The Soulseed drifted.
No longer merely a spark of origin, it now carried weight—etched with the truth of Will, tempered by Balance, and fed by the First Flame. Among the countless drifting motes across the multiverse, one shone brighter than the others. Not because it was more powerful, but because it was ready.
Luke stood atop the Crown of Eidryn, gazing into the stream of soul-light trailing through Elurai. Around him, reality rippled as multiple planes shifted and coalesced. Time curved gently beneath Chronis's design. Flame danced through the firmament, bound by Velkarion's realm. Life and death stood poised, tethered by the twins.
But now—now was the time to bring the first race into the waking world.
Not gods.
Not beasts.
But mortals—with names, lives, choices, and the potential to shape the very laws they were born under.
Luke turned to Aion, who stood beside him, cloaked in silver and starlight.
"Shall we begin?" Luke asked.
Aion's voice rang with certainty. "Let us bring order to a world still wild."
The Forge of Solace
Luke and Aion descended to the Anvil of Origin, a continent-sized floating landmass within the Realm of Foundation—a subdomain crafted specifically for the construction of enduring mortal vessels.
Here, the Soulforge pulsed like a living volcano of molten spirit and divine metals. This was where form would meet flame, and soul would be anchored in matter.
Aion raised his arm.
Around the forge, columns of shimmering crystal rose like titanic monoliths. They were symbols of permanence, of design and logic, each etched with geometries never seen before—shapes that guided thought, stability, and moral clarity.
Luke extended his hand, and the First Soulseed descended into the cauldron of divine matter.
Immediately, the Soulforge flared.
Not in chaos.
But in harmony.
Fire did not roar—it sang. Stone bent without cracking. Liquid metal formed bones and veins and memory.
The first form emerged—a giant of ash and flame, forged in perfect symmetry, taller than trees, shoulders broad as stormclouds.
Its skin gleamed with metallic undertones—golden bronze streaked with obsidian veins. Its eyes were like still lakes of starlight.
Luke called it:
"Titan."
Aion placed a sigil across the being's brow.
"And your name," he intoned, "shall be Solak, First Flameborn, bearer of Will and Balance."
The Titan opened his eyes.
And the world shivered with the weight of a new presence.
The Awakening of Solak
Solak blinked once.
His first breath was deep and soundless. Not labored, not weak—measured.
He turned slowly, seeing both gods before him, but not bowing. His mind, still forming, reached for understanding rather than worship.
Luke stepped forward.
"You were not created to serve. You were created to be."
Solak tilted his head. "And what shall I be?"
Aion replied, "A builder of worlds. A keeper of structure. A witness to law and its testing."
Solak gazed at his hands. "I feel the fire… but it does not burn."
Luke smiled. "Because you carry choice. Fire obeys the one who knows when to temper it."
From that moment, the First Titan stood tall.
Not as a prince.
Not as a servant.
But as a foundation.
The Children of Solak
Luke and Aion shaped more.
From the same mold but with unique variation, they created twelve Titans, each gifted with a shard of Solak's seed, each drawing from the same fusion of Will and Balance—yet each with their own temperament and path.
They were:
Myraen – The voice of reason, serene and thoughtful, bearer of the flame of counsel.
Torrak – The hammerhand, fierce in building and breaking alike.
Eleia – The titaness of stillness and observation, first to record a dream.
Varen – The tactician, always questioning, always testing the strength of truth.
Kareph – He who sings to stone, shaping mountains with melody.
Niryah – Guardian of echoes, listener of future words.
Thalos – The hunter, pathfinder between realms.
Jion – Armorer of soul-metal, first to discover divine alloys.
Teyra – Speaker to flame, coaxer of gentle warmth.
Oris – The curious, questioner of order.
Vareen – The first to speak of freedom, even from gods.
Ilios – The one who laughed first, and thus taught joy.
They were not uniform.
They were not obedient.
They were Titan.
The City of First Stone – Solakreon
Solak and his siblings did not scatter. They gathered.
Aion showed them how to shape matter from the base principles: binding dust with will, forming stone with purpose.
They built the first city, named Solakreon, in honor of the firstborn.
Its spires were not for defense, but for vision.
Its streets were carved with lines of logic and intent—each path a metaphor, each plaza a statement of a concept learned and shared.
Luke watched from afar as the city grew, and marveled at how quickly the Titans questioned even him.
"Why must law be singular?" Oris asked.
"Why do we feel the need to build skyward?" asked Eleia.
"If fire is creation, is it not also death?" murmured Teyra.
They did not rebel.
They reasoned.
And so, their civilization became the cradle of philosophy, structure, and ambition.
The First Rite of Will
As Solakreon grew, Aion proposed a trial—not of might, but of choice.
Each Titan was led to the Heart of the Flame, where they were shown a mirror of their essence.
They had to answer one question:
"If the gods left tomorrow, who would you become?"
Some answered with courage.
Some with fear.
Some with defiance.
But each answer was accepted.
Because the Titans had been forged not to please their makers, but to own their reflection.
This trial would become known as the First Rite of Will, and later, its echoes would form the basis of mortal trials across races.
Seeds of Dissonance
But all was not still.
Among the twelve, Oris lingered near the borders of Eidryn too often.
He watched how the soulstreams twisted.
He observed a single Soulseed that shimmered with both Curiosity and Shadow—a hybrid type.
He questioned:
"Why do we build one path, when the river carries many?"
He did not turn to darkness.
But he began to write his own scrolls, hidden from Aion, sealed from divine eyes.
And in his dreams, he saw not Luke, but something behind Luke's image—a flicker, a question, a riddle without shape.
Luke's Reflection
Luke returned to the Soulforge, alone.
He stared at the casting flame.
The Titans were perfect—and that was the concern.
Perfect structure begets pressure.
Pressure demands release.
He turned to the Codex.
It had already begun writing on its own.
"When flame learns to build, it also learns to burn."
He closed the book.
"Then let them burn," he whispered, "but not in ruin."
In the Black Beyond
Eryxis drifted like oil beneath thought.
It watched the Titans build.
It watched Oris dream.
It whispered no commands.
Only possibilities.
And possibility, it knew, was the most delicious poison of all.