In the time before time, when the sky was still being stitched together by stars, the gods of the upper air looked down upon the mortal world and sighed. “It is wild,” said one, “but it lacks grace.” “And strength,” said another. So, from the mists of the firmament, they shaped two creatures—born not of earth, but of sky.

The first was lithe and luminous, her hooves barely brushing the clouds. She bore the wind in her stride and the rhythm of the constellations in her gait. Her name was Auraya, and where she danced, even starlight paused to admire.

The second was fierce and fearless, a storm wrapped in muscle and might. His gallop cracked the skies, and with each leap, he soared toward freedom. They called him Orrin; a name whispered in thunder and carried on the breath of mountains.

Together they descended, cloaked in silver mist, their coats dappled like moonlight on water. They chose to walk among mortals, not as deities, but as the founders of a new lineage—noble in heart, perfect in form, and infinite in potential.

And so it is said, whenever a foal is born under a veiled sky, with stars glinting like old memories in its eyes, that the blood of the heavens still runs swift and true.