Scene opens in a dense mist. The morning sun glows faintly through a veil of pale clouds. The ruins of an ancient temple loom beyond a ridge of cracked marble pillars. The air itself hums softly, as though remembering something sacred.
[Wide shot] The camera drifts over the forgotten ruins. Moss crawls across stone glyphs that pulse faintly with residual Arcana. Birds do not sing here. Instead, faint harmonics rise from the earth—a low, choral resonance that seems to breathe.
LEANDROS (whispering): Seraphine... it feels alive.
SERAPHINE: It is. These ruins once belonged to the Auran Choir—the first civilization to attempt recording the breath of Arcana. They say this temple was their heart.
LEANDROS: The breath... of Arcana?
SERAPHINE: Not merely the energy you and I wield, but its origin. Arcana is not power—it's memory. The echo of creation itself.
[Close-up] Seraphine brushes dust from a mural. It shows celestial figures—some with wings of light, others formed from flame and shadow—surrounding a great sphere of radiance.
LEANDROS: The world's beginning...?
SERAPHINE: The First Flame. Every continent calls it something different, but the meaning never changes.
The Song of the First Flame
A soft hum fills the chamber as Seraphine begins to recite. The light bends; runes on the wall awaken. The voice that leaves her lips is layered—hers, and a thousand others, as though the air itself remembers the words.
"Vae'lun Asterra, the Breath Unending—
From the Void's still heart, a Thought ignited.
One spark to dream, and dream to being.
Thus sang the gods: Let there be Phantasia.
In their breath was Arcana,
In their silence, the shape of form.
They gave each soul a fragment of the flame,
To weave, to build, to imagine.
Yet the gods slept,
And the dream forgot its dreamers.
So mortals awakened to their own hands,
And named their fragments 'magic.'
Thus came the Shapers and the Scholars,
The Wanderers and the Seers,
All chasing echoes of the First Thought.
All forgetting that they, too, were songs."
[Cinematic cue] The walls shimmer. For a heartbeat, the ruins are whole again. Ethereal figures walk through light, sculpting stars, rivers, and breath. One turns—a being of flame crowned with glass wings—and places a sphere of light into a mortal's hands.
SERAPHINE (softly): The First Flame was not meant to burn, but to imagine. That is why each Arcana is different—each soul remembers a different verse of that first song.
LEANDROS (in awe): Then my bubbles... they're fragments of creation? Tiny worlds, born from imagination?
SERAPHINE: Exactly. You shape what even gods once feared to touch—the unformed.
LEANDROS: But why me? Why give this power to a commoner?
SERAPHINE: Because simplicity listens where arrogance speaks. The Flame does not choose by blood or crown—it listens to the quiet dreamers.
[Silence] The wind carries the last echo of the hymn. The runes fade, save for one that glows faintly on the altar—a sigil resembling an endless spiral.
LEANDROS (reading): "Create... and be infinite."
SERAPHINE: That is the heart of all Arcana. Creation without end.
The camera pans upward. The mist clears to reveal the stars—though it is still day. They burn like silver runes across the sky, tracing constellations unseen for millennia.
NARRATION (VO): On the Continent of Phantasia, where every heart hums with its own fragment of the First Flame, a young commoner begins to remember what even the gods forgot—
To imagine without limit.