As passed through forgotten mouths and written by ink that remembers…

“In the beginning, there was ash.”

From this ash rose a seed — Sirta-ka, spirit of the breath-born tribes, daughter of nothing, destined for everything. She spoke to fire before she had words.

She walked into the dusk and became Elystra-Kai, the bearer of light after endings. She held the dying flame as if it still mattered — and because she did, it lived.

But memory is a cruel companion. She wove it into threads, becoming Kaithira-Vel, the one who remembered even what was never spoken. In her hands, the past was fabric.

Yet truth grows cold when wrapped too tightly. So she froze the heart and watched the world with stillness — as Talviira-Kein, the Frozen Flame, she abandoned feeling to protect what was left.

But frozen fire cracks, and blood remembers. She rose again in crimson fury as Nai’Zurael, a lantern blazing through war and sorrow. She was vengeance refined.

The world feared her voice — so she spoke anyway. As Iskavryn, she broke seals with syllables. Her name became a weapon; her silence, prophecy.

Then came hunger: not for food, but for meaning. She devoured identities, became the erasure — Veylith Amara, the one who un-names what should not be remembered.

And from that void, she sang. Not a song of joy — but of form without shape. Siltraan was sound, resonance, truth in vibration.

But even songs fall silent. And in that silence stood Enkara-Thys, unmoving, watching. She was the pause before the blade, the hush before grief.

And finally… when even death refused to come, she did.

She became Nocthyra-El, the last name, the final whisper.

The end that ends all endings.