…before creation, the birth of Chaos…
The universe wasn't born; it was vomited forth. A maelstrom of raw, churning energy, a sickening kaleidoscope of impossible colors that clawed at her sanity. There was no order, no sense, just a howling, formless void of pure, destructive power. She could hear the screams, the raw, untamed fear of existence itself.
…and then Order, his brother and rival, who hated each other with such vitriol…
Two colossal forms, born of the same cosmic horror, twisted and writhed, locked in an eternal, agonizing embrace of hatred. One, a tempest of pure, unadulterated madness; the other, a rigid, crushing geometry that sought to shackle the very essence of existence. Their hatred was a tangible force, a searing heat that scorched her mind, leaving behind only ash and the chilling echo of their endless, vitriolic war. Elara tasted the bile of their animosity, felt the crushing weight of their contempt.
…the Trickster born from the first laugh… Kindness from the needs of Emma…
A grotesque, twisted spark, born from a sound that was less a laugh and more a shriek of cosmic mirth, solidified into something insidious, a mischievous horror. And then, a sickly sweet warmth, a cloying comfort that seeped from Emma's primordial needs, transforming into a being that felt less like kindness and more like a manipulative balm, a poisoned offering. Elara felt a chill seep into her soul, recognizing the insidious nature of these cosmic births.
"Professor?" Kallen's concerned chirps finally broke through the deluge. He hovered inches from her face, his bright, avienkin eyes wide with worry. "Are you alright? You look… you look like you've seen the unmaking of everything."
Elara blinked, the docks lurching back into a semblance of reality, yet still tinged with the grotesque hues of her visions. The Tome vibrated with a sickeningly sweet hum against her side, still feeding her the horrifying truths.
…when great emotion or change happened, a new, more powerful primordial is born on the planet of Lore…
The truth hit her with the force of a tidal wave, colder and more terrifying than any cosmic revelation. It wasn't just ancient history; it was now. Lore wasn't just a planet; it was a spawning ground.
…and that they lived among them, hidden with mortal forms unlike the majority of the primordial race.
She stared at the bustling port, at the myriad of faces, each one a potential mask. The otterkin bartering loudly, his teeth too sharp, his eyes too knowing. The badgerkin merchant, too placid, his gaze too deep. The eaglekin sailor, his wings too strong, his presence too commanding. They weren't just people. They were… things. Elder beings, walking among them, their true forms hidden beneath a fragile veil of mortality. The world spun, the ground beneath her feet feeling suddenly, terrifyingly unstable. Every smile, every gesture, every interaction became a potential lie. They were living in a nightmare, and she was the only one who could see it. Her gaze drifted over Kallen, his tiny, vibrant form suddenly seeming so fragile, so utterly unaware of the cosmic horrors lurking beneath the surface of their world.
The Nocturne’s Call hummed with a different kind of energy than its usual nightly revelry. Errin, a sleek batkin with fur as white as fresh snow and leathery wings tied back to keep them out of the way, meticulously secured the final arcane rune to the cooling crate. Her voice, a low, silken hum, wove through the quiet bar, a melody of contented focus. This new crate would keep the fermented glow-berries perfectly chilled, a vital upgrade.
A faint chime above the door announced a new arrival. Errin glanced up, her keen batkin ears twitching. Her humming faltered, dying in her throat.
The figure standing just inside the doorway had a distinctly human-like face, but with the pointed ears and a long, expressive tail of a wolf. It resembled her wife, Nott, but this wasn't Nott. This wolfkin wore no flowing silks or the intricate beadwork typical of Varashroova. Instead, simple, dark leather straps crisscrossed a sturdy tunic, and practical trousers were tucked into worn boots. Their build seemed… broader, more weathered.
Yet, despite the unfamiliar clothes, despite the subtle differences, something was undeniably, impossibly familiar. The curve of their jawline, the intelligent gleam in their amber eyes, the way their wolf-like tail swished ever so slightly as they surveyed the empty room.
Errin’s heart hammered against her ribs. It was Nott. Or a ghost of her. Or a reflection from a shattered mirror. The thought was absurd, impossible, yet the undeniable resemblance was a punch to the gut. The wolfkin met her gaze, and a faint, knowing smirk touched their lips—a smirk that was so utterly, perfectly Nott.
Errin noticed too that this woman would have to be younger than Nott. Yet, despite the unfamiliar clothes, despite the subtle differences, something was undeniably, impossibly familiar. The curve of their jawline, the intelligent gleam in their amber eyes, the way their wolf-like tail swished ever so slightly as they surveyed the empty room. It was Nott in every way, except for her hair. Its thickness and dark shade were all Vidar, Nott's deceased brother.
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Errin went to speak, a dozen questions forming on her tongue, but the wolfkin cut her off, her voice a low, steady rumble. "By the look on your face, I'm in the right place. And I'm sure you have questions."
"Yes!" Errin stammered, her voice a reedy whisper, barely audible above the sudden, frantic beating of her heart. "I have questions. How is this possible? Who are you?"
The wolfkin woman offered a small, calm smile, a disarming gesture that did little to ease Errin's spiraling confusion. "My name is Torren. I'm Nott's half-sister."
Torren took a step further into the bar, her gaze sweeping over the empty tables, though her focus quickly returned to Errin. "I imagine that's quite a shock," she added, her voice a low, steady rumble that somehow managed to be both comforting and utterly unsettling. "I've traveled a long way to get here."
Half-sister? The words echoed in Errin's mind, clashing violently with everything she knew. Everything Nott had ever shared painted a stark, lonely picture: just Nott and Vidar, the sole survivors of their family. Nott's mother had succumbed to illness when Nott was barely an infant, leaving Nott too young to even remember her. And their father… their father had died at Vidar's hand when Nott was only five, right after the brutal attack that had stolen her ability to speak. Nott was supposed to be the last one. The very last. The final thread of their broken lineage. The idea of another sibling, a half-sister, materialized out of thin air, shattered the bedrock of Errin’s understanding.
"But it's not possible," Errin managed, shaking her head. "Nott can't have a sister. Her mother died close to Nott's birth. Nott was practically an infant."
Torren sighed, a long, weary sound, her gaze growing distant as if seeing the past unfold before her. "That's not entirely true, Errin. Nott's mother is dead, yes, but only just five years dead. You see," Torren continued, her voice dropping, "Nott's father, Ferrith, was a terrible drunk. And when he drank, particularly ichorwine—the hallucinogenic wine the fae used to use in celebrations—he would become a cruel and violent man. He was never kind, but with the ichorwine... he was a monster."
Torren paused, a shadow passing over her face. "Nott's mother, my mother, couldn't bear it any longer. She fled across the sea, desperate to escape him, but she wasn't able to save her children. She tried to make them forget her, to protect them from the pain of her leaving, of their father's cruelty. She hurried their memory, hoping they would be safe without her influence. It was a desperate act, born of despair."
Her eyes, so like Nott's, softened with a profound sadness. "On her deathbed, just five years ago, she made me promise. She gave me a letter she had written, and made me swear I would find Nott. To apologize. To explain everything."
Errin, still reeling, moved on instinct. She pulled out a sturdy wooden chair from one of the empty tables, the legs scraping softly against the floor. "Sit," she said, her voice a little steadier now, though still laced with disbelief.
While Torren settled into the chair, Errin walked to the front door of The Nocturne's Call. With a definitive click, she flipped the 'Open' sign to 'Closed'. The soft glow of the bar's internal lights felt warmer, more private now. She returned to the table and pulled another chair, positioning it directly in front of Torren, her gaze unwavering.
"Tell me everything you know," Errin demanded, leaning forward, her skepticism a palpable shield. "And how you knew to come here."
Torren met her stare, her amber eyes holding a depth of understanding. "Finding here was difficult, yes. But there isn't a person on Lore who doesn't know who Nott is. What Nott is."
Errin’s hackles rose, her white fur bristling almost imperceptibly. "Be careful with your words," she warned, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "Nott is not a 'what.' She is a wonderful soul, and it's unfair how people treat her after she ended the war."
Torren's expression softened, a hint of genuine apology in her eyes. "You're right. My apologies. Rumors are the only thing I've heard since the war, after Nott killed the Mad Fae Queen. In my eyes," she added, her voice firm, "she was a hero."
Errin let out a sad, hollow laugh. "I wish Nott could see that. The fear and judgment of the rest of the world nearly broke her. She rarely interacts with Varashroova unless she has no other choice."
"The rumors I heard," Torren continued, her voice low, as if sharing a secret even the walls shouldn't hear, "were that Nott was barely able to control her power in those final moments. That the raw magic she wielded to defeat the Mad Fae Queen consumed her as much as it did the enemy. There were whispers of massive destruction, that entire sections of Varashroova were just... gone. Not from the Fae Queen's rage, but from Nott's own uncontrolled might. They said the deaths of many, perhaps even hundreds, were a result of her victory, not just the conflict itself." Torren's gaze held Errin's, a silent question in her eyes. "They painted a picture of a destructive force, not a savior. But I knew, deep down, that couldn't be the whole truth
Errin sighed sadly, a deep, heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. She leaned back in her chair, her gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance, beginning the tale.
"There was a peace summit called," she began, her voice soft, tinged with a weariness Torren hadn't heard before. "All the world leaders appeared in Varashroova. From the owlkin of Scholarik Noctis to the racoonfolk of Whisperwind, they came, and they brought their armies for protection. Every notable leader, every significant force, gathered in one place. What we didn't realize at the time was that this was exactly what Nyx had planned for."
Errin's eyes, usually so sharp and lively, became distant, haunted. "With their countries unprotected, their defenses stripped away, Nyx used forbidden magic. She raised the dead of those very nations, turning them against their own. It was... horrible. The dead tore their own apart. They rose from their graves, not as shambling, mindless things, but twisted parodies of their former selves, imbued with a cold, malevolent purpose. They recognized faces, recognized kin, and that made it so much worse."
Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "Imagine it, Torren. A child, safe in their home, suddenly faced with the reanimated corpse of their own mother, her eyes empty, her hands reaching not for an embrace, but to rend. A father, returning from the fields, only to find his buried son clawing his way out of the earth, lunging with unnatural strength. They didn't just attack; they savaged. The dead, armed with the intimate knowledge of their families, struck at weaknesses, at hearts, at the very bonds