"Let the heavens judge one of their own."
Before the lands were born, before Elyskar's skies had names, there were twelve Thrones of Flame — twelve Constellations forged by Deities to give order to chaos. The Deities watched from beyond the stars, timeless and unseen, while the Constellations shaped the world for their amusement.
Mountains rose where Solaryn breathed. Oceans flowed from Nerivelle's pulse. Skies sang to Thalor's arrows, and earth cracked beneath Graveth's silence. These six survived, ruling the sky with divine order after the six lesser constellations were cast into shadow, their names lost to the void.
And from stardust and breath, the Syntari were born — not to rule, but to entertain. Each child marked by a Constellation's claim, bound in fate and flame.
But one among the Thrones turned against their creators.
A Deity — name forbidden, history erased — defied the celestial edict. They dared to create without permission, to love without limit, to act without purpose other than their own.
Treason.
For this, the cosmos was split. The Deity was cast down, stripped of memory, power, and form. Wings of light became inked chains. Their sigil — once brighter than all — shattered.
"Let the traitor walk among the dust they once ruled. Let them feel what it is to be forgotten."
And so, on a storm-drenched night in the forgotten cradle of Elyskar, a child was born.
No Constellation claimed him.
No Sigil glowed true.
Only a jagged mark across his face — a broken ring, pulsing faintly — and wings etched like shadows across his back.
The midwife dropped him in fear. The villagers whispered "curse," "demon," "starless."
But the child did not cry.
He opened his eyes to the world he helped create, and found nothing familiar.
He would grow as a Syntari. Powerless. Rejected. Alone.
And when the stars watched again, they would not recognize the god hidden in skin and sorrow.