"Empires are not born at the summit. They are born in the mud, among the sighs of the condemned."
The world was broken.
Cities that once gleamed with crystal domes and floating energy roads had been swallowed by the plague. The seas vomited corpses, and the air reeked of despair. Civilization was on its knees, and the gods—if they had ever existed—seemed to have abandoned the world.
But among the forgotten, three lights walked through the darkness.
Three brothers. Three descendants of creation itself.
Shastakan, the eldest, was silence incarnate. His gaze did not linger on the horizon—it pierced through it. His steps were firm, each one more resolute than the last, though within him the fear of failure pounded like a war drum.
Dionidos, the second, was a storm contained. Every word he swallowed gathered like gunpowder beneath his tongue. He did not walk—he dragged himself forward with rage, as if the earth itself owed him something.
Meridio, the youngest, was their heart. Always questioning, always doubting. His voice was gentle, but his mind was a galaxy in constant expansion.
"How much farther must we go?" Meridio panted. "I'm tired."
"When we arrive," Shastakan replied without turning.
"And if we never arrive… what then?" the youngest pressed.
"Then we shall create a place," whispered their mother, Seria, walking behind them, her torn robe flowing in the wind. "It does not matter if the world wants us dead. We will bring life."
Seria was more than a mother. She had been sent by the Creator himself, Obnimus, to guide her sons until they were ready to embrace their destiny. She knew she would not live to see it… but she would live long enough to plant the roots.
At last, after days of wandering, they reached a cliff that overlooked the impossible sight of the Abyssal Sea. The storm was thickest there, the sky colliding with the ocean.
And in the heart of the abyss… ruins.
A drowned city, swallowed by the waves. Shattered columns, sunken temples, ghostly roads.
"What is this?" asked Dionidos.
"A dead world," Shastakan answered. "But not for long."
He stepped forward, removed his cloak, closed his eyes, and spread his hands. The wind halted. The sea trembled.
Then, with a roar, a column of water rose, parting the ocean like blades. The waters receded, unveiling the bones of the sunken city. Beneath their feet a new crystal shone, glittering like ice under the sun: Vidrium.
"What is this?" Meridio whispered in awe.
"It is mine," said Shastakan. "It is ours. And with this, we will build the future."
Thus the first dome was forged, shaped with the Vidrium only he could command. Rivers were diverted. Humidity was tamed. The city was reborn.
Shastakan named it Heart of Dawn.
A refuge city for the banished. A cradle for the fallen.
Soon, rumors of a safe haven spread like wildfire. Exiles, the sick, those marked by war or plague—all began to arrive. Shastakan welcomed each of them.
"Here, it does not matter where you came from. Here, only where we are going."
For one hundred years, Norgalia grew under his reign. Floating structures rose, fields flourished, the skies were cleared by technologies that seemed like magic. The brothers aided him as much as they could, but they knew their paths lay elsewhere.
One night, atop the Tower of the Sun, the three brothers met with Seria for the last time.
"It is time for us to part," she said.
"And what will happen to you?" Meridio asked.
"I have fulfilled my task. I will join the stars."
That night, Seria died. Her body dissolved into a thousand sparks of light that drifted upward, mingling with the constellations.
The brothers grieved and parted ways.
Meridio built a fortress on Mars, where he nurtured a civilization rooted in pure knowledge.
Dionidos transformed Jupiter, forging it into a floating jewel of power and war.
And Shastakan remained on Earth, in Norgalia.
In time, knowing eternity must bear its limits, Shastakan devised a system of rule: the immortal monarchy. Whoever inherited his bloodline would also inherit his power.
But even that was not enough.
To prevent his heirs from being consumed by power or crushed by the monotony of rule, he created the Seven Pillars, granting them unique gifts, each with a sacred duty:
• Gabriel, the guide of beginnings.
• Michael, the fire of judgment.
• Jackson, the stillness of water.
• Azrael, the veil between life and death.
• Haskell, the giver of life.
• Marcus, the builder of knowledge.
• Julius, the strength of vitality.
Each was bound to three of the states that were later founded.
Shastakan inscribed his legacy, blessed his people… and then descended into his tomb at the heart of the Realm, sealed by a thousand enchantments. A white crystal floated above his coffin, marking the Founder's Slumber.
Year 100.
Shastakan sleeps.
The world calls him a god.
But even gods cannot foresee what time conceals.
Centuries passed as seasons do in an immortal kingdom—without hurry, without noise… without suspicion.
The descendants of Shastakan sat, one after another, upon the Throne of Vidrium. Eternal kings and queens, their crowns bound by ancient fire, all sworn to uphold the founder's vision.
But none of them ruled alone.
The Seven Pillars had been designed as guardians, not rulers. They were entrusted with dominion over vital areas of the realm, easing the burden of the crown. And for centuries, they served with honor.
Gabriel, wise and steady, became a royal counselor.
Michael, the flame, was judge and executioner, feared and revered.
Jackson, quiet and balanced, commanded the waters and ports.
Azrael, guide of souls, oversaw death and the rituals of passage.
Haskell gave life to the fields, controlling Agrobia and the fertility of the land.
Marcus, the mind of Cintekis, propelled the technology that made Norgalia a beacon of innovation.
Julius, solid as stone, guarded the borders and military order.
But something imperceptible began to seep through the cracks of power.
Not hatred. Not ambition. But boredom.
Immortality is a gift. But it is also a curse. The Pillars had outlived all others. They had witnessed history's cycles repeat endlessly—the same wars, the same speeches, the same deaths.
And so, questions arose.
"What if we could be more than guardians?" Marcus whispered one night in the Echo Chamber beneath the Palace of Suns.
"More?" Azrael's voice rattled like breaking bones. "We are already more than human."
"Not more in power," Michael said, leaning against an arch of fire. "More in decision. To govern, not to serve."
Jackson remained silent. Gabriel stared into the horizon. Haskell trembled, clutching her chest.
"This is not why we were created," she whispered.
"And who will stop us?" Julius growled, shattering stone with his fist. "A corpse asleep beneath the palace?"
That moment was the first fracture.
It was not a coup. It was not open treason.
It was doubt.
The seed of corruption.
The birth of ambition disguised as efficiency.
Slowly, they began ignoring the king's commands. They made decisions on their own. Built structures within the states that only they controlled. Placed loyal figures in the Congress of the 120 Seats. Modified laws without the throne's consent.
The people began to fear them, not revere them.
"They are soulless gods," some whispered in the alleys of Grey City. "They do not age. They do not die. They do not ask."
The crown tried to intervene, but it was too late. To the people, there was no longer a difference between king and Pillar. Power had become a single immovable mass.
And then came the darkest day.
It was during the reign of the last monarch: Draven II.
Without warning, without trial, the seven Pillars entered the palace. They did not shout. They did not explain.
They simply… acted.
The Chamber of Kings was sealed. The army was disarmed from within by Marcus's control. The magical defenses were unraveled. Fortis was silenced.
The Pillars slew the royal family with the secret weapon once created by the three brothers to stop the dynasty should it ever become dangerous.
What Shastakan designed as a safeguard was turned against his own blood.
But not all perished.
From the ruins of the Chamber of Vidrium, a woman escaped with her child in her arms.
Her name was Elira.
Her son's name was Pablo.
A child with the fire of the bloodline, and the spark of destiny.
A child who would change the fate of the world.
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