The Primordial Record

The path out of the God's Graveyard widened into a vast, frozen tundra under a sky bruised with strange, swirling energies. The Elythrii now understood that this energy all came from the Dragon Vraegar, who had been quietly feasting on the very essence of this realm, leaving it a cold and desolate landscape.

This dimension in size was comparable to a twentieth of their continent, but the dragon had barely been here for two years, and everything was desolate. What would happen if he could enter their realm with its endless Essence? How much would this dragon grow, and would Elython be able to survive his apparently infinite hunger?

The air hummed with the ever-present Echo, a pressure that was felt more than heard as they seemed to be traveling both through the dimension and the realm at the same time, making progress in a manner that Lyra was finding difficult to comprehend. It was as if a single step inside here was like traversing a billion light-years in the outside reality.

Vraegar moved with a slow, inexorable grace, his passage defining the route. Fury walked beside the Elythrii, his mere presence keeping the killing cold at bay that emanated from the dragon. The Phoenix around his body was shriveling and dying off, but was always resurrecting in a flash of flames that blinded any Elythrii looking at him.

The silence around the group was awkward, punctuated only by the crunch of snow underfoot and the distant, tectonic sounds of Vraegar's movement.

Lyra, ever the curious one, finally broke the silence, addressing Fury after listening to the words from these strange immortals at the beginning of their journey. "You said you had a wager. On the outcome of the battle. Who… who are the combatants?"

Fury smirked. "What, your seers didn't tell you that? They're usually a chatty bunch. Are you sure you all are Eldars or an offshoot that I do not know of? No matter, I do not care for the politics of Primordial Domain."

"The visions are fragments," An Elythrii answered for Lyra. "We have not returned home for a while; all we know is that shadows of immense beings are converging ahead. Their names and natures are lost to us."

"Names are limitations," Vraegar's voice rolled over them from ahead. "We who are of the blood know them by their essence. Their domains, and you are lucky to hear this answer from us, we are among the few who know the names of the combatants. One is the Father of Epochs, the Forger of Life. A creator, a nurturer, a being of immense generative power. His song brings light to the void and kindles the spark in the inert. I am honored to be one of his children. He is known by many names, but we call him Rowan Kuranes. He is somewhat fond of that mortal name."

Lyra noticed that Fury flinched at the sound of that name, but it was so slight that if she had not been paying attention, she would not have noticed.

A wave of reverence passed through the Elythrii. A creator. A nurturer. It sounded… benevolent, almost similar to their own.

"And the other?" Lyra asked.

Fury barked a laugh. "Oh, he's much more fun. The other is the First Mutant—the greatest Ancestor of Trion. Where the Creator builds, he unmakes. It is said that from the moment he took a blade, he had stood undefeated, and he was killed by a very powerful god who shattered his soul because even as a mortal, no god could withstand his might. However, the realm is changing, and a dark power has taken him as its champion. The Great Abyss now has a Throne, and his name is Telmus, and he has no equal. Whatever Rowan has made, he shall destroy. Yet, this is all a backdrop for the true reason behind this fight, because the winner shall attain the strength to change this Era and define the path forward for all."

The Elythrii absorbed this in horrified silence—a battle between creation and unmaking.

"And you wager on this?" Lyra asked, her voice tight with disapproval.

"Why not?" Fury said. "It's the ultimate sporting event. I've got a cask of star-wine from the founding of the Third Cosmos on the Ender. Better odds."

"Your flippancy is a shield, Fury," Vraegar said, not turning his head. "You fear my father's victory as much as you crave the chaos of the Primordials. A world too ordered, too… nurtured, has no place for your wild fires. How can you claim to be the first among immortals when you know of my father's existence?"

Fury's smirk vanished. The flames of his hair dampened to a low, sullen glow. "And a world too silent, too still, has no need for a hoarder of your nature, Vraegar. You think Rowan will spare your endless hunger when he has no more use for you? He'll melt you down for the raw material in whatever realm he ends up creating. We're both rooting for our own irrelevance, in a way. I'm just honest enough to make a party of it."

Lyra listened, her mind reeling. These beings spoke of cosmic forces as if they were neighbors with petty grievances. Their hidden clash of interest, as the initial intuition had suggested, was laid bare.

Vraegar, despite his endless hunger, naturally leaned towards the Creator, the Singer of Suns.

Fury, a force of destruction and transformation in his own right, was drawn to Telmus, who seems to be under the control of the Primordials. Yet both knew that the absolute victory of either side would ultimately destroy the balance that gave their own natures meaning.

"Why are you going, then?" Lyra asked. "If you believe the victory of either will be… bad for you?"

Fury's grin returned, fiercer this time. "To see the show, of course! And maybe… to heckle from the front row. A well-timed insult can break a god's concentration, you know. Maybe it will work here."

"We go," Vraegar interrupted, his voice grave, "because when powers of this magnitude clash, the shockwaves decide the fate of countless dimensions. Our 'clash of interest,' as you perceive it, is irrelevant. We are going because we must witness. To record. To understand the new shape of things. To ensure that some fragment of what was is remembered in what will be."

"He means he's going to take notes," Fury stage-whispered. "Very, very long, cold, boring notes."

One of the younger Elythrii warriors, a female named Elara, sent a message across their personal link, her voice trembling slightly. "And… which one created our people? This Creator, Rowan? Surely, Lyra, you must see the connection between him and our people."

Lyra and the rest of the Elythrii shuddered in shock because the message by Elara was supposed to be silent, and only the Elythrii were supposed to hear it, but somehow the presence of these two had amplified the silent message until it was heard by all.

The question hung in the air. Vraegar was silent. Fury looked at the dragon, then back at the Elythrii, a strange, almost pitying expression on his face.

"Now that," Fury said softly, "is the real question, isn't it? Rowan has been making plays that have been almost too frightening to think about."

Vraegar finally turned his enormous head, one glacial eye fixing on the small group. "You are not of the Eldarah, do not hide your light behind such a blemished facade, and embrace your heritage. Your song is a complex one. It has the warmth of nurtured growth, the harmony of careful design. It is a melody any Creator would be proud to claim."

It was not a direct answer. But it was enough for the Elythrii. A wave of relief and fierce pride went through them. Their creator was the benevolent one, the nurturer. They were on the side of light and life. They looked at the looming battle ahead with new eyes. It was not just a cosmic event; it was their creator fighting for existence itself, or maybe it was not; they needed more confirmation.

Lyra, however, caught the look that had passed between Fury and Vraegar. She saw the pity in Fury's eyes and the evasion in Vraegar's words. It was as if they did not fully understand what was happening—a cold knot of doubt formed in her stomach, unrelated to the arctic air.

Fury leaned closer to her, his voice dropping to a whisper only she could hear, the heat of his words a comfort and a warning. "Don't put all your hopes on a Creator, Lyra. Parentage is a complicated thing. Sometimes the parent who creates you isn't the one who defines you. And sometimes," he added, his flickering eyes glancing at the distant, brooding form of Vraegar, "the most important battles are fought not for your creators, but in spite of them."

The journey continued, the silence now filled with a torrent of unspoken thoughts and the immense, unasked question hanging over the Elythrii: if this Rowan was their creator, why did these ancient beings seem so hesitant to say it aloud?

A more important question was why their Creator sent them into this realm without giving them all the information they needed if he was connected with it.

The voice of the dragon entered Lyra's mind, "Be careful of Fury, he does not know everything, and there are certain things I cannot speak of, because I suspect it is not for me to say, or I shall destroy his plans by my act of goodwill."