Pixabay
An echo that preceded its own cause. In that limbo of the uncreated, fantasy was born like a sigh of the impossible. One of those spheres, named Elarion for the winds that never blew, decided to break the cycle of the contest. Fragmented into seven lights, each with a single purpose: memory, oblivion, love, fear, form, chaos, and silence.
These lights descended through the folds of the void, and by touching nothing, they transformed it into something. The first worlds were not the subjects, but as ideas were believed, they were suspended emotions, and the creatures that inhabited them were living metaphors for what had yet to be written. On one of those worlds, called Thal'virel, the trees spoke in verse and the mountains wept memories of gods who had never existed.
There, the inhabitants were not born: they were summoned by the nostalgia of the stars. Each had a name composed of musical notes that could only be pronounced under two eclipses.
Time on Thal'Virel not only functioned directly, but twirled like a dance, and keeping track of it with clocks was a big no-no.
But you know, even the best melodies have their notes. A bit of discord appeared, a break in the melody, a still, the seventh chord, they began to swallow up names, shapes, and memories.
The worlds began to forget that they were dreams, and in doing so, they became matter, fantasy became history, history became myth, and myth became dust.
Thus, in the last moment before silence enveloped all, a spark of memory escaped between the folds of the cosmos, became a word, then a verse, then a book. And that book, lost within the confines of a library floating between dimensions, waits to be read by those who still believe that fantasy is not an escape, but a higher form of truth. Each world is a reflection of what has not yet been, but already exists at the heart of the eternal.