Editor's Note
Where shadows spread, light—though weaker—kindled nonetheless. The Animas answered in part, and from their mercy came the first sparks among mortals. I have given a name to the first of these for the sake of memory.
Chapter IV — Saints and Fae
The Animas, bound by the Divine Decree, watched the Shadows' corruption spread with growing anguish. They could not directly intervene, but their law allowed them to add new measures. The Conclave gathered once more, the arguments from its founding still echoing in the space between them.
Emet advocated for a system of mortal champions. "Let us empower them with fragments of our light," he declared. "Let the truth of our power be witnessed through their deeds, not imposed by our will. This is a help, not a dominion."
Anani cautioned against it. "To place our essence in fragile vessels is to open a new mystery, one we cannot foresee. What if our light breaks them? What if it corrupts them as power corrupted our brother?"
But the sight of the world slowly succumbing to the whispers of Tameel's fragments was too dire. A majority, feeling the necessity of a subtle touch, voted with Emet. Thus, the Saint system was born—a lawful exception to their non-interference, a way to aid the world by empowering its own children.
On a low hill a young girl tended a flock, unaware that she would become the template for all who followed. She was small and barefoot; her hands were callused from honest work, her eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that asks questions of every sunset. One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon and the world held its breath between day and night, Yoni's light entered her chest like a soft breath of peace.
She gasped; for a moment the world stilled: the sheep halted mid-step, the wind quieted to listen, even the distant mountains seemed to lean closer. In that silence, she felt something vast and gentle unfold within her heart.
"Who… who am I?" she whispered to the empty air.
"You are a spark," answered a voice in her mind, warm and tender as a mother's lullaby. "You are the beginning of the path. Keep your heart pure, and the light will grow."
Her name was Liora, though history would remember her by other titles. She did not yet know the words Saint or Fae. She only felt a seed of strength where none had been before—not the strength of muscle or bone, but something deeper. A certainty that she could act, even when the world seemed determined to break everything good.
Over the months that followed, she learned what her gift meant. When plague touched her village, her hands could draw the fever out of burning skin. When travelers lost their way in the mists that rose from the marshes, her voice could guide them to safety. When neighbors quarreled over boundaries and old grudges, her presence could cool tempers and remind them of what they shared rather than what divided them. She became a Saint in deed if not in name.
This was in the early generations after the Saints were first created, when the Animas were still learning to work through mortal vessels. Many Saints of those first centuries burned too bright and too brief, for the Animas had not yet mastered the delicate art of sharing divine essence with fragile human hearts. Some blazed like falling stars and were gone within a season; others withered slowly, their mortal forms unable to contain the power that flowed through them. It was a time of trial and error, of divine beings learning the limits of flesh.
Through generations of Saints, the Animas refined their understanding. Each failure taught them more about the balance between divine light and mortal flesh. By the time of the third generation, the techniques had been perfected, but the trials themselves had grown far more severe. The Shadows had learned to counter the light, and their methods had become more sophisticated, more cruel. None would learn this lesson more terribly than one named Elior.
Elior came from this third generation—a child of twelve summers when he was first blessed, old enough to understand devotion, young enough for his faith to burn with pure flame.
Others followed, each touched by different Animas, each bearing gifts that reflected their divine patron's nature. A young man afraid of his own shadow received a flame of courage from Seras—not the absence of fear, but the strength to act despite it. When bandits threatened his village, he stood in the square with his knees knocking but his sword steady, and something in his stance made the raiders think twice and seek easier prey elsewhere.
A blind boy, lost in the maze of city streets, felt the touch of Emet's wisdom in his hands and heart. Though his eyes remained dark, he could perceive truth in men's voices, could navigate not by sight but by an inner compass that pointed always toward what was right and necessary. He became a counselor to judges, helping them separate genuine testimony from practiced lies.
Each spark differed, each gift unique as a fingerprint, yet all bore the same essential pulse: a fragment of the Animas' grace, a whisper of the Creator's will made manifest in flesh and blood.
Yet it was a grave error to believe that the Animas' light made the Saints perfect. They were mortal still, and the Shadows found fertile ground even in consecrated hearts. A Saint's power did not erase their flaws; it often amplified them.
Some Saints found their purpose subtly twisted. A Saint of Matani, the Overflowing Gifts, began to demand extravagant offerings before his blessings would flow, turning generosity into a transaction. A healer touched by Chayim started to see sickness as a moral failing, withholding her grace from those she deemed unworthy.
One of the most insidious corruptions was that of a pastor, a Saint of Yoni who was meant to be a vessel of peace and counsel. He would send his acolytes to listen to the troubles of the people, gathering secrets and sorrows. Later, in private audiences, he would reveal these hidden pains to his flock, presenting them as divine revelations from the Animas. "Yoni has shown me your heart," he would whisper, and the people, awed and terrified, would give him their absolute loyalty and wealth. He used the light not to heal, but to manipulate, building a cult of personality on the foundation of violated trust. It was a perversion of faith, a shadow wearing the mask of light, and it proved that no soul, however blessed, was truly safe if it did not guard its own heart.
Some Saints, after years of devotion and trial, shed mortal flesh entirely and rose as Fae—no longer wholly human, no longer wholly other. They became custodians of elements and seasons, guardians of the wild places where mortals feared to tread. The transformation was neither death nor apotheosis but something between—a graduation from one form of service to another.
One such transcendence was witnessed by a gathering of pilgrims. A Saint who had devoted her life to tending sacred groves felt the call to become something more. As dawn broke over the forest she had protected for forty years, her skin began to dissolve into motes of gold and silver light. But there was no fear in her face, only wonder. Trees bent ever so slightly as she passed among them for the last time as a being of flesh. Rivers quickened at her touch, rushing to bid farewell. The wind itself seemed to sing a song of welcome.
When the transformation completed, she had become something between spirit and storm, as much a part of the forest as any ancient oak. Those who witnessed her transcendence cried out—not in fear but in recognition. The world had new depths, new guardians, new mysteries to explore.
Yet even as light rose to meet the spreading darkness, the Shadows did not sleep. Blight lingered in the hearts of men; Saints faltered under the weight of their callings; some who had seemed pure revealed corruption at their core. Every spark fought against a tide of despair, and every Fae carried the weight of human folly like stones in their eternal hearts.
But the path of Grace endured—fragile and winding, marked by failures as much as victories, yet unbroken. It bound mortals, Saints, and Fae alike in a great chain of light that stretched from the highest heaven to the humblest village square.