From the Desk of the Curator of Aeralith
This universe wasn't born from silence.
It wasn't born from triumph.
It was born from voices—voices I didn't always know I was listening to.
Some came wrapped in chakra and grief.
Some came from swords made of memory.
Some rose from the forgotten slime at the edge of death, and smiled anyway.
Others whispered truths through runes, bloodlines, shadows, or flame.
A few stood in a town where stories were real—
and magic always came with a cost.
I didn't write this world in their image.
But I remember them.
Not as tropes.
Not just as homages.
As ancestors.
What they gave me wasn't plot.
It was permission.
Permission to imagine a world where sorrow didn't mean failure.
Where the broken weren't discarded.
Where magic wasn't domination—it was consequence. Meaning. Connection.
Where myth didn't just shape heroes…
It built homes for the ones who never thought they were worthy of one.
This universe—The Aeralith Library—isn't a single story.
It's a web. A dream. A memory of many paths intersecting toward something greater.
Not to mimic a multiverse.
But to mean something as big and interconnected as the ones that raised me.
If you've ever found yourself in someone else's ache...
If you've ever whispered "I see you" to a character who couldn't hear you—
Then you already know why this world exists.
You're not reading the beginning.
You're reading what came after.
The continuation of a conversation that's still being whispered through every page, every spell, every scar.
Welcome to the halls of Aeralith.
— The Curator
A note for those who choose to walk deeper:
At the close of each chapter, you may find fragments — Codex entries, ancestral truths, or pieces of forgotten flame.
These are not required to follow the story.
But for those who listen closely,
they just might change the way the myth speaks to you.