The village came alive with the soft sounds of morning. Frost still clung to the rooftops, but the worst of the snowstorm had passed. Thin trails of smoke curled from chimneys, and the air tasted of woodfire and winter herbs.
Fable greeted the traveler with a gentle grin as he stepped outside the lodge. Her cheeks were pink from the cold.
"If you're still wandering with no aim, how about I play guide for the day?"
The traveler said nothing for a moment. Then he gave a small nod.
Their steps took them through the waking village—past stalls where dwarf craftsmen arranged hand-forged goods and beastfolk women bartered for herbs and meat. Fable chatted with a few villagers. Some teased her about finally bringing home a man. She brushed them off with exaggerated horror, her tail bristling as the children giggled behind her. Even the traveler's lips twitched slightly at the scene.
Eventually, their walk brought them to the foot of an old temple—partially carved into the cliffside, white stone weathered by time. Moss had grown into its crevices. Bells swayed silently under the eaves.
Inside, quiet reigned. Candles flickered along the altar, casting light on the intricately carved walls—depictions of stars, trees, beasts, and spiraling roots.
A tall figure turned from the altar. Cloaked in heavy blue and white robes, the snow lion priest carried an air of dignity that quieted even Fable's easy charm. His fur was immaculate, like powdered moonlight, and his golden eyes shimmered with depth and sorrow.
"Welcome," he said, voice slow and deep. "Few come seeking wisdom in these times. But all are welcome within these stones."
Fable bowed slightly. "My friend is new to these lands. I thought… perhaps he should hear how our world came to be."
The priest looked at the traveler for a long moment. Then he turned toward the flame-lit altar, his voice low and resonant—like a song buried deep in the bones of the earth.
"Long before the world had name or color, there was only the Void.
And within it, a lone thought stirred — a wish from a being, ancient and undefined:
'Let there be others like me. Let me not be alone.'
That single thought sparked light. So bright, so full of longing, that it shattered into countless stars, scattering across the nothingness like children chasing their mother's warmth.
At the center of this burst was the Core, glowing with the being's hope.
From that core, life began. A single plant rooted itself there — not born, but willed into existence.
Its branches stretched slowly, carefully, and as they grew, the stars—the youngest children of the wish—gathered around it, feeding it light and song.
The tree grew vast and wise. It reached skyward, and from it bloomed the world we live in.
We call her Our Mother — the World Tree, Yggdrasil.
In time, the Mother, still alone despite the stars, created a beings closest to her soul:
Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Beastfolk, Giants… animals, birds, even the green of the forests.
These beings were mirrors of the One who made the first wish — intelligent, curious, gifted with magic and knowledge.
For a time, the world was peace.
But peace cracks under weight.
Humans grew greedy, elves arrogant, dwarves drunk on their craft.
Giants craved power, beastfolk turned savage, exalting strength above all else.
Wars tore across the lands. Rivers ran red.
Our Mother wept. Her branches ached.
She tried to speak, to guide… but none would listen.
Her sorrow bled into the stars. One branch, connected to a distant star, blackened with her grief.
From it, foul beasts were born — abominations of hunger and rage, the Opposite of the wish that began it all.
These beasts crept into our world, devouring all in their path. The people—broken, terrified—returned to Yggdrasil and begged forgiveness.
Despite her pain, she protected them.
She cleansed the land.
But the effort was great.
Our Mother fell into deep slumber.
Moved by her sacrifice, the people made peace.
The Almighty One, seeing his daughter suffer, created the Dungeons—gates between our world and the Demonic Realm, designed to drain the beasts' hunger and contain their reach.
Yet, every 500 years, a monstrous figure rises from the Demonic Realm—a Demon Lord who seeks to rule all.
And every 500 years…
A Hero is brought here from another world to stop them.
It has been over 6500 years since the first beasts.
We have seen twelve Demon Lords rise…
And fall.
The thirteenth was the greatest of them.
Or so we believed.
Until… he was slain.
A year ago."
The room was silent when the priest finished. The candles hissed slightly, as if reacting to the weight of the tale.
The traveler did not move. He stood still, head slightly bowed, face unreadable. Fable glanced sideways at him, her brows twitching. But she said nothing.
The priest's gaze lingered on the man. Perhaps he noticed something, perhaps not. But he only offered a quiet bow.
"Even a spark can carry the burden of stars," he said softly