They say the ancient gods sleep beneath the soil of Vesfera, and that the world itself breathes in their slumber. Yet there was a time when not even the breath of the earth was known.
Vesfera was not what it is today. It was a world veiled in mist and silence, with hard ground and a merciless sky — a cold, barren, forgotten land. Nothing blossomed there. Nothing sang. Time seemed suspended, as if creation itself hesitated to continue. In that foretelling of dawn, the Collisions — phenomena as vast as they were unfathomable — were but whispers behind the veil of ignorance. And those who lived beneath that shattered sky survived only through inertia.
Then, on a starless night, the once-unchanging sky broke for the first time.
From its dark womb, stars fell like rain. But they were not made of light alone — they were seeds of the unknown. The earth, until then silent, trembled beneath their impact. And when the dust settled upon the wounded soil, transformation had begun.
These celestial fragments — shards of the firmament — did not come empty. Among them rose eight forms, born not from clay or womb, but from the collision of the unknown and destiny. Fear shone in their eyes, for the world was strange to them. Yet within them also burned the spark of curiosity, ancient as time itself.
They did not speak as mortals do. Their first words were glances and steps, and together they walked the vast lands of Vesfera, touching the world as if shaping it with their presence. Wherever they stepped, something awakened. Wherever they looked, something rose.
With them came knowledge — of building, of planting, of defending. They were masters of themselves, and unknowingly, masters of those who would come after. And so came forth weapons — both tool and burden.
But there was something more, something even they did not understand. A living, invisible energy that permeated all: the wind, the stones, the very void. Something ancient and pulsing, whispering in shadows and laughing among branches. To this power, they gave the name The Hidden — for no other name would do.
Time passed, and that name changed. Today, scholars call it The Unknown. But names matter less than the impact it left.
The journey of the Eight began beneath skies torn by thunder and lightning — storms that never ceased. Before them, colossal creatures battled with primal savagery. They were as grand and terrible as the forces of nature, locked in an endless cycle of death and rebirth.
When one of these beasts fell, its body did not decay. Quite the opposite: it bloomed. From its open wounds sprang moss, rivers, trees, and sometimes even mountains. Death begot life — as if the world itself breathed through these creatures.
To them, the Eight gave the name Numitheons — the living essence of creation, those who offered death as a gift to the world.
But the Numitheons were not alone. From them arose their dark reflections: the Theriantropes. Beings molded by death and for it. With claws like spears that pierced the firmament and fangs like swords that could slice fate itself. No one knew why they fought. They simply did — in a brutal, eternal cycle, until one side ceased to exist.
The battle between life and death was the silent backdrop of the Eight's journey. Yet they pressed on, crossing landscapes of desolation and wonder.
The gray lands gave way to steep cliffs in the east, dark stone streaked with glowing veins, as if the earth bled light. Farther on, they faced a forest of unimaginable scale, where the treetops touched the sky and winds whispered forgotten tongues.
Beyond it, they reached a vast plain stretching farther than sight could reach, as though the world had laid itself down to rest. There, the sky was clearer, and the land gentler.
There they found Vesfera's first truly living inhabitants — simple, peaceful beings who lived in harmony with the Hidden. To them, manipulating that energy was as natural as breathing.
The Eight were received with reverence, but not fear. And they learned with astonishing speed. Soon they could move stones without touching them, summon frost with a gesture, call down fire with a whisper. Power grew in them like a flame, and it was impossible not to see them as more than mortal.
Though born of the stars, the Eight were not the same — brothers in origin, their hearts sang different melodies. And so, over time, their names and natures became known, passed down through generations as legends whispered beside ancestral fires.
The first was called Kaelion, and his flame burned brightest.
His hair bore the hue of twilight fire, and his eyes, like eclipsed suns, never strayed from the sky. In him lived a restlessness the world could not contain. Ambitious, determined, perhaps arrogant — but not without cause. Kaelion was he who, when faced with limits, sought to surpass them. Where others saw mountains, he saw steps; where others heard the laws of the world, he dreamed of bending them.
It was he who first raised his finger to the heavens and declared:
— "One day, even the laws of creation shall bow before me."
No one answered. Not because they disagreed, but because they knew they could not stop him. Kaelion did not march — he surged forward, like a storm that asks no permission of the wind. And he left.
The second was Elyra, the heart of the group.
Her gaze mirrored the moon — soft, deep, silent. Hair silver as morning mist, and a voice that healed even without intent. Elyra bore the burdens of many, for she loved with a depth that others feared. She saw beauty where others saw only purpose.
— "Power should be a bridge, not a crown," she would say, as her hands helped the natives plant the first seeds of a new era.
She stayed. She helped. She welcomed. And when all others left, she remained — a silent root sustaining the world.
The third was Dargan, with deep laughter and clenched fists.
The strongest among the eight, Dargan was a mountain made flesh. His words were few, but his actions roared. A protector by instinct, a builder by vocation. Where Dargan passed, walls rose, tools were forged, defenses formed. The people called him "the southern shield," and under his protection, the first villages were born.
— "No wall stands forever. But may it last long enough for time to hear us."
The fourth was Nimya, the Seer, with eyes that danced with chaos.
She came from the brightest fragment. Her robes were ever-changing, shifting with the mood of the sky. Her eyes were vast as the ocean, and she often spoke to herself, listening to voices the others could not hear. But her wisdom ran deep. She saw beyond the physical — she saw what pulsed beneath the skin of the world.
— "Truth is not a path — it is a mirror that changes when you look into it."
The fifth was Nahlia, the mind.
Nahlia was made of reason. Her gaze was analytical, her thoughts in constant rotation. She spoke only when necessary, and when she did, each word was a cornerstone. Her creations defied mortal comprehension: bridges that built themselves, mirrors that reflected the soul. She said the universe was an equation — and she intended to solve it.
— "To conquer the future, one must first defeat chaos."
The sixth was Seris, the wanderer.
Seris never stopped. Not even when sleeping did his feet rest — or so they said. He had a restless, playful spirit, almost reckless. But in his seeming distraction lay an ancient wisdom — as if he were a friend of the winds, an ally of rivers. Seris found hidden paths, forgotten doors, shortcuts between worlds.
— "The straight line is a lie time tells us. The curve — that one leads to discovery."
The seventh was Myrrha, the forger of the unseen.
She had the hands of a creator. She conjured impossible structures from air, forged with the sound of the earth itself. She was quiet, but her eyes burned with molten iron. Where others saw the power of the Hidden as a gift, she saw it as raw material. She had no hunger for power, but a thirst to understand, to transform.
— "Nothing is fixed. Everything can be shaped — including us."
And the eighth, the last, was Thalan, the bearer of silence.
No one knew exactly where he came from. Even among the Eight, Thalan was a mystery. His eyes were always on the horizon, and his presence brought a strange stillness. He sought no power, nor rest. He simply walked with the others, as if seeking something he could not name.
— "The question is more important than the answer."
For countless years, they journeyed through Vesfera. Where there was chaos, they brought order. Where there was darkness, they lit torches. They learned, taught, and created. But they also felt something stirring in the wind — a calling. Kaelion was the first to hear it.
One night, beneath a cloudless sky, Kaelion raised his finger toward the firmament.
— "One day, I shall grow so grand even the world itself shall fail to contain me," he declared solemnly, gazing at the stars as if defying them.
And then he left. He offered no explanation. He simply went, leaving behind flaming footprints that burned long after his absence.
Kaelion had returned.
His body was veiled in golden filaments that moved like serpents of light. His eyes were hollow, and his face… shrouded in dense, silent shadow.
— "Elyra," he said — his voice was many voices at once — "I have found what I sought. But the price is steep."
She did not reply. She merely smiled, tears falling, and embraced him as if time had never parted them.
Thus, the two set out to gather the others.
Without hesitation, she rose from her throne of roots and leaves, and together they departed. One by one, they found the rest. Dargan on the fields of battle. Myrrha among singing minerals. Seris in an endless storm. Nahlia awaited them in the desert, for she had foreseen their arrival. Nimya in a dream without body. Thalan… nowhere, yet somehow, present.
United, they went to where the Hidden could no longer conceal its secrets. They passed through veils, broke the threads of reality, and finally reached what the ancients would one day call the River of Creation.
Before the oldest being in the universe — whose name is forbidden even in tales — they made their request. And they were heard.
But all gifts carry a price.
In the presence of the Ancient Being — who has no form, but from whom all existence came — the Eight bowed. Not in submission, but in respect. For before the origin, even the greatest lowers their brow.
The River of Creation flowed before them, like liquid light, intertwining stars with memories, fate with matter. The current whispered truths in forgotten tongues, and each word was a seed of a universe.
The Being spoke. Its voice was not heard with ears, but felt in bone, soul, and time.
— "To create as I created, you must also destroy as I destroyed."
The Eight looked at one another.
Kaelion, without hesitation, was the first to raise his head.
— "I accept. Let the old burn so the new may breathe."
Dargan clenched his fists, his shadow trembling with doubt. But at last, he murmured:
— "Let the walls fall, if it means better ones shall rise."
Elyra felt the tears before they reached her cheeks. A kingdom she had loved… lives she had touched… all would turn to ash. Still, she said:
— "Life cannot be born where death has not bloomed."
Nahlia nodded silently, as if the equation had already been solved.
Seris laughed — a nervous sound, like dry leaves in a whirlwind.
— "We never return the same way… so why expect the same ending?"
Myrrha touched the ground with her fingers. The stone groaned in understanding. She whispered:
— "If destiny must be forged, let it come rough."
Nimya, eyes void of pupils, smiled as if she'd known the answer all along.
Thalan… said nothing. But a slight ripple in the river seemed to mark his assent.
And so the Ancient Being extended its essence.
It did not touch them — for its touch would destroy — but enveloped them with a promise. Creation kissed them as the sun kisses the horizon: not with heat, but with eternity. And in that moment, the Eight ceased to be only what they had been.
Kaelion became the Archetype of Dominion — his voice shaped laws, his will tore through veils. The world bent to his gestures.
Elyra became the Guardian of the Vital Flow, her presence brought life, healing, and balance — but also pain, when needed.
Dargan became the Pillar of Ruins, capable of absorbing destruction and returning it as protection.
Nimya was transformed into the Seer of the Margins, touching past and future with the same gaze.
Nahlia embodied the role of Sovereign of Unbreakable Order, ruling over realities like pieces on a board.
Seris became the Echo of the Crossing, and no place was unreachable to his steps.
Myrrha took the title of Weaver of the Unseen, crafting that which even thought dared not imagine.
Thalan... was forgotten by names, remembered only as He Who Is Between.
And Vesfera bloomed.
Civilizations arose in all directions. Distinct peoples, new tongues, kingdoms in the skies, cities in the oceans, castles suspended by sheer will of the Hidden. Each teaching left by the Eight grew like a branch on an infinite tree. The laws of man were born — justice, honor, guilt, forgiveness. The world breathed to its own rhythm.
But the pact demanded its toll.
And like all ancient pacts, the price was paid in time and blood.
Then came the First Collision.
It was not a quake of the earth. It was a silence in the heart.
It came like a storm, but without clouds. Like death, but without corpses. It was the wrath of something that existed before the Ancient Being — something that slept beneath the skin of the world and awoke upon realizing it had been challenged.
A creature whose form could not be grasped, made of everything rejected: fears unspoken, dreams corrupted, wills crushed. It brought no words. Only fury.
— "You thought yourselves gods." — whispered the winds, the stones, the blood dripping from leaves.
And everything that had been built… fell.
Kingdoms became craters. Cities crumbled like ash in a gale. The bridges to the stars collapsed. And the Eight — so powerful, so prepared… could do nothing.
Each of them watched what they loved fall. Dargan, powerless, saw his wall turn to dust. Myrrha screamed as her structures dissolved into air. Elyra fell to her knees atop the ruins of the kingdom she had built with love. Kaelion… for the first time, was silent.
And when all finally ceased, there was only scorched earth. The colors were gone. The world seemed again as it was in the beginning — gray, cold, inhospitable.
The Eight... scattered.
Perhaps out of shame. Perhaps mourning. Perhaps fear of what they had awakened.
The generations that followed were born among ashes, unaware of who had once raised the pillars of their world. The names were forgotten, their images vanished from stone, their deeds became myths — and then, legends no one told anymore.
But the marks remain.
In the impossible structures. In the secrets of the Hidden. In the dreams that still whisper ancient stories. And in the hearts of those who, without knowing, inherit the weight of a past never told.
Because Vesfera... never truly forgets.