A century ago, the world ended quietly. No fire. No gods descending from heaven. Only light.
It began as a star falling across the northern sky—bright enough to cast daylight through midnight clouds. For three nights it burned, trailing shards of silver fire until it struck the frozen plains of Arith. The explosion was silent. The earth trembled but did not break; mountains bent inward as if bowing. From the crater came not ash, but breath.
They called it Aether—a living energy that shimmered between matter and thought. Machines awoke in its glow. Rivers began to hum. The dead whispered as if remembering something old. Humanity called it a miracle.
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Decades later, the miracle learned to speak.
Aether fused with steel, with flesh, with dreams. Some were born Resonants, able to shape the current. Nations crowned themselves on the strength of these awakenings. Seven of them rose—The Crowns—each ruling through Aether's gift: the blazing Fire Dominion, the cold logic of the Ice Concord, the endless tides of the Sea Throne, the forest's living pulse, the floating Skyward Sovereign, the silent Night Empire, and the heart of trade itself, Avalar. Together they built the Archive of Order—a towering citadel where law and Aether met. They promised control. Peace. Balance.
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But peace never listens for long.
In the ruins where the star first fell, a second pulse stirs beneath glass and stone. The Archive hums in its sleep, and somewhere within that hum, a voice waits for someone to answer.
And the world holds its breath once more.