Their name was lost to history, for names could not contain them. To some, they were the Beholder of Reality; to others, the Weaver of realms. They were also sometimes called the Unmaker, for with a mere thought, they could unravel the laws that governed existence itself. Their power was not magic as men understood it—it was something deeper, more primal, a force beyond comprehension.
But power, no matter how great, always demands a price.
They walked the lands as a wanderer, clad in a cloak that shimmered like the night sky, with eyes that reflected countless possibilities. Worlds rose and fell in their wake, as if reality itself bent to their passing. They could breathe life into barren wastelands, turn stone to gold, and weave the very stars into the tapestry of the night. Yet for all their gifts, they remained alone, untouched by time, forever set apart from those who called themselves mortal.
Legends whisper that they once loved. That there was one who held their heart— whose name, like their own, had faded into the abyss of forgotten things. It is said that when the lover was taken from them—whether by fate, by treachery, or by their own folly—they unmade entire worlds in their grief. They sought to rewrite the Fabric, to twist the threads of time and undo that which had been done.
But even them, for all their power, could not fight the will of the world.
In the end, they vanished. Some say they were destroyed by the gods, who feared their power. Others claim they chose to erase themselves, dissolving into the very reality they had once shaped. And yet, there are those who believe they still lingers, hidden in the forgotten corners of existence, waiting. Watching.
And perhaps—just perhaps—they were not as lost as the stories would have us believe.
For in the depths of the fabric of existence, where the echoes of the past still whisper, there is a name that resurfaces, spoken only in hushed tones. A name that does not belong to a man, nor a god, but something far greater.
A name that should have never been remembered.
And now, it has been spoken once more.
The sky wavered, shifting between twilight and dawn as if uncertain of its place in time. The air itself shimmered with unseen hands reshaping its essence, warping the colors of reality into a spectrum beyond mortal comprehension. In the heart of the everveil where existence bled between worlds, a figure stood at the precipice of creation and oblivion.
A lone figure, draped in a cloak woven from the threads of possibility, extended a hand toward the void. Where fingers brushed the air, the fabric of reality trembled, bending to an unseen will. The fabrics rose and crumbled in an instant, space and time rewound their course, and stars flared into being before collapsing into nothingness. This was not magic, nor was it divine intervention—it was the will of the Beholder.
The Beholder's breath was steady, but their mind a storm. With every shift in reality, memories flickered in and out of existence. A name lost. A face forgotten. They had shaped worlds, rewritten destinies, but now, the price of power gnawed at the edges of their soul.
From the distance, beyond the undulating horizon where time held no meaning, a presence stirred. A ripple of something greater—something ancient and watchful. A voice, neither spoken nor heard, resonated in the Beholder's mind.
*You meddle where none should tread. The Balance must be upheld.*
The Beholder's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Balance is but an illusion," they whispered, and with a mere thought, the sky shattered into a thousand reflections of possibility.