught on something half-buried. A warped doorframe, maybe. Or a body. His mind couldn't comprehend.
His hands trembled violently, reaching for balance—clutching broken planks, scorched stone, anything solid. Anything that might tether him to the world that still remained.
"Benji! Mira!"
His voice echoed into the emptiness.
It bounced off twisted shapes—warped homes, melted shops, golden silhouettes that used to be people.
The buildings leaned at impossible angles, glinting in the light like relics from a fevered dream. Everything shimmered. Everything burned gold.
"Please… anyone…"
The words barely escaped his lips.
He shut his eyes tightly. Fists clenched at his sides.
"This is a dream," he muttered. "Just a dream. I hit my head. That's it."
He opened his eyes.
And the truth came down on him—heavy, final, merciless.
This wasn't smoke. This wasn't dust.
This wasn't an illusion.
Everything—everyone—was gold.
The village stood locked in motion.
Buildings, mid-collapse. Trees, caught mid-sway.
And the people…
Villagers. Friends. Children—
Frozen. Faces etched with awe, confusion, terror.
The golden hue coated them all.
Cold. Lifeless. Eternal.
His knees gave out.
His head hit the dirt with a dull thud.
And he stayed there, the ache in his chest drowning out the rest of the world.
"Please…" he whispered. "No…"
Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the already warped scene before him. His lips quivered. His jaw clenched. But no strength came—only despair.
He lifted his head. Looked to the sky.
The sky mocked him.
Bright. Blue. Unchanged.
His breath caught in his throat.
Then shattered.
"Nooooo!!!"
The scream tore from his chest—raw and broken—slicing through the silence like a blade.
His arms reached upward—desperate, pleading.
As if the heavens might listen.
As if time could reverse.
As if the world might show mercy.
But the sky said nothing.
The village did not move.
Only one thing remained. A single orange feather. Drifting gently from above.
It spiraled slowly, softly—untouched by the devastation.
Landing softly in front of Doran.