It was the morning of the world, and the morning has gone long.

The garden still stands in the east, where one tall blade of flame turns slowly at its eastern gate, and no one who looks on it ever forgets the light. Rivers run out of it to water the lands of men. No rain has ever fallen. Each dawn a mist rises out of the ground and lies white on the fields, and the dew hangs on every blade until the sun burns it away. Beasts grow great under that old sky. Some still graze in peace. Others have turned, as all flesh has turned, and they hunt the roads at dusk.

The children of the first man have split in two. One line still kneels at the old altars and calls on the name of their Maker. The other line built the first city behind the first wall, and has been building ever since: towers, forges, music, and a hunger that nothing in all the earth can fill.

Then the stars fell. Shining ones came down upon a mountain and walked among men as men. They taught the forging of blades and the making of charms, the reading of the heavens and the binding of spirits. Their sons grew into giants, mighty men of renown, and the giants took thrones. Now the earth is filled with violence, and the hearts of men turn to evil from the moment they wake.

And yet the light has not gone out. In the hill country there are still those who keep faith, who open their doors to strangers, who stand between the helpless and the dark. They are few. They are mocked. They are not finished.