Wishes.
The root of humanity's hope, standing against the stubborn forces of calamity.
Two nobles, bound as one—the last of the Evershade family, abandoned by the fall of their bloodline amidst war. Together, they wished. They wished for a healthy boy, one who would restore their lineage to its former glory.
Yet fate denied them.
In the long-forgotten country of Oèpial, they were assassinated. Betrayed by the very servants who had served Seria Evershade since childhood. Her husband, Alexander—who had taken her name in devotion—was cut down beside her. Their end was staged as tragedy: Seria, silenced in secret, and Alexander hung by a rope. The world called him traitor, murderer, coward.
But what of their wish?
What of the boy meant to bear the name Neriah Evershade?
All wishes of mankind are gathered in a realm the ancient mages called Somnara. A place where the goddess Amara weighed the desperation of prayers, granting only those deemed worthy.
But Somnara was not infinite.
When its vault overflowed, expired wishes sank into Desiderium—the land of failed prayers, the birthplace of nightmares.
If Somnara was the cradle of children's dreams, then Desiderium was their grave. A realm without ruler, yet one that endured.
Even so, Amara left a final mercy. At the border between Somnara and Desiderium, three vessels remained. Three fragile potions, each a faint thread back to Somnara.
***
"Oh… look at you, poor thing."
Amara's voice drifted like a lullaby through Somnara. In her hands, the orb of light pulsed faintly, shivering as though it knew what awaited it.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Her lips curved in the faintest smile, but her eyes betrayed her grief. "You were never meant to be fulfilled. Your place is not here."
The orb quivered, voiceless yet heavy, and she drew it closer to her chest. For a heartbeat too long, she held it there—almost as if she might keep it. Almost.
Her hand trembled when she let go.
"You must go to Desiderium. That is the law," she said, though the words sounded like a sentence spoken against her will. Her voice dropped, softer than breath: "I hope you find some gentler end than what waits below."
With a sweep of her hand, the light slipped from her palms and fell into the hollow dark.
Amara stood still as the glow vanished through the border, her fingers curled into her robes as if clutching something that was no longer there. Only when the silence returned did she speak again—too quiet for anyone to hear.
"If only… I could unmake you."
***
Desiderium was not kind.
It was ruled by survival of the fittest. A graveyard of unfulfilled wishes. A spawning ground of human thoughts too twisted for Amara's light.
And yet—here he was.
Neriah Evershade.
The orb struck the leaves of a tree the size of a house. Its casing melted away, reshaping into flesh and cloth. By Amara's design, failed wishes were given the body of an eight-year-old—enough to survive, if only barely.
But she had overlooked one thing.
Neriah carried not only the body of a child, but the mind of a scholar—the very fate he might have lived had his parent's wish been fulfilled.
He rubbed his eyes, sitting up on the wide branch beneath him. Above, the sky bounced like water with falling remnants of failed dreams, streaks of light scattering across the land.
"W-where the hell am I?" His voice was small, shaking. His first words.
The ground trembled.
Two beasts below tore at each other. One stood tall, bipedal. The other was hulking, crawling on four limbs. They fought over an orb that had not yet melted—an inhuman core, born of failure.
Neriah realized what they were.
A failed wish.
Once, an archaeologist had dreamed that the fossils he uncovered would live again. His desire had failed, and so these creatures had come to life only here—half-formed, savage, hungry.
Neriah made a sound. Leaves shook loose, tumbling to the ground.
Both beasts froze. Their heads snapped upward, eyes locking onto the boy.
Neriah froze with them. Not out of strategy. Out of fear. His chest tightened, air locked in his throat. Seconds stretched like hours.
And then, as if deciding he wasn't worth their time, the monsters turned back to their clash.
Neriah crawled along the branches, steady but trembling. He reached the top of a fallen log and curled into himself, mind racing.
Where am I? What were those things? I know my name… but what am I?
His scholar's mind worked furiously, but unlike other wish-born—who awoke with their purpose carved into them—Neriah had none. He was adrift. A mongrel cast into the sea, thrashing to stay afloat.
Rustling. Behind him.
The leaves parted.
Neriah straightened, puffing his chest, trying to appear larger. His eyes darted, searching desperately for a weapon.
A hand reached out of the brush. Human. Left hand only—the right arm was gone, cut clean.
"Hey! Who are you?!" Neriah shouted, his voice shaking, straining to sound threatening.
The figure stepped into view.
A man. Tall. White-haired. Middle-aged. Dirty Blue-Eyes. His clothes were the worn padding once hidden beneath armor—a soldier's garb. His one arm hung loose at his side, his gaze weary yet unbroken.
Then he smiled crookedly.
"Oh, hey there, kid."
***