The stars had shifted.
Across the night sky, constellations once thought eternal now shimmered in unfamiliar patterns. The Dragon's Spine bent eastward. The Maiden of Flame wept starlight. A new sigil—unrecorded and unnamed—emerged in the northern skies, pulsing like a silent heartbeat. Ancient astrologers whispered in panic, burning their scrolls and redrawing the heavens. The winds that carried the breath of the world moved strangely, coiling and twisting as if speaking in forgotten tongues. Mountain gusts shrieked like lamenting spirits, sweeping down through cliffside temples. Sea winds turned warm and erratic, defying seasonal rhythms, bending waves in unnatural tides. The earth too, once mute and unmoving, stirred—its voice a low hum through long-forgotten ruins, a pulse beneath sacred grounds, and tremors in the roots of sleeping mountains. The elements groaned not in chaos, but in warning. The world, it seemed, was exhaling.
Something was coming.
Something old. Something inevitable.
They spoke of it in hushed tones. In god-blessed sanctuaries where candles flickered against cold stone. In demon-worshipping crypts where the air hung thick with incense and whispers. In neutral markets, lit by lanterns and guarded by silence, where neither dared claim dominion. The prophecy was never written. Only remembered. Passed through bloodlines, echoed in visions, murmured in madness.
"Seven will rise. Marked by ash, bound by ruin. The cursed dawn shall bloom, and the world shall bleed or be reborn."
Most dismissed it. Another doomsayer tale. Another cycle of hysteria.
But the wise—and the terrified—felt it.
They knew.
A slum-child jolted awake in the arms of his sister, screaming of stars drowning in blood.
A wandering warrior paused mid-battle as his blade began to vibrate with unfamiliar heat, the ground at his feet splintering.
In a high temple in Varneth, a blind priestess collapsed mid-sermon, mouth foaming, eyes weeping golden tears as sacred bells rang unbidden.
Deep in the jungle, a reclusive beast long thought extinct howled once—then vanished into mist.
On a blood-soaked battlefield, a dying general looked to the sky, laughed bitterly, and whispered, "They are coming."
Across the scattered divine sanctuaries, ancient powers stirred. In the skybound sanctum of Elysera, the Eternal Flame turned blue for the first time in 3,000 years. High priests fell to their knees in open weeping. The goddess had not spoken in millennia.
In the obsidian vaults beneath the Writhing Wastes, the chained demon-heart pulsed. Once every thousand years, it beat. And this time, it beat thrice.
In the Hollow Peaks of the forgotten continent, an oracle of stone cracked open its sealed mouth and whispered a single word: "Awaken."
Even the neutral lands—untouched by god or demon—trembled. The storms grew stranger. The beasts more restless. Magic twisted unpredictably in the hands of mages. Entire bloodlines began to feel... haunted. And as the Day of Gifting drew near, more and more youths awakened with powers not seen in centuries.
A generation was coming.
Not of peace. Not of war.
Of change.
Seven were born under the ash moon. Each scattered across the realm, unaware of the weight stitched into their souls. Three were already known, raised in temples or thrones. Four remained shadows, still hidden from the world's gaze.
The gods watched. The demons laughed. And the mortals, blind and unprepared, continued their dance atop a crumbling world.
Somewhere in the high forests of the east, a boy drew breath. Cursed blood surged through his veins. Under the watchful gaze of a veiled figure watching the sky. She stood beside a dying tree, her silver eyes reflecting the constellations. A faint smile played on her lips.
"At last," she whispered.
The seals that bound him would soon weaken.
And the storm would begin.
"The cursed dawn shall bloom... and the world shall bleed or be reborn."