From the Elyndar'Thae Saelun, the Sacred Music that weaves all existence, these first verses are remembered—a whisper from the Dawn of Worlds:
"Vaerin'Thae… Saelor'nael… Elyndar'vaen kor'thal aelun."
(The Primal Source, Vaerin'Thae, first stirred—a Song without breath, Its very essence weaving the nascent form of Elar, the Earth-to-Be.)
"Syraen'dae… Vaerin'Thalor… lux'vael kor'aen."
(Then, from the heart of this boundless Music, the Syraen'Thalor—the Sacred Flame, child of the Source—arose, and Light, Its firstborn, followed in Its radiant wake.)
"Kor'Saelun syraen'thal… aen'dae lux… aelun'dae Elar."
(Through this Sacred Flame, Light poured into the cosmos, bathing all in Its glow, and thus the soul of Elar awakened, vibrant and new.)
"Vaerin'dae kor'shael… syraen'thalor aen'shael lux."
(From the Source, all primordial power flowed; by the Sacred Flame, Light itself was given voice, sung into brilliant being.)
"Aen'Vael… kor'thal saen… Syraen'thalor sael'kor Elyndar."
(And the cosmic decree echoed: Let all things find their being, let all forms be shaped! Through the Syraen'Thalor, the Sacred Flame, let Elar achieve Its sacred, harmonious design.)
Such was the birth of Elar, kindled by the Sacred Flame, its existence a testament to the First Song. Ages unfolded under this divine harmony, measured in the silent ballet of galaxies. Yet, even the purest melody can be fractured, the most luminous design marred by a will turned towards discord.
A shadow of ambition grew, a desire to rewrite the First Song, to twist its harmony for a singular, discordant purpose. The Music of Creation faltered. The cosmos held its breath. This simmering corruption finally erupted, tearing through the ages to culminate at the precipice of a dying world…
The void itself warped and shuddered around them, the non-space between realities groaning under the strain of their conflict. Auric energies, impossibly vast, radiated from the two beings, bending the very fabric of existence as if it were fragile silk.
One figure, Kor'Vael, stood as a beacon against the oppressive emptiness. His white robes, intricately embroidered with ancient runes that pulsed with a soft, determined light and threaded with shimmering gold, flowed around him. Above eyes etched with an immense, soul-deep weariness, his golden brows were sharp, defined like drawn blades. His golden hair, long and luminous, streamed to his back. In one hand, he gripped a deceptively simple wand, its surface like the gnarled bark of a primeval tree, a mere twelve centimeters in length. Yet, from this unassuming focus, a powerful resonance thrummed—a vibration so potent it seemed to echo the lost heartbeat of creation, threatening to shatter the void into further chaos.
Opposing him stood Sael'Morenthyr, an entity of stark, ethereal beauty. His face, flawless as polished jade, was framed by a cascade of pure white hair that fell like a silent waterfall, impossibly long, almost to his legs. His lips, a vivid slash of crimson against pale skin, held the faintest curve of a smile. He wore unadorned, plain black robes that seemed to drink all light, a perfect silhouette against the distorted backdrop.
Kor'Vael's voice, when he finally spoke, was a low hum, carrying the weight of ages and a profound sorrow. "Sael'Morenthyr... friend," the word was a fragile echo, a painful shard from a time before the breaking. He gestured, a flicker of his hand encompassing the ruin around them. "Must this madness continue? Will you unravel everything, every nascent song, every possibility, merely to satisfy this ambition?"
Sael'Morenthyr tilted his head, the slight movement conveying an almost pitying grace. His crimson lips curved further, his voice a silken melody, captivating and utterly serene. "Kor'Vael. My offer remains, even now, at the end of all things. Join me. We shall command the symphony of existence, rule as gods. Immortal. Indestructible."
A shadow of pain, then confusion, crossed Kor'Vael's tired features. He shook his head slightly. "I still don't understand. Your kind... you are blessed with immortality, are you not? Destined to live as long as Elar itself endures. Why crave what you already possess?"
A sigh, delicate as the brush of a moth's wing, escaped Sael'Morenthyr. "Ah, Kor'Vael," he murmured, the words laced with a universe of dismissal. "You mortals—always bound by your fleeting lives, your limited understanding. You would never comprehend." His eyes, clear and deep as starlit pools, hardened then, a sudden, chilling shift. "Enough talk. I will see this through."
The shift was instantaneous. Sael'Morenthyr raised an elegant, pale hand.
"Zae'Kor Saelun. Veyr'Thul Aen."
(Let truth rot. Let silence lie.)
Shadows, deeper than the void, uncoiled from him like sentient ribbons. The very non-space beneath his feet cracked and groaned under the weight of his dissonant chant.
Kor'Vael met the rising darkness, his wand lifted, the tree-bark surface now glowing from within, a defiant spark.
"Aelun'Thar. Kor'Lux daen Vael."
(Let the light remember.)
A note of pure, crystalline resonance sang forth—clear, potent, aimed to unravel the forming chaos.
Then they clashed.
Not with crude force, but with will and sound made manifest. Kor'Vael moved like breath, an intrinsic, flowing power. Sael'Morenthyr, his antithesis, moved like a mirror reflecting a fractured, inverted reality.
Light and shadow spiraled.
Collided.
Broke.
Where their opposing melodies met, reality itself buckled. Far beyond, Elar screamed in torment as shockwaves bled through dimensions. Its rivers froze to black ice. Mountains cracked, spilling molten lifeblood. The world wept.
Kor'Vael staggered. A sharp gasp tore from him. His hand flew to his chest; blood bloomed dark against his white robes, mirroring the crimson on his lips. His wand's resonance flickered.
Sael'Morenthyr glided forward, his white hair swirling, untouched. "You were always too gentle, Kor'Vael." His voice, soft as a caress, cut deeper than any blade.
Kor'Vael slowly straightened, wiping blood from his lips. His weary gaze fixed on Sael'Morenthyr. "And you will still persist?" His voice was raspy, a thread of its former power.
Sael'Morenthyr's silence was his profound, unyielding answer. A flicker of impatience touched his perfect features.
"Very well," Kor'Vael said, a deep sigh laden with a sorrow that dimmed the runes on his robes. "You leave me no path but this."
A new power gathered around him, solemn, sacrificial. He raised his wand, tip pointed resolutely upwards. His voice, no longer a plea but a final, resonant declaration:
"Sael'thae Syraen'thor… aen'vael Elar'nor."
(Come forth, Sacred Flame… and cleanse the Earth.)
At his wand's tip, a white light sparked. Infinitesimal. Yet the sound it birthed was immense—an eternal, pure tone. It pulsed, shaking the void, quieting Elar's distant screams. The spark grew, expanded, its brilliance intensifying, promising an unimaginable conflagration, or a blinding purification.
Sael'Morenthyr's serene composure finally shattered. His jade eyes widened. His beautiful face, usually a mask of calm superiority, contorted—horror, stark disbelief, a deeply etched envy warring for dominance.
"No! Im… impossible!" he stammered, his melodic voice cracking. "That's… Syraen'Thalor! The Sacred Flame! How can a mortal like you wield it? How can you wield the Flame of Creation?!"
Kor'Vael, his form now radiating a soft, consuming light, met his gaze. "Sael," his voice, though strained, was clear, carrying over the hum of the growing Flame. "It is not too late. Surrender this ambition. Remember what we were. End this."
The mention of their past seemed only to fuel Sael'Morenthyr's fury. His features twisted into a mask of profound disdain. "I, Sael'Morenthyr—the Morning Star—surrender to no one," he spat, chilling arrogance lacing each word, "least of all a sentimental mortal!"
Kor'Vael's jaw tightened. He will never yield. The bitter realization settled.
With a renewed, grim determination, he poured more of his essence into the spell. The Syraen'Thalor answered. It erupted—a roaring, blinding wave of white radiance, pure and absolute. It tore through the void, ripples of unimaginable power spreading, consuming everything.
Sael'Morenthyr's face, now a canvas of solemn fury, hardened. He raised his hands in a desperate, downward arc. His voice dropped, deep, ancient, vibrating with dark power:
"Kor'thae Vaeyn'Zul… Elyndar'shael Saen'vael."
(Let the shadow rise… and silence the flame's breath.)
The void fractured further.
Before him, a veil of inverted resonance unfolded—a churning black mist, laced with pulsing violet threads, coiling like smoke trapped within unseen glass. It met the onrushing Sacred Flame.
For a breath, the Flame was held.
Then, a sound like tearing silk, amplified to a cosmic scale, shrieked.
A crack spiderwebbed across the shadowy veil.
Slowly, inexorably, the Syraen'Thalor ate through the shield.
Kor'Vael's face was strained, sweat beading on his brow, the expenditure etching lines of exhaustion around his eyes. "It is over, Sael," he rasped. "You cannot win."
Sael'Morenthyr stared at the victorious flame, then a cold, chilling grin stretched his lips. "Perhaps not this battle," he conceded, his voice a silken whisper of malice. "But before I fade, I shall leave a gift for you, Kor'Vael… and for your precious Elar."
With a guttural shout, he unleashed the terrifying totality of his suppressed power. His dark aura flared, a nova of defiant despair.
Kor'Vael felt a cold dread. Even now… such power…
Sael'Morenthyr boomed, his voice a resonant, damning decree, etching itself onto reality:
"Vaeyn'dael kor'Saelun… thir'kor aelun'dae.
Kor'elun vaer'thal, saen'dael lux'Elar.
Aelun'dae… vaeyn'zul… syraen'shael kor'vael.
Veyr'dae saen'kor… Elyndar'thael aen'zul.
Thar'elun veyr'dae-kor'shael nor daen.
Saelun'dae vaer'thal… syraen'dor aen lux'vael.
Kor'shael dael saelun-vaeyn'dael aelun'kor."
(Corrupt the Sound of Men… break their soul's song.
Let them be bound, not by flame, but by what they birth.
Once free, they walked in Elar with light.
Now dissonant… shadow-born… the Sacred Flame mourns the Steadfast.
Let the ground be cursed—bearing nothing for them.
Let women suffer, blood-bound, in the bearing of men.
Curse the sacred union—let it beguile them, let it become sport.)
Hearing the vile words take root, Kor'Vael's weary face contorted, righteous fury blazing in his eyes. "Sael! How dare you!"
Sael'Morenthyr threw back his head and roared with laughter, a sound chilling and triumphant in its utter malice, even as the Flame licked at his shield. "Hahahahaha! My little parting gift, old friend! A curse to echo through their generations!"
Vicious, unyielding hatred, Kor'Vael thought, his anger yielding to a profound, solemn sorrow. Elar was already screaming; this curse would ensure its suffering echoed long after. He could not simply win; he had to counter this. With newfound resolve hardening his gaze, he drew upon a different theme of the Source, a melody of hope. His voice, though strained, rose again, clear, imbued with unshakeable faith, the Sacred Flame still blazing from his wand:
"Thar'vael saen'dael… lux'aen syraen'dae.
Aelun'shael daelun—sael'un kor'vaen.
Vaelun'dae syraen'kor… thir'dael kor lux.
Veyr'sael kor'thal… lux'vael aen'thir.
Kor'vaen… kor'vaen saelun."
(Then let those who sow reap in joy.
Let children be the light of their mothers' hearts.
With love and kindness break every chain.
Let truth be the light—and by it, let them walk.
Let them be free—truly free.)
As Kor'Vael's blessing resonated, a counter-harmony against the lingering curse, the Syraen'Thalor pulsed with renewed intensity. It shattered Sael'Morenthyr's failing shield with a sound like the breaking of a dark star. Pure white radiance enveloped the Morning Star.
Sael'Morenthyr screamed—a sound of pure agony and undiluted fury. "Kor'Vael! Don't think this is over! It is not yet over!"
Then, the Sacred Flame consumed him entirely. With a final, violent implosion of light and shadow, Sael'Morenthyr, the Morning Star, was burnt to nothing but scattered, dissonant ashes that faded into the tormented void.