And lo, in the twilight of the First World, when the Architects fell to silence and the Unspoken’s shadow bled through their broken covenant, the Radiance sought vessels anew. For though the heavens wept, the light could not perish; it yearned for expression, for the trembling grace of mortal flesh. Thus were forged the Five Fragments, each born of divine ruin, each cursed with the burden of incompletion.

The first arose from the tomb of iron and smoke — the Bearer of the Furnace, whose hands were hammers and whose heart beat like a war-drum. He awoke within a wasteland of ash, surrounded by the bones of titans who had devoured the sun. From their ribs he forged his armor, from their marrow his blade. He fought not for glory, but because silence enraged him. Each swing of his weapon broke the crust of the world, releasing rivers of molten gold that hissed like dying serpents. He was wrath given form — the instrument of endless reprisal. Yet even wrath burns its wielder, and his veins became channels of molten Radiance until he was but a walking forge, condemned to burn forever in pursuit of foes long perished.

The second came forth from the marrow of the dying forests — the Beast-Bound Wanderer. His bones grew outside his flesh, white and jagged, encasing him in a cage of his own body. He was born amidst the corpses of hunters who had slain all beasts, and in their absence, he became the last of them. His hunger was not for meat, but for vengeance. When he spoke, his words cracked like brittle bone. The more he fed upon his enemies, the stronger his shell became, until his humanity was sealed within a coffin of ivory. His tears turned to calcium dust. When at last he looked upon his reflection, he saw no man, only the fossil of one who could not stop killing.

The third was the God-Breaker, who rose upon a battlefield of forgotten prayers. His body was wrapped in chains forged from the vows of the fallen — oaths that had failed, faiths that had curdled. His hands still remembered the touch of divinity, though his heart had long since turned to cinder. He carried within him a hatred so pure it scalded even his shadow. Once, he had served the Luminous Crown, but when the heavens demanded the sacrifice of all he loved, he tore their temple down stone by stone. He learned that gods bleed as men do, and from their blood he drank strength. Yet with every divinity he slew, the emptiness grew wider, until he became the very thing he despised — a hollow idol, sustained only by the memory of rebellion.

The fourth was the Hunter of the Silent Plains, born where Radiance met ruin. His eyes were two dying stars, his breath heavy with the scent of sulfur. He walked through the ruins of creation wielding a weapon of forgotten design — a relic that roared like thunder and devoured souls. He hunted not for sport, but to silence the voices that called him coward, the echoes of his own past failures. Each kill deafened him further, until he hunted by instinct alone. When he finally realized he had slain all who bore the mark of evil, he found no peace, for he had become the last mark himself. In the mirror of his own violence, the Hunter vanished, leaving behind only the echo of a gunshot that has not yet stopped ringing.

The fifth, and final, was the Child of the Fractured Light — the wanderer who smiled amidst ruin. He alone carried a remnant of hope, a shard of the first sun still lodged within his heart. Where others raised weapons, he raised melodies. His steps awakened sleeping stones; his songs healed beasts of war. Yet hope is the cruelest burden, for all who came to him sought salvation, and none found it. He could not mend the fractures, only delay their shattering. When the Beast-Bound came to him, he wept and failed to save him. When the God-Breaker knelt before him, begging for peace, he could offer none. His melody grew dissonant, then ceased. When his light finally guttered, the heavens dimmed to mourning.

Thus were the Fragments scattered — five torches guttering in an endless wind. Each bore the curse of Radiance: to burn, but never to illuminate; to remember, but never to be whole. Their stories would echo through a thousand ages, whispered in the marrow of the dying, sung in the prayers of the desperate.

And so, the world learned that the divine does not die — it decays.

From their ashes rose kingdoms of fear. From their bones, temples. From their sorrow, scripture. And in the silence after their fall, something stirred — not light, not shadow, but balance, unseen and unborn, a promise the world could not yet name.