Chapter 2: "The Marble Pride"

  "The Vanires carved their words in diamond, forgetting that even the hardest stone may crack under the weight of its own arrogance."

  — Forbidden excerpt from the Canticles of the Fall, Vanire archives destroyed in 3,102 A.D.

  The Court of Aurimeth

  The Great Hall of Mirrors had never witnessed such an affront.

  Lyr’anel, the Vanire First Counselor, strode across the vast expanse of liquid marble with steps that echoed like hammers upon thin ice. His cloak, woven from threads of falling stars, dragged behind him, leaving a trail of blue sparks in its wake. His face, usually as impassive as the surface of a frozen lake, was twisted by an expression no Vanire should ever display: fury.

  Before him, seated upon a throne of solidified wind and divine sighs, Aurimeth watched her eldest son with eyes that burned like miniature suns.

  "You question my work?" The goddess’s voice was not a sound but a presence, filling every inch of the hall like water filling a shattered vase.

  Lyr’anel did not bow. His long, slender fingers—darker than usual for a Vanire, marked by his early contact with the forbidden threads of Nytheris—clenched into fists.

  "I question your justice, Mother." His words fell like knives upon the sacred silence. "The elves receive dreams. The dwarves have their strength. And us? What are we, if not brilliant minds trapped in bodies that shatter at the first breath of wind?"

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  The hall seemed to hold its breath.

  In the corners, the crystal birds—living creatures of pure sacred geometry—ceased their eternal song. Their translucent bodies quivered, as if anticipating what was to come.

  The Fall

  Aurimeth raised a hand.

  It was not a dramatic gesture. There was no explosion of light or clap of thunder. Just a simple motion, smooth as the unfurling of a night-blooming flower.

  And then, Lyr’anel screamed.

  His cry was not of physical pain—though his bones groaned like wood under pressure—but of something far worse. He felt his voice being torn from his throat, not as a physical organ, but as a concept, a fundamental part of his being.

  Words began to spill from his lips without his consent:

  "I envy them... I envy the elves for not bearing this burden of perfection..."

  Lyr’anel tried to clamp his mouth shut, but his own tongue betrayed him. His hands flew to his neck, as if they could contain the truths now being wrenched from him by force.

  Aurimeth watched, impassive.

  "You asked for justice, my son. Here it is." Her eyes burned brighter. "From this day forth, no Vanire shall lie. Every falsehood shall unravel, every half-truth shall be completed. Your words shall be as pure as the marble you so admire."

  Lyr’anel fell to his knees. He tried to speak, but what came out was:

  "I... I only wanted to be strong like them..."

  And then came the worst of all.

  Laughter.

  Soft, gentle, almost compassionate. Aurimeth smiled, and in her smile was an understanding so profound it hurt more than any torture.

  "Oh, my son. You still do not understand, do you?" She leaned forward, and her hair—woven of liquid sunlight—cascaded like a golden waterfall. "None of you are strong. The elves will lose themselves in their dreams. The dwarves will break under the weight of their own pride. And you, my dear Vanires... you will suffer most of all, for you alone will see the fall coming."

  The Consequences

  Beyond the hall, the world continued its ignorant course.

  In the elven gardens, Veylis—the young prophetess—awoke from her first divine dream, her cheeks streaked with blood from eyes widened by terror.

  In the deepest forges, Gorin the Dwarf-Smith hammered a blade he did not yet know was cursed, his sweat mingling with molten metal.

  And in the abyss between worlds, the lost thread of Nytheris pulsed—and for the first time, something pulsed back.