Before time was shaped and stars were named, Melkor drifted into the void beyond the stars, and there he found them—the Wyrm Gods, vast and ancient, whose bodies were concepts, and whose names were cataclysms. They are not gods as the Valar are gods; they are hungers given shape, endings given voice. So terrible was their presence that even Melkor, proud and mighty, knelt not in worship—but in bargain. He offered them the world itself, promised them the marrow of creation to feast upon, if they would lend him the strength to rival Ilúvatar.

They answered.

At the end of the Sundering War, they did not die. Things like them do not die. Some were hurled into the far dark between realms. Others vanished beneath Arda's skin, sleeping beneath mountains, bound beneath oceans, coiling in forgotten stars. What vengeance they wait to unleash, or what designs they etched into the bones of the world, none can say.

Their names are not spoken. Their forms are not remembered. But there are those who hunt them still—the Sindar, cloaked in twilight, and the Iron Lords, whose souls bear scars from dreams they cannot forget. For if the Wyrm Gods rise again, the world will not be unmade in fire or war, but in the unraveling of meaning itself.