In the beginning, there was Druvaelrin, the One God, and humanity, his first and only children. For thousands of years, men and gods walked together, and the world was whole.
Auravalle, the cradle of creation, was paradise. The rivers ran clear, untouched by drought or decay. The sky shone in eternal daylight, never dimming, never breaking into the void of night. The first trees, their roots as deep as the soul of the world, bore fruit that never rotted. The mountains stood as they had always stood, their peaks reaching for heavens unseen.
And at the heart of it all, humanity flourished—timeless, unchanging, unbroken. The first humans lived for centuries upon centuries, their bodies untouched by age or decay. They did not hunger. They did not suffer. They did not die.
It was a world without loss, without longing, without the shadow of endings.
Yet even in paradise, desire grew.
Some stood upon the golden hills and looked beyond the horizon, wondering what lay beyond the rivers and mountains that marked the edge of Auravalle. What had Druvaelrin not shown them? What else might exist in the space between creation and the unknown?
Some began to speak of building, of shaping the world with their hands.
"We could create," they murmured among themselves. "We could forge something greater than what was given to us."
But others feared what such ambition might bring.
"What is greater than paradise?" they asked. "Why must we change what is already perfect?"
At first, it was only whispers carried on the wind, disappearing beneath the rustling of leaves and the murmur of the rivers.
But whispers became questions.
Questions became beliefs.
Beliefs became divisions.
Some gathered beneath the great trees, speaking of the world as it was meant to remain—a sacred harmony that should not be disturbed.
Others gathered upon the stone ridges, gazing outward, longing for a world they could shape with their own hands.
What had been one people became many.
What had been one voice became countless.
It was the first rift, though no one recognized it at the time.
And Druvaelrin remained silent.
Over time, those who sought creation and progress grew restless.
They began to see Auravalle not as a paradise but as a prison—a world where nothing changed, where the rivers never carved new paths, where the forests never grew beyond what they had always been.
"What is the purpose of eternal life if we do not shape the world around us?"
It was a question whispered first in curiosity, then in frustration, and finally in defiance.
They looked beyond the great rivers, beyond the golden forests, toward the endless land that stretched beyond the horizon. It was untouched, raw, waiting to be molded into something new.
They longed to leave paradise behind.
At first, they hesitated, waiting for a sign from Druvaelrin—approval or denial. A voice to tell them whether they were right or wrong. A decree to either keep them in paradise or permit them to step beyond it.
But Druvaelrin said nothing.
He did not stop them.
He did not guide them.
And so, humanity made its own choice.
One by one, they stepped beyond the borders of Auravalle, crossing the rivers that had once been their limits, passing the trees that had once sheltered them, and walking beyond the light of Druvaelrin's presence.
They entered Elyndor, a world untouched by divine hands.
And Druvaelrin did not follow.
"We are not worthy," the ones who remained whispered, watching their kin vanish into the unknown.
"They have forsaken God," the ones who left murmured, stepping into a world where the sky no longer shone eternally, where shadows stretched long across Elyndor for the first time.
"Perhaps God has forsaken us all," others answered, their voices lost in the wind.
Thus, Auravalle became a paradise lost—not by destruction but by abandonment.
It was the first wound in the world, though no one recognized it at the time.
The ones who left did not turn back.
They walked until Auravalle was only a memory, until its golden light no longer touched them until its rivers and forests became mere stories passed down to their children.
Then, they built.
The Builders, those who sought to reshape the world, established a city of fire and steel where they could forge their future. They tore through rock, bent metal to their will, and shaped the land as they saw fit. Over time, this city would be known as Forgehelm, devoted to progress and sacrifice.
The Keepers, those who sought to preserve what remained, built their haven among the old forests and sacred rivers, vowing to protect what had not yet been touched by the hands of man. They let the land shape them instead of shaping the land, swearing to maintain the balance that had once been gifted to them in Auravalle. Their home would one day become Eldoravell, dedicated to preservation and natural order.
Thus, two paths were formed.
But no names had yet been given.
There was no war, no Schism—not yet.
But the first step had been taken.
The first generation of humanity was born outside the divine light.
They would never walk the golden fields of Auravalle.
They would never hear Druvaelrin's voice.
For the first time in history, mortals were truly alone.
The sky still shone, but not always. Darkness came for the first time, spilling across the land as night and shadow. The rivers still flowed, but they no longer sang with the voice of the divine. The trees still stood tall, but their roots no longer held eternity within them.
The world was vast, unshaped. And it was theirs.
Among the children born in this new world were Therion and Oryn—the first of their kind, the first to know only this broken version of reality.
They were not raised in Forgehelm, where men shaped the land and bent steel to their will.
They were not raised in Eldoravell, where men spoke to the land and vowed to protect it from harm.
Instead, they were raised in Eldwyrm's Hollow—a place that was neither, yet somehow both.
The village had no banners. No war cries. No kings.
It was hidden deep in the folds of Elyndor, in the forests where the trees grew ancient and strong, where the rivers still remembered Auravalle, though they no longer carried its light.
It was founded by Malrik, a man who had once walked beside Druvaelrin himself.
Malrik, the immortal.
Malrik, who had seen the first sunrise, who had touched the roots of the first tree, who had once believed that humanity would never falter.
Yet he had watched them leave Auravalle.
And when they did, Druvaelrin had said nothing.
The world had split in two, yet he refused to accept it. If God would not mend what was broken, then he would.
So he built Eldwyrm's Hollow, a sanctuary where those who had not yet chosen a side could live in peace.
"The world does not have to be divided," Malrik told them.
"We were not meant to be two peoples."
Here, creation and preservation were not enemies.
The forges burned, but they did not consume the forest.
The hunters took what they needed, but they did not ravage the land.
It was a delicate balance—one that should have never been fragile.
Therion and Oryn grew up hearing both perspectives—not as enemies, not as rivals, but as two parts of the same whole.
The elders of progress taught them to shape, to build, to forge something greater.
The sages of preservation taught them to listen, to protect, and to let the world remain as it was meant to be.
For a time, they had the privilege of ignorance.
They did not have to choose a side.
Not yet.
But Malrik knew the world better than they did.
He had seen what was coming.
He had heard the whispers in Forgehelm—that balance was weakness.
He had seen the councils in Eldoravell—that progress was destruction.
And he knew that when the time came, humanity would not remain divided by belief alone.
A choice would be forced upon them all.
And God himself would not be spared.