Deep in the village of Yldrahollow, during a stormy night. The villagers gather near the central fire shrine — whispers of a strange man found wandering the old forest spread fast.
He is blind. Mud-caked, ragged, and speaks like he's lived through time itself. He falls to his knees, weeping, and delivers the "scripture" — not as a performance, but as if the words are being poured into him from beyond.
The man was blind — not by wound, but by will. His eyes were white as bone, and yet he saw too much.
The villagers of Yldrahollow huddled in silence as he stood before the shrine, rain washing the dirt from his skin like ritual waters.
Then he spoke. And none could breathe.
"In the beginning, there was Stone..."His voice cracked like ancient parchment — brittle, worn, yet heavy with something old.
"And the Stone was whole — vast, living, silent."
"Upon the Stone walked the First Ones, whose names are no longer known."
"They spoke not, for speech was too small for what they carried."
A hush fell across the firelight. Even the thunder stilled to listen.
"Then came the Breaking." "A voice not of men or gods cried out in the void... and the world trembled."
"Mountains shattered. Oceans fled. Skies burned in seven colors. Each color became a wound upon the land."
"And from the cracks rose the Shardpath. A road not made by hands. A scar left by what was cast out."
"The First Ones fell. Some fled. Some were swallowed." "And from their fall, the Sigils were born."
"Seven marks. Branded into time. Each a fragment of what should never have existed."
Then he fell to his knees, hands trembling.
"He who bears the Sigils shall walk the Path again. He shall gather what was broken. And when the last piece is bound in blood… the Stone shall remember itself."
Silence. Then—
"It begins again."
The blind man collapsed, breathing no more.
Setting: Generations after the blind man's burial. The same village: Yldrahollow, now quieter, older — the story of the blind man faded to whispered fireside tales. It is a night heavy with stormclouds and omens. The stars are hidden. Inside a candle-lit cottage, a woman gives birth.
It had been sixty-two winters since the blind man was buried beneath the old stone tree.
Most in Yldrahollow had forgotten his name, if he'd ever had one. They called him The Prophet of the Cracked Sky, and even that title was dust now.
But the sky remembered. And so did the earth.
On the night of his return, the wind did not blow. The stars did not shine. And within a small timber house, Seraphine cried out as labor tore through her like fire.
"Hold on, Seraphine," the midwife whispered. "He's coming — the boy is coming."
Seraphine's pale skin glistened with sweat. Her long black hair clung to her shoulders as she clenched the bedpost, screaming again. But her eyes — those luminous violet eyes — were fixed on one man:
Aurelian Darkmoor.
He stood by the window, armored in sorrow.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Seraphine's breath caught.
"No…" she rasped. "You promised me—"
Aurelian crossed the room, fell to his knees beside her, and held her face in his calloused hands. "I did. And I meant it. But the sigil is stirring, Sera. Our son… he is not just a child."
Lightning cracked.
In that flash, she saw the outline of what Aurelian truly was — not just a man, but a half-demon bearing a fragment of ancient power.
His features blurred. The edges of his body shimmered like smoke held together by will.
"You'll die."
"No," he said. "I'll become part of him."
He kissed her — not desperate, not sad — but full of faith.
Then the final cry came from her lips. The boy was born, bathed in blood and candlelight.
At the exact moment he took his first breath… Aurelian exhaled his last.
His body dissolved into smoke — not the ash of death, but the mist of transference.
Seraphine screamed his name.
But he was gone.
The midwife held the baby in trembling hands. "What shall we name him?"
Seraphine did not answer at first. Her tears were silent now. Her eyes fixed on the open window where the wind returned.
Then, in a voice barely her own, she whispered:
"Eliakim."
The name echoed, and the storm passed.
Outside, beneath the old stone tree, the grave of the blind man cracked…
Just slightly.
Inside, Seraphine held her child against her heart — and for one fleeting moment, time folded inward.
And she saw it.
A vision — like a mirror rippling in silver light.
The same village. Yldrahollow.
But the seasons had shifted. The trees wore autumn's fire. Lanterns danced through the streets, and laughter bloomed like spring.
A festival — music and color, bread and firelight.
And amidst the revelers, nine figures walked like wandering stars.
One with storm in his eyes and a crooked grin — blades at his back.
A shadowed man trailing books and whispering winds — eyes aglow with forgotten names.
A priest with a vulture's gaze — calm as death.
A healer radiant with sorrow — cloaked in white and loss.
A silent archer in iron — burdened by vengeance.
A golden man flickering like flame — laughing at fate.
And a boy with a wolfish smirk — the thief of luck.
A stalwart knight in forest green — eyes sharp, hand always steady.
But one stood apart.Draped in shadow and silence, his coat fluttering in a wind no one else felt.His eyes — mismatched in color — seemed to watch Seraphine through the veil of time.
Seer. Enigma. A man out of place — or perhaps in the only place that ever mattered.He said nothing. But he bowed his head toward her, just once… as if he remembered this moment too.
And in the center of them all — older, cloaked in raven black —
Eliakim Darkmoor.
Her son. Her hope.
The Sigil-Bearer.