The Night the Sky Wept

When the people of K’lais turned toward peace and shared futures, many welcomed the softening of the blade. They spoke of unity without struggle, of strength without trial. But there were those who remembered what had shaped them in the beginning. They remembered that worth is not given—it is forged.

These were the ancestors of the Va’nu’ians.

They believed the truth etched into bone and blood: the weak perish; the strong endure. That conflict tempers the spirit. That survival is the first and final law. They would not abandon the old ways, nor apologize for the victories won by force of will and blade. For this, they were named relics. For this, they were cast out.

So the ancestors turned their backs on K’lais—not in defeat, but in conviction—and looked skyward.

They believed those who came before them had already taken to the heavens, carving paths of fire and light across the dark. The stars were not distant to them. They were footsteps. Signs left only for those strong enough to follow.

The exile began.

Ships broke. Clans fractured. The unworthy fell away into the void. Yet when hope thinned and numbers dwindled, the stars shifted—subtly, purposefully—in patterns only the faithful could read. This was taken as proof: the ancestors still walked ahead, clearing the way through darkness.

At the end of the star-path lay Va’nu.

It was not a world of welcome. The sands burned the breath from the lungs. Storms erased camps as if they had never been. The sun struck with merciless intent. Many died. The survivors whispered that Va’nu was not a destination, but a judgment—chosen by the ancestors as the final proving.

Only those who adapted would remain.

When even the strongest faltered, when the clans stood upon the edge of extinction, a single star ignited above them—brighter than the rest. At that same moment, the ground beneath their feet split apart, stone opening like a wound.

Sky and earth spoke as one.

Descend.
Adapt.
Survive.

Those who answered entered the deep fissures and found a second world hidden beneath the killing sun. Vast caverns glowed with mineral light. Cool air moved through stone. There, within the planet’s bones, shelter and strength waited—not as mercy, but as reward.

They gathered radiant ore from the depths and knew the truth: the ancestors had bound their guidance into both star and stone. Above and below. Watchful always.

Thus the city beneath Va’nu was born.

The depths became sacred—not a refuge for the weak, but an inheritance earned through suffering. Only Va’nu’ians, and those proven by blood, deed, or unbreakable loyalty, were permitted below. To grant this sanctum to the unworthy was to dishonor every ancestor who stood defiant on K’lais and every exile lost along the star-path.

Even now, the Va’nu’ians listen.

When the stars shift, they watch.
When the stone trembles, they remember.

For the ancestors still speak—through constellations above and the living city below—repeating the creed that carried them across the void:

K’lais rejected us.
Va’nu tested us.
Va’nu proved us worthy.