The Golden Valley, with its hardy farmers and playful children, materialized before the audience’s eyes, transporting them into a world both familiar and enchanted. "In the heart of a world torn by strife," Miguel's voice, rising from behind the screen, filled the square with a solemnity that held the crowd's focus. "Lay a valley untouched by war's cruel rife. Blessed with verdure and rivers that weave, a paradise, it was hard to believe."

As María gracefully emerged on stage, adorned in Aelithra's iconic, ethereal robe, a ripple of admiration swept through the crowd. Rigel, unable to contain her excitement, tapped her mother's hand, her eyes wide with awe. "Look! ¡Mira, mamá! María plays her majesty Aelithra!” She whispered, her voice a blend of wonder and delight. Raquel, her gaze fixed on the young actress, nodded silently, her eyes betraying a flicker of envy for María's radiant poise.

Stepping into the spotlight, María embodied Aelithra's tranquility, her presence calming the square. "Under my shadow, this valley shall thrive," she intoned, her voice casting a spell over the assembled, "No blight, no famine, just beauty alive." With a flourish gesture, she highlighted the stage, now ablaze with the simulated splendor of their realm.

"But shadows crept over fields of gold," Miguel intoned, his voice heavy with the looming threat as shadows began to encroach upon the scene. "Cold whispers of murk, uncontrolled," he cried, his face shadowed with grim foreboding. Aelithra, portrayed by María, faced this growing darkness, her determination unwavering. "For this valley, my heart beats," she proclaimed, a beacon against the gathering dark, "Against this darkness, I shall not retreat."

The scene grew darker still, the collective breath of the audience held in suspense. "Alas, even stars must heed the night's call," whispered Carlos’s son, his voice barely above a murmur, "Aelithra, the golden, was not immune to the fall." María's dance became a battle, her movements growing sluggish, her strength waning, until, with a heartrending gasp, she succumbed, her collapse sending ripples of sorrow through the crowd.

As María lay still, portraying death's still embrace, Miguel, now adorned in Diurnix's attire, emerged from behind the scene, stepping into the dim glow of the torch-lit stage as a new guardian. "With Aelithra's ascent to the stars, behold the dawn of a new face. I am Diurnix, her heir, with her wisdom my guide, her vision my chase."

He extended his arms wide, as if to embrace the valley itself, "I’ll protect this land, forever by your side. No darkness shall linger, nor despair reside." Approaching María’s still form, the new celestial guide knelt, gently laying a golden flower beside her.

"Fear not her absence, for in the stars she still glides, and whispers to us on each breeze that abides," he proclaimed. María, rising anew, accepted the flower with a grace born of countless rehearsals. Moving silently offstage and into the crowd, she danced, her steps a spectral echo of Aelithra's enduring legacy. "Through me, her essence flows, in every field, every heart it sows." he assured with a smile, watching María’s ethereal grace weave through the gathering.

"Fifteen years have passed since my sister's sleep," his sorrowful yet solemn voice resonated deeply. "Yet in our songs and hearts, her memory we keep."

"From her stars, she watches with those departed soon, all look down from heavens, beneath the same moon," Miguel continued, his voice binding the heavens and earth, "From the heavens, she watches with pride. In each grain of harvest, her blessings abide."

He paused, bowing his head in reverence. "Aelithra, my blood, among the stars you roam, yet the Golden Valley will always be your home."

The square fell into a brief, excited silence before erupting in applause. Miguel's satisfied gaze flickered to an embarrassed smile as he scanned the crowd. His eyes soon found Maria, and a flicker of admiration and guilt crossed his face.

Baruch’s applause was subdued, a soft echo in the lively square as his gaze fall upon Raquel. Her hands clapped with a restraint stark against the uninhibited enthusiasm of the children nearby, her face shadowed by quiet melancholy.

The subtle sag of her lips and the far-off look in her eyes mirrored profound sorrows—sorrows stemming from events that Baruch, then residing in the Ancient Forest, couldn't witness but of which he was deeply aware.

Rigel, gazing up at her mother with wide-eyed innocence, whispered, “Wasn't it beautiful? We are so lucky tío Diurnix protects us!" Raquel managed a warm smile and nodded. “Yes, mi amor. You’re right,” she said, gently kissing Rigel on the forehead. Her touch was tender, yet her eyes held a lingering trace of sadness.

"But why isn't tío Diurnix here yet? He missed the spectacle…" Rigel's voice carried a hint of disappointment and concern. Sensing her daughter's growing unease, Raquel squeezed her palm gently. "He’ll be here soon, amor," she soothed, her voice a calm balm. "Diurnix has never broken a promise."

Rigel, her gaze alight with youthful innocence and concern, turn to Baruch. "Tío Diurnix... Will he one day die just like her majesty Aelithra?" Her words hung between them, a tender inquiry into an inevitable fate even Celestials may not be able to fool.

Baruch's laughter, a warm, hearty sound, cut through the heavy air. "Adon Diurnix? Oh, my yakar, not in our lifetimes, and likely many more to come." Rigel’s eyes sparkled as if Baruch’s assurances could eternally anchor Diurnix to the world of the living and to herself.

"Gevirti Aelithra, whom Adon Diurnix so generously succeeded, is the only Celestial known to have departed from our realm in centuries," Baruch added, his tone imbued with respect for the names he uttered. Raquel, sharp as ever, raised an eyebrow in playful doubt. " And you speak as if you've seen everything with your own eyes, Baruch," she teased, half in jest, half in awe.

The Druid's smile was gentle, a serene acceptance of the roles history had cast for his kind. " We, Yoshvey ha’Yarot, may live through the span of several human lifetimes, cherishing our history, preserving it within the sanctity of chronicles,” his voice, steady and soothing, drew the gathering in closer, their eagerness tempering the festival’s noise into subdued murmurs. “And yet, the very earth beneath our feet serves as the greatest testament to those tales. Our forebears, long returned to the soil, were witnesses to the Celestials' arrival," he claimed. Raquel listened intently, a spark of intrigue flickering within her. Despite the many stories she'd heard from Tabitha and Baruch, this revelation unveiled a previously hidden chapter.

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Baruch's gaze drifted into the distance, as if peering back through the veils of time. "This story, has been passed down from my grandfather's grandfather," druid said, invoking the reverence of ancestral wisdom.

Baruch continued, his voice weaving the past into the present: " The world before the Celestials' grace was a tapestry of turmoil. It was a time unknown to peace as we understand it today." The listeners nodded in unison, holding their breath.

"Yet, on the day when Celestials descended, fear gripped the hearts of those, who held swords from the very childhood. What mortal could stand against such might? Arrows and spears, the pride of our warriors, were as naught before them. Yet, they bore us no ill will.” His hands moved as if to paint the picture in the air before him. "With smiles of benevolence, the Celestials walked among us, mending the scars of our lands and healing the wounds of our ancestors. It took many years, but animosity gave way to tikvah, to belief and a yearning for their guidance."

Rigel's imagination danced with visions of those ancient days, a world transformed under the gentle gaze of Diurnix and other Celestials. "Did the wars stop then?" she asked, her voice a mix of hope and youthful innocence.

Baruch shook his head, his features marked by the deep lines of memory. "No, it didn't bring an end to all wars. Humans and the Isvandrare, among others, still found causes for conflict, though far less often. Stories of greed and barbarity passed down through generations like cautionary whispers. We Yoshvey ha’Yarot, immune to the curses of memory, instilled yirah, a profound fear, in our children with tales of humans who would burn forests as easily as one breathes air."

He paused, the corners of his lips curling wistfully as his eyes filled with a bittersweet joy. “My father, who lived for over a century, walked these realms with the Celestials. But his life was cruelly claimed by a human blade when I was a child. The wars of old did more than scar the landscape—they left deep wounds across our souls.” His voice, laden with solemn reverence, echoed the profound scars that history had woven into their lineage.

"Those were the trials of yesteryears, and we bear no fault for the actions of our forebears," he reassured, shaking his broad hand as if to brush away the guilt mirrored on Rigel and Raquel's faces.

Yet Baruch's tale grew darker, like shadows stirring from a night deeper than the one cloaking them. "That's how the world had been until the day an immense threat emerged—a beast so vile it became the core of every agada... all legends in the world! It had many names across the world: known to us as Okhel HaShamayim and to the Isvandrare as Jötun Himins, 'giant of the Heavens,' for its vast size, but all know this one name: Twilight Tyrant. Seven decades ago, when I was a youth much like Raquel, the terror of the Twilight Tyrant sent shivers down even the bravest spines. Its shadow, cast from the heavens, darkened our days as if night had fallen. Its wings, spanning a thousand of your steps, knew no loyalty but its thirst for destruction."

Baruch, pausing, clasped his wrist, a gesture to steady the chill that the name 'Twilight Tyrant' still invoked within him. "It razed everything—our settlements, human kingdoms, Ardag tribes—leaving nothing but ash in its wake."

Silence, thick and oppressive, fell over them, the festive ambiance of their surroundings doing little to dispel the chill that Baruch's narrative had woven into the night. Rigel, her voice a beacon in the gloom, broke the silence. "Did the Celestials not protect you?"

Baruch's response was laden with sorrow. "No," he admitted, the word heavy with unfulfilled hope. "All the kingdoms stood powerless against this creature, but the Celestials, to everyone's astonishment, refused to stop the Twilight Tyrant.” Rigel's frown spoke volumes of her disillusionment, her youthful idealism clashing with the harsh reality of Baruch's tale. “However, they gave us something greater: a drop of their power, to two representatives from each race. None of these heroes could defeat the creature alone. So they united, and together these fourteen champions, embodiments of their races' pinnacle, forged a unity, unseen before. United, they quelled the terror of the Twilight Tyrant. For the first time in the history of the Unia, representatives of all seven races stood as one."

Daniel's eyes sparkled with hope as he inquired, "Was mother one of those heroes?" Baruch's laughter, a rare and rich sound from deep within, echoed softly around them. "Patience, son. Your mother had not yet been a prophetess back then," he replied tenderly, his smile broadening as he took in Daniel's eager expression.

Baruch placed a comforting hand on his son's head, affectionately ruffling his hair, then continued. "The Celestials bestowed such immense power upon those who stopped the Twilight Tyrant that each of them could elevate entire kingdoms from despair to prosperity. Yet with great power comes great responsibility, which was the downfall of many. In their arrogance, the races failed to respect the sacred trust given to them. Disheartened, the Celestials withdrew their gifts from all but two of Yoshvey ha’Yarot’s champions who, in their humility, relinquished their powers immediately after defeating the Twilight Tyrant. Only Yoshvey ha’Yarot, whose hearts are unburdened by greed and pride, are worthy to wield such power. From that moment on, the Celestials entrusted a portion of their might to the best among us, tasked with safeguarding the world and upholding peace. These nevi'im… these protectors, you call prophets," Baruch explained, his gaze softening as he looked at Daniel, "just like your mother, my boy." Pride flickered in Daniel’s eyes, a reflection of the noble lineage he inherited.

“Maybe I should rethink my love of ale if it could earn the favor of the Celestials,” Raquel quipped, finishing the last drops of her drink. Her jest drew a rare, hearty laugh from Baruch, a brief glimmer of joy brightening the otherwise solemn conversation. However, the serenity proved ephemeral. An eerie chill swept through the square, a silent harbinger of unease. This spectral disquiet whispered through the festivity, sharply contrasting the previous joy that permeated the air.

A tangible shiver coursed through the assembled crowd, marking the sudden embrace of cold. Revelers drew their cloaks tighter, their puzzled glances darting about in search of the source of this unexpected chill. The vibrant collage of laughter and melody that had painted the night now seemed muted, overshadowed by an unseen force encroaching from the shadows.

The world itself appeared to pause; the wind ceased its playful cavorting, leaving the flames of torches and bonfires eerily still. The once vibrant banter and tunes were now muted, replaced by a palpable tension that hinted at a lurking storm.

"Is that… Twilight Tyrant?" Baruch's voice, laden with dread, shattered the silence. His gaze was irresistibly drawn upwards, not to the once-dancing stars, but to a colossal figure looming ominously above. This monstrous silhouette, sprawling across the expanse of the night sky, seemed poised to devour the heavens themselves—a grim prelude to the nightmare that haunted Baruch’s darkest fears.