Before the world had names, before crowns, bloodlines, or blades, there was only sky. Silent, endless, watching. And within it, constellations, celestial forces that didn't speak, didn't judge. They chose. At birth, each soul is pulled toward one, tethered by something deeper than fate. These constellations don't grant power. They awaken it. They reveal what already sleeps inside. Fire, water, light, darkness, Earth, wind, ice, and more, each constellation tied to something pure, raw, and wild.
Magic isn't a gift. It's a bond. You earn it through understanding. Through time. Through pain. The more you grow, the clearer your connection becomes. Ten stages, no shortcuts.
1. Awakening
2. Innate
3. Stirred
4. Attuned
5. Aligned
6. Anchored
7. Resonant
8. Harmonic
9. Transcendent
10. Astral
(Note they wont be used allat much ill use them when i describe a character but i might use shit like "f c b a s ss sss")
Each one harder to reach than the last. Most never make it past the fourth. Some barely spark. The stars don't care. They don't pity. They choose—and then they watch.
The world below is carved into kingdoms. Not just lands, but legacies. Shaped by the races that rule them and the constellations that favor them.
Aetherwyn, home of the elves, lies deep within ancient woods wrapped in fog and moonlight. They are cold, immortal, and tied to wind, water, and light. Graceful magic flows through their veins, but they don't waste it. They see most other races as clumsy echoes of what came before.
Thargrum, the mountain-forged dwarven kingdom, is carved into the spine of the earth. Their cities are flame-lit fortresses beneath stone. They are tied to metal and earth constellations, stubborn as the cliffs they live in. They build, forge, and fight. They don't speak unless they mean it.
Korraval, the orc lands, stretch across red plains and black deserts. Orcs are born of fire and earth, massive and brutal—but not stupid. Their magic is war itself. Tribal clans rule here, but there's honor in their chaos. When an orc is chosen by a constellation, the entire sky feels it.
Velheim, far to the frozen north, belongs to the ice imps—strange, agile, unpredictable. They don't feel cold or fear. Tied to frost and shadow, their power isn't loud. It lingers. Whispers. Freezes the heart before the skin. No one knows how their cities look. No one who enters ever speaks of it.
Sarthros is ruled by the vampiric houses—immortal, cursed, beautiful, and cruel. Their magic is soaked in blood, twisted by ancient pacts. Tied to shadow and void, they feed not just on blood, but memory. In Sarthros, time doesn't move forward. It loops. Hunts. Devours.
Vyrmoria, the dragonkin empire, is broken sky and scorched stone. Winged towers stretch high into stormclouds. Dragonkin are chosen mostly by flame, metal, and storm constellations. They live by strength, pride, and old laws. Their breath can melt steel. Their honor burns hotter.
Ostara, the human kingdom, sits at the center. Balanced. Divided. Humans are unpredictable—chosen by all constellations, masters of none. Some say that makes them weak. Others say it makes them dangerous. Their kingdoms rise fast. Their empires fall faster.
Then there are the Nomad Races. Scattered, feared, forgotten.
The Shadewalkers, rumored to be born of pure darkness.
The Feyborn, children of chaotic wilds, half-mad with beauty and wrath.
The Hollowborn, who carry no constellation at all—soulless, magicless, cursed.
The constellations don't answer to kings. They don't favor justice or peace. They choose who they choose, and the world shifts around those choices. Wars have started because a single child was chosen by a new, unseen constellation. New stars have appeared in the sky, sudden and unexplained. Others have vanished.
Magic here isn't about spells or rituals. It's spiritual. Elemental. Some train in silence for decades. Others are thrown into battle at twelve. But to grow, to truly grow, one must understand—not just how to use magic, but why it was given. The deeper the understanding, the stronger the bond. The stronger the bond, the more the constellation listens.
Temples were once built to worship the sky. Now most lie in ruins, forgotten or feared. Constellation priests still exist, but they are rare—called Seers, they don't speak for the stars. They translate silence. They teach not how to fight, but how to listen.
Peace doesn't last here. Every kingdom wants more. More land. More power. More control over the constellations' secrets. Ancient relics are buried beneath old ruins. Some say they belonged to the first Chosen Ones—those who reached the tenth stage, became something more than mortal, and then vanished. Some say they still walk among us.
But lately, something is shifting. Stars are flickering. New constellations are being whispered about. The Hollowborn are no longer rare—they're multiplying. And for the first time in generations, the constellations are silent. Not gone. Just... quiet.
People are uneasy. The world breathes slower. Magic feels heavier.
In a land divided by race, kingdom, and element, where power is both gift and burden, change doesn't come with noise. It comes with stillness. With absence. And then, with fire.
And far from the courts, armies, and temples… a boy who's Destiny wasent guided by the stars.
His name is Lif Ellis.