Before the silence, there was harmony.
Urasium was whole. Its magic flowed untamed, pure, and interwoven with life itself. No thrones, no tyrants — only balance. That balance was guarded, not by kings or empires, but by seven silent watchers.
The Upper 7, as they would later be called, were not worshipped. They were revered. Beings of radiant will, they acted through guidance, not dominance. Their presence was gentle — a cosmic gravity that kept magic aligned, nature at peace, and ambition in check. Their influence passed through dreams, intuition, and song. And for an age, the world was content.
But among mortals, peace breeds questions. And some questions reach too far.
One man asked too much.
Solari, once a scholar of great renown, believed he could breach the veil — the space between the known and the divine. Not out of greed, but froma reverence. He wished to speak with the Upper 7, to understand them, to unify the mortal soul with the infinite.
He was warned.
But he acted.
Through a convergence of celestial cycles, ancient glyphs, and his own untempered will, Solari performed a forbidden rite before written time. The veil shimmered. A path opened.
But what met him was not the Light.
Something else waited.
It came not with fire, but with truth twisted into shapes mortals could love. One of the Seven Tyrants — beings cast from another realm, ancient even beyond myth — slipped through. Cloaked in brilliance, it spoke to Solari of order, ascension, and eternal strength. It mimicked the voice of the divine.
And Solari, trembling, believed.
By that act, the breach widened. The remaining six Tyrants followed — each one veiled in beauty, masked in wisdom. They took no cities by force. They offered power, structure and purpose.
And Urasium, unknowingly, welcomed them.
But the Light recognized the deception.
The Upper 7 descended — not as avatars, but as force. Their presence ignited the skies. Forests stood still. Oceans held their breath. It was the last time the Light touched the world directly.
What followed was not peace.
It was war.
The Great War, as remembered in the fractured hymns of the last Dreamkeepers, reshaped the very essence of the world. The Upper 7 fought not with blades, but with resonance, with pure intention, with the original laws of creation. The Tyrants answered with invention — distortion, fragmentation, and consumption.
Mountains were torn from time. Rivers reversed. Entire species unmade and rewritten.
And for a moment, it seemed the Light might hold.
But unity faltered.
The Tyrants, bound by no law but their own, adapted. They stole fragments of the world's soul and twisted them into weapons. They invented false forms of magic — dark, fast, addictive. They corrupted the hearts of the bravest. They turned guardians into traitors.
One by one, the Upper 7 were wounded — not slain, but fractured, scattered across dimensional echoes. Unable to remain, they withdrew beyond reach, into realms only the Light could see.
But the Tyrants knew this would not last.
To seal their dominion, they created the Malak.
A shroud of layered power, spun from their own essence, wrapped around Urasium like an inverse womb. Not a prison, but a spiritual quarantine — a dimension folded around a world, rendering it unreachable by the Light. The Malak was both shield and snare, its strength a direct mirror of the Tyrants' own.
The more they ruled, the thicker the Malak became.
The breach was closed.
No more guardians. No more balance. Only dominance.
And so began the Reign of Seven.
Magic — once a sacred harmony — became a fractured tool. Each Tyrant forged their own version of reality, bending the rules of nature to serve their own image. Life was no longer nurtured, but categorized, monitored, and mined. Every aspect of existence became an echo of their will.
Urasium forgot itself.
And peace became myth.
But even perfection fractured.
After nearly a millennium of dominion, two of the Tyrants — once aligned — turned against each other. The conflict was quiet at first, an ideological drift, then a contest of territory, and finally, of betrayal.
It was not visible to the people, but it echoed in the Malak.
A ripple. A fluctuation. A fracture.
Through that unseen crack, something small and burning slipped in.
Not a guardian.
Not a weapon.
A spiritual ember drifting like a forgotten prayer. It had no form, no name, no mission. Only instinct.
It sought resonance.
A soul aligned not with power, but with sorrow. Not with rage, but with purity.
In a city of ash, beneath collapsed stone, a boy screamed over the body of his fallen sister. His name was Thojin.
In that moment of breaking, became something more.
He did not know it. Not yet.
But the world did.
Something had shifted.
It was listening. But with silence.
It found him.