As the lands of the First grew more divided, the elders despaired. The unity of old had faded, and though war had not yet consumed the tribes, it loomed on the horizon like a storm. Each people had claimed their own lands—the north, the south, the east, and the west—yet none were satisfied.
To prevent further strife, the wisest among them spoke, urging the nations to seek a place where all could stand together once more.
Thus, they sent envoys to wander the world, seeking land that might be suitable for all.
For many years, they journeyed across mountains, rivers, and deserts, but nowhere could they find peace. The old wounds ran too deep.
Yet, when hope had nearly faded, they came upon a vast and fertile plain, a land untouched by war.
It was a place where the rivers met, where the ground was rich and the heavens stretched endlessly above.
Here, a man named Enmar, great-grandson of Mishel, the son of the eight children, stood before the gathered people and spoke:
"Let us build a city, here upon this land, a place where all may dwell together. Let us raise a tower that reaches the heavens, that we may make a name for ourselves and not be scattered across the earth."
And the people listened.
For though their hearts were divided, they still feared the fate of their ancestors.
They remembered Ashel and Elaira, how they had once lived in harmony before the world was divided. And so, with one purpose, they labored together.
They cut stone from the mountains and brought it to the plains.
They fired clay and fashioned bricks, stronger than any before.
And as the years passed, the city rose.
At its center, the tower stood, its foundations deep, its peak stretching ever higher.
It was the greatest work of mankind, a monument to their will.
Yet, as the tower reached toward the heavens, the Architect looked upon their work.
And He saw what they had become.
Year by year, the tower grew taller, its shadow stretching over the vast city below. Brick by brick, stone by stone, the people labored without rest, believing that their unity would bring them greatness.
They spoke of reaching the heavens, of forging a name that would never fade. They called their city Vareth-Illai, "The Pillar of Men," and declared that no kingdom would surpass it.
Enmar, standing at the highest point, looked down upon the land and was filled with pride.
"See how we rise above the earth?" he said to his people. "No tribe shall wander, no kingdom shall falter. We will no longer be scattered. The heavens will know our name, and we shall stand as one."
And the people rejoiced.
But as their voices rose in celebration, the Architect looked down upon them.
He saw their labor. He saw their unity. And He saw their hearts.
"Once, they built together in peace. Now, they build in arrogance," the Architect said. "Not to remember the unity of old, but to make themselves gods in their own right."
The higher they built, the more their pride grew.
They no longer spoke of Ashel and Elaira.
They no longer spoke of the Architect.
Only of their own name, their own strength, their own greatness.
And so, as the tower neared the clouds, the heavens stirred.
The city of Vareth-Illai flourished, its streets bustling with life. The tower, its heart, continued to rise, reaching ever closer to the heavens.
The people no longer saw themselves as scattered tribes, but as one mighty nation, bound by their great work.
Merchants and artisans filled the markets. Farmers cultivated the surrounding fields, and the rivers brought trade from distant lands. It was a city without equal, a beacon of human ingenuity.
And at its center, Enmar stood at the tower's peak, looking down upon the world he had shaped.
"Behold what we have built," he said to his council. "From the dust we have risen, and from the earth, we have forged our own heaven."
The elders, those who still remembered the old ways, hesitated.
"Should we not give thanks to the Architect?" one of them asked.
But Enmar laughed.
"Do you not see? It is our hands that have built this city. It is our will that has raised this tower. The Architect has left us to our own fate—this world belongs to us."
And so, the people of Vareth-Illai turned away from the ways of their forefathers.
No longer did they tell the stories of Ashel and Elaira. No longer did they remember the garden, nor the promise that had been given to them.
Instead, they sang only of their own greatness.
The tower rose, its shadow covering the land.
And still, the Architect watched in silence.
The tower continued to rise, a monument to the boundless ambition of its builders. From dawn until dusk, the people labored, and Vareth-Illai grew into a kingdom of stone and fire.
Years passed, then decades. Generations were born within its walls, never knowing the days of wandering, never remembering the land their forefathers had once roamed. To them, there was no world beyond the city, only the ever-reaching tower and the greatness they had built.
The council of elders, once the keepers of wisdom, had faded into obscurity. New rulers arose, men who sought only to expand their dominion, and with them, laws were forged to ensure that none would abandon the city.
"Vareth-Illai is the seat of all men," they declared. "Those who leave it shall be as nothing, forgotten by time."
And so, none left.
The city became a world unto itself, self-sustaining, self-glorifying. The tower, the pillar of men, became their god.
Yet the Architect did not act.
He watched, as He always had, waiting.
For centuries, the city of Vareth-Illai stood as a monument to human ambition. The tower, once a dream of unity, had become an unchallenged testament to their pride.
The rulers of the city, no longer content with dominion over their people, sought to extend their reach beyond the land.
"We have conquered the earth," Enmar's descendants proclaimed. "Now we shall claim the heavens."
And so, they commanded the workers to construct the final stage of the tower—a throne at its peak, where they would sit as gods upon the world.
The people did not hesitate. They had long forsaken the stories of their ancestors, the warnings of their forefathers. The name of the Architect was a whisper of a distant past, buried beneath the weight of stone and labor.
They spoke only of themselves. Of their glory, their eternity.
Yet, as the tower neared its final height, the sky began to change.
The heavens, once clear and boundless, darkened with clouds that bore neither rain nor thunder. A silence fell upon the city, heavy and unnatural.
The workers faltered. The rulers hesitated.
Something unseen had shifted in the world.
And then, the Architect spoke.
"I have watched you, children of Ashel," His voice echoed through the city, not with wrath, nor anger, but with sorrow.
"I gave you the earth, and you sought the heavens. I gave you unity, and you forged chains. I gave you wisdom, and you chose blindness."
Enmar's descendants, now seated at the tower's peak, looked upon the sky with defiance.
"We have built this with our own hands!" they shouted. "We need no guidance, no divine hand to shape our fate!"
The Architect did not answer.
But the world itself trembled.
The earth groaned, deep and ancient, as if waking from a long slumber. The foundation of the tower, buried in the land for generations, shuddered.
The people of Vareth-Illai felt it first—a faint tremor beneath their feet.
Then, the walls of the great city cracked.
And the tower, the pillar of men, the monument of their pride, began to waver.
At first, they did not understand. How could it fall?
For years they had built its foundation stronger than any before. For generations, it had stood unmoved by storm or time.
But the tremors grew.
Stone began to split. The highest levels of the tower swayed, groaning under their own weight.
Panic spread through the streets. Men, women, and children who had never known life beyond the city walls looked up in horror as the sky darkened further.
And then, the first stones fell.
From the top of the tower, the throne of the rulers—the very seat from which they sought to challenge the Architect—collapsed.
It plummeted down the side of the structure, tearing through levels that had stood for centuries.
Dust and rubble rained upon the city.
Screams filled the air.
The people, who once called themselves the masters of the world, fled in terror.
The roads they had walked for generations, the homes they had built with unwavering faith in their own strength—all crumbled beneath them.
The tower split.
First, the upper half gave way, crushing everything below it.
Then, as the quaking earth roared louder, the foundation itself shattered.
What had taken centuries to build, fell in a single night.
And as dawn came, Vareth-Illai was no more.
The dust settled. The city that had once stood as a beacon of human achievement was now a ruin, a wasteland of broken stone and shattered pride.
The people, those who had survived, wandered aimlessly, lost without the walls they had called home. For the first time in generations, they looked beyond the land they had known.
And in the silence that followed, the Architect spoke once more.
"I did not cast you down, my children."
"I let you see the weight of your own hands."
The survivors wept. They did not curse the Architect, nor cry out in anger.
For now, they understood.
The tower had not fallen by wrath, nor by divine punishment. It had fallen because they had built it upon the foundation of their own pride, and nothing more.
They scattered.
To the north, to the south, to the east, to the west—just as their ancestors had before them.
They no longer sought to build a throne among the stars.
They no longer sought to make a name above all others.
And so, the world was renewed.
But the ruins of Vareth-Illai remained.
Not as a warning.
Not as a punishment.
But as a memory.
And the Architect, in His wisdom, watched over them still.
As the people scattered from the ruins of Vareth-Illai, they wept and mourned their loss. The great city—their pride, their glory—was no more. Dust and broken stone covered the land where once they had ruled.
Yet even in their sorrow, some among them whispered defiance.
"It was not the Architect who brought us low," they murmured among themselves. "It was the weakness of our own hands. We shall rise again, rebuild, and restore what was lost."
And the Architect heard them.
For though the tower had fallen, the pride in their hearts remained.
He had given them a chance to see, to understand, to walk the earth once more as their forefathers had.
Yet even as some wept in humility, others clung to their own wisdom, their own strength.
And so, the Architect spoke once more.
"You have built a tower to reach the heavens," His voice echoed among them. "Yet you could not even hold the earth beneath your feet."
"You have spoken as one, but not in truth. Your unity was not of the soul, but of ambition. You called yourselves gods, but even now, you do not understand."
And then, the world shifted.
A great wind swept through the people, cold and sharp, though no storm had come. The dust of the fallen city rose into the air, swirling around them, blinding them.
And then—their voices changed.
A man turned to his brother, speaking a word of comfort—but his brother's eyes filled with confusion.
A woman cried out for her child—but the child did not understand her call.
One by one, family by family, tribe by tribe—their tongues were no longer one.
They spoke, but none could understand.
They shouted, but their words were foreign.
Panic spread.
Fathers could no longer teach their sons. Mothers could no longer soothe their daughters. Leaders could no longer command their people.
The elders, who had once ruled, now stood silent, powerless before the growing chaos.
"What is happening?" they cried.
"Why do you not listen?"
But there were no answers—only a thousand voices speaking in a thousand tongues, none hearing, none knowing.
And so, the last remnants of Vareth-Illai broke apart.
No longer bound by speech, they could no longer rule together.
No longer able to understand, they could no longer rebuild.
And so they scattered.
Some fled north, to the cold lands beyond the rivers.
Some journeyed south, to the hills and the forests.
Some went east, where the sun first rose.
And others went west, where it set.
Never again would they gather in one city. Never again would their tongues be one.
And the Architect, in His wisdom, let them go.
For they had sought to make a name for themselves.
But now, they would only remember His.