Beyond time, beyond stars, beyond the breath of mortals, there sat a throne made of memory and light. Upon it rested a being with eyes closed, arms open, and a heart that had forgotten how to beat.
He was the Maker, the Watcher, the First Spark—called many names in a thousand tongues. Worlds had bloomed from his thought. Empires had risen by his will and fallen by his indifference.
But the songs of those worlds, once rich with sorrow and joy, had grown quiet to him. He could see everything. He could change anything. But he could no longer feel.
And so, in a moment not marked by any sun or moon, the god stood up.
"Let me walk among them," he whispered to no one. "Let me suffer. Let me love. Let me understand."
With that, the throne shattered—and Aeon fell into the river of stars, his divine light stripped away like leaves in winter.
He descended not into fire, nor into glory, but into a quiet place. A forgotten hollow in a forgotten world.
******
Autors note:
First world:
The Realm of Lysara: A Living Tapestry
Lysara is a land stitched from soft colors and gentle rhythms. Mornings begin in a mauve mist that clings to dew-kissed meadows; sunlight filters through rose-tinted clouds, warming the slender stalks of grain before the village wakes. The air carries the scent of crushed wildflowers—thyme, violet, and the pale sweetness of meadowfoam—while distant songbirds herald the day. By midday, the sky is a flawless dome of sapphire; lantern-light magic glimmers only in the rare glass orbs of the Hearthspring bathhouses, where steam curls like ghostly dancers. At dusk, the orchards glow amber as lantern-boats drift down the Serene River, their elemental sparks flickering like fireflies in the gathering twilight.
Here, fields roll into orchard groves where golden apples nestle among lacy blossoms; hedgerows hum with busy bees; and ancient stone markers—inscribed with runes for harvest blessing—dot the lanes, half-swallowed by ivy. Settlements are clusters of timber-framed cottages: walls painted in earthen ochre and weathered teal, thatch roofs sprinkled with moss for insulation. Smoke curls in lazy spirals from broad chimneys, carrying the promise of fresh-baked breads and simmering stews. Children chase one another along winding dirt paths; shepherds whistle to their flocks grazing on hillsides; travelers pause at way-markers to share tales at roadside shrines.
Willowvale sits tucked beneath the drooping arms of a grand elm—its bark carved through generations with lovers' initials and warding sigils. Twelve families cluster around the tree in a loose circle of gardens, fields, and workshop sheds. The village square is little more than a flattened circle of earth, flanked by the Forge, the Larder, and the Mossy Well where neighbors draw water and gossip alike. Festivals mark time here—spring's first lantern launch, an autumnal feast when the crops turn gold, and the hush of "Midwinter's Glow," when every hearth bears a crystal bauble to capture hope in the darkest nights.