In the beginning, there was magic, blood-bright and hotter than the heart of a coal. It pulsed in the arterial chambers below the ocean, and it periodically spat out arcs of molten viscera that would turn cold and black in the sea air, crumbling into rock that made up the foundation of the continent. One day, the sea vents flared and out tumbled a clot of magic. It grew four slender, shaking legs, and stood with all the grace of a newborn colt; and then, as its searing white fur cooled outside of the world’s womb, it turned black, like stone, and began to crumble. But it did not become land. Instead, it continued to breathe, with eyes as blue as the very center of flame. It growled and bit at itself, until the stone along its belly cracked and snapped, and out fell its white-hot core: another four-legged creature, with a plumed tail and tall ears and clever, fire-red eyes. So it was that Anarket, the god of death, and his mate Malaket, the goddess of life, were born from Rise’s magic—two halves of one whole, fated to love each other feverishly, and yet unable to truly be together.

And so it was that their children—burning with magic, bound only to the two simple laws of their ancestors—were fated to both complete one another, and to tear each other apart. There can be no life without death. There can be no death without life. They must kill. They must heal.

And they must always rise again.