(Narrated by a mythic voice, soft and echoing like wind through trees)
There was a time, when light flowed freely through the veins of the world, a golden breath in the soil, the sky, and the soul of all things.
The dragons soared then, not as beasts of flame and fang, but as guardians of balance, born of wisdom, of power, and of spirit.
We, the Keepers, remember the harmony. The Sacred Flame that never flickered. The songs of the trees that spoke in tongues now forgotten.
But the harmony invites envy, just as darkness envies light. And light when hoarded or feared, can cast the longest shadow.
From the Abyssal Waste it rose, slow at first, like ink in clear water. A creeping hunger. A wound that would not heal; the corruption.
Malrith, once a name spoken in reverence… fell. Or was pushed.
Twisted by whispering things older than memory.
He did not fall alone.
Towns withered. Forests wept. The sky forgot how to sing.
The Sacred Flame fractured, and with it, the three were scattered.
But not all hope was lost.
For a prophesy carved in starlight spoke of one who would awaken… not born of the old light but carrying its echo.
One who would rise when the realm had nearly forgotten how to hope.
And so, we wait.
I wait.
For the winds to stir.
For the roar to return.
For the child of ash and ember to rise…