Before the first stone was cut or the first sea named, there was the Scykror.
They were not born of breath or bone, but of the Great Conflagration, the moment the universe first bled fire. Their family was a lineage of living suns, guardians whose marrow was molten light and whose eyes held the heat of stars yet to be born. They were the keepers of the Threshold, the heavy shields of the world, standing where the darkness met the heat.
But even the brightest fire casts a shadow, and the shadows grew long and envious. In a betrayal that turned the sky to ash, the Scykror were extinguished. One by one, the guardians fell, their screams turning into the shooting stars that still streak across the night.
When the smoke cleared, only two sparks remained the Daughters of the Final Ember.
The first sister was cast into the Void, flung across the jagged edges of dimensions. She became a wanderer of foreign skies, a flame without a hearth, searching for a home that no longer exists in her own time.
The second sister remained behind, though her fate was a jagged one. She is a creature of impossible geometry: a warrior's soul, ancient and vast, bound within the porcelain shell of a child. For centuries, the world has turned around her while she remains frozen in a body that refuses to grow. She is a prisoner of time itself, an immortal consciousness locked in a frame of soft skin and small hands.
Inside that small silence, the fire does not sleep.
A Scykror's flame must burn outward, or it will turn its teeth upon itself. With no darkness to fight and no sky to ignite, her soul has become a cannibal. Day by day, the fire devours the very life that holds it. Beneath her ribs, the heat is a white-hot hunger, charring the spirit and searing the mind. She is a living pyyre that never turns to ash, a star that is perpetually collapsing, waiting for the one breath of wind that will turn her inward agony back into a conflagration that will burn the world to the ground.