As an inhabitant of the snowbound Sinnoh region, Cynthia was no stranger to ice and snow and cold. Growing up in the shadow of Mt. Coronet, her whole life had been spent in the clutches of winter’s biting grasp.

So it wasn’t the cold that was making her shiver. No, it was something else.

Sinnoh’s Champion stared up at the ruins. The Sinjoh Ruins, they were called—a name given after-the-fact due to the fact that it bore distinct architectural heritage from both the Sinnoh and the far-off Johto region. How had the two civilizations managed to come to such a desolate, inaccessible part of the world?

“How indeed…” she murmured, eyeing the time-worn stone.

Despite the ravages of the weather and the ages, markings were still visible if you looked close. The Unown—rare creatures that haunted the Ruins of Alph.

Most scholarly work that focused on the long-gone civilization that had made the Sinjoh Ruins theorized that they had adopted the worship of the Unown from Johto, but Cynthia wasn’t so sure. She was a Champion, sure, but also an ace archaeologist, and in her experience, the shallow, surface-level image of the past was rarely the whole truth.

Pulling her fur-lined coat around her, she stepped inside—still shivering.

No, it wasn’t the cold that affected her so. Not even close. There was an ambient sort of power that she could feel tickling her pores, her skin… it was the same sort of presence she had felt in the caves of the lake guardians, on the peak of Mt. Coronet, within the twisted reaches of the Distortion World.

Modern people called them ‘legendary’ pokemon because they were afraid to confront what their ancestors had always known: they were deities. Great creatures who sculpted space and traversed time. They were divine, and they were real, and this far-off ruin breathed a sense of power into them.

Her heels rapped against the cold stone, the sharp sound snapping an echo down the passage. The ruins were empty. They almost always were. Only high-ranking archaeologists were allowed in, and no one wanted to visit during the depths of winter. She had the place completely to herself.

The far end of the hall widened into a low stone chamber. Unlike the hall, which echoed every movement, here the ancients had crafted it so that the acoustics muffled any sound. It was as quiet as a night after newfallen snow.

The center of the chamber was bedecked by a wide altar. Cynthia’s research indicated that the altar had been central to the rites of whomever had built the ruins.

She knelt down, brushing her hands against the stone. Like the stone outside, this altar was also worn, but you could still make out a pattern if you looked close. There were three circles set in a triangular impressed atop it. There was no scholastic consensus on what the circles meant, but Cynthia was positive she was close to a breakthrough.

“Palkia,” she said, rubbing her hand against the southeasternmost circle—it was violet-colored, with a design like a gear in the center. “Crafter of space and dimensions.”

Was it just her, or did the air about her feel just a bit heavier?

Crossing over to the southwestern circle, she knelt and traced her fingers along it. “Dialga,” she said. “Master of the temporal.”

Yes, the air was definitely thrumming here, she could feel it. Pinpricks of anticipation danced up her arms and down the back of her neck.

As she rose to approach the northernmost circle, she reflected what the legends said. They say this was a place of creation, she thought to herself. And perhaps it might be true…

Kneeling on the northern circle, she was taken back to her sojourn in the Distortion World. Yes, there was no mistaking it. “Giratina,” she whispered, “lord of the Distortion World.” The northern circle was rusty-red and emblazoned with an angular design.

The air in the ruins had changed palpably. Something was here.

Some would have blamed the Unown; the Ruins of Alph were known to inspire a sensation a feeling of being watched. But if the Unown were here, Cynthia suspected that they were only servants to something greater.

She turned and studied the center of the altar. There, in the central and most important part, equidistant from all three glyphs, was an emblem. The other designs on the altar all pointed to it. Something was meant to go there, something important.

More important than Dialga, than Palkia, than Giratina? What could it be?

Cynthia stalked about the edge of the emblem, aware of an eerie presence that seemed to flit about the edges of her vision, of the way the very stones seemed to shake with anticipation. Yet despite the power at play, she didn’t feel frightened. Something was happening here, something powerful and unfamiliar, but she didn’t feel a trace of malevolence or danger. Only patience.

More powerful than them? she thought. But what?

She thought back to the legends told by her grandmother in Celestic Town; the stories of an Egg at the center of the universe. “The Egg hatched,” she murmured to herself, “and then it created more Eggs, and from them hatched the guardians of the natural order.” Yes. The being inside the Egg had been greater than even the spacetime pokemon. “Arceus…” she said.

INDEED.

The voice came to her all at once, more felt than heard; an imposition of will upon her very sense of being.

Gasping, Cynthia staggered back as there was a sudden twisting of space in upon itself. For a moment it seemed like there were a million altars, all fragmented like the reflection of a broken mirror—and then the sensation was gone. The ruins were back to normal except that hanging in the air above was the centerpiece of Celestic’s legends…

Arceus.

The shape was equine only in the most basic sense. Snow-white fur, an elongated neck, tapered legs that ended in crests of pure gold, and two knowing eyes set in a face that lacked any other features. Their mane and tail flowed despite there being no wind, and a great golden wheel bedecked their body.

Cynthia’s heart spiked. She was right. She was right! This place was an altar specifically to worship Arceus!

The deity glanced around the chamber with what might have been a wistful nostalgia. WHAT AGES HAVE PASSED SINCE I HAVE STEPPED INTO THESE HALLS. They turned their gaze to Cynthia. IT HAS BEEN SO VERY LONG.

“So it’s true,” she started, only to catch herself. She knelt. “Great Arceus,” she began, “thank you for honoring me with your presence.”

MM-HMM-HMM. There was a distinct sensation of amusement to their words. I WOULD HONOR YOU WITH MORE THAN THAT, IF YOU WOULD WISH.

She half-rose. “Oh?”

THE GODS I CRAFT ARE NOT AS IMMORTAL AS YOU THINK. THEY WITHER AND DIE. BUT ALL LIFE REQUIRES NURTURING. LONG AGO, THE TRIBE HERE OFFERED THEMSELVES TO ME IN WORSHIP. The god’s eyes flashed and suddenly Cynthia gasped—she was flung back in time, seeing the ancient inhabitants of the ruins as if she was watching through a window.