In a time before the Gods and their borders, before time and space, there lived a white serpent. Now, this was before the trial of Ssethssar, and the serpents were no more vengeful than the leaves on the trees, or the sun in the sky. His name was Silernius, and he lived a pleasant life, for a serpent. The desert sands were warm and soft, and never wavered in supply of mice and birds slow enough to find themselves wedged in Silernius’ jaw.

He was happy.

That was until the world knew the wrath of the sun. Suddenly, the sands were no longer solace, but torture. His scales singed, even underground, and he travelled so fast and so far away from the heart of the desert that he had dragged half the sands down with him, creating a hole so deep and treacherous that the grains had no choice but to surge forwards.

For one hundred days and one hundred and one nights, the deserts shifted.

When Silernius had found comfort in the eventual solace at the edge of the waters, he had brought the sands with him. Fine dust scattered the crops at the riverbank, baking the greenery around it in its residual heat. The village erupted into famine and poverty. An old wife claims to have seen the white, glistening head of a serpent before the winds changed.

And that is why, even today, peaceful snakes are still signs portending disaster.

In the age before Gods, there lived a tiger whose stripes were not black, but dusky blue. His name was Rha’korr, and unlike the serpent Silernius, he was a ruler. The jungle bent to him in reverence, for Rha’korr was the first creature to understand the rhythm of the world, able to predict the shifting of tides, the ripening of fruits, the arrival of the monsoons with uncanny accuracy. His paws pressed patterns into the soil that the roots themselves followed, and the birds sang only when he allowed it.

He was a keeper of which the skies envied, for the sky, in those days, was a living thing, vast and hungry and easily wounded, watching Rha’korr command the seasons change, watching the jungle thrive under his rule. The sky resented Rha'korr, but withheld its tears for pride.

That month, monsoons did not come, despite Rha'korr's prediction. The rivers shrank into threads of silver, animal and plant alike curling inwards, dried out for thirst and exhaustion. Even the mountains fell silent, for they knew the sky’s temper, and even the evergreens upon the peaks did not bloom. After months of famine, Rha’korr climbed to the highest point, and roared up to the heavens in desperate plea. His voice rolled across the heavens, shaking the stars from their hiding places, begging the skies to split open and spill their bounty, for rain to fall for the good of his kingdom.

But the sky refused, and so Rha’korr climbed further, upwards, into the cold breath of the heavens. His claws tore through vapour and his stripes crackled with lightning as the sky fought him, hurling winds sharp enough to flay moss from stone, but Rha’korr did noot yield. He sank his teeth into the heart of the storm and forced it open.

For seven days and seven nights, the world drowned in the sky’s blood. Rivers swelled. Trees bowed under the weight of water. The jungle wept with relief. But when the storm finally calmed, Rha’korr did not return. Some say he became the first thunder. Others say he sleeps inside the clouds, waiting for the sky to become selfish again. And that is why, even today, when the monsoon clouds gather, they growl once before the rainfall, Rha'korr's bravery echoing through the clouds.

In the days before dawn and dusk had names, the parrots were creatures of a single colour, downy and soft and green, living in the canopy of Ra'korr's jungle, chattering endlessly, for parrots have always loved the sound of their own voices. Above them, the sun drifted timelessly. Some days it lingered too long, scorching the bark and drying the rivers, and other days it vanished early, leaving the world cold and confused. The parrots, who were creatures of habit, found this deeply irritating. They complained loudly, as parrots do, until one bold fledgling named Aru’mi decided to investigate.

Aru’mi believed the sun was not a ball of fire, but a great golden flower brimming with nectar. “Why else,” he reasoned, “would it glow so sweetly?” And because parrots are easily convinced by their own ideas, the entire flock agreed at once.

And, so at the next dawn, if it could be called dawn, for the sun rose whenever it pleased, Aru’mi and his flock beat their wings and flew upward. They climbed, higher and higher in the sky, their feathers catching the light as they neared the sun. Its glow spilled over them, staining their green plumage with brilliant colours; reds like ripe fruit, oranges like dried clay, yellows like sweet pollen, blues like deep water. The parrots shrieked with delight, believing the colours were droplets of nectar clinging to them. But the sun was far too hot to drink from. When they drew close enough to feel its breath, they panicked and wheeled away, spiralling back toward the earth in a flurry of colour. Their descent painted the sky behind them in streaks of gold, rose, and violet as the colour trailed from their wings.

For the first time, the sky blushed with morning.

The parrots, thrilled by the attention, repeated the ritual the next time the sun wandered upward. And the next. And the next. Soon, they discovered that if they flew up again in the evening, chasing the sun as it drifted away, the sky would bloom with deeper, richer colours, as though the day itself had its very own swan-song. Once one flock began the ritual, every flock copied it. Sunrise and sunset became a chorus of hungry wings, and the sun, amused by their devotion, finally settled into a rhythm so the parrots would know when to begin their sky‑painting.

And so, even now, when the horizon glows pink or gold, it is not the sun at all, but the parrots flying up to taste its nectar, their colours smearing across the heavens.

Long before the time of humans and gods, there were the ants. They were of great size and stature, and were not the lowly thing we consider them now. They were solid black and had no amber color to their bodies. They were fearsome among the other animals with their long antennae and spindly legs. Though like they are now, the ants were workers then as well. They were the caretaker of the world. They helped everyone but themselves. Until one day.

Before this, the ants had never had a reason to defend themselves. They were the gentle giants. No one feared them, but they also wouldn't dare to oppose them.

Then came the Rudra. The ancient version of the anteaters.

The ants now had a reason to protect themselves, but they didn't know how. The Rudra were killing hundreds and thousands of the ants. Something had to be done.

The queen had an idea. They could burrow under the ground like many of the other animals did. The ants were always building other animals homes, so they could build their own.

So they dug, and dug, and dug. Great mounds began to grow and rise. Larger than any hill or knoll the animals had ever seen. At the very peak was the hole where the ants would enter. Far above the prowling Rudra, the mounts would protect their species.

So from then on, the ants would only work and care when the Rudra were not near. And if the Rudra came out, the ants would sneak into their great mounds and hide away.

Thus was the creation of the mountains. Protection for those who forget to protect themselves.

In the age when death had no destination and souls wandered like mist, there lived a whale of impossible size. Her name was Vaeluna, and she swam not through the vast, star‑speckled dark that lay beneath the world’s crust. For in those early days, the world floated like a leaf upon a great cosmic sea, and Vaeluna was its silent guardian. Vaeluna was older than the first sunrise, older even than Silernius’ sands or Rha’korr’s storms. Her skin shimmered with constellations, and her song was a low, resonant hum that shaped the dreams of sleeping mountains. She was gentle, and she was lonely, for nothing else lived in the deep beneath the world.

Above her, life blossomed. Creatures were born, lived, and ended a quiet end, drifting aimlessly, confused and weightless. Some clung to the roots of trees. Some hid in the hollows of stones. Some whispered into the ears of the living, begging for direction. The world grew crowded with lost souls, and the living grew restless under the weight of unseen eyes.

One night, Vaeluna heard a sound she had never heard before: crying. A spirit, small and trembling, had slipped through a crack in the earth and fallen into her dark sea. It drifted toward her, glowing faintly like a dying ember.

“Where do I go?” the spirit asked.

Vaeluna did not know. But she opened her great mouth and let the spirit rest upon her tongue, where it was warm and safe. She carried it through the dark until she found a place where the cosmic sea thinned into a soft, shimmering veil. When she nudged the spirit toward it, the veil parted, and the spirit passed through. Vaeluna felt the veil close behind it, and for the first time, she understood her purpose.

She began to listen for the cries of the lost. Whenever a soul slipped through the cracks of the world, Vaeluna would rise from the deep, her star‑flecked back brushing the underside of the earth. She gathered the wandering spirits in her vast mouth, humming to sooth their sorrows, carrying them to that place beyond the veil that humans would soon term the Afterlife.

Eventually the living grew curious of the tremors beneath the soil, the sounds in their dreams. Some believed the world was cracking. Others believed the stars were falling. Only the oldest creatures understood: Vaeluna was working.

One day, a great calamity struck. A mountain collapsed, and thousands of souls were released at once, their cries echoing through the world. Vaeluna rose to meet them, but the weight of so many spirits pressed heavily upon her. Her body strained as she carried them, and for nine days and nine nights, she swam through the dark, her body glowing brighter with each soul she sheltered. When she reached the veil, she released them all: but the effort had drained her.

She sank deeper into the cosmic sea, where even the stars could not reach her. Some say she sleeps there still, gathering strength. Others say she dissolved into the sea entirely, becoming the current that guides souls to the veil. And that is why, even today, when someone dies, the earth seems to sigh, and the air grows still. It is Vaeluna, or what is left of her, passing beneath the world, carrying another soul gently toward the afterlife.

For many years after Aelori’s descent into the cosmic sea, the world above knew a strange peace. Souls no longer drifted aimlessly through forests or clung to the rafters of homes. The tremors beneath the earth softened into a steady pulse, like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant. The living whispered that the guardian had returned.

But they were wrong.

It was not Vaeluna who stirred beneath the crust.

It was Aelori.

She had learned to guide the lost, to soothe their confusion, to carry them—though not in a vast mouth like Vaeluna’s, but in a sphere of pale light that formed around her whenever a soul touched her skin. She ferried them to the thinning veil, weaving new paths through the cosmic sea, paths that glowed faintly behind her like trails of moonlit foam.

Yet for all her growing strength, Aelori felt the truth every time she approached the veil:It was weakening.

The shimmering boundary that once parted cleanly for Vaeluna now flickered like a dying flame. Sometimes it resisted her. Sometimes it opened too easily, pulling at her, tugging her toward the beyond. And sometimes—worst of all—it tore.

When it tore, something slipped through.

Not a soul.

Not a memory.

Something older.

Something hungry.

The First Fracture

It happened on a night when the sky above the world turned the color of bruised twilight. Aelori was guiding a cluster of gentle spirits—children who had perished in a winter storm—when the veil shuddered. A crack of blinding white light split across its surface.

The children screamed.

Aelori reached out, trying to mend the tear with her will, but the crack widened, and from its depths came a sound like grinding stone.

A hand emerged.

Not flesh. Not bone.A shape of shadow, dense and writhing, as though woven from the absence of stars.

Aelori froze.

The children clung to her, their tiny forms trembling.

The hand groped blindly, searching, grasping. When it brushed the edge of the cosmic sea, the water recoiled, hissing like a living thing. The sea recognized the intruder.

Aelori did not.

But Vaeluna did.

A hum rose from the deep—weak, strained, but unmistakable. It vibrated through the sea, through Aelori’s ribs, through the very fabric of the veil.

The shadow-hand recoiled.

The crack sealed.

The children passed safely through.

And Aelori, shaking, sank to her knees in the dark water.

“Vaeluna,” she whispered. “What was that?”

The ancient whale did not answer. Her glow flickered faintly in the abyss, like a lantern seen through fog.

But Aelori felt her fear.

The Name of the Nameless

In the days that followed, Aelori searched the cosmic sea for answers. She drifted through forgotten trenches where the water tasted of iron and memory. She listened to the echoes of ancient songs trapped in the currents. She even approached Vaeluna, though the great whale slept more often than she woke.

At last, in a cavern of collapsed starlight, Aelori found a whisper.

Not a voice.A memory.

A memory left behind by a soul so old it had nearly dissolved.

It spoke of a time before Vaeluna, before the world floated upon the cosmic sea, before life had shape or purpose.

It spoke of the Nameless Tide.

A force that devoured wandering souls, not out of malice, but out of instinct—like a storm consuming the sky. When the first world formed, the cosmic sea had pushed the Nameless Tide into the farthest depths, sealing it behind the veil.

But the veil was weakening.

And the Tide was waking.

The Gathering Storm

Aelori returned to Vaeluna, her heart heavy.

“You knew,” she said softly, placing her hand against the whale’s dim flank. “You knew it would return.”

Vaeluna’s eye opened, slow and sorrowful.

“I hoped it would not,” she answered, her voice a trembling ripple in the sea. “I hoped the world would grow strong enough before the veil thinned.”

Aelori swallowed. “Strong enough for what?”

“To choose,” Vaeluna murmured. “To decide whether souls should be guided… or defended.”

Aelori felt the meaning settle over her like a shroud.

The Nameless Tide did not seek to harm the living. It did not seek to rule or corrupt. It simply consumed what drifted.

And now, the dead drifted freely.

“Teach me,” Aelori whispered. “Teach me how to stop it.”

Vaeluna closed her eye.

“I cannot,” she said. “For I was made to guide, not to fight.”

Aelori’s breath caught.

“Then who can?”

Vaeluna’s hum deepened, resonating through the sea until the stars themselves seemed to tremble.

“You,” she said.

Aelori staggered back.

“I am no guardian,” she protested. “I am only a child.”

“You are the first to walk both paths,” Vaeluna replied. “Born of earth, shaped by sea. You carry the living’s breath and the dead’s memory. You are what I could never be.”

Aelori felt the weight of the words settle into her bones.

The cosmic sea darkened around them.

Far beyond the veil, something stirred.

Something vast.

Something hungry.

And Aelori understood:

The age of gentle guidance was ending.

The age of keepers—and destroyers—was about to begin.