In a world ruled by ancient forests and talking beasts, the legends speak in hushed tones of a rare and curious creature: the Human. Neither winged like the cloud spirits nor scaled like the dragonkin, humans walk upright, fragile and flame-hearted, wielding machines that hum like spells and dreams that shape the land. They once roamed freely—builders of cities that touched the sky, whisperers to fire, tamers of steel. Now, they’re spoken of as myth: beings who bent nature to will, felt love so fiercely it cracked worlds, and vanished into time like smoke. To the creatures of this world, humans are the gods of old—mysterious, feared, and oddly beautiful in their life?

Some say the humans destroyed themselves, unable to bear the weight of their own wonder—too clever for harmony, too wild for peace. Others believe they ascended, shedding their brittle forms to become stars, watching silently from the night sky. The elders teach their young to be wary of human relics: rusted machines that still hum in the soil, books with words that burn the mind, and mirrors that show not one’s reflection but a flicker of ancient eyes. There are places—deep in forgotten valleys or beneath the roots of ruined towers—where the wind still carries their laughter, and flowers bloom in unnatural patterns, as if remembering the hands that once planted them. To the creatures of magic, humans are the great mystery: not gods, not monsters, but something stranger still—a species that dreamed louder than the world could bear. And some, the bold or the foolish, whisper of their return.