A Sleeping Star

Before the world, there was a song. Before the song, a single sleeping star — vast and slow and silver, dreaming of itself. From its dreaming came the four bloods, and from the four bloods came the realm of Prius.

The Ayin were its dawn. The Beriah were its bone. The Hume were its breath. The Lon were its memory.

And then the star fell silent.

No one remembers when. The histories disagree. The Ayin say it was a grief, the Beriah say it was a wound, the Hume say it was a choice, the Lon — when pressed — say only that the star is not dead. It is sleeping. And what sleeps may yet wake.

That is why we walk. That is why we fight. That is why we look, each of us, into the glass — not to find ourselves, but to find the one who is dreaming us.