The sky had burned once before—not with war, nor with anger,but with longing.
Before the mortal world learned to name the stars,there was a god called Rehn, keeper of the sacred flame.His fire gave warmth to dying worlds, his light carved paths through the endless dark.He was both the dawn and the dusk of all creation.Every spark that lived owed him its first breath.
Yet in the garden between heavens,there bloomed a spirit unlike any other—Eira, goddess of flowers,whose laughter carried the scent of every beginning.Her realm shimmered like morning dew upon glass,a sea of living colors that no mortal eye had ever seen.Where Rehn's fire roared, her blossoms whispered;where he burned, she soothed.They were opposites, yet their gazes lingered.
It began with curiosity, ended with devotion.They met in the hour between light and shadow,when flame dimmed and petals glowed brightest.No witness, no prayer—only silence, and the trembling of two eternal hearts.And in that silence, love found them.
The heavens did not forgive.For gods were not meant to love; they were meant to rule.The stars dimmed to hide their secret,but the truth burned brighter than any sun.
When the Council of Heavens discovered them,judgment was swift and merciless.Eira was cast from the sky.Her divine form shattered into a thousand crimson sparks.Where she fell, the world caught flame—and from that flame, a valley bloomed red.The mortals called it Yuvale,the valley of light that wept like fire.
Rehn's fury set the heavens ablaze.He tore his own heart in two—one half blazing red with divine fire,the other glowing green with the essence of life.He hurled them into the mortal wind,two seeds destined to meet again in another age."Let them find each other once more," he whispered,as the world itself trembled beneath his grief.
The storm that followed lasted seven days and seven nights.Flames rained from the clouds, rivers turned to steam,and the mountains of heaven cracked beneath the weight of sorrow.On the seventh dawn, lightning split the horizon,and two lights fell—one red as blood,one green as dawn.They vanished into the mortal lands,and the sky fell silent.
As his body turned to ash, Rehn spoke once more—his final words carried by the dying wind:
"If the world forgets our names,let the flame remember,and the bloom forgive."
No god remained to answer him.Only the whisper of petals carried through the dark.
A thousand years passed.Empires rose and turned to dust.Priests forgot their prayers.The heavens themselves faded into rumor.But deep beneath the crimson soil of Yuvale,two sparks continued to sleep—silent, patient,waiting for the day when destiny would stir again.
When that day came,the valley shone red once more.The flowers blazed like fire.And under that glow, two children were born—their cries echoing like a forgotten prophecy.
Yuvale was a valley that breathed in red.