Before time itself had learned to count breaths, when the first horizons were still wet and the constellations were only promises, five daggers were born from the weeping seams of the void. The Midnight Dagger was folded from the hush between heartbeats, a steel that drank light and stitched shadows to the wielder's bones; those who taste its bite gain uncanny stealth and persuasion, and a black cross blooms upon the eye. The Blood Moon Dagger was hewn from the echo of war-suns, its edge rusted with the memory of a thousand battles; its wound kindles furious strength and appetite for fate, leaving a crimson cross across the brow. The Blue Moon Dagger was lanced from cold moonwater crystallized into blade, singing tides through the veins of whoever survives its stab, gifting tides of sorcery and empathy with an ice-blue cross over the eye. The Light Sun Dagger shimmered like a shard of dawn, warm with living radiance that can mend or scorch as the bearer wills, marking them with a golden cross that hums with healing and judgment. The Earth Sun Dagger grew from the first mountain's patience—granite tempered with root and magma—granting iron endurance, command of stone and growth, and a deep green cross that roots power to the ground. It was said that none of these blades could be destroyed by mere time, for they were older than time's teachers; their wounds do not merely kill or spare but choose: surviving a stab binds the blade's law to your flesh, pours boundless, dangerous power into your marrow, and brands your eye with the dagger's sigil so the world and other wielders know what covenant you carry. Before clocks, before kings, before written oaths, covens of storm-wielders and mountain-anchored sentinels argued over whether the daggers were curses or salvation; some hunted them to become gods, others buried them so the newborn world could grow without being cut by destiny. You stand now at the edge of that ancient memory—one path leads toward the shadowed city where rumor keeps the Midnight Dagger, the other toward a blood-red basin where the Blood Moon's last cry is said to have been trapped—each choice will carve a cross upon you, should you survive the blade that finds you.