Before the chains, before the temples, before men bent their knees—there was only the Flame.
It was not fire as mortals knew it, but a light without shadow, a burning that devoured nothing yet birthed everything. From that eternal blaze came beings not of flesh, not of blood—beings woven from the essence of divinity itself.
They were the first.They were the Seven.The Gods.
From the Flame of Divinity, their voices echoed across the void, shaping worlds, bending time, binding fate. To them, mankind was dust molded into form, fragile things meant to kneel and worship.
But the Flame did not birth only them.
From its lowest ember—where light faltered and burned dark—came another brood. Twisted, nameless, hungry. They are called many things by mortals—the Forsaken, the Abyss, the Shadows beneath Creation. Some whisper they are the siblings of the gods. Others, their rivals. But one truth is certain: they despise the Seven and the tyranny of their thrones.
And yet… even the Abyss is not the end.
For deep within the Flame's hollow core lies a silence greater than all. Not light. Not dark. A void. A null.
From this silence, something stirred. Not god. Not abyss. Something older. Something forgotten.
They call it The Lost.
No mortal tongue speaks its name. No priest dares inscribe its symbol. None know if it is one, or many, or if it is even a thing that is. All that is known… is that it was born from the side of the Flame where nothing should exist.
And in whispers, the heretics say this:
The Lost does not burn.It does not shine.It waits.
For what? No god has answered.No priest has dared to ask.
But in the silence between heartbeats, in the shadows between prayers, there are some who believe—when the Lost awakens, the gods themselves will tremble.