Volume 1 – Resonant
Long ago, the cosmos rang with nine resounding notes.
Each note gave birth to a realm, a world shaped by its melody and frequency.
The first was Aerolune, the realm of wind, sky, and instability.
The second, Astrum Vael, the realm of light, order, and radiance.
The third, Nethervail, the realm of shadow, fear, and impermanence.
The fourth, Eondrath, the realm of memory, redemption, and regret.
The fifth, Marrowfall, the realm of bone, evolution, and flesh.
The sixth, Thalora Deeps, the realm of water, depth, and secrets.
The seventh, Pyrehold, the realm of flame, will, and renewal.
The eighth, Iron Chorale, the realm of metal, industry, and order.
The ninth, Quorum Reach, the realm of silence, void, and potential.
The tenth note remained unfinished.
Its realm never fully came into existence, lost to the song of creation, leaving a gap in the fabric of the cosmos. Scholars whispered of the Tenth Realm in awe, suspicion, and fear, yet none had ever set foot there.
For Zeigdrift Skyrend, 16 years of age, lean, and 5'9 in height, the mysteries of the cosmos were abstract concepts.
His world began and ended with the plains he called home.
The Aerosong Plains stretched endlessly before him, winds sweeping across tall, swaying grasses that carried whispers of forgotten voices.
He had never ventured beyond this portion of Aerolune, had never glimpsed the jagged crystals of Zephyr Spires looming in the horizon.
There were no signs of human settlements here.
No footprints of anyone like him.
The plains had once known another soul—a Resonant who wandered here years ago. He had been a patient, kind, and wise father figure to Zeigdrift, teaching him about the nine realms, their voices, and the strange laws that governed them. Even six months after the old man's death, Zeigdrift could still recall his lessons, fragments of wisdom that ignited a restless curiosity within him.
Resonants were those who could wield the world's frequencies, bending them into powers beyond ordinary beings. They could shape wind, fire, or even sound itself, each attuned to a unique resonance that reflected their essence. Rare and unpredictable, feared and revered, Resonants could change the world—or destroy it.
Zeigdrift had only seen the old man wield that kind of power once.
It obliterated a horde of Dissonants and sent the rest scattering, their forms twisted, shimmering, monstrous.
Dissonants were the predators of Aerolune.
Rendmaws, Vexlings, Chimerics—creatures born from corrupted frequencies, shapes twisting like smoke, eyes glinting with malice and intelligence alike.
According to the old man, these monsters preyed upon all races, making no distinction between humans, dwarves, elves, or beastkin.
Now, Zeigdrift walked alone among them. The plains were silent, save for the wind and the occasional rustle of grass. Even the Dissonants that lingered in the distance seemed wary of him, skirting the edges of his path as if sensing something he did not.
It was a puzzle he had long wondered about.
He had asked the old man once how a human could awaken as a Resonant.
There were many ways, the old man had said.
One way was lineage. Some clans passed down power through generations, like the Fire Clan, whose anger could intensify flames, or the Ice Clan, whose cold indifference could freeze the fiercest storms. There were even Resonants with arts so unique that entire cities whispered their names in awe, though Zeigdrift could not recall them all.
Another path was through objects called Awakening Steles. Scattered across the nine realms, these artifacts could awaken a Resonant within any who touched them. Some were naturally formed, remnants of cataclysmic events that shaped the cosmos. Others were man-made, crafted to preserve techniques and pass on legacies of power. Rare and coveted, most were owned by notable figures or ancient clans.
The final method was the most unpredictable: chance.
Some awakened by meditating in silence, some by stumbling upon inheritances of the mighty, and some even by defeating—or narrowly surviving against—Dissonants.
Rarely, awakening could come from desperation, from the brink of death itself.
Zeigdrift had none of these advantages.
No clan, no artifact, no accident of fate.
And yet, the Dissonants avoided him.
He didn't understand why.
He only knew that he had survived, as he always had, by keeping his senses sharp and his wits sharper. The wind whispered through the grasses, carrying echoes of the old man's voice, a reminder of the lessons half-learned and mysteries yet unsolved.
A horde of Rendmaws circled on the horizon, their jagged forms glinting under the weak light.
Vexlings scuttled between tufts of grass, their limbs elongated and grotesque.
Chimerics prowled silently, blending into the plains with unnatural ease.
And yet, none came close.
It was as if they recognized him, and instinct kept them at bay.
Zeigdrift drew a deep breath, letting the wind wash over him. He tightened his grip on the simple leather strap of his pack and glanced toward the far horizon, toward Zephyr Spires. He had only known the plains for his entire life. Beyond them lay the unknown, lands filled with dangers, wonders, and answers he did not yet understand.
He had survived this far.
But the world was far bigger than the wind-swept plains.
A journey awaited him.