Everything was written before the stars. Before the rule of the constellations and their capricious whim. All was mapped in the constellations, the charts of the planets. What mortals call fate was scribed into the cosmos. Nothing could defy fate, the rebirth and death of stars, the cycle of galaxies and divinity. 

But not all believed in the stars, for what was there to believe? What were the stars if not for illuminating the inky black sky like pearls sewn on bolts of flowing silk? If the stars were capable of such, wouldn’t the world be in turmoil?

Blinded by defiance, these people fall to the gods as pawns, misfortune riddling their lives – the price of such insolence.

Heretics, they’re called. Idiots who refuse to believe there’s a force greater than a king’s army, capable of obliterating all in one fell swoop.

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There was no room for heretics in a world governed by the absolute rule of the stars, the gods fallen from grace. The stars bless their children – smile upon their creations, blessing their children with gifts to aid them in conquering worlds and leading armies. A game and quest of power and wit.

Children are raised with the beliefs moulded into the generations before them, worshipping the glorious shine of the seven elemental stars. 

But stars don’t shine, they burn.

And when they finish burning, they wink out – and what better way to disappear than to destroy everything they’ve ever created? Their destruction erases all legacy with a light more blinding than any other. Cleansing and purifying, yes – flooding all the dark crevices of the earth and rejuvenating the land with raw power. Yet in its wake, we all remain, hollow and bloodied. 

Puppets in a game none can understand.

– after