Prologue
Long, long ago—before the first breath of wind stirred the trees, before the moon was hung in the heavens, and before even the first drop of light kissed the land of Elarian—the gods were.
They were radiant, ancient, and wondrous, beings of mercy, harmony, and creation. From the vastness of the void, they forged the skies and seas, sung forests into being, and painted the world with Magick. Together, they wove the fabric of existence with care and grace.
All but one.
His name was Trivorn, the God of Mischief and Unmaking. He bore a silver tongue and a serpent’s smile, his eyes alight with cunning and chaos. Where the others created, Trivorn sought only to destroy—for no cause but his own cruel delight. As the gods labored to sculpt mountains, breathe life into beasts, and string the stars across the heavens, Trivorn danced in the shadows, weaving threads of darkness through their masterpiece.
His treachery did not go unseen for long. The gods, sensing rot beneath their creation, turned against their brother. And so came the War Before Time—a battle that shook the heavens and sundered the earth. Lightning cracked the sky; oceans swallowed continents. The world trembled beneath divine fury.
At last, they defeated him.
But Trivorn, ever cunning, did not perish. In his final breath, he unspooled himself into the very bones of the universe. He became the darkness between stars, the silence before the storm, the splinter in every soul. The gods believed him gone—obliterated by his own pride. They were wrong.
In the wake of ruin, they resumed their divine task and from their grief and hope, they crafted their most beloved creation: the Fae.
The Fae were flawless—beings of beauty, wisdom, and deep Magick. They danced with starlight and sang with the winds. They were made to love, to live in harmony, to know joy and kindness. The gods watched them with pride, believing they had finally sculpted perfection.
But Trivorn’s curse had already taken root.
From the hidden shadows he had left behind, darkness crept silently into the hearts of the Fae. It did not destroy them outright—it did something crueler. It severed them. Not in flesh, but in soul. Each Fae, once whole, was split in two. Their essence torn. Their hearts left yearning.
The gods, brokenhearted at what had been done, could not undo the severing. Instead, they gave the Fae a final gift—the Binding.
Fate herself took to the loom, and from the threads of time and destiny, she spun invisible cords—The thread of fate—linking each Fae to their missing half. Finer than hair, stronger than iron, these strings stretch across worlds, across lifetimes. Though unseen, they pull at the soul. When one half stirs, the other feels it. When they at last meet, the bond snaps into place, fierce and unbreakable.
This is why every Fae has a mate—the other half of their spirit.
It is a truth etched into their bones, a longing born the moment they first draw breath. The severing ensures that no Fae is ever truly whole on their own. And so, they wander: through enchanted forests, across vast oceans, up mist-veiled mountains—driven by an ache no spell can soothe, a hunger only their mate can fill.
The quest for the other half became the central journey of every Fae’s life. Some find it quickly. Others search for centuries. Many never find it at all.
For those who do, the bond is bliss—a sacred reunification that mends the soul.
For those who do not, the soul’s string begins to fray. Darkness festers. The shadow of Trivorn waits, whispering lies and despair. A Fae without their mate is vulnerable—lost to sorrow, easily swayed by the same darkness that sundered them.
And so the Fae live—noble, wondrous, and broken.
Divine in origin, but cursed by ancient malice.
Bound by love, but haunted by longing.
Forever seeking, forever hoping—for the one whose soul was once their own.
For no Fae is born whole.
And none shall die at peace
until the thread of Fate is fulfilled.
