Long before humans learned to carve fire or write words, the higher beings were already wandering the edges of galaxies. They were not born; they simply awoke, carrying power they did not ask for and could not explain. Each one shone like a star, yet inside they carried the same question humans carry: Why am I here?

Among them rose a figure known as the Sovereign. He demanded endless wars, saying that only through struggle could the universe stay alive. Some followed him, weary but obedient. Others resisted, whispering: Is this truly the only way?

Eventually, they rose against him. He was dethroned, and his name was buried. The victors called him cruel, insatiable, destructive. But his own voice was lost. No one knows if he fought for survival, or for pride, or simply out of fear that peace would make them all fade. History remembers only what those still standing chose to tell.

One being, the Shadow Bearer, was entrusted with the darkest power of all. The Sovereign had loved him most. And in a strange act of trust, or maybe defiance, gave that shadow to the one he believed would not be consumed by it. The Shadow Bearer never asked to be worshipped. He asked only to endure, to carry darkness with dignity, to prove that even shadow can serve life.

And so the higher beings continued. Some turned away from ruling, choosing instead to nurture from afar. Gardening light into the hearts of newborn souls. Others cloaked themselves, bending light so no gaze could find them, for they feared the worship of mortals more than their hatred. To be worshipped is to be caged by expectation. To be unseen is to be free.

They watch, still. Not as gods to be bowed to. But as wanderers who, like us, are searching for meaning in the vast, endless dark.