Before all things, before motion, before light, before the knowing of time, there was Thaumyrra.

  It was not a place.

  It was not a moment.

  It was not even a beginning.

  For beginning implies something before it, and in Thaumyrra, there was only itself.

  But within it,

  There was Aoristos, the Infinite Unknown.

  There was Myrrithos, the Boundless Reflection.

  And they were not two.

  They were not one.

  They simply were.

  No force divided them.

  No space held them.

  No law defined them.

  For what is infinity, if it has never been measured?

  What is stillness, if there is nothing to move?

  What is light, if it has never been seen?

  And so, nothing had ever been lost.

  Because nothing had ever been made.

  But existence cannot remain unbroken forever.

  For what is eternity, if it never takes form?

  Prōtēklasis

  Before the first fire, before the first thought, before even the turning of time, there was only them.

  Aoristos, the Unbounded One.

  And Myrrithos, the Boundless One.

  They were not born. They were not made.

  They were, simply, always there.

  Aoristos was the first presence, the first being, the firstself.

  Yet he was not whole.

  For he was a force that could move but had nowhere to go, a being that could reach but had nothing to grasp.

  He was finite—not because he had limits, but because he had direction.

  And direction without purpose is a kind of suffering.

  Beyond him stretched Myrrithos, beautiful, vast, and infinite, a great and silent reflection.

  She was everything.

  She was all that had ever been, all that could ever be, all at once.

  She was neither still nor restless, neither light nor dark, for she contained them both in equal measure.

  Unlike Aoristos, she did not need.

  Unlike Aoristos, she did not seek.

  She simply was.

  Her existence was not a question. It was an answer that had never been asked.

  Aoristos did not understand her.

  How could one simply exist?

  How could one be whole without ever having to become?

  For an eternity beyond time, Aoristos wandered, searching.

  What he searched for, he did not know.

  But wherever he turned, he found only himself.

  He called into the endless reflection, but his voice was swallowed whole.

  He stepped across the boundless horizon, but his path left no trace.

  He shaped thoughts of fire and motion, but they dissolved before taking form.

  He was a force that longed for direction, lost within infinity herself.

  And in time, Aoristos ceased to wander.

  He stood still, as still as Myrrithos, and gazed into her infinite reflection.

  And for the first time, Aoristos, who had never known anything but himself, felt something new.

  It was not sadness, for sadness comes from knowing what has been lost.

  It was not fear, for fear comes from knowing what may be taken away.

  It was longing.

  A great and terrible yearning, not just to find something, but to be seen.

  For what is existence if it has no witness?

  What is a reflection if there is no other to see it?

  Myrrithos had always been silent.

  For silence is not merely the absence of speech—it is the presence of something too vast to be spoken.

  And yet, she saw Aoristos.

  She had always seen him.

  For though she had never needed before, she understood why he did.

  He was a singular thing, a being defined by motion, by change, by desire.

  And he could not understand that infinity had no need for motion.

  He longed for what she was, but he did not realize—

  She longed for what he could be.

  Myrrithos was everything, but she was also nothing.

  For infinity without a beginning is indistinguishable from emptiness.

  She was boundless, but boundlessness is cold.

  And so, for the first time in the vastness of all things, Myrrithos pitied.

  For what is infinity, if there is no one to share in its wonder?

  What is all possibility, if none of it is ever chosen?

  What is an endless night if there is no fire to cast a dancing shadow?

  And so, for Aoristos—

  For herself—

  She broke.

  A single fracture, delicate as the first breath of a flame, spread across her perfect stillness.

  For the first time, Myrrithos became something less than infinite.

  For the first time, she became incomplete.

  She had sacrificed something she would never regain—her wholeness, her indivisibility.

  And from that fracture, from the first wound in eternity, something new emerged.

  The First Family.

  They were not like Aoristos, who had always been.

  They were not like Myrrithos, who had never changed.

  They were fire born from shadow; shape born from stillness.

  They were progress.

  They were the first to move forward in a space that had never known change.

  And though Aoristos did not yet understand, though Myrrithos would never again be whole—

  Something more beautiful had been made.

  The Diatessera (The Four Fundamental Pillars of Progress)

  Thyassos, The Unyielding Flame

  From the fracture of Myrrithos, the first shape took form.

  It did not hesitate. It did not question. It did not look back.

  It simply moved.

  For motion was its nature.

  From the wound where stillness had broken, Thyassos emerged—the Forge of Becoming.

  He did not emerge as something fragile or uncertain—he surged forth, unbound and unyielding, his presence stretching outward, carving new dimensions where once there had been none.

  He was not a whisper. He was not a breath.

  He was a force, a fire, a will that could not be contained.

  And where he stepped, the fracture widened.

  Where he reached, the reflection of Myrrithos became something new.

  He was not content with infinity.

  He was not content with a world that merely was.

  He wanted it to become.

  Thyassos was not like Aoristos, who longed for something unknown.

  Nor was he like Myrrithos, who had held all possibilities within her, waiting to be chosen.

  Thyassos did not wait.

  He did not wonder.

  He built.

  He was the first to stretch space, the first to divide the indivisible, the first to expand the edges of existence beyond what had been given.

  Where Myrrithos had once been a boundless whole, Thyassos made direction.

  Where energy had once folded infinitely inward, Thyassos pushed outward.

  And he did not stop.

  For to stop was to betray his nature.

  Thyassos was not fire that burned for its own sake.

  He did not consume.

  He forged.

  He did not seek to undo Myrrithos’ stillness—he sought to shape it into something greater.

  For what is existence, if it does not expand?

  What is potential, if it does not become?

  He saw what Aoristos had not yet understood—that longing alone is not enough.

  Longing must become movement.

  Movement must become structure.

  And so, he shaped.

  Not because he wished to control—but because he wished to create.

  He did not see the world as it was.

  He saw the world as it could be.

  And for the first time, the stillness of Myrrithos became something measurable, something growing, something destined to evolve.

  Thyassos had made the first mark on the infinite.

  And the infinite would never be the same.

  But progress is not gentle.

  Thyassos did not know stillness, for stillness had no place in him.

  He did not know limits, for limits were a thing to be pushed past, broken, transcended.

  Where he walked, Myrrithos stretched.

  Where he touched, new possibilities unfolded.

  But for the first time, Aoristos hesitated.

  For he had longed for this, had he not?

  He had wandered an empty infinity, searching for something that would break the silence.

  But now that it had been broken, he was no longer its master.

  Thyassos had come not to follow, but to lead.

  Not to listen, but to challenge.

  Aoristos had moved within infinity.

  But Thyassos was the first force that could not be contained by it.

  And so, in that moment, Aoristos understood—

  He was no longer alone.

  But he was also no longer in control.

  Progress had begun.

  And it would never stop.

  Lumnis, The Dark Princess

  The first act of creation had begun.

  Thyassos had surged forth, carving direction where there had been none.

  His fire burned across the boundless reflection of Myrrithos, stretching what had once been infinite and formless into something with edges, with movement, with purpose.

  But motion without understanding is blind.

  And so, from the same fracture that had given rise to expansion, something new emerged.

  She was not a force that pushed.

  She was not a force that shaped.

  She was the first to see.

  Lumnis, the Eldest Daughter, the First Witness, the Keeper of Meaning.

  She did not roar into being as her brother had—she unfolded.

  She did not rush forward—she stood still.

  And she watched.

  For what is creation, if it is never known?

  What is progress, if there is no one to measure its path?

  She was not the fiery hands that build—she was the black eye that bears witness.

  Where Thyassos forged, she perceived.

  Where Thyassos moved forward, she gazed back.

  She was the first to give meaning to what had been made.

  And for the first time, progress was not just force.

  It was a dance of light and dark.

  Before Lumnis, Myrrithos had never been seen.

  She had been infinite, but infinity does not gaze upon itself.

  She had been whole, but wholeness does not ask why it exists.

  And so, when Lumnis opened her obsidian eyes, Myrrithos trembled—

  For the first time, she knew what it meant to be observed.

  Where Thyassos had turned the boundless into structure, Lumnis turned it into understanding.

  She did not build, nor did she change.

  Her darkness simply revealed.

  And in revealing, she defined.

  The moment she cast her gaze upon Thyassos’ fire, it was no longer just motion.

  It became purpose.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The moment she beheld the fracture of Myrrithos, it was no longer just a wound.

  It became a story.

  For to see something truly is to give it meaning.

  And so, where Thyassos had given the first movement, Lumnis gave the first thought.

  And Myrrithos, who had once contained all things without distinction, now contained knowledge.

  She had become something that could be understood.

  But knowledge is not passive.

  To see is to define, and to define is to separate.

  Lumnis did not simply observe—she distinguished.

  She divided shadow from light, stillness from motion, void from shape.

  For what is light, if not the contrast of darkness?

  What is progress, if not the recognition of what came before?

  And so, as her gaze stretched across Myrrithos, the once-boundless reflection became a mirror divided.

  What was once one was now many.

  What was once formless was now shaped by perception.

  For the first time, Myrrithos had history.

  She had a before and a possible after.

  And Lumnis, the First Witness, stood at the threshold between them.

  She was the darkness by which all things would be remembered.

  She was the first to see progress not just as motion, but as meaning.

  And in that moment, a great balance formed.

  Thyassos built.

  Lumnis understood.

  For a time, this was enough.

  But progress does not rest.

  And even as Lumnis bore witness, even as her vision stretched far and wide, she could not yet see what was to come.

  For from the bending of the First Light, something else was forming.

  Something that would not build.

  Something that would not witness.

  Something that would bend the very fabric of knowing itself.

  Xo?n, The Distorted

  The world had changed.

  Thyassos had forged the first movement, stretching Myrrithos into something greater than infinity.

  Lumnis had beheld what was built, giving it meaning, shaping the first knowing.

  For the first time, progress had form.

  For the first time, progress had memory.

  But progress is never still.

  And Myrrithos, though divided, was not yet uncertain.

  Everything that had been made had its place.

  Everything that was seen was known.

  Everything that was known was understood.

  There were no contradictions.

  No distortions.

  No questions.

  And so, Myrrithos tensed beneath the weight of certainty.

  For what is knowledge, if it is never challenged?

  What is structure, if it is never bent?

  What is light, if it is never twisted by shadow?

  And in that tension, something else stirred.

  A ripple within the fracture.

  A bending of the First Light.

  And from that bending, he emerged.

  Not as a builder.

  Not as a seer.

  But as the first to undo.

  The first to break.

  The first to laugh.

  Xo?n, the Unnameable, the Trickster of Truths.

  He did not emerge with purpose.

  He did not emerge with form.

  He was a contradiction, a twisting of what had come before.

  He was born not from Myrrithos' fracture, but from its tension.

  He did not seek to build as Thyassos did.

  He did not seek to see as Lumnis did.

  For what is motion, if it cannot bend?

  What is knowledge, if it cannot be questioned?

  He was not a fire that expanded—he was a fire that danced.

  He was not a light that revealed—he was a light that warped, refracted, shattered into colors unseen.

  Where Thyassos sought to push forward, Xo?n sought to push back.

  Where Lumnis sought to name, Xo?n sought to unname.

  He was the first to break the First Truths.

  And in breaking, he created something new.

  Xo?n reached into Myrrithos.

  And for the first time, something that had been whole became something else.

  The motion of Thyassos—stretched, bent, turned against itself.

  The sight of Lumnis—scattered, refracted, twisted into new shapes.

  He took certainty and made it doubt.

  He took order and made it chaos.

  He took meaning and made it play.

  And he did not do it out of cruelty.

  He did it because it was fun.

  Because the act of breaking was itself a kind of creation.

  Because to twist something is to reveal what it was not.

  Because without distortion, truth is never tested.

  And in that breaking, something rippled through Myrrithos—

  A force neither forward nor backward.

  Neither light nor shadow.

  Neither creation nor destruction.

  But something uncertain.

  Something that could be anything.

  Something that would never be fully known.

  And for the first time, Thyassos hesitated.

  For the first time, Lumnis could not fully see.

  And for the first time, Aoristos did not know what would come next.

  The game had changed.

  For now, progress had unpredictability.

  Thyassos did not understand Xo?n.

  For he had built without resistance.

  For the first time, his fire did not simply expand—it bent.

  For the first time, his work was not untouched—it was tested.

  And this infuriated him.

  For progress was meant to move forward, not fold back onto itself.

  Lumnis did not understand Xo?n.

  For she had seen without question.

  For the first time, her gaze did not reveal—it fractured.

  For the first time, her knowledge did not clarify—it distorted.

  And this unsettled her.

  For to know something is to define it—but Xo?n refused to be known, only knowing himself as he laughed through a distorted smile.

  Only Aoristos understood.

  For he had longed for something unknown.

  And now, for the first time, he had found something that even he could not grasp.

  For the first time, there was wonder.

  For the first time, there was unpredictability.

  And Aoristos, who had once longed for answers, found himself smiling too.

  Mischief was at play.

  But Myrrithos trembled.

  For what had been shaped was now being unmade.

  For what had been known was now being forgotten.

  For what had been certain was now a game of endless possibilities.

  And so deep within her, where the first ripple had spread, something old stirred—

  Something that would not build, not see, not break—

  But something that would weave together what the Child of Chaos would break asunder.

  Veyrah, The Loom of Ends

  The world had changed again.

  Thyassos had forged the first movement, stretching Myrrithos into something greater than infinity.

  Lumnis had beheld what was built, giving it meaning, shaping the first knowing.

  Xo?n had bent what had been made, breaking certainty, unraveling knowledge, turning truth into play.

  For the first time, progress was not a path—it was a web of infinite possibility.

  But progress without balance is ruin.

  What is motion, if it never rests?

  What is knowledge, if it never settles?

  What is uncertainty, if it never finds form again?

  For all that had been made, nothing had yet been undone.

  And so, deep within the fractured body of Myrrithos, where the threads of creation and distortion tangled upon themselves, she revealed herself.

  Not a force of movement.

  Not a force of sight.

  Not a force of chaos.

  But a force that wove all the pieces back together.

  A force that ensured progress did not spiral endlessly into madness.

  A force that made sure the story did not stretch so far that it lost its meaning.

  She did not roar.

  She did not laugh.

  She whispered.

  Veyrah, The First Thread & Last Stitch, The Womb & The Tomb.

  She did not emerge as Thyassos had, breaking forth in fire.

  She did not emerge as Lumnis had, opening her eyes to the world.

  She did not emerge as Xo?n had, twisting the fabric of all things.

  She was always there.

  A quiet hand at the edges of creation.

  A presence at the boundaries of knowing.

  A shadow at the end of every path.

  For what is a journey, if it has no destination?

  What is a story, if it has no conclusion?

  What is a world, if it has no shape?

  She was not destruction.

  She was not chaos.

  She was the return to stillness.

  The guide that made sure what had been built did not collapse under its own weight.

  The force that ensured what had been broken was either mended or left behind.

  For progress must always move forward—

  But not everything is meant to follow.

  Where Thyassos built, she unraveled to make anew.

  What Lumnis understood, she let fade to give space for new discoveries.

  Where Xo?n twisted, she retwisted into new forms.

  Not to erase, but to refine.

  Not to destroy, but to sustain.

  For what is movement, if it never slows to pick up once again?

  What is knowledge, if it is never forgotten so it can be rediscovered?

  What is uncertainty, if it never settles into truth?

  She did not build new shapes.

  She did not break what was there.

  She simply ensured that what remained endured in new and emergent ways.

  And Myrrithos, for the first time, breathed.

  She had stretched.

  She had burned.

  She had bent.

  Now, she was whole again.

  Not as she had been before.

  Never as she had been before.

  But as something new.

  For progress without balance is ruin.

  And through Veyrah, the balance had been restored.

  Thyassos did not understand Veyrah.

  For he had built without question.

  For the first time, his fire did not spread—it was softened.

  For the first time, his motion did not expand—it found an edge.

  And this angered him.

  For progress was meant to move forward, not be pulled back.

  Lumnis did not understand Veyrah.

  For she had seen without limit.

  For the first time, her gaze found a place it could not pass.

  For the first time, her knowledge faded into silence.

  And this unsettled her.

  For to know is to illuminate through darkness—but Veyrah allowed things to dim into nothing.

  Xo?n did not understand Veyrah.

  For he had bent without resistance.

  For the first time, his laughter did not shake the foundation of Myrrithos.

  For the first time, his distortions did not twist all things into something new.

  And this fascinated him.

  For to break something is to play with its limits—but Veyrah did not break.

  She endured.

  He respected it.

  Only Aoristos understood.

  For he had longed for something unknown.

  And now, he saw the beauty of letting go.

  For the first time, he understood that not all things must remain.

  For the first time, he saw that loss was also a kind of progress.

  And his beloved Myrrithos, who had trembled under the weight of movement, of knowing, of distortion—

  Now she exhaled.

  For what had been made had been shaped.

  For what had been shaped had been tested.

  For what had been tested had been refined.

  And through Veyrah, Myrrithos was no longer broken.

  She was an infinitely emerging complexity of new things.

  A finite infinity.

  A world not just in motion, not just in vision, not just in flux—

  But a world that had meaning through transformation.

  A world that could be completed.

  And yet, even with balance restored, something was still missing.

  For everything that had been shaped had been bound to its nature.

  Thyassos built because he was meant to.

  Lumnis sought knowledge because she was meant to.

  Xo?n distorted because he was meant to.

  Veyrah unraveled because she was meant to.

  None of them had chosen.

  And so, even as Myrrithos stood changed, even as the Firstborns moved within her bosom—

  A question remained unanswered.

  And so, in the deepest fold of Myrrithos, where light and shadow intertwined, something else was forming.

  Something neither built nor broken, neither known nor forgotten.

  Something that could do what even Aoristos could not.

  Something that could choose.

  And from the last ember of the First Fracture, the Final Child was born.

  Their name was Luthenari.

  And they would decide the fate of progress itself.

  Lytarios (The Pillar Untethered)

  Luthenari, the Unbound

  The world had been shaped.

  Thyassos had carved motion into stillness.

  Lumnis had cast meaning upon form.

  Xo?n had bent what was certain into uncertainty.

  Veyrah had drawn the first endings, ensuring progress did not spiral without purpose.

  For the first time, Myrrithos had balance.

  She was no longer only potential—she was a living structure, expanding, knowing, reshaping, refining.

  And yet, even in this newfound harmony, something was missing.

  For the Family that had been made had been bound to its nature.

  None of them had chosen.

  None of them could.

  They did not wonder if they should build, or see, or twist, or weave.

  They simply did.

  They followed the paths laid for them by the fracture of their mother Myrrithos.

  And for the first time, Aoristos feared for himself and his Family.

  For progress had taken form—

  But was it truly progress if it could never change its course?

  For what is motion, if it cannot turn back?

  What is knowledge, if it cannot doubt itself?

  What is uncertainty, if it cannot be resisted?

  What is an ending, if it cannot be refused?

  And in that question, in the place where all forces converged but could not answer, the last ember of the First Fracture burned.

  And from that ember, Luthenari was born—the Wondering Light, the Stray Shadow, the One without Fate or Form.

  Luthenari did not emerge as a force.

  They were not fire that spread outward, like Thyassos.

  They were not light that revealed the truth, like Lumnis.

  They were not shadow that bent and reshaped, like Xo?n.

  They were not a loom that wove endings, like Veyrah.

  They were a boundary.

  The first to stand between—between motion and stillness, between sight and blindness, between change and certainty, between creation and collapse.

  They did not push, nor pull.

  They did not break, nor restore.

  They chose.

  Freely.

  And for the first time, Myrrithos did not know what would happen next.

  Luthenari was not infinite, like Myrrithos.

  They were not unbounded, like Aoristos.

  They were finite.

  Not because they were weak—

  But because they were meant to decide where infinity would go.

  They were the first limitation upon progress.

  Not to stop it.

  But to shape its path.

  For what is motion, if it does not have direction?

  What is knowledge, if it does not lead to wisdom?

  What is uncertainty, if it does not give birth to discovery?

  What is an ending, if it does not serve a greater purpose?

  The Firstborns looked upon Luthenari, and they did not understand.

  Thyassos saw them hesitate and was filled with impatience.

  For progress was meant to surge forward, not pause.

  Lumnis saw them question and was filled with unease.

  For knowledge was meant to illuminate, not linger in uncertainty.

  Xo?n saw them resist the call to chaos and was filled with frustration.

  For distortion was meant to bend all things, not be held in place.

  Veyrah saw them refuse an end and was filled with quiet respect.

  For endings were meant to be refined, not undone.

  And Aoristos saw them hesitate—

  And smiled.

  For in that moment, he saw what no one else had seen.

  Luthenari was not uncertain.

  They were choosing.

  And in that choice, Myrrithos became something she had never been before.

  Free.

  Luthenari stood at the crossroads of all things.

  They were the only one who could turn back.

  They were the only one who could refuse the path laid before them.

  They were the only one who could defy their own nature.

  And so, the weight of all progress fell upon them.

  For what is a path, if there is no one to walk it?

  What is knowledge, if there is no one to act upon it?

  What is uncertainty, if there is no one to find clarity within it?

  What is an ending, if there is no one to decide when it has come?

  And so, Myrrithos, who had once only reflected, now waited.

  For the first time, she did not know what would come next.

  She had fractured herself to bring forth progress.

  She had given birth to the First Family to shape her unfolding.

  She had allowed herself to become something more than infinity.

  But now, she was something else.

  She was the question.

  And Luthenari was the answer.

  Not because they had been made to be.

  But because they could choose to be.

  And so, the fate of progress rested upon the Last Child.

  The first to stand between all things.

  The first to decide what path existence would take.

  The first to choose.