The new world awoke in silence. No cries of war, no hum of divine energy, no echo of chains. Only the slow breath of wind brushing across the young plains of dawn.
Arka stood upon a ridge overlooking what had once been the scar of Solmere. Now, the crater had become a vast valley filled with light and mist. Rivers of molten silver flowed like veins across the land, feeding the roots of Lyra's tree, which now towered high into the clouds. Its branches shimmered with golden leaves that rained gentle starlight over the plains.
Life had returned.
He could see them—figures wandering below. Children of the new age. Their forms were unfamiliar: some bore human faces with faint beast markings upon their skin, while others had fur streaked with luminescent patterns. Hybrid beings, born from the union of the fractured energies of man, beast, and spirit.
Lyra's legacy.
Arka descended from the ridge, his steps slow, his blade now a staff of crystal light strapped to his back. As he walked among them, the creatures bowed instinctively, though none truly knew who he was. To them, he was a wanderer from the stars—a remnant of an old story whispered by the wind.
"Star Wolf," a child said, pointing up at him with wide eyes. "The one from the tree's dream."
Arka froze. "Dream?"
An elder, their eyes glowing faintly gold, nodded. "The tree speaks in the sleep of the young. It tells of two who made the sky bleed and the world bloom again. One fell into light, and the other walks beneath it."
Arka's chest tightened. "She still speaks to them?"
The elder smiled faintly. "The Mother of Dawn never sleeps."
He looked up toward the tree, its crown bathed in the rising sun. The wind carried a faint melody—a hum he knew too well. Lyra's voice. Still alive, still watching.
For the first time in years, he smiled. "Then she kept her promise."
He walked among the hybrids, helping them rebuild. He taught them fire, shelter, and the words of the stars. In time, they began to call him Astra-Kar, the Shepherd of Light. To them, he was a myth walking among men—a guide sent by the "Mother of Harmony."
But Arka never spoke his true name. Some truths, he decided, were better left to the wind.
Years passed. The valley became a city—the City of Dawn. The first temple was built at the base of the tree, carved from the roots themselves. Inside, two symbols were etched upon the stone altar: a wolf wrapped in light, and a woman's hand touching the stars.
The people prayed to them not as gods, but as the ones who gave them choice.
On the thousandth sunrise, Arka stood before the tree again. Its trunk now radiated faint warmth, its glow steady, alive.
He whispered, "They live, Lyra. They build. They hope."
The leaves rustled in response, and from between them, a voice—soft, distant, but unmistakably hers—answered:
"Then it was worth everything."
He smiled faintly, resting his hand on the bark. "Rest now. I'll watch the world for both of us."
The horizon flared, sunlight breaking through the clouds like molten glass. Arka stepped forward, walking toward it until his figure blended into the light.
And so began the First Era of Dawn—
An age born from ruin, guided by the memory of two souls who defied gods to create balance.
Their names faded from history, but the stars remembered.
And when the wind sang across the new world, it always carried two voices—one of light, and one of the wolf who followed it.