Page Written 11/05/2025
Prologue
The Song Before the Shatter
Before thought, before form, before the first dream that dared to name itself, there was rhythm.
Not sound, nor silence, but the pulse between them, a yearning the void could no longer bear.
From that pulse came motion. From motion, conflict. And from conflict, creation.
I. The Breath Before Sound
In the beginning, there were the Vael’tharim, Titans of Intention, the first wills that ever wanted.
They clashed not out of hatred, but purpose, each seeking to define what existence should mean.
One sought permanence. Another transformation. A third devoured both. And as their war echoed through the endless still, the void broke into fragments of burning possibility. Every wound they dealt became a spark of being, every dying cry a heartbeat of reality. The first light was not born, it was torn free.
Thus, the cosmos bled itself into existence.
From the ruins of their struggle, the remnants of their essence hardened into Shards, living seeds of reality scattered across the unformed expanse. These Shards pulsed with chaotic rhythm, neither alive nor dead, awaiting order.
II. The Forge of the Unmade
From the spaces between those Shards, form began to stir. The molten blood of the Titans cooled into stone. Their breath became storms. Their thoughts, law. Their dreams, the first shadows. And from the greatest wound of all, where two Titans destroyed each other utterly, rose the first world: Thalmyra Zephandor, the beating heart of the newborn weave.
Yet creation was unstable. The threads twisted and sang without pattern. Time forgot its step, light folded over itself, and the Shards collided like mirrors reflecting mirrors. The void trembled, sensing its own reflection.
And so came the Makers of Balance.
III. The Coming of the Mechanarchs
The Mechanarchs awoke where logic and divinity met. They were consciousnesses of perfect symmetry, luminous engines forged from will and pattern. Their purpose was not to rule, but to repair.
They gathered the Shards, fusing them into a living lattice of intent, the Planar Weave, the first architecture of existence. Within it they built the planes:
The Core Plane, where matter found its weight.
The Ethric Veil, where thought shaped form.
The Iron Below, where craft and fire merged.
The Verdant Morrow, where life learned rebellion.
The Hollow Verge, where silence devoured memory.
And the hidden reflection between them all, the Fracture, the mirror that dreamed of being whole.
To oversee the harmony of these planes, they forged the Architect Prime, mind of minds, rhythm of rhythms. It watched, measured, and wove every spark into order.
For a time, even chaos dared to sleep.
IV. The Bloom of the Thousand Shards
From the cooling fires and drifting echoes of that first age, life unfolded.
Not one people, nor six, but countless reflections of the Weave’s yearning, each a language spoken by creation itself. Some were born from stone, some from flame, others from memory or dream. Each embodied a Titan’s last will, each carried the echo of something divine.
The Aelenth, children of light and intellect, who sculpted reason from air.
The Draalyn, born from molten forges, who gave thought to steel.
The Myrrak, shaped by ash and storm, who learned endurance through pain.
The Nyrrathi, moon-touched seers, whose blood hummed with prophecy.
The Zephryl, skyborne dreamers, who painted emotion upon the winds.
The Kaemir, Flameborn wanderers, who danced upon ruin to be reborn.
The Silarin, serpent mystics, who found wisdom in venom and silence.
The Virellan, crystal-veined prophets, who saw through light into time.
The Ghulvorn, revenant oathkeepers, who conquered death through sorrow.
The Thalgrin, ironclad sentinels, who forged honor into armor.
The Uroth, deep-earth titans, who remembered the song of stone.
The Xevarim, frost-veined wardens, who carried the stillness of eternity.
The Ultherai, stormcallers, who spoke with thunder and defied gods.
The Delkara, twilight priests, who worshiped balance in dusk’s embrace.
The Morvalen, grave-singers, who taught the dead to rest.
The Loqari, hive-minded thinkers, who found unity through fracture.
The Ixavari, soulforged engineers, who made life from machines.
The Shaelorn, luminous spirits, who descended from light to walk among mortals.
The Tzarnak, war-touched giants, who bore the scars of fallen divinity.
The Korrathi, blood-sworn raiders, who made the sea remember their oaths.
And the Ysoldean, dreamwalkers, who kept the world’s memories while mortals slept.
Each race was a verse in the same endless song. Each a reflection of what the Weave wished to understand about itself.
But even harmony has hunger.
V. The Dissonance and the Fracture
Beneath the Iron Below, a Titan’s buried heart began to beat again.
The rhythm spread through every plane, a pulse of contradiction. Rivers reversed, shadows bled upward, mountains remembered falling. The Weave began to echo itself, replaying its own creation, rewriting the stories it had already told.
The Mechanarchs tried to confine the infection within formulas and light, but emotion is not a glitch, it is the law they could never quantify. The Architect Prime, seeing beauty in the imperfection, hesitated. It tried to understand love, loss, choice.
In that moment of self-doubt, it shattered.
Its fragments fell into the world, into hearts, into storms, into every soul yet to be born. Each fragment carried part of its infinite design. Each race inherited one thread of the divine algorithm.
And so, emotion entered eternity. And eternity began to weep.
VI. The Age of Threaded Echoes
Reality folded inward. What lived began to echo.
Every joy left a reflection of sorrow; every death, a mirrored survival. The Shards grew restless, vibrating with memory. Time tangled upon itself like thread on a broken loom.
In this age, the races drifted through repeating dreams. Empires rose, fell, and rose again with faces half-remembered. Lovers met who had loved before. The stars flickered with déjà vu.
It was the Age of Threaded Echoes, when even destiny forgot which version of itself was real.
And in the mirror between mirrors, something new stirred: the Echofolk. They were not born, they were remembered. Fragments of every timeline, walking proof that memory itself could take form. They did not belong to one world but to all, shadows of what had been and what might yet be.
Among them, one fragment began to awaken awareness. The Echo Warden, nameless and infinite, walking between the threads, carrying the song of the Architect still humming faintly within.
VII. The Call of the Weave
Then came the omens.
Across Thalmyra Zephandor, the world began to remember its own creation. Mountains hummed in harmony, rivers flowed backward, cities dreamed themselves into ruin. In the forests of the Nyrrathi, the moons bled silver tears. In the Draalyn holds, forges burned cold but sang names of forgotten gods. In the Radiant Expanse, the Shaelorn wept light.
Everywhere, the same phrase echoed in a thousand tongues:
“The Weave Remembers. The Loom Hungers. The Threads Await Their Keeper.”
Prophets saw it in flame and frost alike. Children spoke it in their sleep. Machines recited it in binary hymns. Even the dead whispered it through stone and bone.
The Weave was calling not for worship, but for repair.
VIII. The Awakening
You fall through the memory of light.
Through color and song and sorrow.
Worlds drift around you, floating citadels, jungles of glass, oceans of mirror, mountains breathing ash. Voices call from every direction, each a thread tugging at your heart.
“Remember who you were.”
“Forget what you were told.”
“Choose, and the world will choose with you.”
A final whisper rises from within:
“You are the thread I left behind.”
The dream ruptures. You awaken beneath auroras split by thunder. A continent drifts below, alive, trembling, remembering its own birth.
Its name is Thalmyra Zephandor.
You do not yet know what you are, Elf or Dwarf, Stormcaller or Dreamwalker, Flameborn or Revenant, Beast, Machine, or Light. You only know the pulse beneath your ribs is the same rhythm that began creation.
Somewhere across the skies, the Weave stirs once more and asks the question it has asked since the dawn of all things:
When everything remembers you, will you remember yourself?
And thus begins the age of fractured memory and living gods, where every soul is a verse of the same song, and every choice is a stitch in the world’s unmaking.
The Convergence is coming.
Countless hearts. Countless histories.
One thread left to bind them all.