Chapter One – The Song of Dawn
Before the world had edges, before the rivers learned to flow, there was only the breath of heaven — a soundless wind that stirred the mist. From that silence came twelve notes, and from those notes, twelve gods awoke.
They rose not from earth nor sky, but from memory — as if the universe itself recalled them into being. They were the Shepherds of Creation, each given dominion over a piece of existence: the wind, the flame, the root, the star, the word, the shadow, and others whose names have long been swallowed by dust.
Among them was the youngest — Avaron, born of twilight's echo. Where his brothers looked upward to light, Avaron looked down to the soil, fascinated by the creatures that crawled, dreamed, and died. When the first man gasped his final breath, it was Avaron who leaned close, listening — and in that fading sound, he heard truth.
He followed the dying soul as it drifted, shimmering like smoke. The other gods turned away, but Avaron reached out, guiding it into a still valley of silence. There, he spoke softly:
> "Fear not, little one. You are not gone — only gathered."
Thus began his sacred work — the herding of souls.
Centuries passed in that soft rhythm: life, death, return. The people of Qian'zu learned to whisper his name with reverence. They painted his sigil on their doors — a single circle split by a crooked line — believing it would guide them safely to rest.
But as ages turned, men learned the taste of power. Kings carved their names into stone so the world would not forget them. And Avaron, who guided nameless spirits with mercy, began to wonder:
> "If the forgotten are mine… then who herds those who remember?"
On the horizon, the first dawn shimmered red, like the eye of an awakening beast. And far beneath it, Avaron's staff — carved from the rib of the First King — trembled, sensing the birth of defiance.