Ash Wildroot

This is the first section of the Prologue. I will be posting exerts from the first book The Sundering Prophecy. In this section I want to capture the essence of creation.

BEFORE THE FIRST DAWN
In the age before ages, when the world was young and whole and the sky no more than an unbroken veil of silver-blue, the Eight Primordial Forces stirred beneath creation like sleeping giants dreaming strange and restless dreams.

There was no light.
No wind.
No sound.
Only the slow, pulsing breath of possibility.

The void was silent, a vast expanse without form or color.
The seas were unborn, their weight and roar yet to be conceived.
The mountains lay unimagined, waiting in the dark like thoughts not yet spoken.
The sky a smooth, untouched canvas hung empty, longing for its first brushstroke.

Then the Primordials began to wake.

A spark flickered first Fire yearning to become a star, its heat coiling and twisting in the hollow places of the world-to-be.
Storm followed next, crackling awake with unspent fury, hurling itself blindly against the walls of creation like a caged beast testing the strength of its prison.
From the depths, water surged forth, relentless and eternal, carrying within it the twin forces of creation and ruin.Stone rose in silence, a weighty presence ancient beyond reckoning, immovable and patient.
Frost whispered from the void, cool and calm as eternal night, its breath spreading over the empty fabric of existence.
Shadow stretched long across the emptiness, searching for a form to drape itself upon and for secrets to conceal in its folds.

Life pulsed softly gentle, rhythmic, persistent the heartbeat of all things yet to be, murmuring promises to the unborn world.

And beneath them all, Death waited.
Not hostile.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Simply inevitable.
A quiet truth at the end of all songs.

From the clash of Fire and Storm came the first roar, a sound so immense it cracked the nothingness and rolled outward through creation like thunder with no sky to contain it.

From the merging of Life and Stone came the first beating wings slow, colossal, unfolding like dawn stretching across a sleeping horizon.

And when the Primordials chaos, rhythm, hunger, silence met in violent, holy union, the First Dragon burst forth from the stormlit dark.

Vharox.
Firstborn of creation.
The Winged Sovereign.
The Spark-That-Became-Flame.
The World’s First Shadow.
The Herald of Dawn.

He rose from the chaos with wings so vast they carved sky out of nothing.
His fire became the first light.
His roar became the first wind.
His shadow cast the first night.

He flew alone across an unmolded world, carving rivers of air and stone behind him with every beat of his wings.
Where he soared, valleys deepened.
Where he landed, mountains rose.
Where he breathed, oceans boiled into existence and then cooled at his bidding.

Creation once a whisper now had a voice.

But creation does not content itself with a single miracle.

The Primordial Forces surged again, yearning for form and purpose.
They strained, collided, harmonized, and clashed, repeating the great act of Vharox’s birth.

And through this strange, divine imitation, seven more dragons were forged each born from a perfect balance of two Primordials:

Ignivar, Flameborn of Fire and Life
Glacieron, Frostborne of Frost and Shadow
Aqualeth, Tideweaver of Water and Life
Aerithor, Skymaker of Storm and Air
Terrakhan, Stonefather of Stone and Fire
Luceryn, Dawnbinder of Stone and Life
Umbraxion, Nightshaper of Shadow and Storm

These Seven rose beside Vharox and together shaped harmony from the raw, trembling world.
They carved oceans, hollowed mountains, spoke forests into being, and set the winds upon their courses.
They stitched day and night into an endless dance.
They seeded life across barren earth, every creature a spark of their ancient power.

And thus dawned the First Age
an age of dragons,
an age of balance,
an age when creation breathed easily
beneath the wings of its stewards.

But harmony is delicate.
Too delicate for forces born from chaos and fire.
Too delicate for spirits made of frost, shadow, wind, and stone.
Too delicate even for dragons.

For within creation, the Primordials began to stir again
and their dreams were no longer peaceful.