It sounds exactly once in hearts, souls, and minds every thirty-one billion five hundred thirty-six million seconds. All hear it—but very few can comprehend it; even fewer can grasp its meaning; and only eleven are granted the right.
The Call affects them differently: some awaken from a long slumber, shifting mountains with the mere flutter of an eyelid; others meet it on their path while crossing uncharted lands. Some are caught disciplining disobedient children who dared show themselves; others at the very moment of creating something new from the old. Each is occupied with their own important task—not always honest, sometimes illogical, even horrifying— yet they all interrupt it to claim their right and answer the Call.
Where no one had set foot for over a thousand years, light appeared once more. A vast hall emerged, its floor made of crystal-clear water shimmering with twenty-nine hundred colors and shades, while above, across the ceiling, flowed the infinite cosmos. At its center stood eleven thrones arranged in a circle — a circle where all are equal and each is part of the whole: the ancient Order upheld for countless ages.
Suddenly, without sound or flash, lights of different hues and shapes ignited upon the thrones. Each carried a fragment of something ancient and mighty, dividing the space into zones of unique aura and pressure. They had all come here to learn what would be—for they already knew all that had been.
— “Hello, everyone! How’ve you been?!” chirped a small green flame. In its flickering glow, one could discern the breath of grass, the thickness of a leaf, the resilience of a weed. It constantly shifted shape, as if unable to settle.
— “You’re as lively as ever, Verdun. I’m glad that after a thousand years, you haven’t changed a bit,” replied a bluish flame that seemed to flow seamlessly from one position to another. From it emanated a cold that touched not the skin, but the soul itself.
— “Of course, Azuro! So much time has passed! I haven’t seen you or spoken to you!” the green flame exclaimed again, unrestrained. Had an acorn been present, it would have sprouted into a mighty tree—greater than any known to humankind—merely from the sound of his voice. Its bark harder than steel, its leaves sharper than any smith-forged blade. Such a tree would be hailed King of the Forest, standing indestructible for hundreds upon hundreds of years.
— “Ha! Enough with the past! We must move forward. It’s time to build nations. The world won’t wait! In these years, I’ve cultivated only three countries—and each has blossomed into a splendid empire. How thrilling it is to witness this!” declared a red flame. Should any citizen of those empires hear his voice, they would crumble to ash from the heat—only emperors, great-great-grandnephews of now-forgotten lineages, could withstand him. The power flowing in their blood granted them the right to stand first among their people—to shape the fates of millions who resembled them yet remained so distant.
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— “Again you burden mortals with impossible tasks. Diporpo, aren’t you tired of this yet?” came a mournful voice from a brown flame that merged with the earth itself.
Every traveler heard it—it was the sound of footsteps, the whisper of wind beneath one’s soles, the sound of inexhaustible strength when you feel you have none left, yet keep walking.
— “No! To create and clash nations until perfection emerges—that is our right, our duty, our highest purpose! You should start doing something too! Your vast wastelands lie idle, Kastaga.”
— “And let them. Everything there unfolds as it should!”
— “Are you arguing again? Can’t you just stop?” interjected a violet flame, spherical in form.
From it radiated calm and freedom—the very sensation philosophers strive to capture in words, filling thick treatises.
They do not know it is merely his breath, just a fragment of his boundless gifts.
“We don’t gather here often. Isn’t there something more important to discuss?”
— “Yes, you’re right, Violo,” spoke a white flame—calm and firm, exerting no unnecessary pressure, just as a blank sheet of paper exerts none. “We have gathered at this hour to reaffirm that each of us remains ready to uphold the Balance. We shall all honor the law we established over a hundred thousand years ago—the law that preserves our world. And each of us…”
— “But what if a new one appears?” interrupted a black flame. “What then?”
— “Sister, Aistra, what do you mean?” asked a yellow flame that had remained silent until now. It radiated warmth. Among them all, it preferred observing to acting—for its power was equally boundless. Was it called the Strongest—or did the word “Strongest” come into being because of it?
— “You’ve seen a newcomer?! How?! Where?!” cried the green flame. Joy and anticipation sparkled in his words like emeralds seeing sunlight for the first time.
— “Could such a thing truly happen before I perfected the ideal state?” The red flame was troubled. It seemed the very space around him began to bleed life.
— “Eh… how did that even happen?” muttered the violet flame and fell silent.
— “There can be no newcomers,” declared the white flame once more. “And we all know why. All other means are impossible—and thus beyond doubt…”
— “But there is the First Verse,” the black flame interrupted again. Her voice enchanted; her words and sounds wove themselves into unforgettable songs. “Have you forgotten it, after all this time?”
“When light’s life fades away,
When the soul cries out in pain,
And gravity’s decree
Silently speaks its will—
Withered flowers shall bloom anew,
Light shall live but for a breath,
The hour of creation comes, my friend—
That is the First Verse’s birth…”
— “Yes. The Verse exists. But to fulfill it is impossible—even with all our combined strength,” said the white flame, his voice allowing no objection.
The word was law.
— “I hear you, Devaster. Allow me to be the first to leave this gathering,” Aistra said—and vanished from the Exalted Hall, hearing no more of the others’ conversation. Each of them was unsettled by the thought of impending change. It hadn’t been That Long Ago! Thus, even the mere hope of something new stirred chords within their essence—chords long buried beneath habit and time.
Now Aistra sat on a thick tree branch that had reshaped itself to make her more comfortable. She gazed at the blinding flash of light and fire that had obliterated a small village and the surrounding forests and fields. For years to come, nothing would grow in that place. A scar would heal—but remain etched in human memory.
She looked into the distance with those enchanting eyes that had so recently struck a skeleton with pure Horror. She was the first witness to what was to come. Grand transformations drew near. She knew something unprecedented was approaching—and she wished to stand in the front ranks. Her bewitching lips whispered:
— “The end of the age is near. A new Era dawns.
And no one can stop it now—neither humans, nor monsters, nor gods.
Not even we, Devaster…
Not even us.”