Theum
Theum was not a place, but a presence. It did not float in a sky or burn like a star—it existed beyond such things. Timeless. Formless. Complete. The realm was made of stillness too vast for silence, of light that had never touched shadow. Every surface shimmered, not from reflection, but from remembrance—memories etched into marble, carved into starlight, rooted into stone.
At its center stood the Sanctuary of the Four—a vast, living cathedral formed from translucent marble and celestial roots that coiled like sentient vines, glowing with an inner pulse. The structure was never still—arches shifted subtly; walls and pillars breathed in soft rhythm. Vines whispered silently through the halls, constellations slowly shifting beneath their surface. It was not built. It was willed into being.
At the center of it all stood Níth, unmoving, her presence anchoring the shifting sanctuary like a keystone to a monument of divine intent. She was still as time, but not dormant—more like the pause between a heartbeat and its echo. Her aura shimmered, not with brilliance but with resonance, like an ancient melody remembered by the bones. Radiant as memory itself, she held within her form the weight of countless lifetimes, each layer of silence around her rich with untold stories and sacred certainty.
She stood barefoot upon the living floor, pale and radiant. Her form was slim, tall, both delicate and immense. Beneath translucent skin, thin rootlike veins shifted, glowing faintly—either silver under divine moonlight, or golden under the pulse of Theum's eternal sun. Her veil was drawn, covering her face from the forehead to the chin. Her eyes behind it shimmered—one beige gold, one light silver, flickering like dying stars. Her black hair spilled like flowing shadow down to her ankles, still and straight, touched by no wind.
She remained silent, her breath slow, steady, steeped in stillness. Before her rose the Four Pillars—each towering in presence, each both a parent and a god—beings who had shaped not only her existence, but the foundations of reality itself.
Creation, her first mother, the Tree of Life. Her towering form shimmered with moss-draped wisdom and the slow grace of ancient forests. Her arms branched into bark and bloom, leaves unfurling with every breath. Flowers opened across her shoulders, glowing faintly as though kissed by newborn suns. Every breath she exhaled smelled of spring soil, rebirth, and flame-ripe fruit—fragrances that wrapped around the senses and reminded even gods of beginnings. She did not speak—her thoughts bloomed on the air in vines that curled with intention, forming symbols and memories that danced just out of reach.
Continuum, her second mother, the Elve of Sun and Moon. Her form shimmered with twin brilliance—morning light cascaded down the left side of her body, soft and golden, while the right was draped in the muted violet hush of twilight. Her long hair flowed like a comet's tail, glowing with drifting sunbeams and silvered shadow. Every movement carried the rhythm of passing hours, each step a turning of the day. Her eyes mirrored time itself—one radiant like the dawn, the other deep and dusky like a fading star. When she spoke, her voice rang like a chime struck underwater, layered and distant.
Void, her first father, the Dragon of Death. His massive form rose like a fortress sculpted from shadow; wings folded behind him like torn banners of night. Smoke curled from his spiraled horns with the scent of extinguished stars. His scales shimmered with void light, like the deepest trench of the ocean where all warmth goes to die. His breath was absent—he did not breathe, did not blink, and yet the air thickened around him, pressing against the skin like gravity turned inward. His presence was a stillness so complete it suffocated sound, a reminder that death is not a moment, but a permanence.
Law, her second father, the Nine-Tailed Fox, God of all magic. His nine tails moved like rivers of ink through air; each marked with pulsing arcane runes that shimmered in languages older than breath. They curled and unfurled with sentient grace, writing patterns that vanished as quickly as they formed. His gaze was quiet, surgical eyes like fractured crystal that saw not only what was, but every path that could have been. In him was the discipline of universes, the weight of a million untold incantations, and the ruthless clarity to choose which ones deserved memory.
Níth did not kneel. She did not bow. Her spine remained straight, her breath quiet and unmoved. The gods before her were vast, eternal—but so was she. She was carved from their essence, not placed below it. Born of them, shaped by them, but never lesser. Her presence stood in equilibrium with theirs—rooted, still, unshaken.
They watched her in silence. The weight of their attention pooled around her like deep water. Their forms stood immense and unmoving, each presence brushing the edge of the infinite, and yet for a moment, all of that endless presence paused—waiting.
Then, Continuum stepped forward—her luminous hair trailing like split comets behind her, each footfall casting flickers of dawn and dusk across the sanctuary floor. Her voice unfurled like light breaking through clouds—equal parts sunrise and eclipse, tender and absolute. "You've chosen to descend."
Níth nodded once, the roots etched along her arms glowing brighter for a breath, pulsing with a subtle rhythm like the whisper of wind stirring leaves. They shimmered softly beneath her translucent skin, shifting as if listening, responding not only to her will, but to the unspoken resonance between her and the divine figures before her.
One of Law's tails lifted in a smooth, deliberate arc, pulsing with deep violet light. At its tip, a rune unfurled—elegant, angular, and ancient. It rotated slowly, humming with sentient power. The air quivered around it, and the question formed—not in sound, but in meaning, impressed directly upon the minds of those present. "Why?" it asked—not through voice, but through undeniable thought, etched with the weight of magical judgment. The rune shimmered brighter, then folded inward and vanished, the question still echoing.
"There's a stir in the thread," Níth said softly, the roots beneath her skin shifting like a ripple beneath still water. Her voice carried the weight of intuition woven with unease. "A tremor I can't name. Something changed... but the world doesn't seem to know it yet. It's subtle, like the breath before a scream."
Creation's vines curled protectively toward her, weaving into a cradle of bark and bloom around Níth's feet. They pulsed gently, as if trying to pull her back, to wrap her in origins and keep her from descending. Flowers opened nervously across the tendrils, releasing scents of ripe citrus and fire-warmed honey, pleading without words. A cluster of leaves formed a face for just a moment—grieving, familiar, maternal. "Evistra is a realm of chaos," Creation expressed through a vine that brushed Níth's ankle. "It births pain without purpose. You'll find no clarity there."
"Perhaps," Níth answered, her gaze fixed on the floor where constellations shimmered faintly beneath her feet. She reached down, her fingers brushing a strand of flowering vine, gently twining it between her fingertips as if drawing strength from its softness. The roots beneath her skin stirred in sympathy, glowing faintly with recognition. "But I've felt its pull," she continued, her voice steady but low. "If something has bent the karmic line, I must see it from within."
Void exhaled a plume of smoke that curled like mourning silk through the sanctuary, tasting of iron and endings. The air darkened as it passed, catching flickers of memory and death in its wake. His obsidian wings shifted slightly, their folded edges dragging silence across the marble floor. His gaze pierced through the veil of time, unwavering. "So, you will play mortal once more," his thought pressed inward like weight on the soul. "Hide the fangs. Fold your wings."
Níth's eyes closed behind the veil, the weight of her choice settling over her like a second skin. Her fingers gently brushed along the edge of her veil, grounding herself in its texture. Her breath slowed. The roots beneath her skin shimmered faintly, pulsing in acknowledgment of what was to come. "Yes," she said, and the word felt like a thread snipped from the tapestry of eternity.
Continuum stepped forward, a shimmer of light trailing each gesture like fleeting hours. The air around her grew hushed as if listening. She extended one hand, not to touch, but to mark the moment, each fingertip radiating the warm hue of sunrise and the cool glow of moonlight. Her voice rang out like the toll of a distant bell, softened by time. "What name will you wear?"
Níth's voice was soft, almost reverent, like wind stirring the petals of an ancient bloom. Her gaze lingered on Continuum's hand before drifting inward, as though sifting through names carried in starlight. The moment stretched, rippling through the air like a dropped pebble in still water. "Ira Solen," she said at last, her voice laced with memory, a name not chosen but remembered.
None stopped her. The Four simply watched, their immense forms holding back words not meant for this moment. For Gods do not ask for permission. They move like storms across still waters—deliberate, sovereign, certain.
Above Evistra
She chose a crow this time. Small. Sharp. Unassuming. She soared high above Velmont Academy, wings cut from midnight, her gaze endless and exact. The buildings below sat too clean, too still. Ivy curled where it shouldn't. Windows reflected nothing but sky. The symmetry was too proud.
It was a place that wanted to be seen—and yet desperately wanted to hide something.
Níth circled in silence. She could feel the imbalance pulsing like a bruise across the campus. Not obvious. Not immediate. present. Something had gone wrong—subtly, slowly, the way a fracture grows inside glass before it shatters. Below her, students moved through paths paved in perfect stone. Their uniforms crisp. Their smiles temporary. Whispers drifted in the wind, heavy with flirtations, grudges, and confessions no one would admit to remembering.
Nothing about this world screamed danger. That was exactly what made it dangerous. Níth landed atop an old, unused spire on the academy's east wing. Below her, a rusted path curved into shadows no one walked. It was overgrown and too well-kept all at once, a place meant to disappear without ever being gone.
She watched. She waited. Then, she shed her feathers. First her wings dissolved into falling dark. Then the talons curled into toes, her black beak reshaped into the line of a mouth. Hair, skin, bone-reshaped, stilled. Her veil appeared over her face, and the glow of divinity folded inward like a secret.
She became Ira Solen. No gold. No silver. Just pale grey eyes and skin that could pass as human. Long black hair to her lower back. Slim. Serene. No mark of godhood remained—only beauty that made people forget what they were doing. She stood at the edge of the world and breathed in its weight. Then she stepped into the storm.