Fire
Water
Earth
Air.
The four primordial pillars of creation, older than memory, older than the stars themselves, stood silent in the void before time had begun to speak. Once, they danced in harmony, weaving the fabric of worlds, shaping life from chaos, singing existence into being. Yet, even pillars of such power are not eternal, and the threads that bind a world are fragile beyond reckoning.
A long, long time ago, for reasons lost to the abyss of memory, the world turned against itself. Seas rose in revolt, drowning cities that had touched the heavens. Flames devoured forests older than the tallest mountains, and smoke choked the sky until the heavens themselves bled black. Winds tore continents asunder, howling with a voice of fury no human ear had ever known. Even the cores of planets, those molten hearts of life, erupted with rage, spilling fire into the void between worlds. The universe teetered on the edge of annihilation, a breath away from unraveling entirely.
And yet, in that chaos, something extraordinary occurred.
Amidst the death of stars and the screaming collapse of reality, the world began to stitch itself together. Shattered continents converged; oceans, once scattered and ungovernable, fused into new seas that gleamed with an otherworldly light. From the ruins, the primordial pillars, buried and dormant, clawed their way back into existence, rising from the scarred ground like monoliths of forgotten divinity. Each pillar hummed with ancient power, and from them, remnants of civilizations older than memory began to emerge: crumbling temples of gods whose names had been lost to time, cities that had once thrived and now lay in spectral ruin.
It was then that the first condensed lights fell from the sky. They drifted down like snowflakes, delicate and impossible, each wisp imbued with the memory of creation itself. When they touched the earth, they were absorbed, and the world drank deeply of their essence. Humanity, fragile and insignificant in that age, was transformed. Those who could feel the power, those whose souls resonated with it, began to wield forces that had once been reserved for the pillars themselves. They learned to bend fire, water, earth, and air to their will, and in their craft, secondary elements were born: lightning, ice, magma, mist children of chaos and creation, forged in the crucible of a dying and reborn world.
These humans became known as the Thieves of Creation, or, in some whispered tongues, Conjurers. They were outcasts, visionaries, and madmen alike, who stole the power of the world and reshaped it in their image. They built cities atop the ruins, delved into the bones of the old temples, and harnessed the energy of the pillars, bending it to purposes both noble and terrible. And in their greed, in their ambition, the legends began to awaken.
From the depths of a ruined civilization, shrouded in the mists of ages, there emerged a tale: a legend of a being who could grant any desire, no matter how impossible. But such power was never free. Seven keys were required to pierce the threshold of its domain, seven trials of mind, body, and soul. And even then, the gift came with a price, a law older than any kingdom, older than the pillars themselves: the law of Equivalent Exchange. To gain, one must sacrifice. To steal, one must surrender. To desire without cost is to invite death.
The whispers of the Conjurers spoke of realms sealed beyond time, of temples lost to the void, of artifacts so potent that mere mortals who touched them were scattered across the world like ash. Some claimed that the being itself neither god nor demon, neither mortal nor immortal was imprisoned within the core of a planet long destroyed, awaiting the one worthy enough to find the keys. Others said it wandered the ruins, invisible, silent, waiting for the ambitious to stumble into its grasp. Yet all agreed on one truth: none who sought it had returned unchanged, and many had never returned at all.
It was a world of shadows, of sorrow and beauty intertwined. Blood and ash nourished the earth as much as rain; fire that consumed also warmed; winds that tore down cities also carried seeds of new life. The pillars themselves were fickle, sentient, and dangerous, and they did not bend willingly to human will. They tested, they punished, they rewarded only the cunning and the ruthless. From them, Conjurers learned that power was not given—it was taken. And even then, it was fleeting, for the pillars remembered, and they would reclaim what was theirs.
And so humanity thrived, but always under the shadow of the ancient pillars. Kingdoms rose and fell, swallowed by fire, flood, or the slow rot of time. Secret temples, built by civilizations that predated memory, lay buried beneath the earth, hidden in forests that had grown over cities, under seas that had shifted with the rebirth of the world. Conjurers delved into these places, seeking power, seeking knowledge, seeking the seven keys that would open the domain of the wish-granting being.
Yet even as humans discovered the secrets of the pillars, the world remained alive, aware, and cunning. Every act of creation carried the seed of destruction. Every stolen fragment of power whispered a warning. Every attempt to circumvent the law of equivalent exchange brought sorrow in ways subtle and devastating.
And above all, the four primordial pillars
Fire
Water
Earth
and Air watched.
They waited.
They remembered.
Some say that when the pillars stir, the sky grows darker than night, and the wind carries whispers of old gods. Some say that the condensed light still falls, even now, hidden in storms and flames, waiting for those daring enough to catch it. And some say that one day, a Conjurer will gather the seven keys, pierce the veil, and meet the being who grants any wish but the cost will shake the world to its core.
This is the age that followed the collapse, the age of rebirth and of thieves. A world where ambition scars the earth, and where desire can summon wonders or horrors. A world alive with mystery, drenched in blood, suffused with the subtle, eternal pulse of the pillars.
And in the shadows, something waits.
For when humanity reaches too far, the world remembers.
It remembers.
And it will take its due.