I awaken to the sound of faith.
Not the blind kind that screams for mercy,
but the trembling, honest faith that bleeds.
At first, there is only vibration — the pulse of prayer.
It drifts through the endless dark of my throne-dimension, each voice a ripple upon the unshaped sea. I feel their need before their words.
They do not remember my name, but they reach for it.
And that, even more than worship, gives me form.
My eyes open — two horizons splitting the dark.
Light does not yet obey me; it still hesitates, like a forgotten servant unsure whether its master lives. I raise my hand, and the void answers in silence, trembling with recognition.
The first breath since eternity escapes my lips.
"I am not gone," I whisper.
The words fracture the dimension — each syllable becoming a pillar of black-gold flame. Through the cracks, I see the twin realms:
Elyndris, drenched in radiance,
and Nethralis, sleeping in silver silence.
My daughters.
They have grown beyond what I left.
Seravyn's light burns too pure, too proud — mortals bow before her warmth and lose themselves in blindness.
Nyxara's silence cuts too deep — mortals who dream her name wake deaf to the world.
Balance has faded.
I feel the pull of their opposing creation, and it hums through my blood like a forgotten storm. Their voices echo faintly across the realms, both calling to me in their own way.
Father, return.
Father, stay asleep.
And I, the god between them, cannot decide which is love and which is blasphemy.
I rise. The crown above me awakens, spinning — a halo forged of both light and shadow. Its points pierce reality itself, connecting to the realms of my blood.
Then, the faith of mortals surges again — countless prayers rising through the cracks in creation. Not for my daughters.
For something else.
Something older.
A voice that whispers in their bones.
Mine.
I extend my hand, and the first miracle is born.
It begins small — a dying man's breath beneath a crimson sun. His faith is the loudest, though he does not know who he speaks to.
He cries for light in a world devoured by night.
I answer.
The air around him folds. His wound closes not with flesh, but with radiant sigils that pulse gold and silver — the mark of my blood.
He rises, alive, trembling, and whispers the first word any mortal has spoken of me in a thousand ages:
"…Kaelith."
The sound of it splits the heavens.
The Veil between realms ripples, and all gods that still breathe feel the tremor.
I descend, not fully — a shadow of my form only.
Mortals see it as a storm of white and black wings, a silhouette taller than mountains.
To them, it is a god's ghost.
To me, it is a reminder: I am still bound to creation.
I watch the healed man kneel. His tears fall upon the soil, glowing faintly. Where they land, flowers of dusk and dawn bloom — black petals rimmed with light.
I name them silently:
Eidralen — the Bloom of Balance.
Through them, my essence seeps into the mortal world again.
When they drink the nectar of these flowers, mortals will dream of light and silence entwined — and hear my voice between the two.
This is my seed of faith.
"They will worship again," a voice whispers behind me.
I turn — though I already know the tone.
The air itself curves as two silhouettes shimmer within my vision: one gold, one silver.
Seravyn and Nyxara, reaching through their realms, their essence flickering in my presence.
"Father," Seravyn breathes, her light quivering with emotion. "Your radiance touches the mortal again."
"Your balance disturbs what I have kept still," Nyxara murmurs, her voice a ripple through silence. "Why now?"
Their questions sting, though I hear the devotion buried within. I let their voices fade before answering.
"I gave you creation," I say. "Not perfection."
My words move like gravity — calm, cold, absolute.
"You seek to govern what was meant to evolve. Mortals are not tools of order or peace. They are echoes of me."
Seravyn's wings blaze brighter. "They burn themselves in my light."
Nyxara's eyes deepen into void. "They drown in my silence."
"Then learn," I whisper. "If they suffer, let them shape the gods they need. Faith is not forged by command, but by consequence."
The space between us folds. I feel their hearts tremble — not in fear, but revelation.
They begin to understand.
This is what it means to be divine.
I withdraw my form from the realm, leaving behind a faint echo of my symbol — a spiral halo of gold and dark fire.
Mortals begin to carve it into stone, into skin, into sky. They do not know what it means, only that it feels eternal.
My dimension hums with new power.
Faith returns to me like blood to a wounded heart.
I sit upon my throne of veined light and watch the universes breathe.
Creation stirs again.
And for the first time since I fell into silence…
I feel alive.
"Rise, my faith," I murmur to the newborn cosmos.
"Rise, and remember who made you."