Long ago, the sky cracked.

  It split open like old glass, and from the break came something not quite light and not quite sound—an ancient pulse that sank into the bones of the earth. The world changed. The world awakened.

  That awakening was called Auralith.

  It was not magic. It was not divine. It was resonance—the soul’s ability to hum in harmony with the living veins of the world beneath it. And those who could wield that resonance shaped nations.

  Not all were equal in the eyes of the Veins.

  Some were born closer to the current. Some were born to families the world called blessed.

  And some… were not born into it at all.

  The bloodlines that could hear Auralith best rose to power. They forged the great Houses, shaped the continent of Solhara, and bound their fates to five distinct disciplines.

  In the heart of Solhara stands Veyruhl City, a metropolis of shimmering Veinstone and radiant towers, built atop the greatest Essence convergence known to history. From there, the Fivefold Concord governs the world—each House a pillar of order and dominion.

  House Vexlan, generals of the Pulsebinders, shape war through pure motion and force.

  House Sevon, nobles of the Fluxmancers, bend gravity and distance with regal precision.

  House Kaedor, mystics of the Eidolists, walk with spirits and hold dominion over memory.

  House Menedrin, scholars of the Scriptborn, bind Auralith into glyphs that govern law and limit.

  House Trize, artisans of the Ethershapers, mold Auralith into sentient tools and living constructs.

  Each House governs a region. Each bloodline hoards its secrets. In Solhara, blood is not just power—it is identity. It is everything.

  Unless you are born with nothing.

  Duskmere was a place where things faded.

  It wasn’t cursed. Not exactly. Just forgotten—by the Concord, by the Veins, by the future. Mist clung to the town’s sloped rooftops like the town was trying to disappear into itself. Trees leaned over narrow streets, limbs slick with silver-gray lichen. Even the lanterns struggled to stay lit, their flames flickering behind fog-crusted glass.

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  Buildings tilted slightly, settling into the earth like weary travelers. The chapel bell had cracked years ago during a Veinquake and was never repaired. No one remembered what it had sounded like.

  There were no banners here. No academies. No Concord summons. Just people, bundled in layers, who walked with their heads low and their voices lower.

  And Varen Drossel walked among them like a ghost who hadn't yet realized he was dead.

  That morning, the sky hung heavy with low, wet clouds. Varen made his rounds—no greetings, no small talk. Just deliveries. He preferred it that way.

  Near the forge, he wiped his boots on a cracked stone step before entering. The heat of the fire struck him immediately—a humid wall of breath that smelled of ash and scorched oil.

  The blacksmith wasn’t in. His son, Rael, met him at the workbench, wiping soot from his forearms with a dirty cloth.

  “You’re early,” Rael said without looking up. His voice was sharp—not cruel, just careless. The way someone talks to an insect they’re not in the mood to squash.

  “I’m always early,” Varen replied, keeping his eyes on the blade.

  It was a fine piece—slim, folded Veinsteel, etched with marks meant to stabilize low-tier Auralith resonance. Meant for a beginner. Maybe someone hoping to pass the Concord’s entrance test.

  Rael handed it to him, wrapped in cloth and twine. But before Varen could stow it, Rael paused.

  “You know,” he said, tilting his head, “my father used to say your family could craft weapons without ever touching a forge. Said they could pull shapes from the air. From memory.”

  He leaned forward, curious now. “That true? Or just Reach nonsense?”

  Varen didn’t respond. He tied the package quietly and reached for his satchel.

  Rael didn’t stop. “Does it bother you? That it skipped you? Or maybe your family was lying the whole time.”

  Varen met his eyes then—just for a second.

  Rael faltered, smile flickering.

  “Whatever,” he said, stepping back. “Doesn’t matter now. Drossel’s just a name.”

  Varen left without another word. The blade weighed heavier than it should have in his bag.

  That night, the fog was thicker than usual. The moon barely pierced it, and the treetops swayed without wind.

  Varen’s feet found the path easily. He didn’t need light. He’d walked this way more times than he could count.

  The ruins waited at the cliff’s edge, ancient stone swallowed by moss and root. Once a Vein Temple stood here—one of the first in the region, the stories said. A place where Drossel ancestors shaped essence with more than hands.

  Now it was silent. Broken. Forgotten.

  He stepped into the circle of collapsed pillars, their surfaces worn smooth by time. At the center, a flat disc of stone remained—its carvings nearly erased, but not gone. Not completely.

  He knelt, exhaled, and pressed his palm to the stone.

  At first, nothing.

  Then—

  Pulse.

  Soft. Subtle. Like the rhythm of a heart deep underground.

  Another pulse followed. Then a third. The Vein beneath the ruin—dead for decades—was responding.

  The stone warmed under his skin. A thread of pale light bloomed along the cracks, flickering faintly like a breath drawn in sleep.

  And then it came:

  A word.

  It didn’t echo in the air. It didn't reach his ears. It resonated inside him.

  Echo.

  He jerked back, breath caught. His heart pounded. The light vanished—but not all of it. A single symbol, long buried in dirt and moss, burned faintly for a few seconds longer. It was unfamiliar. But it felt… true.

  Varen stared down at his hand, fingers trembling.

  The ruins were silent again. The wind had stopped. Even the forest had gone still.

  But he knew—something had changed.

  Not in the world.

  In him.