The Veil of First Night

As recorded by Eldrin Maelvar of the Temple of Still Waters     In the age before ages, when the breath of the world was yet new and wild, there was no night. The sky knew only the gleam of clarity. The seas shimmered with light. The land, freshly shaped by claw and scale, basked in the unceasing brilliance gifted by Inas, who had cast illumination across all creation. There was no shadow, no rest, no hidden place for thought or dream.   The dragons toiled endlessly in the glow. Niendruth’s forests rose from the earth, ceaseless in growth. Bineth’s oceans sparkled in constant reflection, restless under the glare. Airylth’s birds shrieked and soared without pause. Fryldrith’s fires burned always. Middras’ breath gave rise to spirits that knew no stillness, for there was no dusk to temper them. The world was vibrant, but it was never quiet. There was no pause between breath and word, no moment between action and reflection. Creation marched forward, ever brilliant, ever exposed.   Ryheia had watched in silence. She, who had come with her brother Inas from the stars beyond the stars, was born of subtlety and wisdom, not motion. Her form moved like wind through the grass, like water untouched by stone. She saw the dragons' mighty works and did not interfere, but she understood what they did not: the need for stillness.   She spoke first to her brother, Inas, whose light ruled the heavens. “You have given this world clarity, brother,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath. “But they cannot see what lies within themselves. In your brilliance, there are no shadows to hold thought, no cool to give peace.”   But Inas did not yet understand. “What need have they of darkness, when all is clear?”   So Ryheia said no more. She walked among the dragons, unspoken, unseen. She walked until she reached the peak of the world—the first and highest mountain, shaped by Niendruth’s claw. There she stood alone and lifted her eyes to the gleaming heavens. With one claw, she tore a single thread from her own essence. It was woven of stillness, of silence, of silver shadow.   She cast the thread across the sky.   Where it passed, the light recoiled. For the first time, the sky dimmed. The forests quieted. The sea hushed. One by one, the stars flickered into view—gems of silence in a sky no longer overbright.   It was not full darkness. No. It was balance.   The dragons looked skyward, uncertain. They gathered on the mountaintops and watched as Ryheia shaped the first Veil. She wove the night from her own presence, trailing it across the world like a cloak. Where the Veil passed, fire dimmed, birds quieted, the ocean stilled. Spirits slept. The world exhaled.   Inas arrived, summoned by the soft change. He beheld the Veil and for the first time, his light faltered. Not in defeat, but in awe. He saw the world beneath Ryheia’s twilight and understood. Where his light had given growth, hers would now give rest. Where his brilliance stirred action, hers would kindle thought.   The two stood atop the peak together. Ryheia said nothing. Inas, humbled, spoke first. “Let us walk in turn, sister. You shall pass, then I, and the world shall learn rhythm.”   And so they did. Ryheia would cast her Veil, and Inas would lift it. The world breathed. Dreams began to take root. Thought, once drowned in light, grew deep and strange and wondrous. The dragons came to revere the pattern, and the cats—the descendants of Ryheia and Inas—taught its meaning in whispers and stillness.   To this day, the night is not absence, but presence. It is the soft breath of Ryheia, drawn across the sky. The Veil remains, a gift of mercy and mystery, reminding dragon and mortal alike that wisdom is not always found in what is seen—but often, in what is hidden.   So speaks the legend of the Veil of First Night.