FULGORN

PROLOGUE

The Canticle of Light

-As told by the Triarch High Creed

Before the first spark, there was only the Void—empty and still. Yet within that stillness stirred three primordial desires: to know, to be, and to shape.

From this triad of desire, the Great Flame was born. Not fire, but Fulgoria—the first light. A sentient force that shattered the Void’s silence with her hunger to create.

Fulgoria wept into the dark, and where her tears fell, three suns ignited—Solan, Velas, and Koreth. They swirled in celestial unity, their dance birthing Fulgorn itself.

Into this world, Fulgoria breathed her three gifts:

Omnipotence—the gift of shaping. From her boundless strength, she forged all life in Fulgorn and beyond. Then coded the laws of motion and mass, and granted dominion over the fabric of reality itself.

Omniscience—the gift of knowing. From her infinite mind, she mapped the ley-lines of truth and embedded celestial blueprints into the veins of all life. She unveiled the symmetries of time, the dance of particles, and wrote the song of every atom.

Omnipresence—the gift of being. From her eternal essence, she suffused the spaces between. She became the breath in lungs, the pull of gravity, and the hum of quantum fields unseen but unyielding.

These gifts were then bestowed upon sentient beings forged from stellar ash and fractal thought. Fulgoria then divided them into three castes:

The Traktators, architects of matter, whose minds bent metals and energies alike. To them, mountains were clay and metal became a servant.

The Pallators, scholars of the cosmic ledger, who parsed the codes of creation and glimpsed into the edges of infinity.

The Wisps, phantoms of the interstitial realms, who could split their forms into spectral echoes and slipped through dimensions like shadows.

United as the Triarchs, they vowed to steward Fulgorn as living temples to Fulgoria’s design.

But even perfection fractures; A fourth caste emerged—Imparen—flawed versions of the Triarchs. Born without Gifts. They became equations unsolved, vessels devoid of Fulgoria’s sacred charge. The Triarchs condemned them to serve as hands without will. They labored in the shadow of their betters, and were forbidden from touching the tools of their makers.

Fulgoria, her creation complete, dissolved into the substrate of her creation. Her final decree echoed through the new world: “Let the Triarchs reign, until the stars rewrite my name.”

***

THE HARMONY CHAMBER

The cell door slid open—a sound Moon knew meant pain.

Its brass edges scraped against cracked walls, grinding like broken bones. A draft carried the stench of rust and despair. Moon’s bone-white hair glowed in the gloom, a ghostly beacon marking the prisoner everyone called a monster.

A man in scarlet robes stepped inside, keys chiming like funeral bells. Light from the cell’s lone window split his face—half scarred, half menacing.

Moon squirmed in his chair. The thick chains binding his small frame to the floor barely shifted.

“Where is she?” The words tore from Moon’s throat before the guard fully entered. “Where have you taken her?”

The man said nothing. He pulled a parchment from his robes and unfurled it, his voice cold and flat.

“By Lord Hasaki's decree, I, Larioth, Over watcher of the Dreadspire, deliver Moon the Imp to the Harmony Chamber. He stands trial before the Triarch Counsel for hoarding Fulgornian tech above his caste. By law, I speak no word to the accused—unless the Counsel wills it”

“WHERE IS SHE?” Moon bellowed, ignoring every word.

Larioth stepped closer. The light caught his eyes, sharpening their evil glare—a look of pure hatred. For seconds that felt like hours, he stared at Moon, a muscle twitching in his temple.

Silent, he raised a hand. The chains snapped free. They coiled around Moon’s body like steel serpents, crushing his limbs. Moon floated upward, suspended by nothing but Larioth’s icy gaze.

The guard clenched his outstretched fingers into a fist. Moon’s jaw clamped shut, teeth fused as if magnetized. Only muffled grunts escaped.

Larioth turned, robes swirling like bloodstained smoke, and strode out. Moon’s levitating form trailed behind him like a puppet.

The corridor erupted. Hands clawed through cell bars—desperate, skeletal fingers in tattered green sleeves. Prisoners wailed, their voices raw and animal-like. Scarlet-clad guards stood motionless, statues unfazed by human emotion. They nodded at Larioth as he passed.

At the exit, Larioth stepped onto a floating metal disc. It hummed to life, lifting him from the Dreadspire and into the open air. Moon followed, chains rattling, as they soared above a smog-choked hellscape.

Below, Volcanic vents belched ash. Hundreds of hovering spires pierced the haze, their engines humming in unison. Skyrails snaked through the sea of megalodon spires like tendrils weaving through trees. Larioth drifted calmly, hands behind his back, as if touring a serene vista.

Moon’s gaze dropped to the ground far beneath—a wasteland of ash and lava. On areas where molten rock was absent, Grey specks filled the void: the Imp slums. Thousands of cottages built from hovels of generator scraps, stitched together by lesser Fulgornians.

They passed floating residential spires, windows glinting with amber light. Inside, Triarchial families carried on with their privileged lives, oblivious to the shackled boy floating past them.

The smoke in the air thinned. Ahead, a spire materialized right in front of Moon’s eyes. A black flag danced in the rhythm of wind. The emblem, a golden Wyvven clutching twin spears, made Moon’s gut twist. The wind that howled in his ears now sounded like his sister’s screams—flooding his feeble mind with memories of the raid: The day they stole her from him.

Two Traktators guarded the spire’s entrance, balanced on hovering discs. They nodded as Larioth landed with a metallic clink. Moon trailed him inside, heart drumming in time with the guard’s footsteps.

They passed floating residential spires, windows glinting with amber light. Inside, Triarchial families carried on with their privileged lives, oblivious to the shackled boy floating past them.

The smoke in the air thinned. Ahead, a spire materialized right in front of Moon’s eyes. A black flag danced in the rhythm of wind. The emblem, a golden Wyvven clutching twin spears, made Moon’s gut twist. The wind that howled in his ears now sounded like his sister’s screams—flooding his feeble mind with memories of the raid: The day they stole her from him.

Two Traktators guarded the dome’s entrance, balanced on hovering discs. They nodded as Larioth landed with a metallic clink. Moon trailed him inside, heart drumming in time with the guard’s footsteps.

They passed through a narrow hallway—dark, empty, and dimly lit. The faint light emanated from ancient symbols glowing like golden neon against obsidian stone. Moon recognized some of them: a fist inscribed in a circle, styled like a radiant sun—the emblem of the Traktators. He’d scrubbed their lavatories occasionally during his Imp duties.

Another glyph depicted three suns—Solan, Velas, and Koreth—orbited by a smaller sphere: Fulgorn. The dying world he was been punished for trying to save.

The second symbol, an eye encased in a diamond-shaped lattice with four angles, marked the Pallators. He’d seen it embroidered in black on their white robes.

The third symbol flickered between walls—a shifting helix of intersecting rings, pulsing like a heartbeat. It vanished from the left wall only to reappear on the right, trailing Larioth and Moon as they advanced. Moon knew this one too: the Wisps wore it when delivering rations to the slums. It was the only glyph he welcomed. Whenever the Wisps arrived, they brought gallons of water and Vitanox—a dense Fulgornian bread packed with survival nutrients. For a fleeting moment, Yaya would smile, her blind eyes crinkling, even if she couldn’t see Moon’s grin.

They reached the hallway’s end. A metallic door loomed, its surface studded with a vault-like knob, its concentric rings etched with humming runes.

Larioth halted. Moon froze midair behind him. The guard flicked his wrist, and the knob shuddered, gears clanking as it unlocked. The door slid open soundlessly, revealing a cramped circular chamber barely large enough for two.

Larioth stepped inside, pivoted, and glared at Moon. The scars on his face—twisted burns stretching from jaw to temple—were fully visible now. Though hatred smoldered in his eyes, Moon swore he glimpsed a flicker of despair. With an angry swipe, Larioth yanked Moon into the chamber, flipping him vertically until his feet hovered inches above the floor. The door sealed shut. Moon’s soles touched metal as the elevator lurched upward, his stomach lurching with it.

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder for what felt like days in suffocating silence.

Finally, the door opened.

At first, the room seemed empty—until Moon noticed the floating high-seats. Twenty figures hovered in midair, clad in Fulgornian finery: scarlet, white, and black robes cascading like liquid silk. They sat rigid, their stools drifting in a perfect circle, so still they might have been statues fused to their thrones.

“The Triarch deigns to receive you,” Larioth rasped, the words smoldering like embers in his scarred throat. “Kneel before the Hollow Chorus.”

The chains unwound from Moon’s body, coiling into a hovering sphere.

“Step forth. Breathe no words unless summoned.”

Moon’s jaw unlocked with a snap. Larioth shoved him forward, sending him sprawling onto the floor. As the elevator door closed, Moon caught the guard’s grimace—a fleeting mix of triumph and disgust.

Moon rose, footsteps echoing unnaturally loud in the vast space. He kept his head bowed, remembering the fate of Imps who dared meet their superiors’ eyes. At the chamber’s center, he knelt. Shadows shifted above as the high-seats drifted closer, tightening their formation.

A woman’s voice—husky, imperious—rang out: “Raise your eyes, Imparen.”

Her voice resonated like glacial wind carving stone—cold, ancient, and inevitable.

“The Triarchs permit your gaze. Cherish this mercy.”

Moon lifted his gaze. A figure in white robes stared down, her eyes piercing as daggers. She spoke without moving her lips, her voice reverberating inside his skull: I taste your fear, rodent. Your thoughts writhe like maggots in rot. Speak falsehood, and I will unspool your mind like thread. Do you understand? Or must I peel back your skull to see for myself?

Moon hesitated.

“Speak!”

“I understand” he said curtly.

“Very well. Igothar, do the honors”

A rattling screech reached Moon’s eardrums—the sound of rusted gears chewing through stone. He kept his gaze locked on the Pallator’s face, though every instinct screamed to look away. Her features repelled him like a corrupted mirror: eyes spaced too wide, nostrils flared asymmetrically, lips puckered around jagged teeth that jutted at angles no natural mouth should allow. It wasn’t animal—it was humanity warped, as if her bones had been broken and reset by a blind sculptor.

Wind roared as objects sliced the air above him. The battle suit slammed onto the frost-caked floor, its owl-like amber lenses dilating. Moon’s pulse hammered against his throat as he stared at the helmet. One lens flickered, a dying star winking out.

“Do you recognize what lies before you, child?” Igothar asked.

“No,” Moon responded.

“Lies!”

Shayuri’s voice gurgled, wet, mucus catching in her throat.

“Shall I carve the truth from that shadow-wit tongue?”

White-hot needles pierced Moon’s skull. Through the agony, he glanced at Shayuri’s hands—knuckles swollen like rotten fruit, fingers pointing directly at him. Her laughter bubbled up, thick and phlegmatic.

“Enough!” Igothar commanded.

The pressure lifted. Moon retched, bile searing his throat. Above him, the Triarchs’ seats creaked, their shadows knotting like agitated serpents.

“I ask again. Do you recognize what lies before you?”

Moon’s tongue found the scar on his lip—a childhood gift from his little sister. Focus on the rage, not the fear.

“I built it” he admitted “From the scraps of collapsed spires.”

“Aha!”

Shayuri leaned forward, her neck tendons moving like worms. “Lord Hasaki was right. This proves everything”

Igothar raised a hand. The suit crumpled like foil, its lenses exploding in a shower of sparks. “Be certain, boy, that word of your treachery will reach the Overlord. You and all those who you claim will surely be punished”

“Guard!” Shayuri called out.

“At your service, great ones” a woman’s voice responded.

“Take him!”

Moon was suddenly yanked from the floor and hurled backwards, skidding against the cold floor. He felt the familiar cold grip of chains coiling around his body. His body slammed hard as he crashed in wall, re-entering the elevator.

As the door sealed, the guard leaned close; a face he wished to erase from his memory.

“Greetings, little brother.”Her breath reeked of candied venom, “Still playing with broken toys, I see.”

***

Two Solic Cycles Ago

Kingspire,Ever-Light City

Lord Hasaki gripped the windowsill, his horrid face harsh in Koreth’s crimson glare. Fulgorn’s largest sun burned behind heat-warped skies, staining the clouds the color of dried blood—the first time in a hundred Solic Cycles. Sweat seeped into the furrow of scar tissue, his eyes wide with shock. His unmarred eye flickered as another smoke tendril stabbed upward from the horizon.

The second flare was swift- a wave of searing fiery orange light braided with raw power. The Kingspire trembled causing the iron filigree in Hasaki’s chamber to rattle against the stone walls.
The tower shuddered with a low, grinding wail of steel scraping against steel. Hasaki staggered back, boots skidding across broken concrete. He stumbled, but caught himself, palms scraping rubble as he shoved upright through sheer will.

The cries came next, human, not mechanical. The wind snatched the noise and hurled it past him. Ahead, the central spire tilted sideways, its fractured base hissing steam. One of the turbines exploded in a burst of sparks, hurling twisted metal blades like scythes into the storm. Beneath it all, oily smoke pulsed from the structure’s gut.
Then slowly, the spire descended out of Hasaki’s view.

“NO!”

The Kingspire's floor also bucked. A pinned axe broke free from the wall and hurled towards his face. He deflected it with a flicker of his wrist.

A tapestry tore free, whipping past the broken window and into open air. Hasaki was also sucked into the gush but managed to grab the window’s frame just right on time.

A crimson cyclone of billowing robes surrounded his dangling body; hundreds of Traktators, arms outstretched, soaring in formation. Their eyes, not fixed on Hasaki, but Kingspire itself.

Beneath them, the Imps scattered, tiny green objects moving like Ants.

The Traktators veered east; the spire missed the Skyrail by a hair’s breadth. But the ground was inevitable—and it was approaching fast.
The Traktators closed in, trying to slow it. But it was of no use. The Kingspire’s belly caught the edge of a thatched roof—and lit it on fire.
The spire came to rest in the heart of the Imp Quarter with a final, shuddering groan. Dust billowed into the air. Splintered homes jutted from beneath its weight—sharp and jagged, like bone tearing through skin.

To be continued....