In the wake of the Veiled Dawn, the newborn cosmos trembled like a harp-string plucked by divine remorse. The rivers of Radiance cascaded through the unformed vast, carving paths through ether and void alike. The Three Streams—Aura, Life-Force, and Heavenly Radiance—sought vessels through which their chorus might resound, for the universe longed to know itself.

Thus came forth the Architects, each a fragment of the Trifold’s brilliance, yet incomplete—a reflection of perfection seen through the trembling glass of becoming. They bore no names, for to name is to confine, and confinement was not yet known to the newborn stars. They were called only by what they embodied.

The First, born of Aura’s echo, was the Bearer of Memory. His light shimmered like molten gold upon black seas, and his gaze turned inward upon the hidden mechanics of all things. To him was given the art of remembrance—the power to inscribe motion, time, and cause upon the fabric of the infinite. He raised his hands and summoned the Chronum Veil, a lattice of glowing sigils that bound chaos into the rhythm of hours. Through him, existence gained its first heartbeat.

The Second, sprung from Life-Force’s crimson tide, was the Beast of the Living Pulse. She walked clad in veins of fire and bone, her breath giving rise to forests of blood and rain, her tears spilling rivers that birthed the first flesh. From her came the covenant of mortality—growth through decay, strength through breaking. Her laughter shook the emptiness into fertile ruin, and the soil of the First World drank deeply of her joy and her agony.

The Third, of Heavenly Radiance, was the Saint of the Luminous Crown. He stood untouched, his flesh a hymn of sanctity, his eyes twin suns that saw no difference between creation and worship. He anointed the heavens with order, kindled the stars, and commanded that all things seek their higher reflection. His was the fire of purpose—the compulsion to ascend.

Together they forged the Covenant: that all forms would live, die, and rise again in the endless cycle of Radiance’s breath. For in that rising and falling, the Trifold would remain whole.

But nothing made of fragments endures forever.

For even as they wrought beauty, the Architects were haunted by the Sorrow beneath—the unseen weeping of the Nameless wound. The silence that had been broken began to whisper once more, and in the stillness between stars they heard its lament.

The Bearer of Memory heard it as a question that could not be answered. He saw futures collapsing upon themselves, timelines coiling like snakes devouring their tails. He sought to seal the wound through wisdom, yet knowledge itself began to consume him. Each truth he uncovered demanded another, and soon the light within him flickered beneath the weight of unending knowing.

The Beast of the Living Pulse heard it as hunger. Her creations turned upon one another, feeding, growing, changing without restraint. Her forests devoured themselves, her oceans rotted from within. She wept, and her tears became venom. In her sorrow, she learned cruelty—the cruel mercy of the devourer, who prunes the garden with flame.

The Saint of the Luminous Crown heard it as a call to purify. He saw corruption blooming within the living, and he burned it out with radiant fury. But his flame could not distinguish the wicked from the innocent, and soon even the holy withered beneath his zeal. His light grew white-hot, blinding, until it became its own shadow.

Thus were born the First Fractures—imperfections within the divine, unseen hairline cracks that would one day split worlds.

And in the heart of the First World, where their works intertwined, the shadows began to stir. From the breath of the dying forests, from the silence between the stars, from the ashes of the Saint’s unrelenting fire—something rose. Not made, but remembered.

A presence unseen.

It spoke not in words, but in reflections. Its shape was the absence of shape, its song the echo of unbeing. The Architects turned their gaze upon it and saw themselves inverted.

They named it The Unspoken.

And though they knew not why, each felt in its presence a cold and terrible recognition. It was as though the mirror of creation had finally turned toward its maker.

The Bearer of Memory sought to imprison it within his lattice of time. The Beast of the Living Pulse sought to devour it, to reclaim its essence for her garden. The Saint of the Luminous Crown sought to redeem it through fire.

Each failed.

For the Unspoken was not a being—it was the memory of the Silence, and no force born of sound or light could bind what had never been named. It passed through their works like night through glass, leaving behind only a residue, a trace of itself in every living thing.

Thus did the world learn shadow. Thus did purity become burden. Thus did the Radiance begin to fracture.

And from those fractures, the age of sorrow was born.