For a long time after the plants took root, the world grew still again.
Terah turned quietly beneath her stars, wrapped in drifting clouds and newborn seas. Life lingered in the shallows—green plants stirring in water, moss climbing over stone—but the world remained quiet.
Over countless ages, the land shifted and stretched. Mountains rose. Rivers carved their paths. The planet settled into itself. And only then, when everything was in place, did the asteroids fall from the sky.
They didn't arrive all at once.
The first came alone—a dark shape from the edges of space, growing brighter and bigger as it tore through the sky. It hit with a sound like the world breaking open. The ground cracked. Waves raced across the oceans. Smoke poured into the air. Then, as if answering a call, more followed. Smaller
One by one, the asteroids appeared—drawn in from the distant dark, streaking through Terah's skies like burning arrows. Over days, then weeks, then years, the asteroids kept coming. Some were no larger than hills. Others could have swallowed cities. They slammed into Terah with fire and fury, gouging deep wounds into her surface. Some slammed into mountain ranges and shattered on impact, their dust spreading through the air and seeding the winds with strange minerals. Others plunged into the oceans, vanishing beneath the waves, churning the tides and clouding the waters with debris. One even broke apart just above the northern sky, scattering fragments of crystal that fell like frozen stars across the ice.
Each impact lit the land with fire, but none brought destruction.
She shook, yes—her mountains cracked, her seas boiled—but she held together. The planet had shaped herself from chaos before. She could survive this. And so, she did. This was no destruction—it was transformation. Until one came that didn't feel like the others. The skies dimmed—not with storm clouds, but with something heavier. A presence. A shape drifting out of the stars. It moved slower than most, dragging a long, shadow across the atmosphere. The air changed. The ground tensed. And then it came. It broke through the sky with a soundless force, wrapped in heat and light, but not flame. It didn't explode on impact. Instead, it struck the northern ice with a heavy, muffled impact—slow and precise. No scattered debris, no cratered parts. Just a single, perfect wound etched deep into the frozen ground.
The asteroid sat in its hollow for days, unmoving. It looked nothing like the rough stones that had come before. Its surface was strangely smooth, almost glasslike, dark like metal but with a shimmer. Frost clung to it, but the cold did not seem to change or affect it. And within that strange stillness, it pulsed. Faint and rhythmic. A breath. Weeks and months passed. It was already getting covered by the falling snow of the North. Then one night, under a cloudless sky, the asteroid cracked.
A long seam split down the length of the asteroid, clean and sudden. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, with a low hiss, a thick white liquid spilled out, steaming as it touched the frozen ground. It was heavy and slow, like melted metal. More cracks followed—thin at first, then spreading—branching across the asteroid's surface. Then something pushed through them. It pushed forward from within, slow and struggling, its shape buried beneath the slick white fluid, unclear at first. A large black figure emerged, dragging itself into the cold air. Its limbs trembled as they found their footing. Then it stood, unsteady but strong. And, with a sudden shudder, it twisted its body hard to the side—once, twice—flinging the white fluid from its fur in wet streaks. What the shaking didn't clear, it scraped off in strips, brushing itself against the jagged walls of its broken asteroid shell. The white layer peeled like old skin, revealing a dark furred body coated beneath—dense, rough, and already drying in the wind.
It was too big for something just born. A wolf-shaped creature, thick powerful looking limbs, its tail jointed and tipped with a curved, hard stinger. Even hunched, it looked like it belonged to a world harsher than this one. Its form was unnatural. It looked like it was built to survive. It was not plant. Not fungus. Not moss or mold. Yet, it moved. It breathed. It watched. It was muscle. It was motion. It was mind. It was life—new, strange, and dangerous.
The first animal.
The creature stood still on the icy ground of the North. It didn't move. Its eyes were closed—or maybe it didn't have eyes at all. Its head tilted up toward the sky it had fallen from, toward the stars that had watched it arrive. It didn't belong here. That much was obvious. This wasn't its home.
Then slow and steady it looked up again. The moon hung above, quiet and pale in the frozen sky. Something deep inside it responded. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe a memory. Maybe something older.
Its chest rose and then it howled.
The sound was loud and long, echoing through the northern sky, across silent plains and dead winds. It didn't sound like fear. It sounded like a declaration. Like something that had arrived.
It was here.
And now, the world knew. Other asteroids began to arrive—more often now, as if something had been set in motion. They didn't fall in the north alone. One by one, they struck other parts of Terah too crashing into deserts, forests, mountains, and oceans. Wherever they landed, they brought something new. Some cracked on impact, spilling clusters of strange eggs that rolled across the ground like stones before splitting open. Others landed intact but slowly unfolded, opening like pods to release things that had too many legs, too many eyes—or no eyes at all. Some of these creatures crawled. Some flew. Some slithered without a sound.
And not all of them were animals.
A few asteroids carried seeds—but not the kind any natural forest would claim.
Some were strange, pulsing things, slick with dew that glowed faintly in the dark. They buried themselves into Terah's raw soil without hesitation, as if they were meant to be there. And once buried, they began to grow—not slowly, but with a steady, determined pace. Vines rose first—slithering like snakes through dirt, their skin covered in rough, scale-like patterns that shimmered green and bronze under moonlight. Then came trees, if one could call them that. They twisted through the dirt like snakes. Their trunks were black and cold, with faint veins of metal running through them that pulsed faintly with inner heat. Their leaves were wide and flat and sharp as broken blades. They clicked together in the wind, like bone tapping on bone.
In a quieter part of Terah, strange flowers began to bloom. At first glance, they were beautiful— closed silver petals soft as silk, glowing faintly under the stars. They moved slowly, even when there was no wind, always turning toward like it was searching for something. But up close, they weren't as gentle as they looked. Hidden inside the closed petals were rows of small, razor sharp teeth—quiet, waiting, still. These weren't normal flowers. They were something else shaped to survive.
And Terah… watched.
These newcomers were strange, silent, and unfamiliar. And yet, they began to spread across her surface. Some failed immediately collapsed under her gravity or poisoned by her soil. Others withered before nightfall. But a few… endured. They adapted. They learned. They changed.
And those that survived… began to fight. Not out of hate, but out of need and necessity. They fought for space, sunlight, warmth—anything that could keep them alive. Some attacked anything different from themselves. Others mixed, crossbreeding with different species. From these strange unions came new life—half-root, half-flesh and many more. Some had bark for skin and thorny bones. Some had petals for wings and roots for hands. Others grew eyes underground or had multiple sensory organs. It wasn't just chaos—it was survival. There were no rules, no order. Only one truth echoed through every living thing:
Survive.
And so, the struggle began.
Across rocky cliffs, through thick jungles, and in steaming swamps, creatures carved out spaces for themselves. They guarded the places they claimed. They hunted and hunted. Even in the cold north—where the first beast had arrived—the fight spread, relentless and wild.
Vines battled claws. Wings against scales. Fangs against flame.
Terah didn't interfere. She didn't stop the battles or comfort the dying. For she had once known fire. She had once known silence. Now she would know life—with all its hunger, violence, and will to spread.
She did not mourn it. She did not rejoice.
She only… witnessed, watched and remembered.