The sky wept the night the star fell.
Not with rain — but with fire.
Violet flames tore across the heavens like scars etched by a forgotten god.
No thunder followed. No wind howled. Only silence —
…then awe.
In the sun-scorched empire of Solheim, warriors paused mid-trial, sweat cooling on bronze skin as the flames danced overhead.
In the endless glades of Thornevale, the whispering woods stilled, and the forest itself held its breath.
Deep within the frost-forged mountains of Druvadir, the forge-fires hissed, and old dwarves turned to the rumble beneath their boots with silent dread.
The Universe said nothing.
They had seen this before.
And they knew what it meant.
Far from the reach of kings and saints, in a place that should not exist, seven robed figures chanted in a tongue no longer spoken.
At their center: a vessel — man-shaped, but hollow — bound in blacksteel chains, marked with runes forgotten by time.
They called for divinity.
A Sovereign - an Archon.
A god reborn to bring war, salvation… or annihilation.
But the ritual failed.
What came through was not a god.
Not a hero.
Just a soul — fractured, foreign, mortal.
Not chosen. Not worthy. No name written in prophecy.
Just a man.
A mistake.
But the Rift marked him anyway.
A jagged violet star brand seared into his chest as the Circle broke in chaos.
The chained vessel screamed. The runes bled light. One acolyte wept. Another fled.
The High Cantor begged forgiveness to a presence that no longer listened.
They discarded the vessel.
Sold him as broken cargo.
Chained. Silent.
His memories shattered —
His name lost —
His soul burning with a power he could not understand.
He fell into the world like a dying star.
But even dying stars…
…still burn.
And far across the world, the Archons stirred.
For the Rift had opened once more.
And something had come through.