The Flame of the Fourth

They say Mother Moon once watched the world from afar,
her white light cast gently across a land lost to monsters.

In those days, mortals cried out beneath the shadow of great beasts,
creatures older than time, who fed on soul and flesh alike.

The gods turned their faces away.
All but one.

The Mother Moon, eldest of the three moons, saw the suffering of mortals
and could not look away.

So she descended, veiled in starlight,
and walked the broken earth.

There, on a plain where even hope had turned to ash,
she found a warrior who did not kneel,
who fought only to protect.

She loved him.

From that love came four children,
born of moonlight and mortal will.
They were the first sorcerers.

Their magic was a blessing.
A mark.

Through their hands, the beasts were driven back.
Through their flame, the world was reclaimed.

But peace forgets its flames.

And the names of the four began to fade.

Only three were remembered.
The first burned with justice.
The second shaped with reason.
The third healed with grace.

The fourth was forgotten.

Still, the moons shine above.
And far below, the sorcerers,
once servants of mercy and preservation,
became something else.

Now they wear silks and symbols,
claim divine blood,
and call their birthright holy.

They do not honor her sacrifice anymore.

Still… some say she watches.
That her wild heart stirs again.

And when the veil thins
and the world cracks open,
she will mark a child
with the fourth forgotten flame.

A stranger.
A dreamer.
The one the world forgot,

but deeply needs.