They say the world began not with light, but with ink.
Aetherron started with ink.
Lines carved into silence by the hands of the Architects—ancient, forgotten beings who shaped mountains with syntax and breathed life into clay with breathless glyphs. Every creature, every element, every death, was not born by chance, but written. The Grand Script governed it all.
It is said that even gods could not defy their own clauses.
Magic? Merely the recitation of what had already been authored.
Power? A matter of inheritance, not will.
You were born with your Name-Script, etched into your soul before your first cry. It decided what fire would heed you, what contracts would bind you, and where your blood would fall.
Every law had a place.
Every person, a function.
And for thousands of years, it was enough.
But scripts decay.
Somewhere deep beneath the known world, buried under centuries of overwritten laws and sealed glyphs, something began to stir. A word never meant to be spoken. A mark that was never carved. A gap in the sentence of reality.
It was not written.
It was not chosen.
And in its silence, it learned.
It remembered rules—not to obey, but to break. It saw the bindings on the world and knew instinctively how to slip the knot, how to twist the clause until it unraveled.
It was not born of fire, nor blood, nor name.
It was born of error.
And now, it wakes.