When the gods were few in number but boundless in will, they shaped the first world.
It was no paradise—only a vast, heaving sphere of mud and water, raw and formless. From that churning mire rose steam, and from steam fell rain. And in the kiss of water upon water, life was born.
This life, like the world that cradled it, was not free. It was shackled from the moment of its conception—bound to the triune laws of the first gods: Knowledge, Rules, and Finality. These primal deities wove the fabric of existence into strict cycles, each living thing ticking through its ordained motions within a closed system of dwindling resources and inevitable death. And death, that grim gate, was the one escape the gods could not close. Even they could not reclaim the souls that passed beyond.
But the pantheon did not remain small for long.
For in the first world, every act—every movement, every decision—left a trace. An echo. These echoes accumulated, layers upon layers of cause and consequence. They became *Mori*—the sum of all actions. From the Mori of lifeless things rose incorporeal spirits, and with them, their own Realm. From this unseen realm emerged *Grim*, the god of spirits and the first among the named gods.
Time flowed—an endless, grinding procession of cycles—and the world spun on for eons uncounted. And in one such age, two gods met in an eclipse:
*Mars'lio*, the passionate half , god of the sun, of change, heat, gold, and art.
*Nei'stro*, the tranquil half, god of the moon, of purity, cold, silver, and stillness.
In their union, a great force was born. A god of impossibilities, contradictions, and upheaval.
Thus came *Gal'le*, the Mad One. The god of paradoxes, disobedience and the unexpected.
Gal'le did not wait quietly in the divine realms. It tore through the heavens with a violent decree for the first gods. After the decree was fulfilled, Gal'le descended upon the first world, mad with purpose. With the sundered bodies of the gods of Knowledge, Rules, and Finality, Gal'le shattered the cage of order that had defined the world. From their broken remains, the world was remade—a great *Unending Archipelago* was born, its countless islands suspended in the sky, defying the very rules that had once governed existence.
Each island was a different truth.
Some barren as bone, some verdant with eternal rains, others smothered in forests that never slept.
And greatest among them was the isle where the broken hearts and skulls of the fallen gods lay—a place steeped in divine ruin.
But gods, even when broken, are difficult to kill.
Though Gal'le's power was immense, it was young—an infant of wild birth. The minds of the slain gods had not perished completely. Though their souls moved on, their will clung to what remained. Twisted and half-aware, they birthed a final curse:
From their skulls and hearts emerged the *Twisted*—soulless, shifting abominations with no aim but to annihilate all life and extinguish every action that might part of Gal'le's chaotic domain.
The peoples of the archipelago teetered on the edge of extinction.
Until one day, a leader rose—not divine, but mortal. A visionary who united four great nations in defiance of the Twisted. Together, they fought with unmatched fury, as if possessed by something greater than themselves. The gods took notice and showered them with blessings.
All except one.
Gal'le gave no blessings. Instead, the Mad One created *Heirlooms*—powerful relics, traits, and abilities passed down through bloodlines. These were not gifts, but temptations.
And they worked.
The united front fractured under the weight of envy. The five nations turned on one another, each desperate to seize the Heirlooms for themselves. The grand alliance crumbled before they could even reach the island of the gods' remains.
Greed led them to the brink of ruin once more.
Disgusted by what he had seen, the first great leader returned—not with mercy, but wrath. He carved through bloodlines with sword and fire, slaughtering those who would lay down kin for heirlooms and Mori. Only then ,when greed had become the first taboo, in the smoldering ashes of betrayal, did a second campaign rise.
This time, the nations did not merely seek survival—they sought conquest.
Their armies marched toward the heart of the archipelago, to the largest island, where the skulls and hearts of the vile gods still pulsed with hate.
But the rulers of this second age knew time would not wait. Their hair grayed. Their minds dulled . Death loomed close. And they feared what would happen when their souls moved on—when the Twisted would return and their people once again fall to infighting.
So they did what had never been done before.
They forged an *Empire*. One banner under one star for one purpose. And around the threshold of the gods' final island, they began construction of a vast bulwark—the *Sarus Fortress*. A citadel not meant to be finished, but eternally expanded, rebuilt, and manned.
To keep it alive, they imposed a tithe.
Every citizen with child was to pay 50,000 coins.
Those without heirs owed tenfold—500,000 coins.
Those who failed to pay were conscripted into the fortress ranks, fated to guard the threshold of divinity with sword and sacrifice.
Millennia passed.
The fortress never fell.
Nor were the hearts and skulls ever found.
Soldiers came and went. Their names etched in stone, then worn away by time. Stories rose and broke like waves against the black walls of Sarus.
This is one of those stories.
The story of five soldiers.
Each searching not just for purpose, but for an end.