[Act 1: The Past]
An impatient man in bloodstained golden armor paces before the massive doors of a riverside cabin far from Eden's heartlands. The blood is not red, but something stranger, fouler—the blood of demons. It stains him, yet somehow magnifies his majesty. His breathing is heavy, not from the armor, but from dread.
The "cabin" is no mere dwelling. Its doors rise ten times a man's height, guarded by two titans each as tall as a fortress wall. To mortals it would be a castle; to the heavens, it is only a cabin. Behind those doors, his fate waits.
Six hundred warriors stand behind him on the long bridge, each marked with the same ominous blood. Their war-beasts, the arions, rest silently at their sides. The host stretches so far that the bridge's end vanishes into mist. All eyes are on him—their commander, their king. Their faces mirror his tension, though none dare speak.
The river churns violently below, as though heralding a storm. Yet the weather is meaningless; these men have walked through greater horrors. Only one thing matters now.
A scream tears through the doors, high and sharp—a woman's cry of agony. Even the titans flanking the gate seem shaken. The man flinches, his heart twisting.
"Athanasia…!" His voice cracks, divine yet helpless.
He is Zenobios, First Will of the Heavens, but in this moment he looks no different from a frightened mortal.
A hand rests on his shoulder. Erastos, his general, speaks calmly. "Patience, sire. The tides of fate are with you."
Zenobios rounds on him. "Patience? My beloved suffers while I do nothing?"
"Even kings are powerless here," Erastos replies with quiet certainty. "This is not battle. It is birth. And soon, it will be celebration."
Zenobios scowls. "Celebration? In her pain?"
Erastos bows, the purple glow of his gemstone armor pulsing faintly. "When it ends, sire, it will be joy beyond anything war has ever given you. My forefathers' blessings are with you both."
Zenobios studies him, surprised at such wisdom. Since when did my general grow so steady? he wonders.
***
Inside, Athanasia cries out, gripped by the divine agony of bringing forth life. Not a mortal life, but an immortal one. Why would gods endure birth like mortals? Perhaps because heaven itself shaped the mortal world. Perhaps to keep creation bound to its source.
Dorothea, head nurse and Athanasia's sister, wipes her brow and urges her on. "Your Highness, push! Just once more!"
Athanasia screams again, her strength fading, but Dorothea holds her gaze. "Sister! It is almost done. One last push!"
Athanasia nods weakly, gathers herself, and lets out a final cry that shakes the walls.
Then silence.
***
Outside, Zenobios freezes. He cannot bear it. He rushes to the door, pounding furiously. "Athanasia! My love! Answer me!"
The locks click. The doors part slightly, revealing Dorothea's pale, blank face. Terror grips him. He seizes her shoulders. "Tell me! What has happened?!"
Her silence deepens his dread. Then another nurse emerges, carrying a white bundle. A smile spreads across her face.
Zenobios blinks, confused. He turns back to Dorothea—who finally smiles too, radiant.
"Your Highness," she whispers, "you are a father. A son."
The words strike him like lightning. Slowly, he releases Dorothea and steps toward the bundle. The nurse places it in his arms. The clouds part. The wind stills.
Zenobios gazes at the newborn, tears blurring his vision. "He… he looks like me," he murmurs, voice breaking. For the first time in eternity, the god weeps. The child wails, but to him the sound is the most beautiful music.
Athanasia appears in the doorway, exhausted but alive. Their eyes meet. Her pain is gone, melted by the sight of her husband cradling their child. She gestures playfully for him to share the joy.
Zenobios turns to his warriors, holding the infant high. "The forefathers have blessed me beyond measure," he proclaims through trembling voice. Then, to Erastos, he says, "Brother, grant my son a name."
Erastos takes the child gently, lifts him skyward, and declares: "Vyrian Orestes, son of Zenobios, the First Will!"
The bridge erupts with cheers. Six hundred blades flash in salute. Arions take flight. Trumpets sound across the heavens.
A legend is born.