Prologue

“In the beginning, there was nothing — and in that nothing, love.”

From the void walked two gods, hand in hand through silence: Acacia, Goddess of Light and Magic, and Finvarra, God of Nature and Renewal. Their love was the first spark — the breath that stirred creation. When their fingers entwined, the darkness trembled, and from that touch was born Nethara, a world of breath and stone and dream.

Their laughter became the wind. Their tears became the rivers. Where they kissed, forests bloomed like sighs from sleeping earth. When they danced, stars fell across the sky to watch.

For a time, there was only harmony.

From the clay of their joy, the Terrans came — mortals of flesh and spirit, the first children of Nethara. They lived by the divine laws, honoring the balance between light and life, creation and decay. The gods watched in peace, content.

But creation begets longing.

Acacia, ever the dreamer, looked upon the Terrans and saw potential — hearts yearning for magic, for the divine spark she carried. In love, she bound herself to a circle of mortal women and gifted them her essence.

Thus were born the Strega, the first Sorceresses — beings of light and grace, charged to heal and guide, to preserve harmony between mortal and divine. Their voices calmed storms, their hands mended what war or sorrow had broken.

Yet Acacia’s heart burned with creation still, and from that fire came another gift — unbridled, wild, and fierce. From the raw pulse of her magic were born the Witches, beings of pure, untamed power, forged to defend what light could not save. They were the shield and the blade of Acacia’s will — warriors of radiant flame who stood where mercy ended.

Together, Sorceress and Witch became Acacia’s twin reflections — compassion and fury, dawn and flame — and through them, her magic walked among mortals.

Finvarra, seeing his beloved’s gift, wished to honor the mortal men who tended his forests with reverence. He breathed nature into their veins, fusing their souls with earth and sky. Thus came the Farisee, guardians of the Green Law — beings of living essence and beauty, who walked between worlds cloaked in Cantrip glamour.

For an age, light and life thrived together — until love birthed another.

From the union of Acacia and Finvarra came their son, Mahina, the God of Strength and Loyalty. Inheriting his mother’s brilliance and his father’s soul, he loved the Terrans as fiercely as his parents had. Wishing to grant them his own blessing, he sought those who honored the hunt, who took life with reverence. To them he bestowed his power — binding their souls to beasts.

Thus were born the Shifters, mortals who could share their form and spirit with an animal kin. They were the bridge between instinct and intellect, bound forever to Mahina’s moon.

But in the echo of his creation, the balance trembled.

Three divine gifts — Magic, Nature, and Strength — had reshaped Nethara. None foresaw the shadow such beauty would cast.

For in the void still lingered Viduus, twin to Acacia — the God of Death and Darkness, the uninvited witness to creation. He had watched from the edge of eternity, silent, sorrowful, unseen. Though no realm bore his name, his essence lingered — for even light casts shadow.

It was mortals who first reached for him.

A sect of Terran mages, hungry for power, learned to draw upon the dormant energy of Viduus. They twisted his essence into blood and fire, remaking it in their image. Their hands brought ruin to the forests, corruption to rivers, and death to the gods’ children.

Thus began the First Great War.

Farisee and Sorceresses fought to preserve the world, while Witches and Shifters burned to defend it. Terrans divided — some standing for creation, others for dominion. The earth screamed beneath their feet, and the skies darkened with smoke.

When the rivers turned red and the sun bled gold upon the thorns of the burned forests, Finvarra wept. In his grief, he drew his faithful into a sanctuary of living earth, a city hidden within roots and vines. This city became Aether, the green heart of the world.

Acacia, her light dimmed by sorrow, gathered her daughters — Sorceresses, Witches, and mortals who still believed in her grace — and raised the radiant city of Astarte, veiled in crystal and magic wards.

Leaving Mahina, their son, driven by loneliness, raged against Viduus. He exiled the God of Death to the edge of creation, sealing him in darkness. Then, taking his Shifters and the remaining Terrans, he founded Ancnix, a city of strength and silence, ruled by loyalty above all else.

Thus, Nethara was broken into three.

Light, Life, and Strength — each isolated, each mourning what was lost.

But even in exile, Viduus did not curse them. He pitied them. For he had seen the truth his fellow Gods could not — that life cannot thrive without death, that shadow is the only mirror that gives meaning to light.

Bound in his prison of night, he whispered a final prophecy into the heart of creation:

When the sun bleeds gold upon the thorn,

and the moon drowns pale in rivers torn,

When threefold flame lies cold as stone,

and gods have turned from their own,

Then shall she rise — child of twilight’s breath,

Bound by falsehood, shadow, death.

Her heart divided, her bond untrue,

Her soul the mirror of what light withdrew.

Through pain, the fracture mends anew,

Through loss, the dawn learns what it slew.

For love once broken, still remembers flame —

and through her will, shall bear its name.

When the beast bows to the tree, and the tree drinks from the star,

When moonlight crowns the flame of war,

Three hands shall clasp in ash and bloom,

and wake the gods from their silent tomb.

The words became legend, then myth — carried through generations by priests and dreamers.

Until the dawn of the Age of Magitech.

When magic fused with metal and faith became invention, the prophecy stirred again.

And under Mahina’s moon, a child was born — her cry fierce enough to rattle the stars, her blood a whisper of dusk and dawn entwined.

She was born of wolf and shadow, of blood and mercy, and the gods turned their gaze upon her.

For through her, the flame that could restore them — or end them — had come again.

Her name was Elora Jardine.