Veyric did not begin with names.
He began with silence.
The hall dimmed as the last echoes settled, and only then did he speak, slowly, as though the words themselves carried weight.
"Before you learn to fight them, you must first understand what they are.
We call them Mourningstars."
He turned, tracing a circle in the air, as if outlining something too vast to see.
"They are not merely creatures. Not even gods, though some fools worship them as such. A Mourningstar is a memory that refused to die. An emotion that refused to fade. The very highest form of a Blightborn, EX-rank, beyond measure, beyond reason."
A pause.
"They were once human."
A murmur stirred through the room.
"Yes, during The Wail. When the world broke, not just in body, but in spirit, something unprecedented occurred. The suffering of humanity reached such depth that it created a path. Invisible. Waiting. Like a wire suspended in air, waiting for the storm."
He tapped the floor with his staff.
"And when the storm came, it conducted."
"Not all could ascend," he continued. "Only those who fulfilled the three bindings."
He raised one finger.
"First, Mass Anguish. Humanity itself must drown in sorrow. Not one city. Not one nation. All of us. The collective grief becomes gravity, pulling something deeper into existence."
A second finger.
"Second, The Reservoir. The world must hold the energy. The earth, the mountains, the oceans, silent witnesses storing the catastrophe. And when the chosen one breaks, they draw it in. Every fragment."
A third.
"And finally, The Will."
His voice lowered.
"They must have lived it. Practiced it. Become it. Not as a moment, but as a truth. That truth etches itself into their being and survives the transformation."
He looked at each student, one by one.
"That is why Mourningstars are not random."
"They are Anguish. Vengeance. Apathy. Compassion. Romance. Nullity."
Each word felt heavier than the last.
"They do not feel these things."
"They are them."
"Once ascended, they no longer belong to our world."
He gestured upward, though it felt wrong to call it up.
"They exist beyond space. Beyond time. In a fourth plane we cannot reach, only suffer the consequences of. From there, they continue to practice their will, endlessly. Perfecting it. Expanding it."
A faint, humorless smile crossed his face.
"Imagine a being that does not grow tired of hatred. Or love. Or despair."
He turned sharply.
"And yet, they are not without reach."
The room tensed.
"They choose prophets."
"A prophet," he said, "is not a title. It is a burden forced upon a soul."
"They do not ask."
"They do not negotiate."
"They choose."
"To be chosen, one must already reflect the Mourningstar's will. A cruel irony. The compassionate are taken by Compassion. The vengeful, by Vengeance."
He began to pace.
"They must also possess an element, some spark of power already within them. The Mourningstar grants the second."
He stopped.
"And with it comes fracture."
"The chosen becomes what we call a heretic."
A few students shifted uneasily.
"Yes. Two elements within one body. Power beyond most Aetherials. And a mind forced to withstand it."
His gaze sharpened.
"Many do not."
"And yet, power is only the beginning."
He raised his staff again, drawing an invisible chain in the air.
"Mourningstar, to Prophet, to Heretic."
A beat.
"To Faction."
"The prophet may choose to lead. To gather others. To build something in the Mourningstar's name."
His tone darkened.
"And what they build… shapes the world."