The children sat, eyes wide, as their teacher gathered them around, her voice soft yet clear, carrying the weight of a story far older than any of them could understand. The fire flickered gently, casting shadows on the stone walls of the hall. The air was warm with the promise of a tale that would stretch the mind, and the teacher smiled at the eager faces before her.
"Long, long ago," she began, her voice lowering as if to keep the secret of the world itself, "the universe was empty. No stars, no worlds, no gods. There was only the vast nothingness. And then, there was one thing—just a single seed."
She paused, her hands resting over her heart, as if holding the seed herself.
"This seed—small, fragile—began to grow. From it, roots twisted deep into the void, and above it, a great trunk reached toward the endless skies. Slowly, very slowly, the seed spread. It created the land beneath it, a mass of earth that grew into vast plains, mountains, and oceans. And then, from the leaves of the tree—golden and silver, radiant with the first light—the light began."
Her eyes glimmered as she continued, "The Mother Tree, as we call her, bathed the land in that light, and all things grew from it. Life blossomed—beasts, plants, all the creatures we know now came to be. But it wasn't just the world that the Mother Tree shaped. No, she had a greater purpose."
She smiled, leaning forward, drawing the children in with the next part of the tale.
"From the branches of the Mother Tree fell twelve seeds. Each one was destined to become its own world. These twelve seeds took root in the fabric of the universe, each giving birth to a great World Tree. These trees grew strong, their roots and branches stretching across the vastness of the heavens, each tied to the others by the very veins of the Veil. They were connected by a deep, vast root system—the veins that flowed with life and power. This is the Veil, where gods and mortals alike would one day tread."
She gave a soft laugh, as if reminiscing on the age-old truths. "Each of these worlds held its own god, a World Shaper—each god different, each world unique. They crafted their worlds with care, shaping mountains and seas, forests and deserts. For a time, the gods were happy. They walked the Veil, sharing their creations with one another, marveling at the beauty of what they had wrought."
The teacher’s gaze softened. "But, over time, the gods grew lonely. They saw the life they had shaped, the creatures they had given form, and they longed for something more. They wanted children of their own, something to love, something to guide. So, they went to the Mother Tree, and there, they prayed."
The children leaned in, holding their breath.
" The Mother Tree, moved by their yearning, answered. She created twelve new races, each one embodying a balance of forces and representing one of the twelve cosmic elements: the Lightborn and the Shadowborn, who held the power of Radiance and Darkness; the Orderborn and the Chaoborn, shaped by Law and Chaos; the Voidborn and the Starborn, born from Emptiness and Creation; the Lifeborn and the Deathborn, tied to Life and the End; the Dawnborn and the Duskborn, embodying Beginning and Conclusion; and the Flameborn and the Crystalborn, masters of Energy and Structure."
The teacher paused, watching as the children tried to remember all the names.
"The gods were happy. Their children walked the Veil, visiting each world, exploring and sharing in the wonders of their divine siblings’ creations. There was peace, joy, and laughter. The gods watched over their children, guiding them, teaching them. And for a time, it seemed the world was as it was meant to be."
Her voice softened, tinged with sadness. "But nothing lasts forever. The Veil Keepers war changed everything."
The children’s eyes widened, questions on the tip of their tongues, but the teacher held up her hand, a gentle gesture that silenced them.
"That, my little ones, is a story for another time."
The fire crackled as the room settled into a deep, thoughtful silence.
One of the children, unable to hold back any longer, raised a hand, her voice hesitant but full of curiosity. "But... what about humans? Where did they come from?"
The teacher’s eyes twinkled with a knowing smile. She motioned for the child to come closer, her voice dropping to a soft whisper, as though she were sharing a secret only for their ears. The others leaned in, eager to hear.
"The World Trees," she began, her tone serious but tinged with intrigue, "grew jealous. Jealous of the attention the Motherborn races received, of the love and admiration showered upon them. So, the World Trees... they worked together, pooling their powers in secret, to create something of their own. Their own children. And so, humans were born."
The teacher looked around the circle, her eyes meeting each of theirs. "Humans," she said, "are the children of the World Trees."
The child’s eyes sparkled with excitement, his voice rising with enthusiasm. “That makes us stronger, doesn’t it? We can choose our mark and our gift! I’m going to get Pyralis’ mark, so I can throw fireballs!” His hands shot into the air as though casting an imaginary flame.
Another child, equally eager, bounced on her feet. “I’ll choose Astraeus’ mark! I’ll become a master smith, able to forge anything I can dream of!”
The teacher chuckled softly, her eyes warm with affection. She nodded slowly, though her voice held a note of caution. "Indeed, you can choose your mark, for humans possess the gift of free will. But remember, it is not a choice to be taken lightly. With every mark comes great responsibility."
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The sun hung low in the sky, casting a blood-red hue over the battlefield. Sir Geld stood at the front of his weary ranks, his worn armour glinting faintly in the dying light. The wind tugged at his cloak, and the sounds of battle echoed in the distance—screams, clashing steel, and the horrific growls of the corrupted enemy. The air smelled of sweat, blood, and the burn of magic. He gripped his sword tighter, feeling the weight of the moment, the weight of responsibility.
For years they had fought. Years of battle, loss, and unyielding resistance. The people of Viridara had held their ground, but now, with the hordes of Mortalis surging at their walls, it was clear that this was their final stand. The enemy, once human, had become something else—something monstrous. Twisted by dark forces, their physical forms contorted into grotesque shapes, their once-clear eyes now empty, soulless voids. They no longer served the gods. They were no longer men.
The task had always been clear: protect the sapling of the World Tree, the last living link to Viridara’s lifeblood, the hope of their people. Sir Geld’s heart ached at the thought of the tree—its roots reaching deep into the earth, fragile but vital. If it fell again or was lost to corruption, if the horde breached this last line, the corruption would spread like wildfire, and there would be no turning back.
"Listen to me!" Sir Geld shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. The soldiers, battered but resolute, gathered around him, forming a tight circle, their eyes locked on his. His gaze swept over them—faces young and old, faces full of fear, determination, and defiance.
"We are the last line. The last hope. The tree must be protected at all costs. Do not falter, do not yield, for if we fall, all of Viridara falls with us." His voice boomed, thick with emotion. "We will hold this line, and when the ritual is complete, the barrier will rise. We will block the enemy from reaching the tree. We will stop them here, at the Wall!"
The soldiers nodded, their swords held high, their spirits kindling in the face of impossible odds. They had one job. One task.
The Wall.
A natural chokepoint, flanked by towering mountains on either side. The only way through was the narrow pass that led to the sapling. A perfect place to hold the line—but also a perfect place to be trapped.
Sir Geld knew it. They knew it. But retreat was not an option. The ritual to create the barrier had already begun. There was no time to waste. The last of their priest stood on the far side of the pass, chanting the incantations to raise the protective shield, a barrier that would cut off access to the rest of the country. It was their only hope, and if it failed, the forces of Mortalis would sweep through like a flood, devouring everything in their path.
He turned to face the soldiers again, drawing a deep breath. "Ready yourselves," he ordered, his voice steady now. "When they come, we fight. We fight for the World Tree. We fight for Viridara. And we fight for those who cannot fight for themselves."
As he spoke, the ground trembled beneath them. A distant roar echoed across the mountains. The horde was closing in, faster than he had hoped. The soldiers braced themselves, their shields raised, their swords poised. The world felt still for a heartbeat, and then—an earth-shattering crash.
The first wave of corrupted humans surged forward, their monstrous forms blocking out the sky. Sir Geld’s breath caught in his throat as they came, and the battle erupted into chaos. Steel clashed, spells crackled in the air, and the roar of the horde grew louder with each passing second.
But Sir Geld’s resolve did not waver. He gripped his sword tighter, the weight of his duty pressing down on him like never before. He had sworn to protect the tree, and he would see it done.
This was the last stand. The final line. And he would hold it with his life if he had to.
"Hold the line!" he shouted, charging forward into the fray.
Sir Geld’s Mark of Viridius blazed with fierce power, a radiant green light pulsing beneath his skin as he called upon his gift. Healing surged through him, mending wounds with each breath, allowing him to regenerate from almost any attack. His sword, too, pulsed with the strength of his god, its edge crackling with divine energy as he swung it with deadly precision. But even with the gift of Viridius, even with the power of his guardian god flowing through him, it wasn’t enough.
The first blow came fast—a spear hurled with brutal force. It took his horse’s legs from beneath it, sending the beast crashing to the ground. Sir Geld was thrown from his mount, landing hard on the stony ground. He rose, shaking off the pain, but the blows kept coming. A war-axe, heavy and vicious, swung for his arm, nearly severing it from his body. His healing powers raced to mend the damage, but it was becoming harder. The power was draining, his Mark flickering with less and less energy.
He knew this was the end. His time had come. But there was one last thing to do.
Through the chaos of the battlefield, Sir Geld spotted him—his squire. No, not a boy, not anymore. A man, barely twenty, yet still a child in many ways. Sir Geld had always known the boy stayed out of loyalty, even when he could have walked away long ago. He was likely the second most skilled warrior on the field today.
"Run, boy!" Sir Geld shouted, his voice hoarse, as he fended off another attacker, his sword cleaving through flesh with divine force. But the squire hesitated, torn between duty and following orders.
"Go!" Sir Geld’s voice was a command, fierce and final he handed him a small package. "Head east to the temple of the old ones. Take this package to them”
The boy nodded, regret flashing in his eyes, but there was no time to argue. Sir Geld knew the boy would have stayed to the end but he couldn’t allow that. Sir Geld fought his way toward an exit, cutting through the horde of twisted Mortalis soldiers with everything he had left. A final act of protection, to make sure the squire—no, the man—had a chance to escape.
The ritual had finished. Sir Geld could feel it—a surge of divine power from near the sapling, a protective barrier rising in the distance. Relief flooded him, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse. The barrier would hold, but the rage of the Mortalis army, now blocked from advancing, erupted in fury. They renewed their attack with savagery, their hatred deepened, and their focus narrowed. They would not leave survivors.
Sir Geld had the chance to escape. He knew it. He could flee with the squire. But something in him resisted. He was an old man, his body worn, his spirit tired. This was his time. He would face it with the same resolve he had carried through the years.
With a final, determined glance at his squire, Sir Geld pushed the boy toward a group of soldiers that had managed to break through and were also escaping. The boy ran, a glance over his shoulder as he looked back at his mentor, his protector, one last time. Sir Geld turned and faced the oncoming horde.
With his sword held high, Sir Geld blocked the path to the escape, his divine gift still flaring with power despite the pain. He had saved the boy. He had fulfilled his duty.
As the last of his strength bled out, his Mark of Viridius flickering one final time, he whispered to himself, "It is a good death."
The last of his healing power failed him. His wounds stopped regenerating, the holy light in his body extinguished. Sir Geld fell to the ground, the sound of his final breaths drowned by the battle that raged on around him. The barrier held. His squire was free. And Sir Geld—he had done his part.