Every hundred years, the gods grow restless.
When eternity dulls their senses and worship no longer amuses them, they gather among the stars and decide to play a game.
They gaze upon a small world, fragile, beautiful, and loud, and choose it as their board.
Though they claim to love their creations, that love has never stopped them from using mortals as pieces.
This time, their hunger was different.
Their laughter was quieter.
Their curiosity darker.
Instead of the usual choice of one grand game, they chose three.
There was no prize and no purpose, only the promise of momentary relief from endless existence.
And so, they tore open the sky.
From the rift, seven rays of divine light descended, each searching for a mortal vessel to bear the weight of their amusement.
Seven fates were written that night, not in scripture, but in scars of light across the skin of Vaelora.
The Seven Blessed were not heroes.
They were not saints or champions chosen for greatness.
They were children, sixteen year old's torn from ordinary lives and bound to divine purpose.
They were chosen not for what they had done, nor for who they were, but for what the gods believed they might become.
Across Vaelora, their arrival had been foretold for generations.
When the century neared its end, every empire prepared for the Descent of Light, a week of song, prophecy, and fear dressed as faith.
And then, at the appointed moment, the sky broke.
Seven pillars of light pierced the world, one for each continent.
Every creature felt it: the stilling of wind, the death of sound, the weight of eternity pressing down.
Those struck by that light were forever changed.
Their souls became entwined with divine essence, their dreams bound to gods who would never speak plainly again.
No mortal hand could choose.
No king could beg.
No prayer could sway.
Only the gods decided, and once their decision was made, it could never be undone.
When the light faded, the Blessed awoke marked by glowing sigils, faint as a heartbeat yet eternal as faith itself.
The marks pulsed whenever they dreamed, a reminder that divinity does not sleep. It waits.
The gods choosing followed no pattern, yet every story echoed a prophecy.
A verse in a crumbling temple.
A dream whispered by a dying priest.
A warning etched in a child's lullaby.
And always, without fail, the prophecy was fulfilled the instant the light found its vessel.
The world rejoiced.
Banners rose. Bells rang.
Crowds knelt before those who could no longer kneel without trembling.
That night, the sky of Vaelora trembled.
The stars flickered as though watching, and the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
Seven rays of light had fallen upon the continents, blinding, pure, and heavy with divine intent.
The air froze. Mana ceased to flow. Birds hung suspended mid-flight.
Even the gods grew silent.
Their game had begun, and their chosen had been found.