Sunderstone

Long ago, the world was whole. The gods sat in harmony, their thrones carved from the first mountain, their words binding sea and sky alike. But greed gnawed at eternity. Some say it was betrayal, others a hunger for dominion, others whisper only a name—now forbidden. Whatever the cause, the gods fractured. Their war was not like the wars of mortals. When gods strike, creation itself bleeds. The earth split into floating isles. Continents cracked open like eggs. Rivers reversed, mountains turned inside out, seas swallowed kingdoms whole. Magic, once a single flowing current, shattered into wild and warring streams. Time itself buckled. Whole days vanished. Centuries repeated. Memory faltered—there are peoples who still swear their ancestors lived twice. The moment the first god fell, the very heart of the world cracked open. That sundered stone—what remained of divine unity—scattered into shards across the earth. Each shard still thrums with impossible power. Thus the world was named Sunderstone. Not in reverence, but in grief. For every soul knows: this is the scar we live upon.