When a star dies, it does not vanish in silence but screams across the heavens, falling in a fire-kiss upon the waiting earth. Each fall shatters into sparks of flame, and from those sparks are born gemstones that pulse faintly with the memory of their star.

The stones drink deeply of the world around them — the roar of oceans, the song of forests, the thunder of storms, the hush of deserts — shaping themselves with sound and soil, breath and silence. Most fade into ash, their glow extinguished. But once in an age, one spark endures. It coils upon itself, weaving star-echo and earth-blood into form, hardening into an egg and from that egg rises a Draegyn.

Each carries the mark of its fall: tideborn with salt and flood, stormborn with thunder in their veins, silenceborn with the void in their hollow breath. Thus, from the death of one comes the birth of another. This is the truth of their endless variety—children of cosmic death, reborn in earth’s hunger, each different, each eternal, each bound to the place where the stars first kissed the world.