It Begins.

In a world divided in two, a tale of unimaginable heroism begins to unfold.

The lands of the North and those in the South are divided not by language, faith, or governance but by a hostile expanse of endless burning sands and razor-sharp black rock. The Sun, with its great power, scorches the surface along the equator. This furnace of barren wasteland, known as the Great Divide, is a boundary none can cross.

Under moonlight, this region unveils new horrors. Tales of men and beasts gasping for breath, choking on the frigid, poisonous air rising from deep cracks within the earth. The piercing cold freezes them in place, standing like statues awaiting the Sun’s merciless return.

Their great cycle ends.

But, tales of the Great Divide aren’t where our story takes root…

Deep in the corner of the southern realm, there is a place where Ancient Mountains pierce the sky. They are not mere peaks of stone and ice, but pillars that mark the edge of the world itself. These mountains are known locally as: Azukle-Alhi—Seat of the Beginning. They stretch higher than the clouds, towering beyond sight, their peaks lost to the sky. They are old, older than memory, older than words. “The world began in their shadow…” or so the elders say.

Three figures ascend these sacred heights. Their movements are ritual—slowly, deliberately, each step a prayer, each breath a promise. The wind howls around them, biting and relentless, but they do not falter. These are not ordinary climbers. They are the last of an ancient race, their lifetimes stretching far beyond what most can fathom. They are the Hulkat-Kah, and they climb because they must.

At the front is their matriarch, a woman so old her years are counted in millennia. The snow crunches beneath her feet, the tapping sound of her staff against the stone, a sound that echoes through decades of solitude. Behind her, the other two follow in silence, their cloaked heads bowed. Their breaths fog the air in short, sharp bursts. The cold presses into their bones, but they do not complain. To climb this mountain is to prove their worth—not to each other, but to those who watch from above.

The journey grows treacherous. Sheets of ice gleam like polished glass, and the ancient stone channels the howling gale. There is no room for error here—nature does not forgive, and the mountain demands perfection. One misstep means death or, worse, failure in the eyes of their ancestors. The matriarch pauses, her gaze fixed on the ascending stairs ahead. The low hum of their prayers fills the air, steady and unbroken, like the heartbeat of the mountain itself.

“We are close,” she doesn’t say it. Yet her companions hear her. They do not respond. They don’t need to. Their eyes are on her, their feet moving in time with hers. Their low humming fills the thin air, a song as old as the stone they walk on. Each note thanks the mountain for allowing their passage. Each verse acknowledges their place in this vast, unforgiving realm. The summit looms above them now. They understand the cost of reaching the top. And yet, they climb.

Step by step, between realms, they walk.

The wind tears at their white robes, their black symbols marking both place and purpose here. They approach the final steps. The matriarch’s weathered hand grips her staff, holding her steady. No words pass between them—none are needed—not here, not in this sacred place. Their eyes meet in silent understanding of what lies ahead.

The peak reveals itself.

Perfectly flat. It's unlike anything from the world below. It has been shaped by hands long forgotten, carved with care and precision. No one remembers who first shaped this place. Yet, its presence tells a story—of patience, of purpose, of dedication. Even the oldest among them here feel small.

And there, rising from the centre of this impossible plateau stands their destination: Aarnok Kal Hudem—The Great Standing Stones. Massive and unyielding, they rise like silent sentinels, defying time and nature. Their origins remain a mystery even to their long-lived race—some things reach back beyond even their ancient memories. But their purpose? That, they know.

The sky above them deepens to an impossible shade of blue-black. The brightest stars are visible at the Sun's peak. They stand so high that the heavens seem within reach. The depleted air here is precious, more valuable than any earthly treasure or sacred text. Each breath comes at a cost, deliberate and measured. Each reminds them of where they now stand, between earth and the foreverness beyond.

The matriarch moves forward, her steps careful and precise across the stone that the unknown has smoothed. Her companions remain still, watching as she approaches the circle of Great Stones that crown the peak of peaks. In the thin air, their heartbeats count the moments. She stands among the stones, on the very tip of the world. Pulling back her hood, her hair flows with the wind. An icy breeze rushes across her cheeks. Her eyes slowly close. A deep breath in…

The time has come.

She opens them again and turns toward the Sun. Its light bathes her ancient features but brings no warmth, only absolution. Between the towering stones, the Great Star hangs suspended, waiting, its brilliance framed by the towering monoliths. The matriarch fixes her gaze through the gap between them as if peering through a window into another world.

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Finally, the alignment begins.

She sees it. The edge of the Sun starts to darken. The solar eclipse has begun. Through the ancient portal of stone, she watches the celestial dance unfold. Her grip tightens on the staff, knuckles white beneath paper-thin skin. She has seen this before, countless times. They all have, however, this day—nightmares linger.

Recent dreams plague her thoughts, visions that wake her in the dark hours. They show an approaching doom, an end to their vigil. A great shadow rising. It's a terror she cannot name but knows in her bones. It is the moment they have been preparing for across lifetimes. A moment they were born to face. Their hopes—that it will not ever come to pass.

The shadow deepens. Above them, the Sun’s light is swallowed by the vast lunar shadow passing between them. The shadow spreads across the entire world below, turning day to twilight. Her followers maintain their whispered chant, heads bowed in reverence. Their beads rattle around their necks, but she stands straight, unflinching. Their voices weave through the thin air, a prayer—bless us with clarity. She does not bow. She watches, unblinking.

For now, all unfolds as it should. The moon moves expectedly, its shadow slowly swallowing the Sun’s radiant light. The celestial dance unfolds in perfect rhythm, each shift in light and shadow etched into the matriarch’s mind. She catalogues every detail, each subtle change in light and shadow sealing itself into her ancient memory.

Her shoulders begin to relax, if only slightly. The weight of her troubled visions that haunted her sleep seems distant now, like a forgotten nightmare. But she does not exhale—not yet, not until the ritual is complete.

The moon's shadow creeps toward the Sun's heart. The prayers behind her grow deeper, resonating through the stone beneath her feet. Prayer beads click in time with the wind, their sound nearly lost in the relentless gale that pins their robes to their bodies. A constant reminder that they remain bound to the earth despite standing at the edge of the sky. They’re only guests here, observers in this celestial romance.

Her heart quickens as totality approaches. The Sun and the moon, their ancient love story written in the heavens, are revealed only in these fleeting moments when they touch. This is the oldest tale she knows, her favourite. It's the story of their eternal courtship, their love visible only in these precious moments of reunion. For an instant, she allows herself to marvel at its perfection.

But she does not look away. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, strain to catch every nuance. The ring of light begins to form, brilliant and flawless. Her eyes scan the circle, sharp and uncompromising. Nothing escapes her notice. She does not tire. She cannot afford to miss a single detail, not when the cost of failure is beyond measure.

For a heartbeat, they are one. The matriarch lifts her face to witness their union, this fleeting dance of celestial bodies that occurs but once in centuries. Her eyes take in the brilliant glow of the eclipsed ring, and the sight steals what little breath remains in her ancient lungs.

But something is wrong.

The perfect white ring of the eclipse begins to bleed. It turns crimson, staining the sky as something moves through the darkness. A shadow, immense and unnamed, drifts between them. A celestial intruder that hides within the temporary darkness. Passing between the Sun and moon, its presence taints what little light remains, its blood-red hue staining the heavens and bleeding across the land below.

The matriarch's grip tightens on her staff until her knuckles pale. This is no natural phenomenon—the shadow from her recent dreams, the doom she has foreseen. She stares into the encroaching darkness, unblinking. Another world moves through their skies, through their heavens. An entity nameless and primordial. Her visions were true. They are always true. She is now the first, the only, and the last Grand Elder to witness this moment. The burden of countless generations weighs heavily on her. They warned her. They prepared her. And now, it has come—the Great Shadow rises.

The chanting dies.

Her followers lower their hoods in unison, their white skin reflecting the blood-red light as they gaze skyward. The wind howls across the summit, the only sound in the deafening silence. Their eyes are fixed on the heavens. The harmony they have known, the peace of an aeon, is broken.

The Darkness has now come.

They stand motionless, knowing what must come next. Their ancestors spoke of this moment in whispers, preparing each generation for the burden of witnessing it. The matriarch turns to face those who have climbed with her to these sacred heights, her gaze heavy with the burden she now carries. No words are needed. A single nod to the younger one conveys all. He bows, accepting his duty, and begins his descent ahead of them.

The matriarch and the remaining elder return their gaze skyward. The crimson shadow slips away, vanishing just beyond sight. Sun and moon begin their parting, their moment stolen, a bittersweet farewell. The ceremony is over, the eclipse broken. Wind howls around them as they commit every detail to memory, every nuance of this violation.

They pull their hoods back over their heads, shielding themselves from the cold wind as they prepare to leave. The matriarch exchanges a glance with her remaining companion, the one who has shared this burden with her for centuries, her oldest friend. The weight of their coming task passes between them in silence. Their vigil is ending. The path ahead is clear, and it will be unforgiving.

They turn to leave, but the Sun catches the matriarch's eye one final time. She faces it. Its light bathes her face, soft and resolute. For a moment, it feels like an old friend. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, offering a quiet whisper—a promise. Without a word, she follows her companion down the path, leaving behind a sky that will never again look the same.

No shadow shall rise unchecked.

No light will dim without challenge.

With all I am, I will fight.

For this world, for its light

Until my soul is laid to rest,

I vow to face the final test.

The age of watching ends. The time of action begins.