At the turn of the seventh century, the gods of creation assembled within the celestial walls of Prodigium for the last time. Held aloft by their combined magic, Prodigium had long served as a neutral ground where the gods could plan and execute their greatest work. As the bells rang sweetly and the sky parted to the stars, all was peaceful.
It was the calm before the cataclysmic storm.
Ghantei, goddess of light, sat upon her throne in the great hall. The other eleven sat at the table before her, each glaring silently at one another. One of them was a traitor. She needed to know who.
"I will give you all one last chance to confess," Ghantei said, voice calm and sweet. "There is no ill will to be had here, but judgment must be given."
"The only one worthy to judge is Eslen," shouted Wogiwoj, god of the storm. "But what if he himself is the traitor?"
Eslen, god of judgment, stood up at the end of the table. His face was warped with anger and frustration. He pointed a finger at the rest of his peers.
"I demand you speak now!" He cried. "Speak, traitor, so I may cut you down in the name of all that is fair."
Silence once more. Ghantei knew that throwing accusations would get them nowhere. She would have to devise a new plan of approach. As she moved deeper into her thoughts, a small silver ball rolled out from the table. It was no bigger than the palm of her hand and the scratching of its smooth surface against the marbled floors drew everyone's attention. Ghantei shuddered.
A blast of pressurized magical heat swirled into purple flames that erupted across every exposed surface of the hall. Ghantei felt the flames run across her body before her mind could fully process the pain that they caused. She remembered flying backwards into the wall, her fellow gods and goddess scattered across the room, then a wave of black.
Prodigium fell from the sky, its magical aura disrupted by the amethyst fires that quickly consumed its body. Chunks of wood, stone, and iron rained from above as it crumbled into pieces and crashed into the earth below. A shockwave of dirt and wind blew apart everything nearby as the mass of the castle's remains landed.
Ghantei awoke among the cinders and ashes of her once-majestic home. Her pearlescent throne laid shattered at her feet and smoke created a thick haze across her vision. The burns from the enchanted fire etched deep into her skin. She tried to reel her mind in. Whoever the traitor was wanted to take them all out at once and knew the exact way to do it: a bomb of haelfire, the only thing that could damage their corporeal forms.
Ghantei could feel the light start to leave her body. As it did, a chill began to take its place. It crept slowly, first through her legs, then through her chest. Her breathing rattled as the small particles of white blew away. She was dying, and for the first time in her immortal life, she was scared. There was only one thing she could do.
The goddess of light forced herself onto her stomach and crawled through the smoldering wreckage. She took note of each of the others down below, observing their locations and their state. Her arm quivered and every pull began to take more out of her. She needed to hurry.
"Ghasfuoyarek," Ghantei managed to choke out before fully collapsing on the frigid flooring.
The last of Ghantei's light pooled into her core and left an odd, empty feeling in its wake. It melded into an orb that rose through her throat and out of her mouth. She stared at the last of her life essence as it left her body. It was an odd experience knowing that she had essentially been left a hollow shell. Her essence would continue onward, creating and living a life of its own, while the body and mind that she currently resided in would die.
The orb lifted into the air, joined by eleven more. They formed a circle that spun rapidly, every unique color blending with another until they formed a spinning wheel of crackling magical energy. The wheel fizzed and popped, each rotation more quick and violent than the last. The visage of a tome began to materialize. Then three. Then twelve. The wheel dissipated into snaps and bolts of leftover magic, dropping the tomes onto the ground. Each bore the color and symbol of its respective god.
Ghantei smiled weakly. With the tomes, each of the gods and goddesses would find new lives through their kingdoms and the inhabitants within. In a sense, they could survive. There was still so much to be done, so much to create. A wave of exhaustion washed across every part of her. She had done all she could. Once-bright yellow eyes turned to cold gray and her body dissolved into golden dust scattered by the winds.
Thus began the centennial cycle.
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