At first, they thought it was the end.
The seas writhed, yet no storms churned above.
Mountains twisted,rising where silence once reigned.
The land cracked,folded, stretched.
Cities dissolved into mist and memory.
And then, the world inhaled.
As if it had slumbered for an age, and finally awoke.
It did not die.
It transformed.
And it grew,vastly.
Landscapes unfurled like petals of forgotten dreams.
Islands drifted through skies of shifting light.
Forests bloomed with colors no eye had named.
And deep beneath the crust,something old began to stir.
It was not evolution.
It was return.
From the heart of this renewal surged the Source, the primal breath, the pulse beneath all life.
It seeped into stone,root, and soul, unraveling the forgotten truths hidden in flesh and soil.
And with it came revelation:
The world had never belonged to one kind alone.
Within the veins of mortals lay echoes, dormant threads of ancient bloodlines, sealed by time.
When the Source rose,five great lineages emerged.
The Fire-Drakes, born of flame and storm, returned first, beings of molten flight who guarded the Embercore, where the First Fire still roars. Their power was the Ember-Heart, the fire that remembers.
Above, the Star-Sovereigns descended, shrouded in brilliance, rulers of the floating sanctuary Sky-Haven, shaping thought and space with Mind-Force, the energy of pure thought.
Beneath the roots of the world, the Echo-Walkers stirred, silent, undying keepers of the Resonant City. Their gift was Echo-Memory, the resonance of all that was ever known.
Deeper still, in caverns that drank the light, the Blood-Kin emerged, keepers of forbidden time, wielding the Crimson Flow, the tide of decay and memory.
And across the wilds, from stone to sea to glade, came the Wild-Souls, nature-born avatars who breathed with the World-Spirit, the pulse of a living world.
Humans changed.
Some caught flame. Others vanished into the trees.
A few rose into skies of glass and starlight.
Many were claimed.
Many became more.
The world fractured into five vast kindreds, each shaped by the energy that chose them.
But one remained unclaimed.
He heard no voice. Felt no pull.
No fire stirred.No wind called.
No root reached.No echo answered.
No blood awakened.
He was not chosen.
Not touched.
Not changed.
Too quiet to notice.
Too unchanged to matter.
In a world reborn, he stood as the last unwoven thread.
But the world had not grown without purpose.
And not all that sleeps beneath the soil dreams kindly.
Some anomalies are not errors.
They are questions the world is too afraid to ask.