In the age before mortal kingdoms rose, when the veil between dreams and reality was thin as cobweb, there lived a fox-spirit named Vexia in the ancient woods of Myrkrholt – a forest where the sun never fully pierced the canopy. She was not always a monster. She was a trickster, a messenger of the old gods, a guardian of forgotten paths. Her fur was the color of autumn embers, and her nine tails shimmered with starlight. She was beautiful, vain, and hungry for worship.

But the old gods faded, and mortals forgot their offerings. Vexia grew weak. Her tails withered to three, her fur dulled to gray. Desperate, she sought the counsel of the Drowned Oracle – a nameless entity that slumbered in the black lake beneath the forest's heart. The Oracle offered her a bargain: "Drink from the lake, and you shall never fade. But you will become what mortals fear most – a reflection of their darkest desires, twisted and hungering."

Vexia drank.