Prologue
The Howl That Broke the World
Before the silence, there was song. The Weave ran through the world like breath through lungs—unseen, unfailing, divine. And from that sacred current rose the Auralis.Witches. Keepers. Daughters of the moon’s first whisper.
But unity, like magic, is fragile. They split like a cracked crystal—one half seeking balance, the other control.
The Sylthari.
They walked barefoot through fire and rain, called lightning by name, and whispered to roots older than stone. They lived with the land, not above it. The Weave answered them like a friend.
The Vexari.
They carved power from bone and shadow, wove fate into chains, and drank deeply from the forbidden well. The Weave answered them like a weapon.
Their war was not a battle—it was a sundering. Mountains split. Rivers died. Stars vanished beneath stormed skies. The Sylthari stood their ground, even as the world trembled beneath Vexari flame. But the Vexari feared losing. And fear, in the hands of a witch, becomes a curse.
They turned to men—warriors born of steel and vengeance. And they cast a spell meant to twist those men into something greater. Moonbound. Deathless.Unstoppable.
The Valkari were born.
And for a time, the Vexari rejoiced. The Valkari tore through the Sylthari like wildfire through dry leaf. They were perfect. They were beautiful. They were obedient.
Until they weren’t.
The hunger grew faster than the command. Memory faded. Names unraveled. And the Valkari turned on the very hands that shaped them.
By the time the sun rose again, there were no factions left to fight. Only scattered witches, hunted by the creatures they created.Only silence, where once the Weave sang.
And the Valkari?They forgot. Forgot their bones once broke beneath a curse.Forgot their screams, their names, their lives. They remembered only the moon. The howl.The blood.
They told themselves a new story—one of glory and godhood. Of being first. Of being chosen. And perhaps it was easier that way.
History is not kind to the truth. It buries it beneath ashes and writes legends in its place. But the Weave remembers. And the threads are never truly cut. Only waiting…for someone to pull.
