“The gods walked among mortals once.”

  Not as distant echoes in wind or vague faces in firelight.

  But real. Present. Divine in form and fallible in spirit.

  They moved through the world of Aetheris like stars made flesh. Not omnipotent, but immense in power—beautiful and terrible, radiant and cruel. They were worshipped not because they demanded it, but because their presence inspired awe.

  Solara, the Dawnmother, walked barefoot through golden fields, her hair aglow with morning light, her voice soothing enough to still a storm. Her temples pulsed with warmth and were always open. It is said she could heal a soul just by weeping for it.

  Aureon, the Lightfather, clad in silver and fire, sparred with kings at dawn and sat with orphans at dusk. He carved laws into mountain stone and demanded justice not only from mortals—but from the gods themselves.

  Nyx, veiled in silence, passed between dreams and twilight. She never raised a temple, never blessed a war—but she whispered truths to those willing to listen in the dark. Her gifts were sight beyond sight, secrets wrapped in shadow.

  Lilith, the Velvet Crown, held court in cities of desire. She moved through ambition like oil through flame—tempting, granting, shaping. Queens envied her, kings feared her, and artists adored her. She never offered love. Only the illusion of it.

  Raze, the Flamefather, never needed temples. He was a god of war, thunder, and chaos. His altar was the battlefield. His sermons were the clash of swords and the roar of dragons. And though many feared him—many more followed, drawn to his truth: that power comes to those who seize it.

  Together, they were Balance.

  Together, they kept Mana flowing—a living force that tied the land to the skies, the heart to the stars.

  Mana was not just energy. It was song. It hummed through trees, swam in rivers, surged in storms. It powered the skyborne cities of the Elves, lit the subterranean forges of the Dwarves, danced through the forested homelands of the Catfolk, and burned bright in the towers of human mages.

  In this age, there was no word for “impossible.”

  Mountains bowed to spell-song. Illness was a myth. The dead slept peacefully, undisturbed.

  The gods didn’t simply grant miracles. They taught mortals to wield their own.

  And mortals, in turn, built great cities of wonder—Aelendir, city of crystal song; Stonehelm, capital of iron and flame; Myra’s Reach, where skyships moored beside floating spires; and Vaelwyn, the last forest untouched by war.

  The world turned.

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  The gods watched.

  And then…

  They vanished.

  It wasn’t a war. It wasn’t even a whisper.

  One day, they were simply gone.

  Temples grew cold. Holy relics stopped shining. The mana faltered.

  And the world broke with them.

  Mana ruptured.

  Where once it flowed like a stream, now it churned like a storm. Spells that once healed now turned men inside out. Forests warped. Beasts grew twisted. Mountains cracked. Mana storms tore the sky like torn parchment.

  Even time itself shuddered in certain places.

  Balance was gone.

  Faith collapsed. Nations blamed each other. Cities burned. Entire species vanished. The Light Dragons, once allies of Aureon and Solara, withdrew to the highest peaks, wounded by the chaos. Some gods may have tried to return—but none ever reached the mortal plane again.

  And as if summoned by absence, something darker rose.

  In the vacuum left by gods, the Demon Gods emerged—first as whispers, then as blights upon the land.

  They were not born of the world. They were of the Abyss—shaped by hunger, fear, betrayal, wrath.

  They were Lilith’s lust sharpened into cruelty.

  Nyx’s silence turned venomous.

  Raze’s fire made void of mercy.

  And they were not alone.

  Undead rose in rotting droves.

  Orcs and trolls, twisted by chaotic mana, marched as armies.

  Dark dragons returned, corrupted by flame and madness.

  Each corner of the world became a battlefield.

  And as the world burned…

  The Prophecy came.

  It was not spoken aloud. No one heard it the same way.

  Some saw it in fire.

  Others in dreams.

  A few, in the dying gasps of gods they still dared to pray to.

  But all felt it.

  Even the dirt.

  Even the sky.

  ?When the gods fall silent and the flame of mana flickers,

  Five shall rise where the world breaks.

  From light, from shadow, from fire, from grief, from guilt.

  They will shape the end—or the new beginning.?

  Some denied it.

  Some built cults around it.

  Some tried to kill any who fit the description.

  But the truth was clear:

  The gods were gone.

  The world was dying.

  And the next chapter…

  Would be written by mortals.

  Or by monsters.

  Whichever struck first.