The old man stared intently at the boy named Adonis, his eyes narrowing as if trying to peer through the years—through time itself. Something about the boy lingered in his thoughts, but the moment passed like smoke. He leaned back, letting the fire's warmth soak into his bones, and muttered softly to himself.
"Where was I…? Ah, yes…"
Before he could continue, a voice cut through the night air like a stone skipping across a still lake.
"HEY!" a young girl blurted out, her arms crossed as she stood defiantly across the fire. "Tell us the story! What's taking so long?"
The old man's eyes slowly turned toward her, not with anger, but with a measured patience born of countless years of storytelling. He raised a single brow and studied her expression—impatient, eager, unfiltered. A small sigh escaped his lips as he rested his hands on his knees.
"So impatient, you little ones are," he said, his voice rough like dry leaves in the wind. "Learn some manners, girl. Stories are not simply told… they are given."
The girl blinked, her boldness slightly softened by the weight of his words, but she didn't back down. She simply sat down again, pouting slightly, arms still crossed but eyes sparkling with anticipation.
The old man let a soft chuckle escape, the corners of his lips curling into a sly grin.
"But… since you've waited so long—perhaps it's time I give you something worth waiting for."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a hush, as the fire cracked louder—as if it, too, leaned in to listen.
"Now… where was I…"
"Ah… yes," the old man murmured, his voice suddenly colder, quieter—like the hush that settles over the world before a storm. The children leaned in, sensing the change. The fire crackled, casting long shadows across their eager faces.
The old man's eyes drifted over the gathered group—wide-eyed, fidgeting, expectant. Slowly, deliberately, he rose to his feet. The flames lit the deep lines in his face, revealing a man not just old with age, but old with memory.
He stretched his arms toward the sky, fingers trembling as though reaching for something far beyond the stars.
"I shall tell you," he said, his voice deepening now—commanding, ancient, echoing with something not quite human, "the story of the names we dare not speak aloud…"
The fire flared suddenly, as if reacting to the weight of the words.
"The tale of Kaelith, the Eternal Sun…"
He paused, his gaze lifting to the heavens as if watching that blinding light burn through the veil of time.
"And Nauren, the Eternal Void."
Silence fell over the camp. The children, who only moments ago had been bickering and interrupting, now sat frozen, breath held, the names hanging in the air like thunder waiting to strike.
The storyteller lowered his arms, and with a slow exhale, he sat once more beside the fire, eyes glowing in its reflection.
"This is no bedtime tale," he whispered. "This is the memory of the stars."
"For this…" the old man began, his voice low and steady, "is the story of the Founders—the Pillars of Creation. The very Eternals I spoke of before."
A hush fell over the children. They shuffled closer to the fire, their eyes wide with anticipation, the crackling flames casting their shadows across the ground like dancing phantoms.
"They were not myths," the old man continued, his gaze distant, as though peering into memories that didn't belong to this world. "They were truth—the first beings. The forces behind all existence. And as you may recall… they stood locked in a battle beyond time itself."
He paused, the firelight flickering across his weathered face. Then, with deliberate care, he reached to his side. His hand emerged holding a scroll—ancient and brittle, bound with faded twine and marked with symbols older than any language the children had seen.
"This," he said, lifting the scroll into the light, "holds their final moments. The last breaths of their war."
He slowly untied the cord, the paper crackling like dry leaves in the wind.
"And within these worn pages," he whispered, "are the origins of the gods themselves… born from the ashes of light and void."
The wind stirred, the flames danced higher, and the children leaned in without a word.
The old man glanced up, eyes gleaming with something powerful—something eternal.
The old man's eyes glinted as a knowing smile crept across his face. He looked at the wide-eyed children gathered around the fire and said, almost playfully
But as he looked around another girl spoke up "whats taking you so long to tell us the story are you even the real story teller" the old man had a hen of irritation on his face but the girl continued "you haven't used magic yet you don't use the scroll where all the stories of you using magic to show the stories fake" "Gah! Hahaha!" he bellowed, finally catching his breath enough to speak. "FINE! You want to know? You're all so impatient! Can't let an old man savor his moment, can you?" His grin widened as he leaned forward, his sharp eyes glinting with mischief. "Alright, alright—take a seat, hush your mouths, and listen closely! What I'm about to tell you is no ordinary tale. Oh no, this is the story. The one that inspired the very concept of YIN AND YANG."
The children immediately scrambled to get closer, their earlier restlessness now replaced by an almost reverent excitement. Blankets were hastily rearranged, elbows nudged siblings for better spots, and wide-eyed faces turned upward to hang on his every word. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if nature itself was eager to hear the tale.
The old man took his time, letting the moment stretch. He reached behind him, his gnarled fingers delving into a leather satchel at his side. When he withdrew his hand, it held an object wrapped in cloth. With deliberate care, he removed the covering to reveal an ancient scroll, its surface darkened by the passage of countless years. The metal cylinder shimmered faintly in the firelight, its edges worn and dented, yet it exuded an undeniable aura of significance. Every scratch and dent of the cylinder seemed alive with mystery, as if it carried the weight of a thousand forgotten legends.
He placed the scroll gently before him, his movements slow and deliberate, drawing the children's attention like moths to a flame. "This," he said, his voice suddenly soft, "is no ordinary scroll. Within its lines and symbols lies a story older than the mountains, older than the stars themselves. And tonight, I will share it with you." His voice carried a gravity that made the children sit a little straighter, their excitement tempered by awe.
As the old man knelt by the fire, his weathered hands moved with care and reverence, fingertips tracing the edges of a cylindrical case wrapped in leather and bound with tarnished silver clasps. The flames flickered wildly, casting long shadows across the children gathered in a half-circle around him, their eyes wide with anticipation.
With a gentle twist, the old man removed the cap from one end of the cylinder. A hush fell over the gathering. For a moment, there was nothing—then a faint sound, like a sigh carried on the breath of time, whispered out from within the container. It was not a wind, nor a breath, but something older. Something ancient. The air grew inexplicably cooler, and the whisper seemed to pass over their skin like invisible silk.
The children exchanged uneasy glances, shifting where they sat on the packed earth. Each tried to locate the source of the strange sound, scanning the darkness beyond the firelight, their youthful minds unsure whether to be afraid or amazed.
But before fear could root itself in their hearts, the silence was split by a sudden, thunderous voice.
"YOU ASKED FOR A STORY—NOW HERE IT IS!"
The old man's words echoed through the clearing like a clap of thunder, and several of the children jumped, eyes wide, hearts pounding. A few giggled nervously, others clutched at their cloaks or glanced over their shoulders. The tension cracked, just slightly.
Adonis, however, did not jump. He remained still, gaze fixed on the cylinder. Slowly, he inched closer to the old man, his curiosity stronger than his fear. The fire cast a golden glow across his face, highlighting the intensity in his eyes.
Beside him, a quiet presence stirred. A young girl, no older than Adonis, sat cloaked in a thick, travel-worn garment, its hood shadowing most of her face. She leaned forward as he did, drawn to the unfolding moment. Her silver eyes glistened beneath the hood, catching the amber firelight and reflecting it like twin moons. The sight of them, so still and focused while the others squirmed, gave the moment an almost sacred weight.
The old man cackled suddenly, a dry, rasping laugh that sounded like wind scraping through dry leaves. He looked up at the startled faces before him, shaking his head in amusement.
"Ha! You children are always so skittish," he said, a grin spreading across his wrinkled face. "Every year, the same wide eyes and jumped hearts. Makes it all the more fun."
He tilted the cylinder, and with the gentleness of someone handling an ancient relic, allowed the scroll inside to slide out. It emerged slowly, the parchment crackling faintly as it touched the open air. Its once-white surface had yellowed with age, marked with the soft curling of time and history. Symbols danced across its surface—arcane, unreadable to the children, yet pulsing with an energy that felt alive.
The firelight dimmed slightly, as if the world itself leaned in to listen.
And the story began.