Section I – The Silence Before Creation
Before the first heartbeat, before even the concept of time had taken shape, there was only stillness.Not the stillness of peace, nor of death, but of possibility—a blank canvas waiting for a single brushstroke.
In that void drifted a faint vibration, softer than breath. It did not yet know sound, or light, or meaning. It simply was.From that pulse came a thought without words, a dream without form. It imagined itself.And in doing so, existence began.
The vibration swelled, folding upon itself again and again until the stillness quivered. Color spilled where none had been. Heat followed color, and shape followed heat, until the empty dark was no longer empty at all.
This was the first whisper of Arcana—not yet magic, but yearning.It did not create from will, for it had no will. It created because creation was its nature.Each pulse became a possibility: mountains, seas, the hum of unseen stars.Each ripple carved a rhythm, and that rhythm became the first song.
It was not sung by voice, nor heard by ear, yet all that would ever live would remember its melody in their bones.Every spark of life, every dream yet unborn, would one day echo that ancient harmony and call it instinct, inspiration, or soul.
When the song faded into a gentle hush, the void rested. The world of Phantasia hung suspended in its cradle of light, untouched and unnamed.It waited, listening for something new—a second note to join the first.
For though creation had awakened, it was lonely.And from that longing, Arcana reached out once more… searching for minds that could imagine back.
Section II — The Birth of Arcana
The world that stirred beneath the newborn stars was vast, unshaped, and radiant with wild potential. Seas boiled with unformed thought. Mountains shifted like breath. Winds whispered of forms yet unseen.
For a long age—though no one could yet name time—Arcana wandered the newborn world alone.It flowed through rivers that had no banks, through skies without horizons, through stones that remembered light. It learned what it could of existence, tasting creation in every pulse. Yet it had no eyes to see, no hands to mold, no tongue to sing its joy.
So Arcana split itself.
One half became motion, the rhythm of life and decay.The other half became memory, the echo of what had been.From their union, the first pattern was woven—a spiral of luminous threads that shimmered like breathing starlight. This spiral was neither god nor beast, but song incarnate.
The ancients would later call it Eidos, the Heart of Creation.
From Eidos's light came a thousand forms, shaped by thought alone.Mountains rose where dreams were heavy.Oceans formed where longing overflowed.Forests sprouted from curiosity, each leaf a fragment of Arcana's reflection.
For the first time, Phantasia had form.A world born not from hands or commands, but from yearning itself.
Yet Eidos was not content to create and vanish. It wished to be known.So it breathed upon the soil, and from that breath arose beings—fragile, luminous, and new. They opened their eyes upon the shimmering world and drew in their first breath of Arcana.
And in that instant, magic was born.
They did not yet call it by that name. They called it voice, for when they spoke, the world listened.Their laughter stirred the wind.Their songs called rain from the sky.Their tears seeded the first rivers.
Eidos watched in silent wonder. The experiment had worked—the world could now feel itself.And thus began the first dialogue between creation and its reflection.
But joy carries curiosity, and curiosity carries risk.When the first beings looked upon the wonders of the world, they began to ask questions the stars could not answer:
"If the world listens to us, will it obey?""If we can create, are we not gods ourselves?"
The questions were innocent, but in them lay the spark of what would one day divide all life in Phantasia:the desire to command that which was meant only to be understood.
And so, Arcana trembled—for the first time, it felt something it had never known before.Not curiosity.Not wonder.But fear.
Section III — The Shaping of Phantasia
From the trembling of Arcana's fear came the Veil, a thin barrier that separated thought from form.Where before dreams sculpted mountains, now they faltered at the border of reality.Arcana, once wild and infinite, became disciplined—a current that only the worthy could touch.
The first children of Eidos—the Primalkin—wandered the soft lands, learning the language of the stars.They named the world Phantasia, for to live upon it was to walk within a dream.Each region they settled in took the color of their hearts:
The east bloomed with golden fields of clarity, where thought turned to harvest.
The north froze into crystal plains, where knowledge slumbered beneath ice.
The west rose in endless cliffs, echoing with storms of ambition.
The south breathed jungles of living light, where every leaf whispered forgotten hymns.
And at the center of the world stood the Mirror Peaks, where the sky bent inward, and the soul could see itself reflected in pure Arcana.
There, the Primalkin built the first sanctum—not of stone, but of resonance. Its halls existed only to those who dreamed with purpose.They called it Eideryon, the Palace of Thought.Here, they vowed to safeguard Arcana and guide its use.
But even in sanctity, division grew.
Section IV — The Covenant and the Fracture
In time, the Primalkin divided into Three Houses of Understanding.
The House of Form, who believed Arcana should be used to shape the world—builders, healers, and dreamweavers.
The House of Motion, who saw Arcana as energy, meant to flow freely and adapt to change.
The House of Reflection, who claimed Arcana was divine thought and should never be touched by mortal will.
The Houses debated endlessly, their words shaking mountains and stirring tides.Eideryon trembled as their unity cracked.
When at last reason failed, they sealed their oaths in the sky itself.Each House raised a Celestial Sigil, binding their belief into the heavens:
The Anima Sun, radiant and constant, for Form.
The Ecliptic Serpent, shifting and unseen, for Motion.
The Pale Eye, ever watching, for Reflection.
Their magic began to differ—no longer one Arcana, but three dialects of the same song.
And with division, came consequence.For where their spells met, reality wavered.Whole valleys folded into light. Lakes inverted into the air. The stars began to hum with discord.
Thus, the Fracture Era began.
Section V — The Age of Discordant Stars
Phantasia became a world of wonder—and of chaos.Creatures born from mixed Arcana walked freely: glass wolves that howled memories, rivers that flowed backward, forests that dreamed.
The Primalkin, desperate to restore balance, poured their knowledge into written form.The result was The Codex Eidon, an eternal script etched into the bones of the world.
Every being born after would feel its words in their blood.They would call it magic, though in truth it was merely the residue of Eidos's dream—a language all living things could whisper if they learned to listen.
But as centuries passed, memory faded into myth.The Primalkin vanished, leaving behind cities buried in crystal and ruins where the air still shimmered with power.Civilizations rose from their dust, wielding fragments of the forgotten Codex.Each person's Arcana manifested differently—no longer a tool, but a reflection of the soul.
Thus came the Age of Individual Magic, when creation itself became art.And Phantasia sang once more, though it no longer remembered the song's beginning.
Section VI — The Age of Dreamwrights
Millennia passed, and the people of Phantasia adapted.Magic was no longer feared—it was celebrated. Every child was born with a spark of the First Breath.Mages, artisans, and philosophers filled the world. They called themselves Dreamwrights, for they sculpted reality through imagination.
Kingdoms rose not by conquest, but by brilliance.Floating citadels hung in amber skies. Rivers bent to the will of poets. Even commoners wove beauty into their days—lamps that whispered songs, stones that held warmth from distant suns.
But with beauty came complacency.Few remembered the old warnings: that Arcana was alive, and that it listened.
In the northern reaches of Phantasia, where the auroras shimmered like memory itself, a faint hum began to stir beneath the ice.The world, long silent, began to dream again.
And somewhere, a child would be born whose imagination would awaken that dream.
Section VII — The Breath Before the Story
Before his name was known, before his creations changed the world, Leandros was nothing but a whisper in the current of Arcana—a single note in a forgotten melody.
The day he was born, the auroras turned gold.The mages called it an omen.The commoners called it beautiful.The stars, if they could speak, would have called it inevitable.
For the first time since the Fracture, the world itself paused—as if it were holding its breath, waiting for something new.
The Codex Eidon, buried deep beneath the ruins of Eideryon, glowed faintly in its crystal tomb.Across the world, those attuned to the Arcana felt it: a pulse, gentle yet endless, whispering a single phrase—
"Creation remembers."
And somewhere, in a humble village at the edge of the continent of Phantasia,a boy would one day create a single, fragile bubble—and the world would never be the same again.