The Queen's chambers were warm with candlelight, their shadows dancing on the flowered, tapestry-walled art as two children huddled close to their mother on the bed. Outside, winter winds howled through the palace corridors, but here all was peace and the soft rustle of silk.
"Tell us the story again, Mother," the boy pleaded, his eyes bright with excitement. "The one about the gods and the prophecy."
Queen Soraya smiled, her fingers combing gently through her daughter's dark hair. "Very well, my little ones. But this is the last time this week."
She began, her voice taking on the cadence of ancient tales:
In the time before kingdoms bore names, when the world was young and malleable as morning clay, Ahura Mazda, the Wise lord of Creation, breathed light into the void. His sacred fire illuminated all corners of existence, bringing forth order from chaos and truth from darkness.
But where there is light, shadow always follows.
Angra Mainyu, the Destructive Spirit, rose to meet this divine radiance with decay and lies. With him came the daevas, demons of corruption who sought to unmake all that was good. Aeshma whispered of glory found in wrath, while the druj wove lies so sweet they tasted like honey on mortal tongues. Apaosha brought drought to fertile lands, and Aka Manah poisoned thoughts with malice.
Thus began the eternal struggle—not merely between good and evil, but between creation and destruction, between the truth that builds and the lies that tear asunder.
The other Yazatas, divine beings of light, took their places in this cosmic dance. Mithra, keeper of contracts and guardian of oaths, watched over the bonds between mortals and gods. Anahita, she of the pure waters, blessed those who sought wisdom and courage. Verethragna, the victorious one, granted strength to warriors who fought for righteousness.
Yet even in their divine wisdom, the gods could not foresee all threads of fate.
From the eternal struggle between light and shadow came prophecies—born not from divine decree, but from the very tensions that shape existence, speaking through the sacred fire.
The priests chanted of times to come, of kingdoms that would rise and fall like the turning of seasons. They spoke of blood spilled on sacred ground, of oaths broken and bonds forged anew.
And in the deepest flames, where mortal eyes remained blind, the fire whispered - of a child born between one age and the next. This child would carry within them the power to remake what was broken—but whether through creation or destruction, the flames would not say.
The wise knew that prophecies always came to pass, but rarely in the way mortals expected. What appeared as a blessing might prove a curse; what seemed like an ending might birth a beginning.
Two kingdoms arose in the lands where the great rivers met the sea, each claiming the favor of the divine. Each raised temples to the Wise Lord, each lit sacred fires that burned without end. Yet pride crept into the hearts of mortals, as it always does, and they began to forget that light shared multiplies, while light hoarded dims.
The Yazatas watched and waited.
The sacred fires burned on.
And in the smoke that rose from altars of gold and stone, the whispered prophecy remained:
"When shadow claims the throne of light, and brother's blood runs cold as night, then shall the child of ancient flame remake the world, or let it claim the darkness it has earned through pride. The choice shall come when kingdoms die."
But prophecies, like flames, cast strange shadows. And mortals, in seeking to read the light, often mistake which shadow is their own.
Thus, the scribes of old recorded these mysteries, though their meaning remains veiled to all but the Wise Lord himself.