Two gods, born of eternity's silence, clashed without end. One was radiant, a beacon of Hope and Creation, whose breath shaped life, whose hand sought to build. The other was shrouded, the God of Mist and Dawn, whose touch veiled all in uncertainty, whose gaze lingered between light and shadow. Their war raged across the void, tearing apart the stillness of existence. Where the first laid foundations, the second obscured them; where one gave form, the other unraveled.
Yet endless strife bore only ruin. Even gods came to understand that their struggle threatened to shatter the very fabric that sustained them. So they reached a conclusion—not through victory, but through compromise. Together, they wove a world, not as allies, not as enemies, but as rivals bound by necessity.
Thus, the world of Lystamolonger Estatristerfloque was born—Lysta, in mortal tongue.
A realm of mountains that tore through the clouds, rivers that glittered like veins of silver, and forests that whispered with ancient life. A realm where knights carried the banners of kings, and mages carved the air with fire and storm. Where curses stalked in the dark places, and divine light pierced through temples of marble and gold. In every city, in every wilderness, the fragments of the gods' essence lay hidden, like embers awaiting a breath to stir them aflame.
But the gods' rivalry did not end with creation—it merely changed form.
Every seventy-seven years, the fragments awaken, etching glowing crests upon the bodies of twelve children scattered across Lysta. These marked ones are called Champions: six chosen by the god of Hope and Creation, and six by the god of Mist and Dawn. From the moment of their awakening, they are bound to a fate greater than themselves. Their power grows as they grow, drawing them inexorably toward the grand crucible known as the Lord's Trial.
There, Champion faces Champion. Only one emerges as the Apostle—a living vessel of their god's will, a blade against the rival deity's chosen. Through them, the war between the gods endures, woven into the lives of mortals.
To live in Lysta was to live beneath this eternal game. Some prayed for the Champions, seeing them as saviors. Others cursed them, calling them puppets of a divine feud. Yet all knew the truth: when the fragments stirred, the world itself would tremble.
And amidst this world of divine conflict, there were those untouched by crests, unseen by destiny's hand. Forgotten souls who, though marked by no god, bore their own storms within.
Even in such a world, not all were granted freedom.
Far from the shining cities, across an unforgiving sea, a vessel heaved and lurched in the grip of a storm. Waves battered the wooden hull with a fury that shook every plank, each strike like the hammer of an angry god. The sky above rumbled with a roar of thunder, and sheets of rain lashed against the deck in merciless rhythm. Every groan of timber echoed the struggle of the ship as it fought to stay afloat in the raging abyss.
Beneath the deck, where the storm's wrath still reached but the light of the heavens could not, the air was heavy and damp. The scent of salt mixed with sweat, rusted chains, and fear. Cracks between the planks above allowed streams of seawater to seep downward, dripping in steady trails. Droplets gathered and fell, striking the bodies of those huddled below—slaves packed tightly together, their fates bound by iron shackles.
Among them sat a boy.
Water trickled down from above, splashing against his hair, trailing across his dirt-streaked cheek before vanishing into the grime of the floorboards. The wood beneath him creaked with every violent sway of the ship, as though the sea itself sought to tear the vessel apart. The chains on his wrists rattled faintly whenever he shifted, the cold bite of iron a constant reminder of his captivity.
His name was Vahl.
He was no chosen one, no bearer of divine crest. Just an orphan, stripped of family and freedom, carried like livestock across the storming sea. Yet his eyes, shadowed by the dim lantern light that swung with the motion of the boat, held no resignation. Each drip of seawater upon his skin, each groan of the wooden floorboards, each crash of waves above—it all fed the silent storm within him.
Vahl clenched his bound hands, feeling the rough bite of rust and rope. Around him, others trembled, muttered prayers, or stared blankly at the darkness, but he did not. His thoughts were not of survival, but of strength—strength enough to break these chains, strength enough to rise beyond those chosen by gods. Strength to seize vengeance that no tempest, no crest, no divine decree could wash away.
And so, while the storm raged outside, a different storm brewed within.