Prolog

  Major lux was petroling the eastern front with his squad when they came under enemy fire. The quick reaction due to his training kicked in. So he was able to get to the trenches he fell right onto a german soldier and pinned him. His sergeant screamed at him lux use your knife. The enemy struggled but i did my job then a machine gun opened up an every thing went black.

  Chapter 1

  The void

  Darkness calming an tranquil like im in a deep sleep but......but i feel nothing not a bed not the air. In fact i dont think im....im alive anymore as I dont think ive taken a breath. I also dont remember who i am. Who i was uhhh...maybe what i was or was it where i was.

  Regardless im in this void now floating, waiting. Just then i hear a voice cold, harsh like rocks grinding. It says young one you are not alone here you died on earth or as my brothers an sisters call it Gaia. I somehow find my voice.... i pause my....my voice was it there all along. Nevertheless the being in my presence continues your death was a mistake. Perhaps an accident on the cosmic forces side. You were suppose to live not be forced out of your body. The voice goes silent. I respond in a tiny voice who....who are you. It responds with im the creator little one

  The darkness around me seems to tremble, and the grinding voice grows just a bit softer, though still ancient and heavy with power.

  "I am the one who shaped the rivers before the land knew their names. The one who carved mountains with a thought and kindled suns with a breath. My siblings and I keep the balance… or at least, we try to."

  A pause—like the Creator is weighing their next words.

  "But sometimes… things slip through the cracks. Like you."

  The voice hums low, like the deep rumble of an earthquake under the ocean.

  "Before you decide, little one, I will return to you what was yours… fragments of your life on Gaia. The laughter, the tears, the people who held your heart, and the moments that shaped you. They will not come all at once—you will find them in pieces, like scattered petals on the wind."

  A flicker of warmth brushes against my mind—memories rushing back in sharp flashes. Faces. Streets I once walked. The smell of rain. The sound of my own voice calling a name I can’t quite remember.

  "You may choose, here and now—remain adrift in the quiet of death… or step into Evermore. A land still in its dawn, where rivers run with magic and skies are shared by many races. It is a place that grows as its people shape it."

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  The Creator’s tone deepens, taking on an edge of warning and promise.

  "If you go, you will not go empty-handed. Powers—seeded in your soul—will stir in time. You will not yet know how to call them, but they will answer when the moment demands it. And should you find another who is dear to you, you may awaken their own gifts… though such bonds are rare."

  A beat of silence. The darkness feels heavier, expectant.

  "So… will you drift in the stillness forever? Or will you breathe again in Evermore?"

  I...i want to live again.

  The Creator’s voice shifts—still deep, but threaded with something almost like satisfaction.

  "Then live you shall."

  The void around me begins to crack—not like glass, but like the night sky itself is splintering, light bleeding through in thin, jagged lines. A slow wind brushes against my skin for the first time since my death, carrying scents me cannot name.

  "Remember this, little one—life in Evermore will not be as it was on Gaia. It will test you, tempt you, and try to break you. But it will also offer you beauty beyond imagining… if you dare to claim it."

  A faint pulse of warmth blooms in my chest, sinking into my bones.

  "Your first gift stirs now. It sleeps, but it is yours. You will know when to call to it. And when you do…" the voice lowers, almost to a whisper “…it will answer in ways you do not yet understand."

  The cracks of light spread until the darkness shatters entirely, and for the briefest moment, I see the silhouette of something immense—wings, horns, eyes like molten gold—before the light swallows me whole.

  Warm sunlight presses against your eyelids, coaxing you awake. The cool scent of earth and moss surrounds me, the faint rustle of leaves whispering above. Somewhere close, a bird calls out in a strange, melodic trill Ive never heard before.

  I lie on a soft bed of grass, a dirt path stretching a few feet away—wide enough for a horse-drawn wagon. The air is clean, fresh in a way Earth’s cities never were, carrying the faint tang of something magical I can’t quite place.

  When I sit up, I notice a weathered wooden sign at the fork in the road: one arrow pointing left reads “City of Springvale,” its letters carved with care. The other arrow points right, the words darker, heavier: “Baron Blackwood’s Estate.”

  My hands instinctively pat myself down. The uniform I wore the day I died clings to me—familiar fabric against my skin. In my pocket, my watch rests, its ticking oddly steady despite… everything.

  A small amry issued dagger presses against my palm when I pull it free, its blade worn from use but comforting in its weight.

  The forest feels alive around me. Every leaf seems to watch. Every shadow seems to listen. And though I can’t see anyone, I can’t shake the feeling… someone knows i'm here.

  I glance between the two signs, weighing my options. Baron Blackwood’s Estate… from what I remember of Earth’s history, nobles rarely welcomed strangers—especially not ones appearing out of nowhere in strange clothes. Springvale, on the other hand, sounded like a place where I might blend in, find my bearings, maybe even get some answers.

  S9 I turn left, toward the city.

  The dirt path winds through patches of wildflowers and tall grass, sunlight spilling in shifting patterns through the trees. That’s when I hear it—soft footsteps that aren’t mine, keeping pace in the underbrush. I slow, pretending not to notice, until a figure steps hesitantly onto the path ahead.

  She’s a young woman—no, not entirely human. Tall, furred ears twitch atop her head, matching the long tail that sways warily behind her. Her clothes are little more than tattered rags, patched and frayed, as if she’s been wearing the same garments for years. Her amber eyes dart over me with clear suspicion.