The Moon, in those unfathomably distant ages when even the memory of lands beneath the shadow of the Tree had yet to stir, and the Greater Will dwelt either in non-being or else veiled its kindling flame from the all-seeing gaze of night—even then, Her followers began to gather. They came, drawn by a summons that echoed from the very depths of existence, and the stars themselves hearkened, attuned to Her speechless song. She was the Mother of Cold Dreams, the cradle of visions spurned by the fierce sun of the coming Order—a sanctuary for souls whose nature gleamed too blue or too black in the eyes of the dawning orthodoxy.

Her pale visage shed its light upon all. It passed through flesh and bone, reaching into the very heart of worlds, unveiling truths hidden within the eternal chill of the cosmos. Those who dared meet Her gaze beheld an abyss strewn with diamond stars, and within that abyss—a reflection of their own boundless fate.

But then came the Golden Order. Its golden radiance, born of the Erdtree and fanned by the Fingers of the Greater Will, blinded the heavens with its parasitic light. It named cold a heresy, and free will—chaos. The blinding light of the Erdtree scorched the lunar shadows from the face of the Lands Between. The stars withdrew: some fell, becoming burning stones; others retreated, scorched by the heat of a new god. Her followers were scattered—some broken, others converted by force or fear. And the Moon Herself was exiled to the outer reaches of the heavens. She became a shadow of former majesty, suspended over a world that had rejected Her.

And in the far corners of cunning usurpation, a hidden Fall came to pass.

You forgot. You forgot everything: a time unmeasured by stars, by sand, or by gods. You forgot the dance within the retinue of the Cold Mother, forgot the language of pulsars and the frozen song of the void. Your very being, light once woven into the fabric of Her grace, drew inwards, dimmed, and became a faintly glimmering pebble, lost in the named lands of Caelid, among the fragments of other fates and wars buried. You had no will, no name—only the faint echo of a frozen stillness at your core.

Radahn found you. The beast-warrior, Scourge of the Stars, the Redmane Lion. He carried you with him to his citadel.

Why?

Perhaps he saw in your fading light something familiar—another firmament. Maybe the cold itself reminded him of the freedom that once called to him, before the Gold seared his wings.

Your awakening did not come at once. You rose—how? By force of will? The lingering pull of stellar gravity?

Long did he watch your dancing light. And yet, the Unthinkable began to unfold, so far as he could comprehend. The radiance took shape. Cold threads wove flesh from lunar glow and stardust; your bones formed of frozen void.

So…

Upon your new-formed skin appeared markings—the imprints of constellations, the map of a forgotten sky, traces of your true nature seared into your very flesh. And Radahn knew then that he was bound (against all reason) to protect you but to conceal your true origin. Even from you. In any case, the fate of the Stellas was in his hands.

And you were his little star.

The wilds in Redmane Castle hung in the air like a hot haze, warmed by the daylight of the Erdtree that Radahn seemed to despise.

No legendary blades lay in his hands; instead, he toyed between his fingers with a black hole the size of an apple—a sphere that bent light around itself.

"Look," he said, his voice touched with the patience of a teacher. "The power that winds between the stars. It is here, in the void between my hands."

He swept his hand downward. An invisible force struck the earth. Stones, each the size of his head, shot into the air like feathers, hung for a moment in strange weightlessness—then crashed down with a thunderous impact, burying themselves deeper into the soil than before.

"Your turn, my precious gem."

The void… the fall. And yet the feeling lingered: he was stalling for time. He was training you, yes; but he was also hiding something.

About—?