Prologue to States of Grace

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Prologue – The First Breach

Long ago before man walked the earth there was Pangea.

One land, one body, whole and complete.

Its unity was its strength, its form was unbroken.

But even the strongest vessel cannot hold forever what festers beneath. Deep below the stone and soil, something stirred — not yet a demon, not yet a name, only a hunger. It pressed, upward, restless, until the land cracked.

The fissure was not wide at first, but it was dimensionless. It had no bottom, no edges, no walls that could be measured. It was not a wound in the land — it was a wound in reality. And through it seeped an essence not meant for this world.

The breach stretched to Hell itself, before Hell had a name.

What came through was not flame, nor torment, nor any vision men would later give to damnation. It was a resonance, a hum without sound, a pressure that lived in marrow of the bone. The evil radiated outward like a lighthouse, sweeping through the dark waters of creation. It shone not to guide, but to draw one into its power.

Time passed. The continents tore themselves apart, seas surged between them, mountains thrust skyward. But the scar did not heal. It only waited, buried in stone, still glowing with that dark light.

Humans found the valley much later. They built fires, planted crops, raised children in the soil above the crack. They did not know why the shadows lingered longer there, why dark dreams seemed sharper, why whispers haunted their sleep. They did not know that their hearths and fields were lit by a beacon that had never ceased to shine.

Yet the valley knew. The valley remembered. And when the light swept across their souls, some turned strange. Some vanished. Some tore each other apart, then wept at dawn, not knowing why their hands were red with blood.

The land itself was marked — rivers darken as they curved toward it, fierce storms gathered above it, living roots grew crooked in its soil. The breach had become a lighthouse of evil, forever sweeping, forever calling.

And though the world moved on, though maps changed and nations fell, the beam never dimmed.

It still shines.

It still calls.

Today the place is called Moonvale.

But the land does not care for names.

It remembers only the wound, and the evil that lurks beneath.